by P. R. Black
THE FAMILY
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © P.R. Black, 2019
The moral right of P.R. Black 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.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781789543070
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
The Family
P.R. Black
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
For Claire
Contents
Copyright Page
Welcome Page
Dedication
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
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Acknowledgements
About P.R. Black
Become an Aria Addict
1
Then
The night before they died, the two girls and their little brother shared the biggest room in the cottage.
Pillow fighting had long since given way to tired contemplation over cocoa as the candlelight flickered.
Becky Morgan lay back, one hand behind her head, the coconut smell of the sun cream lingering on her wrist. On the first night of their holiday, this was the best kind of tiredness. It made you impatient to be asleep, greedy for another day of fishing for sticklebacks with their nets, stone-skimming competitions, trailing their fingers in the water by the side of the boat, and considering ladybirds ambling across the backs of their hands and butterflies drifting just out of reach. It was the kind of tiredness that stopped short of exhaustion, but promised deep sleep.
Her younger brother Howie read the comic their dad had bought him on the ferry, his blanket pressed against his mouth – a gesture from infanthood he’d carried into his fifth year. He looked very seriously at Becky, and said, ‘Is the man outside staying with us?’
‘What man?’ Becky said.
‘The man who was hiding at the bins.’
‘There’s no man,’ Becky said, suddenly alarmed.
Clara sighed. At 13, she was the eldest of the Morgan children, and, in her opinion, the cleverest and best-looking. ‘He sees bogey men everywhere, don’t you Howie?’ she said. ‘The other week there was a skeleton in the freezer.’
Becky raised an eyebrow. ‘And was there?’
‘Oh yes. We pretended it was ice cream. Dad ate the lot. He was none the wiser.’
‘Could just be a ghost,’ Becky said, a wicked gleam in her eye.
‘Ghost? Where’s the ghost?’ Howie said.
The bedroom door opened slowly, startling them.
‘Goodness me,’ their father said, chuckling. ‘You all look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘Is there a ghost?’ Howie asked.
‘’Course there isn’t.’ Their father wore an open dressing gown over striped blue and white pyjama bottoms, knotted at the front, and a T-shirt that struggled to contain his paunch. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts. And if there was, I’d give it a bloody fright and a half.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘I hope your sisters haven’t been telling you silly stories.’
‘It was the Middle Child’s fault,’ Clara sniffed. ‘Pure and simple. She’ll give that boy a complex.’
‘I suspect the Elder Child might have a little something to do with it, too,’ said their mother. She stood behind their father in the hallway. She was dressed for bed, and her long chestnut hair flowed over the shoulders of her nightgown. She reminded Becky of a vampire in a creaky old Hammer horror movie she’d stayed up to watch one night – lovely, but uncanny. She might smile and give them all a fright. ‘Come on, now. Lights out. We’ve got another big day tomorrow.’
*
A hand touched Becky’s shoulder in the middle of the night, startling her awake. She sat upright, disorientated for a moment in the unfamiliar room. It was lit only by a sliver of moonlight, keen as a razor through a crack in the curtains.
Howie stood by the side of her bed.
‘What’s up?’ Becky said, rubbing her eyes.
The little boy spoke in a whisper, and his face was stricken in the moonlight. ‘Becky… There’s the man.’
‘Don’t be daft. Go on back to bed, now.’
‘For god’s sake…’ mumbled Clara from the other side of the room, shifting beneath the sheets.
‘Becky… There is. There is a man,’ Howie insisted, his voice louder.
Becky sighed. ‘Shut up, Howie. There are no ghosts. Come on – back to bed. You’re not getting in here with me, if that’s your game.’
‘But there is a ghost. He’s beside the wardrobe. I see him. Look!’
The little boy pointed.
And there, beside the wardrobe, breathing deeply through his mask, knife glinting, stood the man.
2
Now
The man let himself into Becky’s room, etched against the door, all in black. It was a tall, slim figure, without no definition other than the rudiments of the human shape. It seemed somehow less than shadow – a kind of anti-light, an anomaly.
In her bed, Becky wheezed at this apparition, fists clenched in the dark.
As before, the figure only ever gazed at her. Faceless, hands by its sides, it gazed down upon her.
Becky gave a low, mournful cry.
When the black hole in the face began to resolve itself into a mask, Becky finally screamed, and woke up.
