She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  Grabbing the MacBook from the kitchen table, he silently takes the stairs, consumed by a sense of helplessness that won’t lift. He winds his way up to the attic, opens the door to his office and switches on the light. His eyes blink and water in the glare of bright white walls and electric bulbs. Before he’d made money, this had been his ‘painting place’, Lottie’s words, not his. She says it smells of methylated spirit and oils; he no longer notices. He puts the cup and laptop down on his desk, returns to the door and locks it, the way he always does. Not that Lottie would care, she never comes up.

  He flips the lid up on the laptop, waits for the software to load. The room is comforting. The charcoal drawings, the waste paper bin overflowing with sweet wrappers, empty tubes of paint, discarded horse hair brushes stiff as oak. The wooden floors are a cacophony of paint; splashes of greenish yellows, oranges and deep maroons smear across the boards.

  He types her name into the search engine: Karen Albright. There are thousands of listings, hundreds of Karen Albrights – paid ads, LinkedIn, Facebook, Myspace. He clicks on images; a horde of photographs fills the screen. Hundreds of eyes stared back out at him. Hair of every possible colour and style, skin of every hue, some smiling, others not. His stomach lurches as his eye catches a photograph of her. She’s standing by a Christmas tree in a pair of Levi’s and a bright red woolly jumper. Her hair is loose. He slams the MacBook shut, tries to block her out. The muscles of his chest are so tight he thinks he’s cracked a rib.

  It’s a good five minutes before he can go back to his task. This time he alters the search data.

  Karen Albright body found.

  There are newspaper articles, TV reports, pages and pages of them. He starts with the most recent. They’d sensationalised what few facts they’d had. She was no longer missing. Police were looking for her murderer; no mention of any persons of interest that they were seeking. Momentarily the tension in his chest subsides.

  I’m right not to panic, he thinks to himself. He shuts the lid on the laptop. A wave of anxiety washes over him.

  ‘Have you brought me a present?’ Her voice echoes in his head again. She loved small things: a bar of chocolate, hair grips, a record. It became a tantalising game that they played, he’d hide them about his person, she’d search for them.

  A physical memory jolts him. She loved gifts, he’d taken advantage of that. His gifts more expensive as time progressed – clothes, makeup – Mary Quant. She’d hide them in a barn, that’s what she’d said. Or was it an attic? What happened to those gifts?

  He lifts the lid of the laptop yet again, types in the words.

  ‘How long do fingerprints last?’

  Six million hits popped up. Each one contradicting the next. Both their fingerprints would be on every one of those gifts.

  His stomach drops. What if, even after all these years, they’re still there. Waiting to be found.

  16

  Lily’s woken up, afraid – afraid that he’s out there. The man from her nightmares. He’s the roar of fear that stalks her. He was in her bedroom on Saturday night. He slid through the window, across the carpet, onto her bed. His hands itching to get around her neck. To put his fingers on her hyoid bone; to hear it snap. Just like he tried before.

  It was a shadow that’s all, a trick of the dark. She’s unravelling, catastrophising. We’ve been here before. Not for a long time, but we have.

  I know who he is. I knew him. He’s a narcissist and a psychopath. Very charming. Can’t bear criticism. Takes no responsibility when things go wrong. Loves the power he has over people. That’s my opinion.

  I want her to see him before he sees her. I want her to remember him. To be prepared. She’s a therapist, for God’s sake. She meditates, does Pilates, runs half-marathons. That might come in handy, I suppose. The ability to run a long way. She’d want to negotiate with him. Go win-win – he only likes win-lose.

  She’s unravelling, like I said, muttering on about being prepared. She puts on some Marigolds and climbs in the loft. What does she want, going up there? She’s rooting around. It’s full of crap. The loft is where the past lies, in boxes and suitcases never opened, gathering dust. It’s the only place in the house where dust can survive.

  What has she got in her hand? It’s that old rucksack, that navy blue one. Thick with spider shit and mould. I’m surprised she even picked it up, even with the gloves on.

