The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (8 page)

‘Please come through,’ I lead the way into the sitting room.

Ailene stands near the window and I watch as she takes in her new environment.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Or coffee?’ My hands fumble with my sleeve.

‘A glass of water, please.’ Her voice sounds different in the flesh.

‘Sure, no problem.’ I dart into the kitchen leaving her standing uncomfortably.

As I run the tap, I have a moment to collect myself.

She is only human. Talk to her.

When I deliver the water, I find her sitting bolt upright on the edge of the sofa, still wearing her coat and holding her handbag on her lap.

‘Thank you.’ She takes the glass and has a small sip. ‘That’s better.’ A small smile crosses her face. ‘Would you like me to take my shoes off?’ She bends to begin untying the laces.

‘Oh no. No need.’

Sitting back up, I see that
she doesn’t approve and I feel foolish.

‘How was the journey?’ I can’t think of anything else to say.

‘It was fine, thank you.’ She wriggles in her seat.

‘Let me take your coat.’ I approach with my hand out.

‘Thank you.’ She slips the mac off and hands it to me but keeps hold of her bag.

As I hang her coat up on a hook in the hallway, I take in the scent of fabric softener.

So, this is what she smells like…

I return to the sitting room and she awkwardly removes a small bunch of slight, tatty pink carnations from her handbag. She hands them over to me without saying a word.

‘Thank you, they are lovely.’ I take the flowers and sit down in an armchair opposite her. I know I should put them in water but I want to get down to business.

‘So,’ my heart is beating hard, ‘you are my Mum.’ The words sound strange.

‘Yes, I am.’ Her dark eyes do not waver but I look at my feet. ‘I suspect you have a lot of questions. I’ll do my best to answer but you might not like the truth.’

The statement shocks me. It is cold and unforgiving.

‘I don’t wish to judge. I just want to know where I came from.’ I am apologetic.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘I suppose I want to know a bit about you. Your parents, where you grew up, that sort of thing.’

She is not making this easy.

‘Well, I grew up near Liverpool. My parents owned a fish and chip shop in the town. My mum is still alive. Dad died a few years ago. My parents, John and Niamh are Irish Catholic. I have an older sister, Clara
,
and a younger brother, Fionn. I didn’t do very well at school, partly because I fell pregnant with you. I stayed in Liverpool until I was eighteen. Then I moved to Milton Keynes. Never married, never had any other children. For the last twenty-five years I’ve worked in a haberdashery shop.’

‘Oh, OK. Do you like sewing?’

Thirty-six years is crammed into a few sentences and I’m hit with disappointment.

‘I do.’

This is like pulling teeth. Why did she bother coming?

‘Do you sew?’

‘ Err, no. I’ve never been any good.’ Again, a look of slight disappointment crosses her face. ‘I’m a writer. I write novels for a living.’

‘That’s nice. What do you write about?’

‘Thrillers, Horror, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh. I don’t read much,’
Great.
‘But when I do it’s usually Danielle Steel. I don’t like scary books.’

‘Not everyone does.’

I’m sitting cross-legged in my favourite armchair talking to my birth mother and all I can think is that I could murder a vodka and tonic. This meeting is not going the way I hoped it would.

There is a long silence while we both try to come up with things to say. Fuck it, I think getting up out of my chair.

‘I’m going to get a drink. Vodka tonic. Would you like one?’

‘No, no thank you.’ That look of disapproval flutters across her face again.

In the kitchen, out of sight, I take a moment to bury my face in my hands. I don’t know which one of us is more disappointed.

Grabbing the vodka from the freezer, I take a quick swig from the bottle before making my drink and decide not to ask her what she would like for lunch. I am bound to get it wrong whatever I do, so I might as well just get on with it. I take a ready-made goats cheese tart out of the fridge and put it in the oven before returning to the sitting room. She is sitting in exactly the same position and hasn’t moved an inch. Her back is straight. She doesn’t slouch.

‘Josie, that’s a nice name.’

‘Apparently my mother chose it because she loved
little women
. The main character is called Josephine, you know, Jo. Have you read it?’

‘Not for some years.’

