by C. J. Tudor
More Praise for The Chalk Man
“Tense, skillful storytelling.”
—Ali Land, internationally bestselling author of Good Me Bad Me
“A promising debut…with the nightmarish inevitability of the Grimmest of tales…her storytelling prowess is undeniable.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Kept me up until five in the morning. Wonderfully written. I loved it!”
—Kimberley Chambers, bestselling author of Backstabber and The Wronged
“A swift, cleverly plotted debut novel that ably captures the insular, slightly sinister feel of a small village.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A stunning debut, a riveting thriller about the powerful grip of the past and the unbreakable bonds of childhood friendship. The ending of this smasher will completely throw you for a loop. Don’t miss a word of it!”
—David Bell, bestselling author of Bring Her Home and Somebody I Used to Know
“It’s been a while since I’ve read such an impressive debut. The pace was perfectly judged, the characters superbly drawn, and there’s a creeping sense of unease that starts with the prologue and grows throughout the book. And then that ending! It feels so fresh and deserves to be a huge success.”
—James Oswald, bestselling author of the Inspector McLean series
“What an amazing debut! Such an ingenious, original idea. I was engrossed from the very first page. I loved how the 1986 and present day storylines weaved so skillfully together to create that unforgettable and unexpected ending. Compelling, taut, and so very, very chilling. This book will haunt you!”
—Claire Douglas, bestselling author of Last Seen Alive
“A cleverly constructed, artfully told tale of secrets, lies, and warped passions—featuring a troubled protagonist, a terrible murder that wasn’t what it seemed to be, and a raging monster at the heart of it all.”
—John Verdon, internationally bestselling author of Think of a Number and the Nero Award–winning Peter Pan Must Die
“Impossible to put down, cleverly constructed and executed.”
—Ragnar Jónasson, author of the bestselling Dark Iceland series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by C. J. Tudor
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
crownpublishing.com
CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Previously published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph, a division of Random House Group Limited, a Penguin Random House company, London.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9781524760984
Ebook ISBN 9781524761004
Cover design by Tal Goretsky
Cover photograph by MITO images/Offset
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
1986
2016
2016
1986–90
2016
2016
2016
Two Weeks Later
Acknowledgments
FOR BETTY. BOTH OF THEM.
PROLOGUE
The girl’s head rested on a small pile of orange-and-brown leaves.
Her almond eyes stared up at the canopy of sycamore, beech and oak, but they didn’t see the tentative fingers of sunlight that poked through the branches and sprinkled the woodland floor with gold. They didn’t blink as shiny black beetles scurried over their pupils. They didn’t see anything anymore, except darkness.
A short distance away, a pale hand stretched out from its own small shroud of leaves as if searching for help, or reassurance that it was not alone. None was to be found. The rest of her body lay out of reach, hidden in other secluded spots around the woods.
Close by, a twig snapped, loud as a firecracker in the stillness, and a flurry of birds exploded out of the undergrowth. Someone approached.
They knelt down beside the unseeing girl. Their hands gently caressed her hair and stroked her cold cheek, fingers trembling with anticipation. Then they lifted up her head, dusted off a few leaves that clung to the ragged edges of her neck, and placed it carefully in a bag, where it nestled among a few broken stubs of chalk.
After a moment’s consideration, they reached in and closed her eyes. Then they zipped the bag shut, stood up and carried it away.
Some hours later, police officers and the forensic team arrived. They numbered, photographed, examined and eventually took the girl’s body to the morgue, where it lay for several weeks, as if awaiting completion.
It never came. There were extensive searches, questions and appeals but, despite the best efforts of all the detectives and all the town’s men, her head was never found, and the girl in the woods was never put together again.
2016
Start at the beginning.
The problem was, none of us ever agreed on the exact beginning. Was it when Fat Gav got the bucket of chalks for his birthday? Was it when we started drawing the chalk figures or when they started to appear on their own? Was it the terrible accident? Or when they found the first body?
Any number of beginnings. Any of them, I guess, you could call the start. But really, I think it all began on the day of the fair. That’s the day I remember most. Because of Waltzer Girl, obviously, but also because it was the day that everything stopped being normal.
If our world was a snow globe, it was the day some casual god came along, shook it hard and set it back down again. Even when the foam and flakes had settled, things weren’t the way they were before. Not exactly. They might have looked the same through the glass but, on the inside, everything was different.
That was also the day I first met Mr. Halloran, so, as beginnings go, I suppose it’s as good as any.
1986
“Going to be a storm today, Eddie.”
My dad was fond of forecasting the weather in a deep, authoritative voice, like the people on the telly. He always said it with absolute certainty, even though he was usually wrong.
I glanced out of the window at the perfect blue sky, so bright blue you had to squint a little to look at it.
