In My Wake: A Breathtaking Psychological Thriller With a Killer Twist Read online

  I blink to try and clear my eyes so I can focus on the text. Even through my blurry vision, however, I register that the text printed in front of me isn't the same as what appeared in the newspaper. At the same time, I am aware of much rustling and an outbreak of whispering all around me in the church. The Reverend has stopped talking and is staring down, apparently confused, at the notes in front of him.

  Mum lets out a dramatic gasp from behind me and I try to force my brain to take in the fact that there is a white square of paper with different wording pasted over where the eulogy should be.

  April Louise Hampton

  Beloved daughter, liar, fake, cheater.

  Most of you will probably choose to remember April Hampton as a beautiful woman who brought light and love to all those who had the good fortune to meet her. You will all choose to ignore what she really was. No one will mention how much suffering she caused others.

  That is because most of you don't know what she did.

  Very few people know the part she played in the death of little Paige Wakefield.

  The quiet of the church hall suddenly erupts into chaos and loud, angry murmuring. I jump when a strong hand grips mine and I vaguely realise that Will is trying to loosen the grip I have on the paper in my damp hands. The pristine white crumples and tears as he finally pulls it from my frozen grip.

  The room buzzes and the noise around me dissolves into a blur of noise and black.

  3

  I feel numb. Exhausted and drained. Anything I did feel a couple of hours ago has slipped away. Now I'm just a blank empty void. And right now I'm terrified of what might fill the space if I ever start to feel again.

  The shock of earlier knocked the wind out of me. I was barely coping as it was and seeing those words printed boldly on the paper, I felt something inside break.

  Mum was the same, except she had no qualms about people seeing how much the incident got to her. She is downstairs at the wake now, wine in hand, sobbing and letting everyone fuss over her.

  I have taken refuge in one of the guest rooms of my father's house. It still feels strange to think of this place as only my dad's – this used to be our family home where my sister and I grew up, before the divorce. Instead Mum now lives in Milton Keynes with Paul. She only ever day-trips up to York for Eva's birthday or a fleeting visit at Christmas before she and her husband jet off somewhere to spend the festive season in the sun.

  Will and I have arranged to stay here for a couple of weeks to spend some time with Dad who looked thoroughly relieved when we made the suggestion. He might not always know how to show it, but family means a lot to him. On the surface, April's death seems to have really hit him hard. He keeps talking about how fragile life is and how we should see more of each other. Just this morning he was remarking about how he hardly knows Eva.

  With a sudden pang, I had wanted to tell him that I felt the same way. Gone are the days where my little girl would run into my arms at the school gates, throwing herself into an enthusiastic bear hug that would unsteady me for a second. We would walk home hand-in-hand and she would chatter excitedly about her day. I long for our movie weekends when Eva would cuddle up under a blanket with Will and myself on the sofa with some burned popcorn and a packet of Revels scattered over the coffee table. I smile when I think of how Eva would always scrunch her small nose up if she bit into a coffee-flavoured chocolate.

  Despite the fact that my daughter still lives under the same roof, I feel like we hardly speak any more. Between school and her online social life, I feel as though we are virtually strangers.

  Perhaps a funeral is not the best way to start the summer holidays, but I'd had a fleeting thought that some time away from our usual routine would give us some time to get to know each other again and for Eva to spend a little time with her grandparents.

  Only now our little visit has turned even sourer. I throw yet another tissue into the small waste paper bin under the desk and sit down at the mirrored dressing table. My reflection shows that I look much worse than I imagined. My hazel eyes are blotchy and red and my nose matches, making my misery all the more obvious. I rummage through my makeup bag and pull out some concealer to repair the damage. When I've finished it is still obvious I've been crying just by the look of my bloodshot eyes, but it will have to do.

  Right now I resent the way the room has been decorated. I haven't stayed overnight in the house since before I left for University and it couldn't be more different than how it used to look.

