The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "But how long? This has been going on ever since, ever since," she stopped speaking. Ria waited, without comment, until she could finish the sentence. "Ever since Clara died."

  Ria nodded. "Good. You know when this distrust of Bradley began, but you have been unable to untangle the reasons why. Clara's death and your problem with Bradley are inextricably linked. You still feel you haven't achieved closure regarding Clara. Because of how it happened, you were never able—" She fell silent. "Well, I won't say it for you. That costs extra."

  Mags gave her weak smile. "I never said goodbye, I never saw her. I never held her. But I never will, will I? I can't change those things. How can I have closure now?"

  Ria finished the last of the water in her glass. "You both lost a daughter that day, Mags. You get closure by talking to Bradley about it." She pointed her pen at the clock.

  Mags stood up. The time always passed so quickly. "I knew you would say that. See you next week."

  Chapter Six

  Mags used the therapy session in the centre of town as an excuse to catch up with some clothes shopping. A sandwich and an iced coffee on the steps to the Royal Festival Hall gave her the opportunity for people-watching from behind newly purchased sunglasses.

  She got off the tube a stop early and walked the last half-mile home. Spring was yielding to summer in London, which meant every patch of grass, however small, and however close to a busy road, boasted a group of semi-naked bodies. The sun lifted her mood. Bradley would have said it was because of her absorption of vitamin D. Mags didn't care about the science, she just enjoyed the optimistic buzz of the city, the ready smiles and nods that went with shorts and skirts after the wrapped-up hibernation of winter.

  She even walked past the offices of House Style magazine without it denting her spirits. The editor there had printed a dozen of her features back when she was writing. She’d been one of the last to stop asking Mags to submit new articles when the months after giving birth stretched into years without her writing anything more taxing than a shopping list.

  Her mood was still good when she rounded the back of the house. Bradley and Tam were at the table, laughing together. She walked past the back door and was about to tap on the window when she saw it.

  Tam's picture from school was on the fridge.

  Tam noticed her peering in and ran to open the door, hugging her mother. Her unique smell, the one she'd had as a baby, might be harder to detect these days, but it was there. When Mags nuzzled the base of her daughter's neck, Tam squirmed, wriggled free, and skipped away. Mags followed her over to the table where Tam and Bradley had been studying something. It was a letter from the Guides, which Tam had joined just over a year before. There was a form for a residential weekend in Norfolk, and Bradley had already signed it. Mags felt a brief twist of betrayal and anger. Tam had never stayed more than one night away, and only with family. Norfolk was a three-hour drive, and the thought of a whole weekend not knowing what Tam was doing and whether she was safe, filled her with panic. She gripped the side of the table, the familiar prickling on her arms alerting her to a possible panic attack. She breathed deeply and deliberately, aware that Bradley had stood up. Her shoulders shook as he put his hands on them. She wouldn't meet his eye.

  Tam looked up in concern. "You okay, Mum?"

  "She's fine, Tam," said Bradley. "Can you get a glass of water, please?"

  When Tam came back with a large mug, Mags managed a smile. It didn't seem that long ago when the beginnings of a panic attack meant an hour or two of torture. But Ria's strategies, and her own awareness of her triggers, meant she caught the signs early. "That's better," she said, taking a sip. "Too many clothes for this weather. Got overheated."

  She allowed Bradley to slip her jacket off and hang it on the back of a chair. "What's this about Norfolk?"

  Tam slid the form across the table. "Mrs Greaves gave me this at school. Amelia is going. So is Holly. And Connie. I can't wait. Beth says it'll be epic. Dad said I could go."

  Bradley mussed his daughter's hair. "That's not quite what I said, honey. I said we should talk to Mom first."

  "Yes, but it's fine, isn't it, Mum? Everyone will be there. Guides are going from all over London. There's archery, and the climbing wall, and canoes. Beth went last year. She said rabbits come out on the lawn every night. I can go, Mum, can't I?"

  Mags exchanged the we'll talk about this later look with Bradley. "Yes, you can go. It sounds brilliant."

