The water pipes creak above me, and the boiler hums in the utility room, telling me Scott is still in the shower. The alcohol is already hitting me, making my thoughts fuzzy, my brain disbelieving. Mainly because I don’t want to believe it.
Scott… Scott? I scream in my head. No… no, none of this is right. It can’t be…
‘Focus on the scar,’ I whisper, sliding off the stool. I feel the tablet crunch under my foot as I unpin the badge from the jacket, turning it over and over in my hands. There’s no mistaking it. It’s so distinctive.
Knowing I don’t have long before he comes downstairs – having to pretend to be normal, chatting, cooking, playing happy families – I dash into the hall to where he’s dumped his belongings from the storage unit and tear open the top of one of the boxes with shaking hands.
The first is filled with a few books – a couple of cookery hardbacks, some paperback novels, a book of country walks. There are some pamphlets, too – a couple about mental health services, several about rehabilitation into the community, another about social housing and benefits. From the leaflets we have at work, I can tell they’re about a year or so old.
I tear open another box – and then I hear the water stop running, the clank of the shower door opening and closing.
There are a few crumpled old T-shirts in this one, nothing like I’d imagine Scott wearing, and a watch, a pair of broken sunglasses and some tangled laptop cables. Underneath, I find more papers, including those for his car, and scan through them, keeping one ear open for Scott upstairs. I know every sound this house makes – every floorboard creak, every door opening, every wheeze and sigh.
‘Oh shit…’ I say, riffling through the prison release papers, housing documents, benefit forms and what looks like some kind of travel pass. Beneath this is a folder containing more papers… about relocation, a new identity, probation officer details.
My heart thunders as I take out a battered old notebook, some of its pages torn out, with the remaining ones covered in doodles and plans and childish scrawl – stick figures with knives stuck in them, blood flowing. It’s too much for me to take in quickly, and there’s no time to read through all this stuff properly. The prison release papers, along with the badge, have told me all I need to know.
Evan Locke has come back for me – just as he always swore he would.
And then I spot it, lying at the bottom of the box. A USB stick – small and black with a black cord attached to it. I grab it, chucking the papers back in the box, and scramble up off the floor, shedding the heavy coat as I run back to the kitchen where my laptop is charging. The badge is still in my hand, clutched in my sweaty palm.
‘Come on, come on,’ I whisper, waiting for my computer to boot up. Upstairs, I hear the floorboards in my bedroom creaking, my wardrobe door opening and closing. He’ll be down at any moment.
‘Thank God,’ I whisper as the desktop screen finally appears. I shove the USB stick into the port, my fingers trembling so much it takes several attempts to get it in. My breaths are short and shallow, making me light-headed, so I take the laptop over to the stool and sit at the island worktop, clicking on the USB drive on my screen, waiting as the icons resolve.
Photos. Hundreds of them.
One by one the thumbnails appear on my screen, many of which I recognise from Scott’s phone when he taunted me, showing me what had happened that night, threatening to blackmail me with all the pictures.
Focus on the scar…
I double-click on the first one, cupping my hand over my mouth, seeing myself lying beneath him, lipstick smeared in a red slash across my face, mascara smudged into two black eyes. My mouth is hanging open and my tongue half sticks out, and the way my head is twisted to one side, with my eyeballs rolled back in their sockets, I barely look conscious.
I cough and choke into my hand, wiping my palm on my jeans. There’s no time to be sick. I go back to the thumbnail screen and scroll down, my finger wavering on the trackpad. And then I find the other batch, confirming what I saw on his phone the other night. Except this is in way more detail – as though I’m reliving the whole thing again.
I dash to the kitchen sink and hold my hair back, throwing up in the washing-up bowl. It’s just the few mouthfuls of wine, but my stomach cramps and knots. I wipe my mouth on the tea towel, trying to steady my nerves. And then I hear footsteps on the stairs. Scott is coming down.
Quickly, I whip the USB stick from the port and shove it in my pocket, shutting down the window on my screen and slamming the laptop lid closed.
