The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Instead of replying, Martha holds up the letter she’s just opened. ‘Another one from the solicitor,’ she says. ‘Uncle David’s still blocking the house sale.’

  ‘I don’t care about that stupid house. Let him do what he wants.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Char. It’s not about the money. We earned that and there’s no way I’m giving in to that arsehole.’

  ‘That’s Uncle Arsehole to you.’

  Martha’s seriousness slips. She smiles and then laughs, dispatching the letter into the bin. ‘Uncle Arsehole,’ she repeats. ‘I wish I’d thought of that. I’m using it next time.’

  ‘I’ve got copyright on it.’

  ‘I’m still using it.’ We both grin and then she jumps up off the sofa. ‘Come on, forget this – we’re going out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere fun.’

  She pulls me up from the chair and drags me into the bedroom before opening the wardrobe and shunting all my stuff to the side so that hers is in the middle.

  ‘I reckon you can pass for eighteen,’ she says.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  She pulls a dress from the rack, one of the few she owns that isn’t black. She holds it up against me, taking a half-step back and eyeing me up and down. It’s green and short, above my knee. Nothing like what Mama would let me wear.

  ‘I reckon that’ll do,’ she says. ‘You can borrow a pair of my boots, bit of eye make-up and you’ll be done.’

  I take the dress from her and hold it at arm’s length. There’s a slim vertical triangle down the front and a built-in bra I’m not sure I’ll fill.

  ‘Padding,’ Martha says, reading my mind as she always seems to do and then handing me a pair of gel-like chicken fillet blobs.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  She sighs, then smiles and throws her hands up. ‘We’re going to have fun, Char. To a pub or two, maybe a club. We’re going to dance and have a drink or two.’

  ‘Mama always said—’

  ‘Forget her!’ Martha bites her tongue again and then lowers her voice. ‘And stop calling her “Mama”. It’s weird. Call her Mum if you have to – but you don’t have to. She was a hypocrite.’

  We stare at each other and I’m old enough to know this has been brewing. I’ve been pushing it: reading those tributes, wanting Martha’s opinion even though I already know it.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Martha says.

  ‘What if I don’t get in?’

  ‘You’ll get in – you’re a girl.’

  ‘What does that matter?

  ‘You’ll learn – but girls can do what they want if they’re pretty. Clubs at fifteen, easy-peasy. I used to do it all the time. If anyone asks, your name is…’ She wafts a hand around, thinking. ‘What do you want your name to be?’

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘That sounds like a stripper’s name.’

  ‘…Which means I’m definitely eighteen.’

  She nods towards me. ‘True. You’re Angel and I’m Bliss.’

  ‘Bliss?’

  Martha shrugs: ‘I was trying to think of another stripper name.’

  ‘Angel and Bliss, we could so be strippers.’

  ‘We definitely couldn’t – but the doormen won’t know that.’ She waves me over to the mirror. ‘Come on, let’s do this.’

  Mama used to take hours to get ready before going out. Some of my earliest memories are sitting at the bottom of the stairs as Father paced up and down the hallway bellowing for her to hurry up.

  Perhaps because of that, Martha has got getting ready down to sprint form. In barely twenty minutes, she’s swiped eyeliner onto my lids, lengthened my lashes with mascara, sorted herself out and we’re both dressed. It helps that we’re the same size for everything.

  Ten minutes after that and we’re toddling along the high street, laughing about nothing and everything. The hooker cards in the phone boxes are hilarious, so is the clearly drunk bloke who’s sleeping in a shopping trolley. It’s good to be outside. I’ve not seen a lot of the city since moving here. I barely went out at all in the first six months and only sporadically since. It feels exciting to be an adult.

  I only start to feel nervous when I see the pub on the corner. There are two men in suits and dark bomber jackets standing outside the main door. Both are wearing earpieces, with little or no hair.

  Martha barely flinches; if anything, she ups her pace.

