The Second Wife

by Sheryl Browne

  ‘She wouldn’t have begrudged you your happiness, Richard.’ Rebecca reached for his hand.

  ‘No. I know.’ Richard nodded sadly. ‘She was a very special person.’

  ‘She was.’ Rebecca squeezed his hand tightly. ‘Come on, drink up. I thought we might take the dogs out together before you dash off to your meeting this afternoon.’

  ‘Good idea. I could probably use the exercise after all that lying back and thinking of England.’ Taking a large gulp of his coffee, Richard watched her amusedly as she widened her eyes at his effrontery.

  ‘Oh, you…’ she said, leaning across to give his arm a playful punch.

  ‘Hey, go easy.’ Richard said, looking serious. ‘That was very nearly a terrible waste of excellent coffee.’ Smiling, he was draining the last of it when he felt suddenly light-headed.

  Very light-headed, as if he might even pass out.

  ‘I, er…’ think we might have to postpone, he was trying to say, but he couldn’t seem to make his mouth coordinate with his brain. ‘I feel a bit…’ Pausing again, he shook his head. He was definitely feeling dizzy, he realised, and now troublingly queasy. Had he eaten something? Feeling hot and clammy, definitely not well, he ran a hand across his forehead, scraped his stool back and got to his feet. He was sweating profusely. Either the central heating was notched up to some ridiculous level or he was coming down with something.

  Swallowing, he swayed woozily, as the floor seemed to undulate beneath him. Pulling in a slow breath, he attempted to alleviate the sudden tightness in his chest. Panic creeping over him, he blinked hard and looked at Rebecca, his anxiety escalating as her smiling face swam in and out of focus. He cocked his head to one side as the wall beyond her shifted violently. Christ. He felt inebriated, as if he’d drunk a distillery…

  His stomach tightening, Richard swiped at the perspiration tickling his eyelashes and shook his head as the room swayed nauseatingly around him. Attempting to stay upright on legs that were threatening to give way, he stumbled forward and groped for something to hold on to, only to succeed in knocking over Rebecca’s coffee. As if in slow motion, he watched the dark contents spilling across the white work surface and sliding over the edge like elongated liquorice. Morbidly fascinated, he saw the gloop hit the floor, the mug spiralling sluggishly after it, finally crashing down to shoot slivers of ceramic in a hundred different directions.

  What the…? The room revolving steadily now, Richard turned anxiously towards Rebecca, who was standing two yards or so away from him. Her eyes were wide, curious, mesmerised. Squinting confusedly at her, Richard swallowed hard and stepped towards her. She stepped back. Cat and mouse, he thought, as they repeated the manoeuvre. Richard tried another step, but his limbs refused to obey. His head reeled, his stomach churned, his instincts screamed. Had she … drugged him?

  Why? With what? He felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Was it lethal? Jesus Christ. Nausea crashed through him; his legs buckled beneath him. Richard dropped to his knees. Groaning, he dragged his hands over his face, tried to still the whirling room as it picked up momentum.

  ‘Richard?’ He heard Rebecca’s voice from a distance. ‘Oh dear, I do hope Olivia’s bug isn’t catching. Poor Richard. Are you feeling unwell?’ she asked, her tone that of a mother mollifying her child.

  He felt her move closer, fingers running through his hair, clutching his hair, yanking his head back. ‘Trust me, Richard, you haven’t felt anything yet,’ she assured him, a whisper away from his ear.

  With a sharp twist, she released her grip. Walked around him. ‘Would you like to know why this is happening, Richard?’ She came to stand by his side. ‘I’ll tell you, shall I, since you’re obviously struggling to answer?’

  One push was all it took. Richard keeled heavily to the side.

  ‘I was getting a little fed up, Richard, watching you and your devious little sidekick play your game and not being invited to join in. I mean, that’s just plain unfair, isn’t it? Cruel, in fact, since you robbed me of…’

  Her voice drifted in and out of his consciousness; broken sentences punctuated by the dull thud of his heart.

  ‘…she was a good friend, a dear friend, and I’ve decided you need to make amends.’

  Richard stopped listening. Warm cotton wool enveloping his brain, too enticing a blanket. He just wanted to sleep.

