24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller (14 page)

I
grabbed
a coffee and my client list from reception and kicked my door firmly shut behind me. I was already running late after Roz had cornered me in the playground at drop-off, trying to extract information about the pub quiz.

‘I wanted to say that Mal seems nice,’ she started. ‘But it was a bit awkward, with—’

‘I’ve got to go, Roz.’ I just couldn’t face a pow-wow. ‘Sorry.’

‘But, Laurie,’ she had called after me, ‘I just wanted to say that if—’

‘I’ll ring you,’ I chucked over my shoulder, almost running to the car. ‘So late.’

The morning started with a middle-aged couple I’d seen once before. My small room was quickly suffused with their anger; so furious with each other they could barely talk, unable to countenance the other’s pain. Instead, they either spoke directly to me or hissed at one another without turning their heads, her grey-faced and red-eyed and verbose, him taut above his awful striped polo-shirt with shame and embarrassment, either stuttering or monosyllabic. They were both obsessed with blame; with whose fault it was. So many of us are, I realised over my years of counselling: what hurt we inflict on one another because we are not fully conscious of ourselves.

Life could be so simple if we could only fit into our own skins properly.

After they left I saw an older woman called Anna who had come regularly since the summer, literally emanating grief. Her husband had died suddenly and she was struggling desperately to come to terms with her loss. I felt her pain deeply, but I also wanted to try and help her remember the amazing life they’d had together.

When she left, I made a few notes. I refilled the water jug and emptied the bin; found a new box of tissues in the cupboard and checked my book. My next appointment was a new client, an appointment made via reception; a name I didn’t recognise, Suzanne O’Brien.

She was late. No-shows were common, especially first appointments; people often lost their nerve.

I ate an apple and filled in my expenses for the month; stared out of the window, watching a pigeon flap into the tree outside, bending a fragile branch of the silver birch. I rearranged the crystals, feathers and pebbles on the windowsill that Polly and I had collected between us, the ‘infernal trail of nature that follows you every-bloody-where’; that Sid detested so much. I thought a little about Mal; forced myself to not think about Mal – because what was there to think? It was obvious I was not in any fit state to embark on anything with another man, ex-client or not. End of story. But the thought that someone liked me again was a salve in this winter of discontent, although I was still not quite clear about my own feelings for him.

Finally, I could no longer resist. Against my better judgement, breaking my own rule, I fetched my phone from my bag to text Sid. I tried not to bring my own life into this office, but the truth was Margaret Henderson’s visit last night had really rattled me.

I needed to talk to Sid before he saw Polly again, to allay the fears my neighbour had dug from the darker recesses of my mind. I sent a message asking if we could meet somewhere neutral for a cup of tea some time this week. I’d be lucky if he replied though. Sid hated mobile phones.

Half an hour into the appointment time, there was a knock at the door. Putting my phone away, I opened it. A tall woman walked straight past me into the room before I could so much as catch her eye.

‘Hi,’ I was a little surprised. It was unusual for someone new to be so confident; people normally waited to be told what to do, hovering by the door, anxious and self-conscious, slightly ashamed. Still, nerves do strange things to people. I walked round to my own chair. ‘Please, do have a seat.’

And then I looked at her properly, and with a horrible roll of my stomach, realised exactly who this woman was. Susie Cooper, Mal’s wife. Or ex-wife. I wasn’t even sure how far along the divorce process they were.

She smiled at me – and the smile made me most uncomfortable.

I felt myself stiffen, but I offered her my hand politely. I didn’t know what kind of game she was playing, but I didn’t want her to see how shaken I felt. Of course, there was no way I could help her – but I was sure we were both aware of that. She wasn’t here to be counselled by me.

‘Laurie Smith.’

‘I know,’ she took my hand in her very warm one. ‘Suzanne O’Brien. You can call me Suzie.’

‘I believe we’ve met before,’ I said carefully. ‘Shall we sit down?’

She sat opposite me. She was attractive in a rather washed-out way; vivid hair pulled back tightly from her white face in a kind of plait, many freckles against a pale skin, dark eyes, big shadows beneath. She crossed her legs. Then uncrossed them. I was used to people being uncomfortable at first, fidgeting, delaying. But she didn’t seem nervous. She seemed almost lit up. Adrenaline, I guessed.