  Her boots are awkward to walk in, even though the heel is low, I have to quick-step to catch-up. I’m alongside her as we get to the bottom step.

  ‘Evening, ladies,’ the taller of the bouncers says.

  ‘Hi,’ Martha replies.

  And that’s it. We push through the doors and then we’re inside. A couple near the door turn to look at us but quickly spin away. Nobody else pays us the slightest bit of attention.

  Martha strides to the bar confidently, perching on a stool and patting the one next to her. I slot in and then she nods to the other side of the bar.

  ‘What do you want?’

  There is an array of bottles in the fridges. Some are easy to read – the ones with cider written on the label, the brown bottles of Budweiser or the green Carlsberg. The rest is a rainbow of colour.

  ‘I don’t know what anything is.’

  ‘You like strawberries, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good!’

  I can see the barman looking sideways at Martha as he finishes with another customer and then he sidesteps towards us. He looks Mediterranean, all dark skin and thick hair, but his accent is local.

  ‘Evening, ladies. What can I do you for?’

  ‘Two strawberry Smirnoffs,’ Martha says.

  He doesn’t ask for ID, barely even acknowledges me as he turns and crouches to open the fridge. It might be on purpose… heck, it’s definitely on purpose, but he shunts his arse high towards us. He’s wearing incredibly tight trousers and I’m surprised he can bend that far.

  Martha pays and he gives her a wink, then we’re off towards the corner, bottles and straws in hand.

  ‘Easy as that,’ she says.

  It’s a cosy alcove, all soft seats and sticky tables. There’s a television high on the wall showing music videos and a pair of fruit machines next to the sign for the toilets. We sit and then I start to read the label on the back of the bottle.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Martha scolds with a smile.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s all sugar. Stop spoiling the fun.’

  I guzzle a mouthful and swallow.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ she asks.

  ‘Tastes like strawberries.’

  ‘Yeah – but best not drink too many of those.’

  I have another sip and then relax back into the seat. It feels good to be doing something I shouldn’t. There was a locked drinks cabinet at the house and I dread to think how Mama or Father would have reacted if they’d found me in it.

  ‘Someone’s watching us,’ I say, nudging Martha’s leg and nodding towards a man at the bar. He’s what Mama would’ve called a ‘typical student’. Skinny, with big waxy hair, a bristly beard and a bit of a slouch about him. ‘He knows who we are,’ I add, trying to hide the urgency.

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Martha smirks, laughs slightly and nudges me with her elbow. ‘Because we’re girls with our legs out, Char. He has no idea who we are, he’s only seeing the flesh.’

  I glance down at my legs as if to confirm they are actually there and, by the time I look up again, the studenty type is on his way over, one hand in pocket, the other cupping a pint of tumescent orange cider.

  ‘All right, girls,’ he says.

  I’m not sure what to say, but Martha gets in first. ‘We’re definitely all right, thanks.’

  I have no idea how she does it, but she makes something that could be friendly sound like a definitive ‘get lost’.

  The student doesn’t take the hint
, twirling around a chair and sitting on it so that his legs are splayed either side of the back.

  ‘I’ve not seen you in here before,’ he adds, looking from Martha to me.

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ Martha replies.

  ‘What’s your names?’

  He’s still looking at me but Martha answers. ‘Look, mate. I’m sure you’re very nice. You like animals, you’re kind to your mum, you do the cooking in your flat, you had a gap year in Tanzania, or whatever, and you’re a fan of philosophy. Good for you. Now, can you practise a bit of pissing off that way.’ She bats a hand towards the fruit machines but he doesn’t move.

  He’s speaking only to me: ‘Do you always let your mate talk for you?’

  ‘Sister,’ I reply. ‘She’s my sister, not my mate.’

  ‘Do you always let your sister talk for you?’

