The Visitor: A psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by K. L. Slater

  She had waited until Markus crossed the road. He seemed so much taller and broader than when she’d last set eyes on him. He wore his floppy fringe swept back now, and she thought how it suited him.

  He’d dodged the traffic and taken a final leap onto the pavement, folding her into his muscular arms.

  He seemed so pleased to see her, she found it quite disarming.

  ‘It’s been too long, Holly.’ He was grinning. ‘I want to know all about the exciting life you have been leading since leaving school.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Holly had twisted one side of her mouth up. ‘Well, that should take all of about five seconds.’

  ‘Same old dry sense of humour.’ He’d squeezed her arm.

  ‘What about you?’ she’d ventured. ‘Have you made your first million yet? Found Mr Right?’

  ‘Ha! Let’s just say I’m well on my way to both.’ He’d glanced down the street towards the shops at the bottom. ‘Do you have time for a coffee before you go? I have an opportunity to tell you about… You never know, you might be interested. Unless you’re happy with your wonderful life now?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she’d muttered.

  About to turn down his offer, she’d paused to think. She’d already missed the start of her first session at college, as the next bus wasn’t due for twenty minutes. It was only Health and Safety anyway. Boring old Miss Newton droning on about office rules.

  ‘I can spare an hour.’ She had shrugged. ‘But I’ll have to share your drink, ’cos I’ve got no cash on me.’

  ‘That’s no problem, consider it my treat.’ Markus had beamed, clearly delighted that she’d accepted his invitation.

  Chapter Eight

  Holly

  Holly stood up and walked over to the opposite side of the room.

  She pushed one of the packing boxes with her foot. It shifted easily towards the bed, over the dreadful brown-and-orange-patterned carpet that had somehow managed to completely suck out any illusion of space in the room.

  Sitting on the edge of the mattress again, she tore off the strips of masking tape and unfolded the flaps of the box.

  Her hand froze as she stared at the first item.

  The silver-framed photograph of Evan lay face up. Her eyes immediately prickled, turning the sun-kissed brown hair, the freckles and the pert nose that melted her heart into a soft blur.

  She reached for it and held it against her chest, resting her chin on the top of the filigree frame while her tears fell unchecked.

  Was he missing her the way she missed him?

  She should have wrapped the photograph in a towel or something, packed it safely at the bottom of the box. But she remembered now that his picture had been the one thing she’d wanted to keep looking at right until the last moment before she left.

  She could hardly bear to look at it, and yet she had found it impossible to set aside. He was the reason she would make a future here, so they could be together again.

  She squeezed the hard metal frame closer to her, feeling the bite of sharp corners that dug into her soft flesh.

  She applied more pressure. Wincing at the unforgiving metal and wishing for a moment that she could tear those responsible to pieces with it, but knowing full well that even that wouldn’t go an inch towards repairing the harm they had done to her. To him. To their relationship.

  She promised herself there and then that if ever she began to feel doubt or allowed the bad thoughts to take a hold, she’d look at that photograph, because it would give her the strength to carry on and the confidence that one day she and Evan could be together again.

  She wouldn’t allow anything to get in the way of that.

  * * *

  Ten years earlier, her aunt and uncle had tried to clip her wings when, after speaking to Markus, she’d decided to leave Nottingham for Manchester.

  Of course, on reflection, she now very much wished she’d gone for another option, but hindsight was the perfect science when applied to anyone’s life. And she’d never regretted getting away from the two of them at last, especially Uncle Keith.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re leaving home?’ Aunt Susan had gasped, her mouth falling open as she stood in the doorway of Holly’s poky bedroom. ‘You can’t go just like that. What about your college course?’

  ‘I can, and I am going,’ Holly had said simply, stuffing random pieces of clothing into a holdall. ‘College was only a stopgap until I found a way of getting out of this dump.’

  Her heartbeat had quickened when she’d heard the familiar sounds of her uncle labouring upstairs. Aunt Susan had looked back and shaken her head at the great lump when he finally reached the doorway.

  ‘She’s going, Keith! Leaving… after all we’ve done for her.’

  ‘Is that your way of thanking us for taking you in?’ he’d rasped, still out of breath from the short climb. ‘When your useless mother drank herself to death, you were headed straight for the children’s home… You’ve a short memory. You were glad enough to accept our hospitality then, weren’t you, you little tart?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’ Holly had glared at him and then softened her voice to address her aunt. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Aunt Susan, but I need to get out of this place, get away from Nottingham. I’ve been offered the chance to make a fresh start in Manchester with my friend, and—’

  ‘Manchester?’ Keith had scoffed. ‘What’s Manchester got that you can’t find here?’

  ‘Well it hasn’t got you, for starters,’ she’d retorted.

  ‘Holly! Don’t you dare speak to him like—’

  Holly had raised her hand. ‘Save it, Aunt Susan. Don’t make me go there.’

  ‘Go where?’ Keith had bristled, his flabby cheeks wobbling, magnifying the already outraged expression on his face. ‘If you’ve something to say, then bloody well say it. I’ve nothing to hide.’

  Holly had shaken her head and reached for her toiletries bag, tucking it inside an old grey rucksack.

