You Belong To Me: a psychological thriller with a brilliant twist Read online

Mr Cheap Cider knew Josh better than anyone else in the world. Knew how to encourage him to think about the one thing he shouldn’t. Visit his past and dig up the bones. The longer Mr Cheap Cider spent with Josh, the more Kate got pushed to one side.

  Josh McBain had never intended to drive Kate away. She was the love of his life. His salvation. The only person who’d ever come close to understanding him. But Mr Cheap Cider was a very persuasive friend. He had a way of cajoling Josh and egging him on.

  His night of shame had started off like most other nights – home from his window round at just after six, a long soak in the tub, dinner and looking forward to an evening snuggled up with Kate on the sofa watching telly.

  He’d taken his usual can of cider into the bathroom with him. Just one to unwind. Forget the dog that had gone for him in a back garden. The cantankerous old git who’d refused to pay because there was a smear on the top window that only the cantankerous old git could see.

  Josh was unaware of the rage bubbling away inside him. He was used to suppressing his feelings. His life depended on it. But tonight, Mr Cheap Cider seemed to talk in his ear louder than ever, encouraging him to think about the worst day of his life. The day that had eventually seen him forced to leave his hometown and start afresh. The day that had driven him away from the family he loved and the things he loved doing.

  Josh could remember little about smashing up the flat. Or Kate locking herself in the bathroom and calling the cops. One minute he’d been getting dressed in the bedroom, the next he’d been consumed by an urge to ‘let it all out’. He’d spared nothing in his rampage. Photos. Mirrors. Windows. Glasses and plates. By the time he’d finished, the flat looked as if it had been hit by a missile. One fired straight from a bunker in his heart.

  Kate had fled and returned home to her parents. Left him to spend the rest of his miserable, pointless life with Mr Cheap Cider. Josh had spent many lonely nights telling himself that she would come back. If he could just convince her he would never do nothing like that again. He would give up drinking. Go to anger management. Burn himself alive if he had to. But Kate had never contacted him again. Mr Cheap Cider had proved a persuasive partner and was still sharing his life to this day.

  Josh tried to get up, but his head felt as if someone had nailed it to the bed. He felt on the bedside table for his glasses and knocked a glass of water over.

  ‘Shit. Fuck.’

  ‘Wassamatta?’ Sid asked, his voice thick with sleep and cigarettes.

  Josh forced himself upright and peered over the edge of the bed. His trainers were waterlogged. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Wassit?’

  ‘My fucking phone’s in my shoe.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘My trainers are wet.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How come your trainers are wet? Is the roof leaking?’

  ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘I’m bloody well awake now, aren’t I?’

  Josh stood up and waited for the room to stop feeling like a ship at sea. He bent over and picked up the trainer containing his phone. He plucked it out, shook it and dropped the shoe back on the floor.

  ‘Do you remember coming home last night?’ Sid asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember getting in a row with that bloke in the chippy?’

  Josh searched his brain, but all his thoughts were hiding under a rock. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You threatened to stick his head in the fryer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wanted a battered sausage.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘You reckoned he was taking the piss out of you.’

  Josh shook his phone again and wiped it on the duvet cover. ‘Why did I think he was taking the piss?’

  ‘Search me. You know how you get sometimes.’

  ‘I know I get a fucking headache every time.’ Josh walked to the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. He took out a can of lager and popped the tab. ‘I might go to Peggy’s Café for a bacon butty.’

  ‘You got money?’

  Josh returned to the bedroom. Two single beds took up most of the room, leaving only enough space for a battered wardrobe and a chair that looked as old as the Victorian block of flats. Northern Park Development wasn’t famed for its beautiful buildings and magnificent landscapes, but it was home. For now. And a step up from sleeping rough.

  Josh sat on the bed and pawed at his hair as if trying to untangle the tight curls. There were already strands of grey showing in the dark matting, but Josh didn’t care about that any more than he cared about the weather. He’d long since stopped worrying about anything other than getting through each day and trying to survive in a world that wasn’t built for the likes of him.

  He grabbed his jeans off the floor and checked the pockets. Two pounds and eighty-five pence. He checked and rechecked the back pockets for notes. Nothing. ‘Fuck me, I had forty quid when we went out.’

  ‘You lost half of it playing pool.’

  Josh remembered shooting a few frames with a big bloke with a beard. He couldn’t remember the stakes, but he’d let the booze cloud his judgement. Again.

  ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

  Sid laughed. ‘Are you serious? Last time I tried you went for me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The night you were gonna go home with Maggie Rowlett.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who Maggie Rowlett is. And everyone knows she’s got the clap.’

  Josh shrugged. He put on his jeans, checked the front of his t-shirt for stains and wandered back to the kitchen to make a cup of black coffee. ‘Nothing for it – I’ll have to go busking before I go to Peggy’s.’

  ‘Do the world a favour,’ Sid called. ‘Put some sun glasses on. Your eyes look bad enough to scare kids.’

  Josh smiled and put the kettle on. He was about to check his phone when someone knocked on the door. Three loud raps. It was funny how different knocks conjured up different images in Josh’s head. The postman had a certain knock. Friends another. This one sounded official. Open up or else!

