Shame on You: The addictive psychological thriller that will make you question everything you read online

by Amy Heydenrych

  Chapter 29

  Tyler then

  Frankie’s on a mission today. She’s unstoppable. Her blaze of curls shimmers as she paces out the door of her parents’ place and towards her car. She’s lost in her phone, fighting with Google Maps to give her the best route out of London for this time of the morning. Tyler’s heart jumps in his chest – she shouldn’t be doing that while walking, she should watch where she’s going.

  Not that she listens to him anymore. Despite his views on the matter, she has been planning this trip for weeks, a visit to the so-called ‘Dr’ Ray, some quack dispensing questionable medical advice from his hideout in the forest. It makes him feel so helpless he could scream, but love is about compromise, and he just has to hope that her common sense will prevail before it’s too late. His breathing quickens as he pulls open the door and jumps into the passenger seat.

  ‘Frankie, this is batshit crazy.’

  ‘Tyler! I didn’t expect to see you here . . .’ The glint of rage in her eyes both terrifies him and spurs him on. Doesn’t she understand that, no matter what his thoughts are on the matter, he will always be there for her?

  Who is this new, manic woman who doesn’t turn to him for comfort anymore? Her eyes are always distracted now, flitting over him and looking just past him. Even though she touches his hand sadly as she drives, he knows that she doesn’t really need him there, not in an essential way, not in the way that matters most.

  The majesty of the city crumbles and is replaced by an intense emerald landscape that hurts his eyes. He doesn’t like the country and has taken refuge in cities ever since he and his father packed away the magic house decades ago. Doesn’t Frankie remember this? Doesn’t she care?

  ‘Babe, please slow down . . .’

  The road jolts in a sickening curve to the left and begins to darken. He wishes she’d let him drive but ever since the sickness came, she’s become infuriatingly independent. It’s all to make some sort of point, that she’s still well enough to be part of this world, even though he can see her hands shaking against the wheel.

  The sky is crowded with pine trees overhead. The woods she is searching for are so close he can smell them. It’s fine. They will get there and she will do whatever crazy hippie shit she has planned and he will talk some sense into her on the way home. He keeps setting deadlines in his head, dates and days when he will say, ‘Right, enough of this fucking nonsense.’

  The problem is the so-called science. In the realm of the sick, there are doctors and then there are the almost-doctors, the better-than-doctors, the conspiracy theorists alive with their particular brand of treating the ill. Some promote an alkaline diet, others latch on to Indian medicine after one trip to Goa. They use crystals, essential oils, vibrations, massage, roots and berries to channel their elusive power. Their most potent ingredient, hope. Their deepest flaw, the conviction that theirs is the only path. Humouring this façade is enough to set him alight from the inside. His ever-present rage, the one that only Frankie can calm, is back.

  Sticking out of the bushes is a hand-painted sign. Frankie swerves violently to make the gravelled entrance.

  ‘Oh, thank God, we’re here,’ she whispers to herself more than Tyler.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right place, sweetheart? It seems pretty uninhabited to me. We can always turn around and go home – you’re looking rather pale.’

  Her lips glow white against her freckled skin. She turns away from him, gets out of the car and once again loses herself in the alternative reality of her phone.

  ‘Let me message him and tell him we’re here.’

  Ray, the name suited to a charismatic preacher with slicked-back hair and a Ferrari bought with his congregation’s monthly tithing. But no, this Ray is a natural healer slash herbalist slash opportunist. From what Tyler could gather from Frankie’s previous excited rantings, he had been interviewed for Holly’s blog and she had recommended him to her readers as the person to visit for treating any illness naturally. Holly had gone to him personally, Frankie said, and she credited him with helping her beat cancer. Something about this struck a note of discord in his mind – he has seen incredibly limited data on cancer sufferers who have survived based on a natural diet alone.

  As she stands in front of the woods, her red hair tumbling over her shoulders and the bones of her back jutting out like wings, it strikes him how suddenly fragile she has become. When did the muscles in her calves wither away? When did the back of her jeans begin to sag? The urge to gather her up in his arms and carry her home is physically painful.

