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

by Nikki Smith

  there.

  Did I throw it away by mistake? I’m convinced I haven’t, but to be sure I pull out the small swing-top bin from under the sink and fish through the contents inside. There’s very little in it: an empty bread bag, a couple of baked bean pots and a screwed-up piece of toilet roll with a clump of tangled hair peeking out from between the folds. No sign of any letter.

  It isn’t like I actually need it. The words are etched firmly in my memory. I just want the evidence to prove he’s real. That he’s been here. That I’m not losing my mind. He’d made me feel like that whenever I was getting too close to the truth. Perhaps that’s what he wants me to feel now. It’s working.

  ‘You must have said something to her,’ I’d said, unzipping my dress a couple of inches at the back so I could breathe in the taxi on our way home.

  ‘I didn’t. I told you. She must have overheard us on the phone.’ He’d been annoyed. He’d hated evenings when he had to socialise with clients. He’d found it draining.

  ‘Jesus, Jack. You need to be more careful. I told you I don’t want everyone in your office knowing our business.’

  I’d opened the window slightly to let in some fresh air. I’d felt a bit sick. A combination of too much alcohol and the heater that seemed to be blowing hot air straight into my face in the back seat. And the suspicion that he wasn’t telling me the whole truth.

  ‘D’you work with her a lot?’ I’d asked, putting my hand on his.

  ‘Who? Steph? Not much.’ He’d reached into his jacket pocket to find his wallet as the cab had turned into our road.

  ‘She said you were close.’

  He’d pulled away from me. ‘No more than anyone else in the team. We all have to get on when we work together for as many hours as we do.’ He’d caught the look on my face and frowned. ‘If you don’t believe me, Ali, perhaps next time we have one of these events you’d better not come.’

  I hadn’t wanted the evening to end on a sour note as he’d given a couple of twenty-pound notes to the driver and told him to keep the change. I’d slipped my hand into his as we walked up to our front door and ignored the fact it had felt like he’d been trying to pull away, telling myself the stress of the past few months had taken its toll on both of us. That I knew my husband better than some woman he worked with.

  As I go to switch off my lamp, I see it. Folded up neatly on the edge of my bedside table. I didn’t put it there. I distinctly remember putting it in my notebook with the others. I don’t move as I try to reassure myself that no one’s been in my flat since I got home. I would have heard them.

  I creep out of bed and peer into the darkness of the small rooms to check. Of course there’s no one here. Just a heavy silence that permeates into every corner, waiting to be broken as I drift back to sleep wondering how the note had ended up on my bedside table.

  In my dream I can’t move my arms and panic, then realise I’m not being restrained; my fingers are being stroked, gently. For some reason, I can’t open my eyes, but I know, instinctively, this is my dad. It’s the same touch that had comforted me after Mum died, the same large hands that had wrapped themselves around mine in an effort to shield them – and the rest of me – from the grief. He’s talking to me but his words are muffled and I can’t ask him to speak louder as my voice doesn’t seem to be working. I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m supposed to be somewhere and need to get up. Dad starts to help me and then I open my eyes to see Jack’s

  face above me, his brown eyes staring straight into mine.

  I sit up with a gasp, fumbling for the lamp switch and squinting in the light that’s too bright after the darkness. I kick off my duvet as sweat drips from my skin. My pyjamas are soaked through and the sheet underneath me is damp. It’s just a bad dream. There’s no one here.

  I leave the light on whilst I try to get back to sleep for the three hours until I have to get up for work. The nightmare lingers like a pool of water, invisible in the dark. Each time my eyes begin to close, I jerk awake to stop myself sliding back into the cold liquid. I try to think about something else and concentrate on the feeling of Dad holding me. My dad. He hasn’t been over for ages. We’d been so close when Mum died, but since everything happened with Jack, I haven’t seen him as much. I need to call him. Get him to visit. I try to remember when he last came over, but my thoughts become muddled with tiredness and I’m still trying to work it out as I fall asleep.

