The Mistake

by K. L. Slater

  THE MISTAKE

  AN UNPUTDOWNABLE PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER WITH A BRILLIANT TWIST

  K. L. SLATER

  For Francesca Kim x

  “Surround yourself only with people who are going to take you higher.”

  ― OPRAH WINFREY

  CONTENTS

  BILLY

  1. ROSE

  2. ROSE

  3. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  4. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  5. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  6. ROSE

  7. ROSE

  8. ROSE

  9. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  10. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  11. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  12. ROSE

  13. ROSE

  14. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  15. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  16. ROSE

  17. ROSE

  18. ROSE

  19. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  20. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  21. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  22. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  23. ROSE

  24. ROSE

  25. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  26. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  27. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  28. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  29. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  30. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  31. ROSE

  32. ROSE

  33. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  34. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  35. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  36. ROSE

  37. ROSE

  38. ROSE

  39. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  40. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  41. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  42. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  43. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  44. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  45. ROSE

  46. ROSE

  47. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  48. ROSE

  49. ROSE

  50. ROSE

  51. ROSE

  52. ROSE

  53. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  54. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  55. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  56. SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  57. ROSE

  58. ROSE

  59. ROSE

  60. ROSE

  61. ROSE

  62. HMP WAKEFIELD

  63. HMP WAKEFIELD

  64. ROSE

  65. ROSE

  66. ROSE

  67. HMP WAKEFIELD

  68. HMP WAKEFIELD

  69. ROSE

  70. ROSE

  71. HMP WAKEFIELD

  Blink

  Hear More From K.L. Slater

  Also by K. L. Slater

  A Letter from K.L. Slater

  Safe With Me

  Liar

  Acknowledgements

  BILLY

  SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  The kite had dived-bombed around here; he knew it. Even though he couldn’t see it yet, he felt confident he would find it.

  It was a perfectly blustery day, the exact reason he and Rose had decided to take the kite for its maiden flight. Slate and silver clouds marbled the powder-blue sky, misting the weak sunlight but taking none of its warmth.

  But here in the undergrowth, Billy could see none of that. His bare arms felt cool, his forearms prickling as he stumbled over ancient exposed roots that felt like gnarled bones beneath his unsteady feet.

  Still, Billy bravely ventured further into the dense woodland, beating a pathway through with his trusty stick.

  He had a good sense of direction. His class teacher had said so last summer when they went on the mini-beast hunt, here at Newstead Abbey. And so Billy forged ahead, his inner compass telling him that the kite was definitely around here somewhere.

  He wanted to show his big sister how grown-up he was, by recovering the kite and bringing it back to her. If he behaved himself, Rose might take him out again.

  They hardly ever did stuff together these days, didn’t even play Monopoly or anything.

  Billy heard a rustling sort of noise behind him. Ceasing the kite hunt for just a moment, he peered into the thick greenery but he could see nothing.

  Perhaps it was a fox. Rose would be scared of that but Billy certainly wasn’t. He was eight years old now and Dad had said big boys like him weren’t scared of bears or wolves and certainly not foxes.

  Billy inhaled the cool, damp scent of the earth, batting back the leaves and branches, eagle-eyed and waiting to spot the bright blue-and-white kite that Rose had bought him for his birthday just a few weeks ago.

  A snapping branch and more rustling behind him. Billy spun around, brandishing his stick in case a fox was moving in to attack. His eyes caught a shadowy movement and then a figure stepped out of the foliage, towards him.

  Billy breathed out and frowned. What was he doing here?

  ‘I’m looking for my kite,’ Billy said by way of explaining. ‘I don’t need any help.’

  It would be just like him to take all the glory with Rose.

  Billy looked up at him and thought how his face looked… different, sort of angry and he hadn’t answered him yet or explained why he was there. And yet Billy knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. His mouth felt dry and his chest burned.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to Rose now,’ he said, turning to run from the bushes, but before he could dodge past him, two strong arms shot out and held him fast.

  Billy heard the chatter of voices close to them and he tried to call out but found he couldn’t because there was a powerful hand clamped over his nose and mouth.

  He kicked and struggled but quite soon he couldn’t get his breath at all. He heard a crow cawing up ahead and he thought about his new kite, torn and lost in the undergrowth.

  Billy strained to pull in breath to his straining lungs through fingers that were wrapped around his nose and mouth like an iron mask.

  The voices he’d heard before sounded muffled and far away from him now.

  Slowly, like a fading light switch turning, everything around him went very, very dark.

  1

  ROSE

  PRESENT DAY

  I sweep the book scanner across the two large-print Catherine Cookson novels Mrs Groves has spent the last thirty minutes selecting, and wait for the beep. Once I’ve checked they’ve successfully updated to the Library Management System, I push them back across the counter.

  ‘Would you like to sign our petition, Mrs Groves?’ I ask.

