The Women: A gripping psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘Sean? Why wouldn’t I be OK?’ Nothing. ‘Sean, can I ask you, have you been in my house?’

  This time he does look up. It is no more than a second, but his eyes are wide and scared.

  ‘I would never go in your house,’ he says. ‘That’s breaking and entering. That’s trespassing.’

  He is telling the truth; she has no idea why she knows this, but she does.

  ‘So that’s what you were doing outside my house last week? Checking on me?’ She lays her hand softly on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘It’s OK. I’m not angry. I just want to clear this up. Can you talk about it?’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’ He stares at his shoes. All she can see is his greasy hair, his parting a ruler-straight line. ‘You’re so kind to me and I just wanted … I just wanted to make sure you were safe.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be safe, Sean?’

  He shakes his head but still doesn’t look up.

  ‘Sean?’

  ‘You looked scared. In week two. She was …’

  ‘She was what? Who was? Who was what, Sean?’

  ‘Nothing. No one. You said someone had written something about you. You looked scared, so I was worried. I was only trying to make sure you were OK, Miss.’ He is breathing deeply, his eyes darting, his hand working his zip so hard she fears it might burst into flames. Poor guy. She has completely stressed him out.

  She lets her hand fall. ‘Oh, Sean, it’s so kind of you to look out for me like that. Thank you.’

  He steals a glance, drops his gaze once again. ‘That’s OK. I wasn’t busy.’

  ‘Well, it’s really kind. But I don’t want you to do that anymore, all right?’ She keeps her voice low and gentle. ‘I’m not scared, I’m fine. I’m much better now that I know it was you, but if you’re waiting outside my house again, that might make me feel scared, even though I know you’re only looking out for me. The thing is, we had to call the police last week, and if they catch you there, you’ll be in trouble.’

  He twitches, begins to move from one foot to the other and back. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t need to be sorry, Sean. Nothing to be sorry about, all right? Just … just best not do that again, that’s all.’

  ‘OK.’

  She is about to continue on towards the classroom but stops.

  ‘Did you write those poems, Sean?’

  ‘What poems, Miss?’

  ‘What I mean is, did you write the poem in week one and leave it anonymous?’

  ‘I only wrote my poems with my name on.’ He meets her eye. ‘For copyright.’

  She holds his sad blue eyes with hers. ‘All right, Sean. It’s OK.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I won’t come near your house again, sorry.’

  Daphne arrives and places a multicoloured knitted flower on Samantha’s desk.

  ‘I made you a corsage,’ she says and smiles. ‘I hope you like it.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, thank you!’ Samantha inspects the tiny stitches, impossibly neat, the thin green stem, the bright leaves fanning out. Really, it is a thing of wonder. She pins it to the lapel of her coat. ‘I love it!’

  ‘You are kind.’ Daphne fixes her with her watery stare. ‘And kindness is to be encouraged now more than ever.’

  For a moment, Samantha is too choked to speak. She has felt her vulnerability as sharp as a blade this week, but there is so much good in the world; she mustn’t forget it.

  ‘Emily settled in fine.’ Suzanne is at the door. ‘Do you want a hand with the desks?’

  It occurs to Samantha that Suzanne must have been checking her own child in earlier, as she said she was going to last week, but there is no time to ask about it there and then. Together they arrange the desks into a horseshoe, and as Samantha positions her own desk in the centre, she resolves to say nothing about the villanelle, about the police coming to her home; simply hand out the dialogue pieces and crack on. Whoever is the frustrated would-be author of those mean little poems will get no satisfaction from her.

  ‘So last week we looked at dialogue,’ she begins, scanning her students, noting that Tommy is absent. ‘But what happens if you go into the dialogue or the action without setting the scene – the where and the who and the what time of day?’

  Aisha half raises her hand.

  Fuck off, Aisha, she thinks.

  ‘Aisha?’ she says, rictus grin fixed to her face.

  ‘If you don’t set the scene, the reader doesn’t know where they are?’ Aisha’s eyebrows are keen and diligent. Does the woman have an expression that isn’t earnest, for God’s sake? Can eyebrows even be diligent?

