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

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СКАЧАТЬ man. What happened to him? Tell me he died of testicular cancer.’

      Life isn’t fair like that. Nice men get horrible diseases; ones like my father hang on like cockroaches after a nuclear winter. ‘Don’t know, don’t care. He was actually Mum’s second husband. She had a daughter already, my older sister Miriam.’

      ‘Didn’t I meet her once? Formidable woman.’

      ‘Yes, that’s Miriam. She should be in charge of the free world, not just a farm. Anyway, her dad was a good bloke called John but he died of a heart attack in his forties. Miriam left home as soon as she could after the second marriage as she didn’t like my father, so she never saw the bastard at his worst. After I ran away, Miriam finally realised how bad things had got and helped Mum leave.’

      ‘That was brave of her.’

      ‘Yeah, we got lucky. Miriam had just married Bill – he’s a farmer, great guy – and could offer Mum a home well away from my father. By the time they found me, Dad was history. I was sixteen so my opinion was taken into account in the divorce settlement and I wasn’t forced to see him again.’

      ‘Rough, though.’

      ‘It could’ve been much worse. You know those news stories where some guy flips and kills his ex and her kids? Well, I thought that would be us. I was convinced for a long while that he’d come round and murder us all in revenge one day, but he never bothered. Maybe Bill’s farm dogs and rifle scared him off. He’s probably still sitting in his house, moaning about how his wife, his daughter, abandoned him.’

      Drew scrunched up the empty bag and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘I have to say it, Jess, but don’t you see a similarity between your domineering father and Michael?’

      ‘Are you saying I’m repeating family history? No, Michael’s not that bad.’ He isn’t, is he? ‘He recognises I have a life separate from his – he positively encourages it. He often says he doesn’t want us to live in each other’s pockets. My father would never have done that.’ My phone pings. A text from Michael. Come home immediately. ‘Speak of the devil. The eagle has landed. I’ve got to go back. Thanks for looking after me.’

      Drew leans over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He smells of cheese and pickle with an undertone of varnish. ‘You know you’re welcome back anytime. I like having you around.’

      ‘I like being around you.’ It’s true. He makes me feel wanted. I rest my forehead on his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

      I arrive back in Clapham to find a police car parked outside our house. Christ, not another tripped alarm? It’s really not my fault this time. I definitely closed the kitchen door and set it correctly. Drew will be able to back me up on the latter, as he would have heard the buzz as I locked the front door.

      I use my key to enter and call out a wary ‘Hello?’

      ‘In here, Jessica,’ replies Michael from the conservatory half of the kitchen which is out of sight of the hallway. I go in and find he is serving tea to the officers, two of them sitting at the scrubbed pine table. They look up expectantly as I enter.

      ‘What’s going on? Did we have a break-in?’ I drop my bag on the fourth chair.

      ‘Where’ve you been?’ asks Michael. He’s still in what I think of as his conference uniform: lichen-green linen suit, jacket, and shirt. He cuts a patrician figure with his thick auburn hair and large frame. In the States, he would’ve done well as a newscaster or TV evangelist. Here, we seem to like our newsreaders to have an ordinary vibe and our clergy less polished. A new shoulder bag is hanging from the back of one of the chairs advertising the name and date of the symposium. He has at least five of these freebies, the boringly grown-up version of the T-shirt with the band tour dates.

      ‘At Drew’s.’ I feel I need to explain a little more for the benefit of the silent police officers. ‘He’s a friend from Feltham. With Michael away, I didn’t want to stay here on my own last night.’ I decide not to add that debt collectors might be after me for rent I did not owe them or that I suffer from sleeplessness caused by fears of intruders: that would lead to too long a story.

      ‘And you staying away has nothing to do with the state of the bedroom, I suppose?’ Michael’s hand slices through the air, a typical gesture of annoyance which means ‘cut the crap’. ‘Don’t give me your usual excuses; I want the truth. I’m not playing nice this time. You’ve gone way too far. I’m pressing charges.’

      ‘What?’ That’s a kick in the stomach. The police are here for me. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

      ‘As if you don’t know!’

      ‘I don’t!’

      One of the policemen stands. ‘Perhaps Miss Bridges would like to accompany me upstairs so she can see what this is about.’

      I trail after the constable. It’s odd to see his heavy shoes on our carpet. Michael is usually so insistent that we change out of outdoor shoes before going into the carpeted areas. The policeman leads me to our bedroom at the front and opens the door.

      ‘Oh my God.’ The room has been trashed – not just turned over by thieves but systematically ruined. The covers are ripped off the bed and the mattress has been slashed on Michael’s side. White stuffing leaks out and you can see the springs. Our carving knife has been left in the material, stabbed where his heart would be if he were in bed. His clothes are out of the wardrobe and drawers, some shirts torn in two. There’s a strong smell of aftershave in the air from the smashed bottle that had stood on his side of the dressing table. His stack of bedside reading – mainly psychology related – have been tugged from their covers and turned into clumps of confetti.

      But my side is untouched. Clothes hang limply. Lotion bottles still lined up on the glass top. An iPad and a stout Kingsolver sit waiting for me. My glass of water hasn’t even been spilled.

      ‘This wasn’t me.’ I don’t dare cross the threshold.

      ‘Perhaps you’d better come back downstairs with me, Miss, and we can discuss this in the kitchen.’

      ‘It wasn’t me. Have you swept for fingerprints?’ I follow him. ‘Was the alarm tripped again? Our neighbour would’ve noticed. You must ask her.’

      Michael is standing with his back to the oven, arms folded. ‘Well?’

      ‘You can’t think I’d do that, Michael.’ He obviously does. ‘It wasn’t me, I swear it.’

      The policeman who took me upstairs gets out a notebook. The other one, I notice, is stroking Colette surreptitiously under the table.

      ‘You came back here last night after Miss Huntingdon reported the alarm had gone off, correct?’

      ‘Yes. At about nine.’

      ‘You came inside and saw no evidence of a break-in?’

      ‘No, it all seemed normal.’ Then I realise. ‘I didn’t go upstairs, though. I was in a hurry because I had to get to my old office to fetch some things before they got thrown away.’

      ‘Were you with anyone?’

      ‘Yes, with Drew. Andrew Payne, the friend from Feltham. He’s employed in his family СКАЧАТЬ