The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (18 page)

‘Here you go,’ I hand her the tea.

      
‘Ah, perfect, thank you.’ She holds it in both hands enjoying the warmth exuding from it. ‘So, how have you been?’

‘I’m doing well.’ And I realise that I am. ‘These last few months, as you know, have been very difficult but I feel that now I’ve turned a corner.’

‘That’s good.’ She bows her head and takes a small sip of tea.

‘Awful, awful thing that happened.’ Her voice is almost a whisper.

‘It is. It was.’ I find myself staring into the fireplace, hoping to find warmth from the flames that aren’t there. ‘But we don’t want to dwell on that now.’ I sit up and shake my head slightly. ‘It’s time to look to the future.’ I hold my mug up towards her. ‘To new beginnings.’

Silently, she lifts her tea up in the air. We look at each other for a moment. Her eyes have a twinkle in them I haven’t seen before.

‘To you.’ Ailene says at last and we drink simultaneously from our mugs. ‘Lovely tea,’ she says looking around for somewhere to put her mug down.

‘On the coffee table is fine.’ She reaches for a magazine to put under the mug. She’s obviously a coaster person. No ring marks on her furniture, I suspect.

She turns her head slightly so she can admire the tree again. In her profile, I see a reflection of myself. It almost takes my breath away. With each passing minute, I sense myself growing closer to her and it feels wonderful. There is a long comfortable silence as she stares at the tree.

‘Just lovely,’ she reaches out a hand and caresses a small golden cherub hanging from branch close to where she is sitting. ‘Very tasteful.’

‘I love Christmas.’ I say putting my mug down on the wooden surface of the coffee table without a seconds thought. ‘Always have done. Ever since I was little.’

As if I have just slapped her cheek hard, an expression of discomposure flashes across her face to disappear as quickly as it arose. In that moment, I feel the distance flood in between us again.

‘Do you like Christmas?’ I try to ignore the tension in the air.

‘As a Christian, I love Christmas, of course.’ Her barriers have gone up and my heart sinks.

Just then I hear the front door and we both stand up.

‘Charlie’s home.’ His timing could not be better. ‘Hi.’ I call out.

‘Damned shops on Christmas Eve. I had to traipse to Tesco on Bethnal Green Road. Can you believe Patel’s doesn’t sell jam?’ He comes into the room dusting off a light smattering of rain from his head and shoulders.

‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d arrived. How do you do, Ailene. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Charlie.’ He moves closer to her,
extending a strong hand and gives her his most charming smile.

Charlie stands with his hand out, waiting for her to shake it. He and I watch the hand and Ailene. Eventually, cautious, she takes it, withdrawing hers as fast as she can. Awkward, Charlie retracts his rejected hand to scratch the back of his head.

There is total silence. He turns to look at me and raises his shoulders slightly, confusion clouding his eyes.

‘Is everything alright?’ I break the silence at last, baffled by the expression on Ailene’s face.

‘Yes. Of course.’ She sits back down in the chair.

‘I’ll take this through to the kitchen.’ Charlie takes quick steps out of the room.

‘Are you OK?’ I lean toward her speaking in a half whisper.

‘Could I have a glass of water?’ she looks pale.

‘Sure.’ She doesn’t look well. ‘Charlie,’ I call out, ‘Can you get Mum a glass of water?’

The word slips out without me even thinking about it. She looks at me in shock.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I feel my cheeks going red. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘It’s fine. I am your mother after all.’ There is a small smile on her face.

Charlie reappears holding a tumbler of water and hands it to Ailene before sitting down next to me on the sofa.

‘Thank you.’ She takes a small sip before putting the glass down on top of the magazine next to her teacup.

‘So,’ Charlie leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and tries again, ‘we meet at last. It’s very nice to be able to put a face to your name.’

      
His attempt at charm seems lost on her. Another potent pause.

‘Tell me a bit about yourself,’ she finally responds as though conducting an interview.

‘I’m not what you imagined, am I? It’s the age thing. Didn’t Jose mention it?’

‘No, she didn’t.’ Ailene’s reply is cold.
      

Not understanding why her attitude has changed so fast and why she seems so shaken, I cut in,

      
‘It didn’t occur to me.’
      

‘What is the age gap?’

And why the inquisition, I think?