  ‘Holly, you’re not being fair,’ Susan had pressed her. ‘It was an easy decision for me, you’re my own flesh and blood, but Keith didn’t have to take you in. He was so good about it, and now this…’ she’d nodded to Holly’s bags, ‘this is how you repay him?’

  Holly had stopped packing at that point and looked up.

  ‘Your husband is a slimy, creepy excuse for a man, Aunt Susan.’

  ‘You little…’ Keith had stepped forward, incoherent with indignation, but Holly had raised her voice above his garbled complaints.

  ‘He walks in on me when I’m undressing before bed. He makes lewd comments about my knickers on the clothes dryer and he pushes up against me whenever he walks past me in the hallway.’

  ‘She’s a lying little bitch, Susan,’ Keith had hissed, his face paling.

  ‘Oh yes, and he watches porn DVDs in the living room when you’re at work.’ Holly had slipped on her denim jacket and grabbed both her bags. ‘So don’t tell me I’m lucky, because I can’t wait to get away from the dirty pervert. I’m just sorry you’ve always chosen to turn a blind eye to it all, Aunt Susan.’

  Both speechless, they’d parted at the doorway as Holly pushed through.

  ‘Thanks,’ she’d called as she bounded downstairs, glancing back at their incredulous faces. ‘For nothing.’

  Keith had started shouting then, but she hardly heard any of his insults as she darted out of the front door, leaving it wide open as a final act of defiance.

  Freedom! The air had felt fresher, the ground firmer beneath her feet.

  ‘Manchester, here I come,’ she sang operatically in the street, and laughed out loud as she drew a frown from a passing dog walker.

  When she’d arrived at the bus station, Markus had been waiting for her, looking just as bright and relieved as she was to be leaving. Together they’d boarded the coach and he had opened a miniature bottle of vodka, with which they’d toasted the city they were leaving behind.

  ‘Bye, Nottingham, I won’t be back.’ Ho
lly had taken a swig of the vodka, coughing as it bit the back of her throat. ‘Onwards and upwards.’

  ‘Onwards and upwards,’ Markus had agreed as he finished the tiny measure.

  And now, ten years later, here she was. Back in Nottingham again.

  She had come full circle and managed to do it in the worst way possible.

  Chapter Nine

  David

  I push my plastic snack box, which Mother has packed to the brim with fruit and treats, into my small grey rucksack and leave the house.

  After closing the door behind me, I stand for five seconds or so surveying the street. All seems quiet and safe, so I brace myself and set off down the short path to the wooden gate that leads out directly onto the pavement.

  The bus stop is just a seven-minute walk from the house, and as I stride briskly up Baker Crescent towards the main road, I draw in a lungful of freezing air, relishing the burn of the late frost on the back of my throat.

  As I pass the Browns’ residence, I wonder if either of them is watching me from behind the curtains.

  I once saw a news special about sniper killers in America. How their high-powered rifles can pick people off even from a fair distance away.

  If someone shoots me in the back of the head now, there’s nobody around to witness it. No Good Samaritan to call an ambulance. Theoretically, the killer could get away scot-free.

  I pick up my pace but I don’t run. I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m in the least bit spooked.

  Even though spring is just around the corner, this unusually cold weather always serves to remind me of Guy Fawkes Night. The scent of the bonfires from early November seems to linger in the early chill.

  I detest the various bonfire celebrations that pepper the district at that time of year. The big organised event at nearby Wollaton Hall always brings hordes of families to the area.

  It’s not that I mind people having fun. In fact, I’ve often wondered what it might feel like to attend such an event, to stand in the open air with one’s friends and watch the staggering light displays that split the sky. To enjoy a hot toddy, be relaxed and at ease… instead of watching the fireworks as I usually do from behind glass, alone at my bedroom window.

  It always amazes me how readily people embrace these events, feeling comfortable and knowing exactly how to act. The very thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat.

  Last year, I actually got as far as pulling on my quilted jacket and wellington boots. In the end, however, I couldn’t quite muster the courage to go through with it.

  ‘Get going, man,’ Brian bellowed as I dithered at the door. ‘You might find yourself a young filly, have some fun. You’re not going to get any how’s-your-father stuck up in that bedroom, that’s for sure.’

  The last thing I wanted was to pick up a woman, to use another of Brian’s unfortunate phrases. After everything that had happened, I couldn’t imagine ever having the confidence to do so again.

  I shrugged off my outdoor clothing and marched back upstairs, leaving Brian’s crude remarks hanging in the air behind me.

  It was just the thought of all those anonymous bodies surrounding me, pushing up close. Personal space didn’t exist when you were in the middle of a crowd, did it?

  Theoretically, anyone could slip their hand into your pocket and relieve you of your wallet. A swift punch to the head could floor you, and you could end up trampled before the people around you even noticed you’d gone down.

  In a crowd like that, people could watch you quite easily. Without you even realising it.

  I glance behind me now, pulling my thin scarf up around my mouth.

  At least work gets me out of the house each morning, and sometimes, whilst I’m there, I can even forget the past completely… for a while, at least.

