Tormenting Lila

by Sarah Alderson

  (possibly) in love with the

  local bad boy, and falling out

  with a dangerous serial killer

  . . .

  Prologue

  I’m running, running blind.

  Into the dark. Into the woods.

  Ricocheting off branches,

  tripping over tangled tree

  roots, gripping my arm as I

  stumble on, sobbing. Are

  those his footsteps coming

  after me or is it the wind? A

  bird? An animal?

  I come to a flying halt and

  crouch down in the dirt,

  trying to listen. Is he

  following me? But my

  breathing is so loud and

  laboured it’s all I can hear.

  That and the wild drumming

  of blood in my ears. My heart

  is no longer a caged bird but

  a dozen bats trying to burst

  free. I close my eyes and try

  to sink down into the dark.

  My fingers burrow through

  sandy soil, damp leaves. I

  want to claw my way deep

  into the earth, roll beneath

  the leaves and bury myself. I

  want to sob and scream and

  melt and turn to smoke and

  vanish. When I open my eyes

  the world spins, recedes then

  rushes back in.

  ‘Ren!’

  His voice yells my name.

  Over and over. Filling my

  head with the sound of it and

  tearing apart the night.

  I need to stand up. I need

  to run. But I’m frozen. My

  back is slammed against a

  tree. My lungs are beginning

  to close down. I try to suck in

  a breath but it gets stuck and

  all of a sudden the sky looms

  darker and larger overhead,

  the stars fuzzing out of focus

  and dissolving into the

  blanket sky.

  A crunch.

  I shrink back as far as I

  can, feeling the bark of the

  tree scratch a bloody trail

  across my shoulder. I bite my

  lip, choking off the scream

  that is fighting to burst out.

  He is out there, holding his

  breath as I hold mine. Ears

  pricked, eyes scouring the

  darkness. I can sense him

  there waiting, just a few feet

  away, his head tilted as he

  listens, and I can no longer

  balance my weight on the

  balls of my feet. My knees

  are going to give, my arms

  are shaking.

  Tears are slipping

  noiselessly down my cheeks

  as my eyes dart left and right

  strafing the darkness. I can’t

  see anything. It’s pitch black

  out here. In the distance the

  roar of the ocean seems to be

  calling to me, whispering my

  name, urging me to make a

  run towards it.

  A twig snaps to my right.

  I haul myself to standing

  in that same second and then

  I am running, ignoring the

  shooting pain in my arm and

  the sting of branches slashing

  at my face. All I can hear

  now is a roaring in my ears.

  And behind me, coming

  closer, his breath, his

  footsteps and the heat of him

  rising like a mist. My feet hit

  something soft. I’m on the

  beach. The trees have given

  way to sand dunes. The ocean

  sounds wild and close. If I

  can only make it there . . .

  because where else is there to

  run to? And then suddenly

  my foot hits something

  sharp, a rock buried in the

  sand, and I’m flying, falling

  fast, and I land hard, my

  ankle twisting, and I let out a

  yell that I try to smother with

  my other hand. I roll onto my

  back, kicking at invisible

  hands. I try to draw my legs

  up to my body, to curl into a

  ball, but my ankle explodes

  in pain and I can’t move it.

  And I whimper, not because

  of the pain but because fear

  floods my tongue and it’s as

  foul as earth and it’s fear

  which is closing up my throat

  as surely as his hands sliding

  around my neck and

  squeezing.

  I want my mum. And I sob

  her name out loud into the

  darkness, and over the sound

  of the ocean roaring I hear

  his breathing, loud and heavy

  and excited, coming close.

  But the thought of my

  mum is enough to push back

  the fear and let the rage in.

  And I’ve never felt such rage

  before. It almost cancels out

  the fear, roaring inside me

  now as deep as the ocean.

  I start scrabbling

  desperately for something –

  anything – to use as a

  weapon.

