What lies between us, p.1
What Lies Between Us, page 1
PRAISE FOR JOHN MARRS
‘Provocative, terrifying and compulsive.’
—Cara Hunter, author of Close to Home
‘Really clever concept and some great characters and twists. It’s a real joy to read something totally original, smart and thought-provoking.’
—Peter James, author of the Roy Grace series
‘One of the most exciting, original thriller writers out there. I never miss one of his books.’
—Simon Kernick
‘Gorgeously written, and pulsing with heart.’
—Louise Beech, author of The Mountain in My Shoe
‘This is a superb heart-pounding chiller of a thriller.’
—The Sun
‘A brilliantly inventive thriller.’
—Good Housekeeping
‘Gripping from the start and full of surprises, this kept us up long after lights out.’
—Isabelle Broom, Heat
‘Full of twists, vividly drawn characters you’ll love or love to loathe and pacy action.’
—SFX
‘As topical as it is tense . . . No skill is required to recognise why John Marrs has become such a popular author, with his relatable characters, clever ideas, and smooth storytelling.’
—Sunday Express
‘It’s crammed with twists and turns that’ll keep you guessing right until the very end. 5/5.’
—OK!
‘If you’re looking for a sleek, exhilarating ride, look no further.’
—Financial Times
‘Marrs excels at thrilling readers by creating a real sense of tension and delivering a believable, harsh criticism of modern society through this dark and entertaining story.’
—LA Times
‘Fun and compelling; I read the final pages while walking down the street, unwilling to wait until I got home.’
—Wired
‘This will have you gripped.’
—Woman’s Own
‘Engaging concept, craftily executed.’
—Adrian J. Walker, author of The End of the World Running Club
‘Wonderful concept, ridiculously entertaining . . . an absolute pleasure, the malevolence and impishness of a young Roald Dahl.’
—T. A. Cotterell, author of What Alice Knew
‘Fantastic . . . I can’t remember the last time I was simultaneously this entertained and this disturbed.’
—Hollie Overton, Sunday Times bestselling author of Baby Doll
‘[Marrs] writes tough, fast-paced, and twisty crime stories . . . If you like Simon Kernick, you’ll love this.’
—Peterborough Telegraph
‘Completely unputdownable . . . A must-read for crime fiction, psychological thriller, and thriller fans alike.’
—Books of All Kinds
‘[Her Last Move] will suck you in . . . This is one of those books that will lead you to shirk responsibilities at home and work; postpone things like eating and sleeping . . . ’
—The Irresponsible Reader
ALSO BY JOHN MARRS
The One
When You Disappeared
Welcome to Wherever You Are
The Good Samaritan
Her Last Move
The Passengers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by John Marrs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
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ISBN-13: 9781542017022
eISBN: 9781542017015
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
Cover image: © Devin Meijer © Gorodenkoff © Dmitr1ch / Shutterstock; © Peter Baker / Getty Images
For Elliot
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
PART TWO
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
PART THREE
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.’
—Charles Spurgeon
PROLOGUE
I have stopped loving you. I have stopped caring about you. I have stopped worrying about you. I have simply . . . stopped.
This might come as news to you but despite everything, despite the cruelty, the selfishness and the pain you have caused, I still found a way to care. But not any more.
Now, I am putting you on notice. I no longer need you. I don’t think fondly of our early days, so I am erasing these memories and all that followed. For much of our time together I wished for a better relationship than the one we have, but I’ve come to understand this is the hand I have been dealt. And now I am showing you all my cards. Our game is complete.
You are the person I share this house with, nothing more, nothing less. You mean no more to me than the shutters that hide what goes on in here, the floorboards I walk over or the doors we use to separate us.
I have spent too much of my life trying to figure out your intricacies, of suffering your deeds like knives cutting through scar tissue. I am through with sacrificing who I should have been to keep you happy as it has only locked us in this status quo. I have wasted too much time wanting you to want me. I ache when I recall the opportunities I’ve been too scared to accept because of you. Such frittered-away chances make me want to crawl on my hands and knees to the end of the garden, curl up into a ball on a mound of earth and wait until the nettles and the ivy choke and cover me from view.
It’s only now that I recognise the wretched life you cloaked me in and how your misery needed my company to prevent you from feeling so isolated.
