The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (2 page)

He is naked beneath the covers and I nuzzle into his armpit inhaling the musty male scent he produces in his sleep. I feel like a little girl – safe at last.

My hands search his sleeping body and eventually rest on his morning erection. He stirs in his sleep and I dance between wanting to wake him and allowing the moment to remain only mine. Then the feel of his warm, hard phallic compass rouses something in me and instinct takes over. My mouth slowly works its way south down his warm belly, passing a forest of wiry curls and the canyon of his belly button. But, moments before I make contact, he is awake and attempting to sit up in bed. And when this happens I rouse, as if from a Shakespearean dream, clouded in the shroud of a rich purple mystery.

Now, there are two of us sharing a place in this alternate universe, complicated and uncertain but as tempting as an intravenous drug with which we have dabbled but not fully succumbed. So, while I sit here, comfortable in the dirty sheets, it would be easy to make plans and pretend yesterday never happened. Visions are never what they seem.

While the winter has its blanket over this hard city and everything we know, hot thoughts bury themselves in the faded autumn and I find myself returning to earth with an unusually soft landing.

He sits up in bed and scratches his beard. Sleep gathers in the corner of his bright eyes and he yawns stretching out his arms like Christ on the cross. Sinking back into the pillows, he looks at me and cocks his head slightly to the left.

‘You OK? You look a million miles away.’ Reaching out his hand, he places it on the base of my back and strokes his thumb against my skin.

‘Fine, just didn’t sleep that well. You?’

‘Like a log,’ he says with satisfaction.

‘Busy day at the office planned?’ I try to shake the heavy sleep that pulls at my brain.

‘Nothing major, a few meetings; the usual. How’s the book coming along?’

‘Slowly.’ I say, begrudging the morning, sinking into the bed and pulling the crumpled, green duvet up around my body. ‘I might stay in bed for a bit.’ I close my eyes. For some reason I don’t want to look at him this morning. I don’t want to communicate.

‘Want some breakfast in bed?’ He slips out of bed and pulls on a pair of navy cotton boxer shorts.

‘A cuppa would be lovely.’ I pull the duvet over my head as he draws the curtains and lets the low morning sunshine flood our bedroom. From beneath the hot darkness, I hear as he leaves the room.

Charlie is my rock. As he walks to the bathroom, I hear him humming the Match of the Day theme, and it makes me happy. He can’t sing, he can’t even hum in tune and I’m not sure I could live without him. I feel so privileged that he loves me, too. Slowly, I pull back the duvet and sneak a look at the morning. From behind a naked silver birch, the sky is a cloudless, powder blue. I wonder what the day ahead has in store as I hear the boiler kick into action that means Charlie has turned on the shower.

On my cluttered bedside table, the clock reads 8.19 a.m. and I know I should get up. Then I spot the letter slipped in between the pages of the novel I’m reading. Gingerly, I remove it and unfold the crisp white paper. The address is at the top.

It took a few weeks but I did finally respond. I wrote a short, even curt, letter, giving my phone number. It had felt necessary to respond with something. My letter had gone in the post on a Wednesday and by the Friday evening, the call had come. I am glad to say, I had popped out to get a bottle of wine and Charlie had answered the phone. The moment I got back, he told me. I have avoided answering the phone ever since.

I’ve read this letter so many times over the past weeks and still find it confusing. What does it mean “an olive branch”? We didn’t fall out for Christ’ sake. My brain begins to thump and I rub my temples before putting the letter back inside the book and shoving it into a drawer. Out of sight is out of mind, I tell myself, knowing that is not the case. I can’t deal with all these questions at this hour. First things first - coffee and toast - then perhaps I’ll be able to think more clearly.

I slip my feet out from beneath the covers and the icy air numbs my toes as my feet make contact with the cold pine floorboards that creak with age. Pulling a powder pink towelling robe from a hook on the back on the door, I wrap it around my semi-naked body and head down the narrow stair case and into the living room where I turn the television on and allow the dialogue of a BBC news presenter to fill the house.

