It was his favourite picture of her. He could feel the Mediterranean sun every time he looked at it. Its warmth reaching his soul through that smile. But, it felt cold in his hands, her smile not as bright. It told him what he already knew. He had let her down. There would be no bigger home, no little family, for he couldn’t save her from dying. He couldn’t stop her killer even though every atom in his being was desperate to do just that.
He wanted to say something, anything. There were under seven minutes left and he desperately wanted to talk about how he felt. It didn’t matter that no one would hear it but the slowly moving rain cloud; he needed to voice them. Chris had always struggled to tell her his thoughts. The kind that are frightening for people to reveal, ones that once said couldn’t be unsaid. He wanted to share his deepest feelings about how when she looked at him it felt like the whole world stopped moving. As if all of the energy that had ever been created was holding its breath and that when she kissed him he felt lost within it.
He wanted to say that every mistake he had made, all of the times he had failed, were justified because each one brought her closer to him and had shaped him into the man who she would love. He wanted to say that nothing else mattered besides her. He wanted to tell her he would gladly trade places with her and would be happy to have died knowing she could live. But he couldn’t find the words. And she couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t turn back time.
Six minutes.
Closing her smile into the palm of his hand he placed his wallet on the bench behind him. He had no need for it now. He thought it might be more use to someone else. He left it open, showing a £20 note inside. Stepping back he thought of the old expression his father used to say about being generous.
‘It is only money; can’t take it with you,’ he often said to Chris, even when he was too young to understand what it meant.
Even now, after seeing him fall ill and succumb to disease, he always remembered his father as he was when Chris was a young boy. The way his greying beard felt as he came in to kiss Chris goodnight, an air of tobacco wafting across him whilst he pretended to sleep and the way his father told stories about his mother. How they had met, when they had married.
She too had succumbed, although at no age when a person should, an age that robbed him of his ability to remember her beyond the images his father gave him. Then he remembered a moment he had long forgotten. One where his father took him outside into the garden on a cold, clear night.
‘Chris, do you know why we are outside?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to show you where Mummy went.’
‘Where?’
‘Look up.’
‘I can’t see anything; it’s too dark.’
‘Give it a moment.’
After a few seconds the stars began to show themselves and as he looked the more he could see. There were thousands. He had never seen so many stars.
‘Wow.’
‘Sometimes, Chris, you have to look into darkness before you can see the beauty behind it.’
Chris didn’t know what his father meant by that. But he thought he said it more for himself than for him.
He remembered for many minutes he and his father just lay there, close to each other, looking at the wonder of the sky. It made him feel so small, but so safe.
‘Chris, I’m sorry that you don’t remember your mummy.’
‘Me too.’
‘Chris, do you know where people go when they die?’
‘Heaven.’
‘That’s right, and do you know what heaven looks like?’
‘Clouds?’
Chris’s father laughed quietly. ‘Yes, clouds, but also stars.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Up there are billions of stars. More than you or I could ever count. Each star is a person who has died and they go into the night sky to watch over us as we sleep. Like your mummy is doing now. You see, darling. We haven’t really lost her at all.’
Chris gasped and looked more intently at the sky, trying to find a trace of his mother. ‘Is Mummy watching us now?’
‘Yes. Chris, if you ever feel sad or alone always remember your mummy is up there, twinkling just for you and me.’
Shaking off the memory, he questioned, knowing what he did now, how his father stayed so strong. He hadn’t thought of that night in a very long time and looking to the sky he wondered if there was a star next to his mother’s, maybe two: his father’s and his wife’s. All he saw were dark clouds looking back. It was right that they were hidden.
Chris wondered what his father would say to him now. Would he tell him to be braver than he was and allow himself to heal? Would he tell him to do the right thing and reach out to someone who could help and then find a way to be happy once more? Not that it mattered – he didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in anything.
For a moment he wondered if things would have been different if his father was still alive, then he forced himself to focus and taking the note from his trouser pocket that he had carefully worded about the circumstances of his death he looked for somewhere to place it. Somewhere he knew it would be found to explain why he had chosen to take his own life.
Settling for under the decaying bench with his wallet, he used the stone that he had carried on him for nearly a year as a weight to stop it blowing away in the wind. That stone had been on him every day since she had died and as soon as it was removed from his pocket he felt vulnerable. He took one last look at its blackness that had been polished by the waves over countless time. He placed the stone on top of the folded note as far back under the bench as he could reach and stepped back towards the platform edge. Then, he looked back to the clock.
Five minutes.
Chris took off his shoes, the damp cold floor strangely soothing on his bare feet. It helped him stay in the moment. He did it to feel closer to her. Julia hated wearing shoes, and when Chris first asked why she told him that feet were designed to feel the world beneath them. To be connected.
She was barefoot the night she was killed.
