by Kerena Swan
Dying To See You
Kerena Swan
Copyright © 2018 Kerena Swan
The right of Kerena Swan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
This book is dedicated to the surgeons who restored my health after a year of illnesses – To Mr Manucheri for giving me back my eyesight, to Mr Chin for eradicating my cancer and to Mr Tyler for restoring my dignity. This book would not have happened without your expertise and skill. I owe my sight and my life to you. Thank you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
Book Club Questions
1
I don’t believe in life after death … but death after life fascinates me.
As you do right now.
I watch you kneeling in front of me, eager to please, looking up at me with your summer blue eyes and your sunshine hair. I despise you. You watch me too. Waiting for a morsel of my gratitude to feed your pathetic ego. Your very belief that I should be indebted to you burns in my chest.
I look down at the curve of your breasts through the thin blouse and I am filled with revulsion. I smile at you and your eyes dance with pleasure. You have no idea, do you? You flaunt yourself without shame.
As you look down I wrap my fingers around the weapon. I’m quick and you don’t see it coming. The air barely moves as I sweep my arm in an arc towards your temple. Thud! I love that sound. Shame I couldn’t see your eyes though. Maybe next time.
You lie on the floor, no longer graceful or co-ordinated. Your limbs are spread at discordant angles and your hair hides your face. This won’t do. I want to see you. I kneel next to you and brush the silky strands aside. I can see blood welling and oozing before trickling through the roots and down your forehead. I almost want to lick it. Delicious.
I put my fingertips to your neck to check for a pulse and feel a faint flutter. You’re still in there. Desperately clinging to life. But I won’t let you survive. I’m the one in control now. I take a cushion from the sofa and gently place it over your nose and mouth then lay my weight across you. I can feel the warmth of your body seeping into my cold limbs. I’ll take this last vestige of life from you. It will comfort me in the chill of the night.
Was that a twitch in your leg? Is your mind entering the room again only to find a suffocating blackness? Your breath will be damp on the cushion. It has nowhere to go. The tide is coming in and there is no air for you. I have stolen it. I wait, and you become still. I wait some more.
I push myself away from you and throw the cushion aside. I stare at your empty face and a wave of exhilaration almost unbalances me. I put my hand on the chair to steady myself and sit down. I’ll stay here and enjoy the moment. The silence is wonderful. I can’t even hear myself breathing. Maybe this feeling of euphoria has taken my breath away.
I lean forward and stroke your arm, trailing my fingertips all the way down to your hand. Your skin is so soft. Like the wing of a butterfly. Beautiful.
And I destroyed you.
2
Twenty-past one. He has ten minutes to find it. A furtive look over the neighbour’s fence – all quiet there – a glance at his phone – definitely on silent – and he’s prepared. Striding quickly over the moss-stained patio he counts out paces under his breath. This must be the spot.
He looks around. Do any of the neighbours’ sash windows overlook him? No. The high fence adequately shields him. He crouches down, careful not to get his suit grubby. Taking a dinner knife from his inside pocket, he swiftly digs at a line of couch grass and weeds between the paving stones, pulling strips of root and sand up with each handful. The slab he has earmarked begins to loosen and wobble under his weight. Gripping the edge, he lifts it up with a suppressed grunt. Bloody hell. It’s a lot heavier than he expected.
All he exposes is a filigree of roots and insect channels. Damn. It isn’t the right place. He lifts the next slab. Yes! Now he can see the edge of a circle of bricks. The old plans are almost correct then. He picks up a loose stone then drops it into the crescent of blackness he has exposed. There’s a brief silence then a reassuring splosh as it hits the water several feet below. Perfect – nice and deep and well hidden. Hurriedly, he puts the slabs back in their original position but as he shifts the large rectangle of concrete the small gold signet ring on his right-hand catches under the corner and cuts painfully into his finger. Shit, that hurt. He sees a scratch on the shiny surface turning the inscribed P to an R. Sod it. He’ll have to get it refinished and engraved again.
Standing stiffly, he wipes perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand. God, it’s warm today, surprising for October. Looking carefully at the patio, he squats down again and grabs a line of sandy rooted grass, feeding it carefully back into the crevice. Better to leave it as he found it in case anyone comes around before he returns with her. He brushes loose sand off the stones then dusts his hands carefully.
