Читать книгу Our Little Secret: a gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist from bestselling author Darren O’Sullivan - Darren O’Sullivan - Страница 11

Chapter 4

10.52 p.m. – somewhere on the A605, near March

Chris felt numb as he stumbled into a taxi, giving his address. The same taxi that had dropped off the stupid girl who had unhinged his plan. The journey back was the longest of his life. Unable to fully comprehend what had happened and its impact, he rested his head against the window, looking out. His cheeks vibrated as the cab picked up speed. He watched the rain fall and hit the glass in such a way it sounded like it had a pulse. Almost like the weather mocked him for being alive when he should be dead. The driver spoke, interrupting his thoughts.

‘You look like you’ve had a rough day?’

Chris looked at him in the rear-view mirror, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to the rain. Not knowing what else to say or do. He saw the driver’s toothy smile change to worry. Chris wondered why he would care about a stranger.

‘I see, well we all have them.’

Chris just nodded his head. Looking out of the window again.

‘When I’m feeling down I try to see the world through someone else’s perspective. For instance, we’ve not got it as bad as those poor folk in Aleppo. You hear about it on the radio. No water, no electricity. Bombs falling every day. That’s someone who’s got it rough. And here’s you and me, in a warm taxi driving on a quiet little road.’

‘I guess.’

‘See, perspective. I’m Giles, mate.’

‘Chris.’

‘Name suits you. Not like mine. Giles - sounds a bit posh for someone like me. Although, I do have a lord in my family tree going back a few hundred years. Could have left me a few quid mind.’

Chris smiled in spite of himself and then quickly cursed himself for it. He looked back towards the rear-view mirror to get a better look at his driver. Chris noticed he was maybe sixty-five with greying hair, weathered skin, and a thick neck. A scar ran across the bridge of his nose and the nose itself was slightly bent to the left – he had clearly been on the wrong side of someone’s fist in his youth. Maybe even done a little time.

Giles began to talk about the weather and how it wasn’t like when he was growing up but Chris wasn’t paying attention. After a while Giles noticed and quietened down. He turned up his radio and listened to a song by Status Quo, which mumbled over the sound of the taxi’s diesel engine as they rattled along the A605. Cutting through small villages and towns.

Twenty minutes into the journey Chris could see the lay-by he had visited once before coming up on his left. He saw a tree that stood taller than any other. One he and Julia had both rested against once. He watched the tree as he passed – focusing on the intertwining roots, which could be seen curving out of the earth – until it was consumed by the darkness. Once it could no longer be seen, Chris felt a sense of loss. He wanted to ask the driver to go back so he could sit where he and Julia had sat one night a long time ago, him sweeping the hair off her face, holding her tightly as neither spoke; but he didn’t ask. Instead he closed his eyes. Pretending to sleep.

It took him the rest of the journey to calm his heart rate, which pounded in his head. A journey that, including a long wait at a train crossing, took just over fifty-five minutes and cost him £60.

Chris opened the door to the house, a modest three-bed he bought after meeting Julia. He hoped there would be some sound coming from within. It was silent besides the ticking clock on the kitchen wall. As Chris closed the front door he looked back to see the old chatty taxi driver give a small wave before coughing, this time without covering his mouth, as he pulled away.

He felt a small pang of guilt for being so dismissive. At first, he’d been suspicious of the old man but it was clear that the taxi driver was lonely and actually trying to care for a stranger by talking to him. It made him think of his father once more.

‘Everyone you will ever meet is fighting a battle you do not know, so be nice. Be nice always.’

Chris felt ashamed of himself. He briefly wondered what his father would think of the way he had just treated another human being but soon shrugged it off despite his father being right. After all, he was supposed to be dead right now and therefore the driver wouldn’t have anyone to talk to anyway. Besides, his father’s view of other things mattered a lot more.

Putting his shoes under the stairs Chris saw there were two new messages on his home answerphone. He pressed play and sat on the stairs near his front door. Unsure what else to do. The first message was from Ben, a work friend of his. The automated voice told him Ben had left it just after midday.

‘Hi Chris, it’s Ben. I hope you’re okay. I’ve tried to call you on your mobile but can’t leave a message. So I got your number from our records. I thought you wouldn’t mind. Mate, we’ve been chatting in the office and it came up today was, well, you know. Anyway. We’d like to take you out for a drink, just a few of us. Just to catch up. No pressure to come back to work or anything, far from it. We miss your face around here and want to see how you are. So give me a ring back when you can and we can set something up.’

The second was from Steve, sent at eight minutes past ten. The same time Chris had been aimlessly walking through March.

