The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (21 page)

Suddenly as if someone turned a light on in my head, I am brought back to earth.

‘Miss, are you OK?’ his face is kind and I notice the deep lines in his forehead for the first time. This cannot be an easy job.

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I felt really dizzy but I’m OK, now.’ The police officer looks at his colleagues and shrugs.

A small officious woman stands impatient in the doorway.

      
‘I’m sorry, but we do need to get an ID.’

‘Alright.’ I stand up. My legs might buckle. They don’t. ‘I’m ready.’

When I go into our bedroom, I notice how still everything is. The birds have shut up. The sirens have fallen quiet. The world seems at peace.

The kind-faced ambulance driver is standing next to the bed, his hands clenched in front of him.

I do not look at the body covered by a blanket. I know it’s there. Not realising I’m holding my breath, I nod at the officer standing by my side, probably waiting to catch me. The ambulance driver whose name I now know is Dirk, carefully folds back the top of the blanket to reveal a man’s face.

His skin is the colour of stone. Any expression that used to be there has long gone. It is a body now, nothing more. An empty vessel lying marooned in this unnatural position. Horrified and fascinated by what I see, I step towards the corpse. His mouth is slightly ajar and in the corner of his lips, a small amount of blood has collected and dried. Somehow though, he looks peaceful.

It doesn’t look like Charlie. I move closer still, just to be sure. But it is. I hardly recognise this pale, lifeless thing laid out on the bed. My hand trembles as I run my fingers through his hair.

‘It’s him.’ I say, unwilling to look away from his face. ‘It’s Charlie.’

January 8th

I decide not to go the funeral. There will be too many people there who think of me as his wife, telling me how wonderful he was and how much he loved me. The truth hasn’t got out, yet. I don’t suppose it needs to, now.

I have had to endure the endless phone calls and sympathetic letters telling me what a surprise and a tragedy his death has been. Like the dutiful wife, I’ve listened to his friends recount stories from the past, anecdotes about how full of life he was. It’s all true, all of it. But I don’t feel it anymore.

Charlie died on Christmas day. He drank a whole bottle of whiskey and then hung himself from a beam in the attic. The coroner pronounced his death as a suicide. Soon afterwards, I was expected to arrange the funeral.

The police put my answers to their questions on the day down to shock. I didn’t confess what I knew had led him to do it. It would dirty his memory. I didn’t want that for him and truthfully, I didn’t want it for myself. He died a loyal, loving husband and that was how it should be. The world didn’t need to know the awful truth. It wouldn’t help anyone.

The day after I discovered his body, I called Sophie and told her. She jumped in her car and came up to London immediately. She has been staying with me and has been so helpful, clearing up all the mess, cleaning and tidying the house until this morning, when I told her she had done more than enough for me and that she should return to Brighton. Resentfully, she agreed. She hid it well but I could tell she was missing Rory.

The final thing I asked Sophie to do before she left was to represent me at the funeral today. I asked her to explain to everyone that I was simply too upset to attend. Being the wonderful friend that she is, she readily consented. Nothing is ever too much trouble. She is the only person left in my life whom I can truly rely on.

She had been the one who convinced me to call Ailene and tell her what had happened. I couldn’t face it, but knowing that I was determined to persevere with the charade, Soph pointed out I needed to get Ailene to agree to keep quiet.

Ailene had immediately concurred that it would be best for all concerned for the truth to remain buried. No one ever need know, she said. But I knew and she knew and that was enough to make me hate myself. It also became clear that she and I stood no chance of building a relationship.

I told her when the funeral was and that was the last conversation I had with her. She sounded sad. She was distant and formal and I thought it would be the last time I ever spoke to her.

Standing in the living room of the house, I shared with Charlie, through the window I watch Sophie get into her car and drive away to the crematorium. From there, she will go straight back to Brighton. We agreed it would be very awkward to see each other again afterwards.

I may not be going to the funeral but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like wearing black. I am wearing the same black dress I bought for my adoptive parent’s funeral, and the irony is not lost on me. I didn’t think that I would be wearing it for Charlie first.

