The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (3 page)

I notice a spot of food in the corner of my slim pale mouth and quickly wipe it away with a thin, rough paper napkin before removing a few chips from the red box and shoving them lazily into my mouth. The salt coating is a welcome introduction to my taste buds. Then I return to staring at myself. I wonder what she looks like; a fellow redhead with hazel eyes and freckles across her nose? Probably not, but you never know. Is she pretty, plain, or quirky looking? The questions buzz around my head in sync with the noise from the ice cream machine in the background.

      
I finish my fast food fast and leave. I’m in a rush to get home. I’ve come to a decision and I want to put my plans into action before I change my mind. My heart thumps in my chest as I hurry along the cold pavement, winding my way through the back streets, determined. When I get home, I’ll call her. I will take my coat off, hang up my keys and bag and then I will be brave, pick up the phone and dial the number.

      
I arrive at the house, and unlocking the door, I notice my hands are trembling. I stretch out my fingers and watch them quiver. Stop it, I tell myself. I go inside. The house is warm. The hands are still shaking. It’s not the temperature that’s affecting me. I shrug my coat off, throw it over the bottom of the bannisters, dash upstairs and grab the letter. I run down again to my office, stand by the telephone, and, hands still shaky, re-read it for the hundredth time.

      
I wish it wasn’t typed. Her handwriting would offer more insight into the kind of person she is
.
I scan the words looking for clues and questions somersault around my head.
Why wait so long to get in touch? What does she want from me? What is she like? What is her surname? Is she married?

      
I dial the phone number in the letter I realise I am holding my breath as I count the number of rings.
Three…. Four… Five…

‘Hello?’

I freeze. Is that her voice?

‘Hello,’ she says again.

Still, I can’t speak.

‘Hello?’ she says again, this time with frustration. I snap out of it and manage to respond.

‘Hello.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘Hello, how can I help you?’
Is it her?

‘I’m… can I speak to Ailene, please?’

There is a brief silence.

‘Can I ask who’s calling, please?’ The voice sounds suspicious.

‘Is Ailene there, please?’ I dodge the question. Another silence and then,

‘Speaking.’

With that one word my stomach knots and a wave of nausea works its way up my body.

‘Hi,’ I speak quietly, ‘It’s Josie.’

‘Hello, Josie.’ Her voice sounds clipped. I hope she’s as nervous as I am. There is yet another silence, only this time it seems to last much longer. ‘I been hoping you’d call. You got my letter, I assume?’

‘Yes.’

With my left hand, I am fiddling with a biro, twirling it in my fingers, continuously clicking the end.

‘I don’t really know what happens now.’ The burst of honesty surprises me.

‘Neither do I,’ she sounds taken back, slightly defensive. Good, I think to myself.

‘What would you like to happen?’ Ailene is regaining composure.

‘Honestly, I don’t know.’

I lean back in my chair and slowly spin myself round. There is a low creak.

‘Look, I am really sorry about this but it’s not exactly a good time at the moment. I’ve got a lot on.’

I can barely believe my ears.

‘Can I call you back another time?’

‘Sure. Whatever suits.’ My words are cool.

‘OK. Good.’ In the background, I hear a raspy coughing. ‘I’ll call soon.’

‘Speak then.’ And I hang up before she has a chance to respond. I feel rejected all over again.

I go over to my desk, remove the letter that has been taunting me for the last few weeks and go through it yet again. Was there something I missed? That I failed to comprehend? I look for any hint that might help explain her change of direction.
She
wrote to
me
, not the other way around … but I don’t find it …

Flat 2,

Rigdale House,

Derwent Drive,

Bletchley,

Milton Keynes

MK3 7FS

Dear Josie,

After hearing from the adoption agency I’ve been

informed you are happy to allow me to write to you.

I don’t know where to begin. We are strangers yet I

carried you inside me for nine months – it’s strange.

