She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  Then she’d wake with a start, her pillow soaked with tears. That mausoleum of a bedroom, freezing cold, her fingers still warm from her father’s hand. Her mother across the room, in her sister’s bed, knocked out each night by sleeping pills and vodka.

  Eventually, Thomasine dragged her bedding down the stairs, slept on the settee in the kitchen. The dreams couldn’t find her there.

  The padlock to the farm gate refuses to open, like the one at the bottom of the track, it is frozen solid. The metal frame shakes as she clambers over it; her rubber boots slip on the cobblestones as she lands. For a moment, she struggles to stay upright.

  Up close to the house, you can see the neglect; the decay. The dogs are tied up by the barn door, two of them, farm dogs, teeth bared, their black and white coats matted with mud. They lunge full pelt out of their kennel, chains straining their necks. They’d scare anyone else to death – not her. That’s what her mother wants, to keep people out, especially the press. Thomasine knows it will soon start up again, the media circus will pry into every crevice of their lives. In the absence of the truth, digging up dirt, making up lies when it suits them; it sickens her.

  ‘Down!’ Her voice roars out over the yard. ‘Sit.’

  It is immediate, growls turn to whimpers, they drop down onto their hackles, tongues hanging out. She rubs their heads, runs her hand along their backs; they’re underweight. She picks up the metal bowls by their feet, makes her way over to the barn, where their feed is kept. The wind catches the barn door again, slams it with such violence that it hurts her ears. The dogs whine, huddle together. The last three weeks have been full of storms; rain, freezing cold sleet then snow. The worst weather in thirty years. The damp will have swollen the wood, it always does, it will be impossible to shut the door properly until the summer sun dries it out. Either that or get it repaired and her mother flatly refuses to do that. Thomasine goes inside, picks up a bag of dried dog food, fills their bowls to the brim, places them down in front of the dogs. Within seconds the bowls are empty, so she fills them again.

  Starving – they mustn’t have been fed for days.

  The constant banging of the door sets her on edge, she nudges a concrete block against it with her foot. The wind tugs at it angrily; the door holds fast. Silenced at long last.

  She looks around the barn, it’s deterioration shocks even her. The northern corner of the roof collapsed two winters ago. Wooden roof supports stick out like broken limbs, shattered tiles litter the ground beneath it. There is a strong tang of bird shit; droppings from pigeons and bats that nest in eaves. Years of it, layer upon layer. Occasionally, in the spring, her mother will take a knife to it, scrape it off, dig it into the small vegetable garden she keeps around the back of the house. Farm implements are scattered everywhere; a large, ancient Howard’s Champion Plough lies covered in the muck that covers everything else.

  She crosses the yard, heads for the farmhouse. Outside the front door is her mother’s Range Rover, twenty years old and still going. The wheel arches covered in mud and dung.

  She looks back the way she has just come, squints into the distance. Already all signs of her are obliterated.

  Her attention returns to the house: either side of the front door two large windows, hung with long, green, velvet curtains, let in the cold daylight. On the left window sill, an oval-shaped cut glass vase is crammed with plastic snowdrops. On the right, a brown and white porcelain sheep dog stands guard.

  Nothing changes.

  Thomasine’s frozen fingers linger above the door knocker. She gave back her key when she moved long ago. It must be over twenty years now, she thinks, as the matter ticks over in her mind. She can’t quite remember why she left. Her mother thought it was the fear of being burdened with the farm, she’d said so at the time. But it wasn’t that—it was more about distance, about giving herself a life that wasn’t choked by her sister’s absence. The key is lost now, or so her mother says. Thomasine thinks it’s down the back of a settee or under piles of receipts at the back of a drawer. Her mother says she is too busy to search for it. A subtle hurt.

  A thought drifts through her mind.

  Perhaps now we can all start moving forward.

  She imagines her mother living in a cottage next door to her sister, Aunt Elizabeth. She sees her mother and herself shopping together in town – laughing. Sharing an afternoon tea at the Crown. Then the images get sucked into the vast pool of hopelessness that fills her.