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ Sid called. ‘It might be the landlord.’

  Josh had no argument with that. Although he thought it more likely to be a bailiff than the man himself.

  The knocks came again. Louder. More insistent. Josh crept into the hallway. He was about to take a peek through the peephole when the letterbox opened.

  ‘If you’re in there, Mr McBain, please open the door. I’ve got something important for you.’

  Josh pressed himself against the wall. The voice didn’t sound quite as official as the knock. More friendly and concerned than authoritative. But that might just be a ploy. A trick to get him to lower his guard and open the door.

  ‘Mr McBain?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My name’s Stephen Chambers. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a message for you.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘I ain’t got no friends.’

  ‘Can you please open the door so I can give it to you?’

  ‘Why can’t you just tell me what it is?’

  ‘Because I’ve been paid to hand it to you.’

  Sid joined him in the hallway. Just over five foot in his bare feet and skinny enough to make his ribcage his most prominent feature, Sid placed his index finger over his lips and shook his head.

  ‘Two seconds of your time, then I’m away.’

  ‘What’s this so-called friend of mine called?’

  ‘Daniel Sheppard.’

  Josh’s legs lost all their strength. He could still see the pot plant on the hall table that rarely got watered. The filthy lino that had somehow managed to add a smear of blood to its hideous pattern. But Josh would have been hard-pressed to tell you where he was, who he was and why he was there at that moment.

  ‘Josh?’ The voice called through the letterbox again.

  ‘
Who the fuck’s Daniel Sheppard?’ Sid asked, like a jealous lover learning of a rival.

  Josh ignored him and staggered to the door. He opened it to reveal a large man with a white envelope in his hand. The man had a beard. For one daft moment he wondered if it was the guy from the pub come to give him back the money he’d lost playing pool.

  ‘You Josh McBain?’

  Josh nodded.

  He held out the envelope. ‘This is for you.’

  Josh took the envelope. The man wished him good luck, as if he knew Josh would need all the four-leafed clovers he could find. He then walked away, leaving Josh standing in the open doorway as if sleepwalking.

  Sid closed the door. ‘Who’s Daniel Sheppard?’

  Josh didn’t answer him. He walked back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. He opened the envelope, took out a single sheet of notepaper and read:

  It’s happened again. We need to meet. My place, Saturday 4 July. Danny.

  Memories came flooding back to him. Terrible memories of that fateful day just over nine years ago.

  Sid walked into the bedroom. ‘What is it, mate?’

  Josh bowed his head and sobbed. Tears splashed onto the letter as if trying to drown the words and destroy the memories that went with them.

  4

  Rob Wallace was not having a good day. He’d slipped over getting out of the shower and cut himself shaving a few minutes later. The sleeping pills always left him with a thick head. He sat at the kitchen table and washed two Prozac tablets down with his morning coffee.

  Three failed suicide attempts had resulted in the doctor prescribing him the antidepressants and referring him for counselling, but Rob could never tell anyone what was really troubling him. That was something he would have to take to his grave.

  Without his girlfriend, Michelle, Rob knew he would just be another headstone in the graveyard right now. She was his rock. His unpaid social worker. His everything. He’d met her in the park seven years ago while he was out walking his boxer dog, Caesar. She’d been sitting on a bench sketching in a large pad. Caesar, as only Caesar could do, had gone to investigate and give his professional opinion of the drawing. He’d sealed his approval by slobbering all over the work.

  Rob had offered to buy her a new pad. Take Caesar for behavioural therapy. At least give him a bib to wear when he got overexcited. Michelle had laughed and told Caesar it was fine. He’d actually improved her picture. After several apologies from Rob, and a short awkward silence, Michelle had told him he could buy her a coffee if he really wanted to make amends.

  Rob had obliged. He’d just moved into a new flat in Oxford and he didn’t know a soul. He’d also landed a job at the BMW plant. A clean break. A fresh start away from Feelham and its relentless reminder of the past.

  Coffee had produced an exchange of mobile numbers, and by the fifth date he’d felt comfortable in Michelle’s company. With her long dark hair and lovely smile, Michelle was living proof you could be both beautiful and interesting. She was a care worker, a good listener and a budding artist. Rob thought her sketches were good enough to adorn walls.

  Michelle was also modest, but her eyes shone when he praised her. Within six months they were sharing Rob’s one-bedroom flat and the bills. Life was finally looking up for a man who’d thought it was over before his sixteenth birthday. He didn’t just fall in love with Michelle – he plummeted headfirst. Rob Wallace didn’t believe in God, but he wondered if Michelle was an angel sent straight from heaven to help him.

  Caesar, that dumb mutt who Rob threatened daily with extinction, seemed to agree with Rob’s assessment. He’d ceased being Rob’s dog long ago. Michelle was his boss, and he did everything in his power to stay close to her. He’d even claimed a spot on the bed between them.

