The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  My best chance comes after physiotherapy The nurses run these sessions in the room next door. There's only one other door on that corridor, and I hope it's the nurses' station. I'll find out soon enough.

  I cut the physiotherapy session short today, faking a problem with my leg, a strained ligament after trying too hard. I've been underplaying my physical recovery for weeks, and Simon has become relaxed around me, thinking I'm weak.

  He helps me back to my room and onto the bed. The adrenaline is making me sweat, but he puts it down to pain from my leg.

  "You need some painkillers?"

  I nod.

  As soon as he leaves, I jump out of bed and go to the IV stand in the corner. I reach up to to the dangling plastic bag and snap the tubing away. Moving as fast as I can, I wrap it around my hands and pull, testing it for strength. It holds.

  The door opens. Simon takes two steps inside before he realises something is wrong. He stops, confused by the empty bed. Before he turns, I'm on him. I jump, looping the medical tubing around his throat, pulling it taut and wrapping my legs around his chest.

  He's a big man, but it's no real advantage when your opponent is clinging to your back. Given his situation—the blood can no longer flow to and from his brain and he is losing consciousness—he thinks fast and falls backwards. He's hoping to crush me under his weight. I react, letting go with my legs. As he hits the ground, I jump onto his chest and continue pulling. Blood vessels burst in his eyes and he makes jerking motions with his head. Then he is still.

  The doors open with an electronic key fob. I unclip Simon's from his belt, open the door and look outside. Everything is quiet.

  I duck back into the room. Simon was wearing a thick canvas belt. Far better than the tubing. I undo the belt and pull it through the loops, snapping it tight between my hands. Later, I will make a new device. For now, this will do.

  In the corridor, I hurry to the door I spotted before. The key fob beeps and it opens. Inside, an automatic light flickers on. My guess was right. It is the nurses' station. There's a table and chairs, three lockers, a coffee machine, a water-cooler and a TV screen showing my room. Simon's body is clearly visible. I could go back and move it.

  For a moment, I'm frozen with indecision. Then I gasp as the petals of connection unfold in my brain. She is not far away. I know I can find her. Speed is important. More important than covering up the body.

  A white jacket hangs behind the door. I take it, and open the nearest locker. Lucky first time. I pull on a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a hoodie. The shoes are too big, so I'm stuck with the hospital slippers.

  I put on the white coat over the hoodie. I find what I hoped for on the wall: a map showing the fire exits. The building is on two levels. The top level, where I am. The lower level has more rooms. Offices, perhaps.

  There are car keys in my pocket. I study the map again. The car park is on the lower level. At least it's at this end of the building. I memorise the route, pull the coat tight around me, put my head down and walk out of the room.

  I walk as if in a hurry, but I don't run. If someone sees me, I want them to see a nurse on duty.

  The corridor turns left, then ends in front of a large door. I hold the key fob to the panel and it clicks open with a beep. I step through and turn right, entering the stairwell. No one has seen me. I jog to the bottom and the lower level.

  It's a long, exposed corridor with doors leading off on both sides. The parking garage is at the far end.

  I estimate the distance and count down the yards in my head as I walk.

  Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

  A door opens behind me. I keep my pace steady and don't look back.

  "You! You there! Stop!"

  I recognise the voice. I think fast. If I run, get outside, I have to find an unfamiliar car, get to the exit, and leave, by which time he will have raised the alarm. If the authorities know the car I'm driving, they might stop me.

  I turn around. The man facing me is the American's father.

  Chapter Forty

  By the time they arrived at the Barkworth's house, Mags appeared calmer. She wasn't sure how long she'd be able to keep up the act, but—for Tam's sake—she hoped she could manage until bedtime. She needed time to think. There must be a way out of this nightmare. Surely she wasn't condemned to stay with a man who sacrificed his own daughter, after separating her from her mother, to further his scientific career?

