Sleep: The most suspenseful, twisty, unputdownable thriller of 2019!

by C. L. Taylor

  As I straighten up I see Melanie running towards us with what looks like a sheet of green tarpaulin held over her hair.

  ‘Is David okay?’ I shout as she gets nearer. ‘Did Christine manage to …’

  My words fall away as she shakes her head.

  No one says a word as I walk into the lounge, dripping water with every step, but Christine, Katie, Malcolm and Fiona all look up.

  ‘Is it true?’ Even as the words leave my mouth I can see from the tired, worn expression on Christine’s face that it is.

  ‘Cardiac arrest,’ Malcolm says. ‘The poor bugger didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Malcolm!’ Melanie goes over to him and slaps him on the forearm. ‘Have some respect.’

  I ignore them both. ‘Where is he?’

  Katie stifles a sob. Fiona, sitting nearest to her, flinches but doesn’t reach out a consoling hand. Christine eases herself out of her chair and crosses the lounge.

  ‘He’s still in the dining room,’ she says softly. ‘I’ve covered him with a sheet. Did you manage…’ She glances at my empty hands, then at Joe’s.

  ‘Gordon’s not there,’ he says. ‘His car’s gone too. And the place is locked up.’

  ‘So we take the Land Rover, drive to the other side of the island.’

  I shake my head. ‘The road’s flooded.’ I step backwards, into the lobby, then head for the dining room.

  Christine, still in her slippers, pads after me.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ she asks softly.

  I want to say no, that I’m fine by myself, but I’m not. I feel like I’m slipping back into a nightmare, the one where a nurse talks to me with sorrow in her eyes and a break in her voice.

  ‘Here.’ Christine opens the door then moves aside to let me in first.

  For one glorious, hopeful second all I can see are chairs, tables and the deep green carpet and I listen for the sound of David crashing around in the kitchen, singing Rod Stewart hits in his deep baritone voice. But then I see it, the mound of his body shrouded in white, at the foot of the kitchen door.

  I’m too scared to peel the sheet back from David’s head but I do uncover his hand. I touch his palm tentatively, my heart pounding in the base of my throat, my eyes fixed on the smooth blank shape of his face. I stroke my fingers against his warm, rough skin and watch for a reaction from beneath the sheet, a twitch, shiver or groan. He doesn’t move. I can hear myself breathing and voices in the lobby: Malcolm saying something about the Land Rover, Joe raising his voice and Christine telling them to both calm down. There are footsteps, clattering and banging, swearing, the jangle of keys and the sound of the front door slamming.

  Then silence.

  David’s hand lies still in mine, his fingers curled, his nails clipped short and clean, dark hairs creeping from beneath his white shirtsleeve, reaching for his knuckles but not quite making it.

  ‘David?’ I slide two fingers into his shirtsleeve and press them into his skin, where his pulse should be. I wait, expectantly, for his blood to throb beneath my fingertips. Christine could have got it wrong. She must be nearly seventy, her first aid skills could be rusty. David might just be unconscious and we’re treating him as though he’s already dead.

  ‘David!’ I whip the sheet from his body and touch a hand to his cheek. It’s warm, just like his palm. I touch a hand to his chest and stare at his stomach, shirt buttons straining, waiting for the soft rise and fall. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see his eyeballs roll under his closed lids.

  ‘David! It’s Anna. Open your eyes.’

  I lean over him and lower my ear to his gently parted lips but there’s no breath on my skin, not even a whisper.

  ‘Come on, David!’ I place a clenched fist in the centre of his chest and fold my other hand over the top. ‘Come on!’

  Nellie the

  Elephant

  packed her

  trunk and

  said good-

  bye to the …

  ‘Anna!’ Strong hands pull at my shoulders as I continue to pound David’s body. ‘Anna, what are you doing? Anna, stop it. Stop it! He’s dead. Anna, he’s dead.’

  In Memoriam

  In Memoriam

  Remembering Adam Vincent Falkirk who bravely battled until the end.

  Gone but not forgotten. May you rest in peace.