Chapter 2
25 minutes before
10.17 p.m. – The Bastard John’s bedroom, Lynn Street, March, England
It was dark in his bedroom and it smelt of sex, our sex, but I could just see enough to look at the deep sleeping shape of the man who had once filled my heart with love. My naked body warm under his covers. His jet-black hair limp across his face. Looking at him I couldn’t believe that this man had once made me believe anything was possible. But as he mumbled something in his sleep, it felt like I was looking at somebody else.
I remembered how I used to stare at him, admiring how beautiful he was. There was no beauty in him any more, just the shape of a person who mirrored my anger and shame. This man had stolen years of my life. I felt betrayed.
Foolishly I thought that he’d text me because the day before was my birthday. Special occasions had a funny impact on people, making them nostalgic and longing. I thought that was what had happened to John. But it was clear as soon as I arrived that he hadn’t remembered. That was okay. He was never good with remembering dates.
I thought that we were going to address his infidelity and I was expecting myself to forgive him and rekindle our love. I’d imagined he would sit me down on the bed, holding my hands. Candlelight throwing shadows across the walls as he told me how he regretted what had happened and that he loved me. I half dreamed he would then get on one knee and say he needed to spend the rest of his life righting his wrongs. And that he understood the pain that he had caused. He had been unfaithful to me for over a year – we both knew it; we also knew it would take nothing short of a miracle for us to recover, but I let myself dream we could.
Looking at him asleep, I couldn’t see how I’d let myself be so stupid for so long. Sex with him used to be about giving over fully, spirit and soul in perfect embrace, but it was clear I was just being used.
The night had started with us watching an old film. We w
ere curled up on the sofa under a blanket as the credits rolled in. I felt safe, I felt secure, and I felt it could be like it once was. I allowed myself to think that maybe, just maybe, things had changed. He had changed.
Now I know he had used the familiarity of an old film to get what he wanted. It had just been about sex, about primal need, and that sickened me. Still, at least he remembered I liked the old black and whites – surely that was something?
I wondered where it had gone so wrong and why we couldn’t we have a life more like those old movies? The ones where people fell in love. The ones where there would be some problem facing that love, whether that would be someone else trying to block it or a class division; but love would always win. People didn’t lie in the black and white movies. They didn’t cheat either.
Thinking about them made me feel sad for their struggles and angry I was making my issues with John seem like the be-all and end-all.
Squeezing myself into my tight jeans, the ones that hugged my figure and made me feel attractive at the beginning of the evening and repulsive at the end, I searched for the shoes I had kicked off as things heated up. Quietly swearing to myself when I realized one was on the floor, painfully close to his sleeping head. Holding my breath I crouched to pick it up, his deep breathing suggesting it didn’t matter if I was there or not.
Taking one final look at his beautiful body I knew there was no going back. Checking my train timetable app to see the next train home was just before midnight I knew I had a long wait, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stay any longer. Putting on my cardigan and wrapping my scarf around my neck I walked towards the door, wanting to, but not daring to look back.
I tried to keep my head held high, as if it would give me a little more dignity. Wondering how I could feel dignified sneaking out of an ex’s house in the middle of the night and grabbing my bag I left, closing the heavy door behind me. Taking with me my shame and the tattered remains of our relationship in one quiet, unceremonious moment.
Chapter 3
10.43 p.m. – March train station, England
Four minutes.
I paid the driver and stepped into the frigid wind, which carried a drizzling rain. The kind that soaked you without you knowing it was raining. As I shut the door I could hear him cough a little as he said goodbye but the door was already out of my hand and closing, cutting him off mid phrase.
Pulling my cardigan over my chin I steadied myself. The cold air mixing with the red wine I had been drinking making me feel a little tipsy. I heard my phone ping from inside my bag. Stopping in the sheltered entrance of the train station I rifled through it, finding my iPhone. Pulling it out I tapped in my security code, 0311, the month and year I first met the man who’d made me feel so abandoned. Tapping the screen on the new message icon I saw it was from him.
‘I had fun tonight.’
I read and reread the message, hoping to find some hidden meaning in its four words until the screen went blank, turning the dark glass of my iPhone into a mirror. One that showed a tired girl who had just been taken advantage of.
I opened my banking app, punched in my security code and prayed. I knew there wouldn’t be much, but I hoped there was enough to pay for my ticket in case a train conductor was on board. The station didn’t have a ticket machine or a barrier; it still worked on a trust between passengers and the train company. One I’d abused too many times for someone in their late twenties. My account read £3.41. I scrolled to see what was in my savings. A sorrowful 6p. I’d have to jump the train and keep my fingers crossed.
Dropping my phone back into my bag I stepped into the tired station and saw a man standing close to the edge, looking out across the track towards the other platform. Oddly, he was barefoot. His shoes carefully placed beside him like someone might before they entered a mosque. I looked around to see if someone was there with him. Wondering for a moment if he was filming a media student’s project. Being near Cambridge there was always something of that nature happening. But he was alone, lost in his own thoughts.
