The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Andrea Mara

  Laura’s voice floats out from the kitchen – she’s telling the boys to go upstairs to brush their teeth.

  Kate pulls herself up off the floor and runs to the guest bathroom under the stairs before anyone comes out to the hall. Closing the toilet seat, she sits down, trying to straighten her thoughts. Her breath is too fast. Laura is calling her, but she can’t come out yet. She needs to think. She reads the letter a third time – it still says the same thing. Fucking hell.

  She splashes water on her face, hesitating before drying it with the guest hand-towel, then puts on a smile and goes into the kitchen to tell her mother she’s just had a call from a friend in Dublin and needs to drive there this morning. The friend’s husband has left her, she whispers to Laura, out of earshot of the boys. Laura casts a sceptical eye on her daughter but tells her to go – the boys will be fine. Ten minutes later, with nothing but her handbag, Kate is on the road.

  When she pulls into Willow Valley two and half hours later, her fingers are stiff from gripping the steering wheel and her eyes feel like they’re filled with sand. She cuts the engine, then sits in the car without moving. Her stomach feels sicker than ever, and lack of food isn’t helping. What is she expecting to find anyway? Her eye is drawn to a small movement in the house across the way. There’s someone in the sitting room looking out at her, trying to hide behind the curtain. Wonderful, an audience now. Maybe the author of the letter? Irritated, she gets out of the car, and marches up to her front door.

  Inside, the hallway is cool and silent. And there’s nobody there. What had she expected – to find them at it on the floor? Sam would be at work for a start. This is so silly. She walks through to the kitchen, familiar and alien all at once. The brand-new table, the cracked lino, the ancient pine cupboard doors they’d eventually have to replace. A cereal bowl sits on the draining board, with the remains of what looks like dried-in Weetabix inside. The kettle is still slightly warm from Sam’s morning tea. On autopilot, she hits the button. There’s post on the counter – unopened, addressed to her. Bank statements and her Visa bill. She opens the fridge – not as empty as she’d expected. Cheese, ham, milk and beer. Normal. Just like everything else. What was she thinking, driving the breadth of the country on foot of an anonymous letter, like some deranged, scorned wife from a made-for-TV film? Laura would have a good laugh at this later.

  The kettle trundles to a stop. She warms a cup and switches on the coffee machine, running some water through it first to clean it – Sam only drinks tea, despite her many failed attempts to convert him. She reaches for the coffee but it’s empty. Now she desperately wants a coffee. Wasn’t it at least half full when she was leaving? She makes tea instead and, taking a roll of black sacks from the cupboard, she carries her cup upstairs to gather some clothes for the next few weeks.

  The house feels strange – so very quiet. She switches on the radio in her room, and a song she’s never heard blares out. Quickly she turns it off again. What is he doing with the volume so high? Opening her wardrobe, she begins pulling out coloured T-shirts and fresh pairs of jeans and a dress for going out even though she has nowhere to go. She reaches under her bed to pull out a box of beach towels and swimsuits – they need some extra towels – and knocks something over. A shoe. A high-heeled silver peep-toe court shoe, the kind she wouldn’t wear in a million years.

  Oh Sam. She puts it down and stands up, looking around the room for other unfamiliar objects. There’s nothing in plain sight. Her eye falls on her bedside locker – the top drawer is ajar, just the tiniest bit, but she never leaves it open. She pulls it out. Inside, there are some bangles, a pair of earrings and a magazine screaming headlines about soap stars she’s never heard of. That sick feeling is trickling back. A little unsteady on her feet, she backs away from the locker, and goes into the ensuite bathroom. In the mirror on the medicine cabinet, her cheeks look paler than ever and her hair is all over the place. For a second she pauses, then bracing herself she opens the cabinet. A bottle of MAC foundation, a tube of BB cream, and six or seven eye-shadow palettes, none of which are hers. And a little flat packet of some kind of medicine. She picks it up and turns it over. Yasmin. She’s not on the pill any more, though she used Yasmin for a long time before they had kids. Frozen to the spot, she turns the packet over and over in her hand. Three pills gone, eighteen still there. Oh Sam.

  Back in the bedroom, she lifts the lid of her laundry basket – underwear that isn’t hers sits on top of a pile of towels that are. So she’s not only leaving her belongings all over Kate’s house, she’s using her best towels too. Her eyes are drawn back to the bed – in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, she still can’t picture Sam sleeping with someone else. The pillows sit side by side, just as they always do, lined up in marital harmony. Sam’s is usually higher than hers until she fixes it, because he doesn’t fold his pyjamas – he just stuffs them underneath in a ball. But today there’s perfect symmetry. She pulls them back. Under her pillow there’s a thin black negligée, the kind only women who don’t have the battle scars of childbirth wear. And underneath his, there’s nothing.

