The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (9 page)

Her livin’ room has as much personality as a wet flannel. Strangely enough, the smell reminds me of one. It’s damp in here. The sofa is a small two-seater covered in brown Draylon fabric. The sort of thing a Nanna might have. It’s ugly as fuck. An old fashion TV is in the corner of the room. It looks like it should be covered in dust but it isn’t. I wipe my finger along the top to check.

The room is bare. The only decoration is a small vase of fake flowers in the netted window and a small wooden crucifix hangin’ on the wall. No dust on that neither.

I go to the G-plan coffee table and pick up the sewin’ left lying there. She’s been doin’ some embroidery. Lots of different colour threads are neatly lined up in a metal biscuit tin, along with various needles and pins. I study the picture she’s started. It’s cross-stitch, or somethin’ like that. A posy of flowers tied with a pink ribbon. It must have taken her a long time.

As I pick the stitchin’ out and destroy her work, I can’t help but smile. This woman is a sad, lonely bitch and lookin’ around her house, I can see why. She needs to get herself a life.

Droppin’ the ruined needlework on the floor I pull out my dick and piss all over it. My urine is very yellow and strong smellin’, which is perfect. I enjoy watchin’ the puddle spread and seep into the sludge green carpet. Getting’ that out ain’t goin’ to be easy. That’ll keep her busy.

After shakin’ the final drops off the end, I put it away and wander into her bedroom. It looks like it belongs to a nun. There is a single bed, covered with a pink polyester bedspread, a small cupboard, matchin’ chest of drawers and a little dressin’ table. The person who lives here must be the dullest creature on the planet. I think about fingerin’ through her clothes but can’t be bothered. I’m so uninspired by my surroundin’s. Instead, I lie down on the bed and look up at the ceilin’. It’s got that bobble paint effect all over it and I start to see shapes in the plaster. Bein’ in this place is like travellin’ back to the 1970’s and never findin’ your way back. Reminds me of a prison.

Suddenly, I start to feel tired. I think it comes from disappointment. I feel empty bein’ here. It’s like lookin’ at the reflection of a ghost. As I close my eyes, I remind myself I can’t stop here. She could be back any minute. But before I leave, I have one partin’ gift.

      
Rubbin’ my hand over my groin
, I stimulate myself. As I grow hard, I imagine that horse and remember the way it felt killin’ those people. Rollin’ onto my side, I pull out my erect, throbbin’ dick and tug hard and fast. Just before I cum,
I have time to get hold of her pillow with my free hand. I ejaculate all over it and finally wipe my nob on it. Then I get up off the bed, put the pillow back where it was, cum side down so she won’t see it, and straighten the bedspread. It looks like I was never there and I smile at myself. The thought of her layin’ her head down to sleep, restin’ on my dead sperm, makes me chuckle.

I leave the room, pullin’ the door closed behind me, and decide it’s time to go. And just at that minute, I hear a loud bangin’ comin’ from the far wall. My heart quickens as I make my exit, back through the way I came.

Once outside, I pull up my hood over my head, coverin’ as much of my face as possible, and disappear into a cluster of trees nearby.

I wait there till it’s dark, before decidin’ it’s safe to leave and make my way back towards the train station.

May 18th

It’s been a few days since I met Ailene. Our lunch went as well as could be expected, given the circumstances. We talked about getting together again soon before she left, which made me feel good. She said I should visit her and I agreed I would.

She was not what I was expecting. Nice as she was, I imagined someone a bit more out-going, maybe someone more like me. It crosses my mind that I am a bit disappointed, but I quickly dismiss the idea. Why should she be like me? We’ve lived such different lives. Besides, that was only our first meeting. She was bound to be tense. I certainly was.

Charlie was eager to get all the details when he got back from work and I told him everything I knew. His reaction was unexpected. He said he felt sorry for her. I hadn’t thought of it like that until then. I suppose what happened to her was sad. She didn’t really have a choice about what happened to her baby. I couldn’t imagine being in her shoes at that age. Being a teenage girl is hard enough without discovering you are pregnant. I shudder at the thought, but then it gets me thinking.

