Our Little Secret: a gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist from bestselling author Darren O’Sullivan
matter that no one would hear it but the slowly moving rain cloud; he needed to voice them. Chris had always struggled to tell her his thoughts. The kind that are frightening for people to reveal, ones that once said couldn’t be unsaid. He wanted to share his deepest feelings about how when she looked at him it felt like the whole world stopped moving. As if all of the energy that had ever been created was holding its breath and that when she kissed him he felt lost within it.
He wanted to say that every mistake he had made, all of the times he had failed, were justified because each one brought her closer to him and had shaped him into the man who she would love. He wanted to say that nothing else mattered besides her. He wanted to tell her he would gladly trade places with her and would be happy to have died knowing she could live. But he couldn’t find the words. And she couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t turn back time.
Six minutes.
Closing her smile into the palm of his hand, he placed his wallet on the bench behind him. He had no need for it now. He thought it might be more use to someone else. He left it open, showing a £20 note inside. Stepping back he thought of the old expression his father used to say about being generous.
‘It is only money; can’t take it with you,’ he often said to Chris, even when he was too young to understand what it meant.
Even now, after seeing him fall ill and succumb to disease, he always remembered his father as he was when Chris was a young boy. The way his greying beard felt as he came in to kiss Chris goodnight, an air of tobacco wafting across him whilst he pretended to sleep and the way his father told stories about his mother. How they had met, when they had married.
She too had succumbed, although at no age when a person should, an age that robbed him of his ability to remember her beyond the images his father gave him. Then he remembered a moment he had long forgotten. One where his father took him outside into the garden on a cold, clear night.
‘Chris, do you know why we are outside?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to show you where Mummy went.’
‘Where?’
‘Look up.’
‘I can’t see anything; it’s too dark.’
‘Give it a moment.’
After a few seconds the stars began to show themselves and as he looked, the more he could see. There were thousands. He had never seen so many stars.
‘Wow.’
‘Sometimes, Chris, you have to look into darkness before you can see the beauty behind it.’
Chris didn’t know what his father meant by that. But he thought he said it more for himself than for him.
He remembered for many minutes he and his father just lay there, close to each other, looking at the wonder of the sky. It made him feel so small, but so safe.
‘Chris, I’m sorry that you don’t remember your mummy.’
‘Me too.’
‘Chris, do you know where people go when they die?’
‘Heaven.’
‘That’s right, and do you know what heaven looks like?’
‘Clouds?’
Chris’s father laughed quietly. ‘Yes, clouds, but also stars.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Up there are billions of stars. More than you or I could ever count. Each star is a person who has died and they go into the night sky to watch over us as we sleep. Like your mummy is doing now. You see, darling, we haven’t really lost her at all.’
Chris gasped and looked more intently at the sky, trying to find a trace of his mother. ‘Is Mummy watching us now?’
‘Yes. Chris, if you ever feel sad or alone always remember your mummy is up there, twinkling just for you and me.’
Shaking off the memory, he questioned, knowing what he did now, how his father stayed so strong. He hadn’t thought of that night in a very long time and looking to the sky he wondered if there was a star next to his mother’s, maybe two: his father’s and his wife’s. All he saw were dark clouds looking back. It was right that they were hidden.
Chris wondered what his father would say to him now. Would he tell him to be braver than he was and allow himself to heal? Would he tell him to do the right thing and reach out to someone who could help and then find a way to be happy once more? Not that it mattered – he didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in anything.
For a moment, he wondered if things would have been different if his father was still alive, then he forced himself to focus and taking the note from his trouser pocket that he had carefully worded about the circumstances of his death, he looked for somewhere to place it. Somewhere he knew it would be found to explain why he had chosen to take his own life.
Settling for under the decaying bench with his wallet, he used the stone that he had carried on him for nearly a year as a weight to stop it blowing away in the wind. That stone had been on him every day since she had died and as soon as it was removed from his pocket he felt vulnerable. He took one last look at its blackness that had been polished by the waves over endless time. He placed the stone on top of the folded note as far back under the bench as he could reach and stepped back towards the platform edge. Then, he looked back to the clock.
Five minutes.
Chris took off his shoes, the damp cold floor strangely soothing on his bare feet. It helped him stay in the moment. He did it to feel closer to her. Julia hated wearing shoes, and when Chris first asked why, she told him that feet were designed to feel the world beneath them. To be connected.
She was barefoot the night she was killed.
25 minutes before
10.17 p.m. – The Bastard John’s bedroom, Lynn Street, March, England
It was dark in his bedroom and it smelt of sex, our sex, but I could just see enough to look at the deep-sleeping shape of the man who had once filled my heart with love. My naked body warm under his covers. His jet-black hair limp across his face. Looking at him I couldn’t believe that this man had once made me believe anything was possible. But as he mumbled something in his sleep, it felt like I was looking at somebody else.
I remembered how I used to stare at him, admiring how beautiful he was. There was no beauty in him anymore, just the shape of a person who mirrored my anger and shame. This man had stolen years of my life. I felt betrayed.
Foolishly I thought that he’d text me because the day before was my birthday. Special occasions had a funny impact on people, making them nostalgic and longing. I thought that was what had happened to John. But it was clear as soon as I arrived that he hadn’t remembered. That was okay. He was never good with remembering dates.
I thought that we were going to address his infidelity and I was expecting myself to forgive him and rekindle our love. I’d imagined he would sit me down on the bed, holding my hands. Candlelight throwing shadows across the walls as he told me how he regretted what had happened and that he loved me. I half dreamed he would then get on one knee and say he needed to spend the rest of his life righting his wrongs. And that he understood the pain that he had caused. He had been unfaithful to me for over a year – we both knew it; we also knew it would take nothing short of a miracle for us to recover, but I let myself dream we could.
Looking at him asleep, I couldn’t see how I’d let myself be so stupid for so long. Sex with him used to be about giving over fully, spirit and soul in perfect embrace, but it was clear I was just being used.
The night had started with us watching an old film. We were curled up on the sofa under a blanket as the opening credits rolled.