The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (13 page)

As I turn onto the long gravel driveway, I feel a strange sense of peace. The house that once kept me prisoner is now his prison. He can never leave.

The sun is shining through low, silver clouds that float lazy across the blue summer sky. I can’t remember the sun ever shining here before. In my memory, it was always a grey place.

The manor has seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, five reception rooms and many outbuildings, including stables. At a guess, it’s worth five million. I should be pleased knowing I’ve got all that money coming to me. But I’m not. I haven’t taken a penny off them since leaving university, despite their offers. I don’t want their money,
now. Charlie said I am being too righteous. He thinks I should look at it as compensation. He’s probably right.

I park the blue hatchback in the vast gravel driveway that sweeps in front of the house. I walk around the house towards the back door, the sound of my feet crunch as I walk, just as they always did. From my pocket, I remove my set of keys and open the door. The space is still boarded up where the glass once was.
I am coming into the house the same way as the murderer. The thought makes my skin crawl.

The kitchen feels as vast and unwelcoming as ever it did when I was a child. More like a show room than a home. I cross it to sit down at the long pine table by the French windows and decide I’ll wait for Margaret to show up. The house is strangely silent. As I look around the room, it dawns on me what a huge task lays ahead. The kitchen alone is full of things to go through. On the far side is a large French dresser. On its many shelves, an expensive gold and cream dinner service is displayed. I go over to it and pick up one of the plates. It feels cold and smooth in my hand. I turn it over and look at the emblem printed on the back. In green lettering are the words, Rosenthal, Germany, Aida. It doesn’t mean anything to me, but I’m curious nevertheless.

Like most things in the house, it probably belonged to my grandmother. Fiona, my adoptive mother, inherited the place from her parents. Unlike Harold, my father, who was gauche and liked flashy things, she came from old money. No doubt, he was drawn to her because of it. I’m not sure he really loved her at all. I think their entire marriage was a show
.

I put the plate back carefully and go over to the door to the vast walk-in larder. As I open the door and peer into the blackness, I hear a small knock behind me. Through the window, I can see Margaret standing, already in her apron, eagerly waiting to be let inside.

I open the door; she leaps forward and hugs me tight. She smells like mothballs.

‘Oh, my girl.’ Her voice trembles. She lets go and takes a step back to look at me.

‘It’s OK, Mags, really.’ That is what I always called her when I lived there. It feels strange now, saying it as an adult. I haven’t seen her for years, but I don’t want to go through the pretence with her. Enough time has passed now and I don’t need to spend every waking moment in bits. ‘It’s good to see you. I like what you’ve done to your hair.’

She blushes and the skin around her grey eyes wrinkles as she smiles.

‘My, what a beautiful girl you’ve grown into.’ Clearly, she doesn’t accept that I am now an adult. But that’s fine. Why should I mind?

‘Right. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.’ I know it’s rude but I don’t want to waste time having a catch up. We can chat as we work. ‘I think the first thing we should do is to go through all the food. Throw out what’s rotten. You can take the rest home with you? No point in letting anything go to waste.’

‘That’s very kind, lamb.’ She folds her hands in front of her tightly. ‘I was just wondering,’ she clears her throat, ‘when the funeral might be?’ She shifts on the spot looking awkward. I feel for her. It’s a perfectly reasonable question.

‘The truth is, I don’t know, Mags. They can’t be buried until the police have made an arrest and charged someone. It’s not looking very promising at the moment. They don’t seem to have a suspect. It’s as if the person responsible just vanished into thin air.’

‘How awful.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not right. They need to be laid to rest. You poor girl.’

Truthfully, I am grateful not to have to worry about planning a funeral at the moment. I’ve got enough on my plate and the idea of having to face all their friends and listen patiently, while people tell me how wonderful they were, fills me with dread.

‘Hmm.’ It the only answer I have.

‘Well, let’s get on with this then, shall we?’ She sounds jolly in an attempt to lift my spirits. ‘I’ll make a start with the fridge.’
      

