The Quiet Ones, page 17
Charlie died on Christmas day. He drank a whole bottle of whiskey and then hung himself from a beam in the attic. The coroner pronounced his death as a suicide. Soon afterwards, I was expected to arrange the funeral.
The police put my answers to their questions on the day down to shock. I didn’t confess what I knew had led him to do it. It would dirty his memory. I didn’t want that for him and truthfully, I didn’t want it for myself. He died a loyal, loving husband and that was how it should be. The world didn’t need to know the awful truth. It wouldn’t help anyone.
The day after I discovered his body, I called Sophie and told her. She jumped in her car and came up to London immediately. She has been staying with me and has been so helpful, clearing up all the mess, cleaning and tidying the house until this morning, when I told her she had done more than enough for me and that she should return to Brighton. Resentfully, she agreed. She hid it well but I could tell she was missing Rory.
The final thing I asked Sophie to do before she left was to represent me at the funeral today. I asked her to explain to everyone that I was simply too upset to attend. Being the wonderful friend that she is, she readily consented. Nothing is ever too much trouble. She is the only person left in my life whom I can truly rely on.
She had been the one who convinced me to call Ailene and tell her what had happened. I couldn’t face it, but knowing that I was determined to persevere with the charade, Soph pointed out I needed to get Ailene to agree to keep quiet.
Ailene had immediately concurred that it would be best for all concerned for the truth to remain buried. No one ever need know, she said. But I knew and she knew and that was enough to make me hate myself. It also became clear that she and I stood no chance of building a relationship.
I told her when the funeral was and that was the last conversation I had with her. She sounded sad. She was distant and formal and I thought it would be the last time I ever spoke to her.
Standing in the living room of the house, I shared with Charlie, through the window I watch Sophie get into her car and drive away to the crematorium. From there, she will go straight back to Brighton. We agreed it would be very awkward to see each other again afterwards.
* * *
I may not be going to the funeral but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like wearing black. I am wearing the same black dress I bought for my adoptive parent’s funeral, and the irony is not lost on me. I didn’t think that I would be wearing it for Charlie first.
It is only 11.00 a.m. in the morning but I pour myself a large glass of white wine, anyway. I need something to help me get through. I try not to imagine the crowds of people preparing to attend Charlie’s funeral.
Being in this house, where I learnt that he was my father and where I discovered his body, hurts so, so much. Every item reminds me of Charlie and our lives together. As soon as a good memory (there are so many) stirs, it is ripped away to be replaced by the recollection of our last afternoon spent together; that awful afternoon that changed everything and led to the death of the man I loved.
I decided a few days ago, that while the funeral was taking place, I would pack up my things and disappear. Sophie reiterated that her London flat was still on offer. I would leave my mobile behind and turn my back on a life that had included Charlie.
I had never wanted to remain here, for even one day with the ghost who lingered there, but if I was going to keep up appearances, I needed to remain a little longer. I kept reminding myself that it wasn’t forever and taken one day at a time, Soph’s presence helped.
Apart from Ailene, Sophie and Rory were the only two who knew about my biological relationship to Charlie. Sophie had thoroughly reassured me that they would never utter a word to anyone. She had never lied to me before and I had no reason to doubt her now.
I went from room to room, looking at the objects that belonged to a life I no longer recognised. Pictures of Charlie and I smiling, trinkets we’d bought on holiday, presents we had been given for our wedding; a lifetime of possessions that now meant nothing. I shall leave them all behind. A house clearance company can come and have their fill. Then the house will be put on the market and I shall be rid of all the material things that link me to my appalling secret.
As I come back down stairs carrying a box full of my things, the house phone rings. I put the box down and check my watch. It’s eleven thirty and the funeral begins in half an hour.
‘Hello?’ I answer gingerly, not wanting to face any of the other mourners.
‘Hello.’ I identify her voice immediately.
‘Ailene?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry to call now, I’m sure you’re on your way out.’ She can’t bring herself to mention the funeral. ‘I just thought you should know that I am going to be there.’
‘Where?’ I am confused.
‘The crematorium.’ She says quietly. ‘I hope you don’t mind. It just felt wrong staying away. I’ll slip in the back. No one will notice me. I won’t say a word.’
My shoulders drop.
‘It’s fine. You go.’ I look down at the small box containing my personal effects. ‘I’m not going.’
‘Why?’ her voice goes up a pitch.
‘Because, I can’t face it and I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve done everything I can to preserve his memory but I cannot go and sit and cry and talk to all the people who knew us the way we were. I can’t do it.’ I sit on the bottom stair slumped, still holding the phone. All the energy has left my body. ‘I’m moving out as we speak. I can’t be here a moment longer.’
There is a silence.
At last, she says,
‘Let me come and see you, after. This is all my fault.’
Her last statement rings in my ear. She is right. It is her fault. Everything.
‘Ok.’ I agree, wondering what there is left for us to say.
‘Promise me, you’ll wait for me to arrive? I’ll come straight to you. I have no business being at the wake.’
‘OK. I’ll still be here.’ An instant headache has hold of my brain and white spots dance in front of my eyes. ‘See you later.’ I hang up the phone.
