The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 9

  Jen smiles briefly. ‘I don’t think it was strength he wanted. It made me feel sort of sexless in Jeremy’s eyes. Just a body with a brain who had a good career and simply got on with stuff. It didn’t help that for the last eighteen months or so I’d been the sole breadwinner, either. That bloody book,’ Jen adds, sucking in air. ‘Our sex life had dwindled to nothing before he died. Virtually nothing,’ she adds quickly.

  ‘Sounds to me like maybe you emasculated him a bit, Jen. Some men can’t cope with competent, independent women. Perhaps you should have been more helpless,’ Rhonda says through a half-hearted laugh.

  ‘Truth is, Ron,’ Jen replies, ‘that’s exactly how I feel right now. Helpless for the first time in my life. And he’s not even here to see it, to play rescuer to me.’

  Rhonda glances over Jen’s shoulder, aware that someone is lurking just outside the open door to her office. She adjusts the scarf over the manuscript again.

  ‘You’re far from helpless,’ Rhonda says, switching her attention back to Jen. ‘You’re grieving.’

  Jen nods, her lips pursed, though looking as if she’s about to explode. Her right leg jiggles up and down and she steeples her fingers under her chin, staring out through the huge leaded window that faces on to the quad. Ivy creeps across one of the glass panes.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she suddenly blurts out, each syllable a precise bullet. She continues to stare out of the window, her head held high, her chin jutting forward as the low afternoon winter sun streams in and catches her face. ‘Nearly twelve weeks.’

  Rhonda catches her breath, forcing down a gasp. Instinctively, she places a hand on top of the stack of papers, before glancing behind Jen to the person who has now made himself known, standing in the doorway, his lips slightly apart, his cheeks pinking up.

  ‘Kieran,’ Rhonda says, flashing a look at Jen. ‘What can I do for you?’ She uses her teacher’s voice, rather than that of family friend.

  Jen’s head whips round, her eyes widening in shock as she sees her son standing there – his tie loosely knotted at his collar, the weight of his backpack pulling the shoulder of his blazer off to one side.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says quietly, staring at his mum. ‘Nothing at all,’ he adds, shaking his head as he turns and leaves.

  Thirteen

  Then

  Mac’s house is warm. And it smells nice – like the cleaning aisle in the supermarket. And it has proper carpet in the living room and two sofas in front of a television that’s almost like a cinema screen. Not that Evan has been to the cinema before.

  ‘Squash?’ Mac’s mum asks, lowering a tray down to him. Evan looks up at the woman’s kind face. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, the strands of it falling forward as he looks at what she’s offering. ‘And a biscuit?’ She smiles, and Evan can’t help seeing straight down the V-neck of her navy uniform as she bends down, revealing a valley of flesh that, instinctively, he knows he shouldn’t be looking at.

  Ashamed of his thoughts, he dithers over which biscuit to choose, just so he can get a bit more of a look. It does something to him inside, as if he needs to press himself against whatever’s in there, to be held and engulfed by her softness. To be somewhere safe.

  ‘Bagsy me these,’ Mac says, grabbing a couple of custard creams. He lolls back on the sofa, feet drawn up as he changes the channel.

  ‘Go on, take what you want, Evan,’ Mac’s mum says.

  ‘What we going to kill, then?’ Evan whispers when Mac’s mum has gone, copying Mac and pulling his feet up under him.

  ‘Get your shoes off or Mum’ll kill you,’ Mac says, glancing towards the kitchen. Evan kicks them off.

  ‘Shall we go up to your room, then?’

  Mac leans sideways to see his mum through in the kitchen. He lowers his voice. ‘Nah. Not allowed. Mum wouldn’t like us being upstairs.’

  ‘Stay downstairs, both of you,’ comes a voice from the other room.

  Evan nods, confused. ‘Want to play outside, then?’ Evan says, wondering why Mac’s being boring today. Since they made Kill Club a week ago, they’ve spent break times trapping various insects and seeing who can make them die the slowest. Evan always wins because sometimes Mac’s a sissy and can’t do it.

