The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist Page 4

  ‘But I fell pregnant with Ben so quickly.’

  ‘And it’s been?’ The doctor was once more checking the notes.

  ‘Two years, four months.’ I immediately regretted speaking up so quickly, tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

  ‘And have you spoken to your husband about the options we discussed last time?’

  ‘Yes.’ This was a lie. ‘He still thinks we should just wait.’ I did not say why.

  ‘Well, I can see this is very difficult for you, Sophie. But in the vast majority of cases, your husband is absolutely right. You’re young still. And I know it’s easy for me to say, but the best thing I can advise is for you to try to relax. Take a holiday. Distract yourself. Try not to focus so much on this’ – looking again at the screen – ‘so, remind me, are you working?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ And now a hot ache in the back of my throat. Also the stinging once more behind my eyes. ‘I was planning to go back after the second child.’

  ‘You know there is nothing at all to suggest that history will repeat itself, Sophie. We will be watching . . .’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  The kind smile again. ‘Look. Why don’t you give it a bit longer. A couple more months, say? Then if there’s still no good news, I’d like to see you with your husband. We can discuss all the options so that you both understand exactly what treatment would involve.’

  ‘Yes. That sounds fine.’

  ‘So, is there anything else I can help you with today?’

  Only later, on automatic pilot in the car, halfway home with no memory of the first part of the journey, did I realise that I did not say goodbye to Dr Elder. Or thank you. It reminded me of church as a child, when I would sometimes find myself at the end of a prayer with no recollection of chanting the beginning. Did I say it? Or was I remembering last Sunday? Or the one before that?

  On the doorstep of Priory House, the hot ache in my throat was still there, so it was no surprise – though no less embarrassing for that – when in the kitchen the dam burst at Emma’s innocent inquiry, ‘Are you all right, Sophie?’

  There was no sound, just a stream of silent, angry tears which I fought to stem by screwing up my face very tightly – body turned towards the window on to the garden. Mortified.

  And then, before Emma could respond, the humiliation was complicated by Ben suddenly appearing in the doorway. ‘Mummy, oh Mummy – what’s the matter? What’s happened?’

  I was frozen, Ben’s eyes widening until Emma lunged at me, grasping my left hand. ‘Mummy’s got a splinter, Ben. From the front gate. I’m going to have to get it out for her. Have you ever had a splinter?’

  ‘Yes. From the climbing frame in the park.’

  ‘So you know that it hurts, then. And that Mummy’s going to have to be very brave.’

  ‘Are you going to use a hot needle?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  And then, pulling a face of disgust, arms rigid at his sides with tight, white fists, he was gone.

  Fumbling in vain for a tissue in my pockets, I eventually accepted one from a box held out by Emma.

  ‘God. I’m so sorry about this.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Emma walked me by the shoulders to a chair at the table. ‘Right. Sit. Strong coffee.’

  I blew my nose loudly. ‘Thank you. And that was very clever of you – with Ben, I mean.’

  And then, as Emma began to busy herself over the drinks, I began to formulate a cover story. But even as the first idea took shape, Emma sat across the table with such an extraordinary and expectant look in her eyes – the little streaks of green and brown seeming especially vivid – that the truth instead spilled from my mouth as if my lips were just too tired to hold it in any more.

  The waiting. The false starts. The day I sat right here in this kitchen with Caroline – my period two weeks overdue. So sure that time. Allowing myself to get excited. But no. Always, in the end, the bloody test said no. And then the worry that it was somehow bound up with that awful time after Ben was born. The depression. Post . . . natal . . . depression. The long, dark time before it was properly diagnosed, when I stumbled from day to day like a zombie. Not dressing. Not washing. Mark having no idea what to do. Ben sitting in his little car seat. Puzzled. Waiting . . .

  ‘I’m so sorry, Emma. I don’t normally do this. Spontaneous combustion. Look – I should go.’ I stood.

