The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller

The Quiet Ones

Betsy Reavley

Copyright © 2016 Betsy Reavley

The right of Betsy Reavley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com

For Trinidad and Stephen

& my brother, Harry.

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade

just as painting does or music. If you are born

knowing them, fine. If not, learn them.

Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

Truman Capote

I swear from the bottom my heart I want

to be healed. I want to be like other men,

not this outcast whom nobody wants.

      
      
      
      
      
      
E.M.Forster

Introduction

Every step I take seems to be in slow motion, almost as if it’s happenin’ to someone else. The thump from the door as I close it behind me sounds muffled and distant. The smell from the alcohol and bleach still lingers, stingin’ my nose.

I watch myself take a large stride away from the house where all that filth took place. I’m not leavin’ until it’s all over - until every last thing has turned to dust.

I sit down on the cold, damp, concrete curb opposite, with my arms folded across my chest and my legs stretched out into the narrow street. Bein’ out in the open feels cathartic. This place isn’t my home but it might as well be since I don’t have one. I live in the shadows, the place where guilt and anger converge.

London is strangely calm and quiet or maybe that’s just how it seems to me. Next to the growin’ angry flames, everythin’ else fades into insignificance. It occurs to me that the houses either side might burn down. But I shrug it off. What does it matter? No one’s fuckin’
innocent. Not really.

For a moment, I look up at the sky. It’s clean and white. The rain has gone, leavin’ a soggy world behind. It looks like snow might be in the January air. It’s cold enough. At least it would be, if it weren’t for the burnin’ building opposite.

The speed at which the flames lick up the walls smotherin’ everythin’ is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off the fire. So many colours. Whoever knew destruction could be so beautiful?

I slip my hand into my black nylon jacket pocket and fumble with the box of matches. An erection stirs. The noise the match made when I struck it was hypnotic. The way it burst into life. Somethin’ born out of nothin’. Like me.

I’m watchin’ the heat warp the glass in the front window. The pressure builds before it smashes and flames burst through, feedin’ off the fresh air and climbin’ further up the brick to reach the lip of the roof. It’s as if the fire has hands. It searches every surface, feelin’ where to go next.

The noise is deafenin’. The crackle of wood, the breakin’ glass, the meltin’ screams of other unknown fabrics all sing together like a choir while the roar conducts the tune. And somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint wail of sirens. I knew she’d call the police. I’ve been expectin’ them.

Maybe I should have killed her. It would have been good to watch her bleed. But it’s too late now. That ship has sailed. I suppose I could run and save myself. But I can’t tear myself away from watchin’ it all comin’ to an end. I’ve got nowhere left to run. I’m too tired, now. Tired of hidin’. The police are gettin' closer. I can hear them. This is where it ends. But to understand how I ended up here, you’ll need to go back to the beginnin’.

Closin’ my eyes for a moment, I relish the burnin’ heat on my face. It wasn’t meant to end like this but life has a funny way of surprisin’ you.

The sirens are so close now. I can almost see them. Openin’ my eyes again to have one last look, somethin’ grabs my attention. A large puddle on the tarmac by my boot is movin’. I look at my reflection in the water but see someone else lookin’ back. A less good version of the person I wanted to be.

February 3rd

The phone rings and I know it’s her. I push my chair away from my desk putting distance between my body and the telephone. Frozen and staring wide-eyed, the shrill sound
grows louder. Charlie pokes his head around the doorframe and looks at me. He has a tea towel in his hands and is wiping a white plate. I shake my head. He nods and returns to the kitchen. The phone continues to
jangle. It seems never-ending, but eventually stops.

My legs feel like jelly as I get up and go into the kitchen. Charlie is standing over the sink with his back to me. By the shape of his shoulders, the angle of his head, I can tell he’s deep in thought. He’s a tall man with a thick head of dark curly hair, grey around the temples. He senses me and turns round. As I approach him, he stretches out his arms and wraps them around me. I feel safe again. He smells like washing up liquid and freshly baked biscuits and I bury my face in the woollen fabric of his cable-knit jumper. His large hands are damp and I feel the wetness soaking through the clothes on my back.

I don’t know if I’m angry or scared. Probably both. Pulling away from Charlie, I wander over to the fridge and open the door. I’m hit by the pungent smell of ripe Brie. I really should get round to clearing out the fridge. In the fruit and veg drawer, there are some wrinkled carrots and a manky lettuce that really belong in the bin. Tomorrow, I tell myself as I remove two cold bottles of beer and silently hand one to Charlie. He winks, accepts the drink before turning to fiddle about in one of the kitchen drawers, looking for the ever-elusive bottle opener. He finds it and cracks open his bottle. An eruption of creamy, frothy bubbles spills out over the glass neck and slides down the frosted green sides before pooling on the stone kitchen floor. Neither of us makes a move to clean it up. He passes me the souvenir bottle opener we bought on holiday in Barcelona, and I pop the top off my drink. The serrated metal teeth clang onto the floor and the top spins haphazard, to settle under one of the cupboards.

