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

by Nikki Smith

  I pat my hand along the shelf in the hall to find my mobile, scroll up to activate the torch button, and open the coats cupboard to look at the fuse box. The main switch has tripped, along with another, so I push them both back up. There’s a series of clicks as objects round the flat spring back into life. Not a power cut, just a bulb blown in one of the kitchen lights.

  I pull on my dressing gown and make myself a cup of tea. I take a sip, wince and add a teaspoonful of sugar, taking my mug to sit on the sofa in the half-darkness. I want to try to persuade my brain it’s still night-time and it should go back to sleep. The caffeine in the tea probably won’t help, but I need something sweet to recover from the shock of waking up and not being able to see anything. I know I’m alone, but in the deep silence of the early morning hours I can almost convince myself she’s still here.

  So much of her remains. She chose the paint, the ornaments, the furniture. She’s ingrained in the walls and the floorboards. I can still see her sitting on the sofa opposite me, legs curled up beneath her, hair tied up in a messy ponytail, laughing at she beats me at Rummy, my cards strewn over the table in frustration. Or lying in bed, pillows propped up behind her, so engrossed in the book she’s reading that she jumps as I walk in. Or staring blankly across the kitchen table, refusing to meet my eyes, pushing her plate away, the quiche I’ve bought us for lunch untouched. I can’t help returning to how she was at the end. It’s as much as part of us as how we were at the beginning.

  My breathing has almost returned to normal. I tell myself it was only a nightmare. I have them so regularly, I should be used to them, but it takes a while for the images to fade. I can’t understand how my brain can replicate exactly what her skin feels like, even though I haven’t stroked it for a year.

  I stare at the mantelpiece whilst I finish my last few mouthfuls of tea. I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but after a few seconds I catch up with what my subconscious is telling me. The bronze buddha figure that sits in the middle of the shelf has moved.

  I stand up. I’m certain I haven’t touched it, but it’s now on the far left-hand side of the shelf. I push it back to the centre. We’d bought it on holiday in Sri Lanka when we’d been trying to conceive and had ended up carrying it round with us for the whole trip. Ali had joked it had been her good luck symbol throughout the rounds of IVF, and even when they hadn’t worked she’d refused to get rid of it. I’d reminded her Buddhists considered attachment the ultimate bond to break to ease suffering, so keeping it was ridiculous, but she’d insisted.

  Perhaps Jess had wanted to play with it and Harry had got it down for her, but I don’t remember noticing it had moved since they’d been over. I’ll have to ask him next week. I wonder if Em’s told him what we talked about. She’s given me the weekend to think about what I’m going to do, but she doesn’t know I won’t be here by then.

  The cup of tea doesn’t ease the thumping in my head. I put the empty mug back in the kitchen and fish around in the cupboard for a couple of ibuprofen tablets, which I swallow as I head back into my bedroom.

  I’m not sure what makes me turn around. Whether there’s really a noise or whether I imagine it. Either way, I find myself looking at the door at the opposite end of the hallway. My skin prickles. It’s open. Only a small crack, but the darkness spills out, swallowing the light as it spreads towards me. For a moment I’m frozen, my senses so alert I’m convinced I can hear every noise in the entire block. People snoring. Dishwashers on a night cycle. Radiator

  pipes.

  I take a step forward and realise the shadows in the hallway are playing tricks on me. The door isn’t open. It just looks like it is. The brass handle gleams invitingly. Don’t go in there, Jack. Go back to sleep. I retreat a couple of steps backwards. Ignore it.

  I walk round the edge of my bed. Even though she’s not here, I don’t like to lie on her side. I take my phone out of my dressing gown pocket and tuck myself under the duvet, turning over a few times to try to get comfortable. I’m not tired. I check my messages. One from my mum.

  I spoke to Edward. Was a bad line but he’ll be with you at 11 tomorrow. I might come over too. Would love to see you. Hope you aren’t too tired after work xx.

