The Wife Before Me: A twisty, gripping psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  She opens the door on the passenger side of the jeep and helps Elena up into the seat. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she promises as she shoves the keys into the ignition and closes the door quietly.

  His black bomber jacket is open, the quilted lining visible. He used to keep his keys in an inside pocket and that is where she must search. She kneels beside him and folds back one side of the jacket. The pocket is zipped but she sees the bulky shape of his keys inside it. The thought of touching him is petrifying but his stillness might not last much longer. Her hands shake so much she has to pause and breathe deeply. Carefully, she pulls at the zipper. It refuses to budge at first and she is forced to apply more pressure before the zip slides across.

  She grasps the keys to prevent them jingling and pulls them out. The glass hand that struck him lies at an angle to his neck. The palm with its beckoning curve is finely lined, head and heart lines, a life line that has changed much since Leanne traced Amelia’s fate in glass.

  The light flickers. Her senses are alert to the danger of another outage but the flickering stops and the room remains bright. She is about to rise when she registers the position of the hand. It had fallen close to his left shoulder but it is now positioned to his right. Too late, she tries to stand but Nicholas has grabbed her wrist. He jerks her so violently that the keys drop to the floor and she, overbalancing, is brought to her knees. His free hand closes over one of the fallen logs, chosen, Amelia knows, because he can clasp it with ease and swing it unerringly at her head.

  Easily, as if she is feather-light, he carries her in his arms from the cottage. Glass breaks under his feet as he walks across the shards. Stunned but still conscious, she is unable to see if Elena is still in the jeep. He lowers her into the back seat of the BMW and lifts a length of rope from the floor. He deals easily with her struggles, faint as they are, and when he has bound her hands behind her and tied her ankles, he walks back to her jeep. He opens all the doors then slams them closed. Unable to move yet desperate to see what he is doing, she lolls helplessly and falls forward, banging her face off the back of the passenger seat. He returns to the car alone and pushes her roughly into a sitting position.

  ‘Did you really believe I’d never find you?’ He holds her face in his hand and forces her to look at him. ‘Answer me, you whoring bitch.’

  * * *

  Her lips are puckered from his pressure and when she refuses to answer him he leans forward and kisses her. ‘That’s the last time you’ll ever be kissed by anyone,’ he says. ‘I hope it brings you comfort when you’re drowning.’

  He slams the back door and gets into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asks as he drives over the rutted trail towards the junction where a smoother road leads to the summit.

  ‘To the edge of the world.’ He stares at her in the rear-view mirror, his eyes marbled with hate. ‘Isn’t that where you went to escape from me?’

  Sixty-One

  Something is wrong. Elena is too familiar with the signs to ignore them. The prickling feeling on her skin, the cold air that comes with a warning. From where she is sitting, she watches the flickering light above the porch. It steadies again and shines over Nicholas as he emerges from the cottage with Amelia in his arms.

  Elena slides painfully to the floor and hunkers down to avoid being seen by him. As soon as he has passed the jeep, and she is sure he has reached his car, she peers over the passenger seat. The interior bulb in his car flashes on when he opens the back door. Unable to see what he is doing, she reaches upwards and switches off the jeep’s interior light and opens the door. Her ears seem to be ringing, as they often did when Nicholas struck her, but when she is outside, hunched at the side of the jeep, she realises that the tinkling sounds are coming from the direction of the studio. The door must have been torn open by the gale and the butterflies are dancing.

  She avoids the broken glass in the hall and enters the living room. Crossing to the window, she watches Nicholas search the jeep for her. The knife that Amelia failed to use is now in her hand. She will not hesitate if he enters Clearwater. But he returns to his car. The headlights sweep over the hulking bluffs and the lopsided rocks that gleam like the scales of prehistoric reptiles, rising on their hind legs.

