All in Her Head: The gripping debut thriller that readers are going crazy for in 2020

by Nikki Smith

  The occasional noise from a neighbouring flat makes me jump as I lie awake in the dark. I tell myself that he wouldn’t break in, he’s not that stupid, but there’s a nagging uncertainty that keeps me awake long after any sound has ceased, a suspicion that I’m not alone in the silence.

  I’d been sitting next to him in the back of a taxi as he’d slid his hand over mine, his fingers between my own, looking as if they’d been tailored specially to fit. He had been sticky with sweat from the cheap plastic upholstery, heated to an almost painful temperature by the glare of the sun. The car had stopped and I’d moved to open the door, peeling the back of my legs slowly off the seat, but he hadn’t let me go.

  ‘You know how much I love you, don’t you?’ he’d whispered, his brown eyes searching for reciprocation.

  I’d kissed him and then turned away, pulling on the door handle. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me as he’d leaned forward to pay the driver and my skin had burned beneath his gaze.

  I don’t want to remember and turn the television on to try and drown out my thoughts, finally nodding off as the canned laughter of a late-night comedy programme distorts itself into whispers that skitter in and out of my dreams.

  In the morning, I ignore the one tiny piece of paper that circles round the toilet bowl and take a different route to work to vary my usual routine. There’s still no sign of him, and apart from a barely noticeable bald patch in the hair by my ear, everything seems completely normal.

  ‘Ah, there you are. I thought you’d be here earlier.’ Mrs Painter catches me as I head towards the library counter. ‘Take these, please.’ She hands me a sheaf of papers. ‘You know the code to open the door. And here’s the key card for the copier. I need twenty-five copies. Stapled.’ She peers over her glasses to remind me of the last time I’d forgotten this important instruction. The implied accusation makes me blush with embarrassment. I know she thinks I’m incompetent. I hadn’t forgotten the task – I just hadn’t known how to get the copier to do what I wanted and had been too scared to go back to reception to ask her. She’d made me finish the job by hand and I’d struggled to staple the thick wodges of paper together, my palm aching by the time I reached the bottom of the pile.

  I let myself into the small room at the rear of the library and watch as the warm light of the copier beams in front of me; searching from left to right like an extra-terrestrial spaceship. The monotony of the task makes me tired, my eyes growing heavier until I’m startled by the door slamming shut. I gather up the stapled piles of paper the machine has neatly spat out and edge around in the tiny space to reach the door handle. It doesn’t move. I try again. The silver knob doesn’t budge. Resting the stack of copies on the lid of the machine, I turn it with both hands. Still nothing.

  My heart rate begins to quicken and I take a deep breath. The handle won’t turn because the code needs to be punched into the keypad on the outside of the door to open it. Not everyone here has the code to get in; Mrs Painter has restricted access to a privileged few. The photocopier is, as we have been informed on more than one occasion, expensive equipment, and should not be used in a frivolous manner. I reassure myself the handle isn’t broken. I need to stay calm and someone will get me out. I knock hesitantly on the door. Mrs Painter may be just outside. She may have even heard it shut.

  But then the room plunges into darkness. I step backwards, knocking my elbow on the copier. Any self-consciousness vanishes into the blackness. My back presses against the machine and I look behind me to where I can make out the faint lights of the control panel. This time, I bang the door in a frenzied panic. The lights come back on. They respond to movement. Thank God.

  A couple of drops of perspiration slide down my face and I wipe them off with the sleeve of my jumper and bang again. Both fists this time. Hard thumps. ‘Mrs Painter?’ My voice is high-pitched. I clear my throat and shout. ‘Mrs Painter?’ My knuckles smart from the impact against the hard wood. ‘Mrs Painter? It’s Alison. Can you hear me?’ I pause, listening for any sound outside. The lights go off again. They must be on a sensor. I wave my hands around until the bulbs flash back on. This time I kick the door and it jolts with the force. ‘MISS-ES-PAIN-TER?’ I shout her name, pressing my ear to the wood, but all I can hear is the sound of my ragged breathing. I cough. There’s a smell of chemicals that reminds me of petrol. It must be the toner. It makes me feel dizzy as I listen in vain for any sound of her footsteps.

