Date Night: An Absolutely Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Jaw-Dropping Twist

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘On the ground?’ I say, shocked.

  Eric nods, sipping his pint. ‘She’d just come out of your cottage. I helped her up, of course, but she wasn’t herself. I wanted to call an ambulance but she wasn’t having any of it. She said she just wanted to go home, insisting that she was fine to drive her car. She was deathly pale, sweating, clutching her side. And then, just after you stopped to speak to me, I saw her again, driving Sean back home. She really shouldn’t have been behind the wheel if—’

  ‘Oh God, why didn’t you tell me any of this when I saw you that night, Eric?’ My mind races, wondering what this means. Knowing what this means.

  ‘Marion swore me to secrecy,’ he says, with a look of regret. ‘Like I said, I always had a thing for her, would do anything to make her happy.’ Eric shakes his head. ‘But ever since, it’s been playing on my mind. She’s a one for suffering in silence, is our Marion, but I can’t stand the thought of it any more. Look out for her, will you, love?’ he says, tears collecting in his eyes. ‘Make sure she’s OK?’

  ‘Of course, of course I will,’ I reply, planning to do exactly that, though not necessarily for the reasons Eric has in mind.

  Marion was inside our cottage that night…

  ‘I’ll go up and see her right now,’ I say, my voice shaking.

  Eric nods. ‘And remember, lass, what happens on the land, stays on the land. It’s lore around here. Unspoken, but lore nonetheless.’ Eric taps the side of his nose again and grins, exposing his yellowing teeth, a couple of them missing. ‘They don’t call me Eric the Elf for nothing now, do they?’ He wipes away a tear in the corner of his eye.

  ‘No, no I guess they don’t,’ I say, returning his smile as best I can.

  ‘But sometimes,’ Eric goes on, ‘sometimes, the land whispers back. You remember that, too, and keep your ears open. Listen to what this place is telling you. It’s wiser than any of us. Even me,’ he says, breaking into a chesty laugh again.

  ‘Thank you, Eric,’ I say, touching his arm, just wanting to get up to the farm. ‘By the way,’ I add, leaning over and pointing at the crossword. ‘Eight down is AWOL.’

  And, as I turn to go, I see that Phil has come into the bar and has been standing right behind me all this time. I squeeze past him and the others, head down, willing myself not to stumble again as I push through the crowded bar. He tries to block my way, looking as though he wants to talk to me, but I ignore him, just keep on going.

  ‘Leave it, mate,’ I hear someone say. ‘Come on, let’s go out for a smoke.’

  I rush for the door, running across the car park to my car. I fumble with the keys in the ignition – just managing to hold back the sobs before I drive off.

  * * *

  ‘Marion?’ I call out at the back door, still shaken by what Eric told me. All I want is to scoop Alice up and take her home – but not before speaking to Marion. When I push the door to the boot room it’s open, so I go in. ‘Hello, anyone home?’ The lights are off and the kitchen feels chilly, as if its soul has been removed. I look around. Everything is neat and tidy as usual. I carry on to the long hallway with the big staircase off, calling upstairs and listening out for the creaking floorboards.

  Nothing.

  In the living room, it’s the same – the hearth empty of its usual coal fire, the newspaper folded up neatly on the small wooden table, the sofas with their flower-covered cushions plumped and unoccupied. One of Alice’s dolls lies, half dressed, on the floor.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out again. They must be out on the farm.

  Then I hear giggling.

  ‘Alice?’ I say, flinging open the door to the dining room that’s only ever used at Christmas. A musty smell greets me, as does emptiness. There’s no one in the stark room with its pink carpet, green velvet curtains and polished table – a tarnished silver candelabra sitting in the middle.

  I close the door again and open the only other room off the hallway – Fred’s study. I shove it open, almost frantic that Alice has been left alone but, when I go in, I see her sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite her granddad, who’s in his chair, leaning forward, each of them with broad smiles on their faces. Neither of them notices me in the doorway.

  ‘Oh no, Granddad, not again,’ Alice squeals, clapping. ‘You did get on a ladder and have to go all the way to the beginning again.’ My little girl half rolls on her side with laughter, swishing back her hair as she bounces up and down with approval. ‘Go on, go back to the square here, Granddad.’

