“What might at first seem like a cosy English mystery becomes a propulsive thriller with a healthy serving of gruesome murder. This book delivers a twisting tale driven by believable characters. Impossible to put down, the suspense is riveting and the twists and turns make the final reveal all the more satisfying. A stunning debut.”
Loraine Peck - author of The Second Son
“Surprising and fresh, dark but full of heart, 'The Cry of the Lake' is simply impossible to put down. From the first page you're fully captivated by the characters, and you won't want to put it down until you've found out the whole truth about what they've just done. A truly remarkable story from an author with a bold new voice.”
Cat Hickey, author of The Bellhop Only Stalks Once
The Cry of the Lake
Charlie Tyler
Copyright © 2020 by Charlie Tyler
Artwork: Adobe Stock © Lana
Design: soqoqo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat/darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Dark Edition, darkstroke. 2020
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For Mum and Dad
Acknowledgements
Lisa O’Donnell – this book would never have been written without your encouragement and support. You are a fantastic writer, teacher, mentor and friend. Thank you for believing in me.
Thank you to Anne Glennie for your early comments and to Rufus Purdy for your excellent structural advice. Thank you to Laurence and Stephanie Patterson from Darkstroke for taking me on and guiding me through this process and again to Laurence for being my eagle-eyed editor.
Thank you to the family friends who never stopped asking about my literary endeavours even though I must have bored you all to tears: The Hunts, The Tylers, The Hopkinsons, The Reas, The Murrays, The Macks, The Lyles, The Prices, The Parrs, The Reddys and The Truslers.
Thank you Team Humpback for making the start of 2020 something to look back on and treasure.
There are a few of you who have gone above and beyond what is required: Diana Hallam with whom I started this creative journey, Debbie James, Rachael and Duncan Mack, Natalie Hunt, Mary Price, Gillie Tyler, Matthew and Nicola Hopkinson, Chantal Cooper, Rhian Goodman, Viv Alston, Sarah Mettrick, Katy Ellis, Liz Ives, Hazel Neal, Sarah Koeberle, Becky Bennett, Marie Witting, Amanda Phillipson, Amanda Taylor, Emma Bargh and Christian ‘Goonie’ Totty. You are all superstars.
Thank you to my writing group the September Tribe for all your helpful comments during and after the CBC course. Sarah Beer, Robbie Glen, Kath Grimshaw and Loraine Peck; from across the globe you have kept me sane and been there to give advice on a daily basis – I’m so lucky to have met you. Thank you for your honesty, friendship and support. Sometimes, it’s lonely being a writer…
Thank you to my brilliant siblings, James and V. It goes without saying that none of the family dynamics in the book resemble our childhood! A huge thank you to Mum and Dad for championing me in absolutely everything I do – you are the best and I love you to bits.
Finally, to Will, Ollie, Gina and Hattie – thanks a million for your patience, tolerance and optimism throughout this journey. Although I may not always show it, there is nothing as important to me as you four wonderful people and I’m very blessed to have you in my life.
x
About the Author
Charlie signed with Darkstroke Books in May 2020 and The Cry of the Lake is her debut novel.
Charlie is very much a morning person - in fact, she likes nothing more than committing a fictional murder before her first coffee of the day. She studied Theology at Worcester College, Oxford and now lives in a Leicestershire village with her husband, three teenagers, golden retriever and tortoise.
The Cry of the Lake
Chapter One
Lily
Death smells of macaroons.
Amelie was slumped over the kitchen table, face in a plate of meringues. Spearmint-green flakes stuck to her left cheek. Her glazed irises remained fixed upon a vase of spiky dahlias, cut and arranged by Grace that very morning. Every tangerine petal was bug and blemish free; my sister was well known locally for her green fingers.
My body sagged and my A level folders fell onto the floor.
“About time, considering this is all your fault,” said Grace, appearing from the pantry in a veil of chlorinated steam. She threw a ball of latex at me.
Shit! This was really happening.
I peeled on the gloves, unable to stop gawping at Amelie’s violet lips.
“Would you believe it?” continued Grace. “I ran out of black sacks. Had to nip out and get some more.” She took a step closer towards me and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Where have you been?”
I reached into my tunic pocket for my phone. Grace cocked her head on one side so that her marmalade curls parted, revealing a tiny sliver of snowy hair against her scalp. She narrowed her eyes for a second then flapped her hands about her temples. “Never mind. You’re here now.” She leaned forward and pecked the top of my forehead. “We’ve got lots to be getting on with. You can start by bagging her up. The packing tape is in the top drawer of the dresser.”
Grace wafted out of the room, her strappy sandals clicking across the hallway.
For some reason Amelie wasn’t wearing any shoes.
After I finished, I stared down at my handiwork; a black shiny parcel criss-crossed with brown tape. Grace stood there, leaning on the mop, her toe tapping to some hidden melody within her mind.
“We’ll put her in the utility room for the mo.” It was as though she was talking about an old hat-stand that was going to the charity shop. We lifted Amelie’s shrink-wrapped body and set her down in front of the dirty clothes hamper.
