Everything stems from our childhoods, doesn’t it? Such a delicate period of our lives, our brains still forming, being constantly moulded and shaped like plasticine. Am I blaming my parents for the way I am? Perhaps. Should I hold it against them – the way they blamed me for my sister’s death? Who knows? I am acutely aware, however, of how they were able to see through me, to see inside my head. There was no hiding my dark thoughts in their presence. Which is why I choose to be somebody else. Anybody but who I really am. The real me is dirty: murky and damaged. Even my mother and father could see that. They tried to rail against it, to reconfigure and transform me, turn me into someone different, a better person. Less damaged. They failed. So I am now a new me. An improved me. We all strive to better ourselves, don’t we? Even me. I still see my sister’s face that day, her eyes staring out, wide and full of terror as I held her under the water. I hear her voice in my head asking me why I did it and I have no answers, nothing to give her in return. I just know that it felt like the right thing to do at the time. My parents were naturally distraught and even though I protested my innocence, I could see that they knew. They had always known something was going to happen. It was just a matter of time.
None of these people listen when I tell them that I’m not really here anyway, that I’m already dead and buried and lying in the graveyard of St Martin’s Church. They sneak glances at one another and suppress their heavy sighs. The police think I say these things to increase my chances of getting a more lenient sentence, maybe even getting admitted to a mental health unit rather than a prison. In truth, I couldn’t care less where they send me. Anywhere that is not with Luke is a prison to me. I had him and now I don’t. Just like I had my sister, and then I didn’t.
Luke had the same eyes as hers. I think about her more and more lately, our time together, how we used to play as children, her smiles, her laughter. Her inevitable death.
The detectives working on my case are investigating the murder of woman after a body was found in a churchyard in York. They say she had connections to me. I don’t know who she is, know nothing about her. People die all the time. How can I be held responsible for something I know nothing about? My solicitor is constantly asking me to just be truthful and tell them what I can remember. I am being truthful. I remember nothing at all. Maybe they should ask Jade about such things, if they ever find her, that is. She is dead to me. As if she never existed.
Apparently, a taxi driver identified me as being in his cab on the day she was murdered. They speak of CCTV footage and how they have found DNA linking me to the body.
‘I know nothing of it,’ I said, when they asked if I had anything to say on the matter. ‘Why don’t you find this Jade Kennedy and ask her instead?’
Such responses infuriate them. That’s when they start banging on the table and shouting at me. It doesn’t faze me. It never has. I’m immune to such reactions. They wash over me, their words leaving no trace. I’ve had a lifetime of it, am impervious to their insults, their insistence that I’m nothing but a liar. The detective leading the case is starting to look tired. I told him he needs a break and should take a few weeks off in the sun.
‘Get yourself off on holiday,’ I told him as I gave him my best smile and cocked my head to one side sympathetically. ‘Or this job will be the death of you.’
He didn’t like that particular line but a few other people in the room laughed. I think they like me, those other people. Just like Peter liked me, they are warming to my charms, getting used to my subtle humour and slowly realising that somebody as quiet and gentle and demure as me couldn’t possibly have committed those atrocities. It just isn’t possible, is it? I’m Alice Godwin – a dead woman. And what possible harm can the dead do to the living?
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Chapter One
I’m freezing. It’s the first thing I notice as I drag myself out of sleep’s grip. The skin on my arms, my stomach, my face is icy, my entire body so very, very cold. Then I feel it – the sticky sensation on my hands, my legs. It jars, incompatible with the grogginess that clings to me like ivy on a knotted tree trunk. I sit up, pull back the bedsheets, blinking repeatedly, my eyes blurred, gritty. I wait for my vision to adjust to the darkness. The sun has yet to make an appearance. Outside is silent, dim and empty; inside remains swathed with an inky blackness. I turn on the bedside lamp, force my brain to stir itself, to come to life like an animal rousing from a deep hibernation. And then I see it.
