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

by J. A. Baker

  ‘Don’t what?’ His voice is an octave higher, a full decibel louder. He struggles to remain calm against the rising tide of exasperation and frustration that is growing in his chest. They are a force to be reckoned with, the emotions that are wrestling inside of him – annoyance at being patronised, the sting of rejection and ultimately, the howling void of desperation at the thought of leaving this place without her. He can’t bring himself to think about it, to visualise a life without Clara in it. He won’t allow it to happen.

  Stepping ever closer, he tries to reach down and stroke her hair, the way he used to when they loved and lived as one, to feel its silken strands as they fall between his fingers but she jerks away from him, her body twisted at an angle, her feet slipping on the uneven patch of gravel.

  He finds himself staring down at her as she falls, her hands grappling for purchase, her backside scrambling backwards away from him. Dear God, she is acting as if he is a monster. All he wants to do is love her, be with her, be her life partner and make her happy and all she wants to do is escape from him. How did it ever get to this point and how did he miss the signs?

  Her hands look tiny against his as he reaches down to help her up. Resting on his haunches, he tries to pull her up only to be slapped away, Clara resisting and scrambling back away from him. He doesn’t mean to do it. Circumstances conspire against him – her inability to see things from his point of view, her cutting words, the way she glares at him as if he is a complete stranger. It’s her face, her features. The hatred there. He can’t bear it. It cuts him in two to see it.

  ‘Leave me alone, Dominic. I came here to get away from you. Just go, please.’

  He wishes he could remember the chain of events, how it all happened, but he can’t. It’s a blur. Each movement, each word, fuzzy and distorted as if in a dream. He recalls a struggle, Clara’s muffled cries as he clamps his hand over her mouth to stop her screams of protest from escaping, and after that – nothing. Until he finds himself staring down at her lifeless body in the boot of his car, her eyes still wide with horror, her mouth twisted into an ugly unrecognisable half cry.

  Frozen by panic, he slams the boot shut and kicks the gravel back into place, then slips into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. In his rear-view mirror, he glances back at the bothy. No movement behind the windows. Nothing to suggest anybody saw him.

  Slowly and as quietly as he can, he swings the car around and heads back the way he came, praying nobody sees him.

  43

  5pm, 15th July 1978

  The house is silent as he lets himself in. He sighs, even manages a small smile. No haranguing, no vitriol waiting for him, his mother’s voice commandeering every inch of the house, bouncing off every wall. He can head up into his room, think about what to do next. Because he has to do something. She cannot stay where she is, his dearest Clara, her lifeless body tucked away in the boot of his car.

  He will wait until darkness and then take her out into the woods. Nobody will see him. Nobody will hear or notice him just as nobody noticed him on the journey home. It was an uneventful drive, the roads quiet as he focused on the route, trying to push the thought of what had happened out of his mind.

  It wasn’t his fault. It’s just how things turned out. She goaded him, doing her best to put even more distance between them both. He had no choice. It was all Clara’s fault. If only she had listened to him, not tried to push him away. If only she had relented and come home.

  He has heard it said that the first kill is the hardest. After that it becomes easier, more fluid, less stressful. Perhaps that’s how it happened, what came next. Perhaps on the journey home, he became desensitised, or maybe he finally plucked up enough courage to break free of the constant barrage of insults that have been hurled his way for as long as he can remember.

  She was lying on the bed as he peeked his head around the door into the murkiness of her room. Curtains drawn against the light, his mother suddenly sat bolt upright, her hands pressed against the sheets, gripping them tightly to her chest.

  ‘I’m not well. I’ve been here all alone and you left me. You left me here, going gallivanting off to Scotland to see that woman while I laid here suffering.’ The venom-loaded words are spat out, her voice a distorted squeak. It makes Dominic think of an animal caught in a trap, its desperate howls sharp enough to shatter glass. Accusations. Blame. He has had enough of them.

