by Mel McGrath
Praise for Mel McGrath
‘McGrath excels in creating believably flawed characters, and her masterful control of suspense and pacing make for a psychological thriller that is both perceptive and disturbing’
Guardian
‘Absorbing… McGrath asks: should it be a crime to witness a violent event, and say nothing?’
The Times
‘This well-crafted, chilling tale of guilt and innocence has a compelling moral anchor’
Woman
‘This roller-coaster read will have you hooked’
Closer
‘Chilling, fiendishly plotted and surprising, this stayed with me long after reading’
Woman & Home
‘Lots of twists and turns in this toxic thriller’
HELLO!
‘A dextrously written thriller and examination of guilt and innocence… [McGrath is] a diamond-hard talent’
Financial Times
‘Dark, thrilling, impossible to predict’
Erin Kelly
‘A scorching, clever thriller’
Tammy Cohen
‘I loved the claustrophobia… and seriously twisted characters’
Sarah Vaughan
‘A dark and immersive journey into the heart of a toxic friendship group. I loved it’
Harriet Tyce
‘Brilliant’
Ann Cleeves
‘Brimming with trust issues and deceit, this will make you question whether we ever know who our friends really are’
Prima
‘A clever, nuanced exploration of toxic friendship and the ties that bind people together’
Red
‘Exploring guilt and innocence through several dark distinct perspectives, Cassie becomes a compelling moral anchor in this well-crafted and chilling tale’
Woman’s Own
‘Unsettling, disturbing and vital. 5*’
Heat
‘Utterly compelling right from the start… a deeply unsettling look at modern sexual behaviour and bystander culture’
Crime Monthly
‘Psychologically acute and deeply satisfying’
Telegraph
‘Perceptive… McGrath is a thoughtful writer’
Daily Mail
‘Dark, compelling and wonderfully character-driven, it’s a brilliant read’
B A Paris
‘Disturbing and dark yet very compelling’
Mel Sherratt
‘A tense, gripping mystery, but it is also a powerfully angry feminist read – highly recommended’
Angela Clarke
‘A perfectly written, haunting thriller. The prose is breath-taking. The plot, layered, tense and utterly captivating. If you’re in the market for something sublime, you could not do better than this’
Imran Mahmood
‘A psychological tour de force with a superb plot from one of the UK’s most gifted crime writers’
Kate Rhodes
MEL MCGRATH is an Essex girl, co-founder of Killer Women, and an award-winning writer of fiction and non-fiction.
As MJ McGrath she writes the acclaimed Edie Kiglatuk series of Arctic mysteries, which have been optioned for TV, were twice longlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger, and were Times and Financial Times thrillers of the year. As Melanie McGrath she wrote the critically acclaimed, bestselling memoir Silvertown. As Mel McGrath she is the author of the bestselling psychological thrillers Give Me the Child and The Guilty Party. Two Wrongs is her latest novel.
Also by Mel McGrath
The Guilty Party
Give Me the Child
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Mel McGrath 2021
Mel McGrath asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008336851
Version 2021-02-12
Note to Readers
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
Change of font size and line height
Change of background and font colours
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Text to speech
Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008336837
To those who continue to listen.
In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123 or email [email protected] or [email protected]. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. The Canada Suicide Prevention Service is 1-833-456-4566. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international helplines can be found at www.befrienders.org.
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Author Note
Acknowledgements
Extract
1. Cassie
About the Publisher
Prologue
The lights on the Clifton Suspension Bridge are dazzling in the thin Bristolian rain. The woman walks across it all the time on her wa
y to and from her shift cleaning at the Royal Infirmary and even though it is a notorious suicide spot she has never yet seen anyone fall. But there is a first time for everything and as she spots a young woman clutching the railings of the suicide fence, the thought zips through her mind: this might be the time.
She hears herself call out reflexively – hey! The young woman clutching the fence looks her way and for an instant hope surges in the woman who has just come off shift until the younger woman, turning back to face the gorge, reaches out and begins to climb the fence. There is a terrible purpose in the way she moves. The woman who has just come off shift knows that whatever she does now could make the difference between life and death, and knowing that, sensing it, makes the hairs on her skin lift and her heart hammer and her legs surge forward.
Still the young woman clambers upwards.
