The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  While walking, I think about the children. They’d have wanted a pet. Probably a dog. I can definitely see Edward with one, and they’d be inseparable. Elise is more independent, so she might be more of a cat person. Imagining them strolling by my side, putting up posters, too, lifts my spirits above the haunting loneliness.

  Although, if Elise were here right now, she’d tell me to back off and get the hell away from Carrie, I’m sure. I can see her now, hands on hips, jaw tense. But Edward would understand.

  Who am I kidding? If my children were alive today, I wouldn’t be doing any of this. There’d be no need to go to a support group and tell lies or look after waifs and strays.

  Perhaps it’s time to stop rushing around and do as Rosie suggests by taking a long, hard look at my own life. I’ve been poking my nose in where it has no place. Yes, those messages Carrie’s receiving are odd, but they’ll stop once she’s moved away. Time to stop worrying about her parents, too. Simon is big enough, old enough and ugly enough to look after himself. As for that missing random woman from Cromer, if anyone looks at a picture long enough they can persuade themselves that there is something familiar about a face. It’s like making images from a Rorschach inkblot. That’s all I’ve done.

  It’s time to start looking after myself.

  The light is fading fast as I pin the final poster to a tree at around 5 p.m. It’s easy to forget how short the days are, this time of year. It doesn’t help that there’s a sea mist rolling in from the east, smothering street lights and choking off the moon and stars. Time to go home. Turning my collar up around my neck, and shoving both hands into my coat pockets, I hurry along, keen to get in now. Food, bath and bed for me. It’s been a tough few days spent working myself into a frenzy, but now I’m feeling more like myself again.

  I turn away from the seafront and am only a few streets from my house. Thank goodness. Behind me is someone who seems in just as big a hurry to get home, but I can’t see anybody in the rapidly thickening mist. Turning the next corner, I can still hear them shadowing me. They must be close, because the fog is deadening all other sounds and it feels like I’m walking in a white bubble. A shiver of irrational fear runs through me as I hunch down in my coat and walk a bit faster.

  The footsteps go faster, too.

  Is someone following me? I whirl around. The footsteps stop.

  There’s someone out there. Watching me. Fog swirls. Opaque, translucent, transparent, dense, ever-shifting. I almost make out a figure. Peer, trying to recognise them, trying to work out if it’s male or female, but everything is too indistinct, as if sketched in chalk. Even their size is hard to judge.

  But the prickling of my skin tells me they’re staring right back.

  A clumsy pirouette, and I’m hurrying on. Telling myself I’m overreacting. Urging myself to go faster. I’m being silly, hysterical. My pulse stamps. I’m almost running. My muscles are still weak, my heart struggling from the anorexia. Behind me comes the echo of the person’s footsteps. Their breath ghosts my own. They’re getting closer. I can almost feel them reaching out for me.

  The final corner appears, then I’m in my street. I sprint now, not caring what the person behind me thinks. Almost home and safe. Stumble but don’t fall. I have to get distance between me and my stalker before reaching the front door. Gloved fingers fumble in my pockets as I push my weak body forward. Fling the gate open, thud up the garden path. The sound of my ragged breathing closes in on me, the fog stifling me. The key skates around the keyhole as my hands tremble. It skitters across the paintwork.

  Come on!

  A terrified glance thrown over my shoulder. The fog roils. Reveals a figure. Walking slow, calm. Getting closer. Another churn, and they disappear.

  The key slides into place. I fall through the door and slam it shut. Lean against it for a second, gasping, then throw the chain and bolt across. Back away, then run upstairs. Edge to the bedroom window, trying not to disturb the curtains and give the game away.

  All I see below is a white haze and the occasional halo of orange from the street lights, trying and failing to break through.

  I’m safe. For now.

  Half an hour or more must have passed, but I’m still curled up on the floor below the bedroom window, shivering, despite the fact that I’m still wearing my coat and hat and the central heating is on full blast. My arms are wrapped around my drawn-up knees, trying to stop myself from shaking apart.