  ‘Wait, I can see it! Come on then, let’s go.’

  The air screams with silence as Frankie’s BMW crunches over the ragged road. She is humming with happiness.

  ‘So, tell me again, what exactly do you hope to get out of meeting this Dr Ray?’

  ‘I’m here to heal, Tyler. The more I read about Holly’s journey and the stuff that Dr Ray says on her blog, the more I see just how disconnected we all are from our bodies, you know? We just push and push ourselves to achieve, always edging the goalposts further away, each time believing that if we reach them we’ll be happy. We ignore our bodies when they tell us we feel tired, and we pop another headache pill in the hope it will go away. I’ve been sick for a long time, but it’s only recently that it’s been given the name cancer.’

  He wants to shake her. He wants to say, ‘Does this mean you were sick during the happy times we had together before you found out? Does this sparkling new perspective that cancer has given you eradicate everything that has come before it?’ He’s jealous of it – the cancer – for colonising her body, and now her mind, for taking her away from him bit by bit. He sighs, and says instead, ‘Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  Frankie turns and stares out the window, the woods holding secrets only she can decipher. ‘I will, I always do.’

  Dr Ray’s cabin looms at the top of the hill, glowing from within like a real estate advert. He is standing at the door, in cotton shorts and a Liberty printed T-shirt despite the autumn chill in the air. His hair falls in greying blonde waves on his shoulders. Seemingly endless cats swirl around his feet. The bastard is so wealthy, he doesn’t even have the decency to hide it.

  ‘Hello there! Am I finally getting to meet the radiant Frankie in person?’

  ‘Yes! Oh my gosh, it’s so crazy, right? After all these months of emails . . .’ She bounds out of the car, leaving Tyler to close the door behind her. He’s been reduced to an afterthought, a slave.

  ‘And this is?’

  ‘Tyler,’ Frankie mumbles.

  He moves forward and grabs her waist. ‘I’m Frankie’s boyfriend.’

  ‘Boyfriend? What a lovely surprise, Frankie!’ Tyler can feel his cheeks burning red. After everything he has done she cannot even mention him in an email? For the first time, he feels like he is not welcome here, in this complicated present.

  The two share a loaded look. ‘I’m sure Frankie would be nowhere without your support,’ Ray adds. There’s something sinister about the way he says it. He sees them to a spacious lounge area with luxury linen furniture. Wide glass windows reveal the tangled forest below. Dr Ray has silently appeared beside him. ‘I was an architect in my former life before I was led to become a healer. When it came to this place, it was important to me to build it as a statement of my intention. If I want to live more in tune with the earth, my building has to be in tune with it too. We’re all one.’ His eyes flit to Frankie. ‘Come through to my office, Frankie.’

  Tyler tries to relax but it’s not to be. It’s just not fair, the two of them sitting together, conspiring over her illness. When did cancer become a room that he, a surgeon, isn’t allowed to enter? After what seems like an eternity, the door opens and the two emerge flushed and secretive. She’s clutching a hessian bag heavy with herbs in one hand and holds a large rose quartz in the other. Tyler doesn’t miss her hand slipping into her purse and pulling out a stack of n
otes. Survival is expensive. Dr Ray holds both her hands earnestly in his and says something he can’t quite make out. They both look towards him and Frankie nods quickly.

  ‘See you in six months!’ she says brightly as she pushes the door open. The sun catches Tyler’s eyes, causing them to water. He rubs them like a petulant child as he follows her to the car.

  ‘So, what did he have to say?’ he asks on the drive back.

  ‘It’s OK, Ty. You don’t have to do this. I know you don’t believe in this stuff.’ Her voice is different with Tyler. All the warmth she held for Dr Ray has been drained out of it. Her words come out slower now, tired.

  ‘No, it’s fine, babe. Just tell me what he said.’

