All in Her Head: The gripping debut thriller that readers are going crazy for in 2020

by Nikki Smith

  I have no choice but to head back into the library, where Mrs Painter is busy ordering new books from the catalogue. She’s deep in concentration at her desk; the beaded shell chain that stops her glasses falling off rustles as she twists it through her fingers.

  ‘Mrs Painter?’

  ‘Hmm?’ She doesn’t look up.

  ‘Have you been up to the fourth floor?’

  She pushes her glasses down her nose and raises her head to stare at me.

  ‘The fourth floor?’ she repeats my words.

  ‘Yes. Here. Upstairs.’ I look down at my shoes. Part of the leather has come away from the sole and I can see my sock through the small gap. I need to get another pair. I try to scrunch up my toes to hide the material that’s poking out of the hole; I hope it’s not too obvious.

  ‘Not recently.’ She pushes her glasses back up and resumes her search through the catalogue, licking her thumb to make turning the pages easier. She doesn’t look at me.

  ‘But you have been?’

  She takes her time finding one of the codes for a particular book on the ordering sheet. I wait until she’s finished, watching her write the numbers in a neat line.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she says, finally.

  ‘What’s up there?’ I ask.

  ‘Offices.’ This time her reply is immediate.

  ‘What kind of offices?’

  She shuffles on her chair. ‘Alison, do you not have enough to do down here? I can get you some barcodes to stick on if you want. That whole section down there,’ she points to one of the bottom rows of shelves, ‘needs to have them added into the front of each book.’ She pushes her glasses down her nose, reaches into the storage cupboard and pulls out a sheet of labels, which she hands to me before turning back to the catalogue.

  I don’t understand why I can’t go up to the fourth floor if she’s been up there. I don’t pay attention to what she’s saying to me as I stick on the labels, I’m too busy planning where I’m going to go as soon as I’ve finished my shift.

  As soon as the buzzer sounds at four o’clock, I walk to the rear of the library and let myself out of the door. Flight after flight of stairs twist round on themselves; a black railing encloses the void in the centre that stretches the entire height of the stairwell. When I peer over the edge and look up, I can see all the way to the top of the building. I start walking.

  When I get to the fourth floor, I stop and listen. Most people take the lift, but I need to check I’m alone as I don’t want to bump into anyone who might ask what I’m doing. There’s complete silence. I push the door that leads out of the stairwell. It opens with a click and I step into a tiny entrance hall which has a door on the opposite wall bordered by glass panels on either side which are too narrow to see through properly. All I can make out is a long corridor and large blue carpet tiles. It’s deserted. The door to it won’t open. I shove it a bit harder, but it stays firmly shut. I notice a small pad on the wall, similar to the one in the lift; a red light on it flashes continuously. I hold up my pass and the pad beeps but the light continues to blink. I try again. It won’t open. It’s clear I’m not going to be able to get in.

  I walk back into the stairwell with a feeling I’m being watched but there’s no one around; only a tiny green light in the centre of the ceiling above me that winks as it watches me leave.

  I kick the bottom of the railing; I want to find Sarah’s office as I’m convinced it might help me remember where I know her from. I walk up the staircase to the top of the building, then down to the first and back up again, counting my steps to keep myself distracted from the aching muscles in my legs. I hope the exercise will help to get rid of the roll of flab that’s gathered around my middle over the past few months. The waistband of my jeans presses uncomfortably into my stomach. I never used to have a problem losing weight, but recently the pounds just won’t shift. I can’t look at myself full-length in the tiny mirror in my bathroom at home, but sometimes when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass doors of the library, I have to wave to check it’s actually me. Jack had almost been able to get his fingertips to touch round my waist when we’d first met. Three years of living on a student budget had meant I’d prioritised my social life over food. I’d rounded out in the years since then, my gauntness overtaken by curves, but I don’t like the softness that I can feel under my fingers when I touch my stomach.

