The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘But we went through all of this last night. Hours of it. My wife is absolutely exhausted. Look at her. She’s hardly slept at all.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I have everything I need now. I’m sorry to intrude again. Thank you.’ The inspector stood, hurriedly replacing her notebook in her bag and then headed for the hall, followed closely by Mark.

  I heard them whispering and waited for the click of the front door and for Mark to reappear in the kitchen.

  ‘She’s a DI. That’s CID, isn’t it? Why do you think CID are involved, Mark?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  And then we both watched in silence through the kitchen window as the woman walked not to the police car on the square, not towards the police cordons beside the church, but along the lane which leads to Emma’s house.

  ‘Do you think I should ring Emma? Warn her she’s on her way again?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I think you should do what I’ve been suggesting all morning and go straight back to bed.’

  This I did and immediately regretted it because, just like last night, it was most vivid when I lay down, as if stamped behind my eyelids and waiting for me to close them.

  I’d thought I was good about blood. There was a spell when Ben suffered nosebleeds and some nights it would just pour from him. That had not troubled me but this was entirely different, and not at all as it was on television, either. Not when you knew the face. The eyes.

  Which is why I wondered if I would ever sleep properly again, knowing already that the quiet and the stillness is where it comes back strongest. The warmth of it. The smell of it. And yes – the feel of it all over my hands. I thought of last night, ending up twice in the en-suite bathroom, retching into the toilet bowl; Mark outside, calling to me through the door.

  Are you all right, Sophie? Are you all right?

  Of course I’m not all right, Mark.

  I had seen the worst of what two people can do to each other. My neighbours and friends. How could I be all right?

  I had walked into a room, happy and relaxed, with my son waiting for me on the doorstep. Unknowing. Innocent. Me. Sophie. The woman who allegedly had this chocolate-box life.

  I had walked in smiling and been met with a scene which I never, ever want anyone to imagine. Not my son. Not my husband. Not even the police inspector with the wrong notebook and all the wrong ideas about all of us.

  It was unreal. That is what it was.

  Shocking and unreal.

  Seven p.m. last night, we were behind. The evening competitions for the fair were running late because Antony Hartley was a no-show, and I remember being cross at him because everyone else had turned up on time and the whole day had stuck pretty much to its schedule.

  Antony is a strange fish. Dear God – was a strange fish.

  But I liked him, you know? I liked him a lot.

  An attractive man – long fair hair, and deep brown eyes like a child’s. That was his main appeal: he had the air of never quite letting go of childhood.

  When they came to dinner that night with Emma, I could see that she liked them both too. They had charmed her as they charmed me with their alternative life.

  Gill and Antony lived modestly but happily in their tiny two-up two-down that had an extension housing the bathroom downstairs which meant you couldn’t use the loo without everyone in the house hearing.

  I remember the first time I went round there for supper, dreading needing a wee – imagining everyone listening. But Gill and Antony had this trick, this way of making you relax. Laugh at yourself.

  Well, I suppose Gill had – had to, rather. She had long been the sole breadwinner while Antony worked on his dreams. Forever taking up some new course, he was going to be a poet or a playwright or something. Creative Writing MA.

  So Gill paid the rent while Antony paid homage to his dreams with enormous stacks of books bearing witness all over the house so that some weeks you could hardly manoeuvre around them.

  Not that Gill seemed to mind. ‘One day he will pay me back,’ she would say. ‘When he has his bestseller.’ And then they would laugh conspiratorially, eyes locked on each other – a gesture so intense and so overtly sexual that it was, to any outsider, borderline embarrassing.

  Meantime, she seemed to work all hours while Antony worked his charm. Every time we went round there, there would be some new philosophy or writer to discuss and Mark would come home tutting and sighing. In his bloody dreams.

  But – the truth? I envied them their dreaming and the simplicity of their lives. Two-up. Two-down.

