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

by C. L. Taylor

  Malcolm ignores the hesitancy in her voice. ‘Go on then, pop it back and let’s get going.’

  ‘It’s been a long time, Malcolm, and if I get it wrong …’ She shakes her head. ‘No, I’d rather someone qualified did it if I’m honest.’

  ‘But what if we can’t get across the river?’

  ‘Then I’ll have no choice.’

  ‘Here you go.’ Fiona leans over her and hands Christine a green first aid kit, a pillow from the sofa and what looks like a tablecloth. Behind her, Joe has his arms crossed over his chest, his hands gripping his shoulders.

  ‘Okay, Anna,’ Christine says. ‘If you’re going in the car we need to get that arm strapped up. It’s going to hurt so brace yourself.’

  I’m not a screamer but when Christine took hold of my elbow so she could slip the cushion between my body and my arm I howled with pain. I pleaded with her not to put the sling on my arm – and gratefully knocked back two ibuprofen with a large measure of whisky that Fiona handed me – then sobbed as Christine tied a knot behind my neck. By that point Malcolm wasn’t the only one commenting on the smell drifting from the second floor and when Joe suggested we all go down to the lounge there weren’t any objections.

  ‘Coffee,’ Fiona says now, placing a mug on the table beside me. ‘Sorry there’s no milk but I added extra sugar to make up for it.’

  I smile gratefully up at her but she’s already turned away and is heading for Joe, who’s sitting alone by the window.

  ‘How’s Trevor?’ I ask Melanie as she walks into the lounge.

  She glances behind her, at Katie who’s biting into an apple, then flashes her eyebrows at me. She doesn’t want to talk about Trevor in front of her niece but I can’t let the subject drop.

  ‘Is he still in there?’

  She nods.

  ‘Back door and utility door locked?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And he’s alive?’

  She nods again. ‘Alive but incoherent.’

  ‘Tell me later,’ I mouth as Katie nudges her and says, ‘Who’s incoherent? What are you talking about?’

  Malcolm, studying a Land Rover maintenance book, closes it decisively and gives me a nod.

  ‘You ready to give it a go? See if we can get you out of here?’ he asks.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I shiver, despite the blankets heaped on my shoulders and the fire crackling away in the grate. Now the shock of the fall has worn off and the whisky has dialled down the pain in my arm and shoulder the reality of what happened to me has slowly sunk in. Someone deliberately unscrewed the plank, removed the lightbulb from outside my room and then turned the door handle. They weren’t trying to get into my room, they were trying to lure me out, into the darkness at the top of the stairs.

  Christine’s sitting opposite me with the first aid box on her lap, unwinding and rewinding bandages. Melanie’s sipping her coffee with Katie beside her, still nibbling at her apple, and Joe and Fiona are sitting quietly at the table by the window. Another shiver courses through me, more violent than the last. Whoever lured me out of my room didn’t want to scare me. They wanted me to trip and fall. They’ve given up waiting for me to kill myself. They want me dead.

  Chapter 37

  ‘I really don’t think you should do this, Anna.’ Christine adjusts the hood of David’s coat so it doesn’t hang over her eyes. ‘If Joe has to brake suddenly it could do irreversible damage to your shoulder.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ I clamber awkwardly into the back seat of the Land Rover, shivering in my wet clothes. I was only able to get one arm into my coat and had to drape the other side over my damaged shoulder and leave it unzipped.

  ‘Okay then,’ Christine says, closing the door behind me. ‘If you’re sure.’ She takes the seat beside me, leans over and reaches for my seat belt. ‘Let’s get you buckled up.’

  She carefully pulls the strap over my body, taking care to manoeuvre it under my sling.

  Joe, in the driver’s seat, waits until Christine has her seat belt on too, then starts the engine and the car crunches over the gravel driveway, quickly leaving the hotel and the remaining guests behind. The further we drive the less anxious, and more hopeful, I feel. All we have to do is cross the river, then it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the safety of the village on the other side of the island. There’s a pub there that David told me about. I’m sure they’d let me use their phone to ring the police on the mainland. It’s not just threatening messages any more, it’s attempted murder and I’ve got proof – a bloody great hole where a floorboard used to be, for one. Once we’re over the river I won’t have to see any of the guests ever again.

