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

by J. A. Baker

  ‘An affair?’ Dane’s voice breaks and she thinks that maybe this is the point where her son sees his father for who he really is. ‘Well, maybe if you were nicer to him and paid him a bit more attention, then he wouldn’t have to go looking elsewhere, would he?’

  Freezing water flushes through her, crystallising in her veins. She hears Rob’s snort of laughter, sees Dane take a step closer to his dad. The floor spins, the walls lean in drunkenly.

  ‘He’s sleeping with Alex’s mum.’ Her voice is disembodied, a remote noise that bounces and reverberates inside her head, banging off her skull. She wants to sit down before she falls. She wants to vanish into the ether, to be anywhere but here.

  The next few minutes are a blur, the noise and commotion too much for her addled brain to decipher.

  She can hear Dane as he shouts at his father but cannot make out the words. She stands close by as a scuffle takes place. She watches as Dane storms off upstairs shouting that he hates this place and wishes they were both dead.

  The rest of the weekend she spends in a dreamlike state, staggering around the house, soundless and close to tears. She hears Rob shouting about this thing that she has done and wonders when he will realise that he is the one who started this charade, that he is the one who has done something unforgivable.

  Nina sucks in a lungful of cold air. It’s like a scene from a soap opera and she is caught up in the middle of it – her life, a seedy, low-budget daytime soap. This is what she is reduced to, what her life has become.

  Dane stays holed up in his room, eating on his own and refusing to engage with either of his parents.

  At least he hates both of us equally, Nina thinks with a small amount of triumph, and no longer sees his father as a hero, an untouchable icon who is beyond reproach. They are both worthy of his hatred and contempt. That affords her a modicum of comfort, knowing she isn’t alone in this mess. Knowing that the seemingly unbreakable bond he once shared with his father has finally been severed.

  Her son’s anger and loathing is a palpable force, leaking through the walls and filling the entire house. Nina can hardly breathe for it, every room stuffy with rage and bitterness. There is no escape, no corner of the house free of his fury. Nina can almost taste it, the sour flavour of hostility directed their way.

  And then there is Rob, the man she is no longer sharing a bed with. The man who stooped so low he is practically slithering across the ground, snake-like, his moral compass smashed into unrecognisable tiny pieces. She does her best to avoid him, leaving rooms as he enters, eating alone and trying to build up enough courage to speak to her son without risking another argument.

  She is all out of energy, her levels depleted, her ability to reason her way out of this non-existent. She did what she thought was best for her family and now everything is broken, her marriage in tatters, her life cracked and splintered beyond repair.

  Losing her husband is one thing but the thought of losing her son cuts her in half. She thinks about his moods, his permanent state of angst, and wishes there was something she could do to drag him out of it, to help him realise that better things lie ahead, that one day he will have a job and a family of his own and that this time in his life will pass. Better things are coming; it’s just that he can’t yet see it. He hasn’t the vision, the experience or the advantage of her wisdom to see beyond the here and now. He thinks his life is at an end. It isn’t. It’s just beginning.

  She sits in one of the spare bedrooms, staring out of the window, reflecting on it all; regretting the past, despising the present, welcoming the future. Soon this will be over. Soon her life will refresh itself. She can start again, be a different person. A better person; braver, happier. If only there were a fast-forward button to bypass the hurt and pain that the stark truth brings. Right now, it feels like the beginning of the end, but it isn’t. In the not-too-distant future lies another life for her and her son. A life without Rob. And it can’t happen soon enough.

  28

  20th July 1978

  Dear Clara,

  I have held back from writing any further correspondence but woke this morning with these words burning deep inside me, so here I am, pouring out my feelings to a woman I know will never reply. This letter isn’t meant for you though, dear Clara. It will never reach you. This one is for me, to attempt to assuage the heavy ache that sits in my heart day after day with no signs of it lessening. This letter is my therapy, a way of getting through this period of my life. I have nobody else to turn to. Nothing will ever be the same without you, Clara, and I think you know that. You’ve always known it. I had no idea how callous you could be, how easy you found it to trample over my feelings, casting me aside for a life elsewhere, then ignoring my pleas for us to be reunited. But I know it now. Now I am all too aware of it and believe me, it is a heavy burden to bear.

