The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Andrea Mara

  “I’m just going up to change, Mum!” Sam calls, running upstairs.

  He puts the key in his bedside locker, then goes back out and into his parents’ bedroom. He tiptoes across the carpet. It doesn’t matter how carefully he sits on the bed, there’s always a loud creak, and tonight it’s louder than ever. They have the TV on downstairs though, so it’s probably okay. He picks up the phone on his mother’s bedside locker. The dial tone sounds excruciatingly loud. He looks over at the door – oh, for God’s sake, he hasn’t closed it. Sneaking back across the floor, wincing when the old boards squeak, he carefully shuts the door, then retraces his steps.

  He dials the familiar number, wondering what he’ll do if she answers instead of him. But it’s okay, he gets lucky.

  “You need to move the stuff,” he whispers, skipping the small talk. “I know it’s bad timing but my dad’s noticed the key is missing, and he said he’ll break the lock if he can’t find it. I don’t know if he suspects something or not, but I can’t take a chance on it. We’re going to a play tonight – we’ll be gone from seven till about eleven – you need to do it then. I know it’s short notice but we can’t risk waiting any longer.”

  Sam carefully puts the phone back in the cradle and sneaks back out.

  Downstairs, his mum is elbow deep in sudsy water.

  “Where’s Dad?” he asks.

  Claire points to the study.

  “He needed to make a quick phone-call – work.”

  Shit. He hadn’t heard any click on the line but then he might have missed it. Could his dad have heard? What if he asks for the key now? Sam starts to feel a little bit sick. His mum passes him a tea towel and he picks up a plate as his dad comes out of the study. He looks in at them and Sam tries to read his face but there’s nothing.

  John says something about recording a documentary on RTÉ 2. Anything to avoid the dishes, Claire says.

  The sick feeling ebbs away as Sam watches his dad go into the sitting room. He’s never going to put himself in this position again. All going well, it will be over for good by tonight.

  The curtain falls to enthusiastic applause and people begin making their way to the bar, trying to look like they’re not rushing, but of course they are. A fifteen-minute interval isn’t a long time to queue for, pay for, and drink a pint.

  John pulls out his wallet and asks Claire what she’d like. She shakes her head – she doesn’t want anything for now. It’s warm in the theatre, but she’s shivering and pulling her winter coat tightly around her. Her eyes are glassy and her cheeks are flushed. He asks if she wants to go home – at first she shakes her head but then she nods. They get to their feet, then he takes her gently by the elbow and helps her past the row of people beside them, signalling for Sam to follow.

  Outside in the crisp night air, Claire’s high colour subsides but she’s still shivering. She tries to talk them into going back in – she’ll wait in the lobby with a glass of water – but John insists they’re going home.

  Sam trails behind as his parents walk towards the car park, chewing on a thumbnail. He looks at his watch for the third time. The hands haven’t moved. It’s still only five to nine. And there’s no way to make a phone call to warn him they’re coming home early. Shit. He drags his feet, wondering how long it will take to get back to Booterstown at this time of night. There won’t be any traffic. Feck it anyway, it was a stupid idea in the first place. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  His dad tells him to hurry – they need to get his mum to the car.

  Sam speeds up – he’ll have to take his chances.

  At home, Sam makes as much noise as possible closing the car door and chatting loudly to his parents in the driveway. If he’s out at the shed, he’ll know to stay out of sight. Hopefully.

  Inside, he goes straight to the kitchen to get a glass of water for his mum. He looks out to the garden – there’s no light on in the shed and no sound. He must have been and gone. Sam’s hand is still shaking as he fills the glass. That was too close.

  His mum goes straight upstairs to sleep. Sam stretches and yawns and tells his dad he’s going to do the same. The phone is sitting quietly in its cradle on the hall table but he can’t risk a call now.

  Upstairs, he pulls out a Stephen King, but tiredness takes over, and a few pages in he’s asleep.

  Someone has pulled the duvet over him but he’s still in his jeans when he wakes. It’s bright outside – what time is it? He squints at his watch – just after ten. Jesus. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pulls open the drawer of his bedside locker and takes out the key. Is it too soon to pretend to find it for his dad? He should make the call first, just to be sure. Hopefully his mum and dad are still asleep.

  Creeping downstairs, he lifts the receiver and dials the familiar number.

  “Did everything go okay last night – we got home early and I was worried?”

  Everything went fine, he’s told, the stuff was moved.

  He hangs up, and makes his way into the kitchen, the stone floor cold under his stocking feet.

  He’s pouring Rice Krispies into a bowl when he hears a movement behind him. Startled, he turns around.

  John is sitting in an armchair, staring into space.

  “Dad?” The word catches in his throat and he tries again. “Dad, hey – I didn’t know you were up.”

  John’s gaze turns on his son. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his face is pale under his Saturday-morning stubble. He’s dressed already, in the same clothes as yesterday.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Something cold flutters in Sam’s stomach.

  “Maybe you’re coming down with the same thing Mum has. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  Maybe now is not the time to find the key after all.

