by Kate Bradley
Praise for
‘Fast-paced’
C. J. TUDOR
‘An addictive, original and brilliantly twisty thriller’
T. M. LOGAN
‘In this realistic portrayal of a family in turmoil, this is not so much a psych thriller, but a drama of tangled, tragic lives. Utterly compelling’
SUSI HOLLIDAY
‘Compulsive, chilling and so clever. I fell into every single trap Kate Bradley set. A dizzyingly fast-paced thriller oozing with mystery, divided loyalties and relationships strained to snapping point’
DIANE JEFFREY
‘A dark and deliciously deceptive tale of a broken family, that thrills, shocks and astounds in equal measure’
CHRIS MCGEORGE
‘What I Did gripped me from the opening scene . . . the ride Kate Bradley takes the readers on is masterful’
MARA TIMON
‘An addictive and emotional psychological thriller . . . This intense, heart-racing story kept me reading through the night’
SHARON DEMPSEY
‘If you enjoy psychological thrillers that will have your heart racing and are jam-packed with danger, then this is your book. Loved it!’
CARLA KOVACH
‘A fast-paced, suspenseful thriller that kept me guessing to the very end . . . There was hardly time to catch my breath on this emotionally-engrossing roller-coaster of a read’
WENDY CLARKE
For my sons, Cooper and Casper
You’re not just my sons: you’re my sunshine
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract from To Keep You Safe
About the Author
Copyright
one:
– now –
I can’t see anything. I want to open my eyes, but it feels too much effort and I’m worried it’ll hurt. Everything hurts.
I feel worried, I realise – not just about the pain, but about something else. I can hear . . . ticking. A bomb? Is that what’s making me nervous? No . . . that’s not quite right. I think it’s dangerous, but not a bomb. Grey is all around me, but is receding, ebbing away, so I wait.
I’m still in nothingness but now there’s a change. Now I don’t feel nervous . . . it is more than that . . . I feel afraid. What of? I’m not sure. My thoughts are heavy, slow and I know there’s something wrong with me.
Then, like a torch beam coming closer in the dark, I realise my head hurts. At the back. This pain grows greater until it shines above all others. This is why I can’t think properly. Perhaps I’ve been attacked? Is that why I’m afraid? I try to touch my head but I can’t.
I can’t move. This discovery is shocking and I lie still in the grey soup that is my thinking. I know there’s something else I need to remember. My thoughts are leaden and slow. It’s very, very hard.
Think, Lisa! I realise I know my name. I latch on to that. I am Lisa. I am Lisa and I realise my right cheekbone is cold and numb. I can smell the pine disinfectant I used yesterday and with it I understand that I’m lying on the slate tiles of my kitchen floor.
Abruptly, I open my eyes. With that, comes clarity in my thinking. Until now I’ve been half-unconscious, but I’m now present. The pain now shines like a lighthouse. I turn my head away from it and see the underside of my kitchen cabinet.
I am Lisa and I am in pain and I am lying on my kitchen floor and I can’t move my body at all and I am scared because something has gone badly, badly wrong but I can’t remember what it is and if I don’t remember, then I will run out of time – is this true? Do I only have a certain amount of time?
Yes.
I have to be quick but maybe it’s too late already.
I hear something: I wait . . . it’s a light, metallic sound. Mournful. I know that sound. It’s a wind chime – my wind chime. I’m home. At the cottage in Hereford.
Now I hear something new. I hear screaming. I think: Yes, this is what I was waiting for. I knew the screaming would start and now it has.
I’m too late to save him.
Jack!
And I remember everything.
two:
– before –
I was careful to arrive before the estate agent. I’d left Jack asleep in the car with all the windows and doors open to give him a breeze. I was so glad to get the chance to explore and make up my own mind before any sales spiel.
I had gradually moved further and further away from the cottage at the top of the hill and had dared to walk down the long drive until I stood beneath the broad oak tree. From here, I could see right up to the cottage, and downwards until the drive swept out of sight behind rhododendrons to where I knew it met the quiet country lane below.
I wanted to be there first so I could get a sense of the place; it was a big decision for me to move somewhere so isolated.
I stood and realised just how absent people were, here. There wasn’t a sound from anyone – not even a child playing or a distant car. Only nature seemed alive here. The end-of-summer leaves muttered above me, caught in the too-light-for-the-heat breeze. Somewhere a cricket lazily clicked its slow dry rasps, oppressed by the swelter. A war mongering wasp interrogated me. But there were no human sounds. The absence of people, to a town girl like me, felt stifling.