  She used the car's mirror to apply foundation, cover the bruising on her face. It wasn't perfect, but Mags hoped it would be good enough to avoid awkward questions. She wasn't sure she could hide the horror of her day from Tam. But she had to try. Later. Later. She could think it through later. She repeated it to herself like a mantra.

  Bradley's phone had been buzzing for the last five minutes of the journey, and the display showed six unanswered calls from his mother.

  "She probably burned the cookies," he muttered. Mags didn't respond.

  As their headlights swept across the front of the house, the front door opened and Irene Barkworth ran out. Her immaculate hair was in disarray and she was shouting.

  Bradley and Mags opened their doors at the same moment. Mags was nearer to the house, so it was her arm that Irene grabbed, pulling her out.

  "It's Tam," she said.

  "Is she hurt?" Mags felt fresh pain lance through her.

  "No, no, nothing like that. It's, it's, well, I can't get through to her. She can't hear me. And she's, well, come and see. Help me, please."

  Inside the house, Irene dragged Mags to the dining room. A strange sound reached them from inside, a squeaking and scratching. Mags heard Bradley hurrying to catch up.

  She walked into the dining room and stopped. Tam stood facing the wall. In both of her hands she held sharpies. The cream-painted wall was now a canvas for Tam's drawings. Mags put her hand on the nape of her daughter's neck.

  "Tam? Can you hear me, sweetheart?"

  Just as she had feared, there was no response. Tam hadn't heard, she was somewhere else. Her eyes stared straight ahead, not seeing the wall in front of her. Mags looked at Tam's hands in disbelief. They moved independently, filling in details of the pictures. She had just begun a third drawing. Her body obscured it, so Mags stepped back and looked at the rest of the wall.

  At the far end, the first drawing showed a hospital room. There was a single bed, some monitoring equipment. In one corner was a chair. In another corner, an IV stand with a bag hanging from it.

  The second drawing showed another room. This one had a table, lockers, a water cooler. The most detailed part of the picture was a diagram on the wall, like the ones you find in hotels showing the fire exits.

  Bradley was in the room, standing behind Mags.

  "Fuck, no."

  Irene Barkworth was in the doorway. "There's no need for that kind of language, Bradley."

  Bradley pointed at her without looking away from the wall. "Shut the fuck up, Mother."

  Irene Barkworth shut the fuck up.

  Bradley looked over Tam's shoulder at the third drawing. He gasped, put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her away. Tam didn't protest. Bradley breathed fast as he took in the details of the picture.

  It was an office. A luxurious office with furnishings that exuded status. There were certificates on the wall, a huge desk with a large leather chair. Long shelves lined with books. Three large computer monitors.

  Mags had never seen it before. But Bradley had.

  "Dad." The word was a whisper. He ran from the room. Seconds later, he was back. He tossed the SUV keys to Mags, who caught them, looking at him in surprise. Tam was back at the wall, both hands moving.

  "He's escaped," Bradley said, his face haggard with fear. "I'll take my car. Take Tam to the lodge. The address is in the satnav."

  Mags ran after Bradley as he left the house, heading for his BMW. The cold air was a slap in the face. The temperature must have dropped five degrees since they had arrived. Snow was fa
lling from a silent yellow sky.

  "Wait!" Bradley ignored her, getting into the car and starting the engine. She ran over and yanked the door open.

  "Who's escaped?"

  Before Bradley spoke, she knew the answer. Her knees buckled, and she braced herself against the roof of the car.

  "The Bedroom Killer." Bradley slammed the door shut, and Mags stumbled backwards as he accelerated away, the back of the car sliding on the icy drive before the tyres bit onto the road.

  Chapter Forty-One

  He might be old, but he's fast and he thinks on his feet. That moment in the corridor, when I decide to kill him, he sees it in my eyes. He runs back to his office.

  I sprint, covering the distance between us before he can shut the door. He slams it in my face with his weight behind it. It's almost enough to keep me out.

