The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Andrea Mara

  “Ah now, Sam, we can’t have that. I need you to stay nice and quiet. Understood?” There’s a pair of crutches under his arm, and he stands them awkwardly against the far wall.

  Sam stares up at him. “Why?” is all he can manage.

  “Why the crutches? Because you’ll need to go to the toilet – I’ll lift you a bit but the crutches will help too.”

  “No, I mean . . .” He sucks in a breath as pain hits again. “I mean why did you do this?”

  “Because we have things to do, you and me. I need you here, and I need your wife not to be here. That’s it, simple.”

  “But . . .” Sam struggles to form words, and to find the energy to keep talking. “What things?”

  “You’ll see. Not yet. Not till you recover enough.”

  “Recover?” His cousin had beaten him half to death and wanted him to recover?

  “Yes. I need your mind. I need your hands. I don’t need your legs.” He says it as though he’s speaking of nothing more important than a shopping list.

  “Why?” Sam asks again.

  “Later. Have some water now. And I’ll make you some toast.”

  He leaves the room, and Sam lies still, trying to make sense of it. Had Michael taken some kind of turn – a psychotic episode? Would he get back to normal and be horrified? The most frightening element is that Michael doesn’t seem any different from how he always is. He speaks and looks exactly like the guy who ordered in Chinese two nights ago, the one who talked football over beers every night for the last two weeks. The same person he’d known since he was a child. The same laid-back voice that fifteen-year-old Sam had listened to talking about stashing drink and cigarettes is now telling him he’ll explain later why he crippled him.

  The smell of toast makes Sam retch when Michael comes back into the room – he’s not ready to eat. He shakes his head when Michael offers it and even that small movement makes him feel horribly sick. Michael sits down on a chair beside the bed and bites into the toast himself. The TV screen is showing the news – Sam squints to try to see the time in the corner of the screen but can’t. It’s disorienting to have no clock and no phone.

  “Do you have my phone?” he asks.

  “You don’t need a phone,” Michael says, still chewing his toast, engrossed in the TV. “Kate doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “The affair . . .” A picture is forming. “You told her?”

  Michael nods, still looking at the screen. “Very easy to make it look like someone is cheating on the missus. Friend of mine, good-looking girl, all fake tan and white teeth. She’s been in and out every few days for the last two weeks, getting the neighbours talking while you’re at work.” He turns to face Sam. “You nearly met her – that Saturday when you were meant to be in Galway – remember?”

  Sam nods.

  “Then I sent a letter to Kate on Monday morning, letting her know about your cheating. Yesterday, my friend left some of her stuff around the bedroom – underwear, make-up, her pill. You know – women’s stuff. And I kept an eye on Kate’s phone through that Find My Device app you both have on your phones. I have your phone by the way. I wasn’t sure if the letter would get there yesterday or not, and I didn’t know if Kate would try to call you, so I took it just to be on the safe side. But anyway, sure enough, the GPS tracker showed her heading for the Dublin road and I knew we were in business. And Kate performed like clockwork, God bless her – hell hath no fury or whatever that saying is. When I got in, the stuff was all in black bags and the room was a state. She must have been livid. I cleaned it up.” He explains the last bit as though he’d done Sam a favour.

  Jesus Christ. Sam tries to absorb what he’s saying, but his mind is still fuzzy from the pain and whatever drug Michael has been injecting. What the fuck possessed him to do all this? And Jesus, no wonder Kate was so upset.

  “Please . . . please let me text Kate – just to tell her there’s no affair.”

  Michael smiles. “Now, Sam, I can hardly let you text her, can I? Why would I go to all this trouble to get her out of the house, only to have you tell her the truth and bring her running back? Anyway, don’t worry – you have been texting her.”

  Sam’s brain is still like cotton wool. What is Michael talking about now?

