Our Little Secret: The most gripping debut psychological thriller you’ll read this year
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‘He took me to a live gig last night, an up-and-coming band that neither of us had heard of. The crowd was young and rowdy and when we got there he led me to the bar, holding my hand tight, not letting me go. People pushed, as people do in busy bars, but somehow no one walked into me. He stepped in front or to the side to make sure they bumped into him instead. I don’t remember anyone being so protective …’
Chris didn’t remember that night. It didn’t seem to him it was noteworthy, but that moment clearly meant a lot to her, and he had no idea. He flicked forwards in the book, to the following November. At first she spoke of her mum, and her failing health, and how he and Julia visited a few times a week, bringing her flowers, taking her for something to eat. If she was feeling up to it.
This day she wasn’t. She was tired but in good spirits. They just stayed with her watching Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Her talking about when Julia was little and how the cartoon lion had frightened her. Julia pretended to be a little girl to make her mum laugh. He did remember that and couldn’t help but smile as he read it.
Flicking again, another year passed he read the first line of the entry and stopped himself. He knew what it said. He also knew he wasn’t strong enough to read it. Instead he flicked backwards and read one of the first she had put in, just after they met. But rereading her words made him feel a warmth he didn’t deserve, so he closed it and held the diary close to his chest.
It allowed him to think more clearly. Work for a solution. She lived in those pages. Speaking of her love. Telling him the things she couldn’t say out loud. Remembering the dozens of things they had done that he had forgotten.
After a few minutes he carefully put it back with the other items and locked the box before hiding it once more in the dark recesses of the damp shed. Chris knew he couldn’t wait another year, another anniversary – it was too hard. He would spill something, putting someone else in danger. But the date he did kill himself on had to matter. A bittersweet gift.
He took his phone from his pocket and went to the calendar to find something suitable. Her birthday: too far away. His birthday: too difficult to vanish without people being aware. It had to be a date that only mattered to him and her. A date that no one would find suspicious if he was missing. And then he knew when he would do it. After scrolling forward he stopped and counted backwards.
Twenty-eight days.
Perfect.
Twenty-eight days was all he had to wait. He didn’t know why he hadn’t considered this date previously. It was a better date to honour his late wife. It would be exactly a year after the day she died.
Going back into his house he felt different somehow. Like a small part of him had passed away on the platform when he failed to kill the rest. A small part that was good. A small part that was what his father gave him. It had been fading since Julia died and he knew it was nearly gone.
His voice now seeming quieter among the others that shouted in his head. Now he would have to wait quietly, patiently, for another month without it, without the good. The fine line between right and wrong slowly evaporating.
Chris made a note of the things he now needed to do. He knew he didn’t need to but the first thing on his list was to resign from his job. If only to cement his new plan in his mind. It was something easy to tick off, help him regain control. He would ring first thing – around 6 a.m. before the office opened – and leave a message.
He knew they would accept his resignation when they picked it up without the need to call him. He’d been signed off for depression for so long he doubted anyone would be shocked or even care. He would also follow it up with an email and once done he would have some power back. And a new plan would be set in motion. Knowing it was the first step made him feel like he had a sense of direction. It would also be one less reason to be outside in public. Making his secrets easier to keep.
One of which wasn’t so secret any more because of the train girl who had no doubt found his note and owned his stone. He hated her for her stupidity in not reading that he wanted to be left alone, and her naivety in assuming she could help him. For a moment he pictured himself hitting her, wondering why he hadn’t just done that. If he’d slapped her hard right across her delicate face she would have run away and called the police and by the time they arrived he would be a smear on the track below.
It seemed so simple a solution and yet he didn’t think of it when it mattered. That was the part that had died. The part that could do no harm. It made him hate her even more.
Chapter 7
Julia’s diary – June 2011
I used to keep a diary as a little girl. All of the girls in my primary school did. It was like you had to in order to be cool. I had a bright pink one, one of the ‘My Little Ponies’ on the front. The ribbon that was stitched into the seam and tied around, holding all of my six-year-old secrets, was rainbow-coloured.
I found it again a few years ago. My first entry was about a boy I liked in class. My first ‘love’. I carried that diary everywhere I went and would always been seen writing in it. I guess, if I really think about it, it was from there the seed was planted to be a writer. Capturing stories, revealing truths. I remember I would often talk to myself in the diary – I guess like I am doing right now. Saying things like, ‘Julia, you have to remember Kyle (my crush in primary school) is an idiot.’ Or ‘Julia, don’t forget it’s mother’s day next week.’ But, then I grew up and other things became more important.
Studying took over, then boys, then a little of both in my college years. My first twelve years of life was well documented by my family pictures and my childish diaries, and nothing much after. It’s kind of sad when I think about it. All those years, uncaptured and being lost as I get older. Recently I’ve had time to think about life a little more and it seems I’ve not saved the big adventures I’ve had in any way.
