The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (15 page)

‘Fuck it.’ I say aloud. Before I shower,
I know I need to tidy up. The first thing I need to do is change the bedding. The room has a faint smell of sex. We’ve been sleeping in those sheets for weeks.

I rip off the crumpled sheet, pillowcases and duvet cover, go onto the landing and throw them down the stairs to be washed later. From a cupboard by the bathroom, I pull out some fresh bedding; a clean, white cotton duvet set that was given as a wedding present.
      

Carefully unfolding the large sheet, I stretch it out and go around the mattress folding it tightly under every corner. As I pull it taut, my hand brushes against something fabric under our bed. Getting down on all fours, I tip my head to the side and peer beneath the bed.

In the darkness, I can just see the outline of a bag, the strap of which is sticking out from under the bed frame. It’s well wedged at the back. If I hadn’t felt the strap, I would never have known it was there. I give it a tug and slide it out into the light.

There is nothing remarkable about it but I don’t recognise it. It’s a plain black fabric rucksack. It must belong to Charlie I think, but I have no recognition of seeing him with it. I inspect it again, holding it up and looking at it from various angels. It’s had some use, that’s for sure. From the weight of it, there are things inside. Sitting on the ground, still in the clothes I wore yesterday, I fold my legs and unzip the bag. A strange feeling of dread grips my throat and I hold my breath as I remove the first item.

It’s a porn mag, a well-used one at that. The cover is battered and the pages have been turned repeatedly. It must belong to Charlie. No wonder he hid it. This is his private stash.

I pop the dirty mag back into the bag feeling a mixture of relief and motherly disapproval. As my hand goes back into the rucksack, it is met with the touch of cold metal. An uncertain feeling floods over me as my fingers lock around the object. My heart is beating hard as I remove the heavy item from the bag. Taking it out, I lay it on the ground, not wanting to hold it and stare at a crowbar.

Why the fuck has Charlie got a crowbar under our bed?

The pornography I can understand but this makes no sense. Dumbstruck, I look at the cumbersome object trying to work it out. A threatening piece of equipment, its purpose is unclear.

Charlie has never been one for DIY, so I can rule that out. The question that echoes around my brain is ‘
why is it hidden?’

I’d know if he were a burglar or thug. He isn’t. He’s my big, soft bear. But why does he have a crowbar hidden in a bag with a dirty mag? For a second, I wonder if it might belong to someone else. But
who
?

Confused and slightly scared by the discovery, I bundle the weapon into the rucksack and push it back far under the bed. There must be a rational explanation I tell myself, getting up and dusting off my knees. I trust Charlie. It’s that simple. So, he has a porn mag. So what? But, it’s not the magazine that’s bothering me.

I leave our bedroom and go into the bathroom, pull back the curtain and turn on the shower. The room fills with hot steam in seconds. A long shower will make things better. Dropping my jumper and leggings onto the floor, I stand in my underwear for a minute waiting for the water temperature to be just right. Despite the heat clouding up in the room, I feel cold and all the tiny hairs on my body stand alert.

Slipping my nude coloured bra off my small pale breasts, I throw it onto the back of the loo, followed by the white knickers.

Stepping into the cascade of hot water, I let it soak my head. It snakes down my face mimicking tears and gathers in the corners of my mouth before tumbling down my chin. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the torrent. It hammers the ceramic bath ferociously echoing the pounding that has returned to my head.

‘Everything is fine.’ I often speak to myself when I’m taking a shower, where no one can hear me. Sometimes, when you ask yourself questions, you find some surprising answers.

Reaching for the shampoo, I try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling swirling around in my stomach.

October 16th

‘Of course you should invite her for Christmas. It’s about time we met.’ Charlie sips his glass of Shiraz and sits back to stare at the small flames licking in the wood burner.

‘When shall we go and visit your mother?’ I ask trying to conceal my dread.

‘Don’t know if there’s much point anymore.’
He cannot hide his sadness.

Betty, now ninety years old, lives in a care home not far from Coventry. She has been there for the last seven years. I never knew her before the dementia and Parkinson’s Disease set in. To me, she has always been a frail, confused, old woman. But Charlie remembers her as she was, before old age got its claws into her. He tells stories of her when he was growing up. She worked in a cake shop part time and used to bring home sticky buns for tea. His father, Alan, had been in the navy but once retired spent most of his time either in the pub or at his allotment. I got the impression he wasn’t a nice man. He died before Charlie and I met.