  He moves into the gloom, dust motes swirling, thousands of them circling in front of her face. Even in the near darkness, he can see that something is wrong. One half of her mouth has dropped. He left eye is almost closed, the lid drooping over her eyeball, a melting of her skin. The skin on her cheek is hanging loosely, as if it is no longer attached to her face. He steps forward, listening as she starts up again, her speech a warped version of itself, her syllables soft and slushy.

  ‘I know where you’ve been. You can’t fool me, boy. But what about me, eh? When are you going to start taking notice of me and what I need?’

  It’s a stroke. His mother has had a stroke. He can see that. He has no medical training but can tell by her face what has taken place. He needs to do something, to help her, to stop her pain.

  She feels so delicate, so very small and fragile, her resistance barely registering as any sort of movement at all. He pushes her back onto the pillow and places his hand over her mouth and nose. His palm is warm and clammy against her cool dry skin; her eyes cloud over with confusion. He swallows, presses harder. The way she is watching him compels him to turn away, just for the briefest amount of time. He doesn’t want to see her die, to watch as the last bit of life ebbs away from her. He just wants the shouting and the abuse and the constant stream of insults to stop.

  It doesn’t take long. She flails for a short while before her body slumps, her head lolling to one side. It’s then that he takes the time to look at her – to really look at her, studying her face with the kind of scrutiny that he hasn’t applied in the past, casting an impartial eye over her now flaccid features, using his expertise to assess who she really is. What sort of person she had become.

  Now he can see her thin lips and low sloping forehead, things he has never really noticed before, he is able to view her in a different light, see what sort of person she truly is – a mean vindictive woman with no regard for anybody but herself. When he was a child, she would regularly castigate him for the smallest of misdemeanours, his father often joining in, the pair of them leering over him, eyes wide, mouths set in a sneer as he sat on wet bedsheets, cowering and trembling, pleading for them to stop.

  Things didn’t improve with the passing of time, their constant complaints and criticisms of him chipping away at what little confidence he possessed. He tried to fight back, to defend himself but was never strong enough to bat away their continual volley of abuse.

  Dominic stifles a sob. Then laughs. He rubs at his eyes, stands up and stares around the room.

  None of it matters anymore now. It’s all in the past. Everything is in the past. She is gone. No more insults, no more hurt. Just him, alone in this house.

  And Clara.

  He has Clara now. She will be here with him. Soon it will be the two of them together. But not just yet.

  Snatching up the telephone, he calls the doctor, explaining how his mother took ill and now he can’t seem to rouse her and can somebody please, please come out immediately?

  Doctor Lindell arrives in a little over five minutes. Dominic stands in the doorway, eyes glazed, lip trembling as the good doctor pronounces his mother dead.

  ‘She took ill this morning. I thought it was perhaps flu but as the day progressed, she seemed to get worse. I went downstairs to make her a warm drink and when I came back, I found her like this.’ His voice breaks. He rubs at his face and shakes his head wearily.

  They exchange pleasantries, Doctor Lindell asking him about his job, telling him he has always been a good son to his mother, looking out for her after his father passed away. He is a f
amily friend, has known Dominic since he was a small boy, prescribing medicine when he developed measles and suffered from whooping cough. He is practically one of the family.

  ‘I called you first, Doctor Lindell. I didn’t want anybody else to see her like this.’

  They shake hands and the doctor talks amiably, tells him about the removal of her body and his findings.

  ‘She suffered a mild stroke last year, if you recall.’

  Dominic does recall the event. A momentary loss of movement in her left arm, a slight slurring of her speech. It didn’t last long. Soon she found her voice, criticising him day and night, her demands and insults wearing him down. But not for any longer. She is gone. A bright new beginning beckons him.

  He moves Clara after his mother is taken from the house, carrying her into the cellar, wrapping her cold body in plastic sheeting, whispering to her that it’s only for a short while, just until the funeral has taken place and everything returns to normal around the house. Then she can join him. Then they can be together once again. Briefly apart, forever reunited.