  ‘No… but, well, it’d be great if you could practise a bit of pissing off that way.’ I point in the same direction Martha had and we sit waiting until he spins the chair back around, mutters something about it being ‘our loss’ and then shows that he’s actually not a bad pisser-offer after all.

  Martha ditches the straw and has a long swig from the bottle. ‘That was pretty good,’ she says.

  ‘The drink?’

  ‘You. Not in my league, obviously, but you’re learning.’

  I have a small sip of my own drink through the straw. The first swig was full of sweetness but that’s wearing off and I can taste the bitter tang beyond.

  ‘It gets better,’ Martha says.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Alcohol. You were sheltered at Mum and Dad’s. This is what normal teenagers do.’

  ‘Did you?’

  It’s rare that Martha’s off guard. I know she has a softer side she doesn’t show very often, but there’s a moment where she squirms and then she can’t look at me directly.

  ‘Sort of,’ she says after a moment. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’re here now.’

  She presses back into her seat, mouth of the bottle at her lips, and then she nods towards a man in a suit standing next to the cash machine by the door.

  ‘What’s his story?’ she asks.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘This is the best game, Char. Pick a person and figure out their story.’

  ‘How do you do that?’

  She hums to herself, has another swig from the bottle. Hers is three-quarters gone but mine is largely full.

  ‘Definitely married,’ she says. ‘Maybe separated.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He’s, what, forty-odd? Most people that age are married or divorced – plus he’s fat. Most singles are trying to not be single so they keep themselves in shape. People let themselves go when they’re attached.’

  The man turns and stuffs a handful of cash into his pocket, then heads to the bar.

  ‘On the pull,’ Martha added. ‘He’s gone straight to the end of the bar where that girl’s serving.’

  It’s true. He’s leaning across the bar, gut pressed into the wood, stretching a twenty-pound note across to the blonde barmaid who’s got an Australian accent and is probably only twenty or twenty-one.

  He calls her ‘love’ and she smiles through it. Even I can tell it’s fake. Once the man’s got his drink, he gives her a ‘Cheers, darling,’ and then turns to take in the rest of the bar. I watch him sweep across the group of lads by the quiz machine and then focus in on a pair of women sitting in the opposite corner to us.

  ‘I’m going city worker,’ Martha says. ‘He’s separated and possibly been made redundant recently.’

  ‘Why’d you say that?’

  ‘His sort only come out here to pick up a bit of rough.’

  It sounds ominously as if she knows that too well, but I don’t say anything.

  Martha nods towards the barman. ‘Your turn,’ she says.

  ‘Um…’

  He notices Martha’s attention and winks at her once more but doesn’t get a chance to say or do anything else because a group of lads pile through the front door and head straight for the bar.

  ‘He’s got a nice bum,’ I say.

  Martha laughs, raises her bottle. ‘That’s not speculation, Angel dear. That’s fact.’

  ‘Single.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘He’s not gay.’

  Another laugh. ‘You’re picking the obvious stuff here, sis. Let me help: he’s a dancer during the day. Blokes don’t get legs like that from standing behind a bar all night. Maybe an instructor, something like that. He’s got a date tattooed on his wrist from eight years ago, so he’s definitely a father. Probably a daughter, I reckon. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got a wife and kid in Portugal or Greece, somewhere like that. Probably shags a different girl every couple of nights. He’ll either live upstairs or somewhere nearby. Minimum wage.’ She puffs out a breath. ‘Scar on his forehead means he was probably a handful at some point. Street kid, something like that. Knows how to take care of himself. Probably not someone to mess with.’

  Martha downs the rest of her drink in one.

  ‘I’m getting another,’ she says, ‘you can have one for every two of mine.’

  I watch as she squeezes her way through the pack of lads. They each turn in sequence, apparently not realising someone’s wriggled between them until Martha emerges at the bar. She grins at the bartender, leaning forward so that her chest is angled towards him. It doesn’t take much for her to get his attention and order another bottle. Seconds later and she’s back with me.

