The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Andrea Mara

  The paramedic looks bewildered but tells the driver to stop.

  The ambulance driver pulls in at the side of the road. Kate kisses Sam on the forehead.

  “Take care of him,” she says to the paramedic, then jumps out into the rain, and starts running back towards Willow Valley.

  Chapter 78

  Sylvia – Friday, September 9th 2016

  The house feels deathly quiet now that the sound of the ambulance siren has faded – only the rain on the skylight in the kitchen makes a noise. Sylvia shivers. Suddenly she has an overwhelming need to be at home with Tom. But first she needs her phone. It’s not on the kitchen table, nor any of the counter tops, and her handbag is on the hall table, exactly where she left it, but her phone’s not inside. Back in the kitchen, she tries to remember. She definitely left it here – could Kate have taken it in the confusion? Did Kate even come back into the kitchen? It’s all a blur of blue lights and sirens and rain. A gust of wind rattles the back door. Could someone else have come into the house? With a deep breath, she reaches out to grab the handle and, pushing it down, she braces herself. But it doesn’t move – it’s locked. Letting out the breath, she shakes herself. Why would anyone come into the house and take her phone? Maybe she left it upstairs after all.

  The lights are out now in the bedroom and the spare room. Kate must have switched them off. In the main bedroom, Sam’s phone still sits on the dresser top but there’s no sign of Sylvia’s. The spare room door is shut again – she opens it and peers inside. The air smells of hospital and decay – she didn’t notice it the first time. Switching on the light, she walks further into the room to look around. She now notices that, oddly, an old wardrobe is blocking the window. There’s a glass of water and a bottle of the drug Sam’s been taking on the bedside locker, together with a half-empty packet of tissues, a deck of cards, and a chewed biro that’s seen better days.

  On the floor beside the locker, there’s a newspaper, and a cracked vase, lying on its side. In the far corner of the room there’s a pair of crutches – a strange place to leave them, so far from the bed. On the carpet beside the crutches she can see reddish-brown blotches – is it blood?

  She pulls her coat tight around her. The rain is still pelting down outside. Could she have dropped her phone when she helped Kate to sit Sam up in the bed? Touching the grubby pillow with just the tips of her fingers, she pulls it forward. Still no phone. She probably didn’t have it with her in the house at all – no doubt it’s in the taxi. As she’s turning to leave, something on the wall catches her eye. She leans closer to look, wrinkling her nose at the smell of unwashed bed linen. Behind the pillow, just below the mattress, there’s something written on the wall. Without her glasses, it takes a minute to work out what it says, but then her eyes adjust to the tiny, neat letters.

  Kate, I hope someday you’ll see this and know that none of it was me – there was never any affair, and the photos and the child were his doing. He had my phone, he crippled me, he drugged me – he manufactured all of it. When I’m gone, know that I didn’t leave wilfully. It was all Michael. I love you, I love Seth, I love Jamie – and you need to meet Nina – she’ll tell you that story. I love you.

  Dear God. While she was chatting outside to his cousin, Sam was here all along. Lying in this bed, unable to get help, while Michael took over his life. How long had he been here? It’s at least a month since she first called in and met the person she thought was Sam. And the sobbing she heard through the wall – it must have been him. Had he really been just feet away from her all this time? She steps back from the bed, her mind reeling. The Guards need to deal with this. Where the hell is the bloody phone?

  That’s when she hears it. A footstep on the stairs. And another. Could Kate be back already? She looks at her watch. No, she wouldn’t even be at the hospital yet.

  It’s him – Michael.

  Her mouth has gone dry. Her brain is screaming at her to move but she’s frozen to the spot. Another step and then another – so slow, so deliberate – he must be halfway up now. Bending her knees, she drops soundlessly to the floor and, flattening down onto the carpet, slides under the bed. Did he hear her? She lies with her head on her hands, eyes closed, holding her breath. There are no more footsteps. Did he stop? She slides a little further under the bed, waiting without breathing.

  The door creaks – he’s coming in. Swallowing, she opens her eyes and sees two large boots beside the bed. Nothing moves. Not her breath, not his boots, nothing. The air in the room smells dead. She shuts her eyes, willing the boots to disappear, begging, praying. There’s a movement, then nothing. She opens her eyes again and freezes in blind panic. She’s looking straight into Michael’s face. Blank eyes calmly appraise her, and she understands then that it’s no accident – he knew she was here.

  A second later, she feels his hands grab her legs, and she’s yanked out from under the bed, banging her head on the metal frame on the way. She cries out in pain and fright, and from the floor she stares up at the familiar face of the man next door.

