The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (11 page)

‘I’m not talking about that.’ He speaks in a half whisper.

‘What are you talking about then?’

‘Your father.’ His brown eyes slowly meet mine.

‘What about him?’ My voice has a quiver in it.

‘You need to talk about it. About what he did.’

I bring my knees up under my chin and hug my skinny legs. Resting my forehead on my knees, a wave of ginger hair falls down and obscures my face. I close my eyes.

‘Do you really want to do this right now? We were having such a nice evening.’

He picks up his glass and looks into the bowl. I look up. The red wine is sloshing from side to side, catching the light and reminding me of blood.

‘You can’t ignore this. It will catch up with you one day.’

‘It caught up with me back then. I’m just beginning to move on. Why the fuck do you want to drag this all up now?’

‘Josie, I love you. I know you don’t like to talk about it but with everything that has happened, I really think you should. Just open up to me, let me know what’s going on in that head of yours.’

He strokes my cheek with the back of his large soft hand. I don’t mean to but I flinch. The hurt in his face is unmistakeable. I should feel sorry, but a rage is building inside me.

‘OK, let’s.’ I slam my glass down on the coffee table, spilling some wine on the wooden tabletop and the cuff of my jumper. ‘Shit.’ I rub furiously at the stain.

‘I’m not trying to stir anything up.’ He is on the defensive, ‘but I really think it’s unhealthy to ignore this.’

‘Right.’ Now I’m on my feet with my arms crossed tightly across my chest. ‘Let’s talk about it then. Where would you like to begin?’

‘Don’t be like this.’

He rolls his eyes and sits back on the sofa.

‘No, come on then, where would you like me to start? Perhaps I could tell you all about the first time the bastard crept into my bedroom and slid his hand under the covers. Or would you like to skip to the really juicy stuff? The first time he raped me, perhaps? Or the time he buggered me and I couldn’t walk properly for a week.’

‘Jo,’ Charlie leans forward and puts his head in his hands. ‘Please, don’t be like this.’

‘Like what? You want to talk about it, so let’s talk about it!’ I’m shaking now and sickness heaves in my stomach. ‘I told Mum and everyone at school that I’d hurt myself falling off my pony. The pony
he
got me in order to keep me quiet.’

‘Josie …’ Charlie gets to his feet and moves towards me with his arms open.

‘No, don’t. Why do you want to do this now? How is any of it going to help? You know all this fucking stuff. All the sordid details - Why make me relive them?’ I can feel tears in the corner of my eyes.

‘I just want you to let it out. I’m trying to help.’ He sits back on the sofa, defeated.

‘Reliving the years of abuse I suffered at the hands of that animal, isn’t going to do me any good. He’s dead now. At last, the fucker is out of my life for good. Finally, I can start to lie the past to rest. Let’s just leave it there, where it belongs. In the bloody past.’

‘OK OK.’ Charlie picks up his glass and drains the remains. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says finally.

I wipe a tear from my cheek and turn to face the wood burner. The fire isn’t on, but I wish it were so that I could lose myself in the flames.

‘I’m going up to bed. Are you coming?’ Charlie moves towards the door.

‘No, I’m not.’ I can’t look at him. ‘I think I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.’

Although I do not turn to look, I sense him hovering by the door.

‘Please, come on.’ He sounds so tired.

‘No. I’m too angry. It’s fine. I’ll get over it but just leave me alone now. I want to be by myself tonight.’

I hear him sigh.

‘I love you, Jo.’

‘I love you, too.’ I can feel the tears returning. ‘Sweet dreams.’

May 24th

By the time Friday comes around, things between Charlie and I have improved. I apologised for being a prickly bitch, and he said he was sorry for pushing the subject. I hope that from now on, he will leave the past alone and let me start to heal.

As I stand in our bedroom, deciding what to pack for the weekend, I feel an unfamiliar excitement. I haven’t seen Sophie for some time and am looking forward to spending the weekend in her company.

She is my oldest friend. We were at boarding school together as teenagers and formed a firm friendship. In some ways, we are polar opposites, in others, like twins.

Sophie is much more academic than me and did very well in her exams. After Sixth Form, our paths went in different directions. She went to Oxford to read law and I ended up in Nottingham studying English Literature. She left university with a first. I came out with a very average 2:2. Now, she is a top prosecuting lawyer who lives in Brighton and commutes to work in London.

