The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (7 page)

I’ve been told that the killer slaughtered my father’s horse before breaking the glass in the back door and letting himself in. He then went upstairs and attacked my parents. There was nothing stolen except my father’s gold Rolex. It seems strange to me that was the only thing taken.

Woolfson has explained that there were no finger-prints and that they couldn’t find any trace of DNA on the bodies as the person responsible had used bleach to cover their tracks. It seems the assailant had then disappeared into thin air.

      
As I push that thought to the back of my mind, I’m reminded of the strangeness of my situation; just as one parent comes back into my life, two disappear. I wonder whether somehow there is a link and feel as if I’m looking at the pieces of a puzzle, unable to put them together.

Sitting in a chintzy armchair with my feet tucked up under me, I gaze into the licking flames of the small gas fire. Outside a cold wind blows and the branch of a tree scratches at the window. I am alone in the room with only my thoughts. I wish Charlie would hurry up and come back with the food. He left ten minutes ago to collect a Chinese takeaway from a nearby restaurant and already I miss him. I’m calmer when I know he is near.

Looking around the bedroom we’ve called home for the last few weeks only exacerbates my feeling of being lost. The furnishings and wallpapers are so far from what I like and am comfortable with. I feel like a stranger in my own life. The pile of clothes on the floor near the unmade bed helps me to remember, though. I am a chaotic, creative, confused orphan.

The sound of the door opening makes me jump and I swivel round to see Charlie dripping wet, holding a brown paper bag. The scent of five-spice fills the room and my mouth salivates as I hop out of the chair and rush over to him and throw my arms around his damp neck.

‘Christ, I wasn’t gone that long, was I?’ He feigns strangulation.

‘No,’ jabbing him in the ribs, ‘but I’m glad you’re back. What did you get?’

‘What didn’t I get!’?

He shakes raindrops from his greying hair and slips his coat off.

‘We’ve got duck and pancakes, prawn toast, spring rolls, beef with black bean sauce, seaweed, dumplings, Singapore noodles and prawn crackers.’ He smiles like a Cheshire cat, proudly displaying a mouse it caught.

‘Good work.’ I start peeling off the cardboard lids of the foil containers, enjoying the hot steam that rises up and hits my face.

‘Damn,’ Charlie reaches over and picks up a spring roll, ‘we haven’t got a knife and fork.’

‘Balls.’ I have never been any good with chopsticks.

‘I’ll go down and ask if we can borrow one.’ He heads for the door.

‘So good to me.’ I blow him a kiss and take a hot
dumpling out of the box with my fingers.

Seconds after he has left and I have finished sinking my teeth into the dumpling, my mobile vibrates
in my pocket.
Irritated, I pull it out and focus on the screen. My mother is calling. But she can’t be because she is dead. And then my brain makes the leap and I realise it is Ailene. Unsure whether or not I have a desire to speak to her, I slide my finger across the screen without thinking.

‘Hello.’ I’m aware that this reluctance is strange and guilt hits me like a punch to the face.

‘Can I speak to Josie?’ Her voice is clipped.

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Ailene.’

I know that already and wait for something more concrete, but the break in conversation seems to last forever.

‘Hi.’ I say eventually.

‘How are you?’

How am I meant to answer that?

      
‘I’ve been better. I’m dealing with some things at the moment,’

      
‘Can I help?’ she interrupts.

      
‘Not really. Thanks though.’ Another long pause leaves me cold.

      
What am I meant to say to her?

      
‘I thought perhaps we might meet,’ the suggestion hangs in the air mingling with the smell of Chinese food and I have the bizarre sense of déjà vu.

      
‘Now isn’t exactly a good time. I’m not in London. But I’d love to.’

      
‘Where are you?’ She is certainly direct.

      
‘I’m staying near my parents.’ The conversation feels stranger than ever now.

‘Near Gloucester?’

‘Yes.’ I’m surprised she knows.

‘I can come there.’

My brain starts to implode and I wonder if I’m imagining the conversation.

‘I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment, Ailene.’ Her name feels alien. (I mentally note the similarity in the words) ‘Please don’t think I don’t want to see you, I do. It’s just…’ I can’t finish the sentence.