He’s about to leave when a small, red ball soars over the fence, landing by his foot. Christ! Who threw that?
After his first start of surprise he freezes, trying not to make a sound. He hadn’t heard anyone moving about next door. Hopefully they hadn’t heard him either. Looking down the long, narrow stretch of lawn he sees a small, grubby face peering over the lower fence and his heart sinks.
‘Hello, Mr Man! Can you throw my ball back please?’ the little girl asks with a baby-toothed grin.
He turns swiftly away to hide his face then scoops up the ball and tosses it back. His hand is on the latch of the gate when he hears the child scuffling to retrieve the ball then, with a soft thump, it lands by his feet again and slowly rolls away. He hears a low-pitched giggle. Stupid kid. He’s not throwing it back again. He can’t expose himself to any more risks. And he has to get back to work.
Walking quickly but quietly up the side alley, he wonders whether it’s safe to use the well after all, though it seems such a perfect hiding place and has the added bonus of wheelie bins nearby. He glances at next door’s bay window but can see no sign of the child’s family. He doesn’t have anywhere else, so he’ll just have to be careful.
He’ll bring her tonight when it’s dark.
∞∞∞∞
He’s already waiting in his car when Sophie drives past and stops to reverse into a tight space. She doesn’t notice him. He’s several cars back and besides, she’s never seen him before. He’s just some random bloke in a car. He’s seen her though. Lots of times. Her door opens, and he watches as first a slim leg emerges then her golden head. He inhales deeply with excitement and his heart beats faster.
His eyes follow her as she walks round the car to the passenger door. She reaches in to unclip her daughter’s seatbelt and the small girl clambers out to stand next to her mother. A perfect little replica. He imagines this is what Sophie looked like at the age of four. Cute. Very cute. Sophie takes her daughter’s hand and they walk, arms swinging merrily, away from him along the row of Victorian terraces to their home. She’s such a loving mother. He sees them open the gate and walk up the path then they are out of sight.
He waits a few minutes before he gets out of the car. Lights are on in Sophie’s bay window as he enters the shed-like bus stop opposite and sits on the wooden bench. He angles himself and leans forward so that he can see through the small window. A perfect vantage point. He must be careful. He doesn’t want anyone to see him.
Sophie is walking around the lounge, switching on the television and table lamps. The overhead light goes out, but he can still see her outline. She’s straightening cushions and picking up cups from the coffee table. She’ll go through to the kitchen soon and he’ll no longer be able to see her. She’ll be preparing food. He toys with the idea of going around to the back of the house. If he creeps along the alley he can see her kitchen window through the gap between her gate post and the ill-fitting gate.
He shifts on the hard seat and is about to get up when he sees a slim girl with long blonde hair walking down the street towards the house. Damn. He can’t leave the bus stop now. She’ll see him. As she gets to Sophie’s gate she glances across the road. He pulls back into the shadows. Did she see him? This isn’t the first time she’s looked directly at him. A shiver runs down his spine. He’ll have to wait. He’s good at waiting.
The temperature has dropped rapidly now the sun has gone. The cold is seeping into his shoes and creeping up his legs as though he is standing in water. He moves cautiously to get the blood flowing and leans towards the window again. Yes! She’s upstairs now and walking across the brightly lit bedroom to the window. She tugs the curtains across, but a tantalising gap gives him just enough of a view to see her open her wardrobe to pull out a garment. He hopes she doesn’t take her clothes off. He doesn’t want anyone else seeing her as they walk past. He wants to be the only one who gets to see her in all her beauty. But no. She merely pulls on a cardigan then leaves the room and flicks off the light. Where’s she gone now?
He can feel his frustration building and his stomach muscles tighten as he holds his breath. Maybe he should leave. Go to the gym. Forget Sophie for a while. But she’s pulling at him. He’s a fox with the scent of a chicken and he can’t move away. He’ll stay a little longer. He stares at the windows, willing her to reappear. Yes! There she is.
