by Nikki Smith
Discover the author whose gripping thrillers have readers’ heads in a spin . . .
‘A clever and emotionally charged debut’
Lesley Kara
‘Instantly gripping . . . a psychological thriller with real heart and depth’
Lisa Ballantyne
‘Bloody hell this book is powerful, tense and a bit terrifying. It had my head spinning’
Laura Pearson
‘Gripping and emotionally devastating’
Emma Curtis
‘A modern, clever, daring story that grips from the thrilling opening scene to the final page’
Amanda Reynolds
‘What a stunning debut this is – chilling, emotional and full of surprises, impossible to put down’
Clare Empson
‘An intense psychological thriller full of twists and turns, yet at the same time a convincing and emotional portrait of motherhood’
Jenny Quintana
‘Such a clever, thought—provoking and topical debut. Smith really messes with your head’
Louise Beech
‘Gripping and moving and I suggest you order it now!’
Laura Marshall
‘A confident exploration of the darkest reaches of motherhood . . . Elegantly written, thoughtful and suspenseful’
Sarah Vaughan
‘It’s totally unexpected and heart—wrenching’
Elle Croft
‘Wow, finished this in a heartbreaking rush . . . My heart was in my mouth’
Charlotte Duckworth
Acclaim from reviewers:
‘A twist that will make you feel like you’ve been hit by an express train’
S Magazine
‘A tense and powerful read about how a seemingly perfect life can fall apart in an instant’
Sun
‘An examination of how thin the line is between sanity and madness’
Sunday Express
‘A compassionate and insightful portrayal of a heartbreaking condition that isn’t widely talked about, but affects many’
Heat
‘Clever and haunting, the psychological element is masterfully interwoven with the different perspectives and time jumps’
Woman’s Weekly
‘Is she losing her mind or reaching the truth? A page—turning thriller’
Closer
‘Clever, impressive and instantly gripping . . . A moving yet chilling finale’
Daily Express
Dedication
For my parents
Contents
Dedication
Title
Prologue
One Month Earlier
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Friday
Friday
Friday
Friday
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Credits
About the Author
Copyright
‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’
William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Prologue
July 2018
Paul notices it first. I’m too busy darting from one room to another trying to find her, anxiety expanding in my chest like a balloon, making it hard to breathe. She isn’t in the kitchen or the lounge. Or behind the sofa in the snug, although, with the various toys lying discarded on the floor and felt-tip pens and colouring books littering every surface, I have to look twice to double check. I run upstairs, two at a time, my heart pumping, and throw open her bedroom door. The room is empty. Dropping down on my hands and knees, I peer under her bed.
‘Livvi?’ My voice wavers and I clear my throat. There’s no answer and nothing to see on the cream carpet apart from a thin layer of dust, the grey fluff forming thick circles round the bottom of each wooden leg, as if attracted by a magnet. I stand up and wince, biting my lip as a burning pain shoots through my toe. I’ve caught it on the edge of her chest of drawers. Cursing, I hobble into Grace’s room, pulling open her white-painted wardrobe doors covered in half-torn Disney Frozen stickers that she’s tried to peel off now she’s outgrown them. The rows of clothes hang motionless, no pairs of small legs protruding underneath.
‘Livvi? It’s Mummy,’ I shout into the silence, trying to ignore the throbbing in my foot. ‘You need to come out if you’re hiding. I promise I won’t be cross.’ I listen intently, praying for the sound of a creaking floorboard, a muffled giggle, footsteps scuttling across the carpet. Nothing.
Our bedroom is at the other end of the hall where our duck-egg-blue throw lies undisturbed on top of the duvet, in exactly the same position I’d left it this morning. There’s no sign of any obvious tell-tale lumps that I pretend not to spot during one of our games of hide-and-seek. Oh God, where is she? Our wardrobe is locked. The bathroom’s empty. I wince as I swallow the metallic taste where I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek, running back down the stairs to the kitchen.
‘She’s not upstairs. I’ve searched everywhere,’ I say. Paul glances over my shoulder whilst I’m speaking, staring out through the patio doors across our lawn. He’s not listening to me. I grab his arm to get his attention, wondering if he can feel the same ice-cold fingers that are squeezing my lungs, the same weight that has sunk to the bottom of my stomach like an anchor, preventing me from moving. ‘What are you looking at?’ I ask, trying not to shout. ‘We’ve already checked outside.’ I can’t keep the edge of hysteria out of my voice as I pull on the sleeve of his shirt, urging him to do something, anything, to find her. He shakes my hand off roughly, pushing me aside as he twists the door handle and realises it’s locked, his gaze still fixed on the bottom of the garden.
‘What? What is it?’ I screw up my eyes against the brightness and blink away the tears that blur my vision. ‘She’s not out there, Paul.’ Two swings dangle limply beneath a metal frame and the trampoline is empty, the canvas mat stretched tight, waiting expectantly for the next jumper.
