The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request

I coaxed the chunks of vomit down the plughole with my foot and jammed my hand over the body-wash dispenser repeatedly. Amber liquid oozed onto the white tiles and turned to foam beneath the spray, filling the shower with the scent of artificial peach. I aimed the shower head at the foam until the last of the mess bubbled its way down the drain.

When the tiles were clean, I sank to my knees, letting the hot water pound against my back. I splayed my hands on the tiles, noting my grazed knuckles and tattered fingernails. The back of my head hurt. My back hurt. Everything hurt.

Through the drone and whine of the running shower, I could hear rhythmic thudding in the next room. A single crash, then a loud monosyllabic exclamation; I couldn’t make out the word.

He appeared through the fogged-up glass like a ghost. He looked different to me somehow, like the structure of him had changed, morphed. Maybe it was the residual chemicals in my system. Or maybe it was because something had changed.

‘What are we going to do with you, Mary?’ His voice was muffled, but I could hear the familiar sing-song tone in his voice. They were words that would haunt my dreams for months to follow.

After what he’d just done to me, I couldn’t bear to speak to him. I was cold under the hot spray, so cold. He stripped off his boxers and opened the shower screen, stepping inside. My body reacted, trembling furiously. And I knew. I knew a line had been crossed this time, that he’d done something that couldn’t be undone. Deep and cold in my bones, I knew that if I survived the night that I had to get out. There might not be another chance. If I didn’t go soon, I wasn’t going to get out of there alive.

I broke, then. I sobbed and sobbed, not from fear, astonishingly, and not with self-pity. I sobbed for us. For him. And he didn’t know what was coming, that we were breaking apart, that we’d already broken. That the end was near and it didn’t matter how bad he was, my skin would miss him, my brain and body would crave their fix and my heart would break a thousand times before it would heal. I cried for him, because I knew it would break him too. Because even monsters bleed.

He didn’t know why I cried or why he held me, but still he did it and it made it worse, this small act of kindness, if kindness is what it was. If such a person knows what kindness is. He held me, wet and naked and shivering, and rubbed his hand down my back, pushed my wet hair out of my face and kissed my forehead with finality – or was I imagining that? – and I didn’t know what he was thinking. I was too afraid to ask.

So I let him hold me and I cried and cried until my throat was raw, my voice hoarse. Because it didn’t matter what he’d done. I had loved him. I had given myself to him and he had squandered that gift, cheapened it, and what was all of it for? Our love, if that’s what it was, reduced to nothing. A drop in the ocean. A blip on the radar. A moment in time spent and lost and forgotten. Meaningless. Over.

And it was like I’d known it was coming. Was waiting for the moment when I’d know, for sure. This cold resolve, like steel in its certainty, took over. And the shivering stopped. The crying stopped. And we stood, not speaking, for what felt like eternity, with the white noise of water falling, and I don’t know if it was the shower or the rain outside the window, the roar of the ocean in the distance.

We were still for so long, I wondered if we were dead. But he sensed the change in me, felt the shift in my body. And then his hands slid up my back, cupped the base of my skull. Gently, so gently, until his fingers tightened and needles of pain shot down my spine. His thumbs lifted my chin and he whispered, his breath hot in my ear.

‘If you leave, I’ll kill you.’

Chapter Ten

My head’s pounding in time with my pulse as I stare at the peeling paint on the stark, white walls of the waiting room.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Cat’s words, spoken as I left the apartment this morning, reverberate in my mind. She thinks I should be talking to the psychiatrist Doctor Sarah referred me to. She thinks they’ll be able to help with my memories, ‘if they’re real’. She doesn’t believe me, I can tell. And now the doubts have crept in, stealing through the hangover haze, dulling the burn of determination.

My stomach feels like a washing machine. I should have eaten something, but I lacked the appetite. Of course I don’t want to do this. No one wants to have to do something like this. But what choice do I have? Knowing what he’s done, that he’s after me …

‘Miss Baker?’

I stand abruptly, like an officer called to attention. A twenty-something, slim female cop with fluffy, ash-blonde hair tucked under her cap beckons me from the doorway.

‘I’m Officer Dean. Come on through.’ She smiles at me, perhaps noticing my unease, and I jerk my lips upwards in a poor imitation.

The hallway is narrow and hot; I wipe the beads of sweat that materialise on my forehead with the back of my sleeve. At the end of the hall, Officer Dean opens a door and, inside, a black-haired man, mid to late thirties, sits behind a desk, a coffee cup pressed to his lips. He sets the cup down and nods in my direction.

‘Miss Baker. I’m Sergeant Moore. We spoke on the phone this morning.’

‘Yes, of course. Hello.’

