What She Saw: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-pounding twist

by Wendy Clarke

  ‘That would be nice, thank you.’

  Placing the wooden apple onto a Perspex display stand, he wanders away to the other end of the hall where a table has been set up for drinks. Tea and coffee £1.60, Cakes £1 has been written in red felt pen above plates of flapjacks and lemon drizzle cake. As he speaks to the woman behind the table, I think of ways to avoid being drawn into a conversation when he gets back.

  As I hang up the last of my necklaces, I wonder what Scott is doing. He was still in bed when I left, and will probably now be up and planning his next walking route. My phone is in the back pocket of my jeans, and I put my hand to it to make sure it’s secure. Since the phone call, I’ve dreaded it ringing, but I need to have it with me in case Beth needs me… or Scott. I still haven’t said anything to him about my conversation with Fay, or my panic attack in the shop, and I’m just wondering if I should, when the doors open and the first customers arrive. Many of them are tourists; there’s something about their new walking trousers and matching fleeces that give them away. They’ve probably come here for the cheap coffee, but I can guarantee they’ll be leaving with more than that. It happens every year.

  My first sale is made quickly: a chain with a simple silver teardrop hanging from it. I hold up the matching earrings for the woman to see, wondering if I might be able to persuade her to buy them too, but when she says she’ll think about it and come back later, I know it isn’t going to happen.

  More people come to the table and I make a few more sales. It’s hot and stuffy in the hall. The windows are closed and, when I reach behind me, the radiator is hot to my touch despite the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been having. Finding no way to turn it down, I take off my cardigan and hang it on the back of my chair, wishing I’d worn something cooler. In the last half hour, the noise in the hall has risen and I’m finding it difficult to hear what people are saying.

  A man holds a bracelet up for me to see. He’s an ordinary-looking man and his wife has moved on to the next stall. I expect he wants it as a present for her, as he glances over to make sure she isn’t looking before leaning across the table to speak to me. The narrow aisle between the rows of tables is full of people. Where have they all come from? A coach party maybe? Those who are looking at the stalls are blocking the way of the ones who are trying to get to the refreshments area and, although I’m safely behind my table, I imagine the press of their bodies.

  The man’s mouth is moving but I can’t hear what he’s saying. His words are drowned out by the thrumming in my ears. It takes a moment to realise it’s the sound of my own blood. I try to concentrate on what he’s saying, but the picture I have in my head of the red viscous liquid circulating through my body is making me nauseous.

  He leans in closer and my hearing comes back. He’s irritated now, worried his wife will turn around and see his purchase. ‘I said, how much is this?’

  I try to answer but my mouth is dry, my tongue stuck to the roof. He’s too close, his thighs pressing against the edge of the table as he speaks. The sea of people is pressing in. His eyes are fixed on me.

  ‘The bracelet,’ he barks. ‘How much?’

  I can’t answer. It’s happening again. The fear is overwhelming. Paralysing.

  ‘Is she all right?’ He’s turned to the man with the carved wooden bowls. In a minute, they’ll both be staring at me.

  The need to get away is acute. Shoving my chair to one side, I push myself away from the table and stumble along the back of the stalls towards the ladies. Luckily, no one is in there and I lock myself inside one of the cubicles, retching into the toilet until my stomach hurts, thankful there’s no one to hear me.

  A few minutes pass, then I hear the door open and someone comes in, a wave of sound following them from the hall. I can’t go back in there. Resting my forehead on the shiny door, I try to steady my breathing as the footsteps walk to the cubicle at the end and I hear the twist of the lock. With an effort, I straighten up and wipe my mouth on some toilet paper.

  It seems an age before I hear the flush of the toilet, then more footsteps on the concrete floor and the roar of the hand dryer. Only when I’m sure the room is empty again do I feel able to unlock the door and come out. I know I’ll have to phone Scott.

  Thankful that my mobile is still in my back pocket, I find his name, my hand shaking as I press the call button. It doesn’t take long for him to pick up and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘Hi, Babe, what is it?’

  ‘I need you to come to the craft fair and pick me up, Scott. I’m not feeling well.’

  ‘You were okay this morning.’ He sounds distracted and I know that his mind is still on the group he’ll be taking out this afternoon.

  ‘Please, Scott, just come and get me.’ Despite trying, I can’t stop the wobble in my voice. Scott must have heard it too, as his voice changes.

  ‘I’ll be there in fifteen,’ he says, and all at once I wish he was here now to wrap me in his big arms.

  Without saying more, I end the call and put my phone away before splashing cold water on my face and drying it with a paper towel. Then, resting my hands on either side of the basin, I look at my face in the mirror. If he could see me now, would he recognise me? Reflected back is a woman with dark circles under her eyes and tension around her mouth. I wish I knew what was happening to me.

  * * *

  Scott drives with one hand on the wheel, the other covering mine. I’ve told him what happened and it’s a relief not to have to pretend any more. I’d thought I could deal with it on my own, but I can’t. In the back of his Land Rover are my boxes of jewellery. While I waited in the car, he collected it all up and made excuses for me. He says we’ll collect my car another time.