  It’s only the thought of having to explain my absence to Mrs Painter that gets me out of bed the following morning. I stare at myself in the small mirror in my bathroom as I clean my teeth. My hair hangs in lank sections which don’t join together when I brush them. I wish I’d got up earlier to wash it. It’s too short to tie up into a ponytail, so I have to leave it and hope people won’t look too closely. I double-check my notebook. Three letters. All safe. Jack will come back to my flat at some point. He hasn’t finished with me yet, but he doesn’t realise I’ll know if he gets in here and is waiting for me. I just need to be patient.

  Sarah gets in the lift beside me when I arrive at work. I take the opportunity to move away from her as I press the button for the first floor, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

  ‘Tired?’ she asks.

  I nod. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’

  ‘I hate nights like that. Makes getting up early such an effort.’ She clasps her pristine tote handbag, her kitten heels pressed neatly together. I’m suddenly conscious my trousers are creased and there’s a stain on my top where I’ve spilt some of my breakfast. I pull my cardigan tighter around me.

  ‘I overslept,’ I add as an afterthought. I’m lying, but it helps to explain my appearance. The lift slides to a halt on the first floor. ‘This is me,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’ She smiles. ‘Maybe see you at lunch later?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’ I’m the epitome of politeness, but my tone is cold as I step out. I’m going to make sure I don’t go down to the canteen at my normal time so I can avoid seeing her again.

  ‘You’re very quiet today, Alison.’ Mrs Painter looks over at me when there’s a lull in visitors. I don’t comment as I notice an indentation on her finger where her wedding ring used to be. The skin is shiny and new, like when you move a piece of furniture and the carpet underneath has been squashed flat. ‘I mean, quieter than usual. You haven’t said a word this morning. I don’t want to pry, but is something the matter?’

  I bite back a wry smile. Sure she doesn’t. She always wants to know what’s going on in my life. She makes a point of telling me things about her neighbours on a daily basis. I never listen, but I don’t tell her that. I’ve worked with her long enough to recognise that her desire to talk is simply a way of masking her own insecurities. I’m not going to confide in her about getting Jack’s letters, that I think I’ve seen him here at work – I’m too worried as it is about losing my job. She’s bombarding me with information that I don’t need to know and I just want her to be quiet whilst I try to remember something Sarah said. Something she asked me. I think it’s important, but I can’t recall what it was. Mrs Painter’s constant chatter means I can’t focus properly.

  ‘Your ring is missing,’ I blurt out. I’m not sure what makes me say it other than a desperate need to stop her talking and for her to see what it feels like when someone pries into your life, peeling apart the layers and digging around.

  A crease appears in her forehead as she looks down at her finger. ‘That’s perceptive of you.’ She fiddles with her glasses chain and I can see I’ve pierced her usually impermeable exterior. Her voice trembles. ‘I’m not sure whether I should give it back. He wants me to.’ She looks at me and there are tears welling in her eyes. ‘Do you think I should?’

  I open my mouth to answer, but she carries on talking before I can reply.

  ‘But I think he’ll just give it to his new … and I don’t want …’ She trails off, waiting for me to respond. It’s the first time she’s ever asked for my advice, but I’m at a loss as to
what to say. I didn’t mean to upset her. I know in her own way she’s just trying to create a pleasant working environment. She doesn’t realise that I’m not like the other staff here; I don’t want to discuss the local gossip, I’m too busy worrying about Jack. Now I wish I hadn’t said anything.

  ‘How long have you had it?’ I ask.

  ‘Forty years. But it doesn’t seem right that I’ve got it now he’s—’

  I interrupt. ‘If he gave it to you, it’s yours and you should keep it. If you want to.’

  She still looks upset and I search for something I can say to make us both feel better.

  ‘My husband gave me a bracelet once,’ I tell her. I still remember picking up the fragile silver chain out of the small velvet box and our skin touching as he’d fastened it round my wrist. He’d bought it as a special present, but it was so long ago, I can’t remember what it was for. I think it was our anniversary.

  She gives me a strange look.

