Dark Corners
Page 27
Finishing my wine quickly I double-checked the safe, something I did two or three times a night now, turned off all the lights, locked the door, and stepped into the night. I looked left and right, making sure I was alone. Walking as fast as I could with only one good leg to the station, I boarded the Tube and sighed with relief. I felt safe in a crowd. As I got off at my stop, my phone pinged, a message from Dad, asking how my day was. I messaged back telling him it was long and a good one, then I asked how he was. Since the mine, Dad had been given a clean bill of health. His thyroid condition – which had led to his memory issues – was now under control with simple medication. Baz made sure he took it, just as he promised. He was a good man, a good doctor, just forced into a dark corner by my actions when we were young.
Dad messaged again.
Are you busy next weekend, I was thinking I could come and visit?
I have to work Saturday, but you’re more than welcome.
I can help out in the shop if you like?
I’d really like that. Thanks, Dad.
He replied one last time, saying he couldn’t wait, saying he loved me, and I couldn’t help but well up a little. Those two weeks last year were awful, but Dad and I were close again, like when I was young. Maybe it was worth it all for that.
After a long and painful walk, I made it home and, hobbling through my hallway, I walked into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on before sitting at the kitchen table. My foot throbbed from work and the walk home from the station. But slowly I was beginning to heal. I drank my tea in silence. The events of last year still played heavily on my mind, as did the secrets I could never tell.
Finishing my tea, I showered and got myself ready for bed. Before I could settle, I had to check outside. Stepping into the living room I pulled back the curtain and looked onto the street. It was quiet. Satisfied, I hobbled into the bedroom and did the same to look out back. Behind the flat was a small patch of woodland – which I had once adored. Now I wished they would pull all the trees down. Looking out there always made me feel uneasy. I knew I’d not settle if I didn’t. Again, quiet. I let the curtain go, and out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. Grabbing the curtain once more, I looked. Beside one of the tall hazel trees was a shape. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, another cracked ceiling moment. But the shape moved, and out stepped a person. A long, dark coat. Heavy boots. They raised a finger to their lips.
Shhhhh.
I panicked, stubbled backwards and fell onto my bed. Cursing, I got up and looked again – there was no one there. Whoever it was, if there had been anyone there at all, had vanished like a ghost.
But I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I would like to thank my incredible agent, Hayley Steed. Hayley, without your guidance, support and calming influence, I’d be lost at times. This book is the first in our journey together, and because of you, I feel there has been a shift in my writing process. Here’s to many, many more! And to the team at Madeleine Milburn Agency, thank you for having me as part of the wonderful family.
I would like to thank my editors, Dominic Wakeford, who worked with me developing Dark Corners, for asking the tough questions and helping me open up Neve’s story, and to Katie Seaman, who has helped me finalise the journey and bring Dark Corners to life as a book. I hope you know how much I value your ideas, suggestions and energy. And thank you to Victoria Moynes and Jon Appleton – your tireless efforts in making Dark Corners as good as it can be will never be forgotten. I’m truly honoured to have such support.
Lisa Milton, I’m blessed to be a part of the HQ family, and I’m truly grateful to you.
Another thank you is needed to my lovely writer buddies who keep me going through the tough times. So, in no particular order: John Marrs, Louise Jensen, Phoebe Morgan, Lisa Hall, Sarah Bennett, Nicci Cloke – thanks guys. You’re all blooming legends in my eyes and I feel blessed to be around so many incredibly talented people. Also, thank you to every writer I’ve spoken with over the past year. I’ve not worked in an environment where people are so lovely, kind, supportive and nurturing before.
To Tracy Fenton and the team of FaceBook’s, The Book Club (TBC), you are champions of so many writers, I feel blessed to be one of them. Thank you.
To Wendy Clarke and The Fiction Café Book Club. Thank you for your support and generosity. You have been such champions of the work I do since I first popped up with Our Little Secret, I will always be grateful to the club.
The same thank you needs to be said to the Bertie Arms Book Club. My visits have now become a part of my identity as an author. I cannot wait to share Dark Corners with you all.
To my friends, Darren Maddison, John Shields, Babs and Steve Burton, the Futter’s, the Kelly’s, Richard Taylor, Stephen Gildersleve, Catherine and Tony Mayer and Faye Reeves. Without knowing, your interest, questions and support have helped me not lose sight of the story I really wanted to tell.
A massive thank you needs to be said to the people of New Clipstone. When I visited to research the mine that Dark Corners is inspired by, you were gracious with your stories, and shared more than I could have hoped for.
To you, the readers. The support you have shown and kind words you have shared has been overwhelming and wonderful, without the retweets, posts in book clubs and word of mouth discussions I wouldn’t be in the place where I am now.
To my family, especially Helen, you ride this roller-coaster with me, and are there for all of the good bits, and all of the challenges. The ride wouldn’t be the same without you.
