Don’t Turn Around: A heart-stopping gripping domestic suspense

‘I’ve seen him, Ruth,’ Gemma had confided in me. ‘He’s lost so much weight.’

It had taken all my self-control to keep the disappointment out of my voice when I replied, ‘What did he say to you?’

‘That he loves me and he’d die without me.’

‘Wasn’t that part of the problem? I remember you saying you found all the attention smothering.’

‘I haven’t got back with him,’ Gemma said. ‘Mum would have a fit if I did. It was bad enough when she found out I’d met up with him again.’

‘She might not say the right things, but if she’s anything like me, it’s only because she’ll be desperately worried.’

Gemma snorted. ‘Believe me, she’s nothing like you. Mum does all of the talking and none of the listening. She’s got her own life to lead now, and she’d probably be better off without me holding her back.’

‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ I said, my voice breaking as I catch a glimpse of myself through my daughter’s eyes.

Like Gemma’s mum, all I’d wanted to do was protect my daughter, but as I return to the sofa, I know the video evidence contained on my laptop will confirm how utterly I failed her. By the time I’d realised what kind of a person Lewis was, Meg was on the wrong side of the drawbridge I was attempting to pull up.

I’m no more equipped to save Gemma, and my growing concern for her welfare has become entangled with memories of my daughter. They both vie for my attention as I set down my glass of wine on the floor and pick up my mobile. As I wait for one of our longest serving volunteers to answer my call, I pull my laptop closer.

‘Hi, Ruth. What’s up?’

‘Hi, Janet, I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ I ask as I stare at the computer screen, the cursor hovering over a tiny image of Meg sitting alone at a table with anniversary balloons floating in the background. Her head is bent and she’s sulking.

‘No, it’s fine,’ Janet says.

I move the cursor away from the thumbnail. I don’t want to be reminded of the Band-Aid Meg slapped over my marriage when I can feel the edges peeling away. The next clip is entitled, ‘An Alternative Nativity Play’, but I skip this one too. I’m not looking for a performance. I want to see the real Meg.

‘I won’t keep you long,’ I promise as I move on to a recording labelled ‘Christmas Morning’. ‘I had a message from Alison earlier. She’s come down with a virus and can’t make her Monday shift. I offered to do it, but right now I don’t feel up to it either.’

‘Are you sick too?’ Janet asks, concern in her voice.

‘No, it’s not that,’ I reply. ‘It’s just that after my shift on Friday, I don’t think I could face another one so soon.’

There’s a hiss as Janet exhales. ‘Are those nuisance calls bothering you?’

‘They are annoying, but no. If there’s anything worrying me, it’s Gemma. You know how Ryan’s been priming her for weeks, causing friction between her and her mum. He’s going to keep going till he gets her back and …’

My voice trails off as I tap the mousepad and the Christmas video begins to play. I feel a familiar sense of yearning at the sight of my daughter’s face in spite of her sour features. She’s kneeling in front of a tree bedecked with baubles and twinkling lights, opening presents on what would be her second to last Christmas.

‘Ruth?’

As I stare at the flickering screen, I pray that Gemma’s mum will realise the danger her daughter is in before it’s too late. I don’t want her missing the signs that I ignored. The sound is off on the video, but there’s nothing to hear anyway. My daughter had been withdrawing into herself at that point and I watch her open her presents without looking up or saying a word. Meg couldn’t speak up because I was usually too busy talking over her. Fear that I’ll do the same with Gemma rattles my next words.

‘If Gemma does call tomorrow, I’m not sure I’m the best person to speak to her,’ I continue. ‘Is there any chance you could cover Alison’s shift?’

‘Of course, I will,’ Janet says gently. ‘She’s got to you, hasn’t she?’

I could lie but if I’m going to talk to anyone, it might as well be one of our own helpline volunteers. ‘It does feel a little too close to home. Ryan has had a difficult life and Gemma sees herself as his saviour, not his victim. If she phones up and says she’s seeing him again, I have this horrible feeling my patience will snap. I won’t be any good to her.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Janet tells me, before her training kicks in and she responds like a true helpliner. ‘It’s only natural for you to feel the way you do – even I can see the similarities with what you went through with Meg. There’s no reason for you to put yourself in the firing line if you don’t have to, and you don’t have to.’

‘Thanks, Janet.’

‘We’re a team, Ruth. We’ll get through this together and I’m happy to cover your shifts for as long as you need me to.’

‘It’s a bit of a wobble, it won’t last,’ I promise.

When the call ends, I drop the phone onto a cushion without taking my eyes from the screen. I will Meg to look up, or better still, for the camera to pan around to me so I can reach through the screen and give myself a good shake. ‘Look at her!’ I want to yell. ‘Ask her what’s wrong!’

But Meg doesn’t look up and the camera zooms in as she unwraps the ceramic heart-shaped pot I’d made for her. Its edges were lopsided but I was proud of it, and I’d wanted Meg to know that her idea for me to take up a hobby had been inspired. The pottery classes had managed to distract me from picking at the scabs of a marriage that was in the process of healing, but from Meg’s glum features, the message doesn’t get through. She looks briefly at the bowl before wrapping it up again.

What had I been thinking as I watched her set it to one side? I recall being disappointed, and a little annoyed, but I was too busy enjoying life again to acknowledge there was a problem with my daughter that couldn’t be fixed with gentle warnings and stricter house rules. I thought she could be moulded like a piece of clay.

The video goes blank, my chance to save Meg lost long ago, and despair consumes me. I snap the laptop lid shut and bring my fingers to my lips out of habit. I pulled off my acrylic nails this morning and can feel the rough surface of freshly gnawed cuticle. I’ll draw blood if I carry on chewing so I reach for my drink on the floor, but in my haste, I knock over the glass. It smashes against the porcelain tiles and I curse under my breath. I leap up to fetch a dustpan and brush but as I hurry into the utility room, it’s the memories I’m trying to outrun. They catch me up and I’m no longer thinking about the broken glass as I root out a large box from the back of the store cupboard.

The collection of hand thrown pots and vases I’d amassed during my pottery classes had been wrapped with care before being buried out of sight. My heart flutters like a trapped bird in a cage as I take the box into the kitchen and unpack the contents, lining up the pieces on the breakfast bar. As I glare at them, an ethereal hand tugs at my arm and pulls me back to a memory that wasn’t caught on camera.