What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist

by Kerry Wilkinson

  The school bus has parked on the verge close to the cross – and a line of local children who go to the secondary school in Beaconshead are filing off. They mass in small groups, saying their goodbyes, before heading off to their various homes. The engine of the bus roars and it chunters off towards the hill, ready to drop off more young people in the next village along.

  I head for the Fox and Hounds because they do food for a few hours every evening. There’s no Deliveroo or Uber Eats out here – not even a standard pizza place – so, if people don’t want to cook at home, or drive somewhere, this is the natural alternative.

  Someone might think the village’s only pub might be above the point-scoring that goes on around here – but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There was a campaign last year to rename the place, which I think was backed by the Anti-Hunting League, or something like that. I was only aware of it when Harriet sent round an email saying that the campaign had to be fought ‘tooth and nail’. There were hundreds of words about ‘our way of life’ and ‘townies who don’t know what it’s like’. I think she mentioned tradition a good seven or eight times.

  In the end, the name of the pub remained and life went on. It wouldn’t be Leavensfield if there wasn’t a manufactured drama every few weeks. Until now, there were so few real problems that people have to invent their own.

  The pub is the sort of place that American tourists can’t quite believe actually exists. It’s all low beams, thin carpets and large dogs ambling around in case someone’s dropped something on the floor. The walls are decorated with browning photographs that show the village as it was in decades gone by. That is to say that it’s more or less the same now as it was then.

  Heads undoubtedly turn as I walk into the pub. It’s mainly villagers – but I quickly spot a small group of men I don’t know who are having a beer in the back corner. They could be journalists, or they could be people passing through on the way to somewhere else. I don’t want to risk being anywhere near them, so head to the opposite end of the bar.

  Zoe is in the corner, sitting with Frankie in front of the fire. She’s reading to him from a slim paperback but stops when she sees me and gives a small wave. I return it and she offers a smile before going back to what she was doing. Frankie is watching and seemingly listening to his mother, though I’m never going to be able to see him without remembering him humming my husband’s favourite song.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  The barman is the landlord’s son. He’s in his twenties and seemingly waiting for the day when his old man pops it, so he can take over the business. I can’t think of any other reason why he’s steadfastly remaining in the area.

  ‘Glass of red,’ I say.

  ‘Big or small?’

  ‘Big.’

  He measures out the wine and then tips it into a glass before taking my money. I head off to an empty booth that’s not far from the toilets. Hardly a prime spot – but it’s out of the way and nobody is likely to bother me.

  I start to read my book but it’s immediately apparent that I’m not going to be able to focus on anything. The words swim and swirl on the page and I take none of it in. It’s still better than being alone at home.

  There’s some sort of football on the TV, with half a dozen blokes huddled underneath the television chatting and watching. I have no interest in the sport but find myself half watching the screen because it’s something to do.

  Time passes.

  I order another glass of wine and then try my book a second time. It still washes past me and I’m not sure I could even understand a picture book at the moment.

  The evening drifts as I leave my coat on the seat and head for the toilets.

  If tourists find the pub charming, then the toilets are another matter. All the walls are tiled, which leaves the area freezing in the winter and boiling in the summer. I doubt it’s been refurbished at any point in the past twenty years. Probably more.

  Among the other issues, there is only cold water in here. I’m busy washing my hands when the door goes. I’ve been alone in here until now but, when I look up, the newcomer is standing in the doorway and she has venomous eyes that are only for me.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. Out of nothing, it feels a degree or two colder.

  Gemma’s eyes narrow as she looks me up and down. ‘You’ve got some nerve,’ she says.

  Nineteen

  I dry my hands on a paper towel and then drop it in the bin before turning to the door. Gemma is still standing there, not coming in – but not going back out, either.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I say.

  Gemma doesn’t reply and, when I try to move around her to leave, she sidesteps quickly so that she’s in front of me. She’s cleaned herself up since we were on the playground. Her hair has been washed and she’s in skinny jeans with a dark top – and the furry boots that are either Harriet’s, or a matching pair.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

  ‘You tell me.’

  She stares through me with such fire that the hairs stand up on my neck.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘For what?’ The reply fires back before I’ve barely finished speaking.

  I realise that I don’t know what I’m apologising for.

  Gemma seems unfazed and steps away from the door. She keeps moving directly towards me, leaving me nowhere to go except backwards. It’s only a few steps until the sink is pressing into my back and I’m stuck. Gemma is slightly shorter than I am and yet it feels as if she’s towering over me as she gets to within a step or two. Her eyes are wide and unfocused.

  ‘Your daughter’s at uni, isn’t she?’

  More chills.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How would you like it if someone took her? If someone smashed her over the head and left her for dead in a stream?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I’ve been with Alice at the hospital all day. There’s a machine breathing for her. They say she might never recover.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Where’s your husband?’

