The Sleeping Truth - A Psychological Thriller (Book One)

Chapter 1

I sit alone in the cubicle, surrounded by the green curtain that shuts us off from the outside world, and I look at the woman in front of me, lying motionless in a coma on the hospital bed.

She looks so peaceful, her features still as beautiful as the first time I saw her, and it’s hard to believe that she is on the edge of life.

The anger I felt towards her is now strangely quiet, and instead I am wracked with guilt. Is she here now because of me? If she dies, will her death be my fault, because of something I wished for in a moment of desperation when I could see no other way out?

Have I killed her?

A tear comes to my eye. Not just for her, but for us both, and I wonder, how did we both come to this?

June 2005

One month before

..

Putting down the phone is proving to be the hardest thing I have ever done. I know that this will be our last conversation, and I know that the moment I hang up, four years of my life will finally be over.

All the love, hope, and dreams which once filled us both with such happiness will have been swept away. Gone forever.

Yet, there is no going back now. I am not the bad guy here. It was her that slept with someone else. It was her that crossed the line and stepped outside of our trust. And it’s too late now for her to show regret. Far too late.

When she told me a week ago exactly what she had done, a switch was thrown in my mind, and somewhere inside me the caring just stopped, all my positive emotions immediately being replaced by disbelief and anger. More anger than I have ever felt before at any point in my life.

I listen to her voice now, pleading with me not to do this, begging for me to come back home, … We need to talk…,.

For a second, I hesitate, the phone handset only centimetres away from the receiver, but the hesitation is just that. A final pause in which I ask myself one more time to check if all this is real.

With the answer still ‘yes’, I slam the handset back on its cradle, pick up my rucksack, and walk from the platform onto the train. It’s five hours to London. A new job. And a new life.

Chapter 2

The journey down to London is almost relaxing. As the train speeds south along the cliff edges past North Berwick, my mind is blissfully blank. I stare out across the water, watching the seagulls riding the thermals, soaring and diving above the bright blue, sunlit sea. Careless. Unburdened. Free.

It had only taken five minutes to walk into my boss’s office and ask about the vacancy advertised in the London branch. Then after a fifteen minute telephone interview and a reference from my boss, the deal was done. After all, it had only taken Kate fifteen minutes to destroy my old life, so it seemed rather fitting that in a comparable amount of time, I had managed to set up a whole new future for myself.

.

---------------------------

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My head falls forward and I awake with a jump. I look at my watch to discover that I have been asleep for over an hour.

On the table diagonally opposite me a book lies closed, a blue woollen coat lying on the seat beside it.

I casually reach out with my right hand and spin the book around so that I can read the title: ‘Marrying Slovakia.’ The name of the book automatically raises a number of questions, not the least being, ‘Where is Slovakia?’ Then another silly question: ‘How can you marry a country?’ quickly followed by, ‘Or is Slovakia the name of a girl?’

Looking up and down the aisle, the book’s owner is nowhere to be seen, so I pick it up, flick through a couple of chapters, then start to read the first few pages.

It’s a good book, a woman’s voice says, catching me by surprise.

I look up. I’m sorry, I say, replacing it on the table.

Don’t worry, I’ve just finished it. You can keep it if you want.

I look across at the woman, now sitting opposite me. She is about fifty years old, quite round, rosy cheeks with big brown eyes that smile at me as she speaks.

Are you sure? I ask, pleased with the offer.

Absolutely. I loved it, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too.

Why? What’s the book about? I ask.

Aha. Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? But a little voice tells me that the book could have been written just for you...Why not read it and find out for yourself?

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Clapham Junction, London.

Thursday Night.

Day One.

I’m sorry to hear about Kate. I still can’t believe what she did to you, Guy says as he shows me into the bedroom I’m going to be renting for the next few months. But I’m glad you’re here. It’ll be like old times again. Plus, the rent will come in handy.

