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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I so want her to say yes. I wonder if she can sense the begging tone in my voice. It’s a while before she responds. I can make out the shape of her face in the gloom but no specific features. I see her lips curve into an O.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I promise.’ She turns sideways and takes my hand. She’s still cold. ‘I love you.’

  It’s the first time either of us have said this since she got back. I wondered if she’d ever say it again. There’s a tremble to her voice. Nervousness, perhaps? Apprehension?

  But what can you do? Someone says, ‘I love you’ and, assuming you’re not a total arsehole and they’re not a lunatic stalker, you say it back. It’s the law.

  ‘I love you, too,’ I reply.

  Charley squeezes my hand. I mean it. The problem is that I am no longer sure about who it is I’ve married.

  Thirty-Four

  20 Years Ago

  Charley Willis, 8 years old

  I hear the doors before I hear his voice. Father bangs his way through the house and then his footsteps clatter across the hard floor of the hallway.

  ‘Charlotte? Where are you?’

  He’s shouting at the top of his voice. ‘Look what you’ve done now,’ is what Mama will be saying if she’s anywhere near him. I wonder if I can get away with hiding in the wardrobe. I’m supposed to put all my dirty clothes in the hamper, but there’s a little space behind it where I can fit myself. Sometimes, when Mama and Father are shouting as loudly as they can, I squeeze myself inside and cover my ears.

  ‘Charlotte! Get down here now.’

  It will only be worse if I try to hide from him, so I creep onto the landing and look over the railing towards him at the bottom. He glares at me, spitting with anger.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ he shouts. ‘Get down here.’

  I want to take my time to try to figure out what I might have done, but the longer it takes to get down the stairs, the angrier he’s going to be.

  I run down them two at a time, holding onto the rail to make sure I don’t fall. When I get to the bottom step, I stop a little out of his reach. Martha left home a few weeks ago. Mama said she wasn’t old enough – she’s only seventeen – but my sister said she didn’t care. Later, she told me she did care but that she couldn’t take it any longer. Mama called her a selfish bitch, plus more bad words, and she’s not been home since.

  I stay out of Father’s reach as he reels back to show me the back of his hand. I flinch because I know I should. ‘He’ll never hit you,’ Martha once whispered. ‘He’d never risk leaving a mark. Remember that. It’s important.’

  Perhaps she’s right? He’s never hit me, but there are so many times when I think he will.

  He sneers as I cower onto the steps.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he shouts.

  I’m covering my face with my arm but look underneath my elbow to see a thick stack of papers. I slowly unfurl my arms to see what he’s holding.

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ I’m careful to remain respectful.

  He flips the pages around to show some felt-tip swirls on the back.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ he continues. ‘Don’t you dare give me that. What have you got to say for yourself?’

  I stammer my reply: ‘I thought… I thought it was plain paper. I was trying to draw an elephant.’

  He holds up the page high in the air. ‘An elephant? Have you ever seen an elephant? It looks nothing like this. Nothing! Is there something wrong with you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  My father flips the pages around again. There is a page of typed writing on the front. ‘Even if we put to one side your appalling lack of artistic ability, how am I supposed to rehearse for this role when you’ve scribbled all over the back of the script?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know. I thought it was blank.’

  ‘Why didn’t you look?’

  ‘I thought I had.’

  He throws the whole stack into the air, letting them fall to the ground. The pages swish and swirl around his feet and mine, some blank side up, some print side up; others showing off my drawings.

  ‘You’re going to pick all this up,’ he says. ‘Then you’re going to put everything in order. I don’t care how high you can count. You better learn fast. When you’ve done that – and you will do that – you’re going to go into the kitchen and stand in the corner facing the wall. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He stares at me, arms behind his back. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’

  I spring into action, sweeping up as many pages as I can and twisting them all so they’re at least facing the right way. All the while, Father stands and watches. He doesn’t say anything specific but tuts and snorts at various intervals.

  Father might think I don’t know how to count, but I really want to show him I can, to make up for spoiling his papers. It’s lucky that a lot of the right numbers are together. Thirteen to nineteen don’t need sorting and everything from thirty-two to fifty-one have somehow remained in order. I get a little confused around the 110s, but the task is nowhere near as hard as I thought it would be.

  When I hand the script back, Father snorts: ‘You took your time.’

  I know to be polite and respectful, but I also know there are times when it is better to say nothing. This time, I say nothing.

  ‘Well?’ my father adds. ‘What are you doing standing in the hall? Why aren’t you in the corner?’

  I do what he says, heading into the kitchen and the corner close to the back door. I suppose this is my spot. I’ve spent a lot of time here recently. Sometimes there are spiders that crawl up and down the wall and I like to whisper to them, wondering if they understand. It’s not the corner that’s the problem, it’s the standing up. Sometimes my knees wobble and because I’m not allowed to use the wall to hold myself up, it’s really hard to stay standing.

  Mama comes into the kitchen after a while – I don’t know how long because I can’t see the clock when I’m facing the wall. If I were to be caught looking, I’d have to stay for longer.

  ‘Not again,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry, Mama.’