There are reasons I couldn’t keep you. I was young, only seventeen when I fell pregnant. In those days, it was different. I have a lot I would like to say but feel it would be better to do it over the phone or in person.

It must have been a shock when the agency called and told you I wanted to get in touch after all this time.

As I grow older I realise I have made mistakes in my

life and would like an opportunity to put them right.

I hope for a chance to explain why I decided you would be
better off with an adopted family.

This must be a confusing time for you and by no means do I wish to pressure you into seeing me. I appreciate it will take time before you reach that point. But for now, know I have extended an olive branch.

Should you decide to contact me you can write or if you would rather then you’re welcome to call me at home. My number is 07234 112869.

I hope to hear from you soon,

Best wishes,

Ailene.

She gave me up, and I kind of understand it. Thirty-six years ago, teenage pregnancy was not unheard of but attitudes towards it were far less forgiving. It might have ruined her life had she opted to keep me. I’m not bitter and I’m not angry, but I am puzzled.

February 21st

I wake up with a splitting headache. Jesus, this hangover is bad. The air in our bedroom smells of stale breath and booze. I sit up and the room spins as my feet find their way into my grubby stripped slipper boots. I realise I am still in the clothes I was wearing yesterday. Shame hits me like a bullet and I rub my temples hoping to erase the fog. On my bedside table is an untouched glass of water. I reach for it and down the tepid contents in one go. My mouth is so dry and I’m gripped by an unquenchable thirst.

      
I don’t know who I am.

Am I drunk?

Am I high?

Looking down, my hands look like they belong to someone else and my head feels foreign.

All I know for certain is that I am self-indulgent. That is real. Anyone who has ever known me will confirm that. But I’m not as bad as my Mum. I’m not referring to the woman who brought me up, who nurtured me, loved me and wanted me. I’m talking about the woman who carried me in her womb.

It all stems from her, I tell myself. Also, that after all these years, things are different. They’re not. I’m still me and questions still linger over my existence like a poisonous fog.

So much has happened in my life in the last week.

My life emulates a cruel experiment and I feel trapped in a Petri dish.

There is no recollection of going to bed. Did I see Charlie last night? Looking at the clock. I see it’s nearly eleven a.m.. Damn, I trip over a jumper lying on the floor before kicking it violently out of the way. There is enough to contend with today, without my clothes trying to obstruct me. The fluffy orange jumper joins a pile of dirty washing in a far corner of the room. I know damn well the pile will remain there until Friday when I decide to tidy before the weekend so that Charlie doesn’t think I sit around all day doing nothing.

Turning away from the mess on the bedroom floor, I decide I need to clean my teeth. Running my tongue over my front teeth, I know I neglected to brush them last night and, once in the bathroom, I see where my lips meet there is a dark reddish brown stain leftover from the glasses of Rioja. Guilt and self-pity mingle together in my head as I spit a large mouthful of white foam out into the basin below. I am dreading the day ahead. Drinking doesn’t suit me, the hangovers are crippling.

In a bowl full of random crap, I find a hair band and scrape my untidy red
mop off of my face. Beneath my eyes are dark bags reminding me of my own silly mistake. I splash some icy cold water onto my face and dry it roughly with a towel in the hope I might feel better. I don’t.

Downstairs, I see the evidence of last night’s excess. On the kitchen table sit two empty bottles of red wine, leftover Indian takeaway and the crumpled letter from my mother. The room smells of lamb Biryani and I gag. It seemed like such a good idea last night. Before I allow myself a coffee, I start to tidy my mess. The place looks like a student house. The yellow rice has gone hard and dried to the plate and I have to chip away at it over the kitchen bin before plunging the plate into a steaming hot sink full of Fairy bubbles. I put the empty bottles in a plastic bag and notice there are red rings of wine on the table. I scrub hard and
eventually they fade.

The room looks respectable again and only now do I reward myself with breakfast. I make an extra strong pot of filter coffee and pop two pieces of brown bread into the toaster. My head continues to thump and I get myself a large glass of water. The pressure in my skull is unbearable, as if screws are being forced into it from all angles.

