Also by Debbie Howells
The Bones of You
The Beauty of the End
PART OF THE SILENCE
DEBBIE HOWELLS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Debbie Howells
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
1 - CHARLOTTE
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12 - JACK
13
14
15
16
17
18
19 - CHARLOTTE
20
21
22
23
24 - CHARLOTTE
25
26
27
28
29
30 - JACK
31
32
33
34
35
36
37 - CHARLOTTE
38 - JACK
39
40
41
42 - CHARLOTTE
43 - JACK
44
45 - EVIE
46 - EVIE
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Debbie Howells
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2017933180
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0691-1
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: July 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0692-8
ISBN-10: 1-4967-0692-7
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: July 2017
For Georgie and Tom. You are my world.
This one’s for you, with love.
Acknowledgments
As always, I owe a huge thanks to the wonderful team behind my books. To my brilliant, insightful editors, Trisha Jackson at Pan Macmillan and Alicia Condon at Kensington—I’m blessed to work with you both. To the sales and marketing teams—you have my gratitude for all your work getting my books out there. To my superstar of agents, Juliet Mushens, who has, quite simply, changed my life—I extend a heartfelt thank-you for everything you do. Thank you also to everyone who buys my books. I wouldn’t be doing what I love without you.
One of the themes of this book is loss and how life changes forever when you lose someone too soon: in particular, if you’re a parent who loses a child. While writing this, I was somewhere in my head that I’m grateful never to have visited in real life, but to those who’ve shared your stories with me, much love. They will stay with me always.
Again, thank-yous and huge love go to my sisters, Sarah, Anna, and Freddie. To Freddie and Callum, thank you doesn’t begin to express how grateful I am to you both. You’ve been my port in a storm. Much of this book was written on your beautiful island. Also to my friends, for their support, this year more than ever; in particular Clare, Heather, Katie, Lindsay . . . you know why. XXXX
If there is any wisdom running through my life now, in my walking on this earth, it came from listening in the Great Silence to the stones, trees, space, the wild animals, to the pulse of all life as my heartbeat.
Vijali Hamilton
I know you from your words, the images you share. What touches you, makes you laugh; what angers you. The network of your friendships, a checkerboard of happy, bland avatars, no more or no less readable than your own. Your latest haircut—shorter than I remember, the ends lightened by the sun.
It’s in your eyes, the turn of your head, the secret you’re smiling. Familiar to me, because you were always there—not yet center stage, but in the margins of my life; lost among others, waiting for your moment.
But moments pass. And now you pretend you’re safe. You don’t know, do you, that no one can hide forever?
I am in the shadows, where you can’t see me. You will, though, in the dark corners, the silences, before the blurred edges of reality close in. There’s no stopping what will happen. One day, you’ll understand the power of destiny. How some things are inevitable, that even shadow dwellers like me have a purpose in this life.
You’d get that, I know you would. But then, I know you well. You are my friend.
1
CHARLOTTE
September 25 . . .
I hear the helicopter just seconds before it looms overhead, its dark shape low enough that I can feel the downforce from its rotor blades, which whips up my hair, mixing it with the spray flying across the sand.
I turn to watch it, the sun briefly dazzling me, and then, just as quickly, it’s gone. Retrieving my towel from where it’s been blown across the beach, shaking the wet sand from it, I’m only idly curious. Around here, it’s not uncommon to be buzzed by a low-flying helicopter on its way to rescue an inexperienced climber or an injured surfer. There are any number of beaches along this stretch of the north Cornish coastline that are not easily accessible by road. I turn my attention back to the waves just in time to see Rick catch a glassy barrel, then gracefully ride it to shore. After picking up my board, I go to join him.
2
It’s not until a couple of days later that Rick tells me more.
“Oh yeah. I forgot to mention . . . this girl was attacked. On one of the farms. Lower Farm, I think.” His hair is wet from the shower; his eyes are bright after a morning surfing. “A couple of Jimbo’s lot were running one morning. They found her in the middle of a field.”
I’m all ears. Jimbo runs an overpriced boot camp for tourists and surfs with Rick when he can get away. The surfers’ grapevine is notoriously reliable. It’s all that time together, floating on their boards, as they wait for the perfect wave.
“What happened to her?” This is rural Cornwall. Nothing like this happens here.
He shrugs. “Not really sure. It was bad, though. At first, they thought she was dead.”
“When did it happen?” I’m frowning, thinking of the low-flying helicopter, wondering if the timing is coincidence or if she was airlifted to a hospital.
“A couple of days ago. Maybe three?” he says vaguely.
I’m amazed it’s taken this long for word to get around, the surfers’ grapevine being what it is, or maybe Rick didn’t think to mention it.