It is only 11.00 a.m. in the morning but I pour myself a large glass of white wine, anyway. I need something to help me get through. I try not to imagine the crowds of people preparing to attend Charlie’s funeral.

Being in this house, where I learnt that he was my father and where I discovered his body, hurts so, so much. Every item reminds me of Charlie and our lives together. As soon as a good memory (there are so many) stirs, it is ripped away to be replaced by the recollection of our last afternoon spent together; that awful afternoon that changed everything and led to the death of the man I loved.

I decided a few days ago, that while the funeral was taking place, I would pack up my things and disappear. Sophie reiterated that her London flat was still on offer. I would leave my mobile behind and turn my back on a life that had included Charlie.

I had never wanted to remain here, for even one day with the ghost who lingered there, but if I was going to keep up appearances, I needed to remain a little longer. I kept reminding myself that it wasn’t forever and taken one day at a time, Soph’s presence helped.

Apart from Ailene, Sophie and Rory were the only two who knew about my biological relationship to Charlie. Sophie had thoroughly reassured me that they would never utter a word to anyone. She had never lied to me before and I had no reason to doubt her now.

I went from room to room, looking at the objects that belonged to a life I no longer recognised. Pictures of Charlie and I smiling, trinkets we’d bought on holiday, presents we had been given for our wedding; a lifetime of possessions that now meant nothing. I shall leave them all behind. A house clearance company can come and have their fill. Then the house will be put on the market and I shall be rid of all the material things that link me to my appalling secret.

As I come back down stairs carrying a box full of my things, the house phone rings. I put the box down and check my watch. It’s eleven thirty and the funeral begins in half an hour.

‘Hello?’ I answer gingerly, not wanting to face any of the other mourners.

‘Hello.’ I identify her voice immediately.

‘Ailene?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry to call now, I’m sure you’re on your way out.’ She can’t bring herself to mention the funeral. ‘I just thought you should know that I am going to be there.’

‘Where?’ I am confused.

‘The crematorium.’ She says quietly. ‘I hope you don’t mind. It just felt wrong staying away. I’ll slip in the back. No one will notice me. I won’t say a word.’

My shoulders drop.

‘It’s fine. You go.’ I look down at the small box containing my personal effects. ‘I’m not going.’

‘Why?’ her voice goes up a pitch.

‘Because, I can’t face it and I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve done everything I can to preserve his memory but I cannot go and sit and cry and talk to all the people who knew us the way we were. I can’t do it.’ I sit on the bottom stair slumped, still holding the phone. All the energy has left my body. ‘I’m moving out as we speak. I can’t be here a moment longer.’

There is a silence.

At last, she says,

‘Let me come and see you, after. This is all my fault.’

Her last statement rings in my ear. She is right. It
is
her fault. Everything.

‘Ok.’ I agree, wondering what there is left for us to say.

‘Promise me, you’ll wait for me to arrive? I’ll come straight to you. I have no business being at the wake.’
      

‘OK. I’ll still be here.’ An instant headache has hold of my brain and white spots dance in front of my eyes. ‘See you later.’ I hang up the phone.

I wait for the white spots to disappear and for the headache to subside a little. Then, I get up, kick the box out of the way with my foot and return to the living room where the dried out skeleton of the fallen Christmas tree lies broken on the floor, telling our story. I wonder why I didn’t throw it out before.

“It is all my fault.”

Her words are whirling around my mind and gathering speed. I pace backwards and forwards, nearly wearing a groove in the floorboards. With a sudden jolt I remember the rucksack under our bed. I have a desperate urge for a cigarette. I grab my coat and bag, slip my boots on and pull the front door closed behind me.

When I get to the door, I’m not surprised to find it’s on the latch. People are still pretty fuckin’ careless, I think, pushin’ it open. As I step in, I know there’s no one in the house. It’s quiet as a tomb. I don’t wipe my feet or nothin’. So what if it’s been rainin’ and the pavement is awash? There are more important things for me to be worryin’ about right now.

The place is dark. There’s not a light on anywhere and the January weather is doin’ nothin’ to brighten it up. On the floor in the hall in front of me is a box full of ladies’ things. I get down on my haunches and go through it.