  ‘The reader doesn’t know where the characters are,’ Samantha corrects, pedantically perhaps. ‘Or whether it’s night or day, or who is there. And if the reader doesn’t know where your characters are, what are they wondering?’

  ‘Um, where they are?’ Aisha’s voice betrays her fear of stating the obvious.

  ‘And if the reader is wondering where they are, who is with them, whether it’s three in the morning or five in the afternoon, what is the reader not thinking about?’ Samantha looks around. ‘Suzanne?’

  Suzanne blushes, shake her head.

  Too soon, Samantha realises. Still too shy. ‘Reggie?’

  ‘The … well, the story?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Together they study a scene from Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín, one from Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene, both Peter’s suggestions, and while the Tóibín has a vulnerable young woman at its heart, now it irks her that both authors are men. It could be her raging stress levels, but Peter’s help is beginning to seem more like interference to her now, a desire to tell her how to do things, to control how she does them.

  ‘So, clarity is your biggest challenge,’ she says. ‘You know what’s in your head, you can see it, but you have to remember to let the reader see it too.’

  She sets them an exercise: to write a scene around last week’s dialogues, focusing on clarity. The class has almost taken her mind off the poems, her first night alone in the house, but when half past one comes, she checks the door, opens it a fraction and looks out. No sign of Harry. Quarter to, ten to. Five to. She peers out once again into the corridor. He isn’t coming. He must have been waylaid, as often happens. Everyone in this place is pulled in five different directions at once.

  Two o’clock.

  Aisha and Jenny mime coffee and Samantha nods. Too right she’ll have coffee. She will have coffee and ask the pair of them what the hell is going on. Now that she knows it isn’t Sean, it can only be one or other of these two. Or both.

  The classroom empties. Pit in her stomach, she flicks through the scenes one by one. There is no anonymous work. She counts them out again, double-checking, then triple-checking, but still there is nothing that shouldn’t be there. She picks up the empty folder and, illogically, turns it upside down and shakes it. Seven students were here. Seven pieces of paper. The only other person in this whole circus who isn’t here is Peter.

  She shakes her head. Nonsense. That idea is nonsense. But even as her mind strays where it shouldn’t, part of her almost hopes that this evening, another nasty note will arrive, if only to prove that it isn’t her own partner playing some hateful trick.

  A hubbub of different languages reaches her from the corridor. She watches the other class file in, led by Gabby, her blonde hair and black-framed glasses whizzing by. Some of the women wear hijabs, one of the men wears a turban, and she wonders what brought them here, how they live, how they cope with so little English.

  She should get a move on, she thinks, see what Aisha and Jenny come up with.

  Twenty-One

  In the cafeteria, Aisha is biting into a huge toasted sandwich. Two ropes of melted cheese escape, sending a blob of tomato swinging down like a trapeze. Both she and Jenny are finding this hilarious.

  ‘Hey,’ Samantha says,
already feeling on the outside.

  ‘We got you a peppermint tea,’ Jenny says, wiping her eyes. ‘There’s sugar on the side. Don’t look at Aisha if you’re squeamish, it’s revolting.’

  Aisha raises a hand, grinning through her mouthful of food. Her wrists are so delicate, her fingers long and thin as a pianist’s. She is so pretty, even with food all over her face. She could have any man she wanted. Why try and manipulate her way back to Peter?

  Samantha sits down, her spine rigid as a pole. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good, yeah,’ Jenny says. ‘I’ve got an interview with a start-up this week, so if you’re lucky, you might not see me again.’

  ‘That’s great. I mean, that’s great if it’s a job, not great that you’re leaving.’

  ‘Actually, Samantha,’ Aisha interrupts. ‘I really need to tell you something. I wanted to tell you the other week, but you had to rush off, and then last week you couldn’t make it, so I’m going to say it right now in case you have to go.’

  Samantha’s face heats. ‘OK.’

  Aisha puts her sandwich on the paper plate and wipes her mouth with a napkin. She glances at Jenny, then back at Samantha. Samantha’s stomach clenches – here it comes.

  ‘The other week,’ Aisha begins, ‘you mentioned you were with a UCL lecturer. As in living with?’

