The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 3

  ‘Jen survived her first day back at work as well as a spin class, so I’d say she’s winning at life today,’ Rhonda tells him.

  He glances down at me, pushing a hand through his light-brown hair – always neatly cropped. ‘That must have been…’ He trails off, not knowing what to say.

  I nod. ‘A little strange. But everyone was lovely. No big fanfares. They know how much I’d hate that.’ I take a sip of my smoothie. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t say I was exactly winning at life,’ I add. Since the accident, I seem to be living in a time lag, a few minutes behind everyone else. It feels as though I’m on a permanent long-distance call that won’t properly connect. ‘More like muddling through somehow.’

  I put my smoothie bottle down on the table, but can’t help wanting to take a swipe at it, sending the green sludge flying as I yell and kick and scream out that nothing in my life feels right any more, that inside I’m burning up with… with something, though I have no idea what. But I don’t, of course. I’m adept at keeping my cool, holding it together. Aside from anything, at least two of my patients are in the vicinity.

  ‘I’ve asked Jen round for supper,’ Rhonda tells Chris.

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t tonight.’ I stand up, hooking my gym bag over my shoulder. ‘Kieran is expecting me home. Anyway, it’s my turn to cook for you next, to say thanks for everything you’ve done,’ I add, as the pair of them arc their heads with what I perceive to be relieved expressions. No one really wants a grieving widow to come for supper on a weeknight. Besides, I want to spend time with my son. He’s become so withdrawn since he lost his dad, as though a part of him is lost too. ‘Thanks for dragging me here,’ I say to Rhonda, giving her a peck on each cheek. ‘I’m sure I’ll sleep well now,’ I add, knowing I won’t.

  And, as I walk off towards the turnstile, I imagine myself yelling out that I’m pregnant, my arms spread wide and my face red and demonic as I spin around, confessing to everyone that I don’t know whose baby I’m carrying, that Jeremy and I hadn’t had sex for at least three months before he died, and I’m pretty sure the father is a stranger I met in a bar.

  In reality, I dash across the freezing car park and get into my car, leaning forward on the steering wheel, allowing the tears I’ve been holding back to flow.

  Three

  Jen

  The next morning, I reach for the button on my desk phone. ‘Yes, Peggy,’ I say into the speaker, taking off my coat and scarf and hanging them on the back of my consulting room door. I’m breathless – not from being later to work than I’d have liked, and rushing since the moment I got up (or rather, since the moment I hauled myself up from leaning over the toilet bowl), but rather from the resources being harvested from my body as the embryo’s cells divide and multiply at a million miles an hour. I feel exhausted. Empty. And, despite the spin class wearing out my body last night, I didn’t sleep at all.

  ‘Just reminding you about your two house calls later,’ she says, her mouth full of something as she chews.

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten,’ I say, managing to sound jovial as I sit down. ‘And thanks, Peggy. It’s appreciated.’ I click the intercom off and sit back in my chair. She never used to remind me about my schedule. The room smells faintly of polish and disinfectant, soon to be filled by back-to-back patients in the morning’s clinic – tainted by the smell of other people’s lives, their collective histories, stories and ailments. I can’t bear to think what scent I’d leave behind – regret, wretchedness, shame. Though it’s the growing sense of dread that stinks the most.

  Inside my bag, my phone beeps. I reach for it, reading the text from Kieran.

  Home late. Football training.

  I send a quick reply, asking what he wants for dinner, adding a couple of kisses. When nothing comes back straight away, I go into my photo stream, scrolling back to December. It won’t take long to locate what I’m looking for as I haven’t taken many pictures these last few weeks, not like I normally would – capturing innocent family moments just because I could. Jeremy hunched over his laptop, perhaps, working late by the glow of his desk lamp, unaware I was in the doorway of his study, fondly watching him work. Kieran coming in from school, his face fresh from saying goodbye to his mates yet hung with heaviness at the prospect of a night of studying. Maybe a close-up shot of the chessboard, a glass of red either side of it with Jeremy’s hand reaching to move a piece, or a photo of the dinner I’d cooked, proud of a new recipe. Just these little reminders, like bookmarks in my memory, unravelling the hidden photo stream inside my head.

