The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  I stare hard at the bottom line. They’ve got a point about it clinging to that third green line. It wobbles a little bit, sometimes falling slightly below, sometimes slipping slightly above, but overall I really am only gaining the least amount of weight it’s possible to get away with.

  Worse, the last two weigh-ins show a slight drop in weight.

  Why? Why am I lying to myself about wanting to get better?

  I’m a perfectionist. I’ve always tried so hard to get things right for everyone, and I’ve failed them all. Owen, Elise, Edward, and now even Carrie. That’s why I need to be punished – but my own punishment is also why I’m now letting down my best friend.

  ‘I can see why you’re concerned. I’ve been letting myself get distracted by things. Things that, maybe, shouldn’t really concern me.’

  Sandra clears her throat, and as she stands so does everybody else in the team apart from Rosie. ‘We’re going to leave you two to it.’

  ‘Oh, okay, thank you for everything,’ I reply.

  Only when the door closes does Rosie pipe up.

  ‘You mentioned letting yourself get distracted by things that shouldn’t really concern you. We need to explore this. Do you think it’s possible that you’re making things up in order to have something to distract yourself with?’

  I frown and give a helpless shrug, honestly at a loss.

  ‘Think hard about everything that’s been happening in the last couple of weeks, Alex. Since your friend told you that she’s dying, your eating habits have been badly affected, and by coincidence a series of strange events appears to have been triggered.’

  I look at her. She looks at me.

  ‘By coincidence,’ she repeats.

  ‘You’re suggesting that subliminally I’ve been making up problems that aren’t really there?’ I almost laugh. ‘The footsteps last night weren’t just a figment of an overwrought imagination.’ Were they? ‘And what about those messages? They were real, they were sent to Carrie.’

  I know what she is going to say before she’s even said it.

  ‘Did you show them to Carrie?’

  ‘You know I didn’t. You don’t think they existed, do you? Why would I make it up? I’m not a fantasist.’

  ‘I’m more interested in exploring what you believe has really happened here. Fantasist isn’t a label I like to use.’

  She may not like to use the label, but it certainly feels like it’s dangling off me right now. I was followed last night. I heard the footsteps; I saw a figure.

  Although it could have been somebody as keen as me to get home from the fog. Maybe I felt them staring at me because they could tell I was scared, or because they knew that I was staring at them, or because they got lost, or…

  Doubts are creeping in. Perhaps this whole elaborate web has been spun by a grief-stricken, food-deprived brain in danger of shutting down.

  ‘Look up the news article on the Internet,’ I ask.

  Thirty-Six

  Sensing victory isn’t far away, Rosie does as I request immediately and turns her computer screen to allow me a better view.

  Looking at the woman again, I can’t be absolutely certain that it’s the same person who was in the photograph that was sent to me. If the photograph was sent to you, I can almost hear Elise add. Instead I study the image of the friend, Natalie Sheringham.

  Digging out my phone, I open up the selfie Carrie sent me in hospital. She beams out at me, thumbs up, nasal tube in place. I hold it up beside the one of Natalie and Joanne.

  Where Carrie’s features are fine and delicate, Natalie’s are hidden beneath a layer of fat. Even so…

  ‘See? They’ve got the same eyes and lips. Oh, and what about her nose? It’s the same woman. It’s Carrie!’

  My therapist’s head tilts. ‘I don’t know, to me her eyes seem far more almond-shaped than Carrie’s, and her lips much fuller. Is that a bump on Natalie’s nose, or a shadow? The women are similar, yes, but I’m not convinced they’re the same person.’

  ‘That’s just the way her make-up’s done,’ I argue. There is defeat in my voice.

  ‘You’ve always said Carrie is quite outgoing. Look at her eye contact with the camera, the bright, clashing colours she wears – she screams openness and confidence. This is a woman at ease with herself. Then there’s Natalie, masked behind heavy make-up, chin down as if trying to hide from the camera even as she poses, the black clothes. Nothing like your friend, would you say?’

