‘That’s Luna,’ she says, smiling indulgently. ‘I adopted her a few months ago. Be careful or she’ll snaffle your chocolate cake, and it’s not good for her.’
I nod as she passes me a spoon, the dog’s eyes following it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, ‘about Frank. He looks like a lot of fun.’
‘Oh yes, he was! We got together later in life– in our eighties, which is kind of the new sixties isn’t it? What we lost out on in time we made up for in memories. I suppose it was quality, not quantity. I… I miss him every single day. I mean, I have great friends and I love this place, and I stay active. It’s hard to be lonely in Budbury, but there are moments when I still manage it. Moments when everyone has left, and I’m upstairs in my little flat, surrounded by remnants of my life and the people I’ve lost. That, my dear, is when I start kidnapping poor innocent women who are minding their own business and having a nice quiet walk on the beach!’
I take the first bite of my fudge cake and almost have aWhen Harry Met Sallymoment. I shudder with pleasure– this is heaven in a spoon– and Luna gazes at me with disgust.
‘I don’t mind being kidnapped if this is how you’re going to feed me. Did you live here with Frank?’
This is one of the big contradictions about my personality. I am by nature solitary and introverted, but I am also extremely nosy and curious about other people’s lives. It’s confusing for me and anyone I meet.
‘Long story, but no. I moved here after my first husband, Wally, passed away. It was a fresh start for me– Budbury is the perfect place for a fresh start, you’ll see that for yourself. Frank and I were a slow burn, but when we finally did get hitched, I moved in with him at his farmhouse. He died suddenly, still working out in the fields, which is exactly what he would have wanted, the old goat. He’d have hated some long lingering illness that kept him indoors. He was one of those fellas who could have lost an arm in the combine harvester and called it “just a scratch”, you know? I was happy enough there with him, but after he went, well… it felt wrong. It was too hard. So I came back here, to my happy place. And my sad place.’
‘Just yourplaceplace?’
‘Exactly! Anyway. Enough of me moaning. I won’t need to dress up for Halloween; I can just haunt the café with my whinging! I think perhaps you’ve sparked it off in me, Sarah.’
‘Yes,’ I reply, licking cream off my spoon, ‘I have that effect on people. They can be perfectly happy beforehand, then after a few minutes in my company, they’re crying and wondering what the point of life is. It’s a skill.’
She shoves my shoulder playfully, but she’s a big lady and I almost fall off my chair. ‘Get away with you!’ she says, grinning. ‘It’s nice to have a new face around. Though actually, you’re the second this month.’
‘Oh. Now I don’t feel special.’
She laughs, and stares off into the distance for a moment. ‘We don’t know much about the other new one though. He’s very mysterious. Keeps himself to himself.’
She says this as though she cannot possibly understand such a ridiculous urge. ‘Is that so bad?’ I ask. ‘Some people are more private than others. It doesn’t make them evil.’
‘I know that, darling. And don’t think for a minute that I haven’t noticed the way I’ve spilled my guts to you, and you’ve told me not one single thing about yourself! But… well, maybe it’s the time of year. I get a Halloween-y vibe from him.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask, frowning. ‘How does a person have a Halloween-y vibe?’
Even as I ask, my imagination is filling in the blanks. Is he accompanied everywhere he goes by a black cat? Does he only come out at night? Does he have no shadow? Is he a time-slip soldier from the First World War? Does he do a horror-movie laugh like Vincent Price every time he leaves the room?
‘I can’t quite explain it. Why don’t you come in tomorrow and meet everyone else? We can fill you in on our theories!’
Everyone else? How many more people am I expected to meet? This village is tiny! Already today I’ve met Sam, Matt and Cal, Katie and Laura, and now Cherie… Frankly, that’s my ‘meeting new people’ quota for a whole year under normal circumstances. It’s ironic that I moved here to get away from the crush of humanity and I seem to be more surrounded than ever.
‘Um, I’ll see how I get on,’ I reply, finishing up my G&T with an icy clink. ‘I’ve got all my unpacking to do, and a lot of work to catch up, and?—’
‘And you’re freaking out?’
‘I can neither confirm nor deny. But for now, I do need to get back. I genuinely have stuff to get on with. Thank you for the cake. And the whole bottle of gin. And… take care of yourself, okay?’
I put little Luna back down, but she sneakily licks my face first. Either she’s a very affectionate dog, or I had a stray smear of chocolate on my skin. I scrape the chair legs back and stand up. Before I can protest or make my escape, Cherie wraps me in her arms and gives me a world-class hug. It is impossible to resist, and I melt a little bit, my head clasped to her substantial shoulder. Her hair smells of joss sticks and sugar and a wisp of herbal cigarette. Like a doughnut stand at a music festival.
‘See you tomorrow, Sarah!’ she says, as I finally break free.
Not if I see you first, I think. The old ones are the best.
Chapter Three
Ikeep busy until the early hours, first setting up my little workstation in the spare bedroom. It’s nothing glamorous, a desk, a laptop, endless stacks of notepads and Post-it squares, and a giant board. The corkboard looks like one of those evidence walls that obsessed detectives set up in Hollywood movies– scrawled cards, maps, pinned photos, names and dates, arrows and lines connecting them all. I’m not an obsessed detective myself, but DI Carina Shaw, my current lead character, is. She’s currently hunting a serial killer who covered his tracks for decades, and only she could see the trail of bloody breadcrumbs.
Like most of my books, its content is dark, its characters tormented, and there is death, violence and a subterranean torture dungeon. What can I say? That’smyhappy place. I often throw in a hint of the supernatural too, like DS Shaw getting clues from beyond the grave from her murdered partner, or a villain who may or may not be possessed by a demon. They’re not for everyone, my stories, and part of me wishes I could write something more cheerful and positive. Something with romanceand rainbows and happy endings. Sadly, that’s just not me, and anyway, the few sessions I had with a therapist years ago showed me that my writing is good for my brain. Apparently it allows me to purge trauma, perceived and real.
I have not experienced the kinds of trauma that my poor characters experience– I really drag them through hell and back– but my childhood was messy, my marriage was painful, and my relationship with my father is still difficult. I have struggled in lots of ways, and have always seen the worst in every possible scenario, which has unfortunately often turned out to be true. It’s one of the reasons I left London.
Sally always fought her way out of every situation we faced when we were young; that’s how she dealt with it all. She scrapped and sassed her way through my dad’s drinking, the yelling and screaming that were the soundtrack to life at home. I internalised it and found my own coping mechanism by escaping into my imagination. I suppose it made us both stronger in our own ways – she became a doctor, and found the stresses and strains of life in a busy hospital a breeze in comparison. I turned my fantasies into a successful career. Maybe we should actually be writing our father thank you cards.
