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

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  When you have only one goal, life becomes simple. I keep going.

  I think I'm back in Florida, or in the hospital in Boston. When I remember where I am, I become fascinated by my feet. They don't look like my feet any more. They are swollen, and there are patches of dark skin. The numbness has spread into my calves. My knees creak and there's a distant ache in my legs I know is dangerous. My body is failing. All those weeks in a hospital bed. Even with the workouts I've been doing, I am nowhere near fit.

  Since lunchtime, I have killed four men. The nurse, the boss, the American, and the cop. So much death. I wasn't bringing them peace, I wasn't helping them rest. They were in my way.

  I am tired.

  I guess I may have covered a mile when I stop for the first time. I've been falling asleep every so often, between steps, snapping awake as the snow crunches under my strange feet. This time, it's for longer, and when I wake I have stopped walking.

  It scares me, standing still. I reach out for her in my mind. She's there. I move again.

  The nurse, the boss, the American, the cop. The nurse, the boss, the American, the cop. I step in time with my chant. The nurse, the boss, the American, the cop.

  The second time I stop, I figure I sleep for a few minutes. It's hard to get started again. Real hard. My body protests. My legs are numb, but my hips, my arms, my chest, and my face are alive with pain.

  The nurse, the boss, the American, the cop. The nurse, the boss…

  I remember some Hollywood writer I saw on TV. He wrote dramas, thrillers, horror maybe. I forget. But I remember this: he said great drama needed two ingredients. Only two. Intention and obstacle.

  I grab this idea. It makes sense. My intention is to reach her. The obstacles are many. The storm is an obstacle. My frostbitten feet, like wearing roller skates three sizes too small, are obstacles. The distance between where I am now and where I need to be is an obstacle. My body, the way it wants to shut down, is an obstacle. The wound on my head is an obstacle. I take off a glove and touch my face. The frozen blood is like plastic. There is no pain. My fingers still feel something, but the skin on my face doesn't. Not good.

  Intention and obstacle. The nurse, the boss, the American, the cop.

  I reach the top of a slight rise. The interstate sweeps left from here. A small road forks right. I follow it with my eyes and see lights, not far away.

  There.

  The snow is easing off now, the clouds above drifting away to reveal the moon. I draw a mental line between where I stand and the cluster of buildings less than a mile away.

  I follow that line.

  The nurse, the boss, the American, the cop. The nurse, the boss, the American, the cop.

  The terrain slopes down to the road before rising again. When I reach the road, I see the source of the lights. It's a motel. One big building, and lots of smaller buildings all around it; bungalows or cabins. Four of them have two stories. Paths lead from the main building to the smaller ones. Lampposts line these paths, but their light is dim. Solar powered, I guess. One path heads up the hill to the right. The final cabin sits on its own, backing onto trees. No lights inside. No footprints leading towards it.

  It's so still. So quiet. The occasional gust of wind lifts the newly settled snow from the ground and from the branches of trees, obscuring my view for a moment.

  Although I already know she's there, my regular senses confirm my conclusion. A movement inside, lighter shadows among dark. Then a door opening. A whisper of voices.

  I killed her father. She must be with her mother. I check the coat pocket, the loop of fishing line coiled there. It reassures me.

  A promise brought me. The promise of peace. I no longer have doubts.

  The steps creak as I climb onto the wooden porch of the cabin.

  I twist the handle of the door. Locked. I rattle it, put my shoulder to it and push. It doesn't move.

  I try sliding the window open. It's shut tight. There's a small table on the porch. Two chairs. Made for the weather. Made of iron.

  I pick up the nearest chair. It's heavier than I thought, or I'm weaker, and I drop it. I take a breath, hoist the chair up to my shoulder and lurch towards the window.

  The glass shatters, and I reach in to unlatch the window.

  By the time I'm inside, I have two new injuries: a gash in my left hand and a long cut down my right shin. I feel nothing.

  The room is empty. I take off my gloves and drop them on the bed. I am almost dizzy with her presence. She is so close.