  Apologising, his voice a soft murmur, he slides her into the crawl space using a piece of old rag to cover his face, wiping away his tears as he drags and pulls her into place. The fabric, he realises, is one of his mother’s old dresses, torn up, used as oily rags by his father whilst working down here as he mended and fixed bits of old machinery.

  A pain shoots up Dominic’s spine as he leans in and throws the bundle of material alongside the body. Salty tears smear his face. He doesn’t want to leave her here. It’s dark. It’s cold, but it’s only for the shortest period of time. Then she can live alongside him in the house, the pair of them together once again.

  Sleep is fitful, his mind raking over the events of the day, how it all came to this. How his life unravelled so spectacularly in just a matter of hours and became a shabby version of itself, now as threadbare as one of his mother’s old dresses.

  But not for long. Soon he will repair it. He will take a needle and thread and stitch together the worn parts, the ragged tattered parts, meticulously mending them until the splits are no longer visible. He will make them both whole.

  The following days are a blur with distant family and funeral directors milling about the house. The church service and burial is a small affair. Smaller than small, it is tiny, with only a handful of family and friends attending. They each make their way back to their own homes afterwards. No gathering was planned. Nobody asked why. The Roses have always led a private sheltered existence with few contacts or friends. It suited them, living that way. And now it suits Dominic.

  He leaves it for another month before bringing Clara back into the house, cleaning her, dressing her, combing her hair and settling her in bed. The police called the week after she disappeared, listening sympathetically as he told them about spending the day with his mother and her subsequent unexpected death. He shed many tears, telling them that life can be so unutterably cruel. They agreed, patted him on the shoulder and said they would be in touch if they required anything else.

  He never heard from them again.

  The Present – Two months after the End

  44

  For once, the weather is kind to them, the sun revealing itself as they drive through the gates of the crematorium, parking the car at the far end next to the new headstone. Alex stares out of the window, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. He isn’t sure he likes this place, the expanse of slate and stone, the spread of dead bodies buried beneath them. It doesn’t feel right, the thought of it at night, how the darkness will creep in. How alone and cold it will feel.

  ‘Have you got the cards, Kate?’ Anthony’s voice is soft, comforting and warm.

  She nods and scoops the small gathering of white envelopes out of the glovebox as he pulls on the handbrake and takes the keys out of the ignition, a sudden silence falling around them.

  The air is warm as Alex steps out and heads around to the other side. He pulls open the door and leans in, grinning at the sight before him.

  ‘All right, smart arse. Here, hold this while I clamber out.’ Joss gives him her walking stick and shuffles her way off the seat, landing unsteadily on the patch of gravel, stones scattering in all directions, a small explosion of pebbles at her feet.

  ‘It’s just over there by the path.’ A small marble cross stands white and incongruous, its newness against the surrounding grey slabs, stark. Kate walks over to it, a sudden purpose in her stride.

  Anthony follows, catching her up and placing his arm around her shoulder. Alex’s mother appears to shrink a little, leaning into him before taking his hand and clasping it tightly. A small warm object unfurls in Alex’s chest, spreading and settling there, making him slightly giddy. These past two months have seen some real highs and lows in their lives – granddad dying while Joss was still in hospital, and grandma admitted to a home with dementia, her mind fragmented, her memory and confidence vanishing into the ether. It’s as if a full year’s events have elapsed in just eight weeks.

  ‘Slow down! I’m still not able bodied you know.’ Joss gives Alex a punch on his shoulder and links her arm through his.

  ‘Ah, you’ll manage just fine. Anyway,’ Alex says with a smile, ‘I reckon I should get paid some sort of carer’s allowance for looking after you.’

  ‘You love it. It’s what you’ve always wanted, having to wait hand and foot on your little sister.’

  It feels good to laugh again, their voices slicing through the calm. Alex wonders if they should keep the noise down, be more respectful but then thinks that perhaps the deceased have had enough of silence, that this place is in need of some levity and happiness.

