The Silence Before Thunder

by Kathy Shuker

  Jo’s laptop was on the desk along with a pile of notes. She had offered to move her things out, insisting she could work at the table in her bedroom just as well but Eleanor had exhorted her not to worry about it yet. She wasn’t ready to start work again. The thought of writing made her nervous too. Suppose she couldn’t do it any more? That would be devastating. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing her gaze to sweep the room. Her study. She remembered sitting here; she remembered writing on her own computer, her own laptop which Jo had since closed and put to the back of the large desk top.

  It was odd the way the memories still came to her. Everyone seemed to expect her memory to return in a neat chronological way but, though the farther past was remarkably clear at times, there wasn’t that much pattern to it. Odd scenes would flash into her head, sometimes sparked by something someone said or by something she had seen, but often for no apparent reason. It was as if her brain was sorting through them all, tossing one up every now and then, hoping she would identify it and put it back in order. Sometimes she could, sometimes not.

  After the chilling events of the literary festival weekend, the party at Hugh Shrigley’s had slipped back into place in her head, fully-formed, like a child playing hide and seek who suddenly pops out from a wardrobe. See? says the child. I was here all along. She remembered that conversation with Frank after they’d heard the news of Hugh’s death, remembered promising not to say anything about Frank having gone back to the flat. Had she been right to do that? In retrospect, clearly not. How easy it was now to think that. How easy it is though to make promises to the people we love, lightly, blindly, convinced of the essential goodness of them, not expecting any consequences.

  But the memory that kept visiting her these last days was further back than that. It’s with her now. She’s nineteen and has gone with Candida to an open mic event for writers in the smoky back room of a pub. It’s the first time she’s seen Frank. Good-looking in a gaunt, hyperactive way, he’s performing some of his poetry. But he’s not just reciting it, he’s moving and gesturing, pausing to sweep his gaze over the audience to build their attention. One minute he’s murmuring intimately, the next he’s roaring till you shrink back in your seat. She has never seen anything like him before; she’s entranced. Then, in one of his surveys of the audience he catches her eye and smiles and time stops for her. She thought maybe her heart had stopped too. If it’s possible to fall in love in one single moment, for her that was the one.

  They had spent the night together, mostly talking, and afterwards Candida had teased her. She’d said it wouldn’t last. Candida. Eleanor remembers now going with Jo to identify Candida’s body. It’s not that long ago she was convinced that her troubled and gifted sister was still alive. What a conflict of emotions that had set in play. Maybe, after all, she had simply wanted it to be true.

  Eleanor got up suddenly, pushing the thought away, walking with careful but determined steps back out into the hall and along to the sitting room. It was six-thirty. She looked at the drinks cabinet, thinking fondly of a gin and tonic. ‘Don’t drink when you’re alone,’ had been one of Jo’s injunctions. ‘You might fall.’ Annoyingly, she was right. Eleanor turned away, moving slowly round the room, taking in the photographs and the paintings on the walls, the hangings and ornaments, letting their familiarity wash into her. The piano was open; Jo had been playing it every now and then. Eleanor ran her fingers over the keys, then pressed a few notes. She hoped she could learn how to play again.

  On the piano top was a large brown envelope, unsealed. She picked it up, peering inside. It contained one sheet of folded paper which she immediately recognised and promptly put the envelope down again. Jo had tracked down a copy of that poetry magazine and had cut out the article about Frank and Louisa’s engagement. She had put it in front of Eleanor, wanting her to look at it again. ‘This is what you received in the post that day,’ she’d said. ‘It might bring something back.’ But Eleanor had refused. She didn’t want to look at it and after a brief tense altercation, Jo had folded it and put it away in this envelope for another time.

  Eleanor stood, rooted to the spot, still staring at the envelope. She picked it up again, pulled the paper out and walked back down the room with it, pausing by the patio doors. The sun was getting low and the sky burned with peach and gold. She turned on the standard lamp nearby and looked down at the cutting. It shook a little in her grip.

