Gripping Thrillers Read online

  The group applauded. The sobriety leader, Patrick, stood and clapped loudest of all, a beaming smile stretching across his face. “Congratulations, Adam. I can’t believe the change I’ve seen in you these last twelve months. You should be extremely proud of yourself. Well done! Well done indeed.”

  Adam smiled, but it was more of a grimace. He wasn’t proud of being sober because it only reminded him of all the years he hadn’t been. Celebrating the fact he was, at this current time at least, no longer a danger to himself or others didn’t make him worthy of praise. A savage mongrel that resists biting people for a while doesn’t deserve a pat on the head. It should still wear a muzzle.

  It can never be trusted.

  Patrick remained standing and let his clap fade until his hands were in the pockets of his light blue jeans. “While most of us here know your story, Adam, why don’t you tell it again for us tonight. It’s important to speak our truth regularly so we don’t lose sight of it.”

  Adam sighed. Everyone knew his story, which was why telling it always felt like an unnecessary ordeal, but a newcomer had joined today, and Patrick always liked newcomers to hear stories from the group. It made it easier for them to tell their own.

  Come on in, we’re all screwups here.

  Some more than others.

  The newcomer tonight was a young black woman, who was deceptively attractive despite her attempts to hide it. A purple ribbon held her frizzy brown hair in a bunch behind her head, but it was the only colour she wore. Both her jeans and oversized hoodie were black, as were her Dr Martens boots. It looked like she had googled the word ‘depression’ and decided this was how she was supposed to dress.

  When the truth is that you’re supposed to wear tracksuit bottoms and week-old underwear like me. Also, if you’re a man, only shave once a month.

  Adam edged back against his seat, wishing he could sit back down instead of having to endure Patrick’s enthusiasm any longer. “I-I don’t think I need to reopen old wounds. I’m just happy to be sober.”

  Patrick removed his thin round spectacles and closed his eyes long enough to cause an awkward silence. Eventually, he reopened them and beamed. “We can only heal, Adam, when we tell our truths without fear or shame. Your past is a scar you can’t erase. But scars are only a reminder of a wound; they can’t hurt us.”

  Adam grunted and stared at his shoes. He wasn’t getting out of this. Talking was why he came to the group – why he came every week – so, with a sigh, he began his tale of misery. His stomach turned with every word. “I’ve been an alcoholic for as long as I remember… since I was a teenager really. I would go on the lash every weekend with my mates, always the last one standing, refusing to call it a night. By the time I met my wife, Kat—” He couldn’t say her name. It would burn his lips to even try. “I, um, I was drinking every night. I moved on from beer and turned to wines and spirits. Whatever would give me a buzz the quickest.” He took a break, surveying his audience. John, the group’s high-functioning alcoholic, turned his gaze to the floor as he often did when he heard tales of woe. Sitting next to John, Kevin was far more attentive, chubby cheeks dimpling as he gave Adam a supportive smile. These people weren’t his friends but they wouldn’t judge him. They were the only people who didn’t, even when he spilled out his worst secrets.

  “When my wife got pregnant,” Adam continued, “she gave up the booze. I did the same to support her, but when my son arrived—” His voice hitched and he had to start again. “When my baby boy came along, my wife never went back to drinking. Our son was her entire world. Mine too, but I also found it hard. The lack of sleep, the lack of rest… It made it even more difficult to relax at night, so whenever I had downtime, I drank harder. Eventually, it started to annoy my wife, and the television late at night would keep her awake, so I built a room in the garden to be by myself. Really, it was a place to hide how much I was drinking. Most evenings, I would pass out on the sofa in my garden room instead of making it to bed. My wife started to fall out of love with me then; I could see it every time she looked at me. It was like I had punctured her heart, and her love oozed out a little more each day. That hurt me so much I started drinking even more. Eventually, I was so drunk so often that she stopped cooking dinner for me. One night, I hadn’t eaten all day, so I was hungry. I crept inside the house to cook some chips. By that point I had already necked most of a bottle of Scotch, and when I took the chips back to my garden room, I left the chip pan on the stove and forgot to turn it off.” He shook his head and sneered. “The most pathetic thing is that I passed out without even eating the chips. When I woke, two firefighters were standing over me. The house had burned down with my family inside. I killed my wife and child over a plate of chips I never even ate.”

