by Gayle Curtis
Even her fitful sleep was bombarded with dreams of how her life had been under Roger’s rule. Memories she hadn’t understood as a child now became clear. She recalled, on many occasions, finding her mother in the morning lying in an empty bath, a towel to cover her and one folded up under her head. It was now obvious that was where she’d been made to sleep and, looking back, Cecelia could see that these occasions usually followed Cecelia’s punishments.
Several times she’d arrived home from school to find her mother standing in one of the old hangars with bare feet and no coat to keep her warm – the hangars were still cold, even in the summer. It had been the punishment Cecelia hated the most and usually occurred when it was dark. She would stand in the pitch black and bitter cold with her eyes shut so tight that they ached. Staring into the darkness produced too many ghostly shapes which were triggered by the whispering voices that had been unmistakeably real, some so close to Cecelia’s ear that she had imagined she could feel warm breath on her skin. She always heard men’s voices and she imagined them to belong to the ghosts of RAF officers from World War Two. Roger had told her that’s what the hangars had been used for, embellishing his stories with haunting tales of dead pilots.
Shakily, her feet found the floor as her phone beeped. She retrieved it from the back pocket of her jeans and read the text message. It was from Sebastian. He wanted her to go over there; he had something to tell her. A slight panic began to creep through her legs, travelling up to her chest. She tried to ring Caroline’s phone but it was switched off.
Sebastian looked strange when she first arrived – he was covered in blue paint, hair dishevelled and he looked as though he hadn’t showered for a while.
‘What’s all this about, I’ve heard about Caroline not going to school? They called and asked Samuel if she was OK. When I texted her, she said she was dropping out, going to take art at the local college.’
Sebastian nodded, but apart from shakily lighting a cigarette, he said nothing. Something was very wrong and a sick feeling was beginning to rise in her throat.
‘Is she here?’
‘Yes. She’s upstairs,’ Sebastian said, a slight smile wavering on his lips.
‘Sebastian, what’s going on? You’re frightening me.’
‘Well, the long and the short of it, Cece,’ he took a long drag on his cigarette, ‘is that she’s dead. Caroline is dead.’
Cecelia stared at him, she could almost see the minutes passing. ‘What? She can’t be . . .’
‘She most definitely is. I couldn’t believe it at first either. I’ve been waiting for her to wake up for the last few weeks.’
‘Let me see my daughter you sick fuck.’ Cecelia tried to push Sebastian out of the doorway leading to the stairs but he wouldn’t let her pass.
‘Look Cece, I think she killed herself. I found her one morning . . .’ Sebastian’s face crumpled and he began to sob violently. ‘I didn’t know what to do . . . I just didn’t know what to do.’
Cecelia knew she needed to calm him down, get the facts straight. ‘It’s OK, just tell me exactly what happened.’
Sebastian held out his arms to embrace her. She moved towards him, unsure of what to do. She desperately needed to calm him down and call Samuel. Then she took a sharp breath as she felt a punch to her stomach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE END
This is the end. This is the end. That was all Cecelia could hear ringing in her head as she lay on the cold stone of Yvonne’s kitchen floor. This is the end.
These were the last words she heard spoken before the knife was pushed into her stomach and up under her ribcage. She’d thought she was entering her brother’s embrace, as she had so many times before, but it wasn’t until she staggered backwards, her legs giving way, that she realised what had happened.
Sliding down the cupboard door, she eased herself towards the floor, putting her hand across the wound; blood seeped through her clothes, warm and slow. She heard the knife clatter to the floor and Sebastian’s footsteps thundering up the stairs. Her eyes took in the engraving on the blade, the knife she’d had so many nightmares about. Her superstitious premonition had come true. Help, she needed help. She was gripped by panic, but shock seemed to have paralysed her body. After a few moments she tried to lift her bottom half very slightly in order to reach her mobile phone which was tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. She managed to wrench it free, wincing at the pain which was burning across her torso and pulsing in her neck, timing her demise. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .
The screen of her phone was cracked where she’d landed on it but she was relieved to see it still worked. She managed to get through to the emergency services and was desperately trying to keep it together enough to tell them where she was, but it was like one of those horrible dreams she’d often had where she couldn’t make herself understood. The operator stayed on the phone, talking to her the whole time, reassuring her that everything would be OK, that they’d find her, someone would help her. Her voice drifted in and out of her hearing and the room felt like it was upside down. She reached out her hand to steady herself as everything seemed to tip over and then all was still again. The stove was next to her and she managed to reach up and pull the tea towels from where they were hanging from the oven door handle, covering the wound with them, pressing as hard as she could bear.
Her words were becoming incoherent and the operator sounded like she was fading away. Cecelia could see her at a desk on the phone in the middle of the ocean and she was drifting across the ripples of the water, becoming more and more distant, further and further away. Everything was drifting away from her. This is the end, she whispered to herself.
Then Sebastian was standing over her again. He snatched the sticky, blood-spattered phone from her hand, switched it off and threw it in the sink.
‘We don’t have much time.’ He knelt down, pushing his arms underneath her, trying to pick her up and causing the pain to intensify and more blood to seep from the wound.
‘Sebastian, please . . . ’ she whispered.