  We never really knew one another at all, did we? I was mistaken, carried away by my feelings, swamped by the flush of love I felt for you. But it meant nothing to you, our relationship, did it? Nothing at all. I was standing in your way, blocking your route to freedom and was simply too enamoured by you; too enamoured and too blind to see it. I see it now though. It is painfully plain to me.

  As I stated in an earlier correspondence, your dismissal of my interests and hobbies is another bone of contention between us but now I can see that it was fear of being recognised for who you really are that drove you to say such things. My studies into the features of the human face has taught me many things and one of those is the mask you wore when you were in my presence, dear Clara. I have seen through it now. I couldn’t recognise that at the time such was my heartbreak and desperation at your departure and subsequent refusal to communicate with me, but it’s all so clear to me now.

  Physiognomy is dismissed by many – you included – because it makes people feel uncomfortable in their own skin. It forces them to delve deep into their own thoughts to discover who they really are.

  And delve I did. I discovered who you really are, didn’t I, Clara? And I didn’t like what I found. You knew that though, didn’t you, which is why you left, never to return. Your high cheekbones and full mouth that I once thought of as strikingly attractive and a thing of beauty are in fact an indication of your arrogance and conceit making you predisposed to a level of callousness that is breathtaking in its ugliness. Your dark eyes and small upturned nose that made other men stop and stare are a sign of your savage nature, your ability to switch off your own feeling and sentimentality when dealing with others. The shape of your face is a strong indication of how cruel you really are, its oval shape displaying your lack of empathy with no idea of the suffering of others, neither caring nor making any attempt to soften and yield to them when faced with their sorrow and anguish in its purest form.

  This is you, dear Clara, the woman I loved, the woman I thought I knew. This is the real you, the ugly detestable you that nobody else saw. You hid it well, dear Clara, but I saw it. I see it and I see you for who and what you really are and I can tell you, it isn’t pleasant.

  I am better off without you. I know that now. My path in life is free of the clutter that my relationship with you brought. No more heartache. No more pining after you. No more you.

  I am going to end this letter now, my mind clearer than it has been for some time. I have eased the load that I have been carrying around and can now continue with my existence, putting my efforts into things that are worthwhile instead of chasing after a pointless dream that only ever existed in my head. We never had a shared vision, Clara. You were always looking for a way out, using me to fill up your days then casting me aside after you had grown tired of our time together. After you had grown tired of me.

  You are gone and it is better that way. No more hurt, no more rejection. No more torturous nights wondering where I went wrong. I have my work, my house and my solitude and that is the way it is going to stay.

  Goodbye, dearest Clara,

  I loved you once. But not anymore.
r />   Dominic.

  29

  Present Day

  They meet in the kitchen, her eyes downcast, his gaze furtive, darting about as he tries to evade her scrutiny. Rob left for work over an hour ago, exiting the house in a blaze of glory – slamming doors and revving the engine as he sped off the drive like a Grand Prix driver. And now here she is, locked in a battle of wills with her son, both of them too stubborn, too anxious to speak openly and honestly about what is going on in their lives. How everything is unravelling. It’s temporary, she wants to tell him that. She wants to hug him, tell him there is a life beyond this, but doesn’t know how or where to begin.

  ‘Would you like some toast?’ Her voice is a whisper, lower, weaker than she intended it to be. Nina clears her throat, asks again. ‘Dane, would you like me to make you some toast?’

  He shakes his head, instead grabbing a bowl and filling it with cereal, pouring on milk in a clumsy rush. The creamy splashes land on the surface as he overfills it. Nina watches, has to stop herself from wiping them away. Tidying up is who she has become, an integral part of her personality. She has little else to define her.

