by Holly Seddon
It had been a long time since they’d actually spoken face to face, but the years have faded and it’s as if they’re back in their halls of residence, promising to always have each other’s back.
‘Pack a fucking bag,’ Jane says, decisively, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. ‘Book a fucking ticket and get your arse out here.’
It’s tempting. Marianne has been signed off work, something she should have done when Greg died but barrelled straight back to work instead. This time it was non-negotiable and she’d put up no fight.
‘The flat’s on the market,’ Marianne says instead. ‘And I’ve handed in my notice.’
‘Good,’ Jane says. ‘You shouldn’t be living in a mausoleum.’
Marianne nods.
‘So what do you want to do next?’
Sam
Sunday, 24 October 2021
I’m in the kitchen when Joe arrives. To say I feel nervous doesn’t come close. I look so different to when he last saw me that I’ve changed clothes maybe ten times today, trying to find some way to resemble the way he expects me to look. I have worn make-up for the first time since I left Steve’s house, but my hair is still growing back and is still in a pixie crop. The lion’s mane he’d always loved winding his fingers through as a little boy is a distant memory.
I’ve cooked a roast dinner, not a patch on one of Steve’s, my shaking hands slipping as I peeled the potatoes. Thick plasters now coat two fingertips.
I let him in, unsure whether to hug him, holding my arms out but letting them fall.
He kisses my cheeks briefly, like an acquaintance. We stare at each other in silence until I look away.
‘Your house is really nice,’ he says, as I lead him through to the small but bright kitchen with its table for two.
‘It’s your house,’ I say. ‘Well, it’s our house.’ He looks at me strangely. A look I’ve not seen before on his face as he stares at me. At my hair, at my kitchen.
‘Can I start at beginning?’ I ask. ‘And I’ll get to that.’
*
I wasn’t born here. You know that anyway, even though you’ve never said. I wasn’t born somewhere good or bad, but it was unlucky. And my old country is small and beautiful. It has mountains, rivers and canyons that would make you gasp.
I swore to my mother that I would never have children of my own, not after everything that I saw. She died believing me. And she didn’t die in peace, Joe. After everything my dad taught me, everything he prepared me for, when the time came I just froze. I was younger than you by some years and I watched what happened to my mother, I watched a group of soldiers hurting her in ways I can’t begin to tell you. And only when it was over did I do anything.
Most of them had left. From my hiding place, I watched their backs shaking with laughter and adrenaline as they left. I don’t think they knew or cared that they had killed her.
One of them lingered, one of the younger ones who had held her down. He was watching me as I lay myself on my mother’s chest and wept my apologies. All that time preparing, all that time my father spent training me so that I could protect others, and I had let everyone down.
I was barely aware of him, his uniform in the corner of my eye. But he was staring at me. He looked at me as if I was one of the carcasses swinging in the back of your dad’s butcher’s shops. Meat. Nothing more. Something to be taken, consumed, sliced and spat out. Perhaps because I was young, he thought it would be easy.
He must have heard me move as he walked towards me, and only then did I act. I killed him, Joe. Using my bare fists to knock him unconscious. I hit him in the exact spot on his skull that my father taught me, and then wrapped my hands around his throat.
When I was sure he was dead, I ran for my life.
*
When I ran from my home, I didn’t care where I ended up. I was offered a place in a truck returning to the UK and I said yes. It wasn’t exactly altruistic of them – when we arrived, seasick, dehydrated and disoriented, the man driving handed us over to a gang almost as bad as the people I’d run from, but I would have said yes to a one-way rocket to the moon.
I didn’t have time to grieve for my mother and I still don’t know what happened to my father, but survival had to come first. I think I’ve leaked that grief out every day since, but the one thing that saved me, Joe, was you. My mother died believing I would never have children because I couldn’t bear the thought of them being poisoned by the grief and fear that poisoned me. But then I met you. And you have been the sunshine and the hope and everything good in my life ever since.
I’m so sorry that I broke your father’s trust and I’m so sorry that I let you down. Your uncle and I were selfish and disgusting, and I have no excuse. People and circumstances have made me do bad things in the course of my life, but this is one mistake I have to own. I’m sorry.
But I want you to know that I have stayed here for you and worked hard for you, and I will be here for as long as you will let me. I have no real home, not legally, but you are my home. And this is your house.
