The Night Away: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 3

She rummages in her bag for the key and eventually finds it in the back pocket of her jeans. She turns it in the lock and the front door judders open. A fresh batch of dried leaves shuffles into the hallway along with the buggy, and at the same moment Ruby’s mobile rings. She fishes it out and sees that it’s Lewis calling.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, shoving the door shut with her bottom. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Just wondered how you were getting on.’

  ‘Why don’t you come over, then you can judge for yourself.’ Mabel starts to grizzle. Ruby tucks the handset under her chin while she undoes the buggy straps.

  ‘I told you, I’ve got a cold coming. I don’t want to infect her,’ he replies.

  ‘Hmm … Look, I can’t talk now. Mabel’s just done a whopping enormous poo. I’ll call you back when she’s having her nap.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, clearly disappointed. ‘Do you think you’ll be home in time for lunch tomorrow? I could cook.’

  ‘No idea.’ She heaves Mabel out of the buggy and sets her on her hip. ‘If it goes well, they’ll hang around at the hotel; if it’s a disaster, they’ll head back straight after breakfast. Sorry, gotta go. This stinky baby is about to scream.’

  Chapter Four

  The weekend before

  I had no idea when I woke up this morning that things would turn out this way. It felt like an ordinary Saturday. I was following my normal routine, arriving at Lilac Park just before 10.30 a.m. There’s no point getting there earlier. Everybody’s timetable shifts at the weekends: breakfast becomes brunch, lunch is forgotten or collides with dinner. People are more relaxed, less on their guard. And it’s more crowded, which makes it easier to hide.

  I popped into the park café, where I ordered a latte and sipped it perched on a high stool overlooking the play area. The place was as chaotic as ever, the tables crowded with inattentive parents who seemed to think it was fine to linger over their smoked salmon and smashed avocado while their bored children played hide-and-seek under other customers’ tables and raided the ice-cream freezer. Not that I had any interest in them. I was only looking out for George.

  He usually pops into the café at around 10.45 with Mabel bobbing about in the backpack carrier. He orders a double-shot cappuccino and has it poured into his own insulated beaker, then he strolls around the park drinking it. But he didn’t turn up today. I was disappointed. And curious.

  I left the café and took the path that leads to the main gate, virtually opposite number 74. Staying safely on the park side of the road, I strolled up and down for a bit, taking sneaky glances at the house. Amber and George’s car – a white hatchback – was parked outside. The upstairs bathroom window was open. All the signs indicated that they were still at home.

  Just delayed, then, I thought. I went back into the park and sat on a bench near the duck pond. If you sit at an angle, you can just about see number 74’s front door from there. I don’t know why, but I started to feel anxious. I hadn’t had sight of them for days and was worrying that Mabel might be poorly.

  After about ten minutes the front door opened and Amber and George came out. Amber looked very different. She was wearing a skirt, for a start, with high black leather boots and a dark green coat. The colour made a perfect contrast with her auburn hair, which was all fluffy and bouncy. George was looking smart too, and he was carrying two small suitcases, the kind you can take as hand luggage on a plane. It looked like they were going somewhere special and possibly staying overnight.

  George put the cases in the boot of the car then opened the door for Amber to get in. She took a lingering look at the upstairs windows, then climbed into the passenger seat. A few seconds later the car drove away, disappearing around the corner.

  I was rooted to the spot, amazed by what I’d just witnessed. Where was Mabel? Had they forgotten to put her in the car? I started to panic, then checked myself. There was no way even dopey depressed Amber would do that. Somebody must be looking after my little precious. Grandma and Grandad, perhaps. A friend? My thoughts went into free fall for a few seconds and I had to pull them back.

  A few minutes later, the front door opened again and a girl pushed the buggy out. She was wearing a blue woolly hat with a huge orange bobble on the top. Wisps of black hair were escaping from under it, falling over her eyes and hugging the sides of her face. She had a baggy woollen jacket on, and equally baggy trousers, which tapered at the ankle and were stuffed into big laced boots. She looked like an art student. Underneath all those clothes, I guessed she was quite slim. I wondered whether I’d seen her before. Something about her was familiar, but I couldn’t be sure. She looked very young. Too young for such an important job.