  ‘You sure?’ A spark of warmth, her hand doesn’t bat his away.

  ‘Yeah!’

  The only way he can force her to love him right now is by pretending to be someone else. ‘Well, he just spoke about how any illness in our body is something that has roots in our mind. A sickness or cancer grows from a negative thought we have about ourselves, or worry. It has roots in deep self-criticism and a lack of self-worth.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You’re one of the most confident people I know.’

  ‘On the outside, maybe, but I have my fair share of feeling undeserving.’ Her eyes vacantly survey the road ahead, consciously avoiding his. ‘Why do you think I put so much pressure on myself to achieve? Anyway, it comes down to a bit more than emotions. There is a lot of evidence that shows us that chemotherapy can actually make us sicker and suppress the very systems our body has inbuilt to fight cancer.’

  He tries to hold down the sarcasm in his voice, ‘So what does he suggest you do?’

  ‘Well, he gave me some herbs, some meditations and some crystals to balance my chakras, and he echoed a lot of Holly’s advice. I need to cut out dairy completely and cut out sugar, for real this time. No little treats or cheat days. I need to have three green juices or smoothies a day and eat completely raw. This will bring about more radical changes than one round of chemo can promise.’

  ‘Wait, so you’re not going to even try chemo at all? What about what we discussed the other week?’ What about what he discussed, more like. Frankie had shut him out and refused to listen to him. She wasn’t thinking rationally anymore.

  ‘Leave it, Tyler. Just honour my choice. I’m not fucking stupid, OK? Why should I waste my life feeling sick as a result of something that is not guaranteed to cure me? You of all people should understand that radiation for my type of brain tumour carries a risk of taking away my sight, and even my memory. What is the point of getting better, if the thing that cures me erodes who I am?’

  Tyler responds in a slow, sing-song voice now, playful yet poisoned with rage. He hates himself for it, but can’t control it. ‘So, you are going to dispute decades of medical science in favour of drinking . . . I don’t know . . . fucking carrots and kale? Have you ever, in your selfish, cloistered life, considered that this decision doesn’t impact on just you? That by following some glorified diet you are not only damaging yourself, but others? Fuck. You know, I thought you were intelligent, Frankie, but you’re as loopy as all the other girls.’

  ‘Get out of the car, Tyler,’ she whispers.

  ‘Out here in the middle of nowhere?’

  ‘You are not welcome here. Get out.’

  He grabs her wrist and looks deeply into her mesmerising eyes.

  ‘Make me.’

  The sarcasm is boiling up now, swelling up through his throat in angry, hooting laughter. This is how that day is immortalised in time. Lines of wood rushing past in a blur of green and brown. The heavy, clinging scent of eucalyptus oil seeping out of the bag that had fallen over on the backseat. Tyler laughing manically, poking Frankie with a rough finger, while she cried soundlessly over the wheel.

  They never drove along that road together again. She never made her next appointment. In less than six months, Frankie was dead.

  Chapter 30

  Holly

  Holly jerks against the restraints cutting into her wrists. Something liquid dribbles down the side of her mouth. Her tongue strains to taste it. Blood. She’s trying to open her eyes but they’re stuck together with sleep. What she can make out sways back and forth. The memory of what she saw before she passed out burns as instantly and completely as acid. Those eyes that drew her in, smiling coldly at her as he clutched a knife in his hand. She needs to tell someone. Her lips won’t budge; they feel like someone else’s. Her throat – raw from screaming – stings as she tries to form a sound. There’s a black shape in front of her, quickening towards her bedside, grabbing her arm. Oh God, no, please. Someone help, please. Something hard and round being pushed into her mouth. No, no, no, no.

  ‘Holly, for heaven’s sake, stop fighting and drink the fucking water.’ The dark blur begins to take shape. It’s Zanna, lion-haired and sunken-eyed, holding a water bottle with shaking hands. The female warrior is gone, and has been replaced by a defeated shell at the end of her bed.