“Oh yeah,” he adds. “Some of us are meeting at the Shack later. Around six. There may be some waves. You should come. With any luck, we could get an hour in before dark.” In an unusual display of affection, he plants a kiss on the top of my head.
The Shack, a scruffy locals bar on one of the beaches a short drive from here, is okay. It sells Cornish beer and looks like nothing from the outside, but inside it is all bare wood, with surfboards hanging from the ceiling, sand walked inside coating the floor. It’ll be full of Rick’s friends and wannabe tourist types dressed to blend in, except you can spot them a mile off, because they don’t.
If I’m going to drag myself out on a chilly evening, I prefer a bit of glamour—a cozy restaurant or a warm, dimly lit cocktail bar. “I’m good,” I tell him, stifling a yawn. “I’ll probably have an early night.”
* * *
For the most part, Rick
and I lead separate lives—we sometimes drink together, smoke a joint or two, have sex. We’re not star-crossed lovers, but it’s undemanding and convenient. Physical contact is like food, a basic human need. I should know. I’ve gone long spells without so much as the brush of a hand. And big, empty houses can be lonely.
After he goes out and I hear his Jeep drive away, I open a bottle of wine and start scrolling through Netflix, listening to the wind rattling the sash windows, knowing it’ll whip up some waves, only they’ll be windblown, messy ones, rather than the clean, head-height barrels Rick will be hoping for. But it won’t faze him. Nothing does. No matter how many forecasts, swell charts, wind maps you follow, the ocean will always surprise you, he’s told me many times.
* * *
“Why do you drink so much?” I’m still in my pajamas, nursing a hangover, when Rick picks up the empty wine bottle from last night. By the time he got home, I’d finished it, then started on another before falling asleep on the sofa.
“I really don’t.” I’m irritable, not in the mood for one of his holier-than-thou lectures on how my body is a temple. I know my body better than he does. “You probably had just as much and drove home, which is far worse.”
“Two pints,” he says briefly. “You do this every night. And it’s usually more. We both know that. By the time you know you’ve fucked up your liver, it’ll be too late.”
“Yeah, yeah . . .” I get up to go back upstairs, because I’ve heard it all before. It’s not like Rick to be confrontational, but this time he grabs my arm.
“You take it for granted, don’t you?” His eyes glitter angrily. “Always so bloody sure of yourself. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”
I stare just as angrily back at him, wondering where this has come from. “It’s a few glasses of wine, Rick. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
But he doesn’t answer, just lets go of me, shakes his head as he walks away.
I don’t like being spoken to like that, especially not by Rick. Even less do I like the spike of truth in his words. But better a shorter life lived to the full than the dragged-out, mundane ones so many people cling to for as long as they can. Whether you live twenty years or sixty, unless you save the planet or cure cancer, what does it actually matter?
Upstairs, I pull on jeans and a hoodie, glance out of the window to see Rick stride across the yard, then stand with his back to the house, gazing out across the bay. I’ve no idea what’s eating him, but clearly something is. After taking a deep breath, I go outside to join him.
“Not surfing today?” As I catch up to him, my tone is light, conciliatory, but he’s still rigid as I slip my arm through his.
He shrugs. “Maybe later.”
“Look, is something wrong?” I remove my arm, turning to face him. “Because you’re being shitty, Rick.”
He’s silent for a moment, still looking out to sea; then he turns to face me. “You really want to know?”
As I nod, I’m aware of an unpleasant prickling sensation.
“I don’t get you. All this time we’ve been together, and you spend every day in that house, not really doing anything. You don’t work. You were going to paint, but all you do is make excuses not to do anything. Don’t you have dreams? Places you want to see? People in your life?”
“Of course I do,” I say quietly, trying to contain the seething anger welling up inside me. I know exactly what I want from life. I don’t have to share it with him.
“We all think we have forever.” His jaw set, he’s on a roll. “Only none of us do. We live in the most beautiful part of this country, where nothing bad happens, and then a woman gets attacked on our doorstep. Nearly dies. Doesn’t it make you think it could happen to anyone? Like you, even?”
“I’m not going to walk around thinking I’m in danger,” I tell him. What’s the matter with him? “Things happen all the time, Rick. Bad things. People fuck up, even in pretty places like Cornwall. It’s no different from anywhere else.”
When he looks at me, there’s an expression of disgust on his face. “You know what? That’s it, in a nutshell. You don’t care. You’re not shocked or even sad it’s happened. You just accept it. And most people are just like you. Except I’m not.” He’s silent for a moment. “I don’t know—” He breaks off. When he looks at me, I can’t fathom the expression in his eyes.