  Someone followed me. Despite my best intentions of forgetting about those stupid messages, and my suspicions of Carrie, I now know for sure that someone is after me. They followed me home, chasing me when I ran. This was no coincidence.

  There’s only one time I’ve felt more afraid. My mind flies back to it, no matter how hard I fight it, and the trembling grows worse…

  There had been so much blood that night. I remembered how I’d stared at my scarlet hand in horror, trying not to panic.

  In the space of just a few minutes my fragile peace had been shattered. It was 2 a.m. and I’d been watching Cheaper by the Dozen on DVD because I’d felt a bit restless – but I’d put that down to the massive bottle of Lucozade I’d downed. It had had the same effect on the babies, because they’d been kicking like a good ’un all night…

  … until I’d suddenly noticed they’d stopped moving. I’d had the funniest feeling, too, like my waters had broken, and a pain was building. Worried, but fighting to stay calm, I’d nipped to the loo and found blood streaming from me.

  No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. I blinked, shook my head to try and shake the image in front of me.

  But the blood didn’t disappear.

  I could feel it coursing down my legs. So much – too much to survive. And finally, finally I remembered how to breathe, inhaled a massive lungful and yelled with all my might.

  ‘Owen! Help! I’m losing the babies!’

  But Owen couldn’t come, of course. He’d been killed four and a half months before that terrible night. I was alone, pregnant and terrified. I’d got another month to go, was only thirty-six weeks gone.

  I called an ambulance.

  ‘Help is on its way. You’ve got to stay as still as possible until then, okay,’ urged the person on the end of the phone.

  I wanted to panic. I wanted to scream. I wanted my husband with me, soothing me and holding my hand, cracking worried jokes. We’d been together for ten years, spent five trying for a baby. We’d been so excited when I fell pregnant, and we’d already chosen the names Elise and Edward for our twins.

  I’m going to lose them, I thought. But I’m going to do everything I can to stop it – and that includes not getting stressed.

  So I called the people I hoped would be rock solid: Owen’s parents. Minutes later, Michelle and Colin turned up. Instantly I felt better, knowing I wasn’t alone.

  The ambulance arrived. I was still bleeding like crazy and contractions had started. At the hospital I was whisked straight in for a scan, Michelle gripping my hand, neither of us breathing until…

  ‘I’ve got two heartbeats,’ said the midwife.

  ‘Thank God!’ Michelle and I breathed at once.

  ‘But you’ve developed placenta praevia, which means your placenta has separated from inside you. Your babies aren’t moving because they’re being starved of oxygen.

  ‘We’re taking you to surgery right now for an emergency caesarean,’ the midwife added.

  ‘Surgery?’ I yelped. ‘No! What if I don’t wake up? What if I wake up and my babies haven’t made it?’

  A horrible panicky feeling clawed at my throat. Something terrible was going to happen during surgery, I just knew it.

  ‘It’s okay, love, we’re with you,’ said Michelle. Beside her, Colin nodded. This time their presence made no difference.

  ‘I can’t have an operation,’ I insisted, the bad feeling growing.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay,’ hushed the nurse, taking my hand. ‘I’ve had three caesareans and I’m still here to tell t
he tale.’

  My head was spinning. The room darkening.

  ‘Alex? Alex! Can you hear me? You’re losing a lot of blood. We’re putting you under right now.’

  Time had slowed and stretched, voices distorting.

  Then there was nothing.

  Thirty-Two

  Gritty eyes had blinked slowly open. I’d lifted my heavy head from the pillow and looked around. Panic thudded through me.

  ‘Where are my babies?’ I gasped.

  ‘You’ve got a beautiful daughter. She’s in a special ward so she can be well looked after,’ replied Michelle, who was sitting beside me.

  ‘Is Elise okay?’ I demanded.

  ‘Don’t worry. She’s little – weighs four pounds – but she’s strong.’

  I lay back, relieved. ‘And how’s my boy doing?’

  Something wasn’t right. Why couldn’t Michelle meet my eye properly?

  ‘What is it? Where’s Edward? Please tell me.’

  ‘I – I don’t know how to find the words.’ Her voice cracked; she hid her face. Colin took over.

