And now she was leaving the house without her phone. She guessed what Ria would say. There was something in her subconscious yet to be resolved, something she needed to deal with. She ran through a mental checklist: low self-esteem, overprotective of daughter, unfounded lack of trust in husband. Nothing new. Although, she conceded, she may have made some headway with her trust issue. Mags remembered Bradley's hands pushing her dress over her hips on the kitchen floor, and she smiled.
She left her key in the door as she stepped across the kitchen and put a hand on her phone. A quick text to Kit telling him she'd be late, and she was ready to leave. As she crossed the kitchen, she heard Bradley's voice.
Mags stood still, listening. He was on the phone in his office. Without thinking, she slipped out of her shoes and padded into the hall. The basement stairs had a door at the top. It was half-open, but the door at the bottom of the stairs was shut. She didn't dare get any closer, because the basement stairs were creaky.
"—and there's no comparison with any previous examples. Yes, I've checked. Of course I kept them. All of them. I assume you checked them yourself? Yes. Yes. Completely different. I'm looking at it now. And you saw the other one? Remarkable, aren't they? What about the other subjects? Any similar findings? No. True. But you'd expect something, surely? Fifty-six subjects in all. Yes, she has routine blood tests. There's one coming up. Maybe it's hormonal. Have you got any closer to identifying which of the subjects… I know, I know. Well, keep me appraised of —"
Without even being aware she was doing it, Mags had leaned too far, trying to catch every word. As she overbalanced, she had no choice, bringing her foot down on the top step. Bradley wasn't speaking at that moment, and the groan of old wood seemed twice as loud in the silence. She held her breath.
"Hold on a second, will you?"
A creak of leather: Bradley getting out of his chair. Mags moved, backed up, turned the corner and slid across the tiled hallway, her stockinged feet barely leaving the surface, like a skater.
She skidded into the kitchen, scooped up her shoes, and grabbed her bag. For half a second, she considered bolting for the door, then she changed her mind and scooted behind the fridge. As Bradley's footsteps reached the top of the stairs, she crouched.
For a moment, she thought how ridiculous her behaviour was. She was hiding behind the fridge in her own house, so that her husband wouldn't find her. What was she doing? Mags got ready to stand up, make a joke of it. But, even as she told herself she would do it, she did the opposite. She didn't move, focusing on keeping her breathing quiet.
"Mags?" Footsteps at the far end of the hall, then nothing. She could picture him standing in the doorway of their open-plan living room. He came towards the kitchen.
Bradley stopped in the doorway and, for a few seconds, there was silence. Mags didn't move. She looked at her knees, pulled up to her chest, and noticed the bottom of her sunflower-yellow dress sticking out beyond the edge of the fridge.
Had he seen it? She bunched her fingers in the material and pulled it back out of view. Bradley's footsteps came towards her hiding place. She thought about what she would say when his face appeared around the side of the fridge. "Did you see a mouse? I was just checking." No. "Gosh, isn't it hot? But it's lovely and cool if you press your back against the fridge. You should try it sometime." Oh shit. She would sound like a mad woman.
The footsteps stopped. She closed her eyes and waited. Then the fridge door opened, and Bradley pulled out a milk carton.
He hadn't seen her. She was safe. What a strange word to use.
Mags listened to Bradley drinking milk straight from the carton and fought the urge to tut. She hated it when he did that. He belched, replaced the carton, closed the fridge and walked out of the room. A few seconds later, a door clicked shut, and the stairs creaked as he descended.
She didn't put her shoes back on until she was outside. Halfway down the path something nagged at her, something she'd seen. Or—rather—something she hadn't seen. She turned back a second time and looked in through the glass at the kitchen.
The picture on the fridge had gone.
Chapter Twelve
Kit and his husband David lived in a terraced house two minutes walk from Camden Lock. David, an accountant who worked in the finance department of a blue-chip company, had always been careful with his money, and had spotted an investment opportunity twenty years ago. He had bought the terraced house at auction, fifteen years before he met Kit, and had watched the value skyrocket in the meantime. He was ten years older than Kit, planned to retire early in another five years, sell up and move out of the city. Mags couldn't imagine Kit adapting easily to the country life. He loved being within two hundred yards of bars that served decent champagne by the glass.
"What's the latest?" Mags asked, as Kit ground the coffee beans.
Kit worked as a style consultant for a TV production company. He had spent much of his childhood devising a variety of outfits for Mags' discarded dolls. Now he did the same for real people. Some of whom were famous, which made the gossip irresistible.
Kit set down a glass of hot coffee in front of her. A cloud of steam hissed up from the machine and he twirled a white jug underneath the metal spout. He placed it next to the coffee.
"Soya?" guessed Mags. "Wheat?" The last time she had checked Kit's fridge, it had contained three bottles of champagne, two bottles of vodka, three packets of pre-packed salad and a whole poached salmon. Neither Kit nor David did dairy.
"Hemp," said Kit, pouring it into her glass, the dark and light liquids mixing hypnotically. He noted the sceptical expression. "Try it. It might surprise you."
Mags tried it. It didn't surprise her. It was bloody awful. "Lovely."