  ‘Or we could go on a bike ride?’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ Mac says. He gets up and grabs a few more biscuits and finishes his squash. He calls out to his mum that they’re going round the village.

  ‘Don’t be more than half an hour,’ she calls back from the kitchen, plus something else about being careful, about not talking to strangers. In the hallway, as they pull on their coats, Evan smells something wafting through from the kitchen. He swallows, licking his lips.

  ‘Come on then, dickhead,’ Mac says, grinning and tugging Evan’s sleeve. They run out onto the front drive, with Evan not minding being called a dickhead by Mac because right now he thinks he’s pretty much the coolest boy in school.

  ‘Go on, do it, do it,’ Mac whispers, glancing over his shoulder. On the way in, they saw the corner shop owner busy talking to a woman at the counter. ‘Now’s your chance.’

  Evan stares at the torches, wondering which one to slide inside his jacket.

  ‘And nick some batteries, too,’ he says, jabbing a finger at the display. He glances up at the funny round mirror at the end of the aisle, checking the shopkeeper is still distracted.

  Evan nods, but then something else further along the racks catches his eye. A display of kitchen knives. The one with the short blade would be cool to have – the type his mum peels the potatoes with. He catches Mac’s eye, sees the glint. Mac nods slowly, as if giving his approval, egging him on.

  A moment later and Evan is striding towards the exit, while Mac takes a packet of Polo mints off the shelf near the door as a distraction and heads to the counter to pay. The woman is still talking to the owner so Mac dumps some coins on the counter, holding up the mints for the shopkeeper to see.

  ‘Thanks, chuck,’ he says and gives Mac a wave as he leaves.

  ‘See?’ Mac says to Evan as they head off down the pavement, breaking into a half-run as they wheel their bikes. ‘Easy, right?’

  ‘Peasy,’ Evan replies.

  Ten minutes later, when Evan’s legs feel as though they might drop off from pedalling so hard up the hill, Mac slows and gets off his bike ahead of him. The road has narrowed to a single track and if a car came round the corner, Evan reckons it would skittle them both.

  ‘You allowed up here?’ Evan asks nervously, glancing back down the hill, panting. To one side is the village, with its church steeple marking the centre and all the posh houses dotted around – though somehow, they don’t look quite so posh from up here. More like Lego houses. Beyond that, he sees where the village ends and the beginnings of the Westbourne estate as it bleeds into the landscape.

  ‘No,’ Mac says, ripping open the mints. He puts two in his mouth and then offers Evan the packet, who does the same. ‘Mum would have a fit. But she won’t know, right? I come up here all the time.’

  ‘My mum would have a fit, too,’ Evan says, thinking she probably wouldn’t. Truth was, she probably hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t home from school yet.

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’ Mac asks, beckoning Evan to follow.

  ‘We’re Kill Club,’ Evan states. ‘’Course I can.’

  Mac drags his bike over to the hedge where there’s a deep ditch, dumping it out of sight in the undergrowth. He beckons for Evan to do the same, then climbs over an old iron gate that’s half hanging off its hinges. Beyond the gate is thick woodland that, to Evan, looks never-ending. The sort of place you could easily get lost in.

  ‘This way,’ Mac says, following a track between the trees. The floor of the wood is spongy – thick with rotting leaves and twigs. As they head further in, the light fades, making Evan shiver.

  ‘Where we going?’ Evan asks, glancing back over his shoulder.

  Mac doesn’t say anything. Rather he stops, leanin
g against a tree and staring all around. ‘Give us that knife,’ he says. Evan does as he’s told, ripping the packaging off it and tearing at the plastic tie with his teeth. He drops the rubbish on the ground.

  ‘Cool,’ Mac says, running his thumb along the short blade.

  Evan is silent for a moment, wondering what Mac is going to do with it, but he follows on as Mac sets off again, carving a nick in every tree he passes. ‘So we don’t get lost,’ he says, looking back at Evan. ‘I read about it in a survival book.’

  Five minutes later, Mac stops. ‘I need to pee,’ he says, looking around.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Evan replies, fiddling with his zip and coming up close to Mac, who’s standing next to a tree. He positions himself and looks down, waiting.