‘We nearly met the other night,’ she said. ‘At The Three Rams. You were on the quiz team with Mal, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘But I think we have met before that too.’

For a moment, her sang-froid nearly slipped. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Remind me.’

I gazed at her for a moment, trying to get her measure.

‘Mrs O’Brien … Suzanne. Why exactly are you here?’

‘Because…’ she looked at me hard; a long calculating look.

‘Because?’

Wait. Let them talk.

‘Because,’ she licked her dry lips. She was nervous, after all. ‘I’ve come to warn you.’

I shook my head. ‘Warn me?’

‘About Mal.’

‘Oh really.’ I paused, thinking. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I want to warn you about Mal,’ she leant forward now.

I resisted the urge to move backwards myself. She was in my space, far too near.

‘I need to tell you about him.’

I cleared my throat. ‘In what context, Suzanne?’

‘Suzie.’

I ignored this. ‘In what context do you want to “
warn
” me about Mal? What are your concerns?’

‘Ah, you therapists.’ She leant back, something like a smirk playing round her lips. ‘Such clever speak.’

I gazed at the woman, trying to get a handle on her. Everything about her sloped downwards, including the corners of her mouth.

Her clothes were well-made, but old and rather dowdy. Her beige chinos were rolled slightly too high, her flat plimsolls no longer white. She wore a belted mac and, I noticed with a sinking heart, a wedding ring on her left hand.

‘Did you make the appointment to talk to me about your marriage?’ I said carefully.

‘No. I came to tell you to watch out.’

‘For what?’

Was she threatening me?

‘I know you’ve been with him.’

I could feel the thud of my heart in my chest. I stood now.

‘Suzanne. This is highly inappropriate, I’m afraid. I will have to ask you to leave now.’

‘I thought you might say that. People never want to hear the truth.’ She didn’t move. ‘Until it’s too late.’

I moved towards the door. ‘Please. Ms O’Brien.’

‘Mrs.’

‘Are you?’ I looked her full in the face now. ‘Are you still Mrs?’

She held out a hand now, showing me her ring. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ I opened my door. ‘And right now, I don’t think it’s my business, Ms O’Brien. I really just must ask you to leave. I cannot see you as a client. I know your husband as a friend.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ she moved towards me now, no longer smiling. ‘I might call it something rather different.’

I fought my blush.

‘But I am serious, you know.’ She stood next to me at the door, taller, thinner, more wiry than me. ‘You should be careful. He is obsessive.’

‘Really?’ I met her eye steadily. I wouldn’t let her see that I was rattled.

‘Yes, really,’ she held my gaze. ‘He followed me here. To London. Me and Leonard. I didn’t want him to, but he came anyway.’

I couldn’t think what to say, so I called to Maeve. ‘Is my next appointment here?’

Maeve looked up, startled. It was earlier than I should finish, and I never normally came out of my room during an appointment.

‘Er…’ she started to scrabble through the desk diary.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Suzanne O’Brien lowered her voice so I had to strain to hear her. ‘You should be careful.’

And then she was gone.

‘Excuse me,’ a confused Maeve called after her from the reception desk. ‘Miss O’Brien. You haven’t paid—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I told Maeve. I was trembling as I shut my door behind me.

I
didn’t know
what to do; I really didn’t. I sat in the chair in the office for a while, staring blindly at the wall, at the ‘Cycles of the New Moon’ calendar which Robert had given me last Christmas. I hadn’t turned it on to the right month for some time, I realised; it still said July.

And I was thinking fervently, but my thoughts just went round and ended nowhere new.

I thought about phoning Mal, but what would I say? ‘
Your wife has just accused you of being a stalker
’? I imagined his kind face crumpling with discomfort.

I remembered the meeting in the park when Mal had arrived without Leonard. Why had I felt so worried then?

Mal had seemed so lost. I tried to recollect the conversations we’d had about Suzie and their split, but I just kept seeing us entwined on my sofa, his heavy torso above me.

In the end, I rang Emily.