  ‘You’ve got to be strong, Alex. Your son, he didn’t make it. He’s with Owen.’

  I shook my head. No screaming, no tears, only denial. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The twins were both born dead, first Elise, then Edward. Doctors fought for three long minutes, trying to resuscitate them. You’d died, too – you’d lost so much blood your heart had stopped beating. For two minutes doctors were transfusing pint after pint of blood into you, in a desperate bid to get your heart pumping again.’

  Michelle squeezed my hand, her own face slick with tears. ‘I – I felt so helpless watching the surgeons deliver the twins. They were so tiny – and silent,’ she sobbed. ‘The doctors needed to move fast. We were told to the leave the room while they worked on you, but I couldn’t leave you. They pumped so much blood into you! I didn’t know someone could hold so much blood… Then you and Elise took a breath, at exactly the same time.’

  Elise had been whisked away to the Special Care Baby Unit.

  ‘I want to see my baby,’ I demanded. Tried to move but felt so weak, utterly exhausted. Panic rose, but not for me – I needed to see my girl, to see she was okay for myself. My hollow body ached for my children.

  Just then a doctor walked in. She was holding a photograph of a tiny baby in an incubator. My daughter. I gazed down at it in wonder and cuddled it to my chest.

  ‘When can I see her properly?’

  ‘It’s still touch-and-go for her. Once you’re strong enough to sit in a wheelchair, you can see her, though.’

  ‘What about Edward?’ Despite the circumstances, it didn’t feel hard saying his name aloud; it was the most natural thing in the world. As if he was meant to be out there.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. We did everything we could, but the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, which caused an extra complication that he was too weak to survive. We can bring him to you now, if you’d like to hold him.’

  He was brought in. Beautiful. Perfect. His hair glinted auburn, his mouth a tiny rosebud. I held my son for the first and last time. Gently cradled him, stroked his petal-soft skin, crooned words of love and showered him with light kisses.

  ‘Mummy loves you so much. Your sister and I will miss you more than words can say. But Daddy will look after you now, my angel. I’m sure he will,’ I whispered, trying to banish all doubts.

  For hours I sat with Edward. Until a nurse finally took him away, gentle but firm, bribing me with the news that I was strong enough to see Elise.

  There she was, tiny but beautiful, in her incubator.

  ‘She looks so fragile,’ I whispered, my heart breaking.

  ‘She’s strong,’ replied a nurse. ‘In no time she’ll have put on enough weight to be cuddled by you, then come home with you. We just have to build her up a bit.’

  ‘And that’s all that’s wrong?’ I checked.

  ‘A tiny heart murmur, but that’s all,’ she qualified. ‘Everything looks positive, even though she’s got a long road ahead of her.’

  Being able to see her cloaked me in calm for the first time since I’d gone into labour. Leaning forward in my wheelchair, I pushed a hand through the hole in the incubator’s side and gently stroked her cheek.

  ‘Stay strong, Elise. Your brother is by your side, lending you his strength.’

  My fingers brushed along her arm to her hands. Fingers curled, grasping mine. So brief, so weak, but my heart soared.

  That night, though, nurses noticed her stomach seemed distended. There was blood in her stool.

  ‘We think it’s a condition called necrotising enterocolitis, an infection and inflammation of the intestine.’

  ‘What’s the cure?’

  ‘We’ll administer antibiotics, but you need to prepare yourself for the worst. This condition is the leading cause of death in premature infants.’

  I’d felt cursed that night, holding my daughter’s hand and begging her to stay strong. Her struggle to live was clear to see – but she died that night.

  Instead of my twins, I took home a memory box of photographs, Elise’s tiny wrist and ankle tags and prints of my children’s feet and hands. There’d be no nursery full of cries and laughter, no first steps, no birthdays. I wouldn’t get to see my babies grow into fine young adults with their own ambitions. All my hopes and dreams lay shattered at my feet, lacerating every step I took.

  It was all my fault.

  Owen had died rushing to get presents for me and the twins. Then my body had betrayed my children, killing them with my inability to hold them inside me. Doctors said I’d miscarried because I’d developed pre-eclampsia and said it could have been ‘just one of those things’. I knew it was because of my wallowing in grief, though.

