Keep Me Close : An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist Read online

  I struggle, and we lurch together like drunken dancers, Calum staggering backwards with me in tow, both my hands thrust hard against his chest in an effort to escape.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaims thickly.

  ‘I said,’ I pant, fighting to be free, ‘get your bloody hands off me.’ At last, he releases me, and I make unsteadily for the mouth of the alleyway, my heels slipping on the icy stone. ‘Goodnight, Calum. I’ll send you an email tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t bother, darling. If you think you’ll still be my editor after this—’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  The author throws a slew of guttural swear words at my back, but to my relief doesn’t bother pursuing me, stumbling off into the night instead.

  On the train journey home, I want to cry but can’t manage it. Instead, I sit staring out of the window at the dark landscape flashing back, lights glittering in the distance, roads and buildings and the occasional cinematic passage of other trains. A few men ogle me but I ignore them.

  I pay for a taxi home from the station; sod the expense, it’s better than being terrified half to death by walking empty streets, looking over my shoulder at every noise. Besides, I realise belatedly that tonight’s little outing comes under work expenses, so I should get the travel money back eventually.

  Back home, the car stands icy and silent. I realise that nobody rang me about the charge for a new battery, but can’t be bothered to pursue that thought.

  Mum’s door is closed.

  Swaying, I kick off my heels and creep upstairs on tiptoe, thankful that nobody’s about to see the wicked state I’m in. Except that Ruby’s door creaks open briefly and her indistinct face looks out at me.

  ‘You’re in late. You okay, love?’

  I mutter something suitably hostile about men, and wave goodnight before disappearing into my room. I’m not in the mood to talk. Actually, I’m not sure I’m capable of speech. Not full sentences, at any rate. Which means it’s definitely time for bed.

  I barely pause to brush my teeth and wipe off my makeup before tumbling into bed and sinking into a thick, mindless sleep.

  *

  I’m woken late by an awareness that my phone keeps alternately buzzing and chiming. Someone trying to ring and then leaving a message? This goes on for some time while I lie in a partial stupor, snug under the duvet, ignoring the irritation of daylight pricking at my eyelids.

  I feel grim and shaky after last night’s excesses. And I have a nagging memory of some fumbled, drunken exchange, and then Calum stumbling away in a dark alley…

  My mobile buzzes again, and keeps on buzzing relentlessly. Whoever it is must want to speak to me urgently.

  I grope to answer it, wishing I didn’t feel so bad. ‘Hello?’ My voice creaks like a rusty gate.

  It’s Mark.

  ‘At last. What the hell were you thinking?’ My boss sounds so furious that I sit bolt upright in bed, blinking in dismay. ‘You are so fucking fired.’

  ‘What?’ The light hurts my eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘Very funny,’ Mark says in a cutting tone. ‘Here’s what you need to do. Delete the tweet and make a full public apology, retracting your comments. Say you were drunk or something, that it was meant as a joke. A publicity stunt, perhaps. Maybe then he won’t sue us for everything we’ve got. But I doubt it.’ He pauses, and then adds in a bemused tone, ‘Jesus, Kate. When you self-destruct, you don’t do it by halves, do you?’

  Then he hangs up.

  I sit there for a moment, staring at nothing, his words echoing in my head. Delete the tweet… What the hell is he talking about? What tweet?

  I peer through dozens and dozens of notifications on my phone, frowning. The list seems to scroll on endlessly. Messages, tweets, retweets, missed calls…

  With an unsteady hand, my heart thumping sickly in my chest, I flick through to my work-linked Twitter feed, where I habitually promote authors and upcoming publications and chat with editors and bloggers about books.

  Calum Morgan is a narcissist, a misogynist and a bare-faced liar. Don’t buy his self-help books. They are one big fat con from start to finish. #MeToo

  My tweet, which was apparently posted at two o’clock this morning, has already been retweeted over a thousand times.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I feel like I’m going mad. Or as though I’ve woken up to find myself in a new universe, a world I don’t recognise and which hates me.

