Only You: an absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by S Williams

  ‘I know what you did to me that night,’ she says, opening her eyes, her voice even softer than his. ‘After Bella left, when you’d given me your drugs.’

  There’s silence behind her, but it’s a biting silence. A waiting silence.

  ‘We’ve never talked about it, but I’ve never forgotten. Never forgiven.’

  ‘It was the drugs, Mouse. It made everything all loved-up. I just couldn’t help it.’ Jamie’s voice is soft; soft like it used to be at primary school. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Yes you did, Jamie,’ she says.

  ‘I stopped before it… Fucking hell, Mouse, you know I wouldn’t…’

  ‘Fuck you, Jamie!’ Mary hisses, turning in her seat. ‘The last thing I remember was you giving me another pill, and then I woke up on the fucking floor with my clothes–’

  ‘We were both wrecked! It just happened. You were wasted, yeah, but–’

  ‘I was unconscious, Jamie! My clothes were in fucking tatters!’

  ‘It was you who kissed me! And then after that it was all a blur!’

  She feels the car rock slightly as he hits the back seat with his fists.

  ‘The fucking drugs, Mouse.’

  She closes her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.

  Two words, but it sounds like the summing up of a whole life. Mary looks at him, scratching at his scar, scrabbling at it like he was trying to scrape it off his face. ‘It was just the drugs and the booze and the music and the bloody lights from that damned machine. I got rid of the pinball machine, Mouse.’ He looks at her pleadingly, like he had done something to help. ‘I took it into the backyard and smashed it into little pieces.’

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t the pinball machine that was broken, Jamie, was it?’

  Mary’s voice is flat. She thought letting out the shame and pain she had kept in her for so many years would help, but it makes her feel more empty. Less whole.

  ‘It was you. It was you that was broken. You were always so good with your hands, Jamie. Taking your photographs and building your Meccano, but you never used them to fix yourself. And then you used your hands to, to… break me. It might not have been rape but it was abuse. Abuse of power.’

  She looks at him a moment longer, then turns back in her seat, searching the front of the hotel for Trent. Behind her is only silence, as her words ricochet around the car, their echoes slowly decaying.

  ‘She was covered with bruises. All over her body. Did you know that?’

  Mary’s not sure if she’s heard correctly. The words don’t seem to have any connection. Was he talking about her?

  ‘Bella,’ Jamie clarifies, as if Mary had asked him a question. ‘She was covered in bruises. And not just bruises; cuts and scratches. I saw them.’

  Mary slowly turns back to face Jamie. He looks at her with almost no expression. The disconnect from what had just happened was astonishing. It was as if their previous exchange had not occurred.

  ‘What are you saying to me, Jamie?’

  Jamie doesn’t answer directly; he seems to be on his own track. Mary swallows dryly. She wants to get out of the car, but there’s something about the slackness of Jamie’s features that keeps her pinned to her seat. Eventually he continues.

  ‘I was always good at watching. Ever since I was young. I guess it was because I grew up in a pub. Mum and Dad too busy to pay attention to me, but always loads of time to put on a show for strangers.’ The bitterness in Jamie’s voice is heavy.

  ‘Yes, well I’m sorry for you but–’

  Jamie keeps talking, as if Mary had said nothing.

  ‘You were the only person who ever showed me any kindness; who ever even noticed me as a human being, rather than a fucking dog to kick, or a monkey to wind up.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with the cuts on Bella, Jamie?’ Despite herself, Mary is fascinated. Everything about Jamie seemed to have a slight delay; be microscopically out of time.

  ‘But it was okay. I found things to occupy me; places to run. Building stuff out of Meccano. Making a steam engine. Then photography. That fitted right in. It allowed me to be…’ he seems to struggle for the word, ‘…to be part of everything. But still safe.’

  Absolute sadness does not excuse you, Mary thinks, but she doesn’t say anything.

  ‘And then the internet came along,’ Jamie continues, almost as if he is talking to himself. ‘And I could make friends without them knowing who I was. I could… watch in safety.’

