Penance, p.1
Penance, page 1
PENANCE
CHARLOTTE BARNES
Copyright © 2023 Charlotte Barnes
* * *
The right of Charlotte Barnes to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
* * *
First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.
* * *
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
* * *
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
* * *
Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8552-6
CONTENTS
Love best-selling fiction?
Also by Charlotte Barnes
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
She
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Before
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Now
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
She
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
She
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
She
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Now
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
You will also enjoy:
A note from the publisher
Love best-selling fiction?
LOVE BEST-SELLING FICTION?
Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks!
* * *
Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors?
ALSO BY CHARLOTTE BARNES
Suspense Thrillers:
* * *
Intention
* * *
All I See Is You
* * *
Sincerely, Yours
* * *
The Things I Didn’t Do
* * *
Safe Word
Crime:
The DI Melanie Watton Series
The Copycat (book one)
The Watcher (book two)
The Cutter (book three)
PROLOGUE
Industrial buildings linger on the outskirts of every city now. Belfast is no different.
From outside the structure looked like a cored office space. She had expected to find contents to match. Instead, the room she occupied looked long abandoned by lodgers and squatters. They’d left behind soiled mattresses and a cracked mirror over an ornate fireplace that had been engulfed by its own flames years ago.
There was a red wall, pink in patches. When she scanned the space, she saw the open window with blades of sun falling through. The heat of it must have slowly taken the wall’s colour. The other walls had less character to them. Wallpaper had cracked and flecked, picked off like skin tags around poorly cared for cuticles. The plaster underneath looked damp, and the smell of the room was much the same. Though it was tinged with sweat, too, and when the wind caught her she sniffed a burst of her own perfume.
On the open door there was a body bag and hanger; a change of clothes hidden beneath. She had expected dirt, mud – trace contact. So she’d packed it carefully. There wasn’t too much time to waste, though. Her flight was leaving from Belfast International in twelve hours – and from experience she knew this could take as many as eight if she got carried away.
In the corner of the room, she bent down to unzip her bag and take out everything she might need. Otherwise impulse would take over and she’d grab any old thing; that didn’t make for a smooth experience. Everything was laid out along a roll of old fabric – one that could easily be burnt up before she left – and each item lay parallel to the next. There was something calming about that.
Nearby, there was a weathered chair that she lowered herself onto with some caution, in case the unloved legs of it were close to giving out. It held her weight, though, and she rested there for a second enjoying the in and out of breath; the quiet of it all, where the city was some miles away in the distance. But from the opposite side of the room there came a rumble of noise; a rat, she thought, trying to scurry free.
She recognised the panic in him. The watering of his eyes, the fidget of bound limbs; he tried repeatedly to move, in short flurries of effort. Not that she was worried; she knew how to bind a man by now.
She flashed a quick smile before she stood and leaned down to collect an old handheld video camera from the equipment on the floor. It was all ready; she only needed to fix it to the stand and press record. It was for show, mostly. She wouldn’t keep the film, though she wanted him to believe there would be a record of what was about to happen.
When the camera was ready, she closed the distance between them, pinched her trousers at the knees, and lowered herself to a crouch in front of him. ‘You like to film these things, don’t you?’
And from somewhere behind three layers of tape, he tried to answer.
CHAPTER ONE
I dragged my case through the front door with a thud that was no rival for the music emanating from the kitchen. I paced through the familiar hallway and found my husband, Simon, rapping along to Eminem.
In those seconds, I felt the familiar rush of home wash over me and I was embarrassingly happy to be back. People at work had told me to make the most of the break – ‘It’s a free trip away after all!’ – and I’d nodded along with a weak smile. But there was nowhere else I’d rather be than leaning against the doorway of a kitchen space that we owned outright, watching my husband pretend to have rhythm while cutting tomatoes into uneven slices. I left him in peace until the end of the track then, when I realised it was on repeat, I trod quietly into the space and hit the pause button on the docking station.
‘Dawn, what did I say ab–’ He spun around and came to a stop mid-sentence. His smile was expansive; cheek to cheek, complete with dimples I’d fallen in love with just over ten years ago, and they still hadn’t lost their appeal. ‘You’re home!’ He closed the gap between us and wrapped himself around me in a hug that felt more like I’d been away for weeks rather than a couple of days. ‘She keeps turning my music off because it’s uncool. I’m so glad you’re back.’
