‘Today?’ I say.
I’m meek. I’m unassuming. I’m soft. I’m fragile.
I am Charlotte in her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Won’t that be nice?’
‘I could cry, I’m so happy,’ I say.
Truth is, I had genuinely forgotten they were coming today. Time can all blur into one long sequence in here. It will be a little twenty-minute visit, just to see how things go. I plan to behave, so it should be a longer visit next time, assuming I can convince Elle to come back, visit her dear, but sick, mummy.
I hear voices and footsteps coming down the hall. They’ve arrived now, timed to perfection.
I look to the window in the door.
My – our – heart beats harder.
Thud, thud, thud . . .
Elle looks through the glass.
The months haven’t been kind to her, so I’ll admit I’m a little disappointed, but hey-ho . . . my fault, I guess.
Elle has just pressed her hand to the glass.
I offer her a smile. Like Charlotte, the curve of the mouth just so. I chuck in a little wave.
Elle is crying now.
Bless her.
Elle . . .
Ah, little Lottie, hush now. This visit is not for you.
Pain stabs at my head, right at the back of my eyes.
That’s not going down well with Lottie now. She’s kicking around, screaming obscenities in my head space and I need to concentrate.
Honestly, Lottie, you brought this on yourself.
Time to say goodbye now. Die some kind of psych-death, or whatever Dr Seaward would say.
I can hear her screaming. It’s guttural, primal.
Pointless.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, force her away, deep down, in the darkness. Turn the key to The Cage.
Goodbye, little Lottie . . . kiss the girls for me.
Acknowledgements
Thank you once again to the team at HQ, especially my editor, Clio Cornish. Clio, I may or may not owe you a drink but either way, thank you for helping make Pretty Little Things the best it could be.
Further thanks must go to Willow, for being there from the beginning and for being the best writer buddy I could ever wish for. Your sound advice keeps me sane!
To my mother-in-law, Jackie, this ‘writer of books’ thanks you for all the laughs you have given, mostly at your own expense! You always take the ribbing with good humour.
Mum and Dad, thank you for everything. To Mum for listening when I need a rant and to Dad, for always telling me to, ‘put them in a book!’ when someone upsets me.
To my husband, Daniel, for listening to my ideas and suggesting your own. I will always be grateful for everything you do for our little family – Team Walsh – allowing me to write full-time.
Finally, to my precious star, Eden. I am so proud of the beautiful young lady you have become.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed reading Pretty Little Things as much as I enjoyed writing it.
The idea for Pretty Little Things first came about around two years ago. I’d always intended for it to be a novella that I would self-publish. After writing the opening scenes, and fleshing out the idea, I realised that I had to tell Charlotte’s story on a much bigger scale.
I also wanted to write about someone that both fascinated and unnerved me in equal measure. In real life, I’d be horrified to meet anyone like ‘Anon’, but to explore him through the safety of a book has been fantastic. Whilst Pretty Little Things is a work of fiction, there are aspects of ‘Anon’s’ character that I have witnessed first-hand. I can’t go into specific detail, but experience has helped me mould him into the character as he appears on the page.
I hope he scared you as much as he did me.
Many books are discovered simply by word of mouth. If you enjoyed the book, I would be so grateful if you could leave a short ‘spoiler-free’ review. Reviews also help other readers decide if it’s a story they’d like to be drawn into.
If you enjoyed Pretty Little Things, you might want to try my DCI Claire Winters series. My next book will be the last in Claire’s journey for now, and after that I hope to get stuck into my next standalone.
I do love to hear from readers, so be sure to follow me on Twitter @tmewalsh, where you can get in touch and keep up to date on the latest book news.
Best wishes,
Tania.
Chilled to the bone by Pretty Little Things? Why not keep reading for an extract from For All Our Sins, book 1 in T.M.E. Walsh’s DCI Claire Winters series.
The room smelled of blood, so thick that she could almost taste it…
CHAPTER 1
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
Amelia scarcely heard the words escape her mouth as she crossed herself and clasped the rosary tighter in her hands.
The little dark-red wooden beads didn’t give her the strength they once did. As she stared at the silver cross that dangled between her fingers, she knew her traditional faith in God had died a long time ago and part of her felt like a fraud.
From inside the confessional, Father Malcolm Wainwright shifted his weight awkwardly, but never broke his concentration. He continued to remain silent, awaiting the inevitable confession.
But the confession never came.
The silence felt as though it would swallow him whole. He turned his head slightly, peering through the ornate carvings of the wooden partition, but could see little in the darkness.
His eyes were not what they used to be but he could just make out the outline of her face, and where the light crept through the small cracks in the wood, he saw the most beautiful shade of red hair. Like fire, it seemed to reflect in his eyes, flecks of light dancing across his iris.
‘Take your time, my child. Trust in God.’
Amelia closed her eyes, squeezed her rosary, but remained silent.
Then she turned to face him, her hands placed flat against the partition, her fingertips poking through the spaces in the wood.
