‘I feel too old to drink like I did last night.’
‘That’s because you are.’
‘Oi!’
‘I’m teasing.’
‘Partly. You know. I don’t mind not drinking much any more. Can’t deal with the hangovers.’
‘I like that you don’t drink often.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Means we won’t ever fight about who’s designated driver. And I’m not old enough to have to deal with hangovers yet.’
‘You’ll never be old.’
‘Smooth talker.’ She laughed as she walked back into the kitchen. He watched her move away, a happy skip in her stride, and he had to kiss her again. He remembered the burning need for her taste on his lips.
He stood, hearing something crunch under his feet. Looking down he saw he was stood on broken glass. He looked to Julia. She was on the floor, next to the cooker, her eyes looking towards him but glazed over. Her arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. Standing at her feet, soaking wet and breathing hard, was the man who’d killed her. He spoke his final words to Chris before disappearing.
‘This is our little secret.’
Then it was gone.
Chris stood, rubbing both hands across his eyebrows.
‘Fuck.’
That hadn’t happened before. His dreams were a mess but his memories were always clean. The pressure of these extra days was beginning to get to him. The drinking, the waiting. It was tough to manage. This time was stretching out longer than any other in his life. But he had to wait. Julia needed to know his death meant something. His penance for not dying that night in her place. But he knew waiting meant he might get found out.
That night on the platform proved nothing was certain any more. Everything he had planned was to secure his existence until the 5th of May. Now that had been and gone, every day was another day where anything could happen. The delay meant he couldn’t ward off people like Steve, trying to stage an intervention and complicate his plans. Or that stupid girl deciding to do something heroic. Although when rationally thinking about it, if she did go to the police, what would they do? She once saw a stranger not kill himself. He was sure they had bigger problems.
Now more than ever, Chris needed to keep a low profile and wait.
He grabbed his back door keys and stepped into the pouring rain, his skin tingling through the cold. He walked to the shed to make sure the contents of his tool box were still there. For some reason, being able to touch her things, smell her scent, and hear her voice through her diary gave him a small amount of comfort.
Chapter 9
10.49 p.m. – March train station, England
Sitting on the same bench I had revisited every night for God knows how many long nights, (too many if I was honest) I listened to the old tin roof above me squeak, as if the old bolts that held it on would snap under duress and the station would come down like a house of cards. I felt a little apprehensive being there alone, jumping as a leaf – cold and wet, caught in the wind – blew up and hit me on the shin. Pinching it between my forefinger and thumb I threw it away from me and then wiped my fingers on my cardigan.
I laughed at myself for being so jumpy. What a way to spend an evening in your twenties.
Since that night, the night when I met Chris, my life had returned to as close to normal as I could achieve. From the outside looking in nothing seemed to be different, like I hadn’t accidentally stopped someone killing themselves. But, every time I saw a man in a white shirt, whether that was at work or in a supermarket, I thought of Chris and how his shirt had been wet and stuck to his back.
Every time I watched a person on their own step closer to a curb before crossing a road, I thought of Chris and how he stood so close to that platform edge. Every time I saw someone looking at a picture lovingly, the man in the Costa queue glancing at a picture of his baby that was in his wallet, the teenager flicking through pics on her iPhone, I thought of Chris and how he’d kissed that picture.
I’d even tried to watch one of my favourite movies last Sunday morning, curled up on the sofa with Natalie, something that usually made me feel safe and warm and loved. But I had to leave, telling my confused sister I had work to do. The man in the film – who usually allowed me to switch off – challenged me instead, because, again, I thought of Chris.
I thought about what his house would look like and what he did for a living. What had happened to make him so sad? I wondered if anyone else besides me knew his wishes and it made me sad to think that they probably didn’t, otherwise surely someone would be looking out for him in the same way I wanted to. Feeling in my gut that he was alone with this struggle made me unable to think of anything other than him. I had switched to autopilot in my day-to-day life.
And I knew I wouldn’t be able to think of anything but him until I did something about it.
Feeling a shiver run down my spine, I wrapped my cardigan round me and looked at the clock. His train was late.
Being alone at night I couldn’t stop myself thinking of the many different ways he could have taken his life.
He could have overdosed, or jumped from a building smashing into a car below like in the movies. He could have sat in a car and died of carbon monoxide poisoning, listening to Adele. Alone. Unloved. I know it was all a little dramatic, but sitting on a deserted platform allows your imagination to run wild.
The loudest voice in my head told me he was already dead, but another voice whispering at me kept telling me he wasn’t. I couldn’t ignore that. I knew he never would come back to this place. However, I couldn’t let him go. I could, for once in my life, do something good, be a part of something good. Saving both a sad man and a sad me. I could save a man who didn’t want to be saved. Surely that meant something?
I had learnt since that night that about one million people die per year through suicide. Numbers I couldn’t imagine. I had also learnt the dos and don’ts if we ever talked again. Do: be yourself, listen, offer hope, take him seriously. Don’t: argue with him, act shocked, promise I won’t try get him the help he needs.