  She wraps her fingers around the hoop on the black cast iron sheep’s head knocker. It’s like a pagan god, its horns curve towards the door, its eyes bulge out. It had been a gift from the local blacksmith, he said it was Duttur – the goddess and protector of flocks. A wedding gift to her mother and father. A shudder of cold passes through Thomasine’s shoulders. She knocks on the door; the loud knock rattles back down her fingers.

  Within moments, she sees her mother’s face in the window, her long plait of grey hair swings down over her shoulder. Her eyes wide in surprise; she smiles then she disappears.

  The press hasn’t got to her yet. The wave of fear recedes.

  It takes her mother some effort to open the front door. Like the others, the wood is swollen with damp. Thomasine pushes at it. It gives way with a ripping sound. The narrow hallway opens up, a bare light bulb swings from twisted flex from the ceiling. Her mother is cast in the shadows. Short wisps of hair curl over the tips of her ears; reading glasses hang from a chain around her neck. She is oblivious to the nightmare about to unfold around her. The lines in her forehead deepen.

  ‘God, look at the state of you.’ She grabs her by the hand. ‘You’re freezing cold—soaked to the skin! You shouldn’t come out in this, Thomasine, you shouldn’t.’

  Thomasine draws her mother into an embrace. They have learnt to rub alongside each other, each with their own view of the world. The occasional spat turning to harsh words that must be forgotten and moved on from.

  Perhaps it will be easier than I imagine? She could have reconciled herself to this moment years ago.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t come home last week. It was work… we had a big investigation. I couldn’t get time away.’ It was a lie – she could have pushed for it. She holds her mother at arm’s length. ‘Mam, have you lost weight?’ Her mother feels like skin and bones, like the owl she held in her hands when she was four-years-old. ‘There is hardly anything of you—’

  Her mother shrugs her off. ‘Get on with you,’ she forces a laugh, ‘you’ve not seen us for a while, that’s all.’

  Thomasine knows better than to go over it again. Theirs is a fragile relationship, love based on acquiescence. Always the good daughter, saying and doing the right thing. She follows her mother down the hallway to the kitchen, the words about her sister still unsaid, the ticking time bomb in her head carries her forwards.

  ‘Mam, I’ll make us a pot of tea, I’m dying of thirst.’

  As they walk into the kitchen, the warm aroma of drying clothes wafts in her face. Almost obscuring the fireplace, her mother’s plain white cotton bras and knickers hang over the clothes maiden. On the mantle above is a row of photographs. Karen’s five-year-old face looks out at her, her two front teeth barely visible beneath her lips. Thomasine feels a queasiness in her stomach—a dryness in her mouth.

  ‘Let’s get these off you.’ Her mother tugs at her coat sleeve – it’s soaked through, pulls it off Thomasine’s back, hangs it on the end of the maiden. ‘It’ll dry quick enough here.’

  As she fills the kettle, her mother chatters on about the weather, the damp in her bedroom, the price of dog vaccinations. Thomasine seats herself at the large oak kitchen table. Her mind wanders, her mother’s voice melds into the background.

  Karen is opposite her, eleven-years-old, a broad smile across her face. Auburn hair tied in a ponytail; coffee coloured freckles cover her nose and cheeks.

  A loaf of freshly baked bread straight from the oven is on the table before them; the crust a crisp golde
n brown. Their mother cuts each a slice; she and her sister toast the bread on the open fire, layer it thick with butter and homemade wimberry jam. The memory envelops her. She remembers the crunch of the crust, the sharp sweetness of the jam. The longing to relive that memory time and time again.

  These are the memories she ran away from, the ones that manifest themselves whenever she visits the farm. The hauntings – the true reason she moved out just after her twenty-first birthday.

  The shrill tone of the phone startles them both. Thomasine’s stomach lurches, she stands up, her mother already moving towards the hallway. She throws her arm out.

  ‘Don’t answer that, Mam!’ Her voice rings out.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t answer it!’ Thomasine’s voice is sharp. ‘Let them ring back.’

  ‘It could be—’ her mother voice rises a pitch.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be… I need to tell you—it’s really important.’

  The whistle of the kettle rises above her voice, the ringing continues.

