The Bride: A twisty and completely gripping psychological thriller

by Wendy Clarke

  But why had no one come for me? Why did no one care? There’d been no wail of a siren, no shouts or barking of Alsatians outside the unit, no clang of metal on metal as they jemmied the door open. I forced myself to my feet. No, as in every other part of my life, it was clear the only person I could rely on was myself.

  I’d already investigated the crates and boxes. The ones I could reach anyway. There were others, stacked higher, but it would have been suicide to climb up in the dark to search them. Everything I felt or pulled out was either too heavy or too light to be of any use. Books… china ornaments… what felt like curtains with a smooth, silky lining. The contents of a house waiting to be rehomed.

  My stomach rumbled. Soon the door would open, and a new tray of food would arrive. But what if it didn’t? What if my captor had forgotten me too? I pinched myself to stop the cold lick of fear from growing. I needed to concentrate.

  Crouching down, I emptied the tray of its bags and drink carton and ran my hand along its hard, flat surface. Feeling the sharp plastic edge. Was it enough? I didn’t know if I was strong enough, brave enough, to make this work, but I had to try. What other option was there? All I needed to do was get them off balance. Give myself a few minutes to run out of the door and disappear into the darkness.

  Feeling my way along the wall to the cold metal door, I put my ear to it and listened. There was nothing to be heard but the mournful cry of a seagull. Clutching the tray to my chest, I sank down into a crouch. I would be ready when the door opened. Would draw the tray back as the light entered the building and, with two hands and all my force, drive it into their face as they bent to slide in the tray. It might not work, but what other choice did I have?

  At last, after an interminable wait, I heard a car. The slam of a door.

  I counted silently as I pictured my captor’s feet walking the few steps to the door, every nerve of my body stretched. Waiting.

  Alone in the darkness, I braced myself for whatever was going to happen.

  Thirty-Six

  Alice

  Without letting myself think, I force my hand to rise to the call button and press it, watching as the numbers above the door rise. My heart beating furiously against my chest. There’s a ding and the doors slide open.

  I look at the concertina inner door, then force myself to open it. It slides back with a metal clang. Swallowing back my anxiety, I step in, then slide the door shut, hearing it click into place. At the moment, I can still see the bare, brick walls of the corridor, but I know that when I press the number six, the silver doors will slide closed.

  A wave of panic washes over me as I imagine the gap between the doors getting smaller and smaller until, at last, the world outside disappears. I can’t do it. I have to get out.

  But I’ve taken too long and, before I can do anything, the metal doors slide shut of their own accord, trapping me inside. There’s a jolt, and the lift begins to move. I press myself against the cold side and am shocked at the terrified face that stares back at me from the mirrored panel at the back. It’s supposed to make the lift feel more spacious, but it’s an illusion that does nothing to comfort me. Being confronted with evidence of my distress is only compounding it.

  What if the lights go out? What if I’m trapped in the dark in this small airless space?

  As the lift rises, I try not to think about the space I’m in, the metal sides, the silver doors that are tightly shut behind the metal-latticed inner door. Instead, I watch the number change from four to five, willing it to move faster.

  There’s a judder and the lift stops, but something’s wrong… it’s not my floor. It’s floor five not six. Someone must have summoned it and I know, even before the doors open, who it is. Recognise the black nylon sleeves of his bomber jacket, the word security stitched on the front.

  When he sees me, Derek’s eyebrows raise in surprise and his lips twist into a smile. He doesn’t get into the lift but leans with his shoulder against the concertina door, looking at me through the metal diamonds. Making me feel like an animal in a cage. ‘I was just on my way up to give Mr Belmont a message.’

  I rub my sweaty palms down the outside of my jeans. ‘He’s not there.’

  Derek nods as though I haven’t told him anything he didn’t know already. ‘When are you expecting him?’

  My panic is taking hold again. For some reason being stuck inside the lift this way, Derek looking in at me, is worse than if the metal doors were to slide closed again.

  ‘Later.’ The word comes out too shaky. I hate that he’s witnessing my distress. ‘Please, Derek. Can you either let me get out or stand away from the doors so that I can get to my apartment.’

  ‘Your apartment?’ It’s said with amusement. ‘I wonder what Joanna would make of that.’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ My voice is rising. ‘Please. Just get away from the door.’

  Derek gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Oh, and I thought you’d like to know that the problem with the car park doors has been fixed. Everything’s working fine now. So there’s nothing to stop you from leaving.’

  I hate the way he’s looking at me, his freckled cheek pressed against the grill. I want to cry, but I don’t. Instead, I force the words out. ‘I’ll leave when I’m ready.’

  There’s a sudden rhythmic tune that echoes in the brick-walled corridor. Swearing under his breath, Derek takes his mobile from his trouser pocket. He stares at it, then frowns before answering, turning his back fractionally away from me.

  ‘Yes? Speaking.’

  It’s my chance. While he’s distracted, I jab at the button that will take me to the next floor and the doors glide shut. I will the lift to move, scared Derek will press the call button to make them open again, but he doesn’t. Almost immediately I feel the lift start to rise, and I press my back against the mirror, my eyes glued to the numbers as they change. Praying that soon we’ll reach my floor, and I can get out.

  After what seems an age, the doors slide open, and I lurch out, hobbling along the corridor as quickly as my bad leg will allow. When I reach the apartment door, I fumble with the key, my eyes darting between the lift and the lock, before finally it turns. Sighing with relief, I fall into the room, shutting and locking the door behind me.

  I check the time. It’s seven. Three hours until the deadline. I wonder what Mark’s doing. Whether he’ll manage to get the rest of the money. In my building society, I’ve savings. There’s some in my bank too, if Mark needs it. Once he’s back, I can go with him to a cash machine and withdraw as much as I’m able. It won’t be much, but surely anything is better than nothing.

  Despite its size, the apartment feels oppressive tonight. I’m sick of the brick. Sick of the wooden floorboards. Sick of the shiny chrome and steel accessories. For the first time since I got here, I’m not looking at Joanna’s living space with envy. There’s nothing homely or comforting about it. No stamp of personality. When this is all over, I’ll leave. Go back to my own small house and try to appreciate what I have. Going to the wooden doors between the windows, I draw back the bolts and pull them open, taking in lungfuls of night air. Trying to steady my nerves.

  Time creeps by. I sit on the edge of the velvet settee, my arms wrapped tightly around me, staring at the lights across the river. I’m on edge, wondering what’s taking Mark so long. Where is he? Walking around the vast room, I turn on all the lights, but it does nothing to calm the fear that’s gripping me. What if Mark doesn’t get back in time? What will happen to Joanna?

  I think I hear a car driving past the front of the building and jump up, but when I get to the iron railing and look down there’s nothing to be seen. Is it Mark? I wait, but there are no footsteps in the corridor. No key in the door.

  In the silent room, the large station clock’s tick is loud as it counts down the minutes. Each one taking me closer to an end I can’t possibly predict. I feel overwhelmed with all the lies Mark and I have told and all the things we’ve not said. If
anything happens to Joanna, the fault will be both of ours equally.

  There’s now only an hour before the drop-off. Why isn’t he here?

  I sit with my hands clasped, my nails digging into the flesh. My gaze darts around the room, not settling for long on anything. The wait is interminable. Eventually, not able to stand it any longer, I walk to Mark’s bedroom and open the door. I switch on the light and look at the bed the two of them shared. There’s a faint smell of Joanna that I hadn’t noticed before, bringing back memories of the perfume we used to spray on each other’s arms in her bedroom when we were teenagers.

  A moan breaks from my lips as I remember the words written in the note Mark showed me. Those terrible, terrible words describing what they’ll do to her if the money’s not paid.

  Dropping to my knees, I peer under the bed. The holdall is there, as Mark said it would be. I know in my heart that he isn’t going to get here in time. That the only person who can do something is me. I drag the bag from the dark space and, with shaking hands, unzip it, staring at the bundles of notes. I’ve never seen so much money in one place. But it isn’t enough. Mark said it wasn’t. Surely, though, delivering something would be better than nothing. Or, if I go now, I could add my own meagre offerings to it.

  Can I do it, though? Do I have the strength of mind to brave the lift again? Go back to the car park and drive out into the night? I tentatively feel my ankle, wondering if I’d even be able to drive. As I stand undecided, the old station clock on the wall chimes the hour. It’s too late. The deadline has passed. The ransom has not been paid.

  Icy fingers work their way up my spine. Somewhere, maybe not so very far from New Tobacco Wharf, someone is waiting. Angry that their scheme has come to nothing. Deciding on Joanna’s fate. I picture the swinging chain I’d seen hanging from the crane outside Eloise’s window and shiver. Joanna is out there somewhere. Terrified. Wondering why no one has come to help her. Will they have told her what’s happening, or will she be sitting alone not knowing why she’s there? I feel my panic rising. Will they have tied her hands? Will they have gagged her?

  I think I hear a bark below the window. High and sharp. It sounds like Pixie, but I know it can’t be. Picking up the holdall, I go back out to the living area and, leaning over the iron railings, look down at the quayside. There’s nothing to be seen, but I knew there wouldn’t be. My imagination is playing tricks on me.

  Tick. Tick. The station clock looks down at me accusingly, its sound a form of torture. What if something’s happened to Mark? In that split second, I make my decision. Hefting the holdall onto my arm, I go to the door. I’ll drive to the chapel and make the delivery myself. I can’t let Joanna down a second time.

  As I look down the corridor, I’m aware of the camera. Will Derek be back in his room by now? Will he be watching? Joanna’s life is at stake, and I can’t afford to make any mistakes. This time, I don’t care if he sees me. With any luck, he’ll think I’m leaving Black Water Dock for good.

  I’m just closing the door when I hear footsteps in the corridor. The key falls from my hand, but I’m too scared to pick it up. I don’t want to see who it is, but I have to. I force myself to turn and the breath escapes my lungs in relief.

  ‘Mark, thank God.’

  He’s striding down the corridor towards me, and the question I’m desperate to ask him dies on my lips. It’s clear from the hunch of his shoulders that he hasn’t been able to get the rest of the money. A shadow clouds his face. It’s not me he’s looking at but the holdall by my feet.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Without a word, he gets his own key out of his pocket and unlocks the apartment. He picks up the holdall and throws it inside, then places a hand on my back and pushes me roughly through the door.

  I look at him, forcing myself not to cry. ‘It was after the deadline. I was scared and thought it better to deliver some of the money than none at all. I just wanted to help.’

  Mark runs his hand through his hair and when he speaks again, he’s unable to disguise the anger in his voice. ‘Christ. Are you insane? You have no idea what you might have been getting yourself into. You could have been hurt.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He looks at me and then his face softens. ‘Look, Alice. This is my problem, not yours. It’s up to me to sort it out.’ As he says this, he reaches out a hand to my hair before dropping it again quickly. The gesture is tender, at odds with the rude way he’d pushed me only a moment ago.

  With a shock, and despite my worry about Joanna, I realise my body is responding to his touch.

  Thirty-Seven

  Joanna

  I ran until there was no more breath inside me. Not taking the road but cutting between buildings, their insides choked with weeds. Their broken windows staring blindly out onto flattened plots overseen by cement mixers that hadn’t turned in months.

  I was terrified I’d hear their footsteps behind me, stumbling over the assault course of bricks. Hear them swear as a foot caught in the brambles that lay like tripwires across the paving.

  Or worse still, my name being called. Joanna.

  I ran from what I’d done. Didn’t want to think about what I saw. What it meant. All I knew is I had to find help. Needed to get to a main road and flag down a car.

  Thank God the night was moonlit, as the street lights here hadn’t been lit in a very long time – not after it became clear no one wanted to live in Black Water Dock. All that wasted money poured into the site. All those expectations dashed.

  At the next brick building, I stopped and leant against its side, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t stop long as they’d have recovered and would be after me by now, and I was terrified of what would happen if they caught me.

  Breaking away from the building, I ran as fast as my legs, weakened by lack of exercise, would let me. Ahead, in the distance, across an area of wasteland, I could see the lights from a block of flats. A trail of white street lights behind, signalling the road.

  Crying with relief, I forced my legs to move faster, aware that I was now in full view of anyone following.

  I’d got to reach the road. I had to.

  How long it took me, I don’t know, but finally there it was ahead of me. The road. Running to it, I waved my arms, not caring that I must look like a madwoman. The first car didn’t stop. Nor the second. I screamed at their disappearing tail lights in frustration, too terrified to look behind me in case of what I might see.

  The next car slowed, signalled and moved over. The driver wound down the window, leant across.

  ‘You okay?’

  It was a middle-aged man who peered at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses. He took in my filthy clothes, my lank hair, his face registering first shock then uncertainty. He straightened and, with horror, I saw the window start to glide back up. He must have thought I was a drug addict looking for a fix. Or maybe a prostitute. He was going to drive away. Leave me here.

  Grabbing the handle of the passenger door, I yanked it open and threw myself into the seat beside him.

  ‘Please. I don’t have time to explain. You’ve got to take me to the police station.’

  The man looked startled but didn’t argue. As the car pulled away from the kerb, I dared to turn and look through the back window, terrified someone would be standing there watching me.

  But the street was empty.

  Thirty-Eight

  Alice

  Mark’s at the door of the stairwell. He’s going to try to deliver the money even though it may be too late. Although I’m relieved it’s now not me who’s doing it, I’m as much worried for his safety as he was for mine.

  ‘Please, Mark. Be careful. Don’t take any stupid risks.’

  ‘I won’t.’ His face is tense, his eyes focussed on the bag he’s holding. Although he’s hiding it well, I know he’s scared. ‘I’ll see you later. It would be best if you stay inside the apartment until I’m back.’

 
‘I will. You don’t need to worry about me.’ Without thinking, I reach up on tiptoe and kiss him on the lips. Instantly, I regret it, feel my face flush angry red and my skin prickle with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry.’ I bite the inside of my lip. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  To my huge relief, Mark smiles. ‘Don’t apologise. If anything, it’s made me feel a tiny bit better. It shows you care.’

  With a small smile, he pushes open the glass-panelled door and disappears down the staircase, leaving me alone in the corridor, my finger touching my lips.

  After a few moments, I go back inside, closing the door and locking it behind me. But I need to see Mark one last time. Crossing to the wooden doors, I unlatch them and pull them open, then lean out over the iron railing. Waiting for the sound of the car. I don’t have to wait long. I see it now, coming round the side of the building, Mark in the driving seat. He’s driving fast, the headlights lighting up the quay as he passes by the front of the building. Then he spins the wheel and turns off the quayside onto the road that leads out of the dock, in a shower of loose chippings.

  I haven’t yet moved from my position when I hear a nightmarish noise that roots me to the spot. A sound that sickens me to the core. Even from this distance, there’s no mistaking the nauseating sound of wheels skidding. The slam of metal as it hits stone.

  I stand in the middle of the living area, a police officer next to me, while the other closes the door behind us. I’m trying to process what they’ve just told me.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  The officers exchange looks. ‘It’s quite serious, I’m afraid. Mr Belmont has sustained injuries to the head and chest area.’