The Quiet Ones
The Quiet Ones
Betsy Reavley
Contents
Introduction
1. February 3rd
2. February 8th
3. February 9th
4. February 21st
5. March 13th
6. March 14th
7. March 16th
8. March 17th
9. March 18th
10. April 12th
11. April 14th
12. May 16th
13. May 18th
14. May 21st
15. May 24th
16. May 25th
17. June 3rd
18. June 28th
19. July 21st
20. August 3rd
21. September 8th
22. October 15th
23. October 16th
24. November 28th
25. December 23rd
26. December 24th
27. 25th December
28. 28th December
Chapter 29
30. January 8th
31. January 12th
32. April 19th
33. September 28th
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2016 Betsy Reavley
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The right of Betsy Reavley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
* * *
http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com
For Trinidad and Stephen
* * *
& my brother, Harry.
Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade
just as painting does or music. If you are born
knowing them, fine. If not, learn them.
Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.
Truman Capote
* * *
I swear from the bottom my heart I want
to be healed. I want to be like other men,
not this outcast whom nobody wants.
E.M.Forster
Introduction
Every step I take seems to be in slow motion, almost as if it’s happenin’ to someone else. The thump from the door as I close it behind me sounds muffled and distant. The smell from the alcohol and bleach still lingers, stingin’ my nose.
I watch myself take a large stride away from the house where all that filth took place. I’m not leavin’ until it’s all over - until every last thing has turned to dust.
I sit down on the cold, damp, concrete curb opposite, with my arms folded across my chest and my legs stretched out into the narrow street. Bein’ out in the open feels cathartic. This place isn’t my home but it might as well be since I don’t have one. I live in the shadows, the place where guilt and anger converge.
London is strangely calm and quiet or maybe that’s just how it seems to me. Next to the growin’ angry flames, everythin’ else fades into insignificance. It occurs to me that the houses either side might burn down. But I shrug it off. What does it matter? No one’s fuckin’ innocent. Not really.
For a moment, I look up at the sky. It’s clean and white. The rain has gone, leavin’ a soggy world behind. It looks like snow might be in the January air. It’s cold enough. At least it would be, if it weren’t for the burnin’ building opposite.
The speed at which the flames lick up the walls smotherin’ everythin’ is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off the fire. So many colours. Whoever knew destruction could be so beautiful?
I slip my hand into my black nylon jacket pocket and fumble with the box of matches. An erection stirs. The noise the match made when I struck it was hypnotic. The way it burst into life. Somethin’ born out of nothin’. Like me.
I’m watchin’ the heat warp the glass in the front window. The pressure builds before it smashes and flames burst through, feedin’ off the fresh air and climbin’ further up the brick to reach the lip of the roof. It’s as if the fire has hands. It searches every surface, feelin’ where to go next.
The noise is deafenin’. The crackle of wood, the breakin’ glass, the meltin’ screams of other unknown fabrics all sing together like a choir while the roar conducts the tune. And somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint wail of sirens. I knew she’d call the police. I’ve been expectin’ them.
Maybe I should have killed her. It would have been good to watch her bleed. But it’s too late now. That ship has sailed. I suppose I could run and save myself. But I can’t tear myself away from watchin’ it all comin’ to an end. I’ve got nowhere left to run. I’m too tired, now. Tired of hidin’. The police are gettin' closer. I can hear them. This is where it ends. But to understand how I ended up here, you’ll need to go back to the beginnin’.
Closin’ my eyes for a moment, I relish the burnin’ heat on my face. It wasn’t meant to end like this but life has a funny way of surprisin’ you.
The sirens are so close now. I can almost see them. Openin’ my eyes again to have one last look, somethin’ grabs my attention. A large puddle on the tarmac by my boot is movin’. I look at my reflection in the water but see someone else lookin’ back. A less good version of the person I wanted to be.
1
February 3rd
The phone rings and I know it’s her. I push my chair away from my desk putting distance between my body and the telephone. Frozen and staring wide-eyed, the shrill sound grows louder. Charlie pokes his head around the doorframe and looks at me. He has a tea towel in his hands and is wiping a white plate. I shake my head. He nods and returns to the kitchen. The phone continues to jangle. It seems never-ending, but eventually stops.
My legs feel like jelly as I get up and go into the kitchen. Charlie is standing over the sink with his back to me. By the shape of his shoulders, the angle of his head, I can tell he’s deep in thought. He’s a tall man with a thick head of dark curly hair, grey around the temples. He senses me and turns round. As I approach him, he stretches out his arms and wraps them around me. I feel safe again. He smells like washing up liquid and freshly baked biscuits and I bury my face in the woollen fabric of his cable-knit jumper. His large hands are damp and I feel the wetness soaking through the clothes on my back.
