What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (12 page)

I’m enjoying spending time with Francis. Apart from anything else it’s a relief for me to be myself. None of my family and friends know about my anxiety so talking about it, casually, normally, makes me feel as if I’m not such a lost cause after all. Ben is away with friends for a couple of days and I wonder whether to ask Francis to stay for tea, but I don’t want to sound too needy so I decide not to.

‘You’re good with colour,’ Francis says when he comes back into the living room. ‘The red and the yellow in the bathroom, the greens in here – beautiful.’

‘You’re being generous.’ I follow his eyes as he looks around the living room, crammed full of too much stuff, but I see what he means about colour – throws, curtains, the rug – livening up the dilapidated floor and walls. ‘I’ve always loved colour. I used to have a garden and I grew all the flowers I could.’ We both sit down again. ‘I’m only renting here. I’m hoping the landlord might let me paint the walls at some point … if I’m here long enough.’

‘In Sufi tradition, the three elements that make up the heart are yellow for joy, red for courage and green for compassion.’ He smiles at me. ‘You’re all heart.’

I laugh. ‘Oh no, I’m not.’ I shake my head as I think about how much I hate Leila Henrikson and how happy I would be to see her suffer. How very happy indeed. ‘I’m really not.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well …’ I hesitate for a second. ‘I’m plotting revenge.’

‘Against whom?’

‘Against my ex-husband Tom and his new woman. They’re in the family home and I want it back. So I’m talking to my solicitor and I’m planning on doing other stuff too.’

He raises his eyebrows, his interest piqued. I’m tempted to tell him exactly what I’m up to but then – what am I up to? I’m going to a therapist who has no idea that she’s now living in my house with my husband. Apart from that, all I know is that I want my house back and I want to punish her.

‘You’re angry?’ he says.

‘I am.’

‘With Tom or with the woman?’

‘It varies. Both of them, but recently, more her. Tom is Tom. He’s arrogant, up himself, bullish at times but we had almost thirty, mostly happy, years together and, like it or not, he is the father of my children. But her …’ I shake my head. ‘It’s bad enough seducing another woman’s husband – but moving into her home? Who does that?’

‘Could Tom have told her you were happy to move out?’

‘Who would believe that? She had to see how much effort I’d put into the place!’

‘Maybe, but I guess what you don’t know is how Tom has represented the facts.’

My temper surges up from the pit of my stomach. ‘I know
this
for a fact. She’s a
bitch
, Francis. She’s conniving and complicit. And I’m not putting up with it any longer.’

Francis holds up his arms. ‘Woah! I’m only playing devil’s advocate.’ He laughs. ‘I surrender!’

‘I’m sorry!’ I laugh too. ‘I just … She’s a sore point.’

‘No worries.’ He stands up, glancing in the direction of the front door as if he’s keen to be on his way. ‘I should be off now. Thank you for the tea and the chat.’

I follow him to the door, feeling like I might have driven him out with my anger. ‘Stop by again, won’t you?’ I say.

‘I’d love to.’

‘Next time you’re visiting your mum.’

‘Sure.’ He walks off down the path, turning back to give me a quick wave.

I close the door behind him and go immediately into the kitchen. The fingers of my free hand reach towards the kettle plug, still in the socket.

Don’t Ellen.
Don’t.

I snatch back my hand.

‘Alex.’ I’m standing over his bed. ‘You need to get up now.’ He’s under the duvet and his jeans are on the floor, so he must have woken up at some point and put himself to bed. I shake his shoulders. ‘Alex.’ I rub his sternum with my knuckles. ‘Alex!’

He raises himself up and shouts, ‘Leave me the fuck alone!’

What’s good enough for next door’s cat is good enough for my son. When the bucket of water lands on top of him, he’s out of his bed in an instant, shrieking, ‘You cunt!’ His arms and legs flail in front of me and then he tries to land a punch. It’s a feeble attempt and his fist meets the air inches to the right of my head. I retaliate by shoving him hard against the wall and holding him there, my forearm lodged under his chin. He’s four inches taller than me and undoubtedly stronger but he’s caught unawares. When he tries to wrestle free, I tighten my hold so that he can barely take a breath. He stops struggling at once, the fire in his eyes dimmed by the onset of tears.