I laughed into his nook; the spot between shoulder and neck. ‘We are uncool.’
‘She’s six. She can’t know that yet.’ He pulled away and kissed the corner of my mouth; a soft precursor to what would come later. ‘Drink?’
I groaned. ‘Please!’
He reached for the docking station and glanced up at me; his finger hovered over the play button. ‘Once more?’ I only laughed and walked around him, to pull out a chair at the kitchen table. ‘You’re right,’ he answered, ‘once more is probably overkill. Spotify already thinks I’ve got a problem.’ Instead, he knocked the station off at the wall and went back to his chopping board. ‘Balls, drink.’
‘I can get–’ I moved to stand but he put his hand up to still me. ‘Or I can be waited on.’
‘You’ve had a busy day. Well, a busy few days, I imagine.’ He was facing away from me, staring into the abyss of a fridge where space was bargained for between the adults – who want food – and their child – who wants an endless supply of Lunchables. I was glad he couldn’t see my face. ‘I don’t know that we’ve got any white in here, you know…’ He bobbed up and down to survey the space fully. I was smiling again by the time he turned. Christ, it’s good to be home. ‘Red?’
‘Anything!’ I joked.
‘It was that bad?’
‘Mummy!’ Dawn ran from the bottom of the stairs, along the hallway, skidded into the kitchen – in a manoeuvre that only children can really pull off – but overshot the table by a good metre. She landed on the opposite side of the room but made a tornado-ballerina of herself to come back, before landing in front of me and completing a graceful bow. Then she fell over herself with laughter and launched onto my lap. I blew the largest raspberry I could muster into her bare shoulder. Her hair was still damp from bath-time, and she smelled like…
‘Is that unicorn I’ve got a whiff of there?’
Her face was surprised-delight. ‘Yes!’ Then she turned to Simon. ‘See, I told you.’
‘Yep, we’ll add that to the list of things Daddy got wrong while Mummy was away.’ Simon set three inches of wine on the table next to me, then leaned in to kiss the crown of my head. When he moved away Dawn coughed, in a dramatic way, and Simon promptly turned back to kiss her, too.
‘Did he get lots of things wrong?’ I pretend-whispered to her, to catch Simon’s ear. They answered ‘Yes’ and ‘No ’ in unison.
‘Dawnie, what did I get wrong?’ he pushed, his attention already on the mince that was simmering on the stove. He probed at it while she listed things off – ‘And he wouldn’t let me dance to Little Mix while I got ready for school because he said…’ – and I tried to let the normality of it all wash over me. But I still drained my drink too quickly.
‘Everything okay?’ Simon asked when he saw me reach around him for the bottle.
‘It was a nightmare trip back, that’s all.’ I filled another three fingers. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’ I kissed the side of his temple to a soundtrack of Dawn making an, ‘Eurgh’ noise from her post at the kitchen table. ‘I know. It’s disgusting how much Mummy loves Daddy, isn’t it?’
She gave the idea more thought than I expected her to. ‘Not disgusting, but… Did you bring us anything from your trip?’ She was already up and out of the seat, her small feet shuffling towards the doorway.
‘Dawn,’ Simon cautioned, ‘don’t be rude. Can’t that wait until after dinner?’
She turned back to throw me a questioning look. ‘Go on.’
When she was out of earshot Simon laughed. ‘No wonder she prefers you.’
‘Oh shush, she does not prefer–’
I’d hardly managed to wrap an arm around his waist when Dawn came through to the kitchen, yanking my bag behind her as though it were loaded with more than its allotted kilograms. ‘This weighs a tonne and it’s covered in dirt.’
‘Dirt?’ Simon echoed.
Dawn held up her palms that were muddied with dust, building crust and detritus.
My stomach rolled over. ‘You know what it’s like when your luggage gets thrown around on a trip. Here, give me those hands.’ I reached around for the kitchen towel and took a sheet to her, and then I wiped away any evidence that lingered. ‘All clean.’
She shifted from one foot to the other while I unzipped the case, then I reached in to collect something small and secret. When I brought my cupped hands out, I moved them slowly as though a damaged bird might be caught inside. ‘Eyes closed.’
She followed orders, pinching her eyes together with an eagerness you only ever find in children.