  When I reach the sixth floor for the third time, I stop, out of breath as I lean on the handrail. The silence is interrupted by the sound of footsteps below me and I keep quite still, not wanting to be seen. I’ve never been told I shouldn’t go up to other floors but don’t want to explain what I’m doing. Especially to Mrs Painter. She’ll ask why I haven’t gone straight home after work and I won’t be able to give her an answer.

  I shrink back against the wall, away from the void in the centre of the stairwell. Perhaps the person I can hear on the stairs beneath me won’t come up to where I am. Maybe they’ll let themselves out of one of the doors lower down.

  The footsteps get closer. I edge forward and peer over the handrail to the stairs below. I can hear the sound of feet moving, but I can’t see anyone. The noise seems to be getting louder, but I’m not sure if that’s because I’m nearer the void, where it echoes more. A hand appears on the railing a couple of floors below me. I stifle a gasp and step backwards. Would it be better if I began to walk down? Then, if anyone asks me, I could pretend I’d just come out at the sixth floor instead of standing awkwardly at the top of a staircase.

  I look over the edge again. The blood is thumping so loudly in my ears, I can’t hear anything. I think they’ve gone. The stairwell is empty. I relax. My legs are shaky and I’m worried they’re going to give way. I’m about to start walking when a hand reappears on the railing one level below. The Tag Heuer watch I gave him for his thirtieth birthday is on his wrist. A face stares up at me. His face. Those unmistakable brown eyes.

  ‘I told you I loved you, Ali.’ Jack.

  I stagger back against the stairwell wall. Oh my God. He’s real and he’s in the building. He must have followed me to work. And I can’t get out. I fling open the door that leads into the tiny reception of the sixth floor but am met by the same scenario I’d encountered on the fourth. The control panel flashes red when I press my pass up to it in desperation. There isn’t anywhere I can go. My choices are to stay where I am or go down the stairs to meet him. Better to move. At least someone might hear me if I shout for help. No, they won’t. There isn’t anyone there. My subconscious evaluates the options faster than I can. I’m not going to wait in this tiny space, I know that. I’d rather face him in the open.

  I push my way out of the door into the stairwell, expecting him to appear at any moment. My hands shake. I stand motionless, every muscle taut, waiting for the inevitable. He doesn’t appear. I count to thirty, pressing my back against the wall to keep myself upright. He could have climbed those stairs in under ten. I’ve seen how fast he can move when he wants to.

  I edge to the handrail and look over. Nothing. No faces, no hands. As I stare downwards, I catch a glimpse of a figure heading to the bottom of the building.

  ‘Jack?’ I lean over the railing. ‘Jack?’ I shout his name at the top of my voice, not caring if anyone else can hear me, and sprint down the stairs as fast as I can. As I reach the ground floor there’s no sign of him. The stairwell is empty. I fling open the door and run into reception. There’s no one there apart from the staff manning the front desk, one of whom gives me an odd look as I stare around helplessly.

  The lift doors slide open and I cower, half-expecting him to step out. Instead, Sarah appears and walks straight towards me.

  ‘Alison. Are you OK?’ She reaches out to touch my arm, but I back away from her. ‘You look worried. Can I help with something?’

  I shake my head and adjust my bag on my shoulder.

  ‘No. I’m fine. I … I thought I saw someone I knew.’ I glance round, convinced he can’t have d
isappeared.

  ‘D’you want me to ask the reception staff if they’ve seen anyone?’ She’s trying to be helpful, I can see that. I know how I must look. I rub my forehead and can feel the damp sweat on my fingers. Thank God it’s Sarah who’s here and not Mrs Painter.

  ‘No … it’s fine. He must have gone.’ I don’t resist this time as she puts her hand on my arm. I barely notice her touching me as I try to work out what I’m going to do next. It’s so difficult to think clearly, but as I look around, alongside the feeling of panic, a small ball of disappointment rolls across my chest.

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ she says as she guides me to a seat.