Kit laughed. "Fussy cow." He opened a pack of unsalted nuts and poured them into a bowl, shaking them in front of her as he sat down. "Not much to report. Justin hasn't learned his lesson after the paps caught him at the lap dancing club. He's got a taste for it, poor lamb."
"What?" Justin was one of the best known talk-show hosts on British TV. "Why? He could have any woman he wanted. Why go to one of those places?"
"Good God, Sis, you don't understand men at all, do you? It's a wonder you've kept hold of big bad Bradley for so long. Justin loves the illicit thrill of it all. He's doing something naughty, and he might get caught."
Mags shook her head. "Men are weird," she said. Then she thought of the way she had crouched behind the fridge in her kitchen. She had no right to call anybody weird. Remembering the fridge made her think of her picture. What had Bradley been doing with it? Was he talking about it on the phone? Who had he been talking to? Or was she just jumping to conclusions? Ria would say she was self-sabotaging, looking for behaviour that might fuel her lack of trust in her husband.
"Mags?" Kit had asked her something.
"I'm sorry, I sort of drifted off there, didn't I? What did you say?"
Kit brought his hand up to his quiffed hair, patting it. "There's something bothering you, Sis. Don't pretend there isn't. Out with it."
Mags told him everything, even the stuff that made her sound paranoid. She had always confided in Kit. That was what twins did. When, at fifteen, he had come out to their parents, it was Mags who had spent months mediating between Kit and their father, who had found it hard to take. Frank Thompson had been an old-fashioned man; it had been difficult for him to accept his son was gay. Their mum was fine about it, but she had always taken Dad's side in an argument, and it proved too hard a habit to break. After the most awkward Christmas of their lives, their dad apologised, and things had returned to something approaching normal. Kit had never forgotten the way Mags had stood up for him.
When cancer claimed Mum, and Dad followed within six months after a series of strokes, it had been Kit who had taken charge, Kit who had been the strong one.
While she was talking, her brother made himself another coffee, and brewed a pot of tea for Mags. He knew one coffee was her limit, that any more migh
t contribute to her anxiety. It had been years since her last full panic attack, but she had no wish to risk another.
"Well, I don't want to be the one to tell you you're being delusional, but you're being delusional."
"No, go on, Kit. Say what you really think. I can take it, don't hold back."
"Well, I know you still struggle with trusting him, but he's never given you any reason not to. I know you love him, and I know how you struggle with these weird feelings, but I can't tell you they are justified when I don't believe it. If he ever does anything iffy, I'll be the first to tell you. But what you've just told me doesn't mean a thing. I don't know why you would think he was talking about Tam on the phone. He works in a genetic research laboratory in America, Mags. They have studies there, they do experiments. They cut up pigs and torture chickens."
Mags winced and laughed. Kit joined her. "Well, whatever," he said. "I don't know what they do. I pick out the right shirts for overpaid celebrities who shag call girls in their dressing rooms. What do I know?"
Mags loved her brother's directness, even when he was puncturing her delusions.
"All right, all right," she said, "but why did he take the picture?"
"Yes, that's a very damning piece of evidence, Sis. What could a father possibly want with an incredible picture drawn by his daughter? You don't suppose—as unlikely as this sounds—that he wanted to have a good look at it? No. I'm sure you're right. He's scraping it for samples to send to a laboratory as we speak."
"I heard him say I'm looking at it right now. He was talking about the picture, I know he was."
"Well, yes, it's possible. Or… " when Kit was in full sarcastic flow, it was pointless trying to stop him, "perhaps, just perhaps, and—try to suspend your disbelief, because this is a crazy suggestion—maybe he was talking about a spreadsheet, or an email, or, say, an invoice, something equally unlikely. It's just possible, isn't it, that the picture had fallen off the fridge and he had put it on the counter. Did you look?"
Mags thought back to the kitchen. "No," she admitted, "I didn't."
"Right. Good. Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but shut up, crazy woman. Can we move on to a less controversial topic? You said my favourite niece—"
"—your only niece—"
"—my favourite niece has drawn another picture. Can I see it?"
Kit had already admired Tam's first picture when he'd seen it on their fridge.
Mags found the photo of the picture from Norfolk and slid her phone across to Kit. He used his fingers to zoom in on the details.
"This is really excellent work," he said. "As good as the first. How about entering some competitions? She's amazing. This could be her thing. An artist in the family. I like that. Which reminds me. When are you getting back to writing?”
Mags ignored the question. "I told you she doesn't enjoy it. She doesn't know I've seen this picture, and—according to her Guide leader—she has no memory of drawing it, just like the first one. I'm worried about her, Kit."
"You worry about everyone."
"True, but this is not like Tam. It's strange."
"Eleven-year-old girls are strange. Now, how about skipping the tea and having a glass of bubbly instead? It's lunchtime. I can make you a salad."
"What are we celebrating? Not that you need an excuse to pop a champagne cork."
"Justin's got a spot on the Tonight Show. Which means I get a week in New York." He poured two glasses. "I'm taking David with me."
"I'm jealous. When?"
"Fly out Tuesday, back the following Monday."
"Promise to call me with any juicy gossip?"