  ‘Anything good happening at school today?’ This is a weak attempt at breaking the silence, trying to patch things up between them. Like they were ever fully healed to begin with.

  ‘They’re all cunts.’ He slurps at his breakfast, a trail of white dribbling down his chin.

  She winces at his words, wanting to rub away the trickle of milk, is almost able to feel his coarse skin beneath her fingers, the slight stubble of his chin, the transformation of his bone structure from boy into man. She won’t ask him to curb his language. It will achieve nothing except to set them even further apart.

  ‘I’ll cook you your favourite meal tonight. Lasagne and chips with garlic bread.’

  He doesn’t reply. He spoons the last of his cereal into his mouth before standing up and throwing his utensils into the sink with such force that the bowl breaks in half. Flinching, she wants to grab him, to shake some sense into him and tell him that this isn’t her fault, that the blame lies squarely at the feet of his father. Instead, she stands up, retrieves the broken crockery and drops it into the bin. Dane marches out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

  The chair is hard beneath her as she drops into it, unable to drag herself out of this moment. She is all out of ideas as to how she can make it up to her son. Maybe she can’t. Maybe they will always be disparate souls, forever set apart. He hates her. He hates everyone. Perhaps she should just accept that fact, realise that this is how it is and stop trying to mould him into something he isn’t.

  The thought of spending the day on her own in this place makes her bones ache, her muscles shrivel. She should have a hundred places to visit, dozens of people to see, but in reality, has nobody. Nobody at all. No one to talk to, nowhere to go.

  ‘Fucking hell! What an awful fucking mess.’ She doesn’t care whether Dane hears her or not. She doesn’t care about any of it anymore. Why should she?

  Above her, she hears her son as he thumps about, dragging things around his room and stomping down the stairs. She prepares herself for the inevitable door slam, the house shaking as he leaves.

  Now she is alone. Now she can let it all out. Tipping her head back, Nina lets out an ear-splitting scream, thumping at the table and banging her feet on the floor until her voice cracks and her entire body throbs and burns.

  Then she rests her face on the cool wooden surface and weeps.

  30

  Alex can barely bring himself to walk through the gates, every step he takes resulting in a painful jarring sensation that travels up his body. The closer he gets, the greater his uneasiness. It grows exponentially, swelling in his chest, making it hard for him to stay focused. He grits his teeth, wondering if Dane knows about any of this, wondering if his parents kept it secret from him and yet knowing all the while that that won’t be the case at all. He’s met Dane’s dad, seen his brash manner, how he commandeers a room, refusing to allow those around him to have their say, projecting his own thoughts onto them, his voice carrying more weight than anybody else’s. There is no way their house will have functioned normally over the weekend. And if it did, then life is completely fucking unfair. There is no real justice in this world if Dane has had an easy weekend while his has been shit.

  Every noise is amplified in his head – the din of distant laughter, the shriek of the bell, even the sound of his own blood as it pulses around his body – they all clang against his skull forcing him to slow down and steady his breathing.

  He needs to do this, to face his friend and hope that the sins of their parents don’t drive a wedge between them.

  Heart pumping, he heads inside, his senses attuned to everything around him. Huddled in the corridor is a gang of Year Elevens. He inhales deeply, steeling himself for a torrent of abuse and is relieved when he passes without so much as a titter from any of them. They are all grouped around somebody’s phone – even though phones are banned – and stand guffawing at something on the screen.

  On the other side of the corridor is a group of girls. They eye him as he passes, giggling and murmuring, one of them giving him a wolf whistle while the others shriek with laughter.

  All of a sudden, he hates this school. His life, his family and all their tawdry little secrets crowd his mind. They are written all over his face, evident for all to see. He feels sure of it. His skin glows hot. Perspiration coats his neck, his back. He should have stayed in bed, avoided everything and everyone but then, that would have meant being around his mother and he doesn’t think he could have faced that either. There is nowhere to hide. No shelter from this particular storm.

