The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Andrea Mara

  Sam swallows thickly and nods.

  “And your mam was a big help to me with the funeral, and I know it was heart-breaking for her, burying her sister just a few years after what happened your da. I’ll never forget it. I owe you, Sam – you know that? I owe you.” Michael turns back to the laptop and opens it again, keying in his password.

  Sam finishes his beer and nods. He should say something but he’s not sure what. Why is Michael bringing this up now after all these years?

  Memories of finding her cold in her bed come flooding back. The tea soaking slowly into the old sheepskin rug on the floor. The grey skin, the empty pill bottles. The dark silence and the horror and then later the guilt. The ambulance, just because it seemed like the right thing to do, even if there was no hope at all in her still chest and unmoving lips. And the call to his own mother. That horrible call. She had phoned Michael for him. He should have done that himself, but his poor mother, sick with grief for her sister, had taken that burden from him. And they’d never talked about it. He’d said all the things people say – they’d done the platitudes, the handshakes, the bowed heads. But they’d never talked about it – about him being there and Michael not, and about finding her that morning. He hadn’t even gone to the inquest – Claire had gone with Michael, while he stayed at home pretending it was better for them if they were left to their grief in private. My God, what was he thinking? And why didn’t his mother just insist he went? He remembers now Kate had been surprised he wasn’t going – he hasn’t thought about that in twenty years.

  He opens the next beer and clears his throat. “Cheers to Bella – she was an amazing woman.” He lifts his can towards Michael. It’s pathetic but it’s the best he can come up with right now.

  “She surely was, and no doubt was justly rewarded in Heaven. She’s up there now with your da, isn’t she, Sam?” Michael raises his can too and takes a drink, never looking away from the screen.

  Chapter 51

  1984

  The kitchen door is open but he stops in the hall when he hears his name being mentioned. They’re whispering, but arguing, and he can hear most of what they’re saying.

  “Michael’s a bad influence, Claire – I don’t want them spending so much time together,” John says.

  “That’s not fair. Just because his father is in jail doesn’t make him a bad person. Sure he’s never even known his father.”

  “Claire, if you can’t see it, you’re just fooling yourself. Sam is enthralled by him – it’s not healthy. If Michael says jump, Sam asks how high. I understand you want to look out for him but you can’t spend your whole life feeling guilty for making better choices in life than your sister did.”

  “That’s not fair either. She was only sixteen when she met Michael’s dad – sure she hadn’t a clue what she was doing or what he was like. We don’t always make our choices with full knowledge. Have some compassion.”

  He peers around the door, careful to avoid being seen. They’re sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, Claire in her house-coat to keep her dress clean, and John in his suit, ready for work. He pulls back behind the door.

  “How long is he staying though?”

  “Just a week or so. Bella’s been asked to do a whole load of extra shifts and she doesn’t want to turn them down.”

  “Fine. A week. But if Sam is giving you cheek when Michael’s around, you need to nip it in the bud – don’t let either of them away with it.”

  He hears John pick up the newspaper.

  “Can we talk about the school suggestion?”

  John puts down the newspaper again. “Claire, we can’t afford it. We can’t pay two sets of fees.”

  “If we really wanted to, we could. If things had gone as we’d hoped, we’d have two children now and we’d find a way to pay two sets of school fees.”

  “But that’s just it!” John says, throwing his hands up in the air. “We don’t have two children. Michael is not our child.”

  “He’s not our own child but he’s still family, and there’s no way Bella will be able to send him to a private school – not in a million years.”

  “But he doesn’t have to go to private school – what’s wrong with his local school?”

  They’ve both forgotten about whispering now.

  “Well, if his local school is so great, then why don’t we send Sam there?”

  He hears John bang his fist on the table. “Claire, you’re being ridiculous! I will pay for my son to go to private school. I will not pay for your nephew to go to private school. That’s the end of the conversation.”

  He pushes back his chair, and Michael slips into the sitting room, out of sight.

  John picks up his briefcase and coat in the hall and slams out the door.

  Michael stays for a while in the sitting room, then goes in to the kitchen to go say good morning to Claire. She’s still sitting at the table in her house-coat, chin in hands. She smiles when he comes in.

  “Will I make you some more tea, Auntie Claire?”

  “I’ll make it, love. You’re a good kid, Michael, you know that?”

  He smiles back and nods and sits down in John’s chair to read his newspaper.

  Chapter 52

  Sam – Saturday, July 23rd 2016

  It’s the loud female laugh that wakes Sam, pulling him out of a dream about a hunting trip with his boss. It takes a moment to work out where he is – sunlight’s flooding in the window and it feels like he’s been asleep for days. It’s after eleven – he’s been in bed for twelve hours straight. When’s the last time he did that? Before the boys were born anyway. There’s the laugh again – is the TV on downstairs? He walks out onto the landing and leans over the bannister. But it’s not the TV – the voices are coming from the spare room – Michael’s room. Sam steps backwards and quietly closes his door. Jesus, Kate would have a fit if she knew Michael had someone staying. Actually, she’d have a fit if she knew Michael was staying all this time too. He must think Sam is down in Galway. Awkward. Sam stands with his back to the bedroom door, trying to decide what to do. His decision is made for him when he hears the spare room door open. Michael and his guest walk past and down the stairs. She’s still laughing at something Michael is saying, but his voice is too low for Sam to hear. The front door opens and shuts, then he hears footsteps in the hall and the kettle boiling. He thinks for another minute, then walks heavily across to the ensuite and switches on the shower.