Finally, to Ben. I’ve said this more than once, but I need to say it again. Without you there would be no motivation, no determination and no inspiration. I will forever try to repay you for this.
If you enjoyed Dark Corners don’t miss the Darren O’Sullivan’s Closer Than You Think
Click Here to Purchase
Read more thrillers from Darren O’Sullivan, the master of the killer twist
Our Little Secret
A deserted train station: A man waits. A woman watches.
Chris is ready to join his wife. He’s planned this moment for nearly a year. The date. The time. But he hadn’t factored in Sarah.
So when Sarah walks on to the platform and sees a man swaying at the edge she assumes he’s just had too much to drink. What she doesn’t expect is to stop a suicide.
As Sarah becomes obsessed with discovering the secrets that Chris is clearly hiding, he becomes obsessed with stopping her, protecting her.
But there are some secrets that are meant to stay buried …
Close Your Eyes
He doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t know his secret.
When Daniel woke up from a coma he had no recollection of the life he lived before. Now, fourteen years later, he’s being forced to remember.
A phone call in the middle of the night demands he return what he stole – but Daniel has no idea what it could be, or who the person on the other end is. He has been given one warning, if he doesn’t find out his family will be murdered.
Rachael needs to protect her son. Trapped with no way out she will do anything to ensure they survive. But sometimes mothers can’t save their children and her only hope is Daniel’s memory.
Closer Than You Think
He’s watching. She’s waiting.
Having barely escaped the clutches of a serial killer, Claire Moore has struggled to rebuild her life. After her terrifying encounter with the man the media dubbed The Black-Out Killer, she became an overnight celebrity: a symbol of hope and survival in the face of pure evil. And then the killings stopped.
Now ten years have passed, and Claire remains traumatised by her brush with death. Though she has a loving and supportive family around her, what happened that night continues to haunt her still.
Just when things are starting to improve, there is a power cut; a house fire; another victim found killed in the same way as before.
Keep reading for the first chapter …
Prologue
28th August 2018
Bethesda, North Wales
The eighth
He once read somewhere that people become who they are based on their environment and experiences. Their childhood memories, the interactions with friends and profound moments, good and bad, create the building blocks of existence, and once those blocks are set, they are solid, like a castle wall. Some people are kind, some passionate, some victors, some victims. Some are violent. He knew that more than most. And although people couldn’t fundamentally change, he knew, from personal experience, they could evolve. Transform. A switch could be thrown, showing a different way to be, without really being any different at all. It happened in nature: the caterpillar doesn’t change its DNA when it becomes a butterfly, but unlocks a part of itself that has lain dormant, patiently waiting for the right moment to create a cocoon. He had experienced several evolutions which had altered the direction of his thoughts and actions. But these didn’t change who he was. He would always be someone who killed.
And it wouldn’t be long before he would kill again. A matter of an hour or so. He wanted to fulfil his purpose now, but knew he had to wait, be patient, and watch. Standing in the shadow of a wide tree, he looked into the eighth’s bedroom window, waiting to see her enter, and he thought about when he would be in that room with her just before he ended her life. He knew she would panic and cry and scream before he sedated and killed her, because they always did.
He had planned to be outside her house after dark. But, with it being such a long time since he had done the one thing that made him feel alive, the thing that made him feel like he was flying, he arrived early and took time to enjoy that forgotten sense of anticipation. This also gave him a moment to reflect on the last person he’d failed to kill in this manner. A woman named Claire Moore. She played on his mind more than she should. The one that got away, so to speak.
Before coming to Bethesda, he’d felt compelled to write a letter to Claire. He wanted to explain the reasons for his absence from the world. He revealed to her that after their eventful night a decade before, he needed to regroup, re-evaluate. After her, he never intended to kill in the same manner as he would tonight. But then he discovered she was moving on, leaving that night, their night, in May of 2008 behind. He wrote that he had learnt she was becoming the same person he felt the need to visit before. Which told him she was forgetting him, and he didn’t want his last survivor to forget him, because if she did, everyone else would.
He knew, one day, she would read his letter. Perhaps, before then, he would write more. If so, he would let her read them all, right before he ended her life. He could have killed Claire Moore several times in the past few months but decided not to. He wanted to wait, savour the moment. He wanted her to know him as well as he knew her, and to understand his reasons.
He wanted to be able to taste the connection they once shared on the tip of his tongue, as the light in her eyes faded. Claire Moore would die, as she nearly did by his hand all those years ago, but not yet, not until he was in buried in the centre of her soul once more. He wanted every voice to sound like his, every shadow to be one cast by his frame blocking the light. It was the reason he was in Bethesda, and why the woman whose window he looked into would die.
The knowledge of what would happen within the next hour, and what would follow over the coming weeks – the speculation, the fear – coursed through his veins so hard his skin itched. He knew he needed to focus, to contain his excitement, until night staked its claim over the day. He centred on his breathing, regulated his heart rate. He pushed thoughts of what he would do to the woman in the house opposite him out of his head.
