Islands: A page turning story of love, secrets and regrets
Page 25
Thanks also to my mother-in-law, Patricia, for her support in reading and giving feedback on the manuscript.
A huge thank you to fellow writer and friend, Jan Caston, for her editing and whip-cracking, and for giving me excellent advice in the re-writing of Islands.
This book is also dedicated to the victims of abuse, those who need our support and vigilance; and to all those women who have suffered a miscarriage and struggled to deal with the emotional fallout. You are not alone.
Finally, thank you for reading this book. I hope you enjoyed it and look forward to sharing another story with you soon.
About the Author
Gwyn GB is a writer living in Jersey, Channel Islands. Born in the UK she moved there with her Jersey-born husband and their children. Gwyn has spent most of her career as a journalist, but has always written fiction in her spare time.
You can connect with Gwyn online:
Twitter: @gwyngb
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/GwynGBwriter/
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/GwynGB/
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Website: http://www.gwyngb.com
Gwyn’s next book ‘Lonely Hearts’ is coming soon.
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In the meantime, turn over the page for a free taster:
Lonely Hearts
1
Rachel
The garden is illuminated by thin leached light from the windows of the house, their curtains open for the purpose. The dark moon-less sky means a thousand shadows have been born - but only one has made her heart pound, turning her skin cold and sending the blood pumping in her veins.
She knows they’re watching; just like she knew they were there last time.
Her hands start to shake slightly while she locks up the shed, determined not to leave her animals unprotected and vulnerable. Her breathing is shallow as she listens for the slightest sound from behind: a bush parting, soft footsteps on the lawn, the breath of another on her neck.
Like last time - there’s nothing.
Nothing, except the gentle hum of suburban traffic and a baby crying in a house across the road, its high pitched wailing summoning tired parents. She is surrounded by houses, by families and couples going about their evening routines: TV, computer games, reading, arguing - all oblivious to her rising fear and what might be about to happen.
Rachel pockets the shed key and turns toward her house. It’s only ten paces but the empty lawn gapes wide. Why are they here? It’s been weeks since the last time and she thought they’d gone, scared off by the presence of a boyfriend in the house. It’s almost as if they know she’s alone tonight.
What if they’re already inside? Slipped in unseen while she fed the animals.
The open doorway in front of her becomes a threat, lit up and welcoming to any passing stalker.
What should she do? Stay outside with the shadows in the open? Or trust the light and the doorway that will enclose her?
Fear wins. Her legs start to move as flight and adrenaline take over. If she gets into the kitchen, her mobile phone is on the table. She can almost see it from here.
She walks, each step an eternity, nearly twisting her ankle as she misses the edge where lawn meets footpath.
Rachel is just a few feet from the doorway, light bathes her face and makes her blonde hair glow. Her phone is just feet from her grasp.
2
Neil
Neil leans into the bathroom mirror, plucking the last grey hair from his eyebrow. The demanding youth culture of social media marketing isn’t his only motivation to hold back the years.
It’s as he drops his gaze to the sink, turning on the tap to wash away his age, that the knife enters his back.
He doesn’t see who kills him. It wouldn’t matter much if he did because he’s as dead as the proverbial Dodo, and thus a useless witness, long before anyone thinks to check on him.
As he careers head first into the bath tub he knocks his bottle of Creed aftershave in with him; smashing and spattering the white porcelain with scent as well as blood.
The Coroner later comments, his is the nicest smelling corpse he’s ever had the pleasure to be acquainted with.
By the time Neil’s mobile rings in the sitting room, Rachel’s phone number flashing up on the screen, his heart has stopped pumping. Neil will stay forever young.
3
Clare
Clare has an epiphany lying naked next to the man who’s shared her bed for the past eighteen months. He is never going to make her happy. A fact backed up by the dull ache between her legs instead of a pleasure swollen post-orgasmic throb.
In truth, he’s bored her for months but it’s been convenient. The same reasons so many coppers get together: an understanding of the crap you have to deal with on a daily basis, and the shit hours. Unfortunately, Clare no longer wants convenience, she wants passion, and her own space. Neither of which she’s been getting since Jack moved in.
He’s also been getting a bit too heavy lately, broody even. Jack has started talking forward, not just weeks or months, but years.
‘This would be a good investment,’ he’d said the other night. They were sitting on the sofa, dinner finished, watching Game of Thrones when he just came out with it and handed Clare his iPad.
Clare expected him to show her a savings account or the latest Indiegogo hit, but instead he offered up a local estate agency site with an ad that said, “Great neighbourhood. The perfect family starter-home.” Clare hadn’t known what to say. It was one of those rare occasions she’d been lost for words.
Thankfully, Khaleesi and her dragons took that moment to catch Jack’s attention and she was spared any further awkwardness.
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