The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (10 page)

Padding into the kitchen, I open the fridge door and for the second time that day, am hit by the stench of over-ripe cheese. I quickly close it again. No joy there. I move to the larder cupboard. There are tinned tomatoes, tuna, pasta, couscous, rice, flour, sauces and condiments, jars of spices, jams, cheese biscuits, dried lentils and chickpeas, but nothing takes my fancy. I want meat and it seems the only way I am going to get it is to venture out of the house.

In a bowl on the kitchen table, sit my keys and some money. I pocket both and head for the front door, pulling my coat off its hook before leaving the comfort of my prison.

I have finally made it through the rain to the Halal butcher on Bethnal Green Road, feeling cold, wet and pissed off. On the way, I was heckled by a laughing group of builders, taking a break from their work.

‘Cheer up love, it might never happen.’

‘It already has. My parents were just murdered.’

I stopped and scowled at them, enjoying watching the colour drain from their faces, and their eyes searching the wet tarmac.

Whether they believed me or not, who knows, but for a split second I made them stop. That feeling gave me something I’ve been lacking. It gave me control. This whole time I have felt helpless, but in that one small moment, I took command and it felt good. But, I am also irritated by the confrontation. Why is it that men think they can behave like that?

I shake the raindrops from my shoulders and the scent of flesh hits me at once. It is unlike anything else.

A grumpy-looking Asian looks at me across the counter, chewing his gum with disinterest. I seem to be offending a lot of people today. I approach the glass counter and walk slowly along it, gazing at the chunks of cut-up meat. No pork here. But I don’t fancy pork. I stare at the whole chickens and think it might be nice to cook Charlie a roast, but in truth, I can’t be bothered. All I can think of is myself, and what I want.

Then I spot it, sitting at the back. Red, moist beef.

I point to a large steak. The man reaches into the counter, with a gloved hand and removes the meat.

‘One?’ he has a thick accent, somewhere between Indian and East London.

‘Just one.’ I remove my wallet from my handbag, as he throws it down on the scales. He points at the price before wrapping it in paper and putting it into a small, white, plastic bag.

I pay and quickly leave the shop, holding the bag in my hand. The meat feels cold and solid in my palm. I put it in my pocket. I don’t know why.

On my way home, I stop in another shop and pick up a lettuce, a bottle of red wine, a bag of frozen French fries and some chocolate. Happy with my choices, I make my way home, avoiding the route I took before and the bloody builders. It is the long way, but it doesn’t matter because when I get home, I shall have steak.

On one of the small Victorian streets, my phone rings in my bag. I stop on the pavement, put my bag of shopping down and fumble to find it. It’s Charlie.

‘Hi, hi,’

‘You sound a bit out of breath. Is everything OK?’

I press the phone between my ear and my shoulder; pick up the shopping with one hand, before taking hold of the phone again and starting to walk once more.

‘Depends what you class as OK? So far today, I’ve had a hideous phone call with Ailene telling me she’s had a break-in, and then some fucking builders on the way to the shop heckled me. Apart from that everything is dandy.’

There is a long silence.

‘Is she alright?’

‘Not really. Very shaken. Understandably.’ My tone has softened and I remember that none of this is his fault. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just been a bit of a shitty day so far.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to say, love.’

‘I just needed to vent.’

‘You know I’d come home, if it was important,’

‘No, that’s not why I rang earlier. I’ve done something really stupid…’

‘What is it?’ Charlie sounds exhausted and guilt hits me on the face at the same time as a large raindrop falling from a leaf.

‘I asked her if she wanted to come and stay.’

‘Oh.’ There is another long pause. ‘Is she coming?’

‘I don’t know. I told her I’d check if it was OK with you.’

‘Josie, love, if you want your mother to come and stay, you don’t need to ask my permission.’ Frustration is creeping into his voice and I feel my back stiffen.

‘I know that. I felt sorry for her, and before I realised what I’d done, I’d asked if she wanted to come. Then I panicked. I thought maybe you might be able to offer some advise. I mean, I hardly know the woman.’

‘Listen, if you want to ask her then go ahead, but honestly, I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve got that prick breathing down my neck, a deal is on the brink of falling through and I’m tired. I’m really bloody knackered.’

