See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist.

by Janelle Harris

  I tilt my wrist towards me, still gripping the steering wheel, and glance at my watch. It’s coming up on four o’clock. I hope David will say it’s too late to head into the office now. Maybe we could spend our first Saturday night together in months. My belly rumbles, and I realise I’ve forgotten to eat today.

  David finally hangs up as we break away from the heavy traffic.

  ‘We’ll be home in ten minutes,’ I say as if my husband doesn’t drive this road every day to and from the office. ‘I was thinking we could get a takeaway. How does Chinese sound? We keep saying we should try that new place on the corner. I’ve heard great things about it.’

  David adjusts his seat belt, slacking it enough so he can turn his whole body towards me.

  My shoulders grow heavy, and the only thing stopping me from slouching over completely are my arms stretched out, gripping the wheel. I know what he’s going to say.

  ‘Oh, c’mon, David. Not tonight. Please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, baby.’ He sighs. ‘That was Amber calling.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Chinese does sound great, though. You should still get some.’

  ‘It’s not the same when I have to eat it on my own.’

  ‘I know, I know. Sorry.’

  ‘So how late do you think you’ll be? I’ll wait up; there’s a new series starting on Netflix.’

  ‘Erm …’ David shakes his head. ‘It’s a whole weekend thing, Emma.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The client is flying in from Boston. We’re meeting four of the top guys from their head office at the airport.’

  ‘You’re their chauffeur now too,’ I snarl.

  ‘There are six companies in Dublin alone pitching for their business. We need to do something to stand out. We’ll take in all the tourist attractions and stuff with them. Butter them up while we’re out and about and then pitch them for the big bucks first thing on Monday morning.’

  ‘So you have to work all weekend? Will you be late every night?’

  ‘Actually, we’re heading straight from the airport to Kilkenny. Tonight. I’ll be staying over. I’m so sorry, baby. I know the timing sucks.’

  ‘Oh, come on. I can handle late nights, but no weekends now either. Jesus, David. This is ridiculous. No job is worth this.’

  ‘I know. I know. But this is a once-off, Emma. I promise. These guys are big players. It could potentially be worth a fortune.’

  ‘No amount of money is worth this. I never see you anymore. I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you too. But this weekend could mean a huge bonus.’

  I shrug as we turn on our road.

  ‘It could be enough to put the deposit down on that cottage you like.’ David tries a toothy grin. ‘As soon as we buy our own house, all these crazy hours will stop, Emma, and it will all be so worth it. We just have to stick it out for a little longer. We can do this, baby, can’t we?’

  I shake my head, but I’m smiling. David can read me like the map of my soul is imprinted inside his head. He always knows exactly what to say to soothe me. I’d love to buy our own place, and that cottage we viewed last week blew my mind. Cosy without being too small. The perfect size, especially if we want to start a family soon. I was hoping to talk to David about it this weekend. I guess I’ll have to wait for another opportunity to tell him I want a baby.

  ‘So will you be okay on your own?’ David asks as if I’m a child who needs babysitting.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ I sulk, defiant.

  David hops out of the passenger side door and is dashing into the house before the car even comes to a complete stop in our driveway.

  Chapter Four

  EMMA

  I flick through all the channels on the television haphazardly. I’m not really planning to watch anything. The half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table calls to me, and I pour another glass. Dinner consisted of two bars of chocolate and a bowl of popcorn washed down with the first half of the bottle of wine. Restless, I turn off the television. I sit in near darkness with just the streetlights shining through the drawn curtain. A pain chatters in my temples like one of those little clockwork monkeys clanging his tiny brass cymbals over and over. Ironic, as it’s the silence of the house that’s really getting to me. And I wonder if this is how every evening felt for Danny; coming home to an empty house after a long day at work. He must have been even lonelier than I ever realised. Maybe he just couldn’t take it anymore. He jumped. Or at least that’s what everyone at the graveyard today said. Whispers and mumbles carried in the air. Gossip outweighed grief. Colleagues dotted around Danny’s open grave with upturned noses, judging a man after his death.