‘Eighteen years or thereabouts.’ Charlie can’t hide his irritation. This meeting is not going the way I thought it would. Ailene fiddles with the small watch on her wrist.

‘So, Jose tells me your family are Irish.’ Charlie is doing his best to lighten the mood and I reach over and squeeze his knee as a thank you.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ It’s like getting blood from a stone. Steely eyes look up and for the first time she makes proper eye contact with Charlie. ‘What about you and your family?’

Already, the idea of having her here for Christmas is shaping up to have been a terrible mistake. Bemused, besieged Charlie continues to do his best to please,

‘Well, I was born and brought up in Oxford. I have an older sister, who lives in Canada and my younger brother died a ages ago. My mother is still going but the poor old girl is in a home now. She’s not well.’
      

Ailene seems to examine him for a long time. You could cut the air with a knife.

‘Is everything alright?’ I am worried about her. Her eyes are large and staring and she jumps up from her seat. In slow motion, an expression of utter horror creeps up her face. Her cheeks whiten, her eyes widen.

‘No!’ she takes a step back, bumping into the Christmas tree and knocking a few decorations off the branches. ‘No, it’s not! It’s impossible.’ Her bottom lip is quivering. ‘It can’t be.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I press her for a second time.

‘Charlie?’ She puts her hands over her mouth. ‘Charles?’

‘Do I know you?’ He looks to me for help. I shrug my shoulders.

‘It can’t be.’ She looks at the floor, mutters to herself and clasps her head in her hands.

‘Are you OK?’ I move towards her and try to put my hand on her shoulder but she shrugs me away.

Her brown eyes rise from the floor again and meet Charlie’s. He offers a small smile.

‘Oh Jesus, Mary, mother of God.’ She lurches towards the door, like a possessed woman and I grab her arm.

‘What
ever
is the matter? What’s going on, Ailene?’ I feel the tension in the room closing in on me.

She stops for a moment and tries to compose herself. She straightens her jumper and turns to face at Charlie.

‘Skegness, August 1977.’

Her words are full of sadness. I look at Charlie who is now also ashen. It is his turn to step backwards. I know what is coming but cannot believe it.

‘Charles,’ Ailene’s eyes are full of tears. ‘You knew me as Ally back then.’ Her voice cracks with the whisper.

‘No, no. No.’ Charlie stands looking at her with terror. ‘No. No. You’re wrong. No.’

I stand immobilized, holding my breath. Charlie drops the pot of jam he was holding, which smashes onto the floor, glass and red jelly spreading everywhere.

‘I’m sorry.’ Ailene bows her head.

Before I have had time to react, she has left. The slam of the front door echoes around the house.

Charlie is standing in the same spot, looking at the mess on the floor and shaking his head.

‘No. No. No.’ He repeats over and over again.

I am shaking all over as I run into the kitchen and throw open the back door. I can’t breathe and the cold air hits me in the face like a bullet to my chest. I suck in long, deep, wheezing breaths and stand hunched over, waiting to vomit. But the sickness remains seated, rock-like, in the pit of my stomach.

I come back indoors and run the cold tap, splashing icy water on my face repeatedly to stop myself from feeling faint. It works and I walk, as if through a fog, back into the living room where I find Charlie sitting on the floor in a puddle of jam, glass and tears. He hides his eyes with the palm of his hands, the tears
dripping down his face as he sobs uncontrollably. He cannot stand to look at me.

I collapse on the other side of the room, my legs too weak to keep me up.

‘Charlie,’ my teeth are chattering, ‘Charlie, please. Look at me.’ But he won’t.

‘It can’t be.’ He keeps repeating it over and over again.

Sitting slumped on the floor I gaze at the ruined Christmas tree.

‘It can’t be.’ His words are growing louder and louder.

‘SHUT UP!’ I scream, putting my hands over my ears. ‘Shut the fuck up!’

He stops silent and finally is able to look at me, his tears an extension of the blue in his eyes. Our eyes lock. We sit looking at each other for what seems a long time. A breeze floods in from the open back door, and again I start to shudder.

‘Tell me,’ I almost choke on the words, ‘tell me…’

He drops his head and puts his hands palm down on the floor. I sit, trapped in time, waiting for a reply.

At last he takes his hands off the floor and looks down at the palm on his right hand. A piece of glass is sticking into the round flesh below his thumb. He stares at it for a moment before pulling it out slowly and watching as the blood trickles down his hand, splashing onto the floor.