  This was always a guest bedroom, even when we were little. Sometimes, April and I would sleep in here for no other reason than just because it was a fun thing to do. We would revel in the comfort of the king-sized bed, so vast compared to our own singles. Long after lights-out, April would pull me close to her and whisper in my ear scandalous tales of what the older girls in school got up to, which teachers she thought were perverts and other exciting rumours involving seemingly-respectable members of the community.

  I would drink up all the details raptly, delighted to be privy to secrets only the older children knew about.

  Now, however, the walls of this guest room are plastered with bold floral wallpaper instead of the calming magnolia Mum had on all the walls throughout our childhood. The freshly decorated look features throughout the house and I realise it must be for the sake of Dad's new business venture – running a bed and breakfast. It suddenly hits me that the summer holidays must be a peak time for tourists wanting to stay here and I am grateful for Dad wanting to have us around despite how much it must be costing him in lost earnings.

  I can't shake the feeling, however, that Dad has deliberately changed some things around the house almost for the sake of it, as though he is trying to remove my mother's touch from the house. Even the act of opening a bottle of wine with dinner last night wasn't as simple as it should have been because I struggled to find where the utensils were kept.

  I get to my feet heavily and move over to the window. Dad might have succeeded where the interior is concerned, but in the garden, I can still see Mum. The summer house she had custom-built is still standing, dated but proud and the roses she nurtured almost as much as April and I are still going strong; they weave sturdily through the trellis archway leading to the sweeping countryside vista surrounding the house.

  For a few moments, I am lost in thought of this house in its prime; myself as a child, April – alive and well by my side; hand-in-hand, playing in the garden or running through the rose archway into the wild countryside beyond; my parents together and happy; the sun shining down on endless summer days of exploring, pushing the boundary set down by our parents further than they ever knew or could imagine. Of course, not every day was perfect. Thoughts of darker times creep into my mind and the hairs on my arms prickle warningly.

  The beginning of the local woodland is visible from the top floor of the house. That was an area strictly forbidden to us. Our mother warned us that bad things happened to children that wandered into the woods.

  There were rumours that a girl had been raped there once – something our mother had only hinted at, but April later divulged to me in one of our post-bedtime chats when she saw that I hadn't understood. And another rumour suggested that a Jack Russell had been killed while out walking with its owner. Its leg was said to have been so badly lacerated by an unknown entity that the bone was visible ... if you believed the rumours, that was. Of course there were whispers of what had happened to Paige Wakefield too. But those are more like the winding section of the river Severn that runs beside Little Bishopsford; dark and muddy; nowhere near clear enough to fathom.

  Naturally, since the woods were off-limits, April and I found ourselves gravitating towards the place as though something in us was drawn to it. Every time we set foot upon the twig-covered, thick earth of the forest floor we got a thrill of excitement. Although, we never went again after Paige Wakefield went missing.

  The rules and restrictions laid down by our parents were so badly stretched
before that though it was amazing we were never caught. Perhaps they did suspect, but April and I were most often accompanied by Will, who, being a few years our senior, probably lulled them into thinking we were safe.

  But then, Paige Wakefield's parents probably once thought her safe too. And they turned out to be wrong.

  4

  A knock on the bedroom door makes me gasp out loud.

  'Mum?'

  Eva appears in the doorway. She has tied her black cardigan arms around her waist in what is definitely a tom-boyish gesture I recognise all too well. Her slim shoulders seem all of a sudden too small for her t-shirt which fits her loosely. Much of her hair has escaped from the amber bun I prepared neatly this morning and now hangs limply around her face. In a moment, I suddenly realise what Will means when he says how much she takes after me. I had always only seen April in her.

  'Mum, are you all right? Dad wants to know if you are coming downstairs. He says you should eat something. But if you can't face it, we can bring some sandwiches up here to you, if you want?'

  'No, it's all right, Eva. I was just about to go downstairs anyway.'

