All Your Fault: a gripping psychological thriller that will keep you guessing

by NJ Moss

  “Pranks,” I repeated dully.

  I rarely let myself reminisce about Hope. Because whenever I did, some awful unfair image would come to me. Like now, I saw myself sneaking up behind her in the kitchen and yanking her dress over her head, and then, when she was screaming and begging me to give it back, I threw it in the bin. “Maybe that’ll stop you snooping in my room, bitch.” I heard her sobs, and felt her nails rake down my arm before she stormed in her underwear through the house and up the stairs. I remembered feeling like I’d won, like making my little sister cry was a good thing. A victory.

  Sisters fight. It’s a fact of life. Don’t be so hard on yourself.

  But was that fighting? Or was that bullying?

  “Um, yes, we did.” I shook my head and rose to my feet slowly. “I’ll tell you about them soon, sweetheart. But I need to take a shower. Mummy stinks to high heaven from all the book talk.”

  “I’m not a baby. You don’t have to call yourself Mummy.”

  I stumbled from the room.

  It wasn’t fair.

  I had countless memories of being loving and kind to Hope.

  Liar.

  I have countless memories of being a good big sister, I affirmed loudly in my humming mind. And yet my thoughts so often settled on the worst ones, as though even after eighteen years I still deserved to hate myself for what happened.

  28

  I hated sitting in the dead-quiet office waiting for a phone call that never happened. I sat there, my mind swimming, the buzz from the coffee I’d had fifteen minutes earlier already fading away. Sometimes I read on my Kindle or watched videos on my phone, and other times I closed my eyes and told myself again and again that so many people would be thankful to be getting paid for this.

  But I hated it.

  With nothing to aim for, my mind played tricks on me. More and more lately, it was returning to Hope, to the evening and the rain and the hill and the car smashing her into broken pieces. Or I’d stress about Troy and his book, wondering if he was going to finish it. Or, if he did finish it, if the publisher would change their mind last minute and not take it. Or Russ: school, stamping down his spirit, stealing his childlike enthusiasm for the simple things.

  Mother hated me. Father didn’t see me anymore, not really. I might well have Cecelia’s madness inside of me, waiting to jump out.

  This was all counterproductive, but I supposed that was the essence of anxiety. It didn’t matter that Russ was doing better since Troy had started working from home. He seemed happy to have his father there to drop him off and pick him up from school. October half term had been a godsend too, with Troy and Russ making dens in the house and their laughter filling me with relief every time I crossed the threshold. It didn’t matter my family was stabilising again, Russ hadn’t wet the bed recently, I’d had another payday and it had been as ego-boosting as the last.

  Sitting here in the hazy lamplight of the office, all I could do was pray for the incessant pounding of my heartbeat to quieten down for a minute, just one goddamned minute.

  Since my income was what we were relying upon now, I didn’t dare show any sign of my stress. Despite my promise to myself, it had most definitely become an Unsaid Thing. Troy was a good man, an amazing husband; if he knew how badly this job was screwing with my head, he’d make me cut down my hours or quit altogether. I didn’t want that. I liked having him rely on me, trust me, as I’d relied on and trusted him for the past decade. I wanted to be the strong one for once. I didn’t want to fail. We were a team.

  So I always dressed as impeccably as I could. I held myself upright and dignified. I adopted the steely ice of Mother, handling myself with poise, and when I felt the mania coming, I directed it toward work. I bullied clients and Clive clapped me on the back for it. I defeated Derrick and Zora’s snide remarks by pretending they were insects buzzing around the office, the tiniest of nuisances. I painted my face until I looked like somebody else.

  Even Mother had commented on how well I seemed to be doing lately. “You’re like a brand-new person, Grace,” she’d said over coffee a few days earlier. “You used to seem so childlike, in a sense, so trapped in the minutia of raising your children. A noble endeavour, of course, don’t mistake me. But you seem so strong.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  Thank you, Mother, for loving the mask I’m wearing more than you ever loved me.

  Still, it was something; it was more than she’d ever dished out before. I was working hard and earning good money and my family was happy. I was paying for my children’s school uniforms and hobbies. I had a husband who loved me and who I loved. I was living as close to the dream as it was possible to get. I wished my whirring thoughts would slow down long enough for me to enjoy it.

  Soon, I decided, I’d quit coffee. I knew it was the caffeine messing me up. Some people didn’t do well on it. I’d read about it. Panic attacks, anxiety, insomnia. I knew all of this. And yet I didn’t feel as if I could stop, which was pathetic, really. There were support groups for alcohol and drug and cigarette addiction, but coffee?

  I turned back to my Kindle, trying to lose myself in the light and airy romance Margaret had selected for this month’s read. Thank God. I didn’t think I could handle another hard-hitting story about death and sisterhood.

  The phone rang.

  I jolted and dropped the Kindle on my desk, and I stared at the phone as though it was a figment of my mind. I had really begun to believe it would never ring. I quickly picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” a growly voice said before I could speak. “Are you there? Are you listening?”

  A tingle scraped over my skin. Already I knew this was wrong. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all.