  ‘How long has this been going on? The panic attacks and the sleepless nights?’

  As the town disappears behind us, the houses replaced by fields of sheep, I stare straight ahead, thinking about his question and wondering how honest I can be. His hand on top of mine is warm and comforting and the urge to confide in him is great, but I know that if I do, our lives will never be the same again.

  ‘They started a few days ago,’ I say, turning to him. ‘The feelings come over me so quickly that there’s nothing I can do.’

  The answer’s an honest one. The nightmares I had for the first few years, and the pills I needed to take to block everything out, are so long ago now that he doesn’t need to know about them. Or about the face I saw in the glass: the person from my past who started this all off.

  ‘But there must be something that’s triggered all this, Leona. People don’t have panic attacks for no reason. Is there anything that’s worrying you?’

  I look away again. This time there’s no way I can answer truthfully. If I tell him, Ria will become his problem too, and I can’t let that happen. I say nothing, hoping he won’t ask me again.

  ‘I think you should see Dr Rosen. Tell him what’s going on. There might be something he can give you to help you sleep.’

  ‘No! I don’t want that!’ My voice comes out too loud.

  ‘I only thought…’

  ‘I’m sorry, Scott. What I meant is, I don’t have any problem getting to sleep. Most nights I’m fine, it’s just sometimes…’

  How can I explain about the darkness and the terror? How it would take more than a white pill to make it go away. I don’t want to talk to Dr Rosen, the kindly GP who’s seen our family through throat infections, migraines and sprained ankles. I don’t want sleeping tablets. I need someone who won’t judge. Someone who will understand.

  In my purse, tucked into a compartment where I keep my books of stamps, is a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. Since the day it was handed to me, all those years ago, I’ve carried it with me, hoping I’ll never need it.

  When I get home, I know I’ll have to ring it.

  Ten

  Beth

  Four days had passed and, whether at school or at home, Beth found she could not get the photographer’s
face out of her head. On the few occasions she went into Ambleside, she’d look at the boys hanging around the park and compare them to him. Their skin hadn’t yet taken on the coarseness of adulthood, whereas his was weathered from being outdoors, and there were lines around his eyes from squinting at the camera. And although most of the boys had a shadow of hair above their lips, she doubted any of them shaved and couldn’t help wondering what the feel of the man’s stubble would be like beneath her hand.

  After school each day, she’d climb the fell, hoping that he’d be there again, but he never was. Chances were, he’d moved on but, even if he hadn’t, he probably had a girlfriend, or even a wife, back in London or somewhere. Someone who knew more than Beth did about love.

  It was disconcerting to find that sometimes it would be his face that appeared beneath the soft lead of her pencil, rather than the birds or the landscape. The high ridge of his cheekbones and the furrow of his brow as he looked out across the valley. In that short time they’d spent together, maybe no more than twenty minutes, she’d studied his face, the planes and the shadows, and she knew that whether face-on or in profile, the drawings in her book were a good likeness.

  Even though she wanted to, she never kept the sketches. She’d tear them into little pieces and watch them blow away across the valley like confetti, knowing she wouldn’t be able to explain them if her parents were to see. Instead, she kept the feelings that stirred inside her to herself. She’d had crushes on boys before, but this was different. Even though he was older than her, it was like they had a connection. It reminded her of how she used to talk to her mum, before her mum started acting so strangely. Maybe it was because they seemed to have so much in common, or maybe it was simply because he’d come into her life at the right time. Whatever it was, for the first time in a while, up on that fellside, she hadn’t felt alone.

  Unable to settle to her revision this evening, she’d decided to take the path alongside the river that wound its way along the valley opposite their house. Pushing open the wooden gate that led into the field, she crossed the cattle grid and walked down the path to the stone bridge.

  She tried telling herself that the reason she’d walked this way was that she was tired of the fells. Tired of climbing up their rock-strewn paths. It wasn’t true, though; it was because she hoped she might find him at the campsite that lay on the other side of the bridge from where she stood now, watching the water race and tumble between the boulders. Wasn’t that why she’d put on a smudge of eyeliner and some mascara before she’d come out? Not too much, just enough to bring out the colour of her eyes. When she’d looked in the mirror, she’d been surprised by what she’d seen. Not a gauche schoolgirl, but a young woman with high cheekbones and a shy smile.

  Now, though, the confidence she’d felt as she’d looked in the bedroom mirror had disappeared, to be replaced with a flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She hadn’t even thought about what she’d do if she saw him. How she’d explain why she was there, staring across the field at the tents and camper vans. Wracked with indecision, she did nothing, just stood on the bridge, her arms wrapped around her body.

  This was ridiculous. She couldn’t just stand there. Taking a deep breath, Beth stepped across the bridge and into the field. As she walked towards the first tents, she could see that most of them were zipped up, their occupants out for the day. In fact, the whole site was quiet, except for a woman carrying a plastic basin of clothes over to the wash block.

  The few camper vans and caravans that were there were parked in a different area of the field, near a small copse. Some were huge and white and she could picture what they would look like inside, all chintzy fabrics and shiny appliances. Their owners wanting a smaller model of their homes when they went away.