  And so when I set off for their house yesterday evening, I was smiling to myself – thinking of Antony, who was bound to win the skittles as he always did, and how Gill would wink in the background as he accepted the cup, her eyes shining with pride. I was thinking that they were lucky not to be chasing the same dream as me and Mark, with the huge mortgage and the business loans and Mark working away. Me stuck at home. Drowning at home. In my perfect life.

  And so I left Ben on the doorstep, to hurry Antony up. ‘Just stay here a minute, Ben, darling. I won’t be long.’

  When they didn’t answer the door, I didn’t think anything of it because the Hartleys insisted on an open-door policy and I often went straight in. No doorbell. Just come in, they would say. So that’s what I did, calling out as I went.

  To be absolutely honest with you, I was never comfortable with the whole open-door thing. I was always worried that I’d catch them having a row – or worse, making up. That’s why I left Ben on the doorstep.

  So I walked through the study at the front to their hall, calling out quite loudly, ‘Antony? Gill? Hello? Are you there? We need to start the skittles. And everyone is wondering—’

  And then there it was. The colour red.

  Vivid and angry . . . everywhere.

  A spray of droplets right up the wall like an abstract painting not yet dry.

  And him lying in a great and terrible puddle of it, eyes staring at the ceiling. Gone.

  The inspector was probably right. Any normal person would have called out for help. Screamed.

  But all I could think was that Ben must not see this. Clamping my mouth closed and shouting only in my head.

  I did not even check his pulse.

  I just went through to the kitchen – I don’t know why I didn’t think of my mobile, picturing instead the phone on their kitchen wall. That’s all I was thinking. Get to the phone, Sophie. Get to the phone . . .

  And then – there she was. Sitting on the floor with her back to the cupboards. Staring also.

  There was blood pouring from her stomach and also down her hair. She turned her eyes towards me. Nothing else. Just her eyes.

  And still it poured from her. Thick. Warm. Bright red.

  And I put my hand over the stomach wound, pressing as hard as I could, trying to stem it. To stop it. Please, dear God, stop this.

  I was too afraid to touch the wound on her head because it was gaping so wide – white and dreadful underneath as if some of her brain was coming through her skull – and because I couldn’t now reach the phone, I finally remembered the mobile in my jacket pocket. I didn’t know the number of the house so I had to describe the pots of petunias outside – hurry, you must hurry – before I hung up to phone Mark.

  ‘Ben is on the doorstep. Of Antony and Gill’s. You need to come now, Mark. Now. It’s dreadful. Take him away. Don’t bring him inside. Whatever you do, don’t let him come inside.’

  And then a complete blur.

  The phone records say I rang the emergency services twice more and someone talked me through what to do to help Gill, but I don’t recall any of that. All I remember is this surreal mix of colours. The familiar and the shocking; noticing the little orange espresso cups all lined up neatly on a shelf while I felt the warmth and the horrible wetness of the red on my hands. Pressing and pressing as hard as I could on the wound.

  And waiting.

  All the while, Gill staring into my
eyes.

  A large knife in her other hand.

  And yes.

  Blood all over my own hands.

  CHAPTER 8

  BEFORE

  ‘So what do you think? Do you still want to go ahead today?’ Nathan’s voice on the line was hesitant, and Emma realised – as she glanced across at Theo sorting tractors and cars from a bright green box – that something else needed to be said between them.

  ‘Look – about Friday, Emma.’

  ‘It’s OK, Nathan. You know me. I don’t do needy. So please don’t feel that—’

  ‘No. It’s the police, Emma. I had to tell the police about Friday night. I’m really sorry. I mean – it’s private. Clearly none of their business, but they put me on the spot and I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘I see. No, it’s fine, Nathan. Really.’ And then there was the doorbell. ‘Look, I’m sorry but there’s someone at the door. It’s probably Sophie. I’d best call you back.’

  ‘OK. But you’ll let me know by lunchtime? About Theo’s robin, I mean. And I really hope, well, me saying anything won’t make it any worse with the police.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. And please don’t worry. About talking to the police. It’s not your fault.’