I drop my rucksack on the floor and follow Guy through to the living room of his two bedroom flat on the third floor of an old Victorian house on Battersea Rise. I flop into one of two brown leather chairs, and Guy tosses me a cold beer from the fridge.

So what happened? he asks, taking a pew on the chair opposite me.

You mean with Kate? Who knows? I haven’t figured it all out myself yet. To be honest, I don’t want to talk about it for a while. London’s going to be my new start, and she belongs to my old life.

Guy looks at me for a moment, as if about to say something, but decides against it and opens his can of beer instead. No problem. Been there, got the T-shirt. So…tell me about your new job. When do you start?

Monday. Straight away. I figure there’s no need to waste money by taking any time off. Cheers! I reply, leaning forward and banging my can against his in salute to my new life.

It’s been almost six months since I last saw Guy, when he, I, and another friend Mark had completed a ten day trek through the mountains of Nepal to raise money for the Royal Society for the Blind, one of Guy’s favourite charities.

Mark, Guy and I had shared a flat for four years when we were at university in Edinburgh. Guy had studied History of Art, and I did Physics while Mark did German: ‘The Three Amigos’, or at least that’s what our friends called us. For four years life had been one great big party, spending almost every Saturday night together in the Student Union, drinking, dancing, playing pool and chasing women, so much so that it was a wonder we ever passed our exams. After graduating, Guy moved first to Manchester, then to London, and Mark now lives somewhere in Cologne, teaching English at a Gymnasium, which I am reliably informed is some sort of school and not a German gym.

We spend a while catching up, chatting for a while about Guy’s work and the latest Kasier Chief’s gig he went to see last week, until almost unavoidably the subject of women creeps back into the conversation.

So where’s Sal, then? I ask, enquiring after Guy’s girlfriend.

She’ll be round later probably. She’s working late.

How long’s it been now? It must be almost three years. That’s even longer than you went out with Laura. Wow…It must be pretty serious…?

One month longer…It’s not that much…but you’re right, it’s now officially the longest relationship I’ve ever had.

You’re a lucky man, Guy. Sal’s great.

Yep. I know, Guy replies, then falls silent for a moment. Listen, if you want, I could introduce you to some of her friends? She knows lots of pretty women, and they’re always complaining that they can’t find any decent blokes down here…

Guy, I interrupt him, "…finding another girlfriend is the last thing that’s on my mind just now. I’ve just been dumped in the most painful way possible and there’s no way that I’ll be able to trust a woman for a long, long time. And I don’t want to meet anyone while I’m on the rebound, especially one of your friends, because I’d probably end up just hurting them, and that’s the last thing I want to do. No, given my incredible track-record of success in relationships, all I’m good for right now is some completely meaningless sex with someone who doesn’t want anything from me and never expects me to take them out to dinner or buy them flowers, or even remember their name in a month’s time." I reply.

Well, if that’s all you want, then I know just the place…

Which is how the next night I end-up in the Road House in Covent Garden, kissing my first girl in London. We were both very drunk. She said her name was Louisa. She was twenty-five years old with brown hair, and some sort of job in IT. And a mobile phone number, which I foolishly try to call the next day only to be given a dead tone. A false number. My first contact with a woman in London and she lies to me.

Great.

Chapter 4

Sunday afternoon

Day Four.

..

As I sit on the number 42 bus heading south from Tooting Broadway towards Mitcham Common, I begin to feel very nauseous. I take my jacket off and lay it on the seat beside me, taking several deep breathes and closing my eyes, letting the air into my lungs slowly, holding it for a while, and then letting it back out again. My heart is beating fast, and I can feel beads of sweat building up on my face and forehead.

Perhaps I’m making a big mistake. Maybe I should listen to what my body is telling me…this is wrong. This is just so obviously a really bad idea.

For a moment I consider…for the hundredth time since I left this morning…just getting off the bus and going home. Not ‘home’ to Edinburgh, but ‘home’ as in my new room in Guy’s flat. But then, I know only too well, that what I’m doing now is perhaps the real reason that I came down to London. A reason that I can’t tell Guy about, or anyone else for that matter.