  ‘That’s how you do it,’ she says. ‘You witnessed a masterclass there.’

  Martha instantly downs a third of her drink and then drags me over to the pool table, where she slaps three pound coins on the edge.

  ‘You ever play before?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just hit the white ball into the other balls. You’ll pick it up.’

  And I do… sort of. The table is too big and I struggle to stretch – plus it’s not always clear what’s a spot and what’s a stripe. I win anyway, though I suspect Martha lets me. It doesn’t matter though because it’s fun. I surprise myself at how much we laugh.

  Then we’re off to the other side of the bar because karaoke is starting up. Martha grabs the microphone first and sings a song I’ve never heard. ‘Sings’ is a loose term. She shouts most of it, but nobody seems to care.

  When everyone’s bored of karaoke, the music is turned up and the chairs are cleared. One half of the pub has become a dance floor and so we dance and we drink. I can’t keep up with Martha’s two-for-one ratio, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t know how long passes before Martha pulls me close. She’s sweating and the make-up around one of her eyes is running onto her cheek.

  ‘This is life!’ she shouts, throwing her arms up.

  I copy what she’s doing, or at least try. It’s all arms and legs and I have no real clue.

  ‘Go with it,’ she shouts, and so I do.

  The ceiling is starting to spin and sweat is pouring from my forehead. My mouth is aching because I’ve laughed so much.

  Time passes and the dance floor has thinned. Someone’s clearing glasses on the far side of the pub and Martha finishes her final drink before dragging me towards the doors and wrapping her arms around me. She smells of sweat and strawberries.

  ‘I love you,’ she says.

  Everything’s hazy, a grainy grey mask directly in front of my eyes. ‘Thank you,’ I reply.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know.’

  Martha pulls me tight, hugging me into her neck and squeezing.

  Thirteen

  Now

  Seth

  I don’t even realise I’ve fallen asleep until my phone starts to ring. At first I think it’s a dream, some annoying buzzing bee chasing me along a trail, then I blink into the living room and realise my phone is flashing. It’s five in the morning.

  Emily’s name is on the screen and my fi
rst thought is that something’s happened to Mum. This is the call we’ve each been dreading…

  ‘Em?’ I say.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ she asks.

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘Someone’s leaked the story about you and Charley. You’re all over the Daily Mail.’

  It takes a few seconds for it to sink in. So much for what I told the police about never having a problem with the media… Emily apologises for calling so early but rationalises that she thought I’d want to know. That’s true enough.

  I thank her and then hang up, flopping back onto the sofa once more. There are four empty bottles of Stella on the floor near my feet and I vaguely recall flicking through the television channels at what was either late last night or early this morning. It’s hard to remember.

  ‘Charley?’

  My throat is gravelly as I call her name. It stings and I hurry through to the kitchen, where I down half a pint of water in one.

  Back in the living room, there are the remains of a half-eaten frozen pizza. Chicken and pineapple. Charley’s favourite. The roof of my mouth is stinging slightly and it suddenly makes sense: there’s nothing on the planet hotter than the cheese on a pizza. It’s like someone has liquidised the sun and served it on a doughy base with tomato sauce.

  As well as Emily’s call, there are six texts on my phone. One from Alice, two from Emily, two from Raj and one from Mason. All are along the same line: Any sign of Charley? Hope you’re well. Call if you need.

  Thanks but no thanks… at least for now.

  It’s embarrassing, more than anything. What can I say to people? No, I don’t know where she is? No, we didn’t argue? Yes, I hope she comes back?

  I can’t keep having the same conversation.

  And now I’m on the bloody internet. In the papers.

  I pluck the laptop from the spot under the window where it’s been charging all night. I remembered to turn the plug on, which is one thing, and the battery tells me it’s at 100 per cent.

  There’s a photo of some teenager in a bikini at the top that must surely scrape decency laws, but I skim past that to the second story on the sidebar of shame.