The Affair_A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Sheryl Browne

  But he would. He was blaming himself. It wasn’t his fault. None of it.

  She’d wanted to save him and now she would destroy him.

  Pressing her face hard into his shoulder, Alicia tried and failed to still the sobs that shook through her body. ‘I’m sorry,’ she choked wretchedly, blinded by snot and tears. ‘So, so sorry.’

  ‘Shhh,’ he murmured, softly stroking her hair, as if she were a child in need of comfort. And she was. Oh God, how she was. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’

  Alicia heard a sob catch in his throat.

  And her heart cracked wide open.

  Six

  JUSTIN

  She’d decorated the nursery herself, as she had most of the house – an old Victorian property, which had been badly in need of renovation when they’d moved in. Steeling himself to venture into the room on his own, once Alicia had finally gone downstairs, Justin recalled how he’d almost had a heart attack when he’d found her halfway up a stepladder in her fifth month of pregnancy. She’d laughed away his concerns when he tried to dissuade her.

  ‘I know this is your protective gene kicking in, but I’m only two rungs up,’ she’d pointed out. ‘Being pregnant doesn’t mean I’m suddenly made of porcelain, you know? I’m fine, Justin, I promise. Go on, shoo. Go to work.’

  Still, though, with Sophie staying over at a friend’s to work on the lyrics of their latest ‘going to be phenomenal’ pop song together, Justin had been reluctant to leave her.

  ‘Justin, go. You’re making me feel self-conscious,’ she’d urged him, blushing as he’d continued to watch her. With artistic flair, she’d been using a template to paint the pale blue wall with white seagulls, her tongue protruding in that cute way it did when she was concentrating.

  Justin had smiled, and then stepped instinctively forwards, as she’d stepped down to deposit her paint tray. With her wild, caramel-coloured hair piled on top of her head and wearing one of his shirts as an overall, she’d looked possibly more beautiful in his eyes then than she ever had. ‘You look utterly gorgeous, Mrs Cole,’ he’d assured her, leaning in to brush her lips with a soft kiss.

  ‘And so do you, Dr Cole,’ she’d said, sweeping her eyes over his business suit – compulsory attire when meeting with the hospital trust, and which Alicia apparently considered a ‘bit of a turn-on’. There’d been a far too enticing look in her eyes as they’d come to meet his.

  Unable to resist, Justin had eased her towards him, kissing her this time most enjoyably thoroughly. ‘I may have to take this further later,’ he’d said hoarsely, when they’d finally come up for air.

  ‘I’ll consider that a promise.’ Alicia had replied, delicious innuendo dancing in her eyes as they’d lingered on his. ‘Now, be gone, Dr Cole. You’re late.’

  Checking his watch, Justin had winced. ‘Damn. I was obviously having too much of a good time. I’m gone. Be careful not to overdo it,’ he’d said, helping himself to another quick kiss. ‘Be good, baby Cole,’ he’d added, bending to kiss her tummy, should baby Cole feel neglected, and then heading fast for the landing. ‘And make sure not to overstretch,’ he’d called back.

  Now, gulping back the emotion climbing inside him, Justin’s gaze strayed towards the cot. He’d found the baby butterfly wind chime hanging over it when he’d come home.

  She’d painted the ottoman that day too. It had been her mother’s, and Alicia hadn’t wanted to part with it when she’d lost her, but they’d never quite found the right place for it. She’d rubbed it down and painted it white, topped it off with two cushions and a traditional teddy bear dressed in a blue striped nightshirt and nightcap. That had been the night Justin had learned their baby’s name. Lucas Cole. She’d stencilled it on the front of the ottoman, leaving space for his date of birth underneath.

  She’d added that the week after they brought him home – six months, almost to the day, before his short life was stolen away. Justin swallowed as he looked towards it. He wasn’t sure whether it was his heart, or the wound from the tube they’d inserted to drain the fluid from his lung, that ached so incessantly. Whatever it was, he felt he deserved it. He’d been behind the wheel, exhausted, distracted. He’d been responsible for what had happened to their son.

  Dragging an arm across his eyes, Justin walked out of the room, easing the door closed behind him, and then stopped and pushed it ajar again. Alicia preferred it open. She didn’t want to shut him away. She didn’t have to say it.