‘Right, well, I won’t keep you any longer. See you later. Have a nice day.’

I click the phone off. I’m fuming. I’m so bloody angry. All I wanted was a bit of support.

Stomping through puddles, I replay the conversation and by the time I reach the house, I’ve calmed down.

It was unfair of me to put my troubles ahead of his. I didn’t even ask him how his day was going. No wonder he was irritable. All the poor man has been doing over the past few months is listen to me go on about Ailene and my parents.

I get back to the house where the warm air embraces me. It is the hug I have been wanting, ever since I hung up on Charlie.

Cursing myself for being so selfish, I drop my shopping, remove my mobile and send him a text.

I’m sorry. I’m a selfish cow. I love you and I hope your day gets better xxx

I wait for a few minutes, hoping he’ll respond. Finally, my phone beeps.

It’s OK. I’m sorry. Love you xxx

Breathing a sigh of relief, I take the shopping into the kitchen. As I turn on the oven and tear open the oven chips, I know I should have bought that chicken. Never mind. We made up. That’s one problem dealt with and now I just need to turn my attention to the other one.

May 21st

A few days have passed since Ailene called me and said she was declining my offer to have her to stay. She took the decision out of my hands and I’m grateful for that. We agreed we’d get together soon. The conversation was amicable. No doubt, she had had some reservations about coming too.

It is nearly seven o’clock in the evening. I’m expecting Charlie home from work soon. Outside the night is thick with blackness. I sit at my office chair, looking out the widow. I’ve been here for some time, trying to muster the creativity to write something. Anything. But it’s been useless. I wish I could lose myself in my work like I used to, but since the murders everything has changed.

I’ve changed.

Something in me died when my parents were killed. The irony is that I never realised they really meant anything to me. I was so busy feeling bitter. And that bitterness was channelled into creating dark works of fiction. Without that bitterness, I am unable to write.

The small income I made from writing will not be missed. When my vast inheritance comes through, we won’t require it anymore. I suggested to Charlie that he retire and we start a business together. He likes the idea but refuses to quit until we have a solid plan. He said he’d go mad if he wasn’t kept busy. I know that’s true but I also suspect he likes financially contributing. It’s a man thing, I suppose.

Today, I spent a lot of time preparing a feast for our supper. It’s Tuesday night and he could do with being spoilt. Work has been stressing him, as have I.

I’ve got him his favourite bottle of wine and cooked an array of Indian dishes. The table has been laid with candles and little pots of pickle, to go with the poppadums. I’ve even made samosas from scratch. It’s nice to be busy. It keeps me from worrying.

That strange policeman, Woolfson, called today. We speak about once a week. He keeps me up to date with any developments, of which there have been none. It’s such an odd case. There is no apparent motive and no indication as to whom the perpetrator might be. It’s as though someone woke up one morning and decided they needed to break into a random couple’s house and murder them. It has crossed my mind that it could be a serial killer. It all sounds very Hollywood, but it’s the only conclusion I can make. Will another sorry couple fall victim to this madman? I hope not, but it seems a possibility.

I shake my head, determined to stop thinking about it and decide to go back into the kitchen and continue preparing for dinner.

Just as I get up out of my office chair, I hear the door opening. I dash towards the sound, longing to give my darling a hug. As though he knew I needed cheering up, he’s holding a bunch of yellow lilies in his hand. Silently, he hands them to me, a small smile at the corners of his mouth.

‘They are lovely.’ I kiss his lips and linger for a moment.

‘Something smells good.’ He peers towards the kitchen.

‘I cooked your favourite.’ Taking his hand, I lead him through the house towards the smell of spices cooking.

Charlie slips his work satchel off his shoulder and sits down at one of the kitchen chairs. I notice the dark bags under his eyes and realise how tired he is.

After turning down the heat of the oven, I move behind him and start to rub his shoulders. He gives a low pleasurable growl and leans his head forward onto his chest. My thumbs work the skin around his neck and I press hard into the tight muscles.