  Put like that, it was true. Look at each part individually and they don’t add up to Carrie.

  Everything is getting muddled in my head, and even I can no longer make sense of the conspiracy theories I’ve woven and tangled. Maybe I didn’t burn the box and the photographs, because maybe they never existed. Maybe I wasn’t followed. Maybe this isn’t Carrie. After all, Simon is fine and my friend has cancer – two things I started this week being convinced were the opposite.

  ‘What about the smashed windscreen?’ I clench my fists, frustrated with myself at not being able to stop arguing even when it’s in my best interests.

  Rosie sighs. I’m on thin ice. If she doesn’t like what she sees during this assessment, she has the power to detain me here, whether I like it or not, for my own good. I have to convince her I’m recognising the error of my ways. In other words, I have to say whatever it takes to get out of here – because I am not going to let myself be sectioned again.

  ‘I’m willing to admit that you’ve got a point about everything else,’ I say. ‘But the windscreen, that’s not a figment of my imagination. Carrie saw it. Her car is still parked on the street outside my house, with slashed tyres and taped-on cardboard for a windscreen. Someone did that.’

  Brushed hair gets messed up as Rosie runs her hand through it from back to front, as she often does when working.

  ‘Sometimes when people develop obsessive behaviour, it’s possible to transfer that behaviour from one thing to another, Alex. For example, it’s possible for someone to exchange an obsession with food for an excessive interest in a person.’

  My eyes narrow. Then widen.

  ‘That’s what I’ve done, isn’t it? This all started when Carrie told me she was terminally ill. I’ve tried so hard to look after her and protect her, but I’ve felt a failure. It’s like losing the children all over again. Since those feelings began to develop, that’s when everything started to fall apart,’ I gasp. ‘I – I think maybe because I can’t control her cancer I’ve been making up something that I can control, weaving a mystery where Carrie is in danger and only I can solve it and save her.’

  Hands cover my head in embarrassment. ‘Maybe I even smashed Carrie’s windscreen myself then blocked it out – I don’t know, I just don’t know. Or maybe it was just vandals, and I’ve taken the coincidence and added it to my fabrication. Oh, Rosie, is it all really about control? About finding an excuse not to eat?’

  I look up and meet my therapist’s eyes. Shake my head in determination. ‘I’m not going to let that happen. I’m beating this eating disorder once and for all.’

  Truth burns through my words, making them blaze as I continue.

  ‘I’ve been trying to control everything since my children died. But it can’t be done; the world is full of chaos and I have to accept that. To acknowledge it, I have to acknowledge what is happening to Carrie – and what happened to my family, and—’ my voice catches, the room blurring from my tears, ‘and I have to mourn. It’s time I started being honest with myself and everybody around me.’

  Rosie lays down her pen, leans back and gives me an appraising look.

  ‘How do you feel about facing your grief for your family?’

  ‘Liberated – and terrified. The pain of loss is gut-wrenching, and I’ll never stop wondering whether, by choosing to tell the truth instead of a lie, my life could have been totally different. Who can say? I may not have chosen the fabric of my life, but I cut it out and sewed it together, and now I have to figure out why it doesn�
��t fit me and fix it.

  ‘The only way to stop the cycle of anorexia and punishment – and delusion – is to face facts. My husband and children are dead. Carrie is dying.’

  A tear trickles down my face at saying it out loud.

  ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am with this breakthrough,’ Rosie says.

  * * *

  The cold air outside greets me in a celebratory embrace. I’m free! Of course, the clinic will still be keeping a close eye on me, and I still have to go there for twice-weekly weigh-ins and counselling sessions, but at least I’m still an outpatient. Rosie is really pleased with the progress that I’ve made today, and the significant breakthrough. As long as I continue to do well, be honest and put on weight, I won’t be permanently admitted, she says.

  Edward, normally so calm, is agitated in my imaginings right now. As usual, I’m humanising the internal arguments that rage inside me. It helps me to think. I put my hands in my pockets and head towards the beachfront to walk home via the longer but prettier route beside the sea.