It’s all owned in your name, bought and paid for in cash. If you want me to leave, you can kick me out. Or you can stay here, whenever you like and for as long as you like.
I just hope you know that I would do anything for you and, remember, no matter what happens, I’ll always come back for you.
*
Joe doesn’t look at me. Not for a long moment. I can smell that the potatoes have started to burn in the oven but I dare not look at them or break this spell. I don’t want to frighten him away. He has just found out that I am a killer, after all.
Eventually Joe stands up and clenches his fists, just like he did when he was little and trying to be brave. He steps towards the kitchen door and my heart prepares to shatter. But then he turns, walks towards me and presses his forehead to mine.
‘It’s OK, Mum.’
Marianne
Sunday, 24 October 2021
Marianne shuts the inner door, double-locking it for the last time. She’ll drop the keys through the estate agent’s letterbox on the way. She carries the suitcases down, hurrying as the Uber driver beeps. Her little car was sold last week and most of her furniture has already gone, donated or taken to the tip. She left the bed for the couple who have bought this place. It’s their sanctuary now.
All she really has left is in these cases. Mostly they’re filled with her clothes and toiletries, but she does have a few of Greg’s favourite T-shirts and shirts carefully folded, and some mementos of their marriage. Of the happiest moments. That still counts for something.
When she gets out at the airport, she resists the urge to buy cigarettes. Two weeks and counting, maybe she’ll make it stick this time.
Inside, the airport is thick with people, commuters heading back to the European offices, ready for the new working week. Boomeranging between the cities, exhausted and modern.
Unlike them, Marianne has a one-way ticket. Jane was a bit disappointed that Marianne chose not to head to Dubai and work in a school out there, to rekindle their friendship under a boiling tax-free sun. But she understood.
*
‘Passengers for British Airways flight to Florence, please go straight to gate nine. Final call for British Airways to Florence.’
She watches them file by, heading out where she and Greg had honeymooned. Where, on that last holiday, she had watched through squinting eyes as he scooped frogs feverishly from the pool. A Sisyphean undertaking that makes more sense, and cuts deeper, in light of everything she knows.
As the last of the passengers rush down the gangway to gate nine, she whispers a silent message for them to carry with them to Tuscany. She considered going to Italy, trying to find a job in an international school, living a half-life of the one they’d dreamt about. But no. That was their dream, not hers.
Greg is gone and with him the life she thought she would lead. But unlike him, she has another chance at life. A life threatened and then saved by the same st
range woman. Marianne wonders what happened to her; hopes, despite everything, that she is OK. And that she stays the hell away.
But she was right, in her little monologue, which Marianne was too terrified to take in at the time. Marianne has compromised and settled, limped through life as if she had all the time in the world. As if it couldn’t be snuffed out in a moment, the wick pinched between unseen fingers.
Tonight, she will fly to Paris, the proceeds of the flat hitting her bank account just in time for breakfast. And then, who knows? Maybe Madrid, maybe Athens. Maybe New York. Or maybe she’ll stay in Paris until she is old and crazy, telling stories about assassination attempts and bluebells that no one would believe. But whatever she does, it will be up to Marianne.
This is her life.
Acknowledgements
I had been trying to find the right book idea for a long time, growing increasingly frustrated and miserable. I knew it was there, just outside my eye line, but the more I tried to see it, the more obscure it grew.
The case of the Ashley Madison infidelity site hack had horrified and fascinated me ever since the story broke. I was mulling that tawdry story over yet again on 28 March 2018, when the idea for The Hit List finally came into view.
I sent it first to Gilly (to whom this book is dedicated). Our WhatsApp messages read:
[16:02, 28/03/2018] Holly Seddon: So … on the dark web there are ‘murder for hire’ websites.
[16:03, 28/03/2018] Holly Seddon: What if instead of an infidelity site hack, you found out your name was on that. And no idea who had put it there.
[16:27, 28/03/2018] Gillian McAllister: That’s SUCH a good idea!!!
[16:27, 28/03/2018] Gillian McAllister: Holy shit.
Every writer needs a friend who will discuss dark-web hit lists with them endlessly until the plot comes together. Then rally them when it feels too hard to write. And then celebrate with them when it finally works. I’m not sure everyone is that lucky, though. So to Gilly, thank you, thank you, thank you.