  But when we do reach the Glen Duian river the hope in my chest deflates like a balloon. The water level is even higher than it was two days ago. It’s going to take a small miracle to get us across.

  ‘Slow down,’ Malcolm barks to Joe as we get closer. ‘You need to be in first or second. If the water goes over the bonnet you’re going too fast. You need to make a wave in front of the car.’

  ‘I have driven a Land Rover before, Malcolm.’ As Joe’s grip tightens on the wheel I find myself staring at his hands.

  ‘Aha,’ Malcolm says. ‘But have you attempted a river crossing?’

  The knuckles of Joe’s right hand are swollen, red raw and split. The wounds look fresh, as though he punched someone recently or … a jolt of fear zaps through me … or he grazed them prising a piece of wood out of the top of the staircase.

  ‘Brace yourselves,’ he says as he changes gear from second to first and the Land Rover creeps towards the water.

  As the car rolls down the bank we all tip forwards. A wave of pain courses through me as the seat belt strains against my body but I don’t cry out. Christine, watching me, grimaces.

  ‘Easy now,’ Malcolm says as the river swells around the bonnet. ‘Easy.’

  ‘Joe,’ Christine says as the car creeps further into the river. ‘There’s water coming through the doors.’

  She’s right. There’s dirty river water squeezing through the trim and pooling beneath our feet.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Malcolm says. ‘We’re all going to get our feet a bit wet before—’

  Without warning we suddenly drift to the left and the nose of the car points further down the river instead of straight across.

  ‘We’re going to get swept out to sea,’ Christine screeches.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Joe says. ‘If I accelerate a bit we can—’

  ‘Reverse the car!’

  ‘Trust me, Christine. I can do this.’

  ‘If we have to get out and swim Anna will drown.’

  ‘I can swim. Keep going, Joe. We’ll be fine.’

  His eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror but I can’t read the emotion behind his fixed stare.

  Malcolm twists round in his seat. ‘It’ll be easier to keep going than to reverse back up that bank.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Christine snaps. ‘Reverse the car. Unless you want to be responsible for the death of three people?’

  Joe continues to stare silently at me, forcing me to look away.

  ‘All right,’ he mutters after a pause. ‘Fine.’

  The wheels whir and skid as Joe changes gear and for several terrifying seconds I’m convinced we’re stuck, but then we lurch backwards and slowly reverse up the bank.

  No one says a word as the car creeps back up the driveway but when the hotel comes into view my throat tightens and my eyes sting with tears. I thought I was finally going to escape but I’m right back in the nightmare.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna.’ Christine shoots me an apologetic look. ‘I know you’re disappointed, we all are. Please don’t be cross with me. It was too dangerous and I couldn’t let them take that kind of risk with our lives.’

  Malcolm unbuckles his seat belt. ‘I vote we try again, Joe. Leave Christine and Anna here.’

  ‘No.’ Joe shakes his head. ‘Even if we manage to cr
oss the river I don’t think we’d make it to the village. There’s barely any petrol left. We’d be cutting it fine driving straight across the island, never mind continuously revving the engine to get across the river.’

  Malcolm twists round in his seat to look at me. ‘Did David keep any petrol cans anywhere, do you know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Mind if I look?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Let’s get you back in the hotel, Anna,’ Christine says as she reaches across to unbuckle me. ‘See if Melanie can get your shoulder back in. Brace yourself. I’ve heard it hurts.’

  Melanie pulls out the chair next to me and sits at the dining table, crossing one leg over the other. Beneath her jeans she’s wearing a pair of very pink, very fluffy socks. For such a no-nonsense woman they seem incongruous.

  ‘Secret Santa,’ she says, catching me looking. ‘Not the sort of thing I’d normally buy but they’re surprisingly comfy. Anyway,’ she fixes me with a look, her eyes unusually bright behind her glasses, ‘how are you, Anna? You look … oh, sweetheart, have you been crying?’