  Her eyes bore into me and there’s hatred there.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She takes another step ahead and all I can do is arch my body backwards against the sink. It presses hard into my lower back, leaving me creased with pain. Gemma is almost nose to nose with me and I have no idea what to do. Should I push her away? Hit her? Should I shout? If I do, then it will take no time at all for everyone in the village to know what’s happening.

  She’s so close that I can smell garlic on her breath.

  ‘Your husband tried to kill my daughter.’

  ‘He—’

  ‘Say it.’

  I open my mouth but the words don’t come. The crack comes from nowhere. I only realise she’s slapped me because of the sound it makes when her palm hits my cheek.

  A moment later and there’s the pain as my jaw burns. I never saw the blow but there are tears in my eyes, which I try to blink away.

  ‘Now, tell me where he is.’

  ‘I—’

  The second slap rings louder than the first. The sound of flesh on flesh echoes around the tiles until it’s like it’s happening over and over. I try to open my mouth but my jaw clicks and sticks.

  I see Gemma’s hand rising again – but I’m too quick this time as I put both hands on her chest and shove her away. She staggers backwards, just as the toilet door opens and Harriet appears.

  Gemma turns between the two of us, caught in the middle.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Harriet asks.

  I look to Gemma, who glares back at me, before turning away. ‘Nothing,’ she says, before striding past Harriet and out of the toilets.

  When I push myself away from the sink, my head spins and greeny-pink stars race from the edges of my vision. I have to hold onto the sink to stop myself from staggering.

  ‘Did something happen?’

  I ignore Harriet and turn to look in the mirror. The
right side of my face has already turned scarlet and there’s a pinprick of blood close to my eyebrow. I dab it away with my finger and then wash my hands.

  I can’t remember the last time I was hit. It would have been at school sometime, although specifics escape me. I vaguely remember some sort of clawing fight with a girl whose name I can’t recall. I have no idea what we were fighting about and the only clear memory is that she had red hair. That would have been more than thirty years ago. There was that other time – with that girl named Jen – but that wasn’t a fight, as such. Violence hasn’t been a part of my life. I suppose that’s isolated me from what should be an obvious fact: that it hurts to be hit.

  When I turn, Harriet has left the toilets and I’m alone once more. Everything happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to process any of it.

  I fully expect everyone to be watching as I emerge from the toilets. Someone will have noticed Gemma following me in, not to mention Harriet after that. Everyone will know what happened… except that nobody’s paying me any attention. It’s the teatime rush and people are busy tucking into their evening meals.

  My cheek is starting to sting as I pick up my book from the table. I don’t want to be here any longer, which leaves home as the lesser of two evils.

  I head outside and it’s a chilly walk up the hill to the house. The dank air clings to the back of my throat, leaving it tickly and hoarse. I move as quickly as I can, wanting to be away from the village.

  As soon as I get through the front door, that indefinable sixth sense prickles my ears. It’s like there’s an electrical undercurrent running through the hall as I close the door behind me.

  I stop and listen to the silence and then… something. There’s a gentle thud from the kitchen. Perhaps a cupboard opening, or the fridge door being closed. I move slowly along the hall as there’s a second, more defined, thump. It’s definitely the oven door snapping closed on the hinge.

  Someone’s in the house.

  It can only be Richard.

  *

  TWELVE YEARS OLD

  I’m almost out of the front door when Auntie Kath calls me back. ‘I can give you a lift to school, if you want,’ she says.

  ‘I’d rather walk.’

  She looks to me for a moment and I think she knows. She’s about to insist that she’ll drop me off at the gates… except that she doesn’t. She picks up her second slice of Marmite on toast instead.

  ‘I’ll see you later then, love,’ she says.

  ‘See ya.’

  I close her front door behind me and then walk to the corner before checking both ways and then ducking through the hedge into the alley beyond. The branches scratch at my back but I pull myself through and then continue on until I’m next to the bins at the back of the tower block.

  In my practice run, this was the fastest route to get to the safest place I knew of.

  There is one major downside, however: the rotting, bitter smell leaves me holding my breath and trying to work as quickly as I can while taking as few breaths as necessary.

  It doesn’t take me long to ditch the school tie, skirt and shoes into my school bag. I replace them with a longer, tighter skirt, plus my aunt’s old work heels that she says she doesn’t wear any more. With that done, I put my jacket back on and pull up the hood. There are no mirrors in which to check my handiwork – but it’s going to be as good as I can manage.

  I hide my school bag behind the bin and then head back the way I came. The one thing I hadn’t realised was how difficult it is to walk in Auntie Kath’s heels. Her feet are a little bigger than mine and I constantly slide backwards and forwards. That’s not the only problem. Even though I’ve tried heels before, these are higher than my previous attempts. I wobble my way to the bus stop, fighting a non-stop battle with gravity.