  Life was as good as it could be for a man as damaged as Rob Wallace. Not that everything had been wonderful in the time they’d been together. Apart from the usual niggly stuff like leaving the lid off the toothpaste and not putting the toilet seat down, there had been a few near misses. Particularly the night she’d gone out for a drink with some girls from work. Rob had felt fine when she’d left. Pleased for her to let her hair down for once. There was a football match on telly, and he’d planned to have some beers and enjoy the game.

  By the time he was halfway down the second can, his good mood had slid. The flat felt as if it was suffocating him. He could barely draw breath. The football crowd sounded as if it was mocking him. Goading him. Telling him to get the Stanley knife from the kitchen drawer and slide the blade across his wrists.

  He staggered to the front room window and opened it, gulping cold November air into his lungs. The cars parked on the road outside looked so small. Like toys. A sudden urge to jump out of the window gripped him. How far down was it? Maybe thirty feet. If he went headfirst, there would be no chance of survival.

  How nice for Michelle, a voice in his head whispered. God knows what you’d do to someone you hate.

  He closed the window and walked into the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and held onto the basin for support. Told himself to get a grip and think about Michelle. The past didn’t matter anymore. Leaping out of a window or slashing his wrists couldn’t change that. The only person it would hurt was Michelle. Did he really want to leave her with a massive hole in her life? She was the only good thing that had ever happened to him.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he said. ‘Will I ever get any peace?’

  His eyes looked almost black in the mirror. The jagged scar across his neck still seemed raw. Eight years old, the scar was a constant reminder of how close he’d come to ending his life. The doctor at the hospital had told him he was lucky to be alive. Perhaps the doctor would have been less inclined to make such statements if he’d known the truth about what had made Rob want to end his suffering.

  He hadn’t leapt out of the window or slashed his wrists that night. The moment had passed almost as quickly as it had arrived. Safe again. Until the next time.

  Michelle walked into the kitchen rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  Rob checked his phone. ‘Nearly ten.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘Thought you might like a lie in. How do you feel about going to Bluebell Woods for a picnic?’

  ‘Have we even got anything for a picnic?’

  Rob shrugged. He hadn’t thought of that. ‘We could go to Tesco first.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere near a supermarket on a Saturday. I want to have a nice weekend.’

  ‘The Eight ‘till Late, then?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She shuffled to the fridge and peered inside. ‘We’ve got three cans of diet coke and some limp lettuce in the chiller.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  Michelle took out a carton of milk. She went to the side and made herself a coffee. ‘How long have you been up?’

  ‘Not long,’ Rob lied. He didn’t want to tell her he’d been awake since just gone four. Another nightmare. Not as bad as some of the others, but nasty enough to destroy any hope of falling back to sleep. This one had involved slowly sinking in a bog. Inch by inch. Screaming for help, but knowing no one could save him – especially the dark man standing on the edge of the bog laughing at him as he sank.

  ‘Do you want to come back to bed for a while?’

  ‘I’m not feeling up to anything right now.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He tried to ignore the hurt in her eyes. The slight recoil as if he’d just slapped her face. ‘I want to. I really do. It’s just I’m not feeling too good today. That’s why I thought it would be nice to go to the woods and get some fresh air.’

  Michelle reset her face. Gave a brief smile that didn’t touch her eyes. ‘That’s all right. I understand.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind a cuddle, though.’

  She walked around the table, sat on his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. Kissed his cheek and treated him to a wonderful morning aroma of st
ale perfume and warm breath.

  ‘I love you so much,’ he told her as she rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘You too.’

  They stayed this way until a knock on the door interrupted them.

  ‘Wonder who that is?’ Michelle asked, untangling herself from Rob and heading off to the front door.

  He listened intently as his girlfriend answered the door. He stiffened as a man’s voice said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Does a Mr Rob Wallace live here?’

  A slight hesitation, then, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think I could have a word with him?’

  ‘Who is it?’ Rob called, standing up and hurrying into the hall.

  ‘My name’s Stephen Chambers. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a message for you.’

  Rob’s heart stalled. ‘A message? Who from?’

  ‘Daniel Sheppard.’

  Rob felt the blood drain out of his face.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Michelle asked.

  Rob gawped at Stephen Chambers as if he’d just alighted from an alien craft. ‘Danny?’

  Stephen nodded. Held out a white envelope.

  ‘What does he want?’

  The man shrugged and stroked his beard. ‘I’ve just been paid to find you and deliver it.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘A bit of research and some help from the electoral register, Mr Wallace.’

  Rob took the envelope, his hand unsteady. He caught Stephen looking at the scars running across his right wrist.

  Relieved of the envelope, Stephen Chambers smiled and turned away. ‘Good luck.’

  Rob closed the door. He walked back to the kitchen and sat at the small pine table. The clock on the wall was still ticking, but time seemed to stand still.

  Michelle sat down opposite him. ‘Rob?’

  He didn’t hear her. Just stared at the envelope and flipped it over and over in his hands. He knew everything had been going too well lately. No deep, dark depressions. Enough money to pay the bills and have some left over for the nicer things in life. Plans to get married next summer. What the hell did he have to do to escape the past?

  ‘Who’s Daniel Sheppard?’

  ‘Just some bloke I used to know.’