  I delete the tweet, though I imagine it’s already been screenshotted a few dozen times by now, and indeed some of the amused or scurrilous comments in my notifications indicate that it has.

  I hesitate groggily over a fresh tweet, wondering how to explain how that wasn’t me and I didn’t post it, and then I delete that draft too.

  Better perhaps to say nothing for now. Saying more can only make things worse. I mustn’t panic, I tell myself carefully. Though obviously, I’m panicking. Of course I am. Given the catastrophic storm hanging over my head, what else is there to do?

  At the back of my mind is the horrible suspicion that I may indeed have written that tweet last night. I was drunk, after all, and furious with Calum for assaulting me. Furious with myself too for allowing it to happen in the first place. I’d been warned by Cheryl. I’d walked out on that partnership once already; I ought to have refused to work with the vile man again.

  But I let my ambition get the better of my common sense. And this is the result.

  I brush my teeth automatically, splash cold water on my face, and then throw some fresh clothes on without bothering to shower. Time is not on my side at the moment. Mark was right about that, at least. I need to act, and act quickly.

  I stumble downstairs, my legs unsteady, then stand in the hall, helpless and unsure what to do now for the best.

  Should I head straight back into London to the office and explain to Mark in person how it wasn’t me that tweeted that libellous remark against our top-selling author? Or sit down and compose a carefully-worded apology to Calum that would discreetly threaten him at the same time as begging him not to sue the company?

  After all, I doubt he would wish me to disclose to the world what he did last night. The MeToo hashtag is so weirdly percipient, it’s what makes me wonder if I did actually tweet that message and then wipe it from my memory. Because how else would my hacker know what happened?

  Though if I did go public about Calum’s attack, it would only be his word against mine, and that’s not a very comfortable thought.

  Ruby comes out of the kitchen, drying up a saucepan, and looks at me in surprise. ‘Hello. Should you be up this early? You came in very late last night.’ Concern enters her eyes. ‘You look a bit rough too. Bad night?’

  ‘Someone’s hacked my Twitter account,’ I hiss, and catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. God, yes, I look wild. Almost crazy, in fact. My hair is all over the place and my face is deathly-white, except for two burning red spots on each cheek. Like a wooden doll with a painted-on blush. ‘I’m in deep trouble.’

  ‘Twitter. That’s one of those social media things, isn’t it?’ She finishes drying the plate, looking rather pleased with herself. ‘I don’t like social media. It’s just another way for the government to watch you.’

  I stare at her, then hobble past her into the kitchen. My feet and ankles hurt after walking so far in high heels last night.

  ‘I need… coffee,’ I mutter, and slam my phone face-down on the counter. ‘And to change my password on Twitter. Christ, I probably should have done that first.’

  Ruby puts the kettle on and watches with interest as I struggle to change my password, my fingers clumsy on the tiny onscreen keyboard.

  ‘Someone hacked you? You mean—’

  ‘I mean somebody pretended to be me and posted something publicly in my name last night. While I was bloody sleeping.’ I feel angry and impatient, and not in the mood to explain things to people like Ruby who can’t be bothered to keep up with modern technology. ‘Now
it looks like I’ve got the sack over it. Not to mention that I’m facing a possible court case for libel.’

  A memory tugs at me, like a far-off bell ringing. What was it Logan said as he stalked away from me the other night?

  I never want to see you again, Kate. But something tells me I will. In court.

  I close my eyes in horror, bile rising in my throat.

  Logan has been living with us here. He’s had access to my phone on numerous occasions. My laptop too, where I also log into my social media accounts. Lazily, I tend to use the same password for most of my accounts these days, because two years ago I tried using a computer-generated one for different sites and then my laptop got stolen, and I had to change all of them by hand because I no longer had access to those passwords.

  It’s possible he could have guessed my usual password; not only is it David’s name and date of birth, but I keep it written down on a slip of paper stuck to the edge of the mirror in my bedroom.

