THE THREE LIVES OF
AILA DOUGLAS
A Gripping Thriller That Will Keep You
Guessing Until The Last Page
Book 2
Origin
By
Lei R. Tasker
The World is So Big
Publishing
www.twisbpublishing.com
Also by
Chrissy G. Tasker
Dream on Fire
Amulet of Gefia
Power of Collaboration
Stillness in my soul
Book for charity:
Garden of Hope
Garden of Love
Under pseudonym
Lei R. Tasker
The secret Of the Oxpen’s Angel series
Angel’s Trap
Angel’s Game
Angel’s Lies
Coming soon...
The three lives of Aila Douglas
Book 3 -Truth
Copyright
Published by The World is So Big Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either
Products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by The World Is So Big Publishing
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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 The World Is So Big Publishing
www.twisbpublishing.com
ISBN: 978-981-14-7682-2 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-981-14-7683-9 (Audiobook)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Acknowledgments
Author Bio
PREVIEW BOOK 3: TRUTH
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Prologue
November 1984
Aila Douglas’ first memory was aged five, playing in the rose garden of Dunmistle Castle’s grounds. As she grew older, she couldn’t be sure how much of the memory was true to life or whether she had embellished it, but the emotion it evoked was so strong that it would sit with her for her entire life.
The memory was always patchy, as any five-year old’s memory is, coming to her in bursts like car headlights pushing through fog, but she knew it was real.
She had been playing some elaborate game of make-believe at the far end of the rose garden, accompanied by her tutor and nanny Matilda, when she heard shouting. It wasn’t rare for her to hear shouting in and around the castle, but something about the shrillness of the tone made her feel a terror she never had before.
As the shouting became screaming, she recognised her mother’s voice, panicked and pleading.
She ran under the archway of the garden out onto the moat bridge and down into the orchard, ignoring Matilda’s call to come back.
The memory became especially hazy as her young brain tried to navigate the endless and seemingly giant landscape of the orchard’s trees, towering over her with a threatening presence. Through the trees she made out her mother’s feet, bare and bleeding as they were scraped across the sharp and frosty grass.
Aila scampered down between the trees until they cleared at the hedgerow, ducking under a gap in the brambles to watch as her mother’s feet, the only part of her visible through the trees, continued along into the footpaths at the edge of the estate.
Fear or obedience stopped her then – she had always been told not to go further than the orchard alone.
She stood at the edge of the orchard, watching as a man in a hooded Mac dragged her mother by the hair down the footpath towards the river.
She wanted to cry out, but she was frozen in horror, her breath making a cloud in the frigid air that she willed to fly out and get help.
Her mother and the man were out of sight before Matilda arrived, panting and angry.
“Aila!” Matilda shouted, “You must not run off like that!”
Aila stood trembling with fear, wondering how she could convey the scene that had unfolded to an adult. She hadn’t truly understood what she had seen, but years later she still came to blame herself for not remembering more and being unable to help her mother.
“Mummy…” Aila said quietly, and Matilda gently took her arm to pull her back towards the castle.
Neidpath Castle sitting tall overlooking the River Tweed, west of Peebles in the Borders of Scotland
The castle was probably built here by Simon Fraser of Oliver Castle between 1263 and 1266, while he held the office of High Sheriff of Tweeddale.[1]
Chapter One
January 1990
Fenella Douglas could count this things she truly cared about on one hand – her daughter Iona, her Irish Setter Tess, her brother John (in small doses) and money. More specifically, what money could do for her.
She had always liked the finer things in life – good food, travelling, being a member of the most exclusive clubs in the local area – and made no secret that she had married Horace Campbell for his money. Money that he turned out not to have. At 25 she had been dazzled by his expensive cars and penchant for eating out at only the best restaurants, but once they were married it soon became clear that he had squandered any inheritance he had been given by his family’s estate and was rapidly falling into debt. At 35, after ten miserable years of marriage, she found she was pregnant.
Much to her father and brother’s frustration, she divorced Horace, her pregnancy only adding to their disapproval. Her father cut her out of the will, making her younger brother heir to the estate, leading to a local scandal. Her decision to divorce Horace led locals to speculate that Iona was fathered by someone else, and she grew up with the eyes of the town on her. Despite Fenella’s hatred of her ex-husband, to spare Iona further pain, Fenella wanted Horace around for their daughter and so he remained a resident of the castle, moving to a different wing after the divorce.
