Praise for TATTLETALE
The book everyone in the blogosphere can’t stop talking about
‘I’m crazy in love with this book for many many reasons none of which I can tell you otherwise I’ll spoil it and then prevent you from falling crazy in love with this book.’
http://lizlovesbooks.com
‘Already my stand out 2017 read! So slick, so well plotted and a really unpredictable conclusion. Perfect storytelling. I loved it.’
Laura, GoodReads reviewer
‘This was one hell of a book’
Sue, GoodReads reviewer
‘it is impossible to tear your eyes away from the page – I was completely riveted.’
Michelle, GoodReads reviewer
‘This is a multi layered thriller, with characters who you think you can trust but shouldn’t, ones you dislike but maybe you should like!’
Marie, GoodReads reviewer
‘A very clever book.’
Sarah, GoodReads reviewer
‘A multi-layered story with lots of twists & turns! A real page turner.’
Sharon, GoodReads reviewer
For my husband, Vince.
Contents
Praise
Dedication
Title Page
Before
After
Tuesday 8 November
1. Jody
2. Mags
3. Jody
Wednesday 9 November
4. Mags
5. Jody
Thursday 10 November
6. Mags
7. Mira
8. Jody
9. Mags
10. Jody
11. Mags
Friday 11 November
12. Mags
13. Jody
14. Mags
15. Mira
16. Mags
17. Jody
18. Mags
19. Jody
Saturday 12 November
20. Mags
21. Jody
22. Mags
23. Mira
24. Mags
25. Mira
26. Mags
27. Mira
28. Mags
Sunday 13 November
29. Mags
30. Mags
31. Mira
32. Mags
33. Mira
34. Mags
Monday 14 November
35. Mags
Thursday 17 – Saturday 19 November
36. Jody
37. Mags
38. Mags
New Year’s Eve
39. Mags
March
40. Mags
41. Rob
42. Mags
Abe
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Before
On a clear morning the sun shines so strongly through the stained glass it looks as if the concrete floor is awash with blood.
But it’s past eight in the evening now and the only light comes from the wall lamps on each floor. Their dim illumination reveals a slowly spreading pool of pitch or tar.
Blood doesn’t look like blood in the dark.
Now the adrenaline that powered her scramble down the stairs has drained away, she feels as if all her bones have been pulled out. She can barely stand, has to grasp the metal newel post for support as she stares and stares.
The fourth-floor landing light goes out.
It takes a long time for the brain to process a sudden accident – the nought-to-sixty acceleration from normality to calamity – to ratchet itself up to an appropriate response. She can feel it slowly building in her belly as she takes in the black spatters on the doors and walls of the ground-floor flats, the widening creep of the black pool.
At first she thought he would be OK. A few bruises. A bumped head. There is too much blood for that.
The third-floor landing light goes out.
In the few frozen moments after it happened she was dimly aware of a latch snicking shut, heavy footsteps rattling down the stairs, the creak and slam of the front door, but now everything is silent. The church is holding its breath, waiting to see what she will do.
She takes a wobbling step towards him.
There’s a smell, like her purse when it’s full of coppers.
He looks so uncomfortable. Why doesn’t he move his leg so that his hips aren’t so twisted? Why doesn’t he turn his head as her shadow falls across him? Why doesn’t he call out to her?
She kneels beside him and takes his hand. It’s pure white against the blackness that is slowly seeping into his hair and clothes. She tries to say his name but there’s a fist around her throat. Her thoughts sputter. There’s something she should do. Yes. She should call 999.
The second-floor landing light goes out.
His lips are moving and his eyes are open. As she leans close to him to try and make out what he is saying her hair falls into the pool. Jerking back, the tips of her hair flick against her wrist, drawing scarlet lines on her white skin. Now she can see where the blood is coming from. A small noise escapes her lips. Horror and shock are hurtling towards her like an articulated lorry.
The first-floor landing light goes out.
She must do something for him. Now, here, in this moment, she is all he has. She must take her phone from her pocket, unlock it, and tap in the numbers. But she cannot let go of his hand; she cannot leave him adrift in all this darkness.
Her heart is racing, like the wheeling legs of a cartoon character just before it realises it’s run off the cliff edge. Before it falls.
The ground-floor light goes out.
It is the sudden darkness, as much as anything else, that makes her scream. And once she’s started she cannot stop.
After
The lino’s slippery with spilled drinks. As he crosses the dance floor a fat girl blunders into his path and he grabs her by the flesh of her waist, making her squirm and shriek. Someone slaps him on the back and he grins, though he didn’t hear what was said. The music is so loud the floor vibrates and the disco lights have turned carefully made-up faces lurid colours. All the girls are off their tits, some of the weedier blokes too. Gary and Kieran are draped over one another, bellowing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, though it’s still two hours until midnight. But it takes more than a few double vodkas to affect him. He glances at himself in the dark window that looks over the pitch.
Not bad considering he’ll be thirty this year.