  “Sylvia, Sylvia, you just couldn’t stick to your side of the wall, could you?”

  She wants to scream but her voice won’t oblige. The room is bright and spinning, and she only half registers that Michael has picked up a pillow from the bed. Watching from the ground, as he brings it towards her face – it’s like a film – like she’s not really there, Too late, her reflexes kick in and she brings her hands up to push it off but he is stronger, so much stronger. He presses down on the pillow, and the dead air of the room disappears. The pillow is mashed against her eyes and her nose and her mouth – she fights for breath and fights to force him back – in blind panic, she pushes with everything she has, but he’s so much stronger. She’s losing strength and losing sense. Everything is slipping away, her arms go limp.

  Then with a corner of her brain, she senses the weight lifting and someone roaring. She gulps in a breath and pushes off the pillow. Everything is blurred and too bright but she can see Michael on his knees, turning to look at someone. It’s Kate, and she’s screaming at Michael to stop. But he doesn’t, he turns back to Sylvia and now his face is lit up with rage. She watches in horror as his hands come towards her and grab her by the throat. She pulls on his wrists but he just grips more tightly and starts to squeeze. Kate is still shouting at him to stop, but he’s not listening and he doesn’t care. Sylvia pulls at his hands, begging with her eyes. Then she sees Kate raise something above her head and watches as it comes crashing down on Michael’s shoulder. He lets out a roar and his grip loosens but only for a moment. Kate tries again and this time smashes it down on his head and now he falls, collapsing onto Sylvia. With a cry, she pushes him off. He rolls onto his back and lies still. His eyes are open, and blood pools around his head, creeping towards her across the carpet.

  Kate is on her knees now, calling her name.

  Sylvia mutters something unintelligible then says “Kate”.

  “Oh thank fuck, Sylvia. Please tell me you’re okay?”

  Sylvia nods – right now she can’t talk. Her vision clears and she can see that Kate has a golf club in her hand.

  “I never swung so hard in all my life. I think he’s dead, Sylvia. Jesus Christ, I think I killed him. I smashed it into his head. But he was strangling you, I had to stop him.” A sob chokes the last word.

  Sylvia closes her eyes again and feels for Kate’s hand. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “You had no choice – they’ll know that. Everyone will know that.” Her head hurts and her mouth is sore and she’s dizzy and sick but she manages to squeeze Kate’s hand. “You did good.”

  Outside, the rain has eased. A car pulls up – there’s a squeal of urgency but no siren. A voice calls through the open front door, asking if anyone is home.

  In silence they hold hands and wait.

  Chapter 79

  The Woman – September 2nd 2016

  The chops are burnt. Georgia had been staring into space again. Somehow she misse
d the smell of charred meat and the hiss of a too-hot pan. Bin or serve? Her stomach lurches. Which is likely to cause the most outrage? Or is there time to run to the shop? No, time has run out. The kitchen door opens and Noel shuffles through, still muttering about the man across the road. She can smell the whiskey from the other side of the kitchen. She turns away, shielding her nose, bracing herself.

  “What’s for tea?” he asks by way of greeting. He pulls out a chair and sits down, wobbling, and knocks a knife to the floor.

  She hesitates. Is he drunk enough that he might not notice? Maybe.

  “Pork chops and cabbage,” she answers, decision made.

  “Where’s Annabel?”

  “She’s at a sleepover in Tillie’s house – they’re working on a project for school so she’s staying over.”

  Noel grunts and opens the paper.

  Georgia carefully places two chops on a plate, burnt side down, then spoons mounds of mashed potato and cabbage all over. She puts the plate in front of Noel and goes back to get her own much smaller serving. She sits down and begins eating, watching from beneath lowered lids. Waiting. On a knife-edge. Noel is shovelling potato into his mouth. That disgusting mouth. The stinking breath. The source of so many horrible words. He carries on reading, never looking at her. She eats slowly. Waiting. He picks up his knife and cuts a piece of pork chop, and turns his attention back to the paper as he puts the fork in his mouth. She holds her breath. He chews slowly, engrossed in the paper. The whiskey has done its work. Maybe.

  Then his face contorts. He spits out the piece of meat he’s been chewing. He turns over the chop, and looks up at Georgia.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  She doesn’t answer. Nothing can fix it now. She’s been here before.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  Still nothing.