  ‘You’re a hard taskmaster,’ Fred tells her in a silly voice. A voice I’ve never heard before. ‘And an expert at snakes and ladders. I bet you beat all your friends at playgroup.’

  ‘We play catch and I always win,’ Alice says, chewing on her finger. ‘And we do skipping races, but I don’t do playing this game with them. This is just for when I’m here with you and Nanny.’

  Fred chuckles then looks up, catching sight of me in the doorway.

  ‘Libby,’ he says, nodding, half standing. He flicks his eyes to Alice, slowly shaking his head, as if I need telling not to say anything in front of my daughter.

  ‘Mummy!’ Alice squeals when she sees me. She leaps up off the floor and runs over to me, almost tripping on a pile of paperwork that Fred has left lying about. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy…’ She hurls herself against my legs, hugging me tightly. ‘Pick me up, pick me up,’ she says in a voice she knows will win me over.

  I bend down, my hands underneath her armpits as she stiffens, hauling her up onto my hip. ‘Oh, my darling,’ I say, whispering into her hair, pressing her against me. ‘I’m so sorry, Mummy had to go away for a little bit.’

  ‘That’s OK, don’t be sad,’ she says. ‘Nanny let me make brownies and Granddad took me on the tractor.’ I feel her little body tense with excitement around me.

  ‘That’s good,’ I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘Do you know where Nanny and Daddy are, sweetie?’

  ‘No, but Nanny said I can live here if I want and that I can feed the hens with her every day. Can I, Mummy?’ she says in a pleading voice.

  I give her a squeeze. ‘Well, we’ll see,’ I say to humour her. ‘Fred, do you know where Sean is?’

  ‘Best you ask Marion about that,’ he says, glancing at Alice. ‘She’s out on the farm somewhere. Said she had some kind of work to do.’ Fred wipes his big hands down his face, shaking his head. ‘She… well, she had that look in her eyes again, Libby.’ He half stands up, an almost helpless look about him.

  ‘Alice, you stay with Granddad and finish your game. I’ll be back soon and we’ll go home, OK?’ I glance at Fred, nodding. He’s obviously worried about Marion too.

  My daughter makes a noise halfway between approval and disappointment as I leave, closing the study door before heading through the kitchen and out into the yard. I start with the usual places – the potting shed where Marion likes to spend time, tending to her seedlings in the spring or clearing out and planning for the next season in the autumn. But she’s not there. Neither is she in the outbuilding at the back of the kitchen, where she stores the feed for the hens and other birds she keeps.

  ‘Marion?’ I call out. ‘Are you here?’

  I go up towards the pond and the henhouse, checking all around, knowing how, apart from doing the smaller jobs she’s still capable of, she likes to just walk the land, just be in nature.

  Keeper of all secrets… I hear Eric’s voice say in my head.

  ‘Hello, Marion?’

  There’s nothing in the henhouse but a few hens – their broody clucking somehow comforting, along with the smell of the wood shavings and chopped straw scattered about. I head on, further out towards the big barn where Fred keeps his machinery, mainly managed now by the three lads from the village he employs full-time. He has other seasonal workers come in to help when needed.

  But the barn is empty, apart from several tractors, the combine and other equipment needed to run a farm of this size. I continue round behind the barn to an
area that’s rarely used, apart from storing the trailers and, sometimes, the big round bales wrapped in black plastic. I check several brick buildings including the old pigsty, some in disrepair, others being used for storage, all the while calling out for Marion.

  There’s no sign of her.

  The last building I come to is the game store – a low brick structure with a tiled roof and concrete floor and, from what I can recall when Sean first showed me round the farm, several old freezers at the back for longer-term storage. It only gets used during the winter months, and it doesn’t look as though anyone has been up here for a while. Fred hasn’t done any shoots so far this year, though it’s still early in the season.

  ‘Marion?’ I call out, about to turn round and give up, deciding to phone Sean again. I’ll be checking with the hospitals if I can’t contact him soon.

  I freeze.

  Someone is singing.