John Douglas, Fenella’s brother and Aila’s father, was extremely pleased about the new living arrangement as he and Horace had become friends. In truth, he preferred him to his sister. They shared the same hobbies, mentality and a delicate mix of Scottish patriotism and worship of Mediterranean cultures.
To eleven-year old Aila’s disgust, this meant that Horace was always around, possibly more so after the divorce than when he had been married to her aunt, a divorce which she had celebrated almost as keenly as Fenella.
Weekends and school holidays were spent in their family unit, often accompanied by Edmund, the groundskeeper who John treated as part of the family.
As much as Aila enjoyed the outdoors, after years of home schooling with Matilda, weekends spent in the grounds were tedious to her.
“This statue,” Fenella said, pointing to a cherub statue, “Was designed by my grandmother, your great-grandmother, Fiona Douglas.
”
Fenella and Horace had taken the bench, John was leaning against his shooting stick and Aila and Iona were left on the damp grass. Aila had her nose curled up in disdain, whereas Iona’s face was full of wonder as it often was. Aila thought her younger cousin was quite dim-witted, but she wondered if she could have been anything else given her parentage. Fenella was pleasant to her, but her aunt’s avarice made her incapable of truly caring for Alia.
“Granda’ said that one was from a second-hand shop on Mull Road,” Aila said sarcastically, kicking her legs out in front of her and bouncing her heels against the grass. Her grandfather had died the year before, leaving the estate to his younger child, Aila’s father. She knew it would hurt her aunt to bring up her father, and part of her revelled in seeing Fenella’s face fall.
“I’m sure he was joking, Aila,” John said, his tone warning her to behave but his eyes sparkling with a little humour. He too enjoyed poking fun at Fenella. There was an underlying animosity between him and his sister, despite their years of closeness, as she felt he had what rightfully belonged to her.
“And down there,” Horace said, pointing towards the orchard, “Is where your ancestors planted the first apple trees.”
Iona, only seven, hung on her father’s every word as he continued telling the story of the orchards. Aila was not as easily impressed, especially because Horace wasn’t part of the family in her mind. As much as she hated it when Fenella did it, why should he get to tell her family history?
“Come over here,” Horace said, taking Iona’s hand and showing her some other historical aspect of the rose garden, “Look at this angel statue…”
Aila took the opportunity while their backs were turned to stand up, brush the grass from her skirt and head through the archway at the edge of the garden. She was careful not to allow her feet to make too much noise on the moat bridge and as soon as she hit the gravel, she started to skip down through the orchard.
She knew the route by memory, easily picking her way through the trees so that her family couldn’t see her, hugging the far edge of the field until it branched off into pathways. She followed the path into the woods until the tree cover was all around her and she could relax. Her father was unlikely to come looking for her – he probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone.
Ambling down the woodland path, she could hear the river at the edge of their property, the gentle babble growing louder as she followed the path round to the left.
On the path’s edge, the first flowers were springing up from the icy ground – snowdrops, their white heads hanging shyly towards the ground.
Aila bent down and started to pick them, the sticky liquid from their stems dribbling against her fingers and down onto her palms. She walked along with each fist full of them, imagining herself as a woodland fairy, spinning and twirling with her arms out. The only freedom she felt was when she was truly alone, and she was determined to revel in every minute of until her family would eventually come looking for her.
As she continued along, she felt the sap on her fingers starting to sting and she dropped the snowdrops onto the path. Upturning her palms, she saw her hands were covered in rashes, the oozing liquid itching against her skin.
She ran to the riverside, stumbling down to the edge of the path. Laying on her front she could just about reach the fast-flowing water a few feet below, letting her stinging hands dangle down. The frigid water was immediately soothing and she inched forward to try and crane down further.
As she slid closer to the river’s edge, the tuft of mud and grass gave way, sodden by rain and not able to support her. She fell head and hands first into the icy water below, hitting her forehead against the sharp rocks at the river’s bed.
Chapter Two
January 1990
Aila saw stars as her head bobbed against the riverbed, her lungs frozen in shock from the enveloping cold of the water.
The river was at least six-foot-deep at this edge, and Aila in her dazed state struggled to pull herself up. Her feet didn’t reach the bottom, but she knew how to tread water and tried to keep her head above the splashing ripples of the current.
The cold was intoxicating, penetrating every muscle and bone in her body, making it impossible for her to fight back against the current, and she quickly realised that she was being ferried along at a rapid pace. As she bobbed up to the surface, gasping for air, she could make out the spot where she had left the snowdrops fall onto the path, the sheer white against the mud of the track shining like a beacon, the only point she could focus on.
