The Night Away: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Read online

  She hangs up her dress – it will bear another wearing – and puts her underwear in the laundry basket. George has already emptied his overnight bag and typically left his dirty washing in a pile on the floor. She picks up the shirt he wore on Saturday evening – tiny purple and maroon flowers with flashes of ochre – and holds it for a moment, closing her eyes as she remembers.

  Their night away got off to a bad start – her fault, not his. She was nervous to the point of fear. George assumed it was because she was worrying about Mabel, but that wasn’t really the case. She knew Ruby would cope; she only kept texting because she couldn’t bear the stress of being alone with George.

  She drops the shirt into the laundry basket. She feels ashamed that she called Seth while George was in the shower, but she didn’t know who else to turn to – it was either that or running away. Seth calmed her down, as he always does, while subtly reminding her that her choices are stark. Either she makes herself comfortable with the lies or she confesses and risks losing everything she holds most dear. There are no half-measures or easy alternatives.

  After their call, she tried her hardest to behave as normally as possible. She and George had afternoon tea in the conservatory, then took a stroll around the grounds before heading back into the warm. She remembers being reluctant to return to their room, suggesting instead that they go to the guest lounge, where there was a roaring fire. They found a couple of vacant armchairs and sat there for a while, wondering what to say to each other. Most of the other guests were retired couples, content to pore over a crossword or read a book. Amber envied their seeming ease in each other’s company. If they had children, they must be long grown up and off their hands. She wondered whether she and George would still be together when they reached their sixties. It didn’t seem likely, and that made her sad, because when all was said and done, she did still love him.

  ‘I want to know the football scores,’ said George, rising. ‘Coming?’

  She nodded and followed him back to their room. While he watched television, she prepared for their dinner date. Her dress – an emerald-green silky wraparound that showed off her cleavage – was creased and her stockings had a small ladder in them. For some reason, the heels she’d worn every day at work felt too tight, and she wobbled in them like a newborn lamb. She did her evening make-up but was dissatisfied with the result. No amount of concealer could hide the grey circles beneath her eyes. By the time she’d finished, she was tired out, like she’d done a day’s hard labour.

  ‘You look stunning,’ he said kindly, but she didn’t believe him. He switched the TV off. ‘Shall we go to the bar?’

  Amber puts her make-up bag back on the dressing table and shoves her wheelie suitcase to the back of the wardrobe. The memories will not be so safely stowed away. Everything that happened earlier in the day was entirely predictable. It was when they went for dinner that things veered off in an unexpected direction.

  In their pre-Mabel life, they’d had dozens, probably hundreds of such evenings together, choosing restaurants that had unusual menus and great online reviews. Fine dining wasn’t necessarily a precursor to great sex, but it had often worked out that way: playing footsie under the table; exchanging glances full of erotic meaning; using sexual language to describe the food. Later, emboldened by alcohol and impatient to devour each other, they would sneak down an alley and snog like teenagers. They never went as far as having sex in the street, but a couple of times they got dangerously close.

  She smiles to herself as she shakes the pillows and pulls the duvet over their bed. Oh my, those were the days …

  Saturday night was different in every way. The air was laced with tension, but it wasn’t in the least bit sexual. They found the menu bewildering and had to ask for help. The food was served as a series of tiny sharing plates, like tapas but without the charm. The chef dictated the order in which their chosen plates should be eaten, and they had to finish each one before the next was brought. It wasn’t a meal – it was a military operation.

  Amber felt increasingly anxious. She found herself over-complimenting every mouthful, prattling about the decor and the service. George kept quiet. She sensed his gaze penetrating her mask of false jollity, his ears filtering out her evasive burble. It was embarrassing. She was behaving as if they were on a first date and he’d already decided she was not for him.