  ‘None of this makes any sense, Mum. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.’

  ‘So you’re saying… ?’

  ‘I’m saying that your explanations don’t compute – but neither do anybody else’s. This whole situation is walking and talking like it’s a mystery, like something stinks here, so trust your instincts, keep digging and get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘I couldn’t have said it better myself.’ In my mind, Elise claps her brother on the back and grins. ‘Sorry for doubting you. Don’t listen to anyone else, do what you think is right.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I had no intention of doing anything but keeping on digging. Come on, you know how stubborn I can be. But I had to convince Rosie to let me go.’

  ‘What’s the next move then?’ asks Elise.

  ‘At the centre of everything is Carrie. That’s not an obsession, that’s a fact. So—’

  Before I can continue my phone bleeps with a Google alert I set up a few days ago, when I first discovered that news article. What I read makes me feel weak.

  BONES ON BEACH ARE JOANNE’S screams the headline.

  Sinking down onto a bench overlooking the sea, and glowered at by the ancient priory ruins, I make myself read on. There’s the now-familiar photo of Joanne and Natalie, below a much larger picture of the man and his big, shaggy bear of a dog, on the beach.

  Bones washed ashore at Cromer during Saturday’s storm have been confirmed as those of missing woman Joanne Freeman, police say.

  The horrifying discovery was made by Mike McFarlane early on Sunday morning when he was walking his dog.

  ‘My German shepherd, Rex, ran over to me with something in his mouth. He was ever so pleased with himself. I got him to drop it so that I could throw it, because I thought it was a piece of driftwood,’ says Mr McFarlane, 28. ‘When I realised it was a bone, I went nuts. You don’t expect to see that sort of thing, not in a quiet town like this. When the police arrived they cordoned off the whole beach. I later heard they’d found more bones – human bones by the look of it.

  ‘Straight away I thought about that poor woman that’s missing. My heart goes out to her family.’

  Forensic officers have reportedly run a number of tests on the remains and have now confirmed that they do belong to Mrs Freeman.

  A police spokesperson exclusively told The Inquirer: ‘A number of bones were found by a member of the public several days ago. As a result we have broken the news of her death to Mrs Freeman’s family. Although the case will remain open, there is insufficient evidence to show whether what happened to her was suicide, a tragic accident or foul play.’

  A source close to the police informed The Inquirer that only a few bones had been washed ashore, and that much of the remains are still missing. As such, it has been impossible to tell how Mrs Freeman died, or even when.

  ‘What little was left of her had been picked clean by crabs and other scavengers in the water, so we’ll probably never know the full story,’ the source says.

  * * *

  I race over the background of how she was last seen eighteen months ago. Police are still eager to speak with Natalie Sheringham, or anyone else who may know Mrs Freeman’s last movements. The article ends with contact details.

  They’re still looking for the mysterious Natalie, then. It’s so frustrating that the police won’t take seriously my assertion that she and Carrie are one and the same. A quick analysis of fingerprints or DNA or something would surely show they are; a background check would prove Carrie Goodwin doesn’t actually exist. I do understand it, though. I’ve read too many news reports in the past of leads not followed up, missed opportunities, where people have ended up being hurt or even killed as a result. It’s not a criticism of the police that they don’t have the time or resources to follow up everything reported to them; more a reflection of the limited funding and increasing demands stretching a thin blue line to breaking point. And let’s face it, I sound like a crazy person even to myself, so why on earth would they listen to me?

  I’m not crazy, though – and somehow I’ll prove it.

  Thirty-Seven

  Carrie’s voice washes over me as I drive her to hospital the next day. While she chit-chats about what she did yesterday, I nod, smile, laugh and play the part of clueless friend, chipping in when needed but never mentioning that I spent all day having my sanity questioned.

  ‘I had a relaxing day sewing,’ is my reply when asked.

