The Other Side Of The Wall: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 5

  Reaching up to pull the curtain fully closed, Sylvia stops when a movement outside catches her attention. Someone is standing in front of Sam’s house, staring up at the top windows. Her stomach muscles tighten. Trying to see better, she edges closer to the window but the movement draws his attention. Her retreat is just a second too late – he’s seen her. The man stares for a minute, then turns and walks into the driveway of the house across the road. Is it Noel? He turns one last time to look up at something – at her or at next door, she can’t tell – and she sees his face lit by the street light. It’s Noel. She lets out a breath. What is he doing, staring up at Sam’s house? Knowing Noel, it could be anything. Perhaps he’s looking for the pole-dancer.

  Closing the curtains to shut out dark shadows and hazy streetlights, Sylvia goes to her own room and climbs wearily into bed, praying that tonight she will sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Sylvia – Thursday, August 11th

  Sylvia’s awake, but doesn’t know why. Her ears are pounding. The room is pitch black apart from the numbers on the clock. 3.34am. Zack is fast asleep in the cot beside her. What woke her? Megan maybe, with another bad dream? As she’s getting out of bed, the dog barks suddenly, making her jump. So that’s what it was.

  Shivering a little, she goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. Bailey is yapping at the wall again. She looks over at the garden next door but this time there’s nothing to see. Nothing in the pond, and nothing moving in the garden except shadows of overgrown bushes in the night-time breeze. It was probably a rabbit or a squirrel. Daft dog. But no harm to check on Megan anyway. She closes the curtains tightly, and makes her way through the darkness towards the bedroom door. As she touches the handle, there’s a sudden crash downstairs – like glass breaking, dropped from a height. She jumps, the pounding in her ears louder than ever. Oh God, why isn’t Tom here? Pulling the door open she runs into her daughter’s room, offering silent thanks that they’d moved her upstairs, and carries her back into her own room. Megan doesn’t stir when Sylvia puts her into the double bed and brings the duvet up to her chin.

  She stands, steadying her breathing, listening. The darkness feels oppressive and loud, but there’s no further noise from downstairs. Was it inside or outside the house? Taking a deep breath, she moves to the window to look outside again. Just below, there’s what looks like a terracotta planter in pieces all over the patio, and Bailey is nowhere to be seen now. That bloody dog. She climbs in beside Megan, and waits for sleep, but all her senses are heightened. Each time she starts to dip down into the blissful cotton wool of drifting thoughts, a creak in the floorboards or a gurgle in the pipes brings her back up.

  Just after five o’clock, she gives in and goes downstairs.

  Head pounding and eyes burning, she heads straight for the coffee machine, before turning to switch on the light. Something dark catches her eye on the far side of the kitchen. Her pulse quickens as she walks around the breakfast bar to look. There are clumps of soil on the floor, just inside the back door. Sylvia stares, trying to work out how they got there. Is Bailey inside after all – did she dream that he was barking in the garden last night? Softly she calls him but there are no running paws in response. Her breathing is slow as she stands staring at the floor. She puts her hand on the back-door handle. Did she lock it last night? The key is where she left it, on the hook inside the door, but did she turn it before she took it out? She pulls down the handle. The door doesn’t move. It’s locked. She closes her eyes and lets out a long breath. But then, if nobody was in here, where did the clumps of soil come from? Surely she couldn’t have missed them when she was closing up last night?

  Unlocking the back door now, she steps out into the garden. Shards of terracotta cover the patio like orange confetti. She’ll have to pick them up before the dog walks all over them. He’s still asleep in his kennel – normally the sound of any human movement brings him running, but even Bailey knows better than to get up at five o’clock in the morning.

  Back inside, she sweeps up the mess. It looks like it came from inside the planter, but that doesn’t make any sense. Her hand shakes as she tips the dustpan contents into the bin, and clumps of soil spill onto the floor.

  She puts her hands on the breakfast bar to steady them, and takes some deep breaths. Time for coffee – everything will be clearer after coffee.

  Swallowing the first earthy sip of espresso, she tries to push the broken planter out of her mind and focus on work instead. She’ll have to tackle Justin this morning. Either he finds how the two-million error was covered or they go to Craig about it together. Her stomach lurches. What was it they said at the training course – “Clarity is power” and then something about getting what you need if you’re clear and up front. It sounded so simple on the day, but in real life hoping people will just know seems infinitely preferable. Like the raise. She should have asked for it, instead of assuming her hard work would be noticed and rewarded. And if she doesn’t find the bloody missing money, there’ll be no raise this year either. She looks at the clumps of soil by the bin and drains her coffee. It’s too early to get the kids up, but suddenly she doesn’t want to be down here any more.

  As she’s leaving the kitchen, her eye turns to the dresser. There’s something out of place – one of the framed photos is lying face down on the dresser shelf. Slowly, she picks it up, and her whole body goes cold when she sees the black cross through Megan’s smiling face. The other photo is face down too and she already knows what she’ll find. She picks it up. Zack’s face is crossed out as well – deliberate, unemotional black lines block his smile. Her skin is tingling now and the pounding in her ears is back. Who could have drawn the lines? Was someone in the house during the night? No, the back door was locked – there’s surely no way anyone was in the house. But then what?

