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

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  I remember the call, and I know I have to keep moving. I'm being guided. I have to go further than I ever thought I would go, but that's fine. Everything is fine. I will go wherever I need to go, and I will bring peace to those who need it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mags woke up from the dream crying. As always. She slid out of bed. Bradley was back in Boston. He usually sat with her after the dream, held her, stroked her hair. He did everything anyone might expect of a loving, concerned husband. But Mags couldn't bring herself to look in his eyes when she was at her most vulnerable. When the grief was fresh again. Because she never believed he felt the same way. And she hated herself for thinking that.

  She crept down to the kitchen and made herself a cup of chamomile tea. She hated the taste, but it was four-thirty in the morning, and if she hoped to get any more sleep, it might help.

  Mags let the tears run their course. By the time she had finished the tea, it was over. Her shoulders had stopped shaking, her eyes were dry, and sore. She stared at the table.

  Ria's professional advice was to allow thoughts to come after the dream. Let them come, let her mind and body react, and see what she can learn from that experience.

  All very well for Ria to say. No one who had lived through it, no one who knew how raw the dream could be, would be so blasé in their recommendations.

  Mags held her hands in front of her face. They were trembling. She knew she was being unfair to Ria. Ignoring her fears wasn't the answer. But, after more than a decade, Mags had hoped the worst memories might have faded. They had not. They came less frequently, true, but they were as hard to deal with as they had ever been. At least, with the memories, she had techniques to cope with them. Not so with the dream. The dream brought her back to the last place she wanted to be, the source of her greatest happiness, and her worst despair.

  It always started the same way.

  A circle of light above her, moving downwards. The bustle and hum of doctors and nurses doing their jobs. Then the first note of concern, a whispered conference to one side.

  She recognised one voice. Bradley was talking to the surgeon, his voice hushed and tense. They'd been married for just over a year, celebrating their anniversary with a salad and a shared bottle of elderflower pressé, which she couldn't get enough of during her pregnancy. Being a twin herself, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to find two heartbeats picked up during the first scan, but—somehow—she had convinced herself there was only one baby nestled in her expanding abdomen.

  Then Bradley was at her side. This part of the dream was always clear. Maybe because it was the last moment of her life untouched by the joy and tragedy that followed. Also, if she was being honest with herself, the last moment she trusted her husband. That was her problem, not his, but it didn't make it any less true.

  He pulled the surgical mask down so she could see his face.

  "What's the matter?" She wasn't panicking, but she knew something wasn't right. "How are the girls? Are they both okay?"

  Tamara and Clara. Bradley said the names were too similar sounding, but Mags had already decided to call Tamara Tam.

  Bradley didn't answer the question. Funny how these tiny evasions stayed with her, word for word. "Don't worry, Mags," he said, his cool fingers stroking her forehead, pushing her hair to one side before kissing her. "There are a few complications, and we need to give you a general anaesthetic."

  He used the word we. Mags wondered what the obstetrician and team thought about that. Bradley was a genetic researcher, not a medical doctor, but his manner suggested he was running the show.

  "No," she said grabbing his hand as he turned away. "I don't want to do that. I want to be awake. What's going on? What's wrong with my babies?"

  Bradley nodded, not at her, but to someone behind her. She turned. A nurse was replacing the drip leading into the tube on her wrist. She turned back to Bradley. "I said no. I don't want to. Please…"

  There were no memories after that. No memories of the operation, of the birth of her daughters. No memory of the silence from Clara, the attempts by the team to start her heart, or make her breathe. One of the children that had grown in her womb for nine months, nestled against her sister like a jigsaw piece, was gone before she could say goodbye. Gone as if she had never been.

  The dream always ended the same way, with her watching the light move on the hospital ceiling. Not a surgical lamp this time, but a shadowed haze of natural light, sun streaming into the room, broken up by the branches of an elm outside the window. Bradley, to her right, asleep in a chair. Also to her right, close to her face, a hospital cot, and the snuffling, squeaking breaths of her new daughter. A surge of joy, then a realisation. No second cot. Pushing herself up on one elbow, wincing at an ache in her stomach. No other cot anywhere in the room. Glancing down at the perfect, tiny, impossible features of Tam as she slept. Then turning to see Bradley looking back at her, his eyes open, saying nothing. Not yet. Getting ready to choose his words.

