Only You: an absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by S Williams

  ‘Yuck. Nice image; thanks.’

  ‘Welcome.’

  The deluge has ended, and Mary and Athene sit in the car, the windscreen covered in diamonds of water. With the breaking of the storm, something has cleared, and the silence they sit in no longer feels dangerous.

  She’s not part of it, Mary thinks. She looks a tiny bit like Bella might have if she’d reached that age, and my imagination did the rest.

  The phone call from Trent had freaked her, that was all. That, and the owl, and the fact that she’d been on electric tiles ever since she’d seen the photograph of Blea Fell.

  ‘You were telling me how Bella, your friend, died?’

  Athene’s voice cuts into Mary’s thoughts. She turns and looks at the girl. She really does look a little like Bella, but Mary thinks it’s more in the history of the face rather than the face itself. Mary could see pain in it. And survival. There’s something in her past that’s giving her strength. She hadn’t mentioned a father, Mary noted, just a mother. Maybe there was a separation, or a death.

  Mary took a deep raggedy breath. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters, Athene?’ she says quietly.

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  Mary shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, it was just the way you picked up the owl.’

  ‘No, single child, I’m afraid. Just me and my mum.’

  ‘Me, too. Single child, I mean. My parents had me quite late. Very late.’ Mary smiles humourlessly. ‘So late, in fact, that I was less a happy surprise than a final demand.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Athene looks at her with such intensity that Mary wonders if she’s analysing her; maybe as a case study for one of her trauma essays. She shakes her head.

  ‘Don’t be. It wasn’t easy, though. They didn’t mix with the other children’s parents; they had nothing in common. Consequently I never found it easy to make friends. There were no natural invites, and you’ve seen the way the farms are set out. It’s not exactly as if you can just pop over.’

  The two women sit in silence, staring out at the total lack of housing in front of them.

  ‘But you said Bella was your friend?’ Athene prompts, after a moment.

  Mary nods. ‘My only friend. Her parents moved up and bought Blea Fell and sent Bella to the village primary school. I can still remember the first day, when she walked in.’ Mary smiles. ‘I was hiding under a chair.’

  Athene giggles.

  You probably think that’s cute, thinks Mary bitterly, but she doesn’t let it show. This girl sitting in her car wasn’t to know; wouldn’t understand the fear Mary had felt merely living. Of the endless hours in a silent house, her aged parents sat in mute desperation of mortality. The squirming, oily, heavy worm of anxiety that sat in her stomach every time she stepped into school.

  ‘I spent most of my primary school life pretending to be a mouse. I would hide under the chair and scream if anybody tried to make me come out.’

  ‘Okay,’ Athene says.

  Mary sneaks a sideways glance at her, wondering if she understood. Athene’s gaze is open; not amused or surprised or wary.

  ‘In fact that was my name, in the end: Mouse. It stuck right through middle school and into high school. All the way until I got expelled.’

  ‘You got expelled?’ Athene looks amazed, her mouth slightly open. Mary tries very hard not to look at the thread of spittle that spanned her upper and lower lip.

  ‘What can I say? It was near the end of the century; the whole world was a little bit crazy.’

  ‘But was it something to do with your friend? Bella?’

  ‘Sort of. After she died everything went a little bit fucked.’

  ‘Jesus, I’ll bet. And what about what’s his name; Trent? Is he… was he…?’

  The sentence stays hanging in the air between them. Mary feels the rattle of the memory-coins inside her.

  ‘He was Bella’s boyfriend,’ she says after a short pause. ‘Or kind of her boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh! Okay. He must have been devastated when she died.’

  Mary gives a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, he was that, all right. And the rest.’ Mary actually thinks she can feel a lock snap inside her, letting out a little of the past.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die? Your friend?’

  Mary shivers, shaking her head. ‘I can’t talk about it. Not here.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ Athene touches her shoulder lightly.

  Mary’s body lets off another small shiver, then she smiles at the girl. ‘Look, we’ll catch our death if we stay here; we’re soaked to the skin. How about we go back to mine and have some hot cocoa?’

  Athene looks a little wary. Mary blows out an air of exasperation, mainly at herself.

  ‘I’m not trying to chat you up, okay? I’ll admit, I am trying to get you out of your clothes, but only so I can dry them, and return them before you get pneumonia.’

  Athene grins.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mary smiles, starting the car. ‘It’ll only take five minutes from here. My house is actually only a mile or so from Bella’s. Really quick if you cut across the field, but much longer by road.’

  Mary checks the mirror, then pulls out.

  ‘So, did you see each other regularly?’

  ‘All the time.’ Mary nods, driving carefully on the winding road; the recent deluge has made the tarmac slippy, and the warmth of the road compared to the moor often attracted the sheep that roamed freely on the rough land. ‘Every day in the early years. Less as we got older.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Mary takes a small turning off the B road onto a track.

  ‘Oh, you know how it is. Homework. Romance. All that shit that happens to teenagers.’

  ‘Right.’

  Mary is acutely aware that she might be oversharing.

  But she’s asking, she thinks. Then: Why is she asking?

