She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  ‘Shall I raid the cellar?’ Lottie had asked, before launching herself towards the cellar door with what he thought was a little too much enthusiasm. A few minutes later she had staggered up the stairs with four bottles of 2006 Château Corton Grancey Grand Cru under her arms. A gift from Carlo last Christmas.

  ‘Time to crack these babies open,’ Lottie said, a wicked grin upon her lips, her deep blue silk top streaked with dust.

  It had been a celebration, a good luck meal, a toast to his new art exhibition. Genius Loci. The Protective Spirit. Twenty-five paintings. At a gallery in Bow owned by one of Carlo’s other clients, a restaurateur.

  He gives out a sigh of pleasure. He’s been asked many times why he became a painter. At first, he’d been unable to articulate it. Later, when he’d been planning his PhD thesis, he considered focusing on the work of Francis Bacon, The Head VI, the scream howling out of the gaping mouth. He’d spent hours staring at the painting. It was as though something slid out from under his skin during that time. The need for truth, for release. The need to pull the nightmares out of him and onto the canvas. His pallet knife dripping with raw sienna, cadmium red and phthalo green.

  He picks up the Fairy Liquid. Gives one quick squirt of liquid into the bowl of hot water. It reminded him of the beginning. That hedonistic release of energy and creativity. A week of sleepless nights. He had emptied himself. Five huge canvases. A collection of paintings never to be exhibited. He’d even given them a name. Unum Intra. A loose interpretation of Only One Can Enter. His most significant work. The centrepiece of the collection, LD 1.

  All hidden away. As a child, his grandfather told him that every man should have his own space. A secret place he can retreat to, to be himself. The lockup is his and only he knows about it. His mind returns to Carlo. He’d been insistent.

  ‘Right now, is the best time for your work – the starkness, barren landscapes, woodlands ravaged by climate change and housing developers.’

  He’d raised an eyebrow. The word no hovered on the tip of his tongue. Then he’d averted his gaze, looked out of the kitchen window, across the fens.

  ‘Don’t give me that look. I know that look. That, I’m not interested in the money shit look. You still have bills to pay just like every other bugger.’ Carlo pulled himself up, his barrelled chest swelled like a peacock’s. ‘If you’re not exhibiting, neither of us is earning. Lottie tells me you’ve been locked up there in your bloody garret for months. You must be doing something up there.’

  True, he had been painting, playing around with the colour palette, experimental pieces that would probably get smothered in ivory white before the month was out.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get them out.’ he capitulated. ‘But not now.’

  Weeks later he’d shown Carlo the new work, thirty-five paintings. Some good, a few really special – he’d known that himself. The rest had been wall fillers he’d hashed together in a hurry.

  He holds up the palms of his hands, stained by red burnt sienna, yellow ochre and alizarin. He turns them over, his cuticles rimmed with ivory black acrylic paint.

  An artist’s hands.

  He takes a tea towel out of the bottom drawer of an oversized armoire. A large, shabby chic monstrosity that Lottie had insisted he buy; it takes up half the back wall of the kitchen.

  Footsteps sound above his head, the power shower roars into action. She’s awoken. He knows she’ll be down in a few minutes. I’ll wash up before Lottie comes downstairs. Maybe rustle up breakfast.

  For a second, he pictures himself, the perfect husband, the model of domesticity. Pulling croissants out of the Aga. Not putting the butter knife in the jam. Bringing the washing in. Hoovering…

  He throws the tea towel on the kitchen table, laughs at himself.

  No, I’m not that man and never will be. Cook up a meal now and then… perhaps.

  He moves around the room, mindlessly picking up glasses. There’s an image hovering at the front of his consciousness, it has been there for days, becoming more insistent. He closes his eyes, blanks out all the distractions. A broad forehead, full lips – drooped eyelids, half-open, corneas frosted white, skin tinged blue.

  Lottie walks into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around her head, her dark brown dressing gown trailing on the floor.

  ‘And how are you this morning, sleepyhead?’ his words are gentle. He dips his knees, brings his face to hers. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ It dawns on him – they talk to each other like children. Alternating – she as the parent, then he.

