Cold Bath Lane

by Lorna Dounaeva

  I plonked myself down on a stool, and Alicia went and bought us some Cokes. I sipped mine nostalgically, wishing it had a kick.

  A bloke with white blonde hair approached us. “Are you twins?” he asked in English.

  Alicia looked at me and giggled. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked that. I took it as a compliment, given that I was almost a decade older than her.

  I would happily have gone home after that, but Alicia alternated between dancing and flirting with random blokes. Again, I didn’t understand the need for it. Most likely, we would never see any of these people again.

  “Do you like any of them?” she asked me, with a subtle glance at Blondie, who was still hanging about nearby.

  I shook my head. “Not my type,” I said, without really looking.

  “What exactly is your type? You never like no one.”

  “I liked Julio, didn’t I? And look where that got me.”

  “That was a million years ago.”

  “To you, maybe. To me, it seems like yesterday.”

  But that was it now for me, for love.

  At the end of the evening, the bus dropped us off half a mile from the house. Alicia and I pulled off our shoes and picked our way through the fields in our bare feet. I was scared of stepping on a rattlesnake or something, but Alicia laughed at me when I said so out loud.

  Once we reached the house, I turned the key quietly in the door. The last thing I wanted was to wake Dad. I had assumed both he and Sam would be in bed, but the living room light was on.

  Sam was slumped in front of the TV, totally oblivious as it wittered on in French.

  There was an empty wine bottle and glass on the table next to him.

  I looked at it, annoyed. We had agreed not to bring alcohol into the house.

  Alicia walked into the kitchen. “Take a look at this.”

  There was a whole case of wine on the sideboard, along with a card.

  “Compliments of Mr Dubois,” she read. “That’s the bloke who’s paying us.”

  I stared longingly at the case, wondering if it would hurt to open one of the bottles. It didn’t seem fair that Sam had tasted the wine and I hadn’t.

  “Let’s shove it to the back of the cupboard for now,” Alicia said. “We’ll dispose of it in the morning.” She shot me a look. “I’ll dispose of it.”

  Begrudgingly, I helped her move the heavy case.

  “Do you want to watch a film, or something?” she asked.

  “No, I think I’d better go to bed.”

  Because I couldn’t sit and watch TV, not now I knew about the wine.

  “I’ll be up in a bit, then,” Alicia said, grabbing the remote from the floor, where Sam must have dropped it.

  “You do know it’s all in French?”

  “That’s OK, some of the channels have subtitles.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m see you up there.”

  I went up to our room and switched on the light, so I could find my pyjamas. I thought I’d stuffed them under my pillow but, instead, I found them lying on the floor. I bent down to pick them up, then I smelled the alcohol on his breath, and before I could stop him, his hands were around my neck.

  40

  My voice box felt like it was being crushed. Immense pressure built up in my head, like a balloon. There was heat in my ears, and a terrifying lightness. If I could not fight him, I would die.

  Dad’s hands tightened around my neck as he went on, squeezing the life out of me. Black dots danced in front of my eyes, and my knees buckled. My last breath had been more than a minute ago, and I hadn’t given it a second thought. A feeling of immense calmness overrode my panic. Maybe it was for the best. This wasn’t how I had wanted it to end, but if this was it, then there was nothing more he could do to me.

  My brain was starving for oxygen. I was on the brink of unconsciousness, when a thought popped inside my head:

  He’s supposed to die, not me.

  He’s the one who’s sick.

  He’s the one who’s evil.

  I saw Mum’s reflection in the mirror, made up of thousands of tiny red dots.

  He got away with my murder.

  Don’t let him get away with yours.

  Mum’s love rippled through me. I recalled the smell of her skin and the way she kissed me when she tucked me in at night. I burst free of my fear. I wanted to live. The revelation startled Dad, as it startled me.

  I hit out with both arms, digging him hard in the ribs. He yelped in surprise, and he momentarily released me. That moment was all I needed. I squirmed free, kicking him hard in the nuts, knocking him down to the floor. My body was weak and clumsy, but it was enough. I stamped viciously on his head, then his stomach, enjoying his anguished cries. I kicked until he fell silent, a useless lump of flesh, sprawled out all over the floor. I pressed my heel into him, enjoying the crunch of his bones underfoot. He groaned softly, and I was dizzy with power.