  She crossed the road and entered the park. We were no more than a few metres from each other, but she was focused on her destination and didn’t even glance in my direction. Even so, I deliberately walked away, knowing I could re-enter the park by the small gate that opened onto the rose garden and catch up with her without her realising. She was easy to spot in that silly hat, the orange bobble flashing like a beacon. Perfect for me. I could keep a good distance and merge into the crowd while still keeping an eye on her.

  I followed her to the market stalls, where she spent ages debating what pastry to buy, then had to occupy myself while she sat down and ate it. To be fair, she was engaging with Mabel, talking to her and making sure she kept her hat on, which is more than Amber ever does. After what I guessed was lunch, she took her to the duck pond, but that didn’t seem to last very long and soon she was pushing the pram in the direction of home.

  The fun was over; there was no point in my hanging around. Anyway, I needed some lunch myself and the cold was pinching me. I was about to head off in the other direction when something prompted me to follow them all the way to their front door. Just for the hell of it. I was only a few metres behind her when she went through the gates. There’s a newsagent across the way and I pretended to read the notices in the window, all the while watching her out of the corner of my eye.

  She pushed the buggy into the front garden, then stopped to rummage around in her bag. She took a key out of her pocket and I saw her put it in the lock and push the door open as wide as it would go in order to steer the buggy into the small hallway. Halfway through, her mobile rang and she answered it, shutting the door behind her.

  I stared open-mouthed at the green-painted door. The key was still in the lock! What a careless, stupid thing to do, I thought. In London, of all places, where people are always on the lookout for opportunities to commit crimes: an unzipped handbag, a phone sticking out of a back pocket, an unpadlocked bike. A key in the front door. A baby inside being looked after by a fool.

  Usually I would never have dared to get so close, but this was an emergency. I crossed over and stood at the front gate, which the babysitter had left open. Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the threshold, and instantly it was as if I’d entered a force field. Enemy territory.

  I advanced across the small paved area shared with the ground-floor flat, carefully avoiding the sightline of anyone looking out of the downstairs window. After a few paces, I reached the front doors, which stand side by side under a small porch.

  My vision zoomed in on the key. Shiny and silver.

  I knew what a normal person would do in this situation. A normal person would ring the bell, and when the babysitter thundered down the stairs and opened the door, they’d say, ‘Excuse me, did you mean to leave your key in the lock?’ And the silly girl would gasp and put her hand over her mouth and thank the kind passer-by profusely as she yanked it out of the lock and put it in her pocket for safe keeping.

  But you see, I’m not a normal person. I used to be, but not any more. I’ve lost too much to be generous towards others. Nevertheless, I wanted to do the right thing, for Mabel’s sake. My finger hovered over the doorbell, but I couldn’t push it, couldn’t make that familiar ding-dong sound.

  I stared at the key, wondering what to do next.
I considered playing Knock Down Ginger – the game I used to play when I was a kid. My friends and I would pick on some poor old lady, bang on her door, then run away laughing while she opened it to find that nobody was there. It was a mean thing to do, but at the time we were just amusing ourselves. Should I knock loudly, then scoot off around the corner? No. That would be pathetic.

  Instead, I decided that the simplest and least risky thing would be to post the key through the letter box. Reaching forward, I wriggled it out of the lock. With my other hand I gently lifted the flap of the letter box, revealing a narrow slit. I imagined pushing the key through the gap, releasing my fingers and letting it fall onto the tiled hallway with a gentle tinkle. It would eventually be found and the girl in the bobble hat would silently thank the kind stranger who had saved the day. But I’m not kind. Not any more. And I’m not a stranger either.

  I gently released the flap without making a sound and walked calmly, but quickly away.

  Now my treasure lies safely in my hand, fingers closed over it, forming a tight fist. It feels electrically charged, its jagged shape burning into my flesh. This little piece of metal gives me power. But I have to act quickly, or it will fade to nothing and I’ll be back where I started – a bystander with no part to play.