  He feels a pang of discomfort at the intensity of her gaze. She slips her arms through his, lays her head upon his chest. He breathes in the faint odour of lavender, her shampoo.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, I’ve got to go to the gallery today,’ he blurts out brightly. ‘You know, just to do the final check. Make sure everything is hung correctly, that the light is right. Things like that.’ That would be the right thing to do, to drop in, to make sure everything is as it should be. A final check – ten minutes at the most, if he’s lucky – he makes no mention of that point. He wants to paint, must paint. That woman, that image, has lodged itself in his head. The lock-up is only minutes away from the gallery.

  Lottie withdraws her arms from around him. A shadow of doubt crosses her eyes; she’s never been able to hide her feelings from him.

  ‘Not again, today’s a Sunday. You promised you’d not work Sundays.’ Her voice has a sulky tone to it. ‘You never mentioned it yesterday.’

  ‘I forgot, I’m sorry. What with Ray and Kerry… well it completely slipped my mind. I’ll only be three hours. Four at the most. Back by two o’clock. Promise.’

  She turns her back, then casts a look at him over her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t leave me to deal with all this, then,’ she gestures around the room with her arm. The petulance continues, ‘and bring me something nice back from one of those market stalls on the embankment. Not food. A beautiful candle. One from Neale’s Yard. For the bedroom.’

  ‘I will, I promise.’ He caresses her cheek with his fingers, slips his other hand inside her bathrobe, he dips his thigh between her legs.

  She moves his hand, steps back. ‘Not now.’

  Untroubled, he smiles. ‘Feeling a little rough, are you?’ He touches her hair. ‘Hangover is it?’

  Lottie shakes her head, makes for the stairs, the belt of her bathrobe drags behind her.

  He rinses the glasses before putting them in the dishwasher. Wipes down the worktops. Sweeps the floor. A shadow passes over his eyes. He should be painting. Before the memory fades. Before he loses it.

  Sod it, I did everything last night; she can deal with this.

  ‘I’m off now, Lottie!’ he shouts up the stairs. The bedroom door opens, he sees her hand waving at him. He pulls on the black gabardine coat he wears day in, day out; buttoning it up to the neck. Taps the pockets with the palms of his hands – his wallet and keys are there.

  ‘See you soon. Promise I won’t be later than two!’ He pulls the door shut behind him.

  Four teenage girls walk down the London street, side by side on the pavement. A uniform of long straight brown hair, heavy mascara and duffle coats. It is as though he’s back in the 1970s; he tightens his spine, pulls back his shoulders, drops off the kerb to let them pass. On the opposite side of the street, a man in orange overalls has his head dipped down under the bonnet of a car. Above him, a plane roars up into the clouds. The lock-up is fifty yards ahead. He’s feeling positive, upbeat, invigorated. Eager to put paint to canvas. The girl from the gallery has inspired him.

  Her name is Felicia – the girl organising the exhibition – he likes that name. He likes her a lot. She’s a little flirt, underneath all the make-up was the face of a child. She’d excused herself to go to the toilet; came back with glossy lips and a waft of Calvin Klein. As he left, she took a card out of her purse, a mobile number written on the back in small red letters.

  ‘Just in case you need to talk about any
thing,’ that’s what she’d said, her venetian blue eyes fixed on his. He’d felt a frisson of excitement in the base of his stomach. As he took it from her hand, he noticed her long, slender fingers, the small oval cuticles, the skin on the back of her hand, all flawless. Not a hint of a vein. Without looking, he’d turned the card over in his fingers, smiled and slipped it into his wallet. He thanked her for her help – he could have sworn he saw her irises dilate.

  He pulls out the keys. One for the side door and one for the main entrance. He knows it will be freezing inside – the acrylics rock solid. As he unlocks the side door, twelve heavy-duty halogen bulbs spurt into life. From pitch black to bright light in less than a second. Thirteen hundred feet of space. His space. No natural light. No windows. No distractions. The place stinks of turpentine and stale air. The concrete floors are covered with paint-splattered Moroccan rugs. The walls filled with paintings, some hung, others propped against one another. Nudes, landscapes, abstracts.

  His work.