  Mary suddenly remembers a rumour about Jamie; about why his wife left. Something about him watching videos on the net. Dark stuff, so the village mill had said. Bondage; maybe worse. Mary shudders.

  ‘I’m sorry you were lonely, Jamie,’ she speaks quietly and slowly. ‘But that doesn’t–’

  ‘Oh, I was lonely, all right, but I coped.’ Jamie’s voice is harsh, like he’s thrown up a beach of pebbles. ‘Right up until Trent came. Then it all went nuclear.’

  Mary looks at him, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s my fault, really; I should have knocked. I should have bloody knocked and then none of this would have happened!’

  Jamie stares at her with such haunted eyes that Mary feels something inside her roll over and die.

  ‘What are you even talking about, Jamie? What did you see?’

  ‘And then he wouldn’t be my friend anymore, you understand? Because I’d seen him weak. Instead, because of that, he had to make it worse for me. Worse than the others, even, because he knew how much it hurt me.’

  Jamie’s voice becomes softer. Sadder. Colder. ‘That’s why I took the picture. That’s why I gave it to Bella. That’s why I showed him.’

  Mary looks at him aghast, jigsaw pieces from a twenty-year puzzle beginning to slot into place.

  ‘That’s why he beat you? Because you’d shown him a picture? A picture of what?’ Mary feels an awful weight pressing down on her.

  ‘Of you and Trent.’

  ‘When?’ she whispers.

  ‘When he was leaving your house. After you’d…’ Jamie looks down. ‘You were at the window, watching him. You were naked.’

  ‘And you sent that to Trent?’ Mary feels a horror crawling through her, even though it was from so long ago.

  But it’s not, a dark voice spider-whispers in her head. It’s not long ago because the eggs have all hatched and Bella is back.

  Jamie nods.

  ‘And to Bella.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because it should have been me!’ he hisses.

  ‘And that’s why you… took advantage of me?’ Mary says incredulously. ‘Because you think I should’ve been sleeping with you?’

  Jamie shakes his head. ‘No. I told you. It wasn’t… We were both…’ His voice trails off under Mary’s gaze.

  When he speaks again the dislocation is back, ‘…And then it all got fucked up that night and Trent went and killed her. He killed her on that road by driving fucked-up, but I’m to blame. I’m to blame for showing him that picture.’

  The starkness of the statement stuns them both.

  ‘And now Martha is here, to take revenge on us,’ he finishes.

  Jamie looks at her like he is already damned. Before she can say anything the door opens and Trent slides in, shutting the door and starting the engine in one fluid movement.

  ‘Sorry for the delay, had to take a call from my parole officer.’ He looks at them both, then clocks the tension. ‘What?’ he says, smiling slightly. ‘What did I miss?’

  Mary feels the urge to slap him. She is incandescent. ‘You knew? You knew about the photo? That Bella had found out about us? You knew and you never thought to tell me?’

  Trent stops smiling and slowly turns to Jamie, staring at him with such intensity that Mary is amazed he doesn’t burn a hole. ‘Nasty scar,’ he says after a moment. He says it quietly, his voice almost pleasant. Jamie looks away and licks his lips.

  Mary continues. ‘She was my friend, Trent! Ha
ve you any idea what it was like, being around her? The guilt and the pain and the fucking shame of it! And now I find out that she knew all along! What were you thinking?’

  Trent stares at Jamie a moment more, then looks at Mary. The pain in his eyes is there, but so is anger. ‘I was thinking of us, Mouse!’

  Mary blinks. ‘What?’

  Trent rubs his hand across his face.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You think this Athene is Martha, yes? You said you knew where she went?’

  So many secrets, Mary thinks, looking at him.

  Hi, my name is Trent.

  The first thing he’d said to her, next to the bridge.

  Before he became Heathcliff.

  Before Bella tried to kill them.

  I wish she’d succeeded, Mary thinks bitterly. Then at least everything could stop.

  She nods.

  ‘Where is she? At your house? At the police? Why did she need the batteries?’ Jamie’s voice has lost the dislocation, but regained the fear.

  ‘What batteries?’ Trent asks.

