The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Andrea Mara

  The nod is barely perceptible.

  Kate can feel the familiar knot in her stomach forming, but she pushes for more. “Tell me.”

  “He told me he’d broken up with her, but I saw them. We had made a plan that I’d call out on Thursday night to rewire the light in the main bathroom. Then Sam phoned at lunchtime to say he had to work late, so I should leave it till another time. I had nothing on that evening, so I decided to head out and do it – it’s not like I need him there to help – he’d only stand there telling me to be careful and panicking about being electrocuted – remember that time in your old house?”

  Kate nods but she’s in no mood for banter

  Michael continues. “So I didn’t bother phoning him at work or anything – I have a key because I’ve been in and out working on bits and pieces all summer. And when I turned into your road, I saw him ahead of me, walking into your house.”

  “And?”

  “Well, there was a girl with him, and it was her.”

  Kate puts her wine down. Her hand is shaking – she keeps it wrapped around the glass. “He swore to me . . . the fucking liar.” She thinks for a minute. “Are you sure it was her though? Could it not just have been someone calling at the door?”

  “I’m sure. I met her once – at a night out with Sam’s office.”

  “Were they seeing each other when you met her?”

  “No! No – that was ages ago. Like, back in February or March.”

  But how long had it been going on? Maybe it had already started back then. He was working late in the office since the beginning of the year – maybe even earlier than that, but it’s all a bit of a blur now, with her leaving work and the house move. Jesus. This is like being in the middle of a soap opera.

  She drains her wine and signals to the barman for the bill. A cheap, nasty, tacky soap opera, with no happy ending for any of them.

  Chapter 30

  The Woman – Christmas Day 2005

  The woman sits at the table, silently picking at her ham. He sits across from her, slowly, methodically eating his dinner, but never taking his eyes off his wife.

  “Are you going to sulk all day?” he says eventually.

  “I’m not sulking,” she replies, not looking up.

  “Well, then, would you eat properly and get that puss off your face – it’s Christmas Day, for God’s sake!”

  “Not that you’d know it,” she answers, under her breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is this not good enough for you – is that what it is?” he asks, putting down his knife and fork.

  She swallows. “It just doesn’t feel like Christmas. The house is cold, there’s nobody calling, it’s like every other day. There’s nothing to show that it’s special.”

  The plate catches her on the side of the head. Stunned, she reels backwards, and topples onto the floor. She reaches up to touch the place where it made contact, staring wide-eyed at her husband. Gravy trickles down her neck and down her back. Tears sting the back of her eyes.

  He’s standing over her, fists clenched. “Now look what you’ve done, you stupid bitch – clean yourself up!” he hisses.

  She can’t move. He looks as though he’s going to say something else, but he turns and walks out of the room without another word.

  She sits, still unable to move, gravy and stuffing all over her dress and all over the floor. She puts her hand to her head again to check if it’s cut – it’s throbbing but not bleeding. She shakes the food off her skirt, and wipes away the tears. She should never have criticised him. She would try harder. She wouldn’t give him reason to do it again.

  The woman sits back on her chair in the silent, empty kitchen, wondering not for the first time that day how she had ended up in this place.

  Chapter 31

  Sylvia – Monday, August 15th 2016

  Is it worse to be awake before everyone else and unable to go back to sleep, or to be in a deep sleep and woken by a crying baby? Sylvia can’t decide. And of course, it’s always one or the other. She’s read about people who wake to the contented babbling of a child in a cot, but she’s not convinced – it’s never happened with Megan or Zack. This morning everyone else is asleep – it’s just her and the bedroom ceiling and the missing two million swirling around and around in her brain. Maybe she should just get up and log in to her laptop.