  ‘Pay attention.’ A vicious kick to the ribs forced his eyes open. Another, well aimed to his kidneys, before the owner of the heavy shoes walked a slow circle around him. Men’s shoes.

  Peter?

  Unable to even summon up the spittle to swallow, Richard watched hazily as Rebecca lowered herself to kneel down beside him. ‘We’re playing a new game now, Richard,’ she said, her tone the soft purr of a cat. ‘I’m not sure you’ll like it.’

  No! Richard felt excruciating pain rip through his shoulder as his arm was wrenched high up behind his back.

  ‘I said pay attention,’ Peter growled, looming over him.

  Fuck! A fresh wave of panic gripped Richard’s stomach as the sharp glint of a blade sliced through his peripheral vision. Watching from some faraway place, he realised he’d badly miscalculated. He would have laughed – if his facial muscles had allowed it. He should have trusted his emotions, or lack of. Instead, he’d trusted her. She’d taught him how to love. And now she was going to kill him.

  FIFTY-NINE

  RICHARD

  PRESENT

  Richard woke abruptly, hurtled to consciousness by a nightmare so vivid he could smell it, smell his mother’s fear as she stumbled around, searching for the medication that kept her black heart beating. Her eyes beseeching, her hand outstretched towards him, ‘Please…’ she’d implored him. This dream was different. This time, the scrawny boy she’d stuffed in the under-stair cupboard didn’t walk away and leave her to die. This time, she’d caught him.

  Christ. Sweat saturating his face, pooling in the hollow of his neck, he tried to move, only to find his arms were numb and trussed high above him. Attempting to alleviate some of the pressure, he shifted his weight on the hard bench he was seated on and squinted against the grainy darkness around him. His first thought was that he had a crippling hangover. His second was that he was in a confined space, and this nightmare was real.

  Fuck! Reeling inwardly, his heart slamming against his chest and nausea gripping his stomach, his gaze went instinctively to the slivers of light, which he guessed were filtering through a blind at the window. Disorientated, he tried to focus. His vision was blurred. His memory? Where in God’s name was he?

  Groping for some level of calm, he closed his eyes and swallowed against the acrid taste in the back of his throat. Chlorine! The taste registered in his brain. He was in the pool house. Scrambling for some recollection of what had happened, he came up with nothing that was tangible, his tenuous thoughts seeming to slip away like water through sand. He had a few disjointed memories: Becky, making slow, sensual love to him; the soft melody of ‘Salut d’Amour’ heightening his senses. Coffee? Dripping. Ceramic, splintering. Olivia? Had she been there? Peter! That bastard definitely had. Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, Richard tried desperately to remember.

  And then he almost had heart failure as a door was yanked open. His pulse ratcheting up, he blinked hard against the blinding white light that flooded the space he was in. The space he was apparently being held prisoner in. Richard tried to quell the nausea now clawing its way up his windpipe as Rebecca walked silently towards him.

  Her eyes were flat, emotionless. Her expression hard and uncompromising.

  She was a good friend, a dear friend, and I’ve decided you need to make amends. The words she’d said, the tacit threat, filtered through the wet cotton wool in his head. Her fingers running through his hair, clutching his hair – Richard felt it. Saw the glint of the blade before it moved to his neck and sliced through his flesh.

  His eyes flicked downwards and he saw the flecks of blood on his shirt, staining the w
hite fabric a deep crimson. Why was she doing this? Torture? Slow torture. Was she fucking insane? Guardedly, his eyes went back to hers as she stopped in front of him.

  He flinched as she reached a hand to his face.

  ‘Shhh. Keep still, Richard, I’m not going to hurt you,’ she said soothingly, her fingers now delicately tracing the tacky track of blood from his neck to his chest.

  Richard jerked his head back in a futile attempt to move out of her reach.

