The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Andrea Mara

  “Yes?” he says, not realising at first who it is.

  She turns to face him, trying to smile.

  “Sylvia! What are you doing here – is everything okay?”

  She clears her throat. “Hi, Justin – I just wanted to see how you’re doing?”

  “Sure, come in,” he says, though he doesn’t look sure at all. “I’m not bad, but need to stay off my feet. Come on through to the sitting room.”

  The hall is sparse – beige carpet and no pictures on the walls – like he just moved in and never did anything at all to make it his own. The sitting room is similarly devoid of personality – although what would Justin’s personality look like in a room? – maybe the bare-and-beige look says it all.

  He lowers himself slowly into a black-leather armchair and gestures for her to take a seat on the couch.

  “I’d offer you coffee, but even getting up to answer the door has taken it out of me. Feel free to make one for yourself though?”

  She shakes her head, no thanks, and asks how he’s feeling, then wishes she hadn’t: confronting staff who are faking illness is probably much easier without the small talk.

  “I’m all right – it’s really knocked it out of me though. I won’t be back for another six weeks or so. Taking longer than expected, the doctor said. Probably because I just didn’t take it easy at the start – kept going in to work even when I was in bits. You know what I’m like – it’s all about work with me. I hate being away from there.” His mouth turns down and he shakes his head sadly, to show her just how tough he’s finding it.

  Sylvia digs her nails into her palm. “So you can’t get out of the house at all? How do you even get groceries – gosh, I should have brought some with me.”

  He waves away the suggestion. “I buy them online, they get delivered. I sleep a lot to be honest, so I’m hardly even aware of what day it is half the time. It’s Saturday today, right? Or is it Sunday?”

  If he wasn’t currently ruining her career, she’d laugh. “It’s Saturday, Justin. And you’re probably wondering why I’m here. I was chatting to HR, and we were all a bit worried about you. I know you don’t have a family, so we agreed I’d call out to check in on you – to see if you need anything.”

  He smiles – a great big fake smile. “I’m grateful for your concern. And thank HR for me too, but I’ll be fine.”

  He stands up. The visit is over.

  “There’s just one more thing,” she says, feeling a lot like Lieutenant Columbo.

  Justin raises a mildly curious eyebrow in answer but she’s almost sure she spotted a glimpse of worry.

  “I came by earlier to call in – around two o’clock.” Ah, there’s the worry now. “And when I pulled in across the road, you were getting into your car. In rugby gear. Playing a match, were you?”

  Justin’s mouth opens and closes again. His pale, pink-rimmed eyes never leave her face. When he speaks, his voice is hard. “I’m entitled to leave the house. Don’t you dare spy on me.”

  “It’s not spying, Justin,” she says, thinking about the photos on the phone – it probably is spying. “I came out of genuine concern but it seems you’re doing a lot better than HR and Craig realised.”

  “I have a doctor’s note. That’s all that matters.”

  “So you don’t think you should maybe turn up at work on Monday – so that I don’t need to mention any of this to Craig?”

  “Who do you think Craig will listen to – me or you? I’ll just say you’re mistaken.”

  Oh, she really hoped she wouldn’t have to do this. She pulls out the phone and clicks into the photos, then turns the screen to show him. She scrolls through, watching his face growing redder at each one. He stands up and walks over to her. For what feels like the first time, she’s aware of how tall he is. She slides back on the couch a little and turns her face up to look at him. He’s towering over her and little bits of spit fly out of his mouth and down onto her face when he speaks.

  “How dare you! You came onto my property and took photos of me without my knowledge. How fucking dare you!”

  Before she realises what’s happening, he has grabbed the phone out of her hand. His face is just inches from hers now and she wants to wipe away the spittle but she can’t. Why didn’t she tell Tom where she was going? Shit. She tries to think of something to say but she can’t.

  “Get out,” he says, finally standing up straight.

  On the doorstep, she finds her voice again and asks for her phone.

  He looks down at it but doesn’t hand it over. He presses something on screen, and then again.

  “Justin, I need my phone. It’s a new one from work – they won’t be impressed if I tell them I don’t have it.”

  “Have it then – the photos are gone now.”

  The phone hits her in the chest and she’s still recovering from the shock when he slams the door in her face.

  Running to her car, she locks the doors from inside before pulling away, wondering again why she ever thought this was a good idea.

  Chapter 43

  Sylvia – Sunday, September 4th

  Is there anything better than waking up without a hangover after struggling through a long day of dehydration and headaches, Sylvia wonders, stretching in the bed. Zack’s cot is empty, and TV sounds tell her Tom is downstairs with the kids. Another little snooze won’t hurt. Then she remembers the visit to Justin, and all hopes of going back to sleep slip away. She touches the spot on her chest where the phone hit – it’s hard to believe it happened. And what next, now that she has nothing to show for the visit?

  The jarring sound of the doorbell interrupts her thoughts. Who on earth calls at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning? Tom will answer, but curiosity gets the better of her and she slips out to the landing to take a look down the stairs. Through the glass, she can make out a dark-blue shape in a high-vis jacket – a Guard? Oh shit, did Justin make a complaint? Grabbing her dressing gown, she rushes downstairs, but the Guard is already walking away.