I don’t know if I’m angry or scared. Probably both. Pulling away from Charlie, I wander over to the fridge and open the door. I’m hit by the pungent smell of ripe Brie. I really should get round to clearing out the fridge. In the fruit and veg drawer, there are some wrinkled carrots and a manky lettuce that really belong in the bin. Tomorrow, I tell myself as I remove two cold bottles of beer and silently hand one to Charlie. He winks, accepts the drink before turning to fiddle about in one of the kitchen drawers, looking for the ever-elusive bottle opener. He finds it and cracks open his bottle. An eruption of creamy, frothy bubbles spills out over the glass neck and slides down the frosted green sides before pooling on the stone kitchen floor. Neither of us makes a move to clean it up. He passes me the souvenir bottle opener we bought on holiday in Barcelona, and I pop the top off my drink. The serrated metal teeth clang onto the floor and the top spins haphazard, to settle under one of the cupboards.
Charlie sits on a green, painted farmhouse chair at the old pine table. I notice the paint is chipped around the chair legs and make a mental note to touch it up at some point, another job that’s bound to be forgotten.
‘You’ll have to answer at some point, Jo.’
Charlie peels the corners of the label away from the bottle. His brow is furrowed and he looks very serious.
‘I don’t have to.’
I look down at my feet and think about changing my nail varnish colour. That bluey-pink isn’t really my shade.
‘You know you do, and the sooner the better.’
The statement hangs in the air.
I feel his large brown eyes searching my face and I look up. Most of the time, I don’t notice the age gap between us. It’s only seventeen years but tonight he looks somehow older than I’m used to.
‘What sort of shape could our relationship possibly take? Too much has happened …’
‘Make room.’ He says, knowing it will irritate me.
‘Make room? It’s not a piece of bloody furniture we’re discussing.’
He’s not going to let this go I think and sigh. I tip the remaining beer into my mouth, letting the cold bubbles fizz down my throat.
‘It’s only been a few weeks.’
‘OK,’ he smiles, ‘But know that when you do, I am beside you.’
‘I know and thank you.’
I move closer and plant a kiss on his stubbled cheek before leaving the kitchen and returning to the study.
Sliding into the black leather office chair, my jeans rub against the material and it makes an unnatural sound, like a polystyrene cup being crushed in a fist. Somehow, the noise is fitting. Comfort is void, and in its place a sensation in the pit of my stomach. I’m not normally superstitious; I don’t believe in God and the concept of fate terrifies me, so external forces generally don’t play a part in influencing how I feel. But tod
ay, now, I feel on edge, (like an alert animal?) all senses heightened, knowing something big is coming.
Trying to shake the dread, I spin slowly round in the chair and survey my chaotic office. I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. The shelves to my left are a mess of paper work and books with folded over corners. My well-used leather bound Thesaurus has seen better days. I found it in a second-hand bookshop. For some reason, I have always preferred the feel of a book to the Internet or Word to find alternative suggestions. The silk thin paper between my fingers is comforting. I’m not great at moving with the times. Begrudgingly, I started to write using my laptop, and what pained me most was that it was brilliant. The speed at which I could get the words down, the Autocorrect, all helped make life easier. But I still can’t get to grips with a Kindle. I want a book in my hands, with paper pages I can turn and a smooth colourful cover I can stroke with the palm of my hand.
Charlie calls me a dinosaur. He’s right, the irony being in the fact that I make my living selling eBooks. As of yet, none of the big boy print publishers have taken me on. I’m told the problem I have is that none of my stories fall into clear genre categories – as though that’s a bad thing. But I shouldn’t complain, I am one of the lucky few. I get to do what I love and a small percentage of people buy my books. We are not rich. We couldn’t be, on a small-fry writer’s earnings and the salary, Charlie gets as a recruitment agency manager, but we are comfortable enough and privileged to own our own house, with the help of a mortgage.
I sit back in my chair and stare out of the small window onto the dark street. Our Victorian terraced house on Shipton Street is small but perfectly formed. We have a good sized eat-in kitchen, a cosy sitting room with a log-burning stove and a small extra room downstairs that serves perfectly as my office. Upstairs is the bathroom, our bedroom, which has a pretty iron fireplace as does the spare room in which there is enough space for a single bed. At the back of the house is a small patio garden chock-a-block with pot plants, a bistro table and chairs.
My life was so much simpler before. Until now, I’ve been content wondering without needing to know. The mystery was enough but she’s gone and shattered my serenity with a letter and repetitive bloody phone calls. I’m not ready yet, not ready to talk to her, to hear her voice.
I remove a cigarette from the pack on my desk and light it. Instantly, I feel calmer. Charlie pokes his head round the door and frowns. He hates that I smoke at all, and gets especially cross when I do it inside. So, I put my hands up and slink out of the chair, heading for the back door.