  I collapsed, exhausted onto the floor and lay beside him for a moment, catching my breath. But I was aware of his vile breath beside me, and I didn’t dare stay there for long. I left him where he lay, his arms and legs hanging all over the place, like one of those horrible hunters’ rugs. I staggered back to the stairs and bumped my way down on my backside. I felt my way back to the living room, ready to tell Alicia what had happened. When I opened my mouth to speak, my voice was little more than a pathetic croak. My body was still shocked to the core.

  “Alicia!” I rasped, but my voice was feeble and I had to compete with the noise of the TV. “Alicia!”

  “Quick! Over here!”

  It was only then that I saw Sam sprawled out on the floor. Alicia stood over him, shaking him savagely. His tongue hung out, like a dog’s, and his eyes had rolled into the back of his head.

  “He’s not asleep, Jody. He’s…”

  “Oh, god!”

  I dropped to my knees, my broken body unable to take the strain. I crawled over to Sam. His colour was unnatural, unearthly and, when I pulled down his collar, I saw red marks around his neck. Desperately, I listened for a pulse, a breath, any sign of life.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Alicia said, reaching for the phone.

  “It’s too late for an ambulance. He’s already dead.”

  I cradled Sam in my arms and stroked his hair with all the love I had inside me. I forgave him for every bad thing he’d ever done to me. He had been my brother, the only one I had ever had, and now he was gone.

  I couldn’t bear the pain that coursed through my body. I sensed Mum looking over my shoulder and felt the dampness of her tears on my cheek. It wasn’t Sam’s time. It didn’t seem possible. He was big and strong and powerful. And now he was the brightest star in the sky.

  “It was Dad,” I told Alicia, my throat raw with pain. “He tried to strangle me. He must have got to Sam first.”

  “But why? Dad loved Sam.”

  “He’d been drinking. You know how demented he is. The alcohol must have tipped him over the edge.”

  I remembered something Mum had said to me once, when Sam and I were arguing.

  “He might annoy you now, but you’ll need each other when you’re older. You’ll always have your brother, Jody. Long after Dad and I are gone.’

  Well, it turned out Mum was wrong. Now Sam was gone and Dad, Dad, who was supposed to be dying, was still bloody here. Even now, in the midst of my pain, I remembered riding on Dad’s back around the garden, squealing with joy as he pretended to be a pony.

  “Bloody vineyard!” I screamed.

  I should have known he couldn’t resist it. We were idiots to come here, no matter how good the deal was. There was way too much temptation.

  “We should get out of here,” I said. “Before he comes to finish us off.”

  “But where are we going to go at this time of night? There won’t be no buses till morning.”

  “Then we’ll have to walk. It’s got to be safer than staying.”

  “We’ll need our pass
ports.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Upstairs, on the nightstand.”

  With great trepidation, I climbed back up the stairs. I was terrified Dad would leap out at us, ready to finish the job.

  “Shit, he’s not here!” I hissed, when I reached our room.

  “Then where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Stay close to me.”

  I crept along the landing, into Sam’s room, but he wasn’t there, either. I turned, and realised Alicia wasn’t behind me anymore.

  “Alicia!”

  “In here!”

  I darted into Dad’s room, convinced he’d have her by the throat, but Dad was fast asleep in bed, snoring heavily on top of the covers. His body looked old and bloodied, yet, ironically, strong and heavy.

  “I gave him quite a kicking,” I said.

  I couldn’t understand how he could have dragged himself off to bed like that.

  Alicia poked him, but he didn’t stir.

  “Don’t,” I said, as she nudged him harder. But he still did not respond.

  Hand in hand, we stood at his bedside. It was dark for miles around, but billions of stars glittered up in the heavens.

  “Give me a minute.”

  I stepped into the bathroom and looked at the sink. Little spikes of Dad’s hair lay scattered around his razor, some of them embedded in the soap. I picked up the razor, and ran my hand along its edge, testing the sharpness.

  Dad’s left eye spasmed as I ran the blade over his wrist, but he did not wake up. I watched the blood spurt from the wound. It trickled onto the blankets, turning them from white to red. I picked up his other hand. I remembered holding that hand when I was a little girl, running with him through the park. I took one of his fingers and pressed it deep into the wound. He shook a little as I did so, but not enough to stop me. I held his finger up to the wall next to him, tracing the word ‘FRY’ in big, bloody letters. I thought of how he had burnt that word into each of us. We still had the scars to prove it. Those scars were dark now, almost black. But Dad’s was a vibrant red. I shivered as his blood tarnished the wall.

