Seven Days
Page 28
And her? She saw a psychiatrist too. She had nightmares; she didn’t like sleeping with the door open; she struggled to trust people, especially men. The weirdest part had been when she had, for a few days, started to miss the room. Everything felt like a threat; she didn’t dare take her eyes off Max. At least the room was safe.
Except it wasn’t. It was slowly destroying her, and the man would have killed Max. He was going to do it that day. She had the scars on her fingers to prove it.
And the feeling of missing it didn’t last. Now she was glad, every day, to wake up and look out of a window and see a tree or the rain on the glass or a bird in the sky. She’d taken Max to see some of the things she’d described to him: the sea, the forest, the mountains. He’d especially loved the animals at Chester Zoo.
It was time for Seb and Leo to be cremated. She had wept when Best confessed where their graves were, images of them playing and laughing coming back to her. They would never meet Max, but when he was older she would tell him about his brothers, share the daydreams she had about the people they might have become.
That, though, was for another day. After the funeral they were going to travel, her, Max, James, Mum, and Dad. She had a list of places she wanted to see. Places she wanted Max to see.
Places she had told him about.
Australia. Thailand. Nepal.
London. Paris. New York.
Mountains. Lakes. Rivers.
They were going to see them all.
Read on for a sneak preview of Alex Lake’s new novel
Coming Autumn 2020
Prologue
I told them I was trouble.
I told them I would not allow them to do this to me.
I told them I would take revenge.
But they did not believe me. And now they will find out they made a mistake. A big mistake. A mistake which – although they did not know it at the time – changed their lives.
You will think of what I have done – what I am doing – as the worst crime imaginable. You will read about it in the news and hear about it on the radio and gossip about it with your colleagues and say how wicked and evil I must be to do such a thing.
But you will be wrong.
You will hate me, even though you will not know who I am. All you will know is that I have done this terrible thing to these lovely people.
I don’t deny it.
And I would do it again.
Because they deserve it.
And I deserve it, too.
1
It was the smell that woke him.
Graham Dean opened his eyes. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. The small fan on his bedside table buzzed gently.
There was definitely a smell.
He sniffed.
It was the smell of smoke. He glanced at the curtains. He thought the window was closed, but it was possible they had left it open. The neighbours were younger than him and Kathryn and didn’t have kids, so at the weekends they often had people over. Maybe they were having a fire in the garden.
He reached out and turned off the fan. He listened for the sound of voices. Nothing.
Which was not a surprise. When he turned off the fan he had seen the alarm clock. It was just past three in the morning; even their noisy neighbours wouldn’t be up this late.
He sniffed again, smelling the air. There was definitely a smell of smoke. It wasn’t wood smoke, or the smell of cooking food. It was harsher, more chemical. Acrid, almost. He paused, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t. If anything it got stronger.
Not a fire next door, then, but a fire somewhere. Maybe a building, or a car. He’d seen a news story about kids stealing cars and setting them alight, but that didn’t happen around here.
Or it hadn’t, at least to date. He got out of bed and opened the curtains, looking for a red haze or a plume of smoke.
Nothing. He opened the window and leaned out.
The night air was fresh and clean. There was no smell of fire at all. He pulled his head back inside the room. The smell was back, which meant the fire was not outside.
It was in his house. The house he and Kathryn shared with Jake, their five-year-old son.
He sprinted to the bedroom door and yanked it open.
And he saw the source of the smell. His house was ablaze.
2
The landing stretched in front of him. On the left were doors to two more bedrooms and a bathroom; to the right were the stairs.
And at the far end was Jake’s bedroom.
Which was also where the fire was.
Jake’s door – half-open – was at the heart of the fire. It glowed red, the frame a gaping mouth of flame. The heat – even at the far end of the landing – was intense. Graham waved his hand in front of his mouth and coughed, the air thick with smoke.
‘Jake!’ he shouted. ‘Jake! Are you there?’
There was no answer, but even if there had been it was unlikely he would have heard it over the noise of the fire.
‘Graham.’ He heard his wife’s voice from inside the bedroom. ‘Why are you shouting?’
‘There’s a problem,’ he said. ‘Get out of bed.’