  Elena waits until he is out of sight before she turns on the engine and reverses the jeep onto the road. She can only see from one eye and the jolting road intensifies the pain in her head. The BMW is out of sight but she drives with dipped headlights in case he sees her. Unable to steer a straight course, she veers off the road. The wheels sink into spongy grass. She straightens the jeep, her hands clenched on the wheel. At the junction she hesitates, unsure of the direction he has taken. Unable to see his rear-view lights winking on the downward slope, she negotiates the narrow turn and drives upwards towards the summit. The road twists continuously. She catches an occasional glimpse of his headlights before his car disappears round another bend. Sections of the hedgerows have been cut away to provide an area for cars to pull in and allow approaching traffic to pass. Before the final ascent to the summit, Elena parks the jeep in one of these, gets out and moves forward on foot. She carries a torch in one hand and grips the knife in the other.

  * * *

  Amelia wriggles her hands, but they are too tightly bound to allow any leeway. The moon shines on the white rim of the ocean below them. Nicholas is driving erratically, veering from one side of the road to the other. She doesn’t know if he is doing it deliberately to add to her panic or if he is unaware of how close they are to the edge of the headland.

  A stone hits the windscreen. The glass cracks but doesn’t shatter. Nicholas curses as the cracks widen and multiply into a web of many strands. Unable to see in front of him, he struggles to bring the car under control. Amelia opens her mouth to scream but only a whimper emerges. The same anguished whimper that always brought her father to her side. Nicholas’s knuckles whiten as he brakes on the viewing platform on the summit of Mag’s Head.

  The cracks in the windscreen have formed a shape. A face appears. Amelia recognises her reflection in this distorted mirror. She blinks but it’s still there, clearer now. The pale cameo made visible convinces her that she is staring not at herself but at Leanne. Windswept hair and feline eyes, that strong, concentrated gaze that looked with love upon her so often.

  Nicholas wraps a chamois round his fist and breaks the glass. The reflection disappears. This is an untamed landscape where imagination is honed on terror… it has to be. Leanne is dead, her body cremated. Her ashes scattered by Jay from the summit of a faraway hilltop.

  Nicholas opens the back door and leans in to lift her out.

  ‘Nicholas―’ she begins but he clamps his hand over her mouth.

  ‘Shut up,’ he hisses. ‘It’s too late for apologies. This time when you hit the water I won’t be left wondering whether you’re alive or dead.’

  He unties the rope from round her ankles and drags her from the car. Her numbed legs give way. When she falls to her knees, he takes her under her arms and drags her towards the edge of the viewing platform. It’s guarded by a steel safety barrier and, beyond it, rocks and rough tussocks of grass look hunched and distorted under the moonlight. Her view of the ocean is blocked by the smooth slant of the highest boulder but she can hear the waves pounding against the craggy face of the cliff.

  His fist in her face, her head jerking back from the force of the blow, the pain he inflicts on her has a terrifying familiarity. He hits her again and lets her fall to the ground when her eyes close. She feigns unconsciousness but has enough awareness to realise that he is loosening the rope that binds her wrists. He stops, startled, as she is, when his car headlights start flashing and the alarm goes off. His BMW is sitting like a beacon on the summit of Mag’s Head, the ricocheting shriek amplifying its presence. Forced to loosen his grip on Amelia, he reaches one hand into his jacket in search of the keys. When he realises they are still in the ignition, he curses loudly and hesit
ates, seemingly unable to decide whether to ignore the clamour or drag her back to the car. He bends over her and tries to slide his hands back under her shoulders. The pressure from the rope has eased and she has enough strength to link her fingers together and swing her fists upwards towards his chin. Pain shoots along her arms when she makes contact but, as he jerks backwards, his grip on her loosens. When he tries to grab hold of her again she rolls to one side and kicks out at him. He crashes against the steel barrier and falls heavily to his knees. He is still stunned when she rises to her feet, limping at first and then running towards his car. She flings the rope aside, knowing that if she reaches it before he gains on her, she will drive it in only one direction. A knife or a car – it matters little how she destroys him.

  Nicholas commands her to stop. Even now, he believes he has the power to dominate her. Hate lends her strength, fear gives her wings, or so it seems; but he is gaining on her, his threats ringing in her ears. It’s too late. She will never reach the car in time. She veers away from it, heading towards the trees and the scraggy overgrowth in a desperate attempt to outrun him.

