by Mark Edwards
ALSO BY MARK EDWARDS
The Magpies
Kissing Games
What You Wish For
Because She Loves Me
Follow You Home
The Devil’s Work
The Lucky Ones
A Murder of Magpies (Kindle Single)
WITH LOUISE VOSS
Forward Slash
Killing Cupid
Catch Your Death
All Fall Down
From the Cradle
The Blissfully Dead
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Mark Edwards
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477805176
ISBN-10: 1477805176
Cover design by Mark Swan
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
PART ONE
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
PART TWO
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
PART THREE
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
Letter from the author
Acknowledgments
Free Short Sharp Shockers Box Set
About the Author
Author’s Note
This novel is set in North Wales. The town of Beddmawr is fictional but if you want to find where it would exist on a map, it’s very close to Llangollen in Denbighshire.
Prologue
It was muddy and windy by the river. At times like this Lily wished they had a dog she could throw sticks for, though Big Cat and Little Cat probably wouldn’t approve. She wanted a cute little dog, a pug or something like that. She walked off ahead of Mum and Dad, fantasising about the pug they were going to buy her. She’d call it Sweetie. It would wear a pink collar and win prizes at Crufts and Lily would be on TV, proud and smiling beside her famous pet.
Deep in thought, Lily was hardly aware that her parents were lagging behind. She heard a cry and looked back up the path, along the riverbank. Dad was staring at the water, mouth open like a fish. Mum had her hands on her hips.
They were arguing again.
Mum jabbed a finger towards Dad, whose face had gone pink. Lily realised he wasn’t looking into the water but at the edge of the bank, where something metallic lay.
All her hopes of this year being better than the last evaporated. Furious, finding it hard to swallow or even breathe, Lily stomped into the trees where the river curved, so she couldn’t see her parents and they couldn’t see her. She was sick of the sight of them, and she wished she could disappear, turn into a bird and fly away.
For a moment, she pictured herself diving into the river and drowning herself. Mum couldn’t even swim, and Dad was a useless swimmer too. They wouldn’t be able to save her and they’d be so sorry, so sorry.
She stood there, clenching and unclenching her fists until she realised she was hurting Big Cat. She hugged him and kissed his head, then marched on, along the path to where the trees ended.
She made a decision. As soon as she’d done it she hurried into the bushes that separated the riverbank from the road.
She jumped, as if someone had crept up behind her and shouted ‘Boo!’
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.
A few moments later, she tried to scream. She’d made a terrible mistake and wished she could rewind time, just a minute or two. She even pictured time running in reverse, sending her back up the path and safely into the arms of Mum and Dad. But it was too late.
‘Lily?’ She heard Mum calling her name. ‘Lily, where are you?’
But she couldn’t reply. There was a gag in her mouth and strong arms holding her still. Mum’s cries faded into the distance as those strong arms carried her away.
PART ONE
Chapter 1
I crossed the border into Wales shortly after five o’clock, the sun low and muted in a sky the colour of slate. It was raining, but that didn’t matter. Because as I hit the crest of a hill, the valley below came into view. And it was glorious.
I slowed the car so I could take it in. The flat peaks of the Berwyn mountains framed a green world: patchwork fields dotted with sheep; pretty farmhouses that overlooked rolling fields; trees, some standing proudly alone, others crowded together. And flowing through it all, the River Dee.
This was home.
Why had I waited so long to come back?
When night fell it would all look very different. Then I would probably miss the never-dimming lights of London. But now I wound down the window and let the chill air cleanse me. I was sure that here, finally, I would be able to write again. Rediscover my voice, my inspiration. If I could do that, I was certain all my other worries would dissolve like snowflakes falling into water.
So it was with a great deal of optimism that I steered my car, a white Qashqai, down the hill into the valley. The satnav took me past the small town of Beddmawr – my home town, though it hardly seemed familiar – and into the countryside, down narrow, mud-streaked lanes that skirted the edge of a thick wood. I took a wrong turn, almost ending up in a meadow where sheep grazed, and was forced to back up. This last stretch was beyond the satnav’s capabilities. I switched it off and got out of the car, taking advantage of a lull in the rain. The writers’ retreat had to be close. In the end, I clambered onto the roof of the car – which I’d bought with my first royalty payment, and which I really ought to treat better – and there it was, standing on a low hill beyond the meadow.
It was a stone house, painted white, with a steep tiled roof. It was bigger and more imposing than I’d expected. The kind of place that looked like it would always be cold inside, no matter how many fires you lit. Behind the house, a steep bank half-protected it from the elements. To either side, woodland stretched as far as I could see.
