The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (22 page)

‘Nothin’ yet. I think we should have a chat first.’ I say, steppin’ towards her, grippin’ the weapon in my hand so tightly that it feels like I’m cuttin’ off the blood supply.

‘Josie, please,’ she begs stumbling backwards, ‘I don’t understand.’

I stop and take a look at the frightened wreck standin’ in front of me.

‘Josie ain’t here.’ I lift the crowbar high above my head and bring it crashin’ down onto the coffee table.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispers under her breath before turnin’ and runnin’ out of the house.

I stand there watchin’ her go. I don’t stop her.

I think about runnin’ after her, she wasn’t meant to get away, but I’ve changed my mind. It’s over now. Everythin’s over.

I put the crowbar down on the sofa and go into the kitchen. Methodically, I take out every bottle of booze I can find and every cleanin’ liquid and line them all up on the side.

One by one, I take off the lids and pour them in circles all over the kitchen. Then I move into the sittin’ room carryin’ the rest and do the same. The place smells like it belongs to an alcoholic with O.C.D. I kind of like it.

With the last bottle of Scotch, I lay a trail of liquid on the floor and move backwards, towards the front door, emptyin’ it as I go. Then, without a second’s hesitation, I pull a box of matches out of my pocket and light the alcohol. I watch for a minute as a pathway of angry flames rush away from me and into the rest of the house.

Steppin’ out into the fresh air, I take a deep breath and close the door as the sound of fire roars up behind me. Then, with my hands in my pockets, I wander over to the pavement on the other side of the road, sit down and watch as the flames grow and envelop the house.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my reflection in a puddle. The ripples in the water disturb the image. When the surface settles I look down at myself and see Josie’s face smilin’ back at me.

January 12th

I wake up with a splitting headache. My whole body is throbbing. I don’t open my eyes for some time, waiting for the pain to ease, which it doesn’t. The bed I’m lying in feels strange, harder than usual and I can smell something odd. Gingerly, I sit up and rub my eyes. I notice my hands smell of booze and smoke. But not cigarette smoke; bonfire smoke.

When I open my eyes I am in a place I don’t recognise and I’m wearing a hospital gown. I look around the small room trying to find something that will indicate where I am.

There is one small window, high up, with a grate across it. Apart from the bed and one small chair in the corner, the room is bare. I pull the scratchy blue blanket away and get out of bed. My legs are wobbly as I go over to the door. I search for a handle or doorknob. There isn’t one. I can’t open the door from my side.

Where am I?

I bang my fists on the metal door.

‘Hey! Anyone there? Get me out of here! Please?’ I stop and listen for signs of life. ‘Hey! What the fuck? Let me out!’

A small window in the door slides open and I see a pair of blue eyes staring back at me.

‘You want me to get a doctor?’ The man on the other side asks, chewing gum.

‘Doctor? Of course, I don’t want a doctor. I want to get out of here. Now!’

Intimidated by the cold stare, I back away.

‘Fine. Stop banging on the door. I’ll get someone to come see you.’ He pulls the shutter back across the opening again.

I go back to the bed and sit down. None of this makes any sense.

How did I get here? Why am I here?

I wait for some time before I hear the click of the door unlocking. I get up and straighten my gown, hoping to feign some semblance of respectability.

A man comes in accompanied by two males wearing male nurses’ uniforms. They are both huge. What sort of joke is this? The nurses stand guarding the door, one black, and one white. The man, who at a guess, is in his fifties, fiddles with the glasses on his face with one hand while holding a file in another.

‘To whom am I speaking, today?’ He asks, looking at the paperwork in his file. He doesn’t look me in the eye.

‘What do you mean “to whom am I speaking?” My name is Josie Brewers. Can you please explain to me, what the hell you are talking about, what the hell this place is and why I appear to be under lock and key?’

Part of me thinks this is just a strange dream.

‘Right, OK then. Josie,’ He closes his file and points to the chair. ‘Do you mind if I take a seat?’ He behaves as if we are old friends about to share coffee and doughnuts.

