The Night Away: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller

by Jess Ryder

  The Night Away

  An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller

  Jess Ryder

  Books by Jess Ryder

  The Girl You Gave Away

  The Dream House

  The Ex-Wife

  The Good Sister

  Lie to Me

  AVAILABLE IN AUDIO

  The Girl You Gave Away (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Dream House (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Ex-Wife (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Good Sister (Available in the UK and the US)

  Lie to Me (Available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  The Ex-Wife

  Jess’ Email Sign-Up

  Books by Jess Ryder

  A Letter from Jess

  The Girl You Gave Away

  The Dream House

  The Good Sister

  Lie to Me

  Acknowledgements

  For my father

  Chapter One

  A few weeks before

  I come to Lilac Park every day to look at babies. They are everywhere, as numerous as the squirrels. Two women are standing by the entrance gate, idly pushing their prams back and forth as they chat. A few metres away, a toddler is running circles around a tree. A young mother is walking towards me, pushing a bright red buggy and smiling into the late-afternoon sunshine. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I feel dizzy, as if somebody is spinning me around. Turning away, I pretend to watch the ducks in the pond, but my heart races as she trundles past, the buggy wheels squeaking cheerfully.

  There’s plenty to see and do here: tennis courts; a children’s play area; a rose garden and ornamental pond; a bowling green; two football pitches where matches are played on Sunday mornings. And there’s the park café, of course. On weekdays mums flock there like pigeons, clogging up the space with their expensive buggies, fighting over the few available high chairs. They cluster around the tables in large groups, breastfeeding and chatting and sipping their organic chai lattes. Sometimes I sit at the counter and listen to them discussing sleeping problems and sore nipples, debating the convenience of disposable nappies against the need to save the planet. I hear their little ones crying for attention. I want to pick them up and give them a cuddle, but of course I don’t. Daren’t.

  Nobody ever notices me. Why would they? I am a single person. Unattached, unburdened by baby equipment. They might have acknowledged me in the past, but now I’m of no interest. How could I possibly understand what it’s like to be a parent? How could I have any idea of what they’ve been through or what their life is like now? They assume I have no horrific birth stories or funny anecdotes to share, no tiny prodigy to boast about. I’ve been to the café countless times, but they never see me. I am invisible.

  It’s not just the mums who ignore me, it’s the dads too, although not many use the park during the week. Dads tend to prefer papooses to pushchairs. I suppose they think it looks more manly and also more caring to carry their babies rather than push them about. They like to have them pressed close, sniffling and dribbling onto their jackets. They wear the stains of fatherhood with pride.

  At the weekend the park is heaving with young families – mums, dads, babies, toddlers, school-age children – often with grandparents in tow. They gather around the edge of the play area, talking in gender-segregated groups, with one eye vaguely on their charges. Sometimes I sit on the wall by the sandpit and watch the children digging holes or making castles. There are arguments over plastic spades and attempted thefts of unattended scooters. I want to mediate, to explain about sharing. I want to help the toddlers climb the slide and catch them at the bottom, or lift them onto the see-saw and sit on the other end, but interacting with other people’s children is only allowed if you have one of your own.

  Hanging around the park is torture, but I have to come here to check on Mabel. She lives with her mummy and daddy in the house opposite the main gates. Number 74. It’s a purpose-built Edwardian maisonette with its own front door and lots of original features – the sort of place that’s very popular with hipster types retreating from Hackney. The primary schools have better ratings here and there’s less pollution. Being further from the city centre, house prices are lower.

  Amber and George’s flat is on the first and second floors. They have a loft conversion. I only know this because there are windows in the roof. On the ground floor, there’s a narrow entrance hall where there’s just enough room to keep the buggy. I’ve seen Amber struggling to get past with her shopping, running up and down the stairs with the bags, trying to get it all into the kitchen before Mabel wakes up. She has no idea that I’m in the park opposite, hiding in plain sight amongst the joggers and dog-walkers, the pram-pushers and duck-feeders. Watching.

  Amber is clearly not enjoying motherhood. There’s no smug glow about her like the mums in the park café. Her expression is vacant but tinged with sadness, as if she’s grieving for someone, or something. A previous lifestyle, I’m guessing, although she must have known what she was letting herself in for. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s not coping. She can’t be bothered to brush her hair or put on make-up, and she wears the same grey joggers and purple fleece every single day. As my grandmother would have put it, she’s letting herself go. I wonder what George makes of that …

  Her orbit is small, consisting of trips to the tiny supermarket at the end of the road, the pharmacy and the health centre. She always takes the same route, cutting across the park. Off she sets with the buggy, head down, eyes fixed on the path. Other mothers talk on their phones while they’re walking, or bump into other parents they know, or sit on a bench and take their babies out to play, but not Amber. She avoids making human contact with anyone. For her, leaving the house is a necessity not a pleasure. It’s as if she’s been ordered to have fresh air, but doesn’t want to breathe it in.

