The Face of Clara Morgan: a gripping and chilling psychological suspense thriller

by J. A. Baker

  She thinks of their old life and wonders if Anthony misses any of it. And where are their old friends and Anthony’s colleagues when you need them? God knows he used to have plenty. Funny how their acquaintances have all dropped away now they are no longer on an equal financial footing. Is that what bound them all together? Their large houses and healthy bank balances? It seems sad if that is the case but then who can blame them for abandoning people who happily settle for less? It’s a cut-throat environment out there and everyone has to work hard to fulfil their ambitions. She and Anthony would no longer be able to keep up with the financial demands of the parties and social gatherings that they used to attend. It would be embarrassing for everyone concerned. Probably better that they have been dropped to save face.

  She doesn’t think she could stand it – mingling and chatting with the other wives who would be decked out in the latest designer dresses and expensive jewellery, while she stands, awkward and conspicuous with her cheap haircut and inferior clothing. There would be no proper holidays to speak of, no new cars to discuss, no chatter about the children and how they were all getting on at school. She doesn’t think she could bear to talk about Jocelyn and Alexander and how they were settling in at the local comprehensive. Eyes would dip, people would make excuses to leave and they would all gradually shuffle away, her humiliation a tangible barrier between them all, setting her apart from people who used to be her equal.

  The thought of being pitied makes her queasy. She would rather be forgotten than that. Pity is for the weak and the vulnerable and she is neither. What she is, is a victim of Anthony’s incompetence, the entire family caught up in the slipstream of his slapdash ways. She deserves better. They all do.

  Her fingers hover over the phone. Fiona was always a good friend to her. She could possibly call again, ask her to put out more feelers, see if Gavin has heard of any more vacancies. Anthony and Gavin always got on well. Not close friends but they rubbed along together nicely. She thinks of how Anthony reacted the last time she did this, meddling in his affairs, begging for help behind his back. He was insulted, claiming it hurt his pride, but what about her pride? What about her needs and desires? Surely she is entitled to a say in how their lives should be? Their current trajectory is way off from its desired location. They are all heading in the wrong direction, about to become cut off from everything and everyone they know and she isn’t prepared to just sit here and let it happen.

  The longer she waits, the greater the distance. At some point everything will be too far behind them, the miles between them and their friends too great to ever reconnect the broken link in their chain. She has to act now, to try again.

  She punches in Fiona’s number, her breathing erratic and heavy as she waits, every ring vibrating through her body.

  ‘Hello?’

  She sucks in her breath, tries to stop the tremble coursing through her veins. Her skin feels hot and cold at the same time, goosebumps prickling her flesh as her temperature fluctuates wildly.

  ‘Kate, is that you? Are you there?’

  She wants to reply, to speak to Fiona, to tell her that her life is coming apart at the seams and that she desperately needs her help but the words won’t come. She wants to tell her friend that she has done something terrible to try to make things better, something unforgivable in a desperate bid to improve their circumstances and now she has ruined everything but still the words refuse to formulate. They are there in her head but whenever she tries to speak, they stick in her throat, dry and ill-fitting, like jagged pebbles. This isn’t the first time she has done this, called Fiona without saying anything. It feels so demeaning, so damn mortifying. They were once peers and now look at her, sitting here, phone in hand, too tongue-tied to speak, her life, her marriage an unrecognisable sodden mess.

  Holding the phone away from her face as if it is somehow contaminated, she ends the call, a wave of humiliation washing over her, its rip tide pulling her under. Is this what her life has come to? Begging for help from someone who used to be her friend? She doesn’t think she can stomach this. It’s insulting, degrading. She will have none of it. She only hopes that Fiona doesn’t tell anybody about the calls. She can hear them all now, chatting about her misfortune, viewing her family like bacteria under a microscope:

  You spoke to her?

  Poor Kate. Fancy having to live like that.

  And Anthony, what a shame him losing his job like he did. Rumour has it, he just lost his edge, couldn’t do what was required anymore. Got soft in his old age.

  Those poor children. How on earth are they ever going to be able to make anything of their lives now?

  Her scalp tightens, shrivelling and crinkling over her skull, each hair follicle sending a bolt of electricity through her. She places the phone down at her feet, kicks it under the table out of view and tries to see some positives in all of this. At least Jocelyn and Alexander have made some friends, not like the close pals they had at Searton School – but a friend is a friend and they seem happy enough. Happier than she feels.

  Jocelyn has talked about a girl whose name she can’t remember, and Alexander has Dane. She met him shortly after they moved here. How long ago is that? Two months, maybe three. Everything has been such a blur since leaving their real home behind. She has struggled to process it, unable to connect time to their everyday existence in this house, in this shabby excuse of a town, this Ormston that is so nondescript and forgettable she often struggles to remember its name.

  Dane has his rough edges for sure but then, don’t all boys of that age? He is probably the best of a bad bunch. She visited their house shortly after Alexander met him. He had been invited over after school and she felt duty-bound to let him go even though every nerve, every muscle in her body told her to say no. She had no idea who these people were, who her son was mingling with. But of course, Anthony had told her to loosen up, let the boy live, allow him to make new friends and because she had no real reason to not allow him to go, she was forced to say yes, so in a way, Anthony is partly to blame for what has happened. She was forced to mingle, to meet with the Bowrons. What happened after that isn’t completely her fault.

