Sleep: The most suspenseful, twisty, unputdownable thriller of 2019!

by C. L. Taylor

  Take you, for example, Anna Willis, sitting in the window, lit by the glow of your laptop, then sprinting along the pavement with your oversized cardigan wrapped around your body and belted by your arm gripping your waist. I might have been too far away this time to study your face but I’ve been nearer. I’ve been close enough to study your pale skin, wide unblinking pupils, the sweat prickling at your hairline, your repetitive throat-clearing and the way you twist your hands. Your anxiety and your pain shine like a beacon but only to your nearest and dearest, sweet Anna. And, of course, to me.

  I was going to retire. I was going to leave this life behind me and take up new pursuits. But he wants you gone and I couldn’t say no. I have never been able to say no to him.

  I thought I’d want to hurry your passing, Anna, to get it over and done with quickly, but this will be the last time I ever do this, my final flourish, so to speak, and I want it to be perfect. When the time is right I will help you sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Anna

  Alex walks into the kitchen, dressed in his suit and smelling of shampoo and aftershave. He holds out a hand. ‘Show me that note.’

  I tried to wake him after I ran back up the stairs with the piece of paper I found under the windscreen wiper but he swatted me away and told me to go back to sleep. I tried again when his alarm went off at six thirty but he peered at it through bleary eyes, shook his head and said he needed the loo. I trailed him to the bathroom, note in hand, then retreated to the kitchen when I heard the shower start.

  ‘Someone put it on my car,’ I tell him again.

  Alex takes one look at the note, flips it over to look at the blank other side then crumples it up and throws it in the bin. ‘Sounds supportive to me. Maybe someone else on the street has noticed that you stay up all hours of the night.’

  ‘But they’ve underlined “will”. It makes it sound threatening.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the journalist that’s been hassling you for an interview. Give me an interview and you’ll sleep better, that sort of thing. Was there a business card with it?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ I pause. ‘I think it’s Steve Laing.’

  Alex frowns. He doesn’t recognise the name.

  ‘Freddy’s dad. Remember what he said after the trial, that justice had only partially been done? I really think it’s him, Alex. First “sleep” written in the dirt, then the postcard, now this.’ I reach into the bin and pull out the crumpled ball of paper. ‘Maybe he thinks I fell asleep at the wheel too? Or that I feel too guilty to sleep.’

  Alex reaches under the kitchen table for his shoes and eases his feet into them. ‘Anna, put the note back in the bin.’

  ‘But it’s evidence.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That someone’s …’ I tail off. What was it evidence of exactly? That someone had noticed I was still awake at 5 a.m. and had left a sympathetic note on my car? It wasn’t illegal to write in the dirt on someone’s car either. If it were, hundreds of ‘clean me’ pranksters would be in jail for defacing grubby vans.

  ‘Has anything else happened that you haven’t told me about?’ Alex stands up and pulls on his coat. ‘Any weird phone calls or emails?’

  ‘No, just, you know, the feeling that someone’s been watching me.’

  My boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, clamps his top teeth over his bottom lip and gazes down at me, his brow creasing as his eyes search mine. ‘The trial was covered in the paper, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And they mentioned our address? The street, anyway.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Probably a member of the public then. Some weirdo who’s become obsessed with the case. Or not,’ he adds as he registers my startled expression. ‘It could be something to do with Steve Laing, like you say. Either way, you need to stop worrying about it. Whoever it is isn’t going to bother you at your parents’ house.’

  It’s a reassuring thought but I’m fooling myself if I think I’ll be out of the flat today. I’ve got too much stuff. There are pots and pans, dishes and cutlery in the kitchen. Books, clothes, DVDs and music in the bedroom. Ornaments, photo frames and pictures in the living room. Then there’s all the furniture that belongs to me. It’s going to take me days to get everything packed up.

  ‘Alex.’ I reach out to touch him on the arm but my hand falls away before I make contact. We aren’t together any more. Lingering touches are no longer appropriate.

  ‘Yeah?’