  She sent me to do a job, and she’s fastidious with time-keeping. I need to be logical. She’ll notice I’m not back in ten … fifteen minutes at the most, and come looking for me. It’s the only copier in the library, so she knows where I am. I shut my eyes, trying to imagine the room is bigger than it actually is. That the walls aren’t closing in around me, pushing out all the air until there’s no oxygen left. Panic wraps itself round my throat. I’m trapped. In this tiny space. My desperation bubbles up into a scream, but no sound comes out when I open my mouth. I force myself to breathe slowly, counting in for four and out for six, focusing on the out breath until my thoughts separate into something coherent, rather than a blast of noise that’s so painful I realise I’ve been pressing both sides of my head to keep it from splitting apart.

  The lights go off again and I feel something warm against my ear. Someone’s breath. My skin prickles, as if someone has run their fingers down the back of my neck.

  ‘Relax, Ali, I’m here.’ His voice. He’s sitting next to me.

  I gasp and scrabble backwards away from him until I’m pushed up against the opposite wall of the cupboard. I kick out in a futile effort to stop him getting hold of me, but despite my flailing, I don’t encounter anything solid other than the side of the copier. Where’s he gone? Why haven’t the lights come back on?

  ‘Jack?’ I reach out into the blackness, clutching at shadows. Brightness illuminates the room and extinguishes the visions. There is nothing there. No Jack. Nobody. I pull desperately at the silver door handle. ‘Can someone help me? Please?’ I twist my hair with one hand as I sink to the floor, pressing my palm against the door with the other in a futile attempt to reach what’s on the other side. I have to get out.

  There’s a sharp click. The door swings open, knocking against my foot on its arc, followed by a rush of cool air that cuts straight through the sticky atmosphere.

  ‘Alison?’ Mrs Painter’s face appears. ‘What are you doing on the floor? Get up, dear. Give me those.’ She points at the stack of copies lying on the machine. I pick up the ones that have fallen by my feet.

  ‘I think … I must … the door … locked myself in by mistake.’ The words come out garbled, my ability to speak coherently wiped out by my overwhelming relief.

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’ She’s annoyed. ‘You know I always say to make sure you put the wedge under the door before you start copying. Firstly, so you don’t lock yourself in and, secondly, so you don’t get overwhelmed by the fumes. That toner can be quite potent in a small space.’ She chivvies me to my feet and out of the tiny room. ‘I have told you about that before. Do try to listen more carefully.’ She pauses as she notices I’m finding it difficult to catch my breath. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks in a kinder tone. I nod. ‘Have you got the copier card?’ I hand it to her with sweaty fingers. ‘Good.’ She attempts to wipe it discreetly on her jacket before shuffling the papers into a neat pile, sniffing in what sounds like disapproval, as she thumbs through them. ‘At least you managed to finish.’ She checks her watch. ‘We’re supposed to be in a meeting in a minute. We need to get a move on.’

  I follow her back to the counter, the heat of my humiliation failing to melt her frosty demeanour that’s still evident despite her brief attempt to be sympathetic. She’ll make a note of this to use against me in the future. She already thinks I can’t do this job.

  I run my hand over the spines of the books, their solidness acting as a comfort to give me something to hold onto as we walk past the shelves and try to ignore the feeling that someone i
s walking beside me, their invisible fingers tapping my arm in an effort to get my attention.

  THEN

  Jack

  I wash down a couple of ibuprofen with a large glass of water as I read through the letter again, then fold it up carefully and put it in the bag with my laptop. I can’t remember how many times I’ve pored over the words since it arrived three days ago, but each time it’s been harder to swallow the resentment that sits like a stone in the bottom of my stomach. The legal jargon has been written deliberately to provoke me. I’d been tempted to rip it up in disgust, but after a weekend of thinking about little else, I’m calmer. I’ve planned what I’m going to do and it only requires a few adjustments to my usual routine.

