Nemesister: The gripping women's psychological thriller from Sophie Jonas-Hill

by Sophie Jonas-Hill

  ‘Oh bless you,’ I said. ‘But don’t you go sayin’ who it is, then he ain’t got time to hide under the blankets like when he were five.’

  I unbuttoned the cardigan, flipped down the sunshield and watched myself in the mirror as I swallowed the marshmallows.

  ‘Paris?’ I said out loud, hand over the phone, then coughed. ‘Paris?’ No, still not quite there. I had a bottle of water in the glovebox; I snatched it up, swigged a mouthful and spat through the open window. ‘Paris … it’s me.’

  I listened to the woman’s progress as she clipped her way through the institutional soundscape, trying to compose myself until I heard her muffled voice telling him he had a call.

  ‘Hey?’ Paris said, after I’d counted to six, imagining him watching until the nurse was out of earshot.

  ‘Paris, it’s me … Lisa.’

  ‘What?’ Was he expecting me, was he expecting her? ‘Lisa … Y’heard something, she reply?’

  ‘I think so. I’m worried.’ I put my hand to my mouth, cowering my shoulders, thinking myself back to under the bed.

  ‘Baby?’ he said. ‘Baby, you there? What happen, you gotten a reply?’ I closed my eyes. What would he expect Lisa to say? He’d want something to have happened, he’d want her to have something to tell him, because why else would she risk calling him?

  ‘I got a message, but it just said be lucky. Do you think she’s okay? Does that mean …?’

  ‘That all it said, you sure, what …’

  ‘Paris, I’m scared,’ I said to distract him, as I’d no idea what message he’d been hoping for, and what he might make of ‘be lucky’.

  ‘Why, what’s up?’

  ‘Nuttin’ …’ Sweat beaded my forehead as I spoke, as I slipped my free hand under my knee and pressed it against the seat. ‘I think I gotta go from here.’

  ‘Go, why?’ he said. ‘You still at the hotel?’

  So she was here; she was nearby.

  ‘I think someone saw me,’ I said, because that must be the worst thing either of them could think of, and something that was guaranteed to make Lisa run.

  ‘What ya’ mean, who?’

  ‘Some old friend of Red’s, he was here.’

  ‘At the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, at the hotel, I think he recognized me … I gotta go!’

  ‘Hold on.’ I heard a noise, a scuffle, perhaps as he sat up, as he covered the phone with his hand to mask his words. ‘You gotta wait for me, you know that …’

  ‘I’m scared, you gotta come, please!’

  ‘Baby … baby,’ he said, his voice controlled and deliberately slow. ‘You gotta hold it together, you gotta wait …’

  ‘Please!’ I gasped.

  ‘Baby, I can’t leave until they say so, or it’s gonna make me look guilty, you know that. Hell,’ I heard the gust of breath as it caught in the phone, ‘I weren’t fixing on gettin’ bust up like this, sure, but all you gotta do is hang tight, okay?’ My heart was thudding so loud in my ears I was sure he’d hear it. I wanted to scream at him, spit at him, hurl the phone against the windshield, but somehow I managed to bring my breathing under control as I stared at the world outside the window. My silence worked. When he spoke again I could hear the concern in his voice. ‘Baby? You still there? Don’t you go freakin’ out on me here. You know what we gotta do, and you need me, Baby, I lo—’

  ‘Intersection three one one,’ I said, unable to bear those words, cutting across him as if that might stuff them back down his throat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a casino, a truck stop. I’m gonna go there, wait for you. You gotta come there, please, I need you!’

  ‘How am I gonna …’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I said, pulling back from the phone. ‘It’s him again, he mustn’t see me.’

  ‘Lisa?’ Paris’s voice crackled from the cell.

  ‘The place is called Stop Three Eleven, you got it? I’ll be there, I’ll wait for you I promise.’ In a moment of inspiration I added, ‘I got some money.’

  ‘Lisa, you better …’ But I hung up.

  Did it matter if he came? No, but I knew he would; Lisa had money after all. I gripped the steering wheel and I forced myself to breathe out, the air juddering as it came. I glanced up and down the street and watched the people moving past the window; I saw them talking, walking, bodies rolling in and out of the world prescribed by the windshield’s frame. I was still. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I felt I was alone, that there was no one here but me.

