The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘All right then, but the interest rates will be punishing. Give me a few days.’ Malcolm began to spread butter on a second piece of bread, narrowing his eyes. ‘Of course, a better investment option would be to buy a flat in London, rather than that shoebox you rent. You know that.’

  ‘She won’t move Ben to London.’

  ‘Friend hat on?’

  Mark shrugged, fiddling with his napkin.

  ‘You and Sophie were always the ones we all envied. You know that. Out of the whole gang, you were the ones who had it sorted. It doesn’t sound to me like a brilliant plan, Mark, to be playing at reinvention without Sophie on side.’

  ‘I hear you. And I wish she would listen. But believe me, I’m doing this for Sophie. She’s not herself right now; not thinking straight. She’s buddied up big time with this new friend; there’s gossip all over the village about the woman but Sophie just won’t see it. Won’t listen. She needs me around, Malcolm. And this is the only way I can achieve that and keep the business afloat.’

  And now Malcolm’s expression changed – his head tilted to the side before he placed both hands up in mock surrender. ‘Right. Lecture over. Your business; your call. But now my turn. Food. No arguments, buddy; we are having steak and chips. And dessert.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I could, Malcolm. Really, like I said, I’m having dinner later.’

  ‘Nonsense, my good man. They’ve got sticky toffee pudding.’

  CHAPTER 21

  BEFORE

  When I was little, I would often sneak a book into the bathroom, and instead of washing my face and neck as instructed before bed, I would sit on the floor reading. The result, through Little Women and the Pippi Longstocking series one summer, was a tidemark around my neck which I tried to explain away as a tan line. But then autumn came, and with it a scene with my mother which bubbled back up to the surface as I sat on our bathroom floor in Tedbury . . .

  My mother had shown little interest in my bedtime routine past the toddler years, and then all of a sudden she was fetching her glasses one evening to lift one of my plaits and examine my neck more closely.

  Grime. This isn’t tan, it’s grime.

  At first I wasn’t bothered to be found out. It was inevitable and I was surprised to have got away with it for so long. But I was marched to the bathroom, where my mother began to scrub my neck so furiously with a rough flannel and soap that the skin was soon pulling and burning.

  You’re hurting me.

  She ignored me. I said I would do it myself properly but this seemed to make things worse, until my mother’s eyes were wide and wild with a frustration which I realised later had nothing at all to do with my neck and everything to do with Martini.

  There were tears. My neck really hurt. I tried to grab the flannel from my mother’s hand to stop her. And then there was the shock of my bottom being smacked very, very hard – first with my mother’s hand and then with the large wooden backscratcher which had been balanced on the edge of the bath. Screaming followed – my mother’s voice as well as my own as I ran along the hallway to my bedroom and slammed the door, pushing a chair against the inside and sitting on it, panting. Petrified. Her banging and banging and shouting at me.

  And then, in the morning, the strangest thing – for it was as if the whole scene had been imagined. I crept down as late as I dared for breakfast to find porridge – my favourite – on the stove and fresh orange juice in a sparkling glass jug on the table. We crept around each other in silence – as if a page had been turned to a new chapter which neither of us wanted to read. That evening there was no mention of washing and my mother never checked my bath time again.

  But the Jekyll and Hyde behaviour continued. Out of doors and ahead of her lunchtime tipple, my mother could be a different woman. She was excellent at picnics, and in the summer would sit by the river while I swam with friends. Sometimes on these outings she would even brush my hair and whisper in my ear that she was sorry. But indoors everything changed, especially in winter. She was like a trapped animal. Stifled. Suffocated. And permanently cross.

  My father had to travel a lot for work and so I became a very lonely only child. I watched jealously as my friends feuded with and then ferociously defended their siblings. For a time I even invented a sister of my own.

  I called her Laura, inspired by Little House on the Prairie. My Laura was tough and funny and brave – standing up for me against teasing, and stroking my hair to soothe me at night after scenes with my mother.