I had actually thought ahead and arranged for some packing cases to be delivered to the house and when we finally finish in the kitchen, we have separated stuff into boxes, some to be sent to the auction house, others destined for charity. I leave Margaret in the library putting the books into boxes, while I ascend the stairs.

I arrive at the long, wide corridor and wander along it, passing my parents’ bedroom as I go. The door is closed and a piece of police tape is fastened across it. I have no desire to go inside and I hurry past. Large oil paintings hang on the walls. One features a hunting scene. I stop and look at it. I always hated it as a child. Men in red coats, on horses, stand over the body of a fox being ripped apart by hounds. The blood of the animal is the brightest thing in the picture. I can’t imagine why anyone would want such a thing in his or her home. Looking at it, I realise there’s very little I actually want from the house. None of it is in my taste.

I pass two of the bathrooms and three guest bedrooms before I reach my room. I know that it is going to look the same as it always did but something stops me from going inside. I linger by the door and imagine my father doing the same thing. It makes me want to scream. Revolted by the idea, I finally push the door open and go in.

It is a large room with pale, pink wallpaper and two big windows that look out over the gardens. The thick, sumptuous pink curtain fabric hangs gathered by tiebacks and pools out onto the cream carpet. It’s all so unlike me.

I go over to the bed and sit down on the edge. Sat up against the pillows, is my old teddy bear. I pull him towards me and wrap my arms around his fat belly. He will come home with me.

I used to cuddle that bear after my father left my room. He was my one solace. I will never forget the first special hug.

After that, I would put on layers and layers of clothes before getting into bed. Anything to slow down the inevitable.

When I first confided in Charlie, he asked me why I never spoke out. I told him I used to think it was normal. It was something that happened in every family but people didn’t talk about it. No one ever told me it was wrong. Normal people don’t take their young children aside and tell them that some adults like to abuse children. Then, as a young teenager I blamed myself. I was ashamed and felt as though I should know how to stop it. When I was fifteen, it did. He finally left me alone.

I approach my dressing table that sits against a wall opposite the bed. Sitting down on the antique stool, I open one of the drawers and begin fingering through my things. Postcards, old photographs, ticket stumps and other bits I deemed worth keeping all lie collected together. I remove a picture of Sophie and I looking young and gawky in our school uniforms. I remember that day and smile. We had been on a history trip to visit a castle. Folding the picture in half, I slip it into my pocket.

I remind myself that not every moment of my childhood was bad. There were some good moments, too. The best thing they ever did for me was to send me to that school. I got a good education and made some great friends. The realisation makes me stop and think.

Why did they send me to boarding school?

I have a memory of listening to an argument between my mother and father. I sat on the other side of his office door, listening to them go at it hammer and tongs.

He was livid that she had enrolled me for a boarding school. Even then, I understood the reason why. She was shouting at him, telling him what a wonderful opportunity it was for me to broaden my horizons. She even cursed once. I had never heard her swear before and I don’t think I ever did again. She was angry with him for not agreeing to adopt another child. She said I was missing out on not having a sibling and that the best thing they could now do for me was to surround me by my peers.

Looking back, I am grateful to her for sticking to her guns. She was right, but I can’t help thinking that she knew what my father was doing to me. She was so desperate to send me away. It is the only conclusion that I can draw. She loved me and she would have wanted me close, so it was a sacrifice for her on my behalf.

I will never know if she suspected or not. Part of me wants to think she did, so that I can be thankful she sent me away. The other side of me wants to hate her for not putting a stop to it and protecting me.

I used to wonder how he justified it to himself. He either persuaded himself it was OK or he didn’t care. His actions altered me. I had the potential to have an amazing life. What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I get a real mum and dad?

In the room that was the setting for so many awful times, I feel an intense sadness that I have not felt before. For the first time since she died,
I realise I miss my mother.

June 28th

I can see the bitch through the window. She’s just sittin’ there, eatin’ biscuits and watchin’ the telly.

