What Lies Between Us(97)
My body folds in on itself and I don’t think I will ever be able to stand upright again. Dylan was my heart and his grandmother has torn it out and stamped all over it again. It’s too much for anyone to process.
‘Ms Simmonds,’ a voice asks. I look up. A young man in a white shirt and tie flashes me a warrant card. All I see of him are his eyes. They are two different colours. They scare me. ‘DI Lee Dalgleish,’ he continues. ‘May I have a word?’
I nod, but I am in no fit state to say anything more.
‘My colleagues tell me that you lived here with’ – he consults a notebook – ‘your mother and your son?’ I nod again. ‘However, your neighbours have told us that they haven’t seen your mother since she moved away from the property some years ago? And that as far as they are aware, you live here alone.’
He waits for an answer I don’t give.
‘Two bodies were found, one in the basement and one up in the attic,’ he continues. ‘Was there a reason why the deceased might be in those places?’
‘Why are you asking me these silly questions?’ I sob. I never want to talk again.
‘Because their bodies were found with chains attached to their ankles.’ I feel what little strength I have left slipping away from me. I don’t have the energy to respond. ‘Did you know about this, Ms Simmonds?’ he persists. ‘Do you know why they were incarcerated?’
‘They live with me,’ I whisper. ‘I look after them. They’re my family.’
I begin to feel the smoky air between us chill, and a shiver runs from the base of my spine up into my neck. ‘I’m cold,’ I say, and my eyes look up until they meet his. One is hazel, the other is pure grey, the same shade as Dylan’s and Jon’s eyes, and just as piercing. They can see through me, they can read me. I can feel it. Then suddenly, the colours begin to alter; his irises are darkening and my head tilts to one side as I look more carefully because I don’t understand why. Somebody else drapes a blanket over my shoulders but I don’t acknowledge it.
The last thing I hear is the clinking of metal, the same noise Dylan’s handcuffs made. I’m fixated by why this policeman’s whole body is now under a shadow yet the sky and everything that surrounds him is red. I think he’s still talking but I can’t hear or focus on him properly; instead, the dimming light and colours ahead fixate me.
Someone takes my wrists in their hands but my skin is numbing. I’m slipping away from myself, and I can’t stop it. I know I’m moving forward yet it’s as if I’m being pulled backward into a tunnel. Everything in front of me is becoming smaller and smaller, darker and darker, until there’s nothing left but me, alone.
And all I see is black. Just black.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The plot of this book was developed in a somewhat unusual location for me. The idea of having two people living together who hated one another had been circling my head for a while, but it really began to take shape when my husband and I were on a road trip to California. We found ourselves camping in Yosemite National Park and began to discuss the idea in detail on long walks up waterfalls, mountainous trails and bike rides. The final part of the plot was developed while staying at my mum Pamela’s house after she’d undergone an operation to remove cancer. So the first people I would like to thank are my partner in crime and in life, John Russell, for being my sounding board, and my mum for the strength she showed during her successful fight against the disease. Also, the staff at Northampton General Hospital for saving her life.
No book goes from laptop screen to press without a lot of hard work behind the scenes. Thanks to my editor Jack Butler for your faith in this book along with your initial notes, and to David Downing and eagle-eyed Sadie Mayne for helping to shape the final product. Of course, thank you to my publishers Thomas & Mercer and for your unsung heroes, including Hatty Stiles and Nicole Wagner.
Since embarking on my career, I’ve developed an incredible readership, much of it down to word of mouth and online book clubs. I would like to thank Tracy Fenton from THE Book Club; Lost in a Good Book; The Fiction Cafe Book Club and The Rick O’Shea Book Club. You are all so supportive.
Gratitude as always to some of my author friends for keeping me going when the hours were long and I needed a distraction, usually on Twitter. I love my chats with Louise Beech, Darren O’Sullivan, Claire Allan and Cara Hunter; such a talented bunch of writers who inspire me.
I’m grateful to Dan Simpson Leek and James Winterbottom for their adoption advice, to Anne Goldie for her midwifery suggestions, to Sue Lumsden for walking me around a doctors’ surgery and Kath Middleton for preventing me once again from looking like a fool.
My thanks goes to my early readers, Carole Watson, Mark Fearn, Rosemary Wallace, Mandie Brown, and my self-titled ‘groupies’ Alex Iveson, Deborah Dobrin, Fran Stentiford, Helen Boyce, Janette Hail, Janice Kelvin Leibowitz, Joanna Craig, Laura Pontin, Louise Gillespie, Michelle Gocman, Ruth Davey and Elaine Binder.
And finally, my eternal gratitude goes to Beccy Bousfield. You have given John and I everything and asked for nothing. Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts.