Cut To The Bone

Cut To The Bone

Sally Spedding

Wales (2015)

CUT TO THE BONE

PRAISE FOR SALLY SPEDDING

‘How To Write A Chiller Thriller comes from the Mistress of the Macabre herself. Sally Spedding has the Chill-Factor – let her help you develop your own. Highly recommended.’

- Suzanne Ruthven, author and editor of Compass Books

‘Malediction is a horrifying parable of poisoned faith. No-one does the darker side of noir like Sally Spedding.’
- Andrew Taylor, winner of the Crime Writers’ Association Diamond Dagger

‘Malediction is an intense, intelligent, visceral thriller from the get-go. Dark, dark fiction, definitely not for the squeamish. If you thought Dan Brown was the last word in clerical depravity, think again.’

- Peter Guttridge, crime/thriller author and reviewer

‘Cold Remains will keep the reader on edge until the very end.’

- Fran Lewis. New York talk show host and interviewer

‘Cold Remains is a creepy, suspenseful read.’

- Lucy O’Connor, Waterstones

‘Spedding knows that before delivering the set-pieces, it’s essential to carefully build suspense through both unsettling incident and sense of locale – at both, she’s unquestionably got what it takes.’

- Barry Forshaw, author and editor of Crime Time

‘Sally Spedding… has been credited with being a latter-day Du Maurier.’

- Crime Squad

‘Sally Spedding is the mistress of her craft.’

- Welsh Books Council

‘Her writing is so distinctly unique, it will truly chill you to the bone.’

- Sally Meseg, Dreamcatcher

PREVIOUS PUBLICATIONS

HOW TO WRITE A CHLLER THRILLER

MALEDICTION

COLD REMAINS

STRANGERS WAITING

COME AND BE KILLED

PREY SILENCE

A NIGHT WITH NO STARS

CLOVEN

WRINGLAND

CUT TO THE BONE

by

SALLY SPEDDING

The right of Sally Spedding to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © Sally Spedding 2015.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or places is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted by any other form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author. Also, this book may not be hired out whether for a fee or otherwise in any cover other than supplied by the author.

Also available as a paperback, ISBN: 978-1-326-18708-8

Published by DEATH WATCH BOOKS

Cover images by Jeffrey Spedding

Title by Wave Seven Ltd.

Author photograph by Carole Ann Smith

With grateful thanks to Richard Foreman, tutor, writer and artist, who showed the way.

CUT TO THE BONE

To cut
:
to open up or incise a person or thing with a sharp edge or instrument. To trim or prune.

The earth:
has a skin and that skin has diseases. One of its diseases is called man.

- Friedrich Nietszche

PROLOGUE

His clothes soon fill with the dark, salt sea, dragging him beneath the vessel’s churning wake that hide the sky as he holds his breath, still hoping for even the smallest hook, a rope, even a barnacle or two. But no. There’s nothing to cling to in this hostile world, unlike a different fluid which had nourished and sustained him for nine long months.

He soon realises his God has gone, and his chest hurts to its core as he drops into Hell’s quietude, where, from the corner of his half-closed eye, a strange, dark shape drifts into view. No genetically modified fish this, but something else altogether, spinning and turning in slow motion on the current.

It doesn’t seem to feel his weight or complain as he grabs the thin hair, then the neck, to deny gravity’s pull. To save his own losing life, mingling amongst other floating flotsam. Instead, the stray corpse bears him downwards into an ancient forest of sewage-encrusted ferns until all bubbles shrink and die, and a passport to nowhere floats from its ingenious hiding place. A smartphone too, no longer taking calls, while those eager fronds seductively waft and wave their welcome.

BOOK ONE

Saturday 9
th
August 2008

1

The late night television forecast couldn't have been more wrong. "Midlands and east will continue fine and bright with a moderate westerly breeze and temperatures above average for this time of year..." the white-suited Weather girl had said with a smug expression on her face, before turning her attention to the North.