  The new girl gasped and covered her mouth. She probably had a story of her own, but few were as appalling as Adam’s. He couldn’t meet her gaze. A special place in Hell existed for men who killed their families.

  Patrick knew this was the end of the story, so he began nodding. “Thank you for sharing that truth, Adam. I know it pains you, but it’s important to say the words out loud. Things on the outside can’t hurt us like things on the inside, and most of us here turned to booze because of the thoughts in our heads, not the words in our mouths.” He turned to the new girl. “One of the important things to learn in this group, Tasha, is that we must never internalise our feelings. This is a place to share without judgement. Adam’s tale might shock you, but he is a good man. That is the demon we call alcohol. It makes monsters of good men.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Adam, feeling his checks burn as he continued standing in front of everyone. “I’m done now, right? It’s good to meet you, Tasha, but I’m not a good man, I’m sure you agree.”

  No point pretending.

  I see the disgust in her eyes.

  The new girl shifted in her seat, seeming to dislike the sudden attention on her. She cleared her throat and sat upright. “Yeah, well… What you did sucked, but you’re paying for it, right? No one can make you feel any worse than you already do.”

  Adam nodded. Got it in one.

  He proceeded to sit, but Patrick shook his head and waved a hand to keep him standing. “I’m sorry, Adam, but there’s one more thing I would like from you.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like you to speak the names of your wife and son. You avoided it while you were talking, and I don’t think it’s healthy.”

  “You already know their names.”

  Don’t make me say them, Patrick, you sonofabitch. Please.

  Don’t.

  “Adam, you can do this. I know you can.”

  I can’t. Adam bit down on his lip. His fists clenched as he felt that all too familiar defensive rage welling up inside. He fought it down as he had learned to do because anger had no use. It only made the pain worse. But so did saying the names of his dead family. The family erased by his own selfishness.

  It should be me who’s dead.

  I would do anything to trade places.

  Patrick stared at him expectantly. His light blonde hair was only a shade darker than Adam’s, but that was where the similarity ended. While Adam was average build, Patrick was tall and skinny. Adam rarely smiled, but Patrick was all beams and chuckles. “Please, Adam,” he said now. “I know you have the strength. Speak their names for us. Share them with us.”

  Thunder boomed.

  The lights in the community hall flickered.

  Adam sat down quickly, letting his head hang between his knees as he fought to keep his stomach from turning inside out. He couldn’t do it. Not now.

  Not tonight.

  Patrick glanced at the window and chuckled. “Looks like the storm has caught us. Wasn’t supposed to arrive until later.”

  “That’s the weatherman for you,” said Kevin, laughing as if he had just told a hilarious joke. He was the very definition of ‘jolly fat man’ – impossible not to like. While alcohol made some people bitter, Kevin
never spoke a negative word.

  “Okay,” said Patrick, clapping his hands together. “I think that takes us about halfway. Let’s get ourselves some coffee.”

  Adam hopped up before everybody else and hurried to the picnic tables set up beneath the serving hatch of the kitchenette. Printed in black lettering on the whitewashed bricks above the hatch was: Sumner Village Community Centre.

  Where the party never starts.

  Underneath the print was a smaller line that read: BUILT 1847 BY REV. SAMUEL GOGGINS.

  Adam had no idea who reverend Goggins had been, but he had obviously also built community halls when not preaching about God. He probably had nothing better to do. The village was boring enough in 2019, let alone the eighteen hundreds.

  Sumner was little more than a main road with a group of houses at either end and a community hall and garden centre in the middle. It was a quiet place with few residents. An ideal place for someone like Adam, who had recently moved into the small cottage his parents had left him when they’d died. He and Katy had planned to raise a family there, but it had needed doing up first. It still needed doing up, but he no longer cared. No children would ever live there.