  And now, all grown, I wondered if my mother also suffered postnatal depression – undiagnosed. Was that it? I would very much like to have discussed it with her, but sadly it was too late. Our adult relationship too fractured. My mother eventually left my father when I was thirteen, moving abroad with a heavy-drinking solicitor called Gordon. I visited them only occasionally during the school holidays. They had a small villa in Spain with a pool, but for all the sunshine and swimming, I found these visits lonely and distressing. Most of the time my mother and Gordon went out, leaving me to my own devices. When home they enjoyed long, boozy lunches and took even longer siestas which seemed to roll day right into night. I could not speak Spanish and there were only cursory efforts to introduce me to other children. In the end, I mostly opted to stay with my father for the holidays. He would invite my grandmother to help and it was during these years that the love affair with Devon began.

  During the six-week summer break we would rent a little cottage on the south Devon coast, visiting local beaches daily. The climate was no match for Spain. There was no private pool. But there was always a large crowd of children on the beach to play cricket with and to make huge sandcastles with moats which we would struggle to fill, running with a chain of buckets to the water’s edge. My grandmother made picnics of egg and cress sandwiches and homemade lemonade in a huge thermos flask, and my father would bowl for the cricket wearing a white floppy sunhat and a terribly serious expression.

  I was sitting now on the bathroom floor, remembering all of this as I tried desperately to recover – my head still spinning. I stared at the bathmat – a cream affair with a host of rope-like spikes, some of which had a strange, orange stain like rust which I had never been able to get out. I should throw it away. Why do I still wash it and put it back out?

  I found myself putting my hand up to stroke the skin on the side of my neck before trying to stand, realising very quickly that I was not ready – my legs still weak and my head still woozy. I couldn’t remember exactly what had happened here. Did I pass out again? Did I? And then, looking around as if in slow motion, a new thought suddenly fluttered into the room. I tilted up my head, my vision still slightly blurred as the idea seemed to hover above me before settling itself very calmly within.

  I waited, putting my head down towards my knees, and thought back to the last time this happened, in Cornwall with Helen. I concentrated for a time on steadying my breathing and then, feeling a little calmer, looked up at the bathroom cabinet, trying to picture its contents and what time the chemist would shut, when my mobile buzzed in my pocket.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Emma? What is it? You sound dreadful.’

  ‘Listen. I need to see you. I think I’m going to have to leave the village.’

  ‘Leave the village? What are you talking about? You’ve hardly unpacked.’ I tried to heave myself up, holding on to the towel rail; still feeling giddy, I decided against the gesture and sat back down.

  ‘It’s Theo, Sophie.’

  ‘Look. I’m sorry. I meant to ring. So how is he doing now?’

  ‘Still in a complete state. Some kid was goading him and now he’s refusing to go back to playgroup.’ Emma had lowered her voice to a whisper.

  ‘Oh – poor love, but these things blow over. He’s probably just more nervous than he was letting on and is feeling a bit overwhelmed.’

  ‘No. It’s not just that. This other kid said something truly horrible. About me.’

  ‘You?’
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  ‘Yes. To do with all this rubbish which is going round. It must have come from the mother.’

  ‘Oh, God – poor Theo. So what exactly did the child say?’

  ‘Look. Can you come over? After you’ve picked Ben up from school? I don’t like to ask but I just don’t know what to do for the best, and I don’t know who else to turn to.’

  I looked up again at the medicine cabinet and then at my watch.

  ‘Of course. I’ll come as soon as I get Ben. I just have to pop out very briefly first. Will you be OK?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Look. I’m really sorry I got so upset over Hobbs Lane. Christ. I know you meant well. And you’re right, it’s not my business – your time in France with your mother. I was being completely silly.’ I paused, feeling guilty also over my stupid upset regarding Emma’s doppelganger in Cornwall. How could I have got myself into such a tizz? Poor Emma had enough people questioning her.