‘Hey!’ The woman who has just come off shift feels her breath quit. She is so tired. It was a long day at work and she cleans the A&E department and there is always so much blood and grease and body fluids and so many cups and snack wrappers to clear up. She is accustomed to seeing bodies and knows what that three-second flight from the bridge through the air and into the water can do to flesh and bones.
The young woman lifts one arm and shouts, ‘Go away!’
The woman who has just come off shift stops in her tracks, three or four metres from the figure making her way up the fence. It is all in this moment. Life, death. She hears her own voice bark back, ‘Please, stop!’ The young woman freezes and shouts down.
‘Stay where you are,’ the young woman screams, ‘I don’t want your help!’
‘OK, OK,’ the tired woman replies, holding up her hands as if in surrender. ‘But talk to me!’ She has no idea what she is going to say but she knows that she must find a way to connect. The tiredness has drained from her. Her mind is razor sharp. If I let this happen, she thinks, what will I tell my kids? How will I live knowing I have let a woman die?
She wonders how the young woman can think of leaving this city that she loves so much, this wonderful, stone city with its dark history, its independent, almost feral people and its brilliant, hopeful bridge? She wonders if the young woman knows that this bridge was first conceived of by a woman with six children who drew up the plans and gave them to a man and refused to take any credit because women ‘shouldn’t be boastful’. Women are always building bridges, linking things, people, moving between worlds not made for them, always thinking up new ways to reach across the darkness, to connect.
She wants to ask the young woman why she is doing this, how can anything be this bad, but she knows enough not to. Instead she shouts out, ‘I’m Sondra, what’s your name?’
The young woman turns her head. ‘Satnam.’
‘We’ve all felt like you’re feeling now, Satnam,’ the tired woman says. ‘I’m older than you, so I know. But the feeling passes. It always passes.’ They are more than strangers to each other now. Each has made her way indelibly into the other’s experience, their history, the story of their lives.
Satnam shakes her head. ‘I can’t, I just can’t.’
Her words are slurred. She’s not in her right mind, Sondra thinks. ‘Please, Satnam, come down from the fence. If we stand here any longer, we’ll both be wet through. I live just the other side of the bridge. We can go and have a cup of tea. I’ve got chocolate chip Hobnobs! We can talk.’
Sondra reaches for her mobile phone to call the emergency services but, guessing at her purpose, Satnam shouts, ‘No, no police!’
‘OK,’ Sondra says. ‘No police. But let me call the Samaritans. You don’t have to speak to them. You can just let me do the talking.’ She’d love to call the Samaritans right now. They would know what to do and the tired woman has absolutely no idea.
Satnam’s head is bobbing. She’s mumbling, trying hard to remain conscious and on the fence. The wind is up, the bridge swaying minutely underfoot. Bristol is such a blowy city. The tired woman loves that about it. Every day is a bad hair day in Bristol. You can’t be a Bristolian and be fussy about your blow-dry. What odd thoughts come unbidden when you’re up against it. Sondra scopes around in her head for some better ones. ‘I don’t need to call the Samaritans. I can call anyone,’ she says. ‘Just give me a number.’
Satnam is looking at her now. She is so young and beautiful, with delicate, even features and long, black, unruly hair. ‘I don’t know any numbers. My phone…’ She’s losing focus, slurring her words. Sondra can’t tell if this is a good thing or not. She takes a step closer. It’s the wrong move. Satnam resumes her grip on the fence and climbs higher, balancing herself by bracing on the upright.
‘OK, OK, I won’t move. Is your phone here?’
Satnam nods. She’s pointing away, towards the bridge tower. ‘You left it over by the tower?’ Satnam moans in response. Sondra says, ‘Promise to stay there and I’ll get your phone.’ She walks backwards towards the tower, slowly, one step at a time. In a minute she’s reached the spot where Satnam was pointing. One eye scouts about under the lights, the other remains on Satnam. It’s hard to see. The rain is on her glasses and so much is in shadow. She wants to ask, What does it look like? What colour is it? But those questions will be wasting time and there is no time to waste. Besides, the young woman is growing more and more incoherent. Soon, she thinks, Satnam won’t be able to say anything at all. Sondra’s eyes sweep the paving on the walkway. Just as she is beginning to feel desperate, her foot makes contact with something. She bends and gropes at the pavement and there it is. An iPhone. Oh, what a relief! She has found it and it’s an iPhone. Sondra also has an iPhone so she knows how they work.