  But as the plates of pretentious deliciousness came and went, something inside her started to shift. Thinking about it now on a grey Monday morning, there was no mystery to it: cocktails in the bar, a bottle of champagne with dinner, a glass of heady dessert wine and a fierce grappa digestif. Amber hadn’t drunk any alcohol since she first found out she was pregnant, and it went straight to her head, loosening her muscles and opening places she’d kept padlocked for so long she’d forgotten where she’d put the key.

  And suddenly there he was, Gorgeous George, sitting opposite her in his fancy floral shirt, brown eyes twinkling in the candlelight. Her teenage sweetheart, adoring husband. The man, believe it or not, whom she loves more than anyone else in the world. For a few moments she forgot that she’d betrayed him. They locked gazes and held hands across the table. She kicked off her shoes and stroked his shin with her stockinged foot. Before she knew it, they were back in the room, tearing at each other’s clothes.

  She continues tidying, blushing as she replays the details in her head. Even in his wildest fantasies, George wouldn’t have expected that. They’d behaved like different people – strangers to each other and themselves. Where had this other Amber come from? What had fuelled her desire? Was it simply the alcohol, or was it something darker and more complex? Her secret-self taking over. She’s half impressed, half disgusted by this new person. Since Saturday night, she hasn’t been able to look at herself in the mirror.

  Overcome, she sinks onto the bed. What is going on? For a few hours that night, she laid aside the burden of guilt she normally carries around with her and felt incredibly free. But on Sunday morning, when it was time to leave, she had to pick up the burden again, along with her toilet bag and wheelie suitcase. Back in the real world of cooking, cleaning, washing and caring for Mabel, the guilt seems to weigh even heavier than before.

  Her mobile phone is sitting on the bedside table. She wants to call Seth but knows she mustn’t interrupt him at work. All she needs is a few words of reassurance.

  You can do this. It’s okay. I’m rooting for you every step of the way.

  She can’t be honest with Ruby, it’s impossible. Her friends from university are now also George’s, so she can’t confide in any of them. She has some good female friends from work, but she’s hardly communicated with them since her baby shower, the week before she went on maternity leave. They wouldn’t understand her predicament anyway. They are all career-obsessed, clocking up insane hours to gain promotion, delaying motherhood until the last possible minute before their eggs run out. When they do come out to play, they play hard – booze, drugs and other risky behaviour. She never felt comfortable in that environment, and now that she’s a mum … well, it’s out of the question.

  She stands up and tries to shake herself free of her mood. This will not do. Maybe it’s not a confidante she needs; maybe it’s just a bit of adult company. The mums from her antenatal class are meeting up this Thursday for lunch. Maybe she’ll go along – if she feels up to it and Mabel is behaving herself. It would please George and might even make her feel better too.

  Chapter Eight

  Three Days before

  I can’t stop thinking about Mabel, even though five days have passed since I held her in my arms. The key to her home is on a piece of string around my neck, resting against my heart. I haven’t taken my necklace off once, not to wash or shower or sleep. At night, I lie in the darkness running my finger along its sharp, serrated edge. I know every nick and turn of the cut. If I were a locksmith, I could make a perfect copy from memory.

  It was about three in the morning, the dead of night, wh
en I let myself into number 74, tiptoeing up the stairs in the darkness, feeling my way to the nursery. First I turned off the baby monitor. Mabel’s eyes opened as I lifted her out of her cot, but she was still half asleep and didn’t cry out as I carried her into the kitchen. Finding a feed already made up in the fridge, I warmed the bottle under the tap, then sat in the chair with her on my lap. She seemed hungry and I let her drink her fill. When she’d finished, I laid her against my shoulder and rubbed her back until she let out a tiny ladylike burp.

  She was so tired and full of milk she hardly moved or made a sound as I walked around with her, trying not to make the floorboards creak, whispering words of love in her ear. I felt her growing heavier and heavier with sleep. She was as good as gold for me, the little darling, didn’t so much as whimper when I laid her back in the cot. I can still smell her baby scent, still feel her soft rose-petal skin, still taste the sweetness when I kissed her on her forehead and wished her sweet dreams. How I long to do all that again.

