The woods were smaller than she remembered. Still big enough to get lost in, but Lily could see the edges, feel the borders of the neighbouring fields. When they had been children it had stretched on forever.
She only had a vague memory of where she was going, but it wasn’t hard to find. Richard trailed her footsteps; she could hear the crunching of twigs behind her. After a few minutes of walking the mouth of the den opened up in front of them, half-covered by the brambles that had grown around it.
‘Was this where your mother and Ed…?’ Richard trailed off, as if he was struggling to find a delicate way to word it.
‘Yeah. We used to come here too, though, when we were little. It was our hideout.’ Lily turned around, pointed through the trees to where a clearing was just visible. ‘That’s where Billy fell.’
‘So you think he was running away and – what? Tripped over a tree root or something?’
‘Guess so.’ Lily tried not to flinch, the image unnecessarily vivid even in the daylight. Turned back to the secret place, contemplating the entrance.
It was a low cave, not even really a cave; just a hollow in the earth, like an oversized burrow. She stepped forward, feeling it close around her. The ceiling was low enough that she had to duck to enter, and, once you got a few steps in, it dropped to crawling height. It was smaller than she remembered; looking at it now, she was surprised that it could have held three children so comfortably.
Or two adults.
Richard crouched down at the entrance, seemingly unwilling to step over the threshold. ‘What’s in there?’ he asked, squinting to look closer.
Lily got down on her hands and knees and edged forward. Debris was scattered between the tree roots; old newspapers, unidentifiable rags, a few bottles. Nothing familiar. Lily lifted a few things for Richard’s inspection, and he grimaced.
‘I didn’t realise there was a homeless shelter at the bottom of our garden.’
‘More likely to be kids than homeless people, round here,’ Lily replied, but her voice was distracted. She lifted a few of the newspapers, squinting in the hope of uncovering something significant, a date that resonated. But, despite the fact that they were crisp and yellowing with age, the dates were unsatisfyingly recent.
She became uncomfortably aware that Richard was motionless, watching her. ‘Want to come in?’ she asked.
He crawled in next to her. The space was just big enough for them to sit side by side, Richard facing outwards, Lily on all fours, still sifting through the rubbish on the ground.
‘How often did you come here?’ Richard asked.
‘I don’t know. Connie and Billy played here most days, I suppose. I used to follow them, but I could never find it on my own.’ She sat upright, her leg muscles starting to cramp beneath her.
‘Is there anything there?’ He gestured towards the ground.
‘No. Just rubbish.’
He lifted a random newspaper, inspected it briefly, cast it aside. ‘This place must hold a lot of stories.’
Lily grimaced. ‘Probably not ones I want to hear.’
Richard nodded. They fell silent, and the sounds of the woods settled into the space around them; the whispers of the trees, the conversation of blackbirds overhead. In a distant world, cars rolled past, life moving around the stillness.
‘In the beginning was the word,’ Richard said, his hand stretching out until it found hers. ‘And the word was…?’
She was quiet for a moment. She thought of all that had happened the previous day; all that the afternoon might bring. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft in the gentle stirring of the morning.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said.
Acknowledgements
There are a huge number of people who have offered their support, guidance, advice and enthusiasm, and, quite apart from not having the space, if I try to list everyone I will inevitably forget someone important and feel hideously guilty. So please just take it as read that, if you have ever offered your support, I have appreciated it. However, there are a few people that deserve particular acknowledgement.
First and foremost, I owe massive thanks to everyone at Myriad Editions for all their support and enthusiasm, and for being so welcoming. Particular thanks to Vicky Blunden for her unfaltering guidance, and to Linda McQueen for exhibiting a pedantry which surpasses my own.
Although this novel didn’t require too much in the way of formal research, I would like to thank the Selective Mutism Foundation for providing information about current research and treatment, Sarah Agnew for passing on information about selective mutism, and Leanne McCreery for providing expert advice regarding the treatment of head injuries.
I’ve been lucky enough to have some truly brilliant teachers over the years, and at the top of that list is Jerry Hope, who will sadly never know how important his guidance proved to be. Thanks are also due to both the tutors and my fellow students at the University of Sussex – particularly those who first suggested, upon reading the prologue, that there might be something more to this story.
My colleagues have all been fantastically supportive, and I am extremely grateful for all the encouragement (especially that which comes in the form of pizza, biscuits, wine and Haribo), but particular thanks are due to Stuart Lewis, both for being so accommodating and for allowing me to work in exchange for printing credits.
Thanks to my early readers and fellow writers: Alex Adams for the years of feedback and creative swearing, Dan Cash for doing everything possible to stop me procrastinating (it didn’t work, but thanks for trying), Aleksi Koponen for inspiring and encouraging at every turn, Sarah Calvert for reading not only this book but also every passing thought I have throughout the day, Maria Holburt for simply being the most enthusiastic person in the universe, and Rosie Davis for being so wonderfully supportive.
Particular thanks are also due to the two people who are as close to sisters as I will ever get: Lexi Boyce, for putting up with me the longest and for providing one truly excellent mathematical joke; and Annie Rowling, for all the eggs.
And finally, massive appreciation to Mum, Dad, Paul, Daniel and Lee – for a lifetime of encouragement (or, in the case of my brothers, something that I’m sure resembles encouragement if you dig deep enough), and for always being there. I can’t thank you enough.
About the Author
Sara Marshall-Ball has an MA in Creative and Critical Writing from the University of Sussex. An extract from Hush was shortlisted for the Writer’s Retreat Competition in 2012. She lives in Brighton.
Copyright
First edition published in 2015
This ebook edition published in 2015 by
Myriad Editions
59 Lansdowne Place
Brighton BN3 1FL
www.myriadeditions.com
Copyright © Sara Marshall-Ball 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted
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 without the written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN (pbk): 978-1-908434-58-6
ISBN (ebk): 978-1-908434-59-3
Designed and typeset in Sabon LT
by Linda McQueen, London
Sign up to our mailing list at
www.myriadeditions.com
Follow us on Facebook and Twitter
MORE FROM MYRIAD
ter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
Hush Page 38