  I replay the day in my mind. I’ll miss him.

  I reach for the bottle of wine and pull a face, disgusted to find I’ve drank it all. I make my way towards the kitchen, in the dark, in search of another bottle. I flick on the light and reach for the cheap stuff on the wine rack above the fridge. My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket, making me jump, and I drop the bottle. It smashes against the floor tiles with a loud bang, sending wine halfway up my legs and all over the cupboards. I ignore my ringing phone and bend down to pick up the shards of glass. A jagged edge nicks my finger, and bright red blood trickles past my knuckle. I lean my back against the nearest cupboard and slide all the way to the ground. The puddle of wine beneath me soaks into my jeans, but I ignore the wetness. I tuck my knees into my chest. I rock from side to side, and I cry.

  Loud, angry sobs echo around the kitchen. My finger stings as I watch the blood with fascination. And I remember. I remember all the times I hurt myself. All the times I was desperate to feel physical pain. I needed it to hurt so bad that the pain of my bleeding flesh drowned out the pain of my bleeding mind. When I cut deep enough, the sting would hurt more than the guilt.

  I wasn’t crazy or stupid; I knew where to cut. My thighs and my tummy yield quite a lot of blood without getting too close to an artery. I didn’t want to kill myself. Well, not usually. I just wanted to forget the terrible thing I’d done, but I couldn’t. Not even now. Not even fourteen years later.

  Most of the scars have faded now. They just look like stretch marks across my thighs. And David has stopped checking my body for new scars when he thinks I’m asleep. He stopped a few years ago. He stopped after I took it too far. When I scared him. When I scared myself.

  It was a Saturday afternoon. I’d spent twenty minutes, sitting alone on the bathroom floor, fishing the blade out of an old razor with a pair of tweezers, and then, when I finally freed it from the plastic, I just sat staring at it for ages. I almost chickened out. But I’d replayed the conversation I had with my best friend on the phone moments before. Kim was angry, and she was crying. She said if I didn’t tell David, she would. She said she couldn’t lie to him anymore. She was taking the decision out of my hands, and it wasn’t fair. I had to take back control, and bleeding was the only way I knew how.

  I didn’t feel the pain. I didn’t feel anything. I was numb. The blade slid across my wrist like a hot knife through butter. The blood was dark at first, like a fine red wine. It didn’t fade to bright red until it began dripping onto the bathroom floor.

  I didn’t pass out or feel faint like you see in the movies. But I did feel sick. I threw up a couple of times. I dropped the blade and stood up from crouching over the toilet bowl, my legs shaking. I took a moment to catch my breath. But my chest tightened, and it was hard to suck in air as guilt smacked me across my face, hurting far more than the blade. This was different from the guilt I usually felt. I wasn’t pining over the past—I was regretting the present moment. This was guilt for something I was doing right now. Something I could control; something I could stop. I had to stop.

  I caught the gaping edges of my skin and pulled them back together. I grabbed a towel off the edge of the bath and wound it tightly around my wrist. I scooped the bloodied blade off the floor and wrapped it in some toilet paper before throwing it into the bin. I ran to the t
rain station. Danny didn’t usually work on Saturdays, but he was there. Thank God, he was there. We even had tea, as usual, as we waited for the ambulance. Surreal, I know, but Danny was calm and as understanding as ever. I began to breathe again, and the fog that usually invades my head when I get like that cleared. Danny’s words could always clear the fog.

  But Danny is gone now. Maybe the fog will come back.

  I close my eyes and try to shake off the thoughts of the past. I suck my bleeding finger, making a face at the taste of blood in my mouth. When I open my eyes again, I stare at the broken wine bottle on the floor. The pieces are sharp like blades. You could do some fatal damage with one of the larger pieces. I sigh and shake my head, knowing that I won’t go there. I’m confident I’ll never get to a place that dark again. And it’s all because of Danny. I owe him my life. That’s why I can’t understand how he could take his. It just doesn’t make any sense to me. Why would he counsel me, pull me back from the darkest corners of my own mind, only to hurt himself? He was lonely. Depressed even. But I can’t believe he was suicidal. Danny wasn’t a hypocrite.

