Only You: an absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by S Williams

  The square was snow-packed and dazzling. The lights from the Waltzer reflecting off the ice like they were swimming just under its surface. Around the ride were all the stalls. Bella saw people throwing hoops and tossing balls. Firing at tin cans with bent rifles and aiming blunt darts at hardened dartboards, all for the chance of participation in the dance of the fair. The noise was deafening, with no buildings in the way to soften it. The sirens and the music and the mechanical suicide of the Waltzer booths, as they were spun by the roustabouts that ambled along the spinning boards, as if they were indestructible; the gypsy boys that were like a truer version of Trent.

  Bella breathed it all in. The air was thick with the smell of popping corn and candyfloss, hot dogs, and the final explosion of adolescence. Bella looked at it all for a long second, then dipped her shoulder, slipping from beneath the weight of Trent’s arm, and dived into the throng of the fair. She heard someone shout; maybe Trent, maybe Mouse, but she didn’t stop. She smiled wide with her mouth and her eyes and her body as she pelted toward the noise and clatter, the pain and fear of a moment earlier forgotten.

  She took a deep breath, breathing in the beauty, then threw herself into the madness for one last rodeo of innocent fun and joy and magic.

  54

  High School: Just Before

  Trent stared at the picture pinned to the door of his locker, feeling a worm of guilt and shame turn lazily over in his stomach, like it was just waking up from a nap.

  ‘No fucking way,’ he breathed, unbelieving. ‘No. Fucking. Way.’

  The photograph was slightly blurred, but Trent guessed it would have to be, because whoever had taken it hadn’t used a flash. If they’d used a flash, Trent would have noticed it. So the only light that would have been available would have been the ambient light; the moon and the porch lamp. Trent couldn’t remember. Trent looked at himself in the picture. Slightly blurred not because he was badly shot, out of focus or whatever, but because the lens or aperture or whatever the hell it was called would have had to have been kept open; soaking in all the light it could. Slightly blurred because he was moving. It looked like he was leaving a ghost of himself behind as he left the house.

  Trent found it hard to breathe. The school went on around him but it was like he was an island. All he could do was stare at the photograph.

  How did it get here? he wondered. He always locked his locker. Always. Which meant not only had they taken the photo, but they had also broken into his locker. He reached out and touched the print that was taped to the door; felt its glossiness. He used his forefinger to cover his picture-face. Now it could be anybody. Any young man pulling on his coat and leaving his house in the middle of the night. Going to work, maybe. Or the pub.

  Except it wasn’t his house, was it?

  He held his breath and moved his finger off his face, tracing it up the wall of the house until it reached the first floor, then slowly moving it along until it reached the window. Mouse’s bedroom. He remembered turning and looking up at the window, seeing it empty.

  Except here in this photo it wasn’t empty. Mouse was there, naked and sad and looking down at him. She was indistinct, because there was no light on in her bedroom, but she could be seen. He supposed she must have watched him go, then retreated back into her room before he turned round. He didn’t blame her. The only person he blamed was himself.

  And the person who took the photograph. The person who must have followed them there, then stood outside while they… Trent felt his mouth spasm… then photographed him when he left.

  And then sent the picture to him.

  Why? Trent wondered. As a message? But what message? Was it blackmail?

  Trent gently removed the print, peeling off the sticky yellow electrical tape that held the corners to his locker, then folded up the photo. Taking out his Zippo, he flicked the lid and fired it up, creating flame. He touched the heat to the corner of the print, then watched as the chemicals ignited, erasing the image as if it had never existed. The picture seemed to shrink from the flame, as if running away before it could be burnt.

  Trent smiled humourlessly and dropped the photo onto the locker’s metal shelf. Once the flame was out he rubbed the ash into his hands and onto his face.

  Then he shut the locker and went in search of Jamie.

  55

  The Village Store

  ‘I’m sorry, she left here about ten minutes ago.’ The old woman who volunteered at the village store beams at them.