  The fact that Kellington’s is so conveniently situated close to home was one of the reasons I was persuaded to apply for the job in the first place.

  Granted, part-time car park attendant didn’t sound the most exciting of career moves at the time, but when Mother read out the details of the vacancy from the local newspaper – ten months ago now – it instantly appealed to me.

  I knew the exact location of this rather grand shop, with its small private car park to the rear. The successful candidate would be managing the parking space and, by the sounds of it, working quite autonomously for the daily four-hour morning shifts.

  Set back from the busy thoroughfare of Huntingdon Street in the centre of town, the car park can be accessed by vehicle only from a quiet, unobtrusive side street.

  Of course, that doesn’t stop some drivers trying it on. A stone’s throw away from Nottingham’s most popular shopping mall, the Victoria Centre, it remains a desirable and convenient space for harassed shoppers who don’t fancy negotiating the jammed, expensive multistorey car parks nearby.

  I’ve noticed there’s a big emphasis on being a team player in the jobs market, something that’s overrated if you ask me. I used to work in a busy printing and lithography office in Lenton, fetching and carrying for the more important members of staff there, who took great delight in having fun at my expense. Banter, they liked to call it.

  There’s a lot to be said for relying on your own initiative and getting on with a job with the minimum of fuss.

  My resolve to work at Kellington’s was cemented the day I was called for interview, when I set eyes on the small external kiosk with windows that looks as if it’s been tacked on to the side of the store.

  The existing attendant, a rotund, seemingly jolly man, nodded to me from his swivel chair as I cautiously made my way to the back entrance, as per the interview letter. I couldn’t help noticing that from this spot, the attendant had an unimpeded view of the entire car park.

  I watched as a car reversed out of a nearby space. The attendant punctiliously recorded its departure on the impressive list of handwritten car registrations in front of him.

  And it occurred to me, at that very moment, that life at Kellington’s might not be so bad.

  If I was successful in securing the post, it would be just one step on from sitting at my bedroom window in my current security role.

  By the time I entered the premises and was welcomed into the managing director’s office, I’d managed to slow down my breathing and unclench my fists a little.

  I often find pleasure in thinking back over the significance of that day.

  You see, by that time, I’d actually started to believe I might never leave the house again.

  The prescribed medication had helped, and on better days, I’d take the odd trip out to the shops with Mother. This was a big improvement on the raw panic that had flooded me after… well, after it had happened.

  But that day at Kellington’s, realising I might have found a place where I could feel integrated and useful again, it felt as if a tiny extinguished flame had started to burn once again in my chest.

  Don’t get me wrong, I know only too well that life is full of disappointments, and I remember thinking as I entered the store that I had a good way to go before I could claim to have found my niche there.

  I reach the bus stop in no time and check my stance, ensuring my shoulders are pushed back and both feet are planted firmly on the ground. I read somewhere that looking confident is paramount to disguising fear and discomfort when one is out in public.

  There is nobody else waiting, and the digital display informs me that the bus is still four minutes away. So I allow myself to indulge in a little more memory-mining.

  Mr Kellington himself and his assistant manager, Josh Peterson, interviewed me together. This confirmed my view that, far from being an inconsequential position in the company, the job I was applying for was in fact rather highly valued.

  After cursory introductions, Mr Kellington asked why I thought I’d be suited to the role on offer, and I surprised myself by availing him of my Neighbourhood Watch monitoring processes.

  The Rolodex, the detailed notes and obs
ervation techniques, and even my penchant for employing traditional administration methods where possible, rather than utilising modern technology, were all mentioned.

  I decided, at the last minute, to leave out my frequent use of binoculars and zoom-lens camera.

  ‘Well, you certainly seem suited to the job,’ Mr Peterson said, the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘Not sure I’d want to live next door to you, though. Do the other residents know that you’re a—’

  Mr Kellington cleared his throat.

  ‘You seem, let’s say, very… observant, David,’ he remarked drily. ‘Just the kind of person we’re looking for. You also strike me as a man who takes his duties very seriously.’

  On my mother’s advice, I had taken glowing references with me. There was one from her friend Beatrice, who worked as a nurse at the city’s respected Queen’s Medical Centre. The other had been provided by Christine Abbott, the team leader of Wollaton’s Neighbourhood Watch scheme.

  ‘These are excellent,’ Mr Kellington confirmed. ‘Although I always rely more on my gut feeling about a candidate than on what strangers might say. Hasn’t let me down yet.’

  The following week, I started my new job.

  I’d never seen Mother so proud, although I couldn’t help noticing that while she continually boasted to friends and neighbours that I now worked for Kellington’s, she made no mention of my job title.

  Although it’s tough in the winter months to work outdoors in the biting cold, and even in snow flurries on occasion, the small convector heater in the kiosk – which I prefer to refer to as my office – ensures that frostbite is kept safely at bay. It’s a joke I like to call on in the cold weather, with our regular customers.

  I sit there, warm as toast, with the large window in front of me, looking out on to the car park and the sliding glass hatch at the side that opens directly into the store’s foyer and allows me to speak to staff and customers. Everything organised and to hand, just as I like it.