‘Alex.’ I pause until I’m sure I have his attention. ‘I told you last year that I would have zero tolerance for further drug-taking. And I meant it.’ I pause again to watch my words sink in. ‘So now, you are going to have a shower. And then you are going to get dressed. And then I am taking you back to rehab.’ I hear Gareth’s oh-so-patient tone coming from my mouth and it makes me feel sick. I step away from Alex and he rubs his throat, his expression twisted. I can see fury in his eyes but it’s tempered by fear.

‘You’re a bitch.’ He spits the words at me. ‘You’re a psycho bitch. And I fuckin’ hate you.’

‘You are not spending the summer in this house drunk and drugged,’ I tell him. ‘I called the Bridge this morning and spoke to Mr Mooney. He’s agreed you should come back in today. I’ve cancelled my clients so I can take you there.’ I walk away from him and look back from the bedroom door. ‘Pack a bag and be downstairs in thirty minutes.’

There’s adrenaline in my veins and it propels me down the stairs in a flash. Violence excites me. I wish it didn’t. I really wish it didn’t. I know my weaknesses. I know them in the same way as a mother knows the intricate details of her new baby’s face. There’s a fine line between being a strong, uncompromising parent and being a bully. I crossed that line. Again.

I make myself a smoothie, my hands shaking as I take the ingredients from the fridge. I add raspberries and almond milk to the blender and then I drink it straight from the cup. Violence tastes metallic and I wash it away with the sweetness of fruit.

I can ignore Alex calling me names because it’s important that he’s able to express his feelings. But I won’t ignore drug-taking and it’s a welcome coincidence that being admitted to the Bridge will take him out of Edinburgh.

David.

David, David, David.

It’s only a matter of time before he turns up at the front door. Our pattern over the years has been thus: he gets in touch, wants my attention for an intense week or two, then heads off again. Usually, though, there’s not too much talk about our upbringing. The only other time he became obsessed with revisiting our childhood I was living in Leeds. I hadn’t heard from him for almost a year, and unbeknownst to me, he found out my address, and infiltrated my life. One evening I returned home from work to find him sitting in my front room, telling my then boyfriend far too many details of our shared past. Details I’d kept quiet for good reason. And what I choose to share, or not share, is nobody’s business but mine. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t always good to talk.

Katarina comes into the kitchen with a duster and some polish in her hand. She has earphones in her ears and is humming along to the music. She doesn’t notice me at first, and when she does she screams and drops the polish on the tiled floor where it bounces and rolls, coming to a stop next to my foot. ‘I am jumping out of my skin!’ she says, pulling the earphones out. ‘This saying we learn last week. It is correct?’

‘Yes.’ I give her a quick smile and hand her the tin of polish. ‘Katarina, I’ve cancelled my clients today and I’m driving Alex to Glasgow where he’ll be staying for a week, perhaps longer.’

‘Yes, I understand.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘I prepare food for Tom?’

‘No. Tom will be home much later this evening, later than me. He has a work’s dinner.’

A shadow falls across the kitchen floor. Alex is standing there, a holdall in his right hand. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘We’ll stop and buy you something on the way.’ I walk past him into the front hall and grab my bag and keys. ‘Let’s go.’

‘You will be well, Alex,’ Katarina says. She gives him a kiss on both cheeks and then he follows me out to the car, docile as a subdued dog. I don’t expect this mood to last and it doesn’t. We’ve barely left the city boundaries when he starts trying to goad me.

‘I didn’t get to say goodbye to barrister Tom. The man with an eye for a good arse, wouldn’t you say?’ I feel his breath on my cheek. ‘You seen the way he looks at Katarina?’

‘You didn’t clean your teeth,’ I say. ‘Your breath is fetid.’

‘Fetid!’ He laughs. ‘Tom would happily give her one … if he hasn’t already, that is. Do you think he has? Do you think?’ He pauses. ‘And I bet she takes it up the arse, as well.’ He leans into my cheek again. ‘Although … hang on. That’ll be the way you like it too, Leila, yeah? All the men you’ve had, you must have something going for you. Cos all I can see is a washed-out tart. Droopy tits. Flabby arse.’ He keeps up with the insults for another couple of miles. ‘Chloe, I could shag,’ he says. ‘I reckon she knows her way around a man’s cock. Well, it wouldn’t be incest, would it?’

I pull sharply into a lay-by and his head hits off the side window. ‘Ow!’

‘Out,’ I say.

‘What?’ He’s rubbing the side of his face.

‘Get out of the car!’

‘No! I’m not getting out.’

‘Then you’ll stop talking filth! Are we clear?’