      
As I munch the warm toast, I start to feel drunk again. The food hitting my stomach is stirring up the alcohol and I feel it work its way through my system, flooding through my veins making the world feel distant again. I like the numbness. It helps me forget. Then the phone rings and wakes me from my daze. The sound is piercing and offends my tender ears. Gingerly I answer.

      
‘Hello?’

‘You’re awake then.’ Charlie sounds cross.

      
‘Oh don’t be like that. I feel shit as it is.’

      
‘So you should. I’m not bloody surprised, the amount you put away last night.’ There is a silence and then, ‘Did it help?’ He knows the answer. ‘Jo, I get it. I really do. You’re hurting. But delving into a bottle isn’t the answer. I don’t recognise you some of the time.’

      
‘I know,’ I am frustrated by the truth. ‘How’s work?’

      
‘It’s a pain in the arse. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing and Michael is on my back.’

      
Michael, Charlie’s boss, is a huge hunk of a man who spends hours in the gym when he’s not “closing deals” or “shagging birds”. He’s a fifty year old who looks like he’s in his thirties, due to his African skin. I’ve only met him once but I was struck by the cheapness of his shiny grey suit and mauve coloured tie. The faux diamond stud in his ear clinched the deal. It’s fair to say I think he’s a prick.

      
‘I want to the kill the sod.’

      
In the background, I hear a phone ringing in Charlie’s office.

‘Jo, I have to go. Sorry. I’ll call again at lunch. Love you.’

      
And before I’ve had a chance to respond, the phone line goes dead. For a while, I remain looking at the phone in my hand. I feel painfully alone. I’m reminded of my childhood. I grew up in the country and lived a privileged life. Yet, the one thing I really wanted was a real family, one I belonged to.

      
Fiona and Harold Griffin adopted me when I was a tiny baby. She was a wonderful mother. The softest, most gentle woman I have ever known and so unlike me in every way. It must have been difficult for her when I was growing up. We are so different. She is calm, ordered and chic. I am a chaotic redhead with a temper to match. It must have been disappointing to discover she didn’t get the little darling she’d no doubt hoped for. None the less, she never showed it. She always told me she loved me and was proud of me and I am grateful for the effort she went to.

The thing I remember most vividly about her was her hair. Long, blonde and poker straight, it would gleam in the sunlight like the surface of a lake. I thought she was a princess when I was little.

      
As I grew up, we grew apart. Then, when I went off to university, the space between us grew wider. I saw them less and less and only spoke to Mum on the phone once every couple of weeks. Standing, holding the phone in my hand, I wonder if I should call her now. Would it make me feel better to hear her voice? The answer is no. I put the phone down on the table and decide the only thing to do is go back up to bed.

March 13th

This has got to be the dullest place on earth. The wet concrete roads slitherin’ through the countryside are never endin’. The grass fields go on and on and the only thing to break the monotony is a few trees or a wild hedgerow.

      
It would have been impossible to make a note of the route; thank fuck for GPS.

The damp scent of bark is all around me. I will have to wash my clothes when I get home.

Funny what you think about when you are alone, in the woods, at nightfall. I never knew there could be so many shades of brown. Shiny brown, dull mustard brown, dog shit brown; fifty shades of crap. But, you know, I’m really very happy here, slitherin’ in the wet mud bidin’ my time.

To hunt an animal, you have to put yourself in their shoes. Crawlin’ through the dark, damp woodland floor, I know I’m doin’ the right thing.

My senses are heightened and I feel an electric current permeate the air around this place.

Just as I beginnin’ to think I am makin’ some progress, there is a flash in the sky. A beam of light cuts through the trees and I freeze, droppin’ to the ground. Lyin’ perfectly still, I wait for a long time before the sight and sound have been disappeared for some time.

I’m certain the car didn’t see me, but although I am hidden in the undergrowth, and the darkness blankets, me I will remain cautious.