‘That feels much better,’ Scott says, striding into the kitchen, stretching. He stops dead when he sees me. ‘Oh, Jennifer, my love. You look terrible.’ His eyes flick to my computer and then to my hands, where I’m wringing out the tea towel, trying not to shake.
‘I… I was sick,’ I tell him, glancing behind me. He peers into the sink and pulls a face.
‘Poor love,’ he tells me, taking me by the shoulders. ‘These hormones are playing havoc with you. But just think of our little baby growing inside you.’
I nod vigorously, swiping a strand of sweaty hair off my face. ‘Here…’ I say, easing out of his grip. ‘I poured you a drink.’ I grab the remains of the wine and hand it to him.
‘Are we on rations?’ he says, laughing as he tops up the glass.
‘Sorry,’ I say, moving my laptop out of the way. I don’t want him asking questions.
And that’s when Scott sees the badge sitting on the counter behind it – our eyes both fixing on it at the same time. He swipes it up, glaring at me. ‘So you found it then,’ he says, his tone suddenly hard and cold.
‘It… it… was on your jacket. I was chilly so I put it on and then—’
The blow is short and sharp to the side of my head. I stagger back against the worktop, my vision blurry, raising my hand to my smarting face.
‘Scott… it’s OK, it’s all fine,’ I say, trying to sound convincing through my shaking voice. ‘Why… why don’t you put the badge on? For old times’ sake.’
He stares at me, wondering whether to trust me. When he says nothing, I go up to him, as though I’m creeping up on a nervous animal, and take the badge from between his fingers. Then I pin it on his shirt, right about where his scar is hidden beneath the fabric.
‘There,’ I say, taking a look. ‘You look fine.’
Scott glances down, then up again at me, his eyes boring into mine. I smile, and he offers me a small one back, gradually showing his teeth as it turns into a grin.
Then I undo a couple of his buttons and slide my hand inside his shirt, my fingers tracing across his chest until I find the scar. I stroke it gently until I hear a crooning sound at the back of his throat.
‘You’re safe now, Evan,’ I tell him. ‘No one is going to hurt you any more. Those men who did this to you in prison, they didn’t understand.’
‘No, no, they didn’t,’ Scott whispers, sweat appearing on his top lip. ‘Child murderer, they called me. Said I had it coming. They tried to kill me, said next time they’d succeed.’ Scott’s breathing is heavy and I feel the rise and fall of his chest. ‘They didn’t know that I had to do it, Jen. That if I didn’t, my mum would die.’ He snorts out a half-sob. ‘But that bastard killed her anyway.’
‘I know, I know,’ I say, praying I can placate him long enough to work out what to do. ‘But they can’t hurt you now. You’re safe here with me,’ I whisper, resting my head on his chest. I feel his hand on my head, his fingers gently playing with my hair.
It seems as though we stay like this forever, rocking gently as we stand in the kitchen, our heartbeats synchronising to a beat from long ago.
‘Here,’ I say after a while, when my shaking has subsided and I hear Scott’s – Evan’s – heart slow to a regular rhythm. ‘Have some more wine.’ I reach for the glass. ‘Drink up,’ I tell him, my mind racing at a thousand miles per hour.
Forty
Jen
Drink up… I’d said the s
ame to Jeremy the night before his trip. I couldn’t stand the thought of him going to Switzerland with Madeleine. I’d convinced myself that if he did, our marriage would be over. All this – our beautiful home, the life we’d forged between us, our son, all the memories we’d made and shared together – it would be gone. Trashed for the sake of a few clichéd nights with a younger woman.
I figured if he overslept, if he missed the flight, then he’d take it as a sign and stay home with Kieran and me. He’d never get another booking at such short notice at that time of year and, even if he did, it would give me more of a chance to talk him out of it. I’d be able to convince him that we’d have the best New Year ever and he’d be glad he’d stayed home.
‘I’d better not,’ he’d said as I held the glass out to him. ‘I have to leave here at 5 a.m. to get to the airport. You know how important this documentary is to me. I’ve got a good feeling about this one, Jen. I really think it’s going to be big.’