  I keep scrolling back, stopping on one particular photo – an unflattering selfie, taken in the woods on one of my cross-country runs last autumn with the sunlight angling down between the trees. I didn’t take it out of vanity, and nor was it to catch the pretty light behind me. No, I took it to check if there was someone following me, anyone lurking in the background, half hidden behind a tree, or the flash of a face, someone crouching in the cover of a bush. I’d sworn I’d heard noises – twigs cracking, a couple of spooked pheasants flapping out of a tree – and didn’t want to keep turning round to check, didn’t want to show my fear. It wasn’t the first time it had happened either. I’d had the feeling I was being watched a couple of times by that point – and not just on my runs. I zoom in on the photo again but, as I’d already realised at the time, there was no one there. Not caught in my photo, at least.

  And then there are the pictures I took at the medical conference in Oxford. I flick through them, my mind dragged back to what should have been a normal work weekend away – though I now know it was anything but that.

  There are a few shots of the conference itself – several of the speakers, but mainly they’re zoomed-in shots of the presentation slides on the big screen. It was the references I wanted, reading material to catch up on in my own time. Which, as yet, I hadn’t done. There had been other things to contend with since – such as my husband dying.

  I choke on the sob, breathe the tears back in. Just before clinic is not the time to get emotional. I glance at the clock on the wall. Seven minutes to go. Seven minutes to scan my list, review any test results, liaise with the practice nurses. I do none of these things. Instead, I keep thumbing through the pictures, unfurling the ribbon in my mind.

  The first night of the three-day conference, a group of us went out to dinner. Nothing flash – just six or seven GPs (several of whom I knew from med school in Leeds) eating at an Italian bistro in the city centre. Seafood pasta and a glass of red, that’s all I had. Some decent chats with the people sitting either side of me and then I retired to the hotel, as did most of the delegates, from what I’d gathered over breakfast the next day. Everyone had had an early night, drained from the previous day’s input, perhaps saving themselves for a Saturday night blow-out.

  I’d sat alone at breakfast that first morning, scrolling through the news on my phone as I’d sipped my coffee. On my phone now, there’s a picture of my full English. I remember snapping it and sending it to Jeremy with a silly comment. He didn’t reply, probably thinking me annoying for interrupting him with such a trivial thing as bacon and eggs. They’d been particularly good though – or perhaps it was just because I hadn’t had to cook them. Plus my mind had been all over the place with thoughts of her, whoever she was – and if she was there with him, in my house while I was away. I couldn’t stand the thought of it – another woman stealing my husband.

  The second night of the conference, we went to a different place for dinner, and there was a bigger group of us, men and women. I didn’t know most of them but everyone seemed amiable enough. The Indian restaurant was very accommodating and, after we’d finished, someone had suggested hitting a couple of bars in town.

  ‘Coming, Jen?’ one of the male GPs had asked as he’d stood, slipping on his jacket.

  It had taken me less than a second to decide. ‘Sure,’ I’d replied, folding my starched napkin and placing it on the table. ‘Why not?’

  Bu
t in my head I’d been thinking, Sure. Why not? Why not get wasted to the point of forgetting I even exist? Why not obliterate every single concern I have about my marriage with alcohol and hope I pass out in the gutter and get run over by a bus? It had taken all my resolve not to say it out loud.

  So I’d donned my coat and followed the others out into the street, my clothes smelling faintly of cumin as I brought up the rear of a long line of merry doctors letting their hair down after an intense day of presentations. That was all. Just letting our hair down. My hair down.

  ‘First patient’s here, Dr Miller,’ our youngest receptionist, Chloe, says through the intercom. She’s a new recruit and I’d not met her before starting back at work yesterday.