  Her eyes lingered on Frank, then she forced herself to scan the whole thing. There was the bust of Shelley behind him. That was kind of familiar - the position of it just above Frank’s left shoulder. But nothing else came to mind. There was something deep inside that felt like it was working its way out but it was too woolly and quite impossible to grasp. She looked at Louisa’s sickly smile. God. She crumpled the paper up and screwed it into a ball, tossing it on the cabinet.

  She stared at the ball of paper, unable to drag her eyes away. That was weird: she had done that before, had crumpled up the cutting, crushed it into a ball and thrown it across the room. That was it. Then she had picked up the paper again… She stepped forward, picked up the new cutting and carefully straightened it out and pressed it flat. She folded it in half again. But she was in the wrong place because afterwards, she remembered, she had put the cutting in a book on one of the shelves in her study.

  She shook her head. It didn’t matter where she was because already the images in her head were moving on. She felt almost breathless, wide-eyed at the way they were unfolding, scared but unable to do anything to stop them. She had come through here and poured herself a drink. Yes. Then another and taken it out with her on her walk.

  Eleanor unlocked the patio doors and stepped outside. The dying sun cast an amber light over the garden. She was back in the moment, living it again. Earlier that day she had phoned Frank and left a message for him, something short but pointed, something he would be bound to understand. After much heart-searching, she’d decided she had to do something about what she knew but she wanted to talk to him first. Why didn’t he ring back? She needed to speak to him.

  Eleanor stepped warily down one step, two steps until she was on the lower terrace. This was where she was when he came upon her: Frank, unexpected and as dynamic as ever.

  ‘Eleanor, darling.’ That quizzical grin. ‘What’s going on? Your message was so cryptic. Something to do with a bust? I mean, really…’

  He tried to embrace her but she pushed him away.

  ‘I thought you’d gone to Exeter.’

  ‘I came back, especially to see you. You said you wanted to talk.’

  ‘I do.’

  The memory rolled on, her challenge about what she had guessed, his explanation of Hugh’s death, their raised voices, the striding up and down, the passion.

  ‘You should tell the police,’ she insisted. ‘Explain to them like you have to me.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. Why the hell would I do that? Are you trying to ruin my life? They wouldn’t believe me anyway, and what would it achieve now, after all this time?’

  ‘It’s the truth. Otherwise we’re both living with a lie and I can’t do that. You involved me. I was given no choice.’ She hesitated. She hated what she was doing but she was sure she was right. ‘If you don’t tell them, Frank, I will.’

  ‘But you promised me.’

  ‘Because you lied to me. You can’t hold me to a promise based on a lie.’

  He took hold of her by both arms and started shaking her, telling her to see sense. She tried to pull away but couldn’t shake him off and she was moving backwards, too far back, too close to the edge, and he was coming with her. Then suddenly she was free but it was too late: she heard Frank gasp as she lost her balance and the ground disappeared from beneath her feet. She was falling, rolling, tumbling, thumping on stone, seeing stars, then seeing nothing…

  Eleanor came back to the present. She was shuddering. She stepped backwards away from the cliff edge, o
nce, twice, nearly losing her balance, then turned and made her way back indoors, her head all over the place, her heart thumping. It felt as if her wrists still throbbed from his grip. An accident, yes - it must have been, surely - but Frank had started the violence. They had never fought like that before.

  She didn’t care about Jo’s injunction now. She locked the patio doors then poured herself a large gin and tonic and sat on the nearest sofa, hands shaking, trying to let her thoughts settle. Sidney jumped up beside her, softly nudging his head against her free hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to stroke him.

  ‘Hello Sidney.’ He walked onto her lap and she fondled his ears. ‘You know, I used to think Frank and I would grow old together. We’d still have been arguing of course, but then we always did. So what went wrong, do you think? Do you know?’ Sidney began to purr, settling himself into a comfortable circle. ‘But he lied to me. Maybe that’s when it went wrong. You can’t do that, can you? You can’t build a relationship on a lie.’

  The light in the room had thickened into a deep rosy hue. The sun was setting, turning red. Inevitably Frank’s poem slipped into her mind.

  It’s a fury of fire and flames and passion,

  Or is it rejection and a broken heart bleeds?’

