Her Closest Friend (ARC)

by Clare Boyd

  She remembered the wrench in the boot of the car. It would be her only hope, if she had the energy to use it to prize open the door.

  Having crawled to the back bumper, she pulled herself up with one hand, woozily fumbling for the boot catch, feeling the scratch of Dylan’s string under her fingertips. The air was thick. Delirium and confusion made every movement painstaking, surreal, as though her limbs were not attached, as though this were happening to someone else.

  She popped the boot. A remnant of green thread dangled.

  When she peered in, she hallucinated.

  Inside, she saw a vision of Dylan’s body curled up asleep with his teddies. Her hand shot out to touch this blurred form, to burst the horrifying apparition, but her fingers met with the warmth of his downy arm.

  ‘DYLAN!’ she screamed, curdling the poisoned smoke around her head. It took superhuman strength to lift him into her arms and her knees buckled under his weight. She slid down to the concrete floor, holding onto him with all of her dwindling strength. ‘Dylan,’ she whispered, weeping over him, trying to kiss him awake. He must have snuck down from his room and out of the back door, either before Naomi arrived or while she had been talking to Naomi on the doorstep. Maybe that was why Bear had started barking. Bear had been telling her he was gone. He was gone. He was gone!

  ‘I won’t let you go!’ she screamed.

  His head lolled back over her arm, spikes of white-blonde hair falling the wrong way, his mouth smiling a little, opened a little, but his eyes closed, with his long white lashes pointing down his cheeks. When she felt for his pulse, she could not find it. When she put her face to his mouth, she could not feel his breath.

  The toxic air bloomed. Her own breathing became laboured, her will to live became weaker, her thoughts of Naomi’s betrayal breaking what was left of her spirit.

  Knowing there was no way out, knowing there was nothing left, knowing that this was the end, she dragged herself and Dylan into the back seat. She lifted him, pale like an angel, into the ghost car, into her grandfather’s pride and joy, where they lay together in the white clouds, where they died together; where an eye for an eye became a tooth for a tooth, where Ilene Parker might think justice had been done.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  SURREY ECHO

  * * *

  MOTHER AND SON FOUND DEAD INSIDE GARAGE

  * * *

  MURDER–SUICIDE VERDICT RETURNED IN SURREY INQUEST. Sophie King, 41, gassed herself and her son, Dylan King, 8, inside a classic car in the garage adjoining her home, the inquest heard.

  Emergency services were called to a woodland cottage near Farnham, Surrey just before 3 p.m. on Tuesday 20 July, where detectives made their grim discovery.

  Detective Sergeant Mark Price, who found them dead after a concerned phone call from Dylan’s father, Adam King, 42, said there were no signs of violence and no sign of forced entry. Post-mortem examination reports confirmed that both had died from carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Surrey Coroner Arthur Carney said it was clear from friends and family that Mrs Sophie King had been suffering from a bout of severe depression following a recent separation from her husband, Adam King.

  Naomi Wilson, a close friend of the deceased, told the inquest that she had been terrorised by King in the months leading up to the murder–suicide, and described how volatile King’s moods had become, detailing specific incidents of King’s stalking, blackmail and death threats. Wilson had tried to end their friendship repeatedly, the inquest heard.

  Returning a verdict of murder–suicide, Arthur Carney described it as a ‘desperate act by a mother who had been experiencing a period of intense mental distress. Their loved ones must try not to blame themselves for this terrible tragedy.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Many years later

  * * *

  ‘Loved ones must try not blame themselves, no, no, must not, must not, must try to, remember not to,’ Naomi sang to a nameless tune, sipping from her tumbler on the side table, watching the television images flicker before her. A drop of her drink spilt onto the coral sofa.

  She shuffled to the kitchen to get a cloth. ‘Oh no, oh no, no, no, no,’ she said, returning to her spot, rubbing at the clear spill. If she didn’t keep it clean, Sophie would not like it.

  There was a knock at the door. She checked the time on the clock that sat above the five-bar heater in the inglenook fireplace. It was too early for visitors. Unless, unless. She checked her calendar and gasped. Always they came on her birthday. Always in the morning.

  In the mirror, she saw an older person with short, tight curls and sunken cheeks and milky eyes. In her mind she remembered someone with long corkscrew curls and rosy cheeks. She pinched at her sallow skin, to bring the blood to the surface. There wasn’t time to change out of her nightie.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ Diana said, standing at the door with her bouncing curls and bonny cheeks.

  Diana, my beautiful baby girl, Naomi thought.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said, handing her a bulging supermarket shopping bag. ‘Sorry, Izzy couldn’t make it today.’

  ‘Come in, come in.’