There’s a mirrored box of jewellery. I open it and look at the collection of bracelets and earrin’s all tangled in a mess together. This person needs to take better care of her things. I close the lid and drop it back into the box. Then I take out a small leather book. It’s worn and old and the leather feels like butter in my fingers. Embossed on the front, in small faded gold writin’ is the word ‘Diary.’ I think about openin’ it but I don’t. I’ve got no business pokin’ about in some woman’s deepest, darkest thoughts. It won’t tell me anythin’ I don’t already know, anyway. I put it back and pick up a jade green scarf. It smells like roses and freshly made biscuits. I bury my face in the soft fabric and breathe in long and hard.

After lookin’ through the rest of the box and decidin’ there’s nothin’ worth keepin’, I go upstairs to have a look about.

The house annoys me. It’s decorated in a sort of hippy way I don’t like. Why do people insist on packin’ their lives full of clutter? I knock a picture off the wall as I pass it. The glass cracks and the frame smashes on the floor. A picture of a smilin’, happy couple lies broken on the landin’.

Next, I go into one of the bedrooms. I notice how tidy it is compared to the rest of the house. There isn’t any clutter in here apart from some dead flowers in a vase. The bed is made up, and it feels a bit like a hotel room that hasn’t had anyone stay in it for a while. I go into the room next door. It’s a real mess. I go over to the wardrobe and flick through the clothes. There is a bunch of men’s shirts hangin’ in it. I hate city workers. Wankers,
the lot of them. This fella certainly doesn’t share my idea of
what to wear. But he’s older than me. I know that.

I go over to the un-made bed and sit on it, bouncin’ slightly up and down and gettin’ used to the softness of the mattress. I become aware of the dampness of my trousers. The smell of dirty rain fills my nostrils. It takes me back to bein’ in the woods before…

I am reminded of why I came up here and I get down on the floor. It’s odd bein’ there, so low on the ground, like a slug. You get a different point of view from down here, like bein’ a kid again.

Then I reach under the bed and pull the bag out. That is what I came here for.

I throw it over my shoulder and go back downstairs, treading the broken glass from the picture into the carpet as I pass by.

Once downstairs, I make myself at home on the sofa. It’s dark in this pokey, little livin’ room and I reach over to turn a lamp on. That’s better. Now I can actually see.

I put my rucksack on the floor, unzip it and remove an object that I lay out on the coffee table in front of me. I look at it and smile. Everythin’ has come full circle.

I’m bored while I sit waitin’ for her to arrive. The minutes go by slowly as I watch the hands on the clock makin’ their way around the face. I pick up a magazine from the table and flick through, just to pass some time. It’s a Christmas catalogue full of photos of smilin’ brats and their parents’ sittin’ in showroom houses next to their perfect fuckin’ Christmas trees. I wonder if anythin’ real is ever for sale. I turn page after page filled with crap gifts like a fish shaped bottle opener, personalised cufflinks, gadgets for the kitchen that are no use to anyone. I crumple it up and throw it on the ground.

Where is this stupid bitch?

Then, as if by magic, I see a figure pass by the window. I know it’s her. This is the moment I’ve been waitin’ for. I stand up, pick up the thing on the coffee table and arrange myself so I’m standin’ with my back to the door. I made sure I left the front door wide open so that she’d stroll in. I didn’t want her knockin’. It would be better this way.

I take a deep breath and puff my shoulders up, sensin’ she is now standin’ in the room.

‘Hello?’ Her voice is tentative.

‘Hello.’ I echo, not turnin’ round.

‘I’m here to see Josie. Is she here?’

‘No, she’s not,’ I say turning round, ‘but I am.’

The woman looks at me for a moment, confusion and horror both fightin’ for a place on her face.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why are you dressed like that?’ she holds her hands out in front of her.

‘I think there are more pressin’ questions,’ I say removin’ the metal object from behind my back.

Her sunken eyes widen when she sees what I’m holdin’. They fix on the cold, hard, metal of the crowbar and linger there.

‘What are you doing?’ The fear is her voice is intense.