  I lose momentum, and by the time I'm in, he's thrown himself over the biggest desk I've ever seen. Paperwork goes flying. So does the phone. But he wasn't reaching for the phone.

  He lands badly on the far side of the desk, falls and cries out. He fumbles for a drawer, pulls hard at the handle. The whole drawer comes out, spilling its contents over him.

  By that time, I'm vaulting the desk. He's on his side. I spot a gun on the floor by his shoulder. He sees where I'm looking and sweeps it up, bringing the barrel towards me.

  I see why he cried out. He can't hold the gun, shouting in pain as he forces broken fingers onto the trigger. I land on my feet and kick the gun out of his hand. He shrieks in agony and frustration.

  My hands are on the desk behind me. I saw something when I ran in. I look now. A statue, like an Oscar, but darker. I smash it into his skull.

  He stops moving the third time I hit him. I do it twice more to be sure. Then I look at the statue.

  For contributions to the pursuit of knowledge. 2002.

  I put the statue back on the desk. It's a handsome piece of work. Then I leave the way I came.

  No one challenges me this time and I make it to the parking garage. There are only four cars in the place, and when I press the key, the lights of a small Honda flash.

  I get into the car. There's a remote control for the garage door in the cup holder.

  I'm about to start the engine when the shutter rolls up. I duck as headlamps roll across the windshield of the Honda, then straighten up again.

  A BMW rockets across the space and comes to a tire-squealing stop next to the door into the building. The American gets out and runs inside.

  I sit in the car for a few seconds. I guess he will check on his father. When he finds the body, he'll call 911. If he doesn't do it from the office, he'll call from the car as he goes back to protect his family. His family. His daughter.

  I put my trust in God's hands, cross the garage and slide into the rear seat of the BMW.

  Then I wait.

  "Mum? I don't feel so good."

  Tam dropped the sharpies a few minutes after Bradley left.

  Irene Barkworth opened the good scotch and sat at the dining room table, drinking, facing away from the newly illustrated wall.

  Mags put the back of her hand on her daughter's forehead. "Are you sick, honey?" Tam, always pale, was as white as the ploughed snow at the side of the road.

  "No, it's not that. It's like a headache. But not a headache. More like something pushing, inside my head." She rubbed the side of her skull. Mags brushed Tam's dark hair back and stroked the side of her face. She sent up a silent prayer to whoever atheists were supposed to pray to. Whatever Bradley had done to her daughter—her daughters, she reminded herself—please don't let it be permanent. At the thought of Clara, a surge of love and rage threatened to burst through, and she pushed it away, hard. There was no time for it now.

  She pulled Tam into the kitchen, took down her coat from the peg, and put it on her as if she were a toddler. Tam didn't protest, holding Mags' hand as they went out to the SUV.

  They made good time out of Boston, and headed north as a fresh snowfall began.

  In the car, Mags thought fast. She was confused, betrayed, and terrified. She and Tam were in the car, alone. They were not far from the Canadian border. Bradley was certainly capable of following through on his threats, but his world might be about to come crashing down. This was their chance to escape. Even if Bradley and his father covered up their involvement with the Bedroom Killer—and she didn't know the extent of that—she had to make the most of this opportunity. What was the alternative? Canada was a four-and-a-half hour drive away in normal conditions. In a snowstorm, it might take double that. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  Tam moaned and slumped in her seat.

  "Tam. Tam, what's wrong?" No response. "Tam, please answer."

  Mags was looking for somewhere to pull over when Tam sat up, staring ahead. Mags recognised the expression in her eyes. She was seeing something else. That was why the diagnosis of absence seizures had been so compelling. It was as if Tam had gone. But there was a difference this time - she wasn't drawing.

  Tam's eyes widened, and she slumped again.

  Mags indicated, slowing the car as they pulled into a layby.

  Tam was awake. And it was Tam. "Mum? Where was I? Where did I go?"

  "What do you mean? You were right here, honey."