  ‘What? Have you never seen me without make-up before? Wait . . . don’t answer that . . . I’m not sure you’re supposed to be talking.’

  The water feels gloriously cool against Holly’s throat. She glugs until she can’t take any more. Her tongue loosens and touches her lips and the insides of her cheeks. Two little slits at the corners of her mouth seem to be responsible for all the blood. Other than that, her face feels painless under her bandages. She doesn’t need to see the result to know with intuitive certainty that the infection has been calmed. But why the uncontainable panic? What about the eyes she stared into in the minutes before she succumbed to the anaesthetic?

  Dr Warner steps inside the room, trailed by two nurses. His posture is as grave and fretful as Zanna’s. Something terrible has happened. She can feel it crouching in the corner of the room.

  ‘How is our little fighter feeling this morning?’ His voice seems harder today. He won’t look her in the eye.

  Fighter? What went wrong? Why won’t anyone tell her?

  ‘Sorry, Doctor, is she supposed to talk?’ Zanna asks.

  ‘Yes, the sooner the better really. We need to restore mobility to those muscles as soon as possible. Now, tell us, do you remember what happened yesterday?’

  Arms, she remembers arms pulling her down, her hands grasping to get free. He was going to kill her. She knows it. Dr Warner’s tired face is covered in raw scratches, a study of her own injuries in miniature. The sleeve of his shirt slides back to reveal a row of bruises. Was it her . . . ? No, it can’t be? She wouldn’t, would she?

  ‘I, I remember seeing my attacker. He was a surgeon; he was right there above me holding a knife. I was trying to get away.’

  He shakes his head sadly. ‘Holly, that just isn’t possible. The only other doctor in the room was my assistant, Dr Tyler Wells, who has just got back from conducting facial reconstruction operations for an NGO. He’s up for a prestigious award for his work in the field and hardly ever leaves this hospital. He’s not your attacker. Do you believe me when I say this?’

  Tyler Wells, she tries to remember the name but already feels it slipping away.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. I was so sure. His face, it looked the same. I thought I was going to die in there.’

  ‘But you didn’t, see? All we did was provide you with the best medical care and fix up your injuries – just in time I might add. It will take a while for you to smile the way you used to, but in a few weeks, the scarring will be a lot more . . . manageable.’

  Manageable. That doesn’t sound like healed, or like a path back to who she used to be. The disappointment seeps out the corner of her mouth, a pathetic whimper.

  Dr Warner’s hand glides over his scratched jaw. ‘I’m glad we could assist you and I hope you get well, but in many ways this might have been a mistake on my part. You are clearly a very troubled girl and, well, I thought you were . . . somebody di
fferent. We all did.’ He places a card next to her bed. ‘Yesterday was tough on us, Holly, on me and on my staff. You were in a compromised position and could have done yourself real damage if we hadn’t controlled you. You won’t be seeing me again, unfortunately. I have passed you on to another doctor for your check-up but please, please call the number on that card and make an appointment with the psychologist there. It appears you have a lot to talk through.’

  *

  The nurses undo her restraints as he slips out, a lone, hunched figure. She twitches her wrists expecting a rush of relief but it doesn’t come. How did she disappoint him? She knows what she saw. The memory of that face is clearer than the first time. But why doesn’t anybody believe her? Why didn’t he kill her there and then? And even if it wasn’t him, what did they think would happen if they put her in a room with a scalpel again?

  ‘Zanna, I promise you: it was him.’

  Zanna holds a hand in the air, silver bangles jangling down her wrist. ‘Holly, please. Not now. I have enough of your lies to deal with, I can’t cope with another.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Seriously? Are you going to play dumb with me right now? I thought you were my best client, Holly – thoughtful, charming, funny and strong. Hell, I actually thought we were friends. You were always one of those clients who would make me go home and think, “Well, at least one of the celebs I represent tells it to me straight.” You in your slouchy jumpers and cosy cooking, all homely and salt of the earth. But you are just like the rest of them. Centring your entire existence on a fucking lie! Performing for an audience you created.’