My secondary school and college days that I loved are only seen through Facebook pictures added by old friends, long forgotten. Showing we all had bad hair and the sense of style that came with the late nineties and early Noughties. All of us looking like we want to be in the Spice Girls.
My university years are just fondly remembered hangover-fuelled dreams of late nights out – going to gigs of bands who were going to be the ‘next big thing’ only to disappear as quickly as they arrived. And my father: a complicated man who left my mum for Australia when I was in my teens. He’s just a speck of an idea. His bad jokes and silly stories seem to have been lost in the dark spaces of my memory. We speak a few times a year – birthdays, Christmas. But the conversations are always short and forced.
I struggled with him leaving and, as an adult, I’ve forgotten all of the good qualities he had. One’s Mum couldn’t forget. She often tells me he was the kind of man that you rarely see. Funny, charming but fiercely protective of his family. That is, right up until he left us.
In those moments when Mum talks of him before he packed his bags, I can see myself as a child again, lying on his broad chest, his breathing raising me up and down as we both dozed in the garden on a spring morning. I see the bedtime stories, his St Christopher necklace gently hitting me as he gives me a kiss goodnight. His breath smelling like rolling tobacco.
Yes, loads of years have been lost to the archive in my head but, as you can clearly see, I’m going to change that. So hello, diary. Welcome back to my life. You might be wondering why I’ve decided to come back. It’s a good question. One that’s embarrassing but as it’s just you and me I’ll just say it as it is.
Yet again, there is a boy. Meeting him has ignited that part of me that needs to write it all down. It’s made me not want to lose anything that I might think fondly on later in life. (Or not.) ‘The new man’, as my friends like to call him, really he should be called the first man. In my adult life so far I’ve not met anyone who has interested me in the way he does. There is something about him. Something you can’t quite put a finger on. A depth to him I have never seen before. It’s exciting.
We met a few nights ago in a bar called the corner something. I can’t remember, but it’s in Peterborough. It was sweet really, his annoying but well-mannered friend had to introduce us as he was shy. Normally guys are forward and confident. Assuming us women like that. But not me; shy works for me.
I even had to instigate the first kiss before I left. It wasn’t great. It was raining and my hair was beginning to fall down. Plus we were both quite drunk. But I didn’t mind. It felt like a first kiss as an awkward teenager, with all of its wonder and expectation. We’ve been chatting throughout the day via text messages and last night he called to talk. Saying he wanted to hear my voice. It’s all happening very quickly but it feels okay too. Nice. Safe.
I don’t know a lot about him yet, but I do know he’s funny in a geeky, dry way. He’s interested in my day and asks questions (which shows he listens) and I like the sound of his voice. I’ve been dying for him to ask me out, like on a real date, and each time we’ve talked via message I’ve been hoping he would ask.
Last night I started to think we were only destined to be friends (I even wondered for a while if he was gay) but then he messaged me this morning, about half six asking if I wanted to do something. So, this weekend we are having a day together. I said I wanted something small, and neutral, and close to home so he suggested we meet in Cambridge, on the river, for a picnic.
When I think about it I’m nervous, which is kind of refreshing. Let’s hope it’s something I’ll always remember. Something that would warrant me to continue writing in this diary.
So that’s where we are. I’m going to try my very best to write as often as I can. To keep the future me updated. Fingers crossed, I’ll have something good to say very soon …
Chapter 8
13 days later
16 days left
10.47 p.m. – London Road, Peterborough
Sitting in his kitchen Chris watched the second hand of the wall clock tick and listened to the heavy rain beating against the bay window. It made him nervous. The rain took away his ability to listen to his house, hear its noises and alert him if something wasn’t right. Chris tried to push out the sound of the relentless hammering of the storm and listen, just in case someone tried breaking in via an upstairs window. It made him need to check often.
Each time there was no sign of anyone trying to do such a thing. But he checked anyway. If he was going to break into someone’s house this night would be the kind of night he would do it. The heavy downpour both swallowing noise, like that of broken glass, and washing away any sign of intrusion. Chris knew it was going to be a long night. At some point the man who took his wife from him would come back and he knew he would hurt someone else.
The past thirteen nights had been the hardest of his life: the waiting, the silence, the hiding. The days felt longer. The only time he had left the house was to get bread, milk, cheap alcohol, and anything else he needed to stay alive. Each time he did he was sure that someone was watching. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he couldn’t help but continually look over his shoulder. His muscles ready if his fight-or-flight mechanism was triggered.
Once it was an older man who was in the shop at the same time as Chris. Another time it was a young couple. At first he thought he was just being paranoid but each time he left the house he saw people looking at him differently. It was like they either knew that he had failed or they knew about that night.
As each day passed Chris yearned for the man to just come out and show himself once more so that Chris could stand up to him, get him to back down, to leave. But he didn’t, and Chris was forever left watching and waiting, his nerves fraying as each day passed. He knew that one day the man would return, but when?