  “Look, I’ll show you.” Michael pulls Sam’s phone out of his pocket and clicks into a text. Sam reaches his hand out to take the phone, but Michael pulls it further away. “No, no touching. I’ll read it for you. You said ‘I feel like we’ve been growing apart, and I was lonely. And flattered by the attention. I know, it sounds so weak when I put it like that. And it is. Men are stupid, I’m stupid.’” He puts the phone back in his pocket. “You might be surprised to hear this, but she didn’t reply, other than to say goodbye to you. You know, Sam, women don’t let us away with things like that these days – sleeping around. You should have known better.”

  A surge of nausea stops Sam as he tries to lash out at Michael – his head comes two or three inches off the pillow then he flops back down.

  “So Kate’s seen your mistress’s things in your room, and someone’s written her a letter, and you’ve been texting her apologising for your affair. I’d say your marriage is over, buddy. But don’t worry, I’m here for you.” Michael pats Sam’s shoulder and covers him with a light duvet..

  Sam closes his eyes, blocking it out.

  “Listen, I’m heading out for a few hours, so look, I’ll sort you out with a bed pan now – I don’t think you’re ready to move – and I’ll top up your medicine so you get a good sleep. Who says I don’t look after you, eh?”

  Sam doesn’t resist. The pain has intensified with the effort of speaking – a drug-aided sleep is welcome.

  The blue glow of the TV pulls him back into consciousness and it takes a moment to remember why he’s in the spare room. The realisation settles around him like cold tar. He turns his head. The room is empty, but there are noises coming from downstairs. There’s a black strip of sky just visible above the top of the wardrobe – it must be after ten. His arm feels heavy when he tries to lift it but he forces himself to slide it across to the bedside locker. There’s no phone there – of course there isn’t. His hand knocks against something heavy and it falls on the floor, bringing footsteps to the stairs. Sam’s stomach clenches as Michael pushes the door open, his eyes searching to see what caused the noise. But it was just a glass of water. Michael cleans it up, telling Sam it’s okay – accidents happen.

  Sam closes his eyes over tears he can feel welling up.

  “Sorry,” he says, when he trusts his voice. “And thank you.”

  “No problem, I’ll go down and get you more water.”

  “Michael?”

  His cousin turns back towards him.

  “It’s not too late to fix this – you just made a mistake. If you give me my phone, I can call an ambulance and say someone broke in – you could just go back to your flat. We don’t need to involve anyone else.”

  “Ah, Sam. You have no idea, do you? There was no mistake. This has been a long time coming.”

  Sam wants to scream at him but he can’t. “Why?”

  “Why? Why not? You got everything when I got nothing. Circumstances of birth and nothing more.” He sweeps his hand around the room. “And now I’m taking some of it back.”

  “But for what? What do you want with my house?”

  “The house? That part’s easy. My place is being watched constantly. The Guards raided it a few months back, twice in one week, trying to catch me out the second time. They found nothing, but it was pure chance. And now they’re asking questions about something else that happened a few weeks ago – that stockbroker whose ma’s a politician.”

  “Austin Granger?”

  “That’s him – maybe you knew him, same line of business, yeah? Anyway, I didn’t know his ma was a politician when I did it – it’s after bringing a lot more heat than normal. So, I needed somewhere to stay – somewhere the Guards know nothing abou
t to keep my gear and my cash. Where’s the last place you’d find a skanger like me, eh, Sam? Out in the suburbs, out with the people-carriers and the quiet cul-de-sacs and the nice neighbours. It’s kind of like full circle really, isn’t it – like going back to that time we used your shed, when we were kids?”

  Oh God, what has he done? “Jesus, Michael, you could have just asked me – you didn’t have to cripple me. I would have let you stay here.”

  “Ah Sam, you think that now. But really, if I had come along a few weeks ago and said ‘Hope it’s okay if I hide out here for a while and, while you’re at it, can I just stash some smack and coke and – oh – a few shotguns and a couple of hundred K in cash?’ – you and Kate would have been just fine about it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Smack and coke? And shotguns – Jesus Christ!