  The old lady slides the books into her shopping bag and peers at the list of signatures I’m holding in front of her. ‘What’s it for, dear?’

  ‘We’re campaigning to save the library,’ I explain. ‘The local authority have issued a list of possible closures for next year and Newstead library is on there.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Groves frowns. ‘But that’s preposterous.’

  ‘I know but it could happen if we don’t actively do something about it,’ I explain. ‘It’s happening all over the country. Libraries are closing on a monthly basis.’

  Mrs Groves looks at me. ‘You know it’s wonderful, the work you do here in the village, Rose. You make the library such a friendly place to come…’ Her face changes and I brace myself. ‘All in spite of everything else you’ve had to cope with… the tragedy you went through…’ Her eyes shine.

  ‘Thank you.’ I lower my eyes and smile the smile before moving on. ‘But this is about standing up for what we believe in, isn’t it? They’ve taken so much from our village as it is.’ I push the petition a little closer to her.

  Mrs Groves adjusts her spectacles and takes the paper and pen.

  ‘Very true but I’ll tell you now, they’re not going to take our library, dear.’ Her spidery scrawl fills the next avail
able box on the petition grid and she looks up defiantly. ‘We’ll make sure of that.’

  I smile, silently wishing it were that simple. Newstead has one of the smallest libraries in the county of Nottinghamshire. We open for a total of just three days a week; all day on a Wednesday and a mixture of mornings and afternoons on the other weekdays.

  I like working here and I’ve never had ambitions to move to one of the bigger libraries. I started my career about eight years ago, when I finished university, as Assistant Librarian to Mr Barrow. And when Mr Barrow eventually retired and I’d had the requisite interview, they made me Librarian.

  The library is housed in a flat-roofed building tucked neatly away off the main road and sits opposite the primary school at the entrance to the main village. On a fine day, from the main desk, I can see the woods beyond the busy Hucknall Road that skirts past us.

  The sun, on the days it shines, bathes my workspace from mid-morning to mid-afternoon.

  Inside, the library decor is tired and the whole interior is now rather grubby in places. The wiry, grey carpets are worn worst where the heaviest footfall lands and the fabric on the edges of the chair cushions in our comfortable reading area is torn and frayed.

  In winter the cold air seeps in through the rotting wooden window frames and the antiquated warm-air ducted heating system probably malfunctions on more days than it works.

  But people like coming here all the same.

  Miss Carter, a lifelong resident of the village now in her mid-eighties and living on Abbey Road with her thirteen cats, reliably informs me she can sense the library has ‘a subtle, sacred energy’. I suspect she might change her opinion if she heard Jim Greaves, the part-time caretaker, cursing loudly in his broad Geordie accent when the heating is on the blink again.

  Still, I do know what she means. Even though it desperately needs upgrading, the place has a nice feeling about it. I put it down to all the wonderful books we have here. Shelf upon shelf of sparkling characters, addictive storylines and worlds that feel real enough to get lost in for a spare hour here and there, or for days on end.

  I run a couple of fundraising events a year and from the proceeds, we’ve managed to buy some colourful bean bags to brighten up the children’s fiction corner a little, and we also had enough left to equip a mother and baby room, located next to the main toilet.

  The flat roof sprung yet another leak last week, prompting Jim to buy another brightly coloured bucket from petty cash, and the whole place is desperate for redecorating, but I like working here.

  I feel comfortable and safe, despite everything that’s happened.

  My job allows me full contact with the villagers and even some of the new people who’ve moved here in recent years, without having to get fully involved in their lives. I’ve learned how to wear a convincing mask during my working hours. I say the right things, smile that smile and reassure everyone that despite the tragedy that happened here sixteen years ago, I’m OK and soldiering on.

  I’ve realised that’s all they really want: to show me that they haven’t forgotten about Billy, and for me to say that yes, I’m fine now.

  So that’s exactly what I give them and watch with a weary resignation as the relief floods over their concerned faces.

  Nobody ever mentions Gareth Farnham.

  The full horror of what he did here is still too much for the village psyche to handle. But the legacy of him hovers, like an undulating cloud of flying insects, above the heads of all of those who remember.

  Over the years, I’ve learned the correct response to every question, each sympathetic look and every well-meaning touch of the arm. I can keep it up no problem until I get home and close the door behind me.

  Then it’s a different story altogether.

  Today is a half-day at work, so on the way home I plan on stopping off at the Co-op to pick up some bits for both myself and for Ronnie, my next-door neighbour.

  As I sit re-jacketing a couple of our well-worn titles, I can’t help worrying a bit about him.

  A fiercely independent man now in his late seventies, Ronnie has been out of sorts for the last few days with a nasty stomach bug and on top of that, his legs have started playing up; stiffening up and aching terribly if he walks too far. Yet I have to virtually beg for him to let me help him.

  ‘You’ve enough to do, Rose, without worrying about me,’ he’d complained when I’d popped round yesterday and checked on the sparse contents of his cupboards and fridge.