  Emma badly needed to talk all this through with Sophie – to find out what they were saying – and was entirely unprepared for the woman in civilian clothes who held up her badge before even speaking and was then very soon prowling around her kitchen, blatantly reading things on the noticeboard as if a badge allowed this behaviour without further explanation. Rude. Intrusive. Offensive. This woman, this DI Melanie Sanders – prying with absolutely no justification at all. Question after question not just about Friday, about Nathan staying overnight after dinner – as if that had anything to do with anything – but making her walk through every scene at the stupid fair again. Over and over. Every person she saw and spoke to throughout the day. And in the tent.

  Jeez – why did I let Sophie talk me into it?

  ‘Look, I don’t remember exactly what I said to everyone in that tent. It was just a bit of fun, like I said yesterday. People were relaxed and played along. Most had had a couple of drinks so we had a laugh. They knew it wasn’t for real. I made stuff up. You know: lucky numbers, lucky colours, tall dark strangers. I explained all of this to the policeman who called round yesterday. It was just a favour for my friend. To raise some money.’

  ‘And you don’t remember what you said to Gill Hartley?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘And she seemed OK to you?’

  ‘She’d had a couple of Pimms from one of the stalls like everyone else. Apart from that she was fine. Enjoying herself.’

  ‘It’s just it seems you may have been the last person to see her.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ And now the air stilled.

  ‘Well, putting all the statements together now, it looks very much as if she went straight home after speaking to you.’

  For a moment Emma said nothing, glancing at the floor and then back at the police officer.

  Damn.

  ‘But Gill was fine when I saw her. Absolutely fine.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘So, do you have any idea yet what happened? Was there a break-in?’

  ‘No. That’s why we’re trying to piece together exactly what happened.’

  ‘And she’s still in a coma? Gill?’

  ‘Look – I’m afraid I’m not able to discuss Mrs Hartley’s condition.’ And the policewoman was now standing, putting her card on the table. ‘Right. I’ll leave you in peace. Though if you remember anything. Anything at all.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Two hours later, and pulling her coat tight around her against the wind, Emma was replaying the conversation in her head.

  ‘Nathan. The police seem to think I was the last person to see Gill. Before she went home.’ Emma had lowered her voice, though looking up she realised there was no real need, for Theo was way ahead of them already, eager and impatient – the lights on the heels of his trainers flashing as he skipped along, kicking a large stone in front of him.

  Nathan carried on walking, his arm extended awkwardly so that the cage with the robin would not swing too much.

  ‘Right. Well. Christ.’ A pause, during which he frowned, biting into his lip. ‘Explains why the police have been poking around so much. But you mustn’t feel bad. I mean – it’s nothing to do with you. You said she was fine when you saw her.’

  ‘She was. No different from anyone else. Tiny bit squiffy on Pimms, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, there you are. Nothing else you can tell them. Terrible, terrible thing but they’re saying there was no break-in so it’s clearly a domestic. I suppose if Gill recovers, they’ll have to decide about charging her. That’s what this is about.’

  ‘So what on earth do you reckon happened?’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What?’

  Nathan stared at the ground.

  ‘If you know something, Nathan, you seriously need to tell me. This is doing my head in.’

  ‘Well. The usual, don’t you think?’

  ‘The usual? Oh right, so mayhem and murder is usual for Tedbury, is it?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Em. You know what I mean. Never in a million years would I have thought Gill capable of something like this but it’s not rocket science. He was very obviously a player. I guess she must have found out and flipped.’

  ‘You’re kidding me? You really think—’

  ‘Come on, slowcoaches.’ Theo was frowning, his tone impatient – turning to walk backwards up the hill ahead of them.

  ‘Best concentrate on the robin.’ Nathan lowered his voice and surprised Emma by linking his arm through her own.