There is just one lesson I have learned from the life we share. And it is this: everything that is wrong with me is wrong with you too. We are one and the same. When I die, your flame will also extinguish.
The next time we are together, I want one of us to be lying stiff in a coffin wearing rags that no longer fit our dead, shrunken frame.
Only then can we separate. Only then can we be ourselves. Only then do I stand a chance of finding peace. Only then will I be free of you.
And should my soul soar, I promise that yours will sink like the heaviest of rocks, never to be seen again.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
MAGGIE
You can’t see me from my place up here in the crow’s nest. No one going about their business in the street can. I know that because I must have waved at my neighbours hundreds of times and they’ve never responded. To all intents and purposes, I’m invisible to the world. I don’t exist, I have expired, I am a ghost.
I probably resemble one too, standing behind these shutters that mute the light entering my bedroom and turn me into a shadow. When the lamps aren’t switched on outside, it’s like dusk in here even during the sunniest of days. It’s why each time I venture downstairs, I squint until my eyes adjust to the daylight. When the shutters were first installed, they made me claustrophobic; a barrier between the outside world and me. But I’ve grown accustomed to them. Given a little time, I become used to most things in the end. I’m that kind of woman; I’ve learned to be adaptable.
I refer to this room as the crow’s nest because it reminds me of a ship’s lookout point on the tallest of its masts. Sailors use them to see for miles across the horizon. My view extends as far as this housing estate.
Right now, I’m watching Barbara helping her mum Elsie into the passenger seat of a car. Barbara always makes time for her mum. Any parent would be proud of her. Elsie recently became reliant on a walking frame, one of those aluminium ones with castors attached to the front. I remember her complaining how the arthritis in her ankles and knee joints was escalating and that over-the-counter anti-inflammatories were no longer effective. I can’t tell you the number of times I suggested she make an appointment to see Dr Fellowes. Once I even offered to pull a few strings in my job as the deputy practice manager to ensure she got an appointment on a day of her choosing. But she’s a stubborn old coot. She thinks she’s being a nuisance if she sees a doctor more than once a year for her flu jab.
I wonder if Elsie still thinks of me. I wonder if she ever questions why I just stopped going to her house for coffee every Thursday afternoon. Half-past three sharp, regular as clockwork; we stuck to that routine for years. I’d return home from work, grab my own jar of coffee from the shelf – she always served that bitter supermarket brand I hated – and we’d spend a couple of hours putting the world to rights or gossiping about the neighbours. I miss those chats. I’ve caught her looking towards the house on numerous occasions, so I like to think she hasn’t forgotten about me.
Barbara’s car moves off the drive, along the street and past number forty. The letting agency has taken its eye off the ball with that one. From up here, I can just about see into the rear of the property – and what a pigsty it is now. If the previous owner, Mr Steadman, knew what had become of his once-beautiful garden, he’d be turning in his grave. The lawn has grown into the borders he spent hours fussing over and they’re filled with cans and takeaway boxes. Students have no respect for anything.
His grandson should have just sold the place. Or perhaps he couldn’t find a buyer. Not everyone is content to live in a house where the previous occupant’s dead body lay undiscovered for weeks. I was the only one who noticed the build-up of newspapers poking through Mr Steadman’s letterbox and spotted that his curtains hadn’t been opened. I would have raised the alarm myself but of course that’s the last thing I can do.
Outside, a red car with a dent in the front bumper parks on the grass verge by the telegraph pole. It’s Louise at number eighteen and when she exits, I can see the swell of her belly under her T-shirt. She’s pregnant again and I’m delighted for her. She reached this stage once before, then one day, an ambulance arrived at her house and the next time I saw her, she had suddenly just stopped being pregnant. Her body returned to its normal shape as if nothing had happened. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have to ‘untell’ people. I don’t think you can ever be normal again after losing something you were so looking forward to loving.
I wonder if she is still working part-time at the cash and carry. I haven’t seen her wearing her uniform for a while. I know that her husband is still a cabbie because his taxi’s headlights frequently flash across my ceiling when he arrives home after a night shift. Sometimes if I can’t sleep, I’ll watch his shadow behind the wheel, engine switched off, his face barely illuminated by the dashboard. I often wonder, what prevents him from going inside straight away? Perhaps he’s imagining a different life to the one beyond that front door. I can understand that; I often imagine my own alternative existence. But like that old song goes, you can’t always get what you want.
