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

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Emma.’ Richard, the principal, says my name like I’m a naughty pupil.

  ‘Good morning, Richard.’

  ‘Is everything all right in here?’ he asks, his voice choppy and agitated.

  Richard is a nice guy on a personal level, but we’ve clashed in the past professionally. We’re both pretty passionate about our work, and we don’t always agree about what’s best for the kids. But even in our most heated discussions, Richard hasn’t worn an expression as sour as the one he sports right now.

  ‘Everything is fine. Why do you ask?’ I defend.

  ‘Your class was missed at assembly this morning.’

  I close my eyes. Oh God, bloody assembly. I completely forgot. My class was supposed to be reciting a poem about winter. I must be the laughing stock of the school. If I thought the parents would be annoyed about their kids spending the day watching movies, that'd be nothing to their fury tomorrow when they realise my mistake.

  I shake my head. ‘Oh, Richard. I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.’

  ‘Emma, go home.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say, my breath catching in the back of my throat.

  ‘You’re not yourself at all. Some of the other teachers told me about your friend. The old man from the train station.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I read about it in the papers,’ Richard’s shoulders roll forward, and his height shrinks by a couple of inches. ‘Shocking stuff. I had no idea you knew him.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, listen, don’t worry about work right now. Take some time for yourself. I’ll get a substitute in to cover for you. You need some head space.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I smile.

  Richard places his hand on my shoulder and gives a little squeeze. ‘Emma. Go home.’

  *

  An hour later, I’m standing in the middle of the biscuit aisle in the supermarket. I came in to grab something for lunch since I didn’t get around to grocery shopping last week. Eggs and bread were all that were in the house, and Kim and I polished those off yesterday morning. I’ve survived on a couple of slices of toast since then, and I’m famished. I’m not sure I’ll even make it up to the counter before I rip open the packet of chocolate chip cookies in my hand.

  I find myself diverting through the wine aisle. I stood in this same spot at this same time on Saturday. Picking up a bottle of chilled white wine on a Saturday morning is socially acceptable. Scanning the wine aisle on a Monday morning is decidedly less so. And I’m uncomfortable as I feel a pair of eyes blister into me. The owner of the eyes is a woman about my age. She’s wearing dark coloured tracksuit bottoms with a noticeable yoghurt or milk stain on the thigh, and her hair is greasy and hangs lifelessly by her face. She’s overweight, but that doesn’t stop her from sharing a packet of crackers with her toddler son who’s sitting in the front of her trolley. She’s judging me. The disapproving shake of her head tells me so. And I should be annoyed. I should judge her sloppy appearance and her haphazard attitude towards healthy eating, but I don’t. Instead, I’m pinched with jealousy. I want to be a mother like her. I should be a mother. Suddenly, I’m transported back to being a scared seventeen-year-old again. And the guilt I still feel about the decision I made at the time is momentarily strangulating.

  I shake my head as if the movement will spill the memories I hate out of my brain. I grab the nearest bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and hurry towards the counter.

  My phone is beeping frantically in my bag as I stand in line. Inquisitive heads turn towards me, investigating the irritating noise. My cheeks heat as the bottle of wine takes pride of place in the centre of my folded arms as people wash their eyes over me. The remainder of my groceries lines the rest of the length of my arms so I can’t even reach into my bag and hit mute on my phone.

  ‘Here, let me take some of that for you,’ the elderly lady in front of me says.

  ‘Oh, no. It’s okay,’ I mumble, mortified that she’s reaching her hands out to take my groceries from me.

  ‘C’mon. C’mon. Pass them here.’ She’s smiling brightly as she practically wrestles the wine and cookies out of my grasp. ‘There’s no point in having a phone on you if you don’t answer it. Or at least that’s what my grandson always tells me. He’s only six and already knows how to work the silly thing better than I do. He can watch videos and whatnot on it. I can just about figure out texting. My daughter says it’s because he’s growing up with the technology. I don’t know. I think kids’ brains will be fried by the time they’re teenagers. Either that or they’ll have square eyes.’ She laughs. It’s a real hearty belly rumble, and I know she means to be friendly and chatty.