  ‘You are going nowhere. Now sit back down and breathe slowly. I mean it. In and out, really slowly, until you calm down.’

  And so, yes. In. Out. I did as I was told. In . . . Out . . . And before I knew it, the whole story was spewing from me. How I lied to the doctor. That Mark was point-blank refusing to consider fertility treatment – afraid we might have twins and that if the postnatal depression returned, twins would be too much, for me and for him. While I – an only child – was positively desperate for a brother or sister for Ben.

  ‘I mean, I know Ben should be enough, Emma. Look at you and Theo. You’re completely fabulous together. And some people don’t get any children at all’ – talking faster and faster now – ‘and a part of me feels guilty getting so obsessed with this, but is it really so wrong of me to want another baby? Is that really so very terrible of me?’

  Emma said nothing.

  ‘I even read my bloody horoscope this morning. Can you believe it? How sad is that?’

  ‘Look – the readings thing, Sophie. Calling birth signs. I should never have said anything. I mean – it’s just a bit of fun. Not something I would ever do seriously, not over something important . . .’

  ‘No. No. I didn’t mean it like that.’ I hung my head forward, cradled it in my palms. ‘Oh God, Emma. I did, actually . . .’

  And now we both laughed and Emma passed the box of tissues again.

  ‘Listen to me. I promise you, Emma, I didn’t use to be this bonkers.’ I blew my nose hard again. ‘It’s village life. I’m going slowly mad.’

  ‘So you haven’t worked since Ben? Not at all?’

  I shook my head. ‘I was in advertising. Not an industry that understands part-time. I had this idea I would have two kids close together and go back full-time later. The plan was to relocate Mark’s company once the family was complete.’

  ‘And you would never consider a nanny?’

  I winced again, picturing my eight-year-old self holding the au pair’s hand as my mother searched for the car keys. A pile of luggage in the hallway. The usual quick kiss goodbye, the scent of perfume which lingered in the hall with the promise of postcards. All those postcards . . .

  Why did it have to be so hard for the mothers? Work? Don’t work? Black. White.

  ‘No. Didn’t fancy the nanny route. So anyway: my choice – my fault. The move here. The career break. All of it. And I actually don’t regret that – for Ben’s sake, I mean. I love him to bits. Of course I do – it’s just I never envisaged it would be this hard.’

  I was searching Emma’s face for a response but there was nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve embarrassed us both’ – standing up again – ‘the doctor’s right. I’ve become completely obsessed with getting pregnant. She’s doing the whole “take a holiday” routine. Reckons I need to distract myself.’

  And that’s when Emma’s expression began to change. For a moment she looked away to the window, and then back at me with a flicker of a smile as if something had just occurred to her. Next she was darting over to a drawer in the dresser where she began rummaging furiously.

  ‘Look – you are to say if this is a terrible idea.’ She was trying a second drawer now, raking through the papers, until suddenly, ‘Ah, here they are,’ returning to the table with a bundle of cuttings which she spread in front of me. There were various features and articles cut from newspapers and Sunday supplements. ‘Like I say, you mustn’t be polite. Absolutely no pressure, but I was planning to make the most of the summer before Theo starts preschool. There’s tons I want to see with him. Look’ – she
turned a feature on the Burgh Island Hotel towards me – ‘I just have to see this place. Art deco. And Castle Drogo. Also Agatha Christie’s house – the National Trust have got it now. And well – you mustn’t feel you have to say yes.’ It was her turn to speak faster and faster. ‘Not everyone’s into buildings. And Theo and I are used to our own company. To be honest, I worry about him, too. Not enough friends. Like you say, an only. But if you’d consider joining us . . . Tagging along with Ben. I mean if it would help you as well, as a distraction, to keep your mind off things, keep you busy over the summer, well – we’d just completely love it.’

  I looked down at all the cuttings strewn across the table and then back at Emma, her eyes wide and hopeful, just as Ben reappeared in the doorway, his little fists still clenched white at his sides.

