The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  The phone goes dead, the door opens up… and at the same time we both look down at what’s on the step.

  A box with raging red writing across it.

  YOU’RE NEXT

  Carrie lurches sideways, grabbing onto the door frame to keep herself upright. Mouth hangs open as she stares at the box. Mine too. The mystery messenger who kick-started all of this has returned. Carrie barely seems to notice I’m there as she reaches with shaking hands down to the box and picks it up gingerly, almost as if she’s afraid it will explode.

  Finally, she looks up, terrified eyes huge in her tiny features. I search her face for signs of lying and see none.

  We’re both still holding onto our phones, but all thoughts about our conversation have flown away.

  ‘Carrie?’ I ask gently. ‘Do you know who sent this?’

  Her gaze seems to find focus, as if realising I’m there for the first time. The nod she gives is slow and unsteady. The box is held at arm’s length and is bobbing up and down because she is shaking so much. Any second now she might fall to the ground. With an arm around her waist, another at her elbow, I guide her inside, pushing the door shut behind us with my foot. My voice is soothing and low.

  Eventually we reach the living room and I let her sink onto the sofa. The box rests on her lap, then she seems to realise what she’s done and quickly puts it on the coffee table in front of her as if it burns. I break the silence.

  ‘Tell me who’s behind these messages.’

  Her eyes sharpen. ‘What do you mean, messages? This is the only one, isn’t it? What do you know about them? How are you involved with him?’

  Despite the barrage of questions, I only say one word.

  ‘Him?’

  It seems to rest between us as solid as a brick wall.

  ‘Don’t tell me Andy has worked his charm on you.’

  I’ve never heard her talk about an Andy, have no idea who she is talking about. She doesn’t seem to hear my protestations, though. Her gaze slides from my face, drawn inexorably towards the box. For several minutes neither of us speaks or moves to open the box. Our fear has become chains that bind us in place.

  My throat is swollen with questions. Lips dry and cracked. I lick them, swallow hard.

  ‘Carrie, who is Andy? And what’s inside the box? Answer me! Why are you so afraid?’

  My heart is thudding so hard I can hear it in my ears. There’s still no answer from Carrie. She’s freaking me out. Snatching up the box, I rip it open even as she screams, ‘No!’

  Too late. The contents have been revealed.

  A ‘lost’ poster with Smudge’s picture on, and a red cat collar identical to his, smeared with dried blood.

  Low moans of panic and horror. From her. From me. They twine together in terror. We’re both scrabbling to get distance from the hideous contents.

  No, no, no, Smudge can’t have been hurt. My mouth’s gone dry, legs weak.

  Through Carrie’s hysteria, I manage to make out some words.

  ‘He’s going to kill me. Oh God, he’s found me at last.’

  Forty

  Then

  The hot-pink PVC and lace peephole bra I was holding didn’t look very comfortable. As for the funny, egg-shaped device that vibrated when I pressed the button on it…

  ‘What on earth do you do with that?’ gasped one of the women.

  I was trying to earn a bit of cash as an Ann Summers party organiser. It was a laugh, and really built up my confidence in myself. Aged eighteen, and finally free from Dad’s shadow, and the guilt of leaving Mum before her death, I was starting to learn to like myself a bit. I’d even got some friends. One of their mums had suggested party planning to me. Turned out I was a bit of a natural at thinking on my feet and coming out with sales patter. Within moments of meeting someone it was possible to intuitively know what approach would work best to make them buy: discreet, boisterous, technical, teasing, or even giving some women a shoulder to cry on because they were trying to solve very real problems in their relationship.

  That night, the wine was flowing and the front room was packed with giggling women holding up basques and saying things like, ‘I reckon my Dave would have a heart attack if I wore this,’ and ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t wear that, it looks like it might chafe!’

  Someone else had got hold of the egg thing now, and was looking at it like it was an alien life-form.

