The Home
Page 25
Except my father. He survived and felt so guilty, he took the blame.
And now it’s happened again.
I hear Hope’s voice now. You mustn’t blame yourself. Not for any of it. It was my fault. It wasn’t Annie, and it wasn’t you. It was me. And Ace. It was all just a terrible accident.
She’s been doing this ever since she died – coming here and talking to me, the same way my mother does.
You mustn’t blame yourself, Lara, my mother always says. It was our fault. We should have been looking after you. I’m so sorry.
I nod slowly.
I know, I say to the air.
But it’s not true. It was my fault. I’m the one who did it and it’s too late now. It’s too late for everyone because for a little while back then beside the church, I stepped out of my head and into the world.
And I lost all control.
I didn’t run – I would never run – but I crept up to them on the jetty. They didn’t see or hear me. Hope was drunk and still stunned from Annie’s punches. Annie was too busy crying. She looked like she was about to haul Hope over the edge, if she just got herself together, stopped sobbing for long enough to do it. I could tell she hated Hope at that moment. Really, really hated her. It was a dark and real hatred, but temporary. Almost straight afterwards, she went back to loving her again, just as she used to, and all she wanted was to rewind her life and start all over again.
Hope stood close to the edge now, weakened by booze and violence. Pushing her was easy. I came up from behind and took her by surprise, and then she was spinning into the cold, dark water below. I hardly knew what I’d done. Annie dangled over the jetty, trying to reach for her, but the water was so cold, her heart was already giving in and she had no strength to fight her way back to the surface. And there were currents, too, dragging her further away.
From wherever he’d been watching, Ace Clarke raced over and plunged into the lake. For ages, he searched, diving down and coming back up again, empty-handed and breathless.
‘I can’t find her,’ he yelled to Annie.
I wanted to run then, but it was dark and I wasn’t sure of the route back to the home.
Ace swam further towards the middle of the lake, and that was when he found her, just a few short metres from the end of the jetty. Everything inside her was flooded.
He hauled her out, and took her back to Annie.
And I ran.
I can feel Hope watching me now, as I tuck the mouse back into the box with the beetles and cover them all with a blanket I made from kitchen paper. I like to look after the dead, to make it up to them. I place the lid back on the box and return the box to the shelf.
Rest in peace, I say.
Hope says, Will you be OK now?
Yes.
What are you going to do?
I take myself to the window seat and look out over the fells, then curl myself into a ball and rest my head on my knees, returning to the world that is safe and dark and silent.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone at Orenda Books for making this novel the best it could be, and for waiting. And waiting…
Thank you to my agent, Hattie Grunewald, for ever-sound advice.
Thank you to Emily Benson-Muir for dealing with my constant, possibly ridiculous, questions about police procedure.
Thank you to Newcastle Food Bank for welcoming me as a volunteer and fuelling the outrage that partially inspired some of the scenes in this book.
Thank you to the book bloggers, especially Anne Cater, who passionately and tirelessly promote the work of writers.
Thank you to my lovely bunch of lovely friends, who’ve put up with me moaning about this book endlessly and have continued to tell me they’re sure it’s not that bad: Jo, Fi, Katherine, Emma, Hannah and Deb.
Thank you, Dad and Penny, for doing too much for us.
Thank you, Mum and Keith, for the holidays and the kitchen.
Thank you Clay, Bonnie and Sam for making sure writing never gets in the way of the important stuff, like cleaning the kitchen and mopping up wee.
And thank you, Twitter.
And for anyone who is offended I’ve left you out the acknowledgements. Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarah Stovell was born in 1977 and spent most of her life in the Home Counties before a season working in a remote North Yorkshire youth hostel made her realise she was a northerner at heart. She now lives in Northumberland with her partner and two children and is a lecturer in Creative Writing at Lincoln University. Her debut psychological thriller, Exquisite, was called ‘the book of the summer’ by the Sunday Times.
Follow Sarah on Twitter @sarahlovescrime.
Copyright
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books, 2020
Copyright © Sarah Stovell, 2020
Sarah Stovell has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–912374–73–1
eISBN 978–1–912374–74–8