The Silenced Wife Read online

  THE SILENCED WIFE

  A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  by

  COLLETTE HEATHER

  THE SILENCED WIFE

  A PSYCHOLOGICL THRILLER

  by

  COLLETTE HEATHER

  COPYRIGHT COLLETTE HEATHER 2018

  Cover image by PastFuture

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  ONE

  Last night, I dreamt of James again. I woke up crying, drenched in sweat, reaching across the empty bed for my long-dead husband; my one true love, my life, my everything. I was a fool to marry Aaron Baily, blindsided as I was by his false promises and declarations of love.

  Yes, I am a fool, and if it weren’t for Becky, I think I might have ended it long ago.

  My name is Joyce Sanders, and this is my story.

  Like with any story, perhaps it is best to start at the beginning. But where should my beginning be? When I met my first husband, or my second? Does my story begin on April the thirtieth, 2014 – the day James, my first husband, died in a car accident and my life changed forever? Or does it begin the day our daughter Becky was born, three months and seventeen days later, on the sixteenth of August?

  Or does it go back further still, to the very beginning? To the day I was born in Cornwall in 1982 to Margaret and Ronald Morgan? Or does my story begin when my father died of cancer when I was twelve, and I began to struggle with life? Perhaps I should start it from when I was a bright-eyed student, reading Psychology and Journalism at The Guildhall in London before going on to carve out an entirely respectable career as first a low-level counsellor, and then a journalist. I used to have a career to be proud of – until life forced my hand and I gave it all up. I was resident agony aunt at a major tabloid where my column was called – most uninspiringly perhaps – ‘Dear Joyce’. I guess you might say that I was somewhat of a Z-list celebrity, and letters and emails poured into me in the thousands per day. So should my story start with the job that I feel defines me?

  No. I think not. I think my story should begin with Aaron, just as it shall inevitably end with him. I’ve always wanted to write a novel, to leave those letters of grief far behind me, and this diary looks very much like it’s shaping up to be my first…

  TWO

  It was a cold blustery day in March, and I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of dragging my three-and-a-half-year-old, plus dog, to Porthmeor Beach in St Ives. The wind whipped up the sand, stinging mine and Becky’s eyes, and Buster, our boisterous cocker spaniel, was out of control. He appeared to be running around in huge triangles. Like a streak of brown lightening, ears flat and tail straight, he ran for a hundred metres. Stopped. Changed his angle ninety degrees, ran in another perfectly straight line. Stopped. Changed direction by another ninety degrees. Ran like billy-o, before stopping in much the same place that he had started in.

  The sheer lunacy, but utter dedication to these triangles made my brain ache. That, coupled with the snail-pace Becky was travelling had turned what should’ve been a simple walk into a logistical nightmare.

  A small, gloved hand tugged on mine. ‘Mummy, ice cream.’

  I reached down and wrapped her short arm around my jean-clad thigh, patting her on her favourite, Rudolph the Reindeer hat – a present from Father Christmas and still going strong. ‘No ice cream today, sweetie. It’s too cold.’

  Her little, round face peered up at me, all saucer-like, brilliant blue eyes, and a protruding bottom lip that had a tendency to stop old ladies in their tracks in supermarkets and have them in gales of laughter.

  ‘Ice cream,’ she repeated, obviously deciding that her mother must be mentally impaired to connect air temperature with the ability to eat ice cream.

  ‘No, Becky, I’m sorry. It’s only March and the summer season hasn’t started yet. No ice cream places are open.’

  I had lost her to this new injustice; nothing short of ice cream would suffice.

  ‘Becky, please,’ I began uselessly, knowing I was fighting a losing battle.

  Her screams easily outdid my pleading and I winced in embarrassment. Sure, I know that every parent on God’s Earth had experienced the joys of A Screaming Child at some point in their lives, but it still made me cringe in shame. Thankfully, the beach was empty, except for a man walking in our general direction. He was still too far away to make out any details, apart from the fact he was wearing a long, black coat. Hopefully, I thought, I could nip this in the bud before he got to close enough to see and hear what was going on.