  ‘No, this is great,’ I insisted to her. ‘What you do with it is—’

  The doorbell rang, interrupting me. Briony, whose house it was, left me mid-explanation to answer it. I opened my mouth to continue speaking, when Briony called me into the hallway.

  ‘I know it’s meant to be girls only, but my son Mark and his mate Andy have just arrived.’

  What was I supposed to do with a couple of blokes at a saucy party? Not wanting to seem rude, I invited them in… And shut them in the kitchen with a can of lager each.

  ‘Sorry guys, but the girls might be a bit shy about buying stuff from me if you’re in the room with them,’ I told them, before disappearing back into the front room. Still, I felt guilty, so popped in to check on them regularly.

  In fact, I spent more time chatting to Mark and Andy than I did convincing my mates to buy undies and sex toys. Not that they minded – from the shrieks of laughter, it sounded like they were having a whale of a time. So was I. Andy was lovely. It turned out he’d gone to school with my new pal Kelly, who was letting me sleep on her sofa until I got myself sorted out. He’d move to Birmingham as a kid but still had a lilting Welsh accent. Kelly had just got me hooked on gaming, especially Call of Duty – and Andy was a huge fan, too.

  When I heard his online name I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Mad Wolf? No way! I killed you the other day!’ I laughed.

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe next time I’ll kill you,’ he winked.

  We kept talking over each other because there was so much to say. By the end of the night, I’d made some money and got the phone number of a really cute guy. Life was definitely looking up.

  It wasn’t long until we were inseparable. He’d walk me to work, hang around outside, then walk me home afterwards, just so he could spend as much time as possible with me.

  All my cynicism about love melted away and suddenly I saw that the one thing in the world everyone was looking for was to be truly known. Because it was only when we were truly known that we could be truly loved. I’d found that with Andy. When he looked at me, it was like he’d found my lost soul.

  That’s why I forgave him the first time he hit me. I made excuses about his own injured spirit, thanks to some of the horrors he’d seen during his time in the Army. We’d heal one another and become stronger for it.

  The second time was somehow easier to forgive because he’d already crossed that line once, so it was less shocking.

  The stillness I’d learned in my childhood, the appeasing words all came back to me. Second nature. Everything was twisted to be my fault and I accepted. Watching television together was a nightmare because he’d accuse me of fancying actors. Yeah, like one of them was going to come round for tea and I’d run off with him.

  It wasn’t all beatings, though. Andy could be controlling and cruel without ever lifting a finger. If I needed to go food shopping he’d give me a time I had to return by – and heaven help me if I were late. If I got caught up in traffic I was a nervous wreck, bursting into tears and crying over the steering wheel.

  He never said I couldn’t have friends, but the atmosphere was always so bad that people didn’t want to come over, and if I went out he’d give me the Spanish Inquisition – often including the torture. Eventually, I got cut off from my freshly-minted friends.

  One day I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Shoulders sagged in defeat, scared eyes. Andy had changed me inside and out.

  I’d turned into my mum.

  Forty-One

  Now

  Carrie is running around the house, shoving clothes into a bag. P
anic pours from her.

  ‘Wait a minute. Just… explain what the hell is going on,’ I beg. ‘Who’s Andy? Why is he going to kill you?’

  ‘I’ve got to leave. Now.’ Muttered words thrown over her shoulder. She doesn’t pause in her manic movements.

  ‘Where? Not to your parents – I know you’ve been lying about that, just like you’ve lied about the cancer.’ I grab her shoulders, force her to face me. ‘Talk to me!’

  Eyeball to eyeball. She gives first, sagging visibly.

  ‘I suppose it’s the least you deserve.’ An anxious glance tossed out the window, this way and that. Neither of us can see anyone suspicious. She grabs my hand, leads me back to the sofa. Side by side we sit, and still she holds my hand. I can feel her tremble.

  ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. I want to know why you’ve been lying to everybody about dying. But let’s start with these messages first.’