  Downstairs, Michael is cooking a fry. Again. “I didn’t know you were here till I heard the shower upstairs – I’ve put on a few extra rashers now – will you have some?”

  “I’m grand, thanks,” Sam says, getting out porridge oats and milk. “I need to keep an eye on this.” He pats his stomach.

  “Sure I keep forgetting – you were raised on organic everything, weren’t you – only the best for Sam Ford.”

  “Ha – there was nothing organic in Ireland in the eighties – we had meat and spuds for dinner like everyone else.”

  “We didn’t always have meat,” Michael says.

  Sam tries to look sympathetic, though he doesn’t remember there ever being a lack of food in Bella’s.

  “So, how is it you’re not down in Galway?” Michael asks.

  “I got caught up at work – big problem with a trade so I had to stay on to try to fix it. I was in the office till ten and then just came straight home to bed. I was out for the count – didn’t hear you come in at all.” He chances a look at Michael but his face is neutral. “Kate was pissed off. So I’m here for the weekend now – no point in going down today.”

  “Ah, don’t mind her,” Michael says, flipping the rashers. “Women are very hard to please.”

  Sam pauses, then seizes the moment. “Speaking of which, have you met someone yourself?”

  Michael is still looking down at the pan but he’s grinning. “I’m saying nothing. Time will tell. Listen, if you’re not going to Galway, any chance of a lift in to the flat today?
I need to pick up a few things and check for post, and my own car is full of gear – I can’t even see out the back window.”

  “Sure. It’ll be strange to see it again, it’s years since I’ve been there.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Years and years.”

  Sam hears a note of something in his voice but can’t work out exactly what. Is he annoyed that Sam doesn’t visit him there? In fairness, he’s never invited him.

  He sits down with his porridge and opens his laptop. “Will we say one o’clock so? I want to get out on the bike for half an hour to try to blow away some cobwebs, then I have to go through some more of these emails that came through overnight.”

  Michael joins him, his plate full of rashers and toast. “One o’clock is grand. It’ll be good to get you back to the old place, Sam. It’s been too long.”

  There’s no parking on Chiswick Street so Sam turns down a side street and feeds the meter. He’s never driven here before – the last time he came he didn’t even have a car. But very little else has changed, and it’s as busy as it always was on a Saturday afternoon. They pass two elderly women shuffling to the newsagent’s on the corner, and a group of boys around thirteen or fourteen sitting on a wall. That used to be us, Michael says to Sam, nudging him and saluting the boys. They nod back at him, going silent as he passes. They turn onto Chiswick Street and walk towards the flats. Two women out having a cigarette say hello to Michael, as does a younger woman holding a toddler by the hand. He seems to know everyone. But then that’s how it is when you’ve lived somewhere all your life, Sam supposes. As they wait for the lift, a youngish guy comes up to Michael and mumbles something to him. “Not now,” Michael says, and waves him away. The lift door shudders open and they step in – unexpectedly it smells of stale cooking fat. Sam wrinkles his nose. Michael grins.

  On the third floor, they walk along the concrete corridor until they reach Number 32. Michael slips the key in the lock and Sam is back in time. Nothing has changed. The ratty old couch is still where it always was, the yellow paint is still peeling off the walls. No better, no worse. It’s like Michael somehow froze the state of disrepair – for nostalgia’s sake perhaps. Or maybe it’s just Sam’s memory playing tricks on him. The room smells slightly musty but it’s a welcome contrast to the lift. The carpet – brown like the couch – is threadbare now in parts, and there are orange marks in the corner. Sam remembers now – they were trying to clean beer out of the carpet and he’d had the idea to use bleach. Bella had gone ballistic – she didn’t care about the beer, but she wanted to throttle them over the bleach.

  Michael tells him to sit down and he’ll make tea. Sam lowers himself carefully into the couch, doubting there are many springs left in it now. His eyes rest on the armchair at the other side of the room – Bella’s chair. Would her bedroom be the same? He hasn’t seen it since the morning he found her. He shivers, and looks over at Michael. But he’s busy with mugs and hot water, not reliving old memories.

  The tea is weak and tastes of metal – something to do with the water maybe, or the staining inside the cup. Michael is rummaging through cupboards looking for a packet of Jaffa Cakes but Sam is fine with just the tea, he says, patting his stomach again. Michael sits down and points over at his bedroom – he’s moved into his mother’s room, he says, because it’s bigger. His old room is just for storage now. It’s a relief to Sam somehow – knowing the bedroom is no longer as it was that day.

  Then Michael suggests they go out for a few beers in his local and stay here tonight. Sam is stuck for words. There’s nowhere he’d be less inclined to stay. But Michael is only joking – he wouldn’t dream of tearing Sam away from his lovely home, he says.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Michael gets up to answer, peering out the window first.