I opened my hands, then, to reveal a two-inch troll complete with wild red hair, and a small green T-shirt that left its buttocks bare. She’d been obsessed with them since she was about four years old. Simon and I joked that it was a retro addiction, but whenever we found one she didn’t have, there was uproar if we didn’t take it home. ‘Open.’
She gasped as though I were presenting her with a bullion. ‘Mum!’
‘Oh good,’ Simon added flatly, ‘another troll in the house.’ Though Dawn and I both knew he was joking. ‘Dawn, you’ve got about five minutes to introduce that one to the three hundred others in your room before I start dishing up dinner.’
‘Three hundred…’ she huffed on her way out of the kitchen. She turned the troll this way and that, inspecting it for identifying marks, I thought, in case some clue to its identity were hidden. ‘If only I had three hundred…’ she added, before she turned for the stairs. ‘You’re not going to pull another troll out of that bag for me, are you?’
I stood behind Simon while he flicked at switches, and gave things a final stir. My body was pressed into the curve of his back, and my hands rested in the front pockets of his torn stay-at-home jeans. ‘You can have your present later.’ I kissed the base of his neck.
‘You should go away more often.’ I could hear the smile in his voice. But I couldn’t muster a murmur of agreement. ‘Go and get the troll wrangler, would you? She’ll be all day if we’re not careful.’
And I obliged, grateful for something to do.
Simon was flicking through television channels in the living room, in search of background noise. He’d carried Dawn up to bed only minutes ago – after she’d passed out, thumb in mouth and troll tucked neatly in palm – on the sofa. I was waiting for the kettle to boil, watching my doting husband through the long stretch of the open-plan space. When we moved in, eight years ago now, we made a mammoth task of tearing down walls and making the place our own. It had been a renovation job for Simon, but something about the whole process had felt oddly metaphysical for me, too.
‘Do you want biscuits?’ I shouted into him.
‘Oof, now you’re talking, woman. Will you have something?’
I thumbed the stem of my wine glass. ‘I might finish this bottle.’
There was a long pause, then. ‘Okay, babe, whatever you fancy.’
I grabbed the necessary utensils – cup, spoon, sweetener for my heathen husband who refused to drink tea the right way – and then I opened the biscuit cupboard to begin the search. It was another of Simon’s weaknesses; anything with buttercream in the middle. I reached up for a packet of crunch creams that hadn’t been opened yet – he mustn’t know they’re here – and laid them on the side while I threw tea together. Then I poured another swill of wine, though I told myself I was being restrained this time by measuring out two fingers instead of three. There’d be something for tomorrow, I reasoned. I carried biscuits and brew in to Simon, and then padded back to get my own drink from the side.
‘Oh Christ…’ Simon muttered.
‘An appeal has been launched into the disappearance of…’
‘What?’ I looked up in time to catch the picture, but the volume on the television was too low for me to hear the narration. Still, it was enough to weaken my reflexes, and before I could grasp at what was unfolding the glass slipped from my hand and shattered across the tiles of the kitchen floor.
‘Don’t move!’ Simon shouted, as he rushed over from across the space. I could hear the tail-end of a news reporter’s commentary – ‘Police are in the process of speaking with associates of the missing man, one Mitchell Webster…’ – but it was soon drowned out by Simon’s worrying. ‘Babe, stand still, okay, because you don’t even have socks on and it’s everywhere.’
I watched the television behind him until the picture disappeared; a fade out, like a movie scene transition. And it was only then that I looked down at my husband, collecting up the larger shards of glass from around me; doing his best to avoid what now looked like spilled blood.
CHAPTER TWO
I found that I was both drawn to and repelled from news reports in the days after. Without even noticing a nearby clock, I’d walk into the living room as Simon was putting on the evening news; or as a colleague was turning on the local radio station in time for a bulletin. Somehow, my body clock had become attuned to optimum times that I might catch something I didn’t want to hear – only I did want to hear it in many ways, too. I shook the confusion of it all away, then, and tried to be present in the moment; this moment, right here. Three things I can smell: freshly cut grass; the grease-fry of fairground doughnuts; my husband’s aftershave. Two things I can hear: the hum of a car engine; the rabble of children in the park. One thing I can feel: Simon’s hand, squeezing my own, once, twice–