  Since Joss returned home, their lives have taken a more positive direction. There was a time when they didn’t think she would make it out of the hospital at all. There was a time when Alex was convinced that he would end up being convicted of attempted manslaughter and sent to prison. But of course, none of that happened. Once the story emerged, rather than being seen as a criminal, he was hailed as a hero, newspapers writing stories about how he saved the rest of the class from certain death. He isn’t so sure it would have gone that far but has enjoyed the sensation of being thought of some sort of modern-day warrior all the same. It bolstered his flagging confidence, giving him a whole new set of friends at school. Dane is still the main man though, the one who protected him, taking a huge risk and saving Alex’s life that day.

  A magpie swoops down ahead of them, closely followed by another. They scavenge about in the bushes before hopping about and taking off again, their wings flapping wildly as they disappear into a vast cloudless sky.

  ‘Two for joy,’ Joss murmurs, her eyes pointed upwards. ‘That’s got to be a good sign, hasn’t it?’

  45

  Everything seems brighter, the layers of grey that have shrouded her life for as long as she can remember, lifting to expose a swathe of luxurious opulent colours beneath. Nina stops and blinks, taking in her immediate surroundings. It’s far larger than she remembers. The lapse of time since first viewing the place has expanded the size of each room. She was convinced it was a tiny makeshift house, somewhere she and Dane would live until they got back on their feet, but actually, now she is here, she can see that this place is damn near perfect. Everything happened so quickly – the separation, her decision to move out and let Rob stay in their soulless mansion, Dane’s decision to join her. That fact still gives her a warm healthy sensation, like a flower unfurling its petals at the first sign of spring.

  The incident at school shook him up, re-joining the parts of him that were uncoupled, helping him to think clearly. He views the world through different eyes since that day. He emerged from that situation a fledgling adult ready to partake in activities that once would have been out of his reach.

  ‘Where’d you want this one to go, Mum?’

  It’s hard for Nina to not shed any tears of joy as he lugs boxes out of the van, his strong, capable arms lifting
each one with all the confidence and ease of a grown man.

  ‘That can go in the dining room, I think. It’s got the crockery in it and the big oak dresser is going in there so they can be stacked in that when it arrives.’

  He places the box down at his feet and gives her a mock salute. They laugh and she is tempted to step closer and ruffle his hair but knows that there are still boundaries which she has yet to cross, boundaries that, given time, she will be able to tentatively tiptoe over to reach her boy. Her new-found son.

  Rob has proven to be a better man than she ever thought possible, giving her a healthy monthly allowance until she finds some sort of job. She has no doubts that his womanising will continue but that is not her problem. He can sleep with half of Ormston if he so chooses and every town beyond. They are no longer a couple. Even thinking such thoughts sends a thrill of excitement surging through her veins. All it needed was some courage and a crazed teacher to try and kill one of the children at the local school for her to suddenly see how easy it is to start a new life that doesn’t include her errant husband.

  The thought of Mr Rose makes her stomach dip. She always thought of him as gentlemanly, a true educator – erudite and wise, somebody who had the children’s best interests at heart. She wonders what went so wrong in his mind that he turned into a savage man with the propensity to kill. It’s hard to comprehend. Maybe something inside him finally snapped. Maybe he hit a low point in his life and everything suddenly untangled, his reasoning and clarity of thought falling away into an endless dark void.

  The papers are full of stories about how he murdered his girlfriend, Clara, and kept her body for all these years. Nina finds that hard to believe. How can somebody like that live a normal life, going to work every day and acting as if all is well in their corner of the world when they have a dead body stored in their home? It seems too outlandish to be true. People don’t do things like that, do they? Perhaps she is being naïve. Perhaps the world has moved on and left her behind, cocooned in her own tiny little bubble. A bubble that doesn’t involve murder and the storing of corpses as if they are a macabre trophy.