  “What was it?” Sylvia asks, as Tom closes the door.

  “Apparently Noel has disappeared – or done a runner – who knows? They’re going door to door to ask if anyone has seen him.”

  “Jesus! That’s odd. How long has he been gone?”

  “I’m not sure but they were asking if I’d seen him Friday evening or any time since, so I guess that’s when he disappeared. He’s always been a strange fish though – I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d just decided to up and leave. Like that time –”

  Sylvia interrupts. “I saw him Friday evening. I need to go and tell them.”

  Upstairs, she throws on a tracksuit and hoodie, then goes to Megan’s room to look out the window. There’s a police car outside Georgia and Noel’s house, but no sign of the Guard who just called – maybe he’s gone inside. Rosemary is in her garden, pretending to weed a flowerbed, but there’s nobody else out on the road at all. Slipping on trainers, Sylvia goes outside. She’ll wait till they come back out – calling to the house doesn’t seem right. God, poor Georgia, and poor Annabel!

  “Did you hear the news?” Rosemary says, standing up from her pretend weeding.

  “Yeah, just now – Tom said Noel has disappeared and the police are investigating?”

  Rosemary takes off her gardening gloves and lays them on the ground. “Apparently so. I heard that he went for a walk on Friday night and never came back. Poor Georgia is beside herself, and I don’t want to think what that little child is going through. Of course the police said he might have just decided to get up and go – that’s what Georgia told a friend of mine who lives on the next road up.”

  “And could that be it – or do they think now something happened?”

  “Well, according to my friend, Georgia said he was a bit preoccupied with something on Friday night. But who knows. Georgia’s brother’s a Guard – that’s why they’re taking it seriously, I suppose. And I imagine they can’t rule anything in or out till they find him or h
ear from him, or . . .” she lowers her voice, “find a body.”

  “Oh God – they think he might have . . . ?”

  Rosemary nods solemnly. “Lot of pressure on people today. Men are expected to be breadwinners and do childrearing and housework too.” She shakes her head. “Wasn’t like that in my day.”

  Oh, here we go, thinks Sylvia.

  “Back then, men went to work and women minded the kids – worked well since Our Lord was a boy, so I don’t know why they had to go changing everything.”

  Sylvia grits her teeth then smiles to cover it. “And did anyone say anything to them about seeing Noel in Sam’s house on Friday evening?”

  Rosemary’s eyes widen. “Really? No, I didn’t see that. And I usually see everything. So, what are you thinking?”

  “Oh, nothing really – I just thought the police should know. So they can put everything together – you know, his final hours. At home, I mean, not final hours on earth . . . ”

  The door of Number 34 opens and two Gardaí come out – one male, one female. Georgia is just behind them, holding the door. Her beautifully groomed hair is loose and unwashed around her shoulders, and instead of her trademark dress and heels, she’s wearing a dressing gown. She closes the door without seeing her watching neighbours.

  Sylvia swallows and gets ready to step out of her comfort zone for the second time this weekend. She raises a hand to attract the Guards’ attention, and they come over.

  “Hi, sorry, it’s just I heard you’re looking for Noel, and I saw him Friday evening.”

  There’s no response at first – two blank faces look her up and down – and she wonders if she’s picked it up all wrong.

  Then the female Garda takes out a notebook and asks for the details.

  “I was looking out the front bedroom window at about quarter to eight, and saw Noel walk across to the house next door to us,” Sylvia says, pointing behind her at Sam’s house. “But when he got to the front door, I couldn’t see him any more, so I don’t know if the door was answered.”

  The Guards thank her, still giving nothing away.

  “There’s one more thing,” she says.

  The Guards look only mildly interested.

  She’s going red, but she makes herself speak. “There’ve been a few odd things going on recently,” she tells them. “It’s since the man in Number 26 moved in. Noises at night, and I think someone might have broken into my house.”

  Now they’re interested again.

  “Have you reported the break-in?” the male Garda asks.

  “No,” she says, “I couldn’t be absolutely certain that someone broke in – it was just that things were moved around at night.”

  She watches as the interest drains from both faces simultaneously and she can practically hear them writing her off as a demented housewife with nothing better to do than waste police time.

  Back inside, Tom asks her what happened, and she fills him in.

  “So you stood in our driveway telling the Guards there’s something odd going on next door – pointing at next door – and you weren’t remotely worried that Sam would see you?”

  Shit. Was his car there? She runs upstairs and looks out the front window. It is, and the Guards have gone in there now as far as she can see. Neither Cagney nor Lacey would ever have done something so daft. Nor Kate. Shit.