  “Yes, hello? You’ve come through to the offices of Langdale Consulting—”

  “Pfft,” the man grunted. “Listen to you. Pretending. Pretending you’re normal. Pretending you’re not evil. Pretending it’s not all your fault.”

  “I think you might have the wrong number.”

  “I don’t think so.” He laughed harshly. “It’s all your fault. And you know it is. You can lie to your family and your friends and anybody else you fucking want, but you can’t lie to me.”

  “This isn’t very funny.” My voice trembled. “What are you, some bored pathetic teenager? Ringing people up and trying to scare them? Well, it’s not going to work.”

  “I know what you did.” He laughed grimly. “And one day so will everybody else.”

  “I don’t know who you think you are but you need to shut the fuck up before I ring the—”

  “Goodnight, Grace.”

  Grace.

  “How do you know my name? How do you know my fucking name?”

  The line went dead.

  29

  I stumbled through the office and down the stairs, bashing the door open with my shoulder and pacing onto the street. I grabbed my hips and forced myself to suck in the bracing autumn air, letting it flow coolly around my body.

  Whoever it was, I told myself, it was just a stupid prank call. They knew my name, fine, but how hard would that be to find out?

  I was on the website. Perhaps they knew I was working late. Perhaps they were a friend of Clive’s and this was their idea of a joke. Perhaps it was the client and this was why I’d been waiting here all along, as some sort of sick sexual thing. This was what excited him, scaring women, making them panic and causing their minds to catapult into the past. If it was the client, of course he’d know my name. That didn’t explain what he’d said though.

  Was he talking about that evening? I’d heard the phrase so many times. In my own head. Aimed at myself.

  It’s all your fault.

  Was it true? He’d said he was going to tell everybody, but tell them what?

  I felt a whiplash in my mind, a near-physical tremor rioting through me and roaring not to go there, never to go there, leave it alone, leave it locked, locked tight, Pandora’s fucking Box, ignor
e it, ignore it.

  Forever.

  I walked toward Queen’s Square and then turned back, pacing up and down the street, struggling to get my breathing under control. Was he talking about the hill and the car and the rain and my little sister? But why, why the fuck would some stranger do that?

  Unless he wasn’t a stranger.

  Unless Clive was behind it somehow.

  Unless Clive had it out for me for some reason.

  I told myself to get it together. A prank call, that was it, and I couldn’t afford for it to be anything else. I’d need to talk to Clive about it, tell him I couldn’t do this overtime anymore. We had crazy sadistic people ringing up trying to mess with my mental health and it wasn’t fair. I thought about ringing my best friend, Yasmin, and venting to her. I knew she’d listen for as long as I needed. But my mobile was upstairs and by the time I returned to the office – switching on every light I passed – an evil thought had slipped into my mind.

  It was stupid. Of course it was stupid. I wasn’t crazy and that was why it was stupid.

  I was living in a constant state of unreality caused by lack of sleep, a shimmering film over everything, my nerves pulled so tightly it was only a matter of days or weeks before they snapped. I wasn’t crazy, but the thought gnawing at the edge of my reason didn’t go away.

  Did that phone call really happen?

  I collapsed into my chair and stared at the phone and willed it to ring again, to convince myself it was real, it’d happened.

  In my research about insomnia, I’d read about people having far more vivid hallucinations than a growly voice over a crackly telephone. But if I had imagined it, that begged the question of why the hell I would do that to myself. I wasn’t guilty of Hope riding down the hill. I was there, fine. Perhaps I should’ve taken better care of her. But guilty? Did I push her? No, no, no. So it wasn’t fair to say I was guilty, for my mind to conjure up a phantom voice in the night and—

  I stopped, hearing the flow of my thoughts and letting out a mirthless laugh.

  I picked up the telephone and hit redial, but of course the sad loser had withheld their details. Fine. Whatever. Some freak wanted to ring up and say cruel things, probably touching himself at the same time, doing some weird fetish stuff like tying a noose around his neck as he choked himself to climax.

  A noose and a gouge across her throat for good measure.

  “Fine,” I snapped, glaring at the phone. “See if I care, you sad fucking freak.”

  I took out my mobile and opened my and Clive’s text thread. Just had a prank call and the man knew my name, I typed. I don’t appreciate this, Clive. If it was the client, this is completely out of order. Please ask IT to find out who did this and tell them to stop. Or, I’m sorry, I won’t be able to do this kind of overtime anymore. I don’t care how important this client thinks he is.

  My finger hovered over Send. I hesitated, staring at the message. I couldn’t afford to be this blunt with Clive, not when I was still in my probationary period, and definitely not when I was the sole breadwinner in the household. And, and… I didn’t want to think this, to entertain a notion so absurd. But what if IT came back and told me we’d received no phone calls that night?

  What if I had imagined it?

  It was ridiculous.

  Of course I hadn’t dreamt up a voice.

  It was a prank caller.

  I wasn’t my grandmother.

  I wasn’t mad.

  It was a prank fucking caller.

  I deleted the message, and then I picked up my Kindle and read until my eyes ached and it was time to go home.