  The hurt fades from her mother’s face. ‘Alright, but it had better be important.’ She picks up a large white china teapot from the dresser. The ritual of making tea never varied; the swirling of water, leaf tea – a teaspoon per person and one for the pot. The topping up of water, the tea cosy, leaving it five minutes to brew.

  Thomasine gets to her feet, goes out into the hall, takes the phone off the hook.

  ‘Sit down, love.’ Her mother pulls out a chair for her, puts the teapot down on the table, runs the back of her hand lightly across her cheek. ‘I’ve missed you, why didn’t you call?’ Her voice softens. ‘I’d have made us lunch.’

  Thomasine feels a choke rising through her chest; she pushes it back.

  ‘It’s the job, it’s hard to make plans, I…’ her voice trails off, she picks up a spoon, stirs the teapot. Her heart beats against her ribs.

  Now – tell her now.

  She opens her mouth; no words come out. Beads of sweat form on her forehead.

  Her mother places two white china pint pots on the table. Takes a jug of milk out of the table top fridge, puts a splash in each pint pot, fills them up with tea. Smiling, she sits down opposite her.

  Not yet, she thinks, I can’t tell her yet. Thomasine’s cheeks burn hot.

  ‘Still no sugar? Or are you still on that daft diet?’

  Thomasine responds with a shake of her head, she picks up her tea, takes a sip, its strong and hot. Now, now—do it now. The words sit angrily on her tongue, she sucks in a breath.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you. It’s—’ She is standing on the edge of a cliff, her foot raised, ready to step out. She coughs, tries again. ‘It’s… Karen… she’s been found.’

  Her mother’s eyes widen in surprise, her mouth gapes open, she rushes to her feet.

  ‘Been found, what do you mean? Been found—where?’ Voice raised, her face flushes with excitement. ‘Is she alright? Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you came in. Why didn’t you ring me?’

  Anxiety claws at Thomasine’s chest. She’d said it wrong—said it all wrong. Tears sting her eyes; she grabs hold of her mother’s hand. ‘No… no… I’m sorry, I’m sorry. They’ve found her remains.’

  The colour drains from her mother’s face, her lips part, she covers her mouth with the palms of her hands. A loud wail pours out of her. Thomasine wraps her arms around her mother, stopping her before she falls to the flagstone floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the words tumble out of her mouth over and over. She takes her mother by the elbow, leads her over to the settee, sits down beside her, puts her arm around her shoulder.

  They stay like that for a few moments, then her mother elbows her away. A sneer transforms her face, words shoot out of her like bullets.

  ‘She can’t be! I would have known if—’

  ‘Forensics say she’s been buried…’ Thomasine’s voice now barely audible, ‘a long time. Probably since the time she disappeared.’

  The lines on her mother’s face carve deep, she wraps her arms around her chest, turns away from her. ‘I don’t believe you. I’m her mother—I would have known.’

  Thomasine has heard these words many times. The telepathic link exists only in the minds of those left bereft. A balm used to hold back reality. Denial.

  ‘Forensics don’t make mistakes, they matched Karen’s dental records.’ She reaches out for her mother’s hand, tries to cover it with her own. ‘She was buried in the woods, at the base of the moor, over at Anglezarke. I’ll get someone to come out, to tell you the full details.’

  ‘She was,’ her mother looks out into the distance, through the walls, across the fields and the valley. Tears redden her eyes, ‘across the moor, the whole time?’

  Thomasine nods. They have never truly talked, not openly and honestly, about what could have happened to Karen. In her mother’s mind, Karen would always return home. She had constantly refused to accept that her daughter might be dead.

  Her eyes harden. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘I don’t know yet… the Coroner’s report may take time.’ Thomasine knows they’ll need a forensic anthropologist to put together Karen’s remains. She leaves those words unsaid, sure that they would tip her mother over the edge.

  Her mother sinks down into the settee, her eyes close, thick tears run down the crevices in her cheeks.

  ‘They thought I did it—did I tell you that?’ A dark red rash slowly creeps its way up her neck.