  I crouched down opposite my screaming child, gently but assertively gripping her tiny little shoulders through the pink puffa-jacket.

  ‘Becky, I need you to calm down, I can’t buy you ice cream because there is no ice cream. And even if there was, I wouldn’t buy you any because you’re being an absolute, spoilt little horror.’

  Was that the wrong thing to say, I wondered? The truth was, I didn’t know anymore. Since my husband died four years ago next month, I pretty much second-guessed every last thing that I said or did. Was I too harsh, or too much of a pushover? Did I spoil Becky with toys too much or not enough? Was I a terrible mother that was losing her mind after the death of her husband, or was I a real trooper that was coping admirably well with single motherhood? At times like these, I just didn’t know up from down.

  Either way, Becky wasn’t impressed. She howled up at the cloudy sky, her hands balled into fists and her back arched. Out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of the black-clad figure looming closer, his coat whipping around him like the angel of death.

  That’s just wonderful, I thought sourly. This guy could see this pitiful drama unfolding, so why didn’t he have the good sense to give us a wide berth?

  All the while Becky screamed, Buster was on a trajectory for the man in black.

  ‘Buster,’ I called pathetically after the damn dog.

  But it had no effect. Buster, who was also three years old like Becky, was lost in his doggy mission of Running Up To The Stranger. He could be pretty frantic when the mood took him, and he liked to lick his victims to death. Sometimes, he enjoyed wrapping his mouth around a wrist or an ankle. The pretend biting was always harmless. Or at least, I had always thought so.

  ‘Buster,’ I cried again.

  Becky cried all the louder, and I snapped my head back to look at her, placing a finger under her chin, me under the misguided impression that eye-contact might go some way to gaining control of the hysterics. It didn’t, of course, but nevertheless I persevered.

  ‘If you don’t shut up, there’s no pudding tonight.’

  Pudding was Becky’s all-time favourite thing, and my go-to threat when I needed a hardcore bargaining tool. I knew it was wrong – any self-help books on child-rearing worth their salt will quite explicitly state that bribery is nothing short of evil, that it is not a long-term solution to getting a child to do something because it installs the belief in the child that said child doesn’t even want to behave, that the child is incapable of good behaviour without bribery. Besides, who wants their child when they turn thirty to knock on your door with; “I had a poo in the toilet, can I have my sweets now?”

  But I didn’t care – bribery was great, and it usually worked. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working today.

  ‘But I want pudding. That’s not fair.’

  Her little voice was so shrill that it was starting to crack, managing to obtain many octaves all at once, reminding me of that possessed child from the movie The Exorcist; the one where the kid’s head went round
and round, spewing out pea soup.

  ‘Becky, please, don’t do this baby. For the love of God, will you just breathe?’

  I was fighting a losing battle – I knew it, she knew it, but admitting defeat at this stage could possibly make things so much worse.

  Above her screaming, I became aware of a male voice bellowing. The low-pitched shout didn’t last for long, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in alarm. My head violently snapped round in the direction of the sudden noise.

  The first thing I saw was Buster standing there, just a few metres away from me and Becky with his tail between his legs, quivering. The next thing I saw was him.

  The Angel of Death.

  I shook my head to dislodge the ridiculously juvenile thought. The Angel of Death, indeed.

  He stood dead still, clutching his right forearm to his broad, black-clad chest. It was with some alarm that I saw his left hand was smeared with blood. As if in a dream, I pulled myself up to my full height of five feet five, making sure to keep a tight grip of my squirming daughter’s hand.

  He took a step towards me, and I could feel the sudden force with which the blood coursed through my veins.

  Christ, he’s good-looking, came the entirely inappropriate thought. The first thing I noticed about him, besides the theatrical black trench-coat, was his dark, straight hair that was longish on top, skimming his eyebrows and getting thrashed around violently by the wind. Then I noticed the square set of his jaw, the sheer imposing height of the man, and the width of his shoulders.