  Through the back window, I see someone run. I open the back door. A figure rises from behind a pile of logs. Her mother.

  I speak to her. "You should go. I'm here for her, not you."

  She has something in her hand. An axe. She is screaming at me.

  "Come on, you fucker. COME ON!"

  She is brave. She doesn't hesitate when she sees me. She lifts the axe over her head and comes at me. I see the intention in her eyes. She will kill me if I let her.

  I put my right hand in the coat pocket, bring out the gun, and shoot her.

  She pirouettes like a dancer. An arc of blood, black in the moonlight, sprays onto the snow. The axe drops to the ground and, half a second later, she joins it, face down.

  A needle of agony stabs my brain. The gun drops from my fingers. I hold both hands to my head, and stagger into the cabin.

  The pain disappears as I slump onto the bed. And there it is; a final unfolding of the flower in my mind.

  I take out the fishing line and lay it besides my gloves. And I wait.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  She didn't lose consciousness, but it was a close thing.

  Like many people, Mags had wondered how being shot might feel. Like most people, she had assumed she would never find out. Unlike most people, her assumption was incorrect.

  Being shot was a very similar sensation to being flicked a by wet towel, which is something Mags had experienced at school swimming lessons. An older girl—Fiona O'Toole, she remembered, despite not thinking about her for years—was an expert, often leaving marks on other girls' skin that lasted days. Fiona had once caught Mags with an expertly placed flick that made her scream in shock. Being shot was no worse. Not at first. A secondary wave of pain followed the initial shock, an insistent throb of discomfort that became agonising when she moved.

  The problem was, she had to move. Mags was alive, the killer was near, and Tam wasn't far enough away. Not yet.

  She managed not to scream as she rolled onto her left side. The bullet had hit her below the ribs on her right side. She suspected it had passed through, given the blood dripping down her back. She was scared to move again, knowing how much it would hurt. If she lay there, she supposed she would bleed to death. It might take hours, unless hypothermia did the job first.

  Mags didn't intend to wait.

  She looked around for the man who had shot her. Mags had only seen him for a few seconds and doubted she could describe him well enough for a police artist to produce an accurate picture. He was the definition of average. Average height, average build. Brown hair, cut short. A bland face.

  Where was he? Tam's footprints led from the cabin to the path. No other prints had joined them. Mags looked back at the cabin, propping herself on one elbow. From that angle, she could see the top of the killer's head. He was sitting on the end of the bed, facing the door.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Mags decided she didn't care. He wasn't going after Tam. That was all that mattered. He was injured, she remembered. There had been blood on the left side of his face. Maybe the injury was serious, and he could go no further. The idea was tempting. If true, she could lie back in the snow and be done with it all, knowing her daughter was safe. But he might be gathering his strength for a final effort. She couldn't give up. Not yet.

  Keeping her teeth clenched, she pushed her left hand into the snow and levered her body into a sitting position. She didn't scream. Good. She took a few fast, ragged brea
ths, and pressed her palm flat over the wound on her midriff. The pain made her gasp, and she froze for a moment. When she checked the cabin window, he hadn't moved.

  The axe. It must be nearby. Mags scanned the snow, finding it four feet away, but by then she had spotted something else. Something better.

  In the snow by the back door of the cabin, the gun lay where he'd dropped it.

  Why had he left it behind? Mags answered her own unspoken question: Who gives a shit?

  Mags had never fired a gun before, but she knew it was her only chance. A gun gave her a massive advantage.

  What if it had run out of bullets? Was that why he'd dropped it?

  Mags didn't know how to check. It was a risk she would have to take.

  She didn't stop to wonder if could kill another human being. She knew she could shoot this man. If she could hold the gun steady, if she could squeeze the trigger, she would squeeze and squeeze until there were no bullets left. She would save Tam, even if it meant dying herself.

  Mags tried to stand, but blurred vision and a lancing pain in her skull dropped her back into the snow. She breathed hard, didn't scream, kept pressure on the wound.