  The Bowrons’ property was an exceptionally large and expensive-looking house – certainly a lot bigger than the one they are holed up in – and Kate wasn’t sure what to expect as she stepped inside. The mother seemed like a nice enough woman, a little mousy perhaps. It was the father who took her by surprise. Loud and superficial were the only words she could think of to describe him. He met her at the door and shook her hand vigorously – a little too vigorously. It unnerved her, that show of affection and false joviality. She isn’t used to it, preferring a more reserved approach when greeting strangers. Within the first few minutes he had offered to show her around the house, telling her how he had built it himself, how he had an extensive portfolio of properties and that they were his retirement plan. ‘Not that I have any immediate plans to retire, but you have to think of these things, don’t you?’ he had said, his words coming out in a flurry of excitement as if she was somebody he needed to impress.

  And all the while Kate had thought and thought about how his wealth could be used to their advantage. She had wanted to ask whether or not he needed any financial advice, figuring this could be a chance for Anthony to step in, to broaden his own portfolio. It irked her, this nouveau riche family who flaunted their wealth, spending it on frightfully ostentatious pieces of art that were neither well painted nor easy on the eye while she and Anthony had lost it all, forced to live in a tacky characterless house surrounded by similarly characterless people. People who spent their spare time having barbecues in their gardens and drinking themselves into a stupor while ghastly pop music blared out in the background, polluting their airwaves and shattering their peace and quiet.

  She had been desperate to salvage something from the meeting, desperate for the few crumbs that could be thrown their way. She tried, she really did, but of course it all got out of hand. She ruined
everything. And now look at them, at what they have become. Her initial idea got bent out of shape and she has no idea how to straighten it back to its original form.

  Her phone buzzes, rattling and vibrating under the table, rupturing her thoughts. She ignores it, unable to face speaking to anybody. Perhaps it’s Fiona returning the call. She hopes not. The thought of Fiona sitting there in her luxurious home with her recently styled hair and flawless make-up, forcing herself to speak to a friend who has dropped to the bottom rung of the ladder is more than Kate can bear. She doesn’t want her pity. All she wants is for her life to return to how it was before everything curdled and turned sour.

  The ringing stops, accentuating the sudden silence in the room. Kate can hear her own ragged breathing, feels the creeping distress building up inside her like a snake uncoiling itself as it stalks its prey, poised and ready to attack.

  More noises from outside. Damn their proximity to the main road. Damn their tiny front garden and miniscule patch of lawn that separates them from the passing traffic. Engines roaring, doors slamming, footsteps coming closer and closer. Her ears become attuned to every little noise, every whisper of wind that passes through the treetops.

  Then a knock at the door – a hard relentless hammering that fills her with unease. More than unease. Dread. It sits in the base of her belly, a thick tar-like substance, swirling and bubbling.

  It comes again. Such a loud knock, so much strength and ferocity behind it. She shivers, wraps her arms around herself for protection. Something is wrong. She can feel it. Nobody ever calls here. This is a soulless house – no visitors, nobody ever calling around unexpectedly. She can see their shadows in her peripheral vision, the two dark figures standing outside her house. Two ominous unmoving silhouettes. Two strangers. Right here on her doorstep. A memory pierces her thoughts – Anthony’s colleagues arriving at their house after his dismissal, demanding his laptop, asking for all paperwork to be handed over to them as if he were a criminal. She had watched in horror as they gave her a nod of acknowledgement before marching past into Anthony’s study and rifling through his desk, removing box after box of documents and then striding out of the house, slamming the door behind them.

  The knock comes again – loud, demanding, insisting on an answer. Kate rises, her legs suddenly incredibly weak, her head swimming. Stars burst behind her eyes. A blackness threatens to overwhelm her, her vision attenuating as she shuffles towards the door, fear and anxiety weighing her down.

  She pulls it ajar and peers around the jamb, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the two people standing there – a tall willowy man, a smaller, soft-faced woman. Kind eyes. She has kind eyes. That’s the one thing Kate focuses on as she listens to them speak, making no sense of the jumble of words that come out of their mouths.

  She sees the badge however, the ID that tells her all she needs to know, and steps aside to let them in, everything dreamlike and severed from reality. She has no memory of walking back through to the living room, no recollection of asking them to take a seat.

  Everything is out of kilter as she sits, clutching her knees, wondering, worrying, wishing she was somewhere else. Anywhere but here. What would happen if she were to stand up and leave the room, not be present to hear what it is they are about to say? It’s bad. She knows it, can tell by their demeanour and expressions. She’s had a gutful of bad news lately, just about as much as she can take. She pictures their old home – her safe place, her sanctuary – their friends, the children happy at their other school, and wishes she could turn back time, be the person she used to be all those months ago, not the woman she is now. Not the vacuous desperate creature she has become of late.