  It’s extraordinary, really, that in such a small, select group of people there should be so much misery and pain. Have you noticed it, Anna, or are you too locked in your own head to see out? I don’t think there’s a single person in this hotel who doesn’t long to sleep. Take poor David, for example. Did you ever think to ask him why he bought the hotel? Grief led him to Rum. When his partner died he felt lost and adrift, a rudderless soul. Do you know how you get someone to open up to you, Anna? You ask questions and then you listen and wait. Most people will open up to you if you give them enough time. And that’s something we have plenty of now. Why play board games when you can talk? David talked to me, Anna, and I listened. What a nice man he was. May he rest in peace.

  Chapter 20

  David is dead.

  I push myself up from my bed into a sitting position and say it aloud to the empty room: ‘David is dead.’

  My voice rings in my ears.

  Nothing.

  Inside me, still nothing. No hurt. No pain. I feel like a child in a play, making an emotionless announcement to an invisible audience.

  ‘David is dead.’ Cross to stage left.

  When Joe lifted me up from the dining room carpet and half carried me up the stairs he continually asked if I was okay, his pale brown eyes searching mine as he waited for an answer. I told him that I was fine, I could walk, and that I didn’t need his help. When we reached the guest floor I wriggled out from his arm, hooked around my back and under my armpit, and told him that he should go back down to the others. I was absolutely fine, I said. I just wanted to be alone.

  He looked at me in disbelief. ‘It’s the shock, Anna. It hasn’t sunk in yet. You really don’t want to be alone when it does.’

  I am alone, I wanted to scream at him. And you staring at me won’t change that. Rage had descended from nowhere, hunching my shoulders and stealing my breath.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Go back downstairs and leave me alone.’

  ‘Would you like me to send one of the women up?’

  ‘Why would I want that?’

  He stared at me for a second and his lower lip dropped, as though he was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it and nodded instead. I didn’t wait for him to go. I turned and walked up the stairs to the staff quarters, feeling the burn of his eyes on my back.

  Now, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, cross the room, step onto the landing and turn the handle to David’s bedroom. It’s locked. Of course it is. I walk back into my room and sit on the stool in front of the dressing table. In the mirror my reflection stares back at me. I do my make-up here every morning but the face staring at me now isn’t sleep-lined and puffy. It’s gaunt, almost completely free of make-up – washed off by rain and sweat – and with no concealer under the eyes the dark circles are purple and deep.

  ‘David is dead,’ I whisper to the woman in the mirror.

  I barely knew him. We’d been working together for less than two weeks but I was fond of him. There was something so solid and predictable about his presence in my life that made me feel safe. How could he be gone? One minute he was chatting to me in the kitchen and the next he was on the floor. How could the life be snuffed out of such a big personality so quickly? Tomorrow morning he won’t knock on my door and shout at me to get up. He won’t be in the kitchen, bustling around, when I trail downstairs. He won’t laugh that hearty laugh of his when I inadvertently do something that amuses him. He won’t catch my eye across the room and raise his eyebrows. He won’t…

  A tear trails down the cheek of the woman in the mirror.

  ‘He’s dead,’ I whisper again.


  Her eyes fill with tears. They glisten and shine, shallow puddles along the lash line.

  ‘Dead.’

  They spill and fall, winding and curving around the nostril, down to the lips, then dripping off the chin.

  My stomach knots, my chest aches and a strangled sob escapes from my lips. I press my hands to my mouth and turn away from the mirror, bent over, crippled by the pain that rips through me like a blade.

  This isn’t a play. It’s not make-believe.

  On shaking legs I rise from the stool and take a step towards the bed. I take another, and another, and then I fall onto the mattress, gathering my knees up to my chest, and I howl in pain.

  Someone else is dead.

  A gentle tapping sound wakes me and my eyes fly open.

  ‘Anna?’ a soft voice calls.

  The wooden door on the other side of the room slowly creaks open and a face appears in the gap.

  ‘I’m sorry if I woke you,’ Melanie says, her eyes soft beneath the hard red shape of her glasses. ‘How are you doing?’

  I feel around inside my brain for the correct response. Tired? Destroyed? Broken?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say instead.