  Chapter 18

  Kate – Saturday, July 2nd 2016

  White-tipped waves splash against their small legs and they squeal again – it never gets old. Running backwards, they wait and watch, then step slowly forward again, until they’re up to their knees. And along come the waves, and again they’re surprised. Jamie’s shorts are too long but each time Kate rolls them up they fall down, and now they’re soaking. But today it doesn’t matter. Kate leans her head back to face the sun – feeling her skin greedily gobbling up the unfamiliar Vitamin D. A breeze lifts the corner of the rug, then it flops back down. She brushes the sand off and turns her face to the sky again. Then two small wet bodies hurl themselves at her, cold from the water and feet covered in sand. They’re delighted with their attack, and she lies back on the rug, feigning shock. It’s only the sixth time they’ve done it this morning. They could do with more sun-cream, she thinks, inspecting their shoulders. Factor 50 is probably overkill for an Irish summer, and the boys have Sam’s sallow skin, but still. After rubbing cream into their sandy shoulders, she plasters it on her own arms and legs too – even if the boys can withstand it, her own whiter-than-white skin can’t. She puts on a wide-brimmed hat and pulls out her book.

  “Mum, will you come into the sea with us?”

  “I will later – I just want to read my book for a bit. You guys run down again. Nana will be here soon and we can have the picnic then. Go on – I’ll call you.”

  Once they’re back down at the waves, they’ll forget about wanting her there too. Hopefully.

  When her mother flops down beside her a few minutes later, she has two bottles of water and ice-pops for everyone. The boys must smell them – they race back and throw themselves on the rug, staring at the ice-pops like two hungry puppies.

  “Go on, eat them before they melt – but you have to have a healthy snack after, okay?”

  The boys run off again, and Kate gives her mum a look.

  “What?” says Laura, as she stretches out her legs, and slips off her flip-flops. Her skin is not quite as fair as Kate’s, but still burns easily. She reaches for the sun-cream and starts to rub it in, then pauses and looks at her daughter. “Sure they’re only smal
l.”

  “The ice-pops or the kids?”

  “Well, both. And they’re on holidays. It won’t kill them.”

  “I don’t remember you being so generous with treats when we were kids,” Kate says, picking up her book.

  “It’s different being a grandparent – you’ll see. Any word from Sam – are you going to Skype him later?”

  “I think so – he was working late last night but should be fine today. I hope he remembered the fridge and didn’t go out somewhere. He’s scatty sometimes.”

  “Ah sure, isn’t that part of what you love about him? Life would be boring if we were all perfect.”

  Kate gives her mum a sideways look but she’s got her eyes closed and her head back. It stirs a memory – a family holiday in Kerry or maybe West Cork when they were tiny. Lying on a golden beach, her mum’s profile the same as it is now, but with black hair instead of the gunmetal grey she has today. Her dad sitting beside her mum, his shoes and socks off and his trouser legs rolled up. Miller sitting in the sand, digging. And Kate running up and back to the waves, like Seth and Jamie are doing today. So similar but so utterly different too. That was before Whitecross Hill. When everything was still good. Or mostly good.

  Shaking her head to dislodge the memories, she goes back to her book, but Laura’s in the mood for a chat.

  “Sorry I took so long getting down – Mrs O’Shea was a divil at breakfast time. She wanted runny poached eggs and then claimed the ones I served her weren’t runny enough. As if I have the time to be poaching perfect eggs. At least that other couple are going on Wednesday, so I’ll have a bit more time for you and the boys.”

  “No new bookings from Wednesday on?”

  “No, nothing till the weekend.”

  “Mum, I know I sound like a broken record but if you ever need our rooms back let me know – we can easily go to Dublin on and off over the summer. I don’t want to take up space that you could be letting to paying guests.”

  “Not at all, love. Sure what would be the point in having the place at all if I couldn’t have my grandkids to stay? I love having them here. And they’re all I’ve got – it’s not like Miller’s going to give me grandkids, is he? God forbid.”

  Kate sits up straight. This isn’t like her mother. Sweep It Under The Table is her usual approach, if not outright Pretend It Never Happened. Kate moves her hand across the rug so it covers her mother’s and gives it a squeeze.

  They sit there, two faces to the sun, thinking different thoughts about the same person, watching two small boys running in the spray.

  Back at the house, Mrs O’Shea is sitting in the conservatory, knitting something long and shapeless in a muddy green colour. The clatter of the boys’ feet on the kitchen tiles prompts a frown and a pointed look at Kate, then she goes back to her knitting. Silly woman. The kids are just being kids. Still, she puts her finger to her lips and urges them up the stairs, telling them they can Skype Sam from her bedroom once they’ve washed the sand off their feet.

  She starts the call while they’re still in the bathroom and Sam picks up straight away. His face fills the screen but the familiar smile is missing.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, fine, but where were you? I thought we were going to do this in the morning while I was waiting for the fridge to be delivered?”