  My hand sinks into the

  dune, trying to find the object

  I tripped on, and my fingers

  close around a rock, heavy

  with jagged, sharp edges. I

  draw it into my lap and sit

  there clutching it as the tears

  stream down my cheeks.

  My breathing is coming in

  little gasps now. I’m

  struggling to force air down

  into my lungs – they’re on

  fire from the inside, smoke-

  filled and layered with ash.

  My fingers are starting to

  tingle. My lips are going

  numb.

  And then he appears, a

  dark shape against the sky,

  and the rock slides out of my

  hand and falls with a muted

  thud to the sand. I open my

  mouth to scream but I can’t

  because my throat has

  squeezed shut and there’s no

  air left in my lungs.

  And the last thing I see,

  before the darkness drowns

  me completely, is him.

  1

  I’ve never held a baby so

  when he hands me this

  squalling red thing I just

  stare at it.

  ‘Can you take Braiden?’ he

  says.

  The baby has a name. This

  doesn’t make holding it any

  less terrifying. But I reach

  out and say ‘sure’ and next

  thing I know I’m holding a

  baby. And mother of all

  surprises, the baby – Braiden

  – stops crying. He not only

  stops crying, he reaches for

  my hair with fat little fists,

  tugs on a loose strand and

  gurgles happily at me.

  I am holding a baby. I grin.

  The whole way here on the

  plane I have been preparing

  for this moment. The

  moment where my summer

  plan of nannying falls apart

  like a stage set collapsing as

  the people I’m nannying for

  discover that my only

  experience of children is

  having been one once (and

  technically, legally, I

  suppose, still being one).

  But now I’m holding th
e

  baby and it’s not screaming

  and I haven’t dropped it on

  its head yet and I’m thinking

  as I bounce him up and down

  that maybe, just maybe, I can

  get away with it so they don’t

  throw me out and send me

  back to England on the next

  flight.

  ‘See, he loves you,’ the

  dad says. ‘I’ll be back in just

  one second.’ And he

  disappears.

  I stare after him in a state

  of mild panic. It’s one thing

  to hold a baby and another

  thing entirely to be left

  holding the baby.

  ‘OK, OK, Braiden,’ I start

  to say in a sing-song voice

  that I’ve never in my life

  used before. ‘I can do this, I

  can do this.’ I drop my voice

  back to its normal range. The

  baby’s face is now

  scrunching up and going

  bright red and he’s looking

  kind of startled. Probably, I

  think, because his dad has

  just handed him to a

  complete stranger and

  walked off.

  ‘He’s doing a number

  two.’

  I turn around. ‘Hey,’ I say

  to the little girl with red hair

  who’s just appeared in the

  doorway. ‘You must be . . .’

  ‘Brodie,’ she finishes, then

  points at her brother. ‘He’s

  doing a number two.’

  I glance back at Braiden

  who is now fist-pumping

  wildly and thrashing his legs

  against my stomach. ‘Oh,’ I

  say, as the stench hits my

  nostrils.

  Nice. I think of how I am

  going to describe this

  moment later to Megan.

  Pooed on by a baby within

  minutes of arriving. She’d

  tell me with a wryly arched

  eyebrow that one way or

  another I always get shat on.

  ‘You need a diaper,’

  Brodie informs me, crossing

  her hands over her chest and

  squinting up at me.

  ‘You want to show me

  where they are?’ I ask,

  thinking that maybe I can

  also get her to show me how

  to change it. Because I don’t

  have a clue. I should have

  YouTubed all these things

  before I left but for one

  reason or another I didn’t.

  Brodie leads me into a

  bedroom – belonging to her

  parents, I assume, because

  there’s a double bed on top of

  which are a couple of half-

  unpacked suitcases, a laptop

  case, a newspaper and a stack

  of folders.

  Brodie reaches a freckled

  arm into a changing bag on

  the floor and pulls out a stash

  of diapers, a tub of

  something that looks

  alarmingly medical and some

  baby wipes. She puts them on

  the bed and stares at me

  expectantly.