  A soft but intense song on repeat. Someone chanting the same words to a soulless tune, over and over. It’s coming from inside the game store.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, approaching the door. I pull it open, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. ‘Oh…’ I say, gripping the door frame when I see her.

  Marion has a mop in hand and is frantically sloshing soapy water all over the painted concrete floor.

  ‘Marion, are you OK?’ I ask. But she doesn’t look up – she just carries on, dipping the grey mop head in the bucket over and over without wringing it out, sluicing water onto the floor. Tears stream down her face as she keeps on singing in time with the mopping action. It doesn’t look as though there’s anything to clean up.

  I go up to her, careful not to slip in the soapy water that’s spreading around her. I reach out, putting my hand on her arm, her hair falling from its knot, her cheeks red and blotchy from crying.

  ‘Marion, stop,’ I say gently. ‘What are you doing? Why are you crying?’

  ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word…’

  ‘Please, Marion. Stop for a moment. Talk to me.’

  She gives a quick glance up, her glassy eyes looking straight through me, as though I’m not there.

  ‘Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…’

  She dunks the mop in the bucket again, not even watching what she’s doing. Just mopping the same spot over and over. The game store reeks of disinfectant.

  ‘Marion,’ I say more firmly. ‘Please stop. I’m worried about you. Let’s talk.’ I take her arm again, with a stronger grip this time.

  ‘And if that mockingbird don’t sing…’

  ‘OK, come on. Enough now.’ I feel her arm straining against mine as she tries to carry on, but I manage to pull the mop from her grip, putting it back in the big metal bucket. ‘What are you doing out here? Tell me why you’re crying?’

  My eyes scan around the inside of the store. I’ve only been up here once before, when Sean brought me up to show me the dead game, how it was hung and matured before being butchered. The louvred windows had cast an eerie light over the carcasses hanging from the hooks – the deer to one side, the pheasants, partridge and rabbits to another.

  I’d shuddered at the dead animals. Seeing them pre-butchering, their heads, eyes, fur and limbs all still attached, had somehow brought home their provenance, knowing that by eating them, I was part of the kill too. Marion often made and served game pies and stews and, indeed, moving to the area had made me think more about my menus and incorporating locally sourced ingredients. And, ultimately, that’s what it was: food. The way the locals did things. Though the game larder made it seem way closer to death… to murder.

  ‘Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…’

  ‘Marion, please…’ I glance about, looking for somewhere to sit. But apart from the stone slab against one wall for laying out meat, or the old chest freezers, there are only a couple of plastic tubs to sit on. And they don’t look comfortable.

  ‘Shall we go outside, get some fresh air?’ I ask, putting my arm around her shoulder. The smell is unpleasant.

  ‘No,’ she says, stopping singing. Her lips are thin and dry, pale like the rest of her face. She doesn’t look well. ‘I can’t leave. I need to clean up.’

  ‘Where is Sean?’ I ask, trying to guide her outside, but she refuses to move.

  ‘They took him,’ she says, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Took him? Who took him?’

  Marion stares at me. ‘The police, of course. They took him away in handcuffs yesterday.’

  Forty-Five

  I reach out for the wall, steadying myself. Sean arrested?

  Marion starts singing again, taking hold of the mop. I slide the bucket out of her way with my foot, but it hits an uneven bit of floor and tips over, browny-green water spilling all around our feet. The mop clatters to the floor.

  ‘Come and stand over here,’ I say, taking her arm, leading her out of the mess. ‘Your feet will get wet.’ I guide her over to the freezer, trying not to shake, but it’s cool in the game store, even colder than outside – though my shivering isn’t just from the temperature. I go to lean against the old freezer and that’s when Marion explodes.

  ‘No! Don’t touch that! Get away!’ Her fists come up and she starts thumping me, tears streaming down her face as she pulls at me, tearing at my clothes. I grab her wrists, suddenly realising how frail she’s become – almost brittle.

  ‘Marion, stop, please. Tell me, what do you mean, the police took Sean?’ I look her directly in the eye.

  ‘They took him. They arrested him. That’s what… what I was told. It’s terrible. They said you’d gone too, but now you’re back. Where’s Sean? Where’s my boy? Oh…’ She sobs again, barely making sense.