  ‘Oh dear, I see you’re already not liking the new game. That’s a shame.’ She sighed, stroking her hand under his chin, and then spun abruptly around to walk away from him. ‘I did hope we could play nicely.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Richard asked gruffly, his throat tight and sore, on the inside and the outside. The bastard had actually cut him with the blade he’d been wielding. He would kill him for that. If only his hands weren’t tied to a fucking coat hook. How ridiculously amateur could this get? If they were aiming to terrify him before finishing the job, they would fail miserably. Richard didn’t terrify easily. Didn’t she realise that if his game, as she fondly called it, was up, then he would welcome death? Relish it, in fact, now he’d found out, too late, that life might have been worth living.

  ‘Who?’ Blinking innocently, Rebecca turned back to face him.

  ‘You know damn well who,’ Richard spat venomously. ‘Your cowardly accomplice. I doubt he’ll be much use to you, Rebecca – a man incapable of defending his own son.’

  Rebecca ignored that. ‘In the house,’ she said, looking him over coolly, ‘playing with your “daughter”.’

  Noting the quotation marks she made with her fingers, Richard looked away. ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled.

  ‘That’s not very nice, is it, Richard?’ she said, her huge lying doe eyes now round with feigned shock. ‘Not nice at all, after all that we shared together. Smiling, she walked across to him, her hand shooting to his crotch, squeezing so hard Richard almost choked. ‘It might be better not to use such foul language while you’re defenceless, lover boy.’

  Richard dropped his head as a searing pain shot through him, ripping through his abdomen like a knife.

  ‘Look up,’ she said evenly, after a minute.

  Gasping, Richard couldn’t breathe, let alone look up, and she knew it.

  ‘I’m talking to you, Richard,’ she pointed out patiently. ‘I consider being ignored rather disrespectful, too.’

  The warning implicit, Richard braced himself and – with some effort – met her gaze.

  ‘Better.’ She extended her hand, causing him to instinctively recoil again, and then ran the back of it softly down his cheek.

  Bitch. Impotent fury broiling inside him, Richard watched as she walked casually away. ‘What did you give me?’ he demanded, his mind going back to that morning, when he’d been too tired to drag himself out of bed. She’d slipped him something then, clearly. How long had she been planning this? ‘The drugs, what were they?’

  Taking her time, she looked back at him. ‘A little cocktail,’ she said, her smile inscrutable. ‘Some of the Prozac – you know, the drug Nicole was prescribed to decrease her anxiety?’ Her expression turning to hatred, she lost the smile. ‘I mixed it with flunitrazepam. A risk, but one worth taking, I felt, to make sure you didn’t get back up, you piece of shit. It’s more commonly used as a date rape drug, but I’m sure you’re familiar with it. I can’t imagine a man like you wouldn’t be.’

  Richard smiled caustically. ‘I don’t need to drug the women I have sex with, Becky, do I?’ He took the opportunity to remind her she’d been all too ready to fuck him, and she’d damn well enjoyed it.

  Rebecca’s expression remained bland. ‘Peter provided it, actually.’

  ‘Peter, of course.’ Richard shook his head disdainfully. He’d been surprised at his involvement, he had to concede. Up until now, he’d considered him the type of man who would slope away quietly to lick his wounds rather than stand up and fight. He’d misjudged him. That had been remiss of him. But then, from where he was sitting, trussed up like an animal, it seemed as if Rebecca was the one in control, with Peter ready to jump to her command. Now, why would that be? ‘You’re fucking him, presumably?’

  Her smile was back, enigmatic, giving nothing away. ‘No, Richard,’ she assured him. ‘Unlike you, I don’t need to fuck people to get them to do what I want. Peter was happy to help. More than, as you can imagine.’

  Out of revenge for what had happened to his son, no doubt. Richard laughed with contempt. He might have been impressed, had the man found the balls to tackle him before he’d been rendered incapable. ‘So, what are you going to do?’ he asked her, thinking he would rather know how they intended to kill him, where they would dispose of him. He could probably give her a few pointers.

  ‘What? To avenge Nicole for what you did to her? To Lydia? Emily? Olivia’s mother? All of the women you mercilessly tortured and murdered?’ Rebecca surveyed him coldly. ‘You mean you haven’t guessed? I really thought you were clever enough to be one step ahead of me. I’m disappointed, I have to admit.’

  But Richard was one step ahead. She was going to kill him, that much was clear. And whatever it was she had in mind for him, it wasn’t going to be painless.