‘Hi, mate. Thought I’d just give you a quick call. Haven’t heard anything from you in a few weeks and Kristy reminded me today was your anniversary. I’m sorry, mate. I should have remembered. I’m rubbish with dates. I came over earlier today, about seven, but you weren’t in. Listen. I’ve got some time off work soon and I was thinking we could go and have a pint or something? Anyway, give me a call.’

Chris was tempted to call back but thought better of it. He remembered the last time he and Steve went for a pint, three weeks before. It was a goodbye drink that Steve didn’t know he was sharing. Like a wake for the living. It was a huge risk meeting up with Steve. Chris usually told his best mate everything, but he couldn’t tell him the thing that really mattered.

He couldn’t tell him about Julia being killed; as far as he and everyone else was concerned, Julia was with her dad in Australia following her mother’s death, taking a sabbatical from work to do so. Because if Steve knew what really happened, he would be in danger. Chris knew her killer was close, and watching. One little slip would mean Steve would be next. He knew because the night the man killed his wife he promised he would kill again unless Chris kept quiet.

When they had last met at their usual haunt – the same bar where Steve had instigated Chris meeting Julia – it was a quiet Friday due to the pouring rain that hadn’t lifted all day. Chris had spent the day in his house, waiting for nothing in particular, before leaving an hour and a half earlier than their agreed meeting. His nerves were frayed at seeing his mate for the last time, so by the time Steve arrived Chris was washing down his third pint and as he approached, Chris hugged him for longer than normal. Steve glanced at the empties.

‘Had a few already I see, mate?’

‘I came straight from work. Figured, why not?’

‘I can’t remember the last time you had more than a couple.’

‘Me neither, but tonight we are celebrating.’

Chris then walked to the bar, ordered two more pints, and returned to sit beside Steve who was clearly confused.

‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Life.’

Raising his pint glass, Chris clinked his friend’s and drained half of his before Steve had taken a sip. As he lowered his glass he could see Steve watching him.

‘Are you all right, Chris?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘Okay. So what specifically about life are we toasting?’

‘Just life, like I said.’

‘I see. Well I’m glad we are, mate. It feels like for ever since we had a pint.’

‘It’s been a long time.’

Steve watched as Chris took another long drink of his pint, leaving only about a third of it swilling in the glass.

‘Chris?’

Chris burped loudly. Drawing the attention of people at nearby tables. ‘Yep.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine, Steve; stop mothering.’

‘Chris. What’s on your mind?’

‘Fucking hell, let’s just have a drink. Can’t we just get drunk together?’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea – maybe you shouldn’t have any more?’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

Chris slammed his glass on the table with such force two of the three empties jumped off of the table and smashed on the floor.

‘Bloody hell, Chris!’

Chris took a deep breath, centring himself. As he spoke, it was quieter but no calmer. ‘I’m getting another one. You want another one?’

‘No,’ Steve replied, shifting in his seat as eyes began turning towards the commotion at their table.

‘Please yourself.’

Chris remembered the look on Steve’s face. One that recoiled at the aggressiveness of his remark and was deeply worried. He couldn’t remember any other time in their friendship where he had been confrontational and he knew Steve knew it.

Chris had forced himself to calm down and they’d spent the rest of the night talking awkwardly about nothing of consequence. Chris didn’t ask about Steve’s wife; he didn’t ask about his work. In fact, Steve had to do all of the talking by asking forced questions Chris didn’t answer. Especially when he tried to speak about Julia and how she was and when she was coming home.

By the end of that night Steve had warmed up, Chris had cooled down, and as last orders were called, both stepped into the cold night air.

‘Nice seeing you, buddy.’

‘You too, Steve.’

‘Wanna do this again next week?’

‘I’d love to. The next few weeks are chaos at work, definitely after though.’

Chris could see his friend looking at him in a way that showed he didn’t quite believe what he had just heard – only for a moment though, and then it was replaced with Steve’s infectious smile.

‘Sure, buddy, just give me a call.

They hugged again before going their separate ways.

Chris remembered it being harder than he thought it would be to say goodbye to Steve and hearing his voice again reminded him of how drunk and aggressive he’d been the last time they spoke. He didn’t want to try and explain his actions that night. He shouldn’t need to. He should have been dead by now.

As the voicemail message ended and the line went quiet, Chris stood up, walked down his hallway and into the kitchen. He picked up a folded letter with a key resting on it that had been placed on the kitchen table. Putting the key in his pocket he took the letter to the sink. Its contents gave the location of the box for which the key fit, as well as the detailed reason for why he had taken his own life. Foolishly Chris read it, his sadness amplified and his grief embedded further, though he had no idea how that was possible.

He took a lighter from the cutlery drawer and lit the corner of the paper, watching the orange flame take hold and burn upwards. Leaving nothing but charred carbon in its wake. He held it for as long as he could, the hairs on the back of his hands being licked by the flames before he dropped it into the empty sink and it burnt into nothing.