  Naomi looked inside her bag for the vodka. There was none. She wanted to hurl the biscuits and bread across the room. Not even on her birthday! She would have to send Adam to the shops when he visited on Friday. Always Friday, Adam would bring her vodka.

  Naomi returned to her worn spot on the sofa, while Diana messed around in the kitchen making tea. Always bloody tea.

  Cupboards were opened and closed. She would be rifling around, checking on things, nosing into her private business.

  ‘Everything to your liking?’ Naomi barbed when Diana returned.

  ‘I was just putting the shopping away.’

  She snorted at her daughter.

  ‘How are you, Mum?’

  ‘Fine. Except those people. Those people. They make so much noise.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘In the shack. They play loud music. I go over there to tell them to turn it down and they ignore me.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a word?’

  ‘I don’t need you to do it for me.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Naomi knew she was hurt. That was just how she wanted it.

  ‘Tell me about your life, Diana,’ Naomi asked, looking at the television, feigning disinterest, holding her breath so that she didn’t miss a syllable, eager to hear every detail, eager to know that it had not been for nothing.

  Diana began to chatter, just as she had when Naomi had sat on her bed after story time when she was little. ‘… Josh is moving in, finally. He was funny about not earning as much as me but I told him he was being dumb. I love his work. It always makes me laugh, but Dorling Kindersley might not be publishing his next story. They say that kids only want to read horror stories these days.’ She laughed and continued, ‘But his illustrations are funny, which I think kids will always respond to, don’t you?’

  Naomi shrugged. But she agreed, relishing her daughter’s opinions.

  ‘Anyway, Izzy’s driving me mad. Blake just got a promotion and they’ve moved into this amazing house in Shropshire and she’s always asking me up there to stay, but she never comes down to London to see me and Josh. I think she thinks she’s going to get mugged or something, or suffocate in my small flat. Or something,’ she complained. But then she chuckled. ‘It is beautiful up there, though, Mum. I wish you could see it. You know, Dad practically lives there.’ And on she went.

  When Diana’s stories held something uncomfortable for her, Naomi rolled her mind right back to their childhoods, where she liked it to stay, where it was safe. There, Naomi could find happiness in the distant memories of smiles: flickering, faded, bliss. Never, ever would she linger in the present. In the present, she would see her life for what it was. She would see a bitter old drunk, living in the house her victim had bequeathed to her, eaten up by the irony, driven slowly insane by the sins of her past. She would see wh
at she had destroyed, and how she had failed; and she would be too scared to die. Dying would collect up her regrets and her shame and throw them back in her face. Dying would mean it was too late. Dying would mean she had wasted her life.

  So, here she was, too scared to die and too scared to live. Only intoxication could take her away into a limbo land that suspended her in neither: the pretence of peace, keeping the torture of reality at bay a little longer. Of course, it wouldn’t always work. And it wouldn’t ever last.

  She sipped her drink and let her heavy head fall back onto the cushion. What is done to you lives long; what you do to others lives longer. Tit for tat. Tit for tat. Her mind sang on.

  Diana’s voice came through the sing-song. Or did it? Oh yes, she was there.

  ‘Mum? Are you listening?’

  ‘I’ve got a terrible headache.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, kissing Naomi’s forehead and squeezing her hand. ‘See you soon, Mum.’

  As the door closed behind Diana, Naomi managed to say, ‘Bye, Diana, my love,’ under her breath, but Diana would not have heard.

  Then another screeching voice crowded into her brain.

  ‘Happy Birthday to you… Happy Birthday to you,’ the haunting voice continued on repeat.

  The smell of Sophie was present, like incense, as strong as Diana’s perfume had been.

  ‘Go away!’ Naomi screamed, holding her hands to her ears.

  ‘Never, ever,’ Sophie hissed.

  Her pale hair blew and her long limbs danced. And Dylan leapt at her feet, like the devil itself.

  She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth and the songs became louder.

  Naomi sang like a shout over Sophie’s voice, ‘Loved ones must not blame themselves, no, no, must not, must not, must remember not to! Loved ones must not blame themselves!’

  To make her go away, she sang and sang. Sophie’s melodic tones encompassed her soul, overriding any scream. Sophie was not gone. Sophie was never gone. Sophie was in her head, like Suzanne had been in Sophie’s. The pain lived on inside. The echo of abandonment. The echo of neglect. The echo of abuse. The echo of rape. The echo of violence. The echo of revenge. The reverberations had spread outwards from the epicentre of Suzanne’s abandonment, which had ruptured Sophie’s innocence long ago, and, in turn, rumbled through Naomi’s life like an aftershock. In the aftermath, Naomi’s love could never have been enough for Sophie, and Sophie’s love had proven too much for Naomi. Sophie had stolen from Naomi what she should have found inside herself. And more suffering had ensued. The cycle never-ending.