  That was when Mags woke up, every time. The moment before Bradley could tell her that Clara had died.

  Mags gave up on any hope of getting back to sleep, turning on the TV and watching a show about Londoners selling overvalued properties so they could move out of the country, buy something palatial, and have enough left over to keep a flat in the city. Even in her tired daze, Mags recognised she shared their privileged position. Bradley's career had taken off in the years since they met. His father had made him a full partner in the research company after Tam's birth, and his salary meant Mags hadn't had to think much about money ever since. She didn't much enjoy being a "kept woman", but it had made sense for her to stay at home with Tam. The year of maternity leave had stretched to two, then three, then four. Mags promised herself she would go back to work when Tam started preschool, then decided it would be better when she was at school full-time. She postponed again to make sure Tam settled in okay. When she stopped talking about work, her friends and family stopped asking. Bradley insisted he would support her whatever she decided. Typical Bradley. Behaving in exactly the way a supportive partner should. Caring. Understanding. Bastard. Mags giggled at her own stream of consciousness. Maybe she was turning a corner, being able to see her problems as amusing.

  As the TV couple debated whether they should keep horses in the stables of their new country pile, Mags flicked the remote off. It was six-twenty. If she got Tam up now, they would have time for breakfast at the café on the corner, a semi-regular treat when her dad was away.

  Upstairs, she tapped on Tam's door. There was no response.

  "Tam?"

  She tapped again, then pushed the door open. The bed was empty. A momentary lurch of panic, then she pushed her head into the room and saw her daughter sitting at the desk, a pencil in her hand, drawing.

  "Good morning, honey. You're up early. Are you sleeping okay? I thought we might—"

  Mags stopped talking. Tam hadn't responded to her voice. She stepped into the room.

  Tam wasn't looking at the piece of paper on the desk. She was looking up towards her bookshelves. When Mags got closer, she saw Tam's eyes moving left to right, up and down.

  "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

  Mags looked at a piece of paper. Although Tam was looking away, her hand was moving at speed, and the picture that was emerging was rich in detail.

  The picture showed a caravan. A static caravan, one of many in a park. It was night-time, moonlit, the shadows deep and mysterious. The other caravans were vague rectangles, but the closest was as clear as a photograph. Three steps led to a flimsy, half-open door. There was a long window to the left of the door. Through slatted blinds, she could see two figures. There was a palpable energy about them. Mags could see they were arguing, the smaller figure on the right holding its arms up towards the larger figure as if about to attack. The larger figure stood with arms crossed, but there was something about the tilt of the head suggesting anger.

  Nothing about the picture gave
away its location. Mags had spent many childhood holidays in caravan parks, but if Tam had ever seen one, it must have been on TV.

  Tam wasn't seeing her bedroom at all. Mags watched her daughter draw with a mixture of astonishment and worry. About half a minute after she had walked into the room, Tam dropped the pencil, her head sank to her chest, and her eyes closed. Mags waited a few more seconds, then placed her hand on Tam's shoulder.

  The response was immediate. Tam jerked backwards and looked up at her mother. For a sickening moment, Mags saw no recognition there. It was the blank stare of a stranger. Worse; there was something cold and dead about the look Tam gave her. Then it passed, and Tam was back.

  "Mum?" Tam rubbed her eyes.

  "Honey, it's okay. I'm here."

  When Tam saw the picture on her desk, she pushed her chair back in shock. "Oh no. I was asleep in bed, Mum. I don't even remember getting up. What's happening? Am I going mad?"

  Tam extended her arms. Mags hugged her. When Tam's grip became tighter, Mags realised she was crying. She cupped the back of Tam's head in her palm, just as she had when she was a baby, and murmured the usual platitudes.

  After a while, Tam's sobs stopped, and she pulled a tissue from the box on her desk, blowing her nose.