  Clearly emboldened by my reply, Melanie pushes at the door and slips into my room but she doesn’t venture far. She stands with her back against the wall, uncertainty etched into every line of her small, heart-shaped face. ‘I know you probably don’t want to think about this … and none of us … we didn’t want to have to bring this up but …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. Whatever’s making her feel uncomfortable is having the same effect on me.

  ‘David … he’s still lying in the doorway to the kitchen,’ she says, wincing. ‘And if the door’s open to the dining room you can see him. He’s still covered by the sheet of course, but Katie …’

  ‘It’s upsetting her.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nods gratefully. ‘We were wondering if we could move him … David … until help arrives. We thought maybe …’ Her eyes flick in the direction of his room.

  ‘Of course.’ I prop myself up on my elbows. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You don’t need to get up,’ Melanie says hurriedly. ‘If you need more time to yourself we’re absolutely capable of fending for ourselves.’

  ‘No.’ I sit up and run my hands over my face. ‘I should be there. Just give me a second and I’ll come down.’

  It was horrible, watching Joe and Malcolm lug David up the stairs. I was unconscious when they pulled us from the wreckage of the car but the weight of David’s limp body and the sag of his head made me think about Freddy and Peter and how they would have looked. The moment Joe and Malcolm lifted David off the dining room floor it was all I could do not to run and hide but I forced myself to stay. Malcolm took his feet and Joe, the younger and wirier of the two men, took most of the weight, his arms under David’s shoulders as he gingerly stepped backwards up the staircase. The blanket kept slipping off, threatening to trip Malcolm, so I squeezed up beside them and carefully removed it.

  ‘He’s just sleeping,’ I told myself as my gaze flicked to David’s grey, expressionless face. It was the only way I could stop myself from running back down the stairs.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said as they neared the top of the second set of stairs that led to the staff quarters. ‘There’s a loose floorboard. Don’t trip.’

  David had pointed it out to me on my first day, after he’d carried my suitcase to my room. It was on his ‘to do’ list, he reassured me. The only trouble was he kept adding new items that would knock it down to the bottom.

  Joe and Malcolm manoeuvred their way over the dodgy floorboard, then after I removed the master keys from David’s pocket and unlocked his bedroom door, they carefully angled him inside and gently lowered him onto his bed.

  ‘Thank you.’ I pressed my hands lightly on their shoulder blades and felt the dampness of their clothes under my palms. ‘That can’t have been easy.’

  ‘Least we could do,’ Malcolm said, backing out of the room.

  Joe hung back.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks now.

  ‘Not really.’ I lift David’s arm and fold it across his chest. It is heavy and unwieldy and I feel a strange sense of disconnection as I move around the bed to do the same with the other arm. I know he’s dead but I can’t accept the finality of it. I keep expecting him to open his eyes and ask what on earth I’m doing.

  Joe watches from the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his hands on his shoulders. He looks pale and uneasy. ‘I haven’t seen a dead body before.’

  ‘Me neither.’ I avert my eyes from David’s face. Whenever I look at him I want to burst into tears.

  ‘He was a nice man, I really liked him.’

  ‘Me too.’ As I shake out the sheet and re-cover David it suddenly occurs to me that, when the storm’s over and the phones are working again, I’ll have to let his relatives know what happened. My heart twists in my chest as I remember the phone calls I made to Freddy and Peter’s parents. I can’t believe I have to do that again.

  ‘Anna,’ Joe says as I turn away from the bed and wipe the backs of my hands over my eyes. Rain is still lashing at the dormer window and the sky is so grey it’s almost black. ‘What happens if we can’t cross the river?’

  ‘We sit it out, I suppose. There’s food in the fridge and as long as we’ve got power and heat we’ll be fine.’

  I hear him laugh softly. ‘Don’t jinx us, Anna.’

  Jinx us? A cold weight settles in my stomach. David is the third person I know who’s died this year. And I was with them all when it happened.

