The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (16 page)

Despite the lavish nature of the Christmases they hosted, I never felt part of a proper family. Being adopted and an only child made me feel like an outsider. It was a very formal affair with my adoptive parents. They lived on ceremony. Everything was for appearance’s sake.

Looking back, I think my mother must have known what he did to me. She must have sensed my terror of him. How could she not? I became withdrawn from the moment he started to abuse me. The first time he crept into my bedroom, I was only eight years old.

The strange thing is that apart from the horror of sexual abuse, he was actually quite kind to me. I suppose he had to be in order to keep me on side. I was frightened of him, but I never thought he’d hit or punish me. I was his princess. He inflicted a different kind of pain and as I sit here thinking about it, I would so much rather he had hit me. Anything would have been preferable to those bedroom visits.

Determined not to let my jolly mood be spoilt by ghosts from my past, I put the thought of my adopted father to the back of my mind and continue hanging the glittering papier maché snowflakes on pieces of thread in our sitting room window. I made them myself a few years ago and display them every Christmas.

The windowpanes are icy to touch and my hot breath steams up on the glass. Outside, the indigo night enfolds the vast cold city.

Tomorrow, Ailene will arrive. It will be my first Christmas with my birth mother and I cannot hide my excitement. I feel like a small child again. Soon, Charlie will return from work and the celebrations can begin. It’s a tradition of ours that we share a bottle of Prosecco and smoke some weed to welcome the start of the holiday.

The fridge is filled with artisan cheese I bought from Broadway Market, a foodie market in the heart of Hackney that has amazing fresh produce and lovely street food. It’s full of hipsters walking in the rain wearing their expensive Ray Ban Wayfarers and sipping herbal tea, but that’s part of the fun. The cheeses cost a small fortune.

My stomach rumbles as I move over to the wood burner and prod the small fire, stirring the flames back to life. The room has a warm glow and I admire the large Christmas tree standing in the corner, its white fairy glittering with pride. This is how it should be, I think while I get the cheese from the fridge and display it on a wooden board, along with crackers, home made chutney and purple grapes.

Looking up at the clock on the wall, Charlie should be home soon. He went out for drinks with some work colleagues but promised he’d be back by eight thirty. It’s quarter past.

I think about rolling myself a joint but decide to wait for my husband. A glass of wine will do for now.

Padding back into the sitting room, the floorboards creaking beneath my slippers, holding my newly-filled glass, I move over to the wood burner, pic up a cushion, drop it on the floor and sit down near the fire. In a more wholesome household, I would be drinking hot cocoa, but it is Christmas after all. I take a large glug of Rioja.

I flick through my music on my phone, looking for something jolly to blast out the wireless speakers that I bought Charlie as a present last Christmas. I can hardly believe a year has passed. So much has happened. So much has changed. A few months ago, I didn’t think it would be possible to be sitting here now, feeling happy. But that’s life, I suppose. You never know what’s around the corner, and when it appears, and punches you in the face, in time you adapt in the only way you can to the situation
.

I come across the Rolling Stones greatest hits and settle on listening to that. The band may have been around long before I was born but their music remains timeless. Everyone loves the Stones, even if Mick Jagger is the world’s biggest prick.

      
As
Jumping Jack Flash
comes to an end, the click of the front door lock sounds and I spring up off the floor to greet Charlie. He comes into the sitting room, unwinding an orange scarf from his neck and shaking off his coat.

‘Happy Christmas!’ I hold my glass up in the air and smile showing all my teeth.

‘Not quite yet, love.’ He drops his bag on one of the armchairs.

With those four simple words, my good mood evaporates. I know it’s not Christmas day but the holidays have began. Surely, he knows what I mean?

‘Bad day at work?’ I put my glass down and fold my arms across my chest.

‘Not that bad. Bloody tube was packed tighter than a tin of sardines.’

‘Oh well,’ I can feel my irritation growing, ‘you’re home now. No more commuting for the next week.’

I follow him into the kitchen and watch him pour himself a large glass of water and drink it in one go before speaking again.

‘Food looks good.’ He nods his head in the direction of the cheese board.

‘I wanted to treat you.’ I say, regretting the effort I’ve made.