  She sits down on a kitchen chair, still holding the photos. Could Megan have done it? But how could she reach the shelf? There’s no other explanation – she must have done it. Maybe she climbed up on a chair when Jane wasn’t looking. It makes no sense, but the alternative makes even less sense.

  Upstairs, Zack starts to cry. Sylvia puts the photos back on the dresser, face down, and goes up to him. Megan is awake now too – they’re all up far too early, and everyone will be cranky tonight, but right now she’s glad to have company. Sylvia suggests pancakes, earning a cheer from Megan, and they go together to get her dressing gown from her room.

  Outside, Sylvia hears a car door and peeps out. It’s Sam, reversing out of his driveway. He looks up and waves, and she jumps back out of sight.

  “Mummy, why did you jump? Did you get a fright? Is it the monster?”

  “No, sweetheart, it was just cold at the window – come on, let’s get those pancakes on!”

  Even with Megan playing and Zack babbling, the kitchen feels eerily quiet this morning. The radio might help. Except it doesn’t, because the news is on, and they’re playing a recording of Edie Keogh’s mother making a plea for help. Glancing at Megan, Sylvia lowers the volume a little and stands closer to the radio. Imagine getting up one morning and finding an empty bed where your child should be. She reaches for a tissue to blow her nose. God love that poor woman.

  Megan comes over and tugs at her sleeve. “Why is it taking so long – I’m so huuuunnnngry!”

  And just like that, it’s back to the everyday world of making pancakes, and complaints about pancakes, and wishing she’d never promised pancakes.

  It’s only quarter to nine, but she can feel a mid-morning slump coming on already. Fifteen minutes until Justin will be in. Actually, she should leave him a voicemail now to say she wants to see him first thing. No more procrastinating. As she reaches to pick up the phone, it starts to ring. Craig’s extension flashes up. Her hand hovers for a moment before she answers.

  “Sylvia, great, you’re in. Bit of bad news – Justin was in touch to say he’ll be out for the next few weeks. He has something called laby . . . what is it he said? Lab
yrinthitis, I think. Causes severe vertigo apparently. Never heard of it myself – had to google it. His doctor told him he could be out for six weeks. Bad timing with the audit, I know. If you need some help from another team, just shout.”

  He hangs up before she has a chance to do anything other than mumble thanks for the offer of help. She sits with the phone still to her ear, oblivious to the dial tone. Eventually, when she’s no longer in danger of slamming it down, she puts the receiver carefully back in the cradle, and pulls up the reports on her screen. Outside on the floor, she can hear someone laughing.

  Sylvia gets up and closes the door.

  Chapter 8

  The Woman – October 2005

  The woman leans against the door to the kitchen and pauses. She can hear faint noises inside – he’s home. Maybe he’s in a good mood – things had been going well at work this week. She pushes open the door and walks in. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through his BlackBerry with one hand and cradling a whiskey with the other. He looks up at her, then back to his BlackBerry. A world away from the greetings she was used to when they first met. Dramatic, sweeping-off-feet type greetings that left her head spinning and her stomach fluttering.

  The woman sits down noisily on the chair opposite him. He looks up.

  “What?” he says.

  “Nothing really. Well, it would be nice if you said hello when I walk in.”

  “Hello,” he grunts, then he’s back to his phone.

  She can see little beads of sweat on his forehead. She sighs and he looks up again.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “I just wish it could be like it was when we first met – you used to smile and laugh and be glad to see me.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Well, I called in to my brother on the way home this evening, and Olivia arrived in while I was there, and the first thing Ben did was come over to kiss her, and it made me realise you don’t really do that any more. It made me a bit sad, that’s all . . . Ben just got a promotion at work actually, and they’re going out on Friday to celebrate. They’ve invited us along – will we go?”

  “Ben got a promotion, and you want me to go out and celebrate? What, so I can be made to feel even worse about how things are going at work?”

  “No! That’s not what I mean. I’m just . . . well, we don’t seem to spend as much time together any more, and I thought a night out would do us good. And it would be nice to go out with Olivia and Ben – we haven’t done that in ages.”

  “All you ever do is compare me to people you think are better than me,” he says, standing up from his chair.

  She looks up at him. Where is this coming from?

  He walks around the table, and bends his face low, to her eye-level. “Don’t you ever come into this house again,” he snarls, “telling me about your brother and Olivia and how great they are!”

  She stares. She’s seen him angry, but never like this. “I just wanted to tell you that I wish we were the way we used to be – it wasn’t meant to be about Ben’s promotion.”

  The slap catches her by surprise. A hard slap, that knocks her sideways. She tumbles onto the floor, and lies there, too shocked to speak. She puts her hand to her stinging cheek.

  He stands over her. “Is it clear now?” he says, reaching out a hand to help her up. Not sure what else to do, she takes his outstretched hand, and allows him to pull her to standing.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks.

