Desperation Point
Page 26
“We can go shopping any time.”
“Oh, Lindsay, you know I don't like the sun. It brings me out in hives. Besides, what about sand flies?”
Lindsay sank into the chair and stuck out her lower lip. She didn’t care about sand flies. She wanted to go swimming.
“Maybe your brother can take you,” her mother suggested.
Across the table, Todd glanced up from his phone and snorted. “Don't get me involved.”
“I thought you'd be first on the beach,” Donna said. “I thought that’s why you’ve been working out so much lately – so you can show off your abs to the girls.”
Lindsay wrinkled her face. “Gross.”
“Shut it, brat.” Todd shifted his attention back to his phone. “Anyway, I can’t tomorrow because I'm meeting some friends.”
“What friends?” Lindsay said. “You don't know anyone down here.”
“Mind your own business.”
Lindsay sighed and picked up her fork again. “Must be a girl, then. Maybe she'll take me to the beach.”
“What girl?” their mother asked. “When have you met some girl?”
Todd rolled his eyes. “There’s no girl! We've been coming here for five years now. There’s a bunch of guys I’m friends with and tomorrow we’re going surf –”
He stopped short. Lindsay sat up, eyes sparkling.
“Surfing? You’re going to the beach? Then I can go with you.”
“No way. I don’t want you hanging around and bringing down the mood.”
“I won’t, I promise. I won’t even talk to your so-called friends! Mum, please say I can go with him?”
She stared at her mother with begging eyes. Donna sipped her wine.
“Take your sister with you,” she said.
Todd shook his head. “Forget it.”
“Please, Todd!” Lindsay whined. “I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour and I won't try to embarrass you or anything.”
“You'd embarrass me just by being there.”
Lindsay narrowed her eyes. Why did big brothers always suck?
At the far end of the table, Paul Church, who had been quiet until now, glanced up from his phone.
“Take your sister with you,” he said.
Todd’s face reddened. “No, that’s not fair. I –”
“It’s not up for debate. You want to be treated like an adult, you need to act like one. Take some responsibility.”
Lindsay watched as her brother’s face crumpled, then twisted into a grimace. He glowered at her across the table. Lindsay swallowed and stared at her food. Great, she thought. Now I’m going to get another dead arm. But at least she was going to the beach.
Picking up her fork again, she speared some chicken and popped it into her mouth. It tasted gross but she swallowed it down. Tomorrow, when she was at the beach, she’d go to the burger bar on the seafront and use some of her pocket money to get a big, fat, greasy hamburger. Maybe she’d even get one for Todd, so he didn’t hate her so much for ruining his day.
At the end of the table, Donna picked up her wine glass and returned to staring unhappily at her husband. Todd sat, silently seething and staring at his phone like he wanted to smash it into smithereens. Paul had already zoned out from his family and still hadn’t touched a bite of his meal.
The drone of the front door buzzer cut through the silence.
In unison, the Church family looked up, stared at each other, then turned their heads in the direction of the open dining room door.
“Who could that be?” Donna said but made no move to find out.
Paul shook his head. “Probably charity collectors. They'll try their luck anywhere. Just ignore it.”
Lindsay didn't want to ignore it. No one ever came knocking at the door of their holiday home. Probably because it stood empty fifty weeks of the year. She wondered who it could be. She stood, scraping her chair on the polished floorboards.
“I'll get it,” she said.
Her father arched an eyebrow. “You’ll do no such thing. Sit down and eat your dinner.”
Lindsay sat down, glancing at her father’s untouched plate.
The door buzzer sounded again.
“What if it’s one of the neighbours?” Donna said. “I don't want to seem rude...”
Her husband heaved his shoulders. “You don't even know the neighbours. Besides, half of the houses around here are holiday homes. They’re probably empty.”
Whoever was at the door started knocking, making them all look up again.
Paul muttered something under his breath and shook his head. “Todd, make yourself useful and answer the door.”
Todd opened his mouth to protest. A withering look from his father made him shut it again. Huffing, he grabbed his phone from the table and stood up.
Lindsay watched him stomp across the floorboards, then listened to his feet stomp along the hall. A second later, she heard the snap of the door latch as Todd opened the front door.
And then... Nothing.
She waited to hear voices. But there were none. Which was weird. She waited a few seconds more, then glanced at her mother, who shrugged a shoulder and stared at Lindsay’s father. The silence continued.
“Who is it, Todd?” Donna called. All eyes were fixed on the open dining room door. A stillness fell over the room that was as hot and stifling as a blanket on a summer’s day. Lindsay shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling as if her clothes were too small and her skin had been stung by nettles. She looked at her mother and father again, noticing their faces shared the same perplexed expression.