  “Can a man not come in after a long day to a proper meal, that isn’t burnt to a crisp? Is there nothing you can do right? What is the point of your existence? You find the time to go to work and get your hair done but you can’t even cook a simple tea?”

  The plate smashes on the floor as he pushes his chair out from the table. She cowers instinctively, but doesn’t try to run. The punch catches her on the cheekbone, knocking her off her chair. She curls into a ball on the floor, pain ringing through her face. The kick aimed at the side of her head catches her on the shoulder. He goes again, this time meeting his target. She sees bright lights, then blackness. Peaceful black.

  When she came to, it’s dark outside. She’s cold and stiff. She touches her cheek. It’s throbbing but not cut. She pulls herself up off the floor, holding onto the table for support. She can hear snoring upstairs. Whiskey-infused snoring. She walks slowly to the stairs and climbs up, putting her hands on the wall to steady herself in the darkness. In the bathroom, she examines her bruised cheek – make-up will cover it. The side of her head is bleeding a little, just below her hairline. If she wears her hair down, she can hide it. Always hiding. Angry now, she stares at her reflection, dried blood mocking her.

  She hears the bedroom door open. She hears him lurch out onto the landing, hesitating at the top of the stairs. Breathing heavily. She quietly pulls the bathroom door open. There he is. Readying himself for his descent, drink and sleep slowing his progress. She steps forward. A floorboard creaks. He turns.

  She takes a deep breath.

  She reaches out and pushes him hard. He looks at her with surprise, then rage, then fear, all in a fraction of a second as he tumbles backwards down the stairs. His head smashes on the tiled floor at the bottom – the sound reverberating through the house. Trembling, she runs downstairs. A pool of blood is already forming around his head. His eyes are shut. She feels for a pulse. She can’t find one, but isn’t sure if she’s looking in the right place. It almost doesn’t matter either way. It has to come to an end now, one way or the other.

  She steps over him, and tidies the kitchen – the spilled dinner, the burnt chops. She bends to check again for a pulse. Still nothing. She washes her hands, scrubbing the dried blood from under her nails – is it hers or his? She can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. She picks up her phone from the table and calls Ben. Ben and Olivia will know what to do – you can always count on family.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  To Paula Campbell, Gaye Shortland and all at Poolbeg – thank you for having faith in me, for your openness and support, and for always being at the end of an email!

  Thank you to my dad and my sisters Nicola, Elaine, and Deirdre for telling me I could do it, and for your ability to sense deadline panic and jump in to help.

  Thanks to my extended family and all my friends who have sent me many, many words of support since I began writing, and particular thanks to my besties – the girls I met in Sion Hill just one day after moving up from Cork – they have been the most fabulous cheerleaders anyone could wish for, and are always on hand to offer support in the form of coffee, wine, and plans to run away to Spain. (Just for the weekend though.)

  To the Irish Parenting bloggers who helped me get my blogging off the ground when I didn’t know a widget from a plugin, and have always been there for virtual coffee, wine and cake. Especially cake. Thank you.

  Thanks too to Carmel Harrington and her wonderful Imagine Write Inspire group who encouraged my first forays into fiction – there is no way this book would exist without you all.

  Very special thanks to author Margaret Scott – three years ago she told me I should write a book, and last summer she gave me the nudge to submit my manuscript to Poolbeg. In her book The Fallout, she quotes Madeleine Albright saying: “There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.” I would add to that, the world is a better place for people who help others unasked, and I hope I can pay it forward.

  To my brave and speedy proofreaders – Damien, Dad, Nicola, Elaine, Deirdre, Tric Kearney (the writer behind the wonderful blog My Thoughts on a Page) and Christine Doran (author of the fabulous Lilac Girl series) – thank you.

  Special thanks to Dr Deirdre Fitzgerald for advising on the medical details, and to Dr Naomi Lavelle for the science – she fact-checks by doing actual experiments instead of just guessing, which is probably why she’s a scientist and I make things up.

  Thank you so much to the OfficeMum readers – for all the words of support over the last four years, for reading and sharing, and for enabling the transition from blog to freelancing to fiction.

  To Damien, for listening, for taking the kids out, for putting up with the panic, for cheerleading, and for instinctively understanding when I need cake. And to Elissa, Nia, and Matthew who are not only amazing at coming up with plot twists (“then a ghost appears behind him like in Scooby Doo!”) but also fairly handy at taking over running the house for an afternoon, and absolutely brilliant at hugs. Thank you.

  And to you, the reader – thank you for reading my first book.

  Poolbeg would like to thank you

  for reading a Poolbeg book.

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