In the reflection he sees a woman he doesn’t recognise walking across the room behind him. Catching his eye, she pauses and smiles.
He smirks. Still got it.
The toilets stink, as usual.
He pisses for England, then shakes himself off and does up his flies, checking his reflection in the square of buckled stainless steel that passes for a mirror. The shirt is a size too small and pulls tight across his pecs. He washes his hands and runs damp fingers through his hair. He’s noticed it thinning at the temples over the past few months and has been considering trying a spray from the chemist.
The new winger comes in and stands at the urinal. He’s considerably shorter and weedier than Rob.
‘Having a good time, mate?’ Rob says.
‘Brilliant,’ the lad says.
‘Just you wait,’ Rob says. ‘The ladies’ll be so pissed you’ll be fighting them off with a stick.’ He puts ironic emphasis on ladies.
The boy laughs.
‘See you later.’ Rob thumps him so hard on the back he almost overbalances into the urinal. He’s laughing as he emerges to a line of grumbling females.
‘Sorry I kept you waiting!’ he cries, spreading his arms.
‘In your dreams,’ says Elaine, Marcus’s ugly wife. ‘The toilet’s blocked. Clive’s in there tryin
g to fix it.’
‘Use the men’s, then.’
‘The state you lot leave it in? No thanks.’
‘Well, don’t be surprised if I’m booked up for the rest of the evening by the time you come out.’
‘We’ll take that risk.’
He bows and pushes open the door to the bar.
The air’s heavy with aftershave and cigarette smoke. It’s illegal to smoke in here but the lads pay no attention, though Clive keeps threatening to hand the CCTV footage to the police if they don’t stop. Through the haze he can make out Sophie muttering to her little coven. Probably about him. He stares at them until she glances up, then gives her a cheery wave. She looks guilty. Bitch can get her own drink.
There’s a girl at the bar but he’s not in the mood to wait so he raises his twenty and Derek waddles straight up, a craven grin on his puffy face. Either he’s scared of Rob or he fancies him. Rob pretends to find the latter idea funny when the boys rib him about it, but if Derek ever so much as touches him, apart from to hand him his change, he’ll knock him out.
‘What can I get you, mate?’
‘Vodka, lime and soda. And you’d better not sweat in it, you fat bastard.’
Derek laughs.
Rob feels the gaze of the girl he queue-barged and his head snaps around, ready for a row. His scowl vanishes. It’s the girl from the reflection. She’s seriously hot.
‘You scored the hat trick, didn’t you?’ she says, and her voice is smooth like chocolate.
‘Guilty,’ he says, putting up his hand and lowering his head modestly. Then he wonders if he’s used the wrong word. The pre-party friendly had been too much like hard work on last night’s hangover and the bloke he’d tackled to get the last try was still in A & E. But when he looks up she’s smiling.
‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ he says. ‘You with the other team?’
She nods. ‘My sister’s dating one of the props.’
Good. She wasn’t attached. Not that it mattered – he was and it wouldn’t make any difference.
‘You know what, I’m so pissed I can’t remember his name!’ she giggles.
‘They all look the same anyway. Mr Potato Head!’
She laughs uproariously.
He glances over at Sophie, but now she’s too busy making a twat of herself on the dance floor to notice.
Thankfully this year Clive and the rest of the old duffers aren’t in charge of the music, so there’s a lot less Abba and Bee Gees and a lot more hip-hop. Not that he minds a bit of ‘Dancing Queen’. Him and the lads like to dress up for that one, demanding an item of clothing from all the women there. This year he’d make Sophie give him her revolting support girdle, embarrass the bitch. With a bit of luck she’ll piss off home.
But when he looks back the girl is gone. He swears under his breath, knocks back his vodka, then goes for a dance.
It’s coming up to midnight and Derek’s so overwhelmed that the lads are just going behind the bar and helping themselves, occasionally pausing to flip the bird at the CCTV camera trained on the till. Boys will be boys.
Rob’s dancing, his shirt soaked in sweat, his thinning hair plastered to his forehead. Occasionally he’ll go up behind a girl and grind his groin into her. Some of them press back and he gets a semi. Most of them aren’t attractive enough for the full nine yards. Soph’s the best looking of the lot of them, and she’s blubbing in the corner, surrounded by clucking mates. He’s such a b-bastard, boo hoo. Well, she’s not going to ruin his night. He grabs the nearest girl to him and gives her a proper snog, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Her saliva is bitter with alcohol and cigarettes. She pushes him away with a playful slap and he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, swaying slightly in the glare of the lights. His eardrums throb in time to the music. His heart is racing. His muscles hum with tension.
Slim fingers caress his side as someone slips past behind him and he turns to see it’s the girl from the bar.
She’s even better looking than Sophie. She’s – he fumbles for the word – elegant. None of the other girls here are elegant. They’ve all got identical long blonde hair, skirts up to their arses, fake tan, glitter across their tits. This one looks classy. He doesn’t try to grind his pelvis into her.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘It’s been fun.’
‘You’re not going?’