‘Well, I never liked Josephine. I don’t think it suits me, so when I was old enough, I decided I’d be Josie.’ I wonder for a moment what name Ailene might have chosen. I look her dead in the eye deciding to take the bull by the horns. ‘So, how was I conceived? What was my father like?’

She shifts in her seat.

‘Well,’ Ailene folds her hands together. ‘I was very young. Seventeen, when I got pregnant. I was on holiday with my parents in Skegness. They had taken us in the caravan. We stayed on a site near the beach. It was a hot summer and lots of people had the same idea. The caravan park was very busy. Lots of families there with their children. I remember they had a disco every night. Everyone went.’

Remembering the past, she looks wistful, happy even.
This is promising
.

‘I met him at the disco. He was on holiday with his parents. He was very handsome. He came from Oxford, I think. He was with his older sister and his brother. Anyway we got talking, we made friends and started spending time together. We’d go to the beach and eat ice cream. One night he stole some of his dad’s beer and we went back to my caravan. Our parents were all at the disco. It was the first time I ever drank alcohol.’

I know what’s coming next.

‘He was very nice to me. I was drunk.’ She looks so ashamed and I begin to soften. ‘It was my first time.’

I nod and we sit silently for a moment.

‘Did you ever see him again?’

‘No, never. He has no idea you exist.’ She is matter of fact and her brutally cold delivery leaves me breathless.

‘When did you discover you were pregnant?’ I regain my composure.

‘We weren’t very educated about such matters when I was young. My mother saw me getting dressed one day and took to me to the doctor. I was about five months gone. It was a horrible shock. I’d never been to bed with anyone before or after. It was only the once.’

Again, I am made to feel dirty.

‘My parents were disgusted. They didn’t want the shame of it. So, they sent me to stay with my aunt in Ireland to see out the rest of the pregnancy. There was no question I could keep you. The adoption was arranged before you were even born.’ I can see sorrow in her eyes and I feel pity for her. ‘They took you away minutes after I’d given birth. You were born on a Wednesday. That was the first and last time I ever saw you. Until now.’

‘So I was born in Ireland?’

‘Yes, in Dublin.’

‘So, how did I end up living with a couple in Gloucestershire?’

‘I don’t know the details. It was arranged by my parents in Liverpool.’

The dinger on the cooker goes. The tart is ready.

‘Oh, that’s lunch. I hope you like goats cheese,’ I call over my shoulder. As I slice the tart and prepare a salad, I process the information I’ve gained.
I have Irish roots. That explains the red hair.

Dicing a tomato, I slip and slice my thumb open with the knife.

‘Fuck,’ I mutter to myself before sucking on the wound. The taste of blood makes me feel ill.

‘You might need a plaster,’ her voice makes me jump, ‘shall I get you one?’

‘No, no need. It’s just a nick.’

She is standing behind me, as I turn on the tap, run my thumb under the water and watch the blood wash away down the sink.

‘Please have a seat,’ I gesture towards the kitchen table.

‘It smells very nice.’ She says taking a seat and putting the napkin across her lap. ‘I like goat cheese.’ I smile and a feeling of warmth rushes over me.

Perhaps this can work.

May 16th

I fuckin’ hate public transport. The train smells of piss and all I can hear is a bunch of teenager girls sittin’ behind me, talking about boys’ dick sizes. I wonder what their parents would think if they could hear them? They’ve been talkin’ about it ever since we left Euston Station. I’m sick to death of the sound of their voices but luckily, we should be arrivin’ in Bletchley any minute and then I’ll lose the bitches.

Lookin’ out the window, I can see it’s about to rain again, which is a pain in the arse. Now I’ve got to walk around in the soddin’ rain, looking for the flat. I wonder what it will be like.

I’ve never been to Bletchley or Milton Keynes before. Always thought it was probably a shit-hole. As the train pulls into the station, I see I was right. The station is grey brick with a stupid metal roof that sticks up in the air. Although the rain has started to fall, I’m relieved to be away from those girls and all their talk. It gave me a hard-on listenin’ to them and I didn’t want anyone to see it. They shouldn’t talk like that in public. It’s not right.

As I walk through the station, I slip my hand into my pocket and take my phone out. I go to Google maps and type in the address I’m lookin’ for. Derwent Drive.

