The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller

by Shalini Boland

  The boatshed is all locked up. We’re finally on the water, in the coastal, towing the single behind us. I’m at the bow, and Jack’s in front of me, with Lucy at his feet. It’s like a bad dream. I may have had the idea to dispose of Lucy’s body, but that doesn’t mean I want to do this. I didn’t want her to die. I feel like I’m outside of my body, looking down at us from above. At me and Jack and Lucy. At the boat we’re towing behind us, bobbing on the water like a white coffin.

  Jack and I don’t say a word. I have so many thoughts whirling around my head, but I don’t know how to articulate them. Thoughts about “us”, about what’s going to happen to me and Jack after today. About how we can get back to where we used to be. I know Jack will only get angry if I mention those things now, so I’m better off keeping my thoughts to myself, until afterwards. I have a horrible feeling that he won’t want to see me again after this. We started our relationship out on the river at night. Now, here we are again, out on the river at night. But there’s no soft laughter, no illicit kisses. I can’t let this be the end. I can’t.

  The river is calm, and the exertion of rowing has warmed me up. I don’t know how long we’ve been out here, but I turn my head to see we’re suddenly approaching the harbour mouth, the dark expanse of the bay stretching out to the darker horizon beyond.

  ‘We’re here,’ I say.

  A few minutes later, we’re coming alongside a bank of rocks just past Mudeford Quay.

  ‘I can’t do this, Mia,’ he cries. ‘Please. Don’t make me do this. It’s not too late to go to the police. To tell them it was an accident. If we tell them what really happened it might be okay. But this – putting her body into the water – it feels so wrong.’ He turns back to look at me, his eyes beseeching.

  ‘We’re not calling the police,’ I say. I have to be firm with him. Make him understand that what we’re doing is for the best. ‘This is between me and you. No one else has to get involved.’

  ‘What about Lucy’s parents? Our friends? What will we say to them?’

  ‘We won’t say anything. She’ll have gone missing. It will all have been just a terrible accident. Which is the truth anyway.’

  ‘Is it, Mia?’ His eyes narrow. ‘Is it the truth? Did she really just happen to fall and hit her head, because it seems very unlikely to me.’

  ‘What are you saying, Jack?’ I stare back at him. ‘It sounds like you’re accusing me of something.’ An image of Lucy’s face flashes into my mind, of her shocked expression as I lunged at her. But I push the memory away. I wasn’t trying to kill her. I just wanted to . . . I don’t know what I wanted – to wipe the smug expression from her face. ‘This is as much a shock for me as it is for you,’ I continue. ‘For her to die like that . . . it’s terrible.’

  He turns away, his head bowed.

  Our boat sways in the water, our blades keeping us from scraping against the jagged black rocks.

  ‘If we leave her here,’ I say, ‘it will look like she capsized, hit her head on the rocks and was swept away. I’ll untie the single, if you keep our boat steady.’

  My fingers shake as I loosen the knot. It takes me a while, but I finally work it free and haul the boat around so it’s alongside us.

  ‘You’ll have to lift her into the water, Jack. I can’t manage it from back here.’

  ‘I don’t want to do this. It’s not right.’

  ‘She loved to row, right?’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, to be in the river is a good thing. It’s like . . . how people scatter ashes in the deceased’s favourite place.’

  ‘It’s fucking nothing like that,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘I’m not a child, Mia. You can’t make me feel better about this. We’re disposing of my wife’s body at night in a river. There’s nothing “good” about it.’

  ‘I’msorry, I’m just trying to―’

  ‘Well don’t. Just shut the fuck up and let me do this in my own time.’

  I take a breath. He’s scared and tired and upset. I’ll give him time to compose himself. I can hear him murmuring, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. He’s speaking to his wife’s dead body. I catch the words ‘sorry’ and ‘I love you’ and other endearments I’d rather not hear. Finally, he lifts her body up and over the side of our boat, making us rock and then tip precariously to one side. I put my weight on the opposite side to balance us.