  Samantha nods, all speech for the moment quite impossible.

  ‘Well, it’s Peter Bridges, isn’t it?’

  Samantha feels herself blush. ‘How would you know that?’

  Again, Aisha glances at Jenny, as if to reassure herself that she has permission to continue. ‘Well, the thing is, after the very first class, we, um, once we had your name, we, um, we looked you up on Facebook—’

  ‘Not in a creepy way,’ Jenny interrupts. ‘Just, you know, normal stalking levels.’

  ‘We were only curious,’ Aisha continues. ‘You seemed so nice and everything, so we just tapped your name in and looked at, literally, three photos.’ She turns to Jenny, who nods.

  ‘Literally three or four,’ she adds.

  ‘We didn’t scroll down your whole history or anything,’ Aisha goes on. ‘But there was a photo of you and Peter and the baby. You know, about three months ago?’

  ‘Five,’ Samantha says quietly. ‘Nearer six, actually. It was the week she was born.’

  Aisha looks like she’s sitting on spikes. ‘Yeah, so, the thing is, I didn’t know that when I booked onto the course, obviously. I didn’t know you’d gone to UCL or read English or anything at all. Well, the college doesn’t put the name of the tutor on the course details, so neither of us even knew who it was going to be, did we, Jenny?’

  Jenny shakes her head.

  ‘And Jenny didn’t even book onto the course until I made her, did you, Jen?’

  ‘Nope. I wasn’t planning on doing a course, but when Aisha suggested it, I was, like, yeah, whatever, something to do, you know? I thought it would make a change from mainlining Kit Kats in front of Loose Women.’ She laughs, as does Aisha.

  In her discomfort, Samantha smiles. She doesn’t laugh, couldn’t even if she wanted to. The photograph of Peter with his arm around Aisha sharpens in her mind. Peter and Aisha, she thinks. Sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

  ‘So is that why you wrote the shitty poems?’ The question is out before she is aware of herself asking it, of the power in her voice.

  Aisha frowns. ‘What shitty poems?’

  ‘The clerihew in week one?’ Samantha insists. ‘Don’t you remember I asked about it? Someone wrote a clerihew with my name in it and wouldn’t own up to it. Then there was a limerick, a piece of flash fiction. And the villanelle was really impressive, by the way.’

  Aisha glances at Jenny, back to Samantha. She shakes her head. In both their eyes, only confusion. Samantha falters.

  ‘What? That’s four. There was only one, wasn’t there?’ Jenny says. ‘Why, was it dodgy? You didn’t say it was dodgy. Were they all dodgy?’

  Jenny’s voice floats overhead, but Samantha is staring into Aisha’s deep brown eyes. She is staring so hard she can see her own face, pale and small and pathetic.

  ‘Yes, it was … dodgy.’ She looks down at her hands. Her nails are bitten, though she can’t remember biting them. ‘They all were. I didn’t mention the other ones. I didn’t want to give it any oxygen. Peter said—’

  ‘You’ve been getting abusive poetry?’ Jenny interrupts. ‘That’s mental abuse. Can we see?’

  ‘It wasn’t us,’ Aisha says, her voice plaintive, hurt.

  Samantha flops back in her chair. Both women are looking at her, and all she can pick up is concern. Their guilt over looking her up on Facebook was palpable; if they knew anything about the poems, she would sense it, surely. But where does that leave her? Where does that leave her and all this poison?

  ‘I’d rather not show you,’ she says after a moment, ‘if it’s all the same. They made me uncomfortable that’s all, and we thought that maybe one of them was left in my house, but to be honest, I’m not even sure about that anymore. I just got the heebie-jeebies; forget I said anything.’

  But Jenny is leaning forward and looks uncharacteristically serious. She pushes her long red hair behind both ears, something businesslike in the gesture. Her hair is dyed, Samantha realises in that moment. Punk copper rather than natural auburn. And her freckles, even her freckles appear darker, as if they’ve come out in support.

  ‘Samantha,’ she says, her voice deeper, ‘if someone is sending you abusive notes, you need to report it. If it’s someone from the class—’

  ‘It’s hardly abuse. Just words. There’s no proof it’s anyone from the class.’