It was part of the punishment. First Chris had to watch his wife die, then he had to wait. The only power Chris had was in taking his own life and even with that he had lost. As the clock continued to tick away Chris took strength from his commitment to his wife, to be by her side on a date that mattered to them. And once all of the secrets were out how fitting that they would have the same date on their tombstones, as it should have been.
Besides the constant feeling he was being watched Chris hadn’t spoken to many people. Steve had called a few times, left a few messages, and he had bumped into Mrs Mullins, his elderly neighbour who stopped him once in the street. They exchanged pleasantries and she talked about the warm morning weather before asking if he was okay. She said he looked pale. She asked after Julia. Chris said she was fine. That was the extent of his social life now.
He walked over to the cupboard above the fridge. The door was slightly ajar and he removed a bottle of bourbon. Grabbing a used glass off of the table he poured himself a large measure. He raised a bitter toast and knocked back the double in one mouthful, its heat burning down his throat and into his stomach. Chris didn’t much like the taste, but it numbed him so he’d grown to love it over the past two weeks. After pouring himself another one he sat at his small table and, switching on his mobile, he saw he had one new message.
‘Hey Chris, I’ve tried your home phone but can’t get hold of you. Listen, Kristy and I are a little worried. I popped round but you weren’t home, again. So when you get this drop me a text or something, okay? Speak soon. We love you, mate.’
As he listened to Steve’s voice he could hear his worry. He was trying so hard to stay involved in his life but Chris had slowly withdrawn himself like a piece of driftwood floating out to sea. It was necessary though. He had to keep his friend safe. When Steve came over and Chris was in he would hide upstairs, waiting for him to give up.
It worried Chris. He feared that without managing Steve there might be future problems. Steve was persistent at times. Bordering on obsessive. If he suspected anything at all it would make things very difficult for Chris. With just over two weeks to go, Chris didn’t need things to become harder than they already were.
Amid his feeling of fear he felt a twang of guilt on hearing that Steve loved him. He didn’t deserve to be loved. Listening to the message again, Chris could almost hear Steve’s thoughts. They had known each other for most of their lives and he could sense what Steve was thinking. Chris knew he needed to make a little effort now. Sixteen days was a long time – enough for Steve to become suspicious of his intentions. He needed to, at some point, play the part of a patiently waiting and understanding husband. Although, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
He took a cigarette out of a packet and lit one. Inhaling deeply he felt the same guilt he always did since taking up smoking again. He’d promised Julia a long time ago to never smoke again, but he also promised to always support her, to love her, to understand her. He promised to have no secrets from her. He promised to never let her be harmed. He figured breaking his promise about quitting wasn’t as bad as the other promises he’d broken.
Sitting back into his chair he sunk another drink and dragged on his cigarette as he poured the third, this time in order to sip. At this point, every day, he would let himself remember something about his past. It hurt him doing so and that was why he did it. Ten forty-eight became his new midnight, the start of a new day, and one less twenty-four-hour period to wait to be by her side again.
As he lost himself to another memory, the bourbon glass turned into one of milk and the old chair was replaced with a leather one from the conservatory. A room he didn’t sit in any more. The needles of cold rain beating against his window stopped, replaced with snow drifting calmly and serenely, gently wrapping itself over the trees in the back garden. Chris remembered where his memory had taken him: the memory of when he’d stubbed out the last cigarette.
A week before he’d married Julia.
He remembered it was the day after a few of his
friends, led by his best man Steve, had taken him out for a final drink. Not a stag do but what he hoped would be a quieter celebration before he became a kept man. They teased him saying they would never see him again and he was throwing his life away. He remembered laughing at them, as they all knew that Chris was anything but throwing his life away. They all knew he and Julia were the real thing, that they were perfect together.
His friends had done a great job of giving Chris an amazing send-off and leaving him with a killer hangover that had lasted him a few days. He was thankful for the snow; it meant that he had an excuse to stay in his pyjamas, despite Julia telling him it made him look like an old man.
Rubbing his tired eyes he’d let his body feel the ache as he watched the snow fall gently in front of a dark purple sky. The white ghostly matter had almost looked otherworldly as it floated past the security light outside. Despite the sore head he’d felt the best he had ever felt in his life. Sitting in the conservatory listening to his bride-to-be humming as she cooked, Chris had stubbed out his cigarette. He’d watched the blue-grey smoke curl upwards before disappearing. As if she knew what he’d been doing, Julia stepped into the conservatory just as the last embers were dying out. He remembered the conversation they’d had, almost as if he could hear her with him.
‘That’s it, my last one.’
‘Are you really going to quit for me?’
‘I said I would.’
‘Thank you, Chris.’
He remembered the way her lips tasted like cherries as she leaned in and kissed him.
‘I can’t believe I’m going to be Julia Hayes.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I like the sound of it: Mrs Hayes.’ She’d smiled at him then.
‘Me too. Do you want any help with dinner?’
‘No, darling, I’ve got this tonight. You just enjoy your hangover.’