‘Be my guest.’ I stand, arms crossed, waiting for him to sit down before backing up towards and lowering myself onto the bed.

‘I am Dr Luke King. This is a psychiatric hospital. You were brought in here last night,’ He leans forward, ‘but you don’t remember?’

‘Psychiatric hospital!’ Oh, God. ‘No.’ I scratch my head. ‘Not a thing.’

‘Do you know anyone called Jacob?’ He holds his chin in one hand, sits back in his seat and tips his head slightly to one side.

‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’ I answer honestly.

‘OK.’ He leans forward again and fixes me with his small green eyes. ‘This is a delicate matter that I wish to handle with care.’
I scream in my head,
stop pontificating and tell me what’s going on
. ‘When you arrived yesterday, you told me your name was Jacob.’ He stops talking and looks at me for a reaction.

‘That’s absurd!’

This has to be a dream.

‘It sounds absurd, I know but it isn’t exactly. When I met you yesterday, you said you were called Jacob. You spoke with a completely different accent. You appeared to be a completely different person.’

I look at the nurses guarding the door waiting for them to burst into laughter and for someone to pop their head around the corner and yell “Gotcha!”

‘It has become clear after speaking to a …’ he checks the notes in his file, ‘… DS Woolfson of the Gloucestershire Police, that you are suffering from an illness known as D.I.D, which stands for Dissociative Identity Disorder’

‘I’m sorry?’ I jump off the bed and look at him dumbfounded. ‘Can you please tell me what the fuck you are talking about?’

‘Josie
, please sit down.’ I feel the presence of the nurses growing nearer.

‘OK, OK.’ Angry, I do as he says.

‘D.I.D. Are you familiar with the illness?’

‘No, I certainly am not.’
What is he talking about?

‘Until recently, it was called Multiple Personality Disorder.’

‘So, you’re telling me I’m nuts. Do I have that right? That sometimes I think I’m a guy called Jacob?’

‘No, you are not nuts, you are ill, Josie.’ He looks very serious. ‘I am sorry to break such bad news to you but it appears that this other personality you harbour has been responsible for some very serious crimes.’

‘This really is nuts.’ I want to laugh but don’t.

I glance at the nurses. Do they find this funny? Apparently not.

‘Jacob was arrested outside your house,’ he continues, paying no attention to my last statement, ‘after starting a fire. He was taken to the local police station, where he then admitted to committing a double murder.’ The doctor pauses for a minute and allows the information to sink in. I cannot process what he’s telling me, but somewhere deep down, I recognize the truth of it. ‘You have another personality called Jacob, Josie. And Jacob murdered Fiona and Harold Griffin.’

I feel glued to the bed. I don’t know where to look. A cold chill from somewhere comes in through the open door. I look down at my hands and tell myself this isn’t real. But it is.

‘I didn’t kill anyone.’ It’s all I can think to say.

‘No,’ he gets up out of the chair and comes over to the bed where he quietly sits down next to me, ‘you didn’t.’ His voice is full of sympathy. ‘But Jacob did.’

‘I don’t understand.’ The tears stream down my face and I turn to look at him. He has kind eyes and an expression full of pity. He gently puts his hand on my lap.

‘You have been put here under my care.’ His voice is gentle, soothing. ‘Together, we are going to work out what led to this and what happened to cause this illness.’

‘How long do I have to stay?’ My body is flooded with fear.

‘I can’t answer that question yet, I’m afraid.’ His face tells me there is more but I don’t want to hear it.

‘This is an especially complicated situation, given your current physical state.’

‘What do you mean?’ I wipe the tears away from my face. He stands up and moves a few feet away from me.

‘You are five months pregnant.’

April 19th

It’s been a few months since I first came here. So much has happened since then. I’ve had so much to come to terms with. I still can’t really believe it.

After many hours spent talking to Dr King, we have established why I have this illness. It stems from my childhood, from the years of sexual abuse I suffered. Dr King suspects that my mind invented Jacob, as a means of escape. Jacob is tough and strong. Jacob is not a victim. Unlike Josie, unlike me, Jacob can handle himself.