Charlie sits on a green, painted farmhouse chair at the old pine table. I notice the paint is chipped around the chair legs and make a mental note to touch it up at some point, another job that’s bound to be forgotten.

‘You’ll have to answer at some point, Jo.’

Charlie peels the corners of the label away from the bottle. His brow is furrowed and he looks very serious.

‘I don’t have to.’

I look down at my feet and think about changing my nail varnish colour. That bluey-pink isn’t really my shade.

‘You know you do, and the sooner the better.’

The statement hangs in the air.

I feel his large brown eyes searching my face and I look up. Most of the time, I don’t notice the age gap between us. It’s only seventeen years but tonight he looks somehow older than I’m used to.

‘What sort of shape could our relationship possibly take? Too much has happened …’

‘Make room.’ He says, knowing it will irritate me.

‘
Make room
? It’s not a piece of bloody furniture we’re discussing.’

He’s not going to let this go I think and sigh. I tip the remaining beer into my mouth, letting the cold bubbles fizz down my throat.

      
‘It’s only been a few weeks.’

‘OK,’ he smiles, ‘But know that when you do, I am beside you.’

‘I know and thank you.’

I move closer and plant a kiss on his stubbled cheek before leaving the kitchen and returning to the study.

Sliding into the black leather office chair, my jeans rub against the material and it makes an unnatural sound, like a polystyrene cup being crushed in a fist. Somehow, the noise is fitting. Comfort is void, and in its place a sensation in the pit of my stomach. I’m not normally superstitious; I don’t believe in God and the concept of fate terrifies me, so external forces generally don’t play a part in influencing how I feel. But today, now, I feel on edge, (
like an alert animal?)
all senses heightened, knowing something big is coming.

Trying to shake the dread, I spin slowly round in the chair and survey my chaotic office. I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. The shelves to my left are a mess of paper work and books with folded over corners. My well-used leather bound Thesaurus has seen better days. I found it in a second-hand bookshop. For some reason, I have always preferred the feel of a book to the Internet or Word to find alternative suggestions. The silk thin paper between my fingers is comforting. I’m not great at moving with the times. Begrudgingly, I started to write using my laptop, and what pained me most was that it was brilliant. The speed at which I could get the words down, the Autocorrect, all helped make life easier. But I still can’t get to grips with a Kindle. I want a book in my hands, with paper pages I can turn and a smooth colourful cover I can stroke with the palm of my hand.

Charlie calls me a dinosaur. He’s right, the irony being in the fact that I make my living selling eBooks. As of yet, none of the big boy print publishers have taken me on. I’m told the problem I have is that none of my stories fall into clear genre categories – as though that’s a bad thing. But I shouldn’t complain, I am one of the lucky few. I get to do what I love and a small percentage of people buy my books. We are not rich. We couldn’t be, on a small-fry writer’s earnings and the salary, Charlie gets as a recruitment agency manager, but we are comfortable enough and privileged to own our own house, with the help of a mortgage.

I sit back in my chair and stare out of the small window onto the dark street. Our Victorian terraced house on Shipton Street is small but perfectly formed. We have a good sized eat-in kitchen, a cosy sitting room with a log-burning stove and a small extra room downstairs that serves perfectly as my office. Upstairs is the bathroom, our bedroom, which has a pretty iron fireplace as does the spare room in which there is enough space for a single bed. At the back of the house is a small patio garden chock-a-block with pot plants, a bistro table and chairs.

      
My life was so much simpler before. Until now, I’ve been content wondering without needing to know. The mystery was enough but she’s gone and shattered my serenity with a letter and repetitive bloody phone calls. I’m not ready yet, not ready to talk to her, to hear her voice.

      
I remove a cigarette from the pack on my desk and light it. Instantly, I feel calmer. Charlie pokes his head round the door and frowns. He hates that I smoke at all, and gets especially cross when I do it inside. So, I put my hands up and slink out of the chair, heading for the back door.

When I step outside, the freezing air makes me catch my breath. It is unusual even for February. The papers claim the country is in the grips of a mini ice age, but I think it’s all tosh. The Middle East is temporarily calm and the US isn’t dropping bombs on anyone. It figures they need to find something to write about. I wrap my beige poncho cardigan tightly around my front and smoke the cigarette quickly before returning to the heady warmth of our kitchen to find Charlie sitting at the table pouring over the Guardian. He recently had to admit he needed reading glasses. They sit awkwardly at the end of his nose, not quite at home yet. Still, to me he looks handsome and elegant. Looking up from the article, he smiles.

      
‘Bed?’ He folds his paper.

‘You bet.’ I
fill two glasses of water.

‘Things will look brighter in the morning,’ Charlie turns the light out as we make our way towards the stairs, ‘You’ll see.’

I nod but my head throbs and in the pit of my stomach, I doubt he is right.

February 8th

I wake to find myself dripping in sweat. The fear lingers for a nasty moment before I sit up to find Charlie sleeping next to me, his mouth slightly ajar, a drop of dribble gathering in the corner of his lips, and I realise I am at home. Still, my heart thumps and it takes a moment before I can trust reality.