  The gun was ten feet away, but the journey towards it was the hardest she had ever made. Mags moved her left knee towards her hand. Then she dragged her right knee forward, her body sending desperate signals for her to stop. Mags ignored the signals, lifting her left hand from the snow, planting it a few inches in front of her head.

  Progress was slow, but she was moving.

  When Mags reached the gun, she couldn't pick it up. Her right hand still covered the bullet wound, and her left hand was all that stopped her tipping face-forward into the snow. If she did that, she might not get back up again. She considered crawling with the gun in her left hand, but feared she might accidentally fire off a shot. However badly injured the murderer was, she doubted he would ignore that.

  Mags stared at the gun with a kind of dumb fascination. When the solution came to her, she realised how hard her body was working to keep her alive, leaving few resources for rational thought. She was wearing a jacket. A jacket with pockets. Pushing herself into a kneeling position, she picked up the gun and dropped it into a pocket.

  The cabin door was half-open. Mags was now six feet away. She mentally rehearsed what came next. Crawl forward until behind the door. Kneel without making a sound. Take gun from pocket and hold it ready, pointing towards the room beyond. Remove right hand from bleeding stomach, push the door open, use both hands to support the weight of the gun. Fire, putting as many bullets as possible into the serial killer sitting on the bed.

  It wasn't a complicated plan, but there was one serious flaw. Mags was already much weaker than when she had started crawling towards the gun. By the time she reached the door, she would be weaker still. Would she have the strength to push open the door and squeeze the trigger? Her body wanted her to remain still. The more she moved, the more she bled.

  The storm was moving away. It was a beautiful night. Hard to believe the blizzard of only an hour before. So peaceful. Not a sound. Patches of cloud had cleared, and thousands of stars glittered. The snow was soft and pure, other than the dark trail of blood behind Mags.

  I will not die here. I will not die.

  Mags knew the longer she waited, the harder this would be.

  She counted down from three to one. That's what she'd done with Tam, the first time she'd jumped into the swimming pool, or the day she'd gathered the courage to plummet down the steepest slide in the park. Even blowing out the candles on a birthday cake.

  Three.

  A sound in the stillness. Unexpected, somewhere behind her.

  Two.

  The sound getting closer. Footsteps.

  Someone had heard the shot. Help was coming.

  One.

  Mags turned her head and looked back towards the path.

  "No." Her mouth formed the word, but she made no sound. "No."

  It was Tam. She was walking towards the cabin. She must have heard the gunshot, and come back to save her mother. Mags braced herself to stop her daughter. It couldn't end this way. It just couldn't.

  When Tam was close, Mags saw something was wrong. Her daughter wasn't hurrying. Her steps were neither slow nor fast. She maintained a steady pace, head up, arms swinging by her side.

  Closer still and Mags could see Tam's face in the moonlight. Her eyes stared ahead, but she saw nothing of what was around her. She was looking at something else. She was seeing somewhere else.

  Mags couldn't prevent the groan of frustration and terror that escaped her then. It was a guttural, animal sound. She didn't care if the killer heard it.

  "Tam. Tam. No. He's in the cabin, Tam. Call the police. Run. Please. Please!" Tam didn't pause as she passed her mother. She didn't even look at her. Mags put out her hand to bar her path, but Tam stepped to one side and continued. Mags slipped and fell to the floor.

  Mags didn't even have the strength to crawl now. Instead, she pulled herself along with her left hand, pushing with her toes.

  Sounds reached her from the room beyond, but the sofa prevented her seeing what was going on. It was worse than any nightmare. She whimpered, tried to move faster, and succeeded only in falling hard, the side of her face smacking the floor.

  After a few seconds of silence, the sounds began again. At first, they made no sense. Material brushing against material, like someone pulling on a sweater. A creak from the bed as the killer shifted his weight. Another creak, then more silence.

  The yelping breaths were next, wheezing, desperate. A staccato series of muffled shrieks.