  She’s in the water and Jack is sobbing. Her body is just floating there, face up, unmoving. Her eyes are closed. She looks like she’s asleep. Her face white, her hair floating like a golden halo in the moonlight. I untie the other knot to the boat and let it go, shoving it away from us. It’s instantly taken by the current.

  ‘You need to push her body away,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t,’ Jack says, his face stricken. ‘You’ll have to do it. I can’t look at her like that. She doesn’t look like my Lucy anymore.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘Of course I’ll do it. You sit back in the boat and look away if it’s easier.’ I lean over as he sits back. I reach down over the side of the boat. She just needs a good, hard shove, and she’ll be taken by the current, like her boat.

  My hands enter the frigid water and I push Lucy as hard as I can. As I do so, I feel a blinding flash of pain at the back of my head. What? I slide my freezing, wet hands out of the water and bring them up to check my head. I’m dizzy. What just happened? I grab onto the side of the coastal to steady myself.

  It’s Jack! I twist around, ready to push him away. But it’s too late. I see the end of the blade come down on my head for a second time. His hands peel my frozen fingers from the edge of the boat and he shoves me into the water. How can he do this to me? I was doing this for us . . . so we could be together. I love him. The water rushes around my body, fills my nose, my ears, it blurs my eyes. I spin around and gaze up through the dark layers of water, see his wavery features peering down. See the end of the oar smash through the surface of the water towards me. I flinch backwards as shock and sorrow grip my heart. Jack wants to kill me!

  I want to plead with him. Make him understand. Make him love me again. But he won’t listen. Not now. He’s too shocked. Too angry. I have to get away from him. Make him believe I’m unconscious. That I’ve drowned. I must hold my breath a little longer.

  So, I dive down and swim away from him.

  Down into the black nothingness.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Seven months later

  It’s bone chilling weather. Too cold even to snow. The walk from the bus stop is taking longer than I’d anticipated, and my thick woollen coat is no prevention against today’s icy grip. The city is bleak and grey. Still and strangely quiet. As I stride along Thamesmead beneath leafless trees, I can smell the damp river, even though I can’t see it from here. I haven’t been back to London since I last visited my mum and sister, before my memories returned. I won’t be visiting them today, or anytime soon.

  I’m here, at last. It’s a relief to get in out of the cold. They said I had to allow thirty minutes for all the security checks. I pass through the various sets of gates, steel doors and metal detectors in a daze, along with all the other visitors, showing my two forms of ID. Next, I submit to being fingerprinted, having my photograph taken and my hand stamped.

  This place isn’t how I thought it would be. From the outside, it looks more like a modern art gallery. But I guess this is just the visitor’s section. I can’t imagine the actual cellblocks are quite as sanitised and pretty. Not in a category-A, maximum-security prison like Belmarsh. It’s not what I wanted for him. Not at all. But what choice did he give me?

  I wasn’t sure he’d even allow me to visit. I sent my request in a few weeks ago, not hopeful of hearing anything back. So it was a shock when the visiting order finally came through. But then, I guess he doesn’t get too many people wanting to visit. Not after everyone found out what he did – murdering Lucy, and then attempting to kill me. Twice. Okay, I know he didn’t actuall
y, physically kill his wife. But he may as well have done. If he’d left her, like he’d promised me, none of this would have happened.

  Now, he’s serving a minimum of nineteen years for the murder of his wife, and thirteen for my attempted murder. Suki only got three for being an accessory. She’s up the road in Holloway. I won’t be visiting her. That’s for sure.

  I pass down another corridor and through another set of gates where I’m directed to put my bag in a locker, and show my ultra-violet-stamped hand, illuminating a coat of arms on my pale skin. I tuck my hair behind my ears and smile at the officer. He nods, blank-faced, and waves me through. Copying the other visitors, I remove my coat and boots, and the cash in my jeans’ pocket and place everything in a plastic tray, like I’m at the airport. I now have to submit to a body search, including my mouth where I’m made to waggle my tongue to each side. Honestly, anyone would think I was the criminal. I gather up my belongings, shrug my coat back on and tug my boots over my freezing feet.

