The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 2

  I turn the page to Saturday – that was all about chores and errands in the Miller household, with Jeremy trundling about the paddock on the quad bike at this time of year, checking the fences were secure, the hedges clipped, the ditches clear and the pond dredged of weed.

  ‘Man’s work,’ he’d say, knowing how much that annoyed me, that I’d happily tackle the tasks myself if I had the time. I’d always been happier in wellies, jeans and a baggy sweater, and getting covered in mud and scratches never bothered me. Afterwards, Jeremy would come inside and grab me, his cheeks glowing and his skin flavoured with the outdoors as I kissed him.

  Sundays were quiet days – filled with lazy brunches, the newspapers, coffee and sometimes chess. It was a ritual for Jeremy to beat me at the game. But I didn’t mind. It somehow kept my mind fresh and allowed me a couple of hours to unwind with my husband before the craziness of the week began again, or he took off on another of his so-called research trips.

  But that was before things went sour. Before I suspected there was someone else.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever beaten you, have I?’ I remember saying to him during one of the last games of chess we ever played. It was a particularly foul Sunday – the rain sheeting sideways, hammering the big expanse of glass in the side of our old barn. He’d stoked the wood burner with a fresh supply of logs, and I’d put a joint of beef in the Aga. Kieran was meant to be studying in his room, though I could hear him strumming a tune on his guitar. He was never going to be any good but he loved practising. It was the most clichéd Sunday afternoon ever. And, despite everything that had been brewing, my suspicions, it was the most perfect one, too. I didn’t want it to end, didn’t want anything to end – apart from my paranoia.

  ‘Checkmate, mate,’ Jeremy had said with a laugh, his grey eyes sparkling as he leant back in the battered leather armchair. His armchair, the one he always sat in, giving anyone who dared settle in it one of his looks. He’d swept back his almost-black curls that were beginning to be flecked with silver, the firelight reflecting in his eyes as though it was the fire inside him bursting out.

  ‘Say, whaat?’ I’d said, wide-eyed and incredulous at yet another defeat. ‘It’s only been about eight moves.’

  ‘Six,’ Jeremy corrected.

  I laughed, shaking my head. It was hopeless. I was hopeless. He’d been trying to teach me the game for years, and it wasn’t my lack of knowledge of where the pieces could move or, indeed, the aim of the game. It was my complete inability to see ahead. To plan ahead. To me, it was like trying to read a book with one page out of every three missing. None of it made sense. None of it was logical and relied solely upon the other person’s thoughts and moves. And as it turned out, I certainly wasn’t a mind reader.

  ‘My record was four moves, remember?’ he’d said in a deep voice, winking at me.

  I shook my head, smiling as I got up to check on the beef.

  ‘Fool’s mate,’ he’d called out after me as I went through to the kitchen.

  ‘Fool’s mate,’ I whisper now, wrapping the test strip in a tissue and pushing it into my bag. Was that me, the fool? I cover my face again, screwing up my eyes as another fragmented memory from that night in Oxford flashes through my mind.

  ‘Come in,’ I trill as my first patient knocks on the door. I check the intercom is switched off after having summoned her through from the waiting room, putting on my ‘welcoming doctor’ smile as the young woman enters backwards, her elbow propping open the door as she struggles in with a pram and a toddler in tow. I leap up, holding the door wider for her.

  ‘Hello, Sally,’ I say. ‘You’ve got your hands full there.’ Three bags of shopping, the toddler and a nappy bag hang off her wrists as she manoeuvres the pram, getting the front wheel caught against the door frame as she reverses in. ‘Have a seat,’ I say as she finally gets inside and I close the door. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Mum-my…’ the toddler whines, pulling at his mother’s sleeve. Sally is only twenty-four but looks tired, drained, as if she’s having the life sucked out of her. Literally, it transpires, when she reveals why she’s come to see me.

  ‘OK, well, let’s take a look at you, then,’ I say. ‘Danny, why don’t you see what toys I’ve got in my special box?’ I point to the tub of brightly coloured plastic things in the corner. The toddler releases his mother and coyly walks over to the toys, his thumb shoved in his mouth, his eyes big and round.

