Chris Curran - Mindsight

CHRIS CURRAN

an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Copyright © Chris Curran 2015

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover illustration © Jem Butcher

Cover images © ShutterStock

Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780008132729

Version 2016-03-23

For Paul, with much love

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Read on extract from Her Turn to Cry

Acknowledgements:

About the Author

About the Publisher

The road twisted ahead, a blur of heat shimmering above it. I looked away, my eyes dazzled by the fields flashing past: bright green, pale green, dark green, brown, brown, acid yellow, and green again.

Alice changed gear into what must have been fifth, and I gripped the edge of my seat. ‘OK, Clare? Won’t be long now.’ She reached across to flip open the glove compartment. ‘There’s some water in there.’

It was fizzy and tasted harsh, drying my mouth even more. I closed my eyes. And here it was again: that other road. A dark road, flickering with shadows of trees and cloud. Then the stab of light and the chaos of jolting, screeching, and skidding. Oh, God.

I jerked upright and saw we were approaching the turn off for Wadhurst. Something pulled hard on my insides and my foot pressed an imaginary brake. ‘Alice, do you think …’ My voice cracked.

She looked over at me and slowed the car, then pulled into a lay-by. Her blue eyes were clouded. ‘We can’t, Clare. I haven’t told him it’s today. And you said yourself it was better to wait. Get settled first.’

I nodded: she was right. She squeezed my hand, giving me a wobbly smile. ‘OK?’ I managed another nod, and Alice drove on, as I looked back down the road and that tug came again, so strong this time it felt like pain.

Another swig from the bottle; the gassy stuff stinging my throat. Alice twisted a dial and a draught of cold air blew into my face and around my ankles. ‘Any better?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry, can we stop again?’

She pulled into a pub car park and I got out, tugging at the jeans and shirt that clung too tight. Alice walked round to open the boot.

‘Look, why don’t you put on something cooler?’

All I wanted now was to get back to the safety of the car, away from the wide sky and the fields, but I pulled out the holdall and followed her. The toilets were just inside the main door, and Alice led me into the Ladies, leaning on a sink and talking to my reflection, her own distorted by the mirror.

‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She rubbed my back. ‘I’ll get us some lunch. You should eat something.’

The place was cool and clean, a bowl of potpourri between the two sinks, but as I rifled through my clothes I could smell the stench of prison on them: strong enough to overwhelm the faint scent of lavender. My face in the mirror was bleached stone beneath the dark curls, and the fluorescent light revealed lines around my eyes that I’d never noticed before. Thirty-three wasn’t that old, was it? I pinched my cheeks, running my fingers through my hair.

Locked in a cubicle, I stripped off. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and I rested my head on the metal door. Then put on a thin blouse and cotton trousers.

I felt better for the change, but as I stood in front of the sinks again, staring at my white face, I couldn’t imagine how I would get through the door. Come on; come on, just do it. A woman and child burst in, the little girl holding the door for me, and I found myself in the bar.

I stood, with the conspicuous holdall on the floor beside me, scanning the room. The worn floorboards stretched away to open French windows, a babble of voices echoing all around.

I couldn’t see Alice.

‘Don’t look so worried, darling. If you can’t find your friend, you can sit with me.’

I recognised that look. You get it even in prison. The one that imagines fucking you, making you squirm. I wanted to tell him what I was – to take that smirk off his face – but instead I clenched my teeth and headed for the French windows.

She was sitting by a stream, her blue dress hanging over the edge of her chair, pale legs stretched out before her, strappy sandals on her feet. I forced a smile as I sat and she motioned to the drinks.

‘I got you still water.’ She raised her own glass, full of white bubbles. ‘Ordered us some sandwiches too.’

I took a sip, grateful for an excuse not to speak or to look at the girl who approached with two plates.

‘Tuna, or cheese and tomato?’

Alice smiled at her, then back at me. ‘We’ll share shall we, Clare?’

For all the world as if we were friends out for a jaunt in the country. Two men glanced over at us as they brought their pints to the next table: the younger giving Alice’s long legs an appreciative look up and down. She tucked them under her chair and his glance flickered to me, before returning to his drink.

We were nothing like sisters, of course, and I wondered if we even passed for friends.

Alice’s blue dress was crisp and her blonde hair dropped like pale water to her shoulders. Looking at her, I couldn’t help pulling at my creased trousers and moving my feet behind my holdall to hide my trainers.

She pushed some keys across the table at me. ‘I hope the flat’s OK. It was three months’ rent in advance, so no need to worry about that for a bit.’

We ate for a while in silence, but I didn’t have much appetite, and Alice soon stopped eating too. She looked into her glass, twisting it so the bubbles swirled and sparkled.

‘I’ve mentioned you to a friend who owns a florist’s shop near the flat. She might have some work for you, if you’re interested. Just don’t rush it.’