‘I’m going to jump in the shower. Wash that bloody tube off me. We’ll eat when I come down, OK?’ He pecks me on the cheek before leaving the room.

Disappointment floods over me as I go back into the sitting room and resume my position on the cushion. I no longer feel like listening to music and jab at my phone before chucking it onto the sofa. I hug my legs and stare at the flames licking around the charred, black wood.

      
I know he’s tired, but for Christ’s sake, can’t he show just a little bit of enthusiasm? This is the start of the holidays for him. No more work or having to take the tube to work. That is something to celebrate, even if he doesn’t really care about Christmas.

Sitting huddled on the floor, I wonder when he lost his sparkle. When we first met, he was so enthusiastic about life, always positive and carefree. He’s never been exactly reckless but he enjoyed life and looked forward to what may come. Now, recently, he seems old to me. The spontaneous man I met, who would whisk me out to the pub on a Tuesday night despite an early start the next day, the guy who told me to leave the rat race and follow my dreams, the guy who proposed only after six months. Where has he gone? Now, he spends his time worrying about work and money. He seems to have forgotten how to have fun. He’s become so sensible. I fear he’s on the verge of becoming boring. I appreciate that there is an age gap between us, but that doesn’t explain it and besides, I am about to inherit a fortune, so money is the least of our problems. He never has to work again, if he wants.

I drain my glass in one go. Fuck it. If he isn’t going to join in, I’ll make my own fun. From my cotton pyjama trousers pocket, I remove a little tin containing weed, tobacco and rolling papers. I roll a large joint. I’ll smoke it without him I decide, heading for the back door in the kitchen. But when I reach it, I have a change of heart. I’m fed up with the way we always do this. It’s bitterly cold outside, I’m in my slippers and it’s Christmas. I am not going outside to smoke. Why should I? I pick up the cheese board and carry it through into the sitting room, the unlit joint hanging from my lips. I put the food down on the coffee table and return to my place on the floor near the fire. I lean over to a nearby basket containing small logs and remove a pack of matches.

Dragging the brown phosphorus tip against the rough edge of the cardboard box makes a delicious sound and I watch with fascination as the wood sparkles into life, finally settling as a small blue flame.

I put the end of the joint into the fire and inhale deeply. The earthy herb tastes good and I close my eyes allowing the warm drug to sink down into my lungs. Better already, I think opening my eyes and deciding I will listen to music after all. Appropriately,
Play with Fire
starts to boom out of the speakers and I smile.

Charlie will relax after he’s had a shower, I hope. I’ll just sit here enjoying the music and watch as the smoke circles up into the air, gathering in a layer of fog above my head. All he needs is a full glass, a full belly and a lungful. Then he’ll be fine.

Charlie reappears, wearing his jeans and a brown jumper. I notice the growing collection of grey hairs on the sides of his face for the first time. He is aging well, I think and for a man in his fifties, he is still handsome. He stands in the doorway of the sitting room and stares at me with irritation.

‘Have you been smoking in here?’ He asks sniffing the air.
      
‘Yes I have. I’ve rolled you one.’ I brandish the joint in his direction. He doesn’t take it.

‘I thought we agreed we’d smoke outside.’

‘Well, I changed my mind.’ I sound like an obnoxious teenager.

‘I hate the smell in the house.’ A look of thunder crosses his face.

‘I know you do. But it’s freezing outside and it’s only for tonight.’ My arms are folded again in self-defence.

‘So, put a coat on.’ He sits down on the sofa and takes a cracker from the cheese board. ‘Where are the plates?’

‘In the kitchen cupboard where they live.’ I scowl.

‘Oh, grow up.’ He pops a grape into his mouth and bites down hard. ‘What the hell is wrong with you this evening?’

That is the last straw.

‘Are you fucking kidding me? You come home with a face like a slapped arse and I’m the one with the problem?’

‘Not true.’ A vein on the side of his neck is pulsing, the way it always does when he’s angry or lying.

‘I made a special effort this evening. You came back, didn’t even say hello or ask how my day was. Now, you’re having a pop at me about smoking one joint in the house. This is my house too and if I want to smoke inside, I fucking well will.’ By now, I’m standing on my feet and my voice is louder than I intended.
      