To say it is a scream would be untrue. An exaggeration, even. Definitely not a scream. More of a guttural grunt: that’s the sound that emerges from my throat as I leap out of bed, my legs weak, the floor spongy beneath my feet. A kaleidoscope of muted colours spins past as dizziness takes hold. I look down, see the vivid streaks of blood over my limbs, my torso. I clasp my hand over my mouth, stifling my shrieks.
I’m bleeding to death. I’m not bleeding to death. I can’t be. I’m alive, up and out of bed. Not close to collapsing or passing out. I’m woozy. That’s the shock. Shock at discovering a thick coating of sticky crimson streaked over my flesh, over my legs, across the upper half of my body. Even my face. I can feel it, smell it – that pungent, metallic odour. The smell of ageing bodily fluids. The stench of decay.
My head pounds. My breathing is laboured. I have no idea what to do, my brain failing me. I flail about the room, naked and shivering then stop and try to take stock. This is not menstrual blood. This is different. Very different.
Lungs fit to burst, I inspect my body for cuts and lacerations, my fingers trailing over the red marks, my arms and legs turning this way and that as I scan for anything that will give me a clue as to what is going on here. I need to calm down, think clearly. Hysteria and confusion have hijacked my thinking, swarming around my head, flapping and colliding; a flock of angry birds pecking at my brain.
The mattress groans under my weight as I slump onto it, the rational part of my mind willing the panic and confusion to dissipate. My eyes are drawn to the floor, to the trail of dirty footprints leading to the door. Out of the door. Onto the landing. I swallow. Listen to thrum of my own heartbeat that pulses in my ears, fierce waves crashing onto the shore, a lonely echo in the quiet of the room. A reminder that I am alone.
Beside me, slung over the chair, are yesterday’s clothes – an old T-shirt, a pair of jeans and my underwear. I pull them on, step into the trainers I kicked off last night and head onto the landing, my throat thick with anticipation at what I might find there. I flick on the light. It highlights more muddy footprints scattered over the stair carpet. I continue down, following them like a trail of breadcrumbs, staring at the dirt and soil compressed into the grey fabric, until I reach the bottom step.
A cold breeze stops me in my tracks. I shiver, too afraid to look. Too afraid to move. Too afraid to do anything at all. Goosebumps prickle my skin. My breathing becomes noisy, ragged. I try to stifle it, to silence every movement I make.
A metallic clunk stills my blood. It’s coming from somewhere in the house. The kitchen. I hear it again. A rhythmic thudding. Oh God. Somebody is in there, inside my house. Wandering about in my home.
Outside, the wind builds. It rustles through the trees, moans around the exterior of the house, a ghostly wail, demanding to be heard. Forcing its way into my thoughts. Making me think the unthinkable is about to happen. Because it could. I could stand here, timid and afraid, thinking, why me? But of course, why not me? Such things happen. All the time. And I should know.
I shuffle forwards, glancing around for something – anything that I can use to protect myself. I stop. Try to calm down, to go through all the possible answers, every conceivable scenario. Protect myself against what? An intruder? An overactive imagination? I need to think clearly here, not jump to irrational conclusions. This is a safe place to live. I know this area, grew up here. Nothing bad happens round these parts. I swallow, stare down at my feet and blink to clear my misted vision because I know that that is a complete lie.
Bad things did happen here, but not any more. The past is behind me. A long way behind me. A shiny new future beckons. I will do well to not dwell on what went before. Therein lies the inevitable route to misery. Forty years have passed, much has happened. It’s as if it is part of a life that belonged to somebody else. I am no longer that bereft child. The girl who lost a sibling. I am me, a grown woman with children of her own.
I snap back to the present, shake off thoughts of my other life, those dark memories that plague me. Last night, I locked the door before going to bed. I have no doubts about this. None whatsoever. My fingers itch to grab at something. I need to feel safe. Beside me stands the old china vase given to me by my sister – a gift from our grandma that she didn’t particularly like and I wouldn’t allow her to throw away. I pick it up, my hand wrapped around it, its cool surface sticking to my clammy palm, its bright-yellow hue a dim shaft of colour in the murky half-light of the early morning.