  Tam hugged her tight, almost squeezing the breath out of her. "Thank you Mum, thank you thank you thank you."

  Bradley picked Tam's schoolbag off the floor. "Any homework in here along with that letter?"

  Tam didn't roll her eyes for once, still too excited about the trip.

  "Yes, maths and guided reading." She looked from her mum's face to her dad's and drew her own conclusions. "I'll just pop upstairs and do that now, shall I?"

  Bradley nodded. "Good idea, sweetheart. Why don't we go out for pizza tonight?"

  "What an excellent idea, Father. First rate, and tip top." Tam's PG Wodehouse obsession showed no signs of abating. Bradley smirked. Tam pulled her mum's head towards her and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, Mum," she whispered. She grabbed her bag and disappeared.

  "I'll make tea," said Bradley, filling the kettle and opening a tin of loose leaf Assam.

  "I'm not so easily bought."

  He warmed the pot, spooned in the tea, poured the water, replaced the lid. It had taken a few years to train Bradley in the art of tea making, but he had mastered it, eventually. "Look, I'm sorry," he said. "She kinda sprung it on me, and she was so excited. I couldn't say no. Besides…"

  He poured the tea into a china cup through a metal strainer, adding the milk last. Mags had once told him that was how the Queen prepared her tea, and he had never questioned it. He brought the cup over and pushed it in front of his wife, sitting down next to her.

  "Besides?" Mags raised her eyebrows. Bradley took her hand.

  "Besides," he continued, "you seem to be doing so well with therapy. I hoped you were ready to let Tam take this step. We don't want her to miss out on bonding with her peers."

  Mags was still angry with him for deciding without her.

  She pointed at the fridge. "Explain."

  "You were right," he said. "When I tried talking to Tam about the picture this morning, she clammed up. Then she said she was embarrassed because she didn't remember drawing it. And she admitted that—when she saw what she had drawn—she was scared."

  Mags said nothing.

  "I know, I know, that's what you said. But I wanted to hear it from her. I'm not sure she was scared by the process itself. I think she's worried that she can produce something so amazing without being aware of how she did it. I looked online. What she experienced is rare, but not unheard of."

  Mags couldn't stop herself snorting. With Bradley, the scientist always rose to the top. When Tam had been a baby, he had kept a notebook with observations, updated every few hours. When she confronted him, suggesting he give her some support, rather than treating their baby like a research project, he had capitulated. That was the last time she'd seen the notebook, but that didn't mean he had stopped. Bradley saw the world a certain way. He dealt with problems by categorising, by measuring, by comparing. He argued that his need to understand didn't make him cold. Mags had never completely bought it. Watching him scribble in that notebook, standing over the crib, just weeks after Clara…

  "Look, Mags, I just want to understand how a talent like that could manifest itself with no previous warning. And I find it comforting that it's happened to other people."

  Mags pointed at the fridge again. "How did that get here?"

  "I phoned the school, and met Mrs Matlock while the kids were at lunch. I wanted to see the picture, and once I had seen it, I thought it was important to show Tam we are proud of what she has accomplished."

  "And you didn't think about discussing this with me?" The argument w
as slipping away from her. Subtle, but familiar, the way Bradley's rational approach undid her objections before she could make them. These were familiar, well-worn pathways. He retreated into logic, she felt emotional, weak, and intellectually outmatched. Patterns set in place over many years were not easily changed.

  "When Tam came home, I talked to her about artists, composers, and scientists who have come up with their best work in a mental state where they gave up conscious control. Once you understand something, there's no need to fear it. I told her she should own her talent,"

  "Bloody American," muttered Mags.

  "I am a bloody American. Bit late to complain about that, don't you think? Anyway," he poured her cold tea down the sink and replaced it with a fresh cup, "it helped her. When it happens again—"

  "—if it happens again—"

  "When. This isn't a one-off, Mags. If this talent for art has been lurking in her subconscious and has found an outlet, there will be more pictures. We can help her accept the strangeness of the process and encourage her creativity."