‘You need to tell me the passcode.’ She thinks she hears one oh four oh but it’s so slurred that might not be it. Hurriedly, she plugs in the numbers. And thank God, thank God, the homescreen appears.
Satnam says, ‘Call Nevis.’
Nevis? Is that a last name or a first? Will Sondra find it in the contacts? Maybe, but it’ll take too long. Another better idea bubbles up. She pushes the menu button and waits for the tone then speaks into the phone as clearly as she can. ‘Siri, call Nevis.’
The phone speaks. ‘Calling Nevis.’
At that moment the eye that is on the young woman registers movement. Sondra turns her head and sees that the young woman has jumped down onto the walkway and is dragging herself towards the gap in the fence where the suspension wire attaches to the bridge.
Oh God, thinks Sondra. I shouldn’t have walked away. I shouldn’t have left her. She’s going to go and I’m not going to be able to pull her back. She feels herself take a leap forward and closes her eyes.
Chapter 1
Nevis
Nevis Smith, student mathematician, bird lover, and keeper of secrets, is lying on her bed in the flat she shares with Satnam Mann trying to finish a tricky piece of coursework on deep vent modelling when her phone bleeps with Satnam’s ringtone.
‘Hey, I thought you’d gone to bed already.’ The door to Satnam’s room was shut and the light was out when Nevis came in late from the library.
An unfamiliar voice replies. ‘My name is Sondra. I’m with your friend Satnam on the Clifton Suspension Bridge. She wants you to come straight away. Please come, right now.’
Nevis says, ‘Is she hurt?’
‘Not yet, not yet, but she’s in a bad way. Oh please. Don’t call the emergency services. She’s says that if she sees a blue light she’ll jump. Please, I don’t know what else to say to her, just come.’
The words hum and hiss and swirl around in Nevis’s head. Is this some kind of joke? Or a scam? Someone playing a sick prank. What would Satnam be doing on the bridge past midnight? Why would this woman be calling? In any case what Sondra is saying is impossible because it’s after midnight and Satnam is asleep in her bed.
And yet the urgency of the voice is unmistakeable. Nevis rushes into the hallway and throws open the door to Satnam’s room. In the murky light she picks out the sha
pe of an empty bed. There is something rancid in the air which she has never noticed before. Is she imagining things? She can hear her head drumming or is it her heart? What is happening? Nevis, who prides herself on thinking straight, can hardly think at all.
She reaches for the light switch and flips it on as if that might illuminate the inside of her head. But no. The bed remains empty. She walks around it and opens the wardrobe. She calls ‘Satnam?’ and hears traffic outside and the clamour of her pulse. What is going on? As she turns to leave, her eye catches a bottle of vodka on the bedside table. How could she have missed it? She hurries over, picks it up, shakes the few remaining drops inside the bottle, puts it back down and feels the moving parts of her brain clicking into place at last.
Is this The Moment? she thinks. Has it come?
Honor always told her that in every life there is The Moment. It might be very small, like holding out a hand to stop a child stepping over a pavement, or very big, like giving the go-ahead for a doctor to flick the switch on a life-support machine. It may be saying yes or saying no. It might be as simple as making or taking a phone call. The Moment can steal up on you and arrive in the most unexpected minute of the most unexpected hour. It may hit hard or be so soft-footed that you may not hear it coming. Your life can be defined by it. It can be your making or your ruin.
Satnam is on the Clifton Suspension Bridge with Sondra. Satnam is… oh it’s too horrible to think about but Nevis must steel herself. Satnam is in deep, deep trouble. This is my Moment, she thinks. This is my time. Whatever decisions she makes, whatever action she takes now will be etched on her soul. She cannot escape this; she can only move towards it.
Nevis’s hand is trembling so hard now that she can hardly hold the phone. ‘Let me speak to her.’ She can feel her adolescence receding. So distant now. Adulthood coming at her like a rocket.
‘She won’t let me approach. Please just come,’ Sondra says.
Nevis thinks. Can I do this? Do I have a choice? She takes a deep breath. You always have a choice, Nevis. The right thing or the easy thing. Step up. Stop asking questions. Control yourself. Take a breath and quiet your heart. This is The Moment.