  It doesn’t matter how high the weeds get.

  Doesn’t matter if there’s mould.

  Adam poured himself a black coffee, hissing when scalding water splashed his hand, then moved aside so that others could get to the canteens. Tonight had brought doughnuts, brownies, and muffins, but he didn’t fancy them. He wasn’t much of an eater, especially not late at night (half nine according to his watch), so he took his coffee back to his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the new girl about to do something terrible. “No!” he yelled. “Don’t touch those!”

  Tasha froze, her hand hovering over the brownies. “Shit, sorry, do I need to, like, earn the privilege or something?”

  Adam shook his head and smiled to show that everything was okay. “Sorry, I just mean that you shouldn’t eat the brownies.”

  She pulled her hand back. “Why not?”

  “Because they’re mine,” said Kevin, waddling up to the table and glaring at her. Then he broke out in fits of giggles. “It’s sugar-free chocolate. I have diabetes, so John always orders these for me. You’re free to have one, but I would heed Adam’s warning. They’re terrible.”

  “Think I’ll go with the doughnuts,” said Tasha, half-smiling and taking a plain ring before biting into it. With sugar on her lips, she tilted her head conspiratorially. “You said John orders these? Do I need to chip in? Is there a kitty or something?”

  Adam glanced around and saw John coming to join them. He was smiling in that proud, confident way that he always did. “Here he comes.”

  “Did I hear my name mentioned?”

  Kevin gave John a playful nudge. “Tasha wanted to know if she needs to chip in for the food, but I was about to explain that our resident snob covers the cost every week.”

  John mimed being offended. “Snob? Why, I’m downright humble. By the way, those muffins were baked fresh today at a lovely little place down the road. The owner rents a two-bed from me on Chesters Avenue.”

  Tasha chuckled. She looked John up and down, probably taking in his gold cufflinks and crisp white shirt, then said, “No offence, but you don’t look like an alcoholic. I guess that’s the danger of the disease though, right? It can infect anybody.”

  Adam sipped his coffee and sighed. Only those who let it.

  John waved a hand dismissively. “I am what you would call a ‘high-functioning’ alcoholic. Why, the day I became a millionaire, I must have polished off three bottles of champagne, and yet the very next day I was up at dawn doing deals. My wife loves me, and both of my daughters are at university. As far as life goes, I’ve done rather well.”

  Tasha raised her eyebrow at him. “So why are you here? Doesn’t sound like you have a problem with alcohol.”

  “And you’d be right. My life is wonderful and exactly how I want it – which is why I’d prefer to keep on living.”

  Tasha frowned.

  “Allow me to explain. I got a health checkup last year, you see, when I turned fifty. Turns out I have about three years to live if I don’t change my ways. Apparently, my liver isn’t able to keep up with my indulgent lifestyle. Too much rich living takes its toll. More’s the pity.”

  “So you just have to quit drinking and you’ll be fine?”

  John smiled. “No problem at all, right? Except it seems I have a small problem with abstinence. I simply can’t resist the call of a satisfying snifter of cognac after a hearty meal at Saul’s Bistro. If you haven’t been, you really must try the mussels in white wine sauce.”

  Kevin patted John on the back and grinned at Tasha. “I could cry for him, couldn’t you? Such a hard life.”

  Adam managed a smile. “I’m still trying to get over the day Jaguar Land Rover provided him with an Evoque as a courtesy car while his Sport was in for repairs. I’m surprised he coped.”

  Kevin hooted with laughter while John gave a mock glare. “How could you bring up such painful memories? Come on, Tasha, let me introduce you to the others. We’re a friendly bunch, I assure you.”

  “Yeah, I see that.”

  John pointed. “That beauty over there is Betty. Betty, come over here, my love, and say hello.”

  Betty, the group’s oldest member at sixty-six, came hobbling over. She had short auburn hair that was turning grey at the sides and a permanent frown that left wrinkles around her mouth. Adam wasn’t particularly fond of the woman, as she had an abrupt way of speaking that often bordered on impolite.