  I’ve never seen her at weekends, not once. I think she must spend them in bed. She and George don’t go out together; you’d never know they were a couple. They share the childcare and there are no overlaps, no doubling up. George seems to like being a dad a lot more than Amber likes being a mum. He loves the park; he can’t get enough of it. He puts Mabel in a baby
carrier, which he wears on his back, reminding him of his trekking days, perhaps, when he used to go travelling to far-flung places. Occasionally he takes her to the family-friendly pub on the high street, presumably to meet his mates and watch football. I don’t follow him inside, because that would be too risky. Too obvious.

  I stare at number 74, willing the front door to open and Amber to emerge. I haven’t seen her for a few days. It’s worrying, not to say annoying. Soon the park gates will be shut. Time to make my way home, I decide.

  It’s a short bus ride to my flat, which is in a less fashionable and therefore cheaper area than Lilac Park. I hate the place, but I needed somewhere to live at short notice and it was all I could afford by myself. The living space looks onto a brick wall and there’s black mould in the bathroom that I can’t get rid of, no matter how hard I try. The staircase is shared with other tenants, most of whom I’ve never seen, and nobody bothers to clean the common parts – least of all me.

  I let myself in and climb the filthy stairs to the top floor. The door to my flat has a dent at the bottom where somebody has tried to kick it in. There’s one bedroom and an open-plan kitchen/diner/living room. The furniture is all cheap beech laminate, badly assembled, and the sofa is hard and uncomfortable.

  I haven’t had the motivation to make the place more homely. There have been no jolly dinner parties, no weekend guests – no visitors at all, in fact. It has been my secret hideaway, my self-imposed prison. I don’t see old friends any more and have little desire to make new ones. I came off social media and got rid of my smartphone. I’m virtually off the grid; it’s easier that way. Nobody can ask how I’m feeling or what my plans for the future are. Nobody can track me down.

  Hanging my coat on the peg, I walk into the living area and stare at my dismal surroundings. The coffee table is stained with mug rings. Boxes of books and ornaments are still stacked against the wall and my pictures remain in bubble wrap. When I moved in, I couldn’t be bothered to unpack, and now the boxes have become makeshift furniture, surfaces for dirty plates and junk mail or to rest my feet on.

  Taking a bottle of wine from the fridge, I pour myself a large glass. I can’t go on like this; the situation is killing me. I’ve become a ghost of myself, haunting a life that never was and can never be. If I had any sense, I’d leave London altogether and start afresh. I even have somewhere to go to.

  I should leave Mabel behind too. The trouble is, I’m not sure I can.

  Chapter Two

  The weekend before

  Amber has never been a morning person. Seven months ago, she’d have only countenanced waking at 5 a.m. for a holiday – and even then, she would’ve slept on the way to the airport. But these days it feels horribly normal to be up and about two hours before the sun comes up, doing the all-too-familiar daily chores: sterilising bottles, wiping down the changing unit, hanging countless little sleepsuits over the radiators. She’s already had breakfast; by ten o’clock she’ll be ready for lunch. No wonder she can’t shift the baby fat, she thinks as she takes off her dressing gown and briefly catches sight of her body in the mirror.

  On the subject of which, what on earth is she going to wear this evening? She can hardly turn up in her usual sloppy jogging bottoms and baggy T-shirt stained with baby vomit. None of her old dresses fit, and she’s refused to buy a bigger wardrobe on the grounds that it would be accepting defeat. But she feels defeated anyway, so what difference does it make?

  She sighs as she gets dressed. It’s all right for George, who’s already got out his best suit and a cool designer shirt and laid them on the bed. He’ll look as gorgeous as ever. Fatherhood has taken no visible toll on him – he doesn’t even have bags under his eyes.

  Weirdly, he seems to like getting up before dawn. She can hear him now, singing to Mabel as he baths her. The walls in these maisonettes are paper-thin; he really should keep his voice down so early in the morning. It’s not Mabel’s usual bath time, but she woke up with a full nappy, the contents of which had mysteriously spread up her back, and it was the easiest way to clean her up. Judging by the protests coming from the bathroom, her daughter isn’t a morning person either.