  Chapter Five

  The weekend before

  Amber feels a fresh rush of anxiety as George unlocks the door with a swipe card and they enter the hotel bedroom.

  The setting is sumptuous, but also intimidating. George marches in with their overnight bags, setting them on the luggage rack, but Amber looks about her, absorbing the scene and all that it implies. The centrepiece is a super-king-size four-poster bed, its sides draped in soft muslin. The bed itself is covered with satin cushions in various tones of dull silver and plum and faces a large, extravagantly framed mirror strategically positioned on the opposite wall. The furniture is painted pale grey and is vaguely French in style – bowed legs on the dressing table, crystal knobs on the wardrobe doors and drawers. The silvery grey carpet has a velvety sheen on it and is so thick you could almost trip over the pile. But the most disturbing thing in the room is the polished pewter bathtub that sits brazenly on a platform in the bay overlooking the gardens. It’s not as if the glass in the windows is frosted. Surely nobody actually takes a bath in full view of the other guests? Amber briefly plants herself into the scene, her dressing gown slipping off her shoulders to reveal her flabby naked body. She shudders visibly.

  ‘You okay?’ George asks. She nods and sits down on the bed. ‘Stunning, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ she fibs. She takes her phone from her bag and starts composing a text to Ruby. It’s been less than an hour since they last exchanged messages, but it feels like days. The last she heard, Mabel had done a messy poo (the second today – a little worrying), and had just gone down for her afternoon nap. She was only forty-five minutes behind schedule, which considering Ruby was in charge wasn’t bad at all. Amber’s fingers fly across the screen.

  Arrived. Hotel like something out of TOWIE. How are things? Send me a photo! xxx

  ‘Amber,’ George says warningly. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to keep texting.’ She stares at her handset, willing an image of Mabel to pop onto the screen. ‘Please, babe. Turn the thing off and put it away.’

  ‘How can I?’ she responds crossly. ‘What if there’s a problem? What if Ruby needs to get in touch urgently?’

  ‘She won’t. She’s fine.’ He sits down and puts his arm around her. ‘Oh dear, you’re so tense.’ He starts to knead the solid flesh between her shoulders. Her body wants to yield to his touch, but her mind won’t let her. ‘What shall we do first?’ he murmurs. ‘Go for a swim? Use the spa?’

  Amber shakes her head. She would love a swim but can’t bear the thought of wearing a swimsuit in public, which is why she deliberately didn’t pack one. He digs his thumbs into her resistant muscles, then reaches around her and starts to undo the buttons of her shirt.

  ‘George … please don’t. The curtains aren’t drawn. People can see in.’

  ‘Only if they’re up a tree – we’re on the second floor! Anyway, I don’t care.’

  ‘Well I do.’ She wriggles free and jumps off the bed. ‘It’s too early. I’m not – not ready.’

  His face falls. ‘I’m just trying to make the most of our time together.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’ She goes to the window and looks out at the bare trees, blowing in the sharp February wind.

  George is clearly not about to give up. ‘We could order afternoon tea,’ he says. ‘In bed. Home-made finger sandwiches and little cakes.’

  ‘You know I’m trying to cut down on sugar.’

  ‘But this is our holiday, we’re allowed treats.’

  ‘I’m not.’ She feels herself welling up. ‘Ruby hasn’t replied.’

  ‘Give her a chance. I expect she’s playing with Mabel, or making her afternoon snack.’

  ‘It’s too early for her afternoon snack. Something must be wrong.’ She starts composing another text, but he walks over and snatches the phone out of her hands.

  ‘You’ve got to stop this.’

  ‘Hey! Give it back!’ She cannot allow him to look at her phone.

  ‘No. I’m putting it in the safe.’

  ‘You can’t! Give it to me. Please … It’s my phone. I need it.’ She stretches out her hand, demanding its return.

  ‘If you’re going to spend the whole time checking on Ruby, we might as well go home now.’