  Carrie wipes at her face, sniffing, and sits up a bit straighter. ‘You’re right, I’m not dying. I don’t have cancer, and never have. It’s all been a huge, horrible lie. I’m so sorry – and I’m sorry that “sorry” is such an insignificant word. I can’t undo my betrayal. The way I’ve taken advantage of the kindness of good people kills me, and the worst of all of it is that our friendship’s been destroyed.’

  A shattering sigh, then she continues. ‘Believe it or not, it was never my intention to hurt anyone. Never. I’m not that kind of person, Alex, you have to believe me.’

  The vacuum of my silence sucks more words from her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t insult you by trying to wriggle out of it any more. God, pretending to be a doctor was pathetic! Everything I did was wrong, and I’m more than willing to stand up and admit that. But… but I can’t tell you any more than that or I might be putting your life in danger, too.

  ‘You don’t have to believe me, or trust me, but you do need to let me pack up and leave right now – and get the hell out of here as quickly as you can.’

  Letting go of my hands, she makes a gesture as if pushing me away. I hadn’t expected her to make such a full and frank confession and apology – not so quickly, anyway. She seems to think that’s enough, though, but it isn’t. I need to understand why, otherwise I’ll never get my head around how someone I thought I’d got to know so well, even in such a short space of time, could do what she’s done. Nothing can ever justify making up such a twisted story, of course, but still I need to hear what drove her to it.

  Instead of explaining further, she stands up. Conversation over.

  ‘Hang on a second, that’s it? That’s all I’m getting? A half-baked apology and a “sorry, I’ve got to run”? Then more lies – pretending my life is in danger is a new low, Carrie.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand—’

  ‘Good job.’

  ‘Whether you listen to me or not, I’ve got to go. Time has run out.’ Her voice wobbles and breaks again. ‘You deserved to know the truth before I left. Now you’ve got it.’

  She’s off, running upstairs while I’m frozen in place. When she reappears, she has a bag hanging off either shoulder and a suitcase bumping down each step behind her. She seems shocked that I’m still sitting where she left me.

  ‘Alex, go. If you ever cared for me as a friend at all, trust me now: you have to go, or you’ll get caught up in this mess.’

  ‘It’s too late, I already am.’ I point at the box containing a tragically delicate collar encrusted with blood. ‘Who killed Smudge? It’s sick!’

  She wobbles, has to steady herself. But her voice sounds unshaken.

  ‘I’m ordering a taxi now—’

  ‘I might not know everything, but neither do you.’ I shout the words in desperation. Confusion clouds Carrie’s face. ‘This box isn’t the first message you’ve received like this.’

  ‘I don’t understand. When… ?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Have to go, I know. But you’re clearly running from someone and you’ve only got half the information. Don’t you want to know the full story before you scarper? That’s right, sit down – and cancel that taxi, this may take a while.’

  Carrie looks like she’s been poleaxed since I explained I’d found other messages at her house. Her already tiny frame has collapsed in on itself; she’s scrunched up in a ball on the sofa.

  ‘Three notes,’ she murmurs. I can barely hear her. Curled up as she is, she is speaking into her knees and arms.

  ‘That’s right. And I’ll only tell you their contents if you tell me your secrets first.’ Paying out a little information at a time is the only way I can think of playing this game.

  Her face comes out of hiding. ‘Let me guess, they’re all threatening, right?’

  As I nod she runs her hands through her hair. ‘Then it’s definitely Andy. If you really want to hear the full story, then sit down because it’s a long one.

  ‘Andrew Baker is my husband – and my real name is Sarah Baker, but I hate it, so please keep calling me Carrie. Anyway, Andy and I first got talking at a party five years ago. I was living on a friend’s sofa in Edgbaston – which is where I’m from – at the time, and feeling down about having no prospects, scraping a living selling Ann Summers stuff. Then suddenly there’s this handsome older guy chatting me up – he felt heaven-sent.

