They got questioned by the police afterwards. Of course they did. That’s standard procedure, but he held it together, was ready for them, kept to the story whilst appearing distraught. He was a reliable witness whereas she was a nervous bloody wreck, constantly fidgeting, stumbling over her words, flicking her gaze around the room. He knew who they would believe and told her so. So she kept quiet, kept her head down, didn’t put a foot out of place. As it should be. She is the housewife. He is the man of the house. The breadwinner, worthy of respect.
He reminds her constantly of what she did, chiselling it into her mind. She needs to remember that it was her idea to kidnap the boy, send him away. She set the scene. Made it all happen. No jury in the land would find him guilty. He knows it. She knows it. They are bound together. Never to be apart.
He flexes his muscles, grits his teeth, leans out and drags the brush across the stretch of wood. The voices in the other room continue to chatter. Not so much a chatter as an incessant drone, like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. First Sylvie, then Kim. Then Kim and next Sylvie. Difficult to tell them apart. Cut from the same cloth they are. Always full of self-righteousness, always plotting and scheming, conspiring against him. Sometimes, he feels like a stranger in his own home, locked out of their conversations, their witchy little ways. Have they learnt nothing in the past few months? Do they not realise what he will do to keep them here? What he is capable of?
He goes over it all in his head: that night, their family, how it all got to this point. He is so caught up in it, he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, the creak of the floorboards, the opening of the door. He isn’t sure who it is, doesn’t have the time to turn around to find out, but feels the rush of air as it happens. He feels the push, the weight of the hand, that final, fateful push and the terrifying sensation of floating, of nothing beneath him, his limbs flailing, clutching at thin air, his head spinning, eyes bulging. And next, the sickening crack of bone as he hits the concrete patio at speed, headfirst. Then blackness. An eternity of nothing.
In the house, a woman’s voice cries out, a practised scream that disguises the relief as John Goodwill lies sprawled on the concrete, blood pooling, eyes wide open. No movement, no breathing. Nothing at all.
They are free. At long last, they are all finally free.
MORE FROM J. A. BAKER
We hope you enjoyed reading When She Sleeps. If you did, please leave a review. If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is available to purchase in paperback, hardback, large print and audio.
The Guilty Teacher, another gripping psychological thriller from J. A. Baker, is available to buy now by clicking on the link below. Or read on for an exclusive extract…
Prologue
The noise ricochets around the room, silencing everyone. Time passes. An endless stretch of nothingness, the world in a lull.
His heart thumps, a thick, resonant pounding, amplified a hundredfold in his head as it hammers away beneath his breastbone. His breathing roars in his ears, blood gushing through his veins, making him hot, restless, dizzy. The room spins. A scream from somewhere behind him cuts through the momentary hush, loud and visceral, followed by a collective gasp and the growing murmurs and whimpers of terrified teenagers. Blood pools beneath the writhing body at his feet.
Girls cluster in the corner, limbs hooked around one other in a protective ring, heads dipped, limbs rigid with fear. Sobs filter through the tight knot of bodies, low at first before building into a crescendo, each driving the other on. Distress fuelling distress.
‘Fuck. Fuck!’ His words echo, eerie and disembodied, cutting through the whispers and groans, cutting through the screams. It’s not his voice, doesn’t even sound like him. And yet it is. There is a distance between his actions and thoughts, a cognitive separation, his primeval reflexes kicking in as he goes through the motions. Some part of his brain is functioning, helping him though this, while his conscious self has backed into a corner, huddling there, numb and frightened, a whole gamut of emotions whirring inside his brain, slotting and spinning – terror, self-preservation, fear and disgust, colliding and crashing.
He drops the weapon, kicks it away toward the wall and stares at his hands as if they belong to somebody else. Maybe they do. He can’t think straight. Everything is skewed, the world tilting on its axis, time expanding and contracting, reality a slippery thing, dancing away from him, hiding, putting itself out of reach. He tries to grasp at it but it floats and falls, like a stray feather, weightless, too delicate to catch, to be pinned down and held tight.
No energy. He is suddenly weak, every part of his body sapped of strength, his ability to breathe reflexively an onerous task. The floor sways, sloping and seesawing. He swallows, rubs at his eyes, takes a juddering breath, swallows again.
He didn’t mean to do it. Or did he? It was an accident, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Things got out of hand. He had no choice. Look what happened only seconds earlier. They needed to stop this, to get help in this room.
He needed to stop this.
A sob escapes. He stifles it with his fingers, the palm of his hand cold against his warm, wet mouth. She’s dying. Dear God, she is dying. And now he is dying too, the twitching body at his feet. The bleeding, battered body, all life draining out of it as the pool of thick crimson spreads, creeping ever closer to him, almost touching his shoes. He pulls his feet away, revulsion and shock rippling through him. It wasn’t his fault. He had no choice. Something had to be done. Somebody had to take charge.
The quivering body suddenly becomes still, arms and legs immobile. No more thrashing and squirming. No movement at all. It lies there – eyes closed, lines of fear and confusion etched into its features.
There’s no escaping from this, no way out of this unholy mess. So many witnesses. So much blood. He can smell it – that metallic tang of damaged flesh. The cloying odour of near death. It’s everywhere – clinging to his clothes, sticking to his skin. He can’t shake it.
More screaming, a thunderous noise from outside; voices shouting, fists hammering on the door, demanding to be let in. The table and chairs jamming it shut rattle and shake; sharp, angular noises that cut through his thoughts, jarring his senses, forcing him into the moment. Then people inside throwing things aside, tables scraping, chairs toppling. The door handle being turned. A change of air pressure as the door is flung open.
The room takes on different dimensions. Fear pinballs through his veins, sparks of terror heating up his cold, clammy skin. His stomach roils as he stares down at the lifeless bodies, the spread of sticky blood congealing on the floor, a reminder of what he has done. What they both did.
He casts his eyes downwards, his gaze moving back to the shotgun. All around him has stilled, the world slowing to a stop as he shuffles forward and leans down, grabbing at the weapon with trembling hands. It’s the only way. He can’t go to prison for this. He wouldn’t survive in there. He may as well be dead.
More screams from behind him, next to him, above him as he slumps to the floor and rests the gun against his body, the muzzle nestled under his chin. The cold metal is a release. He shivers and sighs, his eyes flickering as a sense of release pulses through him. This is how it has to be. It’s his only option now. No other way. He’s ready for it, welcomes it even. It’s a way out, a journey to a place of darkness where nothing and nobody matters.
His vision blurs, his head pounds as he places his finger on the trigger, lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes.
We hope you enjoyed this exclusive extract. The Guilty Teacher is available to buy now by clicking on the image below:
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A huge thank you to Boldwood Books for taking on this book and republishing it, giving it a much-needed makeover and finding new readers for what was once a much unloved and unread story.
I loved writing While She Sleeps, and although I don’t suffer from sleepwalking, I do suffer from many other nocturnal issues such as night terrors and sleep paralysis so it was inevitable that I would at some point write a story that is centered around a character who takes to the streets at night, unaware of who or where she is.
As always, my thanks go to the staff at Boldwood Books, my family and friends for their ongoing support and my small but strong network of author friends. You all know who you are. Keep on being you.
Thank you to all the bloggers and reviewers who take the time to read and review my books. Every review counts.
I can be found on social media, hoping for somebody to contact me so I can prevaricate a little more instead of focusing on my writing.
Facebook.com/thewriterjude
Twitter.com/thewriterjude
Instagram.com/jabakerauthor
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.