Kit clinked his glass against his twin's. "Anything to stop you drifting back to your old, paranoid ways, Mags. You have a beautiful, talented daughter and the gorgeous American hunk is crazy about you. Lucky sod."
Mags smiled. "All right, all right, I get the message."
A glass of champagne before lunch made her light-headed and optimistic. She should stop trying to catch Bradley out. His worst crime was drinking milk straight from the carton. Whatever was happening with Tam might be odd, but worrying wouldn't help anyone. Kit was right. She should be excited about her daughter's talent.
She said yes to a second glass.
Just before leaving, Mags kissed her brother's cheek, and hugged him.
"What's that for?"
"Things always seem better when I talk to you, Kit. Thanks."
He bowed, and Mags laughed, not suspecting that the next time they talked, the conversation would end with her feeling worse than she had for years.
Chapter Thirteen
For the first time, I don't watch the chosen for days. That's always been the way I've worked before. Let myself be drawn to a place, watch it for a day or two, make sure I'm right. Make sure they need me.
Not this time. This time, I know right away. There's a kind of energy running through me, a confidence. I never felt anything like it before. I'm untouchable.
We're close to the airport when I spot the place and get off the bus. I guess some of the workers who get off with me are going there. I walk with them for a while, then stop at a newspaper stand. When they turn the corner, I back up and head for the place I saw.
When I get there, I see who I am here for. Two of them yelling, slapping each other, not caring who hears them fight. As I walk past, head down, baseball cap pulled low, the man shouts one last insult and steps in front of me. I bring my hand to my ear as if I have a phone in it. I needn't have worried, he's not looking. He's in a uniform. Airport security guard. She watches him go from the doorway. No goodbye. No see ya later. Just a blank stare. She lights a cigarette and goes back inside. I keep walking.
I find a busy breakfast place half a mile away. Then I ride a bus into the city and go to places where there are lots of people. Easier to be forgotten in a crowd. I eat a hot dog for lunch. Late afternoon, I join the workers heading back to the outskirts, get out near the airport and find my way back, through the trees this time.
I settle down as it gets dark. I wait.
There is no need to be scared, I see that now. My purpose is becoming clearer, that's all. I'm being called. The universe moves in mysterious ways. Mother used to say that about God. Maybe she was right. Just because she was wrong about everything else, doesn't mean she was wrong about that. A broken clock is right twice a day, isn't it? Although I don't believe in the god she prayed to.
When it happens, when the universe shows me the way, it's like a flashlight giving me just enough to go on. I can see far enough ahead to know I'm on the right track. But this time it's like the light is shining at me, and it's blinding. I freeze, and my mind tunes out from everything around me. I'm here, but I'm not here. If someone talks to me I won't be able to answer. It's like I'm paralysed.
No one looks over to where I'm laying in the long grass. No one sees me. But for a few minutes, I'm dreaming with my eyes open. I don't fight it. I let it happen. And this time, I see things; I hear things. The signal is strong. It's like I'm being called home, but it's no home I ever knew.
I have to follow that call. First, though, I have to do what I came here to do.
When it's dark, I get up. I have to be real quiet, and careful, because this won't be easy. This is no house on its own. There are people just yards away. I will have to be quick, and I must be quiet. But I will not desert the chosen. They need me.
I still don't know how this will play out. Two people in such a small space. If I bring my gift to one, the other will wake up for sure. What do I do then?
I'm thinking about this, when the door opens, and the man who was wearing the security guard uniform steps out. I'm standing fifteen, maybe twenty yards away from him, but it's dark, and there are trees behind me. He staggers a little, cups his hand and lights a joint. I guess he won't see me, anyway. He is pretty drunk. Perfect. Now I know what I have to do.
He paces from one end of his tiny yard to the other. The boundary of his property
is marked by a trash can at one end and a basketball hoop at the other. When he is standing by the hoop with his back to me, I walk out of the shadows. I don't hurry. I don't have to. He doesn't see me or hear me, and I take the device from my pocket when I'm close.
He's taller than me, so I have to stretch a little to loop the wire round his neck. I wait until he is inhaling, the tip of his joint glowing red in the darkness. It's all done in one motion. Practice makes perfect. I pull the wire as tightly as I can, yanking him backwards and sideways as I do it. He trips over my outstretched leg and falls on his side. I push him onto his front as I strain at the wire. I get the pressure just right. He can't breathe, and my knees pin his arms to the ground. No blood at all this time, just thrashing, then twitching, then nothing.
The next few minutes, everything goes right. I unwrap the wire, walk to the door and open it. I stand still for one, maybe two seconds. The only sound is snoring. I follow the sound to its source, loop the wire around her neck and pull. The snores stop. She opens her eyes and sees me, and I notice that look of recognition again. Some folk know I'm here to help them. She is one of the lucky ones. She goes quickly, and quietly, and I thumb her eyelids shut so she can sleep.
Outside, nothing has changed, nothing has moved. I drag him back to the door, up the three steps and inside. I'm sweating, but I'm stronger than I look. A few minutes later, and they sleep together. I put his hand in hers. The love they never found for each other in life is theirs now.
I am humbled by this thought.
The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year Page 5