  ‘Sorry to spoil the mood, doll,’ Margarita said.

  I flipped open the glovebox and took out the phone I’d retrieved from the wreck of the car. It was Monday, so I presumed that the state might finally find the time to haul it out of the reserve. Maybe not, seeing as they were unaware of any crime linked to it yet, other than reckless endangerment of a rock. And Paris had been sober when we’d crashed. The phone’s battery was dead, but the nice man in the shop had found me a car charger that fitted it, so I plugged it in and pulled away.

  A guilty man might give the ‘other woman’ a code name, probably a man’s name as, he would reason, no woman’s suspicions would be raised by a message from Bob or Geoff. That goes to show just how naive men can be when it comes to dealing with a wife with an unquiet mind; really, how less incriminating is a text from Geoff, when Geoff calls you honey, babe or sugar and indeed, texts you five times a day to ask how you’re feeling? A smarter man would never have given the number a name at all, nor stored it on his phone. He’d also convince himself that he’d delete every text message after reading, but it would take a cold, hard genius not to get sloppy and keep the odd salacious message, or always remember about the call log. Even if he did all of that most of the time, there was going to be an occasion when he forgot, especially when he’d just crashed his car and was dialling out in panic.

  There it was, that unidentified number, repeated just enough times to make it an easy guess. I couldn’t access his voicemail and thought against trying, because if I heard her voice, I’d weaken. So I sent her a text. I looked at the words on the screen for a good while before I hit send.

  ‘Got new phone, don’t call me, not safe to talk.’ That explained that, but what then? In the end I decided that all I could do was live my bluff to the fullest. ‘M called from airport, left message.’ I figured I’d let her ask.

  Lisa and I had rarely talked on the phone. When she’d been with Red, it was always too risky, and even before then – after she’d committed the ultimate sin of her last and greatest escape – our parents had subtly forbidden me any contact with her. How much of what we do is habit we never question, until a stranger shows us our ugly?

  Once she’d gone to Vegas, we’d texted, then she’d had to give up her phone, and it had always been emails after that, almost as if she were in league with our parents against herself, subconsciously submissive; still thinking there might be a way back if only she could finally behave as they wanted. Maybe there was a more sinister reason for that continuing, more than the fear she’d be discovered by Red or our parents; perhaps never speaking on the phone was all part of her plan. Just how far back had all this started? It was madness to go down that path; perhaps it was simply that if she’d heard my voice, she’d have weakened, just like me.

  Then the phoned buzzed.

  ‘Is he dead, is she okay?’ Well, I was on the list, even if I was second.

  ‘Yes, M fine, are you okay?’ Another leap in the dark. ‘Gotta change of plan – meet me at the casino at 311 intersection.’ Then just to make sure, ‘Not safe to talk – explain later. Got the money.’ As soon as I sent it, I wished I hadn’t added the last line, and I was right, her reply was almost instant.

  ‘What money, what’s going on why can’t u call?’ I waited. It would be too suspicious to write back and try and explain, silence was better. If there was a problem, if Paris was being interviewed by the police or hiding from Red and his Daddy, then he was less likely to b
e able to reply. If he was trying to run out on her with the money, then he’d reply as soon as he could to put her mind at rest, or so I thought. I think it worked, because there was a second message from her before I replied.

  ‘Paris?’ One word, one panic – good.

  ‘Police,’ I replied, wishing there was a way to give the word with Paris’s customary pronunciation. ‘311 casino meet me there, 4, b-okay.’ I wanted her to reply quickly, one word or two to say ‘yes’, to say ‘okay’, to say she would be there; or even to ask about the money again, but when the reply came it send a cold spike of anger and sorrow twisting into my belly.

  ‘Do you love me?’ Goddamn her. I threw the phone onto the seat next to me and pressed my hand over my eyes. No. Don’t think, don’t ask the question, move on. Count to ten, count to twenty-one, nothing’s going to make it go away.

  I picked up the phone again and illuminated the words. I wrote them, but when I sent them, I sent them from me, not Paris.