  Sliding her phone out from under her pillow, she clicks into the texts she’s sent Justin. Five now, all unanswered. And three calls. Also unanswered. And now there’s a meeting with Craig this morning to give him an update, only she has no update. It’s pretty clear now that the money was paid out, and somehow the hole was filled, but she can’t see where the cover came from. Craig will lose it when he finds out it’s not just a reporting discrepancy. And it’s going to sound so weak and so unprofessional, but she’ll have to remind him that it was on Justin’s watch. She turns on her side and closes her eyes, but account balances and audit requests flood her brain. It’s no good. She gets up, grabs a sweatshirt, and slips out the bedroom door.

  At the top of the stairs, she stops for a moment. What’s that sound? Something hissing. Or flowing. Water? Skin tingling, she starts down the stairs, listening as the noise gets louder. Then she works it out – it’s just a tap – someone has left a tap running. Megan no doubt – she’s constantly leaving on the water in the downstairs loo. Sylvia sticks her head in the guest-bathroom door but, even before she looks, her ears tell her that’s not where the sound is coming from. It surely can’t be the kitchen – neither she nor Tom would ever leave a tap on at night. But when she walks in, that’s exactly what’s making the noise – cold water is flowing down into the kitchen sink and there’s a half-full glass of water on the counter beside it. There’s no way they went to bed without noticing – it doesn’t make any sense. She stares at the running water, trying to work it out, but nothing fits. Anxious again, she turns off the tap and turns on the light, and then she sees them. Sitting around the table, like tiny ghouls, all eyes on her. She screams, then clamps her hand over her mouth. Jesus! Who put them there? Reaching out, she picks the first one up. Her hand is shaking, and she wants to laugh but she can’t. Mildred. The rag doll Megan got for her first birthday. And on the chair beside her, the huge Our Generation doll she’d got for Christmas last year. A stuffed Rapunzel doll sits on the next seat over. All eight chairs have dolls on them, each staring at her with plastic eyes that follow her around the room. The mass-produced immobile faces that look so innocent when Megan plays house and school now look like they’re sneering at her.

  One by one, the dolls make a satisfying thunk when she throws them into the toybox in the corner, building a jumbled pile of plastic legs and arms and synthetic hair. Then she takes one of the chairs herself to wait for the pounding in her ears to subside. How did they get there – Tom’s idea of a joke maybe? They weren’t there when they locked up last night so it can’t have been Megan. Or were they – surely she’d have noticed? There’s a sound on the stairs. Her throat tightens and she stands up from her seat, staring at the kitchen door. Someone steps off the bottom stair, and she hears soft footsteps on the hall floor. The kitchen door opens and Tom peers in, blinking in the light.

  Sylvia slumps back down onto the chair. Tom wants to know if she’s okay – he thought he heard someone throwing something? Yes, she says, and tells him about the dolls.

  “What do you mean?” Tom asks, trying to hide a yawn.

  “There were dolls sitting on each of the chairs when I came down – did you put them there? I’m sure it was meant to be funny but it freaked me out.”

  Tom shakes his head. “Could it have been Megan? That sounds like one of her games. And where are they now?”

  She points at the toy-box. “I put them back. I should have waited to show you.”

  Tom walks over and hugs her into his chest. “Come on, let’s go back to bed. And when Megan wakes up and wants to know where he
r dolls are, you can explain that you undid all her work – rather you than me.”

  She pulls out of the hug. “But Tom, she couldn’t have done it – sure we’d have seen them last night when we were going to bed?”

  He shrugs. “I wouldn’t notice either way. Come on, alarm’s not going off for another hour – I need sleep.”

  “The tap was running too – did you leave the tap on?”

  Tom looks at her without answering at first. “Come on, love, you’re shattered. Let’s go back to bed. And look, at the weekend, you have a lie-in both mornings – I’ll take the kids off some place.” He takes her by the hand and switches off the light. “I think all the stress at work is really getting to you.”

  She follows him back up to bed. Within minutes he’s snoring again, and Sylvia’s back to staring at the ceiling, but the missing two million and the audit reports have been replaced by the smiling faces of plastic dolls.