  Before I went to bed, I’d packed a change of clothes in my sports holdall and put it in the hall, ready. Picking it up with my bag and travel mug full of coffee, I shut the front door of the flat and walk down the communal corridor to let myself out of the block. Throwing the holdall in the boot of my car that I’ve parked next to the black iron railings surrounding the front of the building, I slot my coffee into the cup holder. Normally I catch the bus, but if I’m going to make it from my office to where she works before she finishes for the day, I need to drive.

  The rush-hour traffic slows the car to a crawl as soon as I pull out onto the main road and it takes longer than I expect before the symmetry of red-and-cream-brick Georgian buildings gives way to modern high-rise office blocks with their smooth, stark concrete and anonymous entrances. I’m worried that I haven’t left enough time and the constant stop-start motion makes me feel nauseous. The caffeine kicks in after a few mouthfuls and stops my hands trembling as they grip the steering wheel, but in hindsight I wish I hadn’t opened that last bottle. I rely on it to get to sleep, but it doesn’t stop the nightmares and my hangovers are worse than ever. I should really cut down. Starting today.

  I consider whether there’s any possibility I’ve misunderstood what was written in the letter; I’m sure I haven’t. The tone was deliberately official, not open to interpretation. I want to read it again but need to concentrate on driving. I’ve memorised most of it and can’t get phrases like ‘issues of confidentiality’ out of my head. I don’t understand how she can do this. I’m still her husband, for God’s sake.

  I take a deep breath. Stick to the plan. It’s futile to waste valuable energy getting angry. I’ll save that for when I see her. I flick off the air vents more roughly than necessary, the exhaust fumes from the vehicle in front are making my headache worse.

  The traffic doesn’t ease for the entire journey and by the time I arrive, my leg aches from constantly pressing the clutch. I’ve pre-booked a car-parking space in the NCP nearest to where I work at Butler Reynolds as the ones in our company basement are reserved solely for client use. Lowering my window, I pull a ticket out of the machine at the entrance and hold it between my teeth, one hand on the steering wheel, the other fumbling for the button to shut the window as I drive up the ramps to the fifth floor. A woman gets out of her car and I slam on my brakes. It’s her. I hold my breath. She flicks her blonde hair out of her face as she opens her boot and, in the elation of seeing her, I stall the engine. I’m about to open my door when she turns and looks at me, smiling, as she shakes her head. She thinks I’m waiting for her space.

  It’s not Ali. The air in my lungs escapes in a loud rush with the realisation. Her coat is similar to the blue one she used to wear, but her face is completely different. Older. The disappointment hits me as hard as if I’d slammed myself against the windscreen and I restart the car, an acrid taste in my mouth as I drive up to the next floor.

  I tell myself that nothing has changed even though it feels like it has. Believing that I’ve seen her, even for an instant, makes me miss her even more than I did before. I’ve become accustomed to the dull ache that’s replaced her as an ever-constant companion, but the agony of the piercing disappointment that follows brief moments of hope is almost unbearable.

  As I park up, my mobile rings and I glance at the number, letting it go to voicemail. My mum. I only spoke to her last night. I shouldn’t have told her about the letter. I knew she’d worry.

  The lift in the NCP is out of order, so I walk down to the ground floor, taking two concrete steps at a time to avoid a puddle that smells suspiciously of ammonia. Once I’m out onto the street, it’s a short walk to my office building. Three minutes at the most. I should be able to do the whole journey later this afternoon in under an hour and that includes stopping to change out of my suit. Of the ones I own, it had been her favourite. We’d bought it together a couple of years ago in John Lewis and I’d taken so long in the changing rooms trying it on that she’d insisted I took her for lunch afterwards. We’d found a space in the corner where we could fit all our carrier bags full of shopping and I’d leant over the table to kiss her, the taste of the coffee she’d drunk at breakfast still on her lips.

  I smile at the girl behind reception and hold my pass over the barrier. It beeps and the three metal prongs on the turnstile revolve to let me in. The marble decor and bank of lifts have been designed specifically to impress clients. They don’t get to see the floors like mine which don’t have any meeting rooms and aren’t nearly as lavish.

  I shut the door of my office and open up my laptop. Taking the letter out, I unfold it and dial the phone number shown under the address. There’s a standard recorded message advising I’m in a queue and I press a variety of buttons in an effort to get through to a real person. Finally, a voice answers.