I must’ve been standing very still, because a woodpigeon landed heavily in the low branch above me. Listening to the pigeon’s cooing call I told myself firmly that we could live here. That we could be happy here. Here the isolation would give us the peace we so badly needed.
I had never been to Hereford until that morning, when seven-year-old Jack and I gazed in awe as we drove over the Severn Bridge at daw
n; the huge expanse of water beneath felt like a tangible delineation (no, no, not the River Styx) between the danger of the past and the safety of the future. As the sun broke the horizon, pink shepherd-warning skies reflected onto the great stretch of water below.
‘Hereford,’ I told Jack, ‘is the least populated county in England.’ I didn’t add: And therefore the perfect choice for us to start again. He was silent, but I felt the crossing was like a rebirth, like we were leaving the death of our life before and crossing into something new. I felt it and I hope that he did too.
If this didn’t work for us, I didn’t know what we would do because I knew that we couldn’t keep moving – I could see so clearly how much it was killing Jack. After we had run, I wasn’t sure where to go, so we simply moved around, staying in three hotels in three months. But his anxiety had changed from his previous mild stutter into stomach aches and bitten nails. This cottage in Herefordshire had a lot to deliver: it had to be perfect. Jack couldn’t suffer any more.
I wasn’t sure I could suffer any more change, either. I was like a vase, broken all the way to the base, superglued up, but no longer confident of holding water.
This move had to work.
I looked around, wanting to see the view from my prospective new home. I could see across the hills for miles; my gaze drawn to the gentle swell of the hills and dipping valleys. But this summer there was very little green; instead it was a palate of pale brown; dust beige and muted gold. Although still only July, several weather records had already been broken and the fields were scorched and thirsty; the crops dying. Radio programmes dwelled on environmental anxieties; I wanted to, but I was afraid of something more immediate.
I could only think of Him.
But he wouldn’t find us here; it was too remote.
Beyond the cottage gardens it turned back to farming fields. In the distance, perhaps a couple of miles away, I could see a single farmhouse. Beyond, that, an empty nothing.
I realised that, living here, Jack and I could go for weeks without seeing anyone. We could become shadows, unseen and safe.
A little settled, I turned my attention to what I hoped would be our new home. The stretch of the driveway suggested that there might be a grand house at the top, but there wasn’t; instead there was a small brick cottage of simple design. Its roof was low, like a hat that’s been pulled down too low on a head, with two eaves popping out at each end. Although I’d never been in it, I knew it had two bedrooms. I had assumed they were both upstairs, but now, seeing the smallness of it, I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t know because there was no floor layout on Rightmove and I was glad: it meant that no one could Google it and find out.
Another plus, I realised, was that I could hear the sound of the estate agent’s car before I could see it. A silver Micra pulled into view, passed the scrub of small trees and stopped in front of me. A young man, with the engine still running, lowered the window: ‘Miss Law?’
‘Lisa, please.’
‘Do you want a lift up to the cottage?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll walk up. I was just having a poke around.’
He drove on to the cottage and I strode up to meet him.
‘Great for views!’ he said, opening his door. ‘You’ll be king of the hill up here!’
And it was. The two acres of garden fell gently on all sides, with a flattish lawn to the west of the cottage and on the east, a sloped, shrubby area with a steeper gradient down to the road. The gardens could give Jack something idyllic in his childhood, I thought – perhaps the access to nature would make up for losing his school friends.
The man grabbed his iPad from the passenger seat, just as his phone rang. ‘I’ll ignore it.’
‘I don’t mind if you take it,’ I said, wanting to let Jack sleep on just a few minutes more. ‘I’ll walk around the property.’ To the right of the cottage, a bay window overlooked the best views of the valley. Neglected flower beds edged the walls. I wondered if I would ever be the kind of person to rescue them – I wanted to, I wanted so much to be better than I had been.
I knew as I listened to the gentle, mournful sound of the wind-chime tied outside the kitchen window, I knew we could be happy here.
Here, we could finally be safe.
three:
– before –
Although I really wanted to see inside the cottage, I realised with a dragging anxiety that I would now have to wake a sweaty Jack who was stretched out over the back seat of our old Volvo. The journey had been long and the air con wasn’t working, and he’d nodded off. I’d left all the doors open and had been careful to park in the shade. But he’d still be hot on waking; we were all hot, too hot and the suffocating heat felt like it’d already lasted forever.
I debated leaving Jack asleep in the car: it would be so much easier to look around this cottage on my own. Getting the cottage was such a big decision and I wished again that I had someone to bounce big decisions off. For a moment I missed my mother; the longing for her – or maybe just another adult to talk to – was so overwhelming, I felt glad for the privacy of my sunglasses.