The cross on the rosary was swaying back and forth against the wood, like a crude attempt at Morse code.
Wainwright saw her eyes for the first time as a stray beam of light caught the brightest shades of green, the colour of a turquoise sea.
Her eyes started to mist as she brought her face closer, her breathing heavy, her lips just inches from his face.
‘Do you remember the girl, Father?’ Her voice rasped from within her throat as her demeanour changed.
Wainwright frowned as Amelia contorted her body, until she was pressed against the wooden partition.
‘You remember, Father? She tried to tell, to cry for help.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘There were times you could’ve stopped it. All the pain she suffered… You had the chance to set her soul free, but instead you did nothing.’
Wainwright felt the air in the room change, and for the first time in all his years in the ministry, he felt what could only be described as fear.
What could I have done?
Amelia saw the recognition flicker across his eyes. Her mouth pulled into a grin, her eyes knowing. ‘There’s blood on your hands, Father. Can’t you smell it, feel it on your skin?’
Wainwright snapped.
‘You’ve mistaken me for someone else,’ he said, trying to control his voice. ‘I want you to leave immediately and…’ He trailed off as he heard someone approach the curtain to his compartment.
The last thing Wainwright saw was the flash of light against the steel of a slim blade as the curtain was pulled aside, just seconds before the knife tore through his robes and sliced through his withered skin.
Pain ripped through every muscle in his body. As blood soaked through his garments, he swore he could feel his soul screaming for release.
Looking up to see his attacker he saw only the woman, now standing in front of him. Her hair was like fire with the glow of sunlight cascading through the stained-glass windows behind her.
; She grasped his hair, slammed his head back against the confessional, and brought her face closer to his. Despite the pain in his body, he could smell her sweet perfume so vividly.
‘You remember this face, Father.’ Her lips were just inches away from his. ‘Do you remember these eyes? My voice?’
Wainwright tried to scream but blood pooled in his throat, a thick taste of copper.
He knew her. And he silently damned her to Hell.
His eyelids fluttered involuntary as the energy began to drain from his body.
‘What does it feel like to hurt, Father? The pain you feel is nothing compared to the years of torment you let be inflicted on the innocent. Too many years you’ve kept that secret that stops you from sleeping at night.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s blood on your hands, priest…you shouldn’t have helped him that day.’
Tears pricked Wainwright’s eyes. How does she know? There were only three there that day…and the other.
Amelia took the cross hanging from her rosary and pressed it hard against his dry lips.
Wainwright’s eyes widened, begging in silent prayer for forgiveness.
‘For all the years you’ve preached your poison, and for the tormented souls who will never be free from your idea of faith, I shall unite you with God, and He will decide the punishment for your soul.’
Wainwright tried to fight her off as she forced the cross past his lips and into his throat. Much stronger than she appeared, Amelia pushed his jaw up hard, and pulled on the rosary beads until they broke free.
They scattered to the floor, dancing over the flagstones, as he began to choke.
His lungs felt like they were on fire, desperate for air. He fell to his knees, his hands reaching up and clutching at Amelia’s clothes.
She stepped back and watched him crawl after her, one hand at his throat and the other reaching out, silently begging.
Amelia’s face was resolute as he wheezed and spluttered, his face turning vivid shades of blue and purple. He collapsed face down, his forehead hitting the flagstones hard. His eyes felt heavy. He let them close, as his breath slowed to a whisper.
Wainwright’s last thoughts were not of his childhood or a fond trip down memory lane. They were of a moment in a not so distant part of history.
Yes, Wainwright remembered her.
He also remembered a large oak staircase bathed in blood and a door closing, containing the screams within. Even now he knew it was too late to repent and change the fate of his soul.
He recalled a quote he’d read once. Something that had stayed with him all this time, scratching away in the back of his mind: The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.
Subconsciously, Wainwright had always known that one day his past would come back to haunt him.
Now the time had come, he welcomed it with open arms.
CHAPTER 2
Ice-blue irises pulled tight leaving the pupils the size of a pin prick as she stared skyward, hand raised to her brow, useless against the might of the sun’s rays.
Detective Chief Inspector Claire Winters felt a shiver shoot up her spine, like icy skeletal fingers scraping against her skin, despite the heat of the day. It was early morning, but the temperature on the dash of her car had said it was close to 24 degrees already.
Her shirt was sticking to her back underneath her suit jacket like a second skin. The air was muggy, close, pulling at each breath she took, yet despite this she still felt like ice, right down to her bones.
A feeling of dread pulled at her inside as she lowered the sunglasses from the top of her head, back down on her face.
She stared at the door ahead, the entrance to the looming tower block opposite her. A place she’d just left. A place she hated. A place that had become more somewhere to call home than her house several miles out of Haverbridge.
Claire’s mind drifted to dark thoughts. They came thick and fast lately. Like a nightmare that didn’t end after she woke each morning. It continued long through the days. Sometimes it threatened to swallow her whole.
