Keep Your Friends Close: A gripping psychological thriller full of shocking twists you won’t see coming. June Taylor
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Karin has never heard her mother scream like that before. It wasn’t what she did. Normally so cool and composed, this sound is primal and raw, yelling at Karin to help get him down.
But it’s too late.
It was always too late.
The episode passed, gradually, and Karin was used to it now. She just had to let it work its way through and back out again. But it still happened as often, day or night. Night-time was the worst. Everything was worse in those hot, twisted sheets of insomnia.
She raised her head slowly, checking to see whether it really had passed this time, and caught sight of herself in the mirror again; different from a few moments ago. Her cheeks were flushed, as though they had been too near a fire, and she would have to reapply her make-up. Her painted fingernails danced across her face as she wiped the sweat off it, trying to reassure her that everything was going to be okay; she hadn’t been gnawing on them quite so much lately.
How can you miss someone you really hate?
Perhaps that was why Karin had unlocked the box today. On this special day. Releasing cedar wood and iris, and something else, she didn’t know quite what, from beneath the lid, filling the room with Birgitta’s scent. Avocado. Lavender. And a whiff of her homemade Swedish fläderblomssaft. In one of those letters it said that if Karin was to contact her again, she would call the police.
Were there times when her mother felt this way too? Had Karin been on her mind at any point today? Did she wake up this morning remembering it was Karin’s birthday? Probably not. Probably never gave it a second thought. Not when she had sent Karin away to boarding school by the time she was eight and barely seen her since.
She checked the time on her phone then sniffed the letters one last time. Still another forty minutes before she had to be ready. Her heart raced as she began to work quickly on the knot, setting her teeth onto it, and picked out a letter.
A few paragraphs were enough. Too much. That’s why she had chosen never to return to them in all these years. So why was she keeping them? Really, she knew why.
Retying the knot as swiftly as she could, stuffing the letters back inside the box, Karin noticed in one corner was the tiny pebble from Louie. The letter K painted on it in bright yellow, a bobbing seahorse on the other side. She held it in her hand, running her fingers over the pebble’s smooth curves, not quite prepared for the rush of memories that came flooding back with this object either. Strange to think she must have kept it in her pocket for all the time she was trying to hide from Louie. Having moved in here, feeling safe again, she had put it away with the letters.
Karin threw it back into the box and, with trembling fingers, managed to close the lid. She scrambled the numbers on the padlock, but then dropped the box on the floor. It made a loud thud, just missing her foot. She picked it up and returned it to the drawer, covering it with her T-shirts.
It really was time to get rid.
Karin was not that person any more.
The extractor fan made its toothless rattle, sucking out stir-fry fumes and taking some Radio 6 Music with it. Mel stood at the sink, distractedly running the washing-up brush over her plate and staring out of the window. She was thinking about Karin, what to do, what to say, whether to say anything, when a bruiser of a magpie came to land in the overgrown grass. She strained her neck to see if she could spot another flash of black and white anywhere. Not that she believed in that rubbish. She had been around long enough to know that you create your own luck in this life.
The patch of grass stretching out from the kitchen window ought to have been as neat and lush as the other lawns in this row of Headingley terraces, but instead it was long and floppy, much like a student’s haircut, and Mel had lost count of the number of times she had caught next door’s dog fouling in it. The fence was blown down on either side, a slap-in-the-face reminder that at her time of life she shouldn’t still be living in a place like this.
But it was okay for now.
A loud thump came through the ceiling, giving her a jolt. Karin must have dropped something. Mel flicked off the extractor fan, listened to Karin coming downstairs, and began to prepare herself. Returning to the sink, she picked up the wok and dunked it into the soapy water. She did a half-turn as Karin hopped into the kitchen, one sandal clicking on the Yorkshire stone flags while she attempted to catch her foot in the other, almost toppling over. Steadying herself on the unit, Karin succeeded in getting her sandal on properly and grimaced at Mel, as if acknowledging that she needed to be more ladylike. She immediately forgot this, however, and began grabbing things off the unit – lipstick, keys, pen – firing them into her handbag like missiles.
Mel dried her hands on the towel and smiled at her housemate. She detected a new perfume on Karin. It smelt expensive. The stir-fry odour was beginning to wrap around it though, concocting a rather sickly scent once it hit the back of the throat.
‘Is this a bit much?’ Karin asked, standing up tall, pulling her dress over her curves. It was red, halterneck, with a diamond-shaped slash that accentuated her soft white cleavage against the rest of her lightly tanned body.
‘Depends what you’re after,’ Mel replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s very Marilyn.’ But then she thought Karin might not know who that was. ‘Monroe,’ she added.
‘I know who Marilyn Monroe is. But she was blonde.’
‘Well you look a million dollars, even so.’
‘Hm. More like £3.50 from the charity shop. Don’t you dare tell Aaron, or he’ll think I haven’t made an effort.’ She pointed a warning finger at Mel, and Mel did the same back in an attempt to relax her. Karin’s jitteriness suggested she might actually know something. But then she said: ‘He’s making a massive deal of my birthday and I’m really not sure why.’
No wonder Aaron was in such a hurry. Karin was particularly striking when she was out of her work clothes, a pair of baggy dungarees usually, and tonight her shock of red hair was let loose down her back, instead of scrunched up messily on top of her head. Another style that suited her, of course; she was young and could get away with anything.
It was precisely this, her youth, that was Aaron’s biggest fear. Although he had never said as much, Mel knew he was afraid that, one day, sooner or later, Karin would wake up and realize he was too old for her. He was twice her age after all. When he had called round a few days ago to fix the dishwasher – without succeeding – Mel had immediately picked up on the fact that he was going to ask her opinion on something. It didn’t take much to work out what it was concerning, but Mel wished she could have been better prepared.
Over the three and a half years she had been living here, they had reached the point of chatting comfortably over a cup of tea when Aaron came round to sort out anything in the house. He was good that way, usually acting promptly to address any problems she brought to his attention. Trivial matters they talked about mostly: holidays; places they would like to visit; new bars and restaurants opening in Leeds; a bit of work chit-chat now and then; and the on-going battle he had against the dishwasher, with his stubborn refusal to let it beat him. They had touched on his divorce once or twice but as a rule it was no more than small talk. So, being relatively at ease in one another’s company, an unspoken confidence had evolved that perhaps they could rely on the other person in a crisis, or confide, if ever there was a need.
Therefore when Aaron had come round a few days ago and begun his sentence with: ‘You and Karin are pretty close, aren’t you?’, Mel had known exactly what was coming. Instead of answering yes, she had asked him: ‘why?’ To which he’d replied: ‘Well, what do you think Karin would say if …?’
‘If?’
Mel didn’t make it easy for him.