by Elena Wilkes
‘Roisin! Eloise!’
I looked round.
‘Where are you?’
A little girl ran past the door, she was no more than three years old, I caught the blur of her as she passed.
‘Don’t go too far!’
I heard their excited giggling and I went to look. A tiny girl stood outside, chubby on her fat legs. She wobbled a little, with one finger in her mouth.
‘Lucy?’
Moire was beside me, I was aware of the strength in her hands as she took my arm. ‘My god, are you hurt? Come and sit.’
‘No, I’m not hurting anymore at all,’ I said.
My legs took me to the stone bench without my asking as we followed the sound of their laughter.
‘We’re playing hiding,’ said a tiny voice beside me. I looked round. The other child was pretty, too; she had her mother’s dark curls. She came forward shyly, and took Roisin’s hand. ‘We like it here.’
I looked around me as though for the first time. It was madness: all crazily wild and tangled, not like the garden as I remembered it, nothing like it at all. A cold breeze rippled the wet wool of my dress, sending a quiet shiver of comfort down my spine.
‘You can’t hide in here forever you know.’
I heard the soft Irish lilt of her tone. Her hand covered mine. She sounded so much like Moire.
We both heard the soft crackle of tyres on the driveway.
‘I think it’s time we should be going, don’t you? Come on.’
‘Going?’
I don’t think so. Once I’d told them, once I explained what really happened, I knew they would understand. They have to be stopped: the Paul Webb’s in the world, the Simon Gould’s, all those kinds of men. I did it because I had to. It was the only way.
I closed my eyes into the slipping sun and the world behind my lids burned purple and orange: the colours of dignity and fire.
‘I think I’d rather stay,’ I said. ‘After all, this is my home.’
I opened my eyes. There was a sudden shattering brilliance: an explosion of white and gold radiating into an incandescence of dying sunlight, a family of us bound together: me and Moire, Caitlin and the children. And all I could see were stars.
A Letter From Elena
Thank you so much for choosing to read The Man I Married. If you have any thoughts, I would love to hear them via a review on the site where you purchased the book, or on Goodreads.
The Man I Married is a psychological thriller and essentially a piece of fiction, however at its core is a terrifying reality. I spent eighteen years working in H.M. Prisons. One of the prisoners I met there was serving a Life sentence for the murder of his wife and children. He was well-educated, friendly, and polite, with a good sense of humour. He was the kind of man you could have met in numerous social situations and thought he was a decent guy. Generally, life sentences don’t mean whole life. One day this man would walk free. He would be at liberty to meet people: in bars, in clubs, in restaurants, and tell them whatever story he chose about his past.
So that begs the question: how much do we know about anyone really? Generally, we don’t ask for proof of the things that people divulge about themselves. The stories we share are exactly that: created tales that are, for the most part, innocent enough – an exaggeration here and an embellishment there. But what of those people who take that one step further? These are the people who intrigue me and who I write about: the mad, the bad, and the dangerous to know. These are the people who walk amongst us. They appear ordinary, not very different from us at all, but when you scratch a little deeper, you discover they hold some very dark and dangerous secrets.
Get in touch with me via Twitter or Facebook:
www.facebook.com/elenawilkesthrillers
www.twitter.com/sandradingwall1
Acknowledgements
Writers know how difficult the writing journey is. The Man I Married has been through a very turbulent and sometimes terrifying sea of evolution, but finally, finally, it has come out the other side. I am so grateful to the people who, directly or indirectly, have helped me get to publication.
It’s a massive, massive thank you to Keshini Naidoo and Lindsey Mooney and the team at Hera Books. It’s been a brilliant experience from beginning to end. I can’t say enough good things about them. What a team!
In terms of my writing gang, the first person I have to thank is the amazing Amy Beashel – my friend and plotting partner for the last four years. Thank you, Amy, for all the breakfasts and brunches and the calm and considered critiques. You’re truly a shining star.
Susie Basset. I know that somehow our paths were always destined to cross. Your friendship and support has meant the world to me. Karen Porteous, my partner in ‘Crime’ and co-conspirator. We’re in this together, girl.
To the wonderful Janie and Mickey Wilson at Chez Castillon Writing retreat. It’s impossible to define what you provide, but whatever it is, feels like pure magic. Thank you to Katie Fforde, Jo Thomas, Judy Astley, and Litty Williams. Your help, support, and guidance that fateful week at Chez Castillon changed the course of my writing life.
Thank you also to the people who have continued to encourage me through the years: my sisters, Julie and Tina, my oldest family friends Annie Smith, Rebecca Smith, and Joan Owen, and my lovely far-flung friends in New Zealand, Liz Hume and Christine Dickinson.
Most of all, I have to say thank you to my husband Ian for all the support and inspiration, and without whom this book really wouldn’t have been possible.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Hera
Hera Books
28b Cricketfield Road
London, E5 8NS
United Kingdom
Copyright © Elena Wilkes, 2020
The moral right of Elena Wilkes to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781912973491
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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