  She smiled tentatively down at the cat.

  ‘I’ll get over it, Sidney, you know. I’m tougher than that.’ She took a mouthful of gin. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a book to finish. It might take a while but I’ll do it. He’s not going to stop me doing that.’

  She rested her head back on the sofa, watching the flaming light dance across the walls and slowly die.

  Acknowledgements

  I need no excuse to drink coffee but researching this book gave me one. I am indebted to Jackie and Paul for their patient and good-humoured help in teaching me about the coffee shop trade. I learnt far more than ever reached these pages but it was invaluable background information. Any mistakes are entirely my own.

  I should also like to thank my editorial team once again for their eagle-eyed vigilance and my gratitude also goes to Rachel Lawston for producing such a wonderful cover design.

  Yet again, a big thank you to my husband for his endless support and encouragement, without which none of my books would ever have been written.

  Connect with Kathy

  If you have enjoyed this story, do please leave a review. Just a sentence or two is always appreciated. And if you would like to know more about forthcoming publications, events or promotions, please visit my website and subscribe to my mailing list and/or like my Facebook page.

  Other books by Kathy Shuker

  Deep Water, Thin Ice

  Simon Brook is a celebrated and flamboyant conductor. When he kills himself, his wife Alex is shocked she didn’t see it coming. Guilt-ridden and grieving, she escapes to Hillen Hall, an old house by the sea, abandoning her classical singing career and distancing herself from everyone but her sister, Erica. Hillen Hall is an old Brook family home. Once a fine manor house, it is now creaking and unloved.

  When Theo Hellyon, Simon’s cousin, turns up offering to help with its renovation, Alex is confused. She didn’t know Simon had a cousin. And Theo is charming and reminds her of Simon so, despite Erica’s warnings, Alex cannot resist having him in her life. But the old hall has a tortured history which Alex cannot begin to suspect and Theo is not what he seems. How long will it be before she realises she’s making a fatal mistake?

  Some reader reviews:-

  ‘…hard to put down’

  ‘…sorry to get to the last page’

  ‘…fine attention to detail brings the characters & their surroundings to life’

  ‘…an intriguing and engaging plot…I loved every minute of it’

  Available now as an ebook and in print.

  Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts

  Terri is a talented art curator, stagnating in a dead end job in London. Her ex-boyfriend, Oliver, is stalking her. A post curating the retrospective of a famous but reclusive artist seems the perfect escape. Portrait painter, Peter Stedding, lives in the mountains of Provence, in a house he shares with his wife, daughter and eccentric sister, Celia. The setting is idyllic; the atmosphere is not: Peter is rude and obstructive, his household strained and silent.

  The place holds secrets, stories no-one is allowed to tell, dark echoes of the past. Looking through Peter's old paintings, Terri finds a tantalising clue and soon she is caught up in a cat and mouse game in search of the truth. But whose past is she searching for? And whose hides the darkest shadows?

  Some reader reviews:

  'I couldn't put it down.'

  ‘…captivates from beginning to end.’

  ‘…full of intrigue and atmosphere.’

  ‘…another excellent novel…’

  Available as an ebook and in print.

  That Still and Whispering Place

  Bohenna is a small Cornish village, dominated by a thriving vineyard and the Pennyman family who run it. It’s an insular community, all gossip and rumour and intertwined lives. Claire knows everyone; she grew up there. She even married into the Pennyman family. Every summer tourists swarm over the vineyard and village. So when Claire’s young daughter disappears without trace, it’s obvious to everyone that a visitor took her. Who else would do such a thing?

  Six years later, her marriage broken, Claire still struggles to accept what happened. She’s been away but she’s back now - and increasingly convinced her daughter never left the village at all. But it’s not wise to start asking questions. Old resentments run deep and not everyone is pleased to see Claire back in Bohenna.

  Some reader reviews:-

  ‘Full of excellent imagery, page-turning tensions and brilliant characterisations.’

  ‘A riveting read.’

  ‘This is a beautifully written and well-structured novel.’

  ‘What a page-turner! The author really gets under her characters’ skins.’

  Available as an ebook and in print.