The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (4 page)

It’s best to remain invisible for now.

And then as if on cue, the rain begins again. It is relentless and before too long I know the elements will win.

But I remind myself, my mission is important. I made a promise to her and I won’t fail.

As if some celestial body has heard my plea, the rain parts and I see a fallen oak tree. The dark hollow space beneath is dry, warm and invitin’. This is the place I am meant to be.

Crawlin’ with my arms and knees pushin’ down into the soggy ground, I count the seconds it takes to reach the cold, cavernous space. Its trunk is so thick. I feel invisible.

My black jeans are heavy, caked in mud and leaves and my trainers feel like concrete slabs tied to my feet. My only blessin’ is that I’m wearin’ a polyester jacket and the slinky fabric glides through the filth in which I wallow.

Restin’ face down, my breath clouds in my face offerin’ me welcome moments of warmth and the adrenaline that rushes around my body finds a home in my groin.

Rolling over, I find myself lookin’ through the naked branches at the indigo night sky. It’s not romantic. There are no stars. But it is peaceful and the universe assures me that nothin’ will get in my way.

I’m reminded of the fragility of time as I check my watch. The black plastic Casio tells me it’s seven twenty p.m. Time drags and I curse. How long must I wait? The promise of what’s to come reawakens a stirrin’ in me and I grip the bulge in my trousers, enjoyin’ the feelin’ of heat spreadin’ through me.

My mind is plunged into a spirallin’ world of sadistic lust I had temporarily put on hold.

Fumblin’ in my rucksack, I remove some of the items and lay them out on the hard ground. First comes a bottle of water, then a torch and finally a porn mag. Some things I deemed vital to this job. For now, I don’t require the water or torch. It is the images that will get me through. The smooth skin, black leather, lace and stretched arseholes will keep me company.

As I stroke my shaft through my trousers, I look into the eyes of the brunette who is staring back at me. Her large swollen tits burst out of her bra. A small scrap of nylon pretends to cover her pussy. But the best bit is her lip-gloss. Her mouth is so shiny, she looks like she’s just sucked dick. And the more I think of this, the harder my stroke becomes until at last a warm explosion of fluid erupts from my cock and starts to trickle down my hand. The warm, wet, stickiness makes me feel more alive than I could have imagined.

But just as I really start to relax, I hear the crack of a twig in the distance and suddenly all of my senses are reawakened.

Lyin’ perfectly still, my dick going flaccid, I wait until I’m sure it’s safe to move. Just a dumb animal I tell myself as I begin to peel myself off the ground and repack my bag before checkin’ my wristwatch again. 9.48 p.m. Not long now.

I slip the rucksack over my shoulders and crawl in the direction of the house.

Remember, this is all for her. It’s what she wants. My mantra keeps me goin’ as the cold begins to get a hold of me again.

Then, at last, like a lighthouse in the distance, I spot it. And it is magnificent. A large, detached late Tudor house, with land and views to die for. I instantly hate the inhabitants and look forward to causin’ them pain.

       
The house is built of stone with a cross-gable roof. It is roughly a horseshoe shape with a more modern extension extendin’ to the eastern side. All that I know is learnt. My research has been extensive. But, without lookin’ into the past, it wouldn't be easy to access the type of people who lived here and inhabit this prehistoric relic.

From where I lie, in the dirt, I’m still able to see it for what it is - a palace of lies.

I see a paddock in the distance and imagine a lonely horse grazin’ in the moonlight. I know the history of this place. A little girl, alone, hopin’ for the world and bein’ given a pony.

‘Be quiet.’ The voice said. ‘They won’t believe you. You’ll be sent away again.’ And a broad hand ran its chubby fingers down the child’s cheek. ‘Shhhsh. Shssh.’ His whiskey breath made the eight-year-old want to wretch but
she
never moved a muscle. Instead they lay still and didn’t breathe a word …

Without knowin’ it had happened, I suddenly found myself in an open field, surround by a ragin’ wind and covered in blood.

I couldn’t remember how I’d arrived there and it took some moments before I realized where I was.

My hands were wet and warm and slippery. I no longer felt the cold. Calmness kept me in a cocoon.