  Then she thinks of Anthony, wondering if this is about him. Has his jocular manner when he’s around others been a cover-up for something darker that was festering underneath? Should she have been less sharp, more sympathetic? What has she missed?

  What exactly is going on in her life that has brought these people to her door with their pristine suits and probing gazes?

  Is it her children? Or her parents? What if something has happened to them, a fall perhaps? Or God forbid, a car accident. Her father’s driving skills are less than adequate at the best of times. She has heard of elderly people who have a stroke or a heart attack behind the wheel of their vehicle. What if – She stops herself from going down that route. Why torture herself with unnecessary assumptions when these people can give her the answers she needs?

  The woman clears her throat, leans over to Kate and catches her eye. ‘The children, Mrs Winston-D’Allandrio. We were talking about your children – Alexander and Jocelyn.’

  Blood rushes to her head. Oh God. It’s the children. She knew it. She just knew it as any mother would. Her face burns. The floor opens up under her. She grips the seat to stop herself from slipping into the abyss that is beckoning beneath. The children. Her children. She doesn’t want to hear this. And yet she needs to hear this. Something has happened to her children. Alexander and Jocelyn. She catches fragments of the words that these people are saying, small indecipherable morphemes that float past her through the air saying nothing at all and yet at the same time, saying just enough, telling her everything she needs to know.

  Lockdown situation at the school.

  Reason to believe that Jocelyn and Alexander are involved.

  A shot fired.

  A search of Alexander’s bedroom.

  It’s not happening. It can’t be. She’s not prepared for this. It’s wrong. They are mistaken, these people. They don’t know her family, her children. She wants to tell them to leave, to get out of her house and never return but isn’t able to speak. She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. She can’t breathe, can’t think properly. Somebody takes her hand, speaks softly to her. Words. Just a jumble of words. Nothing more. It doesn’t make sense. She tries to stand up, stumbles, feels the ground coming up to meet her, hears the crack of her kneecaps as she hits the wooden floor, feels the jarring sensation in her bones as a wave of pain travels up through her body. Then a numbness. An emptiness. Everything slipping away from her.

  Arms lifting her, placing her back onto the sofa. A soft hand brushing strands of hair out of her face, whispering that everything is under control and that she needs to concentrate and answer their questions as best she can.

  Questions about Alexander and his friendship with Dane Bowron. Questions about Jocelyn and how well she knows Mr Rose, the English teacher. Kate doesn’t know anything about any of this, tells them that she has no idea what is going on although she can’t be sure they heard her or that she even said the words out loud. She may have just thought them, sentences echoing around her head. No way of knowing. No way of being certain that she spoke and that they heard her. There is a definite disconnect between her brain and her mouth. They smile, nod and question her some more, their voices ghost-like, incorporeal sounds floating past her.

  Does Alexander keep a diary? Can they look in his bedroom? So many questions. She can’t think, is unable to snatch at any answers.

  Everything is in slow motion, her thoughts, their movements, her ability to process what is really going on here, to sift through the formalities and work out what is happening. She needs to unpick it all and extricate reality from fantasy. Not fantasy. That word suggests a world of wild yet wonderful imaginings. Nightmare. That word is more fitting, she thinks, more suited to what is taking place right here in her living room.

  ‘Does your husband own a gun, Mrs Winston-D’Allandrio?’

  The question cuts her in two, slicing through to her very core, yanking her back to the here and now, forcing her to sit up and take notice. ‘A gun?’ Her mind is a kaleidoscope of thoughts, slotting and spinning out of place. ‘Why do you need to know whether or not Anthony owns a gun? Of course he doesn’t own a bloody gun! What do you think we are, terrorists or gangland members?’

  ‘Can we ask you to contact him, please? Or could we have his number?’

  She hears
their words now, loud and clear, but is too confused to comprehend them, to pick up on the subtleties in their police language, the implied meanings. Everything is spinning out of control, her sensibilities and ability to think logically suddenly absent. The walls lean in drunkenly, the air is thick and muggy, the floor soft and pliable under her feet. She thinks of guns and Alexander and Jocelyn and feels the softness of the sofa falling away from her body and the floor rushing up to meet her.

  Before the End

  3

  4th May 1978

  My Dearest Clara,

  I’m sitting here looking out at the cobalt sky, willing summer on, thinking how beautiful it will be to spend it with you, our bodies side by side on the riverbank, our minds occupied and melded together as you recite your lines of prose, the words flowing like warm honey, each iambic pentameter making my skin tingle with delight and deep appreciation. I can visualise you shuffling closer to me, every movement infinitesimal and barely perceived as a movement at all until we are so close, we are almost as one.

  I hope that as you are reading this, my dear Clara, you are aware of how much I’m missing you, how much my body and mind ache in your absence, how my soul is entrenched in hopelessness and misery, my brain unable to function properly. I miss your face, the softness of your hair, the way you glance at me from beneath your lashes. I miss the sound of your voice, the light tinkling of your laughter and feel keenly the coldness of my bed without you in it. Being apart like this is a grieving process. Even losing my father doesn’t register in my senses the way your absence does in my life. There is a person-sized hole in me that can be filled by only one individual, and that individual, my dearest Clara, is undoubtedly you.