Something flapped in the branches above my head, startling me and almost making me lose my balance. But I stole another look at the house before I climbed down, and smiled. It was the perfect place to write a scary boo
k.
Back in the car, I headed up a long driveway lined by bare-limbed trees. There was a large barn to the left of the house and, I noticed, a cottage that hid at the rear of the main building like a shy child peeking out from behind its mother’s skirt.
The house was even more impressive up close. It was solid. A place that had stood here for, I guessed, two hundred years. The only signs of modernity were a TV aerial on the roof and a child’s plastic swing in the garden. Smoke rose from a tall chimney. I wanted to take a good look around but I was tired and hungry, and besides, there would be plenty of time to explore later.
As I removed my small case from the car, the front door opened and a woman stepped out, hugging herself against the cold.
She was about my age – in her early to mid-forties – with long chestnut-brown hair and prominent cheekbones. She was skinny and pale, the kind of person my mum would say would be blown away by a stiff wind, but attractive, a woman who would make me look twice if I spotted her in a bar. She was wearing jeans and a green sweater, with some kind of cashmere wrap over the top. A poncho? She had on a pair of dark-framed glasses that she readjusted as she came towards me.
‘Lucas?’ she said. ‘I’m Julia.’
I shook her hand, which was surprisingly cold. Although her smile was welcoming, she managed to look sad at the same time. There was something in her green eyes, an echo of pain, that made me stop and hold on to her hand for an extra moment. Perhaps sensing that I was studying her, trying to read her, she became businesslike, asking if I had much luggage.
‘Just this,’ I replied. ‘This place is amazing.’ I nodded towards the swing. The wind had caught it so it swung slowly to and fro, as if being used by a tired ghost. ‘Must be a fantastic place to grow up.’
I knew immediately that my words had stung in some way. She recovered quickly, though, and gestured for me to follow her inside.
‘Welcome,’ she said, ‘to Nyth Bran.’
I followed her into a hallway which was painted white with a gallery’s worth of traditional pictures on the walls: the local countryside, mountains and horse riders. Crumbling castles and fields of daffodils.
She saw me glance at the paintings. ‘They’re not really to my taste. But I thought the guests might appreciate it. Rustic Welsh charm.’
‘I like them. They remind me of home.’
A raised eyebrow. ‘You’re from round here?’
‘Originally. I was born in Beddmawr but my family moved to Birmingham when I was six. We had pictures just like this in our house.’ I nodded at the painting of the daffodils. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure my mum had this exact same picture.’
I smiled, wondering if she still had it, hanging in the villa in the south of Spain.
‘How about you?’ I asked. She had a faint northern English accent. ‘You don’t sound Welsh,’ I said.
‘No, I’m from Manchester originally. Didsbury. We only moved here a few years ago.’
I wondered who she meant by ‘we’. The retreat’s website listed Julia as the sole proprietor.
‘Come into the kitchen,’ Julia said. ‘It’s warmer in there.’
She asked me if I wanted a coffee and I accepted gladly. It was a typical rural kitchen – spacious, with buttery walls, a stone floor and a view of the front garden. I stood by the Aga and rambled on for a minute, telling her about the journey. I hadn’t spent time with another human being in days. Julia smiled politely as she waited for the kettle to boil, making the occasional comment. She’d removed her glasses, which had left two little marks on the sides of her nose.
A ginger cat strolled into the kitchen, tail held high, and I stooped to stroke it.
‘That’s Chesney,’ she said, as the cat purred and rubbed his face against my knuckles.
‘He’s gorgeous. So . . . is it just you and Chesney?’
She turned away from me and lifted the faintly whistling kettle. The cat, detecting a shift in the atmosphere, dashed out of the room.
‘Yep,’ Julia replied, the gap so long that I’d ceased to expect an answer. ‘Just us. And the other guests, of course.’
I looked around, stupidly, as if they might be hiding in the kitchen cupboards.
‘They’ve all gone to the pub,’ she said. ‘It’s become a bit of a tradition, when they finish work for the day. The Miners Arms – it’s a couple of miles down the road.’
She handed me my coffee. ‘I’ve got some boring paperwork for you to fill out. How long do you think you’ll want to stay?’
‘I was hoping to leave it open-ended, if that’s okay. I mean, at least a month.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘A month?’
‘Is that okay? I can pay up front.’
‘Yes. Sure.’
‘I really have to get my stupid book finished.’
Not just finished. Started as well. But I didn’t tell her that.
She looked me up and down, like she was seeing me for the first time. At last, she smiled. ‘That’s absolutely fine, Lucas. Stay as long as you like.’