  I want to ask him not to go to work. To stay in the flat with me and watch a film and get drunk or play a board game and listen to music. I know if I stay in the flat alone I’ll flinch at every noise, peer out of the window, pace and worry and google real-life stories about stalkers. But I can’t ask Alex not to go to work. Not least because he doesn’t have to protect or comfort me any more. I have to let him get on with his life.

  ‘Can I leave my furniture here?’ I ask instead. ‘Until I’m settled? And some boxes of stuff?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess, until I get a new place anyway.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll arrange for a man with a van to pick them up. I’ll leave the car outside too. I’ll probably sell it. Unless you want it.’

  ‘You’re getting rid of your car?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I’m surprised at his reaction. He’s seen how difficult it is for me just to get into the passenger seat. There’s no way I can face driving again. Not for a long time. ‘I’ll get a train to Mum and Tony’s later, once I’m packed up.’

  That’s assuming they’ll be okay with me staying. Ever since they’ve retired they’ve had a succession of long-lost relatives and old friends to visit. I might have to kip on the sofa.

  ‘Wow.’ Alex looks stunned, as though the reality of what we’re doing has finally sunk in. ‘You’re not going to be here when I get back, are you?’

  ‘No.’ I look up at the ceiling and blink back tears.

  ‘Jesus.’ He looks me up and down, his gaze resting on my lips, the top button of my pyjamas and the chipped nail varnish on my toes. ‘I guess this is goodbye then.’

  I nod, suddenly unable to speak.

  ‘One more hug before I go?’ He doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead he pulls me into his arms, squeezes me tightly then lets me go. The embrace barely lasts five seconds.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Anna,’ he says as he walks out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He opens the door to the flat and steps outside without looking back. I have never felt more alone.

  Part Two

  Chapter 10

  Anna

  Saturday 2nd June

  Day 1 of the storm

  ‘Anna. Anna?’

  I turn and smile. Even after a week I’m still not used to the way David says my name. I feel as though I’ve been rechristened. Back in London I was Anna – An-na – emphasis on the first ‘n’ and the last ‘a’. Now I’m Ah-nah. My name sounds softer and warmer when David says it in his soft Scottish burr. For the first couple of days on the island my shoulders remained up by my ears, tight, knotted and wary. But I can feel them loosening; the tension that curled me into myself is fading away. I’m softening, just like my name.

  ‘Yes, David.’

  ‘Do you have the list of guest names?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I swipe a piece of paper from the printer under the desk and hand it to him.

  I had my reservations about David when he interviewed me on the phone. He was direct, gruff and pompous, continuously referring to me as ‘young lady’ (even though I’m thirty-two years old) and repeatedly asked me if I was prepared to work hard and not moan. I pictured him as a tall man, broad shouldered, bearded, ex-military. When the ferry docked on Rum and I walked down the ramp and onto the quayside I passed the small, round, pink-cheeked man in a yellow waterproof jacket and bowled straight up to the bearded man in a flat cap, standing beside a large black Labrador.

  ‘Anna?’ I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned sharply.

  ‘David?’

>   ‘Yes.’ He held out a hand. ‘How was your journey?’

  He had told me on the phone that visitors weren’t allowed to bring cars to Rum, and I’d boarded the small boat with a dozen or so people who were also on foot. Half of them had bicycles. The rest wore bulging rucksacks on their backs. I was the only one dragging a suitcase behind me. I carried it up to deck three and took a seat next to the window. After a couple of minutes the ferry pulled away from Mallaig, the sea as grey as the sky. After about forty minutes we passed Eigg, to our left, rising out of the sea like the dark nose of a whale. If Eigg was a whale then Rum was a dragon’s back, curving out of the water. I thought I was prepared to see it for the first time – I’d watched and rewatched the Small Isles programme on iPlayer after David confirmed on the phone that he’d give me a three-month trial – but my breath still caught in my throat and my stomach tightened with anticipation. I left the lounge and stepped onto the deck, smiling as the wind slapped my cheeks then lifted my hair and wrapped it around my face. With the sky and the sea stretching for miles I felt as though I was being transported to another world, not a tiny community on the west coast of Scotland. I felt vital and energised, alive and free.

