Only You: an absolutely gripping psychological thriller Read online

  Only You

  S. Williams

  Copyright © 2020 S Williams

  The right of S Williams to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913419-85-1

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  Blea Fell House, New Year’s Eve, 1998

  1. Present Day

  2. Extract from Bella’s Diary

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  5. Moke Primary School: Mouse’s Final Year 1992

  6. The Craven Head

  7. Mary’s House

  8. Bella’s Last Day: Breakfast 9am

  9. Bow Cottage: Mary

  10. Bettle Woods: Mary’s House

  11. Blea Fell House: July, 1992

  12. The Craven Head

  13. Athene’s Phone

  14. Bella’s Last Day: New Year’s Eve, 1998. 8.45am

  15. Mary: the Café

  16. Bella’s Secret Diary: Autumn, 1992

  17. Mary: Blea Fell

  18. Bella’s Last Day: 10am

  19. Mary’s Car: Blea Moor Back Road

  20. Bella’s Last Day: Mouse’s Room

  21. Bella and Mouse’s First Day at High School

  22. Mary’s Car: Blea Moor

  23. The Craven Head: Summer, 1996

  24. Athene’s Phone

  25. Mary’s House

  26. Bella’s House: 1998

  27. The Ghost Forest: Blea Fell House

  28. Mary’s House

  29. Bella’s Last Summer: The Bedroom

  30. The Craven Head

  31. Last Day of School: Summer, 1998

  32. The Craven Head

  33. Bella’s Secret Diary: 1992

  34. Athene’s Phone

  35. Summer Before High School, 1996

  36. The Craven Head, Athene’s Room

  37. Bella’s Last Day: Sparrow Rock, 4pm

  38. The Beck

  39. Bella’s Last Day: 6pm

  40. The Craven Head

  41. Bella’s Last Day: Travel Diary

  42. The Craven Head: Athene’s Room

  43. Blea Moor, 1998: The End of Summer

  44. Athene’s Phone

  45. Bella’s Last Day: Blea Fell House

  46. The Craven Head

  47. Bella’s Last Day: Only You

  48. Bella’s Last Summer: Only You

  49. The Craven Head

  50. Bella’s Last Day: Blea Fell House

  51. The Craven Head

  52. The Craven Head: 2010

  53. Bella’s Last Day: Trent’s Car

  54. High School: Just Before

  55. The Village Store

  56. Bella’s Last Day: The Winter Fair

  57. Outside the Village Shop

  58. Athene’s Phone

  59. The Craven Head: 1997

  60. The Winter Fair

  61. Case 348: Athene

  62. Outside the Craven Head

  63. Bella’s Last Day: The Craven Head Disco

  64. B Road to Blea Fell: Trent’s Car

  65. Blea Fell House

  66. Bella’s Last Day

  67. Bella’s Room: Now

  68. Bella’s Last Day: Just Before the Crash

  69. Bella’s Room

  70. Just After the Crash

  71. Bella’s Room

  72. Bella’s Last Day: The Ambulance

  73. Bella’s Room

  74. Bella’s Room

  75. Before the Bells

  76. Blea Fell

  Chapter 77

  78. The Craven Head: After Closing Time

  79. Blea Fell Kitchen

  80. Blea Fell: the Ghost Forest

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  For Gill and Peter.

  ‘I do not wish my heart to beat

  Why should it beat?

  It beats with neither my desire nor permission.’

  Cathy, Wuthering Heights.

  Blea Fell House, New Year’s Eve, 1998

  Bella’s Last Day: Dawn

  I wake up to the ticking of my bedside clock in the dark bedroom, and for the briefest of seconds I think everything is all right. I’m warm under the blanket and can feel the cold air of the room beyond.

  And then I remember, and I know that everything is not all right, and nothing will be all right ever again. The breath catches in my chest; stuck. A flash of fear lightnings through me, pure and burning.

  And then I remember what I’ve decided to do.

  I need to get through the day, make it to the night, and see it through to the end.

  Then everything will be all right.

  Then everything can just stop.

  I breathe, sucking in the cold air, and get out of bed.

  1

  Present Day

  ‘Sorry, love, you can’t smoke in here.’

  The voice is harsh, the tone rough like a wooden floor that’s been scrubbed after a fight.

  Athene blinks, turns away from looking out at the brutal landscape beyond the café’s window, and focuses on the woman speaking to her. Outside, the light has nearly been wiped from the sky, leaving the valley coloured in shades of green and black. The ancient analogue radio sitting on the counter is tuned to some local station, the signal fading in and out: the music barely there one second, then islanding itself out of white static the next.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Athene raises her eyebrows.

