Tell Me I'm Wrong Read online

  I sometimes wonder if that’s why I’ve had my own problems bonding with Evie. Perhaps I’ve been too focused on keeping Chris happy and making sure he wasn’t genuinely disappointed with our daughter, I’ve let my own care for her slip.

  To give him his dues, he’s never given me any sort of indication of disappointment or regret. He’s shown nothing but love for Evie — despite the bonding issues — and I know I have to trust in that.

  But my mind won’t stop niggling.

  I wonder if this has all been some sort of ‘revenge psychosis’ — if there even is such a thing. Has he been so unable to cope with not being able to have a son that he has felt the need to deprive others of theirs? The thought sounds ridiculous, but I’m well aware of how fragile a person’s mind can be — particularly when under situations of great stress.

  All I can keep doing is putting myself in his shoes. Trying to think like him. To have dreamed about having a son for so long, to think he was unable to have any children, then to be presented not only with a daughter, but a wife who was almost completely unable to look after her. He’s had to deal with my own issues after the birth of Evie. It’s been a huge amount to have on his shoulders, and I don’t think anyone could blame him for being mentally fragile.

  But it’s a huge, enormous leap from mentally fragile to crazed serial killer. My logical mind just can’t make that jump, and in many ways I’m thankful for that. I don’t want to think that about my husband. Who does?

  It’s the sort of thing you read in books and see in films. But it’s reality too, isn’t it? It’s believed that Harold Shipman — Britain’s most prolific serial killer — murdered his hundreds of elderly victims because they reminded him of his own mother. And everyone said the same about him. He seemed so nice. I never would have thought that about him. I guess it’s only natural. If serial killers walked around with crazed looks on their faces, wielding their bloody axes above their heads in the middle of Tesco, they wouldn’t last very long. It’s sheer self-preservation to look and act normal, to blend in.

  Everything is starting to make sense. The pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place. Motive, means and opportunity. That’s what they need, isn’t it? Well, now we’ve got all three. He had the opportunity — he was out fishing when Riley Markham was killed and I was at the doctor’s when Kai Bolton died. Chris could have been anywhere. Did he go out for half an hour or so? The means doesn’t even need questioning. He’s a grown man, and not a small one at that. Riley and Kai were both young boys. Chris could have overpowered them more than easily. And then there’s that motive. Is this all because we weren’t able to have a son? Because Evie was a girl? Is this my fault?

  My mind’s running away with me again, but does he resent me for not being able to provide him with a son? Does that mean I’m next? Will I be his last victim? And what about Evie?

  I can’t even remember which way round the biology goes. Is it the sperm or the egg that determines the gender of the baby? Chris would know. He’s the teacher. So does that mean it’s either him or me that will end up dead too? How many more children need to die before that happens?

  I can feel my breath increasing and I try to stave off the inevitable panic attack. I need to speak to someone about this. I have to. It’s insane trying to keep something like this to myself. But who can I tell? I don’t have any close friends. I can’t bring the subject up with Chris. Mum would tell everyone within a five-hundred-mile radius.

  As ever, I’m completely on my own.

  I could speak to Doctor Ashford. Wouldn’t he be legally bound by patient-doctor confidentiality? He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what we discussed, would he? I’m fairly sure there’s a clause that says doctors are allowed to disclose things if they think a law has been broken, or people’s lives are in danger. This situation covers both of those.

  But I don’t think I want Doctor Ashford to listen to me as a friend, to tell me I’m being unreasonable or talk through the situation with me. I want him to tell me these are paranoid delusions. To prove that the cap never existed — that I imagined it. That being at home on my own all the time is making my mind play tricks on me.

  I guess it’s not often someone wants to be told they’re going mad, but right now I want that more than anything else in the world. What will they do? Put me on medication? Suggest I go somewhere for a few weeks to get my mind straight? Then what will happen to Evie? Either way, it’s got to be preferable to the alternative. It’s far better she’s left with her dad for a bit while Mummy gets better than it would being left with a killer. And that’s why I hope beyond hope that this is all in my mind. That I’m imagining things.

  I call the doctor’s surgery to make an appointment. They tell me there’s nothing left for today and in any case Doctor Ashford isn’t in. The receptionist says I’ll have to call again tomorrow to make an appointment for then. I tell her it’s urgent, that it’s related to what I came to see him about last time and that I really need to see Doctor Ashford first thing in the morning. She tells me if it’s urgent I should call NHS Direct or go to a hospital. I tell her again it’s Doctor Ashford I need to see. I say he’ll understand. Finally, she relents and books me in for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.

  Evie gurgles and smacks her hand on the tray of her high chair, over and over.

  ‘You okay to stay there for a minute, sweetie?’ I say, knowing damn well she’s not capable of answering me. I open the kitchen door and step out into the garden. I stand staring at the wheelie bin, the movement of Evie hammering the tray of her high chair in the corner of my eye.

  I need to know. I have to see this again, to find out if I’m going mad or if my husband has just killed two young boys in cold blood. I can’t do it any more. I can’t hold on, pretending everything is alright, knowing I’m either crazy or married to a serial child killer. I don’t know how I’ve held on this long, but I can feel myself at breaking point, cracking at the seams, ready to explode.