  “Jean, how’s it going?” he says, when he opens the door.

  Jean says hello and walks into the flat, looking Sam up and down.

  “Sam, this is my neighbour Jean – Jean, Sam is my cousin – you might remember him from years ago? He used to stay here every now and then?”

  Jean is shaking her head. Sam is fairly sure he’d remember Jean too – she’s unusually tall, with brown hair curling around her shoulders, and large gold hoops dangling from her ears.

  “Actually, that was mostly before you moved in, I think,” Michael says to Jean. “When was that – 1990?”

  “Yes, 1990, long time ago now.”

  “How’re Peter and Paul doing?”

  “They’re grand. Well, Peter just quit his job – it wasn’t what he expected and he didn’t like the boss, but sure he’ll pick up something else soon enough. He likes variety, that one, though I wish he’d stick at something longer than four weeks. And Paul – well, he’s just bought a house out in Malahide and he’s been promoted again at work. I still don’t know what he does – something to do with marketing – but he’s doing great at whatever it is.”

  Michael beckons her further into the room to sit down, and offers her tea.

  “It’s gas, isn’t it,” he says, putting a cup on the small coffee table in front of her, “the way they ended up with such different lives even though they’re brothers. It’s like us – our mams were brought up together in the same house by the same parents, and then Claire – his mam,” he points at Sam, “ends up living in south Dublin in a big house, married to a man with a great job. My mam on the other hand marries a fella daft enough to get himself locked up in Mountjoy and lives hand to mouth in this place – no offence, Jean – for the rest of her days. Funny, isn’t it?”

  Sam’s not sure if it’s a question.

  Jean is nodding. “It’s funny all right. I dunno what it is with my two – to be honest, Peter was always the sharper one, but maybe I spoiled him a bit and let him away with too much. Paul had to work harder – maybe that’s why he’s doing so well now. And it’s gas, cos they look exactly alike – spit of each other. You two are very alike as well, aren’t ye?”

  “That’s what they say, though I’m obviously way more handsome, isn’t that right?” Michael says, and she laughs.

  Sam laughs too.

  “What about us, Sam – what do you think?” Michael says, turning to him.

  “Huh?”

  “Why did we end up with such different lives – you and me? Maybe I did something wrong in a past life or maybe I was being punished for my da’s crimes or maybe it’s just the way it is and there’s nothing any of us can do about it – what do you think?”

  Sam still isn’t sure if this is a real question but suddenly the old sunken couch is feeling very claustrophobic. Michael is waiting for him to speak.

  “I suppose it’s just the way it is – probably a lot to do with who they married, right?”

  “So I’m being penalised for my ma’s bad choices, is that what you mean?”

  “Ah no, it’s not like that. You’ve done great for yourself.” Shit, he has no idea what to say without sounding patronising. Michael’s doing that weird unblinking thing again, and Jean is just quietly sipping her tea. Sam looks at his watch. “Well, I’d better get back soon to get a bit more work done. Is that okay with you, Michael, if we head on in a few minutes?”

  “Grand, I’ll get my stuff. Tell you what, will we get Jean to take a picture of us here in the flat for old time’s sake? Jean, will you do that?”

  He passes her his phone, and hunkers down beside Sam.

  It feels silly but there’s no way to say no, so Sam just smiles.

  “Great stuff, I’ll stick that up on Facebook – Jaysus, what would Bella make of Facebook, eh, Sam? Listen, Jean, good to see you – call in any time I’m here, though I’ll be gone for the next few weeks. I’m on holliers on the southside for a few weeks – isn’t that right, Sam?”

  Sam pulls himself out of the couch and picks up his keys. This flat doesn’t remind him of Bella any more, and he desperately wants to go home.

  Chapter 53

  Saturday, September 29th 1990
r />   “Did you get it?” Michael says, flicking his cigarette butt onto the ground.

  Sam passes him the key. “My dad will go mad if he ever finds out – I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  Michael puts his hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. You said it yourself – your da hardly ever uses the shed. And I don’t even need it for that long. But Mam’s been in and out of my room and I think she suspects something so I need to move it at least for now. Might be all my imagination – when I know it’s safe, I can take it back.”

  “Okay. Where is it?”

  “I borrowed a van – it’s just there, about three houses down,” says Michael, pointing. “Are your old pair out for the day?”

  Sam nods.

  “Right, let’s get moving – I’ll pull into the driveway. They’re all in plain cardboard boxes so none of your neighbours will cop it’s booze and fags inside – it could be anything.”

  The van fits neatly in the driveway and, with the rear doors open, it’s easy to carry packages around the side of the house without being seen. All the boxes are the same size, and heavier than they look. Packed with salt, Michael tells Sam – to keep the bottles from breaking and to make sure the cigarettes don’t get damp. Sweat beads gather on Sam’s forehead despite the cool September air, and he takes off his bomber jacket. On it continues, as the stack in the van grows smaller and its counterpart in the shed grows higher. There’s little else in the shed – a toolbox, a shovel, a pickaxe and a lawnmower, and none of them will be needed again until spring, Sam reckons.