C.L. Taylor - The Fear - The sensational new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller that you need to read in 2018

He put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed the top of my arm. His palm wasn’t touching the soft material of my gi for more than a couple of seconds but the warmth of his touch remained—

A violent shiver courses through me. The sun has disappeared and the sky is thick with heavy, black rain clouds so, mustering all the energy I have left, I drag the armchair into the barn. The cages are even bigger and more imposing than I remember. They’re tall enough for a man to stand up in and almost as wide, with huge great padlocks hanging from the doors. They look like somewhere to house prisoners of war, not animals. The musky, yeasty smell of dogs is long gone but the air is rich with the sour, musty scent of sawdust, hay and ammonia.

When I reach the other side of the barn, I abandon the armchair, push open the door and peer outside. Rain is bouncing off the tarmac and puddling in the cracks. The field at the end of the yard is already flooded where it dips down into the lake. Much more of this rain and the roads will flood too. I’d be cut off from the world and no one other than my solicitor and a handful of friends in London know that I’m here.

A loud, angry, insistent sound cuts through the soft pattering of the rain.

It’s a car horn.

Mike is here.

I spot the white transit van through the gap between the house and the garage as I run across the lawn. The van windows are misty with condensation and the windscreen wipers are sweeping back and forth. My hair is stuck to my cheeks, my hoody is clinging to my back and my trainers are caked in mud. I slow my pace as I reach the house and duck under the eaves, out of sight of the van. My chest is tight and I’ve got pins and needles in both of my arms. I have never, ever felt more scared in my life. Why did I think this was a good idea? I’ve got no mobile signal, no neighbours and no way of calling for help. Mike never threatened me, but I know how dangerous he can be. If anything happened to me, it would be days before anyone sounded the alarm. But why would he turn on me? When the police arrested him, he was still in love with me. I didn’t testify against him. And he has no idea that I’m the one who reported him to the police for kissing Chloe.

The horn sounds again, making me jump. There’s no way Mike could have seen me. I could just stay here, out of sight, until he gives up and drives away. I don’t have to do this.

But what about Chloe? a small voice whispers at the back of my brain. Mike will continue to abuse her. If she’s not already broken, she soon will be. Could you live with that, knowing you could have stopped it?

I tried . I rang the police. I visited her parents. I spoke to her. Even if I do talk to Mike there’s no guarantee anything I say will make a difference.

You wanted to do this. You wanted to confront him, to make him face up to what he did to you. You wanted him to know how much his ‘love’ fucked up your life. That’s why you moved up here, Lou. To exorcise your demons. If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life screwing up relationships with decent men like Ben. Just get it over and done with.

I step back into the rain, through the gap between the house and garage, and walk up to the van. The driver side window opens slowly. An elbow appears, swiftly followed by a face.

‘Milly Dawson?’

‘Mike.’

I brace myself, waiting for his eyebrows to raise and his jaw to drop. He didn’t react on the phone when I gave him my address but he had to recognise the house as he drove up the track. And he has to know who I am.

But there’s no spark of recognition in his eyes as they flit over my face.

It’s the strangest sensation, staring into the eyes of the man I once loved and feared in equal measure. It’s him and yet it’s not him. His face, once so familiar, has been stolen by a much older man. There’s a sagginess to his jawline that wasn’t there before and a hollowing beneath his cheekbones. His eyebrows are thicker and wirier, the hoods of his eyes are heavier, almost obscuring the bright blue of his irises. There’s no passion or love behind his gaze. As I continue to stare, the edges of his lips curl up into a smile and he gives me a little nod. He doesn’t recognise me at all.

‘You might want to get a coat on,’ he says. ‘Although I’m not sure you could get much wetter.’

He laughs then and the sound catches me by surprise. His face may have changed and his voice may have become a little raspier but his laugh is the same.

‘I’m …’ I pull my hood over my head and plunge my hands into the pockets of my hoody. ‘I’m okay.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ He gestures at the house with his thumb. ‘In there, is it?’

For a moment I have no idea what he’s talking about but then I remember – I asked him to take the armchair to the tip.

‘It’s in the barn.’

‘Interesting place to keep a chair.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Where’s the barn?’

‘In the yard, past the garden.’

He moves to look out of the window even though there’s no way he can see into the garden from the angle of the van.

‘Or you could take the track round the house and I could open the gate to the yard.’

He looks back towards the garden, as though considering his options. A dimple appears in his chin as he presses his lips together. I used to push my little finger into that indentation to try and make it disappear.

‘My left leg’s a bit fucked. I’ll drive. Get in.’

The command makes my blood run cold but, after a moment’s hesitation, I do as he says.

We are sitting so close that, when he just changed gear, I had to lean to my left to avoid his forearm brushing mine. A wave of panic courses through me. The last time I was in a car with this man we were driving through France. But Mike doesn’t recognise me. He did a quick sweep of my body as I rounded the van, a casual appraisal any man might do to a woman he’s never met before, but there was no spark of interest when I opened the passenger door and got in. Why would there be? I’m a grown woman, not a child.

As he navigates his way back down to the road and up the muddy track to the barn he chatters away about nothing in particular – the weather, the flooding, the news. I nod and shrug but I’m not really listening. I can’t stop staring at his face. He’s forty-nine now and his hair is more grey than black, but it’s still thick and wavy, cut short above the ears and at the nape of his neck. Deep lines stripe across his brow and fan out at the corner of his eyes. He looks old and tired.

I was afraid that all the feelings I’d had as a teenager would come flooding back and overwhelm me, but I don’t feel love or desire. Not even hate or fear. What I feel, as I look at his long, thick fingers curved over the steering wheel, is revulsion.

‘Here we are then.’ He pulls on the handbrake and turns off the engine. We’re in the yard. Parked up outside the barn.

‘In here is it?’ Mike says, gesturing at the barn, as he gets out of the van. It’s raining heavily now and there’s an air of impatience in his voice. Am I keeping him from something? An illicit meeting with Chloe perhaps?

‘That’s right.’

He doesn’t say anything as he lollops past me – there’s definitely something wrong with his left leg – but his head turns sharply as he opens the barn door. He’s spotted the cages.

‘Got dogs, have you?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘They were—’

But he’s not interested. He’s already halfway across the barn. He grunts as he squats to pick up Dad’s green armchair. He was the strongest, fittest man I knew eighteen years ago. Now he’s unfit and wheezy, with a stomach that hangs over the belt of his jeans.