  The national newspapers are carrying the story. I’m trying to avoid reading any, but my Facebook newsfeed was riddled with links to articles this morning. It seems the press are diluting the drama; simply running the story as a tragic accident. RAILWAY WORKER SLIPS, one headline read. A fall? Yeah, right. Danny knew every inch of the platform inside out. He was forever warning people of the dangers of the tracks. He’d never be careless or complacent. He’d never fall. And he’d never, ever fucking jump. That just leaves one other scenario. He was pushed.

  I roll my eyes and laugh out loud at my own ridiculousness. It’s funny the crazy theories your mind will conjure when you’re desperate for an alternative to the truth. I sigh and accept all I know for certain is that I will miss him.

  My phone vibrates again, and I slide it out of my pocket, finally becoming aware of how damp my jeans are. A text message waits for me. I smile as I think of my husband. He’s been gone for hours now. He must be at the hotel. Lucky bastard. I wish my job came with such lavish perks. We get excited when a cake comes into the staffroom at the school. Or when a parent drops in a bottle of wine and a thank-you note for helping out with an extracurricular activity. David and my careers are poles apart. A bit like our personalities. But they do say opposites attract, so it must be true. We’ve been together almost fifteen years.

  I read the words on the screen. It’s not a message from David. I’m disappointed.

  Girls nite out 2nite.

  U so better come.

  See u @9

  Kim must be psychic, I smirk to myself. Or David has text her. My smile grows, knowing it’s the latter. But my cheesy grin is quickly wiped as I overthink it. I’m not sure if David is feeling guilty and thinks distracting me with dancing and booze will get him off the hook, or if he’s actually afraid to leave me on my own after today. Christ, am I that predictable?

  I glance at my watch. It’s almost eight p.m., and I just want to sleep. I glance up at the wine rack, and its emptiness stares back at me like a teasing metaphor for how I feel. I’m a mess. The thought of grabbing a shower and actually putting on makeup makes me feel even more exhausted, but I want another couple of glasses of wine before I doze off. A night out with the girls is my answer.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m washed, dressed, and somewhat sober. I haven’t been out with the girls in months. Maybe even a year. Paying off stuff for the wedding nearly killed David and me, and things are even tighter now since we’re saving for a house. Our social lives are practically non-existent. Maybe I need this opportunity to unwind. Maybe this. Will. Be. Good.

  Chapter Five

  EMMA

  Kim arrives at half eight and marches up my driveway carrying a large, luminous green sports bag.

  ‘The front door’s on the latch,’ I shout out the open, upstairs window while trying not to poke myself in the eye with my mascara wand.

  Seconds later, Kim barges in my bedroom door and throws the contents of the green bag onto my bed. Tiny dresses and backless tops litter the duvet like a rainbow. Kim spreads them out and takes a step back to admire her handiwork then scrunches her nose as she looks me up and down.

  ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’

  ‘Yes, Kim, I’m wearing this.’

  I glance in the mirror. I like my grey skinny jeans and dusty pink blouse. Teamed up with a pair of five-inch heels, I feel pretty. David is right. I do need a girls’ night out, and I snigger to myself as I realise his cunning plan has worked. He’s off the hook.

  ‘Oh, c’mon. I want to try that new place on Sweeny Avenue.’ Kim folds her arms across her chest and pouts. ‘It’s super posh, you know.’

  ‘Okay, sounds great. But I’m still not changing my clothes.’

  ‘Gah. But I brought you loads of dresses. I don’t want to look like a hooker on my own.’

  I snort. ‘You don’t look like a hooker,’ I lie. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Okay fine, but at least, let me curl your hair.’

  I nod. ‘Deal.’

  At five to nine, the honking horn outside the house startles us. We laugh at ourselves and each other. We throw some makeup into our handbags, grab our coats, and hurry downstairs. I lock up quickly, remembering to set the alarm, and hop into the waiting taxi.

  Kim gives the directions while I mess around with my phone, trying to take a selfie.