  Mags looked at the picture again. It really was remarkable. Not only the details, but the unusual point of view. The way the building was partially obscured, as if the artist was lying in the grass, looking up. The effect was striking. Mags was still doubtful, though. Tam had always loved books, the sound of words, the momentum of a story well told. She had never shown the slightest bit of interest in the visual arts.

  They might have spoken more, but Tam reappeared, Bradley's old smartphone in her hand. She couldn't make calls with it, but the phone connected to the Wi-Fi, and she was as adept as the rest of her generation with Google.

  "Documentary at the Picturehouse," she said, holding up the phone. "Some chap climbing a mountain with no safety equipment. Not sure if he falls off and dies or not. The reviews don't say. Sounds amazing. Can we go?"

  "Watching a guy fall off a cliff in high definition? Yeah, sounds perfect." Bradley held his hand palm up for a high five, and Tam duly obliged, accompanying it with, "Top hole."

  Mags drained the last of her tea. "And you've finished your homework?"

  Tam made a non-committal sound, her eyes not meeting her mother's.

  "Tam?"

  "I've done the guided reading," she said, as if that closed the subject.

  "And the math?" said Bradley.

  "Maths." Mags and Tam corrected him at the same moment. Bradley had heard it too many times to react. Tam retreated. "Back in ten minutes."

  "Don't rush," Mags called after her.

  "Are we okay?" Bradley raised his eyebrows and fixed those disarming blue eyes on hers.

  "Yes. We're okay."

  He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "I'll just tidy a few loose ends in the office, answer an email or two. Give me half an hour. Then we'll go get pizza."

  After he'd gone, Mags sat and stared at the picture. What Bradley had said made perfect sense, but as Mags looked at the scene, wherever it was, she shivered. It was nowhere her daughter had ever been. She was sure. Where had she seen that house? And how could she reproduce it in such detail?

  Chapter Seven

  It takes a long time to find them. Weeks, actually, and when I do find them, for a while I'm still not sure they're right. I know why I hesitate. It's the children.

  I see them for the first time in a parking lot. There are two shopping malls in the town, and I'm careful to pick different times of day to get my food so I'm not remembered. I guess I'm lucky that way, though. I have one of those faces people struggle to place. Even at home, even where I grew up, I'd sometimes meet people I had been in high school with, and they'd stare right through me. Not that I want to talk to them, anyway. But it hurts when people don't acknowledge you even exist. Or, at least, it used to hurt. Now, of course, I know there's a reason I am forgettable. It's a strength, not a weakness. The longer I move among them, with no one having any clue who I am, the clearer it becomes that I am chosen. I'm like a guardian angel. Invisible.

  I follow them home that first day, find a place I can watch them from. I take a risk, watch for a week. Not every day, and I'm real careful. I want to be sure. I see them coming in and out of their house. The kids waiting for the school bus. Mom driving off to work in the morning. The dad stays home, stares at his computer screen all day in the office over the garage. I watch him rub his eyes, yawning.

  They have a dog, a big mongrel. He has the run of the yard, and when the dad goes to the bathroom, I call the mutt over, feed him some treats I bought. The third time I do it, his tail wags as soon as he sees me.

  This morning, real early, I get a scare. I'm in the woods behind their yard when I feel fingers on my back. I freeze, panicking. I think it's all over. For a second, I could cry. I know nobody will understand, nobody will believe me if I tell them I'm helping. I see my future disappearing.

  I'm kneeling on the hard earth. If it's a cop, I hope he just blows my head off and is done with it. But I know he won't. I know he'll lock me up.

  I get ready to run. Then he'll have to shoot.

  The fingers move up to my shoulder. I turn my head, real slow. Then I see it. A mouse. It's washing its face, sitting on my shoulder like some freaking parrot or something. I was so still it didn't even know I was there. I laugh and it runs, scampering into a hole at the base of the nearest tree.

  I nod to myself. I remind myself how important it is to look out for signs, to recognise them when they appear. This is the universe getting in touch, through one of its smallest creatures, reaching out, telling me I'm okay. Telling me to go ahead.