  ‘Send him through,’ I reply, not instantly realising that I’d instinctively said ‘he’. I’ve not even checked the names on the list yet. Was it some kind of telepathy, I later wondered? A sixth sense kicking in, warning me?

  It’s as I’m switching off my phone, popping it in my handbag under my desk, when he strides into my office, following the single sharp knock on my door.

  ‘Good morning, Mr…’ I trail off, my head still half under my desk as I scoop a few belongings back into my bag that have fallen out.

  Still the assumption he’s a man, but by this time he’s in the room, so perhaps I’m already picking up a man’s cologne or unconsciously hear him clear his throat or sense the heaviness of his footsteps.

  No, I’ll tell myself later. You always knew trouble was coming. Have always known it would come calling. You just didn’t know when.

  ‘Take a…’ I trail off again as I sit up.

  He’s already taken a seat and is right opposite me as relaxed as anything, facing me squarely with a slightly amused smile on his face. He’s classically handsome – but in an exaggerated way, as though every feature has tried too hard to be perfect. Square jaw, high cheekbones, a broad forehead and bright-blue, symmetrical eyes. Sandy hair, a neat crop of similarly coloured stubble, a pale shirt undone at the collar with a navy jacket on top of dark jeans completes his effortless yet stylish look. Oh, and I can just make out the tip of a polished tan brogue poking round the corner of my desk. And his nails are well manicured – oddly white at the tips for a man – with his hands clasped loosely in his lap. Strong hands.

  I swallow drily. My mind must be scooping up all the detail unconsciously, balling it into one big first impression: smug. No – dangerous.

  ‘Right, Mr…’ I glance at my computer screen, blinking, frantically clicking on my morning’s list. But the mouse pointer freezes before it opens. ‘Sorry,’ I say with a smile, regaining some composure as I square up my shoulders, though I can’t seem to iron out the frown that has set in between my brows. ‘Computer’s taking its time this morning.’ I give him a glance, then turn back to the screen.

  Do I know you? I want to say as I wait for the system to catch up with itself. But that would be ridiculous. Of course I’ll have seen him before at some point, though admittedly some patients are more memorable than others. And surely he would have been one of them? I bat away the thought. Inappropriate.

  ‘Ah, and hello to you finally, computer,’ I say, rolling my eyes and forcing a laugh as the patient list opens at last. I click on the first name. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Shaw?’

  ‘Scott, please,’ he says after a moment. ‘Do you always talk to your computer?’

  ‘Scott, then,’ I say, having to consciously force my lips to form the most basic of syllables. ‘And no, no I don’t,’ I add with a laugh, even though my frown gets deeper. I glance at the screen again, just as the shard of light flashes in front of my eyes, just as the pulse of a few beats bangs through my head – the music, the alcohol, the dancing. The hand on my shoulder…

  I shudder, jumping back to the moment.

  ‘Ah, right,’ I mumble, clicking on his notes. ‘I see you’re a new patient,’ I say, relieved because now I don’t feel bad about not remembering his name. But it doesn’t stop my heart thundering in my chest, as if it’s trying to tell me something, as if I should be taking notice of some minor detail I’ve overlooked. Thing is, I’m just not listening. Not listening to myself at all – because if I’ve not seen him in surgery before, then why does he seem so familiar?

  Four

  Jen

  ‘So when did the pain start?’ I ask Scott, once I’ve introduced myself properly and taken a brief history. The system shows me that he registered at the practice about two weeks ago, while I was still off work.

  Scott thinks, tapping his forefinger on his thigh. ‘Maybe a week or ten days ago?’ he says, almost as if he’s asking me. His voice is deep and slow, resonating inside his chest. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and I don’t take mine off his.

  ‘And did it come on gradually or suddenly? Have you done anything extra-strenuous or out of the ordinary lately? Heavy weights, or some kind of lifting you wouldn’t normally do?’