He gestures to a seat and I sit as the female officer nods at both of us and leaves the room.

‘So, Miss Baker.’ The sergeant smiles, a vague, reflexive gesture. He has a chin dimple and a mole on his left cheek the size of a five-cent piece. ‘How can I help?’

My mind goes blank. I look from my lap to the sergeant’s face and back again, trying to think, trying to rein in the anxiety.

‘Take your time,’ Sergeant Moore says. ‘I have all day.’ I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. His expression doesn’t change.

My ears burn. I notice his gaze lowering and I wonder if I’ve overdressed. I felt a mess this morning, so I put more effort than usual into my make-up and clothing.

Moore taps his fingers on the notepad that lies open on the desk in front of him. ‘You wanted to talk to me about the Tom Forrester case, is that correct?’

I sit up straight, try to look him in the eye. ‘That’s right.’

‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

I swallow thickly. Can I be sure of what I witnessed? Closing my eyes, I see Mark’s cold stare, fingers curled around the bloodied brick.

If you leave, I’ll kill you.

I glance at the notepad on the sergeant’s desk, but he’s moved his hand away. I take a breath. ‘I want to tell you that I witnessed … I … I saw my boyfriend kill him. He killed Tom Forrester.’

Sergeant Moore regards me for several silent seconds. ‘You saw your … boyfriend … kill Tom Forrester.’

‘Ex,’ I blurt. ‘Ex-boyfriend.’

‘Okay. Can you specify exactly what you saw?’

‘I didn’t … I didn’t see him do it, exactly,’ I correct myself, wanting to make sure I tell the whole truth. ‘We were at a party … He … my ex. His name’s Mark. Mark went missing for a few hours and I went to look for him. I think I passed out for a while … I’m not sure what happened. But when I woke up, or maybe it was before that …’ My heart pounds in my ears. I’m jumbling it all up, not saying it right.

‘Go on.’

‘I saw him with the weapon. There was blood … There was a brick. A brick with blood.’

Sergeant Moore’s lips thin. His eyes remain unreadable. ‘So … he was holding a brick.’

I grimace. That sounds pathetic, like nothing. But he doesn’t know Mark like I know him. He doesn’t know the rest.

‘Yes. A brick with blood on it. It was the night Tom was murdered … We were near where he was found.’ I’m not a hundred per cent sure that part’s true, but it can’t have been far – the body was found somewhere near the beach and I distinctly remember the sound of waves nearby.

‘That’s all you saw?’

I nod.

‘Do you know the whereabouts of this … weapon?’

‘No. He must have got rid of it. Maybe he threw it in the ocean or something.’

Moore doesn’t say anything.

‘Look, I know it doesn’t sound like much, but if you knew Mark … He’s dangerous. And it makes sense, it all makes sense. I saw Mark with a brick, the guy – Tom. He was killed with a brick.’

‘Yes, I’m familiar with the case.’ Again, I can’t read the sergeant’s tone.

‘Look, Mark knows I saw what he did. That’s why he’s threatening me.’

‘He’s threatened you?’ That seemed to get his attention.

‘Yes, I … here.’ I show Moore the Facebook message.

Moore inspects my phone with a furrowed brow. ‘This isn’t a direct threat. Unless someone makes a threat of harm against themselves or someone else, we are unable to act.’

‘Yes, but he has! He’s threatened to kill me.’

Moore raises his eyebrows. ‘When was this?’

‘I …’ I think back. ‘I don’t know. Three months ago?’

‘And you reported this?’

‘I … well, no.’

Moore shakes his head. ‘Miss Baker …’

I blow out a frustrated sigh. ‘Look … that doesn’t matter. I know he did it! It adds up. Tom was a drug dealer … my … Mark was into drugs. He was dealing at the time, I’m sure of it!’

‘Hmm.’ Something in Sergeant Moore’s face has closed off. He looks almost bored, or annoyed, and this fills me with fear. Why isn’t he more concerned?

‘Had you been drinking at the time, Miss Baker?’

My cheeks burn. ‘I … I’d had some wine, yes.’

‘And was that all?’

‘No.’ My voice comes out small. ‘I’d had a bit of … cocaine.’

‘I see. What did you say your first name was again …?’

‘Mary. Mary Baker.’

‘And your boyfriend’s name?’

‘Ex-boyfriend. Mark Jones.’

Sergeant Moore turns to his computer and starts tapping at the keys. His eyes scan the screen and he pauses, frowns. Starts clicking his tongue.

‘The thing is, Miss Baker, this case has already been investigated by the Victoria police. Although no one’s been charged, it’s suspected to be gang-related. Those gangs are hard to infiltrate, but they’ve got their best people on the job. Your ex-boyfriend isn’t in a gang, is he?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ I sigh and reluctantly add, ‘but I don’t think so.’