  I stand up. It's only just getting light. Saturday. I guess it'll be a while before anyone stirs. In the house, they are asleep. At least, what passes for sleep. Not the real thing. Not peace. Not the sleep I can give them.

  I brush the dirt from my knees, pat down my pockets. I have everything I need. I walk towards the silent house.

  Before most folk are awake, I'm on a bus out of town. I picked this route a few days back, when I saw how busy it gets with factory workers, janitors and the like, heading into the city. Best way not to be noticed is to join a crowd of tired, poor people.

  I'm dressed like they are. Overalls and an old T-shirt. Earbuds. Mine aren't plugged into a phone, though. They're just part of the camouflage, and a reason not to talk to anyone. When the cops get around to checking the bus routes out of town, nobody will remember me.

  I look through slitted eyes, pretending to be asleep. There are so many people I could help here. But I know I have to be careful, have to stay hidden, until my purpose is fulfilled and I can rest.

  Ten minutes into the bus ride, a miracle happens. I sleep. It happens so naturally. I just shut my eyes and let everything fall away. When I wake up, I've been asleep for ten minutes. Haven't slept that long since I was a kid. Hot tears well up at this blessing, and I rest my cheek on the dirty window. My tears leave a clean stream through the dust and grime on the glass.

  I know how to recognise a sign, and this is big. It's a billboard, a flashing neon sign, and it says, YOU 'VE DONE GOOD SO FAR. YOU KEEP ON GOING. BRING THE PEOPLE REST.

  I smile as the outskirts of the city spring up around me. I'm doing the will of the universe. The quiet neighborhoods, the neat suburbs. My work awaits.

  Chapter Eight

  Bradley was back in Boston the weekend Tam went to Norfolk, so it fell to Mags to do the driving. She had passed her test twenty years ago, but living in London meant she rarely got behind the wheel. As usual, the first half hour was an ordeal, as she reminded herself of every action she needed to take while driving. Left foot on the clutch, find the biting point, check the mirror, look over her shoulder, accelerate, indicate, change gear, look for a gap in the traffic. She headed out of London into unfamiliar territory and was glad of the satnav. The blue line drew her north.

  The ordeal wasn't made any easier by the four eleven-year-old passengers. For the first twenty minutes, the constant stream of inane chatter was as predictable as
it was distracting, but the girls were still going strong two hours into their trip.

  They stopped for lunch at a McDonald's. Mags watched her daughter with her friends. She noticed Tam dumbed down her vocabulary when she was with her peers. When Tam caught her eye, she winked. Tam smiled at her around a mouthful of fries.

  Mags had volunteered to drive the girls both ways, and their parents had been quick to accept. She had booked a hotel in Norwich for the weekend.

  There was a lull in the conversation after their stop, but once they crossed into Norfolk, the volume built to a new peak. Mags vicariously enjoyed the girls' excitement as they contemplated the adventure ahead. They were thrilled about the prospect of sleeping in dormitories, six to a room, and were already negotiating who should have the bed nearest the window.

  By the time they arrived, the car's tyres crunching up a curved gravel drive, it was nearly dark. Mrs Greaves, the Guide leader, came out to meet them, checking them off as they filed in, dragging prime-colour suitcases.

  "Amelia, Holly, Beth, Tam. Everyone else is here, but we put you all in the same bedroom. Two floors up on the right."

  There was a chorus of whoops, and the girls stampeded, heading upstairs. For a moment, Mags thought Tam had forgotten, but she skidded to a stop at the foot of the staircase, dropped her case, and ran back. Their hug was brief. "Love you, mum. See you after lunch on Sunday."

  "Yes, see you then. Have a brilliant time."

  Tam kissed her cheek. "I will." Then she was gone.

  Something in Mags' expression must have alerted Mrs Greaves. The older woman stepped forward, put a hand on her arm. "We've been coming here for nearly twenty years. It's a brilliant centre. Very safe. She will have a lovely time."

  Mags felt the first tear spill from her lashes and roll down her face. "I know she will," she said.