Don’t Trust Me: The best psychological thriller debut you will read in 2018. Joss Stirling

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      The train pulls into Feltham where Drew’s family have their business. The undertaker’s is on the corner of Manor Lane and the High Street, near the bright lights of Tesco and the shadier dealings of a government intelligence collection centre. Feltham has that unfortunate mix of no-longer-modern and not-that-old that screams airport suburbia. Planes are a constant companion roaring overhead as if the Viking God Thor has driven a thunderstorm to the long-stay car park and forgotten to collect it. Drew’s shopfront has pale-grey vertical blinds, half closed to give the clients some privacy, and a curly black script announcing the firm’s name which must be hell to read for someone with dyslexia. It’s a font favoured by the front covers of romantic novels, Regency tearooms and dealers in the dead – go figure that one out. I know from Drew that the funeral director’s is not a place many of the bereaved actually visit, with most transactions done on the phone. That means that when I arrive I’m not too worried that I’ll be interrupting a sensitive meeting, but it’s a possibility. I breeze in, ready to breeze back out immediately if I’ve called at an inopportune moment. I’m relieved to find Drew manning reception with his lunch and he’s alone.

      He puts down his Tesco sushi, wipes his fingers on a napkin and gives me a welcoming hug. ‘Hi, Jessica, nice surprise! What are you doing here?’

      ‘Come to see you, of course. No DB to report. I’ve not done away with Michael, not yet, so I’m not asking you to bury him.’ Of course I have made that joke before with him: a good friend will help you move, a true friend will help you move a dead body. I’ve told him that under this criterion he is the perfect true friend.

      ‘So what do you have to report?’ He pushes a chair out for me and shoves the black sushi tray to halfway between us without asking.

      I reel off the morning’s events while folding strips of dead-skin ginger over rice pinwheels. Am I the only person in Britain who finds those shavings of ginger root to be like something that’s been pickled for decades in an anatomist’s laboratory? I’m craving chocolate, my go-to comfort food, but Drew is unlikely to have any to hand as he is ruthless about healthy eating.

      Drew fetches some water from the cooler and sets it down in front of me while I finish my story. He’s dressed in a white shirt and black tie and trousers, suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, which means he’s probably already done a funeral today. On duty, he takes out his piercings but he normally has one in his eyebrow and several in his earlobes. With his slicked-back black hair and trim beard styled like an Elizabethan privateer, he carries a hint of feral even in a suit. What I love most about Drew is his optimism. He’s philosophical about death, and cheerful about the prospect of an afterlife. Bodies are just husks, he says. When you’ve handled enough of them, you realise that. Either the soul has buggered off to be somewhere different or dying takes the batteries out of a person. If option one, then great; if two, then we won’t know, so why worry? I once told Drew that he was restating Pascal’s Wager but he gave me a funny look and teased me for having a near-useless university education. I didn’t like to say that this was something I’d picked up from QI on Dave, not my psychology degree, because I enjoy him claiming I’m more intelligent than he is. It counters all those ‘dumb blonde’ moments I seem to get with Michael.

      ‘So what would you do if you were me?’ I ask at the end of my account.

      ‘I’d pack a bag and go visit a friend.’ He grins. ‘Especially if that friend has a fold-out bed they can offer.’

      ‘Thanks. Huge relief.’

      ‘So what are you going to do next?’

      ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

      ‘I think you need to find this Jacob wanker. It’s his mess. You need to make sure it’s dumped on his doorstep.’

      ‘How do I do that?’

      ‘Jess, have you or have you not just been working for a missing persons agency?’

      I wonder for a fleeting second if he means to doubt my version of events but then I realise what he is implying. ‘Yes, I have.’

      ‘Have you or have you not learnt a few things along the way about how to find someone?’

      ‘I was just doing the psychological profiles to predict where the runaways might end up.’

      He raises a brow.

      ‘But yes, I learnt a few things along the way.’

      ‘Then profile your boss as far as you can and see if you can trace him. This landlord guy will be after him too. It’ll be a race to see who gets there first. Consider it a professional challenge.’

      The phone rings. I’m so nervous, I jump. Drew lays a hand on my shoulder and answers it.

      ‘Yes, this is Payne and Bullock. I see. No, I’m afraid we don’t do pet funerals. No, never. Really, we don’t. I’m sorry for your loss.’ He puts the phone down. ‘Jeez, a Saint Bernard for burial as it’s too big for the back garden, but why is it my problem?’

      My faith in the absurdity of humanity restored, I rest my head briefly on his chest and then help myself to another piece of sushi.

       Chapter 7

       Emma, 28th April 2011

      I freewheeled down Box Hill once when I was a teenager. I had the whole of the Surrey Hills stretched out before me and I was planning to ride to the coast. Best-laid plans… About halfway down I hit a pothole, sailed over the handlebars and ended up in the ditch. My friends laughed when they realised I wasn’t badly hurt. I was unbelievably lucky. Of course, I wasn’t wearing a helmet, though I’ve given that talk to my fair share of students since I moved into training. Like they do, I thought I was immortal. Thank God for bushes. Branches broke rather than my neck.

      Why am I back at Box Hill? That’s the closest I’ve ever come to what it felt like sitting in that office to hear the specialist’s verdict today on how the treatment was going – a sickening ride through the air with the prospect of a not-so-soft landing, when I thought I’d get to the coast. I’d seen my life as an eighty, or even ninety-mile ride; I’m in fact getting only twenty-nine, thirty if I hang on for a few more pain-filled months. It’s the shock of rearranging it all in my head that has really floored me. I can’t get a handle on it – I find it almost impossible to believe. This voice, this me, that’s been chatting away in my mind, will fall silent. I won’t exist.

      I don’t ‘get’ death. Don’t even want to write the word. I’m still flailing in that tumble through the air, as my mind has not quite caught up with what’s happened since the pothole.

      We are so bad at dealing with death as a society. I’ve been sick now for a while so I’ve got to see how most people cope. Many of my friends at work, and Michael’s colleagues too, go for all that clichéd angry stuff, telling me ‘don’t go gentle into that good night’; they like to quote Dylan Thomas when something so unfair happens, as if it helps, as if rage is a good choice. I don’t like poetry and this advice is not helping. To me that’s the fake bravery of the generals sending the squaddies over the top, safe in the bunker themselves. I’d settle right now for ‘don’t go so fucking scared and confused into your grave’ and some answers on how not to do that. This is not how I want it to happen. СКАЧАТЬ