Also, I knew his risk level was severe. He had planned, and failed to do it. Doing the research and knowing the facts told me he wasn’t going to turn a corner and suddenly be well. It told me he would try again, if he hadn’t already.
With all of my energy focused on finding Chris my thoughts about John had diminished. I no longer waited for text messages that never came. I no longer felt I needed him to provide me with a sense of happiness. I didn’t know why but after that night my life had become easier, except that I couldn’t stop thinking about Chris.
At work my boss had noticed my drive increase to the point where he had no choice but to tell me if I kept going I would end up promoted. It was the first time he’d had me in his office to talk to me about doing well rather than the usual weekly meeting about how my heart was in it and how I wasn’t even close to targets. Let’s hope that lasts. And, weirdly, he then offered me one of the company cars to help with my travel time to and from work. He said he was investing in my new approach.
He was right to as well. Since that night I had exceeded all targets – selling people insurances they didn’t need, and often didn’t want. Like I said, my mind was on autopilot. Pick up the phone, dial the number, read the script, challenge the questions, sign the deals. No external thoughts, no personality, just mechanics. And my reward: a small but quirky Toyota Aygo. The company’s logo magnetically attached to the bonnet and door.
At first I hated the idea of being a walking advert, but having a car that I didn’t have to pay for had its perks. I could be at the station at night without needing to wait an extra fifty-five minutes for the Cambridge train. I could be here in case he came back, and I didn’t have to risk jumping any more trains.
At work they all thought I had become a career-driven woman who wanted to excel in the world of insurance but this was not the case. I was only trying to get through my day as fast as I could so the
search could continue. Throwing myself into the days helped them seem shorter.
Natalie and George were also happy with this because I seemed so much more settled, and with a promotion on the cards I was able to talk about getting a place of my own. It meant that finally they could call our shared house their home. Although, on a few occasions, they told me being at work every night until nearly midnight wasn’t good for me and if I continued to burn the candle at both ends I would end up unwell.
I hadn’t told them about Chris or the note or that I’d accidentally stopped his suicide. I didn’t know how to start the conversation, and I quite liked the thought of it being our little secret.
Above me the squeaking transformed to a groan as the wind picked up and I thought the roof was going to come crashing down on my head. Wouldn’t that be ironic? I’m here, waiting to stop a man from killing himself and I’m the one who dies. The wind dropped, the groan went back to a repetitive squeak, and the station was still upright.
The station itself, although functioning, carried a sadness that was impossible not to notice now. It almost seemed that because of his chaos I had found peace, and knowing this only reinforced my drive to find him and help him find something similar. That was, if he was still alive.
I heard footsteps coming towards the entrance. Sitting upright, ready to stand, I held my breath. I waited to see if it was him. If he did walk out on to the platform I wondered what I would do. Part of me thought I would just throw myself at him, knocking him to the ground as the train sped past. Another thought was connected to the way he’d looked so peaceful two weeks ago before I had interrupted. I ignored that one.
After a few seconds no one came. It wasn’t him; it wasn’t anyone. I was alone.
Since that night I’d started scouring the obituaries in the back of the local papers and reading stories of people who had died. Widening my net to not just look at the March area but Cambridge and Peterborough too. I’d spent my nights before sleep scanning the local paper’s online content, just for an hour or so each evening, sometimes longer. It messed with my dreams and often I’d wake up because of them.
Death was everywhere and so many people had passed away since I started my search. Too many. It was bloody scary. Most were older, but there were some young people as well, and some too young, far too young. Each time I saw a child had died I couldn’t help but choke back a small tear. Babies dying before they had a chance to live.
On my search I had found a few men called Chris but no one called Chris Hayes. I knew that didn’t mean he was actually alive. But it did offer hope. Then I heard it, the voice that had become so familiar to me.
‘The next train to arrive does not stop. Please stand back from the platform edge.’
The rattle of steel on steel began to build, overtaking the sound of the rain hitting the corrugated iron and the squeak of the wind rushing through the old station. I knew his train was coming. It would sail past at speed and I would catch a glimpse of the driver. So familiar was this ritual now I had even begun to recognize a few of the men who drove the route at this time – and I gave them names.
There was blond boy driver. Old hat driver and diva driver – he was the one who was always singing. It almost became a game guessing which one it would be. After the train left, I would watch its red tails light head off into the distance and then when I was satisfied they were out of sight I would leave, drive home, and come back the next evening to repeat the process all over again.
I stood up and walked towards the platform edge, not daring to go over the white line. Looking to my left down the track I could see the train rumbling forward towards me, its headlights temporarily masking who was driving inside. When my eyes adjusted the train was a lot closer. Looking into the carriage I saw blond boy. His light hair giving him a sense of youth although he was older than a first glance would suggest. He always looked tired as he passed. It made me wonder how safe trains actually were with the driver looking so distracted.