  She’s gone into the kitchen, shut herself in the utility. The scrubbing brush has come out. She’s preparing her own special super-cleaning concoction. Two scoops of Vanish, one of bleach, one of disinfectant. All blasted together in the Nutribullet and – along with the rucksack – thrown into the washing machine. Sixty minutes at ninety degrees. She loves a power-clean. It’s a disease really. Followed by twenty minutes in the tumble drier. It will look brand new.

  Now she’s on phase two. The goodies, or the baddies depending on how you look at it. The ones in the box under the sink. Handy devices for the security minded. All bought on eBay, they’re getting a clean, too. She always has a toothbrush and a bottle of Dettol at the ready. I’d say she’s level two hypervigilant now. Although, she’s always been a little afraid, always been careful.

  Time to get ready for the weather – she nips upstairs and changes her clothes, then it’s coat on, thick woollen socks and trail shoes on, grippers on, rucksack on her back. Her fingers grab the keys off the hook in the kitchen. As the door opens, she hesitates, looks down the pathway for footprints. There’s a circle of tiny arrows around the doorstep. Bird tracks. That’s all it is. Magpies. She hates them – thinks they’re bad luck. Her shoes sink into freezing cold snow. Then she’s through the gate and out onto the street. Her grippers gripping the ice.

  She wants to run. I know she does. I can feel it. That’s how she gets to work, always arriving healthy and flushed in the face. She likes the feeling of speed, not that she goes that fast to be honest. Her face might look forty, but her body is still fifty-five. I know she wins her Good for Age at races, but that doesn’t mean everything is hunky-dory.

  Oh my, these side roads are like sheets of ice. She’s overtaking the cars – that’ll go right to her head. Purposeful, that’s how I would describe her right now. You’d never guess she was a fake waiting to be found out. Well, perhaps not waiting. It’s like she’s ready for it. What with all that secret weaponry. Miss Ninja Warrior. A name for her every occasion. Miss Clean, Miss Therapist, Miss Take! Not that she’d remember my name. The past is the other side of a glass window smeared with Vaseline.

  Lily seems too comfortable. Far too confident. Weaving through the traffic like she’s on a skateboard. There’s something coming towards us, something silver. I think it’s silver. She’s not seen it. I can’t understand that. I can see it. It’s going to…

  The snow-covered car glides towards Lily like a ship; just a patch of windscreen cleared for the driver to see out of.

  Time slows down, tyres crunch on compacted ice. I hear the sound of windscreen wipers beating like the wings of an albatross soaring up to the sky. Lily stops. The stupid bitch stops. Halfway across the left-hand lane. A blast of ice-cold air burns her nose and cheeks. She holds out her hand. Tries to stop it, stop time. Stop the car. It is almost upon her, upon us. It will stop, she knows it will stop. She waves her arms about. Tries to see inside the car. She sees a face, a woman’s face. Her own face reflected in the windscreen.

  It doesn’t stop. The car doesn’t stop. The driver doesn’t stop it.

  ‘Run, get out of the way, run!’ A boy’s voice, unbroken, screams the words out. Lily turns to look at him, his face contorts as the words fly out again. ‘Run, run!’ He steps off the pavement, a horn blares, hands grab at his shoulders, they pull him back. A car goes by in the opposite direction, the driver blares his horn again.

  ‘Watch out, watch out!’ he shouts through the window.

  Another voice roars.

  ‘Move, for God’s sake, MOVE!’

  She doe
sn’t.

  17

  He rests his hand on the small of Felicia’s back. ‘The place looks great!’ She looks great – her blonde, blunt-cut hair and loose black trousers give her the look of a young Jodie Foster.

  ‘You’ve done a really good job.’ Eyes scanning the wall before him, a broad smile spreads across on his face. ‘They really look good, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pulls her to him, momentarily feels the warmth of her breath on his neck. Her face upturned, flirting with him. Lottie is away powdering her nose in the unisex toilets.

  ‘We try our best. So, are you ready for the party?’ She checks her watch, bites her upper lip. ‘Doors open in fifteen minutes. Shall I get you a drink?’

  Ten bottles of Veuve Clicquot lie in wait on a table by the door, a row of champagne flutes in front of each.

  ‘That would be nice.’ He smiles benevolently at her, watches her saunter off in the direction of the drinks table. There’s a sudden thump in his chest, his pulse races. He could if he wanted to. He should have left Lottie at home.

