by John Nicholl
When Evil Calls Your Name
The sequel to the best selling White is The Coldest Colour
John Nicholl
Copyright © 2018 John Nicholl
The right of John Nicholl to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by John Nicholl in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2016 by John Nicholl
Re Published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Contents
Also By John Nicholl
Praise for A Cold Cold Heart:
Praise for White Is The Coldest Colour:
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
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
A Cold Cold Heart
White Is The Coldest Colour
Epilogue
Also By John Nicholl
A Cold Cold Heart
White Is The Coldest Colour
Praise for A Cold Cold Heart:
"“A Cold Cold Heart” is perfect for those who are looking for a fast-paced, gruesome, serial killer thriller." Sharon Bairden - Chapter In My Life
"All in all A Cold Cold Heart made for a gripping and nail biting read. Highly recommended if you like your crime thrillers on the dark and disturbing side." Lorraine Rugman - The Book Review Cafe
"If you love a good thriller, if you don't mind reading what makes a villain tick, if you don't mind staying up late reading because you can't put the book down, then this is definitely for you." Sue Ward - Sue And Her Books
"Dark, chaotic and riveting, once again, John Nicholl gives us reading that cannot be forgotten, vivid scenes not for the faint of heart, and a look at the underbelly of life that is equally terrifying and far too real to dismiss." Dianne Bylo - Tome Tender Book Blog
"I’ve read all the books by this author and yet again he’s shocked me with his fantastic writing abilities." Philomena Callan - Cheekypee Reads And Reviews
"I absolutely loved this book – I thought it was simply brilliant!" Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog
"A Cold Cold Heart is dark, disturbing and filled to the brim with suspense. John Nicholl is without doubt the literary world's prince of darkness so pick up one of his books, if you have the stomach for it." Michelle Ryles - The Book Magnet
"A Cold Cold Heart is a dark and chilling thriller that kept me eagerly turning the pages as I raced to discover who would come out on top in this gripping cat and mouse case." Karen Cole - Hair Past A Freckle
"It is one of those covers that has read me written all over it. I have to say the author doesn't disappoint with this cracking page turner." Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews
"A Cold Cold heart is a fast paced Thriller that is fresh, gripping, addictive and will leave you turning pages into the early hours." Dash Fan Book Reviews
"Overall, if you’re looking for an engrossing serial killer thriller then you’ll need to pick up A COLD COLD HEART. With a dash of cat and mouse elements you’ll definitely want to clear your schedule before starting." Jessica Robins - Jessicamap Reviews
"There are some edge of your seat moments along with some shocking events that I wasn't necessarily expecting. Along with a sinister and a dark storyline that will have you hooked." Rachel Broughton - Rae Reads
"A Cold Cold Heart is a book that will definitely have you feeling like someone has walked over your grave. It is dark, gripping and totally had me on the edge of my seat." Sarah Hardy - By The Letter Book Reviews
"This book is fast paced, dark and disturbing that kept me hooked chapter after chapter." Lorna Cassidy - On The Shelf Reviews
"The book is dark and menacing but has so much that is building up that you always have this anticipation. Truly this is a very good book..." Sean Talbot - Seans Book
Praise for White Is The Coldest Colour:
"White Is the Coldest Colour is a thought-provoking, dark and very disturbing psychological thriller, and although at times it made for a very uncomfortable read I just had to keep reading!" Lorraine Rugman - The Book Review Café
"It is a dark and uncomfortable story to read in parts but also a brilliant investigation/detective story alongside that!" Gemma Myers - Between The Pages Book Club
"In writing this chilling thriller, the author has used his knowledge of the subject and experience obtained through his police and social work background." Joseph Calleja - Relax And Read Book Reviews
"This is a jaw dropping story that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck and a cold shiver run down your spine." Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn
"White is the Coldest Colour is the darkest and most disturbing psychological thriller I have ever read." Rubina Gomes - Rubina Reads
"I started this book early one evening and finished it the next morning. I was totally gripped." Sue Ward - Sue And Her Books
1
Sunday 5 February 1995
I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour, trying to figure out where to begin: my name, perhaps, my location at the time of writing, how I ended up in this miserable human dumping ground in the first place. Maybe, the awful entirety. Yes, that makes sense. If I’m going to tell my story, why hold anything back? I’ve got nothing to hide. It’s all a matter of public record anyway. What would be the point in trying?
This isn’t going to be easy, but I think it’s best if I introduce myself and get it over with. Please keep an open mind if you saw the news reports relating to my case. Not everything they said was true. Not by a long shot.