  Just yesterday evening, on top of everything, DI Melanie Sanders had turned up at her house yet again – a whole hour grilling her about her finances, apparently. How she afforded Priory House. Her mother’s will. Nathan had shared all this with Mark on the phone and was incandescent; he wanted Emma to make a formal complaint about police harassment but she was determined to keep the police hassle quiet – afraid of the Tedbury gossips. I couldn’t help but increasingly feel it was all because of me, for persuading her to do that stupid turn in the first place. If she hadn’t been the blessed fortune teller, she wouldn’t have been the last person to see Gill. It was just bad luck, bad timing, but it was also my fault.

  ‘Please, Emma, just try to stay calm and wait right there, OK?’

  After I hung up, I stood very slowly, moving first on to my knees and then holding on to the edge of the bath for support. I stared in the mirror. Pale. Blotchy skin. The beginnings of a spot on my chin. I opened the cabinet and checked the top shelf.

  I glanced at my watch again.

  Three ovulation kits were stacked one on top of the other. I moved them to the side and checked behind, reaching for the pregnancy test, then sat on the toilet and turned to the back of the packet for the date.

  It had been a while and I would need to hurry now. The last time was at Caroline’s, not long before the deli plan imploded. I was two weeks overdue that time, and did two home tests for good measure. The first was positive – a faint blue line – but the second did nothing. A subsequent test at the doctor’s came back negative also. Whether it had been a false alarm, a faulty test stick – or worse, some kind of early miscarriage – I had never known.

  This time I peed straight on to the stick and put down the toilet seat lid to sit and wait. I stared again at the bathmat, deliberately allowing my eyes to smart and my vision to blur. I used to put Ben on that mat with his baby gym when I took a bath.

  Where was it? The baby gym? In the loft? No. Sophie. Do not start hoping . . .

  And then the phone again – this time flashing Helen’s name. I held the stick in front of me, checking my watch for the umpteenth time to work out how quickly I could make it to Emma’s after collecting Ben.

  ‘Helen – what a lovely surprise. I hope this means you’ve been thinking about my suggestion?’

  ‘Well, actually I have – if the offer’s still there?’

  ‘Absolutely. So when can you come?’ I was struggling to keep my voice calm, watching a faint line appear, not wanting Helen to pick up on all this stress. So many thoughts competing and pounding through my head.

  ‘Look, I know it’s short notice, but I was thinking this week – as Ben’s in school? I thought it might cheer you up. Help you adjust. But you must say if you have other plans.’

  The line was darkening now. No mistake.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘No – not you. Something this end, Helen. Listen – I’ve got to ring off. I promise I’ll ring you back later. But please – come as soon as you can. I really mean it. The sooner the better.’

  CHAPTER 22

  BEFORE

  Emma was pacing. Things were not going to plan – not at all, damn it. Quite apart from Theo’s spectacular playgroup outburst and DI Melanie Sanders poking her nose in again, an email from her lawyer early this morning had confirmed her worst fears.

  Were there no limits to Theo’s aggravation in her life? On top of everything else, she now had to find a way to persuade the playgroup staff to take him back. How the hell was she supposed to manage otherwise; to get everything done?

  Emma felt in her pocket. No phone. She glanced around the kitchen and frowned, not remembering where she had put it. Irritation bubbled in her stomach as she moved across to her laptop. There was a second email from the lawyer – this time an invoice, pressing for settlement of all work to date. Terrific. She twisted her mouth to the side, ignored the wretched invoice and instead pinged a reply to the previous email.

  There MUST be something we can do about the will. This isn’t fair. An outrage. We need to challenge this. Please get on it immediately . . .

  Emma then began moving magazines and papers from the kitchen worktops, searching for her phone. She was trying to remember when she had last used it . . . When she spoke to Sophie? She paused to conjure up where she had been standing at the time. Yes. Now she recalled: she was up in the bedroom.