  My hand gives a little twitch as I change gear.

  Knowing that she’d be attending hospital again for treatment, I sent Carrie a text last night offering her a lift.

  As I drop her off I apologise that I won’t be able to wait for her.

  ‘I’ve got to get back for the clinic. Let me know when you’re done, though, and I’ll give you a lift back. How long do you think you’ll be?’

  ‘Not sure. But it’s no problem if you can’t give me a lift back. Honestly.’

  ‘Will Wendy be there?’

  ‘Umm, maybe. Anyway, see you later – and thanks again for doing all this running around for me.’

  She doesn’t watch me drive away, instead she heads straight into the hospital. But I’m watching her in my rear-view mirror, checking she doesn’t see me turn in to the multistorey car park. She’s got no idea that my weigh-in and counselling have been cancelled because it was all done yesterday, and I’m not due back until my Friday appointment – which frees me up unexpectedly today. Perfect.

  * * *

  I park as quickly as I can and then hurry into the hospital, doing something between a walk and a jog in my desperation to reach Oncology quickly. Every time I’ve come to hospital with Carrie there’s been a reason why I can’t come into the treatment room with her. She’s felt embarrassed about how sick she’ll get; she doesn’t want to bore me; someone else getting treatment that day has a really low immune system, so no one else is allowed in other than patients. They’ve always been plausible, so I’ve never question them. Today, though, I’m determined not to let anything stop me getting inside that room.

  I open the door with such resolve that it bounces off the wall and starts to swing back towards me. I have to put my hands out to stop it smacking me in the face. A handful of women sitting in a line all look up at me, surprised. They are in comfy chairs with padded armrests, many in a reclined position, feet up, like a sun lounger. This is no holiday camp, though, as beside each woman is a drip feeding into their arm and a machine that is regulating the medication.

  ‘Chemotherapy: must be handled with caution’, blaze yellow stickers over the bags of clear liquid.

  Two nurses behind a semicircular desk greet me with a chorus of: ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for one of your patients, Carrie Goodwin.’

  ‘We can’t give out information on patients, I’m afraid,’ says the shortest nurse, with auburn hair. Her colleague continues typing into
the computer.

  ‘Of course, sorry.’ I glance around, and Carrie isn’t anywhere to be seen. ‘I just thought she was having treatment today, and wanted to surprise her, show my support, you know, in her time of need. But I must have my days muddled up. She’s about yay tall, very slender, short blonde hair. Really pretty. I know she was here on Monday at the same time as her friend, Wendy.’ My voice goes up a little at the end, even though I’m not asking a question.

  ‘Oh, Wendy’s friend! She isn’t sick. She’s a hospital visitor, sits with patients while they have treatment. Tall, tiny build, cute pixie crop, right?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  The other nurse interrupts. ‘Can’t be her, her name isn’t Carrie, it’s Louise.’

  ‘Louise, of course. I’m sorry, what’s her last name again?’ But neither nurse will say, something to do with privacy and data protection, or something. When I show them a photo of ‘Louise’ they give me the nod, though it’s reluctant. They’re starting to frown, wondering what the hell is going on, I bet, so I say thanks and leave.

  It doesn’t matter, because I’ve got her. The woman I know as Carrie has at least three names and is lying about having treatment, which means she’s lying about the fact that she’s got cancer.

  So where the hell is she now? When I find her I’ll confront her, tear a strip off her. First I have to hunt her down, though.

  I start wandering slowly back towards the exit, trying to work out the answer. If I had to kill time in the hospital, I’d go to the café. But I know she doesn’t go there because I’ve sat there so many times waiting for her. I try anyway. Then check the stairwells, but there’s no sign of her. I’m at a loss, walking aimlessly. Until a sign catches my eye.

  PATIENTS’ LIBRARY

  A thrill of anticipation runs through me upon reaching the room. I’ve got a good feeling about this: Carrie and I both love reading, and it is one of the things that bonds us, yet she’s never mentioned this patients’ library to me.