  But I’m worried. Amber and George must know by now that the key has gone missing. Maybe the babysitter remembered that she stupidly left it in the door and, finding it gone, raised the alarm. Assuming she confessed her mistake, the locks could have been changed by now, rendering my treasure utterly useless; crumbling my plans to dust.

  I have to know if my key still works. I’ve been busy these past few days but there’s still so much to do: preparations to complete, equipment to buy, false trails to lay, tracks to be covered. I don’t want all the effort and expense to be wasted because I can’t get into the house. Nor could I bear the disappointment of being so close to the finish line and falling at the final hurdle.

  I should probably wait until the middle of the night to visit, but now I’ve decided to take the risk, I feel impatient to get going. It’s Thursday morning. I don’t know what Amber’s plan is for the day; most mornings she makes a short trip out, but sometimes she stays in, hunkering down on her unhappiness. I could have a long wait in the cold, but that’s fine – better than fretting in the warmth of home.

  Dressing in my most anonymous clothes – jeans, hoodie, a dark scarf around my face to keep out the winter chill – I catch the bus to Lilac Park. I take a seat on the top deck and stare out of the window, not making eye contact with my fellow passengers. My nerves are as jagged as the key; I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to stop myself fiddling with the string necklace.

  I get off at the stop before the park and walk up William Morris Terrace. My heart is beating as fast as it did last Saturday. Number 74 is at the end, just before the corner. I cross over to walk on the other side of the road, glancing up as I pass the house. Amber and George’s car is parked outside. The small window at the front is open. Everything suggests that someone is in.

  I enter the park by the gates and do a brisk circuit of the paths to see if Amber is taking Mabel for a stroll in the buggy. There’s no sign of her, so I buy a coffee from the café and take it to the bench by the duck pond. It’s covered in bird shit, but in the perfect position. From here I have a distant but clear view of the front door.

  I press the key against my chest through the layers of coat, jumper and T-shirt, breathing in the memory of Saturday night, the flood of adrenaline that coursed through my veins. I want to go inside but I have to resist the urge. I’m here to test the key, that’s all.

  The minutes tick by slowly. I’m like a cat standing guard at a mouse hole, waiting for my prey to emerge. I’m so fixated by the door of number 74 that I forget to drink my coffee. It’s cold today; the pond is shivering in the wind and even the ducks are sheltering in the reeds. Nobody else is sitting on a bench. I won’t be able to stay here much longer without drawing attention to myself.

  Come on, Amber, my little mouse, out you come …

  Fifteen minutes later, my prayers are answered. The door miraculously opens and Amber pushes the buggy onto the front path. She’s not in her usual scruffy jeans and fleece, but is wearing that green woollen coat again, this time with slim black trousers. Her hair looks nice and I think she’s even got some lipstick on. She’s made an effort, which suggests she’s going somewhere special. This is good news. It means she will be out for a while.

  She pulls down the rain hood of the buggy and sets off along William Morris Terrace, heading away from the park. I watch her disappear, then stand up and pour my cold coffee into the flower bed before chucking the cup in the recycle bin. I’m itching to run over there and put the key in the lock, but I have to hold back and wait. If I’m seen entering the house only moments after Amber leaves, that will look suspicious. There’s also a chance that she might forget something and come hurrying back. Timing is everything.

  I stand up and lean over the railing of the little bridge, pretending to watch the mallards and the squawking Canada geese. I feel for the string necklace and pull it over my head, transferring the key to my pocket. Okay, I’ve waited long enough … It’s now or never.

  In case anyone is watching, I pretend to check the time on my non-existent watch and do a little reaction, as if I’m late for something. This motivates me to walk briskly, but not too briskly, towards the park exit. I’m trying to look relaxed yet purposeful, as if I have an unquestionable right to enter the house. I could be a cleaner, for example, or a relative – somebody who comes and goes all the time.