When I step outside, the freezing air makes me catch my breath. It is unusual even for February. The papers claim the country is in the grips of a mini ice age, but I think it’s all tosh. The Middle East is temporarily calm and the US isn’t dropping bombs on anyone. It figures they need to find something to write about. I wrap my beige poncho cardigan tightly around my front and smoke the cigarette quickly before returning to the heady warmth of our kitchen to find Charlie sitting at the table pouring over the Guardian. He recently had to admit he needed reading glasses. They sit awkwardly at the end of his nose, not quite at home yet. Still, to me he looks handsome and elegant. Looking up from the article, he smiles.
‘Bed?’ He folds his paper.
‘You bet.’ I fill two glasses of water.
‘Things will look brighter in the morning,’ Charlie turns the light out as we make our way towards the stairs, ‘You’ll see.’
I nod but my head throbs and in the pit of my stomach, I doubt he is right.
2
February 8th
I wake to find myself dripping in sweat. The fear lingers for a nasty moment before I sit up to find Charlie sleeping next to me, his mouth slightly ajar, a drop of dribble gathering in the corner of his lips, and I realise I am at home. Still, my heart thumps and it takes a moment before I can trust reality.
He is naked beneath the covers and I nuzzle into his armpit inhaling the musty male scent he produces in his sleep. I feel like a little girl – safe at last.
My hands search his sleeping body and eventually rest on his morning erection. He stirs in his sleep and I dance between wanting to wake him and allowing the moment to remain only mine. Then the feel of his warm, hard phallic compass rouses something in me and instinct takes over. My mouth slowly works its way south down his warm belly, passing a forest of wiry curls and the canyon of his belly button. But, moments before I make contact, he is awake and attempting to sit up in bed. And when this happens I rouse, as if from a Shakespearean dream, clouded in the shroud of a rich purple mystery.
Now, there are two of us sharing a place in this alternate universe, complicated and uncertain but as tempting as an intravenous drug with which we have dabbled but not fully succumbed. So, while I sit here, comfortable in the dirty sheets, it would be easy to make plans and pretend yesterday never happened. Visions are never what they seem.
While the winter has its blanket over this hard city and everything we know, hot thoughts bury themselves in the faded autumn and I find myself returning to earth with an unusually soft landing.
He sits up in bed and scratches his beard. Sleep gathers in the corner of his bright eyes and he yawns stretching out his arms like Christ on the cross. Sinking back into the pillows, he looks at me and cocks his head slightly to the left.
‘You OK? You look a million miles away.’ Reaching out his hand, he places it on the base of my back and strokes his thumb against my skin.
‘Fine, just didn’t sleep that well. You?’
‘Like a log,’ he says with satisfaction.
‘Busy day at the office planned?’ I try to shake the heavy sleep that pulls at my brain.
‘Nothing major, a few meetings; the usual. How’s the book coming along?’
‘Slowly.’ I say, begrudging the morning, sinking into the bed and pulling the crumpled, green duvet up around my body. ‘I might stay in bed for a bit.’ I close my eyes. For some reason I don’t want to look at him this morning. I don’t want to communicate.
‘Want some breakfast in bed?’ He slips out of bed and pulls on a pair of navy cotton boxer shorts.
‘A cuppa would be lovely.’ I pull the duvet over my head as he draws the curtains and lets the low morning sunshine flood our bedroom. From beneath the hot darkness, I hear as he leaves the room.
Charlie is my rock. As he walks to the bathroom, I hear him humming the Match of the Day theme, and it makes me happy. He can’t sing, he can’t even hum in tune and I’m not sure I could live without him. I feel so privileged that he loves me, too. Slowly, I pull back the duvet and sneak a look at the morning. From behind a naked silver birch, the sky is a cloudless, powder blue. I wonder what the day ahead has in store as I hear the boiler kick into action that means Charlie has turned on the shower.
On my cluttered bedside table, the clock reads 8.19 a.m. and I know I should get up. Then I spot the letter slipped in between the pages of the novel I’m reading. Gingerly, I remove it and unfold the crisp white paper. The address is at the top.
It took a few weeks but I did finally respond. I wrote a short, even curt, letter, giving my phone number. It had felt necessary to respond with something. My letter had gone in the post on a Wednesday and by the Friday evening, the call had come. I am glad to say, I had popped out to get a bottle of wine and Charlie had answered the phone. The moment I got back, he told me. I have avoided answering the phone ever since.
I’ve read this letter so many times over the past weeks and still find it confusing. What does it mean “an olive branch”? We didn’t fall out for Christ’ sake. My brain begins to thump and I rub my temples before putting the letter back inside the book and shoving it into a drawer. Out of sight is out of mind, I tell myself, knowing that is not the case. I can’t deal with all these questions at this hour. First things first - coffee and toast - then perhaps I’ll be able to think more clearly.