  I clear space, pushing the

  laptop far, far out of the way

  and wondering silently if the

  bed is the right place to do

  this. The duvet cover is

  white. It feels like I’m

  testing fate.

  I lay the baby down

  carefully on top of a plastic

  mat thing which Brodie has

  helpfully laid out for me.

  Braiden blows a bubble out

  of the side of his mouth. It’s

  kind of cute. And then I catch

  another waft and my eyes

  water. I do a quick study of

  his outfit, locate the handily

  placed poppers and peel it

  back. There is poo. There is a

  lot of poo, oozing like mud

  out of the sides of his nappy

  (let’s not call it a diaper) and

  who knew poo could ever be

  that consistency? Or that

  colour? I’m stunned. Too

  stunned to move.

  ‘Do you even know what

  you’re doing?’ Brodie asks,

  her eyes narrowing at me in a

  disturbing display of

  suspicion coming from a

  four-year-old.

  I weigh my answer. ‘No,’ I

  finally say, glancing quickly

  at the open door. ‘But if you

  help me out on this one I will

  do my very best to make it up

  to you.’

  She studies me like a

  lawyer and then bounces over

  to me, grinning. ‘Deal.’

  She unsticks the nappy and

  opens it and we both stagger

  backwards.

  ‘You’re cleaning the poop

  though,’ she says, handing

  me the wipes.

  I wipe and smear and then

  I wipe some more. Babies’

  thighs have all sorts of

  crevices, I discover. And the

  instinct I had over not doing

  this on a white duvet turns

  out to have been correct, so I

  end up trying to wipe up the

  smears on that too.

  When I’m done, Brodie

  hands me a clean nappy and

  shows me how to do it up. I

  reseal the poppers on the

  Babygro feeling more proud

  of myself than when I passed

  my driving test.

  ‘Oh my goodness.’

  I spin around. There’s a

  woman in the doorway and I

  am guessing from the red

  hair that she is the mother of

  the pooing baby and the

  precocious four-year-old, and

  therefore my new boss.

  ‘Did Mike leave you to

  change Braiden’s diaper?’

  she says. ‘I am so sorry. And

  I’m sorry I wasn’t here to

  welcome you when you

  arrived. I just had to run to

  the store. We only just got

  here ourselves.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t

  worry. Brodie here helped me

  out.’ I wink at Brodie and she

  grins back at me.

  ‘It’s Ren, isn’t it?’ she

  asks, putting her handbag

  down on the bed and shaking

  my hand. ‘It’s so lovely to

  meet you. I’m Carrie Tripp.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, shaking her

  hand. ‘Nice to meet you too.’

  ‘Did my husband at least

  show you to your room?’ she

  asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Mike!’ Mrs Tripp yells at

  the top of her voice. She

  turns back to the bed and

  picks up Braiden. Mr Tripp

  walks into the room at that

  point.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ he says,

  seeing his wife. ‘You met

  Ren, then? I was just taking a

  quick call.’

  Carrie raises an eyebrow.

  He gives her an innocent look

  as if to say, what? And then his wife shakes her head and

  laughs and I think to myself

  that I’m going to like these

  people. I’m going to like

  being part of their family for

  the summer. Even if poo-


  filled nappies are the trade-

  off.

  ‘Brodie, can you show Ren

  to her room, please?’ Carrie

  says.

  ‘Sure,’ Brodie says and she

  slips her hand into mine.

  Sumário

  Title page

  2

  Copyright page

  3

  Contents

  7

  Tormenting Lila

  9

  Three days later

  138

  Meet Ren, Tyler,

  Parker and Jesse

  this summer in The 145

  Sound, out August

  1st.

  Prologue

  148

  1

  161

  Document Outline

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Contents

  Tormenting Lila

  Three days later

  Meet Ren, Tyler, Parker and Jesse this summer in The Sound, out August 1st.

  Prologue

  1

  Table of Contents

  Tormenting Lila

  Three days later

  Meet Ren, Tyler, Parker and

  Prologue

  1

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Contents