  I swallow, step forward and lift up the lid of the bin.

  Realising I’ve jammed my eyes shut, not wanting to see, I gradually open them and re-adjust to the light. I peer inside the bin.

  There’s nothing but black bin bags.

  The cap is gone.

  27

  Megan

  I barely slept last night. Something that was meant to give me closure has sent my mind into a tailspin. Was the cap ever there in the first place? Did I imagine it all along? I hope so. I really do.

  But I laid awake all night thinking of the different possibilities. I imagined Chris trying to cover his tracks, having dumped the cap in the bin after killing Riley, then going back later to take it out and hide it somewhere else. Somewhere final. What would he have done? He’s a practical guy, and he’s not daft. He more than likely would have burned it. Destroyed the evidence.

  It was a delusion, I tell myself. It’s all down to a lack of sleep combined with some form of post-natal depression. Or maybe some deeper psychological problem. Either way, I’ll soon have the answers.

  I roll over and look at the clock. 7.54am. Evie’s still asleep. I watch her on the baby monitor for a few moments, lying in her cot. She’s finally been sleeping through the night this past week or so, which is more than I can say for myself.

  I can hear Chris in the bathroom on the other side of the landing, and I roll over and close my eyes for a bit.

  I must have nodded off, because I wake when Chris comes back into the room, towelling his hair dry as he stands in the doorway in his boxer shorts.

  ‘She still asleep?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘The shower normally wakes her.’

  ‘Yeah. She must be tired,’ I say, glancing back over at the monitor.

  Chris closes the bedroom door behind him and throws the towel to the floor. ‘We could always make good use of the time,’ he says, as he kneels on the bed, leans over and kisses me.

  I try not to react — not negatively, anyway
— as I don’t want to alarm him.

  ‘I need to get up, Chris. I’ve got to go into town to get a few things.’

  ‘That can wait ten minutes,’ he says, kissing my neck and dropping his arm beneath the bedclothes.

  Gradually, I relent, and we spend the next twenty minutes exploring each other’s bodies in a way we haven’t done since long before Evie was born.

  When we’re done, Chris rolls over and lies back on the bed. I look at him, not knowing what to think or feel. He brings his hand to his face to scratch his nose, and it’s then that I notice the plaster on the heel of his hand. We used to joke that Chris used to be the model for flesh-coloured plasters, as they didn’t seem to be the same colour as anyone else’s flesh, other than his.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask him.

  ‘Hmmm? Oh, I cut myself.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Out in the garden yesterday. Getting rid of that bloody tree stump.’

  ‘Oh right. You didn’t say.’

  ‘Didn’t think I needed to. It’s only a small cut.’

  ‘How did you do it? On the stump itself?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably.’

  ‘Did you clean it properly before you put the plaster on?’ I ask, my voice catching in my throat as I speak.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘What do you mean where? I rinsed the blood off in the sink.’

  ‘Which one?’

  He sits up and supports himself on one elbow as he looks at me. ‘The bathroom one. What’s all this about?’

  I look at him as if nothing’s wrong. ‘Nothing. Just checking, that’s all. Don’t want you getting an infection or anything.’ I lean over and kiss him, hoping this will placate him and convince him that my questioning was entirely innocent.

  Somehow, though, things don’t quite seem right.

  28

  Megan

  It’s weird how seemingly insignificant thoughts keep cropping into my mind. It’s almost as if my brain is using it as a coping mechanism. Rather than tormenting itself with the blindingly obvious concern that my husband could be a serial killer, it’s instead filling itself with seemingly mundane thoughts. Right now, the main thought going through my mind is that it’ll be good for Chris to spend some time alone with Evie while I’m out.

  For some reason, I feel as though I need to hide my tracks. I didn’t tell Chris I was going back to the doctor. He’d only ask why, and there’s no way I could tell him. I park my car in the town centre car park and walk to the doctor’s surgery. I even take the back roads, just in case someone sees me.

  When I’m about halfway there, my phone rings. I take it out of my bag and look at the screen, but it’s a mobile number I don’t recognise. I swipe to answer the call and put the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi Megs. It’s me.’

  I recognise the voice immediately, just as she expects me to. Her sheer nerve and arrogance means she doesn’t even need to introduce herself.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, trying to work out why my sister has decided to ring me now, despite the fact we haven’t spoken in years. And what’s with all the ‘Megs’ shit? Does she expect us to suddenly be friends again?

  ‘I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I thought it was about time we put everything behind us,’ she says. She’s right about one of those statements, that’s for sure. I note there’s no apology, no acceptance of the fact that it’s her fault we haven’t spoken in years.

  ‘I’m just on my way into town,’ I reply, as if this is some sort of excuse for not wanting to speak to her. But I’m hardly going to follow it up with ‘I’ll call you back later’.

  ‘Look, James and I were thinking of organising a family meal. For all of us. We need to put this all behind us. We’ve still never met Evie, and that’s not good for anyone.’

