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

Chris felt ashamed of himself. He briefly wondered what his father would think of the way he had just treated another human being but soon shrugged it off despite his father being right. After all, he was supposed to be dead right now and therefore the driver wouldn’t have anyone to talk to anyway. Besides, his father’s view of other things mattered a lot more.

Putting his shoes under the stairs Chris saw there were two new messages on his home answerphone. He pressed play and sat on the stairs near his front door. Unsure what else to do. The first message was from Ben, a work friend of his. The automated voice told him Ben had left it just after midday.

‘Hi Chris, it’s Ben. I hope you’re okay. I’ve tried to call you on your mobile but can’t leave a message. So I got your number from our records. I thought you wouldn’t mind. Mate, we’ve been chatting in the office and it came up today was, well, you know. Anyway. We’d like to take you out for a drink, just a few of us. Just to catch up. No pressure to come back to work or anything, far from it. We miss your face around here and want to see how you are. So give me a ring back when you can and we can set something up.’

The second was from Steve, sent at eight minutes past ten. The same time Chris had been aimlessly walking through March.

‘Hi, mate. Thought I’d just give you a quick call. Haven’t heard anything from you in a few weeks and Kristy reminded me today was your anniversary. I’m sorry, mate. I should have remembered. I’m rubbish with dates. I came over earlier today, about seven, but you weren’t in. Listen. I’ve got some time off work soon and I was thinking we could go and have a pint or something? Anyway, give me a call.’

Chris was tempted to call back but thought better of it. He remembered the last time he and Steve went for a pint, three weeks before. It was a goodbye drink that Steve didn’t know he was sharing. Like a wake for the living. It was a huge risk meeting up with Steve. Chris usually told his best mate everything, but he couldn’t tell him the thing that really mattered.

He couldn’t tell him about Julia being killed; as far as he and everyone else was concerned, Julia was with her dad in Australia following her mother’s death, taking a sabbatical from work to do so. Because if Steve knew what really happened, he would be in danger. Chris knew her killer was close, and watching. One little slip would mean Steve would be next. He knew because the night the man killed his wife he promised he would kill again unless Chris kept quiet.

When they had last met at their usual haunt – the same bar where Steve had instigated Chris meeting Julia – it was a quiet Friday due to the pouring rain that hadn’t lifted all day. Chris had spent the day in his house, waiting for nothing in particular, before leaving an hour and a half earlier than their agreed meeting. His nerves were frayed at seeing his mate for the last time, so by the time Steve arrived Chris was washing down his third pint and as he approached, Chris hugged him for longer than normal. Steve glanced at the empties.

‘Had a few already I see, mate?’

‘I came straight from work. Figured, why not?’

‘I can’t remember the last time you had more than a couple.’

‘Me neither, but tonight we are celebrating.’

Chris then walked to the bar, ordered two more pints, and returned to sit beside Steve who was clearly confused.

‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Life.’

Raising his pint glass, Chris clinked his friend’s and drained half of his before Steve had taken a sip. As he lowered his glass he could see Steve watching him.

‘Are you all right, Chris?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘Okay. So what specifically about life are we toasting?’

‘Just life, like I said.’

‘I see. Well I’m glad we are, mate. It feels like for ever since we had a pint.’

‘It’s been a long time.’

Steve watched as Chris took another long drink of his pint, leaving only about a third of it swilling in the glass.

‘Chris?’

Chris burped loudly. Drawing the attention of people at nearby tables. ‘Yep.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine, Steve; stop mothering.’

‘Chris. What’s on your mind?’

‘Fucking hell, let’s just have a drink. Can’t we just get drunk together?’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea – maybe you shouldn’t have any more?’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

Chris slammed his glass on the table with such force two of the three empties jumped off of the table and smashed on the floor.

‘Bloody hell, Chris!’

Chris took a deep breath, centring himself. As he spoke, it was quieter but no calmer. ‘I’m getting another one. You want another one?’

‘No,’ Steve replied, shifting in his seat as eyes began turning towards the commotion at their table.

‘Please yourself.’

Chris remembered the look on Steve’s face. One that recoiled at the aggressiveness of his remark and was deeply worried. He couldn’t remember any other time in their friendship where he had been confrontational and he knew Steve knew it.

Chris had forced himself to calm down and they’d spent the rest of the night talking awkwardly about nothing of consequence. Chris didn’t ask about Steve’s wife; he didn’t ask about his work. In fact, Steve had to do all of the talking by asking forced questions Chris didn’t answer. Especially when he tried to speak about Julia and how she was and when she was coming home.

By the end of that night Steve had warmed up, Chris had cooled down, and as last orders were called, both stepped into the cold night air.

‘Nice seeing you, buddy.’

‘You too, Steve.’

‘Wanna do this again next week?’

‘I’d love to. The next few weeks are chaos at work, definitely after though.’

Chris could see his friend looking at him in a way that showed he didn’t quite believe what he had just heard – only for a moment though, and then it was replaced with Steve’s infectious smile.

‘Sure, buddy, just give me a call.

They hugged again before going their separate ways.

Chris remembered it being harder than he thought it would be to say goodbye to Steve and hearing his voice again reminded him of how drunk and aggressive he’d been the last time they spoke. He didn’t want to try and explain his actions that night. He shouldn’t need to. He should have been dead by now.

As the voicemail message ended and the line went quiet, Chris stood up, walked down his hallway and into the kitchen. He picked up a folded letter with a key resting on it that had been placed on the kitchen table. Putting the key in his pocket he took the letter to the sink. Its contents gave the location of the box for which the key fit, as well as the detailed reason for why he had taken his own life. Foolishly Chris read it, his sadness amplified and his grief embedded further, though he had no idea how that was possible.