by Frances Vick
David had stayed silent while fate flooded in. He closed his eyes. Opened them.
‘You should’ve been a better mother.’
Sal had stared at him. ‘What?’
‘What?’
‘Whadyousay?’ Sal was exhausted now. The cold had crept to the centre of her, shutting pieces of her down, one by one. ‘Whuyousay?’
‘I didn’t say anything.’ He smiled back. ‘Lean on me.’ He helped her up. It had been like picking up a sack of manure. Sal had been weak, wobbled and dragged one mangled foot behind her. She’d smelled of gin and indifferently brushed teeth. David turned her away from the house, further into the hills, but she’d been too cold and drunk to notice. She had noticed one thing though…
‘Zatmyscarf?’
‘Yes.’ David had looked down at his still wrapped hand. ‘D’you want it back?’
‘What? Yes, I want it back.’
David had smiled broadly. ‘Well, you’re not getting it back.’
Sal sagged, stopped, looked at him, then looked around. ‘What? We’re not… we’re not … right direction, where’re… we going?’
‘Let’s walk. Nearly there,’ David had said cheerfully, holding her arm firmly, painfully, but not hard enough to leave a bruise. ‘What?’ Sal asked fearfully. Her eyes held an expression that he’d only ever seen before in dying animals: a dulled, wary acceptance. ‘Why? Where we going?’
‘Don’t worry’ David had said. ‘You’re with me now.’ And he had given her a hard shove down into one of the deepest hollows, a place he knew was treacherous with boulders, and watched as Sal slid messily down, clutching uselessly at the snow. He heard the sound of her head hitting the rock. He saw the movements her legs made – those strange, scurrying motions one sees on the gallows. He had wondered if she’d bleed, and if so, whether he’d be able to see it from there.
‘I waited for an hour and she didn’t move.’ David reached for Jenny’s hand. ‘And I knew then that she was—’
‘Dead,’ Jenny whispered.
‘Yes. Then, I went to find you, but you’d already gone to Freddie’s house, and then, of course—’
She removed her hand from his and shrank back against the car door.
‘You see? I told you. It’s too much information for you, you’re sick, and, you’re tired, and—’ He ducked his head, trying to look into her eyes. ‘Did I do the wrong thing? Jenny?’ She was shivering in her coat, shaking. She gave a low moan, shrunk into a crouch. His chest constricted with alarm – what was wrong, what was wrong? Jenny? Je—
And then her boot smashed into his nose.
‘Jenny? Wha—?’
Her heel slammed into his temple, then his throat, and she was screaming, shouting. ‘You killed my mum!’ And she kicked, and kicked and kicked until his head fell against the steering wheel, and the sound of him trying to breathe through his broken nose filled the car. She paused then. Closed her eyes, concentrated, opened them and shouted: ‘Don’t! David!’ The shout became a scream, a different type of scream – a fearful scream. ‘No!’ as she grasped the knife that had killed both Marc and Freddie, and thrust it into David’s throat, ground it in using all her strength, and then wrenching it back out, turning away from the splash of his boiling blood, letting her screams merge into whimpering, weeping.
After a minute, she put her hand in her pocket, brought out her phone and tapped to stop record.
Then she stopped crying, shook herself, took off her coat.
David, a mass of meat on the steering wheel, stared at her with fading eyes as she gritted her teeth and turned the knife on herself, scoring defensive slashes on her forearms. The blood gurgled from David’s neck, and his eyes grew dimmer dimmer dimmer, watching her check her face in the mirror, watching her tear some hair loose from her ponytail, punching herself in the face, wincing, then again. He was still alive when she got out of the car, as she walked across the isolated car park, while she jogged and then ran towards the lights of the pub she’d noticed on the other side of the caravan park.
He died just as she fell through the door, gore-streaked and screaming for help.