‘Get out of the way,’ he yells. I stagger backwards, shocked by his unexpected aggression. ‘Are you blind, Jo?’ He jabs his finger repeatedly towards the end of the garden as he struggles to get the key off its hook on the wall and into the lock. I can’t see what he’s pointing at. ‘There!’ he shouts. ‘Look!’ I can hear the panic in his voice as he fights to open the door. At first all I can discern through the faint patterns of small handprints smeared on the pane of glass is his office at the end of the garden, the timber structure silhouetted against the evening sun. He finally manages to turn the key before I notice the faint haze around the bottom of the building that is spreading slowly across the grass. It drifts in swirls and the smell hits me the moment Paul flings open the patio door. Smoke.
‘Have you searched in there?’ He glances at me and I don’t need to answer. He sprints across the lawn, screaming her name, as I sink down onto the tiled floor, unable to move as I watch the flames appear. Their red and orange tongues are
initially hesitant, contemplating the taste, but once they realise it’s a meal to be savoured, they rise up and devour the whole building in a matter of minutes.
One Month Earlier
FRIDAY
Jo
I stand up in the front pew of the crematorium for my father’s funeral, one hand using the Order of Service as a fan, the other by my side holding a damp, screwed-up tissue. The rest of the congregation copy me; a hundred pieces of white card flapping ineffectually in the heat like faded butterflies’ wings. I stuff the tissue in my pocket, focusing on the hymn my mother has chosen, the organ playing in time with the beats of air against my face, anything to distract me from the stares of the people in the pew behind that attach themselves to the back of my head. They hang heavily in my hair and I run my fingers through it in the hope it will disentangle them, the knots catching at the ends of the brown strands. I wish they’d find someone else to look at; I don’t deserve their sympathy.
My mother is sandwiched on my right between my sister Caroline and me, her lips pursed, staring dry-eyed at my father’s coffin. Paul stands awkwardly to my left, his new, one-size-too-large black suit jacket that he purchased specially for the occasion making him seem even paler than he already is. I’m glad we didn’t bring the girls. I don’t want them to see me like this, fragile with grief, the mask I’m wearing threatening to crack at any moment. We’d said Livvi, not yet eight, was too young and although Grace is three years older and we’d asked her if she’d wanted to come, she’d refused, saying she didn’t want to see the coffin. Part of me wondered if that had just been an excuse. She’s been avoiding Caroline ever since Dad died and I can’t blame her after their last encounter. I reach for Paul’s hand as the hymn finishes but he moves it away, wiping a few beads of sweat off his face. A small shiver runs across my skin, despite the temperature.
Paul takes a deep breath and follows Rob out of the pew to stand at the lectern. My mother had asked them both to speak; she hadn’t trusted Caroline or myself not to breakdown mid-sentence. I’d agreed; I know how much she hates displays of emotion. She had insisted my brother-in-law go first and I hadn’t objected. My sister isn’t holding any balls of sodden tissues; she’s not at all flustered. Her hands are folded gently on top of her delicately crossed knees and after glancing down at her skirt, I make a futile effort to smooth the creases out of mine, the thin fabric sticking to my legs in the heat. Her lips move imperceptibly as Rob begins to talk and I realise she’s mouthing his speech. I wonder if she wrote it. I doubt it. Rob is a natural orator, playing with words like a teacher handing out sweets to a class; offering them up to the congregation who swallow them greedily, their eyes fixed on him. Caroline nods in agreement as he finishes and I feel a flash of envy at the ease with which he completes the task. Her smile fades as she looks at Paul. She knows it’s his turn next.
I pick at a small piece of skin next to my thumbnail, willing him to get through it. His face is chalk-white as he steps forward to take the microphone, Rob standing obtusely in his way. He hates having to speak in public, but I wonder if that’s the only reason for his nerves. He’s been distracted recently and I can’t blame him; so have I. He coughs and the sound reverberates loudly in the silence, making a few of the mourners jump. My mother’s eyes close briefly, failing to hide her disappointment and, for a moment, I wish he’d refused to do it, that he’d left it to Rob. Caroline’s lips twitch. Don’t mess this up, please don’t mess this up. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra.
He fumbles in his pocket and for one horrible second, I think he’s forgotten to bring it, but then he takes out a piece of paper which rustles as he unfolds it, the sound echoing uncomfortably in the silence as he stares out over the sea of pale faces in front of him. Caroline raises an eyebrow. Rob hadn’t needed any notes to read from. Paul glances at me and I nod, hoping the movement will propel him into action. He looks down at what he’s written, takes a deep breath, and begins his eulogy. It’s not long, certainly nothing like the monologue Rob delivered, but he manages to get through it and I sense a ripple of support, or perhaps relief, amongst the other mourners as he follows Rob back to our pew. My mother looks at me, her expression unreadable. Her eyes linger on my creased skirt and I hold in my stomach; a long-held habit I can’t seem to break. I smooth out the material again, the perspiration from my hand leaving a damp patch on the silk. She’s still watching. I wonder if she can see straight through my skin to the writhing ball of guilt that is growing multiple shoots, each one making a desperate bid to reach the surface where they’ll be visible to everyone.