  ‘No, she’s not gone to my house,’ Mary says. ‘And she’s not gone to the police.’

  I’m living in a fucked-up version of Wuthering Heights, she thinks, putting her seat belt on. ‘She needs the batteries for her torch.’

  ‘Why does she need a torch?’

  ‘Because where she’s gone there isn’t any electricity, and it’s getting dark.’ Mary turns and looks at Trent. ‘Come on, it’s time to end this. Drive.’

  ‘Where to?’ Trent says.

  Mary looks out of the window, wishing she had twenty years back so she could put things right.

  ‘On to the moor. To Blea Fell. That’s where Martha’s gone. To the start.’

  63

  Bella’s Last Day: The Craven Head Disco

  ‘Three, two, one, midnight! Happy new year!’

  The shitty mobile DJ’s voice, distorted with bad amplification and lager, called in the new year, and the shitty barroom drunks gave a shitty barroom cheer.

  Mouse felt lost in the crowd.

  The whole night had been a disaster. She so wanted to tell Bella about her and Trent; say sorry. Say that given the choice it would be her, not Trent. Always her. Always and forever, until they were old or dead. She had searched for her in the noise and the lights, through the fair. She thought she saw her on the Waltzer, spinning and laughing with the rousta who rode the ride like he owned it, but then Trent had pushed her into that alley; opened up her heart with the sharp blade of her guilt and made her bleed it out in front of him. Later, when she found Bella, the moment had gone; lost in the gutter with the litter and the empty drug wraps and the broken bottles.

  ‘And a special song has been requested for a special girl, to say “I’m sorry”!’

  The DJ’s voice was beyond cringe, but no one seemed to notice. Mouse dragged on her cigarette, avoiding eye contact with any of the drugged-up, pissed men who were trying to get her attention. It was clear that the record was going to be a slow dance. A grope dance. Mouse could see Trent arguing with Jamie, his finger jabbing into his chest like it was a knife. Unfinished business, she thought, letting her eyes linger for a moment, before passing on, looking for her friend.

  And then the song began, with the deep note of the bass, and everything clicked into place. Julee Cruise’s ‘Falling’ began, and it was like the world stopped. Mouse looked round, and there was Bella, in the middle of the dance floor, head bowed. Mouse stood up and walked towards her, the drunken crowd fading away. All that was in her mind was: She forgives me. She forgives me. She forgives me.

  As she stepped onto the micro dance floor, sticky from ash and snakebite, Bella looked up, and Mouse’s breath caught in her throat. She was the most beautiful person she had ever seen; not because of something skin-deep, but because of something soul-deep. Bella saw her from the very beginning, when no one else did. She saved her and loved her and carried her and protected her. And then Mouse betrayed her, and everything broke.

  But the smile on Bella’s face said a different story. It said that she loves her, and forgives her, and will be hers forever.

  As the vocals start, Mouse entered Bella’s embrace, and they danced away their pain into forever.

  She didn’t see Trent watching them like the world was ending. She didn’t see Jamie leave the pub, tears dropping from his eyes like acid.

  She didn’t see anything, just felt Bella’s heart, hammering against her breast like it wanted to be free.

  64

  B Road to Blea Fell: Trent’s Car

  Trent drives the car along the narrow road, the light dying in the sky. The car is clean, the engine smooth as he navigates the small road. Mary thinks it must be a rental. It doesn’t have the feel of an owned thing. She glances a sideways look at him. She can see that his skin is finely lined, with the invisible grime of institutional living stamped on his posture and features. He looks tired, not like he hadn’t slept, but like he’d only fitfully lived. She tries to imagine what his life has been like; locked up as a child, then finally released into the world he had never experienced as an adult.

  ‘Were you given a new identity?’ she asks, looking at him. She watches as his mouth spasms in what she guesses is a smile; he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. She shudders; she is actually amazed he is driving at all, after what had happened.

  ‘What, like in all the detective films?’ He laughs softly.

  His laugh is nice, not like it was towards the end, that winter. She wonders if prison was a release for him, rather than an incarceration.