  Emma hurried upstairs to find her door ajar across the landing and Theo sitting on her bedroom floor. He was turned away from her, crouched over something. She moved forward more quietly, grateful for the thick carpets, and leant over to surprise him.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Theo?!’ Emma reached into his lap and grabbed her phone. She looked at the screen, which displayed the photograph she’d taken of Sophie in Cornwall. The zoom had made it a little grainy but it was clear enough . . .

  ‘I just wanted to play my snakes game—’

  ‘You know you’re not allowed on my phone unless I say so. How dare you!’

  Theo’s face was white with shock but Emma didn’t care. She looked again at the screen and thought very quickly.

  ‘OK. So you were looking at my pictures. What did you see?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s not true, is it, Theo? You need to tell me the truth. I know when you’re lying to me.’

  There was a long pause, Theo’s eyes unblinking.

  ‘Please don’t be cross again. I just saw the picture of Ben’s mummy. That’s all. With her new friend on the beach. I didn’t look at any others. It was on the screen when I picked up the phone. I didn’t mean to look at your photos. I just wanted my snakes game . . .’ He was starting to cry but again Emma didn’t care. This was serious.

  She crouched down in front of her son and pushed her face right up to his so that their noses were almost touching.

  ‘Have you seen all the police in Tedbury lately, Theo?’

  He just nodded, eyes wider.

  ‘Well, taking someone else’s property without their permission is theft, Theo. And theft is against the law. All I need to do is tell the police – that you bit another child, which is assault, and that you stole my phone . . . which is theft. And do you know what they’ll do? They will come back to Tedbury and they will take you away and lock you up somewhere dark. Understand me?’

  Theo was crying again properly, but Emma hadn’t finished.

  ‘If you tell a single soul in the world about that photograph of Ben’s mummy, I will tell the police.’

  No reply, just proper sobbing, his eyes now closed as Emma kept her face close to his.

  ‘You do not . . . say . . . a . . . single . . . word, Theo. Do you understand me?’

  CHAPTER 23

  BEFORE

  DI Melanie Sanders was skimming through the house particulars. There were a couple of really sweet cottages but the prices were a shock. One place had caught her eye, particularly because of a wisteria covering the front. She was just wondering if she was b
eing too romantic – if climbers damaged the brickwork – when there was a knock at the door.

  Damn. A glance at her watch. Early. Melanie called for the new witness to come in but was flustered, still gathering up the papers as a tall, slim man with piercing blue eyes was led in by someone from the front desk.

  ‘Goodness. Not thinking of moving to Tedbury, are you, Inspector?’ Her visitor was immediately staring at the paperwork, twisting his neck, apparently trying to read the top copy upside down.

  Melanie, mortified to be wrong-footed, swept all the papers together and shuffled them into a pile.

  ‘No. No. Just some research. Part of the inquiry.’

  ‘Research? Because if you were seriously interested, there are a few properties I should warn you off. Structural problems. Is that Wisteria Cottage, because—’

  ‘No. Honestly. Thank you. Just background inquiries. So, Mr, er . . .’

  ‘Tom Fuller.’

  ‘Mr Fuller. When you rang, you said you had some new information for me?’ She was signalling for him to sit down and he smiled. Warm grin. Perfect teeth. He watched and waited as she put the little pile of particulars into the top drawer of her desk, struggling at first to close it. A nasty crunch so that she had to pull the drawer back out, press down on the contents and try again. ‘So . . . this new information . . . ?’

  ‘Yes. Well, your officer who called at the house said that if anything came to mind . . . And something has.’

  She raised her eyebrows by way of encouragement.

  ‘Look. It’s probably not important but on the night of the fair – on the night that Antony died – I saw him having an argument with Emma Carter . . . the woman who was running the fortune teller’s tent.’

  ‘I see. So when exactly was this?’ Melanie picked up a pen to start making notes. In truth, she had not expected anything useful. They’d had the usual round of time-wasters.