  I draw the curtain around the examination couch, asking Sally to take off her top and bra, having a peek into her pram while she undresses. The baby is asleep, her bottom lip quivering as she sucks through her dreams, her fists clenched either side of her head. A baby girl, I think, knowing the sex of the embryo growing inside me will already have been determined.

  A wave of nausea surges through me. Adrenaline and shame rather than antenatal sickness this time. It was the early-morning vomiting during the last week or so, plus the realisation that I’d missed at least one, if not two, periods that convinced me to do the test. With everything that had happened, I was hoping my symptoms could be put down to stress.

  ‘I’m ready,’ Sally says from behind the curtain.

  I duck into the cubicle, leaving the fabric slightly apart so she can keep an eye on her toddler. Sally is lying on her back, her engorged breasts splayed out either side and the top of her leggings cutting into her post-pregnancy belly. She only had the baby three weeks ago.

  ‘It’s this one,’ she says, pointing to her left breast. ‘It started in this area but it’s all hot and swollen now. It’s agony, especially when she feeds.’

  ‘Sorry if my hands are a bit cold,’ I say, gently examining her. It only takes a moment for me to diagnose mastitis. I take her temperature.

  ‘Is it up?’ she says, a concerned look on her face. ‘Danny, stop it!’ she calls out as her little boy chucks a wooden brick across the room. It skids under the couch.

  ‘A little,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll give you some antibiotics. They won’t hurt baby. Feed her from your sore breast first, express between feeds if you can, and a warm flannel will ease the pain. Paracetamol is fine too. If it isn’t any better in three or four days, come back and see me,’ I add. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed,’ I say, forcing a smile that would normally come naturally.

  At my desk, I type up the prescription and print it out for her, eyeing her toddler as he empties the entire contents of the toy box onto the floor. I close my eyes briefly, imagining myself on my hands and knees clearing up… night feeds, changing nappies a dozen times a day, childcare, tiredness, the expense, coping alone… not to mention what everyone will say. Obviously a mistake… her husband’s dead and she’s forty-two!

  ‘Having a second baby isn’t just twice the work,’ Sally says with a sigh, coming out from behind the curtains and straightening her baggy top. ‘It’s like ten times as much work.’ She tries to laugh, but I see through the exhaustion. ‘And Steve is on nights, so it’s hard to keep them both quiet in the day when he’s sleeping.’

  ‘Two under two is hard work,’ I say, handing her the prescription. ‘Look after Mummy,’ I tell the toddler as he trots over to take his mother’s hand, clutching a small plastic fire engine in the other, holding it against his chest as he stares up at me. He has dribble on his chin, his skin sore and cracked. ‘It’s fine, he can keep it,’ I tell Sally, holding the door open as she leaves.

  She stops, the pram half in, half out. ‘Do you have children, Doctor?’ she asks.

  Her question catches me unawares. ‘Yes… yes, I do,’ I tell her, gripping the door handle hard. ‘A son. He’s sixteen.’

  She smiles at me, pausing, giving a little nod.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say as she heads off. ‘It gets easier,’ I add, knowing full well that it doesn’t.

  Two

  Jen

  Sweat pours out of me – rivulets running down my face, seeping into my sports top, the breath burning in and out of my lungs as I pump harde
r. Pink and electric-blue lights flash in time with the music – a fast beat that my legs are supposed to follow. They don’t.

  ‘Ramp it up a notch now!’ the instructor yells into the tiny wireless mic by his mouth. How can he even speak, let alone shout? I wonder, pedalling harder, feeling an unbearable burn in my quads. ‘C’mon now, go for the final hit!’

  He’s been yelling encouragement for forty-five minutes so far. Like work, it’s my first day back in the gym for a while. I was hoping exercise would take my mind off my pregnancy test results, but it hasn’t. If anything, it’s making me think about the little life growing inside me even more, conscious that I don’t overexert myself. It might feel like the end of my life as I know it, but it’s the start of this little baby’s.

