Jaime Raven - The Madam

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Copyright © Jaime Raven 2016

Cover design © Debbie Clement

Jaime Raven asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008171469

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780008171476

Version 2016-04-20

This one is for Catherine, with love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

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About the Publisher

I was naked and covered in someone else’s blood. It was smeared across my flesh and dripping from the tips of my fingers onto the carpet.

Around me the room seemed to be spinning slowly, like a fairground carousel. My vision was blurred, but I could make out various objects. A door. A sofa. A flat-screen television. A wall painting. A bed.

A man’s body.

The body was lying on the bed, naked like me and face up. And there was more blood. It soaked the sheets and the rug of thick, grey hair on the man’s chest. There were even splash marks on the wall above the wooden headboard.

I knew instinctively that he was dead. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets and he wasn’t breathing. He was motionless.

The realisation that I wasn’t dreaming hit me like a bag of ice. I made an effort to scream, but nothing came out. The shock of what I was experiencing had rendered me mute.

I tried to bring my thoughts to bear on what was happening. Where was I? Who was the man? Why was there so much blood?

As I stood there, dazed and bewildered, the back of my head throbbing, it gradually came back to me.

A few moments ago I’d been lying on the bed beside the corpse. I must have been unconscious because suddenly I was awake and aware that something was wrong. So I’d rolled off the bed and onto my feet.

And that’s when I looked down and saw the shocking state I was in.

Oh God.

The room stopped moving suddenly and my eyes focused on something on the floor. It glinted in the wash of colour from the bedside lamp.

A large knife. And there was more blood on the blade.

I backed away from it until I came up against the cold, smooth surface of the wall. From here I could see the whole room. The full, horrific scene of carnage.

I felt my legs wobble. A wave of nausea washed through me. I reached out and grabbed the back of a chair for support. The chair stood in front of a dressing table, and there was a big square mirror in which I caught sight of my reflection.

There was so much blood. On my face, my breasts, my shoulders. It even trailed down across my stomach into my pubic hairs.

As I stared at myself the rest of it came back to me. I realised who the man was. I recalled what had happened in the room before I lost consciousness. The raised voices. The violent struggle. The drunken haze that smothered everything.

And it was these mental images that finally dislodged the scream from deep inside my throat.

‘I’ve got some bad news for you, Lizzie.’

They were the first words out of the governor’s mouth when I was escorted into her office. Maureen Riley had only been in the job for a few months so I’d never had a one-to-one meeting with her before today. I’d assumed she was going to read me the riot act, tell me that under her stewardship I would have to change my ways and become a model prisoner. But I could tell from the solemn expression on her face that I’d been summoned for a different reason.

‘I think perhaps you should sit down,’ she said, waving to an empty chair across the desk from her.

But I just stood there, rigid as a tent peg, my blood racing in anticipation of what was to come.

She had her back to the window, through which I could see a fierce afternoon sun beating down on the streets of North London. The stark light accentuated the lines around her eyes and mouth, and I found myself momentarily distracted as I wondered how old she was. Mid-to-late forties? Early fifties? It was hard to tell. Her brown hair was liberally streaked with grey and she had a fleshy, nondescript face.

‘I really think you should take a seat, Lizzie. What I’m about to tell you will be extremely upsetting.’

Everything inside me turned cold. My heart started thumping, thrashing against my ribs.

‘Has something happened to Leo?’ I said, my voice thin and stretched. It was the first fearful thought that sprang into my mind.

She clamped her top lip between her teeth and leaned forward across her desk. Her eyes were steady and intense, and I could see the muscles in her neck tighten.

‘I’m afraid your son had to be rushed to hospital this morning,’ she said. ‘He was taken ill suddenly at his grandmother’s.’

An awful stillness took hold of me. I tried to speak but the words snagged in my throat.

The governor rearranged her weight in the chair, took a long, deep breath and then uttered the words that every parent dreads to hear.

‘Leo passed away, Lizzie. It happened several hours ago. I just received the call.’

It took a couple of seconds for it to sink in. It can’t be true, I told myself. How can my little boy be dead? He’s only three years old, for Christ’s sake.

But then it hit me and a sob exploded in my throat.

‘No, no, no,’ I cried out.

I clenched my eyes shut and the world tilted on its axis. I felt myself falling, but the screw who had brought me to the office grabbed me before I fell to the floor. She managed to lower me onto the chair as the tears poured out of me.

The governor waited a few minutes before she spoke again.

‘I’ve been told that your mother was with him at the end, Lizzie. He was very ill, apparently. Viral meningitis.’

I felt a darkness rise up inside me. Not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this. My darling son was everything to me. He gave meaning to my life, a life that had been twisted out of shape by bad luck and mistakes.