  She nods.

  ‘Because Martha was,’ Mary says slowly. ‘After what happened to Bella, and her parents. When she went into care, she was given a different name to protect her.’

  ‘Protect her?’

  ‘You had murdered her sister and her father,’ sneers Jamie from the back seat.

  Mary’s breath catches again at Jamie’s brutality.

  ‘Manslaughter,’ corrects Trent after a broken heartbeat. ‘Not murder.’

  ‘Manslaughter, then. And arson. Let’s not forget that.’ Jamie’s anger seems out of place, his language overly violent. Mary remembers what he was saying just before Trent got into the car. About him being a lost friend. You must have been completely broken when he rejected you, she thinks sadly.

  ‘Protect her from her past,’ she answers. ‘From journalists or whatever. I wonder if she was even told who her real parents were? What happened to her when she was a baby.’

  ‘I imagine not,’ Trent says, turning off the B road onto the tiny unmarked lane that led to the track that ended at Blea Fell. ‘Or at least not until she was eighteen. When she became an adult I should think she would have been given access to all her records.’

  ‘Which would have explained coming up here!’ Jamie says. ‘And if she is really training to be a police officer, then that would be how she found your address, Trent. And how she got hold of the photographs.’

  The logic of it was undeniable.

  ‘And Bella would have written about James Dean in her diaries,’ Mary says. ‘About ripping the corners off the cigarette packs.’

  ‘What, like Bella used to do?’ Trent glances at her.

  She nods.

  ‘She had so many diaries. She wrote her whole life down in them. If Martha got hold of them then I guess she’d have reason to hate us.’

  Don’t trust her.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Trent flicks the indicator stick to leave the road and drive onto the stone track to Blea Fell. ‘But where would she know where to look?’

  There was a constant noise of clicks and pings as sharp stones and pebbles got kicked off the track by the tyres and onto the underside of the car.

  ‘I saw them once,’ Jamie says quietly.

  ‘What, the diaries? When. Where?’ Mary turns in her seat and looks at him.

  ‘In her house,’ Jamie says uncomfortably. ‘I was on the moor birdwatching.’

&nb
sp; Mary remembers the photo of her by the pond, taken by Jamie with a telephoto lens.

  ‘You were spying on her?’

  Jamie shrugs. ‘Whatever. The point is that she had all these diaries. Her parents and Martha were out somewhere and Bella was sat on the sofa writing in her diary, with all the others around her. She looked really angry.’

  ‘Maybe because she could feel your pervy eyes on her,’ Trent mutters, but he doesn’t look away from the track. In the fading light the edge is blurring, and there is a steep drop on one side.

  ‘No, she was really upset about something. Anyhow, when she’d finished writing she gathered up all the books and took them somewhere. Hid them somewhere secret, I think. I reckon when Martha came looking for her past she found the diaries, and that told her all about Bella. That’s how she knows to do what she’s done. That’s how she knows how to press our buttons.’

  ‘I don’t remember being asked about the diaries when I was interviewed by the police,’ Trent says slowly.

  ‘See! That’s because they never found them!’

  ‘But why would it matter if they had?’ Mary says. ‘All they’d have found would be teenage angst and hormonal drama.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Jamie says. Something in his voice makes Mary turn round, but Jamie is not looking at her, he is staring at Trent.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I was watching from the moor I saw her in the bathroom. Her body was covered in cuts.’

  ‘You were watching her in her bathroom,’ Trent says flatly. ‘You really are a piece of work, Jamie.’

  ‘What cuts?’ Mary asks, ignoring the disgust in Trent’s voice. ‘Like she’d been in a fight or something?’

  Jamie shrugs non-committally, his eyes never leaving Trent’s back.

  ‘With herself maybe. Some of them looked like self-harm. They were old, and all over her arms.’

  Mary thinks of her friend, who always wore long sleeves, and never showed her skin apart from her extremities. She nods. Towards the end she’d suspected. Had even seen the burns once or twice; but had never pushed. A deep well of shame opens up inside of her. She is brought out of herself by Jamie, who is still talking.