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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Love you,’ he says.

  ‘So you should.’

  He smiles and laughs as I pass him. We brush hands and there’s an electric spark of a tingle between us.

  I stop in the doorway and half turn back to him. ‘I love you, too.’

  Mason has not heard me – because Dillon has launched himself across the room. He’s on his back, our son lifted high above him for aeroplanes. I have to go, but I take a second or two to watch them, just that moment in time, to listen to my son giggling his little head off. I want to stay longer, watch them play. This is what it’s all about. What everything’s about. You want the meaning of life? It’s there. A father and son playing aeroplanes on the floor.

  But I have to go.

  I know the route to my parents’ house instinctively, even though I’ve never driven there from the house where I now live. Uncle David’s solicitors keep firing through letters about who knows what. I don’t read them any longer. One day the house, or what’s left of it, will be sold – but, until then, David can keep whistling for his money.

  Money.

  This damned family.

  When I get to the house, I expect to see Liam’s car on the driveway. The gates are open – not that there’s anyone to lock them nowadays – but the drive is clear. I park and then head for the front door.

  No obvious sign of Liam and I wonder if I should call him. Perhaps this is some stupid joke of his? It’s the sort of thing he might do.

  I don’t even know how we’re related. We’ve never got on, even when we were both living at home. Or technically living at home. We were at different boarding schools, back when Mum and Dad could afford it. Not like poor Charley. She was stuck with Mum every day when she got home.

  The thing that nobody seems to know, certainly that nobody’s asked about in the past ten years or so, is that I have a key for the house. All the toing and froing over who owns what and I could have come and let myself in at any time. I thought the solicitors or whoever would have at least asked – but they never have.

  The door creaks noisily inwards as I let myself into the house. As I step inside, I find myself short of breath – and it’s not because so many of the surfaces are coated with dust.

  I’ve not been here since that night with Charley and our parents. The time I walked out of this hellhole into the arms of the police is that last time I ever walked out of here.

  Hardly anything has been moved. The dresser is still off to the side, with the lamps and telephone on top. Mum used to tell people the dresser was an antique, but I was there when she found it among a pile of abandoned furniture on the side of the road. It wasn’t an antique; it was someone’s cast-off. She got someone to re-varnish it and that was that. She had a story. It was always about the illusion with her.

  Liam is in the kitchen, resting against the sink where Charley left a smear of our parents’ blood. I scrubbed that area like I’ve never cleaned anything before – then I dribbled a few drops of tea over it – and the floor. I learned about illusions from my mother.

  ‘You’ve got a key, too,’ Liam says and there’s a fraction of a second where I forget everything he’s done. He smiles and we’re brother and sister.

  I hold mine up and he nods.

  The kitchen is covered in the same veneer of dust as the rest of the house. I wonder if anything works. I can’t believe anyone’s been paying the bills, so the electricity and gas must have surely been cut off. Probably the water, too.

  Liam holds a hand up, indicating the house. ‘Can you believe Uncle David’s still arguing over this damned place? They should just knock it down.’

  He’s skinnier than I remember and I wonder if he’s on something. I’ve seen that rapid weight loss before, although that’s perhaps more of a testament to the type of people with whom I was hanging around at the time. The illusion from a moment ago has gone. He’s pale and looks less like me than he ever did.

  ‘Why am I here?’ I ask.

  He tilts his head slightly, doesn’t reply.

  ‘What have you found out about Mum and Dad?’ I add.

  A shake of the head. ‘Nothing really… just that life is rubbish. Uncle David’s still being a knob about selling this place.’

  I almost gasp with relief. Of course he doesn’t know about Charley. How could he? It was all about getting me here. He’s going to ask about money. Why didn’t I see that?

  ‘So what?’ I reply.

  ‘I’m out of money, sis. I could do with my third of the house.’

  And there it is.

  ‘If this place ever gets sold – and that’s a big if – there’s not going to be any money left. The solicitors will take it all.’

  He shrugs, but his eyes are unfocused. ‘It’s been eleven years,’ he says.

  ‘I can count.’

  ‘No one cares,’ he says. ‘Not any more. Everyone’s moved on. They did that ten-year thing about Mum and Dad, but that’s the end.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  He shuffles on the spot, not even bothering to shrug this time. ‘How much have you got left?’

  ‘Nothing for you. Get a job. Find something else to do. Stop living off Mum and Dad’s memory – you’re the one who said it. It’s been eleven years.’

  We stand in silence for a few moments.

  ‘I’m going,’ I say. ‘I’ve got kids to get back to. You need to sort yourself out.’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. They never caught the person who killed Mum and Dad, did they?’

  I stop where I am and then creep back into the kitchen. Is he talking about Charley? Does he actually know and this is some strange set-up?

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  From nowhere, he seems to focus on me, as if he’s in the room properly for the first time. ‘What if there is a Willis killer?’ he says. ‘What if there’s some sort of family curse? What if whoever killed Mum and Dad comes back all these years later?’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  I don’t know how it happens, but it suddenly feels as if he’s staring through me, as if he can read my mind.

  His eyes narrow and he takes a step forward, standing taller, more confident. ‘You know who killed them, don’t you?’