  Behind him, footsteps move closer, running toward him. He turns, his head thumping with anxiety, half expecting to see Dane approaching, his face lined with annoyance, but instead sees Bobby, his gangly form swaying, his arms and legs uncoordinated as he rushes over to where Alex is standing.

  ‘Yo, bro. What’s up?’

  Alex grits his teeth. He hates that kind of stupid talk, as if they’re living on the streets of Los Angeles, hanging out with members of The Crips or The Bloods. They live in North Yorkshire for Christ’s sake, the county of market towns, of farms and moorland where sheep wander aimlessly and hikers ramble through the heather.

  ‘Nothing’s up, Bobby. What’s up with you?’ His tone is sharp. He can’t seem to help it. He wants to be elsewhere, anywhere away from this shitty mess. He thinks of his grandparents living down south and marvels at how lucky they are, being away from all of this heartache and drama and then he thinks of his uncle Ralph, going off to Tibet, and wishes he was there with him. Maybe that’s what he will do when he leaves school – go travelling, get away from people. They only cause trouble anyway, making everyone around them miserable. Why bother staying here when there’s nothing worth hanging around for?

  ‘Nothing up with me, man, but sounds like you’re having a bad day.’

  Guilt spears Alex. This isn’t Bobby’s fault. Bobby is one of the good guys, a friend. Alex smiles and cocks his head. ‘Sorry. Got out the wrong side of the bed this morning, is all. Ignore me. I’m being a dickhead.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ Bobby says, the moment already forgotten. ‘I was wondering if you and the big man fancy another get-together at mine sometime soon? The last one was awesome!’

  Alex can’t help but grin. Bobby’s laughter is infectious, his permanently upbeat mood impossible to ignore. ‘Maybe. I’ll have to see what Dane is up to. You seen him around anywhere?’ A fist clutches at his guts. Dane usually meets him on the way into school. He’s conspicuous by his absence. He knows. Alex can sense it. Dane knows and is avoiding him. Just as he expected and feared. As well as his parents’ marriage disintegrating, so is his friendship with Dane, the one person who has been there for him since he walked into this building all those months ago. A broken friendship and all because of a stupid fucking affair.

  ‘Funny you sh
ould mention that. Saw him earlier. Called out to him but he ignored me. Maybe it’s me?’ Bobby gives Alex’s shoulder a light push, smiling broadly as he leans closer. ‘You two had a falling out, yeah?’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’ Alex stops and hoists his bag higher up over his shoulder, the strap digging into his bones causing him to grimace. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for him later. Got PE first thing, straight after registration. Gotta get moving or old man Harding will have my arse on a plate.’

  They part, Alex’s feet feeling as if they’ve been glued to the ground. His entire body feels ten times heavier than it did a few minutes ago. He traipses over to his tutor room, his mood low, his thoughts tinged with images of his parents and Dane and how this will all end. A bit of circuit training might be just what he needs to rid himself of this heavy feeling. The feeling that things are about to spiral downwards at a rapid rate of knots.

  Registration is over in minutes and Alex heads to the sports hall, buoyed up by the thought of an hour of mind-numbing exercise. He speaks to nobody and nobody approaches or tries to engage with him. It suits him. Alone is better. Alone is therapeutic, giving him space to think. To breathe.

  Slipping into his kit, he runs his fingers through his hair then shakes his limbs about to loosen up before heading into the hall, a chill biting at his bones.

  He’d be lying if he said it didn’t help elevate his mood because it did, running around a large hall, clearing hurdles, doing press-ups, pushing his body as hard as he could, but it didn’t eliminate all the dark thoughts and worries that loiter at the back of his mind. They’re still there, waiting.

  Beads of sweat run down his face, the salt burning his eyelids as he heads for the shower. It feels good to punish himself, to sweat it out and yet knowing that the worst is still to come. He may be able to cleanse his body but clearing his mind seems like an unsurmountable task, especially when it’s other people who are creating the problem. And what a fucking awful problem it is.