Two Years After ; Friends Who Lie ; No More Secrets

by Paul J. Teague

  ‘Who knows?’ Vera replied. ‘She’s been committed. Without her husband or her father to take care of her, she has nobody left to make decisions for her and advocate on her behalf. It’s all in the hands of the social workers now. And I can’t imagine that she’ll get Sam back, not after what she tried to do; imagine threatening to cut your own child’s throat with a kitchen knife?’

  ‘I had to tell the police she said that, Mum. I felt terrible snitching her out. But I was doing it for Sam.’

  James smiled at Mackenzie. He nodded at Rosie, whose hand had just flinched.

  ‘You’re good friends, both of you. Right, I’ve got other patients to see now, are you two fine with keeping Rosie here company? It’ll do her good to hear your voices.’

  Mackenzie and James nodded in unison and Vera left the room. A moment later, they began to laugh.

  ‘Watch this,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Make sure the coast is clear.’

  James checked the door.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘They’re all busy mopping up shit and wiping the saliva off the patients.’

  Mackenzie moved her hand down the sheets, into Rosie’s gown and cupped her breast.

  ‘Looks like the taser wound is healing nicely,’ she laughed.

  Rosie lay there, deadly still.

  ‘Give it a try,’ Mackenzie urged. ‘She doesn’t know you’re doing it. You can get away with anything in this place when they’re out of their heads on meds. Stroke her legs. She’s got nice legs, Rosie. I like touching her there.’

  James slid his hand under the sheets and began to move it up and down Rosie’s leg and up to her groin.

  ‘And she won’t remember anything afterwards?’ James asked.

  ‘No, it’s the best laugh ever!’ Mackenzie replied. ‘She didn’t even realise who I was at work, stupid cow. Close the door, let’s have some fun with her.’

  ‘Hey, speaking of work, I’m keeping my job. David’s bought back the company. We can carry on fucking in Rosie’s old room. Edward Logan is out on his arse, in spite of everybody thinking he was the victim of an attack by Rosie. That’s so funny what you did there, leaving him in the hallway like that. It was a masterstroke. I’ve been searching for a woman like you all my life; we’re soulmates, you and I.’

  ‘And to think we’d never ’ave met if my mum hadn’t had that fling with David. He used to come in here to visit Rosie the first time she was at Trinity Heights. She just used to lie like she is now, spaced out and shut off from the world. Mum took pity on him, I think – he used to sit here at visiting time, and Rosie would be boring as fuck like she is now. He should’ve felt her up a bit to pass the time. It was him who gave me the internship. What a sucker! I think he felt guilty when he packed my mum in. He said he was on the rebound after his wife died. Silly bugger.’

  ‘Did you bring the meds?’ James asked.

  ‘Yeah, but we won’t need to slip her any extras. Rosie is in here for a long time now. Once you get committed and there’s nobody fighting for you, it’s like throwing away the key. You didn’t half dose her up that night; how much were you slipping into her drinks?’

  ‘I told you, I used to work in a bar. I know how to mix up a good cocktail.’

  James and Mackenzie laughed. Rosie’s finger twitched as their cackles filled the room.

  ‘So, what are we going to do next?’ James asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mackenzie replied.

  ‘Well, that was fun, screwing with Rosie. I want to do it again.’

  ‘It’s not enough feeling her up and saying horrible things to her?’

  ‘No, I want to fuck up somebody else’s life.’

  Mackenzie kissed James on the cheek and grinned at him. ‘There’s a young guy down the hallway. He’s about to get released from the unit after his third suicide attempt. I gave him a blow job in his room last night, and now he thinks he’s in love with me. How about we try for suicide attempt number four?’

  ‘I like it!’ James said. ‘This is much more fun than a night in watching Netflix. Shall we go and see him now?’

  ‘Yes, let’s. Let him know you’re my boyfriend – that’ll screw with his head.’

  ‘I’ll kiss you in the room while he’s there. Let’s have a bet. I reckon we can drive him to his fourth suicide attempt within the week.’

  ‘Touch my tits when we’re in there, and I think we can squeeze it into five days.’

  ‘Done! It’s a bet,’ James grinned, standing up to leave the room.

  ‘I told my mum you were a keeper,’ Mackenzie said as she took his hand and they moved towards the door.

  As they left the room, Rosie’s hand twitched.

  Author Notes

  Two Years After is the first psychological thriller I’ve written that didn’t have a positive outcome for the protagonist. I seldom end stories with a completely happy ending, but I wanted this book to be different. It’s supposed to leave you – the reader – with an unsettled, queasy feeling. You’ve just witnessed the grinning face of pure evil, after all. Poor old Rosie, what a terrifying experience for such a fabulous character.

  So what would make me put you through all of that as a reader? Well, it was inspired by the lingering feeling I had at the end of the film Funny Games, an Austrian psychological thriller directed by Michael Haneke in 1997 (it has a great Wikipedia page).

  I think that film – on first-time viewing – is one of the most tense and unsettling movies I’ve ever watched. There is a USA version too, with the same director, but I recommend the original if you don’t mind the subtitles.