65
Between the phone recording, the blood-soaked contents of ‘Precious Memories!’, Jenny’s statement, and the diary notes she’d given to Cheryl, the police drew the obvious – the only – conclusion about David: his long-standing obsession with Jenny was psychotic and murderous. He had a history of mental illness and violence – he’d stabbed a boy in school, set at least two fires in the family home, and had been under private psychiatric care for years. Not only had he killed Marc Doyle, he’d killed Sal so he could get closer to Jenny, and when Freddie voiced his suspicions, he had killed him too.
It was a terrible story. It was an irresistible story. It had everything – obsession; abuse; murder; arson; insanity; and more murder. It had stalking and police negligence – It had Beauty and the Beast (David was conspicuously good-looking, but that didn’t figure in the headlines much).
Jenny was a heroine, a gutsy virago who had done the police’s job for them – putting herself in danger by drawing a confession out of the bad guy, recording it, and when he turned on her too, fighting back and winning. She was remarkable! She was so, so brave! And, later, she comported herself with such dignity at Freddie’s funeral, sitting in the front pew, between Ruth and Graham, her bandaged arms around their shoulders, her bruised face eloquent, heroic.
After the funeral, she stayed in the village, in the same house where she had lived with David. When Catherine was released from hospital, she went to collect her. She wanted to look after her. David had given her power of attorney, and now, who else was there? Catherine couldn’t be put in a home! Why should a sick old lady have to suffer for her son’s crimes?
Jenny gave a few interviews but never in the house. Catherine knew nothing about what had happened, and even though she was less and less compos mentis these days, any chance mention of David might still distress her. Catherine was a victim, just as Jenny was a victim, and she needed all the love and help she could give her. None of this was her fault. It was nobody’s fault.
In a TV interview she was asked: ‘But surely it is someone’s fault? David Crane committed these crimes, it’s his fault, surely?’
Jenny’s forehead puckered. She looked just to the left of the camera, her eyes misty. ‘All I can say is that David… he was very ill. He was very ill, and because of this illness, he did some terrible things. It’s the illness that needs to be taken seriously. We can’t run away from this any more. And she showed both scarred forearms to the camera, gave a sad smile. ‘Look what happens when we try?’
One Year Later
66
Mrs Mondesir waited anxiously at the vet’s. Huck had been limping – and not because he’s overweight, like the vet said. Well, it wasn’t just that anyway. A thorn stuck behind one paw pad had got infected, and they’d kept him in overnight, and God knows how much that was going to cost, but you don’t have a choice do you? Dogs. They’re like your children.
She had one eye on the frosted glass of the examining room, and the other on a day-old copy of the Daily Mail. She’d seen it before. Everyone in the village had, but she picked it up again, it passed the time waiting for the vet. Lovely photograph of Jenny Holloway –really, she looked beautiful, but then newspapers employ special hair and make-up people don’t they?
An exclusive interview plus extract from You Are My Everything: One Woman’s Journey by Jenny Holloway and Cheryl Hasani, Page 6.
Mrs Mondesir rustled the pages eagerly, and there was Jenny, gazing at a photograph of herself as a child.
Jenny Holloway strokes the crumpled photograph.
Her eyes fill with tears, and they do throughout our interview, but she always presses on. ‘It’s hard. I still have nightmares, but I truly believe that truth is the best medicine.’ She looks out from under her long eyelashes. ‘Mum always said that if you tell the truth then nothing can hurt you.’
‘I wrote the book to raise awareness. As a survivor of abuse, I was looking for someone to love me. When I met David, I thought he was my saviour. I think a lot of women think that, don’t they?’ she says softly. ‘I didn’t ask the questions I should have. I didn’t stand up for myself. I wanted the fairy tale.’ She smiles sadly. ‘But—
‘We have Huck, here?’
Mrs Mondesir stood. The paper dropped beside her. ‘Is he all right?’
‘Well we cleaned the wound. He’ll be a bit grumpy for a few days. There’s a week’s worth of antibiotics and some painkillers you can give him with food.’