  “Sorry, we were at the beach, then we went for lunch in Salthill and a walk along the promenade. It’s a beautiful day here – is it nice there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been indoors all day.”

  “Sam, don’t be like that,” she says, glancing over at the bathroom door. “In fairness, we wanted to talk to you last night but you couldn’t do it then. We can’t make all our plans around you – that’s not fair on the boys.”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t do it last night – with work.”

  “Well, couldn’t you have done it from the office? It’s important for the boys to feel they can speak to you when they want.”

  “No, I couldn’t talk from work – it was an emergency. Anyway, it doesn’t matter – how is everything?”

  “Good – they had a great day on the beach. If the weather keeps up, it’ll be the holiday of a lifetime. Fingers crossed it’ll keep up for next weekend anyway, and you’ll see for yourself.”

  “Yeah, about that – Michael has offered to give me a hand with the electrics in the house, but he’s only free at the weekend. So I might stay up here and get that done with him?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake! “Seriously, Sam? You’re joking, right?”

  “What? The house needs to be done. This is the only way to do it. You know what I’m like with DIY – I need to take help when it’s offered.”

  “Yes, but you won’t have seen the kids in weeks – they need their dad. And lovely and all as it is here, I could do with a break too.”

  “But you have your mum there.”

  “Yes, and she’s running a B&B. I could do with some help, even if it’s just at the weekend. It’s full-on with the boys – you know that.” Pity she’s just told him about the lovely day on the beach. It sounded too easy.

  “I’ll be down the following week, Kate – it’s not that far away. And it’s not like I’ll be enjoying myself here – I’ll be working on the house.”

  “Fine. Just don’t skip another weekend or they’ll be getting worried. Actually, one more thing . . .” She looks up to see if the bathroom door is closed before continuing. “Can you pick up Seth’s birthday present and bring it down when you’re coming? It’s ordered and everything – you just have to collect it.”

  “Grand – just email me the reference number. Are the boys there?”

  Seth and Jamie bound into the room, ecstatic to see their dad’s face on the laptop. Kate slips into the background, picking up sandy shorts and bits of shells from the bedroom floor, while they chat.

  The boys won’t like it, but perhaps the longer gap would do Sam and herself some good.

  Chapter 19

  Kate – June, 1984

  They were fighting again. They’re trying to hide it now with plastered-on smiles and breezy voices but Kate knows the signs. Her mum’s eyes are bright with tears and her dad’s cheeks are red. He’s playing with his toast, twisting it round and round on the plate. She has pushed hers away untouched. It was never like this in Dublin. Bloody Carnross. And bloody Granddad for dying. That was a bad thing to think but, really, that’s how it all started. If it wasn’t for him dying, they'd never have had to move here to take over the practice.

  Her mum clears her throat and stands up to kiss her good morning, but says nothing. Kate reaches her arms around her mum’s neck and pulls her into a quick hug.

  More tears now, which her mum tries to hide by making toast. Like there’s not enough uneaten toast on the table already.

  Miller wanders into the kitchen, oblivious to everything as usual. Oh, to be eight with not a care in the world! Though that’s not fair – he has enough going on at school.

  He sits up at the table and starts eating his porridge without a word to anyone.

  No doubt there are normal families up and down the country right now, chatting over breakfast and being nice to each other. Not here though. Not any more. Now it’s just quiet and horrible.

  Her dad scrapes back his chair – it makes a loud noise on the old tiles and she jumps. He straightens his tie and nods to her, then walks out the door to work. Who does that? Who nods to their ten-year-old? What would be wrong with a kiss or a hug or even saying goodbye? And nothing to her mum or Miller. But some of the tension leaves the room with her dad, and she can hear her mum let out a long breath behind her.

  Kate sits down to eat as her mum puts her lunch box in her schoolbag. Bloody school. Bloody tiny school with its freezing classrooms and bitchy girls. They aren’t all bitchy – Clara is nice. But the rest of them – bitches.

  She hears the sound of letters hitting the mat at the front door and runs out – maybe the
re’s a letter from Dublin. But there isn’t. Just boring brown envelopes for her dad. Throwing them on the hall table, she picks up her schoolbag and goes in to say goodbye to her mum and Miller. Her mum wants her to wait – she’s going to walk Miller down in a few minutes. It would be good for him to have his big sister walk him into school, she says. Kate’s about to argue but something in her mum’s face stops her. It’s not like she has any street cred to ruin anyway. They already think she’s a loser. She picks up her schoolbag and taps her foot impatiently. Eventually, all three are outside and her mum is locking the door.

  “Ah, sure now, you don’t need to do that – this isn’t Dublin,” says a voice. Mrs Daly from next door.

  Her mum smiles tightly and locks the door anyway.

  Mrs Daly shakes her head, disappointed with the untrusting townies.

  They set off in silence for the short walk to the school.

  Bloody Carnross.

  Chapter 20

  Kate – Friday, July 15th 2016

  The doorbell rings. He’s here. Finally.