  Why is she smiling? Mary thinks. There’s nothing funny going on here. And then she realises that she wasn’t smiling; her false teeth were too big for her mouth, causing a permanent grin. And then Mary decides she is wrong; it wasn’t that her dentures were too big, it was that the rest of her face had shrunk with age.

  ‘Right,’ says Jamie. ‘I don’t suppose she said where she was going, did she? Only she’s left her phone at the hotel, you see, and we thought she might need it?’

  Jamie waves Athene’s phone in the air, as if the very fact of its existence explained the urgency.

  The old woman shakes her head and continues to smile at them, her tombstone teeth gleaming. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid not. She just came in and bought her cigarettes, then left. She seemed a bit distracted, to be honest.’

  ‘I bet she bloody did,’ Jamie mutters.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ the shopkeeper says.

  Mary can’t seem to stop staring at her teeth. With a conscious effort, she drags her eyes away and smiles at the woman.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that she’s a policewoman so we really wanted to get her phone to her in case there was an important message or something.’

  ‘A policewoman?’ The lady laughs. ‘Oh I don’t think so, dear! Not with hair like that! And she’s too young, surely?’

  ‘I think she’s a trainee.’ Mary smiles. ‘Never mind. We’ll go to her car and see if we can catch her; thanks for your help.’

  ‘Was she carrying anything?’ Jamie asks.

  The woman looks at him. ‘I’m sorry, love? Like what?’

  Jamie thought of the empty laundry basket. ‘I don’t know. Something bulky.’

  ‘No,’ muses the woman slowly. ‘She only had her backpack when she bought the batteries.’

  ‘I thought you said she bought cigarettes?’ Mary remarks.

  The woman’s smile widens, exposing gums the colour of bubblegum. ‘That’s right, dear, but that was the second time.’

  ‘The second time? What are you talking about?’ Jamie sounds like he’s about to snap.

  ‘Like I said, love, she came in twice. The first time to buy batteries, and the second to get the cigarettes. I suppose she must have forgotten them the first time round.’ The woman’s eyes suddenly widen. ‘Actually, now I come to think of it, the second time, the time for the cigarettes, she had a carrier bag with her.’

  ‘A carrier bag?’

  ‘Tesco.’ The woman nods happily. ‘Or it might have been Lidl. Definitely a supermarket.’

  ‘She didn’t have any food in her room,’ Jamie says.

  ‘Books,’ the woman says. ‘Old books.’

  Silence ticks around the shop as Mary stares at her. Finally she says, ‘Batteries?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  I wouldn’t fancy getting stuck out here. I’ve only got a torch, and even that’s got flat batteries!

  That’s what Athene had said to her, that first night in the café.

  ‘I know where she is,’ Mary says, turning round and heading for the door.

  ‘What? Where?’ Jamie nods at the woman and follows Mary. He almost runs into her as Mary stops and spins back round.

  ‘What?’ Jamie says again. ‘What is it?’

  Mary ignores him, and slowly walks back to the counter. The woman grins at her nervously.

  ‘You said she came back in for cigarettes?’

  ‘That’s right; a pack of Lucky Strikes.’

  ‘Lucky strikes,’ Mary repeats. Somewhere behind her sh
e hears Jamie draw a sharp breath.

  ‘That’s what Bella used to sm–’

  ‘Soft pack. She was very insistent on that.’

  I bet she was, thinks Mary, but all she did was nod her thanks and turn back to the door. As she walks towards it she feels disconnected.

  ‘Luckily no one really smokes anymore, so I still had a pack left over from last time.’ The voice behind her is light, almost skip-away.

  Mary looks at her fingers on the door handle. They are mottled and scarred from cleaning. Red and veiny from life.

  She turns back again and studies the old woman. ‘Last time?’

  ‘Yes. I got some in then, and there was still one pack left over. How fortunate is that?’ She gives them another radioactive blast of her teeth.

  ‘She’s been here before? I mean before this last couple of days?’

  ‘Oh, yes! She was here last year. Such a nice girl.’

