The Women: A gripping psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  But a ripple of laughter has run around the class and she forces herself back.

  ‘Anyone?’ she manages to say. ‘What is the subtext of “Are you wearing that shirt?”’ She cannot look at Aisha.

  ‘It means don’t wear that bloody awful shirt,’ Reggie says. ‘You look a right bugger in it.’

  Again, the class laugh. Relief runs through her like cool water.

  ‘Exactly,’ she says, forcing a smile. ‘So try and remember – we hardly ever say what we mean.’

  The students file out, leaving their dialogue pieces on the desk.

  ‘See you over there.’ If Aisha picked up on any subtext in class, she doesn’t show it. ‘Shall I get you a peppermint tea?’

  She remembered. Too nice, too nice by far.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ Samantha says. ‘Give me five minutes; I have to mark the register.’

  Once the room is empty, she dives into the pile of students’ work. Eight students. She told each of them to copy out the dialogue and continue it individually for ten minutes so there should be eight pieces. Her chest expands, deflates. Nothing sinister. If it has been Sean all along, perhaps he’s now too scared after she caught him hanging around her house. Hopefully it’s enough to stop him doing it again. Alternatively, if she meets Aisha and Jenny now and then finds an extra sheet once she gets home, she will know it is Aisha and will tackle her directly. She has her phone number. She will call her and ask her what the hell she’s up to. How unpleasant.

  The door flies open. Peter is there, looking flushed and a little out of breath.

  ‘Peter?’ She stands up, alarmed. ‘Are you OK? Is Emily OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He smiles, presses the flat of his hand to his chest. ‘I’ve been running all over the college trying to find you. They’d listed the wrong classroom on the noticeboard. I ended up over in the business centre.’

  ‘Oh no, sorry about that. There was an exam. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have texted.’ She kisses him on the cheek. ‘Anyway, this is a nice surprise.’

  ‘Just thought I’d meet you, give you a lift home, make sure you were OK. Did you speak to Harry?’

  ‘I couldn’t find him. But it’s OK. There’s nothing this week. It’s exactly like you said: ignore it and they’ll get bored.’ She hands the folder to him. ‘Listen, can you indulge me and just check there are eight?’

  ‘Sure.’ He takes the papers from the folder, licks his thumb and forefinger and counts. ‘Eight,’ he says after a moment. ‘Eight students?’

  She nods, her eyes prickling with tears of relief.

  He looks genuinely relieved and she loves him in that moment. That he would care so much, that he would run all over college just to find her and offer her some support. He is taking it so seriously.

  ‘It’s nice of you to come for me,’ she says. ‘We can go and get Emily together.’

  She could bring Peter with her to meet Aisha and Jenny. That would really put the cat among the pigeons, as her mum would say. But something tells her not to. Aisha might well have Peter in her sights. The way she said ‘Get the hell out of my space’ in class a moment ago. A shiver passes through her. Aisha is really quite beautiful: large brown eyes and luscious black hair, not the thin, straggly mop that Samantha invariably finds herself pushing into her hat to prevent it flying away altogether. No, let’s not flirt with danger, not today.

  As they cross the courtyard, she thumbs a quick text to Aisha to tell her she can’t make coffee. She doesn’t give a reason. There is more to this situation, she knows it, and she wants to keep her powder dry.

  See you next week instead, she adds and presses send.

  ‘Can’t you catch up with your texts later?’ Peter asks, striding slightly ahead.

  ‘Sorry.’ Samantha slides the phone into her pocket, though not before reading Aisha’s reply.

  Next week then! Great class by the way. Jenny and I think you’re fab.

  Despite her misgivings, she feels a flush of pleasure. Aisha really is so generous and supportive. This would all be lovely and flattering were it not tinged with horrible, poisonous suspicion.

  As they approach the crèche, she sees Suzanne heading for the car park.

  ‘Suzanne,’ she calls out, but Suzanne is too far away to hear and doesn’t turn around.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Peter peers after her.

  ‘Just Suzanne, one of my students.’

  Peter nods. ‘Shame I missed them. I would have liked to say hello.’