“Doesn’t look like there’ll be a storm, Dad,” I said through a mouthful of cheese sandwich.
“That’s because there isn’t going to be one,” Mum said, having entered the kitchen suddenly and silently, like some kind of ninja warrior. “The BBC says it’s going to be hot and sunny all weekend…and don’t speak with your mouth full, Eddie,” she added.
“Hmmmm,” Dad said, which was what he always said when he disagreed with Mum but didn’t dare say she was wrong.
No one dared disagree with Mum. Mum was—and actually still is—kind of scary. She was tall, with short dark hair, and brown eyes that could bubble with fun or blaze almost black when she was angry (and, a bit like the Incredible Hulk
, you didn’t want to make her angry).
Mum was a doctor, but not a normal doctor who sewed on people’s legs and gave you injections for stuff. Dad once told me she “helped women who were in trouble.” He didn’t say what kind of trouble, but I supposed it had to be pretty bad if you needed a doctor.
Dad worked, too, but from home. He was a writer for magazines and newspapers. Not all of the time. Sometimes he would moan that no one wanted to give him any work or say, with a bitter laugh, “Just not my audience this month, Eddie.”
As a kid, it didn’t feel like he had a “proper job.” Not for a dad. A dad should wear a suit and tie and go off to work in the mornings and come home in the evenings for tea. My dad went to work in the spare room and sat at a computer in his pajamas and a T-shirt, sometimes without even brushing his hair.
My dad didn’t look much like other dads either. He had a big, bushy beard and long hair he tied back in a ponytail. He wore cut-off jeans with holes in, even in winter, and faded T-shirts with the names of ancient bands on, like Led Zeppelin and The Who. Sometimes he wore sandals, too.
Fat Gav said my dad was a “frigging hippie.” He was probably right. But back then, I took it as an insult, and I pushed him and he body-slammed me, and I staggered off home with some new bruises and a bloody nose.
We made up later, of course. Fat Gav could be a right penis-head—he was one of those fat kids who always have to be the loudest and most obnoxious, so as to put off the real bullies—but he was also one of my best friends and the most loyal and generous person I knew.
“You look after your friends, Eddie Munster,” he once said to me solemnly. “Friends are everything.”
Eddie Munster was my nickname. That was because my surname was Adams, like in The Addams Family. Of course, the kid in The Addams Family was called Pugsley, and Eddie Munster was out of The Munsters, but it made sense at the time and, in the way that nicknames do, it stuck.
Eddie Munster, Fat Gav, Metal Mickey (on account of the huge braces on his teeth), Hoppo (David Hopkins) and Nicky. That was our gang. Nicky didn’t have a nickname because she was a girl, even though she tried her best to pretend she wasn’t. She swore like a boy, climbed trees like a boy and could fight almost as well as most boys. But she still looked like a girl. A really pretty girl, with long red hair and pale skin, sprinkled with lots of tiny brown freckles. Not that I had really noticed or anything.
We were all due to meet up that Saturday. We met most Saturdays and went round to each other’s houses, or to the playground, or sometimes the woods. This Saturday was special, though, because of the fair. It came every year and set up on the park, near the river. This year was the first year we were being allowed to go on our own, without an adult to supervise.
We’d been looking forward to it for weeks, ever since the posters went up around town. There were going to be Dodgems and a Meteorite and a Pirate Ship and an Orbiter. It looked ace.
“So,” I said, finishing my cheese sandwich as quickly as I could, “I said I’d meet the others outside the park at two?”
“Well, stick to the main roads walking down there,” Mum said. “Don’t go taking any shortcuts or talking to anybody you don’t know.”
“I won’t.”
I slid from my seat and headed to the door.
“And take your bumbag.”
“Oh, Muuuuum.”
“You’ll be going on rides. Your wallet could fall out of your pocket. Bumbag. No arguments.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again. I could feel my cheeks burning. I hated the stupid bumbag. Fat tourists wore bumbags. It would not look cool in front of everyone, especially Nicky. But when Mum was like this, there really was no arguing.
“Fine.”
It wasn’t, but I could see the kitchen clock edging closer toward two and I needed to get going. I ran up the stairs, grabbed the stupid bumbag and put my money inside. A whole £5. A fortune. Then I charged back down again.
“See you later.”
“Have fun.”
There was no doubt in my mind I would. The sun was shining. I had on my favorite T-shirt and my Converse. I could already hear the faint thump, thump of the fairground music, and smell the burgers and candyfloss. Today was going to be perfect.
—
Fat Gav, Hoppo and Metal Mickey were already waiting by the gates when I arrived.
“Hey, Eddie Munster. Nice fanny pack!” Fat Gav yelled.