‘Ignore her, she’s a nutter,’ she said, but I wasn’t so sure. A sliver of disquiet had lodged itself deep in my brain.

‘But…’ I had to say it. ‘But … I slept with him.’

There was a very slight pause.

‘Oh I seeee,’ she drawled. ‘Oh, of course. Now it makes sense.’

‘What does?’ My best friend had the ability to irritate me deeply when she was this knowing.

‘Your face last night. It was ’cos you’d got some.’

‘Emily!’ I reproved. ‘For God’s sake.’

‘Well, you know what I mean.’

‘Well, that’s not the point.’

‘Well, what is the point then?’

‘The point is, I shouldn’t have slept with him anyway—’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’

‘Because what?’

‘Because he’s my … he was my, my sort of client.’

‘Okay, back up. Since when was this bloke your client?’

‘It’s complicated. Not quite a client, but – almost.’

‘Complicated? You’re telling me.’

‘Emily,’ I expostulated. ‘You’re not really helping.’

‘Sorry. Look, hold tight, babe. I’ll pop round after work for a cuppa. Stop worrying. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m sure she’s just a jealous loon.’

‘But how does she know?’

I’d lost her attention.

‘Look, I’ve got to go; I’m late for a meeting. More wrist-slapping for using too many biros and decimating Boris’ budget. I’ll see you later.’

But how
did
Suzanne O’Brien know? That was what immediately worried me. How did she know I had slept with her husband – if he hadn’t told her?

Or maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she’d just seen that very brief kiss, in the car park, and was making assumptions.

But her assumptions were correct.

Oh God.

I knew I shouldn’t have got involved with Mal. I spent my entire working life telling people to listen to their intuition and then, at the first possible opportunity, I’d entirely ignored my own. And worse, what if Suzanne was actually telling the truth about Mal?

How the hell was I going to extricate myself from this?

A
fine drizzle
has started to fall. We are still waiting for Saul’s friend, stamping our feet against the cold, when I start to panic. I have to go; I am getting sidetracked.

‘Saul,’ I say carefully. ‘I need to meet that train more than I’ve ever needed anything. Please, do you understand that?’

He looks at me through the eye that still opens. ‘Yes.’

‘And I don’t have much time.’

He checks the clock on his phone. ‘It’s ten,’ he says. ‘What time does it get in?’

‘I’m not sure. My mum’s message was from about three hours ago, I think. She said they were running late. So, I’m guessing … about midnight?’ I look at the ragged wasteland, the scrubby field between road and beach, a shaggy grey pony tethered in the middle, visible in the gloom because of his pale coat. The lights of the town in the distance, the hiss of the sea not really audible; just faintly present like white noise. ‘But how am I going to get there?’ The panic rises in my gullet. ‘Shit, Saul.
How am I going to get there?
’

There’s a brief pause. ‘I’ll take you.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How?’

‘There’s always a way.’

I consider this for a moment. ‘Why will you?’

‘Because.’ He shrugs. ‘I owe you one.’

Words. Words are powerful, but actions are the truth. How the hell is Saul going to get me anywhere? He can hardly stand.

I walk to the edge of the pavement and curl my toes over it, staunching the fear. I walk back again.

‘Will your friend give me a lift, do you think?’

‘Yes. And if she won’t, I will find a way.’ He starts to cough.

‘Saul,’ I look at him. ‘Look at us. We’re a couple of reprobates. And you need help.’

‘Nothing new there then,’ he tries to laugh through the coughing, but it’s a miserable impression.

An old banger rattles round the corner, dubstep thumping into the cold night. Saul holds a weary arm up in greeting.

The girl in the driver’s seat looks angry. So angry, the frown-lines on either side of the young mouth are already deeply scored.

‘Get in,’ she snarls through the open window.

We obey meekly. Saul tries to make me sit in the front next to her, out of politeness or dread, I don’t know -– but frankly, he is welcome to her wrath. I sit in the back.

‘Laurie,’ Saul doesn’t turn to look at me when he speaks; he is already wincing with pain. ‘Binny.’