I must have looked crestfallen as I dropped down into the sofa, placing the wine glass on the coffee table. I’d got one myself and had specially prepared that one for him.
‘Really?’ I’d said. ‘We won’t be able to raise a toast at New Year after all.’
I remember him eyeing the glass as the ten o’clock news came on the television – it was one of his favourite bottles of red. ‘Mmm, this is delicious,’ I’d said, sipping mine, curling up beside him on the sofa. I’d put my hand on his thigh, bringing it higher. ‘Do you really have to go?’ I’d tried every tactic over the last couple of weeks – from being tearful, to getting angry, to pretending I didn’t care.
And still the messages from ‘M’ had pinged onto his phone, with him telling me I was mad, imagining it, and the latest – I was driving him away.
‘Jen…’ he’d said in a playful but chastising way as my hand had crept higher still. He’d grabbed my wrist and kissed it, making me wonder if I’d imagined everything, that things were fine between us and always had been, and I was just stressed and tired like he said. ‘I haven’t even finished packing yet. God knows where my passport has got to.’
‘I’ll help you,’ I’d said, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. I reached over to the coffee table, handing him the glass. ‘Go on, you know you want to.’
‘You’re incorrigible,’ he’d replied. ‘But what the hell. Cheers.’
We’d clinked glasses, watched the news. Then I’d gone into the kitchen and refilled our drinks again. It took me a while, and by this time, Jeremy was way more relaxed, but I wanted to make sure. He was a big man.
‘Not sure about this wine, actually,’ he’d commented, holding up the glass. ‘Is it the Rioja you opened?’
‘Mmm,’ I’d confirmed. ‘Don’t you like it? I think it’s quite nice.’
Jeremy had done his usual swirling of the glass, inhaling it deeply before sipping it. He pulled a face as he drank, and we sat there watching the news then the weather, and I noticed at one point he’d dozed off.
‘Love?’ I’d said, flicking the television off with the remote an hour or so later. ‘Are you awake? It’s getting late.’
He’d mumbled something then, the empty wine glass held by the stem between two fingers propped on his lap. I took it from him and put it on the table. By then, he’d finished the whole bottle, while I’d been making sure I filled his glass out in the kitchen. Once he’d had one glass, he had no willpower.
‘You look done in, Jer.’
‘Mmm…’ he’d said, his head lolling back on the cushion.
I’d waited a bit longer, trying to talk to him, but he was getting less and less coherent. I’d encouraged him to get into a more comfortable position, helping him put his legs up on the sofa, putting a cushion under his head, him groaning as I did so. I even covered him with a blanket. All I wanted was for him to sleep through the night, until it was too late to get to the airport. And for good measure, I’d made his passport especially hard to find. I wasn’t proud of myself, but I was desperate. I wanted to save my marriage.
Breathing a little easier, I’d gone up for a shower then, wrapping myself in my silk paisley robe and tying it at the waist as I came out of the bathroom.
Then I’d let out a little scream.
Jeremy was standing there, swaying, his face red and his eyes bloodshot. He looked dreadful.
‘Christ, you made me jump,’ I said, smiling to hide my disappointment that he was awake so soon.
‘I need to pack,’ he said, opening the wardrobe doors, reaching out a hand but missing the hangers entirely. He was all over the place. ‘Passport… I need to find my passport.’
‘Isn’t it in your study cupboard where you usually keep it?’
He’d looked at me then, as if he didn’t even recognise me. ‘Study… yeah…’ he’d repeated and staggered off towards the stairs, leaving me to get into bed.
‘Cheers,’ Scott says to me now. ‘This wine tastes good,’ he comments, holding the glass up to the light. ‘I’m no connoisseur, but I like it.’ His mood is steadier now, less volatile, and he’s still wearing his badge, occasionally touching it with his finger. He seems like a little boy again.