  I wanted to leave you, my ever-suffering reader, with that same realisation that you get at the end of Funny Games: a sense that this is going to happen again to another innocent victim.

  I haven’t written the story with the intention of coming up with a sequel, but if I’m ever at a loose end, there’s a natural follow-up there, which begins with Rosie’s twitching hand.

  As well as being a dark thriller, Two Years After condenses many of my thoughts and experiences on corporate life. I’ve been a teacher, a sales representative, a waiter, a shop assistant, a DJ, a radio presenter, producer and journalist and a digital development manager in my working life. I was keen to set this book in the workplace and convey many of the horrors that we subject ourselves to in order to earn a living. I should stress that it’s a work of fiction, none of these things happened in real-life.

  I’ll bet you’ll recognise a lot of what goes on: the characters, the pettiness, the scenarios. That’s why I chose Going to work can be hell as the tagline for the book. Many of us have that same thought every Monday morning.

  A serious issue that I wanted to deal with in the book is that of mental health. This is a hot topic at the moment, and I’m delighted to see how openly people discuss it these days. When I started work, you’d never admit to anxiety, depression or stress for fear of being sidelined. I’m happy to see these matters being dealt with openly. I believe we need to treat good mental health in the same way that we approach our physical health.

  Rosie struggles with the pressures placed upon her; to provide for her son, to convince the social workers of her suitability as a mother, to pick up her career and to keep dragging herself out of bed, day after day.

  I read an excellent article on this topic by one of my favourite pop stars, Adam Ant, several years ago, when he released his book, Stand and Deliver. Do an online search for the article Adam Ant: back from the brink in The Telegraph. You’ll see that’s what Rosie’s experiences are based upon.

  It’s funny how these things influence you as a writer. In Rosie’s case, her despair, anxiety and depression are caused by the death of a child, the demise of her husband and her physical injuries and trauma. She’s put in a vice-like situation where social workers are watching her on the one hand, and her employer is cutting off her money, despite David’s best efforts.

  Although I place all sorts of obstacles in her way, I like Rosie. She’s a g
reat mother placed in an impossible situation. Maybe I will write that sequel one day, so she gets her happy ending.

  Mackenzie is based upon characters like Beverley Allitt, who was involved in a very high profile case in the United Kingdom. She is a child serial killer, and I think it’s fair to say that the terms Munchausen syndrome and Munchausen syndrome by proxy became better known by the general population in my country as a result of the reporting of that case.

  I also wanted to reflect the fact that things like that can happen; misuse of prescription drugs, lack of supervision, and ongoing problems persisting without a challenge. My book is purely fiction, but this stuff happens in real life. Mackenzie’s relationship with James is a spark of evil collusion, as it was with Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, and Fred and Rosemary West.

  However much I left you feeling unsettled at the end of Two Years After, I do hope that you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed dreaming up the scenarios. I had a lot of fun writing the scene where they’re all squashed into the small car. Once again, this is inspired by a real-life experience, only the person who was almost sick was me.

  It was in my days as a cub reporter, in the back of a Granada TV car, travelling at some speed along a single track road in my home county of Cumbria. It’s called Hardknott Pass – look it up online. We were stopping and starting, pulling into passing places to let other vehicles get by, and in a rush to record a TV report at the Sellafield nuclear site.

  I thought I was going to be sick all over the TV reporter’s posh suit – imagine that on the six o’clock news! Luckily I managed to hold on to my stomach, but in my story, Neil Jennings doesn’t.

  If you liked this story and want to stay in touch, I’d be delighted if you registered for my email updates at https://paulteague.net/thrillers, as that’s where I share news of what I’m writing and tell you about any reader discounts and freebies that are available.

  Thanks so much for reading Two Years After and I look forward to connecting with you online soon.

  All the best,

  Paul Teague

  Friends Who Lie

  Prologue

  Benidorm: June

  As murders go, it was a beautiful place to die. There were two of them at the top of the hill. Both had started their day with different intentions. For one, it was going to be an adventure, an expedition in the early morning Spanish sunshine. For the other, it would be a time to settle scores. A day that was full of promise would end before it had even begun, with a blow to the head, a desperate struggle, and then strangulation.

  The Benidorm Cross was one of the best-known tourist spots in the area and was often featured on TV in holiday shows and drama series. It perched high on the hill overlooking the resort with its glorious golden beach and the sparkling blue seas of the Mediterranean.

  There was no way anyone else in the group would make that climb before they had to pack up for the flight back home. Sure, they’d all said that they might when the Cross was pointed out to them in the distance. It was a challenge, goading them from the beach and the bars, always whispering in their ears: Will you do it? Can you do it? But, when push came to shove, the arduous walk had always been too much effort when set against the lure of the bars, the beach and the vibrant nightlife.

  They had left in the early hours of the morning. Their lightweight companions were still sleeping, tired and hungover from the previous night. What a night it had been, too – the big bust-up, the falling out that nobody had seen coming. But it had been cathartic. They’d needed it to blow away the resentments and friction, to make a fresh start.

  At five o’clock precisely, a mobile phone had vibrated under a pillow. Its owner was already awake, plotting, planning, working through every scenario.