  We pass through one further set of ID checks before finally reaching the visitors’ hall. My heart is suddenly pounding, my palms slick with sweat. Is it too late to turn back? I wipe my hands on my jeans and take a breath, scanning the room, but I don’t spot him immediately. I hand my visiting order to a seated officer who checks me off against a list and then points down the hall. I follow his line of sight, past all the other seated inmates.

  And there, at last, I see him . . . Jack. Sitting alone at a small, circular table.

  My heart swoops, my stomach clenches. He’s staring at me, and I can almost believe we’re somewhere else. Somewhere better. In a time and place where his face would light up at the sight of me. Where he couldn’t wait to kiss me and place his hands on my body.

  Here, now, it doesn’t feel right to smile or wave. He’s already broken eye contact, his head bowed. I blink, push my shoulders back, and weave my way past the tables and chairs, past the other visitors and inmates, until, finally, I reach him.

  He remains seated without acknowledging my arrival.

  My heart thumps in my ears. ‘Hello,’ I say, but my voice is drowned out by the clatter of chair legs, and the cacophony of other prisoners greeting loved ones. ‘Hi,’ I say a little louder this time. He’s wearing a navy sweatshirt and black jogging bottoms. His hair is still cropped short, but his face is thinner, his shoulders narrower, his eyes dull. He looks less vital than he used to. A tear escapes from the corner of my eye. I smudge it away with my fingers. Why did he let himself end up in this place? If he’d only gone along with my plan . . .

  ‘What are you doing here, Mia?’ he asks, his voice leaden.

  I sit opposite him, on one of the spare chairs. I suddenly can’t think of anything to say. The phrase “How are you?” certainly isn’t appropriate. My right eyelid twitches – a tic I haven’t been able to get rid of since the summer.

  He raises his eyes again to meet mine. ‘I said, what are you doing here? Why did you come?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I finally say. ‘I had to see you.’

  ‘Was that an apology?’ His lip curls into a sneer.

  ‘I didn’t want any of this to happen,’ I say, aching to reach out and touch him. ‘I never wanted you to end up in prison.’

  ‘But rather me than you, eh?’ He tilts his head and gives me a grim smile.

  I open my mouth, but can’t think of a reply.

  ‘You and I, we know the truth, Mia, don’t we?’ His voice is tinged with acid. ‘We know you’re a liar and a murderer, even if the British justice system couldn’t work out that pertinent nugget of information.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘You what? You came here to gloat? To apologise? To cry?’

  I swipe at another stray tear. ‘You tried to kill me.’

  ‘Yes. I did. But can you honestly blame me? You killed my wife. You were going to frame me for her murder. Is that not enough to tip any man over the edge?’ He’s gripping the edge of the table, now, his fingers tense, white.

  ‘I loved you,’ I say. Even now, as he radiates hatred, I gaze at him and wish he loved me still. Wish he would admit that, despite everything, he still wants to be with me. I realise that’s the reason I came here. To see if somehow we could make this work. But he doesn’t even want to try.

  ‘You love no one but yourself, Mia. You’re sick. Deluded. Dangerous. You should be the one locked up. Not me.’ His shoulders sag and he lets go his grip on the table. ‘Suki was the only one who believed in me. Why couldn’t you have told your precious DS Wright the truth? She would have understood. You could have explained it was an accident. They’d have gone easier on both of us.’ His eyes are pleading, now, bright with unshed tears. His hands are trembling. He slides them out of sight, onto his lap. ‘It’s not too late,’ he whispers, hunching forward. ‘You can turn yourself in. Please. You don’t know what it’s like in here. I don’t know if I’ll make it. Nineteen years . . . I can’t . . .’