‘Shall we get started?’ The estate agent opened the front door and disappeared into the darkness of the cottage.
I had to follow. I trailed obediently after him into the cottage, leaving Jack alone. Guilt snagged like skin on a fish hook, my mind whispering: Don’t leave him! You have to guard him!
Stop it, Lisa, I told myself. I wanted to get a grip on my anxiety. How could I hold the estate agent up? He’d have another appointment lined up after this one, and getting Jack up and settled, ready for a viewing, would take too long. I regretted not being more organised.
This move would be a fresh start for us both; not just to give Jack stability, but to give me a chance at being a better parent. Someone organised, thoughtful, prepared; someone who planned ahead. Someone who filled lunchboxes with flapjacks carefully covered with beeswax squares; someone who folded their children’s clothes carefully into drawers rather than wedging them in to fit; someone who patiently walked their children round National Trust gardens.
I stepped into the low-ceilinged hall, leaving Jack behind. I stood in the square room, trying to breathe slowly, not feeling like the calm parent of National Trust gardens or neat drawers. Instead, I felt compulsive and wild. The urge to dart back and get Jack was overwhelming. But it was too late – the viewing had already started. Lisa, I told myself: focus. Be better. If it isn’t safe here, my rational self countered, then why are we moving here?
I inhaled; exhaled, centred myself.
I made myself look around. The room was small, with a diamond-leaded window on one wall and another small window by the oak front door. It smelt of lavender, old stone and dust. The estate agent talked about the versatility of the room, but I wasn’t really listening. Instead I looked out of the small window. The car doors were open just as I had left them and I could see Jack’s hand thrown back, his leg spilling over the side of the seat.
I relaxed a little.
I had spent many nights contemplating the facts. Although school would be a risk too far, I knew that I’d have to combat Jack’s growing anxiety by allowing him more freedom. Here, I thought, checking again through the window, he could play in the beautiful garden without me constantly watching him.
‘Would you like to see another room now?’
I hesitated – I had barely taken this one in. But as I stood there, I made a quick judgement that I could make it a welcoming place, right for me and Jack.
‘Could I see the kitchen, please?
He led me into the room I always thought of as the most important. It had a family-sized table in the middle and a half-glazed door to the garden, windows on two walls and a plank door. I was charmed to see a baby-blue Aga. ‘Does it work?’ I asked as I placed my palm on its cool top.
‘All gas safety checks are in order – you’ll just need to turn it on.’ He pointed to the far side of the kitchen: ‘Gas hob and oven too, if you prefer. Ve
ry good to have the option when it’s as warm as this.’
Above the hearth was a large clock. The ticking was loud – too loud in the small space, but I liked it, and I liked everything about the kitchen, including the slate tiles on the floor. I slipped my foot out of my flip-flop and pressed my sole against the stone. It felt icy cold. I shivered. After such hot days and nights for the last month, it felt good.
I also loved the low ceilings and thick walls; I realised that rather than feeling exposed and vulnerable here in the middle of nowhere, I could actually feel safe. The fact that I had left Jack out of my sight in broad daylight for the first time in forever – even if I hadn’t wanted to – felt like a major triumph.
I started to realise that the plan to come to Herefordshire, which had started as a panicked Google search for the most isolated place in England, and then a search for a furnished and remote cottage, might prove not to be just a panic-made decision, but actually a good move. ‘I could live here,’ I murmured to myself.
‘I’m sorry?’
I smiled at him: ‘It’s a lovely room.’ I touched the Aga again and imagined it warm and drying wet coats after brisk walks; perhaps we could even get a dog – Winston – no. We could never, ever get a dog – I shivered, thinking, remembering his brown loving eyes, the feel of his leather lead in my hand.
We might never be able to achieve family perfection, but perhaps here, perhaps surrounded by these rolling gentle hills, Jack and I could find what we so desperately needed.
A loud tapping sound brought me back. Someone at the window. Both the estate agent and I jumped at the unexpected noise.
But it wasn’t a person, it was a hornet. It was inside, trapped, whirring around, suddenly inches from us. A tiger-striped bullet, it raged against the diamond-leaded glass, its buzzing rude and loutish. What had it been doing so silently before now?
The boy-man stepped back, alarmed. ‘Whoa! It’s massive!’
He was afraid, I could see that. I’d never liked insects – particularly the stinging kind – but his fear made me feel maternalistic and I wanted to save him. I stepped closer to the window and laid my hand on the cool marble worktop. The kitchen might be dated with oak cabinets, but someone, a long time ago, invested in this little room. Holding my breath, I tried to open the window, but the catch was stuck.