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

write the word. I’m still flailing in that tumble through the air, as my mind has not quite caught up with what’s happened since the pothole.

      We are so bad at dealing with death as a society. I’ve been sick now for a while so I’ve got to see how most people cope. Many of my friends at work, and Michael’s colleagues too, go for all that clichéd angry stuff, telling me ‘don’t go gentle into that good night’; they like to quote Dylan Thomas when something so unfair happens, as if it helps, as if rage is a good choice. I don’t like poetry and this advice is not helping. To me that’s the fake bravery of the generals sending the squaddies over the top, safe in the bunker themselves. I’d settle right now for ‘don’t go so fucking scared and confused into your grave’ and some answers on how not to do that. This is not how I want it to happen. I want some comfort.

      But you don’t get what you want. I’m hearing my poor mother now – also dead too young from this same serial killer. I’ve got some shitty genetic markers. If life hands you lemons, make lemonade. She was big on the homespun wisdom. I now appreciate that she made a better exit than I am managing, finding a kind of calm in the storm that I can’t – just can’t – reach.

      Hearing the verdict in that sunny office, Michael gave a sob then gathered himself. He held my hand, stroking my wrist, trying to comfort, but what could he do? This is a journey I make alone. I floated in a not-really-there daze as Dr Jackson gave me the options of pain meds, support groups and leaflets, like she was a travel agent and I was a client going on some bloody holiday.

      How do you get a grip on what is a death sentence? Don’t tell me we’re all living under one; mine’s come early, too early. I’m not done with life yet, only just started. I have all this regret and nowhere to direct it. I am so—

      I am angry after all. Raging against my own dark.

      That was last week. I sound like a harpy. I’d rip out the page but Michael told me not to. Warts and all, he says. I love you, warts and all. I don’t have warts, thank God, but what about bald and sick? That too – more than ever, he says.

      I’ve been too pissed off to write anything since. I worry someone will read these notes after I’m gone, so I don’t want to show my worst side here. Let that go with me. I want the courageous one to be remembered. Laugh in the face of a foe I can’t beat. Metastasised Me. I can’t control the timing of my exit but I can influence my legacy.

      You know what I did today? Of course you don’t, because you’re an imaginary audience in the future. I persuaded Michael to get a cat – a kitten, really. This house has felt so bleak recently that I wanted us all to have something to make us laugh. When Michael agreed – he’d do anything for me, my poor love – Biff swung into action and got one from the rescue home. Predictably, Katy loved it at once even though it sank its claws in – tiny, not really hurtful spikes, so it was OK. I found I could still feel light-hearted when I watched the two of them playing. Michael is yet to be convinced that introducing a cat into our lives is a good idea but I’m leaving him with such a burden, he needs something to lift him out of his depression. Something to live for. Colette can be it.

       Chapter 8

       Jessica

      Emma is haunting me and I’m trying to read more of the diary on the shattered screen even though I really should wait until I download the photos. I think I would’ve got on with her – apart from the bit about not liking poetry. How could she not? She comes across as sane and righteously angry about her diagnosis. The most perplexing thing from my point of view is that the Michael she describes shows tenderness towards her that I can only envy. I hadn’t realised how Colette came into the house. In my share of cat responsibilities, I’ve fallen into the life Emma ordained for Michael without being aware that it’s been her pulling the strings.

      A warning flashes up and I have to put the phone on charge. I am parked for the afternoon in Drew’s flat above the undertaker’s. His parents lived there before they made enough money to move to a house near Windsor so it’s always been a family home rather than a temporary lodging. The wallpaper in the guest bedroom is small flowers on a blue background, an old Laura Ashley print, suggesting a last makeover in the Eighties when Drew’s older sister was little. Blu Tack marks show where posters once hung. He has replaced them with a photograph of a sunrise over the sea and a quote by his favourite nineteenth-century poet, Walt Whitman: ‘To me the sun is a continual miracle, / The fishes that swim – the rocks – the motion of the waves – the ships with men in them, / What stranger miracles are there?’ I mull over the phrase ‘stranger miracles’ for a moment, like sucking on a boiled sweet. My thoughts turn more prosaic. I’m standing in a minor miracle: the luxury of a spare room in London. Able to afford to live without a flatmate, Drew has set up the room as a study with a fold-out sofa. I unpack my bag and join him in the living room. He gives me the password to the wi-fi and leaves me to my searches, explaining he has to be at the crematorium at three.

      First, I prowl the flat. Drew knows I do this so I don’t feel guilty. It’s part of my restlessness – I can’t settle until I’ve opened all doors, and peeked into every cupboard. I don’t know what I’m looking for, I just have to do it, like a dog circling before settling down on her bed. I pause in front of his drinks collection, heavy on beer, light on spirits and wine. No, I’ve got to be a good girl. I open the fridge and kitchen cabinets. He needs milk and some more indulgent cereals, as he’s bought the most bargain muesli. I see a trip to Tesco in my future. His visible music collection stops mid-2000s, a dusty rack of CDs. Metallica and Killing Joke feature strongly. There’s a man-sized TV screen. I flick it on to find it tuned to a sports channel – it goes off immediately. His pot plant, a ficus, is a little dry so I water it. A few leaves drift off on my touch. I hide them in the bin. I really should stop interfering.

      Neurotic, that’s what Michael calls my behaviour. I prefer nosy. Sounds more normal.

      Right, get down to work. I return to my bedroom and type in the most obvious search – Jacob’s name. It doesn’t throw up anything or anyone remotely like him. A film noir about murder, a wine seller in South Africa, a verse in Genesis. That raises the likelihood of it being a pseudonym. So what else do I know about him? I’m not the police, so I can’t demand his phone or bank records. I have to go on the information he’s let slip over the last three months. I make a list, realising I can’t trust any of the surface statements he’s made. I mustn’t think I know him. I have to dig deeper.

      1 1. About thirty-five years old, from his cultural reference points.

      2 2. Not talkative, brooding, but not unkind. He brought me lozenges one day when I lost my voice. Made his own tea and coffee without expecting me, as the office junior, to wait on him.

      3 3. I would’ve said he was good at what he did, methodical in the presentation of his research. From a psychological point of view that clashes with the idea that he had chaotic finances.

      4 4. Dark-brown hair thinning at the temples and on top. Work-roughened hands which he explained as due to his hobby (gardening), so does he have a garden or allotment? Frameless glasses. Five nine? Smart casual clothes.

      5 5. Grew up or has lived in or around Swindon, as he was familiar with local landmarks I mentioned – the White Horse, the Wyvern Theatre.

      And now it gets trickier.

      1 6. He was prepared to employ someone with a dubious dismissal-cum-resignation on her CV. That suggests a certain level of desperation or underhandedness (I should’ve asked more questions).

      2 7. He has not hesitated to run away and leave me with his mess.

      3 8. Unlike all the other lies, he really is an investigator. He had already compiled case files on the missing girls before I joined his one-man firm.

      These girls are real. I’ve been investigating them for three months so I’m sure about that – all tragic, kick-you-in-the-gut cases of young lives cut short by sudden disappearance.