  She puts her fingers in her ears as she walks into the kitchen. Please, George, make her stop! Mabel’s cries cut right through her; sometimes they’re so piercing they make her want to jump out of the window.

  ‘We’ve got to do something,’ her sister Ruby announced a few weeks ago, when she turned up to find Amber sobbing her eyes out while Mabel screamed blue murder in her cot. ‘You need a holiday, just the two of you. A week somewhere exotic. I’ll babysit.’

  ‘I can’t leave Mabel for that long,’ Amber replied instantly, despite her heart leaping at the idea.

  ‘Five days, then.’

  ‘No. She’d miss me too much … And I’d miss her,’ she added, although she wasn’t entirely sure she meant it.

  Ruby wasn’t giving up. ‘Okay. How about a long weekend?’

  In the end, they settled on just one night away.

  One night. It feels simultaneously too long and too short a time. Amber knows that one night without Mabel will not be enough to fix things between her and George, but she’s grateful to her sister all the same. She badly needs a break. But with only a few hours to go before they’re due to leave, she feels nervous and wretched with guilt.

  She surveys the table littered with dirty plates and foil trays from last night’s takeaway. There’s so much to do and she doesn’t have the energy even to start.

  Mum doesn’t approve of their going away. ‘She’s too young to be without her mummy for so long,’ she declared. Or her daddy, Amber thought, but she didn’t challenge it.

  ‘The royal family leave their babies behind all the time,’ she argued instead. ‘Nobody accuses them of child neglect.’

  Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘That’s because they have full-time nannies who look after them from birth, so they already know them well.’

  ‘Mabel knows Ruby well – she always smiles when she sees her. They get on brilliantly.’

  ‘With all due respect,’ her mother replied, showing no respect at all, ‘Ruby knows nothing about babies. And you know what a scatterbrain she is, always with her head in the clouds. She’ll forget to feed her or change her nappy.’

  ‘Mabel will make sure she doesn’t,’ Amber retorted, irritated by her mother’s lack of faith in Ruby. Why hadn’t she offered to babysit, if she was so concerned for her granddaughter’s well-being?

  ‘Well it’s not how it was done in my day,’ Mum continued, seemingly oblivious that she was massively guilt-tripping Amber. ‘I never left you to go on romantic weekends. When you and Ruby were tiny, I had no life outside the home, but it didn’t bother me. You were my world. I was so happy to have you.’

  Yes, that’s the elephant in the room, reflects Amber as she gathers up the plates and loads the dishwasher. She’s not happy. It makes no sense to her mother, who sees everything only from her own perspective and is consequently not a very sympathetic woman. In her view, there’s nothing wrong with her daughter’s life – quite the contrary. Amber is extremely lucky. She has a decent husband who earns enough for her not to have to hurry back to work, she lives in a nice flat in a just about acceptable part of London, and she’s been blessed with an ‘easy’ baby. It’s annoying how Mabel always behaves so beautifully in front of her grandma.

  Although to be fair, she is easy, some of the time. She only cries when she’s uncomfortable or hungry or over-tired or being bathed. It’s me that’s difficult, Amber concludes as she fills the dishwasher with salt. She so longed to have a baby – in fact, she was completely desperate, more than either her mother, sister or even her husband know. She sailed joyfully through her pregnancy, loving every second of it, even her labour, which was an awe-inspiring experience. Then Miracle Mabel, as she secretly called her, popped out, and within days, Amber had never felt more miserable or hopeless in her entire life.

  Only Ruby, si
x years younger and with no experience of motherhood, seems to understand. If she knew the full story, though, she might think differently. Sometimes Ruby’s support makes Amber feel worse, because she’s never kept secrets from her sister in the past, and now there’s this invisible barrier between them that only she knows is there.

  Ruby keeps urging her to go to the doctor, or to confide in her health visitor, and Amber has promised to seek help but has done nothing about it. The truth is, she doesn’t feel she deserves to get better. She views her depression as punishment for wanting Mabel too much.

  Nevertheless, she knows she has to do something. This night away her mother so disapproves of isn’t a selfish, frivolous act. It is, as Ruby puts it, a lifesaver. Amber and George, who’ve been together since they were teenagers, are in danger. Their relationship has been lost under a pile of dirty nappies. They haven’t been out together as a couple once since Mabel was born, and they never do anything together as a family. The moment George comes home from work, Amber plonks the baby in his arms and goes to lie down, complaining that she’s shattered. They never see their friends. They hardly even kiss any more, let alone have sex. Most concerning of all, in a way, is that they’re both behaving as if this is the new normal. They never talk about it. Not properly.