The Voice

This story is by Peter Leslie Watson and was a runner-up in our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

I’ve heard voices for as long as I can remember. To start with, they just told me what to do. Let’s change your nappy, Susie. Time for beddy-byes. They seemed kind, so I went along with them. As I got older, the voices took on a sterner tone. Don’t touch the fire.

At school, the pattern continued. No running in the corridor. Detention for you, young lady. As a teenager, I had a social life, but voices tried to control that too. You’re not going out looking like that, are you? Make sure you’re home by ten-thirty.

At Edinburgh University, no voices told me where to go or when or with whom. I was expected to attend lectures and tutorials. Don’t forget to hand in your assignment, Miss James. Luckily, there weren’t too many assignments.

I hooked up with a set of students who had money and cars. They were exciting—wild even.

“Go on, Susie. Everybody tosses back shots.”

I drank too much and only just staggered home safely. That’s when a new voice took up residence in my head. One that only I could hear.

Susie, you shouldn’t drink so much—or walk home by yourself at night.

This voice was different, scolding. A shiver ran through me when it appeared. What I couldn’t know was that it had no intention of leaving.

I thought about the risks I was taking. The voice had a point, but I dismissed it. I was enjoying my new-found freedom. I was having too much fun.

“It’s only weed, Susie.”

I smoked it and suffered.

Aren’t you ever going to learn your lesson?

I wasn’t interested in lessons—and there seemed to be no consequences to ignoring the voice.

“Everyone has sex, Susie,” said Timothy.

“I might get pregnant. I’m not on the pill.”

“You can’t get pregnant the first time. That’s a medical fact.” he lied.

So I had sex—and got pregnant. I had an abortion, alone. I’d no one else to turn to.

Another shiver signalled the voice becoming more insistent, judgemental—and right.

You see, there are consequences.

My friends kept leading me astray. The voice was trying to keep me safe. The battle between them raged in my head.

As term came to an end, I made up my mind.

“I’m transferring to Bristol University,” I announced.

“You can’t do that, Susie,” said Jenny.

“I can. Everything’s arranged.”

“That’s too bad,” said Robert. “But we could throw a goodbye party for you on Saturday. My parents are away.”

I felt the shiver before the voice even spoke.

Big mistake! Get rid of them for once and for all.

I went to the party anyway. Robert lived in an old farmhouse outside town and I had a really good time. I’d miss my friends, but I was ready to let go.

“Need a ride home?” Alasdair asked.

“Thanks. That’s kind.”

It was a dark, wet, moonless night and he drove way too fast.

“Slow down, Alasdair. I’m scared.”

“I’m not going that fast.”

Suddenly, a figure materialised in front of the car, bounced off the hood, smashed into the windshield and careened over the roof.

I screamed. Alasdair screeched to a halt. We ran back to the body.

“His head is smashed in,” gasped Alasdair. “I can’t find a pulse. I think he’s dead.”

“Maybe not. We need an ambulance.”

“No way. I’d go to jail. My life would be ruined.”

Don’t let him talk you out of this. You must get help.

“What about my life? Do you ever think anyone but yourself?”

“Nobody can know about this. There’s a reservoir nearby. We’ll dump the car and the body there. Help me get him into the car. Now!”

Walk away! You’re only making it worse for yourself.

“No. You’re on your own. I’m going home.”

“I can’t do it by myself,” he pleaded.

You listen to him and not to me?

Drunk, confused and frightened, I couldn’t find the courage to do the right thing. I followed Alasdair’s instructions in a blind stupor. He was a friend, after all. At least, I thought he was.

We wedged the body into the back seat. I wasn’t much help. I couldn’t see through my tears.

“Open the windows. It’ll let the air out and the car will sink quicker.”

We pushed it into the depths.

“We walk home separately,” commanded Alasdair. “We can’t be seen together.”

Now he leaves you in the lurch. What a great friend!

***

Alasdair bought a burner phone as soon as the shops opened.

“Dad, I’m in trouble.”

“Come home, Ally. We’ll sort it out.”

“I can’t. I killed someone last night driving home from a party. I need to get out of the country as quickly. Somewhere far away. Australia, perhaps. You must know someone who can help.”

“Talk to no-one. Burn your driving licence and passport and dump the ashes. Go to the airport, packed and ready to climb on a plane.”

I did what he said. At the airport, I walked to the Holiday Inn and checked in under an assumed name. I ate a room-service pizza and sweated a lot.

Dad rang the burner that evening.

“Ally, listen. It’s fixed for tomorrow. Go to Arrivals at two o’clock. Look for a sign for Morrison. Tell the driver the car for Morrison has been cancelled. Pick up the bag he’ll leave. Your new identity and airline tickets will be inside. You’ll be out of the country two hours later and in Australia the next day.”

“Then I’ll let you know where I am.”

“No. Too dangerous. Place an ad in The Times asking for news of Uncle Harry with a fake PO Box number. I’ll know you’re safe. Destroy the burner. I’ll be in touch with you. It may take a while. Good luck.”

***

Months later, a friend phoned me.

“Susie, did you hear that Alasdair moved to Australia?”

That should keep me safe, I thought. But I couldn’t throw off the fear that my secret would always haunt me. I buried the fear in the deepest recess of my being. There, at least, it was under control, almost. Then I slowly rebuilt my life and became a successful author of children’s books.

The voice kept tormenting me with questions I didn’t want to answer. Warnings became reprimands; malevolence mutated into cruelty.

Enjoying your success, Susie? I hope you haven’t forgotten your little secret. I haven’t.

With Alasdair in Australia, my worry now was the voice. I hadn’t listened to it long ago. Now it was too late for atonement.

***

Then the mind games began.

A letter postmarked Australia arrived—cut-out newspaper letters on cardboard.

‘I’ve never forgotten what we did. I can’t live with it much longer.’

It could only be from Alasdair. If he confessed, I’d be in serious trouble. I couldn’t contact him. I could only wait, fretfully.

In the small hours, I was plunged deep into a nightmare. I awoke shivering, drenched in sweat, terror-struck at having to relive that dreadful night.

Four months later, a second letter arrived.

‘I have terminal cancer. Only months to live. I’ve left a letter setting out what we did for my solicitor to send to the police when I die.’

I was distraught. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t write. What we’d done was too awful to acknowledge, too dangerous to reveal. I had no-one to help me.

I tried to find him—to no avail.

He’s been too clever for you. You’ll have to leave the country.

Did I have enough time?

A third letter answered my question.

‘I have only days to live.’

Time was something I no longer had.

How will you get out of this? 

I couldn’t risk the police acting on Alasdair’s letter. They’d find me in time—and arrest me. I did my research. The time since the offence wouldn’t exclude a public interest prosecution. Covering up the crime would have made things worse. I’d serve years in prison.

In desperation, I searched my cupboards. I found sleeping pills that I’d been prescribed years ago. And a bottle of vodka. I got drunk. It didn’t help. So I took the sleeping pills—all of them.

***

In Australia, Alasdair poured a cup of coffee and went back to The Australian. No news of Susie. Perhaps she wasn’t prominent enough for Australian readers. He checked The Times online and found a headline: Author Susie James dies of overdose. No apparent motive. His cancer ruse had worked. Susie had always been easy to manipulate, he thought. With the only witness to his crime now dead, his years of being stalked by fear were over. He heaved a sigh of relief.

Then a shiver ran down his spine and he heard a menacing voice in his head.

Really, Alasdair? I don’t think so.