  ‘I …’ My throat tightens and I have to cough to find my voice again. ‘I’m just … I really thought we were going to make it.’

  ‘I know. Malcolm told me.’ She lays her hand over mine. ‘And you’re in a lot of pain too, aren’t you?’

  I nod, pressing my lips together to stop myself from crying.

  ‘I will try my very best to help you. I know I said it’s been a long time since I’ve done this,’ she gestures towards my injured shoulder, ‘but I do remember. How are you doing otherwise? Emotionally I mean. I’ve heard you pacing the hotel late at night.’

  ‘I … um … I’ve taken David’s death quite badly. I’ve been having trouble sleeping.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nods, ‘of course you have. But you were up at all hours, even before the storm hit. What is it you’re worried about, Anna?’

  I sit back in my chair, stunned by her perceptiveness. Unnerved, too, that I wear my unhappiness so visibly. David hinted that I was running away from something as well. Or maybe I read too much into his comment about the reasons why people move to Rum.

  ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ Melanie says now. ‘Whatever it is that’s stopping you from sleeping? Malcolm might disagree but I’m a good listener, you know.’

  I look into her soft, gentle face, her eyes so full of concern, and feel a pang of homesickness. It’s been five days since I last spoke to Mum and Dad. They’ve probably tried to ring me countless times, only to get my voicemail. They must be so worried.

  ‘It’s okay to cry,’ Melanie says, touching the back of my hand as a tear rolls down my cheek. ‘You’ve been through a lot.’

  ‘Melanie, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’ She tilts her head to one side. Her fingers, still on the back of my hand, press a little firmer into my skin. ‘Anything.’

  ‘I …’ The words dry up on my tongue. I don’t know what to ask. Do you think Joe could be capable of murder? Or Fiona? Christine? Your husband maybe? Do either of you know Steve Laing? Did you lose a relative in a car crash recently? Have you been following me around, leaving me creepy messages? Did you mean to kill me last night?

  Even if she did, she’s not about to hold up her hands and say, ‘Well done, you got me.’ This isn’t an episode of Columbo.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know if …’ I shift my hand from beneath hers. ‘… if any of the guests are recently bereaved?’

  She raises her thick eyebrows.

  ‘I’m not being nosy,’ I add. ‘But I realise that David’s death has stirred up a lot of emotion in everyone and … I just want to be sensitive if anyone—’

  ‘Joe.’

  The room suddenly feels very still.

  ‘His brother,’ Melanie adds. ‘That’s all I know.’

  She stares at me, waiting for me to respond, then stands up decisively and smooths her hands over the dining room table. ‘Let’s get you up here, shall we? Get that shoulder back in.’

  It’s Joe.

  It has to be.

  He’s Freddy’s brother, sent here by Steve. Joe’s probably not even his real name. My stomach clenches as I remember the moment in his room when I thought he was about to kiss me. The flirting and kindliness were all a charade. He’s been biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to take his revenge. And last night he nearly did.

  ‘I’m not sure which of us is more nervous,’ Melanie says as she helps me onto the table and eases me down onto the wood. ‘Sorry, that’s probably not very helpful, is it?’

  I grit my teeth as she removes my sling, then cry out in pain as she takes hold of my hand and moves it away from my body.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She swipes the back of her hand over the sweat beading on her top lip. ‘I know it hurts and it’s going to get worse, unfortunately, but I will try to be as quick as I can. Um … right … okay …’ She pauses and looks towards the kitchen. ‘Maybe we should have got you a wooden spoon to bite down on.’

  I push down a wave of panic. By her own admission she hasn’t put a dislocated shoulder back in for years. What if something goes wrong? We’ve got no way of calling for help. But I can’t stay the way I am. ‘Just do it quickly, Mel,’ I beg. ‘Please.’

  ‘I need you to be brave. Ready?’ She puts her other hand on my elbow and moves my arm so it’s at a ninety-degree angle from my body, then seems to steady herself against the table. ‘Three … two …’

  I screw my eyes tightly shut and brace myself.