  Not that I’m a social butterfly myself.

  “Hello, dear,” said Betty, a tad icily. “You’re a young one, aren’t you? How old are you?”

  Tasha shrugged. “Twenty-six.”

  “Then you must tell me which moisturiser you use, because you don’t look a day over twenty-two.”

  “Oh, thank you. It’s nice to meet you, Betty.”

  “No, it isn’t. Nobody’s here because it’s nice. We’re here because a thing we love is killing us. Thank God for that little irony. You believe in God, or that other one, Allah?”

  Tasha shifted awkwardly. “Um, neither really.”

  “Probably for the best. They’re not a lot of use to anyone in this day and age.”

  “Moving on,” said John, raising a course black eyebrow. “That handsome, Greek Adonis over there is Costa. He joined about, what is it now, Adam, six months ago?”

  Adam nodded. “Yeah. I remember because I got my six-month token the day he joined. He’s about your age, Tasha.”

  “And single,” said John with a wink.

  Tasha blushed. “I imagine two alcoholics getting together would be a bad idea.”

  “You’re right,” said Adam. “Glad you have your head screwed on.”

  Maybe there’s hope for you yet.

  Probably not for the rest of us.

  “Anyway, that’s our little club,” said John. “It’s not as posh as the Heath Vale golf club, but you’re welcome all the same. Do you happen to play golf by any chance? I can get you guest passes if you’d like?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t play. Never tried.”

  “A pity. Nothing beats a good game of golf.”

  Adam rolled his eyes. Except for just about anything else.

  Kevin came over with a mouthful of disgusting sugarless brownie in his mouth. “So dry,” he said through the crumbs. “So very dry.”

  Tasha laughed and then grinned at Adam. “Thanks for saving me. They really do look bad.”

  “You’re welcome. You can buy me a drink sometime.”

  Tasha frowned. “That’s alcoholic humour, right?”

  Nope. I would actually love nothing more than for you to buy me a drink. “Yep, just a joke. Funny, right?”

  Patrick clapped his hands over by the chairs. “Okay, everyone, let’s take our places. That storm wants us out of here, so we’ll have to make this br
ief.”

  As if to prove his point, another round of thunder cracked. The lights flickered again. This time they went off completely. Rain beat against the windows, ball bearings on a metal sheet. Adam enjoyed the sound of rain – calming – so he turned his gaze towards the nearest window and—

  What the fuck!

  His heart jumped into his throat as a chalk-white face stared at him from the other side of the glass. Its sunken eyes were darker than the night, but its skin was entirely without colour.

  What the hell am I looking at?

  What the hell is looking at me?

  The lights came back on.

  Nothing at the window except rain-soaked darkness.

  The window was next to the fire escape, which backed onto a small community vegetable garden. Perhaps all he’d seen was a tree branch brushing up against the windowpane. A trick of the light.

  Definitely just my imagination.

  Either that or a year of sobriety has finally sent me loopy.

  No, it’s just my mind conjuring images. It’s a dark and rainy night, after all.

  Adam shivered. His jacket hung over the back of his chair so he went to retrieve it.

  “You okay?” John asked him. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Seriously, that’s the worst choice of words. I might actually have just seen a ghost. “I’m okay, John. Just a bit chilly.”

  “Yeah, I think tonight will be a cold one. Wrap up warm.”

  Adam put on his jacket and nodded. He couldn’t help but stare over at the window.

  The rain grew angrier, hammering at the windows on all sides. It was like standing inside the centre of a drum. Nonetheless, Patrick appeared determined to soldier on with the meeting. He marched over to Adam’s chair and thrust out his arm. Several moments passed, long enough to make Adam fidget with discomfort. Finally, Patrick opened his hand and revealed a dark blue one-year sobriety chip sitting on his palm. Adam took it and quickly slid it into his jeans pocket. “Thank you.”

  Did you have to be so dramatic about it though?