  I don’t stop or pause, but cross the road immediately and walk through the front gate and straight up to the door. Got to be quick, in case the downstairs or next-door neighbour look out of their windows. My fingers tremble as I slide the key in, then ease it round until it bites and turns. I exhale with relief.

  Now what? I promised myself I would only try the door, but now that I’m here, it’s so tempting to go inside. I’ve no reason to – Mabel isn’t there. It would be an incredibly risky thing to do in broad daylight, especially when I don’t know when Amber will be back …

  But I can’t resist.

  I push the door open. It shudders as its bottom edge scrapes over the tiles. I quickly enter and close it behind me, being careful not to slam it in case it alerts the neighbour. Pausing for a moment, I absorb the empty silence of the flat. I walk up the stairs – noting the treads that creak – and enter Mabel’s bedroom.

  Everything looks different in the daylight. Shabbier. The wall frieze isn’t as pretty as I thought, the paintwork on the cot is a little chipped, the animal mobile hasn’t been hung straight. There is condensation on the window, which can’t be healthy for tiny lungs.

  ‘Not good enough,’ I grunt to myself.

  When Mabel’s with me, she’ll have a bedroom fit for a princess, all pink and glittery, with a mural of rainbows and unicorns on the wall. I’ll stick stars on the ceiling that glow in the dark and hang a silver moon for her to gaze at as she drifts gently off to sleep.

  I pull open the drawer of her changing unit. It’s full of sleepsuits, socks and little vests, all stuffed in together like a jumble of rags. I choose a couple of things at random and hold them against my cheek, inhaling deeply. The cotton feels rough and there’s no scent of fabric conditioner. When I’m in charge of Mabel, I’ll dress her in the softest, prettiest baby clothes that smell of lavender and roses.

  Something’s bleeping … An alarm? The sound is coming from the kitchen. I put the clothes down and go to investigate.

  To my relief, it’s only the washing machine, announcing the end of its cycle. Bending down, I open the door and take out a few items, rejecting anything that belongs to either Amber or George and removing a few of Mabel’s clothes. I want to hang them on the airer, iron out the creases before the fabric dries stiff and hard. But I can’t, of course. Not until I’m in my own place.

  I check the time – nine minutes have passed. It would be foolish to risk staying here much longer. I stuff all the washing back into the machine and close the door. Just one more thing to do before I go …

  I untie my string necklace and remove the door key. Where shall I put it?
It can’t be anywhere too obvious or Amber will smell a rat. However, it needs to be left somewhere it will be easily found – just in case she was planning to call a locksmith. I have to stay in control of the situation, have to make her believe her world is safe. Looking around, I eventually choose a place. I wipe off any fingerprints and place the key in the saucer of a plant pot containing a spiky cactus.

  Time to go. I walk carefully down the stairs so as not to alert the neighbours beneath, then, taking a deep breath, open the door and march confidently out of the house.

  I have made a copy of the key, of course.

  Chapter Nine

  Three days before

  Amber pulls open the heavy front doors of the Queen’s Head, holding them with her back as she manoeuvres the buggy inside. It’s a family-friendly pub, one of several in ‘the village’ that compete to provide the healthiest children’s menus, cleanest high chairs and most positive attitude towards breastfeeding. This is where the mums from her antenatal class meet for lunch every other Thursday.

  Polly, Kendra, Hanima, Cora and Louisa. They were randomly brought together about nine months ago when they attended the same weekly evening sessions at the local community centre. Some women turned up once or twice and were never seen again, but the six of them stuck it through to the end.

  Amber was the first to go into labour. As soon as Mabel was born, the women were texting and calling, demanding the inside track on the experience: did the breathing exercises work? Did she have to resort to pain relief? Did she use the birthing pool? Were the midwives supportive of her birth plan? Did she have stitches and did they hurt? Were there any shortcomings at the maternity unit they would need to look out for? But her elevated status only lasted a few days, because then Polly gave birth.