Our Little Secret: a gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist from bestselling author Darren O’Sullivan
his third pint and as he approached, Chris hugged him for longer than normal. Steve glanced at the empties.
‘Had a few already I see, mate?’
‘I came straight from work. Figured, why not?’
‘I can’t remember the last time you had more than a couple.’
‘Me neither, but tonight we are celebrating.’
Chris then walked to the bar, ordered two more pints, and returned to sit beside Steve who was clearly confused.
‘What are we celebrating?’
‘Life.’
Raising his pint glass, Chris clinked his friend’s and drained half of his before Steve had taken a sip. As he lowered his glass he could see Steve watching him.
‘Are you all right, Chris?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘Okay. So what specifically about life are we toasting?’
‘Just life, like I said.’
‘I see. Well I’m glad we are, mate. It feels like for ever since we had a pint.’
‘It’s been a long time.’
Steve watched as Chris took another long drink of his pint, leaving only about a third of it swilling in the glass.
‘Chris?’
Chris burped loudly. Drawing the attention of people at nearby tables. ‘Yep.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine, Steve; stop mothering.’
‘Chris. What’s on your mind?’
‘Fucking hell, let’s just have a drink. Can’t we just get drunk together?’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea – maybe you shouldn’t have any more?’
‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
Chris slammed his glass on the table with such force two of the three empties jumped off of the table and smashed on the floor.
‘Bloody hell, Chris!’
Chris took a deep breath, centring himself. As he spoke, it was quieter but no calmer. ‘I’m getting another one. You want another one?’
‘No,’ Steve replied, shifting in his seat as eyes began turning towards the commotion at their table.
‘Please yourself.’
Chris remembered the look on Steve’s face. One that recoiled at the aggressiveness of his remark and was deeply worried. He couldn’t remember any other time in their friendship where he had been confrontational and he knew Steve knew it.
Chris had forced himself to calm down and they’d spent the rest of the night talking awkwardly about nothing of consequence. Chris didn’t ask about Steve’s wife; he didn’t ask about his work. In fact, Steve had to do all of the talking by asking forced questions Chris didn’t answer. Especially when he tried to speak about Julia and how she was and when she was coming home.
By the end of that night Steve had warmed up, Chris had cooled down, and as last orders were called, both stepped into the cold night air.
‘Nice seeing you, buddy.’
‘You too, Steve.’
‘Wanna do this again next week?’
‘I’d love to. The next few weeks are chaos at work, definitely after though.’
Chris could see his friend looking at him in a way that showed he didn’t quite believe what he had just heard – only for a moment though, and then it was replaced with Steve’s infectious smile.
‘Sure, buddy, just give me a call.
They hugged again before going their separate ways.
Chris remembered it being harder than he thought it would be to say goodbye to Steve and hearing his voice again reminded him of how drunk and aggressive he’d been the last time they spoke. He didn’t want to try and explain his actions that night. He shouldn’t need to. He should have been dead by now.
As the voicemail message ended and the line went quiet, Chris stood up, walked down his hallway and into the kitchen. He picked up a folded letter with a key resting on it that had been placed on the kitchen table. Putting the key in his pocket he took the letter to the sink. Its contents gave the location of the box for which the key fit, as well as the detailed reason for why he had taken his own life. Foolishly Chris read it, his sadness amplified and his grief embedded further, though he had no idea how that was possible.
He took a lighter from the cutlery drawer and lit the corner of the paper, watching the orange flame take hold and burn upwards. Leaving nothing but charred carbon in its wake. He held it for as long as he could, the hairs on the back of his hands being licked by the flames before he dropped it into the empty sink and it burnt into nothing.
Then, reaching into the cupboard, he took a glass and poured himself some water. His hands shaking as he did. He wondered how long he had been shaking, and if the old driver had noticed. As he took a sip his entire body was flooded with the cool, crisp liquid. He realized that it was the first drink he had had since waking from a fitful dream that morning. He felt guilty for enjoying the sensation as he drunk the whole glass, followed by another.
Once the glass was empty, the relief of quenching his thirst turned to disgust that he had found small joy in doing so. Chris slammed the glass down with such force it exploded. Shards scattering over the bench surfaces and the floor of his kitchen. One large shard sliced against his hand, causing it to bleed. He didn’t notice at first. Instead he grabbed the edge of the sink and gripping hard he shook it, screaming in his own head, trying to loosen it from the side, trying to destroy something else. It didn’t budge.
Out of breath, he saw blood running down the side of his hand and onto his bare feet. Watching it he felt no pain or worry, only a mild curiously as to how much would come. After a few minutes, it became obvious that it wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t deep enough and was already coagulating. He pulled on it with the fingers of his other hand, causing his skin to stretch and fresh blood to form but soon even that didn’t work and it began to heal.
If only all things healed that well.
A memory snapped into his mind like an electric shock. Like the single pulse of a strobe light. So fast he barely registered it, but so destructive. It was Julia as he never wished to remember her. It caused his heart to beat wildly and he felt the need to run. But he shut that out, closing his eyes against the invading memory. He thought back to the events on the platform instead.
It had taken months of meticulous planning to ensure that it would go right and instead it had just gone terribly wrong. Because of one person. Because of one stupid fucking person. Could she not see he was desperate to be alone?
Looking up, as if God himself would be on his ceiling, Chris was lost as to what he could do next. He silently waited for an answer, from God, from Julia, from his father. But he only heard the clock continuing to tick and pass time. As if nothing had happened. Before finalizing his 10.47 plan he’d contemplated taking an overdose or swinging himself from a noose. But he wasn’t happy with the idea of his body being found. He knew how scarring it was to see a dead human body. It haunted his dreams; it invaded his waking day. It had fundamentally changed him into a person more in shadow than daylight.
He made a rule in the aftermath of what had happened that night that he would not leave a complete him, so that no one else had to lose their light as he had lost his. The train was perfect. He would be just a red smear that dragged on for a mile and therefore no personification could occur by whoever had to clear him up. They might find a hand or an eye but without it being attached to a full body, one that had a soul,