  I want to have left before they get here. I’m worried Em will have called them and said something already. Her words go round and round in my head. I know what I’ve done, she was right in that respect, but I’m not drinking because I can’t admit it, I’m drinking because I admitted it to myself, a long time ago. I face the consequences every night as soon as I turn off the light, living through it over and over again in my nightmares.

  I sit up and plump my pillows before settling down and shutting my eyes. It’s no good. I can’t sleep. I get out of bed and stand in the hallway, staring at the door at the other end of the corridor. I walk towards it. I haven’t been in there since Edward left after our argument. I put my ear against the wood. There’s no sound. Of course there isn’t. I’m being stupid. All I can hear is my heart pounding. Go back to bed, there’s nothing in there. I put my hand on the brass knob and twist it. The door swings open and I step inside onto the thick cream carpet. The blinds are lowered and, in the darkness, I can only make out the indistinct shapes of the few pieces of furniture. I pause at the edge of the room, breathing heavily, and switch on the light.

  Em had arranged for a local decorator to come in a week after it happened so I hadn’t had to face looking at that wall, but as I peer at it now, I realise I can still see the marks very faintly, under the surface, despite the three coats of new paint. I trace over a couple of them with one finger and scratch them with my nail. A few flakes come off in my hand. I pick up a comb that’s lying on the chest of drawers and gouge out a small circle. More flakes fall onto the carpet. I still can’t see what’s underneath. The savagery is sandwiched somewhere between the plaster and the top layer of paint, not properly visible but preserved for eternity. A constant reminder.

  An unopened set of Beatrix Potter and a few books about pregnancy are lined up on the white wooden shelf above the small chest of drawers. I run my hand over them and pull out one that looks familiar. She’s marked a page in the chapter about hormone treatment with an old photo of us embracing in front of a Christmas tree, my hair covered in tinsel. She’s laughing, her amusement reflected in her eyes. On the back, she’s written Remember to think happy thoughts. I stare at it until my tears distort the words in front of me and fall onto the paper, smudging the ink until the writing is just a damp blur.

  I’m tired of trying to cope. And I’m tired of trying to put my life back together when each time I fix one part, another disintegrates. Alcohol no longer helps me sleep. I want one night that isn’t so full of unspeakable terrors that I wake up refreshed. All that greets me in the morning at the moment is the start of another hangover and the realisation she isn’t here.

  I pick up the photo, slide it inside the book and put them both back on the shelf. I wipe my face on the sleeve of my dressing gown as I look at the empty cot at the side of the room. Tiny stars hang motionlessly from the baby mobile. I touch one and it twists round slowly. As I watch it, I have the strongest sensation she’s standing behind me. I can feel her hand on my shoulder. For a few seconds I don’t dare to move, and then the pressure eases and I know she’s gone. I turn around, but there’s no one there. It’s a sign, showing me this is where she belongs and what I’m about to do is the right thing. I switch off the light and walk into the

  bedroom.

  I pick up my mobile off my bedside table and search for Em’s contact details to send her a text.

  We need to talk.

  I don’t expect a response. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Now she knows, it’s only a matter of time. I can’t wait until Monday. I push the thought that it could already be too late out of my head. Shutting my eyes, I sleep dreamlessly, for the first time in as long as I can remember.

  I get up before my alarm wakes me in the morning and sit on the sofa with
the early-morning sun streaming in through the patio doors, warming the back of my neck. I check my messages one last time. Still nothing from Sarah and no reply from my text to Em last night. It’s still early, but there’s no excuse to put off what I need to do any longer. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, I stick a slice of bread in the toaster and call Edward as it pops up.

  ‘Jack?’ His normally gruff voice is croaky. I must have woken him up.

  ‘Mum said you were coming over at eleven.’

  ‘Right.’ He coughs. ‘Does that work for you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Thanks.’ There’s an awkward pause. ‘Edward?’

  ‘Yes?’ He coughs again.

