The Woman at Number 19: a nail-biting psychological thriller by J.A. Baker

Author:J.A. Baker [Baker, J.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books
Published: 2019-07-17T16:00:00+00:00

I’m eager to have a look at the newly-repaired photographs but I also need to see what’s going on inside Veronica’s house, so rather than sit and study the pictures of my children, I march past the table where they still lie and get settled in my seat by the window.

My heart leaps in my chest as I watch the drama that is currently unfolding in the living room of number 19. Veronica and her husband are holding the boy in their laps, stroking his face and tapping at his hand. The girl is bending down in the corner of the room and appears to be scrubbing at something on the floor.

My eyes are drawn back to the boy lying across their knees. His body looks floppy and unresponsive. I can’t see if he’s awake or not but judging by his body language, or rather the lack of it, he appears to be in some sort of unconscious state.

A flash of luminous green fills the room as a medic marches in and leans down over the child’s body. His bulky frame obliterates my view but I don’t need to see what’s going on. I can easily imagine the terror that will be present in that room. Perhaps the boy has a long-standing condition that on occasion requires medical attention. I pray it’s nothing serious and that he’ll be up and about in no time. A quiver of fear stirs deep within me, something I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t think he has any sort of recurring illness. I don’t know why I think that. I have no reason to feel this way, but somewhere deep inside me is a niggling sensation of a memory that I don’t care for. It’s like an insidious creature as it worms its way through me, growing and expanding until it eventually gets so big, it takes over completely and there is nothing left of the original me. I try to shake the feeling away but it sits there like a great big weight, growing and ballooning inside me.

Over at number 19, the medic continues to attend to the boy, every so often leaning down in his bag to retrieve his instruments before turning his attention back to the patient.

My stomach tightens. Why, when I don’t know these people, do I feel so drawn to them? What is it about their lives that fascinates me? I feel compelled to watch them. Even if there was no abuse going on, I feel sure I would still want to watch the minutiae of their lives as it unfolds right here in front of me.

A movement opposite cuts through my thoughts. The medic stands up and I can see that the boy is sitting on his mother’s knee. He doesn’t look altogether healthy but he does look slightly better than he did ten minutes ago.

He’s holding a bag in front of his face and every so often retches into it, his small body quivering with spasms as his body purges itself of whatever bug or toxin is inhabiting his gut.

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