  A knot tightens in her chest. Peter claimed to be here to pick her up, but now she wonders at the real motive behind his romantic impromptu appearance. It is quite out of character. Is it possible that he has read more into the rogue homework than he claims? Did he see in those pieces of writing, just as she did, the ghost of an ex-girlfriend? And did he come here to see not Samantha, but Aisha?

  Nineteen

  On the way home, Peter is talkative, funny even. If he did come to the college to see if he could catch his old flame in the act, then he doesn’t show any disappointment that he didn’t, and Samantha begins to feel like a paranoid basket case, incapable of reading innocence into any situation. Even if Aisha has been writing insidious notes, using enough guile to disguise her intelligence, that doesn’t mean that Peter has done anything wrong. Ninety-nine per cent of her knows this, of course. It is the one per cent that prevents her from mentioning Aisha’s name.

  They pull up outside the house, the wisteria that usually covers the front fence little more than a muscular stretching arm waiting for green shoots to disguise its cracked and greyish bark.

  Peter leans over and kisses her deeply on the mouth.

  ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘A down payment.’ He grins. ‘I’ll settle up later.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You’re really quite cheesy, you do know that, don’t you?’ She gets out of the car and lifts Emily out of the back. Peter is opening the boot. He pulls out the pram chassis.

  ‘Go inside,’ he says. ‘It’s cold. I’ll bring the rest in.’

  She goes inside shivering, towards the kitchen, where she pops Emily in her car seat on the table and flicks the switch for the kettle.

  ‘Will you be late?’ she asks, returning to the hall as Peter pushes the pram in through the front door.

  ‘Shouldn’t be. If I am, I’ll text. Sure you don’t want me to call Harry, by the way?’

  She follows him back out to the car. ‘Sure I’m sure. I think the nonsense has stopped now. As you said it would, you wise old man.’

  He pulls her into his arms and kisses her again. Playfully she hits him with her gloves.

  ‘Whatever will the neighbours think?’

  ‘They’ll think, “There’s a lucky bastard.” That’s what they’ll think.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t objectify women?’

  ‘I don’t. But they might.’

  She rolls her eyes and waves. ‘Cheese,’ she calls after him. ‘Pure cheese.’

  She waits until he’s driven off to return indoors. The pram already set up in the hallway, she decides to stretch her legs and catch the last of the day. She heads back down the hill towards town, and when she sees the specialist cheese shop, she has the idea of going in and buying some for Peter, for a joke. Like most of these deli-style food and wine places, he knows the manager – in this case, Jim. And it is Jim who lets her try a selection of expensive vintage Cheddars. She selects a ‘mellow, nutty’ piece, thinking that when she gets home, she will write a witty label for it, something to do with Peter being both cheesy and vintage. They can have a few cubes with their wine.

  She reaches the house as the last of the sun dies away. It is around half past five and she is thirsty and tired. Emily is awake, however, and needs a feed, so instead of tea, Samantha turns the heating on and pours herself a long glass of water before settling on the sofa, still in her coat. Emily sucks hungrily, her eyes closed in concentration. Samantha closes
her own eyes and tries to be still and in the moment. But just as she attunes to the calm and the silence, she hears a door latch click. Her eyes open wide.

  ‘Hello?’

  She stands. The strength has gone from her legs. Was it the front door or the back? She waits a moment until she feels able to move, then walks slowly towards the living-room door. It is awkward, with Emily still attached. It takes her a second or two to lean out into the hallway. The black and white diagonal tiles run to the front door. The front door is closed. In the dimness, the coats are a shadowy mass. The shape makes her tremble despite herself. She trains her ears against the silence, hears the soft hum of a car passing on the street. She feels like she did when she was a child, alone in her bed, listening for the knock of the chestnut branch against the kitchen window. It only happened when the wind was strong and the worst of it was that the knocking came intermittently. Just as she felt herself drift to sleep once more, another bang would come, muffled through her bedroom floor.