After a few minutes’ walk, I reach Rickley Lane. As I pass by, an old woman looks out of her shitty red brick house at me. I give her the finger and she drops the net curtain and disappears. Silly old bat. This is suburbia at its worst. I hate the place and all the people in it.

At the end of the street, I turn left on Whaddon Way. It is another road lined with red brick houses from the 1970’s, just like the last.

Not far now.

My rucksack cuts into my shoulders and my boots start to feel heavy. I’m startin’ to think I should lose some weight.

I pass a petrol station and stare at the people fillin’ up their cars. A miserable lookin’ lot, but then if I had to live in this place, I would be too.

It’s funny how one day you don’t even know a place exists and the next you are standin’ there, in that place. I never heard of Bletchley until Ailene came into her life.

A few minutes later and I see the turnin’ to Derwent Drive on my right. The rain is harder now and my heart sinks as I see it’s just another road of ugly semi-detached houses. A few yards further on, I can see the block of flats. They’re lower than I thought they would be, with only three levels. The walls are grey pebbledash and the roof, dirty red tiles. They look like a concentration camp. The kind of place little old ladies live who have no family. I suppose that’s exactly what it’s like, as I imagine Ailene comin’ back from work to this buildin’, her home.

I scoot around the back to take a closer look. It’s not obvious which flat is hers but with the process of elimination, I work out she has to be on the ground floor. I’m grateful because that makes my job a whole lot easier.

Lookin’ around me to make sure no one is about, I go up to one of the windows on the ground floor. I can see dirty plates in the sink and discarded takeaway pizza boxes and empty beer cans on the kitchen table. This is definitely not her place so I move on to the next window. The curtains are pulled but there is a gap enough for me to see a bed inside that has Spurs football sheets on it. Again, definitely not hers. I spit on the window and move on - Gunners all the way.

I move to the other end of the buildin’ and start at the window there. It’s a kitchen again but very different to the first. It’s neat and tidy. There is a lace tablecloth on the table and a little vase of fake flowers sit in the middle. The sink is spotless and shinin’. Whoever lives here take pride in their surroundin’s. On the wall, I can see a calendar hangin’. Upon closer inspection, I can see her handwritin’ in the boxes. Bingo.

I go back to the front of the buildin’ and approach the front door. It’s got a security code lock on the door. I kick the ground and curse. Gettin’ in isn’t going to be so easy, after all.

The rain is comin’ down hard now, peltin’ the pavement with relentless force. Large puddles are formin’ on the ground and my feet inside my boots are startin’ to feel damp. Bloody weather.

But then a flash of a memory of bein’ in Gloucestershire comes back to me, and I smile. Recollection of my vengeance gives me a rush and I feel a stirrin’ in my groin. With the rain comes bloody violence – the place where I exist, in between the shadows.

It suddenly occurs to me that the rain might be my accomplice. The noise of the torrent could be enough to muffle the sound of breakin’ glass.

I dash round to the back of the buildin’ and after havin’ a good look around, I push my elbow hard into the window crackin’ it in several places. Then I remove my crowbar from my rucksack and push the glass in. It shatters all over the work surface in her kitchen. I hope she cuts herself when she has to clean it up. Puttin’ on gloves, I reach in through the hole and open the window properly before jumpin’ up and climbin’ in.

The kitchen smells strongly of bleach, a bit like a hospital. Sterile. I move quickly, openin’ all the drawers, rummagin’ through the cupboards. In one cupboard, I find cans of food ordered neatly next to flour and pasta. The one next to it holds plain white plates and bowls. Casually, I take them out and let them drop on the floor, crackin’.

Next, I open the fridge and inspect what’s inside. It’s very bare. An iceberg lettuce sits lonely in the veg drawer. On the lower shelf is a box of eggs, a pint of milk and some cheese. The next shelf has a Tupperware box containin’ somethin’ that looks like cottage pie. I open it and taste a mouthful. The bitch can’t cook. It needs salt. I empty the contents onto the floor and push it around with my foot. I need this break in to look like dumb kids, or fools on crack.

In the door of the fridge is a carton of orange juice. I take the lid off and drink the contents. It’s cold and sweet and tastes good. Throwin’ the empty carton onto the floor, I decide to go and
explore the next room.