Well, enough prevarication, time to bite the bullet, as the old saying goes… My name’s Cynthia. Do you think that’s sufficient, or do you require a surname? People often do for some reason. I suppose I may as well tell you now and be done with it. Cynthia Galbraith. That’s been my allocated label since my marriage to that man. So now, do you understand my reticence? It was Jones, Cynthia Jones, before that. It’s who I used to be. Someone I on
ce was. A stranger from a distant far-off land I can never visit again. But then, I guess, we all live in the shadow of the past.
I’m twenty-nine years old, by the way. I was twenty-six when I arrived here. That’s three long years. Time tends to pass rather slowly here. No, that’s understating the case. Agonisingly slowly is more like it! Yes, agonising describes it very nicely.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I can hear you saying it. Shouting it conceivably? Or is that just my notoriously overactive imagination playing tricks on me again? That wouldn’t surprise me. I get a lot of things wrong and make a great many mistakes. He told me that time and time again. It seems, such things define me.
Give me a second. Deep breaths Cynthia, deep breaths… I’m writing this in my prison cell. There, I’ve said it! A dingy eight-foot by six-foot enclosure illuminated by intrusive, overly bright, fluorescent strip lighting that buzzes constantly, and only serves to highlight how ghastly every inch of this fucking place truly is.
My sincere apologies for the profanity; I hope you’re not offended. I found my fellow prisoners’ regular use of ‘colourful’ language hard to accept when I first arrived, but it’s amazing what you can get used to. And anyway, surely it’s just a word, a collection of letters, like all the other words in this good, bad and indifferent world of ours. What do you think? Tell me, please, I’ll try not to take any criticism personally. Obsession, control, bitch, murder, life. It seems words can be emotive after all. What on earth was I thinking? I should understand that more than most. Words can hurt. They can have a substantial impact on our psyche. They certainly did on mine.
But, I’m getting ahead of myself again. Now, where was I? I need to press rewind and focus if I’m going to do my story justice. Oh, yeah, I was telling you about my cell. I’ve already told you the size. Small—that sums it up. Claustrophobic? Most certainly, but I shouldn’t complain. Some say I deserve to be here. The judge clearly thought so, given the length of my sentence. And then there were the newspapers. I recall reading an article at the time of my trial. An evil woman, that’s how they put it. An evil woman! It sticks in my mind and eats away at me like a rabid dog. Not an easy thing to read about myself, to be honest. I hadn’t thought of myself in that way until then. Stupid, yes, inadequate, yes, but evil? It was strange really. Some journalists seemed to see me as villain. Others, as an unfortunate victim of circumstance who rose from the ashes like a phoenix from the flames to smite my oppressor. How can different people, seemingly intelligent people, writers and the like, interpret the exact same events so very differently? I’ve given it a great deal of thought over the years without reaching an adequate resolution. You should make your own mind up. I think that’s probably best. Perhaps one fine day you can provide me with an answer. I’d really appreciate it, if you could.
And back to the cell. I’ll try my best not to go off at a tangent this time, promise. White peeling paint on walls pockmarked with multiple spots of black and blue mould, like a Jackson Pollock painting, I like to think. A vivid imagination is a definite advantage in this place. It’s my only means of escape when the walls close in on me. And then there are the bunk beds, of course. Not very comfortable, there’s no denying that, but a lot of innocent people put up with a lot worse. There’s a great many homeless people in this increasingly socially diverse country of ours. What have they done to deserve their fate?
Mine’s the top bunk, by the way. That’s truly significant here. It’s the prison world’s equivalent of residing in Chelsea or Mayfair. Does that make any sense at all in your very different world? Well, yes or no, I’ve earned it after almost three years. Only thirteen more to go. Unlucky for some, eh? Unlucky for me, that’s for sure!
I share my cell with Gloria, a skinny nineteen-year-old girl with fashionable short cropped hair and a much older name. We’ve got nothing and everything in common, and very little to say to each other most of the time. We share occasional pleasantries, that’s true. She asks me for tampons, toothpaste, toilet paper and other necessities on a fairly regular basis, and she moans about the guards from time to time. But then, who doesn’t? It’s the national pastime in these parts. Most of them are okay, to be honest. The majority are just here to do a job, to pay the bills, and do the best they can within the confines of their role. But then there are the others: a seemingly different species, the right bastards who seem to take infinite pleasure in making my life as miserable as feasibly possible at every conceivable opportunity. They’re the sort of people who like to pull the wings off butterflies. It seems there are good and bad people in all walks of life. I knew one of the worst, a monster, a man devoid of empathy or virtue, but it’s far too soon for that. I’m not ready to address that particular topic just yet.