  Stopping on the landing, Justin glanced at the ceiling, blinking hard, wishing he could do something to ease Alicia’s pain. Can I get you anything? He laughed scornfully at the thought of the banal question he kept asking her. Yes, she should tell him. You can get me my baby back.

  God. Heaving in a breath which stopped somewhere short of his chest, Justin dropped his gaze, squeezing the bridge of his nose hard in a vain attempt to suppress the rage burning inside him. He couldn’t bring Luke back. Couldn’t undo the godforsaken day on which he’d been responsible for the death of her child. He would die himself, right here, right now, in exchange for his little boy’s life back, if only God were merciful and would let him.

  Seven

  SOPHIE

  Seeing her dad on the landing, obviously upset, Sophie had stepped back into her bedroom. He hadn’t cried though. It was like he wouldn’t allow himself to. Her mum, too. She’d been sitting in Luke’s room mostly. Whenever she did come out, she moved around the house like a ghost, her arms wrapped around herself, as if keeping everything in. Keeping everyone out. She’d been shutting out her dad. Blaming him, obviously, because he’d been driving, which was just so fucking unfair.

  Since he’d broken the news to Sophie at the hospital, his voice cracking and his face deathly white, her dad hadn’t spoken to her much either, other than to ask if she was all right.

  Her mum kept asking her the same question, as if she could ever be. As if any of them could. Or else she snapped at her if she moved anything of Luke’s. And then she would apologise. Why didn’t they just let it out? Stop tiptoeing around each other and scream at each other, if that’s what it took?

  She kept assuring them she was okay. How could she not, when they were hurting so much? But she wasn’t okay – stuck here in her room, because wherever else she went, she felt in the way, as if she were somehow intruding. They’d be devastated if she said it out loud, but that truly was how she felt, like she daren’t say or do anything that might touch a raw nerve.

  Her teacher, who had rung her to see how she was, had suggested she write down her feelings. She needn’t show it to anyone, she’d said. Some things, on reflection, are better left unsaid, but it might be therapeutic, she’d told her. It did help. Sophie glanced down at the notebook she’d been scrawling in, the contents of which would definitely devastate her parents, and then plucked it up and stuffed it well under her clothes in her chest of drawers.

  She debated whether to ring her mate Chloe, but then decided against. Chloe had been texting her constantly. She made the right noises, but she didn’t understand, not really, that she felt as cold and empty as the house did without Luke in it. That with his funeral somehow to get through, she didn’t want to go out, to the cinema, clubbing to ‘lose herself on the dance floor’, or anywhere else. She didn’t want to sing either. She listened to her music – Adele, mostly, whose soulful emotion fitted her mood. Sophie wished she might be as good as her one day. She didn’t sing along though. She didn’t have the heart. All she wanted to do was stay cocooned under her quilt, left alone, preferably. But she couldn’t even do that for her mum or her dad coming up every two minutes, like they were on a rota or something, to ask the perpetual question.

  Sighing heavily, Sophie wandered back to her bed, picked up her phone and plugged her earphones in. She was selecting her playlist when there was an inevitable tap on the door. Her dad, she guessed. He usually waited before entering – ‘at his own peril’, he once would have said. Would he ever joke again, Sophie wo
ndered, or smile or laugh?

  ‘Yup, I’m here,’ she called. She wasn’t sure why she’d said that. Because part of her suspected they were frightened she wouldn’t be. That something terrible might have happened to her too.

  Her dad did smile when he came in. A forced smile. He looked at her, worriedly, as Sophie had expected he would, as if she might fall apart or self-combust on the bed or something. ‘I thought I’d get some food,’ he said, trying to sound normal.

  Sophie shrugged. She wasn’t hungry. None of them were.

  ‘I thought pizza, maybe?’ Scratching his forehead with his thumb, her dad shrugged in turn, as if he knew that it would stick in her throat, whatever it was.

  ‘If you like.’ Sophie offered him a small smile back, when what she really wanted to do was go to him and hug him. She couldn’t though. She’d tried that when he’d arrived home. She’d gone to him, wrapped her arms around him. She’d hurt his chest. She could tell when he’d winced. He’d said he was fine, just a bit sore from where they’d inserted the tube; that was all. Bullshit. He wasn’t fine. It was utter bollocks, pretending he was coping, when he quite clearly wasn’t.