  Chapter 44

  Sylvia – Monday, September 5th

  The front door closes softly and Tom is gone again: another Monday morning pre-dawn flight for him and another solo-parenting stint for her. There’s a whole hour till the alarm will go off, but she’s too high above the sleep-tide now and, no matter how tightly she closes her eyes, there’s no going back. Just after six, Sylvia gives up and goes downstairs to make tea. It’s quiet – somehow quieter than usual. She shivers. This place is getting to her. As the kettle boils, she walks slowly around the kitchen as she does every morning now, just looking. Nothing seems out of place, though it’s becoming difficult to tell any more. The ticking of the clock is the only sound once the kettle stops – why is it so quiet? Then she knows. It’s Bailey. He’s usually jumping up at the back door as soon as she comes into the kitchen.

  Outside, the sky is still dark, and nothing stirs in the garden. The dog isn’t in his kennel – has he somehow got out the front? She checks the side gate – it’s open. Damn. This is all she needs. The last time he ran away it took three days to get him back – and of course this only ever happens when Tom is away. She’ll have to wait until Jane arrives, then go out to try to find him. Something sharp digs into her foot as she walks back – another broken plant pot. Where did it come from? There’s more of it further down the garden as she walks barefoot through the dewy grass to pick it up.

  At the end of the garden, behind the picnic table, there’s something dark lying on the ground. Dropping to her knees she touches it, then pulls back her hand, letting out a cry. Bailey. She reaches out her hand again . . . his poor body is already cold to touch. Gulping back a sob, she checks his body and looks around for blood but there’s none – just bits of terracotta, like misshapen flowers in the grass.

  There’s an old blanket on the shelf in the shed and she uses it to cover Bailey’s body, then goes inside to ring the vet. It’s too early according to the automated voice on the other end of the line. If only Tom was here – dammit anyway, he’s always away when things go wrong. She’ll have to tell Craig she’ll be late in – she can’t just leave the poor dog lying there all day. When Jane arrives, Sylvia whispers what’s happened, and together they carry Bailey to the boot of the car. Poor old thing – this isn’t how it should end for you, she thinks, closing the boot.

  Their local vet is not known for either patience or tolerance, and when he finds azalea petals caught in Bailey’s teeth, his response is sharp. Doesn’t she know that azaleas are poisonous to dogs – what was she doing keeping them in the garden? She doesn’t have azaleas, she tells him – she knows they’re poisonous.

  But her protestations are ignored.

  Outside, she calls Tom but he’s in a meeting. What is she supposed to do now? The clinic offers a cremation service but that seems too awful when none of the rest of the family even know Bailey is gone. She and the vet carry him back to the car instead.

  Jane is out with Zack when she gets home, and lifting the body out of the car on her own is a struggle. The blanket slips off as she’s walking towards the side of the house, and when she tries to grab it, she stumbles. She lands hard on her knees and manages to hold on to Bailey, but her tears are thick and fast now. Her knees hurt like she’s six again and she wants to get up but it’s too hard so she stays kneeling on the driveway, holding the dog and crying.

  A shadow falls across the ground and she looks up to see Sam standing over her. He doesn’t say anything at first but reaches out to gently take Bailey from her arms. Cradling the body against him with one arm, he holds out a hand to help Sylvia up. Her knees are badly grazed and they sting when she tries to wipe away the little stones that are stuck to her skin.

  Sam holds out a tissue and she takes it though she’s not sure if it’s for her eyes or for her knees.

  “Your childminder told me what happened – I’m so sorry,” he says, still holding Bailey. “Can I help you? Do you want to bury him in the garden?”

  She’s busy dabbing at her knee with the tissue and doesn’t reply.

  “I know it’s hard, but you probably need to do something – you can’t really just leave him out in the elements. Let me help you – I know what it’s like. I buried my dog Max when he died. And nobody understands, do they, because it’s a pet and not a human.” He smiles at her. “Come on – I know it’s an awful situation – Jane told me your husband’s away too. You look like you could use some help.”

  Oh for goodness’ sake, what was Jane doing telling him Tom is away? He’s still standing in front of her, holding the dog, waiting for an answer.

  She nods, and leads the way arou
nd to the back.

  There’s a spot at the end of the garden, under the one and only apple tree in what Megan calls their “orchard” – Bailey always liked to lie there, so it seems like a good final resting place.

  When Sam asks if she has a shovel, she hesitates, her mind in overdrive. Misunderstanding, he says he can go get his if she doesn’t. Without a word, she takes the spade from the shed and passes it to him.

  Neither of them speak as he digs. The earth is hard, and it takes longer than she expected. On TV, they always seem to dig graves quickly – though it’s usually someone digging his own grave with a gun in his back.

  Suddenly the silence feels odd and uncomfortable.

  “Would you like tea?” she asks.

  Sam would, so she goes inside and fills the kettle, then tries phoning Tom again. This time he answers.

  “Tom, Bailey’s dead. That’s why I was calling you.”

  Silence on the other end tells her she should have broached it more gently. “I’m sorry, I know it’s horrible news to hear when you’re away.”

  “What happened?” Tom sounds stunned.

  “The vet says it’s because he ate an azalea plant. I just don’t understand it though. I read up on all the plants that are toxic for dogs and I never have any of them in the garden – no daffodil bulbs, no tulips, no azaleas.”