  I glance across at Rhonda, who’s on the spin bike next to me. She’s standing up, her legs cycling hard and fast, her knuckles white as she grips the handlebars. She leans forward, her chin jutting and her eyes filled with determination and grit. Her wavy blonde hair is high in a ponytail with strands of it stuck to her sweaty face; her teeth are clenched and bared as she draws upon deep reserves of energy. A far cry from my weak performance.

  While the others reach down with one hand to increase the resistance of their bikes, I tweak my knob to an even lighter setting, gradually feeling the ache in my muscles ease. Throughout the session, I’ve not been working out at my usual level.

  ‘Final hill!’ the instructor calls out, his pumped and toned body making light work of the class. There’s a bright grin slashed across his face as if… as if he’s enjoying this, I think, remembering that I once did too. Just not any more.

  The music speeds up, the lights flashing faster, making me screw up my eyes. If we were actually cycling up a hill, I’d be way behind the others, probably getting off my bike and pushing it up the incline by now, breathless and fed up.

  There’s a baby growing inside me.

  And then I’m back there – that night – for just a few seconds, my heart thundering at the recollection. Recalling the early part of the evening is easy, but as the night wore on, all I’m left with are fleeting memories, random snapshots that I can’t control.

  I was in some kind of bar or club… crowded and filled with groups from the conference letting their hair down after an intense few days, all of us standing squashed shoulder to shoulder: sweaty bodies, strobe lights, not dissimilar to the spin class studio now. Some of the faces I recognised from the medical talks, and I remember thinking that it was strange to see them out of their business clothes, knocking back shots or swigging from a bottle, laughing, relieved that the intensity of the three-day conference was done for another year.

  Someone had knocked into me, jolting me forward and making me spill my drink.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ I’d said to the man next to me, who took the brunt of the mess. My voice was barely audible above the loud music and din of the chatter. Shouting an apology somehow made it seem less genuine. He shook his head, grinned and told me not to worry. Then he asked my name and offered to buy me another drink. I’d seen him around, caught him glancing at me once or twice over the last couple of days. Not thought anything of it. He was friendly enough.

  I keep pedalling, my eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. Cool-down in three minutes.

  ‘Bit claustrophobic in here,’ the man had gone on to say, handing me a fresh drink. I had no idea what it was – some kind of cocktail – and I wondered if he was about to ask if I wanted to go somewhere quieter, perhaps outside for a smoke. I remember the telltale shape of the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He had that expectant look about him – because he’d bought me a drink. I was in his debt now.

  I was all set to tell him that I actually liked the thrum of the bass pounding through my head, bodies pressed close and people shouting to be heard above the music, but really, it was the anonymity I craved. Somewhere I didn’t feel like me, where no one knew who I was; a place that was more dominating than my actual thoughts. An environment that used up all of my cognitive resources so I couldn’t dwell on things. Couldn’t dwell on her. But he got the message just from my expression, didn’t push it further.

  I nodded at him, flashed a quick smile after half shouting, ‘Thanks for the drink,’ before walking off, weaving through the crowd, shoulder first, glancing left and right in case there was a free seat. I’d wobbled a tipsy path through the groups of people as I’d tried to find somewhere to sit. Truth was, I’d just wanted to be alone with my thoughts and I figured the best place to do it was in a packed club.

  It was just as I’d spotted the empty stool, set next to a tall aluminium bar table, that I felt the hand on my shoulder, the warm breath brush my neck from behind. Even without looking, even in my inebriated and exhausted state, I sensed trouble. Smelt danger. Felt the prickle of goosebumps rise on my skin, working their way down my body, making me freeze.

  ‘Right, wind it back now!’ the instructor calls out. ‘Let’s bring those heart rates down a notch,’ he adds, sitting back on his saddle and taking a water bottle from its holder. He swigs, not caring that water runs down his chin and onto his neck, making his slick black skin even shinier.

  I glance across at Rhonda, who, sensing my look, turns to me. She grins, wiping her brow with the back of one hand in an overstated gesture, making a silly face as she blows out.

  ‘Knackered,’ she says, dropping down onto her saddle, still keeping her legs moving. Whipping her towel off the handlebars, she wipes it over her face. I do the same, but only to make it look like I’ve worked up more of a sweat than I actually have.