I’m standin’ behind the trunk of a big, bare, chestnut tree, in the dark. Back in bloody Milton Keynes again. My hoodie’s pulled up, to stop the worse of the soddin’ breeze from hittin’ my skull. The sound of the drops peltin’ the concrete is like a hammer to my brain. When will this fuckin’ English weather ever cease?

The gum I’m chewin’ has lost its taste. It’s just a hard rubber ball givin’ my teeth somethin’ to do. Anythin’ to stop them chatterin’. I’ve been here for over an hour now. Watched her make her dinner, sit alone at the table and eat some shitty lookin’ brown food. I bet I’d get a better meal in prison.

It’s kind of strange to me that she’d sit there, in her flat, without the curtains closed, so exposed. Especially, after a break in. A little smile creeps across my face, as I imagine the anguish she must have felt after. Good. I want her to be on her toes. To know that there is someone out there pokin’ about in her life. Maybe then she’ll watch her step.

She looks pathetic sittin’ there alone, the bluish light from the telly reflectin’ against her pale face. I almost feel sorry for the poor old woman. Seems to me like she’s thrown her life away. Spent it sewin’ or cooped up in that dingy little flat, when she could have had a family, a life.

Tonight I’m not here to cause her harm. I’m just checkin’ up. Makin’ sure everythin’ is as it should be.

I find myself at a bit of a loose end these days. What with the other folks out the way, I don’t have much to do to fill my time. I check the papers and news regularly, makin’ sure the fuckin’ pigs aren’t on to me. They are no nearer catchin’ me now, than they were weeks ago. Dead end is how the press reports it. Again I smile, pleased with myself for gettin’ away with it. It seems murder really ain’t that complicated. A bit of forward plannin’ and there you go. Piece of piss.

That gets me thinkin’. How many people are there in the world, able to pull the wool over the eyes of the law? I’m not thick, but I’m no genius either. If I can manage it, just imagine how many sick fucks there are wanderin’ around. Can’t be too careful nowadays. All sorts of freaks and weirdos out there.

A warm rush runs up from my toes to the top of my head, and almost instantly I feel a stirrin’ in my groin. That’s my cue to leave. Time to go home, I think as I take one last look at the shell of the woman sittin’ gazin’ at the telly. She’ll be fine where she is … for now.

July 21st

Charlie and I get back to being what we once were. Free and easy, no hang-ups. No real ones, anyway.

I’ve always been difficult, temperamental, and he’s always been him. Funny, bright and sanctimonious. Always thinking he’s right. He’ll argue with a brick wall and tell you it’s made of straw, if you give him a chance.

No one else I know shares his ability to drive me mad. Sometimes, I think I hate him. Maybe I do. But behind the anger and frustration, lies a lost man. And that is where we find our common ground.

      
Back in our little London bubble, we reconnect. Sex, food and music become part of our daily routine again. At last, I’m not a victim anymore. I’m a survivor. He is no longer my carer. He’s my equal.

We pack away the horror of the murders, the police and the press conference.
They disintegrate like cork in a bottle of rotten wine.

We smoke tons of pot again. I spend too much time in my pyjamas and like a loyal dog he still goes to work, day in day out. It’s similar to being a student again, except behind the façade are two people who should know better.

This cannot last. I know that.

He knows that.

And yet, I can’t help but be mesmerised by the intoxication that has taken over and refuses to let go.

All I want to do is go to sleep.

Please let me sleep and if I must wake, let the answers flood in and be lost with the daylight.

August 3rd

When I peel the covers back from my face, I’m blinded by the blazing summer light. The curtains are closed and I don’t know where I am. There is something familiar though. The duvet smells of stale body odour or sweat, and the room feels like it’s sinking under a wave of tired dust. I finally realise I’m at home and London has never felt so lonely.

Peace at last.

Except it isn’t. My head is full of concrete and it takes me some time before I am able to lift my eyelids and examine the watch on my wrist.

10:44 a.m.

Shit.

I must have smoked and drank more than I realized.