I was having sex at her age. I had boyfriends. What would have happened if I had fallen pregnant? Would I have kept the baby? Would my adoptive parents have supported me? It’s unlikely Mum would have been thrilled. Dad wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss. I was his special little princess. But then I imagine having a baby living with me, in that house. With
him
there. The thought makes me feel sick and I push the bad memories away.

      
Not so long ago, Charlie suggested I sought counselling. He said that now they are dead, perhaps it’s a good time to face my demons. I know he’s right but now that they are gone, maybe I can bury the past with them. Dragging it all up again, with a stranger, seems like a waste of time. He’s more help to me than any professional could be. I told him that and he seemed to accept it.

Yesterday, I slept all day. It was a dreamless sort of sleep that left me feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all and I woke this morning feeling dog-tired again.

I’m alone at home today. It’s another dull Tuesday morning. Charlie is at work and I’m meant to be writing. I can’t manage it. An unseen force has imprisoned my imagination. There is a barrier in my head, blocking me from losing myself in the darkness I often call home.

I sit at my desk, surrounded by piles of paper, staring at the blank word document and swing in my office chair. It squeaks with age and the leather moans under my frame.

I’m so frustrated.

I avoid the bustling London streets that make my head hurt but our home feels small and claustrophobic. There is nowhere I can escape to. The murder of my parents hangs over me like a fog, even when I sleep. I wish the police could do more. They need to be laid to rest. The longer they lie in the morgue, the longer they will haunt me.

I check my watch. It’s eleven thirty in the morning. All I’ve achieved today is dressing myself and eating a piece of toast. The house is in chaos as usual. No visitors today, so no need to worry. I don’t know what to do with myself. The minutes tick by slowly while I wait for Charlie’s return. He is working late this evening, which I hate.

There is only one thing for it. I go into the kitchen, open the fridge, which smells strongly of ripe cheese, and remove a bottle of rosé. I open it, close my eyes and drink straight from the bottle. It’s cold and sweet and promises to numb me.

I take the bottle into the garden and sit on the bench, my knees tucked up beneath my chin, against the mild spring wind. The elements make me feel more alive, more akin to my surroundings. Outside, I can breathe again, and I watch my breath cloud in front of me like smoke.

Our small patio is coming into life at this time of year. The pots that have been empty vessels waiting the return of spring are alive again. A brown slug drags its fat body along the slabs, looking for nothing in particular. I wonder what it’s like to be a slug.

When half the bottle has been drunk, I decide I crave the comfort of music and return indoors.

The warmth of the house hits me, wrapping its arms around my cold, skinny body. Slipping through the kitchen and into the living room, I go over to our old record player. The lid is dusty and I wipe the dead skin and hair away, leaving a grey film behind on my fingertips.

Sinking onto my knees, I run my hand along the spines of the LP’s. I don’t know what I’m looking for and I let my fingers do the searching. Finally, they rest on a red spine and I pull the album out. It’s the Rolling Stones Greatest Hits. The cover features a large pair of open lips and a set of teeth, one of which is gold. I stare into the mouth and feel as if I am being swallowed up, before tearing my gaze away from the image, taking the large black disc from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable, carefully lifting the arm and dropping the needle into position. The room fills with the sound. I turn the volume up higher, determined to lose myself in the music.

Still on the ground, I remove my socks and let my bare feet feel the floor. The pine boards are cool and smooth below my pale white soles. I picture the floor once being trees, standing high and proud, leaves glistening under soft sunlight. I need to imagine them alive. There is too much death in my life.

Picking up the wine bottle and getting to my feet, I move over to the rug in the centre of the room, in front of the Victorian fireplace, and start to dance. I can feel the base rise up from the floor, and my body moves in time with it.

I start to feel better and swig more wine. After listening to a few songs, there appears to be a pause in the album. The tension builds in those few silent seconds and I prepare myself for what is about to come -
Paint it Black.

As the last drop of the drink falls from the bottle into my open mouth, the music strikes up. Like an earthquake, it shakes the room and the pictures on the walls. Closing my eyes, my body becomes a snake, the music my guide. I am entranced and possessed by another being. It feels strangely wonderful. The looming darkness has dissolved along with my sobriety.