  Then I looked into his eyes.

  Oh, dear God, his eyes. They were a greyish-blue, a perfect match for the winter sky above us. I’d never really understood the expression, to be “pinned into place by someone’s gaze”, but then I did. Oh boy, did I ever.

  ‘Your dog bit me,’ he said.

  There was no malice behind his words – none that I could detect anyway. Despite the simplicity of what he was saying, I didn’t immediately grasp the meaning of the words and just stood there gawping stupidly at him. After what felt like minutes – although it couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds – I cleared my throat to speak:

  ‘Buster’s not a biter.’

  As soon as it was out of my mouth, I regretted it. Even though I was wrong, even though it was plain for all to see that Buster was, in fact, a biter, I still couldn’t have stopped those words exiting my lips if I tried.

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  Okay, so he had me there. And was that a ghost of a sympathetic smile I saw on his face? No, I decided. I had imagined it. Buster took that moment to slither over to me, as sheepish as hell. Still holding onto Becky’s hand, I instinctively – and very awkwardly – reached out to pat Buster’s head. It struck me that it was probably the wrong thing to do, I mean, what kind of an insensitive moron pets their dog after it’s just savaged somebody?

  Throughout all of this, I suddenly became aware that the volume of Becky’s screams had dialled down a notch. They hadn’t stopped, exactly, but they were definitely quieter. Usually, she went into a stunned silence if a stranger approached us and would bury her face in my thighs. Right now though, this was as close to a stunned silence as we were getting.

  To my surprise, the man came over to us, still cradling his arm to his chest, and crouched down before my soggy-faced daughter. ‘Hi there, what’s your name?’

  Predictably, she buried her face in my leg. She had stopped crying though, for which I was inordinately grateful. It suddenly occurred to me that the price for the cessation of tears would be Buster’s death, and a wave of panic crashed over me, making me momentarily light-headed. Becky loved Buster, she would never forgive me. My grip tightened around Evil Dog’s neck.

  But he’s not a biter, came that same, self-assured thought again.

  The stranger remained kneeling before Becky. ‘My name’s Aaron, and it’s really nice to meet you. I couldn’t help but overhear that you would like some ice cream. There’s a tearoom just around the corner, shall we go and get some?’

  To be honest, his invitation stunned me. Buster had just taken a great chunk out of his hand; any other person would be insisting on a trip to the vets to get the animal put down.

  I wasn’t about to mention the ‘V’ word, however. Why temp fate?

  ‘Shouldn’t you go to the hospital? Is your car here? Would you like me to drive you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I had a tetanus jab last year. Don’t worry, it’s just a little bite.’ He stood up straight, towering over me with his impressive height.

  I stood there like a fool, my strawberry blonde curls whipping every which way, momentarily blinding me. When I pushed the hair from my eyes, he had moved closer again.

  I can’t have Buster put down. I just can’t, I thought frantically. Becky would be devastated.

  Up close, I could see the fine lines fanning out from his blue-grey eyes.

  No, there’s no blue in there, I realised dazedly. They’re steel grey. Unaccountably, the word steel blared in my mind. I shook off the strange thought.

  Becky’s face peeled away from my thigh like wet Velcro. ‘Mummy? Can we have ice cream now?’

  I stared down at her helplessly, lost for words.

  Before Buster had savaged the good-looking stranger, it hadn’t even occurred to me to actually sit down in a tearoom and eat ice cream with my daughter. I wasn’t so great around people and generally didn’t enjoy going into cafés, restaurants and pubs.

  If I agreed to this, technically I wasn’t losing face and going back on my word, because it wasn’t me who had offered her ice cream after her meltdown.

  Besides, there was the more pressing matter to discuss, like if – or more likely when – Buster should meet his maker.

  ‘What do you say?’ Aaron asked. ‘I think it will cheer your daughter up, and I need to run my hand under a tap. I can’t say I fancy the sea in this weather.’