  It wasn’t these that caught her eye though, it was the small bug-shaped VW camper van parked a little way from them. Its faded green paintwork was rusting in places and the curtains at the windows were bright yellow sunflowers on an orange background. There was something about it that made her guess it was his.

  She moved closer. Apart from a pair of walking boots outside the door, there was no sign that anyone was in the van. What she was hoping to achieve, she didn’t know, but something made her walk to the window. Cupping her hand above her eyes to cut out the reflection, she peered into the gloomy interior. There wasn’t much to see: just a bench seat, a small work surface with a hob, and that was about it.

  ‘Well, fancy seeing you.’

  Beth sprang away from the window, her heart racing. The photographer was behind her. It was as if she’d conjured him up out of nowhere. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his long hair tucked behind his ears. She tried to work out from his expression whether he was annoyed or not. It was difficult to tell.

  ‘I was just looking for a place to sketch.’ Could he hear her voice shaking?

  ‘You thought you’d sketch my van?’

  ‘No, of course not. I was sketching on the bridge and then I remembered that you’d said you were staying at the campsite here.’

  ‘So, you decided to look me up?’

  ‘Well, yes… No… I just thought…’

  ‘I’m flattered.’ Although his face remained impassive, he sounded amused. ‘Show me what you were sketching.’

  Beth swallowed, her hand dropping to the flap of her canvas bag. She couldn’t show him: there was nothing to see. ‘It’s not finished. I never show anyone my work until it’s finished.’

  She wondered if he would see through her lie.

  ‘I see.’ He stopped and looked around him. ‘Now that you’re here. Fancy a brew?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘You don’t mind? That’s a strange answer to a pretty straightforward question. Either you do or you don’t.’

  Beth felt her cheeks redden. She was acting like a stupid child. She could just imagine Carina’s face if she saw her now.

  ‘Yes. Tea would be nice.’

  ‘It might take a while for the kettle to boil. Are you in a hurry?’

  ‘Not really.’ When she’d got home from school, she’d found a note from her mum telling her she’d gone to visit a customer, and her dad was with a group on Scafell.

  ‘What’s your name then?’ Unlocking the van, he slid the door open and reached inside, pulling out two folding chairs that had seen better days. He opened them and indicated for Beth to sit.

  ‘Beth.’

  The man nodded. ‘Suits you.’

  He still hadn’t said what his own name was, and Beth was too shy to ask. He’d climbed into the back of the van and was busying himself with a kettle, stooping so that his head didn’t bang the roof.

  Beth stretched out her legs and looked across the field to the river. There was someone fishing and she wondered whether they’d caught anything.

  ‘I was christened Darrius, but everyone knows me as David.’

  She turned to look at him to see if he was joking, but his head was bent to the mug of tea he was stirring. ‘Why?’

  He looked up. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why have you changed your name?’

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’re kidding me, right. Do you honestly mean to tell me you’d want to be called Darrius?’

  ‘Well, obviously not. I’m a girl.’ She paused. ‘Why David?’

  He put her tea in front of her. ‘You’ll laugh if I tell you.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Let’s just say I was a bit obsessed with Mr Bailey when I was younger.’

  ‘Mr who?’ As soon as she’d asked, she felt stupid. She should probably know.

  ‘David Bailey. In my opinion, one of the best portrait photographers there’s been in recent years. Nabbed himself some beautiful wives too – Marie Helvin for one. Lucky bugger.’

  ‘So you named yourself after your boy-crush.’ Beth put her hand in front of her mouth to hide her smile.

  ‘Something like that. See. Told you you’d laugh.’

  ‘I wa
s just thinking. A few years ago, I had my room covered in Dali prints. Imagine if I’d called myself Salvador.’

  ‘I dunno. I think it would rather suit you.’

  Beth sipped her tea, trying not to stare at David’s long slim fingers that were wrapped around his mug. It was nice to be having a conversation with someone other than her parents. Someone who wasn’t constantly checking on whether she was doing her revision or obsessed with what she was eating.

  ‘My art teacher wants to submit a piece of my work to a competition.’ She hadn’t planned to say it. It just slipped out.

  David scratched his head and looked at her. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  She didn’t want to tell him how entering the competition would add more fuel to the fire. She could hear them now: what a poser… she’s so up herself… fucking show off. And if she won… That was something she couldn’t even begin to think about.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m good enough.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ David leant over the arm of his deckchair and emptied the dregs of his tea onto the grass. ‘How can you think that? It’s a while since I’ve seen sketches as good as yours.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why would I say it if it wasn’t true?’

  A picture of Keira came into her head. That was why. The hurt and the humiliation were still inside her.

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ There was a note of surprise in his voice.

  Leaning over to her, he reached out a hand and touched her face. When he drew back his finger, it was wet. She hadn’t realised she was crying. Feeling foolish, she wiped her face with the heel of her hand.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like nothing to me, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s up to you.’ He got up and took her mug from her. ‘That place you were telling me about when I met you up at the cairn. Where the kestrels nest.’