The figure dissolved, absorbed into the gloom. There was only her room, in the dark, and her pounding heart. She groped for the nightlight switch, but her fingers were not quite awake yet, either, and the lamp slithered from her fingers and rolled across the floor. She kicked off the covers and stood, tense, her breath whining at the back of her throat. She felt the room spin in the darkness and had to catch her balance against the back wall, palms braced. Finally, she found the light switch.
Empty room. Nobody there. As ever.
She started her routine by checking her pulse, then her breathing, counting slowly. In, then out. She imagined the tension leaching from her shoulders, melting down her arms and dripping off her fingertips. Slow, steady breaths, and then the world settled back onto its axis, turning at the right speed, in the right direction. Her heartbeat became less erratic, more settled. Becky felt the sweat cooling on her back.
Then it was into the bathroom for a glass of water. The low-pitched light was perfect for these moments, less of a slap in the face with the click of the cord. She drew a glass of water and dared to look herself in the face, as if she might see cuts and bruises suffered as she slept. This was part of the process, staring herself in the eye. It was then that she saw the tears on her cheeks. She went with it, sobbing as quietly as she could, allowing the feelings to bleed out along with the tension.
She sat on the edge of the bed, occasionally wiping away the tears and blowing her nose. Her phone showed 03:32.
Becky sipped at the glass of water, then muttered, ‘There goes sleep. Thanks again, mate. Thanks a lot.’
She settled down under the covers, knowing that there was no man – nor ghost, for that matter – in this flat, not here, not now. Just to be sure, she felt underneath the mattress for the knife handle.
*
Dr Fullerton was a compact, bearded man, his face still constrained by the one chin and his waist unusually trim and tight for someone in their late fifties. ‘Three times a week at the gym,’ he was fond of telling his patients. ‘There’s some good mental health – your starter for ten.’
He smiled kindly at Becky, sat opposite him. His consulting room was small, but not uncomfortably so, and the soft leather armchair swaddled her. ‘How’s your week been, first of all?’ he asked.
‘Not so bad. Just the one dream.’
‘Last night, I take it?’
‘Yes. Are you now a fully qualified mind reader?’
‘Not quite. But you’ve yawned four times already.’
‘What can I say? It’s very cosy in here.’
‘Tell me about your dream. Anything new?’
Becky clasped her hands. ‘Nothing to report. Night terror. Sleep paralysis, the usual deal. The door opens. The guy comes in. He stands and watches me. I wake up gasping and thrashing like a landed fish. I feel for my knife. Then I lie awake with the light on and my eyes on the door, like a 6-year-old.’
Dr Fullerton nodded. ‘What you’re experiencing might be a typical night terror, in typical circumstances. But your experiences haven’t been typical.’
Becky shrugged. ‘That’s why I’m here, I suppose. Lucky old you.’
‘Has anything happened during the week to stress you out?’
‘Not really.’ She sighed. ‘I guess there’s one guy at work. He started a couple of months ago. A rising star. Tipped for the top. And by that I mean, an arsehole. Younger than me, annoyingly. Well spoken, but rude. Expensive suit. Seems like he drifted into journalism for larks, while he waits for his inheritance.’
‘Yes, I think you mentioned something along those lines last time.’
‘Do you remember that I told you he seemed nice enough, but had the potential to be a pillock?’
Fullerton studied his notes. ‘This was the lad from Scotland?’
‘That’s him, yes. Well, he went for the “pillock” option. Started throwing his weight around in a matter of days. Picked on the weak point, which was clearly the woman. He gave me a dressing down in front of the office this week for a report I filed on a bus drivers’ strike. “Not enough flavour,” he said. “I know you can do better.” He might as well have sent me away with a slap on the arse and told me to make the tea.’
Fullerton frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound very professional to me.’
‘It isn’t. But everyone looked the other way. When you get a new big dog on the floor, everyone falls into line. I asked for a meeting to discuss what happened.’
‘Good. How did it go?’
‘He keeps pulling out. I’ve half a mind to collar him in front of the office. But it was a couple of days ago. You know that way? I froze. The moment’s gone.’
‘How did you react to what he said? Once you got home?’
Becky gave a wan smile and swirled a plastic cup of water. Her hands were steady. ‘Not by drinking, you’ll be pleased to hear.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. Are you ready to talk about the reconstruction?’