  The waitress – the owner, because there’s no way the micro-café could support an extra wage, or possibly any – nods at Athene’s table meaningfully. Athene looks down at the Lucky Strike soft pack of cigarettes, with a solitary unlit smoke sitting on the table’s plastic surface, and the brass Zippo lighter. The pack has only been opened in one corner, the foil carefully sectioned and torn. There is also a small cup of espresso.

  ‘No smoking, sorry,’ the woman repeats. ‘If you want to smoke, you’ll need to go outside.’

  Athene smiles apologetically, reading the woman’s name tag pinned to her stained T-shirt, and reaches for the cup of coffee. Her hand is steady.

  ‘No, it’s okay, Mary. I don’t need to go outside. I don’t smoke.’

  Athene takes a sip of her drink, staring at the black liquid, then lets her gaze wander back up to the woman. ‘Is this your café?’

  The woman’s eyes linger on the pack of cigarettes on the table for a beat, her face a nest of confusion, then shrugs. She leans against the serving counter, letting it take the weight of her a little. Giving her feet a rest. She looks around the building slowly, and nods.

  ‘Ye
p. Why, do you want to buy it?’ she quips, but there is no humour there.

  Athene picks up the cigarette and slides it back into the pack. The way Mary had looked around the café was the way a prisoner looked about their cell.

  ‘Is it worth anything?’ Athene says.

  The woman smiles grimly.

  ‘Not unless you want to work all the hours God gave you for no pay, take shit from the tourists – no offence – and then die here, in this valley, still owing on the mortgage.’

  The look of Mary’s face says it all: self-loathing, betrayal, loss.

  Athene puts the pack of cigarettes, along with the Zippo, in the backpack by her chair. Outside, the early evening begins to fill with pre-rain, the drops of moisture making little ticking sounds as they hit the window pane of the café. The day has become noticeably darker, the light receding back across the valley.

  ‘You make it sound so tempting, but I think I’ll pass.’ Athene gives a sympathetic grimace.

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ Mary says.

  Athene was not surprised the café was empty if this was the way she spoke to her customers.

  She nods and drains the last of her coffee. The radio flares its static snow for a moment, drowning out the song, then falls silent. Both women look at it.

  ‘Storm coming.’ Mary’s voice sounds suddenly very intimate in the stillness. Athene is the only patron. When she cocks her head, questioning, Mary nods first at the radio, then at the disappearing day beyond the window. Black swirls of rain are sifting from the clouds further down the valley. The green and the grey of the rugged landscape seem unnaturally bright in the thick muddy air. ‘You can always tell. The signal goes to pot.’

  Athene looks out at the valley. The café is situated high up, near the head, looking down over the dale. The landscape is a strange mixture of small pocket-fields, limestone outcrops, and moorland; like it is a junction between three different worlds. Athene feels butterflies in her stomach and a lightness in her head as the air becomes ionised. The heavy clouds look like they are hiding lightning. She takes a shallow breath then turns back to Mary.

  ‘Right, well I’d better get going then. I’m actually looking for a holiday cottage I rented. My satnav brought me here and then just cut off. I guess the signal is pretty bad round here for that too?’

  ‘Absolutely atrocious.’ Mary shakes her head. ‘We’re still in the dark ages.’

  Athene stands and shrugs her Parka on over her jeans and baggy jumper. Her rainbow-dyed hair is tied back with a headscarf, strands of colours slipping out. The dip-dye is new, so the colours are vibrant; almost shockingly so in the strip lighting of the café.

  ‘Never mind, I’m sure I’ll be able to find it. How much do I owe you?’

  Athene swings the backpack over her shoulder, and reaches into her jeans for change, looking enquiringly at the woman.

  ‘Just three quid, love,’ Mary says.

  Athene smiles and places a five-pound note on the table. ‘Cheers, then,’ she says and begins to walk towards the door. Outside, the rain seems to be unsure whether to fall, or just stay suspended in the air.

  ‘What was with the cigarette, by the way?’ Mary asks, as Athene reaches the door. The voice is almost accusatory, as if the question is about something else.

  Which of course it is, Athene thinks. She turns and looks at Mary.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What’s the deal with laying one out on the table, if you don’t smoke?’

  There is faint suspicion on her lined face like someone has made a joke at her expense. Suspicion and, Athene thinks, a memory-sadness.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shrugs. ‘I smoked once, and it’s a little ritual I do.’ She smiles brightly. ‘It kind of keeps me connected to the past, you know?’