  ‘What happened to it?’ she asks.

  ‘I … I don’t know. I think I must have lost it.’ I try to touch my thumb and forefinger together in a circle round my wrist, but they don’t quite reach. They press on my bruise and the throb of pain makes me pull them apart. I look at Mrs Painter and smile briefly before turning away and walking down the row of bookshelves towards the back of the room where people are sitting at the tables. I’ll give her some space. I hate being fussed over when I’m feeling unhappy.

  Some of the customers are reading, others stare blankly at the screens on their laptops. The library is busy and I’m pleased as it means Mrs Painter is less likely to keep checking on me. I look around the tables to see if anyone is eating. People do it despite the large signs on the walls instructing them not to, all written in capital letters, underlined and punctuated with several exclamation marks. They don’t know how unpleasant it is to have to wipe hardened globules of food off plastic covers or separate pages that have been stuck together with an unrecognisable substance. It’s another reason why I keep hand sanitiser in my bag.

  I walk past the tables to the back of the library by the stairwell, where the double-glazed windows overlook the car park. The air conditioning keeps the temperature inside at a constant eighteen degrees, but outside the cars shimmer in a heat haze and I close my eyes, imagining the smell of warm tarmac. One of the last days of an Indian summer before the earthy, crisp smell of autumn appears in the mornings. Jack’s favourite

  season.

  I take advantage of the peace and quiet to try to remember what it was that Sarah said, but it’s gone, hiding behind too many other thoughts.

  ‘I’m not good at coping in the heat.’ Mrs Painter makes me start as her voice breaks the silence. She’s standing behind me as I stare into the dazzling brightness. ‘Twenty-eight today apparently. Not what you’d expect in September.’ She walks off again, peering over people’s shoulders.

  I turn back towards the window. A large bumble bee is crawling slowly across the inside of the pane of glass, its fragile feet tentatively searching for an escape route. As it moves, the sunshine catches its wings, reflecting a myriad of colours like miniature stained-glass windows. Mrs Painter doesn’t like insects. She keeps a can of Raid in her cupboard and picks up the lifeless bodies with tissues afterwards. I look round for something to put it in.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ She’s back, her inspection round completed. She follows my gaze. ‘Oh … that’s a big one.’ I can detect the panic in her voice. ‘I’ll get the spray.’

  ‘No!’ The vehemence in my voice surprises me. ‘I’ll find a container for it. We can take it outside.’

  Mrs Painter stares at me. ‘It’s only a bee, Alison, and the windows don’t open here. You’d have to take it all the way down to the ground-floor reception, and we’ve got nothing to put it in.’

  She walks back towards her desk. I feel a surge of panic. Picking up a book, I try to get it to crawl onto the cover. It ignores my efforts and keeps flying onto the pane, searching for an escape route. I watch as Mrs Painter advances, can in hand.

  ‘Please. I want to save you.’ I whisper the words, hoping I can make it understand my intentions.

  There’s a lump in the back of my throat as Mrs Painter presses the nozzle in its direction and a cloud of noxious fumes engulfs the struggling figure. The bee falls onto the windowsill on its back, legs waving frantically for a few seconds before freezing stiffly like tiny branches.

  ‘There. All done.’ She pauses, pushing the tiny body with the tips of her glasses to check for any signs of life before enveloping it in a wad of tissues. ‘Would you mind going

  on the computer for me? There are people waiting.’

  I walk back to the counter. A queue is building up as I pass the scanner over the books, lining up the red light with each barcode in quick succession, trying to not think about the poor creature that didn’t belong here. I know how it must have felt. Although I’m grateful for this job, I’m trapped just as much as it was, crawling around amongst all these books, waiting for Jack to find me.

  I put my hand on top of the tall pile that the man places in front of me. ‘I’m afraid you can’t take out more than four at once.’ My voice quavers and I have to clear my throat.

  ‘Why not?’ he asks, putting his hand on the counter.

  ‘It’s library policy. It’s stated in the rules. That you signed when you joined.’ I’m curt as he’s being so rude and I’m still upset about the bee.