  She hobbles, cradling Emily, to the end of the hall and pushes the front door. Shut, definitely. The Yale lock should be enough. But still. Her keys are in her coat pocket. Christ, this is ridiculous, trying to lock the front door with Emily at her breast. Somehow, she manages the mortice lock. Peter will have a key for it.

  She stands in the dark hallway a moment, cursing herself. It has taken little to reduce her to this frightened child. She checks the back door. It is locked. Her satchel is on the kitchen table, so she grabs it and settles on the sofa once again. Emily sucks, at peace. Samantha’s heart slows. She needs to calm down. This whole poem business is nonsense and it’s taking on way too much importance.

  The heating clicks.

  Samantha half laughs.

  ‘That was the noise, Emily,’ she says to her little girl. ‘It was the radiator, not the door. Mummy’s a scaredy-cat, isn’t she? A silly scaredy-cat.’

  She wriggles out of her coat and pulls up her legs to cross them. Once she’s comfortable, she calls her mother, who asks if it’s her.

  ‘Of course it’s me. That’s why my name and my picture come up on your phone.’

  ‘All right, sarky. It’s just a figure of speech. Everything all right?’

  Samantha sighs. ‘Everything apart from being a nervous wreck.’ She tells her mother about the suspicious poems, plays the whole thing down. ‘I mean, I’m not going to let it get under my skin – it’s pathetic – and anyway, there was nothing today, so with any luck they’ve given up. I suppose I’m just stressed because of tiredness. And getting used to Peter.’ She stops. She has said too much.

  ‘What d’you mean, getting used to Peter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. He’s a bit night and day, you know? Blows hot and cold. I suppose sometimes it feels like I don’t know him, or we don’t know each other.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ her mother says. ‘It takes a long time to really know someone, and after everything with your dad, I wonder whether you ever really do.’

  ‘But for most of it, with Dad, you felt OK, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. And I think for most of it, it was OK. It was just the last few years. Midlife crisis, money worries. I wonder sometimes if he had a bit of a breakdown. And even if he didn’t, he wasn’t the first daft bastard to follow his you-know-what and he won’t be the last. It’s just a shame we lost the farm.’

  It is more than her mother ever usually says. Nothing is solid, Samantha thinks. There is nowhere to feel safe. This house should feel safe, but one click from the radiator and she’s a gibbering wreck.

  ‘You’ve had a lot on,’ her mother is saying. ‘You’ve gone from student to mother in such a short time. You’re so young, though I know you don’t like me saying it. And now you’re teaching as well. Maybe you should take a step back. Let Peter look after you and go back to work when Emily’s a bit older.’

  Samantha nods, even though her mum can’t see her. ‘I know, but Peter wants another child. He told me the other night when we were … talking.’ When they’d been in bed. He’d been inside her and she’d had to manoeuvre herself off him, insist that he used a condom. But you’re still breastfeeding, he’d said. You won’t be fertile. She’d reached for the bedside cabinet drawer, told him it was a myth. They would have another baby next year, but not yet. Strange, she thinks now. It’s not as if he is hugely interested in the baby itself, not really; more in the idea of making her pregnant. She wonders sometimes if when they conceived Emily, he did it on purpose.

  ‘Plenty of time for another,’ her mother says. ‘Maybe get married first, eh? The law won’t protect you if Peter … I mean, if anything were to happen to Peter. He’s a bit older than you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Mum. He’s hardly at death’s door!’

  ‘People have heart attacks at forty.’

  ‘Mum!’

  The cackle of her mother’s laughter comes down the line. ‘I’m not saying he’s going to cark it next week, love. Just that if anything happens, you’d get nothing. If you get married, what he has goes to you, unless he stipulates otherwise. That’s all I’m saying.’

  By the time Samantha rings off, Emily has reclined, her eyelids heavy as a heroin addict’s. Not a very nice comparison, she thinks, Tommy’s red-ringed, heavy-lidded stare coming to mind, but yes, Emily does look drugged. On milk, Samantha thinks. On love. This love is what her mother feels for her, always has. It is a love that cannot be understood unless experienced. From nowhere at all, her eyes prick with tears. There are people who cannot, who will never, experience maternal love, for whatever reason. The only saving grace is that they have not experienced it, so perhaps they are spared the knowing. Although the longing must be so painful. Maddening. Dangerous, even.