  When I get there one minute ahead of schedule, there are already six or seven people lined up waiting. I slot in at the back, keeping my hood up and my head down as I studiously avoid eye contact with anyone.

  I’ve got this far – but this was the easy bit.

  The bus pulls in a few minutes later and there’s a brief wait as someone in a wheelchair is helped off. After that, everyone in the line gets on one at a time. When it’s my turn at the front, I drop the stolen change into the driver’s hand. He presses a button on the console in front of him and then it chunters out a ticket, which he rips and passes over.

  I’ve been panicking about this moment ever since I figured out what I wanted to do today – except that the bus driver barely even looks at me. If he knows my age, then he doesn’t care.

  Each step of this plan is likely to be trickier than the last, so I spend the bus journey plotting through the scenarios of what I’ll say if anyone challenges me about what I’m doing by myself, or why I’m not in school. My general plan is to say something along the lines of, ‘Oh, how kind of you. People are always saying I look young.’

  I was going to claim to be seventeen if anyone asks. It’s only if they want ID that a real problem will arise.

  I get off the bus when it pulls in at the train station – and then get into another line for tickets. When I get to the front, the seller simply says, ‘Where to?’ I tell him and then ask for a return, before handing over the twenty-pound note that I stole from Auntie Kath’s purse. If she asks, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get away with claiming the theft has nothing to do with me. She’s like a telepath in knowing when I’m lying.

  The man behind the counter is already handing me the tickets and change when he withdraws his hand. I’ve been avoiding any sort of eye contact but it’s impossible now as I realise he’s staring.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Seventeen. I’ve got a job interview.’

  His eyes narrow and I know it’s all over. He’s going to call over one of the police officers that are hovering close to the gates – and then it will all come out.

  ‘Do you have a young person’s railcard?’ he asks.

  It’s not what I expected, and I struggle to get out a ‘no’.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘I’ll put it through as if you do.’

  He presses something on the computer in front of him and reopens the money drawer before passing across the tickets and my change.

  ‘Good luck with the interview,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  My heart’s pounding as I insert the ticket into the automatic gates. There are two police officers standing barely a metre from me and I angle away from them as there’s a fizz. My luck is still holding as the gates open and my ticket pops back up for me to grab.

  Almost there.

  When I get onto the platform itself, I have to sit on the bench because the shoes are hurting me so much that I’m sure I’ve already got blisters on both of my big toes. I think about taking them off – except that will only make people look towards me, and that’s the last thing I want.

  The train is on time and I wait for everyone to file on in front of me before clambering on at the back. There are no seats in the first carriage I try, so I keep walking through and into the next.

  My toes are throbbing and spiky jolts of fire burn at my calves. I can’t keep walking and, luckily, I don’t have to because there’s an entire double seat free close to the door. This time, when I sit, I do take off my shoes.

  I’m wearing dark tights – but they do nothing to cover up the pooling spots of red on my big toes. I can’t touch them because the pain is too much – but it’s too late now. I left my school shoes in my bag.

  I listen intently to each announcement about stops, paranoid that I might get off at the wrong place. As it is, there are so many announcements – and the signs at the station are so big – that it would be more or less impossible for me to have missed it.

  I’m half expecting there to be police at this station – but there isn’t. In fact, the concourse is empty aside from a handful of people standing around with newspapers. I walk barefooted, except
for my tights, through the car park and onto the street. I’m looking for signs that might help me know where I’m going – except there’s nothing other than those listing places of which I’ve never heard.

  I have to stop someone in the end. There’s an old woman pushing one of those things that are half-trolley, half-bag. She immediately looks down to my feet, with a concerned expression on her face.

  ‘What happened to your shoes, love?’

  ‘Too sore.’

  She starts to say something else – but I get in there quickly enough to talk over her.

  ‘Do you know where the prison is?’

  ‘Are you sure—’

  ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone.’

  She stares at me and she must know I’m too young to be doing this by myself. I can also see something in the way she stops to take a breath that she isn’t going to say anything.

  The woman takes a hand off her trolley and points back the way I’ve just come. ‘It’s that way,’ she says. ‘Past the station, turn left, and keep going. You can’t miss it.’

  I thank her and then turn and walk as quickly as my feet will allow. It’s hard because I keep stepping on small stones and each one sends sparks of agony through me. I end up having to walk on my heels, because it’s the least painful way of moving.

  It’s not long before I get to the point where I know I’m going to have to sit for a while. My tights have worn through at the back and, when I turn to look behind, there’s a series of bloody spots on the pavement.

  And then, it appears.

  The prison is like an old castle, with huge stone walls and an enormous gate at the front that towers high above me.

  For some reason, with the prison now in sight, my feet no longer hurt. I wait at the crossing and ignore the sideways glances from the man at my side, before bounding ahead of him. When I get to the prison gates, I realise this isn’t the actual way in. Instead, there’s a small sign with an arrow that points around to the side.