  ‘Er, yuk,’ Mac says, moving away quickly as he pulls a face. ‘Weirdo,’ he adds, going over to another tree a little way away. When Evan has finished and turns, zipping himself up, Mac is nowhere to be seen – but then, a few moments later, he reappears, also zipping up his flies.

  They walk on a little further before Mac slows and points at something the other side of a small clearing. ‘What do you think?’ he says proudly. He pulls his anorak off his shoulders. ‘Kill Club headquarters.’

  It takes Evan a moment to see what Mac is pointing at, but when he spots the branches and sticks propped between two trees in a tent shape, he almost bursts with joy. A secret den.

  Fourteen

  Now

  Jen

  Kieran remains mute on the journey home from school, despite my attempts at making chit-chat.

  ‘Kier,’ I say fifteen minutes later as I wrench on the handbrake in the drive. I stare up at the barn’s facade – remembering how fussy Jeremy was about the builders getting the perfect shade of lime mortar for the repointing, how he demanded that all the broken corbels be restored using reclaimed bricks, how each of our windows was handmade by a local joiner. It was a labour of love, making the perfect family home. ‘Kier,’ I say loudly so he can hear me through his earphones.

  Reluctantly, he pulls one out and turns to me.

  ‘We need to talk about what you overheard in Rhonda’s office.’ I unclip my seat belt, looking across at my son. When I reach out a hand to touch his arm, he whips it away.

  ‘No. We don’t,’ he says in a way that makes my heart ache. He drags his backpack out of the footwell and gets out of the car. With all the rural house calls I make, my huge black 4WD seemed justifiable when I bought it, though Jeremy turned his nose up, not understanding why I didn’t invest in a classic like he had years ago.

  His old Triumph Stag sits unused in the garage and I make a mental note to start it, perhaps take it out for a run to keep the battery alive. The thought of getting into something that was so cherished and personal to my husband is heartbreaking. It would almost feel like climbing inside him. And I’m still faced with the onerous task of sorting out his clothes, not to mention everything in his study – hundreds and hundreds of books, the many albums filled with stamps and coins he’s collected since he was a boy, plus the boxes of militaria he has stashed in the big cupboard.

  ‘Kieran, we definitely do need to talk about it,’ I plead as we go into the kitchen, dumping our stuff down.

  Predictably, my son heads to the fridge and does that teen thing of peering inside, his hand on the wide-open door as he scans the shelves for a quick snack so he can retreat to his bedroom.

  ‘Why are there only ever ingredients in here?’ he says without looking at me.

  It’s a start, I think, that he actually spoke. ‘I’ll do an online shop later,’ I say. ‘Get all your favourite snacks in.’ If it were just me alone and I wasn’t pregnant, I’d be drowning in grief and a bottle of wine, not even bothering with food. It’s only because I have to care for Kieran that I eat at all. My son and my job keep me going.

  Kieran looks across at me before closing the fridge door. Not slamming it, exactly, but close. ‘Seriously, Mum, are you just, like, going to pretend everything’s OK?’ He shakes his head, making his loose curls dance around his face. His nose wrinkles up and his eyes narrow and, for a few seconds, I see a young Jeremy staring back at me – if it weren’t for the freckles and soft, barely shaved hair sprouting on his face.

  ‘No, Kier, I’m not. That’s why I wanted to talk and—’

  ‘What is there to talk about? You’re pregnant and you didn’t tell me.’ He glares at me.

  ‘Kier, it’s not like that,’ I say, reaching out and giving him a hug. ‘I just needed some advice and then… well, I never expected you to find out that way. I was going to tell you tonight, I promise.’ I’m kicking myself for blurting it out to Rhonda now.

  My son pulls away, giving me a look that slays me before grabbing his backpack and storming off upstairs.

  I stand alone for what seems like ages, unable to think about preparing dinner. I close my eyes, steadying myself on the worktop, not knowing what the hell I’m going to do. When my life rolls backwards behind my eyelids, rewinding the last few weeks and months, it’s easy to pinpoint the exact moment that everything changed. That night.