  A memory of her with Kit when they were kids, on the BMX bikes, the noises she had made when winded. The panic. This was worse. Instead of the strangled gasps being followed by a return to normal breathing, the attempts to draw breath decreased in frequency. At first, half a second between each breath, then a second. Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten. The yelps grew quieter until they were hardly audible.

  The silence that followed was the worst of all.

  Mags used her legs to push herself past the sofa, her face sliding along the polished wooden floor.

  When she could see the room, her eyes filled with water. She struggled to make sense of what was in front of her. At first, the shapes were only suggestive outlines of reality.

  She blinked away the tears, looked again.

  One figure was kneeling in front of the bed. Another squatted behind the first. As Mags watched, the nearest figure twitched, spasmed, fell backwards, and was still.

  The stench of death was reminiscent of a filthy public toilet. Piss, shit, and something undefinable, a sickly caramel sweetness.

  Her vision clear, Mags pushed herself up on one elbow.

  The Bedroom Killer was dead. He had died with his eyes closed. Tam crouched behind him wearing a thick pair of gloves too big for her. Coiled around the gloves was a length of fishing line. Where the wire was wrapped around the killer's throat, it had bitten into the flesh, leaving a line as clear as if drawn with a pencil.

  Tam teased the fishing wire from the neck of the corpse.

  She looked at Mags, her eyes shining.

  "He can sleep now," she said. "He can sleep."

  Eighteen months later

  The phone chimed at 7pm, UK time. Thirty seconds later, it chimed again; the vibration making the empty champagne flute rattle. Mags picked up her phone, closed her eyes and counted to three before opening the message.

  It's over.

  There was a hyperlink underneath. When she tapped it, it opened the homepage of the Boston Globe.

  EDGEGEN GUILTY - DIRECTORS AND EMPLOYEES FACE PRISON. JUDGE DESCRIBES PRACTISES AS 'AKIN TO TORTURE'

  She skimmed the article until she found what she was looking for. Page 21: Read exclusive extracts from Patrice Martino's explosive new book Twinned With Hell: The Terrible Secrets behind Edgegen Technology.

  Mags twisted the cork from the bottle and poured a glas
s, toasting Patrice silently.

  It took ten minutes for the tears to end.

  Closure. That was the word Ria had used, and she had been right about Mags needing it. Patrice's message was the final step from darkness to light. Bradley and his father were dead. Now Edgegen was finished.

  To her surprise, Mags had mourned Bradley—or, rather, the idea of Bradley—recalling countless small, unguarded moments between them that had once seemed genuine. She tried to remember those moments whenever Tam talked about him. A young girl had lost her father, and it was healthier if her mother didn't snarl every time he was mentioned. Forgiveness was impossible, of course. Mags hadn't yet decided whether to tell Tam the truth one day. Some decisions could wait.

  Tam had no memory of anything after they had arrived at the cabin. No memory of running through the woods in a blizzard, no memory of walking past a trail of blood to face the killer. And no memory of the ritualistic act that ended his life. Ria said the mind was capable of removing a chunk of time completely, if it was so traumatic it might otherwise cause severe damage. Mags woke up every morning grateful Tam didn't know what really happened that night.

  The Massachusetts police had been efficient, but not unkind. DNA evidence established the identity of the corpse found in the cabin, and Mags experienced a brief taste of fame, when the story broke that a British mother had stopped the Bedroom Killer.

  All through Christmas and the first few weeks of the new year, stranded in America, Mags had remained focussed on her daughters. It wasn't just her and Tam anymore. She pleaded with the police and lawyers to help her track down Clara, terrified that she might never find her, never know how it might feel to hold her.

  She poured another glass of champagne and walked through to the kitchen. In the doorway, she froze, her smile faltering.

  No. Not again.

  Her daughter had her back to her. From that angle, Mags could see the top of a piece of paper. The scratch and slide of a pencil nib was the only sound, but the artist wasn't looking at her work. She stared straight ahead, her hand moving independently.