Maybe it’s just too soon to do this? Perhaps I should just leave it for a while…after all, I only arrived in London a few days ago. I’ve not even settled in yet.

But then again, I’ve always been confrontational. If something has to be done, then why wait? Why worry about it for days or months rather than face it head on…immediately. Procrastination is the mother of all stress.

I take a long deep breath in again, hold it, then let it out slowly.

Shit. I don’t have to do this…

But I don’t get off the bus. And I don’t change my mind. Instead, as my bus carries on, leaving the houses and shops behind and emerging into a mini-oasis of greenery, I try to calm myself down by looking at the people walking and playing on Mitcham Common.

From my seat on the top deck I can see a typical Sunday afternoon being played out before me: people walking their dogs, a football match, children flying kites with their dads, some kids throwing bread at the ducks in the small pond.

I look at the map in my hand, printed off from Guy’s computer, and check how far I’ve still got to go. Probably another ten minutes bus-ride.

Even if I were to stop and turn around and take the next bus back, it’s only a question of when, not if I do this. I have to know. I have to find out the answer, and the only way to do it is to follow the little map in my hand and go where it is trying to take me…

The bus soon comes to where I have to get off, and I reluctantly leave the sanctuary of my seat and navigate my way down the stairs and out on to the street. Which way now? I hold the map up and orientate myself.

Crossing the road, I walk a hundred yards backwards in the direction the bus just came from and turn left into Beech Gardens. Three minutes later I am standing on the opposite side of the road from Number 38. Not doing anything. Just standing there. Looking.

It’s nothing like I thought it would be. It’s a terraced house, quite small. A small garden gate. A red-tiled path that leads up to a dark green door. The walls are pebble-dashed and painted white, although that was obviously a long time ago. There is a small bedroom above the door, and I notice that its window is cracked from the top left-hand side diagonally down to the bottom. Scanning the rest of the building I see that some tiles are missing from the roof and that the green window frames all need urgent attention.

I feel disappointed. Almost let down. And somewhat ashamed.

I contemplate stepping off the curb and crossing to the other side of the road. I try to imagine myself walking up the red path and knocking on the door. In my mind I picture the door opening, a figure appearing in the doorway…but instead ten minutes later I am once again sitting on the number 42 bus and heading back to Tooting Broadway.

I am a coward.

Chapter 5

Monday morning.

Day Five.

....

It’s Monday morning and as the 8.15 a.m. train arrives at Clapham Junction I shuffle onto the train and manage to find the last empty seat in the carriage. Six minutes later and we are in the centre of London, the busiest and most exciting city in the world.

I walk out of Waterloo and catch the number 26 for the short ride to Sandhurst Road. Getting off the bus and walking up to the main entrance of my new offices, I stop for a second to catch my reflection in a nearby window.

Five-foot eleven, short light-brown hair, green eyes, broad shouldered and still quite slim, it seems that I spruce up rather well in a suit. Adjusting my tie, and trying out one of my best smiles on my reflected-self, I mentally pat myself on my back and wish myself luck.

Walking through the front door into reception, I feel like I’m just starting my first day at school, and when I sign my name in the reception book and wait for my new boss to come down and pick me up, I can’t help but feel nervous.

I look around the plush reception area, noting once again the stark comparison between this customer-friendly sales office and the drab factory offices in Edinburgh where I have worked for the past three years. Having been down here a couple of times already, I pretty much know what to expect: modern, clean, attractive open-plan offices full of large green plants; impressive corner offices, meeting rooms and a fantastic canteen that serves tasty, subsidised lunches to ‘Euro.coms’ two hundred London based employees. My move to London is actually a minor form of promotion, which means that in switching from being a Product Manager to a customer facing Marketing Executive, I’m now entitled to a five thousand pound pay increase and a car allowance.