I blushed purple and gave him the finger. Hoppo and Metal Mickey both chortled at Fat Gav’s joke. Then Hoppo, who was always the nicest, and the peacemaker, said to Fat Gav, “Least it doesn’t look as gay as your shorts, penis-head.”
Fat Gav grinned, grabbed his shorts at the hems and did this little dance, raising his chunky legs up high, like he was a ballerina. That was the thing with Fat Gav. You could never really insult him because he just didn’t care. Or, at least, that’s what he made everyone think.
“Anyway,” I said, because despite Hoppo’s deflection I still felt that the bumbag looked stupid, “I’m not wearing it.”
I unclipped the belt, slipped my wallet into my shorts pocket and looked around. A thick hedge ran around the outside of the park. I stuffed the bumbag into the hedge so it couldn’t be seen if you were walking past but not so far that I couldn’t grab it again later.
“Sure you want to leave it there?” Hoppo asked.
“Yeah, what if your mummy finds out?” Metal Mickey said, in the snide, sing-song way he had.
Although he was part of our gang and Fat Gav’s best friend, I’d never liked Metal Mickey much. There was a streak running through him that was as cold and ugly as the braces that ran around his mouth. But then, bearing in mind who his brother was, perhaps that wasn’t really surprising.
“I don’t care,” I lied, with a shrug.
“Who does?” Fat Gav said impatiently. “Can we forget the frigging bag and get going? I want to get to the Orbiter first.”
Metal Mickey and Hoppo started to move—we usually did what Fat Gav wanted. Probably because he was the largest and loudest.
“But Nicky’s not here yet,” I said.
“So what?” Metal Mickey said. “She’s always late. Let’s just go. She’ll find us.”
Metal Mickey was right. Nicky was always late. On the other hand, that wasn’t the deal. We were all supposed to stick together. It wasn’t safe at the fair on your own. Especially not for a girl.
“Let’s give her five more minutes,” I said.
“You cannot be serious!” Fat Gav exclaimed, doing his best—so pretty bad—John McEnroe impression.
Fat Gav did a lot of impressions. Mostly American. All so terrible they made us crease up with laughter.
Metal Mickey didn’t laugh quite as hard as Hoppo and me. He didn’t like it if he felt the gang was going against him. But anyway, it didn’t matter because we had just about stopped laughing when a familiar voice said, “What’s so funny?”
We turned. Nicky walked up the hill toward us. As always, I felt a weird kind of fluttering in my stomach at the sight of her. Like I was suddenly really hungry and felt a bit sick.
Her red hair was loose today, falling in a tangled jumble down her back, almost brushing the edges of her frayed denim shorts. She wore a yellow, sleeveless blouse. It had small blue flowers around the neck. I caught a glint of silver at her throat. A small cross on a chain. She had a large and heavy-looking hessian bag slung around her shoulders.
“You’re late,” Metal Mickey said. “We were waiting for you.”
As if it had been his idea.
“What’s in the bag?” Hoppo asked.
“My dad wants me to deliver this crap around the fair.”
She pulled a leaflet from the bag and held it out.
Come to St. Thomas’s Church and praise the Lord. It’s the greatest thrill ride of all!
Nicky’s dad was the vicar at our local church. I had never actually been to church—my mum and dad didn’t do that type of s
tuff—but I’d seen him around town. He wore small, round glasses and his bald scalp was covered with freckles, like Nicky’s nose. He always smiled and said hello, but I found him just a bit scary.
“Now that is a pile of stinking Buckaroo, my man,” Fat Gav said.
“Stinking” or “flying Buckaroo” was another one of Fat Gav’s favorite phrases, usually followed by saying “my man” in a really posh accent, for some reason.
“You’re not really going to, are you?” I asked, suddenly envisioning the whole day being wasted, traipsing around with Nicky while she handed out her leaflets.
She gave me a look. It reminded me a bit of my mum.
“Of course I’m not, you Joey,” she said. “We’ll just take some, scatter them around, like people have thrown them away, and then stuff the rest in a bin.”
We all grinned. There’s nothing better than doing something you shouldn’t and getting one over on an adult while doing it.
We scattered the leaflets, dumped the bag and got down to business. The Orbiter (which really was ace), the Dodgems, where Fat Gav rammed me so hard I felt my spine crack. The Space Rockets (pretty exciting last year but now a bit boring), the Helter Skelter, the Meteorite and the Pirate Ship.
We ate hot dogs, and Fat Gav and Nicky tried to hook ducks and learned the hard way that a prize every time does not necessarily mean a prize you want, and came away laughing and throwing their crappy little stuffed animals at each other.
By this point, the afternoon was already getting away from us. The thrill and adrenaline were starting to fade, along with the growing realization that I probably only had enough cash left for two or maybe three more rides.
I reached into my pocket for my wallet. My heart leapfrogged into my mouth. It was gone.