  ‘I didn’t sign anything.’ He’s wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt that’s at least two sizes too big for him and he’s sweating profusely, despite the air conditioning.

  ‘You must have, or we wouldn’t let you borrow any books.’ I look anxiously down the row of bookshelves to see if I can locate Mrs Painter.

  ‘I didn’t. I didn’t sign anything.’

  I keep my hand on top of the stack of books so he can’t pick them up. ‘Which four would you like to keep?’

  ‘I want all of them.’ He moves his sticky hand on top of mine and instinctively I pull away. His touch is repulsive.

  ‘Well, you can’t. You need to choose four.’ I straighten my posture to full height to demonstrate an air of authority. ‘Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ Other people are joining the queue and he’s holding everyone up.

  ‘I want all of them.’ He pulls nervously at his damp sweatshirt.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ Mrs Painter walks back towards the counter and the knot in my stomach relaxes.

  ‘He wants to take all these out,’ I tell her.

  ‘You know you can’t do that, Matthew. You’re not allowed to take out more than four. We’ve told you this before.’ She speaks to him slowly before turning towards me. ‘Matthew’s one of our regulars. Don’t you recognise him?’ She walks round the counter and mutters in my ear, ‘He’s always trying it on. But, you know, he’s harmless.’

  I grip the scanner, pressing it against the cover of one of the books.

  Mrs Painter looks at me whilst I make no effort to move and then takes it out of my hand, laying it down on the surface beside me. ‘Don’t worry about it, Alison. You deal with the others.’

  I step out of her way and signal for the next person in the queue to move down as I reach under the counter for my bag, squeezing out a large blob of sanitiser and rubbing it liberally across both hands. It doesn’t get rid of the feeling of being touched by damp flesh, but at least it’ll kill the multitude of germs that must be sliding across my skin.

  Matthew picks up four books off the counter and grins at Mrs Painter, who smiles back.

  She’s mistaken. He might be one of her regulars, but I’ve never seen him before in my life.

  THEN

  Jack

  There’s a rasping noise next to me in bed. I’m heavy with sleep, fighting to surface from the nightmare that holds me in its grip. The warmth of her skin lingers on my fingers. I press the switch to turn on my lamp, but nothing happens. The
room is pitch black. I reach out to put my arm round her, searching for comfort in the familiarity of the curve of her back, the smoothness of the scar on her right hip where she slipped on a rock on holiday. There’s a fleeting second of confusion as I touch a cold sheet before I remember she isn’t there. The disappointment hits me as hard as a physical blow. It hasn’t lessened with time.

  I slide my hand under the duvet and cross my arms over my chest, holding myself tightly. Of course she isn’t here. She’s been gone for almost a year. I glance at her side of the bed and when I shut my eyes, I can see her turn over towards me, pushing her legs between mine so we’re linked together, as one, even in sleep.

  It’s not real. I rub my eyes to get rid of the images. I’d give anything to go back, even to those few seconds before I wake up when I still think she’s still lying beside me.

  I realise I’m the one making the rasping noise. I can’t seem to catch my breath. Why’s it so dark? I fight to control my panic and lie still, concentrating on slowing my breathing. I haven’t even got my phone to check what time it is.

  I get up slowly, the effect of the wine I drank last night becoming evident as I raise myself from a horizontal position and stagger out of bed. I run my hand over the wall to feel for the light switch. I turn it on and off. Nothing. I take small steps over to the window, feeling with each foot for the hazards I can’t see on the floor, and pull back the curtain. I still can’t see properly, but at least now I can recognise the outline of the garden table on the patio illuminated in the glow of the nearby street lamps. My rapid heartbeat slows a fraction as I realise there’s probably been a power cut.

  I grope my way to the kitchen. The walls of the flat look smooth in the daytime, but in the blackness, I can feel the slight bumps in the painted plaster. Nothing’s perfect when you look closely enough. The lights don’t work in there, either. There are no luminous digits showing on the oven clock.