Our Little Secret: a gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist from bestselling author Darren O’Sullivan

I paid the driver and stepped into the frigid wind, which carried a drizzling rain. The kind that soaked you without you knowing it was raining. As I shut the door I could hear him cough a little as he said goodbye but the door was already out of my hand and closing, cutting him off mid phrase.

Pulling my cardigan over my chin I steadied myself. The cold air mixing with the red wine I had been drinking making me feel a little tipsy. I heard my phone ping from inside my bag. Stopping in the sheltered entrance of the train station I rifled through it, finding my iPhone. Pulling it out I tapped in my security code, 0311, the month and year I first met the man who’d made me feel so abandoned. Tapping the screen on the new message icon I saw it was from him.

‘I had fun tonight.’

I read and reread the message, hoping to find some hidden meaning in its four words until the screen went blank, turning the dark glass of my iPhone into a mirror, one that showed a tired girl who had just been taken advantage of.

I opened my banking app, punched in my security code and prayed. I knew there wouldn’t be much, but I hoped there was enough to pay for my ticket in case a train conductor was on board. The station didn’t have a ticket machine or a barrier; it still worked on a trust between passengers and the train company. One I’d abused too many times for someone in their late twenties. My account read £3.41. I scrolled to see what was in my savings. A sorrowful 6p. I’d have to jump the train and keep my fingers crossed.

Dropping my phone back into my bag, I stepped into the tired station and saw a man standing close to the edge, looking out across the track towards the other platform. Oddly, he was barefoot. His shoes were carefully placed beside him like someone might do before they entered a mosque. I looked around to see if someone was there with him. Wondering for a moment if he was filming a media student’s project. Being near Cambridge there was always something of that nature happening. But he was alone, lost in his own thoughts.

I looked at the floor trying not to establish any kind of eye contact, moving slower as I made my way to the bench. Strangely, I felt like I wasn’t allowed to be there. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him swaying a little, obviously drunk. Sitting down as quietly as I could, I hoped he wouldn’t turn around and notice me. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I became aware that I was alone at a deserted train station with a drunk man close by.

Looking up at the rusting station roof I thought about my evening and felt a sense of déjà vu. Before John there was Micky and before him, in my college days, there was Paul. Men I’d loved who had lied to me. My first two loves committing betrayal had been hard. I’d cried a lot, then slept with a few men, then hated myself for it and stopped dating until meeting the next one.

But John was different. I was no longer in my teens or early twenties. I was nearly at an age where families and marriage would be a factor. And I had pictured that with him. And it was all a lie.

I pulled out a packet of Marlboro Lights from my bag and opened them. It took four attempts to get my cigarette lit. Each strike of my lighter possibly alerting the man that I was there. Luckily for me they didn’t. I leaned forward and rubbed my temple with my free hand, glancing at the damp floor. The man hadn’t moved at all and, feeling confident I didn’t matter to him, I looked at him gently swaying. I looked at his shoes beside him, once smart but now scuffed and stained. A dark brown patch across the side of the right one. The black leather worn off the toes.

My mum told me you could tell a lot about a person’s shoes. His told me that he was once someone who cared, and now didn’t. I thought he was too close to the edge of the platform for a man who was drunk. I should have told him to step back – I thought it. Almost articulated it. But stopped myself. He was an adult, able to look after himself. And besides. I didn’t want an act of kindness to be misread. As far as I was concerned he was like all men. But still, I watched. Curious as to whether my shoe assessment was in any way true.

I could only see him from behind but could tell he was in good shape, his white shirt tight and damp across his shoulders and back, showing a strong muscular form. He looked down onto the track, his thoughts obviously back from wherever they had been. Thinking he would turn and look behind at me, I shifted my body. Closing myself off. Despite my curiosity about him, I didn’t want to talk to him. I just wanted to be left alone.

***

Three minutes.

Dying didn’t worry Chris; the only thing that did was the timing. Not just the date but the moment too. He wanted to not step in front of the train but under it. The idea of the driver having to see his death bothered him too much. He knew what it was like to watch a person die. It was something he wished on no one.

If he waited for the train to pass and then stepped under one of the carriages, say, the twenty-fourth one, his outcome would be exactly the same, but no one would see it happen and therefore no one would be scarred.

The 10.47 was a cargo-loaded train; there would be no passengers. With the timing of his suicide and the note he had placed under the bench, Chris was confident it would cause only a small amount of collateral damage. He knew that the driver would have to stop because someone died but he wouldn’t see it, he would be at least three hundred feet away in his carriage before Chris would step out. The emergency services were used to jumpers. This was his final redeeming act as a human being. The only thing he still had to offer.

Looking at the picture that was crumpled into his palm, once more Chris focused on his wife’s eyes, the amber flecks like lightning bolts in her green eyes that seemed to move with fluidity. He focused on the way her smile was slightly higher on one side, giving her a mischievous glint. He kissed it and carefully put her in his shirt pocket. He wanted her close to his heart when the time came.

***

I watched him kiss a picture out of the corner of my eye. Seeing him kiss it changed how I felt about him. It made me think of an old film I love. One where a man’s heart belonged in one place. And I realized that maybe he wasn’t the enemy. Far from it. John and all men like him were the enemy. John wouldn’t even have a picture of me, let alone kiss it. This man, he was different. He was clearly in love and the way he kissed the picture, so tender, so caring, made 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.’