  But Ilene Parker was dead now. And Naomi had saved her daughters. She had broken the cycle for Izzy and Diana, making sure they would live out their life without Sophie and Naomi’s legacy, without the haunting of Jason Parker. For them, at least, Naomi’s love had been enough. For Naomi, their happiness was plenty. Hers in exchange for theirs. It was more than enough for her.

  Did Sophie and Naomi’s twisted tale of toxic friendship leave you gasping for air? Check out Little Liar for more absolutely unputdownable suspense, available now!

  * * *

  GET IT HERE!

  Little Liar

  Get it here!

  * * *

  The perfect family… or the perfect lie?

  * * *

  To the outside world, Gemma Bradley has it all – a doting husband, high-flying career and two delightful kids – but inside the four walls of her tastefully renovated home, she is a mother at her wits’ end who has given too many last warnings and counted to ten too many times.

  * * *

  When a child’s scream pierces the night, Gemma’s neighbour does what anyone would do: she calls the police. She wants to make sure that Rosie, the little girl next door, is safe.

  * * *

  Gemma knows she hasn’t done anything wrong, but the more she fights to defend the family she loves, the more her flawless life begins to crumble around her. Is the carefully guarded secret she’s been keeping suddenly in danger of breaking free?

  * * *

  When Rosie disappears, Gemma thinks she only has herself to blame. That is, until she discovers that Rosie has been keeping dark secrets of her own in a pink plastic diary.

  * * *

  Distraught and terrified, Gemma doesn’t know where to turn. The only thing she knows is that her daughter’s life is in danger…

  * * *

  Little Liar is a heart-in-your-mouth psychological thriller about the people we choose to trust and the secrets we keep behind closed doors. If you loved The Girl on the Train, Gone Girl or anything by B.A. Paris you’ll be totally and utterly gripped.

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  Books by Clare Boyd

  Little Liar

  Three Secrets

  Her Closest Friend

  A Letter from Clare

  Dear Reader,

  * * *

  Thank you very much for reading Her Closest Friend. It still amazes me to think that I have real-life readers out there in the world. You are like distant friends!

  Please keep in touch by clicking on the sign-up link below, where you’ll hear about what I’ll be writing next:

  Sign up here!

  For a long time, I have wanted to write about friendship. Yet I could not have predicted how much disturbing material I would drag out of my brain in the process of writing on this subject. My previous books about child abuse – Little Liar – and suicide – Three Secrets – were more obvious starting places for dark storylines. But I discovered a deep well of anguish, paranoia and self-doubt in the friendship dynamics that I drew inspiration from for Her Closest Friend.

  It is easy to consider our friends as added bonuses, extras on the periphery of family life. Some friends come and go according to our changing circumstances and some stick around, for better or worse. The more intense friendships can make their mark in wonderful or terrible ways, to leave an indelible impression on us, and even shape us as people. I realised, in the writing of this book, that the friends we bond with, and sometimes get rid of – and I don’t mean by locking them in garages! – can be as influential or damaging to our well-being as family can be.

  Now that I’m in my mid-forties, I have found friends who are nothing like Sophie; they have my best interests at heart. Unlike family, we can choose our friends, and thank goodness for that! I do not know what I would do without them.

  If you have enjoyed Her Closest Friend, please do write a review, and follow me on social media. See below for details.

  Another huge thank you for reading my book.

  * * *

  With very best wishes,

  Clare

  Three Secrets

  Get it here!

  * * *

  A terrible secret killed your husband… But which one?

  * * *

  Robert kisses his wife on the head before heading out to the shop for more wine; he walks up the hill, takes a left across the footbridge and jumps to his death on the busy motorway below.

  * * *

  Two years later, Francesca and her young daughter are leaving London for a fresh start, money is tight and Robert’s mother has found them a little cottage in her village. Francesca is grateful for the help, but why does Robert’s mother want to keep them so close? Does she know about what Francesca did in the hour before Robert’s death?

  * * *

  Soon Francesca begins to suspect there was more to her husband’s death than she realised, that there might be even darker secrets hiding in his past than her own…

  * * *

  The closer she gets to uncovering the truth, the more she asks: is her own life in danger now too?

  * * *

  If you couldn’t put down The Girl on the
Train or The Couple Next Door, then you will absolutely love this gripping and twisty psychological thriller.

  * * *

  Order now!

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my agent, Broo Doherty, and my editor, Jessie Botterill: our editorial meetings are the highlight of my year.

  As always, I am in awe of the energetic, forward-thinking team at Bookouture. Thanks to you all.