‘Hi,’ I say, ‘thanks for coming,’ but the girl called Binny doesn’t bother to answer. She just chews gum frenetically as she pulls out, takes the first left, away from the abandoned Volvo. I don’t look back. Instead, from the relative safety of the back seat, I study the girl.

Her long face is an unpleasant and rather mottled grey; skin bumpy and scarred; hair cropped very close for a girl. She wears no make-up, no jewellery apart from some kind of chain round her neck. A tattooed wrist pokes from her long sleeve. I realise it’s a similar design to Saul’s.

’Fighting again?’ she sneers, looking at him, looking away.

‘Where’s Janie?’ he asks quietly.

‘Don’t know.’ She shrugs, staring ahead at the road. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. She went out hours ago and hasn’t come back. Phone’s run out. Silly bitch.’

My hackles rising, I lean forward. ‘Can you take me to Ashford Station please?’

‘Are you having a laugh?’ Only now she does glance back at me.

‘Not really,’ I resist screaming in her ear.

‘Well, I am,’ somehow she stretches her cadaverous grey face into a grin. ‘I’m going straight home. You’re lucky I came out at all. I feel like shit.’

‘Clucking?’ Saul mutters. ‘Again?’

‘No!’ She is vehement. ‘I’m clean actually. Have been for months.’

Saul raises the good eyebrow.

I sit back in frustration. I feel intense dislike for this girl and I’ve only known her two minutes.

‘I’ll take the car then,’ Saul says. ‘I’ll drop you first.’

‘You fucking well won’t.’

‘Please.’
Sotto voce
. ‘I owe it to Laurie.’

‘I don’t care what you owe. It’s not my problem.’

‘Maybe not, but it is Janie’s.’

She frowns at him. ‘How’s that then?’

‘Because. I just saw Dean.’

Long pause. She actually stops chewing for a moment. ‘I thought he was away?’

‘Well, he’s back.’

She looks at him again. ‘Oh.’

‘Yeah. Oh.’

‘So
that’s
what’s happened to you.’ As if it was the most normal thing in the world to collect a friend from a field, injured and covered in their own blood. Maybe, for them though, it was.

‘And Janie owes Laurie.’ I can feel the effort it’s taking Saul to speak. My concern for him is building.

The marks on Binny’s face deepen as her frown does. ‘How’s that then?’

‘Laurie paid off Janie’s debt. Part of it, anyway.’

‘Why?’ Binny catches my eye in the mirror. ‘Are you insane?’

‘Very likely,’ I mutter. Louder, I say, ‘Can you just take me to Ashford Station, please? I need to meet my daughter. It’s a matter of … of…’

‘Urgency,’ Saul finishes for me.

I was going to say life or death, but I can’t get those words out.

‘Urgency,’ I agree. ‘Please. I am desperate.’

Binny regards me in the mirror for a moment. ‘Okay,’ she says eventually. ‘I’ll take you to Ashford.’ She glares at me. ‘For Janie,’ she says, in case I have misunderstood her magnanimity.

‘Thanks,’ I say. I slump back in the seat. Who is this Janie, I wonder, this girl I gave my ring up for, who has such a hold on both Saul and this strange angry girl? Whoever she is, they both really love her.

‘Have you got a fag?’ she asks Saul. He lights a Lambert & Butler from the silver packet in the car-well and hands it to her. She is relaxing a little; her face is less taut.

‘So what did Dean say?’ she inhales.

‘Not a lot.’ Saul’s face is white. ‘Just … don’t worry about it now.’ He closes his other eye.

‘You need a hospital, Saul,’ I say.

He just grunts.

I will the car on. I will Saul better. I clench and unclench my fists until my palms are sweating.

Binny drives on.

O
n the outskirts of Ashford
, I spot the station and the hospital signs at the same time. I feel a surge of adrenaline and a bigger one of relief.

‘We need to drop Saul,’ I say to Binny. He is sleeping; snoring with a wet rattle. ‘At the hospital.’

‘He won’t want to go.’

‘I don’t care.’ I am the grown-up here. These two are mere babes. ‘He’s not in a good way. That man really kicked him.’

Binny glances at Saul. ‘Okay,’ she concurs eventually. ‘You’re probably right.’