I wait for the white spots to disappear and for the headache to subside a little. Then, I get up, kick the box out of the way with my foot and return to the living room where the dried out skeleton of the fallen Christmas tree lies broken on the floor, telling our story. I wonder why I didn’t throw it out before.
“It is all my fault.”
Her words are whirling around my mind and gathering speed. I pace backwards and forwards, nearly wearing a groove in the floorboards. With a sudden jolt I remember the rucksack under our bed. I have a desperate urge for a cigarette. I grab my coat and bag, slip my boots on and pull the front door closed behind me.
* * *
When I get to the door, I’m not surprised to find it’s on the latch. People are still pretty fuckin’ careless, I think, pushin’ it open. As I step in, I know there’s no one in the house. It’s quiet as a tomb. I don’t wipe my feet or nothin’. So what if it’s been rainin’ and the pavement is awash? There are more important things for me to be worryin’ about right now.
The place is dark. There’s not a light on anywhere and the January weather is doin’ nothin’ to brighten it up. On the floor in the hall in front of me is a box full of ladies’ things. I get down on my haunches and go through it.
There’s a mirrored box of jewellery. I open it and look at the collection of bracelets and earrin’s all tangled in a mess together. This person needs to take better care of her things. I close the lid and drop it back into the box. Then I take out a small leather book. It’s worn and old and the leather feels like butter in my fingers. Embossed on the front, in small faded gold writin’ is the word ‘Diary.’ I think about openin’ it but I don’t. I’ve got no business pokin’ about in some woman’s deepest, darkest thoughts. It won’t tell me anythin’ I don’t already know, anyway. I put it back and pick up a jade green scarf. It smells like roses and freshly made biscuits. I bury my face in the soft fabric and breathe in long and hard.
After lookin’ through the rest of the box and decidin’ there’s nothin’ worth keepin’, I go upstairs to have a look about.
The house annoys me. It’s decorated in a sort of hippy way I don’t like. Why do people insist on packin’ their lives full of clutter? I knock a picture off the wall as I pass it. The glass cracks and the frame smashes on the floor. A picture of a smilin’, happy couple lies broken on the landin’.
Next, I go into one of the bedrooms. I notice how tidy it is compared to the rest of the house. There isn’t any clutter in here apart from some dead flowers in a vase. The bed is made up, and it feels a bit like a hotel room that hasn’t had anyone stay in it for a while. I go into the room next door. It’s a real mess. I go over to the wardrobe and flick through the clothes. There is a bunch of men’s shirts hangin’ in it. I hate city workers. Wankers, the lot of them. This fella certainly doesn’t share my idea of what to wear. But he’s older than me. I know that.
I go over to the un-made bed and sit on it, bouncin’ slightly up and down and gettin’ used to the softness of the mattress. I become aware of the dampness of my trousers. The smell of dirty rain fills my nostrils. It takes me back to bein’ in the woods before…
I am reminded of why I came up here and I get down on the floor. It’s odd bein’ there, so low on the ground, like a slug. You get a different point of view from down here, like bein’ a kid again.
Then I reach under the bed and pull the bag out. That is what I came here for.
I throw it over my shoulder and go back downstairs, treading the broken glass from the picture into the carpet as I pass by.
Once downstairs, I make myself at home on the sofa. It’s dark in this pokey, little livin’ room and I reach over to turn a lamp on. That’s better. Now I can actually see.
I put my rucksack on the floor, unzip it and remove an object that I lay out on the coffee table in front of me. I look at it and smile. Everythin’ has come full circle.
I’m bored while I sit waitin’ for her to arrive. The minutes go by slowly as I watch the hands on the clock makin’ their way around the face. I pick up a magazine from the table and flick through, just to pass some time. It’s a Christmas catalogue full of photos of smilin’ brats and their parents’ sittin’ in showroom houses next to their perfect fuckin’ Christmas trees. I wonder if anythin’ real is ever for sale. I turn page after page filled with crap gifts like a fish shaped bottle opener, personalised cufflinks, gadgets for the kitchen that are no use to anyone. I crumple it up and throw it on the ground.
Where is this stupid bitch?
Then, as if by magic, I see a figure pass by the window. I know it’s her. This is the moment I’ve been waitin’ for. I stand up, pick up the thing on the coffee table and arrange myself so I’m standin’ with my back to the door. I made sure I left the front door wide open so that she’d stroll in. I didn’t want her knockin’. It would be better this way.
I take a deep breath and puff my shoulders up, sensin’ she is now standin’ in the room.
‘Hello?’ Her voice is tentative.
‘Hello.’ I echo, not turnin’ round.
‘I’m here to see Josie. Is she here?’
‘No, she’s not,’ I say turning round, ‘but I am.’
The woman looks at me for a moment, confusion and horror both fightin’ for a place on her face.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why are you dressed like that?’ she holds her hands out in front of her.
‘I think there are more pressin’ questions,’ I say removin’ the metal object from behind my back.
Her sunken eyes widen when she sees what I’m holdin’. They fix on the cold, hard, metal of the crowbar and linger there.
‘What are you doing?’ The fear is her voice is intense.