I smile, opening the fridge to get out the food Scott has bought for dinner. ‘I have a nice bottle of Rioja you can have with dinner. Make a night of it, eh?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Scott says, coming up and taking me by the waist. His face pushes against my neck, shivers running down my spine as he kisses my skin. ‘Hey, you,’ I giggle, squirming inside from the pretence. ‘Mmm… sea bass,’ I say, easing my way out of his clutches with the fish in my hand. ‘My favourite.’
Scott busies himself with preparing some vegetables, while I tell him I’m popping out to the garage to fetch the wine from Jeremy’s store. I could grab my car keys and drive off, I tell myself as I pull on my shoes and go outside, waiting for the garage door to trundle up.
‘But I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…’ I whisper over and over as I search the garage. I can dispose of the USB stick but, even if I manage to get into his phone to delete the photographs, I can’t delete his mind, erase his memory. He can still do plenty of harm.
There – on the shelves behind Jeremy’s Stag. All the car maintenance stuff he used when he tinkered with the old thing. I pat its bonnet as I squeeze past, tripping over something on the floor, reaching out and grabbing the precarious metal shelving unit to steady myself. A load of bottles and cans crash to the floor, making a terrible noise.
I freeze, listening out in case Scott comes to see what’s going on, but my shaky breaths are the only thing to be heard – and the soft hoot of an owl in the distance. I grab the container I need from the lowest shelf then pick my way across the cluttered garage to Jeremy’s wine store. The plastic tub containing the girl’s underpants catches my eye. It’s no mystery who sent them any more.
I pluck a couple of bottles of red from the rack and head back inside, slipping off my shoes and grabbing my doctor’s bag. I quietly unlock Jeremy’s study before Scott realises I’m inside again, flicking on the light after I gently close the door. Thankfully, Scott has put some music on in the kitchen and is clattering pots and pans about. He’s up for playing happy families again now that I’ve appeased him, gone along with his deluded ideas. It doesn’t take a doctor to see he has serious mental health issues.
I take two of the good wine glasses from the drinks cabinet, the ones Jeremy and I got as a wedding present and always used on special occasions – Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries – and grab the bottle opener from the cabinet to uncork the wine.
Like I did a few weeks ago, the night before Jeremy was due to leave, I crush up a few 10 milligram diazepam tablets with the back of a spoon, mixing just a little of the powder into one of the glasses of wine, keeping some for later. I can’t have it tasting too bitter. My hand shakes as I stir the liquid, making sure all the tiny particles are dissolved. Scott isn’t as large as Jeremy, so I’m praying I have enough. I’d only inte
nded for Jeremy to fall asleep for the night, but it didn’t work. Similarly, I just want Scott asleep too.
Forty-One
Jen
‘That was delicious,’ I say, putting my knife and fork together. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask Scott as he sits opposite me. His eyelids appear droopy and he’s swaying in his chair. I suggested we eat in the dining room, near the big glass doors that lead into the garden. I’d switched all the garden lights on earlier, while he was serving up. ‘It looks so pretty out, especially when it’s frosty. It’s very romantic.’
I’d strung the lights up several summers ago, but sometimes put them on in winter too. They trail through the trees and hedge right down to the end of the garden, even reflecting on the pond in the paddock beyond. I needed him to believe everything was just as he wanted – that we were a perfect, happy family.
Scott gives me a lazy look – one that tells me his brain is sluggish and tired. ‘I never stopped thinking about you, Jennifer. All the time I was in prison.’
He takes another sip of his wine, yawning. I’ve managed to top up his drink several more times when he’s gone to the bathroom or popped into the kitchen, stirring in more of the crushed tablets. He pulled a face a couple of times, asking me what the wine was, if I’d had it before. When I asked if he didn’t like it, acted offended, he smiled and drank up.
‘Really?’ It comes as a surprise. There was nothing that had ever suggested he felt that way about me at school and in fact, I’d believed the opposite was true. After everything that had happened, I’d lived in fear of ever meeting him again. He’d been a vulnerable kid with difficulties at home. I should have known better.
The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 26