  ‘Last year?’ The disbelief in Jamie’s voice is a solid thing. ‘Last year!’

  ‘On holiday,’ the woman confirms, nodding. ‘She was here for about a week in the summer. She’d rented a caravan. She didn’t have that multicoloured hair then; it was much shorter. In fact she mainly wore a Parka, because of all the rain.’

  ‘She was here last summer?’ Jamie asks, looking like he’s been punched. ‘In this village?’

  ‘Yes. Goodness how it rained; do you remember? I thought the beck was going to burst its banks! I distinctly recall because she asked me about the house.’

  Even though the woman is still smiling, her eyes are not smiling, Mary realises. Her eyes glitter like a child’s stolen marble. Hard and old and unforgiving.

  ‘The house?’

  ‘Blea Fell. Where the fire was. She wanted to know how to find it. I remember because it had been so long since I’d even heard of the place being mentioned.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Jamie says, his voice laced with confusion. Confusion and, Mary can hear, fear. ‘She’d been here before? Last year?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ The woman smirks at him like he’s an idiot. ‘Actually, it was quite odd.’

  ‘What was?’ Mary feels the trickle of earth she’s felt since Athene arrived. ‘What was odd?’

  ‘I remember asking her why she wanted to know. Why she wanted to go there. She just smiled at me and tapped her book.’

  ‘Wuthering Heights?’ Mary whispers.

  The woman shakes her head. ‘No, love, it was a diary. One of those old ones with proper paper, like artists or writers used to have.’

  An image of Bella writing in her diary flashes across Mary’s mind. All the diaries she wrote, year after year, pouring out her secret stories. Enough to fill a laundry bag.

  ‘Why was it so odd? Did she say why she wanted to go there?’

  ‘She said she wanted to find a snow globe.’

  56

  Bella’s Last Day: The Winter Fair

  ‘Four quid, love!’ the attendant was shouting down at her, a careless smile on his battered face, his legs apart, supporting the swing and sway of his body on the uneven surface of the Waltzer. He had a roll-up cigarette tucked behind his ear. A fighter’s ear – cartilage bruised and broken – but his eyes were kind and smiling, and he didn’t ask why she was all alone in the middle of the curved chair. She handed over the coins, and he pulled down the bar. He was about to walk away when he paused and turned back to look at her. He stared for a long beat, his gaze slightly out of focus, like there was something in the air between them.

  For one moment Bella thought he was going to ask if she was pregnant; tell her she couldn’t ride in her condition. Then he leant in and asked her if she wanted to be spun. He had a smile playing round his lips, flitting and shimmering on his face. She smiled and nodded.

  The ride slowly filled up, but no one joined her. She could see Trent and Mouse, at the stall with the metal buzzer, where a hoop had to be threaded along a wire without letting its side touch in order to win a prize. Trent was playing, but Mouse was not paying attention; she was looking around the fair, searching. Searching for her, Bella realised.

  The ride started with a bang and a shudder, disappearing Mouse and Trent out of view with a jolt. As it picked up speed, the car rocked from side to side. Bella watched as the roustabout walked between the cars, giving them little spins to add to the momentum, until some were turning full circles, pushing their squealing occupants hard against the leather backrest. Bella closed her eyes, letting the movement send her somewhere else. When she opened them again the operator was standing in front of her, the smile still on his face.

  ‘Sure?’ he mouthed, holding his hands up, ready to spin. Bella smiled and nodded. The boy smiled back, put a hand to his lips, and blew her a butterfly kiss.

  ‘Hold tight!’

  Then he sauntered round to the rear of her car and grabbed the rail behind the backrest. He waited for an upturn on the carousel, then spun her into the downturn, causing her to grab hold of the safety rail to prevent herself from slamming against the side.

  ‘Faster!’ she screamed, laughing. The roustabout laughed with her and spun her again. And again. Spin and spin again until the world was more of a blur than her thoughts could keep up with. Until everything was made up of sound, and shape, and colour, and it all resided in the moment. No past and no future. No parents and no baby. No sister. Just the velocity of spinning to nowhere.