  I don’t want to hear this. He’s sending me on another guilt trip. I came here to see if we could have a future together. To tell him I would wait for him. But he’s banging on about the same old things. Accusing me, accepting none of the blame.

  ‘You’re strong,’ I say. ‘You’ll be okay. And I can visit you again.We can―’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m not strong. I’m not built for this place. I need to be back home. Back by the river. Away from this hell. Get me out of here, Mia. You’re the only one who can make them believe . . .’

  I stand up, shaken by the emotion in his voice. This was a mistake. To come here so soon. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I should go.’

  ‘No!’ his voice is too loud and we’re attracting glances from the other visitors and inmates. A prison officer heads this way. I nod to let him know everything’s okay, and he backs off. But he’s watching closely, now. Watching Jack.

  ‘No,’ Jack repeats, more quietly this time. ‘Don’t go. Not yet.’

  I sit back down, perched on the edge of the chair. My hands clasped together.

  ‘How can you live with yourself?’ he hisses, his face flushing. ‘Just tell them the truth, Mia.’

  I shake my head. At this moment, he doesn’t even look like the same person, his face is so twisted with rage.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, standing up once more. This time, I’m determined to leave.

  Jack lurches to his feet, scraping his chair back. ‘Tell the fucking truth!’ he yells. He strides around the table towards me, his hands outstretched. The prison officers are on him in seconds, before his fingers can connect with my neck.

  ‘Tell the truth!’ he shouts as he’s dragged away. ‘You bitch! You lying, fucking bitch!’

  Everyone is staring from him to me. Some people are laughing. My face is burning, my hands shaking, my knees like jelly. He’s bundled out of the hall, through a door in the back. I lower my eyes and turn to leave.

  He’s still so angry. I suppose that’s to be expected. But, I know he’ll come around . . . in time. He’ll come back to me. And I’ll be waiting for him.

  ~

  COMING SOON:

  The Best Friend – a gripping psychological thriller

  Be the first to hear about Shalini’s new releases here

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  Note from the Author:

  ‘Thank you for reading my novel. I’m an independent author and rely on word-of-mouth recommendations. If you’ve enjoyed The Girl from the Sea, maybe you’d be kind enough to tell your friends about it and consider posting a short review on Amazon or elsewhere online. Thank you so much.’

  Acknowledgements

  My eldest son, Dan Boland, started rowing a couple of years ago, in the beautiful town of Christchurch, and he’s absolutely hooked on it. So, I thought it would be cool to write a story set around a fictional rowing club. Thanks, Dan, for inspiring The Girl from the Sea. (Despite the fact you’re still too young to read it!)

  I want to say a massive tha
nk you to my husband, Pete Boland, for reading my first draft and giving me his encouragement and honest feedback. I’m lucky he’s so supportive of my writing. He also forces me to take regular breaks, for which my mushy brain thanks him.

  I was lucky enough to be able to quiz two amazing police officers. I’m very grateful to Hannah Riches, an ex-detective with the Metropolitan Police.

  And also to Samantha Smith, an officer with the Thames Valley Police.

  You both rock. Any errors in police procedure are purely my own.

  Thank you to my new-found content editor, Jessica Dall, from Red Adept Editing. Her notes were spot on. I took all her advice on board and I can’t recommend her highly enough.

  I’m totally in love with my book cover and have to thank Simon Tucker from Covered Book Designs for creating the image that was in my head. You’re a star.

  I’m forever grateful to my beta readers Julie Carey and Amara Gillo who gave a clear readers’ perspective. Thanks also to my fab Street Team – your support is wonderful. And to all my readers and reviewers, thank you, always!

  About the Author

  Shalini Boland lives in Dorset, England with her husband and two noisy sons where she writes novels (in between doing the school runs and hanging out endless baskets of washing).

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  Read More from this Author

  http://www.shaliniboland.co.uk

  http://www.amazon.com/Shalini-Boland/e/B004SGMOJM

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