  Still dazed, the woman nods, and watches as he switches on the kettle, then carefully and methodically washes his hands.

  Chapter 9

  Sam – Thursday, March 3rd 2016

  The fluorescent light above his head hums like an indignant bluebottle. He never hears it during the day, but at night when they’re all gone home it’s the only sound. Scroll, scroll, click. This one looks interesting – a semi-detached house in Dún Laoghaire, needs some upgrading inside, an executor sale. He clicks on “save” and then hesitates. If he sends it to Kate now, she’ll know he’s looking at houses, and not working on the board report he’d mentioned in his text. He can hear her voice now. “Why didn’t you just come home to help with bedtime – you could look at houses after the boys are down?” He’ll show it to her later. The PC clock shows 7.42pm. She’d be doing stories with the boys. A twinge of guilt hits, but only for a moment. It’s probably better for all of them if he focuses on finding a new home and getting them out of the house in Booterstown. It’s all very well being just a few miles from Dublin city centre, but not in a too-small house with a too-small garden. Anyway, it’s not like they go out in the city centre any more – so going further out into suburbia wouldn’t be the hardship it once was.

  Of course, growing up, the house had never seemed small. Every corner was a hideout and every step a spot for stories. The wooden floors rang with his running in the house that was his playground: his and only his. In the mornings his mum got him ready for school while his dad went off to work in the newspaper. In the afternoons, he did his sums and spellings at the old oak kitchen table, while his mum made him toasted cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate with the powdery stuff he still loves today. The long oriental runner in the hall softened the sound of his steps as he ran for the stairs, homework done, ready to read – touching the books on his bookshelf, letting his fingers decide which one to take, then sprawling on the elephant-print beanbag, getting lost in the worlds of the Famous Five and the Hardy Boys and the Five Find-Outers and Dog.

  At six o’clock precisely, the key would turn in the red front door, and Dad would be home. Filling them in on the news stories of the day, packing his pipe as he spoke. Mum always had dinner ready – lamb chops or pork chops or sometimes roast chicken – and sometimes apple tart and custard for after. Looking back it was a childhood straight out of the books he loved to read.

  But the childhood playground seems so much smaller now. Moving back in after his mother’s death, he watched and waited to see his sons feel what he felt, but somehow it was gone. Seth and Jamie’s toys sprawled all over the kitchen and bedroom, taking up corners that had once been hideouts. The old oak table was too big, Kate said, they’d have to find something in Ikea. And the oriental runner, faded from years of light and use, was destined for the skip.

  Sweeping aside the fog of nostalgia, even Sam could accept that the boys needed a house where they could go outside to play – a house on a busy main road was just too dangerous. And Kate, since she’d given up work, seemed more restless than ever – struggling against the walls of her self-imposed prison.

  His mother would be looking down on him, shaking her head as he browsed house listings. Dún Laoghaire’s too far out, she’d say – sure, who do you know out there? But who do they know in Booterstown? Everyone’s scattered all over the county now, in starter homes they bought but couldn’t sell. And she wouldn’t mind really – it was his to live in or sell on, she’d said, so there was no reason to feel guilty. Well, almost no reason. But he doesn’t want to think about his father tonight.

  The news is just coming to an end as he walks into the sitting room. Kate doesn’t look up at first, though she knows well he’s there. Cold-shoulder time. He apologises for being late and she looks up to raise one impeccable eyebrow. His dinner is in the microwave, she tells him, and he continues on through the double French doors his mother had loved so much when they were first put in – now the paint is chipped and one of the handles hangs loose and useless. It’s cold – the house is too hard to heat in winter, and in spring they stop trying, pretending it’s warmer outside than it is.

  Dinner is a plate of congealed beef casserole – he puts it in the microwave and presses buttons on autopilot while checking his phone. The kitchen table is covered in paperwork – Kate’s been doing a clear-out. Well, half a clear-out. The bit where you take everything out of the box, but not the bit where you file the contents or bin them. There are credit-card bills goi
ng back ten years, utility bills, pension statements – all loose on the table, with an empty box on the floor.

  He sticks his head into the sitting room. “Can I bin those papers?”

  She looks up from her phone. “No, there’s stuff in there we need to keep.”

  “Well, will I put them back in the box?”

  “Just leave them. I’ll sort them tomorrow. It’s not like there’s anywhere to store them.” She sighs. A Kate-sigh that means the house is too small and she hates it.

  “How were the boys?” he asks, with one eye on the microwave to catch it before it pings.

  “Fine. Asking why you weren’t here again.”

  “I had to work on that board report – I’ll be home earlier tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  The microwave pings – an unnecessarily loud beep that keeps going even after the door is opened.

  “I hate that noise,” Kate says, under her breath.

  Sam pushes some paper aside to make space and sits down to eat.

  He remembers something. “Oh, listen, I was up town at lunchtime and got new PlayStation games for the boys – they were reduced. Will I put them at the end of their beds?”

  Kate walks into the kitchen. “I keep telling you – you can’t just buy them games out of the blue like that – it’s spoiling them. It’s not like it’s anyone’s birthday.”