  ‘Yes, I love you. Always.’

  Chapter 28

  WALKING INTO THE FOYER of the truck stop casino from the vindictive heat of the parking lot was an air-conditioned slap in the face. Beyond the foyer, the rest of the establishment tried to kiss and make up with its depressingly familiar aroma of spilled beer and grilled cheese, the ghost of tobacco and cheap carpet static. It was a gas-station-roses kind of sorry.

  I sat at the bar. It was three thirty in the afternoon – just me and the hardened drinkers, all three of them. It was bright outside, dark inside, as though the dark needed someplace to hang until the sun went down. I pressed my phone to my ear, a notepad and pencil in front of me, and wrote. I had something I needed to write, and I wanted the rest of the world to think I was taking a long and tedious call from work. The woman behind the bar, all big tits and burgundy curls, even gave me one of those ‘tell me about it, sister’ faces as she brought me my iced tea. She was wasted on the joint, seemed too good for the place, the kind of good that made you wonder what the hell she was running from to have ended up there. Christ, she even started reading a book when she thought no one was looking, I mean an actual book, one without pictures.

  After my phone calls to the hospital that morning, I’d gone into the beauty parlour and bought the wig I was wearing. It was a better quality than the one Paris had bought me: a glorious brazen red with a blond streak and heavy bangs. With a floral blouse and large, tinted glasses, when I looked in the mirror behind the rows of bottles, I was pretty well camouflaged. I could see all the lights on the fruit machines, flashing like they were sending out a message. If you focused on them for too long, you started to convince yourself you might understand it, if only you had a little more time and distance.

  Lisa came in at about quarter to four. I knew her silhouette at the door without a second look, and forced myself not to react to the cold shivers that trickled under my skin. In the mirror I saw her gaze flick over and discount me as she walked through the bar. I waited. There were a few places to sit and talk, but none as inviting as the cluster of brown vinyl booths I’d turned my back on to sit at the bar. She disappeared to check out the rest of the place, before returning to the booths; she sat down where she could see the door.

  I watched her in the mirror, how she placed her purse on the table, then her phone; how she rearranged them as she looked around her. She wasn’t bad, shades, headscarf, trying to be anonymous, but she was giving it all away with her nervous, round shouldered stance and her fidgeting.

  ‘Oh, she better be nervous,’ Margarita muttered. The bar lady went over, taking her smile with her. Lisa waved her away, then changed her mind and ordered. I sprawled, leaning against the phone in my hand, being casual as anything, watching it all in the mirror. I tapped my pad with the pencil, and when Lisa was craning to see who it was when the door opened, I slipped from my stool and walked out of her line of sight. The booths were backed with an identical row of seats; I found the one behind hers and sat down, pressing my ear to the gap between my seat and the next.

  I wasn’t sure exactly when Paris came in, because to begin with they didn’t speak, or they kept their voices too low for me to hear. I watched the seconds tick by, phone in hand, waiting.

  ‘… Going on?’ I heard Lisa say as her voice rose and Paris tried to hush her. Quiet. Then I heard her again. ‘What money? You said you got money?’

  ‘No, you said, baby?’

  ‘You heard from her, what, she called you – was she okay?’

  ‘She never called, what you sayin’?’

  ‘You said she called, your text, you said she was at the airport?’

  ‘I ain’t seen her since she ran from the car.’

  ‘But your text?’

  ‘Shit, baby, what text?’

  I walked as fast as I could to the exit without breaking into a run. Outside the sky was glass-hard, the light white and harsh. There were only a few cars parked near mine. Before them was the row of trucks to pass, high, wide backs turned on the world, heavy horses side by side in the starting gate. I turned right and ran to the head of the first truck, slipped round the front of it and counted along the row until I came to the penultimate. I ripped off the wig and shades, threw them under its wheel arch and ran down to its rear end.

  I was just in time to see them come out of the door; Paris with his arm around Lisa, leaning to one side, both to cover her and because of his injuries. They were talking, more animated now they were outside. She broke away from his embrace, came to a halt and shouted at him.

  I couldn’t hear what she said, but he spread his hands out, patting the air as if to placate her as he glanced around. He tried to take her hand again but she jerked it from his grasp. Come on, I thought, come on.