Andrew, Hi! Welcome to London, a voice suddenly booms out. I look up and see James Eccleston, my new boss, advancing towards me, hand outstretched and a broad smile on his face. Sorry you had to wait a moment or two, but I got pulled onto a sales call with an important customer. That’s one thing you’ll notice down here in London…The customer always comes first.

Hi James. It’s good to see you again. I say, rising from my chair and shaking James’s hand. His grip is firm and strong, and in return I immediately increase the pressure on his knuckles, trying to make a good impression.

Well, I can see that you’ve already been given your pass to let yourself in and out of the building, so let’s just take you upstairs, show you your desk and get you settled in, says James as he steps aside and directs me towards the lift with his free hand.

We go up to the second level and step out into a busy floor occupied by about sixty people, who I am told are mostly UK based Sales and European Marketing. My desk is across the other side of the building, a window seat looking out towards the River Thames which is only about a hundred meters away, and flowing past just beneath my side of the building. The view is fantastic, and as I sit down in front of my new PC, I can’t believe the comparison between my new working environment and the poky, little desk I used to have up in my old department in Edinburgh.

Not bad, eh? James laughs, seeing the obvious pleasure on my face.

It’s amazing, is all I can manage to mutter in reply. Outside the sun is shining, and on the other side of the river the sunlight bounces off spacious, large, golden, white granite buildings. Below me the sparkling river is alive: tourist boats, ferries, and barges plying their way back and forward, up and down the Thames. In the distance on the bend of the river I can just see the tall, impressive dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral standing proud and clear above the London skyline, and a little further on, the edge of the tall, bulbous, Swiss-Re building. Looking left I try to see if I can find the BT Tower, one of the few other London landmarks that I know, but realise that I can’t. Never mind. This is amazing.

Well, drop your stuff here and I’ll walk you around and introduce you to the rest of the team.

In contrast to the dingy Edinburgh office, walking round the London Euro.com offices today I feel as if I have started at a brand new company. Everything seems so fresh, so grand, and there is a tangible feeling of excitement in the air. I pick up on that, and soon I feel excited too. About what I don’t exactly know, but I do feel excited.

As James walks me around the telesales, pre-sales and accounts departments, I walk from one desk to another being briefly introduced to woman after woman, all smiling, and all dressed in expensive business suits.

Although it may not appear to be the case, we actually do employ men too, James jokes. But most of them are account managers in the field, out on the road, and not office based. And the rest of the technical marketing department, which is probably about sixty percent men, are still at the Monday morning meeting downstairs. He glances quickly at his watch. They should be finishing up just now…let me take you downstairs and introduce you…

And so, minutes later I am meeting the rest of my colleagues. Seven men, and three more women. By the time I am walked back upstairs to my desk I am all-hand-shaked out, and I can’t remember anyone’s names.

James apologises, and makes an excuse that he has run out of time and has an appointment to go to. He shakes my hand again, and then leaves, promising to return in an hour. I find myself sitting by myself looking dumbly out of the window, wondering what I should be doing next.

A boat full of tourists passes by on the river below and I catch myself just in time as I half-raise my hand to return the wave of some children on the top-deck, waving wildly at everyone on the river bank.

Hi, Andrew? a soft, melodic voice asks from behind me. I swivel around in my chair, to see who it is coming from.

Hi… I stop dead in my tracks, dumbstruck.

It’s Louisa. The woman, from last Friday night in the Road House in Convent Garden.

She is staring at me, her face turning bright red. Her mouth is frozen open in the act of going to say something, but the words have just evaporated into thin air. For a moment we just look at each other.

Louisa…I…I tried calling you…a couple of times, I blurt out, regretting what I say as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

Dianne...sorry. My name is Dianne…

Dianne? You told me your name was Louisa…

Did I? Ouch…sorry. I do that sometimes…I don’t always like to give out my real name.

Your real name? What’s a name for, if it’s not for using? Does that mean you gave me a false number too? I ask, immediately regretting how naive I must sound.

Probably. I was a little drunk… I can’t remember… she says, looking quickly around her, checking that no one can overhear our