  ‘Suits me,’ she replies, her palm still facing upwards.

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘You were the one who wanted to go away for the weekend; it was your idea.’

  ‘Actually, it was Ruby’s. Give me the phone. Now!’

  There are a few seconds of silent stand-off, then he angrily tosses it onto the bed. Amber grabs it immediately and unlocks the screen.

  ‘Have you any idea how much this is costing?’ he says. ‘I really pushed the boat out. I was trying to please you; I thought it was what you wanted.’

  She finishes the text. Still waiting for my pic. Everything okay?

  It’s his turn to stare out of the window now, his chest heaving as he breathes out his anger. Amber takes off her boots and puts her feet on the silky bedcover. Shoving aside some cushions, she lays her head on the crisp white pillow, clutching the phone to her chest like a comfort blanket, only there’s not a shred of comfort in the cold, unresponsive metal.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says limply. ‘I know I’m being hopeless and difficult. I’m trying, but it’s so hard.’

  He turns around to face her. ‘What’s wrong, Amber? Please. Throw me a bone.’ He waits for her to respond, but she has nothing to give him. ‘We’ve known each other since we were kids; we’ve always been so close, but you’re treating me like a stranger. I was really hoping this weekend would bring us back together.’

  ‘It’s not an instant fix,’ she says. ‘I can’t suddenly switch back to how it was when it was just the two of us. Things have changed. I’ve changed.’

  ‘I told you, I still find you attractive—’

  ‘I mean inside, George. I’ve changed inside. I’m not the same person I was before Mabel was born.’

  He frowns at her, trying to understand. Her heart goes out to him. How can he understand when he doesn’t know the truth? But this is not the time to confess.

  ‘Would you like to go back to work?’ he says after a long pause. ‘I know we decided you’d take the full year off, but if you’d rather … We could get a nanny, or send Mabel to nursery.’

  She shakes her head wearily. ‘I realised months ago I wouldn’t be able to go back. Remember those long hours I used to do? All that tedious entertaining – sometimes I didn’t get home until three in the morning and then I’d have to be up in time for a breakfast meeting at eight. It was stressful enough then, without having a child to look after. Impossible now.’

/>   ‘Why didn’t you say, if that’s what’s been worrying you?’ A flash of hope crosses his face. He comes towards her and sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Maybe you should start looking for a different job. Something part-time, more local. It could be really exciting – a whole change of career.’

  Amber sighs. ‘Just the thought of applying for things right now makes me feel exhausted.’

  ‘When you feel up to it … There’s no rush.’ He pats her shoulder. ‘It’s worth thinking about. It could be the answer.’

  There is no answer, she says to herself. No answer, no solution. It’s just how it is. She made this bed and now she must lie in it, no matter how uncomfortable the mattress or how troublesome the night’s sleep.

  ‘Yeah, it’s an idea,’ she replies, leaving it at that.

  He takes her hand and squeezes it. ‘It’s going to be okay, Amber, I know it. When we found out you were pregnant, it was the best moment of our lives – that and our wedding day. Remember how amazing it felt?’

  She closes her eyes. Of course she remembers. Sitting on the loo clutching the test, staring at the two pink lines while the emotions she’d been holding down for all those months broke free and rose suddenly to the surface. A heady mix of intense joy and sobering responsibility. Of all her achievements, this was the one of which she was most proud. She’d done it. Finally gone and done it.

  George kisses her, breaking the spell. ‘I can’t imagine being without either of you now. I know you love Mabel as much as I do, and you take really good care of her, there’s no doubt about that; you’re a fantastic mother.’ He hesitates.

  Her eyes open and she blinks at him. ‘But …? But what, George?’

  ‘You seem so unhappy,’ he says, his voice breaking. ‘I can’t bear it and I don’t know how to put it right.’

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all, just tired. I’m going to take a nap now, if that’s okay?’ He casts his eyes down. ‘So that I can enjoy the evening. I don’t want to fall asleep in my Michelin-starred starter.’ She attempts a feeble laugh.