  ‘Closer, bitch,’ Margarita hissed.

  ‘For God’s sake woman, we gotta go,’ I heard Paris say as he got hold of her again. This time she went with him, plucking at her headscarf, feet working double time to keep up with his bowlegged stride. I drew my gun as they approached.

  ‘Where your car at, you did …?’ he asked, then a truck started up three away from mine and drowned out the rest of his words.

  A second later I heard them ‘… the fuck was it, then?’ Lisa was saying. ‘How you know she’s okay if you didn’t see her, you said she was okay, you said …’

  There were a lot of things I’d prepared to say, but when it came to it, I stepped from the shadow of the truck and said, ‘Lisa.’

  They both turned. I couldn’t say how Paris reacted because I wasn’t looking at him. Lisa’s mouth dropped open; she staggered back as if I’d hit her. In a second she’d regained her balance, pulled away from Paris and came toward me. I backed off, and Paris snatched at her arm. ‘Lisa! Wait, Lisa!’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Lisa said. She was crying, tears running down her face from behind her shades, expression stretched into fear, delight, panic.

  ‘Baby,’ Paris demanded, reluctant to enter the space between the vehicles. I took another step backwards.

  ‘Come on, bitch!’ Margarita urged, and I could feel her frustration boil inside me.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Lisa said to Paris and she followed me, her smile breaking through her shock.

  ‘Leave her,’ I said and I aimed my gun at Paris. They both started and Paris darted forward as if to put his arm round her.

  ‘What you doing?’ Lisa said.

  ‘What the hell you doing?’ I asked her. ‘What, so you ain’t dead then?’ Paris moved to catch my eye, hand out, fingers fanned towards me as he stepped between us.

  ‘Shoog, you gotta relax here … there’s reason for all of this, but right now, right now you just gotta take it easy.’

  ‘Don’t you fuckin’ speak to me.’ I jabbed the gun at him but he didn’t move. ‘How could you … how dare you even speak to me. I don’t wanna speak to you, I want Lisa.’

  She moved out from behind him. He tried to stop her but she brushed him off as he turned to me. ‘I know you hate me.’<
br />
  ‘Do I?’

  She touched her hand to her mouth. ‘There weren’t no other way, you know … you know what he did …’

  ‘You had to believe,’ Paris said. ‘I always told you that, an’ you know it’s true,’ as if he were addressing an errant pupil. ‘Sure, you’ mad, but we can sort this. Come with us and we’ll …’

  ‘Tell her you shot me, did you?’ I flicked the gun at him again, and saw fear flash over his face. Lisa looked up at him.

  ‘She were running away,’ he said, ‘I never meant it, was a’ accident, I swear.’

  ‘You said she was alright,’ Lisa pulled away from him. ‘You never said …’

  ‘He lied.’ I backed away, drawing her to me. ‘He’s been lying to us both.’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please, you don’t understand, he … he saved me,’ and she came within reach.

  She yelped as Margarita – or me – or both of us snatched a hank of her hair and dragged her face towards mine. Her glasses came off and clattered onto the floor, and I saw her eyes, so bright and blue and longed for.

  ‘Don’t!’ but I forced the gun to her temple, just as I had to Red’s in the shack. The space between the trucks closed down on me, on us, until all I could see was the black rod of the gun barrel and where it pressed against Lisa’s skin, iron against ivory. We were half bent down together, folded one around the other, her going limp against me.

  ‘Please,’ I think she said, or ‘no’ or ‘don’t’, but I couldn’t hear her, not against the rushing of dark water in my ears, and Margarita’s snarl.

  ‘You lied to me. You used me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’

  ‘No,’ and I yanked on her hair, and she yelped, and it felt so good to hear it, the fear in her. ‘You don’t get to say sorry, you’ gonna know what you did, you’ gonna understand—’

  ‘Do it,’ Margarita sneered, and her smile curled my lips.

  ‘No,’ I told her, but I so wanted to. Christ, I wanted to. The black rod of the gun burned against Lisa’s skin, a line crossing her out. All the pain, the lies, it was her fault, all of this, her fault—