And to Tony McAllister, Gilly’s dad, who helped me on detail, plot and even naming ideas. Tony, Gilly, Ilana Fox and Hayley Webster were among the first to read the full manuscript. Their encouragement meant the world.
While writing The Hit List, I signed with the wonderful Sophie Lambert from C+W. Her patience, precision and professionalism make me so grateful every day that I have her in my corner.
Phoebe Morgan, who bought this book while she was at Trapeze, is another star I am so lucky to have worked with. She instinctively knew how to elevate the story and her vision for the novel blew me away. Sam Eades, who championed the book even while on maternity leave, thank you!
The whole team at Trapeze is mind-bogglingly brilliant, I’m so happy to call Trapeze and Orion my publishing home.
I have used a lot of artistic licence in the writing of this book, especially with the dark web elements. That’s not to say it isn’t a Wild West, but the specifics and logistics are entirely made up. And not that I think anyone would look … but there is definitely no Assassin Supermarket. There is, however, a webcam on Ha’penny Pier (a great spot by my copy-editor) that would have picked up Marianne lobbing a laptop into the water. Forgive me, but I’m going to pretend it doesn’t exist. Or perhaps it was on the blink that day.
I have tried to be sensitive in my featuring of the trafficked women, and in particular Samantha, whose background I researched extensively and am very clear about in my own head, but for sensitivity have been vague about in the text. Any mistakes are my own.
Four books. Bloody hell. I still love this job more than any other in the world. It’s a privilege to tell stories for a living. But it’s not easy, and I’m not easy to live with while I do it. So most of all, and forever, my thanks go to James, Mia, Alfie, Elliot and Finch. For putting up with me, for loving me and for being my reasons for everything. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Credits
Trapeze would like to thank everyone at Orion who worked on the publication of The Hit List in the UK.
Agent
Sophie Lambert
Editor
Phoebe Morgan
Sam Eades
Copy-editor
Sue Lascelles
Proofreader
Holly Kyte
Editorial Management
Rosie Pearce
Charlie Panayiotou
Jane Hughes
Alice Davis
Claire Boyle
Audio
Paul Stark
Amber Bates
Contracts
Anne Goddard
Paul Bulos
Jake Alderson
Design
Debbie Holmes
Joanna Ridley
Nick May
Clare Sivell
Helen Ewing
Finance
Jennifer Muchan
Jasdip Nandra
Ibukun Ademefun
Rabale Mustafa
Sue Baker
Tom Costello
Marketing
Brittany Sankey
Production
Claire Keep
Fiona McIntosh
Publicity
Alex Layt
Sales
Laura Fletcher
Victoria Laws
Esther Waters
Lucy Brem
Frances Doyle
Ben Goddard
Georgina Cutler
Jack Hallam
Ellie Kyrke-Smith
Inês Figuiera
Barbara Ronan
Andrew Hally
Dominic Smith
Deborah Deyong
Lauren Buck
Maggy Park
Linda McGregor
Sinead White
Jemimah James
Rachel Jones
Jack Dennison
Nigel Andrews
Ian Williamson
Julia Benson
Declan Kyle
Robert Mackenzie
Imogen Clarke
Megan Smith
Charlotte Clay
Rebecca Cobbold
Operations
Jo Jacobs
Sharon Willis
Lisa Pryde
Rights
Susan Howe
Richard King
Krystyna Kujawinska
Jessica Purdue
Louise Henderson
Digital Champions
Juliet Ewers
Rachel Neely
Victoria Oundjian
About the Author
Holly Seddon is the international bestselling author of three novels. Alongside fellow author Gillian McAllister, Holly co-hosts the popular Honest Authors podcast. After growing up in the English countryside obsessed with music and books, Holly worked in London as a journalist and editor. She now lives in Amsterdam with her family and writes full time.
You can find Holly on:
@hollyseddon
@hollyseddonauthor
@hollyseddonauthor
By the same author:
Try Not to Breathe
Don’t Close Your Eyes
Love Will Tear Us Apart
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Trapeze
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © Holly Seddon 2020
The moral right of Holly Seddon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (eBook) 978 1 4091 9551 1
www.orionbooks.co.uk