  ‘One!’

  ‘FUCKKKKKKKK!’

  The most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt in my life radiates from my shoulder to my chest and all the way down my arm, then there’s a terrifying crunching sound and my whole body jolts. My shoulder throbs and burns as Melanie moves my arm back to my side and releases my hand and elbow. I pant against the pain, then open my eyes as it slowly ebbs away and a wave of relief washes over me.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She leans over me. ‘Oh God, you’ve gone very white.’

  I nod, too scared to speak in case I’m sick.

  ‘I … I think it’s okay.’ She gently slides her fingers over my arm and shoulder. ‘Yes,’ she sighs with relief. ‘It’s gone back in.’

  I stare up at the whitewashed dining room ceiling and tentatively wiggle my fingers and rotate my wrist.

  ‘Careful.’ Melanie presses a hand to my back to support me as I try to sit up. ‘We’re still going to have to strap the arm up to protect it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper as she retrieves the tablecloth sling and uses it to cradle my arm. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if—’

  She stiffens. ‘Can you hear that?’

  I don’t immediately but then something reaches my ears – a low, repetitive thump-thump-thump sound, coming from the kitchen. We share a look.

  ‘Trevor,’ we say at the same time.

  Chapter 38

  Alex

  Alex Carter kicks off his shoes, wanders into the kitchen, opens the fridge and takes out the gin. It’s a routine that’s become so ingrained over the last few weeks that he barely registers what he’s doing as he takes ice from the freezer and tonic from the cupboard, slices a lemon and fixes himself a drink. He knows it’s not wise, self-medicating with booze, but it takes the edge off his day and it’s something he looks forward to during the hot, cramped, gruelling forty-five-minute commute home on the Northern Line.

  He takes a long gulp of his drink, draining half the glass, then tops it up, grabs a bag of Doritos and wanders into the living room. He puts the drink and snack on the coffee table then drops onto the sofa, groaning as he stretches out, and folds his hands behind his head. When Anna left him, over a month ago, he felt strangely buoyant, as though the anchor that had been weighing him down for so long had finally been raised. He felt lighter, happier, and he no longer woke feeling as though a dark cloud had settled in his brain. When
he went on the first date with Becca he felt like a new man. He was an attractive, intelligent bloke who could still be entertaining and amusing if he put his mind to it. But almost ever since he hasn’t been able to shake the unsettled feeling in his stomach or the vague sense of unease that descends whenever he spends time alone. He tried passing it off as guilt. Thing weren’t going brilliantly with Becca and it had made him reflect on the way he’d treated Anna. But it wasn’t just guilt. There was something else he couldn’t put his finger on.

  He turns on the TV, hoping the background burble will fill his brain and block out his thoughts, but when a news reporter appears on the screen, he moves his thumb over the remote, primed to switch to a different channel. As the reporter is replaced with footage, he pauses. There’s something very familiar about the man walking into a police station with a police officer either side of him. Alex turns up the volume.

  Earlier this afternoon, the voice-over says, one woman and two men were arrested on suspicion of attempted murder. The victim, forty-seven-year-old lorry driver Donna Farrell, was serving two years in HM Prison New Hall in Wakefield for the deaths of two people after she fell asleep at the wheel of her HGV and crashed into a car containing four colleagues on their way back to London after a team-building weekend in the Brecon Beacons. Donna Farrell was attacked in her cell by fellow inmate Danielle Miller and is in a critical condition in Pinderfields Hospital. It is believed that one of the two charged men, Steve Laing, fifty-three, father of Freddy Laing who died in the M25 crash, financed the revenge attack that was orchestrated by Jim Thompson, forty-nine. In a statement Laing gave on the steps of Inner London Crown Court after Farrell’s sentence was announced, he said, ‘I would like to say that justice has been done today but the sentence meted out is an insult to my son’s death and the colleague who died with him. Farrell will probably be out on parole in twelve months’ time. She will be free to get on with her life whilst my son had his cruelly stolen away from him because of Donna Farrell’s actions.’