But I’ve had more than enough. “You know what, Rick? I’m going for a walk.”
I walk away from him, through the gate, and onto the coast path, in the cool air, hugging my arms around me, trying to keep warm; in my head continuing my conversation with Rick—angrily. It’s a couple of hours later when I get back to the house, less angry, the absence of Rick’s Jeep filling me with relief.
In the kitchen I fill the kettle and turn on the radio. The brightness of the sun through the large window belies the temperature outside. I sit at the kitchen table and turn on my laptop. With a mug of strong tea before me and classical music playing in the background, I start searching for a local supplier of artists’ materials. Rick was right about one thing: I’ve been making excuses not to paint.
After finding what I’m looking for, I’m jotting down the address when the radio news comes on. I’m only half listening until one of the items makes my ears prick up.
Police are looking for information about a woman who was found injured four days ago. The woman was discovered unconscious on farmland in a remote part of north Cornwall. Police are keen to establish who may have seen her any time during the twenty-fourth of September. They are also seeking the whereabouts of her three-year-old daughter. Anyone with in formation about her should contact Devon and Cornwall police. More details are available on our Web site.
I sit there in silence. The fact that a local mugging has made national news somehow gives it more gravity. I check their Web site, and there it is. The police are seeking information about the woman, known as Evie Sherman, who suffered severe head injuries after a brutal attack that left her unconscious on farmland in north Cornwall. They are also investigating the whereabouts of her three-year-old daughter.
Underneath, there’s a photograph of the woman. It’s hard to tell how old she is. Her face is an unhealthy gray, mottled with red-black bruising, and there’s a dazed expression in her eyes. It looks as though she’s in a hospital bed. Studying her more closely, I frown. There’s something familiar about her.
I click on the Devon and Cornwall police’s Facebook page. As I scroll down, there are several recent posts of a more trivial nature—about a gun amnesty, a spate of burglaries, and a road traffic accident, none of which hold my interest—then farther down, the same photo. The brief paragraph mentions how she was airlifted to the hospital after being found unconscious. It gives her name again and asks anyone who recognizes her to contact Truro police. Then, farther down, there’s another photo.
Deep in thought, I study it, then hunt around for my phone. The police are wrong. Her name isn’t Evie. It’s Jen.
3
September 28 . . .
“Babe? There’s someone at the door. Can you get it?”
Even if he hears me above the sound of the guitar he’s playing, Rick doesn’t reply. I feel a flash of irritation, because I’ve just got out of the shower, wish I could be as oblivious, as self-absorbed, when someone asks me to do something. The doorbell rings again, and after quickly pulling on some clothes, I run downstairs to answer it.
“Yes?”
The woman on the doorstep looks puzzled. She’s probably one of those tourists who think they can walk up to any old place just because it’s Cornwall and they think they’ve seen it on television.
“Are you Charlotte Harrison?” she asks.
Oh God. How does this woman know me? “I’m sorry. . . .” I turn away and start to close the door, but something’s in the way. When I look down, it’s her foot. When I look up again, she’s holding out a police badge.
“Detective Constable Abbie Rose. Please don’t clos
e the door.”
“Why didn’t you say? I’d completely forgotten the police were coming here.” I swing the door open and let her in.
I lead her through the hallway into the open-plan living area, noticing as she looks around at the white-painted Cornish stone walls and the views, which, even after a year here, still take my breath away. The house is perched above Epphaven Cove, one of Cornwall’s best-kept secrets, until a national paper ran a feature and ruined it.
She walks over to the north-facing window. Not many people come here, but I enjoy watching their reactions when they see the view for the first time. As she turns around, she’s glancing at the paintings, the furniture, which might look incongruous to the uneducated eye, but are utterly wondrous to those who know. I wonder if Abbie Rose knows what she’s looking at.
“Do you live here alone?”
“Some of the time.” A guitar wail comes from a distant corner of the house. “That’s Rick. He follows the waves.” He does, literally, follow them around the globe, coming and going like the swallows under the eaves, only less predictably.
“Won’t you sit down?” I gesture toward the cerise velvet sofa. Pink’s my favorite color, as anyone who knows me will tell you. I have a pink bathroom, pink Jimmy Choos, a big American fridge full of pink champagne.
“Thank you.” She perches on the edge of the sofa, then reaches into her bag for a notebook.
I sit in the oversized armchair near the window. “How can I help, Detective Constable?”
“I understand you recognized the woman who was attacked, from the photo on our Facebook page.”
“Yes. With all that bruising, it’s hard to be completely sure, of course, but I think so. . . .”
Part of the Silence Page 1