Our Little Secret: a gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist from bestselling author Darren O’Sullivan. Darren O’Sullivan
me feel as if I’d assessed him wrong.
He was clearly a little drunk but not ‘a drunk’. No doubt just going home from a date night with the person in the picture or perhaps even returning home to her after a few drinks with friends. I found myself smiling at the idea of someone loving so deeply that nothing else mattered.
Because of that, I couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He wouldn’t be the sort to try anything on, not with the way he held that picture, and maybe, if we did talk I would learn about the person. It was exactly what I needed to hear after so many wasted years of pretending to have such a love of my own. It was a nice idea. But I knew I wasn’t going to interrupt him; it felt selfish.
He shook his head, looking up to the sky and I looked away before we could make eye contact. Focusing on the decaying bench I was sat on, I saw something perched on the corner of it, hidden in the shadows created by the armrest and bad lighting: a dark wallet. It was open and exposing money as well as a HSBC bank card. Part of me didn’t want to say anything. I could do with a little extra cash. But why would he have dumped it on the bench?
‘Excuse me?’
He didn’t respond.
‘Excuse me, hello?’
***
Chris slowly turned around to see a dark-haired woman in an oversized cream cardigan sat on the bench; he could tell she’d been crying. She looked tired and cold. How long had she been there?
‘Excuse me?’ she said.
Chris just looked back at her blankly.
‘Sorry, I just wondered, is this your wallet?’
Chris could see his months of planning, months of meticulous attention to detail over time, location, and date unravel in a second. Everything had been premeditated, but he had no contingency for anyone else being there.
‘Hello?’ she said softly, gently, barely at a loud whisper.
‘Yes, it’s mine,’ was all Chris could say as he stepped towards her and took the wallet, his thumb touching the back of her hand as he did. Her delicate wrist exposed from the cardigan sleeve. Goose bumps raising the fine light hairs on her forearm. Staring at her for a moment, he put the wallet in his pocket before turning back to the track. He had planned everything to ensure no one would be hurt by his suicide. But this.
Two minutes.
Staring ahead Chris wondered what would happen to her if he did what he intended. Would he ruin her life? He knew it probably would but the idea of him having to orchestrate it all again and wait was too unbearable to comprehend. It had to be as he’d planned. He didn’t feel strong enough to have it any other way. So he had to work out a way to get rid of her. He turned around to look back at this thin, dark-haired woman and she was staring straight at him, as if waiting for a response. Had she asked him a question?
‘Hmm?’
‘I asked if you were waiting for the London train?’ she asked again, taking a puff on her cigarette.
‘No.’
‘So the Cambridge one, like me?’
He knew, from the months of research, that the Cambridge train wasn’t for another hour. His train was imminent, then a slow London train with usually six carriages rattled through, then the Cambridge train. He wanted to shout at her for being so early.
‘You do know the Cambridge train isn’t for another hour?’
‘I know.’
‘There’s a pub on the corner. You look cold. Why don’t you sit in there?’
‘Well they kind of want you to buy a drink,’ she said, followed by an honest and embarrassed: ‘Payday next week.’
There was his opportunity; if he could get her to go for a coffee he could be alone.
‘Let me buy you one?’ he said, his voice a little softer than before. ‘I mean, let me pay for you to have a drink.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Let me buy you a drink.’
‘What? No, thank you.’
‘I don’t want to come with you. It’s not like that. It’s just, I can see that you’re cold. I don’t mind paying for one, saves you waiting here for so long.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a really kind offer.’ She said it slowly, clearly weighing up whether to take him up on the offer. Holding his eye to try and work out what the catch was. Breaking eye contact, he looked at her cigarette burning in her hand.
‘They’ll kill you,’ he said, noting the irony, watching her put it out under her shoe.
‘I can’t accept your offer, but thank you.’
‘It’s just a fiver.’
‘N-not many people would be so generous.’
‘Please. Take it and go get warm. It’s cold tonight.’
‘It is. Are you not cold?’
‘A little.’
‘Why don’t you have a coat?’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Long story.’
She looked at his feet, clearly wanting to ask but not wanting to embarrass him.
‘To be connected,’ was all he said by way of explanation, regretting the words as they fell from his mouth.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you all right?’
Chris opened his mouth to reply. But caught the words before they left. A pause she noticed. Telling her that he was far from it.
‘Wanna talk?’
‘No, and you shouldn’t want to either. I could be anyone. I could be a mugger or worse.’
‘I did think that. But somehow I know you’re not.’
‘How could you possibly know what kind of man I am?’
‘I don’t know – instinct.’
She watched as the tension from his shoulders lifted momentarily. Her kind words having the impact she wanted them to have. Chris kept eye contact with her for a second. Trying to process what was happening. There was something in the way she looked at him that was unnerving. It reminded him of the way he used to see the world. Hopeful, kind. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his tear ducts. His words slipped out of his mouth again before he could catch them.
‘It’s been a rough day.’
He glanced past her to the clock.
90 seconds.
‘I’ve had a rough day too. My boyfriend, I mean ex … You know how it is.’
As he turned back to look at the track, the girl’s voice faded away. Chris’s mind raced, as if he was drowning. This was supposed to be a peaceful time for him. He was supposed to be alone with his thoughts so he could reflect upon his short thirty-four-year existence up till the point where he watched Julia die – and the long ten long months after.
He wanted to be seeing it all in a series of flashbacks, pausing on the highs and lows of his time. He wanted to be thinking of his first bike ride, and the long summers he enjoyed as a child and the way his father smiled when he spoke of his mother, and that night when he took him into the garden to show Chris the night sky and the terrible day he died and his funeral that was on a beautiful summer’s morning as well as his first kiss as an awkward teenager, and then how years later he met and fell in love with Julia, the way she snored