In practically every way, Sophie’s a success. Her failures have only ever been her choice in men. She has jumped from relationships with abusers to losers, and back again. I really want her new flame to show more promise.

Standing in the spring sunlight flooding through the bedroom window, I gaze at the mass of crumpled clothes lying on the chair. Particles of dust dance in the haze, while I search for my favourite jeans. I’ve already packed my toothbrush and pants, now all I need are some clothes.

Sophie is always immaculately turned out. Her clothes are perfectly ironed and she is the pinnacle of chic. I can’t help but look as if I’d been dragged backwards through a bush, no matter how hard I try. But I have grown to be comfortable with my own chaotic, hippy style. This is who I am.

Finally, I decide to throw in an old, beige cashmere jumper, my pj’s for slopping around in, a black cotton maxi dress and a duck egg blue, chunky knit cardigan. I pack my brown leather boots and slip into my Converse trainers, lying kicked off under the bed. Glancing at myself in my dressing table mirror, I rub a little blusher onto my cheeks and run a brush through my shoulder length ginger hair. For a moment, I see Ailene’s reflection staring back at me. Then, the image disappears and I am left looking at myself. I hope she isn’t frightened.

I check my wristwatch. It is nearly three o’clock. I am meant to meet Charlie at Victoria Station at half past six. If I leave at five thirty, I will have plenty of time to make the tube journey. I hate travelling in rush hour but it can’t be helped.

I grab my bag and close the creaking, bedroom door behind me before making my way down the narrow staircase. In the kitchen, I empty the contents of the sink into the dishwasher and perform
a cursory wipe down of all the surfaces. I flick the kettle on, make myself a coffee and slip outside for a cigarette.

The warmth in the spring air surprises me. I listen to the sound of sirens whirling in the distance, just another day in the big city. Rubbing my legs together, I puff hard on the cigarette and inspect the various pots scattered around the patio. They are pathetic looking. I am no gardener no matter how hard I try. Everything I plant and attempt to grow dies a sad, shrivelled death. Taking my last drag of the cigarette, I flick the butt into a far corner and go back indoors.

I still have a few hours to kill before it is time to leave, so decide to go and try to write something at my desk. There is an idea that has been brewing in the back of my mind for some time. Perhaps now is a good time to try and put something concrete down.

Sinking into my office chair, a cold shiver runs down my spine as the skin on my neck makes contact with the cold leather. Writing anything now is hopeless. I am struck by a sudden desire to sleep. Gingerly, I lift myself out of the chair and take tentative steps towards the sofa in the living room. Removing my mobile phone from my pocket, I set an alarm for five o’clock before resting my head on a dusty smelling cushion, pulling a blanket up under my chin and closing my heavy eyes.

The train takes an hour to travel in the darkness from Victoria to Brighton. Charlie and I share a bottle of P
rosecco and some nibbles on route. He’s always hungry when he finishes work.

We have arranged to meet Soph and her new flame at a restaurant at eight thirty. Hopping off the train, we make our way through the station before stepping out into the cold and hailing a cab. It takes five minutes to get to “The Set”, on Regency Square. Charlie pays the driver and we get out of the silver Vauxhall, lugging our weekend bags

The restaurant is within a quirky, boutique hotel called the Artists’ Residence. The hotel prides itself on having twelve rooms, individually designed by artists. The exterior of the building is typical to Brighton, with cream, painted stone walls, black metal railings and small balconies. The front door is painted shocking pink and makes me instantly cheerful. Sophie chose the place thinking of me. She knows I have a soft spot for bright, even garish, colours. She’s so thoughtful.

We go into the reception where a friendly young girl with a nose piercing, offers to store our bags while we eat. She shows us through to the restaurant
.

I’m very impressed. Entering through reclaimed doors, we are greeted by a small intimate room, with space for no more than twenty diners. The kitchen is open plan and I watch the chefs prepare dishes. The girl leaves and a tall, skinny, gay man, with short bleached hair,
shows us to our table.

Sitting down in the fashionable, vintage wood and metal school chairs, I give Charlie a smile. It’s so nice being out of London, away from the ghosts. The waiter saunters off leaving us to study the seasonal tasting menu. There are three tasting menu options, each offering four courses. Spotting rabbit as one of the dishes, my mind is made up. Without a doubt, I know Charlie will opt for the menu containing sirloin steak.