  In one corner of the room is a large architect’s chest. Opposite are four metal shelves littered with tins of paint, an array of brushes, half-used bottles of white spirit. On the bottom shelf, a Nikon digital camera and two telephoto lenses, a macro for close-ups, beside them a small Canon automatic. In the middle of the room a single bed, unkempt. The duvet, half on, half off.

  After closing the door behind him, he switches on the heaters. Their click, click, clicking noise bursts into a rattling hum. He takes off his coat, grabs a jumper off a peg on the wall. The navy Guernsey is stiff with acrylics. Blotches of vermillion, turquoise and viridian cover the arms and torso. An abstract work of art in its own right, he thinks to himself, as he tugs it down over his stomach.

  This is where he is real, where he can peel back the skin of the life he lives; underneath is the man before Goldsmiths, before Lottie. The part of him that is in the middle of who he was and who he is. That one.

  He’d not had anything to leave behind, no parents, no siblings, no one to pull him back; no embarrassments. His mother died four weeks before his tenth birthday in childbirth; a sister – the child had not survived. It was as though his mother had been ripped from him. He had been inconsolable. He lived with his paternal grandfather after that; his father disappeared for weeks on end. It was as though without the mother there was no son. He was a jigsaw piece that didn’t fit in his father’s new beginning. The memory of that last meeting was as vivid as ever.

  ‘I need a clean slate.’ His father’s shirt and trousers had been cleanly pressed, the herringbone jacket that hung over his shoulder, new. He’d slapped an envelope on the table, his grandfather snatched it up, slipped it into the kitchen drawer as though in fear he would change his mind. A cheque – writing off all liability and responsibility. That was the last time he saw him.

  He was at university when his grandfather died, leaving him with a blank canvas on which to paint a brand-new life for himself. Like father, like son, apparently. He was a phoenix rising from the flames, born again, brand new at age twenty, fuelled by the sale of his grandfather’s back-to-back terraced house on the outskirts of a dreary, northern town. He’d assumed that there was no money; he was wrong.

  He pulls himself up; a northern boy done good but with no one to brag to. A small downside, all things considered. He lets out a sigh of satisfaction, he’s a man who likes to keep under the radar.

  Lottie knows none of this, his artistic temperament included a reticence to talk about his youth. He left holes in his life, deep pools that she came to know in other ways. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he wasn’t so famous that anyone had a need to peer into his past.

  His reverie is pierced by the loud ring of his mobile.

  He checks his watch. It’s three o’clock. He’s late. He has no idea where the time has gone. A flicker of irritation crosses his face. He takes out the phone from his trouser pocket, his home number flashes up on screen. He calls her back.

  ‘Where the hell are you!’ Her voice rings in his ears.

  ‘I’m on my way home.’ The words flow out easily.

  She hangs up. The petulant teenager in her rearing its ugly head.

  Lottie’s eyes narrow in on him, she checks the small black plastic watch around her wrist.

  ‘How long did you say you’d be?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Can’t remember – about four p.m? His voice lilts as he smiles.

  ‘Wrong—by two o’clock by the latest. You promised.’

  He takes in the mess. The table still covered in dirty dishes; she’s not moved a finger since he’d walked out of the door six hours ago. He clenches his fists. Everything, he thinks to himself, I did every damn thing last night, even laid the bloody table whilst she was upstairs preening herself. Surely, she could have stacked the dishwasher and turned it on? She’s like a child that has never grown up, is that his fault? The thought niggles at his mind.

  The TV blares in the background, Grand Designs; a repeat. He picks up the remote and switches it over to the news channel.

  ‘Oi, I was watching that!’

  ‘So, I can see.’ He pulls off his coat, throws it on the bench in the corner.

  She reaches for the remote – he snatches it away from her, moves towards the TV screen. Arms folded across his chest, he stands in front of it to make a point. He can feel her eyes bore into his back.

  Dissatisfaction – he’d seen it often enough with his friends as their relationships slipped towards the rocks. He was growing older—she was barely middle-aged. She wanted to feel young again – he wanted her to be young again, the girl he’d met back in the eighties. Carefree, loquacious and up for anything. She wanted a designer home, open plan, large glass windows – he’d be happy with a new coat of paint on the walls and the house tidied by someone other than himself.