As slowly as I can, as silently as I can, I edge forward, doing my utmost to stem my rising fear, to keep my breathing low and inaudible and not allow my emotions to overwhelm me even though terror is rising in my gut, creeping up my throat, shrieking into my head.
‘This is my house, my safe place. Nothing and nobody can get to me here. This is my sanctuary.’ I murmur the words over and over like a mantra as I creep through the hallway, my movements disconnected from my brain, my usual dexterity abandoning me, leaving me floppy limbed and feeble.
The thudding continues. Perhaps it’s a window, slightly ajar and the wind has pushed at it, causing it to rattle. But that doesn’t explain the blood. Or the muddy footsteps. My heartbeat quickens. I shuffle through to the kitchen, a spike of ice travelling up my spine, flooding my veins, spreading beneath my skin as I step onto the tiled flooring.
More thudding. A gust of cold air hits me. I suck in my breath. The back door is wide open. I close it, turning the key, then lean against the glass panel to steady myself, this unexpected find stripping me of all strength.
I look around the room, attempting to survey any differences, no matter how small or insignificant. Everything is the same. No changes. Nothing has been moved. No damage.
What if the intruder didn’t leave? What if somebody is now locked in the house with me? I shut my eyes, swallow down a small amount of sour bile. I can’t think about it. I won’t. It’s too terrifying a thought. I need to stop this. I have to get a grip. It’s obvious I didn’t lock the door properly and it blew open. That has to be the case. I was sure I locked it. I was wrong. That’s all it is. As if to confirm my thinking, the wind gathers pace outside, tree limbs groaning and swaying wildly, their long, gnarled branches shifting like spindly, arthritic fingers, silhouetted against the backdrop of a burnt-orange sky as the sun appears, a watery orb lazily dragging itself upwards off the horizon.
I pace around the kitchen, switching on lights and lamps, then do the same in the living room and hallway to prove to myself that I am indeed, very much alone. Which I am. There is nobody here. I fling open cupboard doors, peek behind cabinets, turn on the radio, the background noise alleviating my fears. It’s the voices. They fill the void of silence that is all around me. The house slowly comes to life, every second, every minute edging closer to the warmth and vibrancy of daytime. Outside, the dawn breaks.
None of the things that comfort me help me piece together what has happened. Once again, I inspect myself in the mirror, checking my face for cuts, scrutinising my arms and legs for damaged flesh, and find nothing. No pain, no dull aches, nothing to indicate I have a wound that caused this.
Another examination of the house before I head back upstairs for a shower. All clear. I sigh and allow myself a small smile. Relief unfurls itself in my chest, a warm, furry thing flooding my body, expanding in my veins. Any immediate danger has passed. I’m safe. Safe from an unseen, unknown menace. It doesn’t explain the muddy footprints, however. I shut out that thought, tell myself to stop.
In the bedroom, the clock at my bedside tells me it is 5.30 a.m. Almost time to get up, to rouse myself, get showered, clean this mess off my skin and tidy the bedroom. Forget the open door. Forget my fears. Move on from it all. Try to pretend nothing bad or frightening took place.
An hour later I am dressed, the soiled bedsheets and my clothes thrown into the washing machine, my hair washed and dried, the house back to its usual calm and tranquil self.
Feeling braver than I did a short time ago, I unlock the back door and head outside, ready to confront whoever may be hiding out there, yet also knowing I won’t find anything.
Not quite. I do find something. Not a person, but something that sends a deluge of disgust coursing through me. Something that raises more questions than it answers. Laid across the back lawn is a dead animal. It looks like a dog. Instinctively, I take a step back, my hand clasped over my mouth. Time ticks by – seconds, minutes perhaps before I can gather up enough courage to inspect the bloodied carcass.