  ‘No,’ I whisper, trying to console myself. It was before that – when I finally plucked up the courage to mention my concerns about Madeleine to Jeremy. Or rather, when I couldn’t keep quiet about it any longer. It was like I was possessed. If I didn’t say something, get some kind of reassurance from him, I knew it would fester and grow inside me.

  Enough was enough.

  ‘Who is “M”?’ I’d asked him, trying to stay calm as I loomed over his desk, thrusting out his phone.

  It was a moment before he’d looked up, finishing the sentence he was frantically typing.

  ‘Is it Madeleine?’ I’d snapped, instantly hating myself for sounding so harsh.

  Frankly, I was sick of hearing about her. He mentioned her at every opportunity, weaving her into conversations she had no right to be in. It left me wondering who she was, why she felt like some ethereal creature to whom I could never match up. In my mind, Madeleine was a perfect doll – an exquisite being revered by my husband.

  ‘Sorry, what, love?’ Jeremy had pushed his fingers through his hair while reclining back in his leather captain’s chair. He ran his hand over two days’ worth of stubble as he refocused his attention on me and then looked down to my hand. I was jabbing his phone at him.

  ‘You left this in the kitchen, charging. You should tell your girlfriend to be more careful.’ I was boiling inside, and only just managed to keep my rage to a gentle simmer outwardly.

  He took the device from me then and put it face down on the desk, with only a quick glance at what had flashed up on the screen as I’d been chopping onions. No need for real tears.

  ‘Jen, you’ve got to stop this. Do you think I don’t notice what you’re doing? You’re literally going to drive yourself insane.’

  I was trembling from my core. ‘A woman texts, telling you she can’t wait to see you, that it’s going to be even better than last time. What am I supposed to think?’

  Jeremy had shaken his head then, making me feel ridiculous. He took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but it came out as a sigh. But I noticed how his jaw tensed as he clamped his teeth together.

  ‘And her next text said “What excuse will you give Jen this time?” followed by a kiss. How bloody thoughtful of her to consider how you’ll lie to me.’

  ‘Jen, stop.’ Jeremy had picked up his phone and glanced at the screen before flopping backwards in his chair. ‘How much longer are you going to keep this up? If you ever want this book to be finished, I need to focus. I had an email earlier from that editor I told you about, and they’re virtually salivating about my work. You want to ruin all that for me? For us?’

  ‘Who is “M”?’ I said, refusing to allow him to guilt-trip and deflect me yet again.

  ‘“M” is Mick. The production editor I worked with on that last wildlife documentary.’

  I thought back. I didn’t
remember the name. In fact, I didn’t even recall a wildlife documentary, but so many of Jeremy’s projects hadn’t been green-lit lately that I’d stopped asking about them in case I made him feel bad. Despite our agreement – that he would take a year off to write his book, that I would support us until it was finished – we were both acutely aware that the time limit we’d set had long since passed. My savings were virtually gone and our family was relying on me. Perhaps Rhonda was right – that my career somehow made him feel a lesser man, not the archetypal strong, breadwinning husband and father he wanted to be. But as ever, Jeremy put on a brave face and didn’t complain. Then again, neither did I when I took on extra private work to make ends meet. With only one income and the renovation bridging loan with its hands around my neck, as well as school fees, the pressure had taken its toll on us both.

  ‘Look, Jen, Mick and I played golf a few months back and he’s been pestering me for another round ever since. If you must know, I’ve declined several times, saying it wasn’t fair on you to take time out when I should be working on this.’ He’d tapped his laptop. ‘Mick’s a bit of a bugger and suggested I lie to you about where we were going.’ Jeremy folded his arms and looked up at me. ‘There’s nothing sinister going on.’

  ‘Mick’s the type to put a kiss on his messages to you, is he?’ I was already starting to feel stupid, guilty, like a crazy woman. The type of wife I never wanted to be.

  Jeremy had laughed then. ‘Oh God, if you met him, you’d know he’s definitely the type. One of those luvvy, over-the-top chaps. The touchy-feely sort. If I didn’t know he had a wife, I’d say you had something to be worried about, yes.’