  Carefully she shifts Emily to her shoulder and carries her upstairs. Lays her in her white cot, pulls the cord for her lullaby mobile. Outside, the garden is a jumble of hulks and shadows, as ever. She shivers, pulls the curtains. These evenings without Peter are long, even if she feels oddly at peace in other ways. She is more carelessly herself, perhaps, though she can’t say in what way.

  She crosses the landing to close the curtains in her bedroom. On the street, at the edge of the halo of the lamp post, stands a man.

  A ball tightens in her chest. She pushes her face to the window. His hood is up, his face obscured. She tries to see if he’s holding a bike helmet, but the hedge is in the way.

  ‘No,’ she says, to the silent window. ‘No, no, no.’

  She runs down the stairs. Pops the latch and pulls.

  ‘Shit.’ She has double-locked the front door. She rummages in her coat pocket for the keys, unlocks the door, pulls it towards her so fast it flies out of her hand and shudders against the doorstop.

  ‘Sean?’ She is running down the front path, hugging her cardigan around her against the sudden cold. She is at the gate. ‘Sean?’

  There is no one. She looks left and right. Both hands clenched white around the iron gate, she roars at the road like a madwoman. Opens the gate, runs into the middle of the street. Nothing. No one. If the door slams, she will be locked out. Her feet are freezing; the damp cold comes through her thin socks as she runs back into the house.

  She stands in the hallway, willing herself to return to the living room. Her satchel is on the sofa. In it is her folder, the corner poking out. She pulls it free, flings it open. This time, she doesn’t have to leaf through the work. The anonymous sheet is on the top. It is not dialogue, but another poem. Typed. Blank paper. Someone must have delivered it by hand. Someone has been in this house.

  Do not go blindly into that bright light

  Do not go blindly into that bright light.

  It is but glass with only tricks to play.

  A mirror’s glare – beware! – you must take flight.

  Wise girls they know that silver tongues do lie.

  Those men are dogs, they hunt their prey by day.

  Do not go blindly into that bright light. />
  Bad men may bark and they may surely bite,

  Their only aim to lead young girls astray.

  That mirror’s glare – beware! – you must take flight.

  Farm beasts live better by a good darn sight

  Than men who plant their seed and run away.

  Do not go blindly into that bright light.

  Oh woman, you must hold your baby tight.

  You must take heed, please listen to me say:

  The mirror’s glare – beware! – you must take flight

  Yes, you, my dear, alone on this dark night,

  Please heed another who has passed this way:

  Do not go blindly into that bright light.

  A mirror’s glare – beware! – you must take flight

  She sinks to her knees. Reads it again, and again, the words and form at once strange and familiar. It’s a pastiche, she’s pretty sure, of the Dylan Thomas villanelle, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’. Dylan Thomas is Peter’s favourite poet. Peter told her once that he read that poem at his father’s funeral. Whoever wrote this must know that.

  Sean was outside a second ago. He must have put this here. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And yet it doesn’t; it doesn’t make any sense at all. Sean is too helpless. If it weren’t for the grubby anorak, she would want to hug him. If it was him outside just now, he must have broken in. But there’s no sign of that and … he can’t have written this, he just can’t. Unless … He’s so unsure of himself; easily startled. Could he have been browbeaten into delivering it for someone else?

  Think, Samantha. The themes are the same as the others: bad men, danger, women, herself. Reggie? No, too kind, too old, too cool. Daphne, no – ditto, plus too twinkly and mischievous, too happy in her skin. Tommy, no, too out of it, too disinterested. Lana, no, she would never have this kind of grasp of English. Suzanne, no, she left school at sixteen, knows nothing of poetry let alone which poet to imitate. Which leaves Aisha and Jenny. Jenny who is intelligent and perhaps a little strident … but no. Aisha, then. It all loops back to Aisha, Peter’s jilted ex, Aisha the English graduate who casually dropped T. S. Eliot into her first simple poem.