  I just gazed up at him, unsure of what to say. There appeared to be no malice behind his eyes, no trace of anger. I straightened myself, conscious of Buster pressed against my leg and shivering, and Becky wrapped around my other thigh.

  ‘But Buster…’ I began, my voice trailing pathetically away because I had no idea how I intended to finish the sentence.

  I wasn’t sure if I meant, but Buster is going to die, or I don’t know if dogs are allowed in the café.

  Aaron smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to demand that your dog be put down, even though most people would, I hasten to add. But there is no escaping the fact that your dog bit me and there are things that we need to discuss.’

  ‘With Becky there?’

  ‘I’m not a monster. But you owe me a coffee. And Becky is long overdue her ice cream. I’m Aaron, Aaron Bailey.’ he said after a pause, sticking out his hand – the non-bloody one.

  After a fraction’s hesitation, I offered up my hand. ‘I’m Joyce Sanders.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joyce Sanders, it’s just a shame it has to be under such circumstances.’

  But he said it with a smile. When our hands touched, my fingers tingled at the feel of his warm, dry skin. I felt my face flush hot and hoped that he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Can I see?’ I asked, indicating his damaged hand with the downward cast of my eyes, more to hide my schoolgirl blushes than anything else.

  ‘Really, it’s nothing, just a scratch.’

  ‘How do you know? You might need stitches.’

  ‘I don’t need stitches.’

  ‘How deep is the bite? How can you be so sure you don’t need antibiotics as a pre-emptive thing, or whatever else it is that they do?’

  ‘Because I’ve had quite a bit of experience of these things.’

  ‘Why? Do you often get bitten by dogs?’

  He laughed, and it was a lovey, warm sound. It was also a bitter-sweet sound, a painful reminder of how much I missed companionship, or, more specifically, male companionship.
<
br />   ‘No, I can’t say that I do. I’m a surgeon.’

  ‘Oh.’

  That shut me up; I simply couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  Becky tugged on my coat. ‘Mummeee, ice cream.’

  ‘Come on, my treat, it’s cold out here,’ he said.

  ‘The café might not allow dogs,’ I said.

  Half of me was hoping that he would stop and say, “oh, I never thought about that, I guess we can’t go then”, and the other half of me – the treacherous half that had been starved of a man’s company for so long, even if said man had just been mauled by my dog – got the answer it craved.

  ‘It’s okay. They do.’

  I didn’t have a choice, so the three of us, plus dog, trooped up the beach and onwards to the café.

  THREE

  Aaron pushed open the door of Bumble’s Tearooms, situated off a sideroad directly opposite the beach.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said, holding open the door and gesturing for us to enter.

  Becky tugged on one hand, and Buster on the other, straining against his lead. I hesitated for a second, the near-idiotic thought occurring to me…

  How did he know this place was okay with dogs?

  ‘Have you been here before?’ I asked over my shoulder as Becky dragged me inside.

  ‘A couple of times. Why don’t you go and grab that table by the window? I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Of course, I thought, sitting down. That makes perfect sense. He’s been here before, that’s how he knows that they allow dogs. But all the same, the thought niggled at me, making me frown. The fact that he knew this place allowed dogs was hardly important, but for some reason it enveloped me with the most uncomfortable feeling, like him knowing that fact actually mattered, or something.

  Shaking off the misplaced sense of unease, which I put down to jitters at being out with a stranger – and a gorgeous male one at that – I steered Becky over to the table under the window. There weren’t many people in the café, just an elderly couple sitting at a table in the middle of the room, and a stooped, old lady near the door to the kitchen. There was an air of sadness and despondency about the place, like it was waiting for the tourists to breathe life into it again. Yet still I loved the town when it was devoid of bodies, when the narrow streets weren’t groaning with visitors and a melancholy air clung to places like this. That feeling of being cocooned, of being isolated and cut off from the real world was something I mostly found incredibly soothing.