  I didn’t tell David any of that. Instead I said, ‘Rum’s a long way from Reading. It took forever. But the ferry ride took my breath away.’

  He smiled broadly, his eyes almost disappearing in the rise of his cheeks as he read the expression on my face. ‘Still gets me too, even after all these years. That everything?’ He gestured towards my suitcase and I nodded.

  ‘Okay.’ He picked it up. ‘This,’ he raised a hand in the direction of the dozen or so buildings surrounding us, ‘is what we call “the village”, by the way. We’re on the other side of the island – Harris.’

  I climbed into his white Land Rover and for the first time in months I didn’t close my eyes after I fastened my seat belt. I still clung to the hand rest as the car climbed the hills, juddered over the stony roads and swung around tight corners but I drank in the view: the hills as grey as an elephant’s hide, the grass, the gorse, the sky stretching forever, the sea and the—

  ‘Ponies! Look!’

  David laughed. ‘Yeah, there’s a few. Deer too.’

  By the time we arrived at the Bay View Hotel, nestled into the side of a hill and separated from the rest of the island by a shallow river that we had to drive through, I felt drunk with happiness.

  ‘That’s the mausoleum, isn’t it?’ I said, pointing at the grey-brown sandstone building that stood incongruously in a field of green. With its pitched roof and imposing pillars, housing three granite tombs, it looked as though it had been dropped from the sky or whisked through time from ancient Greece.

  ‘That’s right.’ David nodded. ‘It’s Sir George Bullough’s family mausoleum. He’s buried there along with his son and wife.’

  I suppressed a shiver, remembering the last time I’d been in a graveyard.

  ‘And who lives there?’ I pointed at a small cottage on the edge of the river; the hotel’s other neighbour.

  ‘Gordon Brodie. He guides the walks. He’s also the caretaker at the primary school. Part time.’ He laughed. ‘There’s only four children.’

  ‘Four children in the whole school?’

  ‘Five next year when Susi McFarlane’s little one turns four. There’s only thirty-one of us living here, remember.’

  ‘Can they not go to school on the mainland?’

  ‘The secondary school children do but there’s only three ferries a week at this time of year. Most of them can only come back every other weekend. They stay with relatives and what not.’

  I stared at the darkening sky. ‘What if there’s a storm?’

  ‘Then there’s no ferries for a while.’ He shrugged. ‘We make do.’

  Now, David scans the list of names on the printout in his hand, nostrils flaring as he runs a bitten-down fingernail down the page.

  ‘We’ve got seven. That’ll mean two trips in the Land Rover.’

  He reaches behind the desk and slides the keys off their hook on the wall. He presses them into my hand. ‘There you go then.’

  ‘No.’ I dangle them from my thumb and forefinger like I’m holding a dirty nappy or a wet tea towel. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean you can’t? You told me on the phone that you can drive.’

  ‘I can but I … I was in an accident a few months ago and I ended up in hospital. I haven’t been behind the wheel since.’

  ‘Well, you’ll need to soon.’ He snatches the keys back, shaking his head as he sidesteps from behind the reception desk. ‘Because I won’t always be available to fetch and carry the guests. I did warn you that you’d have to pull your weight— Oooh.’ He presses a hand to the wall, steadying himself.

  ‘David, are you okay?’

  He waves me away. ‘Just a …’ He presses a clenched fist to his chest. ‘Just a bit of indigestion. Oh God, I thought I was going to be sick there.’

  A bead of sweat rolls down his temple then gets lost in his stubble.

  ‘David, are you sure you’re okay? I could call someone.’ I touch a hand to the phone, prepared to ring the Small Isles medical practice on Eigg. There’s no doctor on Rum. One visits once a fortnight, on a Thursday, but today is Saturday. There’s a team of first responders though. The nearest is in Kinloch, which is a fifteen-minute drive away, on the other side of the island.