Betty, by Charlie’s account, was a hard working, loving mother. She had three children. Charlie had an older sister, the one who now lives in Canada and a younger brother, Phil, who died at the age of eighteen. Charlie never talks about what happened, just says that he was ill. It seems Betty never recovered from the loss of her youngest son.

After Charlie had flown the nest, Alan finally drank himself to death, leaving Betty alone.

Since his sister emigrated, Charlie was the only one left to take care of their mother. He told me he offered to have her to live with him in London, when the early signs of Parkinson’s reared their head. But she was a proud woman who kindly refused the offer from her son. When things got too much, Charlie found the best NHS home he could to care for her.

In the early days, he told me he used to visit every fortnight. Then, as her illness progressed it was once a month. Now, he calls her once a week, every Sunday afternoon and visits every three months. He cannot stand to see her in the state she is in and justifies it with the knowledge that the poor old girl has no idea what year it is. She no longer recognises him as her son nor anyone she has ever known.

‘I might nip up there on the 23rd and spend an hour. You don’t have to come.’ Charlie dreads the visits too.

‘I’ll come.’

‘No, don’t. What’s the point? She doesn’t know you. Jesus, she doesn’t even know me.’

‘Look, I know how difficult it is for you and I want to be there for support.’ It feels good not being selfish.

‘That’s sweet of you, love, but I’ll be fine. You stay. Go mad decorating the house. You know you prefer it when I’m not under your feet.’

‘Well, that’s true.’ I’m not going to force myself on him. ‘But if you change your mind, just let me know. I can go crazy with the tinsel when you’re at work.’

‘No doubt you will.’ He grins putting his glass down on the coffee table. ‘So how long are we going to have your mother staying with us?’

‘I hadn’t got that far. I don’t want to push it. Maybe if I ask her to come on Christmas Eve and stay until the 27th. What do you think? I think three nights is more than enough. If I could suggest two I would, but she doesn’t drive and the trains are crap around Christmas.’

‘Sounds fine to me.’ The fact that Charlie is so laid back is one of the things I love about him.

‘Great. I’ll give her a call tomorrow and sort it out.’ I sink back into the sofa cushions, enjoying the warmth of the fire on my outstretched feet. Charlie goes into the kitchen.

I scratch at a small brown stain on the seat of the sofa.

‘Maybe when my inheritance comes through, we should buy a new sofa.’ I call to him.

‘Why not? Let’s go wild.’ He is mocking me. He comes back holding a bottle of Shiraz and a box of chocolates.

‘Screw you.’ I laugh. ‘I’m going to be a very rich woman. You better watch your step, old man.’

‘Less of the old man, thank you.’ He sits down close to me, puts the wine on the table and hands me the box of Ferrero Roché. ‘You’re enjoying your chocolates at the moment.’ He squeezes my thigh and opens the bottle of red.

‘Calling me fat?’ I shove a chocolate into my mouth and crunch down loudly. ‘I always up my choccy intake in the winter. You know that.’

‘Fair enough.’ Charlie pours two large glasses and hands one to me. ‘So,’ he says changing the subject, ‘what do you want for Christmas?’

‘Oh, fuck knows.’ I say with a mouth still full of chocolate. ‘What about you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe a new bag for work.’

‘Don’t be so dull. There must be something more exciting you’d like? A holiday, perhaps?’

‘We can’t afford that at the moment.’

‘We will be able to soon enough.’ I can’t help but look forward to the large sum of money due.

‘I don’t know, love. Use your imagination. You always come up with something.’

‘It’s true, I do.’

‘And, what about you? Some underwear perhaps?’ He nuzzles his face into my neck and ever so gently grips the skin with his teeth, almost spilling his glass of wine as he does so.

‘If you won’t let me get a new sofa, you’d better be careful not to spill wine all over this one.’ I pull away, smiling.

‘Spoilsport.’

‘Finish your glass first, then I’ll show you exactly what this spoilsport is really made of.’

November
28th

I fuckin’ hate Christmas. People walkin’ about lookin’ all smug and happy. Spendin’ all their hard-earned money on fuckin’ presents for people they don’t give a shit about. It’s a joke. A great, big, commercial joke.