  ‘You?’ Thomasine tries to warm her voice, knowing full well what happened. ‘I’m sure they didn’t. Sadly, it’s routine to question the family.’ She doesn’t bother quoting the statistics.

  ‘It wasn’t routine!’ her mother’s eyes flash. ‘Don’t you remember? They picked me up in a police car, drove through the village.’ Her hands shake. ‘You could see them on the road, watching.’

  Thomasine doesn’t remember. She’s packed all that up—locked the door on it.

  ‘They had me in four times,’ she spits the words out, ‘four times! And your dad, too. And they never let us be together. I had to face them alone, so did he.’

  And now it is going to start up all over again.

  Thomasine tries to quell her mother’s fears. ‘I can put them off—’

  ‘No! I want it over and done—’ She sinks back into her chair.

  Thomasine leans forward, reaches out for her mother’s hand, covers it with hers.

  ‘Mam, I promise you, whatever it takes, I’ll find who did it,’ gently, she squeezes her mother’s fingers. ‘And I promise you that they’ll pay for all of pain they’ve caused us.’

  Her mother’s eyes dull, then fire into life.

  ‘Just you make sure you do.’

  Outside the wind roars up from the valley, tears around the house. Howls down the chimney, pulls at the tiles on the roof. The dogs cry out as though they too are grieving.

  5

  He feels content. Tucked up in bed, Lottie folded into his back – the warmth of her breath on his neck. He imagines the winter sun rising over the fens, warming the landscape. Cormorants and swallows nesting in the rushes.

  Today the light will be good. I’ll go into the garden, watch the mist rise above the snow as the temperature rises. The frost will cling to the teasels in the field behind the house. Thousands of them. I’ll have a coffee first, then I’ll paint.

  The shift of her cotton nightie touches his bare back. Carefully, he rolls over to face her; traces the curve of her cheeks with the tips of his fingers. Tenderly, he kisses her on the tip of her nose. She moves, lets out a sigh, rolls away from him to the edge of the mattress. Her body facing down; her chin juts out to the right. He leans over her; kisses her again.

  ‘Sleepyhead,’ he whispers in her ear.

  She doesn’t wake.

  He eases himself out of the bed, dips to pick up the clothes he’d carelessly flung to the floor the previous night. He remembers the first time he saw her
, twenty-five years ago; the shy but knowing smile, the denim cut-offs frayed at the edge, her sun blushed skin. The sunlight shimmering off the water at the swimming pool. Closing the door behind him, he creeps out of the bedroom.

  ‘What—’ Arm thrust out, he steadies himself with the wall.

  Horace, their aged chocolate Labrador, struggles to his feet. It isn’t the first time he has tripped over the dog’s prostrate body. It hates to be parted from Lottie and follows her around constantly.

  He crosses the landing to the bathroom, drops his clothes on top of the washing basket. Urinates whilst looking at his face in the mirror. A dark shadow covers his chin and cheeks – he needs a shave. He grimaces, revealing two rows of gleaming white teeth. He’d not wanted them. His agent, Carlo had been pushy about it, said no one had coffee-stained teeth anymore. No one who was anyone, anyway. That had always been his weakness, giving in to other peoples’ opinions. Now he had the smile of a twenty-year-old and forever conscious of it. The white teeth made his olive skin look even darker. He splashes cold water into his face, vigorously rubs his skin with a small hand towel. Still appraising himself, he squirts deodorant under his arms and down his underpants. A contingency—the sinus infection that’s been plaguing him for months has obliterated his sense of smell.

  He shrugs on last night’s clothes.

  ‘Mate, you look knackered!’ he says sotto voce to the mirror on his way out of the bathroom. He goes downstairs; the dog clambers behind him, his long claws scratch the wooden boards.

  At the bottom, he looks left, catches sight of the kitchen. It’s a mess. Last night’s meal a fragrant Thai green prawn curry served on coconut rice; he’d been the cook for the night. Next door neighbours, Ray and Kerry, their friends of ten years, had made up the four. Paul had arrived with two bottles of red, both demolished before the first course. The meal had gone down well, they’d had fun. Even the huge chocolate cheesecake he’d bought from the French Patisserie in town earlier that day had been finished.