  Mary negotiates the humps and bumps of the track, driving slowly through the trees.

  After a few moments the cottage swings into view, snatches of it revealing itself through the evergreen foliage. Athene whistles.

  ‘That’s where you live? It’s beautiful!’

  ‘I know, it’s a bit scary-single-witch-in-the-woods, but I love it. When my parents died I had the opportunity to sell, but I’d spent so many years alone here when they were alive, continuing after they were dead, it seemed…’ Mary shrugs, ‘…natural.’

  She suddenly slams down on the brakes, bringing the car to a juddering halt.

  ‘Jesus!’ Athene shouts, rocking against her seat belt. ‘What happened?’ She looks around wildly. ‘Was it an animal? Have we run over something?’

  Mary doesn’t answer.

  ‘The gate’s open,’ she says eventually. ‘When I left this morning I closed it.’

  Athene shakes her head in confusion, clearly unsure of the problem.

  ‘Right. Probably the postman, yes?’

  ‘The postman has a drop-off at the bottom of the track, by the main road. The track is snowbound in the winter. Impossible for the van to get up.’

  ‘Delivery, then? Yodel or whatever,’ Athene offers, the bewilderment in her voice increasing.

  ‘Same thing. No delivery ever comes up here. If something has to be signed for, it’s delivered to the café.’

  ‘Okay, farmer then, or walker, or tradesperson, dropping in a business card. I’m not sure what the problem is here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mary says, unsure. She edges the car through the gap between the two walls and past the open gate, on up to the cottage. Athene peers out of the window.

  ‘There’s no one here now. I reckon you’ll find a business card stuck in your door jamb. We get it all the time back home. Dog walking or window cleaning. Any bloody thing people can think of to make some extra money. I don’t know where people get the ideas half–’

  ‘There’s something on the door,’ interrupts Mary.

  ‘See, I told you!�
�� said Athene brightly. ‘It’ll be a card from–’

  ‘No.’ Mary stops the car in front of the house. She pulls the handle, opening the door, and steps out. As soon as the door opens the smell of the storm hits her. The high notes of charged ion particles, and the end of summer smell of the gorse. The woody earthy smell of the dark between the trees, where she’d seen the birds take flight earlier. Mary looks from her house to the trees.

  Someone was here earlier, she thinks, remembering the birds. Someone was watching me.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Athene asks, stepping out of the car and following Mary’s gaze. ‘Is there something in the woods?’

  ‘No; not now, anyway.’ Mary, taking a last look into the gloom, turns and walks to her front door. Athene steps in beside her.

  ‘Such a beautiful house, but so isolated,’ she says quietly. ‘Don’t you ever get frightened?’

  Mary stops in front of the door.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispers, taking a step back.

  ‘What?’ Athene asks in alarm. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She looks from Mary to the door, then slowly steps forward.

  ‘This?’ she asks, eyebrows raised. ‘Is it this? It looks like a Christmas decoration.’

  Attached to the entrance were two small bells, held together and hanging by a red ribbon. Athene reaches out and pulls the pin that holds them there. As she removes them they make a small chime, sending Mary’s hands to her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispers again, taking another step back.

  ‘Mary what is it? What’s the matter?’ the alarm in Athene’s voice finally cuts through, and Mary drags her gaze away from the tiny bells in Athene’s hand, and up into her eyes.

  ‘My friend who died? All those years ago?’

  Athene nods. ‘Bella.’

  Mary points to the two chimes. ‘Her nickname, or the name we had that was our special name. Mine was–’

  ‘Mouse, yes. You’ve told me. What’s going on, Mary? You’re beginning to freak me a little.’

  Mary reaches forward and gently lifts the chimes out of Athene’s hand. As she does they make a small sound, the tone clear and pure.

  ‘Hers was Bells.’

  Athene stares at her, the wind tugging at her coloured hair, escaping from under her soaked hat. ‘Bells.’

  Mary nods.

  ‘You know how kids are. Back in the day there was a thing for putting an “s” on the end of anything. Laters. Tunes. Bella was Bells.’

  ‘I see. Makes sense. But what has this got to do with–’

  ‘It was kind of like my secret name for her. Something we shared between ourselves.’ Mary swallows. ‘One Christmas I bought her a present; I’d seen it in Woolworths. It wasn’t much; my parents didn’t really give me any money, and I was too young to have a Saturday job.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Twelve. It was just before everything changed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mary shakes her head. ‘Like I said. Boyfriends and stuff. Going from middle school to the comp.’

  ‘What was it, Mary? What did you buy her?’

  Mary holds up the brace of bells. ‘This, Athene. I bought her this.’

  Mary stares at the bells, then looks back out to the woods.

  You waited until I left, didn’t you? You waited until I left, then came and stuck these on my door.

  The woods stayed dark and secret and quiet.

  ‘There’s a card.’

  ‘What?’ Mary looks away from the trees and at Athene.

  ‘On the step. It must have been shoved in the door jamb or whatever.’

  Mary looks down. On the flat slate outside her door is a plain white envelope.

  Athene stoops and picks it up, turning it over in her hand as she stands. ‘There’s no name or address on it, but I guess it must have come with the bells.’