  The meeting with Craig is at half eight, and there’s no time to try Justin’s mobile again before she goes in.

  Craig gets straight to the point – Sylvia needs to finalise her reports and get them to the auditors by close of business Wednesday. Of course, she says, wondering why her mouth is making promises her brain can’t keep. He dismisses her with a nod and turns back to his screen. She takes a deep breath: it’s now or never. The one thing she’s been told on every management course she’s ever been on is that you don’t blame other people. You don’t blame your team or your predecessor, or even your deputy who loses two million and goes on sick leave.

  “Craig, there’s something you should know. I’ve been going over the reports at home all weekend and . . . remember the problem with the two million that seemed to be incorrect on the reports? Well, it looks like a payment for two million euro was actually sent out in error. At the start of the year. When I was on maternity leave.” She squirms as she says that last part.

  Craig looks up from the screen, his mouth open. Nothing comes out at first. When he does speak, his voice is an octave higher than usual. “Two million paid out? But it would have shown up everywhere – that can’t be right?”

  “It is, I’m afraid. It looks like it was covered from some long-term cash that doesn’t appear on the daily risk management reports. So it wasn’t spotted. Then the reports were deleted. It was only when the auditors needed them that this all came to light. And I still can’t see exactly which money was used, but I’m fairly sure the original payment was a mistake, and we’re short two million. I think it went to DBK, and I’m chasing it.”

  Craig stands up and runs his hand through what’s left of his hair. “Jesus, Sylvia, how could you let something like this slip through? Have you completely lost your ability to manage the team?”

  His words hit like a slap and she can feel her cheeks turn red.

  “I’ll call Risk,” he continues, “and you’d better get out there and get the money back, and find out what funds were used to cover it. Jesus Christ, this is serious. What’s going on in your team – how could you let this happen?”

  She finds her voice. “But I wasn’t here – I was on maternity leave.” Shit, it sounds so weak and defensive. “Justin was managing the team.”

  Craig puts his hands on the desk, and leans forward. “Sylvia. You’re here now, and you’re the manager, so you need to fix it. Please don’t spend time telling me whose fault it was –– it would be far better spent finding the money. Now go!” He shouts the last bit.

  In fifteen years working, she’s never been shouted at. She turns and walks out of his office, cheeks blazing. With blurred eyes, she walks quickly to the bathroom and locks herself inside a cubicle. Tears come but they’re shortlived – she’s too angry to cry now.

  Georgia’s silver Mercedes purrs into the cul-de-sac just ahead of Sylvia’s more prosaic seven-seater, making almost no sound as it glides to a stop.

  Sylvia waves when she gets out of her car and crosses the road to catch Georgia before she goes into her house.

  “Hi, Sylvia, how are things? I’m just dropping off some bits I picked up after work before I get Annabel from the childminder,” Georgia says.

  The “bits” are in the shape of two big Brown Thomas bags, and the smell of salon shampoo is wafting its way on the evening air to Sylvia – Georgia must have found time to get her hair done too. If only Sylvia could have a job that ended so early in the day, but still paid enough for clothes shopping and hairdressing! Though she’d probably feel guilty and just go straight home to the kids.

  “Sure, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to ask if you know anything about the new people next door to us?”

  “Oh, you mean about the woman who’s been in and out – God, don’t mind that – has Noel been talking to you?”

  “Well, yes, but that wasn’t it . . .”

  “Listen, each to their own. If your man next door to you wants to have a shag on the side, that’s his business.”

  “Well no, I wanted to ask if you know Sam, and what he’s like.”

  “Why, Sylvia, are you thinking of taking a lover yourself? Joke! Seriously, I’m just kidding. But no, to answer your question, I don’t really know him at all. Why do you ask?”

  “Just that we’ve had a few odd things happen in the house in the middle of the night and it’s all since the new people moved in.”

  Georgia puts her bags down, and leans against the car, folding her arms. “Really? What kind of things?”