  ‘Why can’t you behave? You’re going to end up like your sister. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No, Mama.’

  I can hear her chopping food behind me. Every now and then the fridge will open and close, or the oven will buzz. I know all the noises of the kitchen. My favourite is when the microwave pings. Sometimes, when it’s just me in my room, I’ll try to copy it. ‘Ping!’

  Usually I’m allowed to move after a while. Sometimes it’s before my knees wobble, sometimes after. It hurts more this time, though. Perhaps I’ve been here a lot longer, but I can feel my legs starting to twitch. I hope she won’t notice, but…

  ‘Stand up straight,’ Mama scolds.

  ‘Sorry, Mama.’

  I manage to do as I’m told but not for long. I don’t know why people’s bodies don’t do what they’re told. I don’t want my legs to wobble, so why do they? It’s quite naughty of them, really. Perhaps that’s why I’m so naughty?

  ‘Straight!’

  I try to do what Mama says, I really do, but my legs won’t do what I want. It feels like I need to sit and, even though I don’t want to, a small whimper escapes from my mouth.

  ‘Stop snivelling!’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just… I really need the toilet, Mama.’

  ‘You were told to stand in the corner.’

  ‘I’ll come right back, Mama. Honest I will.’

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told.’

  It’s so hard, but I have to touch the wall. I’m going to fall over otherwise.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mama asks.

  ‘Please. I can’t stand any more. Please.’

  ‘Are you defying your parents?’

  ‘No, Mama. No. I want to stand.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  I take my hand from the wall and somehow, I don’t know ho
w, I do manage to stand. I close my eyes and think about other things. About going back to school, or being allowed to watch television on Saturday mornings and how much fun that is.

  ‘This is for your own good. There’s no way I’m having you turn out like your sister.’

  ‘I know, Mama. I know.’

  It’s like this is magic me. There was a me who couldn’t stand any longer and now there’s a me who can. Like I’ve got new legs.

  I’m not sure why it happens, perhaps because I was thinking of other things. I wasn’t thinking about why I was being punished, so I probably deserve it, but my leg is suddenly warm and wet. I don’t even know what it is at first. I think perhaps I’ve spilled a drink, I’m always doing that. But then I realise I’m doing a wee on myself. I’m doing a wee with my clothes on. The warm and the wet spreads lower down my leg and then it’s on the floor. There’s a puddle that’s spreading around my feet.

  I don’t know why it happens, but I’m crying. It’s not like I mean to and I try to bite my tongue, like Martha does, to hold it all in. I can’t do it like she can, though, and then I’m crying.

  ‘You’re not standing up straight,’ Mama says. I wonder if she knows I’ve gone number one on the floor, but she must do. ‘Straight!’

  Time passes. I don’t risk looking at the clock, but there’s a point where it feels like I can’t cry any longer. Mama always says that crying is a waste of time. I’m not going to get my own way, so why do it? So I stop. It’s like an order I give myself. Stop crying now, and I do.

  I can smell food, but Mama doesn’t offer me anything. She turns off the kitchen lights and then I can hear her voice in the dining room with Father. Everything’s dark, but perhaps I could turn and squint at the clock. Except… what if someone sees?

  More time passes. I’m actually quite good at standing up straight. Mama would be proud. If my stupid knees hadn’t wobbled in the first place, if I didn’t touch the wall, I’d have been allowed to move by now. It’s all my stupid legs’ fault.

  The light comes on and there are footsteps. Father’s, I think. His sound different to Mama’s.

  ‘You think the world revolves around you, don’t you, young lady.’

  It is my father. I thought it was. He doesn’t sound angry any longer. It’s his disappointed voice.

  ‘No, sir,’ I reply.

  ‘Let me tell you something: it doesn’t. You will learn respect. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He doesn’t reply and I wonder if he’s waiting for me to say something.

  ‘Father?’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Your apology is not accepted, Charlotte.’

  ‘Please can I go to bed, sir?’

  He doesn’t say anything at first and I bite my tongue, trying to make my legs stay straight. Please. I don’t say it out loud. Please don’t wobble. I think the words so loudly that I wonder if other people might hear them anyway.

  ‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘You will stand in the corner until I say otherwise – and do not think that just because it’s dark you can lie on the floor. If I find you in any position other than standing where you are now, there will be absolute hell to pay. Do you understand me?’

  I try not to cry. ‘I do, sir.’

  He turns the light off and then it’s quiet. More time passes.

  Sometimes I hear the odd sound from upstairs. A voice or a laugh. I don’t know. My tricks aren’t working any longer. I can’t make my legs obey and so I have to be naughty. I lean on the wall and sit on the step. I try to keep my feet out of the puddle, but it’s all over my shoes and starting to smell.

  It’s hard to keep my eyes open, but I have to. A couple of times, I think I hear a squeak from the steps so I jump back into position. I wonder if Father knows. Or Mama? Sometimes Father says he has eyes in the back of his head, or that he knows what I’m thinking. Perhaps he does?

  After all, I try not to be naughty, but it’s no good. I guess it’s just who I am.