  Chapter 21

  Steve

  Steve Laing pushes his chair back from his desk and crosses his office to stand in front of the huge picture window that makes up one wall. He looks out at London, with its tower blocks, modern builds and historic architecture, tips back his head and takes a deep breath. For the last hour he’s been staring at his computer screen, trying and failing to make sense of the figures his accountant sent him last night. It’s not that he’s no good with numbers – he wouldn’t have a million-pound business if he weren’t – but his concentration span is shot. He’s felt like a stripped nerve ever since his meeting with Jim. He can’t settle and he can’t sleep. Whenever a phone blinks he snatches it up, certain it’s a message from Jim. Whenever there’s a knock at the door he thinks it’s the police. If he’s at home he flicks from news station to news station, searching for her face and never finding it. He does the same at work but with news websites, tabbing away from whichever document he’s supposed to be working on to see if there’s been an update. Whenever the word ‘murder’ flashes up on screen his guts twist painfully. But it’s not her, it’s never her.

  It’s the not knowing that’s the worst. He doesn’t know when it’s going to happen, or how. He keeps snatching his burner phone out of his drawer, tapping out a text to Jim and then deleting it. He can’t let on how nervy he feels. If he doesn’t chill the fuck out and play by the rules there’s a chance Jim might get spooked and call the whole thing off.

  Steve stretches his arms above his head and unfurls his fists, holding his open palms out to the ceiling. ‘Please,’ he says to the empty room. ‘For the love of God, get it over and done with. And get it done soon.’

  Chapter 22

  Anna

  When I walk back down the stairs with Joe, Fiona Gardiner and Malcolm Ward are waiting in the lobby. They’ve both got their coats and walking boots on and Malcolm has a look of grim determination on his face.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asks.

  ‘Okay,’ I lie. I step behind the reception desk, unhook the keys to the Land Rover and hand them to him.

  Malcolm looks puzzled. ‘You’re not driving?’

  Joe also looks blank before understanding slowly dawns on his face. He’s remembered the conversation we had about my car accident.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ I say.

  ‘Nervous dr
iver, eh?’ Malcolm smiles and nods. ‘Melanie’s the same. Won’t go on the motorway unless she absolutely can’t avoid it.’

  ‘Is there any reason,’ Fiona asks, one eyebrow arched, ‘why you gave the keys to Malcolm rather than me? Is it because he’s a man?’

  ‘No. I gave him the keys because he was closer.’ Before she can reply I add, ‘Is it just the two of you attempting the crossing?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles tightly but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Christine’s gone for a nap. Melanie’s looking after Katie. Trevor’s God knows where, out there somewhere.’ She waves a hand towards the front door. ‘And Joe …’ Her eyes linger on the man standing beside me. ‘Seems like he’s looking after you.’

  There’s something about her tone that I don’t like. Her voice sounds pleasant enough but the undertone is disapproving and mocking. I don’t rise to it. She wouldn’t be the first person to dislike me.

  ‘Okay, then.’ Malcolm pockets the keys. ‘With any luck we’ll be back with reinforcements in an hour or so.’

  They return, empty-handed and dejected, twenty minutes later and trail into the lounge.

  ‘There was no way.’ Malcolm slumps into a chair and runs his hands over his bald head. ‘We would have flooded the engine.’

  I look at Fiona, standing by the window staring desolately out at the storm. She turns, as though sensing me watching.

  ‘That’ll be why Gordon hasn’t come back. We’re cut off from the other half of the island.’

  ‘We’re stuck here?’ Katie says, her green eyes widening with alarm. ‘We’re supposed to go back in four days. What if we miss the ferry?’

  ‘We’re not going to miss the ferry.’ Melanie, sitting beside her on the sofa, lays a hand on her arm. ‘The storm will be over by then. Won’t it, Anna?’

  She gives me a pointed look and I nod, even though I don’t have the first clue.

  ‘Yeah.’ I smile reassuringly at Katie. ‘You’ll all be on your way home on Saturday.’

  The room falls silent. I’ve got no idea what the others are thinking about – warm, dry houses and their loved ones, I expect – but I’m thinking about David, lying all alone in his room upstairs. It doesn’t feel right, all of us sitting down here, drinking cups of tea and chatting. It still doesn’t feel real. Whenever I hear a noise, I find myself listening out for the heavy plod of his footsteps or the loud boom of his voice. I glance at my watch. It’s twelve o’clock. Normally at this time he’d be shouting for me to make sure the dining room was laid out for lunch, or to help with the prep.