  I frown. ‘Is everything OK?’ My voice is mumbled as I’m trying to eat my toast at the same time. ‘You don’t sound well. I mean …’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. I’ve just got a bit of a cold.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you at eleven then.’ I hesitate. ‘And Edward?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I … I wanted to thank you. For everything. I really appreciate it and I’m sorry if I let you down.’

  There’s a pause at the other end of the line. ‘You haven’t, and you don’t need to apologise.’ I can hear a noise in the background and grip my phone more tightly, straining to hear, but he coughs again and it’s gone. ‘I’ll be with you at eleven,’ he says. ‘See you then.’ I wish I’d told him he’d been more of a father to me than mine ever had.

  I take the box down off the shelf in my wardrobe and pull out the card that’s lying amongst the other memories. I’d got it last Christmas, and I stare at the black and white photo on the front cover. I need Ali to realise that no matter how far away she goes, I’ll always find her again. We’re destined to be together, even if she can’t see that yet.

  I open her jewellery box that’s still on our dressing table and take out her silver charm bracelet, putting it into my jacket pocket and glance round the flat as I open the front door. There’s nothing here for me anymore. I just need to find her and I know exactly how I’m going to do it.

  NOW

  Alison

  The Sellotape isn’t stuck to the door when I get back to my flat. I double-check by running my finger across the frame to find the raised edge, but the paintwork is completely smooth. My stomach lurches in fear. I open my front door slowly and listen for any noises whilst glancing round to look for anything that’s out of place. When we’d first got married, I used to love coming home to find the little presents Jack had left for me: a turquoise leather notebook with my new married initials of AR monogrammed on the cover, a terracotta pot of jasmine that I’d put outside on our patio to grow. And then one day his surprises weren’t so much fun anymore.

  ‘Hello?’ I half-whisper, not wanting a reply, peering into the sitting room and glancing at the empty sofa.

  Silence.

  I clear my throat and call out again.

  No reply.

  I leave my bag by the door and keep my shoes on as I search inside. My bedroom is deserted, as are the bathroom and the kitchen. My pens are in same the order that I left them this morning and my socks are still balanced precariously in their stacked pyramid when I open my chest of drawers. But something feels different and I can’t work out what it is.

  I grip the kitchen counter, turning on the tap to get myself some water as I think about what it could be, reassuring myself as I take a few sips that I’m safe here. That he can’t hurt me like he did before.

  My heart is still beating faster than usual as I heat up a plastic pot of baked beans in the microwave and sit down to watch TV. The familiar sound of the theme tune for EastEnders echoes through the adjoining wall from the flat next door. She never misses an episode. Her baby is quiet this evening; I hear it crying occasionally, a noise that fills me with an inexplicable sense of loneliness. Sounds travel easily through these walls, the partitions between us are paper-thin. I wonder if it’s worth asking her if she’s seen anyone hanging around. Anyone who looks like Jack.

  I jump as the microwave pings and eat my dinner in front of Celebrity MasterChef, watching as the contestants rush around the studio kitchen. We used to watch it together, sitting on the sofa, me leaning against him like a cushion, his arms tightly fastened around my waist.

  As I rinse my empty plate under the tap, it suddenly dawns on me why my flat feels different. It’s the smell. A chemical odour hangs in the air, similar to the one at a public swimming pool. Bleach. They must have cleaned the corridor today. They do it every few months with one of those large machines to get the stains out of the communal carpets and wipe down the paintwork. Maybe they dislodged the Sellotape during the cleaning process? Perhaps Jack hasn’t actually been here at all. I wait for the cold stone that’s been sitting at the bottom of my stomach to disappear with this realisation, but it doesn’t, its weight as heavy as ever.

  As I get into bed, I check my notebook. Three letters. All still safe. I open my drawer to put it away out of sight, catching a glimpse of the small red glove lying inside. It’s definitely familiar. I stare at the panda design. I don’t know why I’d have kept it when it no longer fits, or what I’ve done with the other one that made a pair. I try putting my hand inside the finger holes, but the wool on my skin makes me feel cold. Freezing in fact. I shiver and pull it off, putting it back in the drawer as I rub my arms to get rid of the goose pimples that have risen up.