‘I think I am your father.’ He says.

Before I’ve had time to think, I find myself upstairs throwing random belongings into a bag. All I know is that I have to get out of here. I can feel my brain throbbing behind my eyes. I don’t remember how I got up the stairs. The sight of our marital bed makes me feel ill. Throwing the tatty, stuffed, satchel over my shoulder, I pull the door closed behind me and stumble into the bathroom. I just have time to get my ginger hair out of my face before I throw up in the toilet. My vomit is a rich pink and the smell of cinnamon swirls around the bowl, forcing me to gag more. Here is the mulled wine I had after lunch.

Getting to my feet and wiping the dribble away from my mouth with my sleeve, I stagger to the sink and take a long drink of water straight from the tap. I cannot bring myself to look at my reflection in the mirror and open the cabinet with my head turned away. Inside, I find a prescription bottle of sedatives, prescribed soon after my parents’ murders. I pop the pills into my pocket and drink more from the tap.

Once I’m sure the sickness has passed, I dry my face and leave the bathroom. Standing at the top of the stairs, I listen for signs of life. The house is as quiet as a tomb. I tiptoe down each step, avoid the ones that creak, hoping not to alert Charlie’s attention.

As soon as I reach the bottom, I look up to find him slumped against the doorframe. His eyes are bloodshot and he is holding a bottle of whiskey in his hand. I wonder how long I was upstairs for.

‘I’ve got to go. I’m taking the car.’ I push past him, grabbing my coat from the hook next to his. We cannot look each other in the eye. I fumble with the Chubb lock on the door and he comes up behind me and puts his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off. Disgusted by his touch.

‘Don’t.’ My words are as shaky as my hands.

‘You can’t just leave.’

‘I need to get out of here.’ The physical closeness of our bodies makes my stomach somersault.

‘We have to talk about this.’ His words are feeble. Even he doesn’t believe in what he’s saying.

‘I can’t do this. I need to get out of this house.’ I pull the door open and a biting chill rushes in from the black night.

‘Where are you going?’

I fiddle with the keys in the dark, trying to find the car key.

‘Anywhere. I don’t know! I have to leave. I have to think.’ I feel the onset of tears again.

‘This isn’t our fault. We didn’t know!’

His shape is outlined in the doorway, a small man who once appeared large. I glance at him briefly for one last time before disappearing into the night.

I drive in a haze of rain and headlights. The traffic is awful. Crawling through London in the Golf, I keep my eyes on the road while my head goes round in circles.

Before I know what has happened, I find myself driving into Brighton. Without even knowing it, I’ve ended up outside Sophie’s place. But, where else was I supposed to go? I pull the car into a tight parking space and turn the engine off. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I close my eyes as the tears return.

Saliva fills my mouth and the taste of vomit returns. Swallowing it down and wiping my wet cheeks, I get out and lock the car. The street is quiet. I look at the windows in various houses, their lights on and Christmas trees in silhouette. My misery is strangling me as I approach the front door and ring the bell. I really hope she is at home.

‘Hello?’ Rory’s voice calls out from the buzzer. I wasn’t prepared to have to face him. It hadn’t even occurred to me. I hold my breath for a moment, deciding what to do.

‘Hello?’ he says again, growing impatient.

‘Hi.’ I blurt out. ‘It’s Josie. Is Soph there? I really need to come in.’ I wonder if he notices how desperate I sound.

‘Em, sure. I’ll just buzz you in.’

The noise jumps out of the small speaker and I push the front door open.

When I reach the top of the building, Rory is standing waiting with the door open.

‘Hi,’ he looks awkward. ‘Come in.’ I barely notice that his voice is softer than usual. I walk into the flat.

Looking around, I expect to find Sophie but she’s not there.

‘Where is she?’ I rub beneath my eyes, aware that my mascara must be smudged across my face.

‘Back soon. Just delivering a present to a neighbour.’ He stands with his hands in his pockets, finding it hard to look me in eye. ‘Is everything OK?’ He knows it isn’t.

‘I really need to speak to Soph. Is it OK if I wait?’ I put my small suitcase down on the floor by my feet and notice him eyeing it. ‘I’m sorry to barge in. I just …’ the words escape me.