He stared at the heart of the fire, the skin on his face feeling tight with the heat.
And then he heard his wife scream.
‘Jake!’ she said. ‘Where’s Jake?’
Graham pointed at the fire. ‘He’s in there.’
‘Get him!’ she shouted. ‘Go and get him!’ She started to move towards their son’s bedroom but he put his hand on her shoulder.
‘I’ll go,’ he said. ‘Get your phone and call 999. Then go outside. It’s not safe.’
Kathryn nodded and ran into their bedroom. He stared at the fire, mesmerized. It was a wall of flame, and Jake was on the other side. He took a step towards it, then another, and raised his hands. It was already incredibly hot.
Wet towels, he thought. Wrap yourself in wet towels.
He pushed the bathroom door open and turned on the bath. He grabbed three towels and shoved them under the water, then, when they were wet, wrapped one around his head and one around his shoulders. The third was for Jake.
He ran onto the landing and turned towards Jake’s room. The smoke was thicker now, and the popping and snapping noise of the fire was louder. The heat was fierce, but the cold water on the towels gave him some protection. Dimly he remembered hearing something about getting down and crawling if you were in a fire. Maybe there was more oxygen down there, the smoke rising.
He dropped to his knees and began to crawl towards his son’s room.
He realized almost immediately that it was hopeless. The heat was like a physical barrier. He could feel it pushing back at him, the heat scorching his face as he inched closer.
He felt a sharp pain on his head. The water in the towel was boiling and turning to steam. He snatched the towel away and cast it aside.
He crawled forward again, deeper into the heat.
And then he realized he couldn’t breathe. There was no oxygen. It was all being consumed by the fire. Even if he could have withstood the heat somehow, there was no way he could last more than a minute or so without breathing.
It was a place unfit for humans.
‘Jake,’ he gasped. ‘Jake. Please.’
His lungs were starting to hurt; he tried to breathe, but all he felt was hot air filling his chest. He had no choice. He had to back away, find some air.
Leave his son.
There was no son, not anymore. There was no way he could have survived this. No way at all.
As soon as there was air he let out a cry. He heard it as though he was in some way disembodied; it was a mixture of pain and anguish and despair. His son – his firstborn – was only feet away from him but it might as well have been miles. There was nothing he could do.
He backed up further, his right hand on the base of the bannister, feeling his way to the top of the stairs.
When he reached them, he looked up at his son’
s bedroom.
At the space where his son’s bedroom had been.
It was a scene from hell. The end of the house was gone, replaced by a gaping red maw.
On his hands and knees, he crawled down the stairs.
Acknowledgements
The more books I write the more I feel that the space dedicated to thanking those who have provided guidance, counsel, support and encouragement is too brief to truly acknowledge how important they are.
So, that said:
Thank you, Sarah Hodgson, for your wisdom and guidance on Seven Days and the other books we have worked on together. Your editorial insights have made them better than I could ever have done alone.
Thank you, Becky Ritchie. I always feel like you have my and the books’ best interests at heart which – along with your advice and unfailing support – is all one can wish for in an agent.
Thank you to the team at HarperCollins, in particular Kathryn Cheshire. I appreciate all the effort and dedication you put in.
Thank you to Tahnthawan and Barbara, once more vital early readers.
And thank you to my three sons. You are an inspiration.
Keep Reading …
And, why not try these other psychological thrillers by Alex Lake …
A perfect husband.
A perfect marriage.
A perfect lie.
Click here to order a copy of The Last Lie
Imitation is the most terrifying form of flattery …
Click here to order a copy of Copycat
There’s a serial killer on the loose. And the victims all look like you …
Click here to order a copy of Killing Kate
The real nightmare starts when her daughter is returned …
Click here to order a copy of After Anna
About the Author
Alex Lake is a British novelist who was born in the North West of England. After Anna, the author’s first novel written under this pseudonym, was a No.1 bestselling ebook sensation and a top-ten Sunday Times bestseller. The author now lives in the North East of the US.
@AlexLakeAuthor
Also by Alex Lake
After Anna
Killing Kate
Copycat
The Last Lie
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