  “I still don’t get it – why not just rent somewhere else as well as your own place?”

  “But sure why would I rent somewhere when I have the perfect spot here?” Michael seems genuinely baffled.

  Horror sweeps over Sam. Has his cousin really maimed him and broken up his marriage because he needed a new bolthole? The insanity of it is terrifying.

  “What if I pay for somewhere for you to stay?” he tries. “We could organise that here, and then if I can just get to a hospital, maybe they can do something for me before it’s too late?”

  Michael smiles and shakes his head, like a parent explaining something to a small child. “No, Sam, it’s really just easier this way. And I need you for more than your house. You’ll be staying here.”

  It’s suddenly very cold in the room, and Sam doesn’t want to hear any more. He closes his eyes, shutting out Michael, shutting out the madness. Praying for sleep to come soon.

  Chapter 57

  Sam – Thursday, July 28th

  The man on the TV says it’s Thursday and Sam grabs this piece of information like a life raft. He turns it over in his mind. There’s nothing he can do with it right now, but knowing it is better than not knowing it. It’s also morning, because there’s a morning show on TV. Or maybe it’s a repeat of a morning show. But wouldn’t they air those in the morning time? His mind is still hazy from the drugs. It always gets worse after the injection, then he sleeps, then he wakes up groggy. But when he sleeps, he can’t feel the pain in his legs. Silver linings. His neck is stiff and sore, and he tries to move around on the pillow to get comfortable. Turning his head, he does his regular search on the locker. Water glass – check. Phone – no chance. There’s no noise from downstairs – has Michael gone out? He listens, but it’s hard to tell with the hum of the TV. He must go out sometimes – to get food and to do whatever he does that isn’t being an electrician – maybe now is one of those times. Sam takes a deep breath and tries moving his left leg towards the edge of the bed. The pain rushes through his knee like a hot knife, causing him to cry out. He’s not going anywhere. He closes his eyes.

  Now the TV is off – Michael has been and gone. Did he give him more drugs? The fogginess in his brain says he did. The light is dimmer now, it must be evening. An unfamiliar pang hits his stomach – hunger. He can’t remember the last time he felt hungry. Though if today is Thursday, it’s only two days since he was eating and drinking and working like everyone else – it feels like a lifetime ago. On the locker, the water has been topped up and there’s a plate of ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Sam picks one up and bites into it tentatively – so far he’s had nothing stronger than toast. He waits for the nausea but this time it doesn’t come. Progress. Braver now, he finishes the sandwich in two bites and reaches for the next one. This is the first thing that feels good since the attack happened – the bar is truly low. Something catches his eye on the floor beside the bed – a newspaper. Reaching his arm down, careful not to move his legs, his fingertips touch it. He stretches his arm further and manages to pull it up onto the bed. Thursday July 28th is the date – today’s paper. He closes his eyes and gives silent thanks. But what will you do with it really, asks the little voice inside his head. It doesn’t matter, he thinks. It’s something. It’s better than nothing at all.

  On the front page, there’s a photo of a little girl smiling out – it’s not a professional photo though, it’s a snapshot. “Edie Keogh (2) Still Missing – Mother Appeals for Help” is the headline. She’s from Meadowbrook Drive, according to the report – less than a mile away. Inside there are more pictures and interviews with neighbours. “Nothing like this has ever happened before – it’s a quiet cul-de-sac,” according to one person. That’s what I thought about this place too, thinks Sam. He reads on, determined to get through every word on every page, but his eyes are feeling heavy and as sleep reclaims him, the newspaper falls from his hands and on to the carpet below.

  Footsteps on the stairs wake him and when he opens his eyes, Michael is standing over him with both laptops – his, and the old one he gave Michael. An idea flickers. His office will be looking for him. And if he doesn’t answer his phone, they might contact Kate. They must have her number as his emergency contact – he’s almost certain he filled something out when HR were organising his life cover. He almost smiles.