  A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Hundreds of crystals linked together to form two silver discs twirling in opposite directions. The room ripples with light.

  Pushing all thoughts of the girl away, he looks around for Carlo’s squat frame and head of thick, steel-grey curly hair. Where is he? How many invites did they send out? His facial muscles tighten as he clenches his teeth. What if people don’t turn up? Oh, shit, what if no one else turns up?

  Lottie appears out of nowhere. He is constantly surprised by her capability to sneak up unheard.

  ‘Well, sweetheart, isn’t this nice. I need to be the good wife tonight, don’t I?’

  He slips his arm around her shoulders, nestles her into him. Doesn’t know whether to risk a kiss. They’d exchanged less than four words in as many days. He isn’t too sure what he’s done wrong. Surely it isn’t the argument over the TV.

  Her hair is piled up on her head like a Greek goddess. A filigree of silver roses circles her neck; the long black dress hangs loosely on her. Barefoot, her toenails are painted a shimmering iridescent green.

  She looks beautiful.

  It sends a shiver down his back. He can still see the beauty in her even though she has aged.

  Felicia returns with an open bottle of champagne sheltering in the curve of her elbow and an empty glass in each hand.

  ‘Here—’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Lottie, sliding between them, deftly taking the bottle from Felicia’s arms in one swift movement.

  His eyes take in the scene, wary of what Lottie might do next. ‘Felicia this is Lottie, my partner. Lottie, this is Felicia… she organised the show.’

  Lottie’s smile does not reach her heavily made-up eyes.

  ‘How nice,’ her voice is saccharine. ‘Expecting many, are we?’

  ‘Oh, about a hundred people.’ Felicia, unruffled, looks towards the door. ‘I’m sure they’ll all turn up. They usually do, free drinks are always a pull.’

  He feels a twinge of irritation, of feeling foolish.

  ‘My word, you look lovely tonight, Lottie.’ Carlo’s voice booms as he takes her hand and kisses it. ‘I’m worried all eyes will be on you rather than these fabulous canvases.’

  Lottie giggles. Grins like a child given an ice cream. ‘You are such a flirt.’ She heads off towards the rear of the gallery, closely followed by Carlo.

  He feels the air change, it chills. Ben, Felicia’s assistant, has unlocked the front door. Half a dozen people wrapped up against the cold walk in.

  ‘Don’t want them to be waiting outside in this weather,’ says Felicia, sliding up beside him. She whispers in his ear, ‘People don’t spend money when they have to wait out in the cold.’

  The slow beats of I Heard it through the Grapevine fill the room. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Carlo take Lottie in his arms, they dance. Their bodies fit together perfectly, too perfectly. He has to look away. He feels like a spare part.

  Four large trays of canapés miraculously appear on the table beside him. He reads the menu card. Prawns pickled in lemon and ginger, chicken wings with blueberry relish, roulades of ham hock and pickle, mozzarella and roast tomatoes with a wasabi glaze. All beautifully presented on crisp slices of Italian bread. His mouth waters, fingers reaching out, he tries one after another. They taste delicious. More people arrive. He loosens up.

  After a while he starts to enjoy himself, his tongue loosened by alcohol and the fact that red dots were appearing on the for-sale tickets. He takes a circuit of the room, chats to people, feigns embarrassment as they compliment his work. After a while, his mind goes to the conversation he’d had with Carlo on the phone earlier that day. Carlo had rambled on about his good friend, James. How he’d met him at a party in Chelsea, thrown by some multi-millionaire that he’d never heard of.

  ‘James owns the gallery,’ a smirk crossed his lips. ‘Felicia is his daughter.’

  ‘Really? How did he make his money?’ he couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Pharmaceuticals – made a killing in the seventies, apparently. Doesn’t like to talk about money. Quite enigmatic in that northern sort of way, a rough sophistication, new money and all that. Women fall all over him.’

  ‘Really?’ A vision of a six-foot lothario in a tuxedo comes to mind.

  ‘He’ll be there tonight.’