  I force a smile. My phone has stopped beeping, so I stand still and wait for her to pass me back my stuff.

  ‘Aren’t you going to check your message?’ she pries.

  ‘Not right now. If it’s important, they’ll call back later.’

  ‘S’pose.’ She shrugs. Her eyes drop to my wedding ring. ‘But it could be the man in your life trying to get in touch. Men have no patience, you know. My husband, God rest his soul, couldn’t wait two minutes for his tea. Six o’clock on the dot, he wanted his dinner. If it was a minute late, my God, there was hell to pay.’

  I can feel my eyes widen as her words shock me, and I’ve no idea what to say. I hope she didn’t mean that he was violent, and if she did, I’m glad for her sake that he’s dead. She doesn’t realise it, but her ramblings have actually given me some healthy perspective. I’m pissed off at David because he’s working his arse off to provide me with a great life when really I should be grateful. I’m a bitch. I decide on the spot to welcome him home with a delicious dinner. I have some new lingerie that I bought before our wedding that I haven’t even shown him. I’ll wear it tonight, and it’ll be a nice surprise. I can feel the warm buzz of excitement tingle in the base of my spine.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, finally taking my wine and cookies back from her. ‘I’ve forgotten something.’

  *

  Alone at the back of the store, I tumble the groceries from my arms into a shopping basket and wander around, gathering up the ingredients to create a culinary masterpiece when I get home. I toy with the idea of buying an apron just so I can wear it, and nothing else, as I cook. That really would surprise the hell out of David when he walks in the door.

  The basket grows heavy, and I put it down on the ground and stretch my back. I smile. I’m in a much better headspace now than when I first walked into the store. My hangover doesn’t even feel as bad anymore. I open my bag and fish out my phone, remembering I have messages.

  My grasp tightens around my phone until my fingers ache. It’s not David. I feel my mood sway the other way again. Suddenly, I’m aware of the skin covering my bones, the blood rushing through my veins, and the beating of my heart. It’s not quite like an out-of-body experience, but I do feel like my mind has been severed from my body.

  I close my eyes, sucking in air sharply through my nose and forcing it back out through a narrow gap between my teeth in short, even pants. I repeat. Over and over. Accepting that my moods sway like a pendulum was hard. Accepting that would possibly never change was even harder. Learning how to draw myself back from the darkness was almost impossible. But I was willing to learn. It took a lot of practice, but I’ve become steadily more and more adept at keeping myself calm when I’m alone.

  Steadier, I read the WhatsApp message from Peek-a-boo. Who the fuck is Peek-a-boo?

  Hello.

  Hello! I roll my eyes. A little vomit sits like a lead brick somewhere between my stomach and my chest.

  I reach down and hook my arm under the handles of my heavy basket. The metal eats into me, even through my coat, as I hurry back towards the main body of the shop.

  Another beep from my phone summons my attention. Despite pausing as a nervous breath catches in my throat, I read it anyway.

  Tut. Tut.

  Don’t u know it’s rude 2 ignore someone?

&nb
sp; Let’s be friends.

  A man appears from behind a mound of stacked cereal boxes in the centre of the aisle. I freeze. But he walks past me, pushing his trolley. Within seconds, he disappears around the corner at the end of the aisle.

  I look back at my phone in my shaking hand and toss my head. I flick my finger from bottom to top on my screen and hold my breath as I read the next message that appears.

  My friend is pretty.

  ‘What the hell?’ I hiss out loud.

  My finger jars at the knuckle as I press the letters on my touchscreen with unnecessary force. I can’t ignore this crap any longer. I have to reply. This idiot isn’t taking the hint.

  I think you have a wrong number.

  We are not friends.

  I don’t know you.

  I hit send and stand still, staring at the words I’ve just typed. I can tell whoever this is wants me to engage, so when they reply, I’m expecting it.

  That’s not nice.

  I just want 2 tell u something.