  She steps back until her shoulders touch the wardrobe, then slides down to sit on the floor. Jesus Christ. Sam. In twenty years, other than that one horrible time – when he promised he’d never do it again – she’d never suspected he’d stray. Not for a minute. They weren’t perfect – far from it – and the last year has been tough. But surely it was nothing more than the typical domestic struggle that parents of small kids go through? And of course there wasn’t as much time for dinner and dates and sex and meaningful conversations. But that was normal. Or had seemed normal until he started working late and stopped coming to see them at the weekends. And now this. Jesus Christ. Well, fuck him and fuck her! She gets up off the floor and pulls a black sack from the roll. Then, without touching anything, she tips the laundry basket contents into it. The jewellery, the make-up and the pill packet follow, then the negligée, and as an afterthought the pillow goes in too. It’s not the most sophisticated response but it’ll do.

  She gathers her own clothes and some from the boys’ rooms into another bag and puts them in the car, then returns to the kitchen to write a note to her husband. Leaving it under the empty coffee jar, she pulls the door closed behind her.

  Chapter 25

  Kate – Tuesday, July 26th

  The key turns easily in the lock but it takes every ounce of energy to put on a smile and walk back into the B&B. The kitchen door is open, and from the doorstep she can see the boys scooping food into their mouths, their faces low over the bowls. Instinctively, she wants to tell them to sit up straight but for now she just stands and watches. Laura comes into view and taps Seth on the shoulder, telling him to slow down. Glancing up, she sees Kate and waves.

  Kate lifts her hand automatically, then drops it to her side again.

  Laura walks towards her, wiping her hands in a cloth. Her brow creases as she comes closer.

  Kate runs her hand through her hair – she must look a state.

  “Are you all right, love? Is your friend all right?” Laura takes her by the arm and leads her into the hall.

  Kate nods.

  “I thought I saw the car around five o’clock but it must have been someone else.”

  “No, that was me – I got here then I decided to go to the beach for a walk on my own. Sorry, Mum – I left you with the boys all day.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re grand. I’ll tell you what – sit here for a minute,” she points to the bottom step of the stairs, “and I’ll put a DVD on for the boys. We can have a glass of wine in the kitchen and chat.”

  Laura presses her down onto the step and goes in to give the boys the good news. Cheering, without noticing Kate, they race to the couch in the sitting room to watch who knows what from her mother’s ancient DVD collection.

  Kate pulls herself up off the step.

  In the kitchen, Laura is struggling with the corkscrew – Kate takes it from her and po
ps the cork. She pours, watching the deep-red liquid fill the glass. The only other sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall. Without looking at her, she hands Laura the glass and pours her own.

  “So?”

  “It’s not a friend.”

  “Is it Sam?”

  Kate nods and takes a deep drink from her glass. Shifting on the chair, she pulls the crumpled letter from her jeans pocket and slides it across the table to her mother.

  Laura reads it, her face falling.

  “Oh Kate! And is it true? Are you sure it’s not just a mistake? Sam would have to be mad to do something like this. It has to be a mistake. Who sent it?”

  “I don’t know. I wonder if it was that old lady Rosemary I was telling you about – she’s a bit of a gossip. Though how she got the address here is beyond me.”

  “And did you go there today – is that where you were?”

  Kate nods again. “Yeah. I went home. And let’s just say neither Sam nor his girlfriend were expecting a visitor – her stuff is everywhere. Ugly hooker shoes and cheap tacky underwear. In my laundry basket. I wanted to puke.”

  “Her stuff is in your house? My God, he must have lost the plot – surely he’d realise there’s a huge chance of being caught? Did you see him – Sam?”

  “No, he was at work. I left him a note. I told him not to contact me.” She checks her phone, then switches it off. “I’m so angry and so pissed off and so surprised too – I just never pictured Sam as a cheater.”

  Laura nods.

  “Fine, I know he cheated before but that was different. We weren’t together that long, and it was a stupid fling with an ex. That’s very different to a middle-aged married dad of two sleeping with someone in his own house. In my house.” She groans, and pours more wine. “Fucking whore!”

  “Kate –”

  “Sorry, Mum.”

  “No, I was going to say talk to me any time, vent, swear, do whatever you need to do. And stay here as long as you like. You and the boys are always welcome. I know what it’s like, I’ve been there.”

  “Oh Mum, what you went through – it was so unbelievably awful, and what Dad did was unforgivable. And you came through it like a hero – like a pro. I don’t think I’ve ever said how much I admired you. I know I was horrible at the time but, Jesus, with every bone of my body I knew you were incredible.” She puts her hand over Laura’s. “What Sam has done is so horrendously clichéd in comparison – we are nothing more than a suburban cliché. Another statistic, and another dumb wife who didn’t see what was going on under her own roof.”

  Laura shakes her head but doesn’t reply. They sit drinking wine, listening to the ticking of the clock and the sound of two small boys laughing at the TV.

  The phone lights up with notifications when she switches it back on. Four text messages, all from Sam.

  Please talk to me, Kate – I’m so sorry. I need to speak to you to sort this out – please.

  Please text me at least – we have to sort this out.

  Kate, I’m so sorry, I really fucked up here. I’m an idiot – it was all a stupid mistake.

  I feel like we’ve been growing apart, and I was lonely. And flattered by the attention. I know, it sounds so weak when I put it like that. And it is. Men are stupid, I’m stupid.

  Oh God, how had she ended up with this loser? She stabs her reply into the phone and hits send before she changes her mind.

  Goodbye, Sam.