  He’d felt a frisson of excitement. All at once; optimistic, flattered. His burgeoning ego pushed the fears that had been plaguing him for days out of his head. A sense of normality returned.

  An hour and half has since gone by. Doesn’t look like he’s turning up tonight, more’s the pity. Felicia is helping people with their coats.

  ‘Melissa, James!’ Carlo’s voice raises over the goodbyes. ‘Fantastic you could make it, it’s been a great night! Come over here and meet Lottie, his beautiful wife—she’s having a nap.’

  He turns to look, sees a tall slender woman, perhaps thirty-years-old, perhaps forty, he can’t tell. A sleek blonde, he thinks to himself. Her long fringe flops across one eye, her hand gently caresses the polished steel bannister as she makes her way down the stairs. There’s something about her; her way of walking, of holding time in its place, her hips sway gently from side to side.

  She’s been a model, he thinks to himself, she must have, surely?

  His heart stops as he sees the man behind her. It knocks the breath out of him; his mouth dries in an instant. The years haven’t changed him much; still lithe as a boxer, his skin weathered, the cut of his Italian suit more expensive, the brown hair now completely grey. He would know him anywhere. Her nails had cut a nasty scar above his eye. Last time he’d seen him that scar had been weeping blood.

  The walls close in on him. He hurries towards the entrance, grabs his coat and scarf. The door shuts silently behind him, he needs air. His pulse races. He’s not seen Jimmy in over thirty-five years. This isn’t the night to make their re-acquaintance. Not in public.

  He steps into the doorway of an empty shop, pulls out his phone, his fingers punch a text to Carlo.

  ‘Sorry had to go, not feeling well. Didn’t want to dampen events. Look after Lottie for me, please. Get her back to the hotel.’

  He presses send, switches off his phone before Carlo has the chance to ring him back. He won’t be happy.

  What if he saw me? Thank God that Carlo didn’t plaster my face over the publicity materials.

  He has always insisted on a certain amount of anonymity. His work spoke for him; those were the only images he was interested in displaying. Even in the face of adversity, he never faltered from that position.

  The streets are busy. Bare shouldered, their hairy legs exposed to the weather, a stream of young men stagger out of a wine-bar. Each one dressed in a red silk basque with the words TIMO is getting married printed across their chest. The groom and best man teeter on red velvet platform shoes, the others wear black wellington boots. Normally this wou
ld engender a smile from him; not tonight – all he wants is to get away from the gallery as quickly as he can.

  His mind clears as he walks toward the tube station; the fear in his chest subsides. Tomorrow he’ll ring Lottie, make an excuse. Tonight, he’ll go home, put a few things in a bag, go up North. See if the old house is still standing. Go to the old haunts, search out old friends. He’s not been up there for years.

  He’ll erase all traces of himself from their lives.

  18

  Outside the front porch of the farmhouse, her hands laden with plastic bags, Thomasine pauses for a moment. Her eyes linger on the fields, on the moorland. The mid-day sun stands proud in a clear blue sky; every blade of grass, every tree, every wall covered in a gleaming white crust of snow. She longs to be up there, walking with the dogs, wrapped up in a thick winter coat, her lungs filling with fresh air. Chained in their kennels, the dogs whimper and whine. Their food and water bowls licked dry – their hunger seemingly never satisfied.

  She slides the key in the lock, nudges the door with her shoulder, kicks the baseboard with her foot, one final push and it opens. Dumping the bags in the hallway, she turns on her heels. Animals first. Her father’s rule. His face comes to mind, that wide toothy smile. His clothes smelt of dried hay and lanolin. His breath of the Weetabix he ate every single morning drowned in sheep’s milk. Karen’s murderer took him, too.

  ‘They can’t get their own food, not the dogs. Not like sheep who graze on grass.’

  Dogs fed, she gets on with the day, pulls back the kitchen curtains, thousands of dust motes shimmer in the sunlight. The other side of the room has a chill to it, summer and winter combined, a microcosm of weather, not one, not the other. She lights the fire, watches the flames lick the kindling.

  Her mother’s presence is everywhere. Amongst the clutter; in the silence, as the wind rushes underneath the back door. The room, the house, feels exactly as she’d left it, as though holding its breath for her return.