‘It’s OK, Cecelia. Shush. I won’t leave you again, I promise. I just had to get everything ready.’
Lifting her from the floor, he carried her through the sitting room, twisting, turning and manoeuvring around the piles of newspapers that were now taking over the downstairs. He paused briefly at the foot of the stairs so he could catch his breath. She tried pleading to him with her eyes, the little voice she had left, fading in and out. But his vision was focused on getting her up the two flights of stairs to the loft room.
A heavy stench of decay reached her nostrils and caused her to gag. It was a smell she’d noticed when she’d first arrived but it was far more pungent at the top of the house.
She winced as Sebastian leant forward and laid her on the floor on what looked like large reams of material, before leaving the room. Looking up, her vision slightly hazy, Cecelia could see some of the walls had been painted in oils. She gasped as her vision allowed her to take in the linen art work covering the rest of the walls and ceiling: blue paint everywhere, hands, feet, breasts, ribs and faces. The other side of the room was covered with sketch drawings of a woman she didn’t recognise and then her eyes focused on the pictures of Caroline, her beautiful daughter. She tried to move but she was paralysed with fear and pain. Everything was drifting away from her.
Her surroundings tipped and swayed as she heard him come back in the room.
‘Caroline. Where’s Caroline?’ A whisper was all she could manage, her mind desperately clinging on to what little consciousness she had left.
‘She’s gone, Cecelia. Lydia took her. Lydia came and collected her sister.’
She heard a click and a tap, the familiar noise of the stereo they had used for many years being switched on and she was transported back to when they’d lived in the farmhouse together. Schubert’s Ständchen began to float towards her, around her, thr
ough her and over her, music evoking strange emotions she didn’t wish to recall.
‘Caroline . . .’ She reached her arm out and pointed weakly to the linen portraits.
‘My post corpus work – they’re beautiful, aren’t they? All this will be exhibited in a gallery when we’re gone, Cece. A beautiful tribute to Caroline, don’t you think? And to us, I suppose.’ Sebastian climbed over her so he could move her onto her side and lay behind her, his body against her back; how they always used to sleep, twins cupped together.
‘I need to tell you what I did to Mother . . .’ she whispered, incoherently rambling, unable to take in what he’d just said about Caroline.
‘Shush, Cecelia. Go to sleep, none of it matters anymore.’ He was drowsy from all the pills he’d swallowed, his voice slurring with the movement of the room. ‘We must go to sleep together. I’m here with you; we’ll never be apart again.’
Cecelia could feel herself drifting further away, visions of Caroline and Lydia jumped around in her mind, memories of happier moments in their lives. She tried one last time to fight but she’d lost all her strength and she knew there was no time left.
Sebastian held her tighter, kissing the back of her neck as he placed his hand across her nose and mouth, stifling her for the last time.
‘Night, night, Cece. I love you.’
They died there together on the linen. Cecelia and Sebastian’s final portrait.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With much appreciation I would like to thank the following people:
My agents, Paul and Susan Feldstein for their constant support and invaluable professional knowledge of the literary world. Mark Smith, Joel Richardson, Rob Woolliams and everyone at Bonnier, Twenty7 and Zaffre for giving me this wonderful opportunity. A special thanks to my editor, Claire Johnson-Creek who worked tirelessly with me on this manuscript. Emily Burns, Carmen Jimenez, Georgia Mannering and everyone in marketing. The design team who produced such a wonderful cover. Molly Powell and everyone at Whitefox who worked on the copyedit. All the authors at Twenty7 who I’ve had the privilege of meeting, for their encouragement and kindness, especially Tanya Ravenswater, Lesley Richardson, Graham Minett and Ayisha Malik, thank you for all your wonderful emails and telephone chats! It’s been great getting to know you all.
A huge thank you to Joyce and Doug Carter, my lovely parents, my sisters, Claire Carter and Joanne Newman, Sarah, Michael and the rest of the Burrows for all their love and support. In particular, my mother for reading everything with a red pen in her hand and to my mother-in-law, Carol who was immensely proud and would have loved this moment.
A special thanks to the following people: my dearest friend, Vicky Jackson for her constant belief, excitement and encouragement and for setting me on the literary path. To Catherine Stevens, Tina Payne, Nicki Plaice, Ryan Plaice and Paige Sieben for eagerly reading everything I’ve ever written and their unrelenting support. My husband’s cousin, Dr. Nikki Frater for her genius art expertise. Michael Gibson for all the inspirational early morning walks and Costa coffees!
I would also like to thank Stacey Clark, Bev Langridge, Bianca Lewis, Angelina Nizzardi, Martin McMechan, Dawn Ancell, Elaine Dery and Rebecca Wright and her family.
My biggest thanks is to my husband, Christopher, for his constant, unwavering optimism and total belief in me. Thank you for the most exciting seventeen years.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gayle writes her books from an old chapel in Norfolk where she lives with her husband, Christopher. She draws inspiration from abandoned buildings, the sea and very strange people.
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Twenty7 Books
Twenty7 Books
80-81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE
www.twenty7books.co.uk
Copyright © Gayle Curtis, 2016
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Gayle Curtis to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7857-7029-6
This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd
Twenty7 Books is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre, a Bonnier Publishing company
www.bonnierzaffre.co.uk
www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright