The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘It looks like a blocked tear duct,’ I tell Sally. ‘Has she had this since birth? Does it come and go?’

  Sally nods. Danny suddenly shrieks and hurls a chunky plastic brick across my office. ‘Knock it off, Danny,’ Sally says in a weary voice. ‘You’ll hurt Amber.’

  ‘If you pop her clothes off, I’ll give her a proper going-over. There’s just a little wheeze that’s probably nothing, but I’d like to check it out.’

  Ten minutes later and Sally is on her way again with a prescription for Amber’s eye and an all-clear on her chest, plus a few words of wisdom about her partner not smoking around the baby. Sally struggles the buggy out of my door with Danny tagging along, clutching onto several plastic toys, hugging them close to his chest as he leaves. He looks up at me guiltily as I hold the door open. I force a smile, resisting the urge to tell him to take the whole sodding box.

  As soon as clinic is over and various other matters dealt with – reviewing and writing patient reports, making referrals, some triage phone calls and a practice meeting – I leave work and head home with a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Somehow, I have to get rid of Scott.

  As I hurtle my car around the country lanes, jamming the brakes on and mounting the verge several times when a vehicle comes the other way, I flip between anger and fear. Of course, I’d made sure Jeremy’s study door was locked and hid my jewellery and other personal items in there after Scott had gone to bed last night, and I have the key to the study safely on my fob, but the thought of him prowling about my house, opening cupboards, using my stuff, helping himself to food and tea and coffee while I’m at work makes me want to explode with rage.

  The more I think about it, the more I’m certain this man raped me.

  I could go to the police, I think, as I turn down my drive, though I doubt that will get very far – apart from the local paper and a whole load of shame. Despite victim anonymity, gossip would soon spread in our small community. It’d be Scott’s word against mine and the case would be unlikely to progress very far, let alone result in a conviction. I’ve seen it too many times when I’ve worked alongside ISVAs, specially trained advisors who deal with those affected by abuse – our efforts for a conviction frustratingly hitting brick wall after brick wall when rape victims report their attackers. But all thoughts of the police fly out of the window when I see Rhonda’s car parked squarely next to Scott’s Mercedes.

  Fuck.

  I virtually skid to a stop on the gravel and grab my stuff before heading inside.

  ‘Didn’t I get an invite to the party?’ I say, striding into the kitchen and dumping down my bag and keys, scowling. Breathless, I slide my coat off my shoulder and chuck it on a stool, folding my arms and involuntarily glaring at the pair of them. I try to read the atmosphere, what he might have told Rhonda already.

  ‘Hello, Jennifer,’ Scott says in that smooth way of his, the contrast in our voices instantly making me seem unhinged. He looks windblown and rosy-cheeked, as though he’s been outside for hours. And his jeans have swipes of dirt up the front, and there’s a bit of twig or leaf in his hair.

  ‘I chopped some logs and brought them in for you,’ he says by way of explanation as he looks down at himself. ‘And while I was at it, I did a bit of clearing in the coppice down by the lake. There was an overhanging branch that was about to come down. You don’t want it rotting and fouling the water.’ He stares at me, watching for my reaction. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, drawing on reserves I didn’t know I had. ‘And Rhonda, where are my manners? This is my… a friend, Scott. Scott, this is Rhonda.’

  ‘Already taken care of the intros,’ Rhonda replies with a glance shuttled between us. ‘Scott has been telling me how good you’ve been to him, offering a place to stay until he gets on his feet. It’s unfortunate what happened about your rental,’ she adds. ‘You should definitely sue for your losses, perhaps even claim money for a hotel?’ she adds in a questioning tone.

  As Scott busies himself with washing his hands, Rhonda takes my elbow, guiding me back into the hallway.

  ‘Look,’ she says, a concerned expression on her face. We walk through to the living room where, sure enough, there’s a fresh pile of logs in the huge wicker basket beside the fire, as well as the stone nook being crammed full of them. ‘Sorry for barging in. I didn’t expect you to have company still.’ She pauses, expecting me to say something, but I don’t. ‘Scott insisted I waited until you got home.’

  I force a smile and give my head a little shake, trying to indicate it’s no problem – when really, it is.

  ‘Jen, what you told me in my office the other day… about you being pregnant. I’m so sorry we barely discussed it when I came round with the casserole. We got a bit distracted. But it’s huge news.’ Her face doesn’t know whether to explode with congratulations and excitement, or crumple from pity. She’s waiting for me to green-light either option.

  We sit down on the sofa, each of us perching on the edge as if it’s the first time we’ve met, and not in the least indicative of the deep, honest friendship we’ve forged in the five years I’ve known her.

  I nod, unable to speak until I know where this is going.

  ‘You know I’ve been concerned about Kieran, but after everything that’s happened, I was wondering how he took it after overhearing about the baby. I just don’t want it to affect his schoolwork even more.’

  I don’t say anything. Can’t say anything.

  ‘But… but also, I’m now wondering if it’s such a good idea to have…’ Rhonda trails off, her eyes flicking back to the door. ‘If it’s such a good idea to have company staying. You know, male company.’

  ‘Ronnie, please… it’s fine. Really, it’s all fine,’ I say, weary from everything. ‘I know you’re only trying to help, but I can’t talk about this right now.’ I also glance to the door, pushing my fingers through my hair. The roots feel slightly oily and I know the ends need a good trim.

  ‘Thing is, Jen, Scott told me…’ Rhonda leans in, lowering her voice. ‘He told me you two met in a bar. And when I asked him how he knew Jeremy, he said he’d never met him.’

  I try to smile, try to force an incredulous laugh to disguise the look of horror that wants to burst out of me – but it comes out as a croak. ‘No, no… he’s got that wrong, actually,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘When Scott and I first met, it was in a bar, yes. He’d had an absolute skinful and Jeremy had to put him in a taxi. It was embarrassing, to be honest. So no wonder he doesn’t remem—’

  ‘Jen?’

  I feel my cheeks burning. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  I look down at my hands, knotted in my lap, forcing the tremble to stop. ‘It’s just been a long day, that’s all.’

  ‘I just don’t think he should be here, that’s all. Call me paranoid, but I get a… funny feeling from him. I think he’s got a cheek, actually, to be imposing on you like this. I can have a word with him, if you like. Tell him to sling his—’

  ‘Will you leave it, Ronnie, OK?’ I say, snappier than intended. ‘Look…’ I stare at the ceiling, forcing my mind to work fast. ‘It turns out that Jeremy owed Scott some money too, OK? A few thousand, apparently. Scott’s had a bit of bad luck and, because of the debt, I said he could stay here for a while to make up for it a bit. It’s no big deal.’ My mouth is bone dry.

  Rhonda stares at me, her eyes narrowing. ‘I’ve said it before: just be careful, Jen. It seems to me he’s got his feet right under your table, doing odd jobs around the place and cooking for you. He’ll be getting his mail delivered here and moving his stuff into your room before you know it. When is he leaving?’

  ‘I… I’m not sure exactly. But it’s fine. Kieran really likes him. There’s no problem.’ My voice is flat and robotic.

  Rhonda stares at me before enveloping me in a hug. ‘OK, but I’m here to help get rid if you need. And Chris and his colleagues will be round in a shot if he kicks off.’

>   ‘Thank you,’ I say, suddenly feeling absolutely exhausted.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve got enough on your plate with this,’ she says, touching my stomach. ‘Do you know your dates?’

  I shake my head, wishing I’d not told her about the baby. At least then Kieran wouldn’t have found out the way he did. But it’s not too late, I think. I can pop a couple of prescription pills, claim a miscarriage, and in a day or two it’ll all be over as if none of it ever happened.

  I’ll deny any allegations by Scott, saying the baby was Jeremy’s – the proof would be gone, after all – and it’ll be my word against his, yet slightly more in my favour. No baby, no DNA test. No sleepless nights or parental rights claims or birth certificate headaches. No having to associate with him for the next eighteen years. I’ll be able to put the whole sorry incident behind me and get on with my life.

  Except I can’t terminate this pregnancy. It goes against every fibre of my being and everything I stand for.

  ‘I’ve no idea of dates,’ I answer.

  ‘Goodbye sex?’ Rhonda says, counting on her fingers. ‘Just before Jeremy went off to Switzerland?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply, glancing over to the living room door as I see a shadow slide past. ‘Kieran’s on the prowl for food. I’d better get some dinner on,’ I say, standing and showing her to the door. ‘Thanks for coming round.’

  Rhonda nods, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Just take care of yourself,’ she says, heading for the front door. ‘You know where I am.’

  As she goes out to her car, she flicks me a wave and I watch the red tail lights disappear down the drive. I close the door, reluctantly locking me and my son in with the person I hate most in the world, before turning and letting out a scream that sends Scott and Kieran running to see what’s wrong.

  Twenty-Three

  Jen

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum,’ Kieran says, rolling his eyes and laughing when he sees it. He heads off to the kitchen, plugging his earphones in.

  Scott studies my face for a moment – a smirk spreading across his, making me feel ridiculous for pinning myself against the wall as far away from it as possible, barely able to breathe.

  ‘It’s… it’s huge,’ I manage to say, letting out another squeal as the spider scuttles over to the carved hallway chest. ‘Get the vacuum,’ I beg. ‘I need to get rid of it.’

  Scott laughs at me. ‘It must have hitched a ride in on the logs,’ he says. ‘There were some huge ones out in the barn when I was chopping.’

  ‘Hurry,’ I say, not daring to take my eyes off it and hating that I’m making a scene in front of him. ‘The vacuum is in the cupboard over there. I… I can’t stand it roaming around the house.’ I sidle back towards the living room door. Living out in the country, I’m no stranger to spiders and other insects. But it was always Jeremy who dealt with them – swiftly and without fuss, almost as if he enjoyed it.

  Scott gets down on his knees and crawls over to where the creature is about to disappear under the wooden chest. He cups his hands and slowly closes in, lowering his palms down until he’s close enough to pounce.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shriek, half covering my face. ‘Can’t you just suck it up with the vacuum?’

  He looks back at me, laughing. ‘You do realise that probably won’t even kill it? There are much better ways of disposing of it.’

  The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl as he turns back to the spider, leaving me feeling pathetic as I watch him carefully scoop it up with his hands cupped around it.

  ‘How can you even do that?’ I say, opening the front door for him and standing back. ‘Take it well away from the house!’ I call out as he disappears across the driveway. A moment later, he’s back inside, still smirking at me.

  ‘I’ve had plenty of practice,’ he says, shrugging and getting up close to me.

  I don’t know whether to laugh hysterically or thump him as I stand there, shaking. In the end, I do neither because, to my horror, Scott’s mouth comes down on mine as he attempts a kiss.

  Stunned, it takes me a few seconds to realise what’s happening and slam my hands against his shoulders, shoving him hard. My vision blurs from another flashback – the image of his face leering down at me, hands tight around my throat and a sharp pain between my legs.

  ‘Get off me!’ I hiss, trying to keep my voice low, conscious of Kieran in the next room. Scott stays close for a few moments, his eyes boring into mine as I fight away the memories, feeling sick at what he’s just done.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it,’ he whispers back, trailing a finger down my cheek. Then he turns and heads back to the kitchen, where I hear him laughing with my son as I’m left leaning against the wall wondering what the hell just happened.

  ‘So tell me about your studies, Kieran,’ Scott says as the three of us sit around the table, no one else appearing to notice the awkwardness of the situation, let alone the rage simmering inside me. ‘What subjects are you taking?’

  It’s been a while since I ate in the dining room, with Kieran and I often eating at different times lately, either perched on stools at the kitchen island or, in Kieran’s case, him sloping off to his room with a plate of food. But Scott suggested it – no, insisted on it – giving me one of his telling looks, making sure he took the chair at the head of the dining table. Jeremy and I always made a point of eating in here at weekends, leaving our phones in the kitchen so we could talk. The view down the garden through the huge glass doors is beautiful, especially with the all the outdoor lights on at night reflecting off the big pond in the paddock. But I can’t look at it now, can’t face the memories derailing me even more.