  She looks uncertainly back at me, I see her eyes flit over the areas of skin where I have carefully applied makeup before she turns around and goes back downstairs.

  Mentally, I shake myself and I draw in a deep breath that takes more effort than it should. I give myself another glance in the mirror, and aside from my shoulder-length sandy hair being tousled and slightly wild-looking (as it often does anyway) I don't look too bad.

  As soon as I follow my daughter's footsteps onto the landing, the sound of murmuring voices reaches my ears. People are still milling around at the wake on the ground floor. I just hope that the unpleasantness at the funeral is no longer the topic of discussion.

  Unfortunately, as I reach the lounge doorway I feel the bitter sting of disappointment.

  A young man was asking, 'But how did someone manage to pull something like that off?'

  An elderly man with a familiar-sounding voice responds, 'Someone obviously sneaked into the church before people arrived and stuck the labels over the top. It wouldn't take a great deal of effort – or brains ... What gets me is the fact that someone had the audacity to bring up that horrible old business today – or why ...'

  'What do you think it m –' The younger man stops abruptly when he sees me walk into the room. He gives me a half-nod and a nervous 'Hiya,' then focusses on swilling his drink around with too much vigour so that a little amber liquid sloshes over the side of the glass and runs over his tanned fingers.

  The usual living room furniture – including the Chesterfield suite and small dark wooden tables, have been moved to the edges of the room to allow for the guests to mingle. Despite the fact that the room is a decent size, the remaining mourners are doing a good job of making it look cramped. Every seat is occupied, so I automatically join the group nearest the doorway which includes my father, trying to pretend I hadn't overheard the speculation.

  'Hiya, Love,' Dad says, handing me a glass of red wine from a platter on the piano. He awkwardly squeezes my shoulders and kisses my forehead. He is overly-affectionate at the moment, having gone from one extreme to the other as far as physical contact goes. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. I'm grateful Will didn't see him do that. I can just imagine him making a mental note to Google which stage of grief my father is in and provide me with a full rundown later. Glancing across the room, I see my husband talking to two local elderly ladies and hope he is doing a better job of remembering the villagers' names than I am at the moment.

  My father looks awkward and casts around for something to say, trying to pretend they hadn't been discussing what happened earlier. 'Are you going to have a bite to eat, Hannah, Love?'

  'No thanks, Dad. I'm not hungry,' I say with an eye on Eva as she drifts across the room. I see her pick up a few crisps from the buffet table and hover uncertainly by her father.

  Everyone in the rough semi-circle is staring at me – Dad, the Reverend, the elderly gentleman I now recognise as Reg Green – a nearby neighbour who has always seemed to be an old man. His nephew Alfred who trailed off just now at the sight of me was a couple of years below me in school. I haven't seen Alfred for years, but his face isn't all that different – round and small like his build, so unlike his uncle's towering stature.

  I heard from Dad that Alfred had moved to Spain a decade ago, and judging by the golden hue of his skin and sun-bleached highlights, he still lives there.

  I wish now that I had taken more effort to lessen how bloodshot my eyes looked whilst I was still alone upstairs.

  'Hannah,' Reg moves forward and shakes my hand firmly. I am surprised by how much strength the old man still has in his grip, despite his outwardly wilting appearance. 'I'm so sorry about April.'

  He shakes his head sadly and I notice how watery his paling blue eyes look, unsure of whether they always have that appearance.

  'Thank you. It's been a shock to all of us,' I say. I don't know how many more times I can say the same thing to people offering their sympathies.

  'I was devastated when your Dad told me what happened,' the old man rasps. 'I still can't believe it now.'

  'I know the feeling.'

  'And what happened earlier at the service ... That was disgusting – I've never heard of such a thing happening at a funeral – and inside a church to boot!'

  Reg looks suddenly wild-eyed and furious. He jabs a gnarled finger towards my chest and stares at me intently. 'Whoever was behind that sordid business should be lined up and shot!'