As he passed by, the driver gave a small knowing nod to me. Shockingly he had recognized me, which was troubling. I tried to nod back but didn’t have the time; he had already rushed past. I didn’t like being so predictable, but even more troubling was the way he looked at me. His nod wasn’t one just of recognition, but one filled with worry. Following the train that sped past, my eyes darting from left to right as I tried to absorb all of the imagery created by the rush, I thought about what blond boy’s look had told me.
It said I was someone to be concerned about, someone whose welfare might be in jeopardy. It said I was someone like Chris.
Had it really gotten so bad that a stranger who drives a train looked at me with such concern? Seeing me stood on the platform every time he passed, often looking cold and waiting for no one? For the first time I saw my situation through someone else’s eyes. I thought about what I would say if it was a friend who was displaying this dangerously obsessive nature. I would tell them to move on, to not waste any more time on a stranger who would have completely forgotten her. I would say that yes, she had accidentally saved this man but he was not her responsibility. I would tell her that she shouldn’t try to forget him, as that would be impossible, but to stop obsessing.
Finally I would tell her, as a way to show a silver lining, that if fate wanted them to be together it would find a way. It was funny that although I had learned to listen to my inner voice and pause to reflect I couldn’t see any of it until a train driver flashed me a look at high speed. The train carriages kept rushing past and as I watched them I tried to imagine what would happen if I stepped under as Chris had wanted to. I raised my hand, wondering how much it would hurt if I tried to touch it, but I stopped myself.
The last carriage passed and the sound of rain hitting metal returned along with the squeak caused by the wind. I knew it was time for me to leave this place, and I knew I wouldn’t be back. I knew that I had to close this chapter and move on. I watched an old Starbucks cup, caught by the wind, rolling towards me before veering off and falling onto the track. It told me all I needed to hear. Saying a silent goodbye I made my way towards the exit, only stopping to pick my cigarettes back up from the top of the overflowing bin.
Stepping away from the station and back to my car I took my phone out and rang Natalie. I asked her to put the kettle on and wait for me to get home. I had to tell her what I had been doing for the past two weeks. Just to make sure I didn’t come back to the station again.
Chapter 10
11.04 p.m. – Cherry Orton Road, Peterborough
Steve was a man who usually slept contently and soundly, much to the annoyance of his wife. However, these past few weeks his mind raced in the dark hours and he spent more time than he had in years staring at his ceiling when he should have been sleeping. He was worried because of his best mate Chris, who for all intents and purposes had completely cut him out. The last time they had spent any time together Chris was uncharacteristically drunk and not at all engaged. They’d spent a few hours together that night and Chris had told him nothing about how he was, what was new, and why they were celebrating like he’d stated at the start of the night.
There was no mention of work or plans or gossip. There was nothing about how Julia was doing ‘down under’ and how often they’d been talking. It wasn’t like him. It wasn’t like him at all. They had been friends for most of their lives. Meeting in year seven when they both started at the same secondary school.
Steve had been the popular one because even as a twelve-year-old he was big and good at sports. All of the girls wanted him. Something that transferred into his adult life until he met Kristy. Chris was the opposite; he was the awkward one who was reflective and quiet. A boy who’d tried to keep a low profile.
They’d met when Steve saw other kids picking on him and jumped to his rescue, picking a bloodied Chris up from the floor. Beaten and bruised, he’d dusted himself off and thanked Steve, shocking him that despite how intense the beating was he didn’t cry; in
fact, he didn’t even look like he was hurt. He’d thanked Steve and walked away like he was a man going on a Sunday stroll rather than a boy who had just been beaten up. Steve knew then that Chris wasn’t what he looked. He was far tougher than anyone could imagine.
Their friendship spun over two decades and it wasn’t the first time Steve had seen him in this way. He remembered how Chris was after his first proper girlfriend left him when he was in his early twenties. How cut off he became. How distant he was. Chris struggled with that break-up and put himself at risk too often.
Then one night he got really drunk and ended up in jail. Steve didn’t know exactly what happened but Chris had been hurt in a fight. Apparently down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He got mixed up with some people who were known to the police and Chris was mugged. He managed to defend himself, hurting one of the attackers in the process.
Apparently the man ended up blind in one eye. But no charges were pressed against Chris. Instead, a warning was issued, telling him to not let himself get mixed up with those people again and that the man he fought off was known to be dangerous. Chris was told he had been lucky to come away with only a few cuts and bruises. It was a rough time for Chris but it did act as a wake-up call. Steve picked him up from jail the next morning and helped him start the process of moving on.
Steve hoped he wouldn’t end up feeling the same way now. Especially as it was becoming clear that Julia might not come back from Australia. After Kristy reminded him it was Chris and Julia’s anniversary Steve was sure he would get a text or a call, asking if he wanted to go for a drink.
Chris’s silence troubled him.
Unable to work out what he should do Steve let out an involuntary sigh. Kristy turned to face him.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Sorry, love, yes, go back to sleep.’
Kristy sat up and switched on the bedside light. Steve propped himself up on his pillow to join her.
Our Little Secret: The most gripping debut psychological thriller you’ll read this year Page 7