  Seriously? Tell me something? Maybe whoever is on the other end is just lonely. But this isn’t how you go about making friends. I know we’re in the age of technology and all that, but there are websites for meeting people. Normal people don’t randomly troll strangers. This has to stop now. My instinct is telling me to block them, but I fight against it and type another reply, hoping I can let them down gently.

  I’m sorry.

  I have all the friends I need.

  Please don’t contact me again.

  I read back over my own words a couple of times, content that I’ve made my point. It’s over. I slide my hand into my coat pocket, and before I even pull it back out, my phone is vibrating against my palm.

  Oh, come on!

  I jerk my hand out of my pocket, still clutching my phone, and shake my fist as if the motion will spill the words to tumble around in cyber space and I won’t have to deal with them.

  ‘Consider yourself blocked.’

  I blush as I realise I’m talking, rather loudly, to thin air. I open the app once again. I’ve no idea how to block someone, but I’m about to find out.

  It’s no surprise to find another message waiting for me, but it is annoying. I asked them to leave me alone. And I was nice about it. I toss my eyes up and around. Obviously too nice. This is edging towards ridiculous now.

  I click on different icons here and there, trying to delete, or at least block, this weirdo. But the app settings are confusing, and all I manage to do is change my profile status. I try again, this time losing patience. I accidentally open the waiting message in frustration as I tap on just about every icon hoping to get rid of them.

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I almost drop my phone. It’s me. It’s a picture of me. They’ve sent me a photo. Something is written below. I scroll down.

  I told u I had something 2 tell u.

  I like your blouse.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand like soldiers to attention, and throaty crackles lace my breathing. My coat is zipped closed right now, but if I opened it, I’d reveal a blue and white striped blouse. The same blouse I’m wearing in the photo. The picture was taken today. Today. Oh, my God.

  David’s colleagues would never take a joke this far. And they’re all at work anyway, so they wouldn’t get an opportunity to take my photo. My whole body shakes. Who the hell is this freak?

  I spin around on the spot. Circling a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees with my eyes open so wide my brows ache from the stretch.

  ‘This isn’t funny.’ I pant. ‘Do you hear me, whoever you are? Not funny.’

  No one is here. I spin around again. No one. But I don’t feel alone. I can virtually feel hot breath on my neck and hands on my skin. I can feel someone watching me. Shit.

  Skidding on the floor tiles a couple of times, I race to the top of the shop. The metal basket laden with my groceries wallops against my hip over and over. It’ll leave a nasty bruise tomorrow, but I don’t think about that now.

  Reaching the hub of people at the checkout, I come to an abrupt stop and stand poker straight. The checkout area is a lot busier than it was a few minutes ago. People are everywhere – young, elderly, and children. I look everyone up and down as my heart beats so fast I feel like it can’t cope with the pace. There are too many people. Strangers. Everywhere. Any one of them could be this freak. They’re probably watching me right now. Laughing on the inside. I hate them. I don’t even know who they are, and I hate them.

  I have to get out of here.

  I drop my basket onto the ground at my feet, a little too roughly, especially as quite a few people have begun to stare at me. I guess my shaky persona is drawing attention. The security guard at the door straightens his round shoulders and glares at me.

  Does he think I’m going to steal something? He must. He’s walking towards me.

  The door is in view, and I’m desperate to abandon my shopping and race to my car. Panic is belting against my skull as if a tidal wave of blood is building up inside my head and the pressure could force my eyes to pop right out of their sockets.

  I look through the glass doors. If I squint, I can just about make out my car in the carpark. The impulse to run is overwhelming now. It’s messing with my breathing. The effort to suppress the urge is bullying all my other senses into submission. I can’t think of anything else, and my lungs are feeling the pressure as they plead with my brain to remember to inhale.

  Long, even breaths. I’ve got this. I know what to do. It takes me a few seconds, but I regain control.

  Calmer, I eye up a five kilogram bag of potatoes on special offer near the checkout. I join the queue and concentrate on keeping my breathing steady. Any lapses in concentration and I’ll lose it again. Only three people are ahead of me with a couple of items each, but we’re barely moving.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ the girl behind the till says, as I finally pick my bits and pieces out of the basket and place them on the conveyer belt.