  This is what it feels like to crash, she thought.

  Then she opened her eyes and looked at the wild boy with the rose smile.

  Thank you, she mouthed.

  57

  Outside the Village Shop

  ‘Mouse.’

  Jamie and Mary pull up short when they hear the voice behind them. Mary feels Jamie tighten beside her, climb inside himself like a runaway hiding in a storm drain. Slowly, she turns around and looks at the man behind her.

  ‘Hello, Trent.’

  Trent is leaning against his car, shaking a Marlboro out of a pack and removing it with his mouth.

  ‘Still got your quest for cancer, then,’ she says, pointing at his cigarette with her jutting chin. She hides behind the quipping. Even though she knew Trent was coming, she wasn’t prepared for it. Wasn’t prepared to actually see him in the flesh.

  ‘We should have died with Bella that night, Mouse, I’m just trying to play catch-up.’

  Mouse’s voice trips in her throat, blocking it. The brutality of his statement has taken her breath away. There is no mellowing with time. Seemingly no distance between the man before her and the teenager weeping in the snow over the wrecked body of his girlfriend. She looks at him in horror. He smiles back at her.

  And then the sinking sun catches his face, and Mary realises that what she mistook for brutality is baked-in guilt. The lines on his face are not only prison-deep, but train-tracks of sadness made a decade ago. That when he said they should have died he wasn’t being flippant, he was being truthful. With the sun shifted, she can see in his eyes, a haunted house, sadness deep within them.

  It was still current for him, she realises. The present is merely a continuation of the past, with no reflection and no closure. She guesses he must not be long out of prison. What was it? Driving under the influence? Breaking and entering? Two sentences of manslaughter? Added to what he had done to Jamie the previous summer?

  ‘I did die that night, Trent,’ Mary says softly. ‘Or at least any part of me that meant anything.’

  Before Trent can answer, Jamie leans forward. ‘Why are you here?’ he spits.

  Mary looks at him. There is an old anger in his face that she suspects has been buried for decades.

  ‘Why the fuck have you come back, Trent? What do you know about the girl?’

  Trent looks at him quizzically, as if trying to work out what he means.

  ‘The girl? What girl? I’m here, like I told Mouse, because of the email. Because of the picture of the night… well, the night Bella died.’

  Trent is sm
aller, Mary realises, which strikes her as odd. One would have thought that life would have filled him out. But maybe, she thinks, he’s had all the life he could when he was younger.

  Like her.

  ‘The night you killed her, you mean!’ Jamie was practically shouting, his hands clenched into fists.

  He’s afraid of him, Mary thinks. After all these years, he’s still afraid of him.

  ‘Yes, Jamie,’ Trent says quietly, his voice slicing up the dusk creeping into the air. ‘The night I killed her. I haven’t forgotten.’

  Except you didn’t, Mary thinks. You didn’t kill her; she killed herself.

  Where are we going?

  Straight to hell, Mouse.

  That was what Bella had said to her, just before spinning the wheel of the car and crashing out of reality.

  Mary swallows. ‘Why did you burn down Blea Fell, Trent? I never got to ask.’

  Both Trent and Jamie turn to stare at her. Trent’s eyes are clear, she notices. Spiderwebbed with pain or memory, but clear. He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘You got taken into custody and I never got to see you. And then your identity was withheld because of your age so I never got to visit.’

  ‘You would have visited me?’ Trent asks. ‘Really?’ He smiles and shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you were fucking each other.’ Jamie’s voice is cold. They turn to look at him, and he shrinks under their gaze. ‘What?’

  ‘This is so messed up.’ Mary stays looking at Jamie. ‘Why do you need to be so hurtful?’ Her gaze is steady, trying to drill past the scared man to the boy she used to know. Before that night when Bella died; before the night in the pub when Bella left with her dad, and Jamie… Mouse blinks. Before Trent beat him into a new shape at school.