Every Little Breath: A Tense Psychological Thriller Full of Twists

Iwas thirteen when I first saw a dead body.

It was during a family holiday to Wales. My brother and I were out walking down by the river and we heard a woman crying out for help further down the track.

When we got closer, we realised she was in the fast-moving water, clinging to a branch that was jutting out from the bank, while a large white poodle sat obediently waiting for her, curly fur damp and covered in mud, and pink tongue hanging out.

‘Please help me.’

Her tone was pleading, her expression desperate, as her head momentarily dipped under the water. She emerged coughing and spluttering, clinging on to the branch.

‘We have to do something.’ My brother was panicked, but rooted to the spot. He shoved me hard in the back, urging me to be the one to step forward and help.

The muddy bank was slippery and I dropped to my knees. From this closer position I could see that the woman’s teeth were chattering, either from the temperature of the water or in fear for her life, probably both, and that she was more a girl than a woman, maybe only a few years older than us.

‘Please. I can’t swim.’

For a moment I stared at her, saw both the hope and anguish in her wide grey-blue eyes, understood she was terrified for her life. I was her one chance.

‘Take her hand!’

That was from my brother, barking orders from the safety of the path.

I wiped the mud on my palm onto the leg of my jeans, held my hand out for her to grab. She was clinging on to the branch with both hands, seeming reluctant to let go.

‘Take it!’ I urged.

She stared at me, stared past me at my brother. I guess it was a big ask for her to put her life in the hands of someone so young.

‘I’m gonna go get help,’ said my brother, his brain finally engaging. ‘Stay here. Don’t leave her.’

I glanced back, saw him hotfooting it down the track in the direction of our campsite. It would take about ten minutes for him to return with assistance. I looked at the girl again, then at the weakening branch, knew she didn’t have that long.

‘Take my hand,’ I repeated. ‘It’s not going to hold.’

I might have only been thirteen, but I was stronger than she realised.

She nodded, choked down on a sob as she looked at me, understood I was trying to help her, that I was her one chance of survival, and she released her right hand, made a grab for me. We almost missed the connection, but then my fingers were curling around her cold ones, tightening my grip. She still had hold of the branch with her left hand and her arms were spread wide as the water bashed her about.

I held on tight, knew I couldn’t afford to lose my footing.

‘Give me your other hand.’

She seemed reluctant to let go, knowing that once she did, her life was fully in my hands. While she was debating, trying to pluck up the courage, the decision was made for her, as the branch snapped. She screamed, her free arm flailing in the water, yanking me forward. I managed to steady myself, my tight grip around her wrist now the only thing keeping her safe.

If I were to let go.

I don’t even remember where that thought came from, but as I locked eyes with the girl, saw the terror in them, I wondered if she could sense what I had been thinking.

‘Please.’

That one word, that plea to help her. She was trapped and completely helpless, and although I didn’t understand why, I fed on knowing her fate was in my hands (literally).

A part of me craved that power, that level of control, liked seeing the terror in the girl’s eyes, knowing I could put it there or make it go away.

Seconds slipped by and I continued to hold on, but made no attempt to pull her from the water. She dipped again, choked again, begged again, and then her eyes met mine again, and in that moment I think she knew. Perhaps even realised before I did.

‘I can’t swim.’

Those repeated words were the last ones she spoke and I remember her scream as I released her hand, watched her thrash in the water until it finally consumed her.

The large poodle sat on the bank and whined, and I turned to it and smiled.

‘You did that. It was all your fault.’

I have only ever told one person what really happened that day.

I had found him in the basement and I could see he was torn over what to do. I had caught him off guard showing up here and in doing so I had caused him a terrible dilemma. One he didn’t know how to deal with, which is why I told him.

‘Remember that camping trip last year, the one where the woman drowned?’

He nodded, the long silver blade with a crimson edge still tightly gripped in his hand.

‘It wasn’t an accident.’

While he took in that information, my eyes slid to the table and the woman on top of it, her body painted in the same shade of red as on the knife. She had plastic wrapped around her head covering her mouth, nose and eyes, and I had thought she was dead, but then I noticed the faint rise and fall of her chest and saw her right foot twitch, then suddenly she was jerking against her restraints, her screams smothered by the plastic.

I watched her, fascinated, could feel myself growing hard, and after a few seconds I was aware of him watching my reactions.

‘Can I touch her?’

He hesitated over that. I had caught him in a terrible situation and I had the power to destroy everything for him, but there was also an understanding. This is not how he had expected me to react.

I took a step towards the table and, aware that I had to earn his trust, I turned my back on him.

I was taking a chance, knew that he had the perfect opportunity to attack me, to slit my throat.

The woman was hysterical, had no idea I was there, and she flinched on the table when I touched her thigh, trying to squirm away. I nipped her flesh between my fingers, marvelling at her reactions.

When I turned, he was stood behind me watching, had made no attempt to raise the knife.

I glanced at it, my lips curving into a smile as I raised my eyes to meet his.

‘Can I cut her?’