  Kieran flashes me a look, cutting into the steak that Scott has prepared. I’ve barely touched mine. ‘English lit, history and geography,’ he says, chewing.

  Scott nods. ‘History, fascinating,’ he says, before giving me a sly glance over the rim of his wine glass.

  My glass. Jeremy’s wine.

  ‘Not really,’ Kieran says, hunched over his plate, his knife and fork eagerly gripped as though he’s not eaten in a week. ‘This is really good, by the way,’ he says, dunking a chip in the peppercorn sauce. ‘So how did you know Dad?’ he continues, not knowing what he’s stirring up. ‘Mum says you were old friends.’ He gives me another look from beneath the loose curls of his fringe.

  ‘Did she now?’ Scott replies with a laugh. I feel his eyes boring into me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking up. ‘Oh, we go way back,’ he continues without missing a beat.

  ‘Why did you become a chef?’ Kieran asks, making me sigh with relief at the change of tack.

  ‘Let’s just say I kind of fell into it accidentally,’ Scott replies. ‘Through a sort of a training scheme.’

  I listen intently. Perhaps if I can get an idea of his past, I can somehow get him out of my future.

  ‘It was at a residential facility and there were a number of trades to specialise in,’ he continues. ‘I tried everything from brickwork and carpentry to landscape gardening and IT. But it was cooking that inspired me.’

  ‘That sounds cool,’ Kieran says, shovelling in more chips. ‘Maybe I should go there too.’ He nods, his curls bouncing about. ‘Dad wanted me to go to uni but I’m like, what’s the point?’ My son sniffs as his eyes water.

  ‘Degrees open doors, love,’ I say. ‘Your dad read philosophy, then went on to study film and journalism and—’

  ‘Yeah, and look where that got him, right?’ Kieran wipes his nose on his cuff, staring down at his food.

  For a few seconds, all I can hear is the sound of my own chewing and the intermittent clatter of cutlery as I wait for the moment to pass. I’ve endured many of them since Jeremy died and found it best to ride them out, not to dissect them.

  ‘Tell me about this training scheme,’ I say to Scott. Maybe I can contact someone there, find out more about him.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he says, leering at me. ‘Hey, Kie
ran,’ he continues. ‘We’ll cook something together tomorrow, if you like? I can teach you a few dishes.’

  ‘Yeah, cool,’ he replies. ‘Maybe I could cook for Caitlin.’

  ‘Your girlfriend?’ Scott asks.

  ‘Not yet,’ Kieran replies with a shrug.

  ‘You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, you know,’ I say, indicating my plate. Anything to stop him creeping up to my son.

  ‘It’s the least I could do, seeing as you’re being kind enough to let me stay for so long. Your mum’s a star, isn’t she, Kieran?’

  I’m not letting you stay! I scream in my head, but manage to stay calm.

  ‘Oh, and just so you know, Jennifer, I put an IOU note in the jar.’ Scott reaches for the bottle of wine and sloshes more red into his glass, giving me a pitying look. ‘I found some cash in a jar in the pantry,’ he says. ‘I’ll put it back when I get my first pay cheque.’

  I stare at him, seething, thankful that Kieran is now absorbed in his phone. A moment later, my son stands up, clearing his plate away, saying he has homework to do.

  ‘You helped yourself to my money?’ I retort, once Kieran is out of earshot.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Jennifer.’

  I shove my knife and fork together on my plate, suddenly not in the least bit hungry. ‘And you helped yourself to my late husband’s wine. That’s not a fiver a bottle, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Scott replies in a way that makes me want to stab him with my steak knife. ‘That’s why I chose it.’

  He leans closer to me, reaching out for my wrist and taking hold of it. His fingers are tight, restraining me as I try to pull away. ‘I don’t think it’s good for the baby if you get all… worked up,’ he says. ‘Now, eat your steak. It’s rich in iron.’

  ‘You can’t stay any longer,’ I tell him, prising myself out of his grip. ‘You’ve got tonight, then tomorrow you’re leaving. There are a couple of bed and breakfasts in Shenbury until you sort out another rental property. I don’t know what it is you want from me, but you’re not getting it.’