  ‘Pepperoni with extra cheese?’ he suggested, his voice tight, trying so hard not to crack it was heartbreaking.

  ‘Sounds good.’ Knowing he needed her to, Sophie played along.

  Her dad ran a hand over his neck, nodded and turned to the door. And then turned back. ‘Sophie,’ he said, walking across to her, ‘if you want to talk about anything…’ He faltered. ‘About Luke… I’m here. You know that, right? I’m listening.’

  Glancing down at her phone, Sophie swiped a hand under her nose. She didn’t say anything. She wanted to. Wanted desperately to talk about Luke, about what had happened, but with her mum and dad clearly unable to, how could she?

  ‘Sophie?’ Her dad hesitated, and then sat down on her bed. ‘It’s okay to cry, you know,’ he said softly, taking hold of her hand.

  He had nice hands. Sophie swallowed. Clean fingernails. A surgeon’s hands, those of a man who saved lives. But he hadn’t been able to save his own son. Sophie had heard him at the hospital, cursing himself, cursing the ‘fucking bastard’ who’d hit them and run. Blaming himself.

  Sophie looked up then, searching his eyes. Steel-blue eyes, Sophie would term them. She’d always been able to read them: a soft twinkle therein when he’d tease her, usually about her ‘tarantula’ eyelashes or her eyebrow stud – her face jewellery, as he called it; when he hugged her, which he’d always done often. Now they were stormy, almost gunmetal grey. Uncertain, tortured eyes. ‘Is it?’ she asked him.

  Her dad looked away, which pretty much communicated that he didn’t think it was okay, not for him anyway.

  ‘Have they found him yet?’ Sophie asked. ‘The man who cut the lights?’

  Her dad took a breath and shook his head. ‘Not yet, no.’ Sophie could feel his frustration.

  ‘Will they?’ She kept looking at him, willing him to look at her. To let down his guard and look at her properly.

  ‘I’m not sure. I hope so,’ he said, pressing a thumb hard to his forehead.

  ‘Will they prosecute him? If they do find him, will they charge him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sophie.’ Again, he faltered, looking awkward, as if he wanted to protect her. But he couldn’t. This was happening to her too. She wasn’t a child. She read the newspapers, watched the news. Knew that, if they did find him and they did prosecute him, he might get no more than a slap on the wrist. ‘It depends on whether they have enough—’

  He was cut off as the telephone rang, yet again. Saved by the bell, Sophie thought wearily.

  Her heart sank as her dad got to his feet, going to answer the bloody thing, talk to people who didn’t have a clue what to say. Talk to me! She wanted to scream after him. I’m listening!

  * * *

  Her mum knocked and came straight in, catching Sophie unawares. She’d been going to watch Netflix stuff on her iPad, but nothing seemed appealing. She’d given up eventually and curled up under the duvet.

  ‘I brought you some pizza,’ her mum said, as Sophie poked her head out.

  ‘Thanks.’ Sophie nodded, squinting against the sudden light from the lamp.

  ‘You will eat it, won’t you?’ her mum asked, worry flitting across her eyes as she placed the pizza on the bedside table.

  Realising she looked worse than she had when she’d last seen her – drained and definitely in need of some sustenance herself – Sophie straightened herself up. ‘I’m not really very hungry, but I’ll try,’ she promised.

  Her mum didn’t look convinced. ‘You have to eat something, Sophie. You need to keep your strength—’

  ‘And so do you!’ Sophie snapped, and then felt immediately guilty. ‘Look, I’ll eat it, Mum. Okay? I don’t need to be mollycoddled or treated like I’m incapable.’

  Her mum looked bewildered at that. ‘I wasn’t aware I was treating you like anything.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Sophie widened her eyes. ‘You’re bringing me dinner in bed? I’d have to have been dying for you to do that normally.’

  Shit! Shit, shit, shit! She hadn’t meant to say that.

  Seeing the stunned look on her mum’s face, Sophie felt tears stinging the back of her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, dropping her gaze. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I know.’ Perching herself on the edge of the bed, Alicia reached out to place a hand on her arm. ‘It’s okay to grieve, Sophie,’ she said softly. ‘It’s natural to be—’

  ‘So grieve then!’ Sophie yelled over her. She couldn’t stand this any more. ‘Talk to each other, why don’t you – not me. Stop trying to act like you’re not crucified inside!’