  Tam shook her head. "No. I was in another car. I was waiting for something. It was dark. What's happening to me?"

  If the drawings meant Tam could see through the eyes of the Bedroom Killer, what on earth had she just seen?

  Mags was exhausted already. She brought up the map on the car's touchscreen and changed their destination to Montreal. The live map was littered with red triangles and warnings to the north.

  It looked as if the weather was conspiring against her. The snowflakes which had drifted slowly in front of her as she drove out of Boston were coming thick and fast now. Visibility was dropping by the minute.

  "We're not going to the lodge, Tam. We're going as far away as we can get." She looked up at the sky. Night time looked like it was arriving early, bringing with it a swirling cloud of fresh snow.

  "Shit." Mags accelerated, and the SUV slid sideways before the tyres found purchase and bumped back onto the interstate.

  Tam wasn't asking questions. That was unusual. She hadn't even asked about her father. Mags looked at her. She was asleep.

  Mags twisted the windscreen wipers to their highest setting and drove on.

  I don't have long to wait. I picture the American running along the corridor to his father's office, imagine him throwing open the door, seeing the body. I allow enough time for him to check the pulse and discover he is too late. A few moments of confusion, perhaps. But the American is a decisive man. If he doesn't come back through the door of the parking garage in the next ten seconds, then I've made the wrong choice. He might be calling the police right now. My hands tighten around the belt. I'm grinding my teeth. I haven't done that since I was a kid.

  Even though I'm expecting it, I jump when the door to the garage bursts open. I duck behind the driver's seat and wait. The car moves as he drops into the front seat. He guns the engine and we move forwards. He brakes sharply in front of the shutter. I have my heels braced on the floor to stop me knocking into his back and betraying my presence.

  He waits until the shutter is halfway up then skids out onto the street. I see Boston for the first time. It's snowing.

  When he comes to a halt at a stop sign, I make my move. I sit up and loop the belt around his throat and the headrest, pulling it tight. His hands go to his neck, and I lean forward until my mouth is an inch from his ear.

  "Put your hands on the steering wheel." I loosen the pressure. Able to breathe again, he sucks in the air desperately. He's listening.

  "Take me to her."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  I prevent him lying by reminding him there's a thick canvas belt across his windpipe. I control whether he lives or dies.

  "The girl. Your daughter.
Take me to her."

  He doesn't answer. He's thinking it through. I try to imagine what factors he might be considering, but I can't. It's something I've never been good at. That expression, 'put yourself in my shoes,' never made sense. How can I? How can I know what it's like to be someone else? How can anyone?

  "All right," he says. "Don't hurt me. Let me breathe."

  He's trying to trick me, of course. He knows who I am. And he knows what I've done. He thinks I will kill him whatever he does. So he's planning something.

  "Drive," I say. It takes ten minutes to get to the interstate, and we head north.

  "Where are we going?" I ask him.

  "Sunapee. We have a lodge up there. That's where they'll be."

  "Who?"

  "My wife. And my daughter."

  "Take me there. And don't do anything stupid."

  I tighten the belt for a second to remind him who's in charge. We drive on.

  The conditions were getting worse by the second. Mags had never been a confident driver, and she hated the way the car skittered, the steering vague on the slippery surface. She slowed to forty miles-per-hour, then thirty.

  There were very few cars around them. At each junction, people were leaving the interstate to find shelter. The snow came thick and fast, swirling hypnotically in the headlights. Tam moaned and shifted in her seat. She'd fallen into a restless sleep. Mags checked her forehead again, but there was no sign of fever. Tam muttered to herself as if in the grip of a nightmare.

  For twenty minutes, Mags stared grimly ahead, picking out road signs as they loomed from the swirling storm, keeping her vehicle in its lane, squinting into the narrow cone of light.

  Tam sat up, opened her eyes, looked at Mags and said, "He's coming."

  She only took her attention off the road for two or three seconds, but it was enough.

  "What did you say?"

  Tam repeated her words.