  I’d rolled my eyes at him.

  ‘Ronnie, I’m just getting you some milk and bread on my way home from work tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘OK.’ He’d given me a little smile, suitably chastised.

  Ronnie might be just a neighbour to some but, to me, he feels more like family. He’s always been there. I was born in this house and I remember Mum telling me that, virtually as soon as I could walk, off I’d toddle next door to the Turners’ house to get spoiled with sweets and Sheila’s legendary home-made strawberry ice cream.

  ‘Ronnie used to leave the little gate between our back gardens open so you could nip through and see Sheila whenever you liked,’ Mum remembered fondly one time. ‘And when Ronnie and your dad went for a pint, you used to try and follow them down to the Station Hotel.’

  From the first moments Billy went missing, Ronnie and Sheila Turner were there for us. Ronnie stayed up all night to co-ordinate a community search of the abbey grounds and the local woods early the next day, and Sheila made drinks and sandwiches for everyone while we all waited for news. The legion of police, drafted in from all over Nottinghamshire, said they’d never seen anything quite like it.

  When they found Billy’s body two days later, Ronnie and Sheila were there to catch us as we fell. We were feathers in a storm for days that bled into weeks then months and they held us down, stopping us from drifting into oblivion.

  Sheila died just over five years ago and now, with Mum and Dad both gone too, there’s just me and Ronnie left. And I owe him.

  Picking up a few bits for him from the store is never going to be a problem.

  2

  ROSE

  PRESENT DAY

  From my desk, I keep an eye on the clock and watch the unstoppable tick of the hands towards one o’clock.

  Most people can’t wait to knock off work but it’s never like that for me. I always dread finishing time.

  Once the last customer has left the library, Jim locks the external doors and stands rattling his keys. When I tell him I have some things I need to finish off, his face drops and he disappears into the back office again.

  I feel bad because I know he can’t go home to Janice, his wheelchair-bound wife of forty years, until the building is empty.

  But it’s just one of those days and I don’t feel strong enough to leave yet. I need to work up to going home.

  I start by running an update to the LMS software while I tackle the big pile of today’s checked-in books, returning them to the shelves.

  Paula, my assistant, only comes in on Wednesdays when we stay open all day. On half-days, I’m on my own. I don’t mind it, I like the variety and find that the simplest duties – like re-shelving the returns – bring back happy memories of when I first volunteered here and life was still safe and simple.

  Books helped me get well back then and I feel happiest now when I’m around them. Sometimes I wish I could put up a camp bed in the back office, and then I’d never need to go home at all.

  I load the returns on to a trolley and push it down to the bottom wall of shelves: the Crime section. It’s probably the most popular genre in the library.

  Our customers love a good mystery, a page-turner. They seem fascinated by terrifying tales or awful deeds that could quite feasibly happen to them in their own ordinary lives. But of course that’s because they are safely afraid; they can close the book at any point and keep those emotions firmly in check.

  When I was younger, I used to love reading crime novels for exactly thi
s reason. My choice of late-night read before sleep beckoned was often a classic Agatha Christie or a chilling Ruth Rendell mystery.

  But I haven’t touched a book like that in sixteen years.

  Reading about deceitful personalities, the hidden underbelly of society and unreliable characters who appear to be one thing but are soon found out to be something else entirely… all that stuff now fills me with a curdling discomfort that can last for days.

  After I’ve re-shelved the returns and checked that the update is complete, I enter the new books that were delivered mid-morning onto the system inventory.

  We’ve a copy of the new Jeffery Deaver novel and two copies each of the latest blockbusters from Martina Cole and Val McDermid. They are all reserved and have been for weeks. In fact, one of the Martina Coles has Jim’s wife’s name on it. Hopefully, that will be a small consolation for her when he rolls home late from work yet again, courtesy of moi.

  We have lots of keen readers in the village who still struggle to make ends meet, even all this time after the pit closed. They’ve never fully recovered, and never will. Especially the older residents. They were once valued contributors to the UK’s national coal supply and now, well, they’re just about managing on their reduced pensions.

  They almost certainly haven’t got the funds to splash out on their favourite author’s latest hardback.

  Next job is sending out the emails, texts and in some cases, for our less technical, older customers, I ring, leaving a message to tell readers their long-awaited books are now available for collection.

  Tomorrow, in they’ll stride with purpose, their faces bright, their smiles of anticipation in place, and for a few hours, they’ll forget about their problems.

  And when they return their books, we’ll have lengthy conversations about what they thought of the storyline, the setting, the characters. It’s one of the highlights of my job and it’s a massively important function of this library.

  Jim’s face lights up when I hand him the book.

  ‘This will help my Jan with the pain far more than her medication ever could.’ He looks genuinely touched and pats the cover of the novel. ‘Cheer her up no end, this will. Thanks, pet.’