  Sixty-Two

  The shriek of a car alarm stops Elena in her tracks. She sees headlights flashing, figures running across the viewing platform. She is too far away to distinguish them but it has to be Amelia and Nicholas. Exposed in this open space, she switches off the torch and moves forward, cautiously approaching the car. The alarm is silenced and the night is black again, apart from the interior light, which shines like a lone star brought to earth. The wash of the ocean is the only sound she can hear. No running footsteps to alert her to danger as she examines the BMW. A back door is open and a length of rope hangs half in and half out of the car. The windscreen is broken and the serrated shards still set in the window frame are whetted to an ice-pick sharpness.

  She is about to move on when she hears footsteps. They’re too heavy to be Amelia’s. She hunkers down at the front of the car, shoves the torch underneath a wheel and waits for him to come closer. He slams the back door and the interior light goes off. Nothing to guide her but the moon. She waits until he has opened the door on the driver’s side before rising. As she moves forward, her boots splinter a shard of glass. He spins round as she is about to lunge at him. The element of surprise has gone and when her arm is twisted behind her back, the new pain on top of the injury he inflicted on her outside Rosemary’s office saps the last of her strength. As the knife falls harmlessly to the ground, she knows she has lost.

  He picks it up and holds it to her throat. How many times has she faced him like this, helpless while he decides what punishment to mete out? This time will be different. She senses it in the steadiness of his hand as he prepares to take her life from her.

  The ringing in her ears is back again and is even louder than the waves roiling below them. Can he not hear it? The chime of butterflies making music as they flit against each other in a deserted studio? How has the sound reached them? Has the wind carried it this great distance? The same wind that sighs his name. ‘Nicholas… Nicholas…’ A voice floating on the air, familiar yet unrecognisable, its cadences enticing him to listen as she sings out his name, louder this time. When he turns from Elena, his attention distracted, he is unable to see who is calling him but he knows, as Elena does, that Amelia is offering herself as a decoy.

  Elena wants to shout at her to run – run without stopping, towards a new haven where she and Layla would be safe. But her tongue is fused to her palate, her throat too dry. He shoves Elena aside and switches on the headlights. Amelia is visible on the other side of the barrier. She lifts her hand, as if to shield her eyes from the glare, then walks slowly away from him. The grass sways and leaves a trail for him to follow. She disappears behind one of the largest standing stones before coming back into view.

  Nicholas climbs the barrier and drops easily to the other side. Amelia looks back over her shoulder and continues walking. What is she doing? Elena, finding her voice, screams at her to run but the wind, rising again, flings the warnings from her. Nicholas is gaining ground and Amelia, finally realising the danger she is in, begins to run. Moonlight infuses the silvery blonde strands of her hair and the folds of her dress are sculpted to her slim form. They are close to the edge of the cliff when she veers right in a zigzagging movement. Nicholas is gaining on her with every second that passes. Amelia will never outrun him. Elena grabs the torch and climbs over the barrier. She screams again but it is too late. Nicholas has caught up with Amelia. They look as if they are dancing together, their bodies entwined in a deadly waltz beneath the standing stone. It reminds Elena of a sacrificial altar; a stark, bleak slab where blood is shed so that others might live.

  When it moves Elena is convinced she is caught in the madness of a fantasy. The torch beam wavers wildly over the stone as it falls soundlessly over Amelia and Nicholas. Horror drives her across the grassy plateau. Where it stood, magnificent in its looming solitude, there is now a view of the ocean. The ground that cradled it is as hollow as an empty grave. The stone lies flat upon the space where they had performed their deadly dance. Elena kneels beside it. She is aware that the butterflies have stopped chiming and the waves have a softer wash.