  If Mary knew, she doesn’t say; just stares at Athene. After a pause, Athene shrugs again.

  ‘Well, bye, then.’ She turns back to the door.

  ‘What’s it called?’

  Athene’s hand pauses as she reaches for the door handle. In the glass panel she can see her face reflected back, pale and ghostly. She can see the stickers on the glass, telling the tourists that dogs are welcome, as are muddy boots. She can see the crumbs of rain – the water mixed with the dust that was on the panes – sludging down the window. And beyond, in the car park, she can see her car, alone in the lot.

  Athene turns.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I know all the cottages in the valley.’ Mary grimaces. ‘Due to living here forever. Maybe I can direct you. Which one are you renting?’

  Athene looks at Mary: the woman must be around thirty-five, but half of them have been spent in hard work and sustained depression and anger, giving her skin a colour not dissimilar to beaten eggs. Pale yellow under the light, with streaks of broken-road veins just beneath the surface. Athene can see that she would have been beautiful, once, back when she was young.

  Of course she would, Athene thinks. She smiles widely.

  ‘Really? Great! I’ve got the name written down on my phone. Hang on.’

  Athene fishes out her android from the massive pocket in her Parka and swipes at the screen; uses her thumb to scroll down, then nods as she finds what she wants.

  ‘Yes, here we are. Blea Fell House.’ Athene looks up from her phone. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  The woman stares at Athene. The sound of the rain is not quite metronomic, but not quite random either. The café is a prefab structure, and the noise made by the weather is shockingly loud in the silence between the two women. Mary slowly shakes her head.

  ‘No, sorry. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of that one.’

  It is clear that Mary is lying. Her skin has become slack. Slacker. She looks afraid. Athene gazes at her, interested.

  No, not afraid. Haunted would be a better term. She looks like someone walked over her grave. Walked over, paused, then came back for a proper look. Maybe a bit of a poke too. Mary’s hand, hanging down loose by her side, seems to have an electrical current running through it.

  ‘Are you all right, Mary?’ Athene, concerned, takes a few steps towards her. Mary actually takes a step back, then gives a small start when the radio spits out a gob of static.

  ‘Why are you renting a cottage?’ Mary asks, ignoring the question. ‘Is it for the walking? Only you don’t seem the walking type…’ Mary glances down at Athene’s footwear, a pair of battered converse basketball boots.

  Athene nods.

  ‘You’re right. My mum rented it for me to finish my masters. A month of solitude with a laptop and no distractions!’ Athene smiles and pats her bag.

  Mary looks at her oddly for a moment, then sighs. ‘What’s your name, love?’

  ‘Athene,’ says the girl. ‘Like the bird.’

  ‘Well, Athene.’ Mary carefully enunciates the girl’s name. ‘Why don’t you come and have another cup of coffee on me. The weather’s filthy out there, but it might clear in a few minutes. The clouds can rip through this valley something rotten. And now I think about it I have heard of Blea Fell House.’

  ‘Really? Great!’ Athene walks back towards the woman. Mary shakes her head. The haunted look has gone. Or maybe not gone, Athene thinks.

  Maybe buried.

  ‘I don’t think so… not for you, anyhow.’ Mary walks around the counter and takes two cups off the shelf above her. She turns and puts them on the long service table. Athene supposes the idea was that it was meant to look like an American diner. She watches as Mary fills them with black coffee from the percolator. Athene suspects the coffee has been there all day: that it will be bitter and burnt.

  That’s okay.

  She likes bitter and burnt.

  ‘Why not?’ She sits down at the counter stool.

  Mary looks at her, as if trying to slip under her skin with her eyes. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

  Athene shakes her head. ‘Southerner, I’m afraid. City girl. I’m used to my weather being brok
en up by tall buildings. Not…’ She turns and points at the day beyond the window. ‘Thrown at me by Heathcliff in a bad mood.’

  Mary laughs. The laugh is somehow hollow; empty-husked.

  ‘You should see it in winter! All the roads in the dale get covered in snow at the beginning of December, and the whole valley is an ice-trap.’

  ‘No way!’ Athene takes a sip of the coffee and tastes charred wood. She was right: bitter and burnt.

  ‘Totally. The gritters come, but the roads just freeze over again. Something to do with the microclimate here.’

  The overhead fluorescent lights flicker, and there is an electric buzz as the mercury vapour is reignited.

  ‘Bloody power.’ Mary looks at the lights as they kick back in. ‘It’s like the radio signal. Always dropping. I keep a generator in the shed, the service is so unreliable.’