  ‘Ms Henderson’s office, can I help you?’

  I clear my throat. ‘I hope so. Is she in today?’

  There’s a pause. ‘Yes, she is. Would you like me to put you through?’

  I hang up and google her name, along with the one on the letterhead, clicking on the small photo of her next to her contact details. She looks about the same age as me, her dark hair cut sharply in a bob, framing her face. Pretty. Not what I’d expected. I jump as there’s a sharp knock on the door and Harry walks in.

  ‘Hi, Jack. Good weekend?’

  I nod and minimise the browser on my computer, sliding the letter off my desk onto my lap. ‘Not too bad,’ I reply.

  ‘I’ve come to ask if you’ve got those figures for Marley Brown’s?’

  I point at the blank screen on my laptop, which he can’t see. ‘I’m just finishing them off now. I’ll bring them through when I’m done.’

  ‘Thanks. They’ve asked to meet us on Thursday, so it would be good to run through them this morning. I’m sure they’re going to need to shut at least one of their branches, but we might be able to suggest options to redeploy some of the staff.’ He hesitates before adding, ‘And Em wanted me to check we’re still on for dinner at yours on Friday? I forgot to ask when we saw you yesterday. Too busy trying to make sure Jessica didn’t destroy your flat.’

  I’d forgotten I’d invited them. The three of us had kept in touch after we left University but since Harry and Em moved into a flat a few roads away, we’ve seen each other more regularly. ‘Sure. Looking forward to it.’ I think quickly. ‘Any time after seven?’

  ‘Sounds great.’ Harry hesitates. ‘Em’s been a bit quiet since you came to ours last week.’ He glances at the door to check no one’s listening. ‘Between you and me, I think we got a bit raucous. She was definitely less than impressed the next day.’ He grimaces. ‘Wasn’t happy with me at all.’

  My stomach clenches. Most of that night is a blur after we’d sat down to eat, but I have a vague recollection of Em staring at me, a look of confusion on her face. I can’t remember what I’d said to her.

  Harry continues, oblivious to my anxiety. ‘So, to avoid my wife not speaking to me again, I’d better be on my best behaviour. It’ll be good to catch up though. We’ve got a sitter for the kids, so we might be able to have an uninterrupted conversation for once. Providing Jess manages to sleep. She was a nightmare last night. Sometimes makes me

  wonder
…’ He pauses and his cheeks flush. ‘Sorry.’

  I cut across him. ‘It’s fine.’ I look back at my screen. ‘Once I’m done with this, I’ll let you know.’

  He pulls the door shut on his way out and I put the letter back into my bag. I promise myself that I won’t look at it again until I leave the office. I need to focus.

  I push all thoughts of Ali out of my head as I open up the spreadsheet that Harry has been talking about and finish the budget. It takes longer than I’d expected as I can’t resist switching screens and enlarging the photo of the woman’s face to study her more closely. She’s smiling, but it’s professional; only for the camera. She must have had it taken at work; the stark white background has drained the colour out of her already pale face. Large diamond studs sit neatly in her ears. I bet they’re real. In a few hours I’ll be able to ask her in person.

  I print off the page of figures and take it into Harry’s office, where we discuss each item until the numbers swim into meaningless shapes. My head starts to throb. I could really do with a coffee. Harry notices me stifle a yawn.

  ‘Fancy getting something to eat?’ he suggests.

  I nod. ‘That would be great.’

  We head out of the office towards the nearest sandwich shop, past a couple of restaurants and a bar whose sizeable glass frontage reveals several empty tables with wooden stools turned upside down on their polished surfaces, balancing precariously. I deliberately turn my head to look in the opposite direction, a shudder running down my back. We’d met in there. I’m reminded of it every time I walk past. How I’d debated whether to turn up at all. I tell myself that if I could go back to that afternoon, I wouldn’t give in so easily, but I know I’m lying. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d just be more careful to make sure she didn’t

  find out.

  Harry offers to pay as I sit down in a café a couple of doors further along the street with a latte and a bottle of water. I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was.