This is my morning routine and it never differs. Next, I turn on the kettle and put two slices of brown bread into the old toaster, which always tries to burn my breakfast, no matter how low the setting.

Above me, I hear Charlie padding about in our room. I can almost feel him dropping his damp towel on the floor and leaving it there for me to tidy later. I inwardly smile. It’s the things only
you
know about the other person that make it so intimate and private. The same way I know he has left his towel on the floor, I also know that he will leave his dirty plate, egg cup and used mug in the sink instead of putting them in the dishwasher. But I don’t mind. I really quite like cleaning up after him, the same way I enjoy cooking the evening meals. In turn, he goes to work everyday, to a job he hates, so that I can have the career I want. This is a real marriage. It may not be exciting, but it is comfortable and familiar, like a favourite old jumper.

Sitting down at the table, I manage to spill some of my coffee onto my piece of honey toast and curse. Nothing worse than soggy toast. Ripping off the bit that is beyond salvation, I hurl the damp bread across the small kitchen and into the sink, congratulating myself on my aim and accuracy. Then, I feel eyes on me and turn
.
Charlie standing in the doorway, frowning. I squirm in my chair like a little girl who has been discovered with her hand in the cookie jar and his face melts.

‘You’re a bloody slob,’ he says sipping from my steaming mug, ‘but I love you.’

He plants a kiss on the top of my head and strokes my bed hair before grabbing his battered old messenger bag and heading for the door.

‘Have a good day.’ I call with a mouth full of food as I hear the front door close.

February 9th

After a morning spent working on the story about a mother searching for her kidnapped daughter, I decide to take myself out to get lunch.

Grabbing my keys from a hook near the door, my grey wool coat, black wool scarf and bucket bag, I step out onto the street. In the distance, I hear a police siren. I pull the collar up around my neck. It’s bitterly cold despite the gentle sunshine, and I walk quickly along the pavement listening to the sound of my green converse high tops connecting with the ground. Heading south, I make my way towards Bethnal Green Road all the while trying to concentrate on the plot of my book and trying to push away intrusive thoughts that hang over me like a rain cloud.

When I reach the bustling centre of Bethnal Green I’m greeted by the sight of its colourful street market. If you need cheap luggage, knock-off cleaning products, clothing, scarves or miscellaneous junk, this is the place to come. Women wearing thick winter coats over their sari’s, wander up and down the road chatting to one another in Arabic, while the men smoke furiously and make business deals on their mobile phones.

      
I love East London. Here, micro-systems rub along happily, like bacteria under a microscope, multiplying. One moment, you are walking through Turkey, then you turn a corner to find yourself in Israel, while on the other side of the road, the rich live their decadent lives, paying through the nose for their organic vegetables and mineral water sourced direct from melting icecaps, turning a jaundiced eye to the existence of the great unwashed.

      
Something is always going on. Arty types wander the streets in the latest vintage gear, sporting glasses they don’t need in order to see, and drinking overpriced cocktails out of chipped teacups. Exotic food smells waft from up-market restaurants, small cafes and busy takeaways. You can get anything you fancy at any time of day, from Vietnamese or Ruben sandwiches to Halal Kebabs or Caribbean. No other place in Britain has such diversity. It inspires me with awe that so many different types manage to co-exist in such limited space. Yet, amongst the hustle and bustle it is easy to remain anonymous. That’s why I love it. You can lose yourself here. People don’t notice one another - Some dislike it for that reason, but it’s why I’ve made it my home. If you aren’t sure you belong, then this is the place for you. In this limitless, unpredictable city, I met Charlie four years ago.

      
Having got my degree in English at Nottingham Uni, I stayed in the city for a few years where, as a waitress, I jumped from bar to bar. Then I found my feet in my favourite and longest lasting job working in a large bookshop.

      
But, friends gradually drifted away, most to London. I finally decided to follow them, waved goodbye to Nottingham and moved to a shared flat in with another girl I knew and one other, I didn’t. Another few jobs waitressing, I then
managed to get a job working as a PA for a city banker.