It was only when I entered the house, my hand strugglin’ to grip the door handle that I realized I was covered in thick blood.

I’d gone to the stable and killed his fuckin’ horse with a pitchfork. Over and over, I plunged it into the animal’s neck.

Within half a second, the smell of iron and cells had taken hold of my senses. It was a kind of blood lust that was animal, archaic, primal. It would have been pointless for me to try to resist.

      
I couldn’t tell you how I made it up the stairs. I really don’t remember. It was just one of those things that happened; One minute I was outside slaughterin’ the animal, the next I’d got inside.

My erection was vicious, unrelentin’ and I thanked the Devil I’d been given this opportunity. Not many men were this privileged and very few would ever be able to say they lived like I had.

Crawlin’ on my hands and knees, leavin’ a trail of the blood, I eventually found my way to the master bedroom. My hands shook with sexual anticipation when I realized I’d made it. I looked down at the latex gloves and took a deep breath. The smell of blood on my clothes was intoxicatin’.

The house was as quiet as a tomb and I listened outside the door for signs of life. There was none.

I relished how easy it had been. A vein in my temple throbbed and reminded me how frail life was. My stiffy grew harder still and it was all I could do to stop myself from masturbatin’ on their landin’. But after a few long, deep, breaths, I managed to regain my composure. I had a job to do, I told myself, as I slipped the bag quietly off my shoulders.

Until then, I had left one section of my bag unzipped. But now the time was drawin’ near, my quiverin’ hand edged towards the zip and suddenly I could smell the semen again, like chlorine and stale sweat minglin’ together. But the feel of the cold, hard metal brought me back to where I was and gently I removed the crowbar from its compartment.

Nothin’ had ever weighed so heavy in my hand and I didn’t miss the significance. If anythin’, it makes the experience stronger. Better.

With no warnin’, I found myself landed back in reality. No longer was I on the landin’ caressin’ the crow bar. I was leanin’ over the old man shakin’ with anticipation.

She laid next to him, in the bed, a knife stickin’ out of her chest and wide, shocked, eyes starin’ lifeless up at the ceilin’.

She never saw it comin’, but I’d make sure his agony would last.

With one confident hit, I split his skull. The sound was like a tyre poppin’ or an egg fallin’ to the floor. But that wasn’t the most shockin’ thing. What really took me back was the look in the old bastard’s eyes when he heard his head shatterin’.

His expression was hopeless and somehow disappointin’.

      
It didn’t last long enough.

He was dead before I could really enjoy his agony.

For some time, I remained still, looking at him. Numb.

Then I did the only thing I could think of. I bashed his face in.

Bits of brain and bone exploded into the air in a beautiful display of reds and pinks. Temporarily, my world lit up and all the things inside of me had a voice, a violent, bloody meanin’.

Then I removed the bottle of bleach from my rucksack and drenched the fuckers in it.

The next thing I remember is walkin’ back along the main road; a ghost dressed in black. Just another lonely person on a country walk, a man with no destination.

The day is beginnin’ to break and I recognize the weight of my existence. My hands ache with violence and my throat is sore from suckin’ in other souls’ last breaths. My shoulders feel heavy and I remember my rucksack. There are a few precious things.

A soggy porn mag.

A gold Rolex watch.

One bloody crowbar.

Bone.

The weight of the body part suddenly hits me.

What am I carryin’?

But then my shoulders relax and a grin spreads across my face like a fire. A piece of his broken skull. She would be pleased, I remind myself as I slide through the mornin’ back towards the land of the intangible.

I am safe in the knowledge that no one will see me leave.

They never have.

March 14th

The sound of my own laboured breathing wakes me. I look around through clouded vision and try to focus on the world.

Where am I?

Then instinct kicks in and I sit up, pushing the hot stuffy covers back off of my sweaty frame. It feels like the bars of a prison have been lifted. My body feels lighter, freer somehow.

Scrabbling about, my hand finds an abandoned glass of water on the table next to me. This can’t just be coincidence.

My mouth is thick with fog and I don’t recognise the smells that surround me.