I looked at the floor trying not to establish any kind of eye contact, moving slower as I made my way to the bench. Strangely, I felt like I wasn’t allowed to be there. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him swaying a little, obviously drunk. Sitting down as quietly as I could, I hoped he wouldn’t turn around and notice me. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I became aware that I was alone at a deserted train station with a drunk man close by.
Looking up at the rusting station roof I thought about my evening and felt a sense of déjà vu. Before John there was Micky and before him, in my college days, there was Paul. Men I’d loved who had lied to me. My first two loves committing betrayal had been hard. I’d cried a lot, then slept with a few men, then hated myself for it and stopped dating until meeting the next one.
But John was different. I was no longer in my teens or early twenties. I was nearly at an age where families and marriage would be a factor. And I had pictured that with him. And it was all a lie.
I pulled out a packet of Marlboro Lights from my bag and opened them. It took four attempts to get my cigarette lit. Each strike of my lighter possibly alerting the man that I was there. Luckily for me they didn’t. I leaned forward and rubbed my temple with my free hand, glancing at the damp floor. The man hadn’t moved at all and, feeling confident I didn’t matter to him, I looked at him gently swaying. I looked at his shoes beside him, once smart but now scuffed and stained. A dark brown patch across the side of the right one. The black leather worn off the toes.
My mum told me you could tell a lot about a person’s shoes. His told me that he was once someone who cared, and now didn’t. I noticed he was too close for a man who was drunk. I should have told him to step back – I thought it. Almost articulated it. But stopped myself. He was an adult, able to look after himself. And besides. I didn’t want an act of kindness to be misread. As far as I was concerned he was like all men. But still, I watched. Curious as to whether my shoe assessment was in any way true.
I could only see him from behind but could tell he was in good shape, his white shirt tight and damp across his shoulders and back, showing a strong muscular form. He looked down onto the track, his thoughts obviously back from wherever they had been. Thinking he would turn and look behind at me I shifted my body. Closing myself off. Despite my curiosity about him, I didn’t want to talk with him. I just wanted to be left alone.
***
Three minutes.
Dying didn’t worry Chris; the only thing that did was the timing. Not just the date but the moment too. He wanted to not step in front of the train but under it. The idea of the driver having to see his death bothered him too much. He knew what it was like to watch a person die. It was something he wished on no one.
If he waited for the train to pass and then stepped under one of the carriages, say, the twenty-fourth one, his outcome would be exactly the same, but no one would see it happen and therefore no one would be scarred.
The 10.47 was a cargo-loaded train; there would be no passengers. With the timing of his suicide and the note Chris had placed under the bench he was confident it would cause only a small amount of collateral damage. He knew that the driver would have to stop because someone died but he wouldn’t see it, he would be at least three hundred feet away in his carriage before Chris would step out. The emergency services were used to jumpers. This was his final redeeming act as a human being. The only thing he still had to offer.
Looking at the picture that was crumpled into his palm once more Chris focused on his wife’s eyes, the amber flecks like lightning bolts in her green eyes that seemed to move with fluidity. He focused on the way her smile was slightly higher on one side, giving her a mischievous glint. He kissed it and carefully put her in his shirt pocket. He wanted her close to his heart when the time came.
***
I watched him kiss a picture out of the corner of my eye. Seeing him kiss it changed how I felt about him. It made me think of an ol
d film I love. One where a man’s heart belonged in one place. And I realized that maybe he wasn’t the enemy. Far from it. John and all men like him were the enemy. John wouldn’t even have a picture of me, let alone kiss it. This man, he was different. He was clearly in love and the way he kissed the picture, so tender, so caring, made me feel as if I’d assessed him wrong.
He was clearly a little drunk but not ‘a drunk’. No doubt just going home from a date night with the person in the picture or perhaps even returning home to her, after a few drinks with friends. I found myself smiling at the idea of someone loving so deeply nothing else mattered.
Because of that, I couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He wouldn’t be the sort to try anything on, not with the way he held that picture, and maybe, if we did talk I would learn about the person. It was exactly what I needed to hear after so many wasted years of pretending to have such a love of my own. It was a nice idea. But I knew I wasn’t going to interrupt him; it felt selfish.
He shook his head, looking up to the sky and I looked away before we could make eye contact. Focusing on the decaying bench I was sat on I saw something perched on the corner of it, hidden in the shadows created by the armrest and bad lighting: a dark wallet. It was open and exposing money as well as a HSBC bank card. Part of me didn’t want to say anything. I could do with a little extra cash. But why would he have dumped it on the bench?
‘Excuse me?’
He didn’t respond.
‘Excuse me, hello?’
***
Chris slowly turned around to see a dark-haired woman in an oversized cream cardigan sat on the bench; he could tell she’d been crying. She looked tired and cold. How long had she been there?
‘Excuse me?’ she said.
Chris just looked back at her blankly.
Our Little Secret: The most gripping debut psychological thriller you’ll read this year Page 2