  “My turn,” Alicia said.

  I watched as she pulled out her lighter, the flame was a bright quivering, orange. She held it to Dad’s chest, warming the curly, white hairs that grew there. There seemed to be so many hairs, and in the next instant they were gone.

  “Arrgh!” Dad pawed at the air, too woozy to really fight it.

  The flames spread up to his armpits and down to his flannel pyjama bottoms. His body was starting to fry.

  His arms burned like branches. The hairs went first, then bits of skin peeled off as the flames rose higher.

  “Arghh!” he cried again, as his body sizzled and spat.

  We stood over him like he’d taught us, watching the fire to make sure it took.

  All at once, his eyes flickered open, triggered, like automatic doors. He grasped in the air for my hand, but I wouldn’t let him touch me.

  “Mary Jane! Why don’t you help me?”

  “I’m not Mary Jane. I’m Jody.”

  He shifted this way and that, too bladdered to work out what to do. His belly split open like a sausage, oozing yellow fat and the flames rose higher and higher.

  Too late, I spotted my copy of The Gingerbread Man, lying open on the bedside table. I couldn’t understand what it was doing there, but it was too late to wonder. Flames licked at the pages and I imagined Mum reading it to me, one last time, before her spirit was finally satisfied. I watched as Dad’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. Finally, all was quiet.

  Also by Lorna Dounaeva

  McBride Vendetta Series Book One

  FRY

  She acts like she's your new best friend, but is she really a deadly enemy?

  When Isabel nearly runs over mysterious Alicia, she is filled with guilt. She helps Alicia get a job at the supermarket where she works and soon, Alicia is acting like her new best friend. Then fires break out all over town and she suspects Alicia knows more than she's letting on, but it’s Isabel the police suspect. In order to survive, Isabel must question her own innocence, her sanity and the very fabric of her morality.

  Lorna Dounaeva’s debut novel is a sizzling psychological thriller that will make you question how well you can ever really know a person.

  FRY is a very British fast paced psychological thriller.

  McBride Vendetta Series Book Three

  Cold Bath Lane

  Who will pay the price for her silence?

  Nine-year-old Jody is does well in school, despite living in a run-down part of East London.

  Then one terrible night, her life changes forever, and Jody is forced to make an impossible choice between telling the truth and keeping her family together.

  The police bring her in for questioning, and pressure her to tell them what really happened but is Jody ready to admit it, even to herself?

  Will the truth win out, or will Jody be sucked into a web of lies in order to protect her family?

  This disturbing crime novel is utterly gripping and impossible to put down.

  Other Books

  The Perfect Girl

  She was beautiful, popular and successful, the one they all wanted to be. So who, or what, was she running from?

  When reclusive writer, Jock falls for vivacious Tea Shop owner, Sapphire, he is amazed that she seems to feel the same way about him. He watches with pride as Sapphire is crowned May Queen at the town's May Day celebrations, but his joy turns to heartbreak when she runs off into the crowd, never to return.

  As the days pass, he becomes increasingly desperate. Everyone he speaks to seems to love Sapphire. No one has a bad word to say about her. So why did she run away like that, and what is stopping her from coming back?

  The Perfect Girl is a claustrophobic British thriller set on the English/Welsh border.

  (The Perfect Girl was previously titled May Queen Killers)

  Afterword

  If you’ve enjoyed this book, I’d be eternally grateful if you’d consider posting a review. A couple of lines are plenty and it makes all the difference to authors, as we rely on word of mouth to get our books known.

  Thank you!

  Lorna

  P.S. I hope you’ll consider joining my readers’ club to receive updates on new releases and giveaways at www.lornadounaeva.com

  You can also contact me at info@LornaDounaeva.com

  About the Author

  Lorna Dounaeva is a quirky British crime writer who once challenged a Flamenco troupe to a dance-off. She is a politics graduate, who worked for the British Home Office for a number of years, before turning to crime fiction. She loves books and films with strong female characters and her influences include Single White Female and Sleeping with the Enemy. She lives in Surrey, England with her husband and their three children, who keep her busy wiping food off the ceiling and removing mints from USB sockets.

  For Mash,

  Thanks for your help, speed and wisdom.

  But most of all, thanks for not burning down the Christmas tree.

  Not this year, at least.

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks to Virginia Malcolm and Denis Dounaev

  Editors

  Hayley Sherman

  Maria Dounaeva

  Cover

  Coverquill