I wonder if she’s thinking about the mysterious Janie. She indicates left, follows the signs to the William Harvey Hospital.

I lean over and gently remove his phone from his
diem
hand. I put both my numbers into it, copying my new one from the display. Binny jerks to a halt in front of A & E.

‘Can you take him in?’ she says. ‘I don’t like these places.’

I start to say I’d rather she went but I look at Saul, and I know I should take him. He is my team-mate; he has, as they say these days, my back. He is for me.

‘I’ll come back after,’ she says. ‘I promise.’

I get out and open the door.

‘Saul,’ I wake him gently. ‘I’m taking you into the hospital. I have to go to the station. You understand, don’t you?’

He opens his good eye. He gazes at me; he hasn’t the energy to argue. I feel a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. Please God, don’t let him be seriously hurt.

‘You’ll be fine,’ I say as brightly as I can. ‘Binny will come back for you.’

I help him from the car; we walk under the great red sign. I think of Emily. I think of how it was only twelve hours ago that I slipped away from the hospital somewhere in Devon. I try not to think about it.

I think about now.

‘I’ve put my numbers in your mobile.’ I slip the phone into his hand. ‘Both of them. Will you text me? Let me know you’re okay?’

‘Sure,’ he agrees. He can hardly stand. As we approach reception a small Asian nurse comes forward with a wheelchair.

‘Sit.’ She is brisk and stern.

I relinquish his arm. I feel like I am betraying him; my eyes are stinging with unshed tears.

‘Saul,’ I lean down and whisper, holding his hand tightly. ‘I will see you again. Promise you’ll call me?’

He nods. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘For what, silly?’ I am going to cry. I can’t bear it. I shouldn’t leave him here; I should stay and look after him – but what choice do I have? I have to find Polly. ‘Thank you. For helping me.’

‘Any time,’ he tries to grin.

‘Likewise,’ I say. ‘I’m so glad I met you.’ I turn to leave before the tears fall, then I turn back. I have one more question before I go. ‘Who is Janie, Saul?’ I say.

He closes his eye again. The nurse is talking to the receptionist, handing over a form.

He opens it, blinks at me. I look at the beautiful grey iris, the pupil dilated, flooded with pain. I see myself reflected.

‘My sister,’ he murmurs. ‘My twin sister.’

B
inny drops
me in the floodlit car park of Ashford International. Everything seems very bright.

‘Thank you,’ I say as she pulls the handbrake up with an unhealthy crunch. ‘I’m very grateful. But …’ she is lighting another cigarette, not looking at me. ‘You will go back to Saul, won’t you? Will you text me from his phone? Tell me how he is? Please.’

‘No worries,’ she shrugs, but I doubt she will bother – and how can I force her? She tears at a fingernail, once painted black. It bears a tiny scrap of varnish still.

I zip my hoodie up and fumble for the door.

‘Why were you with him?’ she asks.

My first thought is of Sid. It takes a second to understand whom the girl means.

‘With Saul?’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ she stares like I am daft. ‘Obviously.’

‘We met on a train. It broke down. I’ve got to … I’ve got to collect my daughter.’

I look across to the big station: there are no trains I can see at the moment, but I need to get out now. I want to be ready.

‘His sister. Janie. She’s my girlfriend.’ Binny is proud as she says it, though quickly her face darkens. ‘But she’s not … she’s not very well.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say. What else can I say? I remember Saul’s mention of the ‘clucking’. I think of Barrel Man and his big black boot; of his reference to whores. I see, in a flash, a girl who looks like Saul, but more fragile, not so robust. I imagine long grey eyes, half-open, glazed; scorched foil beside her; dropped syringes. I see her lying on her back in a room with no curtains. I see a faceless man above her.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ Binny nods. ‘So am I. Fucking bastard smack.’

‘Fucking drugs,’ I agree. I snap the door open. ‘Thanks again.’

‘Laurie,’ she says, almost tentatively, just as my foot meets the tarmac.

I turn, surprised she has remembered my name.

‘I’m going back. To Saul. I’ll get him to text you.’

I put my hand on Binny’s arm for a moment. Then I get out.

By the time I reach the station forecourt, she has gone.