Sometimes Claire wondered if perhaps that’d be easier.
Just let all the fight be torn out of her and scattered to the wind, until all that remained was an empty shell.
Wouldn’t that be too easy?
She felt her BlackBerry vibrating inside her trouser pocket. She’d turned the ringer off whilst she’d been inside the building, inside that wretched flat that housed someone she’d long since come to loathe and love in equal measure.
She glanced at the screen, her grip tightened on the phone resting in her palm. Her finger hovered over the Answer button.
How easy it would be to just throw it away, forget her job, forget this life. Forget everything that’d passed and start again.
This is not you, she told herself. He does not define who you are, what you do, what comes next. She glanced up at the tower block again as she answered the call.
Take back the control.
‘DCI Winters,’ she said. Her lips were dry, cracked, sore. She touched her fingers on her free hand to her bottom lip, pulled them away. Tiny dots of blood were on her fingertips.
‘Guv?’ said Detective Constable Gabriel Harper at the other end of the phone.
Claire snapped back to the here and now. She’d detected something in his voice that was different. Whatever he was going to say, wasn’t going to be good.
‘What is it, Gabe?’
There was a drawn-out pause. Claire could hear his breathing. It was far from normal. A new sensation gripped at her insides. She bit down on her bottom lip, made herself turn away from the tower block.
‘What’s wrong, Harper?’ she said as she crossed the road towards where she’d parked her car earlier, a steely edge returning to her voice.
She heard Harper’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Guv, this isn’t something I can explain over the phone.’ He paused. ‘We need you back now, something’s happened at one of the local churches. Reports are coming in about a woman collapsing outside St Mary’s, completely covered in blood…someone else’s, not her own.’
CHAPTER 3
The coffee was like lava over his tongue, scorching the roof of his mouth, but for Detective Sergeant Michael Diego there were worse things in life than bad coffee.
With his unwashed hair and two-day-old stubble, he was still a handsome man, but the insomnia suffered last night through to the early hours of this morning was taking its toll before the clock had struck nine this morning.
He’d been out the office for a few hours, and now that he was back in time for lunch, he didn’t feel like working.
Haverbridge had that effect on him. Nestled in the county of Hertfordshire, the large town was fast becoming a haven for outsiders and, despite the recession, a construction haven.
Just thirty miles north of London, Haverbridge was attracting people from all walks of life and, being somewhat averse to change, Michael barely raised a smile at the prospect of more investment in his home town, despite the prosperity it could bring.
He hated what was overflowing from the London boroughs. He liked the old, hated the new.
Modernisation was something he was reluctant to adapt to. Like Haverbridge Police Station’s CID room, situated on the second floor in a modern part of the building.
It was a recent extension to the original building that’d been updated and refurbished despite impending government cuts, and although it was fairly spacious, Michael always felt claustrophobic in it.
He knew it was something that came from an experience rooted deep in his past.
Something he didn’t like to dwell on. He tried to push it from his thoughts.
He turned to glance around the room, and sipped his coffee.
The walls were lined with maps, photographs and notes for ongoing inquiries, including several pictures from the case he was investigating. He saw the photograph of the suspect involved, whose eyes looked like they would burn holes in Michael’s fle
sh and carve his name on his soul.
Pushing the thoughts from his head, his eyes swept over the room again. There were groups of desks broken up in sections for detective constables, sergeants and inspectors, and behind floor-to-ceiling glass wall partitions was Detective Chief Inspector Claire Winters’s office.
Her lair.
There she could keep an eye on him, watch his every move.
But not today. Not so far anyway. In fact he didn’t know where half the people were right now for that matter. Harper had been rushing off to his car when Michael had reached the station, something too urgent to wait.
It wasn’t Harper that bothered him anyway. It was Claire.
He hadn’t even caught a glimpse of her, which, whilst it was unnerving, pleased him somewhat. He conceded that he was just too tired to fight with her today, although part of him still enjoyed the banter.
He walked back to his desk and slumped down in his chair. He flicked the switch on the old desk fan beside him. It blew warm air at his face but it was better than nothing.
He grinned to himself. All the money that’d been spent on this new office, with air con, and it chooses one of the hottest days in August to break down. Change wasn’t always for the better.
He pressed the plastic cup to his lips, drinking the rest of his coffee in one go. He crushed the cup in his palm and, aiming it at the wastepaper basket, he threw it. The crushed cup hit the rim then fell on the floor.
Shit.
He needed sleep. Quality sleep, not just a few captured hours while working a case in the early hours of the morning, while living off a diet of caffeine and cigarettes.
Michael looked at his reflection in the window next to him, which overlooked the station’s car park.
He looked terrible, even by his own standards.
Dark circles created the illusion of crescent moons under his brown eyes, and the corners of his mouth were turned down in a fixed sorrowful pout.
He returned his gaze to his desk, which was cluttered and stacked high with paper and files. There were dirty coffee-ring marks on the wood and month-old dust congregating around his computer monitor and keyboard.
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