  He’s surprised and I know he isn’t faking. He didn’t know anything – but now he does. I’ve given the game away.

  ‘Why did you bring me here?’ I ask.

  It’s as if a cloud passes him. There’s darkness in his eyes. His very soul. Before I can get out of the kitchen, he’s on top of me. I’m on the hard floor of the hallway, his forearm squeezing down hard on my chest. I’ve stood up to plenty of men in my time, especially when I was younger. Blokes with wandering eyes or, worse, wandering hands. I’d fancy my chances against Liam – but not now. Not when he’s like this.

  Besides, I’ve gone soft.

  I try to push back against him, but he’s too strong – and he’s enjoying it too much.

  ‘Who was it?’ Liam demands.

  He eases off a tiny amount, enough to let me breathe but not even close enough to let me fight back.

  ‘Was it you?’ he adds.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  He eases off even more, clamping my arms to my sides with his knees and rocking back. He shakes his head slowly.

  ‘No it wasn’t.’

  ‘It was.’

  He’s still shaking his head. ‘It was her, wasn’t it? The prop.’

  ‘Don’t call her that.’

  He grins and there’s evil there. The worst of Mum and the worst of Dad, all rolled into one. ‘But it was, wasn’t it? She finally snapped. I didn’t know the little bitch had it in her.’

  He actually seems impressed.

  ‘It was me,’ I say. ‘I did it. Mum slapped me and I lost it.’

  ‘You’re a terrible liar.’

  I try to wriggle from side to side but can barely move my hands, let alone my legs. I
t’s as if I can see his mind whirring behind those eyes.

  ‘No one else knows this, do they? Just you and the prop… and me. The killer could be back. It could be a family curse.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘This is what people want, isn’t it? They might have forgotten Mum and Dad, but this is how they’ll remember.’

  ‘How?’

  Then he punches me in the face.

  Fifty

  Now

  Seth

  ‘Tell me you didn’t…’

  I’m not sure what Charley’s talking about. Brother and sister continue to stare at each other and then, finally, Liam speaks.

  ‘I killed her for us.’

  I’m the third wheel of all third wheels. Killed who?

  Charley is trembling. Her knees wobble and there’s a moment in which I think she might crumble to the floor.

  ‘I made us known again,’ he says.

  Charley’s reply is a broken, sorry whimper. ‘I didn’t want to be known…’

  ‘But it worked, didn’t it? If Martha hadn’t have died, then everyone would have forgotten. There’s a cycle. People forget, so you make them remember again. Look what happened with you last week. We should’ve been smarter.’

  It’s then I get it. I blab before I can stop myself. ‘You killed Martha?’

  Liam sneers at me. ‘You’re a right Sherlock Holmes, you are.’

  Charley hasn’t moved. ‘Don’t do this, Liam.’

  ‘Go home, Charlotte. Get your story straight. Figure out who it was you went off with last week. You were having an affair. So what? You were confused and emotional because of Mum, Dad and Martha. Make it sound good when you say sorry. People will forgive you anything if you convince them. Mum knew that. Tell them what they want to hear. We’ve all got it in us.’

  ‘I’m not like you.’

  He winks. ‘Perhaps you should be.’

  ‘Let me take the girls, Liam.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  He glances backwards towards the pit. ‘I’m not sure. At first I thought I might just bury them or something. Or throw them in a river? I’d get back to Helen and then we’d both wake up in bed. What do you know, the kids have gone. That’s worth a bit, isn’t it? People will pay to hear that story.’

  ‘Helen’s awake. This is never going to work. Never.’

  ‘I’ll think of something. You can help.’ He looks to me. ‘Both of you. We’re family, aren’t we?’

  In a flash, he bends and sweeps one of his children into his arms in a single movement. He bobs the twin on his shoulder, cooing gently in her ear. I have no idea if she’s breathing – or whether it’s Skye or Jasmine. Neither of the infants seem to be awake.

  Charley steps forward but there’s still a good three metres between them.

  ‘Don’t,’ Liam says. He glances back and there is barely a couple of centimetres between him and the edge. A gust of wind, a slight misjudgement, and he’d be over the edge – twin and all.

  Charley moves forward once more. ‘You’re a maniac,’ she says. ‘You’re the Willis curse.’

  I didn’t think there was anywhere to go, but Liam somehow manages to edge back even further. There’s a gentle pitter-patter as a crumble of dirt and stones slide down the bank to the pit below. I feel helpless.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t,’ he says. ‘Go home.’

  ‘No.’

  I take a couple of steps forward, if only to keep up with Charley. ‘C’mon, Liam, mate. We can work something out if you need money. I’ve got savings. There’s no need for all this.’

  ‘It’s too late now,’ Liam says.

  If he was manic, I’d expect wide eyes and wild limbs – but he isn’t. He’s calm and measured – and, if anything, that’s even scarier.

  There’s a pause in time. Everything stops and then: ‘Just one,’ he says. ‘One twin without the other is more of a story, isn’t it?’

  And then he spins and holds his arm out at full length, daughter extended out over the pit.