“Todd?” Donna called out. She shot another uncertain look at Paul, who shrugged but made no move to get up.
Lindsay's gaze returned to the open door, the silence rushing in like rolls of thunder. Her mother got to her feet.
They heard movement from out in the hall; footsteps coming towards them. Todd was not alone.
Lindsay watched as her brother entered the room.
Except it wasn't Todd.
It was the Devil.
Eyes growing wide, Lindsay stared at the man standing in the doorway, taking in his dark clothing and the terrifying mask that hid his features. It was the Devil’s face. Red skin. Yellow, reptilian eyes. A wicked grin brimming with shark’s teeth that stretched all the way up to two barbed horns.
The Church family stared at the man. Confusion quickly turned into fear. Fear into terror. Then Lindsay's mother's hands flew up to her mouth and her father's jaw fell open. Frozen, Lindsay just stared, her eyes moving from the horrific mask to the glistening butcher's knife in the man's hand.
More footsteps. Three more people entered the room. All dressed in the same dark clothing. All wearing the face of the Devil. All clutching sharp blades.
Paul slowly got to his feet.
“What is this?” His voice trembled and he didn’t sound at all like Lindsay's father.
The four devils stood silently in the doorway, their red masks grinning from ear to ear.
Across the table, Donna’s complexion had turned a deathly grey.
“Todd?” she whispered. “Where is Todd?”
“I said, what is this?” Paul’s voice was louder this time. He was trying to regain some control. “Where's my son?”
Lindsay's eyes flicked back to the four intruders. An invisible hand pressed down on her bladder.
Slowly, their leader lifted a finger to his masked mouth.
“Shhhhh...”
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DEAR READER
DESPERATION POINT ALMOST didn’t happen. I’d been experiencing pain and inflammation in my hands and wrists for almost a year, which I’d put down to repetitive strain from excessive typing. But in October of 2017, a few weeks into writing Desperation Point, fatigue began to set in and the pain spread from my hands to my feet, knees, and chest. It became so unbearable that I could no
longer write.
A hospital trip diagnosed me with the incurable autoimmune disease Psoriatic Arthritis. Which was a bummer. With fingers the size of sausages, fatigue so bad I could hardly get out of bed on the worst days, and brain fog that left me unable to write a word, I was convinced my career as an author was over.
But we live in a miraculous time of medicine and technology. Now, months later, I take daily medication that alleviates most of the pain, fatigue, and brain fog. Now, I use voice-to-text dictation software that allows me to write my books via the spoken word and avoid the debilitating pain caused by typing.
Now, despite several damaged joints, I still get to be an author. And I’m incredibly grateful. Not just for the doctors who gave me my life back. Not just for my partner, family, and friends who got me through some pretty dark times. But also, for my readers.
Thank you for the emails and messages of support. Thank you for being patient when I told you the book was going to be late and I had to cancel the pre-order indefinitely. Thank you for still taking a chance on me. Thank you for reading this book. Because it almost didn’t happen. But because of your encouragement and enthusiasm for the Devil’s Cove series, it did.
Malcolm.
August 2018.
BOOKS BY MALCOLM RICHARDS
Visit the author’s website for a complete list of his thrillers:
https://www.malcolmrichardsauthor.com/book-list
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A HUGE THANK YOU TO my editor, Natasha Orme, whose insight helped to shape this book into a snarling beast with a broken heart. And to cover designer, J. Caleb Clark, for his breathtaking and haunting visuals. To my team of reader/reviewers: your ongoing enthusiasm and support is greatly appreciated (especially when it comes to spotting those leftover typos!). And lastly, to Xander, whose relentless encouragement, support, and daily doses of sarcasm have been just as powerful as the meds. Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CORNISH BORN MALCOLM Richards writes thrillers about everyday people caught up in dangerous situations. He is the author of the award-nominated Devil's Cove trilogy, set in a Cornish coastal town with a terrifying secret. Writing as M.J. Richards, he is the author of the Emily Swanson series, in which the titular sleuth suffers from PTSD.
His first book, The Hiding House, was published in 2012 and tells the story of two young siblings uncovering a viper's nest of family secrets after being left alone in their grandmother's isolated woodland home.
Previously, he worked for several years in the special education sector, teaching and supporting inner-city children in London with complex emotional and developmental needs. He now lives in Somerset with his partner and a cat called Sukey.
www.malcolmrichardsauthor.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Storm House Books
Copyright © 2018 Malcolm Richards
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by www.natashaorme.com
Cover design by www.jcalebdesign.com
www.malcolmrichardsauthor.com