  Mags knelt down beside her. "Remember what Dad told you," she said. She wasn't convinced by Bradley's story about artistic talent bypassing the conscious mind, but her daughter was distressed. "I know it's strange, but it doesn't mean you're mad. You have a talent, and it's showing itself."

  Distraction was still a viable option when confronted with an upset eleven-year-old. Mags kissed her on the cheek. "How about French toast at Benny's?"

  Tam swallowed. She forced a grin onto her pale features. "Race you!"

  Mags laughed. "No cheating," she called as Tam headed for the bathroom. "I'll sniff your armpits to make sure you washed them." She folded the picture in half, then half again, before tucking it into the pocket of her dressing gown. When she caught up with a triumphant Tam in the kitchen, she had almost forgotten about it. When Bradley called that evening, she didn't mention it. It wasn't until the phone rang three days later at 2am that she remembered it. After that, she could think about nothing else.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Kit. Do you know what time it is? Are you okay? Is David all right? What's happened?"

  There was a slight delay on the line, and they talked over each other at first. Kit reassured her.

  "We're fine, we're both fine. I was so excited, I forgot about the time difference. It's the middle of the night for you, isn't it? I'm sorry, Mags. I just picked up the phone as soon as I saw it."

  "Hang on a sec will you?" Mags turned on the lamp and picked up a pillow from the floor, sitting up against the headboard. "Okay. I'm awake now. What you mean? What did you see?"

  "The picture on the fridge. I saw it on TV."

  Mags pinched the top of her nose between thumb and forefinger and sighed. "What are you talking about? I don't understand."

  "The amazing pictures Tam drew. You said you didn't know where the houses in the pictures were. It was nowhere you, or Tam, had ever been."

  "Right." Mags remembered the new picture Tam had drawn. She got out of bed and went to the door where her dressing gown was hanging. She plucked out the piece of paper as Kit was speaking.

  "Well, I was just watching TV in the motel when I saw it. The one on the fridge. It's the same house, Mags. I took a picture of the TV. I'll send it to you."

  "My mobile is downstairs. Wait a minute, I'll get it."

  "No, go back to sleep. It can wait until morning."

  Mags was halfway down the stairs. "I'm awake now, Kit. Stop apologising."

  Mags didn't like mobile phones in the bedroom. Bradley's father often texted five times a night from Boston, and Bradley would answer if his phone was on the bedside table.

  Her phone was charging on the counter. There was one message. She clicked on it.

  "Well?" said Kit. "Tell me I'm not going mad."

  Mags looked at the photograph. It wasn't great. The angle was different, and the colours were a distraction, since Tam's drawing had been in charcoal. But there was no doubt Mags was looking at the house from Tam's first picture.

  She was about to ask where the house was when she noticed the caption on the bottom of the screen and squinted to read it. Her mouth went dry. She sat down hard on the bottom step, worried that she was about to fall. Kit was still talking.

  "It's at a place in Georgia. A news item was playing when I turned on the TV. What are the odds? It's incredible, isn't it? I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Where do you think Tam saw it? On TV? I haven't seen anything about this at home. Have you?"

  Mags was still looking at the caption. Four found dead at scene.

  "Dead? Who's dead? What happened there?" she croaked. Kit wasn't listening.

  "Not now, David, I'm talking to Mags. I said no. What's wrong with you? You're like a dog on heat."

  "Kit. Who was found dead?" Mags went cold. She sat down at the kitchen table, her mobile phone in one hand, the house phone pressed against her ear.

  "Oh, it's a serial killer, I think." Kit sounded as casual as if they were discussing a soap opera storyline. "That must be why Tam saw it. Must have been on the news, or maybe the internet? Just google the bedtime murders." She heard giggling, and a hissed, "David," followed by a muffled reply. "I have to go," said Kit. "See you when I get back. Love ya!" The line went dead.

  Mags fetched her laptop from the front room, taking it upstairs. In the bedroom, she opened it and typed bedtime murders.