  ‘Open it,’ Mary says, a ball of fear in her chest.

  ‘Sure. At least then you’ll know what’s going on. It’s not sealed.’ Athene pulls the envelope open and reaches in. ‘It’s a photograph,’ she says, puzzled, as she slides out a single sheet of photographic paper; the kind that people use to print at home. The image is turned away from her, so Mary can only see the back.

  She can see Athene’s expression, however. The girl looks confused. Confused and worried.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she says, looking at the print. ‘Why would someone send you a photo of this?’

  ‘What is it? What’s on the print? Is there a message?’

  Silently, Athene hands the sheet over. Mary takes it and turns it round. It takes her a second to realise what she is looking at, but when she does the world starts spinning.

  ‘Mary!’ Athene grabs her before she can fall, supporting her as she tries to breathe. ‘Come on! What is it? Why has someone sent you a picture of that? What does it mean?’

  Mary sucks in a deep breath, and looks at the print again. It shows a road covered in snow. The shot was taken at night, obviously with a good camera. The trees at the edge of the road are stark in the blue light of the ambulance framed in the right-hand corner of the shot. Individual flakes of snow are lit by the beam shining from the unit on its roof. The main area of the frame is taken up by the crashed car, laying on its back, shards of glass and blood in the ice and snow around it like a Pollock painting. Mary looks aghast at the body of Bella hanging out of the windscreen; at the twisted metal of the car and broken side windows. At the blood in the ice and snow and the wheels sticking up like the legs of a dead beetle.

  ‘It means that someone is fucking with me,’ she says quietly, her voice sounding like it was spoken by a different person. After a second she looks up at Athene. ‘This?’ She shakes the print, like whoever left it for her might fall out of the image. ‘You wanted to know what happened to my friend? This did! That girl is Bella! She died in a car crash on New Year’s Eve.’

  23

  The Craven Head: Summer, 1996

  ‘Hi, I’m Trent.’

  Jamie looked up from the scuzzy floor at the boy, who he guessed was about his age. Fourteen, maybe even fifteen. He was tall and thin, with a long dirty fringe that had danger written all over it.

  ‘All right,’ he muttered, not making eye contact.

  They were in the hotel bar. Jamie was clearing up the room; tipping out the ashtrays and collecting the empties; washing the glasses and wiping down the bar. His parents should have done it the previous night, but they had been too mangled. He didn’t mind. If it had been a good night then there was always treasure. So far this morning his haul had been a half pack of Benson and Hedges, around a fiver in change, and a wallet. He hadn’t looked in the wallet yet: wallets were for saving, once he was alone. Wallets sometimes held secrets.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ said the boy, Trent, a smile in his voice. ‘At this hotel. My dad is up to look at buying a house. What’s it like round here?’

  Jamie didn’t answer. He wondered if the boy could smell the stale ash on his clothes.

  ‘I bet it’s a shithole. I bet there’s sod all to do except push over cows and race ferrets, am I right?’

  Jamie let out a little giggle. He couldn’t help himself. The boy chuckled along with him, and stuck out his fist.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Jamie looked at it, wondering if the boy was threatening him.

  ‘You bump your fist against it. Like the boxers, or Mick Taylor. It’s like a handshake, only much cooler.’

  ‘Mick Taylor?’ Jamie continued to eye the fist.

  ‘The cricketer? For Australia?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I love the Aussies, me. The cricket. Crocodile Dundee. I’m going to emigrate there, first chance I get.’ Trent raked his other hand through his hair, pushing back his fringe.

  Jamie nodded, smiling shyly at the boy.

  ‘Better than this shithole,’ he said, echoing the boy’s comments. He stuck out his fist. ‘Jamie. That’s my name.�
�

  Trent grinned and gently hit the offered fist with his own. Jamie felt a little thrill run through him.

  ‘Good to meet you, Jamms. I reckon you and me could be mates, if my old man moves up here.’

  The elation Jamie had felt when Trent had touched him disappeared like it had never been. He turned away and picked up butts off the carpet and put them in a metal waste bin.

  ‘If you move up here you wouldn’t want to be mates with me. I’m way too uncool.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know; I’m not really into cool.’

  Trent sat on a table and took a little box out of his shirt pocket. He looked at it, then began tapping.

  ‘Is that a pager?’ said Jamie, slightly awed.

  Trent nodded. ‘Yeah. My dad insists I have it. He says it’s so that he knows I’m safe, but that’s bollocks. It’s so he can keep tabs on me.’

  Jamie stared at Trent, open-mouthed. He’d never heard someone speak about their parent like that. Like they were enemies.

  ‘Why does he need to keep tabs on you, Trent?’

  Trent finished typing and put the pager back in his pocket.

  ‘So he knows I’m not going to burn the hotel down,’ he said, grinning. He pulled a Zippo out of his jeans pocket, flicked the lid and raised an eyebrow at Jamie. ‘Now, mate, I bet you find all sorts when you clean up around here, yeah? How about any fags?’

  Jamie stared at Trent for a moment, then grinned.

  24

  Athene’s Phone