The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (14 page)

Shit.
Shit, shit. Where did Brighton go?

And for a moment, I feel sorry for myself. Poor little rich girl, with the murdered parents, couldn’t handle reality so decided to take a trip to Wonderland. But I don’t believe in white rabbits or black holes, so where does that leave me?

Then, like a punch to the throat, I remember that things are good.

I’m in love with Charlie. He loves me. I’m lucky.

Shit.

He’s always telling me to stop swearing. Too tired to argue with myself, I fall asleep remembering that I always promise to try.

The shrill ringing of the phone wakes me. Groping about on the duvet, I find the source of irritation. I answer without looking at the screen.

‘Hello?’ my voice sounds as if I’ve smoked one hundred cigarettes in a day.

‘Mrs Brewers?’ He speaks quietly and sounds grave.

‘Detective Woolfson?’ I sit bolt upright in bed.

‘Yes.’ He pauses for a moment and I can sense his lack of ease. ‘Is it a bad moment?’

Can he tell I am hung-over? Can he hear it in my voice?

‘No,’ I give a cough to clear my throat. ‘Not at all.’

‘Good. That’s good. I just want to check if it’s alright to come and see you with Kelly Malling?’

‘Has something happened?’ My heart is in my throat.

‘No, not as such but that is what we need to discuss. Are you free this afternoon?’

‘Yes. I am. What time?’ I dread having to see the family liaison officer yet again.

‘At about 4.30 p.m.?’

He is so clipped. This is the man who has seen the bodies of my parents. Talking to him feels strange.

‘That’s fine.’

‘We’ll see you then.’

‘Ok.’

He hangs up.

This is the last thing I need today. I don’t have the energy to play hostess to the police in a couple of hours. But I couldn’t say no. It wouldn’t look good.

First things first, I need to eat. I need to sober up and I need to shower. I stink and the house is probably a mess.

By the time they arrive, I have cleaned myself and the house enough to persuade them that I’m not a complete case. The fact that I haven’t persuaded myself is neither here not there.

This feels like the sort of situation that calls for tea and I consider making a pot, but it’s August so I offer them juice instead.

The three of us sit around the kitchen table sipping the flat cloudy lemonade in silence. The quiet is deafening.

‘So how can I help you?’ I roll the glass between my hands, the
condensation sooth
es me.

Woolfson looks at Malling and she turns to me.

‘We are making slow progress with this case, Josie. That can’t be easy for you to hear. I know you must want an end to all this.’ She stops and looks to Woolfson again, who is nodding encouragement. ‘We have a suggestion that might help things along.’ Kelly fiddles with a strand of dirty blonde hair that’s come loose from her ponytail. ‘We think an appeal would really help.’ Sitting back in the chair, I can feel her waiting for me to absorb the news. ‘A television appeal to the public for information.’

I look up at Woolfson who is examining my reaction with his stern, blue eyes.

‘Although this is something we can do without you, it really helps to have a member of the family there. We need people to come forward and tell us what they know. Having you there on camera would really bring it home for any potential witnesses and even the perpetrator.’

‘You want me to go on television and ask people to come forward?’ I really, really wish I had something stronger than lemonade right now.

‘Yes. We are sure it would help.’

      
Oh Christ.

‘What would I need to do?’ my hands are beginning to shake and I know it’s not just nerves.

‘Well,’ Woolfson leans forward resting his arms on the table and folds his hands. ‘There would be a press conference. I would give a statement regarding the crime and then you would appeal to the public for information.’

‘Would I have to answer questions?’ The thought makes me feel ill.

‘No, no, not if you don’t want to.’ Kelly puts her hand on my shoulder. I wish she wouldn’t.

‘Right.’ I don’t have a choice. ‘Ok.’ I’m going to regret this. ‘If you think it will help.’

‘We think it will.’ Enthusiastic, Kelly nods.

‘Ok then. When do you want me to do this?’

‘In a couple of days.’ Woolfson cuts in still fixing me with his gaze. ‘The sooner the better. It doesn’t take long to arrange the press. They love this sort of thing.’ Kelly flashes him a look of disapproval, which he ignores. ‘It’s important,’ he continues, ‘that the public are sympathetic towards you. Do you understand?’