  Thirty-Five

  Now

  Seth

  Charley and I sleep on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from each other. I guess it’s the opposite of spooning. Forking? I don’t know what it should be called.

  I lie awake and listen to her breathing, waiting for her intakes of air to deepen and lengthen.

  It doesn’t happen.

  Or it probably does, but I’m asleep first.

  It’s the first time I’ve slept in a bed since Friday – five nights – and the next thing I know, I’m jumping awake. I don’t remember the dream, it was there and it’s gone, but the clock tells me it’s seven o’clock.

  ‘Shush…’

  Charley is there. She holds my hand, squeezes it. ‘I’m here,’ she coos.

  And she is.

  She brushes the hair from my face and kisses me on the forehead. Her fingers slide along the curve of my cheek as I blink up towards her. I remember seeing her in the shop for the very first time. The way she smiled when she said I couldn’t have soup. I think I knew then we’d end up getting married.

  ‘How long have you been awake?’ I ask.

  ‘A while.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Watching you sleep. You were so peaceful…’

  ‘I’ve not really been sleeping.’

  She cups my chin with her hand and kisses me on the lips. Our first proper kiss since she got back. Since after the registrar said we were officially man and wife.

  ‘I was abducted,’ she says.

  After the hours, the worry, the questions… after everything, it’s as simple as that. Three words. Charley speaks so matter-of-factly that it’s as if she’s describing a normal day at work. Ran out of soy milk, customer left an umbrella, saw a man with the most ridiculous wig I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Abducted?’

  I’m like a parrot with a sore throat, but what else can I say?

  ‘I was in the corridor near those doors at the back. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and when I turned, there was a man in one of those scream masks. I thought it was some sort of joke. There was that other wedding party and I didn’t know if it was some theme…’

  She reaches for a glass of water on the side that she must have fetched while I was sleeping. She sips and then offers it to me. I shake my head and she returns it where it came from.

  ‘He had a knife,’ she says. ‘He told me to go outside. I still thought it was some sort of joke. I thought it was Raj or someone. Then he handed me this hood thing. He told me to put it on and then he pushed me into what I think was probably a van. I don’t know.’

  Although I’m under the covers, I’m shivering. Or I think I am. Charley is stroking my hair.

  ‘We drove for miles,’ she says. ‘I was in the back, but he’d tied the hood. I could breathe but was getting bumped and banged around every time we went over a pothole or whatever.’

  ‘When were you in the corridor?’

  She blinks at me. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When the guy in the mask was there. Mum said she saw you.’

  Charley squints and her fingers have stopped massaging my scalp. ‘I don’t think I saw her.’

  We look at each other and I realise I have no idea what she’s thinking. I wonder if she believes I’ve just questioned her story when all I was doing was worrying about my mother.

  ‘He kept me on a farm somewhere,’ Charley says. ‘Or a garden, like one of those really big ones that some people have out here. I’m not sure. I told the police I didn’t know. I was in this shed-type thing and it smelled bad every now and then. Like when you’re driving along and the wind changes.’

  ‘You were in a shed?’

  She nods. ‘He brought me food every morning and evening, but he made me wear the hood every time.’

  ‘So you never saw him?’

  ‘Never. He left me some clothes, basic stuff – jeans and a top, nothing fancy – but he took
the wedding dress.’

  ‘They found it. I had to identify it.’

  ‘I know. The police told me. I’m sorry.’

  She removes her hand and I want to tell her she has nothing to be sorry for. I want to, I really do – but she’s already moved on.

  ‘He asked me questions about my mum and dad.’

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘I don’t really remember. He’d make me wear the hood and then he’d sit and talk to me, He’d want me to tell him normal things that people already know. What their names were, whether I had brothers and sisters, what it was like growing up… that sort of thing.’

  ‘Why?’

  It’s such a stupid question that I immediately apologise.

  ‘He never said,’ Charley whispers anyway. ‘The police asked if I’d ever had a stalker. I’d never thought about it until they asked.’

  ‘Had you?’

  There’s a second or two in which I think she’s going to say yes, that there’s a whole chunk of her life about which we’ve never spoken.

  She shakes her head. ‘No. They said sometimes people can develop an obsession with others, even though they’ve never met.’

  ‘Is that what they think happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Charley sits up straighter. ‘Can we go downstairs and get some breakfast?’

  I’m in such a daze that I’d do pretty much do anything she asked. It’s one thing after another. Man in a mask, knife, van, farm, shed, stalker, breakfast. What on earth? This isn’t the type of thing that happens to people like us. We keep to ourselves. We work locally, watch TV in the evenings like anyone else. Somehow we’ve ended up in another world.

  Charley dresses with her back to me and I find myself watching, looking for scars or scrapes. Her shoulders and back are smooth and clear. When she catches me watching, she says nothing. She continues getting dressed and then squeezes my hand on the way to the stairs.

  When I get to the kitchen, she already has bread in the toaster and the kettle is fizzing away. We make aimless ridiculous small talk about butter and Marmite, about needing to buy instant coffee. I don’t care about any of it because the voice at the back of my mind is screaming for the rest of the answers.