The Date: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by Louise Jensen
Authors: Louise Jensen
Ads: Link
you?’
‘Fine.’ I say what I’m expected to say. What I think he wants to hear. But he doesn’t believe it for a second.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘No.’ I sigh. ‘I’m not.’ Part of me longs to tell him about the gloves. About the blood on my bumper. Although I can’t remember anything about Saturdaynight, I can’t really believe I have hurt anyone, and neither would he. He used to roll his eyes whenever I chased spiders around the lounge with a glass and a coaster, carefully scooping them inside the tumbler before letting them out into the garden. But there’s another part, a darker part, whispering what if you did hurt someone ? And I know I can’t drag him into this, whatever this is. I’mon my own.
From this day forward.
‘I found the chocolate orange. Thanks.’
‘It was nothing,’ he says, although both of us know it was something. ‘Have you eaten it yet?’
‘No.’
‘You must still feel ill. I can’t stop wondering what happened to you. Do you remember anything yet?’
In sickness and in health.
‘Nothing,’ I say and there’s a pause. His breathwhispers down the line, in-out-in-out, and I lay my head on the pillow and imagine it’s on his chest. His fingers playing with my hair.
‘Ali.’ One word. Just one word coated with tenderness. ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s the nicest he’s been to me in ages.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say but I don’t know whether he’s apologising for now or for then.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
There is so much I want him to do. I want him to explain why he stopped trying. Why he let me go. But instead I ask him to talk to me and when he asks ‘about what’ I say ‘anything’. I put Matt on speakerphone and rest my phone on the pillow next to my ear. I close my eyes and listen as he speaks, and we fall into a shared memory of when Branwell was a puppy and we’d first brought him home from thebreeders. His paws had skidded on our laminate floor and he’d shot down the hallway like Bambi on ice skates. The amazement on his face the first time he saw grass. His confusion at patio doors, batting his paw against the glass as a ladybird scurried up the outside of the pane. Eventually I start to drift and the last thing I remember is Matt saying good night.
Sleep claims me but it isfar from restful. I am chased through my nightmares by a faceless man, while my feet squelch through crimson blood flowing a river. He catches me.
With a gasp, I startle awake, my hands springing to my throat to wrench away the fingers I think I feel there, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.
There’s nobody here.
I snap on my lamp and cross the room, the warmth of the carpetagainst the soles of my feet reassuring me I am awake. Swishing open the curtains I am greeted by the moon casting a creamy glow. Threading through the shadows is a figure. I am paralysed with fear as I wait for him to turn, my face a ghostly smudge reflected in the glass, but he doesn’t falter, doesn’t look up at my window as he ambles down the street.
It’s not Ewan. It isn’t.
And yet at the corner of the street he hesitates, and the whispers of my nightmares trail icy fingers down my spine.
16
Bad night, Ali? Wait until you get home. I’ve left a surprise for you.
FRIDAY
17
I bounced between sleep and wakefulness as nightmares attacked and retreated with alarming regularity, until I crept downstairs with Branwell at 6 a.m., yawning, as I spooned coffee into a mug. The ancient heating system gurgled to life, as I sipped my drink and waited for thecaffeine to hit.
‘You’re up early.’ Iris glides into the kitchen; she looks even smaller, swamped in the dressing gown she still calls a housecoat. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ I answer without hesitation because that’s what we always do. Avoid the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the unspeakable. ‘I’m going home.’ I rise from my seat, because I won’t find the sense of safety I was seekinghere, among the secrets
‘Fine.’ I say what I’m expected to say. What I think he wants to hear. But he doesn’t believe it for a second.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘No.’ I sigh. ‘I’m not.’ Part of me longs to tell him about the gloves. About the blood on my bumper. Although I can’t remember anything about Saturdaynight, I can’t really believe I have hurt anyone, and neither would he. He used to roll his eyes whenever I chased spiders around the lounge with a glass and a coaster, carefully scooping them inside the tumbler before letting them out into the garden. But there’s another part, a darker part, whispering what if you did hurt someone ? And I know I can’t drag him into this, whatever this is. I’mon my own.
From this day forward.
‘I found the chocolate orange. Thanks.’
‘It was nothing,’ he says, although both of us know it was something. ‘Have you eaten it yet?’
‘No.’
‘You must still feel ill. I can’t stop wondering what happened to you. Do you remember anything yet?’
In sickness and in health.
‘Nothing,’ I say and there’s a pause. His breathwhispers down the line, in-out-in-out, and I lay my head on the pillow and imagine it’s on his chest. His fingers playing with my hair.
‘Ali.’ One word. Just one word coated with tenderness. ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s the nicest he’s been to me in ages.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say but I don’t know whether he’s apologising for now or for then.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
There is so much I want him to do. I want him to explain why he stopped trying. Why he let me go. But instead I ask him to talk to me and when he asks ‘about what’ I say ‘anything’. I put Matt on speakerphone and rest my phone on the pillow next to my ear. I close my eyes and listen as he speaks, and we fall into a shared memory of when Branwell was a puppy and we’d first brought him home from thebreeders. His paws had skidded on our laminate floor and he’d shot down the hallway like Bambi on ice skates. The amazement on his face the first time he saw grass. His confusion at patio doors, batting his paw against the glass as a ladybird scurried up the outside of the pane. Eventually I start to drift and the last thing I remember is Matt saying good night.
Sleep claims me but it isfar from restful. I am chased through my nightmares by a faceless man, while my feet squelch through crimson blood flowing a river. He catches me.
With a gasp, I startle awake, my hands springing to my throat to wrench away the fingers I think I feel there, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.
There’s nobody here.
I snap on my lamp and cross the room, the warmth of the carpetagainst the soles of my feet reassuring me I am awake. Swishing open the curtains I am greeted by the moon casting a creamy glow. Threading through the shadows is a figure. I am paralysed with fear as I wait for him to turn, my face a ghostly smudge reflected in the glass, but he doesn’t falter, doesn’t look up at my window as he ambles down the street.
It’s not Ewan. It isn’t.
And yet at the corner of the street he hesitates, and the whispers of my nightmares trail icy fingers down my spine.
16
Bad night, Ali? Wait until you get home. I’ve left a surprise for you.
FRIDAY
17
I bounced between sleep and wakefulness as nightmares attacked and retreated with alarming regularity, until I crept downstairs with Branwell at 6 a.m., yawning, as I spooned coffee into a mug. The ancient heating system gurgled to life, as I sipped my drink and waited for thecaffeine to hit.
‘You’re up early.’ Iris glides into the kitchen; she looks even smaller, swamped in the dressing gown she still calls a housecoat. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ I answer without hesitation because that’s what we always do. Avoid the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the unspeakable. ‘I’m going home.’ I rise from my seat, because I won’t find the sense of safety I was seekinghere, among the secrets
Similar Books