  Alicia snatched her hand away, as if she’d been burned. ‘You’re angry,’ she said, understandingly, deflecting the conversation away from herself. ‘It’s natural. You’re bound to—’

  ‘Yes, I’m angry!’ Sophie shouted louder. ‘Bloody angry!’ Dragging her hair from her face, she glared at Alicia, whose face had now drained of the little colour she’d had. Sophie knew she was hurting her, but she couldn’t stop. They needed to be told. They needed shaking out of this… stupor. To be there for each other. ‘I’m angry at the injustice of it,’ she went on furiously. ‘The cruelty! Angry with you!’

  ‘Me?’ Alicia asked shakily.

  ‘Both of you.’ Sophie looked past her mum to her dad, who, clearly having overheard, had appeared on the landing. ‘You’re treating me like a child. Sparing me the details. I don’t want to be spared! I want to know what’s going on. I don’t want you wrapping me up in cotton wool! Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Sophie…’ Justin stepped in, his face taut, definitely angry. Good! She wanted him to be angry. She wanted him to do something. Shout, swear, throw things. Anything but walk around here like a dead-inside zombie.

  ‘What?’ Sophie turned on him. ‘Luke was my baby brother. I might have said he did nothing but eat, puke and poo, but I loved him, Dad. I loved him. I miss him, and my heart is hurting so badly, and I can’t talk to you, because we’re all walking around on goddamned eggshells.’

  Sophie glared at him, her expression defiant, her shoulders heaving.

  Nodding slowly, Justin walked across to sit on the edge of the bed next to Alicia. He hesitated for a second and then reached out to take Alicia’s hand.

  Her mum curled her fingers around his, Sophie noticed, relief washing through her.

  Pressing his thumb against his forehead, in that way he did, her dad took a breath and then reached for her hand too. ‘There are several stages of grief, Sophie,’ he said, glancing at Alicia. ‘I think we’ve both been in the denial stage. We’re getting there.’ He tried to sound reassuring.

  Sophie wasn’t sure she was reassured entirely, but at least they were acknowledging it.

  ‘I think you might be in the anger stage – with good reason,’ her dad went on. ‘I’m sorry if I… we appear to have been distant.
Sometimes, I…’ He hesitated. ‘I find I struggle to say how I feel, because I think it might trigger emotions I’m not sure other people can handle. I suspect that might be true for your mum too, just now.’

  Smiling sadly, he squeezed her hand. ‘You’re right, though: we do need to talk. We’re not other people, are we? We’re a family. We need each other.’

  Sounding choked, he looked again at Alicia.

  Sophie followed his gaze, to where her mum was sitting with her head bowed. Crying. She was crying. Shit! Sophie saw one tear plop from her chin, and then another.

  ‘Oh God, Mum, I’m sorry.’ She shuffled across to her. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, sliding her arms around her. ‘You can cry on my shoulder. I don’t mind a bit of snot on my T-shirt, honest I don’t.’

  Sophie swallowed hard as her mum emitted a strangled laugh.

  Eight

  JUSTIN

  Justin hadn’t been sure why he’d decided to come to the hospital the day before his son’s funeral, but once he’d arrived, he’d realised he needed space, to try and get his emotions under control. He’d worked hard at that over the years, since he’d discovered his murdered family and almost lost his sanity. Whenever his thoughts went there, images like sick movie stills playing through his mind, his moods swinging violently from the same paralysing panic he’d felt then, through despair, to angry disbelief that the bastard responsible – an opportunist thief needing to feed his drugs habit – had never been caught, he employed the coping mechanisms he’d learned: calming deep breaths; counting when he felt himself too close to the edge. Tiles on floors, fluorescent lights on ceilings, he counted until he was able to reach some kind of detachment. But the tidal wave of grief, shot through with sheer fury, that crashed over him every time he thought about Luke, about what kind of person could hit a car, clearly causing serious injury to a family, and then run – Justin stood no chance of detaching from that. From the fact that he was also culpable; driving whilst tired and distracted.