The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller by Betsy Reavley

slumped on the floor where he dropped it. I pick it up and hang it on a hook in the hallway. He’s always been hopeless at tidying up after himself. Not that I am much better.
    Returning to the kitchen,I look through the glass oven door at the tandoori chicken roasting away. The colour looks good and I guess it should be ready in twenty minutes. That leaves me just enough time to make some chapattis and warm the rice and bhindi bhaji I prepared earlier. On the hob, a pot of yellow lentils bubble energetically while onions, garlic and spices sizzle in a frying pan next to it. The room fills with warm scented steam. I may not be any good at cleaning but at least I can cook. One thing ticked off the perfect housewife list.
           From a cupboard in the far corner, the boiler kicks into action.
    When Charlie reappears, I am elbow deep in flour. He sits down to drink a beer and munches on a poppadum.
    ‘How was work?’
    ‘Don’t ask. I’m this close to punching the prick on the nose.’
    I have learnt it is best not to get into that conversation.
    ‘This weekend, shall we do something? Go somewhere?’
    ‘Where do you want to go?’
    ‘Oh I don’t know. Maybe take a boat down the Thames -anything.’
    ‘Sure.’ He brushes crumbs of poppadum from his mouth and the bib of his grey woollen jumper.
    ‘Unless there’s something you’d rather do.’ I have kneaded and kneaded and the dough is nearly ready.
    ‘You choose. I don’t mind.’
    His mind is elsewhere and a rush of irritation passes through me. I didn’t go to all this effort for nothing.
    ‘Might be a bit cold for a river cruise.’
    ‘So, you do have a better idea?’
    I’m finding it hard to hide my frustration. Then he says,
    ‘We could get out of London. Maybe go to Brighton for the weekend.’
    ‘That’s not a bad idea. I could see if Soph’s around to meet us for dinner.’
    ‘Spoken to her recently?’
    ‘Usual lots of emails back and forth. She’s pretty wrapped up with this new fella. He sounds nice. We might get to meet him.’
    ‘He can’t be any worse than the last one.’
    ‘That’s for certain.’ I mix the cooked lentils and spices, rapidly stirring with a wooden spoon before I get the chicken out of the oven. Three minutes rest and then dinner is served.
    ‘I’m starving.’ Charlie claps his hands together.
    ‘I’ll give Soph a call in the morning and see if she’s free this weekend.’
    ‘Cool. I’ll book us into a decent B&B. We’ll jump on a train on Friday when I’ve finished work.’
    ‘Perfect.’
     
    After dinner, with our bellies full, I roll a joint that we smoke outside on the bench in our patio garden. The night is cold and we watch our breath steam in front of our faces before disappearing into the black night.
    For the first time in a while, I feel properly relaxed. I sit back and close my eyes for a moment. My hands are cold so I pull the sleeves of my green jumper down over my fingers and play with the soft fabric. My feet are cold too, so I cross my legs and curl my toes up under my bum. The hash is kicking in and the world starts to feel like a softer place.
    When I open my eyes, I see Charlie is sitting forward, resting his arms on his knees and looking at the ground. I put my hand on his shoulder and lean in.
    ‘Are you OK?’
    He sits back, forcing me to retract my hand.
    ‘Let’s go in.’ Charlie stands up. I nod and follow him back into the kitchen.
    ‘Fancy another glass of red?’
    ‘Go on then. Bring it through. Let’s sit on the sofa.’
    I grab a pack of chocolate biscuits and tuck them under my arm and grasp the two glasses in my hands.
    Charlie is already sitting on our old sofa, a frown plastered across his face. I hand him his wine and sink back into the cushions before taking a long sip of my own. There is a long silence, then,
    ‘Jo, we need to talk.’
    ‘OK.’
    Butterflies start to flap in my stomach. I don’t like his tone.
    ‘Your parents…’ I immediately feel