  30

  “It’s only a small advance,” Troy was saying, more passion in his voice than he’d ever displayed at my parents’ dining table before. It was a few days after the phone call and I’d battered it to the rear of my mind. I would ignore it. Forever. I was good at that. Very good. I hardly ever thought about the man in the black hat anymore, except in my dreams. “But it’s the start of something. I can feel it. It’s going to be published on a quicker timescale than traditional publishing, which works great for me. I get to write, really write, for my job. What do I care if I have to work hard if the work doesn’t feel like work?”

  Work, work, work, please say it one more time, honey.

  It was an unfair thought. Troy had every right to be pleased.

  I made myself smile as I looked across the table at him, wearing a smart blue shirt buttoned all the way up. He dressed like we were going to church when we came to my childhood home. Hope was watching, as always, with her six judgemental eyes. I felt them searing into me and I ignored them.

  “We’re so proud of you, Grace,” Father said, offering me what seemed like a genuine smile. Nicholas was buttoned up too, with a green sweater and a shirt underneath. The only sad thing about him was the resigned pain in his eyes. “It’s so modern.”

  “What’s modern about a woman pulling her finger out and getting on with it, dear?” Mother said. “We’ve been doing that from time immemorial.”

  I bit down another unfair sentiment. Mother was grandstanding about women working when she’d never had to work a day in her life after marriage. She’d tried to be a writer for a little while and then Father had supported her with his successful CFO position. I’d gain nothing from expressing how I truly felt. I had to be unbreakable. I had to be pristine and untouchable and outwardly happy. Otherwise it all might come tumbling out.

  What, though? What was all? A few reports and a prank phone call? A stranger in a baseball cap?

  Get it together, Gracie.

  We finished our meals and then Father and Russ went into his workshop. Troy and Mia were in the living room, watching some fantasy film as Mia sketched quietly, and I found Mother in the kitchen, pouring a rather large glass of wine. She raised her eyebrow at me and I nodded, and she silently took down a glass and poured me a generous helping. It was these moments – a subtle look, a subtle nod – that made me long for the days before the hit-and-run, when we didn’t have all this shared guilt and blame simmering between us.

  We went to the kitchen bar. We sat and sipped and stared out at the night-dark garden for a time.

  “Mother.”

  “Yes?”

  “How much do you know about what happened to your mother? Cecilia?”

  I felt the tension move through her. “Why?”

  “I’m just curious,” I lied. “I was wondering how it starts. Is it little things, or did she wake up one day and start seeing things that weren’t there? Is it induced by stress? Does it have anything to do with caffeine intake? Does it have anything to do with insomnia?”

  Mother regarded me coolly. Her eyes took on a glassy quality, as though part of her was receding from the conversation. I imagined she’d mentally skipped across the garden to her office, sinking into her armchair, safe and warm in the embrace of her classics. “Isn’t this what the internet is for?”

  “I suppose. But I was… never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you feeling okay? In yourself? You’re not… are you?”

  “No, Mother,” I snapped. “I’m not going mad.”

  She recoiled. “I never said that. Or anything even remotely like that. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “Fine, I’m sorry.” I felt about twelve. “Excuse me for trying to have a conversation with my own mother.”

  She stared at me. And then she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, turning to the night. “I didn’t see the beginning. I don’t know if she started hearing voices on the wind or started to lose sleep, if it was a gradual transformation, or if one day this evil illness struck and changed her in a heartbeat.”

  “It’s treated differently these days—”

  “I know,” Mother said tartly. “How is that supposed to help me? Yes, if she had been born decades later, perhaps she would have received the help she needed. Perhaps she would have flourished. But she wasn’t. She didn’t. I don’t know how
it started for her. All I know is where she ended up, swinging on a rope with blood streaking down her naked body. That was where my mother ended up. There, Grace, are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “No.” I grabbed my glass of wine and took a long sip. I slammed it down and stared at her. She seemed so small, so vulnerable. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry I brought it up. I’m sorry, Mother.”

  Her eyes widened a fraction. She knew I was talking about more than this conversation. She tipped her chin up, stiffened her features, retreating quickly from any emotional closeness with me. “Well, there’s certainly no need to get dramatic. And of course you will talk to somebody if you ever feel… like that, like my mother. Won’t you, Grace?”

  “Of course. But like I said, I’m fine.”

  “Well then. Right. Excellent.”

  “Excellent,” I echoed.

  I went to take another sip of wine and then realised I was empty. Mother saw and smiled tightly, and then with an illicit sort of shrug – as though we were debutantes playing hooky from a ball – she slid her glass across the bar toward me. I wished I could capture this moment, this tiny morsel, and extend it for hours and hours. I wanted to throw my arms around her and beg for help. But of course that would have been rather uncouth of me, so I took a greedy gulp of her wine instead. That was much more civilised.

  31

  A few nights later, I was sitting in the living room nursing a large glass of red wine, which I’d taken to drinking as a sort of anaesthetic. When I drank enough, I didn’t have to think about… well, I didn’t have to think about anything. I knew this was a dangerous thing to be toying with, and I was careful to not drink too much. But the temptation of complete and utter oblivion was perilously real.

  This was my first glass that evening. I’d only had a couple of sips when I heard the sound of my daughter crying from upstairs. She was raging, stamping her feet.