  Moments later, she sits down beside me and hands me a small paper cone. I’m shaking as I swallow the contents, the coldness of the liquid making my head hurt.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to talk to someone, Alison. I’m always here to listen.’

  I nod briefly, hoping that my face doesn’t show the confusion I feel inside. Why would I be afraid to talk to someone? It’s just her I don’t want to talk to. I don’t understand why she’s taking such an interest in me and it’s making me uncomfortable.

  ‘Thanks. But I think I should go home.’

  She smiles, realising I’m not going to volunteer any other information, and stands up and walks towards the lift.

  Something had flashed in my head when she’d guided me to the bench. I have met Sarah before. I remember her hand on my arm. Her fingers gripping me tightly as her nails had dug into my bare skin. She’d hurt me and now I’m certain I don’t want to see her again.

  The blank white walls in my flat normally help me to feel calm, but this evening I’m restless, even though I know I need to sleep. Physically I’m exhausted; I’ve wrung out every last drop of energy and am left with a shell of a body that I have to drag into my bedroom. As I lie down on my duvet and stare at the ceiling, my mind is still whirling and I have to wait for the carousel of thoughts to slow down.

  I don’t understand how Jack could have been in the stairwell. Maybe he had followed me when I went to work. I’d only realised after everything happened how good he’d been at watching me without me knowing. But if it was him, it doesn’t make any sense that as soon as he’d seen me, he’d run off in the opposite direction. And then vanished. Jack would never have let me get away that easily.

  Maybe I’m hallucinating. I’ve tried so hard to forget about him, perhaps it’s making me imagine things that simply aren’t there.

  THEN

  Jack

  I’m due to meet Harry at the clients’ office at nine and am already running late. I slip on the last clean shirt in my wardrobe without bothering to have a shower, throw two empty wine bottles into the recycling and wash the remaining dregs of the third down the sink. I’m not sure if it’s the smell of vinegar or the feeling of guilt that turns my stomach as the dark red liquid circles round the plughole and disappears. I can’t face any breakfast. I wonder if I’m subconsciously adopting Ali’s old habits in an effort to feel close to her. She was the one who would refuse anything other than a cup of coffee in the mornings, screwing up her nose as she watched me finish three slices of toast and peanut butter before I left. I swallow a couple of paracetamol with a cup of tea, grab my keys from the bowl on the hall shelf and walk out of the flat, slamming the door behind me.

  My mum phones as I’m walking to the bus stop. I don’t want to answer as I’m in a rush, but I doubt I’ll get another chance to speak to her today and she’ll worry if she can’t get hold of me.

  ‘You all right, love?’ She can hear I’m out of breath.

  ‘Fine, Mum. I’m just walking to the bus. I can’t talk for long.’

  ‘I wanted to check how you were. I had a missed call from Ali’s dad last night so wondered if you’d heard from him. If he’s coping OK …’

  I interrupt her. ‘He was fine when I spoke to him. You shouldn’t worry.’ I haven’t talked to him, but I know he’d call me if it was anything really important. ‘How are you?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’m good. And work’s not too stressful?’ She changes the subject. She never likes talking about herself.

  I spot a gap in the traffic and dart across the road. ‘Work’s always stressful. That’s the nature of management consultancy, but it’s no worse than usual. I’ve got to go, Mum.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard anything else since you got that letter?’ I know this is what I didn’t give her a chance to ask on Monday, and she’s been waiting for an opportunity to say it from the start of the conversation but has only just gathered up the courage. She’s almost left it too late.

  I hesitate. ‘Nothing, Mum. Look, I’ve really got to go, I’m about to miss my bus.’ I’m not sure whether she believes me, but I hang up and check my messages before putting the phone back in my pocket. I wonder why Edward called Mum rather than me. He’s got my mobile number for anything important. I’ll ring him back later. If I have time.

  I half walk, half run the rest of the way to the bus stop, my armpits damp with perspiration. The orange letters on the electronic timetable display in the shelter show that there are three minutes until the next bus. Three minutes during which the sweat seeps through my shirt, leaving dark patches under my arms on the surface of the light blue cotton. I’m going to have to wear my jacket for the meeting and hope the room has air conditioning. Ali would have made sure we left on time.