  “Oh, just noises. Things being moved around. And I thought I saw something in their garden – in their pond.”

  “Interesting!” Georgia flashes a big white smile. “Things that go bump in the night! Maybe you could turn ghost-hunter and go on one of those TV shows – you know, the ones that have those special cameras in the dark. We could all do it – it’d be gas!” She touches Sylvia’s shoulder with one perfectly manicured finger.

  Oh God, she must sound like an idiot. “Well, it was a child I thought I saw in the pond. A dead child.” Instantly she regrets it.

  “What do you mean? Do you think it was that missing little one – Edie – is that her name? The one on the news?”

  Why oh why did she say it? “Oh no, I don’t think it was really a child – it just looked that way. When I went in to check, there was nothing there. It might have been a trick of the light.”

  Georgia is looking at her as though she’s completely insane. Understandably.

  “Okay . . . well, it’s been lovely catching up, Sylvia, but I’d better get on with it – Annabel goes mad if I’m late picking her up – as if she doesn’t see enough of me already!”

  “Okay . . . bye, Georgia!”

  Sylvia turns and walks towards her own house. Why didn’t she keep her mouth shut! Georgia would probably tell Noel, and then who knows who he’d tell – he might even say it to Sam. What was she thinking? And all over a few dolls and some photos and a shadow on the water in the middle of the night. This thing with work is turning her into a crazy person. Deep breaths. She puts the key in the lock and braces herself for the chaos of the “real job”, as her mother calls it.

  But no running feet come to greet her. The house is completely silent. It’s quarter past six – they should definitely be here.

  “Jane?” she calls out, but there’s no reply.

  The kitchen is empty and silent. Maybe they’re out the back – it’s still quite warm. But even as she opens the back door, it’s clear they’re not there. Bailey rouses himself from the last sunny spot on the grass and comes to lick her hand. Nothing else stirs. Running upstairs, she calls again, but there’s no answer. Was Jane’s car in its usual spot at the end of the cul-de-sac? She goes outside to check. It’s not there. Standing in the front garden, she scans the road. This has never happened before. Jane knows she’s home by six at the very latest every day.

  Back inside the kitchen, with fumbling fingers she tries calling. It’s ringing. But then there’s another, louder noise. Jane’s phone is ringing from
somewhere inside the house.

  Following the sound of the phone, she finds it under the hall table. Just one missed call – hers. Panic starts to creep in. Where are they and why doesn’t Jane have her phone with her? She calls Tom – he’s still at work and hasn’t heard from Jane. Who else to call? Does she know anyone in Jane’s family? Her mother lives in Ballinteer, but that’s as far as her information goes. And Jane’s phone is locked. It sits in her hand, sleek and flat and useless, mocking her.

  Back outside, she paces up and down the road, willing the little red Micra to come around the corner.

  Rosemary appears at her front door, and Sylvia walks over to ask her if she’s seen Jane.

  “I saw her going out earlier with the children – she stopped to give a lift to Sam, then they headed off – why, is something wrong?” Rosemary asks, with a hint of breathless anticipation.

  The first prickles of hysteria are setting in. Her brain is telling her to do something – anything – but her body is frozen to the spot.

  “Sylvia, are you all right? You look pale – come in and sit down.”

  Sylvia shakes her head and dials a number on her phone. There’s a tremor in her voice as she tries to explain her story to the desk sergeant on the other end of the line. His voice is kind and calm as he asks for the registration of Jane’s car. Sylvia has no idea. He asks for a description of Megan and Zack, and she wants to throw up, but she gives it. He asks for Jane’s home address – she doesn’t know that either, but she can find the CV Jane gave them when they hired her and then phone him back. There’s something else, Sylvia tells him. There was a man called Sam in the car with them. She doesn’t know his second name but his address is 26 Willow Valley, Dún Laoghaire, and he’s their neighbour and there’s something strange about him, and now he’s with her kids somewhere.