It makes sense, in a twisted sort of way that this other person exists. What I can’t come to terms with is the violence he brings with him. Why did he have to kill them?

In order to help me come to terms with the existence of Jacob, Dr King showed me a video recording of myself when I’m him. It was bizarre to watch. All this time there has been a whole other person living inside me. The Doc thinks it’s quite possible there might be others. That’s something else he wants us to investigate in therapy.

I am going to have to stay here for the foreseeable future. I can’t be released in case Jacob shows up and starts causing trouble. It’s possible that one day I will be able to live without him, but until that day arrives, I have to stay in the hospital. It’s got to be better than prison though, so that’s something.

When I learned I was pregnant, it made me feel ill. They offered me an abortion. Apparently, you can have a late one if you’ve been raped or the foetus is a product of incest. The word alone makes me want to scratch it out of my stomach.

They had to do a scan before anything else. That sealed the deal. The moment I saw the outline of the child’s little body on the screen, its tiny arms and legs moving around, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. Whatever my relationship to Charlie was, this was his child too.

I spent a long time talking through what my options were. Obviously, I can’t raise a child in here and I wouldn’t want to. As much as I couldn’t bear to abort the baby, I cannot allow myself to dream about bringing it up. What sort of mother would I be, knowing what I am, who the boy’s father was and all that has happened?

Sophie was allowed to visit me a while ago. I sat and talked it all through with her. She’s been amazing this whole time. She is the only person in my life who’s never let me down.

She has offered to look after the child. She said she and Rory had talked it through and had decided they would love to raise and nurture it. To begin with, I was dead against the idea. I hardly know Rory and don’t especially like or trust him. But, I have little choice and it seems to be the only option. Knowing what I do about what can happen to adopted children, I didn’t want someone unknown to take my baby. I know Sophie so well and love her so much, as she does me and I am certain she will do a wonderful job raising the child. I owe her so, so much.

There have been a lot of legal problems with the will. The laws states that no one should benefit financially from the death of someone they have killed. However,
I
didn’t kill my parents,
Jacob
did. Sophie put me in touch with a lawyer friend of hers who has dealt with it all for me.

It was agreed that the inheritance would go into a trust for my child, which was sensible. Soph and Rory will get a financial monthly contribution to help pay for his upkeep. From a twisted, messy situation, things have worked out as well as can be expected.

I look down at my large belly and rub where I’m being kicked from inside.

‘Hey sport, stop that.’ I say out loud.

When I had the scan, I was asked whether I wanted to know the sex of the child. I did as did Soph and Rory and I am having a boy.

Sophie says Rory is over the moon since “teaching and being with boys is what Rory enjoys most about his job.”

We have negotiated with the hospital to allow Soph and Rory to be here for the birth. They will be here when he comes, and then they will take him away.

I’ve had lots of tests to track the progress of his development in the womb. So far, nothing bad has shown up. I just pray he isn’t brain damaged or something.

Sophie and Rory were married last week. They wanted it to be finalised before the arrival of what will become their son. Obviously, I couldn’t go to the wedding, a thing I found really hard to accept. But she’s so sweet, she sent me pictures in the post. She looked stunning in her long cream satin gown and so happy. I put them up on my bedroom wall and look at them every day.

Sometimes, the thought of ordinary life going on outside without me in it makes me very sad. But then I look down at my tummy and remember there is life in here, too.

September 28th

I’ve been here for a long time now. I know the names of all the staff and even manage to have a laugh and a joke with some of them on occasion. They’re not all bad.

I have to talk to the doc a lot. He’s the first person who’s really showed an interest in me. I like it. It’s about time I was recognised and people paid attention.

The food in this place fuckin’ stinks. That’s the worst thing about it. Other than that it’s all right, I suppose. There’s a games room at least. I’ve got good at table tennis.

They told me off once for threatenin’ someone else who’s locked up in here. The cunt wouldn’t stop laughin’ at me. Kept callin’ me a girl. I wanted to bash his face in with the bat. They stopped me playin’ for a while but I promised to be good.
Some people will believe anythin’ you tell them.