  ‘Hello,’ I mumble. ‘I need potatoes too.’

  ‘Potatoes?’ She looks at the items between us.

  ‘Yeah.’ I cringe. ‘I hurt my back in Pilates, and I can’t lift anything heavy. I was wondering if someone could carry them out to the car for me, please? Sorry to be a pain.’

  ‘No problem. Hang on.’

  I can feel my face redden. I wonder if she can see straight through my pathetic lie, but I could hardly admit that I’m scared senseless to walk out to my car alone in case a freak is waiting out there to murder me. In broad daylight. Yeah, right! I try to scold myself and get a grip, but I’m beyond paranoid.

  ‘Frank.’ She leans forward and calls out, summoning the security guard. ‘This girl needs some help with her spuds.’

  The security guard turns around and smiles. ‘Sure. Do you want the big bag or the little one?’

  I hate potatoes, but I must opt for the heaviest bag there. I need him to carry it all the way to the car so I won’t be alone.

  ‘Big.’ I flash an overzealous toothy grin. ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  DAVID

  I sit on the edge of my bed and rub my knees. The soft bit just above my kneecap is red and sore from my elbows digging into them, and my left calf is threating to cramp up. I must have sat statue-like for at least an hour with my elbows on my knees and my hands clasped with my chin resting heavily on top. My back hurts now, and it clicks and creaks as I straighten up. The duvet and sheets are balled up and messy underneath me, so I can tell Emma had a restless night tossing and turning. And she must have left for work in a hurry this morning; she’d never leave the bed undressed otherwise. She likes it perfect, with cushions that match the curtains dotted across the pillows.

  I stand up when I hear a car pull into the driveway. For a moment, I panic that it’s Amber. She insisted on dropping me to my goddamn front door regardless of my constant reassurance that I didn’t need her to. She even pulled into the driveway, for Christ’s sak
e. Somehow, offering to take her home turned into her asserting that she wanted to be alone, but not until after she dropped me home. She didn’t even realise that it made no sense for me to be out of work if she was okay to drive by herself. I tried to bring the topic up and suggested I head back to the office, but she shot the notion down. And I wasn’t about to complain about getting the afternoon off. It was all a bit weird. She was obsessed with chaperoning me home.

  Amber’s not a gossip. She pisses off the other girls in the office with her snobbery and keep-to-herself demeanour. So I doubt she was desperate to see where I lived so she could go back and report to the other girls. But I can’t think of another reason for her adamancy. And then, for someone who was apparently so desperate to be alone, I thought I was never going to get rid of her. For fifteen minutes, we made awkward small talk parked outside my sitting room window, and the whole time I kept looking at Amber and thinking, I’ve fucked you, and now, I have to tell my wife.

  My personal life is about to come crashing down as soon as I tell Emma about the one-night stand. But oblivious Amber just kept going on and on about her bloody Facebook troll. I reiterated that the internet is full of weirdos. I told her that all she has to do is block them and move on. She finally got pissed off and left. Thank God.

  I walk reluctantly to the window and part the drawn curtains just enough to peek out without being seen. I exhale heavily when I discover Emma’s car parked in the driveway. She’s still sitting behind the steering wheel. It takes me a few seconds of staring at her motionless body to realise she’s home from work early too. I twist my wrist, still clutching the curtain and check my watch. It’s not long past noon. Emma’s home unusually early.

  A dull pain coils in my stomach, and I actually want to be sick. Maybe then, I can throw up some of the guilt weighing me down. In spite of gagging every couple of seconds, I stay standing on the spot, watching my wife through the narrow gap in the curtain like some demented pervert. But I just want to see her. Her ivory skin is emphasised by her rosy cheeks, and her shoulder-length mousy brown hair falls in soft waves around her face. She’s beautiful, and she’s probably the only person in the world who would disagree. Emma’s confidence is rock bottom. No matter how many compliments I give her or how many men offer to buy her a drink on a night out, she doesn’t see her own beauty on the inside and out.