‘You can keep this up
for weeks,
if you like,’ he says, reaching his arms around behind him and grabbing my thighs. Planting a kiss on his neck, I notice the increasing number of grey flecks in his dark hair.

‘Food first. That later.’

‘Have I got time for a quick shower?’ he asks.

‘Yep. Go for it. I’ll have a beer waiting for you when you get out.’

‘Perfect.’ Charlie gets up and leaves the kitchen, his bag still slumped on the floor where he dropped it. I pick it up and hang it on a hook in the hallway. He’s always been hopeless at tidying up after himself. Not that I am much better.

Returning to the kitchen,
I look through the glass oven door at the tandoori chicken roasting away. The colour looks good and I guess it should be ready in twenty minutes. That leaves me just enough time to make some chapattis and warm the rice and bhindi bhaji I prepared earlier. On the hob, a pot of yellow lentils bubble energetically while onions, garlic and spices sizzle in a frying pan next to it. The room fills with warm scented steam. I may not be any good at cleaning but at least I can cook. One thing ticked off the perfect housewife list.

      
From a cupboard in the far corner, the boiler kicks into action.

When Charlie reappears, I am elbow deep in flour. He sits down to drink a beer and munches on a poppadum.

‘How was work?’

‘Don’t ask. I’m this close to punching the prick on the nose.’

I have learnt it is best not to get into that conversation.

‘This weekend, shall we do something? Go somewhere?’

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Oh I don’t know. Maybe take a boat down the Thames -anything.’

‘Sure.’ He brushes crumbs of poppadum from his mouth and the bib of his grey woollen jumper.

‘Unless there’s something you’d rather do.’ I have kneaded and kneaded and the dough is nearly ready.

‘You choose. I don’t mind.’

His mind is elsewhere and a rush of irritation passes through me. I didn’t go to all this effort for nothing.

‘Might be a bit cold for a river cruise.’

‘So, you do have a better idea?’

I’m finding it hard to hide my frustration. Then he says,

‘We could get out of London. Maybe go to Brighton for the weekend.’

‘That’s not a bad idea. I could see if Soph’s around to meet us for dinner.’

‘Spoken to her recently?’

‘Usual lots of emails back and forth. She’s pretty wrapped up with this new fella. He sounds nice. We might get to meet him.’

‘He can’t be any worse than the last one.’

‘That’s for certain.’ I mix the cooked lentils and spices, rapidly stirring with a wooden spoon before I get the chicken out of the oven. Three minutes rest and then dinner is served.

‘I’m starving.’ Charlie claps his hands together.

‘I’ll give Soph a call in the morning and see if she’s free this weekend.’

‘Cool. I’ll book us into a decent B&B. We’ll jump on a train on Friday when I’ve finished work.’

‘Perfect.’

After dinner, with our bellies full, I roll a joint that we smoke outside on the bench in our patio garden. The night is cold and we watch our breath steam in front of our faces before disappearing into the black night.

For the first time in a while, I feel properly relaxed. I sit back and close my eyes for a moment. My hands are cold so I pull the sleeves of my green jumper down over my fingers and play with the soft fabric. My feet are cold too, so I cross my legs and curl my toes up under my bum. The hash is kicking in and the world starts to feel like a softer place.

When I open my eyes, I see Charlie is sitting forward, resting his arms on his knees and looking at the ground. I put my hand on his shoulder and lean in.

‘Are you OK?’

He sits back, forcing me to retract my hand.

‘Let’s go in.’ Charlie stands up. I nod and follow him back into the kitchen.

‘Fancy another glass of red?’

‘Go on then. Bring it through. Let’s sit on the sofa.’

I grab a pack of chocolate biscuits and tuck them under my arm and grasp the two glasses in my hands.

Charlie is already sitting on our old sofa, a frown plastered across his face. I hand him his wine and sink back into the cushions before taking a long sip of my own. There is a long silence, then,

‘Jo, we need to talk.’

‘OK.’

Butterflies start to flap in my stomach. I don’t like his tone.

‘Your parents…’ I immediately feel myself tense. He turns to look at me. ‘We need to talk about what’s happened.’

‘Charlie please, there’s nothing to say now. The police are dealing with It.. I just want to try and have a normal life.’