  ‘No, no.’ He straightens up, still rubbing at his chest. ‘I’m fine. Double-check the rooms are in order while I’m away. Oh, and check on the bread. It’ll need to come out of the oven in twenty minutes. Don’t just stand there looking vacant, girl. There are jobs to be done.’

  Cold air blasts across the lobby as David opens the front door and disappears outside. Dark clouds, heavy with rain, scuttle past the window as trees whip back and forth in the wind. According to the weather forecast this morning we’re due a storm soon. That won’t go down well with the guests who came here to walk, cycle, fish and deer-stalk but we should still be able to get them to Kinloch Castle and the craft shops. And if the weather’s really bad there’s a TV in each of the bedrooms and books and magazines in the lounge. And the hotel is well stocked with booze and firewood. I jump as my mobile phone scuttles across the desk, then snatch it up. It’s a text from Alex:

  I’ve been thinking about you. I hope you’re well and happy and that the fresh island air is helping you sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Alex

  Alex grips the bunch of flowers a little tighter as the doors to the Royal Free Hospital slide open and a cloud of warm, bleach-scented air hits him full in the face. It’s a beautiful summer day and his shirt is sticking to his back. He wants to take off his jacket, get some air to his skin, but he’s worried about the sweat patches under his arms. He glances at his watch: 2.55 p.m. He didn’t want to risk being late, so got here early and spent the last hour sitting in KFC around the corner, sipping a Coke. He’d rather have had a coffee but he was worried about bad breath.

  He takes a seat in the waiting area near M&S and rummages around in his pocket for the packet of mints he bought on his way here. He pops one into his mouth then props the flowers between his knees and wipes his palms on his jeans. He knows he’s being ridiculous, sweating and worrying like a thirteen-year-old on a first date, but he can’t slow his hammering heart or shake the sick feeling in his stomach. He’s never done anything like this before, never got so worked up about someone he barely knows. But Becca likes him, she must, or she wouldn’t have replied to his Facebook messages, never mind agree to a date. His stomach clenches as his phone vibrates in his pocket. Is she cancelling? Is she, as he sits in the hospital foyer and waits for her to finish her shift, secretly sneaking out of a back entrance so she doesn’t have to see him?

  He looks at the screen and heaves a sigh of relief. It’s just Anna.

  Are you trying to be funny?

  He frowns, confused, and rereads the message he se
nt her earlier. It was a nice message, wasn’t it? Asking how she was doing.

  He looks around to check Becca’s not on her way over to him (it wouldn’t be done to be caught texting an ex), then taps out a reply.

  No. What do you mean?

  She replies immediately.

  The comment about sleep.

  He cringes. Oh, that. If he’s honest he’s barely given those messages a second thought since she left. He’s thought about her, obviously; you don’t spend nearly two years with someone and then forget all about them the moment they walk out of the door, but he’s enjoyed having the bed to himself and waking up without her lashing out in her sleep, or else staring at him, wide-eyed and frantic from across the room. He did feel guilty though, logging on to Facebook when he returned home to piles of boxes and a flat stripped of Anna’s things. Her side of the bed was barely cold and there he was, searching for the nurse who’d cared for her. The attraction was there from the first time they’d laid eyes on each other – an invisible spark that made him catch his breath. He was sure she’d felt it too, from the way her cheeks had coloured and she’d glanced away, at Anna’s unconscious form. He tried telling himself that he was misreading her friendliness, that looking after relatives was as much a part of her job as caring for her patients, but Becca genuinely seemed to enjoy their little chats while Anna slept and she checked her vitals. He was terrified when Anna came to and started screaming. Her eyes were glassy and empty, as though she were looking straight through him. And the noise, he’d never heard anything like it. He could have hugged Becca for the professional way she’d taken charge of the situation. He hadn’t, of course. Not only would it have been wholly inappropriate, but Anna’s return to consciousness, made him feel utterly ashamed of himself. What kind of despicable shitbag was he, perving over the nurse while his girlfriend recovered from a horrific accident? If he was being kind to himself he’d explain it away as a coping mechanism, a way of climbing out of the pit of fear he’d fallen into after her stepdad had rung him, his voice cracking as he broke the news about the accident.