  My fault.

  Too soon, I’d pushed my babies into the world instead of protecting them. I’d wasted precious seconds arguing about having life-saving surgery because of weakness and fear.

  My fault.

  The memories hurt too much, the empty nursery an open wound that would never close. Little wonder I punished myself with starvation.

  * * *

  Six months later, I moved to Tynemouth. Owen and I had spent a couple of idyllic holidays there, and often said we’d come back with the children. Despite claims of wanting a fresh start, I’d chosen a place that was still full of memories, because leaving them behind hurt as much as embracing them. There’s no outrunning grief.

  The one thing that’s easier in Tynemouth is that no one knows me. I tell people Owen left me because I don’t then have to live with the misty-eyed sympathy of people knowing I’m a widow whose children died. I lie to escape the well-intentioned questions, pitying looks, and sighs of sorrow. Because I don’t deserve them.

  My stomach growls, bringing me back to the present. I’m still sitting below the window, arms curled around my legs, like I imagine my daughter would if she were frightened. My breathing has slowed to normal pace, but I’m shaking with exhaustion and my body, weakened by so much abuse and so little nutrition, is still suffering. Another rumble across my belly. When was the last time I ate? I think back. Two days ago. It can’t be. I work it out again, retracing every step in my mind, convinced I’ve simply forgotten that I had breakfast, or lunch, or a snack, or—

  No. It’s been two days. I’m falling down the rabbit hole again. So, did I really see what I thought I saw? Or was it another hallucination?

  It had to be real. It felt real.

  The others did at the time, though. The crazy circus tent. The alternative me in the mirror. Everything.

  I’ve got to get a grip and somehow sort out reality from fiction. That involves keeping my strength up, so I make my way slowly downstairs. Open the fridge. There is nothing appetising inside. But I must eat. I must. A sandwich will do. It looks huge, so I pull the top off it. Just one slice of bread. That’s manageable. Right? It’s forced down, along with a glass of milk.


  It would be so easy not to eat. Don’t get me wrong, I actually love eating, but half of me is controlled by anorexia. Like a parasite that has taken over much of me, it urges me to give in to the gnawing emptiness. It whispers that there is peace to be found in the control of not eating and the numbness of starvation. I’m tired of fighting.

  But I’m trying hard to make up for my past mistakes. To show my kids I can be strong for them and beat this – even if they aren’t around to see it first-hand. I owe it to them not to give up on the life they never had. I need to make amends.

  That is the very urge that got me into this mess in the first place, though. I thought I was making things right for my affair with Carrie’s boyfriend, and now my life is in danger. Past experience has taught me that no one will believe me if I share my suspicions, though. Who believes a liar, even when they’re telling the truth?

  Thirty-Three

  Then

  There should have been a thunderstorm. At the very least I’d imagined rain as the sky wept along with me. Instead there was nothing so melodramatic, and the day of Mum’s funeral was a glorious summer day. The sun beat down on the back of my neck as I stood awkwardly outside the crematorium, sweating in my black jeans and cheap black blouse; the closest approximation to a suit that I could manage.

  There was only me, my Aunt Alison, and Mum’s best friend from school – who she hadn’t talked to for years, to my knowledge. Mum had lost touch with all her friends and family thanks to Dad’s manipulation. He’d cut her off like a predator picking on the weakest in the herd.

  Dad himself hadn’t bothered turning up. He was almost certainly raising a brown paper bag wrapped around cheap vodka in her memory instead, or possibly some extra-strong beer if it was on special offer. Like he did every single day of his life.

  As if I had shaped the world with my lies, Mum had got cancer and died. For as long as I could remember I’d imagined Mum dying. Beaten, kicked, strangled, stabbed, pushed from a moving car even. Thanks to my vivid imagination I’d thought I was prepared for anything, but I’d never even considered it would be her body mutinying, rather than her husband kicking the crap out of her. By the time she’d realised what was wrong with her, there’d been nothing doctors could do but try to make her comfortable.