Gemma Metcalfe - Trust Me - A gripping debut psychological thriller with a shocking twist!

As I lay my head on the squashy headrest of my chair and close my eyes, the salty tears run freely down my cheeks. ‘It will be okay,’ I protest; to myself, or maybe to Elliott? I’m not too sure.

He continues to look at me strangely, which makes me feel even worse.

‘Just the smoke making my eyes water,’ I offer, while wafting the cigarette in his general direction. It’s pointless really as I know Elliott doesn’t understand. I then notice Bob the Builder is on the television, his absolute favourite. Balancing the half-smoked cigarette on the side of the ashtray, I walk over to where he’s sitting, crouch down so we’re eye to eye. As he looks up at me, I focus on his dark-blue eyes, eyes that draw you straight to him, mesmerise you.

‘I love you, mister. Everything I have done, and everything I am about to do, is for you. You know that, don’t you?’

In response, Elliott cranes his head around me, transfixed instead with Scoop the digger and Jess the cat. Or am I getting confused with Postman Pat? What’s Bob’s cat called? Pilchard, that’s it. I laugh; fancy thinking of such trivial things at a moment like this.

‘You’re a little sod, you are, pal,’ I laugh through my tears, while ruffling his soft, Milky Bar curls. ‘It’s all right, son, I’ll let you off. Watch your programme.’

God! I adore that little boy so much.

And yet I’ve no choice but to leave him behind.

CHAPTER THREE

PRESENT DAY

Lana, 2.00 pm

So far I’ve been sat at this pigeonhole of a desk for almost five hours and the only thing I’ve booked is a dental appointment. Four hours to go; now I’m really sweating. I owe the landlord six hundred euros on our shitty, one-bedroom apartment that’s crawling with cockroaches and ants.

Today is it – shit or bust! I can’t even consider the consequences.

I bash the next number into my computer keyboard while screwing up my eyes tightly so I can see the digits. I curse myself for leaving my glasses back in Manchester. But then again, I guess I did leave in a hurry.

‘Hello, 2010.’

Oh, God, I hate it when they answer like that. I know your number, love, I bleeding dialled it. ‘Oh, hello. Is it possible to speak to a Mr Meaking?’

‘No, pet.’ The lady sounds ancient, her Geordie accent scratchy and hoarse.

‘Err… okay. When would it be possible to speak to him?’

I hear her cackle and cough in response, both actions happening simultaneously. She finally comes up for air and replies: ‘I think you’ll be waiting a while, my darling.’

‘Right,’ I stutter. ‘Do you know where he is?’

There’s a fleeting pause and I get the impression she’s smiling. ‘Well, I can’t be sure but I’m pretty certain he’s still boxed up in the cemetery where we put him four years ago.’

‘Oh, good God!’ I instantly feel the heat travelling up my body before resting on my chest and neck, leaving red, angry blotches. ‘I’m so very sorry.’ I want the ground to swallow me up along with the late Mr Meaking. But Mrs Meaking is clearly enjoying her Friday-afternoon chat.

‘Oh, don’t apologise, love; best place for the miserable old git. He always liked the outdoors, anyway.’ She then starts whistling the theme tune to the sitcom One Foot in the Grave , so I take it as my cue to hang up.

Right. I dial the next number. This one has to be a sale. I hear the phone ring out and psyche myself up.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello. Is that Mr Simpson?’ I ask in my telephone voice.

‘I’m sorry, dear, can you speak up?’

‘I’m looking for a Mr Simpson?’ I direct the question slowly and loudly.

‘Who do you want, cocker?’

Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m getting frustrated now. Why leave a telephone number when you can’t bloody well hear the person on the other end? ‘I want a Mr Simpson… a Mr Bart…’ I realise just in time.

‘Excuse me?’ croaks the old boy on the other end of the line, clearly about ninety, clearly not Bart Simpson. Thank the Lord for deaf people!

‘Never mind,’ I say, but he’s already gone.

At two-thirty, the sun is high in the sky, beating its powerful rays on all its unsuspecting prey below. A stag party blunders past; T-shirts with names printed on the back. I can just about make out ‘Mad Dog’, who in real life is probably a bank manager called Paul with a wife, two kids and a Honda Civic. The groom is stumbling all over. I presume he’s the groom, seeing as how he’s wearing a giant-cock hat. I shake my head while rolling my eyes.

‘James Carter speaking?’

‘Hello, is that Mr Carter?’

‘Yes, of course it’s Mr bloody Carter. I’ve just said that, haven’t I?’

I get the vague impression Mr Carter isn’t going to book a luxurious holiday for a fraction of the normal price, but I swallow loudly and push on regardless.

‘Hello, Mr Carter, it’s Lana, here. I’m calling from…’

‘Are you selling something?’

Shit, hate that one, no answer is ever good.

‘I… no, well, yes, but…’

‘I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling, goodbye.’

I think right at this moment Mr Carter is the person I hate most in the entire world, even more than Damien, even more than… no, we won’t go there. I need to focus.

‘What are you playing at, Lana?’ howls Damien in my ear, making me jump and throw my plastic cup of tea in the air. Luckily, it was only lukewarm and the spillage isn’t much; just enough to soak through my sales sheet. Tomorrow, it will look like one of those old treasure maps I used to make in primary school with cold, wet teabags. I vaguely wonder if I’ll be here to see it.

‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ I mutter half-heartedly, while rubbing at the booklet with my cardigan sleeve.

‘If you don’t get a sale in the next two hours, you’re out on your ear, girl. Stop arsing around!’

He slaps me on the back a bit too hard and struts off.

‘ I’ll get it? ’ I shout after him. It is meant to be a statement but it comes out as a question. My head begins to pound and my eyes start to water. Quickly, I throw back two paracetamol, swish them down with the last dregs of cold tea, breathe in deeply, count to five, and dial the next number…

Liam, 2.25 pm

Bob the Builder has just finished. It’s almost two-thirty. She’ll be home from work shortly. Best get a move on.

I force my legs to stand.

The rain has stopped; the rhythmic dripping of the drains is all that can be heard outside, along with the occasional bark from next-door’s dog. It’s possibly because of the eerie silence that I jump when my mobile phone rings.

‘Shit,’ I mutter to myself. ‘Who on earth can that be?’ I start to panic. But I must answer it. I reach over and grab it off the coffee table and press the green button. ‘Hello?’ I speak more abruptly than intended. I’m standing in the middle of the room but it doesn’t feel right to sit. There’s a screeching noise on the other end, a really bad connection. ‘Hello?’ I try again, purposefully sounding lighter this time.

‘Oh, hello. Is that Mr Roberts?’

The girl sounds serious. My heart lurches and I feel a twisting in my gut. I change the phone onto my good ear. ‘Yes, this is he.’

‘Oh, hello, Mr Roberts. I’m calling from Getaway Holidays in Tenerife. You left us your details on a competition website around four years ago and…’

Right, just a sales call. Thank the Lord for that. I realise I’m holding my breath, so I breathe, and as I do I feel my stomach muscles relaxing, my windpipe expanding. I’ve got to keep these nerves under control. It occurs to me then that the girl has paused, expectant perhaps of a response. I flop down in the easy chair, grateful for the small reprieve. ‘Carry on,’ I instruct, as I light another cigarette, the previous one now nothing but ash.