  ‘Logan,’ I whisper.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ I swallow the bile, trying to hold onto my sanity, and update my account with the new password. Then I make the mistake of hurriedly scrolling through some of the more recent notifications, just to see… ‘Christ.’

  It looks like Calum’s vociferous fans have now seen my tweet and have responded to it with violent contempt, bombarding my Twitter feed in their hundreds with messages of hate and aggression. Apparently, for attacking their mild-mannered idol, I deserve to be raped, mutilated, even murdered.

  I decide abruptly to delete my Twitter account. That will get rid of one problem, at least. The app asks if I’m sure, and politely points out that I have thirty days to change my mind. I stab the button again to delete the account and throw my phone aside with a groan.

  Nobody is going to believe that I was hacked. What the hell am I going to do? My career in publishing is over.

  ‘Oh dear. Sounds like you’ve been in the wars.’ Ruby has made coffee for me in the cafetière. The smell ought to be invigorating. But it merely makes me nauseous. She holds out a steaming mug in my direction. ‘You need protein, love. I was just about to do your mum’s breakfast. You peckish? I could fry up some bacon and eggs.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Clutching my stomach, I dash to the toilet.

  When I stagger out some ten minutes later, I’m tempted just to ignore the world and go back to bed for the rest of the day. My body is advising me to do just that. But one glance at my phone shows me a string of missed calls and text messages, including more missives from Mark, who seems to be demanding to know why my formal apology hasn’t been emailed to him yet.

  Ruby is making my mother’s breakfast. I grab a glass of water, trying not to get in her way.

  ‘I’m sorry I was out so late, by the way,’ I say, trying to make amends for my curt manners earlier. It’s not her fault my life is falling apart. ‘Did anyone turn up to fix the car last night?’

  ‘Yes, and it started first time. Nothing wrong with it at all.’

  ‘How odd.’

  ‘The mechanic said you must have flooded your engine.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I’m not sure that can be right, but it’s not worth arguing about. My head is thumping. ‘Well, I had a rubbish time. But I hope your evening was quiet, at least, and that Mum didn’t cause you any trouble.’

  Ruby looks unsettled. ‘Actually, there was a bit of an incident.’

  ‘Go on.’ I gulp down some water.

  ‘You know that special picture…’ She pulls a face when I look at her blankly. ‘The oil painting. The big one hanging on your mum’s wall. Of you and your family.’

  ‘The one my brother finished just before he died, yes.’ I nod. ‘I love that painting. What about it?’

  ‘I’m afraid your mum went a bit crazy last night. She asked where you were, and I said you’d gone out with… whatever his name is.’

  ‘Calum.’

  ‘That’s right. That you’d gone out to a festival with him. And your mum…’ Ruby bites her lip. ‘I had no idea she’d flip over something like that. I mean, I’ve never seen her so angry. She was screaming. Saying you had no business going out with anyone but David.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘She was calling you all sorts. Well, I won’t repeat what she said. But it was nasty.’

  ‘I’m so sorry if she upset you.’ Back when Giorgios was her carer, Mum did sometimes get a bit hysterical when I went out for the evening. But she hasn’t done that in ages. ‘Did you remember to give her the meds she usually takes?’

  ‘Oh yes, she took her pills. They made no difference.’

  ‘I’d better go and speak to her.’

  It’s the last thing I want to do right now. But I can see Ruby is waiting for me to take action of some kind. Though what exactly she expects me to do is less clear. Tell my mother off for behaving poorly? She’s a dementia patient and she gets mood swings. Sometimes her mood swings become violent. Ruby’s used to caring for people in that situation; she must know how to deal with that kind of outburst.

  ‘Before you do,’ Ruby says quickly, ‘you should know… Your mother, she damaged that painting.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I was sitting in the bedroom with her, both of us chatting and doing a little embroidery at the same time. You know how I like my embroidery.’ When I nod, she gives me a hesitant smile. ‘Well, when we got onto the subject of you and men, she started shouting about you and David. I told her to calm down, but the doorbell went. So I left the room.’

