*
Things improved after that. We began picking up the scattered pieces of our relationship, and I tucked the loss of my mum and sister into a little velvet box at the back of my mind, determined to move on with my life – our lives. It’s what Mum and Lark would have wanted, I told myself. And I desperately wanted to make William happy.
But that small snatch of happiness lasted no time at all. My life, the life I thought was back on a safe, even road, plummeted into another deep dark ditch, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to climb out this time. After awful stomach cramps I prayed were IBS, I lost our baby at five months pregnant.
So, it’s been a tragic year – a year of heartache and loss. I’ve heard people say bad things come in threes. But how does anyone stay strong when said bad things hit one after the other? One! Two! Three! Wham! Bam! Slam!
Lark vanished.
Mum died.
I lost my baby.
I’m not going to lie; I wondered what I’d done in a previous life to deserve such sorrow.
I tried so hard not to be that woman who everyone felt sorry for. ‘Poor Amelia – nothing goes right for her.’ ‘Oh, Amelia, love, it could only happen to you.’ Or worse, the woman people crossed the road to avoid, fearing her misery was catching. But it was impossible. I was that woman wallowing knee-deep in self-pity, and I hadn’t got a clue where to find the strength to pick myself up; still haven’t. In fact, I fully understand how some women lose their mind following a miscarriage, as I’m pretty close to losing mine right now.
With the loss of our baby, my life with William was over. He’d seen the worst of me – not a pretty sight. Couldn’t take any more. Wasn’t strong enough. He said, as he touched my cheek gently a week after our loss, his fingertips drying my skin, ‘I can’t do this anymore, Amelia.’ He’d lost his baby too, he said – he was in pain too, he said – but I know he never felt the same kind of screwed-up agony I felt.
He stayed around for two months after that, spending a lot of time at his mum’s, or crying on the shoulder of an ex-girlfriend. He never did tell me her name. Did he think I would knife her on a lonely street?
For a while it was as though my baby – the little girl I had so many plans for – was still with me. But eventually, with time, I accepted there was an empty place inside me where I once felt her flutter – a timid butterfly trying out her wings for the first time. I’d felt so sure she was happy. I’d held my belly so often, talked to her, sung to her. But we can never be sure when happiness will be snatched away from us. I know that now.
*
‘Amelia, have you got the contract for Jennings and Jennings?’
I look away from the office window, and up at Malcolm. My boss is out of breath, and needs to lose a few pounds before he keels over. His tone, as always, is anxiety-tinged, his face stretched into a shiny-cheeked smile. He won’t make old bones at this rate.
‘You need to shave off that ridiculous moustache, Malcolm.’ I’ve wanted to say that for years, if only to help him find his soul mate. No wonder he’s single. ‘You look like Hitler.’
His eyes widen, as much as they can in their puffy sockets, as he touches the hairy culprit under his nose. ‘You need more time away from the office, Amelia.’
‘I need forever,’ I say. I haven’t even turned on the computer and it’s almost midday. I’ve spent most of this morning gazing out at the grey day. Thinking. ‘Can you give me forever, Malcolm?’ I ask, in a maudlin tone – that’s pretty much my only tone right now.
‘Take more time out if you need it. You’re no use to us here.’
‘Cheers for that.’
‘I think you know what I’m saying, Amelia.’ He strides off, in his creased shirt and too-short trousers.
I’ve got to go home, or hide in the loos for the rest of the day. I fidget in my swivel chair. I won’t get paid if I go home. I’ve had way too much time off already. The thing is, I can’t afford the apartment now anyway, not since William left. I need to do something – something else, something to make life worth living again. But then how can I do that without Mum, without Lark, without William, without my precious unborn child?
I look out of the window once more. The tall buildings of London surround me, and The Gherkin feels so close. I’m tempted to open the window and lean out – try to touch it. I would fall, of course. Tumble to my death, and possibly make headlines in The Metro. But then nobody would care. Not a single soul would miss me – except perhaps my dad, and possibly my brother Thomas.
I roll my chair back over the plush carpet, put the photo of William in the bin, and my Thor figure, that Thomas bought me a few years back because I told him I love Chris Hemsworth, in my bag. I grab my jacket, rise, and head for the door, throwing one look over my shoulder at the rabbit warren of desks. Nobody looks my way. I’m right. Nobody will miss me.
Outside, I dash towards London Bridge Underground, pushing through the crowds. I won’t cry, I tell myself. I’m all cried out.
*
‘William, it’s me. Pick up, please.’ I’m pissed, sobbing into my phone, my cat curled on my knee, her purr giving me comfort. Drunk-me is far too needy, and I seem to turn to her too often lately. ‘Call me, please. I need you right now.’ It’s the tenth time I’ve called and it’s only seven o’clock. Ten times he’s ignored me.