There’s nobody else to look at so I turn to face my room. There isn’t much in here, but then I don’t need a lot. A double bed, two side tables, two lamps, a wardrobe, a dressing table and an ottoman. The wall-mounted television has long since ceased to work and I haven’t asked Nina for a new one because I don’t want her to think I’m missing it. And without it, I’m no longer reminded of how much life I’m lacking.
I have my books to keep me company and sometimes I can convince myself they’re enough. I don’t get to pick what I read – I’m reliant on what she brings home for me. Every couple of days, I’ll start and finish a brand-new one. I prefer detective or psychological thrillers, anything that promises and then delivers a twist. I like to get the old grey matter working and decipher who the bad guy is. I’m hard to please though. If I guess the culprit correctly, I’ll be disappointed at how predictable the story is. If I get it wrong, I’ll be annoyed at myself for not spotting it earlier.
I’d like to have written a book. I have many stories inside me and just as many secrets. But I doubt it will happen. A lot of things won’t, like me leaving this house again. Try as I might, I just cannot manage it. And it’s my own fault. I don’t believe anyone who claims to have no regrets. They’re lying to themselves. We all have them. If I was given the opportunity to go back and change something about my life, I’d be in that time machine quicker than you could say H. G. Wells.
Suddenly, I hear a door opening downstairs, then a voice. I must have missed her as she walked up the road.
‘Good evening,’ Nina shouts up the stairs from the first floor. ‘Anyone there?’
‘Yes, only me,’ I reply and open the bedroom door. From where I stand under the architrave I spot two bulging carrier bags by her feet. ‘Been shopping?’
‘Very observant,’ she replies.
‘Have you had a good day at work?’
‘The same as usual. I’m making chicken chasseur for dinner.’
I hate chicken chasseur. ‘Sounds lovely,’ I say. ‘Is it my turn to eat with you tonight?’
‘Yes, it’s Tuesday.’
‘Ah, I thought it was Wednesday. I’m getting ahead of myself.’
‘I’ll come and get you when it’s ready. It shouldn’t be long.’
‘Okay,’ I reply, and return to my room as she disappears from view.
I pause to count the liver spots on my hands. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun that there are no new ones forming. That’s a small plus among a long list of minuses. I take in my reflection in the dressing table’s mirror and flatten down my unruly hair. It’s been silver for so long now that I cannot visualise the colour it was before. Then I use a medium-red lipstick to paint on a smile, then add a little eyeliner. I dab blusher on to my cheeks but because my skin is so white, it resembles two red splodges daubed on a rag doll. So I wipe them off and leave my face bare.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the night ahead. Once upon a time we were the best of friends. But that was before he destroyed everything. Now the two of us are little more than the debris he left behind.
CHAPTER 2
NINA
I remove the glass lid from the dish on the bottom shelf of the oven and steam pours out. Inside, the chicken breasts appear white in colour and I prod them with a fork to check they’re done. I know Maggie doesn’t like chicken chasseur, but I do, and she’s not the one who cooks in this house. Besides, her fake enthusiasm is amusing to me.
I empty the shopping bags before I take my coat off. She prefers neatly stacked cupboards and tidy drawers; I don’t. I save my neatness and order for the workplace where I have no choice but to be organised. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to in my own home. So I place the groceries wherever suits me best. Maggie isn’t likely to rearrange them behind my back.
Sainsbury’s was busy tonight, even more so than usual. Families were out in force; armies of beleaguered parents trying to do the weekly shop accompanied by sleeve-tugging children whining and demanding sweets, toys and comics. I watched some of these mothers, frazzled and rolling their eyes, thinking they didn’t know how lucky they were.
One little boy with a mop of dark-brown hair caught my attention. He couldn’t have been more than a year old and was sitting in a trolley, his chubby legs dangling through the hole in the rear, one shoe on and another lying on its side on a bag of satsumas. His smile was so broad it took up half his face. His mum left him for a moment as she went to another aisle. I imagined how easy it would be to grab him and carry him outside. When she returned with a bottle of ketchup, I had a good mind to tell her how careless she was.