Paul sits back down next to me with a jolt, tripping over Caroline’s bag, which is lying on the floor in front of her seat.
‘You did great,’ I whisper. He smiles, but his hands tremble as he holds the Order of Service. My mother notices it too. I put my fingers over his to shield him from her gaze and this time he doesn’t move away.
Caroline walks next to me as we head out of the crematorium after the service. I take a deep breath of fresh air, needing to push the lifelessness of the room we’ve been sitting in out of my body, squinting as I look upwards. My father had adored days like this. A clear blue sky with no clouds to spoil the view; a mini heatwave for June. He was only sixty-nine.
‘At least now things can start getting back to normal,’ Caroline says, fishing in her bag for her sunglasses. I can’t bring myself to reply as I watch my mother, her smile unwavering, greet the mourners as they leave the building. ‘It was a nice service,’ she continues, putting the shades over her eyes. ‘The flowers were beautiful. I ordered them from that new shop near the office. They do great hand-tied bouquets if you ever need one.’
I nod, biting back my desire to tell her I don’t give a shit about the bloody flowers.
‘Rob’s speech was impressive,’ I say in an effort to change the subject.
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ she says. ‘We wanted to try and make it memorable.’
I nod again, watching my mother embrace the owner of the local golf club for a fraction longer than necessary. If Caroline had helped to write it, she’d managed to include a list of all Dad’s achievements but the words hadn’t encompassed the personality of the man who had spent his last few weeks attached to various items of medical paraphernalia, making my daughters giggle right up until his final few days. I remind myself she didn’t know him like I did. Four years older than me, she was already a teenager, desperate to get out of the house, when he’d started to spend more time in it.
The last trickle of mourners dries up and Rob shakes the vicar’s hand to say goodbye, grasping it firmly between his own, pumping it forcefully up and down. The movement sparks a distant memory and I’m conscious of a tingling sensation on my skin.
Rob ushers my mother down the path. ‘Ready?’ Caroline asks her.
She nods. ‘Let’s get this over with.’ I wish we didn’t have to go with them but we don’t have a choice. I hesitate instinctively, waiting for my mother to walk ahead, resuming our natural family order as we file towards the waiting car, my mother next to Caroline at the front, me at the back. When I’d been growing up, I’d used to wonder whether I’d been adopted as she’d always favoured my sister over me. I’d found baby photos of us both in a drawer along with our birth certificates which had discounted this theory, but there had been something in her eyes when she’d been holding Caroline that had been missing in the pictures with me. A brightness in her face, as if she had been lit up from the inside. I had flicked through all the pages in the album, twice, desperate to find one of me with her where she’d looked like that, but there hadn’t been a single one.
As the driver pulls out of the car park, Rob stares at my sister.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘Your mascara’s smudged.’
She pulls her compact out of her bag and examines herself in the mirror, wiping underneath one eye with a tissue. ‘Better?’
He nods, barely glancing at her as sh
e snaps the lid shut and puts it away. His fingers tap his knee impatiently. For once, he doesn’t seem to know what to say.
‘I hope they’ve switched the air conditioning on at the hotel,’ my mother says. ‘I couldn’t breathe in the crematorium.’
I can’t bring myself to look at her, glancing at my watch instead. Three o’clock. The girls will be finishing school. I’m overwhelmed by a sudden urge to hear their voices and touch their skin, to bury myself in their warmth and push death away into the distance. I get out my phone and type a message to Anna.
Hope you’re still on for pickup and girls are OK. Should be home by 7ish. xx
It vibrates on my lap a few seconds later.
All good and no need to rush. Girls will be fine here, don’t worry. Hope it all goes as well as these things can. A xx
Caroline looks at me. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, just checking a friend is collecting the girls from school for me.’
She smiles. ‘It’s tricky to manage all the logistics, isn’t it?’ I force myself to smile back. As if she’d know. She’d never had to juggle work and childcare when Adam had been growing up; my mother had acted as her full-time Nanny. The same role had been available when I’d had Grace, but my mother had refused, citing the travelling distance to our old house as impractical. She was right, but still only ever visited for short occasions, never staying over, claiming she didn’t want to interrupt my routine.
Caroline opens the window and Rob frowns and shuts it again, his knuckles white as he presses the button, and I feel a stab of guilt. This isn’t her fault. I just want this day to be over. We sit together in an awkward silence, the rhythmic ticking of the taxi indicator counting down the seconds until we can get out. I contemplate reaching for Paul’s hand again and then change my mind, unsure whether I’m offering comfort, or taking it; knowing I don’t warrant the latter.