‘Fine. Do what you like.’ He picks up a knife and cuts violently into the soft Brie before smearing it on a cracker.

‘Why are you being like this? It’s the start of the holidays, I thought you’d be happy?’

‘I just don’t see why you couldn’t smoke it outside.’

‘You know what, I could have, but I decided that just for once, I would enjoy it in front of the warm fire. Stupidly, I thought you might think it was a good idea.’ The lie trips off my tongue with ease. ‘And it’s not exactly hurting anyone. We don’t have any kids in the house, we both enjoy a smoke, so what’s the harm?’

‘Good thing we don’t have kids, if this is how you are going to behave.’

‘Stop talking to me as though you’re my father. What’s happened to you? You used to be so much fun.’ The anger is fading only to be replaced with a feeling of despair.
      

‘I just wish you’d get your head out of the clouds and come back to earth. You’re smoking all the time at the moment, drinking too much. You seem to have changed into someone else.’ The bags under his eyes emphasize the sadness in them. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot. More than anyone should ever have to go through, but I thought you were making progress.’

‘I am. I have.’ I protest sinking onto the sofa next to him and taking hold of his hand. ‘Look, I’m sorry I was a bitch. I just wanted us to have fun tonight. To enjoy ourselves, like we used to. Is that so much to ask?’ All the fight has left me.

Charlie cups my face in his hands and kisses my forehead.

‘OK, OK. But you don’t want Ailene to smell it when she arrives. Smoke in here tonight. Go on, hand me that joint. But tomorrow, we go back outside again. Deal?’

‘Deal.’ I kiss him, enjoying the taste of ripe Brie on his breath. ‘But you have to do me a favour.’ He is eyeballing the cheese and deciding which to attack next. ‘No talk of work. Let’s enjoy the time we’ve got together. It is Christmas after all.’ I gesture at the spruce laden with gold and red baubles.

‘Fine. Suits me.’ He begins cutting into a large chunk of Stilton.

‘And no more fighting?’ I snuggle against his upper arm, enjoying the scent of fresh laundry coming from his jumper.

‘Promise.’ He says through a mouthful of cheese. ‘Fun, fun and nothing but fun.’

December 24th

When I wake and sit up in bed, I take a sip from the glass of water on my bedside table, only noticing the thin rim of dust floating on the surface too late. My mouth tastes like a dry slug and I have a desperate urge to brush my teeth.

Like most mornings, Charlie is nowhere to be seen. I will find him downstairs, his breakfast of boiled egg and toast already finished, probably reading the paper or on his laptop while the BBC news reverberates from the television.

      
I curl up into a foetal position bringing my knees to my chest. I don’t want to get out of bed. We should all be hibernating, I think to myself. But then the prospect of Christmas stirs me from my slumber and I am out of bed faster than a jackrabbit, barely noticing the cold floorboards and landscape of mist gathered on the windowpanes.

Despite my growing excitement, there is a cloud hanging over my head. I have the faintest memory of a bad dream, a violent and stressful nightmare that played in my head last night. The visions from the dream are unclear, shrouded in a cerebral fog, but there is a lingering sense of dread that I can’t shake. I don’t feel very well rested as I pad down the stairs, wrapping my dressing gown tightly around my skinny body.

As predicted, Charlie is on the sitting room sofa with one eye on his emails and the other on the news headlines. I ruffle his hair as I pass and he blows me a kiss over his shoulder.

‘There’s black coffee on the table.’

I nod with silent appreciation, head into the kitchen and make a beeline for the cafetière. The coffee is still acceptably warm and I pour the remains into a mug I take out of the dishwasher. It’s bitter and strong and feels like the answer to a prayer.

‘What’s the plan for today?’ Charlie calls from the sitting room.

‘I need to make the spare room up. A few final bits of shopping to do, other than that, everything is pretty much done.’

‘I need to pop out and buy some last minute things. Otherwise I’m all yours.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ I am starting to feel human again. The coffee is working its magic. ‘Fancy lunch somewhere cheap and cheerful?’

‘Why not.’ I hear his fingers tapping on his keyboard. ‘Anywhere in particular?’