  ‘Are you all right, Mummy? Is the splinter gone?’

  ‘Yes, darling. Come here. I’m fine now. Emma has saved me.’ I reached out to take Ben’s hand, pulling him into my side and mouthing a thank you at Emma, surprised at how much better I felt already. Relief tinged with that slightly out-of-body numbness which follows any proper bout of crying, remembering just in time to clench my ‘injured’ hand as Ben’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

  As did my own.

  TODAY – 5.15 P.M.

  What the hell?

  The train is at first slowing. Brakes screeching.

  I glance around the carriage as we finally shudder to a halt.

  Passengers are leaning this way and that to peer from different angles through windows.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’ I realise the question is ridiculous but do not especially care. We are right between stations – the last just ten minutes back. This makes no sense . . .

  There are embarrassed shrugs. The passengers with window seats continue to strain their necks but no one can see ahead of the train.

  ‘We can’t just stop. We seriously can’t stop here . . .’ I am clenching my hands so tightly that the nails bite into the flesh of my palms. Several passengers are now glancing at each other, their expressions suggesting they are every bit as alarmed by me as by this unexpected stop.

  I don’t care; rage and turmoil bubbling in my stomach. All the news from the hospital remains so confused. Still the staff do not know which boy is which. During the last phone call I suddenly had this idea I could send a photograph, borrow that woman’s phone again. But it is too late; both boys are now in surgery. Which means we have no idea which boy may be losing his spleen, which one is in gravest danger . . .

  Finally there is a crackling over the intercom. A weak male voice next. Driver? Guard? Who knows . . .

  ‘I’m very sorry, ladies and gentlemen, for this unscheduled delay. We apparently have some signalling problems ahead. We are just waiting for an update and I will let you know as soon as I have more information.’

  I look at my watch. Nearly two hours still to go.

  I look out of the windows again. Left then right, trying to work out where the hell we are.

  In the middle of nowhere, that’s where. A cow turns from a field to catch my eye as if to rub this in.

  Surrey? Somerset? God knows . . .

  I take out my ridiculous phone and walk through to the little connecting corridor between the carriages.

  I dial the number the police sergeant gave me earlier. Infuriatingly, the automatic doors keep triggering and I have to move to stop them. At last the phone is answered but it is a different officer. Jeez. I waste precious time trying to explain everything. Who I am.

  Eventually this new guy is understanding me. He says there will be more information when I get to the hospital. They can perhaps send a car to the railway station if that will help? When I arrive. Though there are usually plenty of taxis . . .

  ‘No, no. That’s the problem. That’s why I’m ringing. My train’s stopped. Stuck in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know why . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There is a pause. ‘Goodness. How frustrating. Very stressful for you . . .’

  ‘But can’t you do something?’

  Another pause. ‘I’m not following. What would you like us to do? How do you think we can help you?’

  ‘Well. I don’t know.’ I move and the stupid automatic doors are triggered again. For some reason the word helicopter comes into my head.

  ‘A helicopter. Can’t you get a helicopter? To meet the train. To get me to the hospital. The police have helicopters, don’t they?’ I am looking out at the field next to the train. The cows. I can picture myself charging the cows to make a space for the landing . . .

  ‘A helicopter?’ The tone with which he says this makes me want to cry again. I do know I sound ridiculous but I don’t care . . . I’m beyond caring what anyone thinks. ‘I’m sorry but that’s not a resource we could use in this circumstance. But if the train is delayed, we could perhaps send a patrol car to meet it. So where are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’re not saying what’s happening.’

  He tells me to ring back and update him as soon as I know more, so that they can make a decision.

  Again I ask him what they know about the accident. What exactly happened to my Ben? To both boys?

  There is a much longer pause and I have had enough. In desperation I ask to speak to Detective Inspector Melanie Sanders. I tell him she will want to know about this.

  For Christ’s sake. Does he not realise what happened in Tedbury before? Back in the summer . . . My part in it? I look down at my hands and fight the panic as I remember the scene. The blood. The knife . . .