  She had envied Amelia, been fascinated by her, yearned for Nicholas to love her with the same passion she used to believe he had felt for his wife. Lies, all of it. When he had wanted was to dominate her, possess her, and, now, unable to succeed in doing so in her life, he had achieved it with her death. Together again forever, and Elena, who had barely begun to know this stranger, is weeping by their grave for the friendship they could have shared. She sees Nicholas’s hand by the edge of the stone. It is visible in the moonlight, his strong, brutal fingers that could clench into a fist or sensuously shiver over her skin. Now, the palm is curled inwards. Was he begging Amelia’s forgiveness, or clasping her slender neck, when his life was wrenched from him? She will never know. Horrified by the sight, she averts her eyes and fights back the nausea that rises hotly in her throat. She hears a siren in the distance. The gardai have arrived, but too late. Two squad cars are visible, blue lights whirring as they are driven onto the viewing platform. As she staggers across the grass, she pitches forward, tearing her knee on the rough shingle. The urge to lie there overwhelms her but she rises and hobbles towards the group of uniformed guards, who are making their way to the barricade.

  She tries to explain what has happened but she is sobbing too loudly to be coherent. A policewoman wraps a blanket round her and leads her towards the first car. She is gentle with Elena as she opens the door and assists her into the back seat. Tears blur Elena’s vision. Tears that cause her to hallucinate – for how else can she explain the pale vision who stirs, as if awakening from a deep trance, and whispers her name?

  Amelia Madison is also swaddled in a blanket. Twigs are tangled in her hair. Her wrists are grazed and ringleted in red. Her voice shakes as she explains what had occurred after she escaped from Nicholas. How she hid in a wilderness of fuchsia, burrowing deep within the red bells, scrabbling for cover as Nicholas’s footsteps drew nearer then faded. How she was afraid to emerge until she heard the sirens of the squad cars and knew she was safe.

  In the months to follow, they will try to find reasons that can logically explain the sighting of a woman on a clifftop, whose power unearthed a boulder that had been rooted in the earth for millennia. And how, when the boulder was finally lifted, there was only one body to be found. Such questions can wait. And does it really matter if they are never answered? As Elena Langdon and Amelia Madison embrace, they are aware that on this terror-stricken night they were not alone. Somewhere in those dark reaches, beyond moonlight and shadows, beyond illusion and comprehension, they had caught a glimpse of the mystery that lies beyond the veil.

  Epilogue

  Rewind, play, fast forward, rewind… how was I to define these flashes? What were they? Three-dimensional holograms? Light waves, delusions, illusions? I received no guidance when I came here. N
o divine voice directed me; yet there were moments when I was ether, brimstone, energy. I was the wind and the dark, a face in the mist, the air that brushed against a cheek and brought comfort. I was a siren waiting by the edge of a cliff; a hurtling force that toppled a rock from its slanting stance. I was a web, each strand connecting me to the past, the present and the future.

  Before I went to that house of death, I deposited a letter in a bank vault with instructions for it to be handed over to Amelia’s solicitor, if she decides to reclaim her identity. Thanks to Elena, the feverish letters Amelia wrote to me, and which I kept safely until I could give them back to her, are now with him. They will give her the freedom to find herself again. The recording she made in that hidden chamber will be used by Elena’s barrister to exonerate her.

  All this I’ve seen, and more. Mark’s struggle back to consciousness; Elena’s joy when she opens her arms to her children, knowing they are back where they belong. Yvonne will mourn the son she never really knew. Henry will mourn the son he knew too well. And Jay, such wonder, such bliss, when he meets his daughter for the first time; this, too, has been shown to me. He will walk with Kayla and Amelia through the garden at Woodbine, where my glass butterflies will glitter between the branches and the low cooing of doves will be the only melody to break the stillness.

  As these chains of attachment fell away from me, Nicholas’s voice was the last one I heard. His threats and promises: ‘Amelia… Amelia… Bitch. Whore. Liar. I love you… hate you… love you…’til death do us part we are together as one.’

  As he chased me along a cliff path that was once familiar to me, his intent was clear. Hate had conquered love, flattened it and smote it into an ugly weal. He stretched out his arms to crush what was immaterial, and I, released from all earthly ties, yet filled with a rapturous certainty, took him with me.