  The glow from the previous evening leaches out of him. He empties the dishwasher, refills it; the clink of porcelain against porcelain fills the kitchen. He lets out a long sigh; wonders how long this sulk will last. His gaze returns to the TV.

  ‘Well, if you’re not wat—’

  A face stares out of the screen at him. Large hazel eyes, the snub nose covered in freckles. Something grabs at his stomach—wrenches his innards. A stream of text crosses the bottom of the screen, the words blur before his eyes. Today’s major story. He turns the volume up.

  ‘You—’

  ‘Quiet!’

  ‘Oi!’ he hears Lottie’s voice in the background, whining. ‘Don’t talk to me like one of your students! You’re doing this to—’

  His eyes are fixed on the screen.

  ‘Anyway, what are you interested in that for?’

  He doesn’t respond. He’s no longer with her; he’s someplace else.

  ‘I’m going to take the dog for a walk, do you want to come?’

  All his senses focus on the screen. He needs to take in every word; to remember exactly what is being said. Moments later the front door slams shut. He’s relieved, the strength has gone out of him, he needs to sit down. Now. Before his legs give way.

  He presses the playback button. Looking for more? Looking for who? The palms of his hands sweat. Frantically, he rubs them on his trousers, it is as though they’re covered in blood.

  The words run like a ticker tape in his head.

  Human remains discovered.

  A wave of nausea overtakes him. His world tilts, turns, crashes beneath his feet. He sinks back into his seat, drops his head into his hands. His heartbeat thunders in his ears. He closes his eyes – the faces of Karen Albright and Veronica Lightfoot rise to meet him.

  How on earth can I explain this to Lottie?

  Without finishing the train of thought, he knows he can never tell her. He moves over to the sink, opens the window. A blast of cold air hits his face.

  She would never understand. Never. He takes in a breath, steadies himself.

  Nobody come forward back in 1973—nobody. Why would they now? Surely not? Not a
fter all this time. He wouldn’t be the only one with something to lose.

  He picks up a glass and fills it with water, gulps it down.

  He can’t stop the torrent. He feels it fly up his oesophagus, a bitter foul taste. He throws his upper body over the sink. His stomach wrenches out the dregs of the cup of coffee he’d drunk hours ago. The back of his throat burns with acid.

  The lock on the front door clicks back noisily. Lottie. He wipes the spittle off his mouth just as she walks through to the kitchen, the dog leaping up at her thighs. He looks up at the clock, she’s been gone for over an hour. He can’t believe she’s been out that long.

  ‘Are you alright? You’re white as a sheet.’ She nears him, sniffs. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Just been sick. A migraine… I’m going to bed. I need to lie down’

  The dog wanders by him, rubs up against his calf.

  ‘I’d give you a hug, but…’ She wriggles her nose then takes in the room. ‘I suppose I’d best get this cleaned up, then.’

  ‘That would be nice, Lottie. If you would.’

  The ice between them melts.

  6

  Margaret leans forward, takes hold of one drape, then the other. With one swift action she jerks the curtains shut. The cuffs of her cardigan catch tiny droplets of condensation off the glass. Every morning for the last thirty-seven years she has gazed out of this window, across the valley, across the fields, over the houses towards Anglezarke Moor. Every single morning without fail she has said the same prayer.

  ‘Please Lord let her come home today safe and well.’

  Did she say the prayer this morning? She can’t remember. The day before? She can’t remember that either.

  It’s my fault. It must be my fault.

  The words jumble around in her head. The room spins. She stretches out her arm and steadies herself on the window frame, her arthritic hands knotted and bent, her nails bitten to the quick. The mirror on the wardrobe door captures her reflection. Her curved back; the thinness. The way her clothes hang off her like a scarecrow. Elasticated, pale blue denim jeans turned up at the heel, a long-sleeved, sky-blue blouse hides a woollen vest. Her cardigan, two sizes too big, needs the cuffs rolled over and over to fit. The seasons have carved their way into her skin, her forehead, her cheeks, down the side of her nose. Not a trace of make-up, not even a dab of Vaseline to heal her chafed lips.