‘I know about your parents.’ She is so calm. ‘I read about it in the paper. I am so sorry. I thought perhaps you might need some support.’

If it’s support she is offering, why does she sound so glib?

‘I’m sorry,’ the panic rises in my throat, ‘I can’t do this right now.’

‘Fine. That’s fine. When you’re back in London let me know and if you want I can visit.’ She sounds cold again. I’m losing her.

‘No, hang on.’ The words rush out before I’ve had a chance to think. ‘I’ll come back to London. I need to get away from here. How about we meet on Thursday?’ My hands shake.

‘That sounds reasonable.’ She could sound more enthusiastic.

‘Come to my house. I’ll make lunch.’ I have no idea what day it is today.

‘That sounds pleasant. I have your address.’

‘Good. Well, I guess I’ll see you then.’

‘Indeed. See you then.’

‘Great. Thanks. Bye.’ I hang up before she has the chance to. Staring at the pile of food in front of me, I’ve lost my appetite.

      
Before I’ve had a chance to process the conversation, Charlie reappears brandishing cutlery.

‘Got it.’ He says proudly.

‘I just spoke to Ailene.’

That kills his chirpy mood.

‘Oh. How did it go?’ he sits down on the corner of the bed.

‘I’m having lunch with her on Thursday.’

‘Oh. Good.’ His apprehension is clear. ‘Do you think now is the right time, love?’

‘No I don’t, but when is?’ My head feels itchy and I scratch my scull ferociously.

‘Fine.’ He says picking at the Peking duck. ‘I’ll be there if you want me.’

‘I’d love you to, but I need to do this on my own. I’m going stir-crazy in this place. This isn’t
us
, we don’t belong here. Time to go home.’ He nods in agreement. ‘Besides, the police aren’t getting anywhere and you need to go back to work and I can’t put my life on hold, waiting for them to make an arrest. We can’t even bury them for fuck sake. I don’t want to wait around anymore.’

He gets up from the bed, pads over to my chair and perches on the arm.

‘Whatever you want, love.’ He strokes my ginger hair.

‘Take me home.’ I bury my head into his jumper and close my eyes.

April 14th

Being back at home is strange. The last time I’d been there, I’d received the news of my parents’ deaths. The house was just how we’d left it. Despite my frenzied hoovering, it was still untidy.

A begrudging Charlie returned to work. He wanted to stay and support me, but I was glad he went back. He was beginning to suffocate me. His well-meant kindness was starting to stifle me.

Charlie knew all about the relationship I had with my parents. He knew that I had hated my father and lost respect for my mother. But despite this, he expected me to mourn. I couldn’t. I didn’t feel anything. No sadness, no pity, not even a sense of freedom.

There was a great deal to do. I was their only child, so the aftermath of what to do with the entire property fell to me. But everything I did, I did out of obligation. I behaved the way I was expected to. I put my writing aside and dealt with the paperwork, bills, paying the staff that, apart from Margaret, included two part-time gardeners, a full-time cleaner, a groom who lived in a converted outbuilding near the stables. There was quite a bit to do on the practical side of things. For now, what would happen to the house could wait. The housekeeper Margaret, who lives in a small cottage that is part of the estate, would look after it.

I was going to inherit a fortune. They had done something right at least. The house alone was worth millions. Dad’s classic car collection would make a nice nest egg, too. Charlie could retire. For the moment though, I needed him out of the house. I needed time alone. Time to be numb.

I’m told we can’t bury them yet and it’s a huge relief. I couldn’t face the idea of a funeral. Having to stand around and look solemn while all their bastard friends reminisce about what great people they were. Thankfully, that chore is on hold.

Now, I’m concentrating on the meeting. I want it to go without a hitch.

I’ve cleaned the house from top to toe, even going through the cupboards and throwing away old cans of food that we are never going to use. My nerves are on tenterhooks. It feels like my first day at a new school. My stomach churns with excitement and apprehension. Maybe, at last, I will find myself.