Then she, the eighth, walked into her bedroom. He watched her step out of her work clothes, her light skirt falling effortlessly around her ankles. He enjoyed the sight of her slim frame in just her underwear, and the tingle that carried from behind his eyes to his crotch. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a very long time. There had been plenty of kills since 2008, but not one reignited the fire he remembered from a decade before. For the past ten years, when the itch had been unbearable, he had scratched it discreetly, and taken those no one cared for. The old and alone, the homeless, the migrant. But this one was to be a spectacle, like in those wonderful days in Ireland, putting him back where he belonged, in people’s minds, in Claire’s mind – a destructive force touching everyone like cancer.
He missed being someone who was feared. In the days when a simple power outage caused widespread terror, he would often kill the electricity to a street, just to watch people panic, thinking they would be next. He especially enjoyed one occasion, three months after that night with Claire Moore, when a storm swept off the Atlantic and cut the power in Shannon. It caused the whole town to descend into terror, thinking he had visited. Police took to the streets, people locked their doors. News helicopters circled, expecting to see a house fire in the aftermath – his other calling card. But there was no fire, no death as he was in Greece on that day, on the island of Rhodes, enjoying the sunshine without a care in the world. He intended that trip to be one in which he learnt to be the man he would become, the man he had evolved into. But, seeing the news, the terror coming out of Ireland, drove the desire to kill once more. It was there, on the sun-bleached Aegean coast, that his metamorphosis began, as he felt a more primal calling. He needed to kill, not because it was his purpose, but for the thrill of it. After a brief search he found his victim, an unaccompanied male who had survived the Mediterranean Sea to start a new life in Europe, and he ended his life, luxuriating in the power he felt while doing so.
But the power didn’t last long, because no one cared about this man’s death. And upon returning home to Ireland, he could sense he was being forgotten. Over time, only the areas he had visited remembered the horror of those months between April 2006 and May 2008. To try and cling on to his power, he would still toy with their memories, killing the electricity from time to time, just to see the panic unfold. He would walk through the town and watch as whole families squashed together in one candlelit room. But time heals all wounds, and their outright terror diminished to a quiet readiness. Eventually, a power cut became just an annoyance once more.
The eighth hadn’t closed her bathroom door and he could see as she unclipped her bra and dropped it on the floor. He glimpsed her breasts, and the tingle intensified. But he didn’t want to fuck her; the very idea was repugnant to him. His pleasure came from somewhere else.
He visualised his approach as he waited for the sun to set. Once darkness held, he would go to the single distribution substation. It was less than two hundred metres away, and he knew it supplied the power to her house, along with a few hundred others. The enclosed five-metre wall containing the substation was built in the Nineties, along with the houses it supplied, and was secured with a padlock on its front gates. The bolt cutters that sat heavy in his rucksack would make light work of that. Then it was a case of isolating the switch gear and using a rewired portable generator that would intentionally overheat and blow. This simple and well-practised task would black out the entire street and beyond.
He pictured the walk from the substation to her back door, and then breaking in. He knew he would find her stumbling around upstairs with her phone as a torch. He suspected she would be in her nightwear. He thought about what he would do to her. The fun he would have. The joy he would feel feeding off her fear.
Then, once satisfied, he would place her body in the bathtub, douse her with petrol and ignite her. He would leave before the heat cracked the windows and smoke billowed into the sky. He would go home and cook himself a meal, a pasta dish to replenish the burnt carbohydrates from his evening’s work, as he knew from experience work drove his appetite. Then, full and content, he would watch the news, waiting to see what he did featured on it, and the assumptions they
would make. And he knew he would get away with it, because he’d gotten away with it before.
His kills in Ireland landed in the lap of a brute of a man named Tommy Kay. Kay was a drug dealer with a reputation for being heavy-handed if a favour or loan hadn’t been repaid. He was sent to prison for running down a man in his Range Rover, nearly killing him over a hundred-pound debt. Kay’s arrest and that night with Claire Moore were a few months apart, and although Kay was never charged with the murders in Ireland, he was widely believed to be the serial killer that haunted the country, never saying otherwise. Perhaps he enjoyed the notoriety it gave him?
But Kay’s motivations for tacitly claiming his kills weren’t his concern, because one day they would know how wrong they had been. Until then, he would play on what the media would no doubt suggest: because Kay was now dead, tonight was a copycat.
After ten minutes the eighth came out of her bathroom, a towel around her body, another wrapped around her hair. She turned on her TV, then stepped towards the window, her arm outstretched to close her bedroom curtains. She couldn’t see him. He knew it. The fading sun directly behind him was low. The trees tall. She wouldn’t be able to see anything beyond the dusty orange skyline. But still he pressed himself further into the tree’s shadow. She paused before drawing the curtains, her eyes looking out above his head. The last line of sun painted colours in the evening sky. A perfect disguise for him. Hide the ugly thing that he had become in something equally beautiful.