  My tone is near hysterical but again I am fobbed off. He says the priority today was getting the boys to the hospital. The treatment. They are trying to piece together what happened but DI Sanders is busy. I will be told more when I get to the hospital myself.

  ‘But I’m stuck on this bloody train. I need to know now . . .’

  More platitudes.

  ‘Listen to me. You have to keep her away from the boys.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  I lower my voice. ‘Emma Carter. She’s involved in the accident. I think she’s having surgery too. I don’t know. Patient confidentiality. They won’t tell me. But you have to keep her away from the boys. Both boys. My son, especially. I insist that you keep her away from my son Ben. Do you understand? I want you to write this down.’

  There is a complete change now in his tone. A series of questions that I can’t answer. I can tell that he thinks I am hysterical, unhinged even. He is reminding me that Emma Carter’s son has been hurt too. They are hoping she will be able to identify which child is which when she is conscious . . .

  ‘No. No. That’s the point. You mustn’t do that. You mustn’t let her near them . . .’

  He is saying that he understands how very upset and frustrated I must feel and he will get the investigating officer to ring me back once there is any more news. He is making a note of what I have said. There will be a full update at the hospital.

  ‘So you’re not the main investigating officer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then just piss off, why don’t you . . . Just piss off.’

  I hang up and try the ward again. Come on. Come on. It is engaged.

  Next I try Heather. Straight to voicemail.

  And then I cannot help myself. I open the window, reach out for the door handle. Locked. As I look down at my hand, I can see it all again.

  The colour red; the feeling of the blood, thick and warm all over my fingers. That look in her eyes. The knife . . .

  Next I feel the breeze. The rain. I move my case to the door so I can stand on it. This will be difficult . . .

  Oh, good grief. Look at that woman. She’s climbing through the window.

  I work out that the drop to the bank of grass is not as bad as I feared . . . On the third attempt, I manage it.

  I get off the train.

  CHAPTER 5

  BEFORE

  ‘So – what got into you?’ I was staring at my h
usband in our kitchen, the debris from the dinner party filling every surface.

  I normally like this time after entertaining. That feeling of release and relief when you have just waved off the final guest and retire to the kitchen, feeling a little bit drunk but pleased and proud and still smiling at the banter, happy that you made the effort.

  ‘Look – I’m really sorry, Sophie. This bloody cold.’

  I looked at him again, narrowing my eyes.

  ‘I apologised to your guests; I honestly did my best.’

  ‘Well, if that’s your best, Mark – heaven help us all. And forgive me for thinking they were our guests. You know – in our home . . .’

  The dishwasher was already full so I ran hot water into the sink and started to line up the wine and water glasses, turning away from him.

  ‘Can’t we do this in the morning?’ He was tipping the contents of a Lemsip sachet into a mug.

  ‘The row or the dishes, Mark? And you can’t have another one of those yet. You had one in the middle of dinner.’

  ‘That was hours ago.’

  ‘Mark – is there something going on at work? Something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Why would there be anything going on at work? I’ve got a cold. End of.’

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. Eleven thirty. Hardly a triumph.

  I’d invited two couples to meet Emma tonight. Nice people. Gill Hartley, who works for the council, her writer husband Antony and local teachers Brian and Louise Packham. The Hartleys were normally stayers – 2 a.m. not at all unusual – but I was not surprised that even they’d cut the evening short. At one point Mark had disappeared for so long for his Lemsip, I actually feared he had gone to bed.

  ‘It was a good evening. You did an amazing job as always, Sophie. Great food.’

  ‘While my husband was like Houdini.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t that bad. Come on. Give me a break, I’ve had a really terrible week. I’ve probably got the flu the way this is going – I didn’t want to stink out the dining room with hot lemon. I drank it in my study. Anyway, you know I struggle to cope with Antony Hartley and his poetry at the best of times.’