Then, reaching into the cupboard, he took a glass and poured himself some water. His hands shaking as he did. He wondered how long he had been shaking, and if the old driver had noticed. As he took a sip his entire body was flooded with the cool, crisp liquid. He realized that it was the first drink he had had since waking from a fitful dream that morning. He felt guilty for enjoying the sensation as he drunk the whole glass, followed by another.

Once the glass was empty, the relief of quenching his thirst turned to disgust that he had found small joy in doing so. Chris slammed the glass down with such force it exploded. Shards scattering over the bench surfaces and the floor of his kitchen. One large shard sliced against his hand, causing it to bleed. He didn’t notice at first. Instead he grabbed the edge of the sink and gripping hard he shook it, screaming in his own head, trying to loosen it from the side, trying to destroy something else. It didn’t budge.

Out of breath, he saw blood running down the side of his hand and onto his bare feet. Watching it he felt no pain or worry, only a mild curiously as to how much would come. After a few minutes, it became obvious that it wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t deep enough and was already coagulating. He pulled on it with the fingers of his other hand, causing his skin to stretch and fresh blood to form but soon even that didn’t work and it began to heal.

If only all things healed that well.

A memory snapped into his mind like an electric shock. Like the single pulse of a strobe light. So fast he barely registered it, but so destructive. It was Julia as he never wished to remember her. It caused his heart to beat wildly and he felt the need to run. But he shut that out, closing his eyes against the invading memory. He thought back to the events on the platform instead.

It had taken months of meticulous planning to ensure that it would go right and instead it had just gone terribly wrong. Because of one person. Because of one stupid fucking person. Could she not see he was desperate to be alone?

Looking up, as if God himself would be on his ceiling, Chris was lost as to what he could do next. He silently waited for an answer, from God, from Julia, from his father. But he only heard the clock continuing to tick and pass time. As if nothing had happened. Before finalizing his 10.47 plan he’d contemplated taking an overdose or swinging himself from a noose. But he wasn’t happy with the idea of his body being found. He knew how scarring it was to see a dead human body. It haunted his dreams; it invaded his waking day. It had fundamentally changed him into a person more in shadow than daylight.

He made a rule in the aftermath of what had happened that night that he would not leave a complete him, so that no one else had to lose their light as he had lost his. The train was perfect. He would be just a red smear that dragged on for a mile and therefore no personification could occur by whoever had to clear him up. They might find a hand or an eye but without it being attached to a full body, one that had a soul, it would just be a surreal piece of flesh that might look like it could be a prop in a cheap horror movie or something found hanging in a butcher’s window. He wouldn’t look like anything that was once human and therefore he wouldn’t look like anything that could ruin someone’s life.

He realized that now the rules had changed. He realized that leaving a human form didn’t matter. He had done everything he could to protect other people. He had lied and hidden. He had grieved alone because it kept others safe. So focused on that, he’d almost failed to see the only thing that truly mattered. Julia. It would be a stranger who would find him, the police probably. Fuck them, they were not his responsibility. It had to be this date.

Realizing he didn’t need to care so much for someone else made Chris feel anticipation build and course through his body. Like an athlete might feel on a starting block, waiting for the gun to go. His plan hadn’t been executed the way he wanted but he was still going to join his wife. Opening his cutlery drawer Chris took out a small fruit knife, its blade about three inches and sharp. Perfect.

Looking around, he wondered where it would be best to do it. Only one place sprang to mind. The bedroom. The room where they’d shared their deepest fears and wildest dreams. The place where they could forget about the world, wrapping themselves up in their own little bubble, where they could laugh and love and lust for one another.

He went to his bedroom, sat on the edge of his bed and opened his side drawer. There were only two items in it: a book, one of its pages folded a third of the way through, which he’d not picked up in a long time, and under it Julia’s favourite light blue cardigan. He needed to be close to her as he took his last few breaths, to smell her smell, to have her with him. Although he didn’t deserve it.

The rest of her possessions were all boxed up in the small room that used to be an office. He wanted to hold her cardigan as he died. Clutching it, Chris pressed the knife into his wrist. It wasn’t ideal. Far from it. He knew that it would take between ten and fifteen minutes to bleed out and in that time most of his blood would cover the room that he and Julia slept in.

It was completely opposite to what he had tried and failed to achieve with the train. It would be messy; it would be disturbing for the poor person who found his cold lifeless body in an ocean of dark brown drying blood. But he would be by her side once more and in that ten to fifteen minutes as his life faded, he could think of her. Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the small digital clock as the flicking of one minute to the next caught his eye. The time it read stopped him before he spilt a single drop of blood.