  ‘OK, but words are still abuse. It’s intimidation. Anything that makes you uncomfortable or frightened is serious. It’s abuse no matter how you look at it.’ She reaches out her hand, as if to hold Samantha’s, but Samantha picks up her cardboard cup.

  Abuse. The term is strong, but it soothes something in her. It explains something about the way she’s feeling, makes sense of it, gives her the right to feel it, almost.

  ‘If you don’t want to show us, that’s fine,’ Jenny says. ‘And just for the record, I can assure you it’s neither of us. We only looked you up once we got home, didn’t we, Aish? So why would we write anything malicious? But you do need to tell the police.’

  ‘I have,’ she says. She will make no mention of Sean. It isn’t that she still distrusts Aisha and Jenny; she’s just not ready to trust them completely. Simply because someone seems genuine doesn’t mean they are. And even if they are genuine in one respect, it doesn’t mean they are in all.

  Jenny sits back in her chair. ‘I hope they catch him and chop his knob off.’

  ‘We don’t know it’s a man.’

  ‘It will be,’ she says, her expression sour. ‘It always is, trust me.’

  Trust me. That’s what Peter always says. And there’s that aggression in Jenny too, as in the poems. Samantha shakes her head, shakes the thought away. For a moment, none of them say a thing.

  ‘I need a pee,’ Jenny says and disappears in the direction of the ladies’.

  Samantha looks at her watch, pulls her satchel strap onto her shoulder and stands. It’s only half past two, but she has no idea what to say or where the three of them go from here. She wants more than anything to be alone to think. Maybe write a list of everything that’s making her feel so wired. Marcia would know what to do, or at least she would talk it through until Samantha felt better. But Marcia is a blurry memory of something precious lost.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Aisha says. ‘There’s something else.’

  I know, Samantha almost says, but I’m too tired to hear it.

  ‘I used to see Peter,’ Aisha says. ‘I mean, more than see. We were together. That’s why I needed you to know that I didn’t know you were teaching this course. I wouldn’t want you to think anything … I mean, I’m not here with any darker purpose or anything. And now you’ve said about the poe
ms, I can’t imagine what you must’ve been thinking.’

  ‘I know,’ Samantha replies, sitting back down. ‘About you and Peter, I mean.’

  ‘You know? How?’ Aisha gives a slow nod. ‘He read the names on the homework.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mentioned me?’

  ‘No, actually. I found a photograph of the two of you in a drawer.’

  ‘Listen.’ Aisha reaches across the table, but again Samantha withdraws her hand.

  ‘You need to know who you’re dealing with.’ It’s Jenny, back from the loo. She plonks herself in her chair and sighs.

  The conspiratorial glance passes once again between the two women. Whatever is coming, Samantha has the feeling she’s about to be pulled into it, whether she wants to or not.

  ‘Let me tell you how Aisha and I met.’ Jenny rests both elbows on the table; her hands weave together in front of her. ‘We were in the pub, as we told you. The Marlborough Arms.’

  Samantha’s stomach churns. Whatever is coming, she doesn’t want it in her head, but she’s desperate to hear it. And in all of this she has a feeling that she already knows it, the essence of it at least.

  ‘I don’t know how we got talking,’ Jenny is saying. ‘But we were quite pissed, weren’t we, Aish? We liked each other, we made each other laugh. We ended up walking the same way to the Tube at Goodge Street. And I don’t know exactly how it came out, but Aisha mentioned that she was going out with this guy. She was going through a rough time with him, beginning to think he was a bit of a shit.’

  ‘I was in the second year of a part-time MA,’ Aisha says. ‘Peter and I started going out in my final year. I graduated, did some crap jobs, and eventually he suggested I do an MA, so I did. I was twenty-six when I met Jenny. I’d been with Peter for five years.’

  ‘So she’s talking about this guy.’ Jenny takes up the story again. ‘And she says he’s a lecturer. She tells me he’s a little older than her.’ She glances at Aisha. ‘Mentions his beautiful house, tells me he teaches art history. And before she even said his name, I knew it was Peter.’

  Despite herself, Samantha asks, ‘How?’