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Up close, I can see that it isn’t a dog at all. It’s a fox, its damaged form spreadeagled on the grass, its back legs partially concealed beneath the shrubbery. In its mouth is a small animal, the lumpiness of its body partially shredded and skewed. I stare down at my hands, recalling the blood on me, those sickening, red smears. It’s too grim, too revolting to consider. There is no link. There can’t be. I think of the open door and swallow hard. I think of the muddy footprints, recall the dirt on my feet as I showered, and try to stop my racing thoughts.

‘Probably a badger what did it.’

A pain shoots up my neck as I swivel to see Mr Waters’ head peeking over the top of the fence, his cloudy, pale eyes meeting mine before resting his gaze on the dead fox.

‘A badger?’ I don’t know why I’m answering. I don’t want to become embroiled in a conversation about this atrocity. I want to clear it away, dart back inside the house, double lock the doors and stay there for the remainder of the day.

‘Aye. Vicious little buggers they are. Fox probably made off wi’ his dinner or tried to steal one of its cubs and this is the net result.’

My eyes are suddenly heavy. I squeeze them shut, sigh, try to gulp down a nervous rush of saliva that has filled my mouth.

‘Surprised you didn’t hear it all last night. Right ruckus it was. I were stood at t’ bedroom window watching it all ’appen. Could ’ave sworn I saw somebody down here afterwards. I thought it was you cleaning it all up. Mind you, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Bloody cataracts. Could have been the shadow of the trees. That wind blew everything around. I heard my bin topple over onto the patio at one point. What a clatter it made.’

The nervous rush of saliva turns into a tsunami, flooding the recesses of my gums, swilling around my mouth; a sour wash of liquid I am desperate to spit out. I try to smile, to appear at ease as he speaks, all the while wishing he would disappear. I need time to think. I need some space on my own.

‘Anyway, if you need any help clearing it up, you know where I am, lovey.’ His head disappears, sinking behind the fence.

I fear that he hasn’t gone back inside his own little house but is squatting down on the other side, listening to me, working out whether or not I know how to dispose of this thing safely. Only when I hear the click of his door do I move, my head swimming, a cold sensation shifting around my belly, a coiled viper slithering around my guts.

Could have sworn I saw somebody down here afterwards. I thought it was you cleaning it all up.

I bat away the residual thoughts that linger in my brain, thoughts conjured up by his words. It’s nonsense. Mr Waters is an old man. His eyesight is spectacularly poor. He is bored, has an overactive imagination. Likes to embellish on the facts, conjure up a story when there isn’t one to be had. As he said, it was a stormy night. Bad weather, poor visibility, things strewn around the garden.

On and on I go, convincing myself of his many faults and delusions as I pull on a pair of latex gloves and wrap a towel around my face to mask the smell of the blood, to try to distance myself from this situation.

The fox is heavier than I expected, its body solid and still marginally warm. I retch. Despite my best intentions to stay calm and remain in control, I heave and gag. I stuff it into a black bin bag, tying it tightly before double bagging it and dropping it into the wheelie bin next to the back door. The weather isn’t so warm. That’s a good thing. No chance of insects swarming around. No danger of maggots eating their way through the bloodied corpse, wriggling their way around the bottom of the bin.

Only when I am back inside and the door is locked do I allow myself the luxury of crying, letting it all out – the worry, the fear, the terror of the unknown – it all comes spilling out of me, a river of anxiety.

My eyes burn, my throat is thick and glutinous as I make myself a coffee and sit at the table, a series of small, hiccupping sobs still constricting my breathing. It was always going to be difficult, living on my own. I knew this. None of it is my doing and yet as I sit here, trying to piece together what has just happened, I can’t help feel that I am being punished. Recently widowed, frightened at the prospect of living by myself and, although it pains me to admit it, lonely. With one child living in Australia and the other living almost 250 miles away in Oxford, there are days when I feel totally isolated. The shiny new future I regularly speak of is still a far-off object, too distant to reach. I’ll get to it one day. I’m just not quite there yet.

More tears fall. I wallow in self-pity until my chest aches and my throat is sore, my tear ducts desert dry. I force myself out of it, the abyss of misery I regularly stumble into. It’s not healthy being overwhelmed like this. It’s not who I am. Besides, I chose to live here, back at my childhood home. It felt comforting, the thought of being here. Still does most of the time. I could have continued living in York, in my lovely city home, grieving, expecting to see Warren every time I walked into a room, and compounded my unhappiness with unrealistic expectations. The move here made sense. Still does. Last night, this morning, the find in the garden, it’s all a blip in my existence. Here had its losses as well but they are not as fresh, not as raw. Here is a compromise, not a new, unfamiliar home, someplace where I would struggle to adjust. My surroundings provide some comfort and God knows I could do with plenty of that.

I stand at the sink, splash my face with water, my flesh numb from the cold. Icy water laps at my skin, the gush from the tap dragging me out of my sullen musings. It feels good, the cold against my flesh – revitalising, blocking out any unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts that have been rekindled now I am living alone. I push them away, shove them back in that dark place in my head and get on with my day.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This was a difficult book to write. Some novels flow easily; others take a little while longer. This particular story required a lot of changes and some heavy editing and a lot of blood, sweat and tears but I got there in the end!

I can’t begin to imagine how lonely it must have been for writers back in the day, pre-internet, sitting at home week after week, seeing nobody and speaking rarely to other writers. We now have the ability to communicate with each other to solve problems, chat or offer a shoulder to cry on. With that in mind, I would like to say a big thank you to Anita Waller and Valerie Dickenson (Keogh). I value our chats very highly and would have been lost without you two lovely ladies over the past few years. Here’s to the next few months and many more books between us!

Without readers, reviewers and bloggers, my books would be nothing, so I would like to take this opportunity to offer my sincerest gratitude to anybody who has taken the time to read any of my novels. They are all my babies and I appreciate that you’ve taken time out of your lives and am also humbled that you’ve chosen to read something that I have written. Thank you.

A final thank you to the staff at Boldwood Books for republishing my book and for all your assistance with the many hiccups and snags along the way. A special thank you to Emily Ruston for her hard work and moral support. Emily, you are a gem.

I hope you enjoy reading my book and can be found at:

Twitter: @thewriterjude

Facebook: @thewriterjude

Instagram: @jabakerauthor

I look forward to hearing from you!

Best wishes,

Judith Baker

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J. A. Baker is a successful writer of numerous psychological thrillers. Born and brought up in Middlesbrough, she still lives in the North East, which inspires the settings for her books.