Suddenly all the emotion of what I’d just done came flooding out of my body and I only just made it to the loo in time. I flushed then rinsed the vomit off my tongue with cold water from the washbasin. As I stared into the mirror Grace appeared behind me in the doorway, her reflected head perched upon my shoulder like a parrot.
Once again, she was Emily and I was Cassie and, in that moment, I could hear my heart thudding. I didn’t want to go back there.
“Don’t skimp on the soap. We’re meeting Tom for supper at the pub. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
I wasn’t going to be able to eat a thing; my throat felt as though someone had scraped it several times with a butter knife, but I knew I’d have to pretend there was nothing wrong or Grace would fly off into one of her epic rages.
After I scrubbed my nails, I went into the kitchen and placed my phone on the worktop. Grace snatched up my hands in her own marble palms; eyes narrowed as she examined my fingers. Then she gave a small sigh and let them out of her grasp. She curled a stray lock of hair around her index finger and with her free hand she scrolled through my phone conversations. My speech board was full of silly chatter with Flo. We were trying to decide what to wear to Monarchy Day.
“Why did you tell Mr Briggs that you needed a homework extension?”
I reached for the pad and typed a message.
I left my book at Tom’s.
There was a brief pause and she stared at me.
“Why are you crying?”
I put my fingers t
o my eyes, surprised by my wet lashes. I rubbed the tears away with the heels of my hands, but it was too late. There was a flash of movement, a thwack then warmth as the sting spread across my cheek.
“Do I have to remind you why we are doing this?” asked Grace, her voice soft and sweet.
I shook my head, trying to blink the moisture back into my eyes.
She re-tucked the stray curl behind her ear. “Do I need to tell you whose fault it is that a girl is dead?”
I placed a hand on my chest and hung my head, waiting for another slap, or worse. A few moments passed and, when I dared to look up, Grace was smiling at me from the hallway. The evening sun poured its golden light down through the lantern window, magnifying Grace’s jagged shadow and imprisoning it behind the spindles of the bannister as though she were a caged beast.
“Come on. Tom will be waiting.” Grace’s almond-shaped eyes sparkled in the gloom.
She slammed the front door and linked arms with me, leaning her head on my shoulder. “You know Mrs Hutton? The woman with a backside the size of a mountain range.” I forced a smile. I hated serving Mrs Hutton; she always spoke to me as though I was stupid and made a point of counting any change I gave her twice. “Well, she came into the café today and started telling me how the cheese scones she’d bought from me tasted a bit bland. Apparently, they weren’t up to my usual standard. Of course, I feigned horror and said I’d add more mustard powder to the mix next time.” Grace arched a pale eyebrow. “Anyway, when she turned to flounce off, I saw her skirt was tucked into her knickers.” Grace’s tinkling laugh rose into the sky. “Of course, I didn’t tell her. Silly bitch. She must have walked the High Street with her puckered thighs and parachute pants on display.”
My face ached from the effort of keeping my smile fixed.
“You want to know how I did it?” asked Grace. She flicked her crimson nails at the branch of an untidy sapling which dared to trail into our path.
I nodded and sang an Abba song in my head. The loud words in my thoughts drowned out her voice although I definitely heard her say plastic bag.
I had liked Amelie. She was one of the quiet ones in the upper sixth who hung around with the cool gang but never seemed to make it out from the side-lines. She always looked a bit lost when she was with them; as though she was trying to shrink into her blazer lining. But when she was on her own in the café, she was polite and chatty. She never displayed the awkwardness that most kids did around me. I guess Grace chose her because of her invisibility and, of course, there was the added bonus that she looked like Flo.
But I was the one who had got to know Amelie really well because, for the last six months, I was the one who had been stealing from her. I also knew that every Friday, during term time, she left the café, straight after the teatime rush, and took a short cut home along the dirt track which skirted Cupid’s Wood and ran parallel to our garden fence.
We strolled along the mesh of narrow country lanes until we got to The Bell and Bottle. It was a hot summer’s evening and the car park was busy.
As we walked across the dusty gravel, the hum of voices and laughter coming from behind the box hedge grew louder. The metal archway which joined the jade walls together was wrapped in clusters of sunny roses and, as I went under, the top of my bun caught on a stem. I paused to untangle myself and spotted Tom’s bike propped up against the wall, its basket full of schoolbooks, just ripe for the taking. When would he learn? Free at last, I stepped into the beer garden.
Tom was sitting next to a pyramid of pastel sweet peas, nursing a pint of cider. As soon as he saw Grace, he grinned, his blue eyes disappearing into a bundle of laughter lines. He clambered from his seat and held his arms out to her.
“Hello, darling,” he said. He kissed her on the lips then wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Grace grinned and smoothed her floral skirt. Tom blew me a kiss. I tried so hard to smile that I thought the skin around my mouth would rip. “Right,” he said. “What’s everyone having?”