  I need a distraction to help me sleep, so pick up the book that’s sitting on my bedside table. It’s one I borrowed from the library some time ago and I haven’t read it for a while. I turn to the page that has its corner folded down and run my eyes over the words, but they don’t seem familiar. I turn back further and try again, but it still seems as though I’m looking at the words for the first time. It’s frustrating to try and piece things together when I’m already tired. I flick back a few more pages and notice something hard inside the front cover of the book.

  There’s a postcard that I haven’t seen before. I take it out and look at the picture on the front. A photo of a British seaside. I screw up my eyes as I stare at the expanse of brown sand and long pier, like a row of scaffolding, jutting into the sea, with a large white building at the far end. I recognise the scene and turn the card over to see if I’m correct. It’s blank apart from the small words printed on the back: Weston-super-Mare. My dad had taken me there when I was little. I remember standing in front of a red and yellow bouncy castle, eating my ice cream whilst we waited to go on the big wheel. Sarah’s words that I’ve been trying to remember come back to me. She’d mentioned this place. And now I’m holding a postcard with a picture of it on the front. Had something happened there? Is this where I can remember her from?

  I put down my book and hold the postcard under my bedside light to see the photo better. Families squashed in next to one another, sprinkled with blue and white striped beach brollies stuck in the sand like giant lollipops. A few discarded buckets and spades. Is Sarah in there somewhere amongst the crowd? Am I?

  I’m sitting alone when she walks over to my table in the canteen the following day. My heart sinks. I’d stayed in the library as long as I could to try to avoid her. I begin to eat faster so I can leave.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d started to come down later?’ she says, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. My manager asked me to swap breaks.’ I think I sound convincing.

  ‘Shame. I wondered why I hadn’t seen you. There’s not much left to choose from at this time.’

  I smile as I try to think of a way of telling her I’m leaving without sounding rude.

  ‘I can’t believe how hot it was yesterday,’ she continues. ‘Unusual for September. It won’t last. It never does.’ She hesitates. ‘Are you feeling better now?’

  I’m not going to talk to her about Jack; I don’t want to talk to her about anything. I give the briefest nod.

  ‘Do you mind if we change the subject?’ I ask as I fold the napkin on my tray
into a series of elaborate triangles before screwing it up into a small ball and pressing it down hard on some crumbs so they end up embedded in the paper. I imagine they’re the questions she’s asking me. The things I don’t want her to remind me of.

  ‘OK, but you know where I am if you need someone to talk to.’ She blows on a forkful of chicken and pastry. ‘This is boiling. I think they incinerate it here before serving it.’ She looks at the large fridge near the cashier. ‘I’m going to grab something to drink. D’you want anything?’ I shake my head as I open my yoghurt.

  As she walks off, I realise she’s forgotten to take her purse with her. It’s sticking out of the top of her bag that she’s left lying on the table. I search the queue but can’t see her until she emerges from the crowd carrying a bottle of water in her hand. As I pull her purse out of her bag to take it over to her, a piece of paper falls onto my tray, which I pick up and stuff back inside. A letter. I catch a glimpse of the words written on it and freeze.

  Black ink. It’s Jack’s handwriting. I’d recognise it anywhere.

  THEN

  Jack

  I call Sarah once I’m outside. Now Em knows, there’s not enough time to delay what I’m going to do any longer. I scroll through my contacts to find her details. I just need to check she’s not in her office. I don’t expect her to be there as it’s the weekend, and if she’s not, I know where to find her. I squeeze the charms attached to Ali’s silver bracelet hard between my fingers.

  A receptionist answers. ‘Ms Henderson’s office?’

  ‘Can I speak to her please?’ I say.

  ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’

  I hesitate. ‘I’d rather not give my name. It’s a sensitive matter regarding one of her clients.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not in today,’ she says. ‘Can I ask what it’s regarding and I can pass on a message?’