As I make my way up Oxford Street, I brush shoulders with hundreds of strangers. No one looks at me in the eye and I’m grateful for that. If they did, I might have to smash their skulls in. I keep my head down and just keep walkin’. I focus on my trainers takin’ one step at a time on the damp, dark pavement. Above me, the festive lights flash and in the distance I hear a bunch of fuckers singin’ carols. Singin’ about God. What god? Ignorant sheep, the lot of them.

I have no real direction I’m goin’ in, just fancied a walk. But I’m regrettin’ it now. The hustle and bustle hurts my head and the jolliness makes me sick.

I pass a middle-aged woman, carryin’ expensive lookin’ shoppin’ bags. She’s wearin’ a fur coat and smells of sickly sweet perfume. Lookin’ up, I see her face has seen better days. The money she’s spent on Botox ain’t done her any favours. The skin around her eyes is pulled tight and thick fake eyelashes look like two black caterpillars restin’ on her face. The red lipstick is smudged and she has some on her teeth. I’m glad she looks as stupid as she does. Rich bitch. Freak.

I turn left onto Regent Street and head south. It’s only the middle of the afternoon but already night is fallin’. Taxis clutterin’ up the roads beepin’ their horns at every given opportunity. I hate the buzz of people and traffic and wonder why the fuck I came into this hellhole.

As I pass Hamley’s toyshop my pace is made even slower by the congregation of brats and their parents, hoverin’ outside, starin’ at the stupid displays in the windows. Fuckin’ Christmas. No one ever got me nothin’ from Hamley’s. I never got taken to London to see the bright lights. They don’t know how lucky they are.

A little boy, probably about eight or nine years old, is whingin’ to his mum to go into the shop and buy him the latest toy. The mother, a tired lookin’ wench, is tryin’ not to lose her temper with the lad. I slow to listen to the conversation, even stoppin’ for a moment and pretendin’ to look in the window myself.

‘Every one else at school has one. Please Mum, please, please.’

‘No, Tom. Christmas is just around the corner. If you’re very lucky, Santa might put something under the tree.’

‘But I want it now.’ The kid wipes a trail of snot across his cheek with his sleeve. ‘Dad would get it for me if he was here.’

‘Well, he isn’t, is he?’ Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the mother’s face tighten. ‘He’s with his new family.’

‘You’re a real bitch.’ The kid says before kickin’ her in the calf.

‘Don’t you speak to me like that.’ Other people have now stopped and are watchin’ the drama unfold. ‘I’m not made of money.’

I approach them smilin’ and bend down, so I’m on a level with the kid.
      

‘You know, Father Christmas only comes to good little boys and girls.’ I tell the child who looks at me blankly.

‘I’m not stupid. I know he’s not real. It’s just Mum and Dad pretending. I want it now.’ I cock my head to one side and eyeball the boy. ‘What is it to do with you? You’re a weird-looking man.’ The boy is totally un-fazed by me.

‘Tom, enough!’ His mother barks.

I lean in and whisper into his ear very quietly, so nobody else can hear.

‘Listen, you little shit, you’d better apologise to your mum, or I’ll creep down your chimney and glue your foul little mouth shut while you sleep.’ Standin’ up, I pat the terrified child on the head before turnin’ to his weary lookin’ mother. ‘He’s got somethin’ to say to you.’ I put my arm around his shoulder and grip tightly.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ The little boy bursts into tears, and runs over to his mother, burying his snotty face in her coat.

‘That’s better.’ I take a step back and smile at them both. ‘Merry Christmas.’

I can feel the woman starin’ at me in disbelief as I cross the road and disappear into the crowd.

December 23rd

I love Christmas, everything about it. Ever since I was a little girl, it’s always been my favourite time of year. Not because I like getting presents but because I love the idea of people coming together, families sharing food, singing songs and playing games.

As a child, Christmas was always an extravagant affair. My mother spent God knows how much money on decorating the house. The fireplace was always the centrepiece, with a huge custom-made garland hanging pride of place. The wreath on the front door seemed huge to me, with lots of red satin ribbon, mistletoe, pinecones and holly all carefully weaved together. The mahogany dining table was laid fit for a king. Crystal glasses, cream pillar candles, polished cutlery and a smart gold plated dinner set adorned the table.