‘This could be classed as child abuse.’ He’s still rubbing his cheek, his expression aggrieved. ‘I could report you.’

‘Alex.’ I sigh. ‘You’re not a child.’

He turns away, his body hunched against me. I drive another twenty miles before he speaks again. ‘Maybe I can’t help myself. There’s a gene, you know? A gene for addiction. If I knew who my father was that might give me a clue.’

‘Your father never took drugs,’ I say.

‘How can you be sure? Maybe he did. Before or after you met him.’

I can’t tell him that I’ve kept track of his father all these years and that I’m sure drugs aren’t his thing. I let him whinge on about his life and then he shifts his perspective wider. ‘This is going to cost you thousands.’

‘I’ll find the money.’

‘Will you ask Tom for it?’

‘Maybe.’ I leave the motorway and start to journey north.

‘What have you told him?’

‘Nothing as yet.’

‘What if Tom finds out? What if he notices that I’m gone?’

‘Of course he’ll notice,’ I say, not entirely believing it.

‘What if he realises that your son’s fucked up? What are you going to tell him – that you’ve sent me off Wwoofing? You like that sort of thing don’t you? World wide organic farming. A nice, healthy pursuit for people like me.’

‘I’m going to tell him the truth,’ I say. ‘I’m not ashamed of you, Alex. I want you to do better – I
know
you can do better – so I’m not always proud of you but that’s not the same as being ashamed of you.’

‘Sounds pretty fucking samey to me.’

‘If you don’t go back to rehab, you’ll spend the summer falling deeper and deeper into drug-taking.’

‘So you say.’

‘You need to break the cycle. They’re experts at the Bridge. You know that.’

‘I’ll be out of your way.’

‘That’s not what I want. Please stop seeing me as the enemy.’ I point to a sign at the side of the road. ‘Look! Hot food in fifty yards.’ I indicate and pull into the lay-by, where food is being sold from a caravan. ‘Fancy a bacon butty?’

He grudgingly agrees, hunger trumping moodiness.

We sit in the car in companionable silence eating our sandwiches, and then we continue on to the Bridge where we’re met by Rob Mooney, who welcomes Alex like an old friend. ‘Good to see you, Alex.’ They shake hands and Rob claps Alex on the back, pulling him towards him. ‘You’ve done the right thing by coming back. We’ll get you settled in straight away and then you’ll be in time for afternoon group work.’

‘Anyone here I know?’ Alex says.

‘There will be a couple, I think.’ Rob glances across at me. ‘Now why don’t you say goodbye to your mum? She has a fair old drive back to Edinburgh.’

Alex turns to hug me and Rob wanders out of earshot so that we can say our goodbyes in private. ‘I know you’re nervous, darling, but this really is for the best,’ I say. This isn’t what Alex wants to hear and he moves away from me to stare fixedly down at his shoes. ‘You’ll soon rediscover a more positive focus. The therapists will help you with that.’ He hugs me again, tightly this time, then he slopes off, turning just the once to give me a surreptitious wave.

When he’s through the door I go back to my car and sit with my eyes closed. Crying is not something I do. I used to, but I stopped when I was fourteen. On my fourteenth birthday to be exact. I stopped because it felt more powerful not to cry. I developed other ways to relieve pressure. Other ways to feel like I was coping.

Before I leave the car park I call Maurice. He is still my therapist – has been for twenty years now – and he is also my supervisor. I meet with him every month to discuss any concerns I have with my clients and I normally add on another hour for myself.

‘Maurice? It’s Leila.’

‘Leila.’ He pauses. I hear muffled noises in the background. ‘How are you?’

‘I know we’re not due to meet for another couple of weeks but I need to see you.’

‘I’m away at the moment, Leila, but I will be home next Monday. How about Tuesday evening?’

‘That’s …’ My jaw tenses. ‘That’s six days away. I’m not …’ I pull my spine straight. ‘I really need to talk to you.’

‘I’m sorry, Leila. You know I would see you sooner if I could.’

‘I understand.’ I look down at my free hand as it rests on the steering wheel, the same hand that pressed against my son’s throat, preventing him from breathing. ‘What time on Tuesday evening?’

‘Shall we say seven?’

‘Okay.’

‘And, Leila?’

‘Yes?’

‘If you need to talk to me before that, call me, will you? I can always listen on the phone.’

‘I will.’

I end the call and stare down at my hands, flex and extend the fingers, and try not to remember what they’re capable of.