Pull yourself together Cynthia. No need for tears. Get a grip girl and back to the story. That’s about it really. I’d say Gloria has the potential to be one of life’s good gals despite her current circumstances. She was convicted of multiple shoplifting offences to fund her drug habit, but I’m glad of her company. She fills a gap. I genuinely like the girl. She provides colour—a welcome distraction from the monotony of prison life.
Did I tell you about our bucket? No? Well, we, that’s Gloria and myself, share a bright-red plastic bucket, which serves as our en suite facilities, and a small rectangular window behind five dark steel bars, through which I can see the cold grey concrete exercise yard, if I stand on tiptoes, extend my neck to a maximum and peep over the sill. We get to spend an hour a day in the yard, three days a week, to breathe the morning air, weather permitting. It’s a welcome release, something I look forward to, a time to cherish. I saw a small bird flying around there once, darting from one corner to another with effortless ease; a beautiful delicate creature so full of life and vitality. I think it was a swallow, my bird, given the long pointed wings and effortless aerial gymnastics. But I could be wrong. It seems I often am. He used to tell me that all the time. Even now, after all this time, I sometimes feel his presence hanging over me like a malicious, spiteful spirit. As if he’s here with me still.
Get a grip Cynthia, for goodness’ sake. He can’t hurt you anymore. Except in your troubled mind, your invasive thoughts and your nightmares.
Sorry for the distraction. I was telling you about my bird before becoming preoccupied again. It happens all too often, I’m afraid, but I’ll try to control it as best I can. I used to think so clearly once upon a time in the distant past. I had an analytical mind, or so I was told by a respected academic. I need to focus on one thing at a time, rather than engage in mindless ramblings that I suspect make very little sense to most of you.
I’ve kept a keen eye out ever since, a daily ritual born of hope, but sadly no more birds. Such a terrible disappointment. I think they avoid this place as much as possible. And why wouldn’t they? There are no majestic trees, no green fields or hedgerows festooned with wild shrubs, no rolling Welsh hills that kiss the sea or multicoloured flowers to delight the senses. I’d fly away if I could. Wouldn’t you?
What do I do with the other twenty-three hours? Is that what you’re wondering? Well, it’s lights out at ten every night and back on at six each morning. So it’s actually only fifteen hours I have to fill. It could be a lot worse. Things can always be worse, as I know from experience.
I work in the prison laundry for eight hours a day, three days a week: that’s Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Those are good days. For some reason I can’t explain, work helps still my anxious mind. Not entirely. That would be too much to ask for. But it helps. I guess it’s a form of distraction therapy, like the tight elastic band I pull and snap against the soft skin of my wrist when he invades my thoughts.
I teach basic reading and writing skills to some of the other girls on Wednesday afternoons. Girls. That’s a laugh! Women, most of them are women. Damaged, inadequate women in the main, who hit hard times and paid a heavy price for their poverty, addiction, mental incapacity and disadvantage.
The class
is the glowing highlight of my week. I actually feel I’m contributing something positive to the world; that my life’s worth something. That he was wrong. That I matter. That I’m not just some worthless caged creature, who by definition has to be hidden away from decent people. Do you understand? Surely, you must do. We all need validation of one kind or another.
One of the girls called me, ‘Miss’ a couple of weeks back. It still makes me smile when I think about it. I’m smiling now as I write these words. But for obvious reasons it never lasts. A smile tends to vanish as quickly as it appears in this place.
And then there are Fridays. I see a prison counsellor at 2:00 p.m. every Friday afternoon, unless she’s on one of her exotic holidays, or otherwise unavailable for one often unspecified reason or another. She’s not a doctor or anything along those lines, but she seems to know what she’s talking about most of the time. Or, at least I hope she does for my sake. I’m no expert in such matters, but there are three impressive-looking framed certificates on her office wall. I haven’t actually read them, to be honest, so they could be just about anything, now that I think about it. But, that said, there is a large colour photo of her wearing a purple mortar board and gown, in a silver frame sitting on her desk next to her computer. She looks a lot younger, prettier and slimmer in the photo, so it must have been taken quite some time ago. Or has prison world aged her, as it has me? This place tends to do that to a girl.