It’s Thursday morning and I buzz around the house straightening everything. I don’t know what food she likes, so I’ve filled the fridge with an assortment of options. If all else fails, there are pizzas in the freezer.

I keep checking my watch. It’s 11.09 a.m. and the minutes feel like hours. 12.30 p.m. seems a lifetime away. Sitting at my desk, I browse the Internet to pass the time, looking at holiday destinations for when my inheritance comes in. Charlie and I always dreamed of going to Vietnam. He could take a sabbatical from work, or quit for good. The money I am due is going to change our lives dramatically and it feels like a new start is just around the corner. I thought I was happy. I think I was until a dirty crime changed everything. Perhaps moving would be a good thing. We could live anywhere in the world. But then I come back from the daydream and remember that I am about to connect with the woman who carried me in her womb. I’m not ready to walk away from that yet. I need to see how it goes. We may hate each other. I wonder how much is nature as opposed to nurture? Because another couple brought me up, does that mean
she and I have nothing in common? I hope not.

Glancing at the clock again, I see forty minutes have passed and my stomach knots again with anticipation.

My phone beeps on the desk next to me. Fumbling with the buttons, praying she isn’t texting to cancel our lunch, I open the message. It’s from Charlie.

Are you OK? Xxx

I breathe a sigh of relief. Typing quickly on my screen, I respond.

Nervous as hell… Otherwise fine. Have a good morning. I’ll call after she’s gone. Love you xxx

Slipping the phone into my jeans pocket and turning my attention back to the computer screen, I realise I haven’t written any fiction for some time. It’s not surprising but the thought saddens me. Writer’s block is a bitch.

I hope that once I’ve met Ailene and my parents are buried, I might be able to get back to doing what I love. It has been my happy place, my solace in the past and I miss the security that comes from getting lost in my own head, from making up characters and writing their stories. Writing is an addictive drug that gets under your skin.

Anna, a successful chick-lit author friend of mine, once asked me whether developing dark novels made me sad or scared for my characters. Understanding why she asked, I pondered for a moment before replying that I actually thrived on it. It just so happened, I tried to explain, that for whatever reasons, I liked writing about disturbed people and imagining events that might occur around them; that this interest made me feel alive and privileged, and not at all sad.

We went on to discuss how similar writing is to acting. The author must become his or her protagonist, must feel what they feel and think how they think. It is like having different personalities and giving a voice to each of them. One moment, you are a hero, the next you are a bitch. There is nothing better in the world than having the chance to live a thousand different lives.

I am lost in thought, plotting my next novel, when there is a knock at the door. The clock on the wall says 12.14 p.m., could it be her? I get up out of my chair and quickly check my reflection in the mirror, wiping away mascara that has smudged below my eyes. My annoying hands are trembling again. Walking towards the front door, famous words echo through my mind –
One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind ..
. I know my thoughts are over-dramatic, but this is a huge moment for me.

On the other side of the door is the silhouette of a woman. The face is blurred through the glass and I can only see the outline. She is a similar height to me. At last, I know something concrete about my mother and this gives me the courage I need to open the door.

Our eyes meet and I see she is as nervous as I am. It makes me feel better. We stand there, looking at each other for a moment. She looks older than I thought she would. Her hair is cropped short, ginger traces remain but it is now salt and pepper at the roots and around her temples. She has a bony nose and a thin, pale mouth. Her eyes are almond shaped and dark brown. The skin around her neck is sagging. She wears no make up. She looks like the type that never does. Her clothes are modest and far from trendy. Beneath a black knee length mac, is a beige jumper, the type women in their eighties buy from Marks and Spencer. She has straight black
trousers
on and sensible brown boots. I don’t know what I was expecting but the woman in front of me is not it.

She looks awkward. The silence between us has gone on too long. Feeling her tension, I back away from the door and gesture for her to come in. She nods and enters clutching a battered old silver handbag, a relic from the nineties that should not have survived.

It only takes a few seconds for me to form an opinion about her and I wonder what conclusions she has jumped to regarding me.

We linger in the hallway, a cold gust blowing into the house from the street. When I close the door, claustrophobia sets in.