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

couple in Gloucestershire?’
    ‘I don’t know the details. It was arranged by my parents in Liverpool.’
    The dinger on the cooker goes. The tart is ready.
    ‘Oh, that’s lunch. I hope you like goats cheese,’ I call over my shoulder. As I slice the tart and prepare a salad, I process the information I’ve gained. I have Irish roots. That explains the red hair.
    Dicing a tomato, I slip and slice my thumb open with the knife.
    ‘Fuck,’ I mutter to myself before sucking on the wound. The taste of blood makes me feel ill.
    ‘You might need a plaster,’ her voice makes me jump, ‘shall I get you one?’
    ‘No, no need. It’s just a nick.’
    She is standing behind me, as I turn on the tap, run my thumb under the water and watch the blood wash away down the sink.
    ‘Please have a seat,’ I gesture towards the kitchen table.
    ‘It smells very nice.’ She says taking a seat and putting the napkin across her lap. ‘I like goat cheese.’ I smile and a feeling of warmth rushes over me.
    Perhaps this can work.
     

May 16th
     
     
    I fuckin’ hate public transport. The train smells of piss and all I can hear is a bunch of teenager girls sittin’ behind me, talking about boys’ dick sizes. I wonder what their parents would think if they could hear them? They’ve been talkin’ about it ever since we left Euston Station. I’m sick to death of the sound of their voices but luckily, we should be arrivin’ in Bletchley any minute and then I’ll lose the bitches.
    Lookin’ out the window, I can see it’s about to rain again, which is a pain in the arse. Now I’ve got to walk around in the soddin’ rain, looking for the flat. I wonder what it will be like.
    I’ve never been to Bletchley or Milton Keynes before. Always thought it was probably a shit-hole. As the train pulls into the station, I see I was right. The station is grey brick with a stupid metal roof that sticks up in the air. Although the rain has started to fall, I’m relieved to be away from those girls and all their talk. It gave me a hard-on listenin’ to them and I didn’t want anyone to see it. They shouldn’t talk like that in public. It’s not right.
    As I walk through the station, I slip my hand into my pocket and take my phone out. I go to Google maps and type in the address I’m lookin’ for. Derwent Drive.
    After a few minutes’ walk, I reach Rickley Lane. As I pass by, an old woman looks out of her shitty red brick house at me. I give her the finger and she drops the net curtain and disappears. Silly old bat. This is suburbia at its worst. I hate the place and all the people in it.
    At the end of the street, I turn left on Whaddon Way. It is another road lined with red brick houses from the 1970’s, just like the last.
    Not far now.
    My rucksack cuts into my shoulders and my boots start to feel heavy. I’m startin’ to think I should lose some weight.
    I pass a petrol station and stare at the people fillin’ up their cars. A miserable lookin’ lot, but then if I had to live in this place, I would be too.
    It’s funny how one day you don’t even know a place exists and the next you are standin’ there, in that place. I never heard of Bletchley until Ailene came into her life.
    A few minutes later and I see the turnin’ to Derwent Drive on my right. The rain is harder now and my heart sinks as I see it’s just another road of ugly semi-detached houses. A few yards further on, I can see the block of flats. They’re lower than I thought they would be, with only three levels. The walls are grey pebbledash and the roof, dirty red tiles. They look like a concentration camp. The kind of place little old ladies live who have no family. I suppose that’s exactly what it’s like, as I imagine Ailene comin’ back from work to this buildin’, her home.
    I scoot around the back to take a closer look. It’s not obvious which flat is hers but with the process of elimination, I work out she has to be on the ground floor. I’m