I wake up on the living room floor, clutching an empty wine bottle, a small puddle of dribble in the corner of my mouth. The phone is ringing and my head hurts. I push myself up off the ground with my arms and stretch my stiff neck. My knees crack as I finally stand and suddenly I feel old. The room spins as I search for the source of the ringing. Then I spot the phone, lying on the sofa and rush to answer. The movement makes me feel dizzy and I sink onto the sofa before pressing the button that will stop the dreaded noise drilling into my head.

‘Hello’ My voice sounds hoarse.

‘Hello, it’s …’

There’s a pause, but I know who it is.

‘It’s Ailene.’

‘Oh, hi.’ My head is pounding.

How long was I passed out on the floor for?

‘I didn’t really know who else to ring.’

She sounds troubled.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ A feeling of dread settles around me.

‘I was burgled.’

‘Shit. When?’ It sounds awful but for some reason, I am relieved. It could have been worse.

‘Yesterday.’

Suddenly she sounds clipped and I realised I shouldn’t have sworn.

‘That’s terrible. Did they take much?’

‘No, that’s the strange thing. They broke in, made a mess then left. They didn’t take anything.’

‘Did they do much damage?’

‘Nothing that can’t be fixed. I called the police. They came out and said it was probably kids with nothing better to do.’

‘It sounds as though the police were right. Are you alright?’

There is a long silence while she contemplates her answer.

‘I was very shaken at first. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.’

‘It sounds horrid.’

‘I feel so… so… violated.’ There is a small crack in her voice. ‘To think that someone has been in my home, looking through my things. It makes me feel so upset that someone could do that. May God forgive them.’ Suddenly there is a tinge of Irish in her accent. ‘I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t feel very safe here.’

After our first meeting, I had wondered whether she was capable of showing any weakness. Now, I am grateful that she has.

‘You can come and stay here.’ I say without thinking.

‘Well, I …’ the cogs in her mind are turning and I instantly regret extending the invitation.

‘But, I’m sure you have somewhere else you’d rather go.’

‘Not really.’ She speaks quietly and sounds meek.

‘Oh.’
Do I really want her to come and stay?
‘I mean, you’re very welcome, I need to check with Charlie, but if you need a place…’ Panic begins to set in.

‘That’s very kind of you.’ Formality has returned to the conversation again. ‘Speak to your husband and have a think about it. You have my number. You can call me later today, or tomorrow.’

I feel guilty at the thought of her having to spend another night alone in a place that frightens her.

‘I’ll speak to Charlie when he gets back after work, and then call you later tonight. Maybe you could get a late train?’
This feels too fast
.

‘We’ll see.’

‘I’ll call you later. OK?’

‘As you wish.’

‘And I’m so sorry about the break-in.’

‘Thank you.’

There is a click and the line goes dead. I sit staring at the phone, trying to process what has just taken place. It seems as if the conversation happened to someone else, and I was on the periphery watching. Did I really just ask a virtual stranger to come and stay? Ailene is a stranger, after all. She gave birth to me and barely saw me. We have met once for a short, difficult time.

Shit. What have I done?

I sit back on the sofa and close my eyes. The world is still spinning and I can see faint shapes in the darkness. A sudden chill makes its way up my spine and I hug myself. Sitting there fretting isn’t going to get me anywhere.

I go out into the hall and up the creaking narrow staircase to our bathroom. I open the mirrored doors of our glass medicine cabinet and search through the pills of boxes and bottles for some Aspirin. I need to think clearly and that means sobering up as quickly as possible. Swallowing a couple of tablets, I bring my face down to the sink and splash my brow with cold water from the tap. It’s icy and does the job I want it to.

The next thing I need to do is to eat. As I tread each downward stair, I grow more aware of the cold and look down at my bare feet. It’s bitter for this time of year.

I find the pair of thick socks I had been wearing, half sticking out from under an armchair in the living room. Slipping my feet into the grey wool has an instant, warming and sobering effect. I am no longer the crazy woman, drinking wine and dancing in bare feet.