  My phone vibrates. A message from Harry.

  I’m here. You?

  I text back.

  Almost.

  It isn’t a complete lie as once the bus arrives it won’t take long. I pray we don’t get stuck in traffic. He doesn’t trust me not to be late; I’ve let him down once too often lately.

  The bus pulls up and I squeeze against the people packed into the narrow aisle, pushing my laptop bag into the man in front of me in an attempt to get him to step forward and make some space. I haven’t got time to wait for the next one. I’ve got nothing to hold onto, but it doesn’t matter, I’m glued in place by those around me, unable to move until someone gets out. We lurch forward as the bus sets off and I take a deep breath. I should have brought a bottle of water with me.

  The woman behind me steps on my shoe and I turn my head towards her, trying to pull my foot away. She shuffles to adjust her position, one hand tucking her dark bob behind her ear as she looks down at her feet. Her hair reminds me of Sarah’s. Three days, if you count Monday, and I still haven’t heard anything from her. I don’t think she’s done what I asked and she’s had plenty of time. I think I need to remind her just in case she’s forgotten. A phone call should be enough to jog her memory. For now. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to pay her another visit.

  I stare out of the small area of the bus window that’s still visible through the mass of commuters as we travel through an underpass, the grey concrete casting us into shadow before we emerge into daylight on the other side. I wonder what Ali’s doing. How her day’s started. I wonder if she realises this journey seems to take double the time without her. Even when the bus had been packed like this she’d always smiled, putting her fingers over mine on one of the handrails, her touch more intimate than a whispered conversation. I’d never tired of looking at her in all the years we’d travelled this route together. I’d used to stare at her standing amongst the other commuters and feel how lucky I was, thinking I could read her mind. But if I had been able to, I remind myself as the bus comes to a halt, I’d have known what was going to happen.

  The pneumatic door mechanism opens with a gasp and everyone spills out on the pavement. I glance at my watch as I step off. I’m late.

  My phone vibrates again.

  Where are you? Client wants to start.

  Give me a chance, Harry. I text back:

  Be there in two minutes. Need to talk to you about last week.

  Five minutes later, I walk into the building, am handed a security pass by the receptionist and told to follow the signs to the boardroom. The
rest of the team is already there, helping themselves to cups of tea or coffee and Danish pastries covered in icing sugar. Harry is sitting at one end of the large desk in the middle of the room. He looks up as I walk in and gives me a tight smile. I glance at my phone as I pour myself a black coffee. He hasn’t replied to my text.

  The meeting begins and I nod appropriately in the right places as we discuss the figures for the previous quarter with David Eden, the managing director at Marley Brown’s. Whether the losses for the last quarter combined with the budgeted forecasts mean unavoidable redundancies in the branches they want to close down, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m looking discreetly at my phone on my lap, scrolling through the DVLA website until I find what I’m searching for.

  Harry waits until we’re on our own in the lift after the meeting before he turns to me. ‘You look dreadful, Jack.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘Just a bit tired.’

  He looks past me, avoiding direct eye contact. ‘Go home, have a sleep this afternoon and come in tomorrow. I’ll let the office know.’

  ‘I’m fine, really, I—’

  He interrupts me. ‘You’re not, Jack. You look like shit. I know this last year has been a nightmare for you, I really do, but I’m saying this as your closest friend. Take some time off and get yourself together. I’m doing my best here, but I can’t keep covering for you when we’re trying to run a business. We looked like idiots in that meeting. You barely said a word. I’m sure everyone could tell you weren’t really listening.’

  I don’t reply.

  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something else, but he’s interrupted by his phone buzzing and he looks at the screen. ‘That’s David again now. I need to go. I’ll tell him you weren’t feeling well and just hope he’s not too pissed off. We really can’t afford to lose them as a client.’