‘I’m not sure I’m going to get what I came here for.’
He frowns. ‘What’s that?’
She speaks so softly he has to lip-read over the music. He blinks rapidly, his lips part. He might have misunderstood. He leans over.
‘What did you say?’
As she tilts her head to murmur into his ear her hair brushes his cheek, sleek and cool as satin. He didn’t misunderstand.
He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not used to girls coming on so strong and isn’t sure he likes it.
She pulls away. Her eyes hold his. His insides turn to liquid.
‘M-me,’ he stammers. ‘I will. I can.’ He sounds like a twat. He rolls his shoulders and runs his tongue across his front teeth. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’ He still sounds like a twat. He regrets the last round of sambucas. ‘There’s a storage cupboard around by the toilets.’ It stinks of bleach but Sophie didn’t seem to mind.
‘How about something more … al fresco?’
This one does, then.
He nods vigorously and glances over at Sophie. She’s stopped crying and is doing shots.
‘I’ll see you outside.’
As she walks away he glances around to see if someone’s setting him up and considers for a brief moment whether Sophie’s arranged one of those honey-trap things. What does it matter? They’re probably finished after tonight anyway.
He crosses the dance floor and passes out into the foyer. The air is cold and clean and he stands in the darkness as the inner door swings shut and the music and screeching laughter becomes muted. The evil red eye of the ancient CCTV camera watches him from the corner.
Is he too pissed to get it up? He’s never failed yet, but he’s never had a woman like this before.
Only one way to find out. Pushing open the main doors he strides outside into the night.
He spots her by her white top, gleaming in the shadows of the stands.
The pitch is churned and muddy so he walks around the spectator part, breathing slowly and deeply to calm himself down. Stupid, but he feels like he’s on the way to an exam. She’s something special, this one, and he doesn’t even know her name. That makes it more special. That’s how he’ll phrase it when he tells his mates later. The mysterious beauty.
The effect is spoiled when he reaches her and sees that she’s covered in mud. It’s caked all over her boots, her knees and even in her hair.
‘Jeez,’ he says. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Fell over.’ She giggles.
It annoys him. She’s spoiled the effect. ‘You should have walked around the edge.’
‘Who cares?’ she says. Then she pulls off her top. She must be pissed, because she lets it drop into the muddy puddles on the concrete, then yanks down the vest so roughly the strap snaps.
She isn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts are smooth and tanned, glimmering in the lights from the clubhouse. The music is just a throbbing beat now, like a heart. She leans against the bench behind, arching her back.
She’s one of those who likes it rough. He puts his hand over her mouth to shut her up and she bites his fingers. She tears a couple of shirt buttons off trying to get to his pecs, kisses him so hard his lips are crushed against his teeth. She even takes a chunk out of his hair, which is not on, considering, and he punishes her for it, thrusting into her so hard she cries out in pain. Normally he’s more careful – some girls tear when he does that – but she deserves it. She obviously thinks she’s a bit special. The thought of her hobbling about tomorrow, bruised and torn and unable to sit down because of him, gi
ves him a head rush of arousal. He won’t last much longer.
The countdown to midnight drifts across the pitch as he’s coming, and by the time the fire-cracks of the party poppers have subsided he’s done up his trousers and is making his way back to the clubhouse.
The whole thing was over so quickly Soph won’t know he’s been away. Not that he’ll be able to explain the lost buttons or the scratch marks. There’s even one down the side of his face. Still, at least he’ll have a laugh about it with the boys before World War Three breaks out.
At the clubhouse door he turns back. She’s sitting up now, and just for a moment she raises her hand, in greeting or farewell. He doesn’t wave back.
As he yanks open the door he’s laughing to himself. To think he’d thought she was a notch above the others. Elegant. Ha. Not so elegant staggering home covered in mud with her tits hanging out of her top.
Then she starts screaming.
The sound of the TV is a lullaby, making her drowsy, despite the cold. One of the springs is poking through the musty-smelling mattress and she has to curl up at the very edge so that it doesn’t scratch her. They’ve hung a blanket up at the window to stop the morning sun waking her too early and an orange bar of light from the street lamp outside falls through the gaps, cutting her in half.
Her stomach gives a squealing twist and she draws her knees to her chest to ease it. She wishes she had eaten more at school. The after-school club gives you biscuits and she managed to get two before the others grabbed the rest, but she’s still hungry.
If she can go to sleep she’ll forget about being hungry. She will forget about what Stuart Talley will say about her in front of everyone at break time tomorrow. She’ll forget about the way the teachers whisper about her during assembly and how everyone knows she steals school uniform from the lost property box. Sometimes she wishes she could stay asleep forever.
There are slow footsteps on the stairs and she squeezes her eyes shut and goes very still.
The footsteps come into the room and a weight lands on the bed, making the wire mesh under the mattress twang.
‘I know you’re awake.’
She opens her eyes.
‘Want a bedtime story?’
For a moment she just stares at him. Then she whispers, ‘Yes, please.’
Tattletale Page 1