A slender, pale arm comes into view. A scattering of freckles sprinkled with fine arm hair standing to attention. It looks foreign and I examine the silver and turquoise bangles that jingle around my wrist. There is only one word that springs to mind – “Boho”.

I sit up and rub my eyes; the world around me starts to feel familiar. On a pine chest of drawers on the right side of the room, I spot a photograph of two people embracing. The image is backlit by sunlight pouring over the couple.

Then I see his face from behind the 6” x 4” glass, and at last the penny drops.

Charlie. Charlie, there you are. I thought I’d lost you.

And as if by magic, the bedroom door swings open and he appears, carrying a tray laid with scrambled eggs, brown toast and a large mug of steaming hot tea. Smiling, I slide back down the bed.

Balancing the tray on my thighs, he carefully sits down on the edge of the bed.

‘Miss me?’ he says and I’m reminded of an orphaned puppy.

‘Like a hole in the head.’ I keep my eyes closed and picture him naked.

Before I know it, he’s removed the tray and is pulling the duvet down, revealing my body.

‘Missed this?’ He allows his tongue to slide down my tummy towards my knickers.

Part of me wants to fight him and part of me longs to succumb. A battle rages internally as chemicals and hormones dance around my system beating their drum.

But, before I have a moment to think, he has spun me onto my front and is grazing my shoulder with his teeth. I feel a prod against my buttock and then he is in me and I am shuddering with each thrust.

‘Fuck you. I’m going to fuck you.’ Although the words come from him, they sound alien and before my climax is in sight, he has finished.

Lying on top of me, like a spent whale, I thank Destiny for what she has delivered. This is love. This might not be what people dream of but it’s real. No hollow fairy tales here.

I want to touch myself and start it all up again, but I can‘t. He is too heavy lying on my back, pinning me down. But the thrill is still there and I struggle to abandon it without a fight. Something has taken over. I feel alive and fired up.

He rolls over onto his side of the bed, his cock tired.

‘How’s my girl?’ `he asks, eyes closed, a small smile across his face.

‘I don’t really know.’

The statement lingers and I wonder if I even said it. My head feels thick and I sink back into my pillow scrunching my eyes shut determined not to let the world in.

Then his hand searches me out like a mole underground and I feel instantly better. His touch changes everything.

‘I’m sorry we fought.’ I roll over and face him.

‘What?’

I don’t understand his confusion.

‘Don’t make me say it again. I’m going to stop drinking so much, OK?’

‘OK, Jo.’ His lack of animation bothers me suddenly.

‘What time is the game on?’ I say, stroking his face.

‘Which game?’ A frown creeps across his face.

‘The United game. What time are we playing them?’

Charlie sits up suddenly and rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

‘That was yesterday. We watched it on Match of the Day. Remember?’

No. I don’t remember.

‘Oh yes, but I meant, what was the score? I kept falling asleep and I’m not sure I know the final result.’ I hear myself tripping over the words and feel ludicrous.

‘Fucking draw.’ He says and wrinkles his nose. ‘We should have won. Sturridge was on fire and they were lousy.’

Why does none of this resonate?
My head throbs.

We lie in silence for some time and I listen to the soothing sound of his breathing. I can tell from the hum that he is almost sleeping and his relaxed demeanour starts to rub off on me.

With a loud sigh, I move into his body and wrap my arm around his waist. His penis is still on display and I can’t resist moving my hand over the shaft and giving a gentle squeeze, to which, he smiles.

‘Got enough energy for round two?’ I whisper into his ear, enjoying the feel of my warm breath.

Silently, he turns onto his side, facing me, and lets his hand find my crotch. His fingers briefly dance in my pubic hair before searching for a point of entry.

With his thumb, he stimulates me. I bite down on my lip and push my pelvis towards him.

The rest of the day we spend flopping about. I live in my slippers and he doesn’t get out of his blue towelling dressing gown. The television is on in the background while he lies dozing on the couch. In my office, I try to write something new but struggle to put words down. My head isn’t in the right place. I haven’t written anything for days and days.

Bringing my knees up to my chin, I hug my legs. There is a faint smell of sex on my skin and I inhale, enjoying the memory.