The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller by Betsy Reavley Page B

comfortable with. I feel like a stranger in my own life. The pile of clothes on the floor near the unmade bed helps me to remember, though. I am a chaotic, creative, confused orphan.
    The sound of the door opening makes me jump and I swivel round to see Charlie dripping wet, holding a brown paper bag. The scent of five-spice fills the room and my mouth salivates as I hop out of the chair and rush over to him and throw my arms around his damp neck.
    ‘Christ, I wasn’t gone that long, was I?’ He feigns strangulation.
    ‘No,’ jabbing him in the ribs, ‘but I’m glad you’re back. What did you get?’
    ‘What didn’t I get!’?
    He shakes raindrops from his greying hair and slips his coat off.
    ‘We’ve got duck and pancakes, prawn toast, spring rolls, beef with black bean sauce, seaweed, dumplings, Singapore noodles and prawn crackers.’ He smiles like a Cheshire cat, proudly displaying a mouse it caught.
    ‘Good work.’ I start peeling off the cardboard lids of the foil containers, enjoying the hot steam that rises up and hits my face.
    ‘Damn,’ Charlie reaches over and picks up a spring roll, ‘we haven’t got a knife and fork.’
    ‘Balls.’ I have never been any good with chopsticks.
    ‘I’ll go down and ask if we can borrow one.’ He heads for the door.
    ‘So good to me.’ I blow him a kiss and take a hot dumpling out of the box with my fingers.
    Seconds after he has left and I have finished sinking my teeth into the dumpling, my mobile vibrates in my pocket. Irritated, I pull it out and focus on the screen. My mother is calling. But she can’t be because she is dead. And then my brain makes the leap and I realise it is Ailene. Unsure whether or not I have a desire to speak to her, I slide my finger across the screen without thinking.
    ‘Hello.’ I’m aware that this reluctance is strange and guilt hits me like a punch to the face.
    ‘Can I speak to Josie?’ Her voice is clipped.
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘It’s Ailene.’
    I know that already and wait for something more concrete, but the break in conversation seems to last forever.
    ‘Hi.’ I say eventually.
    ‘How are you?’
    How am I meant to answer that?
           ‘I’ve been better. I’m dealing with some things at the moment,’
           ‘Can I help?’ she interrupts.
           ‘Not really. Thanks though.’ Another long pause leaves me cold.
           What am I meant to say to her?
           ‘I thought perhaps we might meet,’ the suggestion hangs in the air mingling with the smell of Chinese food and I have the bizarre sense of déjà vu.
           ‘Now isn’t exactly a good time. I’m not in London. But I’d love to.’
           ‘Where are you?’ She is certainly direct.
           ‘I’m staying near my parents.’ The conversation feels stranger than ever now.
    ‘Near Gloucester?’
    ‘Yes.’ I’m surprised she knows.
    ‘I can come there.’
    My brain starts to implode and I wonder if I’m imagining the conversation.
    ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment, Ailene.’ Her name feels alien. (I mentally note the similarity in the words) ‘Please don’t think I don’t want to see you, I do. It’s just…’ I can’t finish the sentence.
    ‘I know about your parents.’ She is so calm. ‘I read about it in the paper. I am so sorry. I thought perhaps you might need some support.’
    If it’s support she is offering, why does she sound so glib?
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the panic rises in my throat, ‘I can’t do this right now.’
    ‘Fine. That’s fine. When you’re back in London let me know and if you want I can visit.’ She sounds cold again. I’m losing her.
    ‘No, hang on.’ The words rush out before I’ve had a chance to think. ‘I’ll come back to London. I need to get away from here. How about we meet on Thursday?’ My hands shake.
    ‘That sounds reasonable.’ She could sound more enthusiastic.
    ‘Come to my house. I’ll make lunch.’ I