      
      
I was hopeless as a PA and after three months of muddling my boss’s appointments and forgetting basic tasks, I was out on my ear. I didn’t even feel uncomfortable when David Philips called me into his large shiny office to tell me I was a waste of space and an embarrassment to his company. He was the kind of young, revoltingly unattractive, fat cat you see in the movies. He wore expensive suits that did nothing to hide his short, podgy figure. His hair was thinning around the temples and mousey, glued to his skull with enough wax to concrete a car park. Despite his vast pay packet and eye-popping bonuses, the man had as much class and style as a doughnut. So, when he read me the riot act, I was only to happy to tell him where he could stick his job, before turning on my high heels and tottering out of his office. It was one of my proudest moments.

      
I’d packed up my desk and was on my way home, carrying a small, pathetic box of things - a ropey pot plant, a few pens, a hairbrush, a packet of biscuits and some stationery.

      
      
I still hadn’t quite got to grips with wearing heels on a daily basis, and managed to trip over a protruding flagstone and drop my box of belongings. A man passing by stopped to help me pick up my things.

      
      
I was not in the best mood and picking up on this, he asked me if I was all right.

      
‘Not really, no,’ I said. ‘
I’ve just lost my job, broken the heel on my shoe and laddered my tights. And it’s not even lunch time yet.’ I was unnecessarily aggressive while trying to scrape the spilt soil back into the pot.
      
      

      
      
‘Not the best start to your day then?’ There was a glimmer in his eye.

      
Until then, I hadn’t really looked at him. He was a tall man with a thick head of dark hair, striking brown eyes that shone in a broad face. He carried a cool about him, like Harrison Ford crossed with Joaquin Phoenix. He wore a pale pink shirt, navy linen trousers with brown brogues. I noticed his large, gentle
hands as he passed me my beloved Parker pen.

      
      
‘Thanks.’ I was thawing.

      
‘No problem.’ He stood up and dusted off his trousers. ‘I was just on my way to get a coffee. Fancy joining me?’ The question was delivered casually, but I could tell he was nervous.

      
Without a second’s hesitation, I said,

‘Why not? It isn’t as though I have anything else to do.’

      
There was one of those bins attached to a lamppost nearby, into which went the broken plant, shoes, and having pulled off the torn tights, them, too.

Barefoot in the street, wearing a black pencil skirt and a cream silk blouse, I smiled at him.

      
‘Let’s go.’

That was the beginning and I’ve never looked back.

      
Four months after that propitious meeting, I moved in with Charlie. He was the first person who encouraged me to pursue my writing. He said one of us should follow our aspirations and that he was happy to support us both financially, while I tried to get my career off the ground.

      
A year later, we bought our own little house and got engaged. I was thirty-three. The wedding was a small, intimate affair, the service held in Camden Town Hall followed by a boozy lunch in Soho. It was the best day of my life.

Weaving in and out of people, I make my way to Mcdonald’s. I failed at being vegetarian long ago and my guilty pleasure is now having a Big Mac for lunch once a month. As I step into the restaurant today, I look forward to the food more than usual. That smell of chips and gherkins fills my nose and I queue behind an obese black lady and her two small children, one of who is also far too fat and picks his nose with disinterest while staring at me, blank-faced.

Eventually, I reach the checkout. My order is taken by a spotty Asian youth with greasy black hair and long gangly limbs. He’s so shy he’s unable to look me in the eye as he hands me my change and while I wait for him to fetch my burger and chips. The kid slides the brown tray over to me and looks over my shoulder at the customer behind me, a Polish man covered in paint-spattered overalls who is talking loudly on his phone. Moving out of his way, I spot an abandoned table near the large window and make a beeline for it, taking a seat where I can look out onto the pavement and passers-by.

I take off my coat, unfold the waxy paper and reveal a steaming sesame seed bun overflowing with lettuce, meat, onions and sauce. The food smells hot and sweet and picking up the burger with both hands, I sink my teeth in, tearing off a large bite. Sauce drips down my chin and spills out onto my fingers. I reach for a napkin and wipe my face and hands before noticing my reflection in the glass opposite. My auburn hair looks messy and is hanging just below my chin. Maybe, I should get it trimmed before…