  ‘Who told you this, Marion?’

  ‘His friend told me,’ she said. ‘It happened while he was out searching for Sasha. When he was trying to help.’

  ‘Marion…’ I bow my head, thinking. Sean must have been arrested the same time as me, then. All that time and he was likely in the next custody cell, perhaps in the interview room next to me. I shake my head, steadying myself on the freezer lid again. And that’s when I see the hair – a few blond strands trapped in the seal.

  I scream, unable to take my eyes off it.

  ‘Oh God,’ I whisper, backing away. ‘No… no, please God, no…’ My eyes are saucer-wide, fixing on Marion’s face then back to the freezer again. I don’t understand.

  ‘Libby, don’t,’ she says, more in control now as I dare to take a step towards the freezer again. I need to know. As I reach out to the stainless-steel lid, Marion snaps her arm across mine, batting me away. ‘Don’t interfere with stuff you know nothing about. This doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Marion, it concerns me greatly,’ I say, my voice barely working. ‘Let me look in there,’ I say, reaching out for the handle again.

  She shoves me hard, putting herself between me and the freezer. I stumble backwards, tripping against one of the two big plastic tubs, but manage to stay upright. ‘What the hell’s going on, Marion?’

  ‘It’s all sorted. All dealt with. Let me clean up,’ she says, humming again, reaching for the mop.

  ‘What is it you need to clean up?’ I say, trying to stay calm. I’m speaking like I’d speak to Alice – coaxing, cajoling. She won’t tell me anything if she thinks I’m against her.

  She stops, leaning on the mop. ‘It was so messy in here,’ she says, eyeing the freezer. ‘And it keeps… leaking.’ She turns up her nose, shuddering.

  ‘Leaking?’

  ‘And if that diamond ring turns brass…’

  ‘Marion, why is the freezer leaking? What’s in it?’

  ‘Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass…’

  It’s as if she’s in a trance again, her thin body rigid, her arms gripping the mop as she swishes it back and forth in the spilt water. Slowly I edge towards the freezer, reaching out for the handle, one eye on Marion in case she lunges at me again. I pull with one hand, but the lid doesn’t give. I step
closer and use two hands, trying to break the rubber suction seal. I try again and again, getting my weight behind it and, on the final pull, it suddenly gives, opening six inches or so.

  I stop, staring, blinking, my eyes smarting. Vile fumes fill the air around me, making my open mouth snap shut, my eyes screw up tight, never wanting to open them again.

  ‘Oh… God…’

  I drop the lid down again, recoiling, screaming, covering my face. I double up, retching at the sight of what was once Sasha’s face, leering up from beneath the foam and congealed fat. Parts of her head have come away – amorphous lumps of stuff with one piece attached to the edge of the freezer by a clump of blond hair, floating in some kind of liquid.

  ‘No… no, nooo!’ I scream over and over, unable to hold back the vomit. My stomach twists and clenches as I spew watery bile out onto the floor. There’s nothing in me to come up, but still I retch. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, sweat pouring out of me.

  ‘What have you done?’

  Marion’s face shows no emotion.

  I retch again, my nose still filled with the stink of the freezer contents. There was nothing frozen about it – I can still feel the heat of whatever decomposition is taking place in there.

  ‘I think the lye must have eaten some of the freezer too,’ Marion says flatly. ‘It’s leaking. That’s why I need to keep cleaning. Sean told me I must.’

  ‘Sean…? I… I don’t understand. Why is Sasha even here?’ I cover my face again but all I see is that night – catching sight of myself in the mirror in my dress and boots, putting on my coat, my lipstick, smiling to myself that by the end of the evening things between Sean and me would be OK again. I’d gone downstairs to greet Sasha, asked if she’d got everything she wanted, told her there was some food in the fridge, then the taxi had hooted…

  ‘Sean said it wouldn’t take long, but it’s been three weeks now. I keep adding more crystals, more water.’ Marion points to the two big plastic tubs.

  ‘Sodium hydroxide?’ I whisper, looking at the labelling – big orange and black warning signs. Danger… Corrosive… plus a large cross and a person’s hand with liquid dripping onto it, making a hole.