‘Of course I understand. Don’t patronise me, please.’ I snap without thinking.

‘What the D.I. means,’ Kelly says trying to calm the situation, ‘is that we need you to talk about your parents. Let people know that you loved them. That sort of thing.’

‘I hope you don’t expect me to go all Jerry Springer for you. I’m a private person. I keep my feelings to myself. I’ll do the conference because I want this person caught. I want justice for them.’ I eyeball Woolfson back wondering why he’s being so callous.

‘Good. We will get him. It’s just a matter of time.’ He smiles and gets up from the table. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

September 8th

By the time I sober up, it is Thursday morning. Charlie left for work hours ago. A small note scribbled on a scrap of paper lies folded on his empty pillow.

Sleep it off. Will call at lunch. Xx

No, ‘I love you.’ Not that I deserve it, but it would be nice.

Still feeling as if my head is in a clamp, I wrestle with myself to gain some control. If I delve enough, I’m sure to find some solace. Some place where I can re-write the wrongs that hang around my neck like a chain.
      

Burying my face in the pillow, I know I should get up. I haven’t showered in days and without needing to go downstairs, I know the house is a dreadful mess.

I keep playing the press conference over and over in my head. I hated being in the spotlight. All those cameras and microphones pointed at me. People giving me pitying looks, like I was the victim. I wish this would end.

Woolfson kept to his word and did most of the talking.

Charlie was there holding my hand, encouraging me all the time. I don’t know
if I could have done it without him.

I told them I didn’t want to answer any press questions. I would have found it too stressful. They said that was fine.

Real life isn’t as easy as it used to be.

I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. It’s time to get a grip. I must get back to writing. I groan and stretch out, my bare feet stick out beneath the duvet, feel the cold air and retract like snails into their shell. Just five more minutes in bed won’t hurt.

October 15th

Just as I start to doze off again, the familiar buzz of my phone vibrating on the bedside table stirs me. Feeling about for it, my hand finds my mobile and brings it close to my face. I open one bloodshot eye to inspect the screen. Ailene’s name glows. I sit up quickly, forgetting my delicate state and immediately regretting my haste. I stare at the name for a moment before deciding not to answer. I need a coffee or eight before facing my mother. I tell myself I’ll call her after breakfast as I put the phone back down on the table and sit up in bed.

It’s then that I realise I am still dressed, wearing my black leggings and green cashmere jumper that has a hole near the cuff of the sleeve. Shame washes over me again and I let my head drop, my mess of ginger hair meeting like curtains closing on a stage. Rubbing my face with the palm of my cold white hands, I resolve to put an end to the self-pity and get out of bed.

Throwing off the duvet, I slide my legs round and let my feet find the floor. The floorboards are smooth and cold and I scour the room for my socks, spotting them lying discarded near the chair of my dressing table. Darting across the cold floor, I grab and pull them on. A half empty glass of water on top of our chest of drawers tells me to drink it all in one go. It might soften the thumping in my head.

As I leave the bedroom, I grab an old, navy, towelling dressing gown off a hook on the back of the door and wrap it around myself. A bit warmer, I am ready to face going downstairs.

The house is strangely cold and I head straight to the thermostat on the wall in the hallway. I know it was Charlie who turned it off. He doesn’t feel the cold like I do and he’s always worrying about the cost of our bills.

I go into the living room and grimace. There are empty bottles and glasses left on the coffee table and other surfaces, accompanied by take away boxes and dirty plates. The house looks likes it’s lived in by teenagers.

Thankfully, Charlie isn’t a neat freak. If he was he would never have married me, but I wish that he had at least put some of the rubbish in the bin when he’d come downstairs this morning. He gets up for work hours before he needs to leave. In that time, all he has to do is eat his breakfast, have a shower and get dressed. I wonder what on earth he does every morning.

Before allowing myself coffee, I collect the dirty crockery and pile it into the sink. I empty the full, stinking ashtray into the bin, coughing as a cloud of ash erupts from it. I take a black bag and fill it with rubbish littered in the kitchen and the living room. It only takes me ten minutes to make the house appear presentable again.