“Alright Loser?” came a familiar voice. I spun around to see Flo; her cheeks were patched with pink and her blonde fringe was glued to her forehead. She was wearing her usual uniform; faded The Cure tee-shirt, black skinny jeans and scuffed DMs. She had an empty tray under her arm which she slammed onto the table. I reached for the nearest glass, tipped a drowning wasp into the flowerbed, and stacked it on top of another empty one. “You not got your phone on?” said Flo. I shook my head. Grace had made me leave it behind. “Doesn’t matter. Dad said you and your Mum were coming to meet him for a quick drink.”
“Girls, can I get you anything?” asked Tom.
“Large coke behind the bar for me, Dad,” said Flo. Tom nodded. “None of that diet shit either. I need sugar.”
“I’ll come and give you a hand, Tom-Tom,” said Grace.
Peeling off my cardigan and draping it over the lichen-speckled bench, I moved to the next table with Flo.
“What are you doing later this evening?” she said, her voice swallowed by a group of sixth form rugby boys, not all of whom were eighteen and whose red, shiny faces indicated they had been there for some time. When they saw me they started giggling. One square-jawed boy stumbled out of his seat and started an exaggerated mime of walking into a large sheet of glass. His clumsy efforts received a round of applause.
“So, Lily,’ he continued, ‘if you answer this out loud, I’ll give you a million pounds.” Someone made a drum roll on the table. “How do you spell…dog?”
“How do you spell fuckwit?” said Flo, giving him the finger before adding to her wobbling tower of cups. The group fell about laughing and he blustered something about her being a gobby bitch, but by then Flo had moved over to another table, me trailing after her. The stacks of plastic glasses had multiplied and there was a yucky one in the middle, full of orange liquid and floating cigarette butts.
“So, what are you doing this evening?” she said. “Quiet one?” She winked. I meant to roll my eyes at her joke, but instead gave an involuntary shiver as the image of Amelie’s body popped into my thoughts. She tilted her head in the direction of the boys. “Hey, you’re not going to take any notice of those idiots, are you?”
Just then Grace emerged holding a bottle of juice and waving a bag of crisps at me. For the split second we made eye contact she glared, but in the next moment she was throwing her head back and fake laughing.
“Go on. Join them,” said Flo. “I’m getting paid for this, you aren’t. Shall I come and get you tomorrow morning? We can go for a run or something.” I gave her a thumbs up. Flo and I were getting in shape for our beach holiday although I couldn’t really get excited about it, as I knew full well it wasn’t going to happen.
I moved to where Tom and Grace were snuggled together and sat down opposite them. Tom looked tired – his stripy shirt was crumpled, and he kept taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.
Grace pointed at the apple juice and I looked at Tom and put my hands together as if in prayer.
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Do you want to come back to ours after this?” asked Grace, darting a glance at me.
He stifled a yawn. “I’ve got so much marking to do, but I’m happy to drop you home.” Grace pouted and he tweaked the tip of her nose. “If I get it done tonight, then we can spend most of the weekend together. There’s somewhere special I want to take you on Saturday.” Grace tilted her head on one side and her left cheek dimpled as she fluttered her eyelashes. “No further questions,” said Tom, then tapped the side of his nose.
“I’m intrigued.”
Just then Annie walked through the doorway. Some of the boys saw her and nudged each other, pushing their alcoholic drinks towards those with legitimate IDs. Despite the late hour she was still in her creased trouser suit; short, dark hair sticking up at awkward angles. When she saw Tom, her face fell, just for a fleeting moment, before giving him a huge smile which showed off the tiny gap between her front teeth. She gave Grace a slow nod and Gr
ace returned her gesture with an icy smile, before planting a smacker on Tom’s cheek. Annie’s mouth twitched and she stalked off with her half pint of lager to the furthest table which was dimmed by the shadow of the wisteria.
“The one that got away,” snapped Grace.
My mouth went dry.
Tom reached out and placed a hand on Grace’s slender thigh. “The best thing that ever happened was her finishing with me because then I met you.” You had to hand it to Tom; he was saying all the right words, but he couldn’t stop himself glancing over to where Annie was sitting.
I liked how Tom never made a point of trying too hard to include me in the conversation. In fact, he’d always been very natural with me, from the very first time we met, although, he doesn’t remember our first encounter because it was such a long time ago. Back then I was Cassie and I could talk.
I tried to take my mind off Amelie by focusing on the smells around me; cigarette smoke, the sharp scent of the salt and vinegar crisps spilling out of the packet and onto the table, but all I could think about was her stiffening corpse. Even though I knew it was impossible, I kept catching glimpses of Amelie’s honeyed bob shining at me from various corners of the garden.
I shivered.
“Do you want to borrow my jacket?” said Tom. I shook my head and removed my cardigan from under my thighs and draped it around my shoulders.
Flo appeared again clutching a dozen wire-handled jars containing candles. She set them down and struck a match. The glow of the flame illuminated the underside of her chin and made her nose-ring glitter. As she set the lanterns on the tables, she caught sight of Annie and went over to say hi. They laughed and I watched Annie capping Flo’s shoulder with her palm. The lads were singing rude songs now; tapping their fingers on the edge of the table and suddenly from amongst the growls Flo’s clear soprano floated into the inky blue sky.
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