Huck let out a bark.
‘He heard you say “food”. Didn’t you, eh?’ She chucked him under the chin.
‘And diet-wise—’ the vet began.
‘It’s all lean chicken I give him,’ Mrs Mondesir interrupted. ‘He eats better than me.’
The vet put up her hands in mock surrender. ‘Any more trouble, give us a call.’
‘Oh, I shall. I shall, won’t I, Huck?’ She tucked him under her arm.
The paper slipped from the bench to the floor.
After a while the receptionist picked it up and used it to line one of the litter trays.
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‘I’m not safe – you have to help me…’
Little Lorna Bell is from a notorious family on a rundown estate. Everyone thinks she’s a nasty piece of work. The schoolchildren call her a thief. But Lorna’s hair is matted, her shoes pinch her feet and school teacher Claire Penny can’t help herself; some kids just need a bit more support, a bit more love, than the rest.
As the bond between teacher and pupil grows stronger, Claire sees Lorna’s bruises, and digs to uncover the disturbing tale behind them. Heartbroken, Claire knows she has to act. She must make Lorna safe.
Just when Claire thinks she has protected Lorna, a chance encounter brings enigmatic stranger Marianne Cairns into their lives. Marianne seems generous and kind but there is something about her story that doesn’t quite add up. Why does she feel so at home, and why is Lorna suddenly so unsettled?
Claire has risked everything to save Lorna. But what can save Claire from the shocking truth?
An utterly unputdownable and darkly compelling read that will have fans of The Girl on the Train, The Sister, and Gone Girl absolutely hooked.
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Also by Frances Vick
Bad Little Girl
Liars
A Letter from Frances
Hi!
I hope you enjoyed Liars. I had a good time writing it!
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The idea of Liars came to me after I had a conversation with an interesting but… difficult… acquaintance. I called her out on a few lies she’d told me and others, lies that, though they seemed meaningless to her, had nevertheless caused quite a lot of problems… Anyway, after a few minutes of counter accusations, bluster and rage, she stopped, thought, and said a very curious thing: ‘I don’t lie. I tell what ought to be the truth. There’s a difference.’
And I thought… Wow.
People who trade in manipulation and deceit cause and prolong so much anger, so much fevered anxiety. I wonder, do they do it because they just like causing trouble? Maybe they don’t attach too much importance to their actions? Or is it because – like my acquaintance – they believe they’re making necessary improvements – their ‘Truth’ trumps a more boring/painful reality?
That got me thinking: Are you entitled to make your own truth? If so, what has to be sacrificed to make that happen?
Everyone in Liars tries hard to improve on their truths – from Tony believing that he’ll get back on his feet one day, to Sal believing the best of Marc. Jenny and David take it further: they are snared by their separate and mutual contrivances, and it’s the accumulation of lies that is so toxic. They won’t give up on their fantasies, even to the point of murder.
Some quick questions: How much – if any – sympathy do you have for David? Was Freddie a good friend, or a meddler? What future do you see for Jenny? Did your opinion on the characters change throughout the book? I’d be interested to hear what you think.
Once again, thanks for reading. Feel free to get in touch with me on Facebook, Twitter or via my website www.francesvick.com.
A new book will be out soon – well, as soon as I get these people out of my system!
Cheers!
Frances
www.francesvick.com
Acknowledgements
HUGE thanks to the team at Bookouture – particularly my editor Kathryn Taussig, Noelle Holten and Kim ‘Publicity Dynamo’ Nash, as well as all the other Bookouture authors who have been so supportive (and funny as hell). Thanks also to Kate Barker who has been very generous with her expertise and advice, and all the while politely putting up with my apparent inability to be anywhere on time.
Finally, to my husband, and my kids, Ralph and Sandy – I love you! Thanks for everything.
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Frances Vick 2018
Frances Vick has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
978-1-78681-319-0