I am no longer feeling cold, so open a window. The stench of stale pot and tobacco hang in the air and cling to the rugs and upholstery. I duck into the kitchen and reward myself with a large mug of steaming black coffee. Its effect helps me begin to feel human again.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, I brush away some crumbs with the palm of my hand and wrap my fingers around the ceramic grey mug for warmth. I look out of the window. Outside, the sun is shining on the remaining yellow leaves of the pot plants I didn’t manage to kill over the summer. I feel calmer now and ready to call Ailene.

I take my phone out of the dressing gown pocket and go to missed calls. Staring at her name for a while, I wonder whether I should change the contact to Mum, but, as I press the button and make the call, decide it’s too soon.

‘Hello?’ Her faint Irish twang travels down the line.

‘Hi, Ailene. I missed your call earlier,’ I still get nervous when talking to her.

‘Ah, yes. Josie, how are you?’

‘Well, thanks. Charlie and I had a lovely weekend recently. It’s good to get away sometimes. How are you? Any news on the break in?’ I know it’s been months, but I also know that it still plays on her mind.

‘No, not a word from the Police. They seem certain it was hooligans, probably looking for something to do.’

‘And how are you feeling? When we last spoke you mentioned you were still feeling uneasy.’

‘I was, but I’m much calmer now. I’ve got my home back. A friend from the sewing shop came over and helped me reorganise. The furniture has been moved round. It makes it feel like a different place. I feel much better, now.’

I’m relieved that she seems to have got over it. Guilt lingered with me for a while afterwards for some reason. Perhaps, because I should have insisted she stayed with us. But now I can put that to bed.

‘That’s great.’ There is a pause in the conversation while we both search for something appropriate to say.

‘Getting ready for Christmas, are you?’ she asks.

‘I really hadn’t thought about it. Is it that time already?’ I rub my head wondering where the last few months have gone.

‘Only a few weeks away, now. I like to go to church and help the priest hand out soup to the homeless at this time of year. People are so caught up in the commercial side of it that the true meaning of Christmas has been lost.’

‘Hmm.’ I can’t get excited about church but her charity is to be admired. ‘Very Christian of you.’ I can feel the sarcasm creep into my voice that was there when I spoke to Rory. Charlie describes me as an atheist extremist. I think perhaps he’s right. I try not to be so judgemental and soften my tone. ‘What do you usually do at Christmas?’

‘In the past, I’ve been back to Ireland, to visit distant family and the like but in recent years I’ve spent it at home.’ The thought of her alone in Milton Keynes makes me feel very sad - a microwave meal for one and no presents to unwrap.

‘Come here, this year.’ The suggestion has left my mouth before my brain has had a chance to process it. ‘It’ll be fun.’ I hear her give a little cough on the other end of the line and she says nothing. ‘No one should be alone at Christmas.’ I don’t know if I’m succeeding, but I’m trying to reach out.

‘Well, that’s a very generous offer, Josie.’ It still feels strange whenever she says my name. ‘Why don’t you have a word with Charlie and let me know what you decide. He might want you to spend it with his family.’

‘His father is dead, his mother is ancient and in an old folks’ home and his sister moved to Canada. I’m his only family. Please think about it.’

‘That’s ever so kind of you. I will. Thank you.’

‘Well,’ I say, stretching in my chair, ‘I’ve got a lot to get on with today. I’d better stop chatting.’ I dread saying goodbye. It is always uncomfortable. ‘Let’s speak again later in the week. Let me know what you decide.’

‘Ok, I will.’

She sounds more like a head mistress again and I can hear that her barriers have gone up.

‘Right, well, bye then.’

‘Goodbye.’ There is a click at the other end of the line and she has gone. I am left wondering if she found it that easy to walk away when I was born.

Shaking myself free from the thought, I decide it’s time to wash away the grime from the last few days’ gluttony and head upstairs to have a shower.

Shrugging the dressing gown off, I go back into my bedroom to replace it on the back of the door. Clothes strewn everywhere, drawers open, make-up lying all over my dressing table, empty glasses of water, a pile of discarded newspapers on the floor on Charlie’s side, dust covering everything and an over-flowing laundry basket.