‘See, the thing puzzling me most,’ Sergeant Moore says, rubbing the dimple in his chin, ‘is that everyone who was at the party the night Tom Forrester was murdered was interviewed by police. It’s all here.’ He taps the computer screen, though it’s faced away from me. ‘And there’s no record of any statements from either you or a Mark Jones.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know … because the police never showed up. We thought it was weird, too.’

Moore purses his lips. All friendliness has vanished from his expression. ‘I’ll cut to the chase, Miss Baker, so we don’t waste any more of each other’s time. Maybe you weren’t interviewed by the police because you weren’t actually at that party. Were you?’

My jaw drops. ‘What?’

‘It was a private party. There was a guest list. Everyone’s name was checked off that list, and neither yours nor your boyfriend’s name was on it. As far as the records are concerned, you were never there.’

I shake my head, at a loss. ‘I don’t … I can’t explain that. I was at the party. I remember …’

But Moore has stopped listening.

‘One more thing before you go,’ he says, sounding bored. ‘I believe you’re in possession of a personal alarm linked to the police triple zero emergency line and GPS system? I’d appreciate it if you refrained from using it except in real emergencies. After the next false alarm, our officers might not show up. And the device will be confiscated. Wasting police time is an offence. Do you understand?’

I feel the blood drain from my face.

‘Miss Baker?’

I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t understand what’s going on. I haven’t used my alarm – not even once.

‘Look. I understand you’re afraid,’ Moore says, his voice softer than before. ‘But these things need to be addressed in the right manner. We’re not here to solve petty disputes. If your ex-boyfriend threatens you, feel free to contact me. Otherwise, I’ll ask you to refrain from wasting our time.’ He picks up a business card and holds it out to me.

I clench my fists to stop myself from snatching the card and storming out.

Sergeant Moore turns to his computer, his focus already elsewhere. ‘Officer Dean will show you out.’

I take the card and walk rigidly to the door, down the stuffy hallway and out into the blinding daylight.

Chapter Eleven

28th November 2016

I can’t have come this far only to let the bastard win.

But it’s impossible to think now. Impossible to do anything when my head’s all over the place. I’m running low on meds and have had to ration them. I need my head clear so I can figure out what I need to do, how to make them listen, and that means sticking to the correct dosage. I know I need to book the appointment I keep putting off. I know Cat won’t let it go until I do. But therein lies the dilemma; with the way I’m feeling, seeing someone new – someone that’s not Doctor Sarah – is unfathomable. But if I don’t, I’m going to run out of meds. Soon. And then I’ll feel much, much worse.

Even now, despite everything that’s going on – or is it because of it? – I’m afraid. I suppose it’s natural not to want to have someone peel back your skin and poke around inside with that detached clinical manner some psychs can have. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than that. Can’t help thinking, as I sometimes do, that something’s missing. That there was something left unfinished with Doctor Sarah, and it’s putting me off.

I owe Doctor Sarah my life. Just before I moved to Sydney, when we had our last session, I told her exactly that. She wouldn’t accept that, of course. She said I was responsible for my own actions, that it was I who had the courage to leave. But I didn’t feel brave. It felt like I’d dodged a bullet, that it came down to luck, more so than any deliberate action on my part.

It took a lot to get me to her office that day. I was ashamed. Because she’d seen the signs, had tried to warn me, and I’d run into the arms of danger anyway. It makes me determined to show her I can do this, that I won’t repeat the mistakes of the past. I won’t let Mark win this time.

Determination doesn’t stop the fear. It doesn’t make it easy. But that’s what they say, isn’t it? Courage is being afraid to do something and doing it anyway.

We hugged at the end of our last session, even though I know she’s not really supposed to do that with clients. That’s how close we’d become. I know she was proud of my progress, and so was I. She told me that she’d just given me the tools, but I’d saved myself. I know she’s right, but it only feels like part of the story.

Ever since, I’ve had her in my mind. Her voice whispers in my ear when I doubt myself, and I know, I KNOW, what’s true and what’s right. I know to trust my instincts. I know what Mark has done, even if I can’t remember.

There’s so much crammed into my brain it hurts. I know what needs to be done and I know the steps to take, but it’s like my thoughts are scraps of tissue paper caught in an updraught. Every time I reach out to grasp one, they swirl out of my reach.

I think of Doctor Sarah’s last words to me as I left her office, her glasses perched on the end of her aquiline nose, her smooth auburn hair brushing the shoulders of her suit jacket as her eyes held mine.

‘Take care of yourself, Mary.’