Becky took a sip. ‘Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s bound to bring back a lot of feelings. Bad ones. Trigger points, and worse. How do you feel about being on television?’
‘I see it as an ambition achieved. My friends always said I’d appear on Crimewatch one day. Though strictly speaking, I won’t actually be on television. I’ll be pixelated, like I’m behind frosted glass. And someone will be saying my lines for me – an actor. Hopefully Stephen Fry, or Patrick Stewart. Someone rrrich, and fruity.’ She rolled her ‘r’s for effect.
Fullerton snorted. ‘Mariella Frostrup for you, surely?’
‘You old flirt. Really? I’m almost flattered. But yeah, I won’t really be on TV. It’s not like I’ll be front and centre of the broadcast. Though I had considered it.’
‘What good would that have done?’
‘It might bring him out of cover.’
Fullerton gazed at her. ‘What makes you think he would do that?’
‘I’m unfinished business. No one forgets the one that got away. It’s the same for killers as it is for the rest of us.’
‘Don’t you think that might be dangerous?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m only doing it because it might lead to a positive result. I hope so. You do get these breaks in cases, years later. You hear about it. That kid who was snatched in Lincolnshire… Those two potholers in the Lake District… The killers don’t stay ghosts. Not with forensic science, these days. Sometimes, the people who do these things get caught.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘I accept its unlikely, in my case. If they catch my guy, it’ll probably be from a random positive result from a DNA test. Something that sets off an alarm on a database, after his second cousin twice removed gets pulled over for bald tyres. But I’m confident I’ll see him in a courtroom one day.’
Fullerton considered his next question carefully. ‘Have you thought about how you might feel if you see him again, if they do catch him?’
‘Relieved, for a start. Goes without saying that he’s dangerous.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. A little bit disappointed.’
‘How so?’
Becky bit the inside of her mouth. ‘Well, if they catch him, he’ll end up in a nice cell. Maybe he lives in a hovel right now. Maybe he lives under a bridge. He’s getting old, that’s for sure. If he gets caught, he’ll get to be comfortable. Might end up in a nice jail in the Netherlands. With a view of a canal, or an art gallery. People would be safe, though. That’s something.’
‘Have you thought about revenge?’
She sat forward. ‘Asking me if I’ve thought about revenge is a bit like asking Godzilla if he ever thinks about Tokyo. Yeah. I’ve thought about revenge. Wouldn’t be human otherwise, would I?’
‘Violence?’
‘Humane violence. A nice orderly lynching, they used to call it. A bullet to the head. Something cl
ean. Not violence like… like what he did. That wouldn’t be justice. He’d deserve it, that’s for sure. But it’s not something I could do. Not many people are capable of that. There aren’t many people on that shelf. So no, I don’t think about killing him.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you.’
She made no response to that.
He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re almost out of time.’
‘Said the working girl to the parson.’
‘Nice imagery.’ He smiled, kindly. ‘I'll be on call tonight, Becky, if you need me. Out-of-hours, for one night only. No payment necessary. Any issues resulting from that programme, you let me know about them.’
‘You’re never usually this worried about me.’
‘Your problems are never usually aired on national television, when you’ve spent twenty years trying to deal with them. It’s bringing what happened very close to the surface.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Have you got company tonight? Friends… work colleagues?’
Becky shook her head.
‘It might be an idea to spend the evening with someone. Especially if you insist on watching the show.’
‘It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.’
‘Quite. Just making sure you know. Any other questions today?’
‘Yeah. What shoe size are you?’
He raised his feet, displaying a heavy pair of deep-tread shoes, with large heels. She wondered at the psychology of a therapist’s need to wear thick-soled shoes to appear taller, and smiled.
‘I'm a ten,’ he said. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Just curious. You’ve got kinda big feet.’
3
Becky drained her gin and tonic, fished out the lime and sucked on it. The bar was chrome-plated and poorly lit; everything shone, but without any real brilliance. It reminded her of a dingy public toilet. It was Monday-night-quiet, and the big screen in the corner was turned over from a football match, at her request. There were no complaints from the sparse clientele. Becky braced her elbows on the bar’s uncomfortably clinical surface, waiting for her part of the show.
On screen, the presenter perched on the end of the desk, clipboard held loosely in his hand.