  “Now, don’t be getting too excited – I’ve deleted your work portal and your personal email.” Michael pulls up a chair beside the bed and sits down, putting both laptops carefully on the locker. “The only thing still open is your trading account, and I’ll be with you the whole time.”

  “With me for what?”

  “Patience.” He lifts Sam’s laptop off the locker and types something on the keyboard. “Right, I’ve logged into your trading account already –”

  Sam’s mouth opens in surprise.

  Michael laughs. “Don’t look so shocked. You’ve been logging in every night for two weeks – you’re not very careful about shielding your password. Did they teach you nothing about online security at work?”

  “I didn’t know I couldn’t trust my own cousin,” Sam says. “We’re family. I thought that meant something.”

  “Aw, look at poor Sam sulking – did you really think it meant something? What about all those years when you were living in the big house on the southside and I was in a shitty flat with my mam? When you were doing your French exchange and I was running messages for the local loan sharks? When your da was at your parent-teacher meeting and mine was in Mountjoy? Did you feel we were family then?”

  Michael’s face is close to Sam’s now. His eyes are wide and bits of spit fly out of his mouth and onto Sam’s cheek. Sam swallows.

  “But you always said my mum was good to you – and she was. We did our best to look out for you and include you.”

  “Really? Sure, your mam felt sorry for me, but it wasn’t pity I needed. And your da – he hated me. He hated me every time I walked into your house – he hated me because my old man was in prison, and he hated me for being near his precious son. The look on his face every time he set eyes on me – like he just walked in dogshit.” He puts his mouth to Sam’s ear now and whispers. “So don’t lecture me about family, Sam.” He taps Sam on the cheek, then sits back to pick up the laptop. “Right, let’s get to work.”

  A dog barks outside and Sam turns his head to look towards the window.

  “Forget what’s out there – focus on this,” Michael says, leaning across the bed to pull the curtain. “So basically, I have cash, and I need it moved. A lot of cash. It’s spread across twenty-four different bank accounts, and I need it cleaned up and back in one account, with no trace to the origins.”

  Sam stares at him. What does he think this is – a John Grisham film? “Money laundering? Michael, what the fuck do you think I know about money laundering?”

  “You know more than I do – you know how to move money, how to invest it, how to buy and sell stock. I can’t do that – I don’t have the access or the knowledge. Yet. I have cash, and now I want to be able to use it. So clean it up, and put it here –”

  He passes Sam a piece of paper with a
series of digits on it.

  “And where are your bank accounts? Where are those details?” asks Sam, curiosity taking over.

  Michael reaches down and picks a plastic bag off the floor. Inside are bundles of bank books – old-style books that predate bank cards and internet banking. The kind of bank book Sam had had when he was in primary school, for saving his pocket-money. How long had Michael been doing this?

  “All the accounts are on the internet now – I’ve written the details for each one at the back of the bank books. They’re all separate.”

  Sam picks up the first book and opens it. Printed in neat block capitals is the name of the bank-account owner – Alan Butler. There are handwritten entries on the first few pages, showing deposits that start back in 1990 and go up to 1997. The last balance is £21,462.15 according to the book. On the final page, there’s an eight-digit code, followed by a five-digit PIN, and a new balance of €102,556.15.

  Sam looks up at Michael. “Whose money is this? Who is Alan Butler?”

  “He’s the same person as Barry Cotter, and Colin Doorly, and Donal Egan, and all the rest of them. He’s a fella who started out in a tiny flat on Chiswick Street, with a convict for a da and a liar for a ma. He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere without using his head. So he started saving. The banks weren’t as strict back then, and ID’s were easy to get. Every penny he made from every deal he did went in there. The deals got bigger, the network got wider. People got big into smack in the north inner city and into blow in the suburbs. And everyone wanted more, and I always had more to sell. And now there’s over eight million euro and I want to be able to get to it. That’s where you come in.”