I feel relaxed and sit back in my chair to take in the rest of the room. Despite its size, the restaurant is buzzing. People are chattering loudly at their tables and bonhomie pervades the air, mingling with the sounds of cooking. The walls are a mix of exposed brickwork and wooden cladding. The lights hang low over the tables, their metal shades creating a warm light below.

I watch the entrance and on cue, my precious Soph appears accompanied by a stocky bearded man wearing a tweed jacket. Her face lights up when she sees me, and she dashes across the restaurant floor to greet me with a hug.

‘So, so good to see you, Jo!’ Her dark hair cascades down her shoulders and back, and I get a mouthful of it as we embrace. She smells of perfume and soap.

‘Too fucking long.’ I pull away and get a good look at her as Charlie stands and leans over the table to welcome her with a kiss on the cheek.

‘Charlie, great to see you.’ She beams. She looks so happy. I presume her companion may be the reason.

‘This is Rory,’ Sophie smiles at the bearded man and unwraps a soft, baby pink pashmina from her shoulders.

‘Very nice to meet you, Rory.’ Charlie extends a manly handshake.

‘I’m Josie.’ I say as enthusiastically as I can, willing myself to reserve judgement.

‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ He sounds nice enough. No signs of being a wife-beater yet. ‘Good to meet you at last.’

‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you.’ I sense a warning stare from Charlie who stands beside me. ‘Now, let’s all sit down and order some drinks. I’m parched.’

‘When are you ever not parched?’ Sophie twinkles.

‘The last time was probably 1998.’ We chuckle in unison. ‘This place looks great. Been here before?’

‘We came a few weeks ago. It’s a little gem, isn’t it? Started as a pop-up but has taken up permanent residence in the hotel due to its popularity. The food is to die for.’

‘The menu looks great.’

‘Right, who fancies Champagne?’,

The white gold bracelets on Sophie’s wrists jangle as she summons a waiter. Charlie flashes me a look to say, “I’m not looking forward to the bill at the end of the night.”

‘This evening is on me.’ Sophie reads his mind and relieves the furrowed look from Charlie’s brow.

‘She’s so generous, isn’t she?’ Rory chips in. I can’t help it. I dislike him already.

‘Champagne would be lovely. Thanks, Soph.’ I ignore the creepy remark.

‘Pleasure, Doll.’ She winks at me. Her mascara and eyeliner are impeccably applied to accentuate the almond shape of her dark brown eyes. I am happy to accept her offer. She knows I will return the favour at some point.

‘So, Rory, what do you do?’ I examine his face properly for the first time. At a guess, I’d say he was in his early forties. He is handsome, in a way. His pale blue eyes stare out of his bearded face. He has a trilby hat on. I don’t like the black and white dogtooth fabric it’s made of. He’s too old to be wearing something like that. Such things should be reserved for trendy teenagers or gay men. His thin lips curl into a small smile before answering.

‘I’m a swimming teacher.’ He fixes me with a gaze that makes me feel uncomfortable. I look away.

‘That’s surprising.’ I raise an eyebrow. He fires back.

‘Why?’

‘Unusual, I mean.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, really.’ I look to Charlie for help who doesn’t pick up on it. ‘I’ve never met a swimming teacher before.’

‘We don’t bite,’ he smiles, picking up Sophie’s hand and kissing the back of it lightly. She laughs. I don’t.

‘Have you always been a swimming teacher?’ Charlie asks.

‘That and nothing else.’

I can’t understand why he seems so smug about it. He’s a grown man who teaches kids how to swim. Hardly a rocket scientist.

‘Oh.’ Charlie is also dumbstruck. ‘You must like your job.’

‘I love it.’ Rory’s eyes light up. ‘It’s the best job in the world.’ Something about the expression on his face leaves me feeling uneasy. ‘It’s so special being with kids in the water all day.’ For a brief second, I am reminded of my father. I don’t like what my brain is up to.

‘So, tell me, how did you two meet?’ I lean forward and change the subject, unable to look at him.

‘Online.’ Sophie says simply.

‘A dating website?’ I can’t hide my surprise.

‘Everyone’s doing it nowadays. The site matches people for you and sends you your matches. Then you decide which one takes your fancy. And this one,’ she says, pulling on Rory’s sleeve, ‘took mine.’