She clawed at the water with her hands, trying to scoop her way back towards the bank, but her muscles had stiffened with the cold and she was barely able to swim for a few seconds, nowhere near long enough to battle the swift current.
“Hel-” she tried to yell, the water lapping at her lips stopping her from finishing.
She started to feel sleepy, the cold and the bruise on her head working in tandem to make her give in to the flow of the water.
She started to float face down, her entire being willing her to twist round, to swim to the edge, but she couldn’t.
She started to draw water into her lungs, and the little she knew about drowning from TV and books told her she would be dead in minutes. She resigned herself to it, trying to quash the rising panic that was running through her.
The cold water pulled away from her face and she spluttered as it was replaced by equally icy air, rushing into her lungs and making her cough.
Her eyes opened and she could see the sky, and she realised she was being carried. There was an arm around her middle and she could feel someone propelling her backwards through the water.
“Da’?” she muttered weakly, looking down at the man’s hand and the angel wing signet ring on his smallest finger.
She felt herself being pulled up onto the bank, small stones and brambles digging in her back. Her rescuer rolled her over and the position made her cough, water and phlegm projecting from her lungs. She felt immediately better as she rattled in another breath, coughing more and finally sitting up to look her rescuer in the face.
“Edmund?” She said, her eyes focussing on his face. Her vision was blurry from the bump on her head, and her hands still stung. The cold was deep into her core and she was shaking all over. Edmund was her father’s friend from university, the signet ring a graduation token they and two other friends had gotten together. Now, he worked as their gamekeeper and one of the few people who her father trusted.
“You were lucky I was on the bridge,” Edmund said, taking off his large coat and wrapping it around her shoulders, “What on earth were you doing in there at this time of year – you could have died!”
“I fell,” Aila croaked, her throat and chest tight from the continued coughing.
“What happened to your hands, bairn?” Edmund said, noticing the rash, turning her palms upwards carefully.
“I was picking flowers,” Aila replied.
“Lucky I carry some first aid bits and bobs then, ey?” Edmund reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a tube of cream, gently rubbing it against her hands. “We need to get you back to the castle, your dad will be worried,” he said, putting the tube away and gesturing for her to put her arms around his neck. She obliged, and he lifted her up and started to walk towards back the way she had come.
She noticed then that his clothes, hair and beard were dripping wet, and she thought how cold he must be. She wrapped his waterproof jacket even tighter around her, and although it was damp from his swim, it was thick with insulation and was lifting her temperature back up.
Edmund walked quickly, and they made it back to the castle via the main entrance before long.
Aila was still shaking and a headache was spreading across the side of her head, but she was glad to feel the warmth on her skin as Edmund placed her on a sofa in the living area of her father’s rooms.
“Aila?” Matilda was sat in an armchair by the fire, the flames lic
king upwards in comforting warmth, “What happened?” she said to Edmund, standing up and pulling a knitted blanket off the back of the armchair and pulling it over Aila.
“Found her in the river,” Edmund said. As he crouched in front of her with Matilda, Aila could see he was clearly shivering too, his long hair sticking to his cheeks and dripping down onto the carpet. She saw fear in his eyes, either for himself or for her, and realised how grateful she was that he had jumped in after her. She wondered if her own father would have done the same, or merely stood on the riverbank telling her to toughen up.
“I’ll find John,” Matilda said, rushing out towards the exit of the living area to the rose garden.
“Are you warm enough?” Edmund said, his jaw still quivering with cold from his sodden clothes despite the fire.
“Getting there,” Aila said, pulling the knitted blanket up to her chin.
“How are your hands?” He said, turning over her palms to look at them. The areas of red were even more prominent against the bright white skin of the rest of her hands, the cold having driven out any pinkness.
“They sting a little, but I’m okay,” she replied, turning them back over and trying a smile. She wanted to stop him worrying.
“You’re a tough lass, I see that,” he said with a half-smile, standing up and heading to the armchair to sit down.
“Aila?” Her father said as he entered the room from the back door. He sounded angry, any worry or paternal love masked in rage, “What the hell were you thinking?”
He strode over to the sofa, standing over her so that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.
“I fell,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have run off like that,” he said, his cheeks red. Aila watched him with a frown as he scolded her. She thought he looked more embarrassed than worried, as if her antics were inconvenient to him.
“I know,” she said quietly. She hoped she would be spared more lecturing if she complied, as the shouting was making the headache throb violently in her temples.
The Three Lives of Aila Douglas Book 2 Page 1