  They had agreed, the three of them, to release the robin in exactly the same spot they’d found him. For a time the poor bird wasn’t expected to make it. Despite hand-feeding and a serious dose of TLC in Tom’s aviary, it had not done at all well initially. And then very suddenly there had been what Tom called a Lazarus moment. He had gone out one morning to find the robin hopping around the base of the cage, eating and drinking independently – staring at him as if to say what the hell am I doing in here? From there, the recovery was swift, the robin soon testing its wings – flying between perches. Tom’s reckoning was they needed to move fast; that its best chance for survival was to get back out in the wild before it became too dependent on, and also depressed by, the care they were providing.

  Interestingly, Theo had not even once suggested that they keep him, which had surprised Nathan though not Emma. Just like Granny Apple, she had preached the doctrine of freedom. The glory of wide-open spaces. The outdoors. Maybe Theo had actually been listening.

  ‘Here. I think it was here.’ Theo stamped his foot by the hedge and Emma checked around her. Yes. The stile where the dog and Nathan had appeared was just a stroll along the lane.

  ‘OK, young man. Well – I reckon you should do the honours. Are you ready?’ Nathan set the cage on the floor.

  ‘The bird might be a bit nervous, Theo.’ Emma crouched to her son’s level, conscious that Nathan was watching.

  Theo opened the door and they waited. At first, disconcertingly, the robin did nothing at all. The three glanced one to another. They waited some more. Emma was just beginning to shift with impatience when very suddenly the bird hopped on to the wire base of the open door. From there he moved down to the ground. Again there was a worrying impasse – the robin seemingly reluctant to move further.

  ‘Keep very still, everyone,’ Theo whispered. ‘I think he’s just saying goodbye.’

  And then, in a flash, the bird was gone: up to the top of the nearest hedge briefly – seconds only – and onward to a telegraph pole.

  ‘Do you think he will visit us?’ Theo’s face was tilted up to the sky, his hand shielding his eyes in the sunlight.

  But Emma wasn’t listening and instead could feel Nathan’s gaze, his expre
ssion concerned.

  ‘They’re going to Cornwall,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Sophie and Mark. They’re going to Cornwall. That’s a good thing, don’t you think? After what she’s been through, I mean. The shock of finding them like that.’

  Nathan’s expression was now puzzlement.

  ‘Means we can crack on with the deli plans. Surprise her. Give her something to focus on.’ Emma’s tone was steady, but now Nathan was frowning.

  ‘You’re not serious, Emma? I rather imagined you’d put all that on hold. I mean, I can’t think that anyone in Tedbury, least of all Sophie, would have an appetite for—’

  ‘No, no. We need to go right ahead, Nathan. Trust me on this. It’s the very best thing for Sophie. It’s exactly what she needs.’

  TODAY – 6.00 P.M.

  I refuse to look out of the window for this part of the journey for it is too beautiful – my favourite section once, past the sea wall at Dawlish where, for a time, it feels like flying, as if the train is skimming the surface of the water.

  Beautiful, yes, but today just a worry. Say Dawlish now and everyone thinks of those TV pictures – the railway line washed away in that terrible storm. And so I am thinking, Will it be OK? Or will the wind whip up even more? Will we be delayed yet again?

  In the end we were stuck back there between stations for thirty minutes because of the wretched signal problem. They still haven’t told us exactly what caused it. But I am on my best behaviour now. I am trying to stay calm and have apologised to the guard for getting off the train. For a time I was worried he was going to insist on me leaving at the next station for a medical check. I rather fear everyone thinks I am some kind of loon, but the guard seems to have put all that down to stress and now that he knows the whole story about Ben, he has given us a quiet spot at the very front of first class. Me and Mark and the doctor who I strongly suspect has been tasked with keeping a quiet eye on me, as he keeps giving his wife this little apologetic smile while looking up from his book.

  ‘Are you feeling OK, Sophie?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, fine. Thank you. Please don’t feel you have to stay and mind me. I’m perfectly OK now.’