  Fifty-One

  A swirling spectral of red and blue floods the building site as a police car blasts onto the Willis property. A second car is close behind – and a third. The mix of the spiralling lights, the headlights of our car, the moon and the darkness itself creates a dazzling, disorientating disco ball of light. Perhaps it’s that, or maybe it’s because I blink at the crucial moment. It might even be that I don’t want to see what’s in front of me – but everything happens at once.

  Charley lunges before Liam can figure out what’s happening. He doesn’t get a chance to resist before she snatches the child from his grasp. There’s a moment, the length of time it takes to blink, and then Liam wobbles backwards over the precipice, flailing into the pit below. I don’t hear him hit the bottom.

  He was on the edge and became disorientated when Charley grabbed the baby. He lost his balance and fell.

  Or…

  Charley pushed him and then turned away.

  I saw what happened, but even I’m not sure. It’s almost as if my left eye saw one thing and my right eye saw another. Both versions are equally true and equally false.

  Charley kneels on the ground, hugging one twin to her chest and checking on the other. The spiral of red and blue continues as I dash towards her and pick up the bundle of blankets.

  ‘I’ve got Skye,’ Charley says.

  ‘Is she breathing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I place a finger underneath Jasmine’s nose – but I don’t need to do that. I can see her tiny little chest rising rhythmically and then fall again. Her eyes are closed and she’s out like a light.

  ‘We need an ambulance,’ Charley says – and I know she’s not requesting one for her brother.

  Police officers are now out of their cars, edging towards us. I don’t recognise any of them, but they seem more confused than aggressive. One of them calls for us to step away from the hole – and we don’t need telling twice. Charley moves first, not bothering to look backwards as she walks towards the cars.

  I don’t get any closer to the edge, but I do glance down. Liam is at the bottom, his left knee at a right angle to the rest of his body.

  That’s far from the worst thing.

  There is a trail of blood dribbling along the concrete pillar lined with spiralled wire that’s wedged into the ground. Liam must have hit his head on the way down and, from the unnatural angle at which his neck has contorted, I think he has finally proved the existence of the Willis curse.

  Fifty-Two

  The posters at the police station haven’t got any better – but there are a couple of fresh additions. The most obvious newcomer has a picture of a pair of typical stoners. Long coats, backwards baseball caps, marijuana leaf on T-shirts in case the message isn’t enough of a sledgehammer.

  ‘You can talk to your kids about drugs, or THEY CAN,’ the poster booms.

  Subtle.

  A second has some bloke with a gormless smile handing his mobile to a random stranger. ‘Be SMART with your PHONE,’ it reads.

  Someone was paid for this.

  The police station’s waiting room is silent except for the buzzing vending machines. I treat myself to a Double Decker because it’s the only chocolate bar that hasn’t sold out. The coffee from the machine is like licking a toilet bowl, but I have two anyway. It’s the only thing keeping me awake.

  I gave my statement about everything that happened, even though I’m not entirely sure of it all. We went to Liam’s house where we broke in to find an unconscious and probably drugged Helen, then we drove to Charley’s childhood home. There, Liam threatened to drop Skye into the giant hole and then… Charley saved her.

  When it comes to why, I tell them what I know – even though it is all second-hand information. Charley wasn’t abducted, she was hiding at her brother’s because he wanted her to extort money from media interviews. He’s skint. When it came out that she’d lied, sh
e was worried about what he might do. I don’t know why she did it. You’ll have to ask her and all that.

  They act like I’m the victim, all sympathy and thanks for your time.

  I wasn’t sure what to say about the rest. I don’t tell anyone what Charley told me about her parents, nor what Liam said about Martha. They don’t ask specifically anyway – why would they? It’s Charley’s secret to share.

  When I’m led back to the waiting area, I ask about Jan Astley. He was never officially identified by the police, simply ‘a 51-year-old man helping with inquiries’ – but that didn’t stop his name being mentioned online this morning. Or yesterday morning. It still feels like Saturday, even though it’s the early hours of Sunday.

  The officer says there is no one currently in custody – but that doesn’t change the fact that someone who’d done nothing wrong was dragged in for interview and then named on the internet. There’s no one to blame for that other than Charley. Telling the police it wasn’t him was never going to be enough.

  My wife has been giving her statement for a lot longer than I did and it is now exactly a week since I was scrabbling around the bushes and trees at the back of the hotel looking for her.

  Someone had said something about putting off her interview until morning, but I think Charley wanted to talk. Besides, I don’t know if she’s merely a witness, under arrest, or anything else. She called a solicitor to be at her side and he drove down from London. Someone she used to know through Martha, apparently. I’m not that sure of the details. I was by myself.

  It’s hard to fight back the yawns as the sun starts to come up again. It’s not simply the length of time I’ve been awake, it’s the sheer number of things that have emerged in the recent hours.

  My wife is a murderer.

  She admitted as much to me. It’s not that I don’t understand the reasons why, but it’s hard to get my head around. Will I ever look at her the same?

  It’s all I can think about and yet it doesn’t feel as if I can process any of it. Time passes: a blink and yet an age. Charley eventually emerges from one of the interview rooms along the hall.