  It was there. The first story was from a local news site in Statesboro, Georgia. Bedtime Killer Strikes A Fifth Time. Couple Murdered Yards From Their Neighbors. Mags clicked through and scanned the article.

  It was text only, so she went back to the search results, and clicked on images. Seconds later, she brought both her hands up to her mouth, and stared at the screen in horror.

  She recognised two of the five crime scenes that populated her screen. One of them was on her mobile phone. The other was on the fridge.

  After dropping Tam at school next morning, Mags came straight home and went up to her daughter's bedroom. She remembered hiding things from her own parents, although she had been older—fourteen or fifteen—and she was only concealing cigarettes, a photo of a penis Sarah Gordon had given her, and a packet of condoms she had bought as a dare.

  This was different. Tam was mature for her age. And there had been no internet when Mags was a teenager.

  She booted up the laptop they had given Tam on her eleventh birthday. There had been a discussion when it was handed over, during which certain rules were laid down about its use. Neither she nor Bradley had wanted Tam to be left behind by her schoolmates—many already had mobile phones—but they were cognisant of the dangers of the internet. Most of the supposed problems, Bradley argued, were exaggerated by journalists needing to fill magazine and newspaper pages with inflammatory material aimed at parents. But the lack of censorship online meant the burden of protecting their daughter from violent, or sexual, material fell to them. Mags was more worried about social media, with bullies able to hide behind an anonymous username. Tam had agreed to only use the laptop downstairs at the kitchen table. Within a few months, they allowed her to keep it in her room, reserving the right to knock and enter her bedroom at any time. If they found she had abused the agreement, they would confiscate the laptop.

  Tam had been as good as her word. She always checked with them if any website she discovered worried her, and she didn't show the slightest interest in social media. She had no email address, which meant the newsletters she received from the PG Woodhouse appreciation society came to Mags. Tam used the laptop for homework and for games, but there were few of the latter, as she was happier on her beanbag with a book.

  Mags went straight to the internet history. It went back to Tam's birthday, and it was all innocent. Well, not entirely. Mags
stifled a giggle when she saw the Google search of six weeks earlier for do boys' willies really get all stiff? Mags was proud to note the correct use of an apostrophe. Tam had not found a satisfactory answer online, because Mags remembered her asking the question around that time. Tam had shaken her head in disbelief at her mother's confirmation.

  "Seems a bally inconvenient way of going about things."

  Mags had shrugged. It was hard to disagree.

  It took Mags an hour to check any websites that looked unusual, but there was nothing to find.

  She searched the bedroom next. Every time she felt bad about what she was doing, she thought of the pictures, and got back to work with renewed determination. There was no hidden mobile phone, no secret diary. Not even a packet of condoms. Mags closed Tam's bedroom door and went downstairs with a mixture of relief and confusion.

  When she picked Tam up from school, Mags took her for a hot chocolate at Benny's. The Italian café was a family favourite, and Tam's drink was always overflowing with cream and marshmallows. She took a sip and smiled at Mags, a frothy white moustache on her upper lip.

  They talked about school for a while. Tam was learning to play the ukulele, and it had sparked an interest in music. She was mentioning the names of singers and bands Mags had never heard of.

  This is how it begins, thought Mags. First, music I don't know, then new slang I can't follow. She's growing up.

  Mags thought back to the secret language she and Kit had used as children. To outsiders, it sometimes looked as if they could understand each other with no words at all. In fact, since birth, they had developed a series of shorthand looks, signs and sounds that could communicate an array of complex messages. It had changed when they'd hit puberty. For about eighteen months, their unspoken language had become heightened. As they'd grown up, it had faded, but sometimes they had known things they shouldn't have been able to know. One night, at three-thirty-eight in the morning, fourteen-year-old Mags had woken up, crept downstairs and stood in front of the phone, her hand on the receiver. Without considering what she was doing, or why, she lifted the phone to her ear at the exact second Kit called. He was at a friend's and had fallen asleep there. He needed someone to let him back into the house. Ten minutes later, when Mags unlocked the backdoor, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, and they went back to bed. Neither of them ever mentioned the impossible nature of what had occurred. It was natural to them.