  ‘Ugh, God, these are terrible,’ I moan. ‘I can’t use any of these.’

  ‘For Facebook, is it?’

  ‘Nah.’ I shrug. ‘I want to send them to David. I’m going to tell him I’ve sexy lingerie on underneath and he’s missing out.’

  Kim’s eyes widen. ‘Do you?’

  ‘What? Do I have frilly knickers on? No, of course not, but he won’t know that. Anyway, this is the third weekend in a row he’s abandoned me for work crap. The least he deserves is a little teasing.’

  A wicked laugh gargles in the back of Kim’s throat. It’s contagious and makes me giggle too.

  ‘Here,’ she says, taking my phone. ‘Let me take one. Selfies always come out crap. This will be better.’

  Kim snaps several shots and forwards the one I approve of most to David. She captions it with something silly about him missing all the action.

  ‘There.’ She winks, handing my phone back to me. ‘Serves him right.’

  After some more girly giggling, the conversation moves to more serious topics, such as work, babies, and sex. After a couple of glasses of wine, Kim is guaranteed to bring shagging up at some point. Kim gets cranky when she’s not getting any, and she’s been single for three months now. It’s going to be a long night.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand, Emma. You have sex on tap. And David’s hot, so it’s even better.’

  I try to hide the sting of rejection from Kim’s words. Kim’s right. David and I should be going at it like a pair of rabbits. Everyone says that’s what newlyweds do. But that’s only true for newlyweds who actually spend time together. I can’t really remember the last time David and I were intimate. Three or four weeks ago, maybe. And even at that, it was just a quickie on a Saturday morning before Amber text him, and he had to dash into the office. These days, the closest we get to each other all day is the routine kiss he gives me in the morning before he runs out the front door.

  I change the subject to cocktails and sexy bartenders, two of Kim’s other favourite topics, and breathe a sigh of relief when she begins to ramble off a list of her favourite drinks.

  We split the cost of the taxi, thank the driver, and fumble out the car door. I can barely walk in my ridiculous heels, but I’m like an elegant swan gliding across a pond compared with Kim’s duck waddling in her huge, over-the-knee boots. But the boots prove a distinct advantage as Kim tosses the bouncer a salacious grin. He steps aside and allows us to skip the queue and make our way inside.

  It’s overcrowded and stinks of sweaty bodies. The
bar is hiding at the extreme back and can only be reached by navigating our way through a sea of drunk teenagers. I quickly remember why I haven’t been inside a club in nearly ten years.

  It takes us at least an hour to find our friends, but our mission isn’t helped by the constant distraction of needing to buy more alcohol. The wine is reasonable, and the cocktails are potent, so it doesn’t take Kim or me long to channel our inner teenager and get our grove on out on the dancefloor.

  We finally find Liz and Ruth hiding in the corner. I can’t decide if I’m more relieved that our search is over or that they’ve been keeping seats for us. Content that I’m not abandoning Kim and leaving her alone, I excuse myself and make my way back across the dancefloor towards the toilets.

  ‘I’m going to the loo,’ I splutter to anyone who happens to step out in front of me along the way.

  Some people look horrified, others tell me to get lost, and some even give me a high five. It’s only when I finally make it into the cubicle after pulling instead of pushing on the door for at least three attempts that I realise how very drunk I am. This was not how I wanted today to end. I’m sorry, Danny. My chest pinches, and I know Danny would be so disappointed if he could see me now. I dread tomorrow already. I’ve told Danny more than once how distressed the low of a hangover after the buzz of being drunk makes me feel.

  Chapter Six

  EMMA

  I sit on the toilet and check my phone again. David still hasn’t text me back. I hope Kim sent him the right picture and not my selfie with three chins. I haven’t heard from David at all since he left hours ago. It’s grating on my nerves that he won’t take thirty seconds to let me know he’s arrived at the hotel safely. It’s not like him. He’s usually in touch so regularly while he’s away that we often stay up half the night texting like a pair of lovesick teenagers. I guess he’s just too busy today.