  ‘It’s not what I’m going to do that you need worry about, Richard,’ Rebecca went on, remarkably calmly. ‘It’s what you’re going to do.’

  ‘Ah, a little intrigue. No doubt designed to make me consider my punishment while I wait?’

  Rebecca cocked her head indifferently to one side. ‘And will you?’

  Richard smiled. ‘Most definitely,’ he assured her. ‘Point of note, though, not that I imagine it will make any difference: I didn’t murder Nicole, and I was nowhere near Lydia when she died.’

  Rebecca simply stared at him. In her eyes was a look of absolute abhorrence.

  SIXTY

  RICHARD

  PRESENT

  Richard did reflect when Rebecca left him alone, presumably to sweat while he waited. He wasn’t contemplating his own demise. On the assumption that she had decided to inflict maximum pain and he would probably die slowly, he didn’t care to linger too long on the details of that. His thoughts went instead to Lydia, an old woman, who, as far as he could see, had made it her life’s work to denigrate her daughter. Even in front of him, wanting him to imagine her as a sweet, lonely old lady, she’d only ever managed to talk to Nicole with a marginal degree of civility. He’d felt protective of Nicole on one occasion, fleetingly; because of his own suffering at an uncaring mother’s hands, he’d assumed.

  Nicole should have been glad to be rid of her. That was the plan. He doubted Nicole would have admitted as much, so caring was her nature – to her own detriment – but she was supposed have been quietly glad to see the back of a woman who’d given her none of the emotional tools she would need to cope with life and relationships. Instead, thanks to Olivia losing her bottle and running when Nicole had turned up unexpectedly, she’d been traumatised. Slipping in the woman’s blood wouldn’t have helped her state of mind, he imagined. She’d been covered in the stuff – which Richard had found repugnant. She’d also been suspicious, obviously, which had kicked off a chain of events that had pushed him to the limit of his patience and caused him to deviate from his plan. The day Nicole died, the day his child died with her, Olivia had orchestrated things – baiting him, provoking and taunting him. Always daring him to take risks.

  And he had. Determined she should know that her role in his life would only ever be one of subservience, he’d given in to his desire that fateful day. She’d known he would. He’d given her exactly what she wanted.

  Richard felt his gut twist with something akin to grief and insurmountable anger. If he could have one wish before he met whatever fate they had planned for him, it would be to hear that bitch scream for mercy… assuming she wasn’t in on this little charade along with Rebecca and super-fucking-hero Peter, of course.

  Jesus! Richard sl
ammed his head back against the wall as a final realisation dawned. Of course she was in on it. She wasn’t in here, with him, was she? She’d probably been scheming and plotting for weeks, convincing Rebecca he’d acted alone. How the fuck could he have been so blind? Richard emitted a disbelieving laugh.

  She’d played him.

  She’d won.

  SIXTY-ONE

  REBECCA

  PRESENT

  Rebecca watched him carefully. She’d just informed Olivia of Richard’s situation – restrained and at her mercy, prior to getting his just deserts – and left the young woman to consider her own fate. But Richard was still outwardly calm. Apart from his earlier display of aggression when she’d given in to her own base instinct, tempted to part him from the equipment that he imagined made him a man, he’d shown no emotion bar contempt. She hadn’t meant to give in to her own emotions so easily. She needed to do what Richard did so well, become the soulless monster he was and stay in control. He was sorely testing her, however, looking at her even now with mild amusement. As if all of this was some inconsequential little game, no more than an annoyance to him.

  ‘What is it that you imagine you’re going to force me to do?’ he asked her eventually, a brazen smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Take my own life? Is that it, Rebecca? Are you going to offer me more of your lethal cocktail and suggest I do the decent thing, or else?’

  Rebecca delayed before answering, keying in a text to Peter instead. ‘It’s a thought,’ she said, hitting send. Noting the cocky, almost couldn’t-care-less look in his eyes as she met his gaze, she realised this wasn’t going to be easy. In reality, she had nothing with which to convince him he had no choice, apart from the threat of going to the police. Imagining she would anyway, he would be bound to be stubborn on that basis.