  My patient shakes his head slowly, glancing at the ceiling. ‘No, no I don’t think so. I moved recently. I’m new to the area.’

  ‘Heavy boxes and furniture the culprit, perhaps?’ I ask, giving him a quick glance as I type up a couple of notes.

  ‘No. I don’t have much stuff. The few bits I have are in storage.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘OK, I’d better take a look.’ I smile, trying to put him at ease, though I don’t know why. It’s me who needs her heart calming, her sweaty palms wiping on a towel. I have no idea why. ‘If you want to slip behind the curtain and take off your top half, I’ll come in and examine you. Let me know when you’re ready.’

  ‘Of course,’ Scott says, waiting a beat before he rises and goes into the cubicle, dragging the curtain closed around him.

  I turn back to my computer, taking a moment to look at his registered address. Stuff in storage… New to the area… I click on his personal details and see that he’s registered at a temporary address. Beckley Park Inn, 74 Radley Road. Quickly, I google it. It appears to be a grim-looking, seventies-style concrete motel near an industrial estate on the outskirts of Shenbury, our nearest town. It also looks as though it should have been pulled down thirty years ago. So why didn’t he register at a surgery nearer to the motel?

  My eyes narrow, my fingers clasping my chin as I bridge the gap in my mind between what I already know about Scott Shaw – not much – and the type of person I imagine would relocate to a place like that, even if only temporarily. The two don’t match up. His clothes and appearance don’t make him look as though he’s short of money, yet the place he’s staying at reeks of that being the case. But then in my job I know only too well how people can be the opposite of what you think. I put aside my judgement.

  ‘Ready?’ I ask.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he replies.

  I pull back the curtain and a second later, I’m gripping onto the fabric, as if it’s going to somehow steady me. It’s as though a camera flash has gone off at point-blank range in my face, as if someone’s forced my head into a place where all my senses are overloading – my ears pounding from the noise, my skin sore, my nostrils flared and alert. Even my tongue tingles from the shock.

  I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to run for my life.

  Instead, I close my eyes, take a deep breath – though it feels as if a hand is around my throat. I cough, feeling choked and unsteady, terrified of what’s going to happen next.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Sorry, yes,’ I say, opening my eyes. ‘I stood up too quickly, that’s all.’

  That’s all it is, I tell myself, knowing my blood pressure is going to be doing all kinds of crazy things at the moment. Briefly, I put a hand on my stomach, reminding myself of the cause. That there’s nothing else at play, nothing untoward. My baby and I are safe.

  ‘Let’s see what’s going on with your shoulder, then,’ I continue, trying not to stare too much at my patient’s naked torso. He’s fit-looking, muscular and in good shape – his broad sho
ulders in proportion with his flat, six-pack stomach. He sits on the side of the examination couch, staring at me as if I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. Right now, it feels as though I haven’t. It may as well be my first day at medical school.

  ‘Sorry if my hands are a bit chilly,’ I say, approaching him. My stock phrase. But it’s a lie, I think, feeling the heat radiate from my palms. I also feel the heat radiating from Scott as I lay my hands on his left shoulder. ‘Tell me if it hurts anywhere in particular,’ I say, gently pressing my fingertips into the firm muscle of his rotator cuff. And that’s when I notice the jagged scar on his chest, slightly off to the right side, running diagonally through the sandy hairs. I can tell it’s not a medical scar from an operation and, going by the pale colour, it looks a few years old.

  ‘OK, elbows by your side and forearms out, palms facing inwards… That’s right.’ I guide him into position. ‘Gently ease your hands apart, while keeping your elbows against your waist.’

  ‘Like this?’ he says, our faces closer than I’d realised.

  ‘Mm-hmm. Any pain?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Try to get your hands as far apart as you can.’ I nod. ‘Good. OK, stand up and let me see how far up your back each hand can reach.’ He completes the test adequately, me trying to focus on that rather than the muscles strapping across his back that show he clearly works out often.