‘Nothin’ yet. I think we should have a chat first.’ I say, steppin’ towards her, grippin’ the weapon in my hand so tightly that it feels like I’m cuttin’ off the blood supply.
‘Josie, please,’ she begs stumbling backwards, ‘I don’t understand.’
I stop and take a look at the frightened wreck standin’ in front of me.
‘Josie ain’t here.’ I lift the crowbar high above my head and bring it crashin’ down onto the coffee table.
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispers under her breath before turnin’ and runnin’ out of the house.
I stand there watchin’ her go. I don’t stop her.
I think about runnin’ after her, she wasn’t meant to get away, but I’ve changed my mind. It’s over now. Everythin’s over.
I put the crowbar down on the sofa and go into the kitchen. Methodically, I take out every bottle of booze I can find and every cleanin’ liquid and line them all up on the side.
One by one, I take off the lids and pour them in circles all over the kitchen. Then I move into the sittin’ room carryin’ the rest and do the same. The place smells like it belongs to an alcoholic with O.C.D. I kind of like it.
With the last bottle of Scotch, I lay a trail of liquid on the floor and move backwards, towards the front door, emptyin’ it as I go. Then, without a second’s hesitation, I pull a box of matches out of my pocket and light the alcohol. I watch for a minute as a pathway of angry flames rush away from me and into the rest of the house.
Steppin’ out into the fresh air, I take a deep breath and close the door as the sound of fire roars up behind me. Then, with my hands in my pockets, I wander over to the pavement on the other side of the road, sit down and watch as the flames grow and envelop the house.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my reflection in a puddle. The ripples in the water disturb the image. When the surface settles I look down at myself and see Josie’s face smilin’ back at me.
31
January 12th
I wake up with a splitting headache. My whole body is throbbing. I don’t open my eyes for some time, waiting for the pain to ease, which it doesn’t. The bed I’m lying in feels strange, harder than usual and I can smell something odd. Gingerly, I sit up and rub my eyes. I notice my hands smell of booze and smoke. But not cigarette smoke; bonfire smoke.
When I open my eyes I am in a place I don’t recognise and I’m wearing a hospital gown. I look around the small room trying to find something that will indicate where I am.
There is one small window, high up, with a grate across it. Apart from the bed and one small chair in the corner, the room is bare. I pull the scratchy blue blanket away and get out of bed. My legs are wobbly as I go over to the door. I search for a handle or doorknob. There isn’t one. I can’t open the door from my side.
Where am I?
I bang my fists on the metal door.
‘Hey! Anyone there? Get me out of here! Please?’ I stop and listen for signs of life. ‘Hey! What the fuck? Let me out!’
A small window in the door slides open and I see a pair of blue eyes staring back at me.
‘You want me to get a doctor?’ The man on the other side asks, chewing gum.
‘Doctor? Of course, I don’t want a doctor. I want to get out of here. Now!’
Intimidated by the cold stare, I back away.
‘Fine. Stop banging on the door. I’ll get someone to come see you.’ He pulls the shutter back across the opening again.
I go back to the bed and sit down. None of this makes any sense.
How did I get here? Why am I here?
I wait for some time before I hear the click of the door unlocking. I get up and straighten my gown, hoping to feign some semblance of respectability.
A man comes in accompanied by two males wearing male nurses’ uniforms. They are both huge. What sort of joke is this? The nurses stand guarding the door, one black, and one white. The man, who at a guess, is in his fifties, fiddles with the glasses on his face with one hand while holding a file in another.
‘To whom am I speaking, today?’ He asks, looking at the paperwork in his file. He doesn’t look me in the eye.
‘What do you mean “to whom am I speaking?” My name is Josie Brewers. Can you please explain to me, what the hell you are talking about, what the hell this place is and why I appear to be under lock and key?’
Part of me thinks this is just a strange dream.
‘Right, OK then. Josie,’ He closes his file and points to the chair. ‘Do you mind if I take a seat?’ He behaves as if we are old friends about to share coffee and doughnuts.
‘Be my guest.’ I stand, arms crossed, waiting for him to sit down before backing up towards and lowering myself onto the bed.
‘I am Dr Luke King. This is a psychiatric hospital. You were brought in here last night,’ He leans forward, ‘but you don’t remember?’
‘Psychiatric hospital!’ Oh, God. ‘No.’ I scratch my head. ‘Not a thing.’
‘Do you know anyone called Jacob?’ He holds his chin in one hand, sits back in his seat and tips his head slightly to one side.
‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’ I answer honestly.
‘OK.’ He leans forward again and fixes me with his small green eyes. ‘This is a delicate matter that I wish to handle with care.’ I scream in my head, stop pontificating and tell me what’s going on. ‘When you arrived yesterday, you told me your name was Jacob.’ He stops talking and looks at me for a reaction.
‘That’s absurd!’
This has to be a dream.
‘It sounds absurd, I know but it isn’t exactly. When I met you yesterday, you said you were called Jacob. You spoke with a completely different accent. You appeared to be a completely different person.’
I look at the nurses guarding the door waiting for them to burst into laughter and for someone to pop their head around the corner and yell “Gotcha!”