  ‘He was a friend of a friend, so I felt safe letting him into my life. We had a laugh, I kept joking about the awful hat he wore, one of those pork-pie hats, you know? He looked like a pretentious muso, and it became a running joke between the two of us. We liked loads of similar stuff.

  ‘The banter was great, so meeting up again for a date the next day was natural. I did check up on him before I went. I googled him, and even looked him up at his address on the electoral register. He had also sent me videos of him playing five-a-side on a pub football team, so I was fairly certain that he was who he said he was.

  ‘I was shaking with nerves the whole way on the bus to Birmingham city centre. Already I felt so much for him that it was scary. I got off the bus, and as soon as I saw him waiting by the bull statue for me all my nerves were gone. It was like being covered in a big, comforting duvet. Best of all, he felt the same – we walked around the Bullring Shopping Centre hand in hand, both stupidly smiling.’

  She’s smiling now, at the recollection. Then shivers. Hugs herself tighter against her before continuing.

  ‘From that moment, we were inseparable. I stayed over at his that night and moved in the next day – and not because I wanted to be free of sofa-surfing, but because it felt wrong being away from him. It sounds cheesy, but we had this instant connection, like nothing I’d felt with anyone else. The age gap didn’t matter – if anything, he made me feel safe because he was so worldly, especially because he’d been in the army, seeing all sorts, while I was quite naive.

  ‘Looking back, though, the signs of manipulation were there from the start. He was the one who insisted I stay with him, so that I was reliant on him. We were in such a whirlwind of love that it was easy for me to ignore friends and family, dropping them so that I could spend more time with him.

  ‘After just two months together he proposed. I loved him to bits, but it felt a little too rushed, and he took it as a total rejection, said I didn’t love him. He was crying, I was begging forgiveness and reassuring him that of course I adored him. “If you really loved me you’d have said yes,” he insisted. “The fact you didn’t proves you don’t, so it’s best if we split up. I’d sooner my heart was broken now than later.”

  ‘Daft cow that I was, I threw my arms around him and told him I’d been an idiot and that I’d love to marry him. Meant it, too – couldn’t think of anything better than spending the rest of my life with this fantastic man who had turned my life around. I’d finally got the happy ending I’d always dreamed of as a kid. But we agreed to have a long engagement.

  ‘Tha
t afternoon we went into town on the pretext of him buying me a lip gloss. The next thing I knew we were in a jewellery shop buying a ring. The following day, he booked a register office as a surprise for me, and I didn’t object for fear of upsetting him again, especially when it felt like he was doing all of this to make me happy.

  ‘We married three weeks later. I was only just nineteen, and Andy was thirty-eight. It wasn’t a big deal, neither of us had a lot of family or friends to invite, and besides, we both viewed the wedding as a natural next step in life rather than an excuse for a big party. The whole thing cost us about a thousand pounds – Andy got his suit from Oxfam, I got my dress on eBay. I bought all the decorations online, and we held the reception in our house.’

  She comes up for air from her memories, shaking her head sadly. For several moments there is only silence as she seems to be gathering strength for the next part of her tale. I barely breathe as I wait.

  ‘The violence started that night. We’d both had too much to drink, celebrating. By the time everybody had left we were off our faces, to be honest. I went over to him to give him a kiss. I remember wrapping my arms around his waist and looking at him, giggling, because I was so happy. But he pushed me away from him. I’d have fallen backwards but he grabbed my face in his hand, like a vice – the next day I had bruises from his fingertips and thumb along my jawline.

  ‘“I saw you flirting with that redhead friend of yours,” he slurred. “Should have known you’d be a tart, look what you do for a living, selling sex.”

  ‘I told him I didn’t even have a redhead friend. “Lying slut.” That’s what he called me. Then he let go of me and slapped me, backhanded, across my face. His wedding ring split my lip.’

  She points to a faint scar. There’s the proof.

  Even so, I have to ask.

  ‘What’s this got to do with these messages, you lying to me, everything you’ve done here?’ I demand.