  They all had the motivation to commit the murder, that was for sure. That’s if the finger was even pointed at the group of friends. The police would probably think it was some hobo or opportunist. That’s how it would look. The others would still be in bed while it was happening – the body would be discovered before they’d even opened their eyes.

  The Benidorm Cross was a feature of the resort, perched high up on that hill. It was always seen on TV, in holiday show reports and drama series set in the seaside town. It wasn’t immediately obvious how to reach it, which is why the walk had to wait until they’d had time to settle in.

  Just after six o’clock a second mobile phone alarm had vibrated and was immediately switched off. There would be no shower, no breakfast. An immediate start should mean avoiding any other tourists. There was always the danger of the early morning dog walkers, but so high up on the hill? Unless they lived in one of the walled houses that lined the winding road to the Cross, that seemed unlikely.

  The streets were quiet at that time. The late-night revellers were not that long home and in their beds, while the early starters wouldn’t get served breakfast in their hotels before half-past six. The resort’s thoroughfares were getting the only two hours’ respite from the noise and shouting that they got in any twenty-four hour period.

  The mobile phone map indicated the route. It was straightforward, a short walk along the seafront, then the road began to rise, a warning of the climb to come. There was not a person to be seen. Benidorm was wonderful like this, but you had to be an early bird to catch this stillness. T

  he road became steeper and more difficult to tackle, residential properties taking the place of hotels to either side. On foot it was a long slog, but at least the sun was not in its midday intensity, there was still a coolness to the air.

  It was necessary to pause from time to time – the incline was relentless. The concrete blocks which lined the now single-track road provided an ideal resting place.

  The scenery became rockier, the vegetation sparser, but the higher the climb, the greater was the promise of the views from the top. All was quiet. Not a dog walker to be seen, no cars raced by on the narrowing road, making an early morning dash to the top.

  Eventually the road came to an end. There was a parking area there, but no vehicles anywhere and no sign of anybody else. Perfect, this was perfect. The others would miss it all, wasting the last day in their beds sleeping off the night before. This was the ideal antidote to the rowing and bickering, and then the drunken hilarity of the reconciliation afterwards. It was a place to think.

  The climb was more gradual at this final stage, a dirt track lined with rough wooden fencing marking the way to the large metal cross mounted on its concrete plinth.

  It was nothing special up close. But there was so much of interest up there, before you even stopped to admire the views. The Cross was surrounded by memorials to people who’d visited Benidorm and cherished their time there. There were photos of loved ones with messages saying how important this place had been for them.

  In memory of mum, she adored this resort and now she can enjoy it forever xxx

  To Tom, from your Benidorm boozing mates. We had great times here. We miss you pal, The Wigan Crew

  There must have been fifty memorials surrounding the Cross – artificial flowers, teddy bears, photographs – many of them held down by gaudy mementoes or stones, to prevent the hilltop winds from blowing them away. Somebody had even left an urn of ashes on the concrete plinth.

  The light wooden fencing marked the limits of the designated viewing area. The panorama was stunning. The sun glistened on the gentle waves below, the sands were golden and bright, and in the distance was the black rock of Peacock Island.

  The high-rise hotels and tacky bars merged into an architectural vista which it was easy to miss out on when submerged in the energy and noise on the streets below. It was a wonderful view of a much-maligned resort. To be there alone, at such an early hour and in such peace, was a real treat.

  The killer was concealed among the clusters of bushes, lurking, ready, nervous but determined. Watching from their safe spot, they too had admired the magnificent views that the hilltop afforded. They should have all walked up there toge
ther really, but it was too late for that now. It was too late for many things.

  As the second visitor arrived at the hilltop, they saw that it would be easy enough to duck under the fence and walk right out to the edge of the summit. There were memorials out there as well, so it had to be safe enough to step out a little further. There was no cliff edge, it was free from danger.

  The memorials were touching in their simplicity and sincerity. In many ways they showed a more acute sense of loss than any grave could ever convey.

  To Grandma & Grandpa. We had so many lovely Christmases here with you. We miss you both so much, but we know you’re still laughing in heaven. Dave, Lorna & kids xxx

  Toni. We loved this place together. I’ll always love you. Mike.

  It took a moment to realise what was happening: a rustle to the side … a sudden movement … a sickening blow to the head … a fall to the ground … blood running down the face. Before there was time to recover, a second blow, hard and violent. What was this? Who was it?

  There was a struggle to stay conscious, then a moment of darkness followed by the full brightness of the sun in their eyes.

  A face, at last a face. Who was doing this? Then, a third, violent blow to the forehead and the sensation of fading away.

  Why was this happening? The moment of realisation. This person was known, it was no stranger. This was no random attack.

  There was a final surge of energy, a last attempt to escape and perhaps even to reason. But then the hands came down around the neck and the squeezing began. It was almost finished; their victim was growing weaker.

  The killer would always remember those last, choked words as the body weakened and death finally came. It was slower than expected, it took some time to die. The area was checked for silly mistakes. No water bottle left behind, nothing with fingerprints. The assassin rolled the corpse into the undergrowth, then swept the surrounding area with a branch from one of the nearby bushes.