The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller by Betsy Reavley Page A

then it gets me thinking.
    I was having sex at her age. I had boyfriends. What would have happened if I had fallen pregnant? Would I have kept the baby? Would my adoptive parents have supported me? It’s unlikely Mum would have been thrilled. Dad wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss. I was his special little princess. But then I imagine having a baby living with me, in that house. With him there. The thought makes me feel sick and I push the bad memories away.
           Not so long ago, Charlie suggested I sought counselling. He said that now they are dead, perhaps it’s a good time to face my demons. I know he’s right but now that they are gone, maybe I can bury the past with them. Dragging it all up again, with a stranger, seems like a waste of time. He’s more help to me than any professional could be. I told him that and he seemed to accept it.
    Yesterday, I slept all day. It was a dreamless sort of sleep that left me feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all and I woke this morning feeling dog-tired again.
    I’m alone at home today. It’s another dull Tuesday morning. Charlie is at work and I’m meant to be writing. I can’t manage it. An unseen force has imprisoned my imagination. There is a barrier in my head, blocking me from losing myself in the darkness I often call home.
    I sit at my desk, surrounded by piles of paper, staring at the blank word document and swing in my office chair. It squeaks with age and the leather moans under my frame.
    I’m so frustrated.
    I avoid the bustling London streets that make my head hurt but our home feels small and claustrophobic. There is nowhere I can escape to. The murder of my parents hangs over me like a fog, even when I sleep. I wish the police could do more. They need to be laid to rest. The longer they lie in the morgue, the longer they will haunt me.
    I check my watch. It’s eleven thirty in the morning. All I’ve achieved today is dressing myself and eating a piece of toast. The house is in chaos as usual. No visitors today, so no need to worry. I don’t know what to do with myself. The minutes tick by slowly while I wait for Charlie’s return. He is working late this evening, which I hate.
    There is only one thing for it. I go into the kitchen, open the fridge, which smells strongly of ripe cheese, and remove a bottle of rosé. I open it, close my eyes and drink straight from the bottle. It’s cold and sweet and promises to numb me.
    I take the bottle into the garden and sit on the bench, my knees tucked up beneath my chin, against the mild spring wind. The elements make me feel more alive, more akin to my surroundings. Outside, I can breathe again, and I watch my breath cloud in front of me like smoke.
    Our small patio is coming into life at this time of year. The pots that have been empty vessels waiting the return of spring are alive again. A brown slug drags its fat body along the slabs, looking for nothing in particular. I wonder what it’s like to be a slug.
    When half the bottle has been drunk, I decide I crave the comfort of music and return indoors.
    The warmth of the house hits me, wrapping its arms around my cold, skinny body. Slipping through the kitchen and into the living room, I go over to our old record player. The lid is dusty and I wipe the dead skin and hair away, leaving a grey film behind on my fingertips.
    Sinking onto my knees, I run my hand along the spines of the LP’s. I don’t know what I’m looking for and I let my fingers do the searching. Finally, they rest on a red spine and I pull the album out. It’s the Rolling Stones Greatest Hits. The cover features a large pair of open lips and a set of teeth, one of which is gold. I stare into the mouth and feel as if I am being swallowed up, before tearing my gaze away from the image, taking the large black disc from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable, carefully lifting the arm and dropping the needle into position. The room fills with the sound. I turn the volume up higher,