  I bite my tongue. Why is it that a new baby in the family means people who’ve not bothered to speak to you in years suddenly want to pal up again? Because I’m such good company as a sentient adult that you don’t want to spend time with me unless there’s a gurgling, screaming baby in the room as well?

  ‘I’ll have to speak to Chris,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.’

  I feel the anger rising up inside me. Who’s she to tell me what my husband will think? Then again, I don’t have a clue what’s going through his mind at the moment either.

  Deep down, I know it’s a shame we don’t talk any more. We used to be quite close when we were younger. We fell out all the time, of course, as sisters do. It was usually due to her bone-headed stubbornness, or her complete inability to recognise that what she’d said could be construed as offensive. Mum used to tell me I was overthinking things, worrying about problems that didn’t exist. Part of me wonders just how right she was.

  But all I want is an apology, or at least some sort of recognition that what she said the last time we spoke was deeply offensive. I don’t want her grovelling on her knees. I just need her to recognise the effect her words had, even if she’s not sorry about them.

  ‘Lauren, I don’t mean to sound rude, but you can’t just brush everything under the carpet. You really upset me that day. And Chris. I don’t think you realise.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I got the hint,’ Lauren says. ‘The fact you haven’t spoken to me since then made it kind of obvious.’

  I sigh. ‘It’s only one word, Lauren. And you can’t even manage that.’

  ‘What good would it do? Would it mean you weren’t offended any more? What’s the point of just saying sorry after things? It’s not as if it mends anything.’

  ‘No, but we all make mistakes. Saying sorry is recognising that you made a mistake and pledging to try not to do it again.’

  ‘You think I don’t realise I made a mistake?’ she says. ‘I can say sorry if you like, but I don’t know what difference it’s going to make to what’s happened.’

  I stay silent. I know that if I speak I’m likely to snap.

  ‘Megs, you know what I’m like. You know it’s not been easy for me to make this call. I don’t do regrets. But I’m here. I’ve called you. I’ve invited you to come to this family meal and to get everyone round a table together for the first time in years because I want to put things behind us. If you think I’m not sorry for what happened, that’s fine. But personally I think actions speak louder than words.’

  And, just like that, Lauren the Golden Girl pulls it out of the bag again, leaving me to look like I’m the one who has to swallow my pride. She has a magical ability to turn the tables in situations like this.

  I sigh. ‘Where and when were you thinking?’

  ‘Sunday lunch at the Forester’s?’

  ‘This Sunday?’ I say, as if we might be busy, knowing damn well we aren’t. The Forester’s Arms is a large village pub about six or seven miles from here, which was converted into a new-style gastropub a year or two ago. It’s neutral ground — somewhere we’ve not been in a long time.

  ‘Yeah. This Sunday. If you’re free,’ she says.

  ‘That’s two days away. But I think we are. I’ll double-check with Chris when I get back. I’ll text you.’

  ‘Great. I was thinking maybe we could all pop back to ours after. I don’t know if Mum told you, but we’ve moved.’

  ‘She did. Sounds lovely. Anyway, I’ll text you later. I’m about to go into the bank now,’ I say, as I round the corner into another residential street.

  And, just like that, my sister is back in my life, as if nothing ever happened. An uneasy feeling in my gut tells me it might not be for the best.

  29

  Megan

  I sit in the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl playing truant. A surge of panicked anxiety rises inside me. Why am I here? What am I doing? It’s fine, I tell myself. I just need Doctor Ashford to tell me this is all normal, to tell me this sort of psychosis is a perfectly common f
eature of post-natal depression. If not, fine. Maybe it’s something separate. A different condition. But the one thing it can’t be is real.

  My heart flutters in my chest, and I pick at my fingernails. I’ve never been a nervous person. Not up until recently, anyway. Every time a door bangs shut or someone coughs, I jump a little in my seat. I know I’m reaching a cliff edge and I need help. How it’s taken me this long to reach the end of my tether is anyone’s guess. But what other choice did I have?

  I jump again as the appointment screen bleeps and my name appears on it. I stand and hurry towards Doctor Ashford’s room, hoping it’ll make my name disappear more quickly.

  ‘So how are you, Megan?’ he asks as I enter the room and sit down on the chair next to his desk.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ I say.

  ‘Is this a continuation of our last appointment?’

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘Okay. What’s changed since we last saw you?’

  I sigh. I really don’t know how to answer that. Nothing. Everything. Both. Somewhere in between. ‘I’ve been having some worrying thoughts,’ I say, eventually, not wanting to meet his eye.

  Doctor Ashford shuffles in his seat and leans forward slightly. ‘What sort of thoughts? Thoughts of wanting to harm yourself?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. More… delusions, I guess. Imagining things. Not knowing what’s real and what isn’t. Being tormented by my own thoughts.’

  He nods slowly. ‘Can you give me any examples of these thoughts?’

  I sigh again. This is it. Make or break. The first time I’ve ever vocalised my thoughts about this to anyone. After this, there’s no going back.

  ‘There’s been some news stories recently. The two young boys who were killed locally. I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a new mum myself or what, but I… I’m starting to convince myself that my husband is involved somehow.’