  ‘Who was at the door?’

  ‘Logan.’

  I stare, not sure what to make of that.

  She continues, ‘He said he’d left a few things behind and needed to collect them. Just some odds and ends he couldn’t find when he left.’ Ruby touches my arm when she sees how I flinch. ‘I let him have a quick look round the house while I loaded the dishwasher. I hope you don’t mind.’

  I hug myself miserably. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘When he’d gone, I went back in to see your mum.’ Ruby hesitated. ‘I found her standing in the middle of the room, holding my sewing scissors. And that big picture on the wall…’

  ‘Yes?’ I prompt her when she stops, baffled by her expression.

  ‘Your mum had completely trashed it.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She’d stabbed all the faces in the painting. Gouged out everyone’s eyes. It was horrible. There was nothing left but great gaping holes where their faces were.’ Ruby shudders. ‘Except for one person.’

  I almost drop the glass of water I’ve been sipping, my hands suddenly nerveless. ‘What? Who… who didn’t she stab?’ I stare at her, wondering if this is some elaborate joke. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  Ruby looks offended. ‘Good God, love, why would I joke about something like that? I thought she was going to attack me next. I took the scissors away and got her to lie down again. But that painting… I know how much you liked it. Your brother’s, wasn’t it? I’m afraid it’s ruined.’

  I put down the glass of water and run down the hall to my mother’s room, barely knocking before I barge inside.

  ‘Mum?’

  My mother is watching the small television on the low table at the end of her bed. She’s sitting up against stacked-up pillows, hands cradled motionless in her lap, a crocheted blue shawl about her shoulders. Her face is intent on the screen as she listens to a news report about a body found in woodlands.

  ‘Mum, it’s Kate.’

  She doesn’t look at me, but lifts her gaze from the television screen to the large family portrait hanging on the wall opposite her bed.

  Or what’s left of it.

  Just as Ruby described, the faces in the family portrait are all stabbed, ripped and gouged out. My father’s broad torso in his blue shirt is topped with a mess of canvas fragments, through which I can see the wallpaper behind. My mother’s face is equally defaced, and there’s next to nothing l
eft of me, even my body violently torn away, just a hint of my jeans below. Ciaran himself still has one ear and a left arm.

  Meanwhile, perfect and untouched, staring serenely out of the picture frame with his handsome face unmarred, is my late boyfriend, David.

  ‘Oh my God, Mum, what have you done?’

  ‘Hmm?’ She looks round at me at last, her face utterly blank. She doesn’t even seem to care.

  The news report has moved on, talking about a bad crash in icy fog this morning on the M1, showing scenes of carnage that turn my stomach.

  I grab up the remote control and snap it off.

  ‘Mum, the painting… Ciaran’s last painting.’ I stand staring at the ruined canvas, and tears roll down my cheeks. ‘It was so beautiful. All of us together for the last time. I know you lost your temper because I went out. But I still can’t believe you’d do something like this. What in God’s name possessed you to destroy it?’

  Mum says nothing, but looks vaguely from me to the remains of Ciaran’s painting. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ she says simply. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ I rub away a tear. ‘Mum…’

  ‘Perhaps we could stick it back together,’ she says helpfully. ‘I think there’s glue somewhere.’ She gives an odd little smile, and begins to sing ‘Humpty Dumpty’ under her voice, just as she used to do when Ciaran and I were young, ending with ‘All the kings’ horses and all the kings’ men couldn’t put Humpty together again.’ Then she laughs.

  I snap, my temper rising abruptly. ‘I can’t bear this any longer. I can’t bear you. That’s it. The last straw.’ I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. ‘I’m going to put you in a home, Mum. I can’t… I can’t deal with this. It’s beyond me.’

  She stares at me, and her lip starts to tremble. ‘A home? But you said… You said I could stay here.’ Her voice rises too. ‘You can’t do that. This is my home.’

  ‘Not anymore.’