She didn’t say it like a friend would, a throwaway line when saying goodbye, ‘take care of yourself!’ And of course she’d have meant it quite literally. I was her patient, and my mental health was her concern. But there was something in her tone that alerted my senses. Something that had me replaying the words in my head for weeks afterwards.

I know she feared for my safety. That’s why there were so many conditions for me moving up here: the alarm, Cat’s protection, seeing the new shrink. Maybe, as an expert, she had a better idea of what Mark was really capable of. Maybe she suspected what he’d done – or at least what he was capable of doing – before I realised it myself. But surely she would have said something if she thought I was in mortal danger … wouldn’t she?

Doctor Sarah didn’t show any emotion in our sessions. She was a true professional and, even though I sensed that she felt for me, ‘getting emotionally involved’ would have been unprofessional. And, for the most part, she played her role to perfection. I never saw the mask slip. But that last time, I felt like she was transmitting a message, something her eyes were saying that her mouth wouldn’t – or couldn’t.

And a part of me can’t help but wonder. What was Doctor Sarah holding back?

Chapter Twelve

After my visit to the station, I’m down two glasses of wine, drumming my fingers on the kitchen counter while Cat massages my neck. She’s making soothing noises, but I’m sure she’s thinking I told you so. I don’t feel soothed. I’m worked up, irrationally angry at Sergeant Moore. The arrogant dick.

I’m angry at myself. I should have planned what I was going to say, should have mentioned Mark’s previous offences – the guy has a record! – and what he did to me, what he’s probably done to others. I should have shown them photos – I’m sure I took some at the party. I could prove it, prove I was there and that I’m not some crazy ex-girlfriend out for revenge. The anger feels good for the moment; it’s better than feeling hopeless and scared.

It’s almost eight thirty when the key turns in the front door and Gia breezes in, bottle of wine in hand. Ben chokes on his beer.

‘Well hello to you, too, bello,’ she says, planting a noisy kiss on his cheek.

Cat turns to me with wide eyes. She bites back a grin.

‘Since when do you have keys?’ Ben mutters.

‘Oh, I ran into Rachel downstairs and she lent me her set. She said she’d bring back some stuff to make mojitos!’ Gia laughs, corkscrew curls bobbing.

Cat and I glance at Ben, who shrugs, rolls his eyes and takes a swig of beer.

This is why you can’t get rid of her, I think. You need to grow a pair.

We wait a while, but Rachel doesn’t appear, so we open a bottle of wine.

‘Cheers to us!’ Gia says, and we clink our glasses.

Tonight’s sunset paints the sky with brushstrokes of peach and lilac and the four of us are drawn to the balcony, where we lounge on deckchairs and beanbags. Cat puts on some chill-out music and we chat idly as an hour slips by, along with two bottles of wine.

‘So what do you think of the new girl?’ Gia’s curly head is lolling over the back of the deckchair she’s lounged on.

No one speaks for a moment. I clear my throat. ‘She’s sweet.’

‘Ben thinks she’s crazy,’ Gia giggles.

Ben clears his throat. ‘I didn’t say that, exactly.’

Cat glances at me, then back at the view.

‘Oh, not really of course.’ Gia collects herself on her elbows, reaching down to claim her wine glass and throwing back the last mouthful. ‘But he’s dated crazy before. I think he thinks he’s an expert.’

‘Ben thinks he’s an expert on a lot of things.’ Cat rolls her eyes. ‘But you don’t have the best track record, do ya buddy?’

The two girls dissolve into wine-induced giggles as Ben sulks on his beanbag.

‘But seriously,’ Gia says in a stage whisper, sculpted eyebrows raised. ‘Have you guys noticed that Rachel’s really thin? And she wears that big, baggy hoodie all the time, which I find weird because girls like that usually like to show off their bodies, you know?’ Gia illustrates her point with a shake of her shoulders, which makes her breasts jiggle.

Cat nods as she stares into her wine glass and my hand tightens around mine.

Okay, Rachel wears baggy clothes, I’ve noticed that too. But it feels too early to be making any kind of judgement. I don’t want things to get awkward in the apartment if we start gossiping.

‘Maybe she’s just got body issues,’ Cat says.

‘Maybe she’s hiding a deformity or something!’ Gia exclaims, like she’s taking pleasure in the idea.

Ben’s pointedly ignoring the conversation.

‘Don’t say that,’ I snap, and Gia’s eyes widen. She turns to Cat, but Cat looks away. Just at that moment, I see movement in my peripheral vision and turn to find Rachel standing in the doorway, holding a bottle of rum and a bag full of limes. Her eyes are dark, like the light behind them has been switched off. Without a word, she turns and goes back inside.

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