The small girl must be in bed by now and Sophie is in the lounge with her older daughter watching rubbish on the television. They’re cuddled up together under some sort of throw and he envies the girl her closeness to Sophie. He wants to be inside the warm house, not shivering in the bus stop. It seems he’s always been on the wrong side of the door. He’s been here hours. Luckily, there’s no regular bus service through this village. The last bus is five o’clock. He knows. He checked the website weeks ago.
The clocks will change soon. He welcomes the darkness. With his black coat and trousers, he can melt into the shadows. It’s so cold though. He can’t sit here for much longer. Not tonight, not this year. It’s time to stop watching her, following her, and time to take action. It’s time to get closer to Sophie.
3
‘Do you ever get that prickly sensation on the back of your neck like someone’s watching you but when you turn and look behind there’s no one there?’
I look up in alarm at the television. Tilly is watching her favourite soap and the lead character has a stalker. I usually zone out, but this has caught my attention. Oh my God, I think, I most certainly do.
I’ve felt it for the past few weeks but put it down to an over-active imagination. I’ve stopped watching any films or dramas that are remotely scary as I don’t want to freak myself out. Tilly glances at me and I look down again. The last thing I want to do is frighten her with my anxieties. If I’m not careful we’ll end up as prisoners in our own house, too scared to venture out in the dark. With the evenings drawing in and the clocks about to change, we’ll be trapped from 4.00 p.m. onwards.
I pick up my pen and scribble some more names on the draft rota I’m preparing for work tomorrow. I shouldn’t have to bring tasks home, but I can’t fit everything into the working day. As my pen scurries across the page my big black cat, Welly, swipes it with his open paw and ink crosses through the last name entered.
‘Welly! Pack it in.’
Tilly looks at me again and laughs. If Mia wasn’t already in bed she’d find some string to entertain him.
I rub my neck. ‘Fancy a hot drink?’ I ask Tilly.
She stretches her slim legs and raises her arms above her blonde head as she stifles a yawn. She looks so like me. Even her eyes are the same blue as mine.
‘Got any chocolate biscuits?’
‘No. I’ll make you a hot chocolate.’ I turf Welly off my lap and shove the furry throw we’re sharing to one side then head to the kitchen. Welly follows me but diverts to the front door. He looks up at the latch and lets out a long meow. I open the door and cold air rushes in. Welly dithers on the doorstep, clearly more interested in sniffing out other cats than going to relieve himself. I nudge him forward and look across at the bus stop.
I keep thinking there’s someone in there, hiding behind the wooden partition and looking at me through the window. The basic cabin takes on an air of menace at night. I stare intently, waiting to spot any movement. There! A shadow just deepened. Someone is in there watching me. I feel a hundred spiders crawl across my skin and my legs weaken. I want to slam the door and hurry back to the sofa. Lose myself in inane rubbish on the television. No. I can’t do that. I have to confront this fear. I’m being stupid.
If I don’t check it out properly I’ll be constantly worrying. It’s probably nothing. Just my overactive imagination. But it can’t be someone waiting for a bus. They don’t run after 5.00 p.m.
I’m going to take a look. I’m going to be brave. I turn to grab my coat off the hooks by the front door and slip my shoes on.
‘Just nipping across the road, Tilly. I’ll be back in a minute.’
My heart is hammering, and my mouth is dry. I feel energised and proud of myself for being proactive. I
’m a female warrior on a mission to protect her family. I pass through my gate and look both ways. My nerve is beginning to leave me as I cross the road. Why didn’t I bring a torch, or even my phone? Stupid. I hesitate, wondering whether to go back. No, I’ll just poke my head around the front wall of the wooden structure to check it is empty, then run home. I’ve left the door slightly open so I can get in swiftly. I glance over my shoulder and the warm lights from my living room reassure me. Welly sits by the front gate staring at me. I need to be quick. I don’t want Welly to follow me into the road.
I rush forward, grabbing the rough wood as I lean around and peer into the dark interior. A waft of stale urine hits my nostrils and I recoil. It’s empty. Relief washes over me. I’m just being paranoid.
I’m about to leave when a shadow rushes past me. Welly dashes under the wooden bench. I see yellow eyes catching a flicker of light from the streetlamps.