I throw my phone across the room. It hits a photo of us in Rhodes. It clatters on the dresser. The glass cracks. Were we even happy then? I know it was difficult when Mum got cancer, and everything that followed was impossible – William struggled with me struggling, which made me struggle even more.
I look at the empty wine bottle, before burying my head in my hands until the tears stop. And then it hits me. I need my dad, to feel the comfort of his arms around me. But I can’t take off to Berwick-upon-Tweed and leave my cat – who now looks up at me as though she knows what I’m thinking. ‘But if I stay here, sweetie, I’ll go crazy,’ I say, tickling her soft ears.
Later, after crying on my neighbour’s doorstep – a kindly twenty-something with pink hair – she gives me a much-needed hug. ‘You’ve been through hell, Amelia,’ she says. ‘Of course I’ll look after your cat. Take as long as you need.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I say, wishing I knew her name – but it’s far too late to ask her what it is; we’ve been chatting for months.
I return to my flat and call Malcolm, realising, after apologising profusely for letting him down at such short notice, that he sounds relieved I’m taking time off.
‘Great. Super,’ he says. ‘Brilliant!’
‘I’ll be taking an early train to Berwick-upon-Tweed and probably won’t be back for a while. Is that OK?’
‘Of course, Amelia. Please, please don’t hurry back.’
I end the call, flop down on my bed, and close my eyes.
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Author’s Note
I’m not the first author, and I’m sure I won’t be the last, to use poison hemlock in murderous fiction. Agatha Christie springs to mind as the most famous writer to use the plant in her clever murder mystery Five Little Pigs.
When I was researching for a suitable poison that would suit my plot, I found what I learnt about poison hemlock fascinating.
It’s a beguiling plant, with an intriguing history, going back as far as Ancient Greece when it was used to execute prisoners. In 399 BC it was attributed to the death of Greek philosopher Socrates.
There are macabre tales of children using the stems of the plant as peashooters or whistles and reaching a sticky end. And a grisly story from the nineteenth century tells of two children innocently collecting the plant for a sandwich for their father, who never lived t
o tell the tale.
Extracts from poison hemlock were once used as a sedative, though this was discontinued by the early twentieth century because of its toxins. The plant contains the neurotoxin coniine, which can cause the central nervous system to shut down. Victims stumble about until their limbs become paralysed and their heart stops. Not a very nice death at all.
There are many names for the plant, including spotted hemlock, bad-man’s oatmeal, poison snakeweed, deadly hemlock, skarntyde – but I feel poison hemlock sums it up perfectly.
The plant can grow up to eight feet tall, and is related to the innocent carrot. The irony that two members of the same family can be so different hasn’t gone unnoticed on me.
Hemlock gives off a musty smell and the stems are hollow and speckled with blotches of purple. If you see it, I would very much advise keeping your distance.
Amanda Brittany
Acknowledgements
Big thanks to my brilliant editor Belinda Toor. I’m so grateful for all her support with The Island House. And thank you to my agent Kate Nash – who is amazing and absolutely nothing like the literary agent in my book.
Thank you to Audrey Linton for all her help, to Caroline Lakeman for her fantastic cover design, to my copy-editor Helena Newton, and proofreader Helen Williams, and all the team at HQ, and all the team at The Kate Nash Literary Agency.
Sending big thanks, as always, to my lovely friends Karen Clarke and Joanne Duncan for their brilliant support.
Thanks to everyone on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and, of course, in real life, for being there and cheering me on. I appreciate every single one of you.
Thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys my books. I still find it amazing that people are reading my words as far away as Australia, and always appreciate the lovely messages I receive from happy readers. Thanks too, to the brilliant blogging community and lovely reviewers who take the time to give such wonderful reviews.
I’m lucky to know so many amazing writers who make writing not only less lonely, but a pleasure. Having contact with them, especially throughout the pandemic, has made such a difference to my writing world. Special thanks to Vikki Patis and all the fabulous authors at the PSAA; to Keri Beevis, Heather Fitt and the team at The Paperback Writers, to Wendy Clarke and everyone at the amazing Fiction Café; to all the amazingly supportive writers at Authors Support Network, and KN Lit Authors – and an extra special thank you to Diane Jeffrey, Charley Crocker, Sherri Turner and Sue Blackburn.
Big thanks to my daughter-in-law Lucy, who again bravely read an early draft of The Island House and gave me great feedback. Thanks to my eldest and middle sons Liam and Daniel, who always tirelessly support me, and to my youngest son Luke who brainstormed the early plot with me and came up with some brilliant ideas. Thanks too to Amy for cheering me on.
Thank you to my mum for always rooting for me, and to Cheryl and my dad, who my acknowledgements would never be complete without.
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