  She switches off the phone.

  Chapter 26

  October 22nd 1990

  The whine of the car alarm starts up just as the Nine O’Clock News headlines begin. John groans and pulls himself up out of the couch.

  “That’s the third time this week – I’ll have to bring it in to be serviced,” he mutters, walking out to the cold hallway, as Claire pushes the sitting-room door closed after him to keep the heat in.

  The noise of the alarm is deafening when he opens the front door, a rude interruption on the quiet October evening. The neighbours would be cursing him. He clicks the button and the noise abruptly stops, although it’s still ringing in his ears.

  Then he hears it – a faint rustling. Where is it coming from? There it is again – louder now, and then a thwack, like something hitting the ground. A fox maybe, eying up the bin? He picks up what Claire calls the “rubbish rock” and puts it on the lid of the bin – that might keep them out. He hears the rustling again, and another thwack. It’s coming from the bushes across the road. That couldn’t be a fox – what is it? One of Sam’s friends messing? Or was someone trying to take the car after all? He walks slowly out onto the road to take a closer look. Now there’s no sound, just an eerie silence. He moves closer to the bushes and kicks one with his foot. Nothing. He steps back onto the road, scratching his head.

  A car engine is purring softly somewhere behind. He turns and squints into the darkness. The engine revs suddenly. Someone’s in a hurry. He can’t make out whose car it is – the new guy from the corner house? He’s forgotten to turn on his lights. John raises his hand, pointing at the front headlights. So easy to forget in a lit-up area – he did the same one night last week. He keeps waving and pointing. The car is coming down the road towards him now, gathering speed. It’s coming right at him – can’t the driver see him? He tries to jump out of the way but it’s too late. Now there’s only screaming pain and he’s lying on the cold, black road.

  The car reverses. It’s almost out of sight. Why is the driver not helping him? John tries to shout but he can’t. Then he hears the car again. It’s coming towards him, faster and faster. Understanding now, he tries to crawl to the side but he can’t move. He claws at the road, scrabbling for a grip, anything to pull his body out of the way, watching in horror as the car comes straight for him.

  And then everything goes black.

  Mourners spill out onto the street because, in spite of the vastness of the church, there isn’t enough room.

  In the front pew, Sam grips his mother’s hand.

  Claire looks nothing like herself – she’s aged a decade in three days. Her eyes are wide and vacant, staring into the nothingness in front of her – ceremony and Valium each playing a part to get her through.

  The coffin they spent so much time choosing looks just like every other coffin now. Except there’s a photo of his dad on top. It’s one from the office – the black-and-white shot they use for his byline in the paper. It was the only photo they could find of him on his own. John’s eyes look out over the top of his glasses, surveying the congregation with just a hint of a smile behind his pipe. He had insisted on having the pipe in the photo – to show the real him, he said, to contrast with the formality of the shirt and tie. And now, he has no say in any of it. Inside a wooden box, about to be put in the ground.

  Sam’s shoulders shake. Claire continues to stare straight ahead and doesn’t notice, but Bella is on his other side, and gently touches his arm. He can’t look at the photo any more. He follows Claire’s lead and, side by side, they stare straight ahead, now a family of two.

  He hears movement to his left and turns to see Michael slipping into the pew beside Bella.

  “Did you let the hotel know about the changed time?” Bella whispers.

  Michael nods. “It’s all sorted – they were great.”

  Sam closes his eyes, giving silent thanks that these two are here – not to God, because what kind of God would let his dad die such a horrible death – but maybe to the Universe. The two of them had been there late Monday night, when the ambulance and the Guards had left, and the house was horribly quiet. Between them they made dozens of cups of tea, and held Claire’s hand as she sat staring and not speaking. Bella had phoned the funeral home on Tuesday morning, and Michael had called to pass on the news to John’s boss. They spoke to the priest about what kind of ceremony they wanted, when Claire was unable to get out of bed on Wednesday morning. They took turns to leave at times, but they always came back. They greeted well-meaning visitors and
passed on their condolences when Claire was too ill to see anyone. They accepted casseroles and cards and flowers and wreaths. They waited for the forensic team to finish examining the blood on the road outside the house, and made sure that it was cleaned up afterwards before Claire or Sam could step outside and see the dark red patch. Bella chose hymns, and found a suit for the burial.

  The burial. It still sounds all wrong to Sam. His dad, who had been trying to grab the remote control from him just minutes before, lying in a crumpled, broken heap in the middle of the road.

  On a Monday night. Just a normal Monday night. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter 27

  Kate – Tuesday, August 2nd 2016

  The heart in her cappuccino disintegrates at the turn of her spoon – what was with all these shapes in coffees today anyway? She turns her phone over and over idly in her hand, wondering if she should have brought her book. Maybe that’s a sign she’s coming to terms with the affair – ready to stop wallowing? Or perhaps she just needs distracting from herself – she’s boring herself to tears now with the whole thing. She pulls her hoodie around her as the breeze picks up. Her receipt flutters to the ground and she reaches down to grab it – she can almost see the stain from where her coffee fell when Mrs Daly ambushed her. Was that only two weeks ago? It seems a world away now.