  Ten minutes later, after stretching out beside the bikes, I follow Rhonda out into the main gym area. The familiar clank and clunk of the weights machines surrounds us, with an assortment of men and women standing around chatting, spotting for their workout partner, or lifting weights on their own.

  ‘Love Dale’s classes,’ Rhonda says breathily. Her pale skin glows pink on her cheeks and her blue eyes seem brighter than usual.

  ‘His workouts are still bloody evil,’ I say with a laugh, draping the towel around my neck.

  After we’ve showered and changed, we head into the gym café and grab a couple of smoothies from the chiller cabinet, Rhonda insisting she pay. Since Jeremy’s death, she’s gone out of her way to be a good friend, whether it’s helping me around the house, cooking and delivering meals, or ferrying Kieran about when I’ve not felt like getting out of bed. I’m so grateful to her, and don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay her for her kindness.

  ‘So,’ Rhonda says once we’re seated. ‘How are you doing?’ She asks this often, has done since I got the devastating news from Switzerland six weeks ago. Her concern began on a much higher level back then, of course – code red – and has dwindled slightly over the weeks to a paler shade of amber, though not because she doesn’t care. It’s as if she’s taken on the management of my grief, carefully measuring my periods of anger, frustration and denial as I wind my way through the perilous stages. She’s always asked how I am, of course, even before Jeremy was killed, but it’s just that I didn’t particularly notice – a casual ‘How you doing?’ as we hugged a greeting, neither of us ever expecting much more than a ‘Good, thanks’ in reply.

  Now, Rhonda purposefully places the question during the middle of our meets, so it’s not seen as throwaway chit-chat, but rather taken as a serious enquiry after assessing my mood. And if I’m evasive, she’ll divert the conversation back to my well-being until she’s satisfied that I’m not going to throw myself under a bus.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, taking a sip of smoothie, glancing at her. I feel a twinge low down in my belly. I want to tell her – need to tell her – but I don’t know how. It would mean explaining everything… and how can I do that, when I don’t have any answers myself? ‘Busy first day back,’ I add, knowing she won’t settle for a single syllable. ‘The new booking system has had a few teething problems but it was actually functioning prett
y well today.’ I look at her, hoping that’s enough. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘You look different,’ she says, giving me a sideways look, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘I do?’ I reply, my voice tinged with guilt. ‘Probably because I feel as though I’m about to have a heart attack after that bloody class.’ I force a laugh, fighting back the words I’m pregnant. Because once it’s out, there’ll be questions I can’t answer.

  Rhonda shakes her head. ‘It’s not that.’

  I pause, feeling my skin twitch under my right eye. ‘It was just a bit… well, it was a bit overwhelming being back at work today,’ I say, hoping that’s enough for her to chew on. ‘The thought of Jeremy not sitting in his study when I get home is… well, it still hasn’t truly sunk in, if I’m honest.’ At least that’s the truth, I think, dreading my first return home from work with him not being there to greet me. ‘I miss him so much, Ronnie.’

  Rhonda nods, her eyes heavy. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I still can’t believe it myself most days.’ She puts a hand on my arm before glancing behind me. Her face lights up. ‘Come for supper at ours tonight,’ she says quickly, before finishing with a warm, ‘Chris!’ as she greets her husband. She tips her face up towards him as he bends down to give her a peck. Then he reaches across and gives me a brief hug.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late, Ronnie. Traffic was horrendous,’ he says. ‘How was the class, ladies?’

  I make a face and a groaning sound. All I can manage as I survey him standing next to our small table. At first glance, you’d never know he was a copper – a slightly rounded dad paunch visible through his sweatshirt, even though he doesn’t have children of his own to earn that title. Despite that, he’s fit, and goes running regularly, sometimes with Caitlin, Rhonda’s teenage daughter, and he has a home gym set up in his garage. Mostly he’s an unremarkable forty-something – unlike Jeremy, who was anything but unremarkable with his shock of wild hair, his intense eyes and planet-sized personality. I feel bad for making comparisons.