  Although an old man now, and a little hunched with age, Reg still towers above me at well over six-foot. The effect at this moment is even more intimidating than years ago when April and I used to get told off if he caught us doing something we shouldn't around the village.

  One time he caught us up an apple tree near the village railway station and despite the fact we were physically higher up than him, I have rarely felt so small and feeble.

  'Well, of course ...' I say slowly, looking around at Dad for some support and noticing he too looks a little alarmed by his old friend's abrupt outburst.

  'All right, Reg,' he says, nodding in a placating gesture. 'We have all been upset today, but whoever it was has had their five minutes of fame or whatever the hell it was they wanted. Best not bring it up again, eh?'

  Reg finally tears his gaze from my face after an intense few moments and stares instead at Dad; he blinks as though he has only just realised he was there. 'Tony.' He moves swiftly forward and grasps my father's hand in a firm shake, just as he did with mine. 'Tony, it is so good to see you, old man. You're looking good. Very good, indeed.'

  Dad looks over Reg's shoulder to exchange a glance with Alfred, who now eyes his uncle with uncertainty, as though suddenly afraid of him, forgetting even to swill his drink now.

  'Terrible business, Tony, at the funeral,' Reg goes on, still not having relinquished his grip on Dad's hand. 'You know the only people I can think of who would do an atrocious thing like that, don't you?'

  Dad says nothing and the group remains silent, almost holding their collective breath.

  Reg leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, 'The Wakefields.'

  There is an uncomfortable movement from everyone in the circle, and I am aware that the previous hum of voices around the room has dropped. Ears almost palpably strain from all directions to hear what Reg has to say next.

  Alfred shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. 'Come on, Uncle Reg. Why don't we go and get something else to eat, eh? I think you're looking a bit pale there ...'

  His uncle ignores him, still looking directly at my father's face. 'I say we go and fetch old Tom and go over there. See what's what.'

  My father frowns with concern. 'Go over where, Reg?'

  Reg's eyes widen as though it should be obvious. 'To the Wakefield house, of course! Where else?'

  'But Reg. The Wakefield hou
se is empty – derelict. Has been for years, remember? It burned down back in the nineties ... And Tom – he has passed now. After he retired from the police force.'

  'Eh?' Reg's glassy eyes blink in confusion.

  I get the impression he doesn't even know why he is really here. A gnawing sense that I should say something to change the subject grates on me, but I can't think of anything appropriate.

  After a few awkward moments, and a glance around the room, the old man seems to recover himself a little. 'Well ... I just meant that – that they were a bad lot, that family ... I can't imagine how anyone could be so – so blunt as to bring up any of that business today. And for what reason?'

  No one else seems to know what to say and Reg laments on out loud, 'Reminds me of Viv's funeral, this does ...'

  Now I'm very glad I didn't try a subject change with a question about his wife's well-being; I had no idea she had passed away.

  The Reverend pipes up now with one of his well-rehearsed lines of comfort, 'Ah now, Reg. You do know that the Lord who giveth must also taketh away.'

  'I suppose.'

  Reg sniffs and as he drifts across the room I think I see another layer of shine in his already watery-looking eyes.

  Alfred gives us all a glance as though wondering if anyone will say anything about his uncle's behaviour, but no one does, so he saunters away after him.

  The Reverend shoots Dad a knowing look and the briefest of nods and then says his goodbyes.

  Afternoon turns into evening and people start leaving one by one. Now it is only the villagers my parents know the best that are left. Apart from Reg, who Alfred seemed to take home early. Eva wandered off upstairs over an hour ago and I assume she is chatting to her school friends online or so she said. Right now I miss her more than ever. I would like nothing more than to wrap her in my arms and keep her close.

  Feeling fatigued, I move over to the buffet table and help myself to one of my mother's dry sandwiches with what might be sliced turkey inside. I find myself having to wash it down with more of my glass of wine than I would have liked and regret how light-headed it makes me.