I spent a while filling out the paperwork and made small talk with Julia while I finished my coffee. Outside, dusk crept up to the windows.
Julia gestured for me to go up the stairs first. In contrast to the immaculate decor on the ground floor, the stair carpet was threadbare and the wallpaper peeled in patches. There were signs that someone had started to decorate this area at some point, but the work had been abandoned.
When we reached the landing Julia said, ‘You’re on this floor.’ I was a little disappointed I wouldn’t be at the top of the house, but didn’t want to complain.
‘Yours is the second door on the left,’ Julia said from behind me.
I took hold of the door handle and she yelled, ‘Not that one!’
I withdrew my hand as if the handle were red hot. ‘Sorry, you said . . .’
‘I meant third door. Third door. Room Six.’ She had her hand on her chest, breathing hard, pink spots on her cheeks. She noticed me staring at her and forced a smile. ‘Sorry, that room isn’t made up yet. It’s a bit of a mess.’
She stepped past me and pushed open the door of Room 6. I followed her inside.
It was an impressive space: wooden floorboards, in better condition than those in the hallway, a neatly made double bed, a wardrobe and dresser. Best of all, there was a huge desk beneath the window with what looked like a comfortable, ergonomic chair. I ran my hand over the desk’s smooth oak surface.
‘I’m sorry there’s no en suite,’ Julia said. The pink spots on her cheeks had faded and she was calm again. ‘The bathroom is a little way down the hall.’
She stood beside me at the window, so we faced our reflections in the glass. It was dark outside now. No stars or moon. Save for a few lights dotted here and there across the landscape, it was as if the world beyond this house had ceased to exist when the sun went down.
‘I’ll show you around when you’ve had a chance to unpack, but you can either write here or in the sitting room, or even in the cottage.’
‘Great.’
She produced a room key and laid it on the desk. ‘You pretty much have the run of the house, except . . . can I just ask you not to go into the basement. It’s not . . . safe.’
‘Oh?’
‘The stairs need to be repaired.’
‘Understood.’ I couldn’t imagine wanting to go into the basement anyway. I sat at the desk. ‘This is wonderful, Julia. How long have you been open?’
‘Only a few months. I haven’t really got going yet, not properly. I mean, I know a lot of writing retreats have guest authors, classes, et cetera. I’m going to organise all that at some point. For now, this is just a quiet, secluded place for people to come and get their heads down.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m looking for.’ I didn’t explain there was another, more specific reason for choosing this particular retreat, so close to where I spent my early childhood. ‘Are you an author yourself?’
‘Me? No.’
She was about to leave me to it, but hesitated by the door. ‘I don’t mean to be nosy, but what kind of books do you write?’
‘Horror.’
There it was: a faint look of distaste. A reaction I was well used to. ‘And is this . . . your first book?’
‘No, I’ve written tons, most of which sold somewhere close to zero copies.’
‘Most?’
‘Um. The last one did pretty well. It was called Sweetmeat.’
She looked blank and I must have appeared disappointed because she said, ‘Sorry, I’m not really a big fan of that type of book. I mean, I’ve read a couple of Stephen Kings but I’m a total wimp.’
I smiled. People were always saying this to me.
‘I have enough nightmares as it is.’ I could tell she immediately regretted saying this, as she quickly added, ‘Anyway, let me leave you in peace. Dinner’s at eight, when the others get back from the pub.’
‘Great. Thank you.’
She shut the door, leaving me alone at my temporary desk. I stared at the space where she’d been. She was mysterious. A woman with a story. I was looking forward to finding out what it was.
Chapter 2
A clatter of noise came from downstairs: a booming male voice, footsteps, a slamming door. The other guests, back from the pub.
Fellow writers. I instinctively bristled, then chided myself. I had come here not only to get my head down and work, but because I was in need of human company. I had spent too much time on my own since losing Priya. So much time alone that I had begun to talk to next door’s cat when she came to visit, and to order parcels from Amazon just so I’d see another human face. I was sure the courier had started to avoid me, tired of making conversation with the crazy guy in Flat 3.
I went downstairs, following the sound of conversation to the dining room.
There were three of them, a man and two women, seated around an oval table. They all looked up as I walked in.
The man was seated on the far left. He was in his late thirties, with a high forehead and a neatly trimmed beard. I recognised him, but couldn’t quite place him. Sitting almost on his lap was a young blonde woman with pale eyelashes and a small mouth. Pretty, in that English-rose way, but not my type. On the other side of the table, a woman in her fifties with an expensive-looking haircut was thumbing an iPhone.