"Liar. And the rest of them. Look at this rain." Rita Martin reversed her husband's
WINDOWMAN
van out of their home in Holly Road, Briar Bank, into the crush of Saturday morning traffic heading for Coventry city centre. He’d added two temporary L-plates for the occasion, as her six driving lessons had so far gone well. But she was tired. Had been up since dawn getting everything packed just so, including the dog's stuff. This was not a good omen.

"Sod's Law it is," said Frank Martin alongside her, staring out at the gloomy scene. "Typical."

“Too right. You'd think just for one week out of the whole year, whoever it is up there'd give us a break. But oh no. The first seaside holiday we've ever had as a family is coming up, and we'll be indoors all the time."

She glanced in her mirror at their three kids squashed together on the back seat. Ten year-old Jez, the eldest, with his tin of farmyard animals, was sandwiched as referee between Kayleigh, six, cuddling her new doll, and Freddie, eighteen months, with his dummy firmly in place. But her gaze rested on Jez, who often knew what she was thinking.  Who'd arrived safely, but underweight into the world after her late and painful miscarriage. He also looked the most like her with his red hair and bright blue eyes, possessing an innocence she’d do anything in her power to preserve.

"It won't matter, Mum," he piped up. "We can still go out. What's a bit o’ rain? Anyhow," he half-turned towards the rear of the van where the lurcher was trying to leap over the seat to join them. "I'm gonna teach Jip to swim."

"’E don't like water, son." Frank reminded him sternly, then softened his tone. "'’E’d drown in a bleedin' puddle, that one."

"Well, Sharon then." Kayleigh held up her doll. A birthday present from what was probably Frank's last proper wage packet as the most experienced of Alf Bassett's team of window cleaners. He'd claimed he'd fallen over and badly twisted his ankle while taking rubbish to the tip, but had refused to see the doctor or Accident and Emergency. He didn’t want anything on his medical record that might make him unemployable and, despite Rita's nagging to get his bad foot seen to, he'd kept limping along at work sometimes with a walking stick so he could pay for this holiday. 
             

No way was he going to be some dole scabber, he'd bawled at her only last night.  No way would the state pay for what
he
should provide and, come Hell or high water, he'd keep their fucking landlord happy too. 

But Windowman’s
boss knew his best worker had slowed up, was taking twice as long especially if a ladder was involved and, according to Frank had given him two weeks off to see if things improved.

Rita glanced at her husband as they joined the M45, her wipers on full even the fog lamp, as the sky had turned black and traffic was little more than a blur...

"You OK?"

Frank nodded, lips drawn together. His frown deepening.

He still seemed in pain. Unable to make that right foot comfortable, and yet at odd times, when he'd not seen her looking, he'd walked on it normally, just like his old self. Then the traitorous thought had occurred to her - what if this so-called ‘injury’ was all a con? That something else was cooking?  And, knowing him of old, no way would he ever let on to her.

"Maybe the sea water'll do it good," she suggested. "Ease the joint a bit."

"For fuck's sake, woman, I'm not some bloody race-horse."

"Dad saying bad words." Kayleigh gloated from the back. She leant forwards to give his shoulder a playful smack.

"Well, you'll have to do something," Rita added. She refrained from saying ‘or we'll have to get re-housed with the Council.’ Not with the kids listening. Not today. In fact, she didn't even want to
think
about leaving their neat, rented semi in Briar Bank, with its cared-for garden. All its memories. Didn't want to think his boss might be just stringing him along.

"Hey, will there be driftwood where we're goin'?"  Jez asked suddenly, opening his farmyard box and fingering the various plastic hens and sheepdogs lying on their sides. His art teacher at the Primary School had brought in two carvings she'd made after a trip north to Bamburgh Castle. A horse's head and something that looked like an old man, all bent over. Their strange, smooth forms had magnetised Jez, and he'd talked of nothing else for days.

"I doubt it, son." Frank winced, trying to turn round. "Folks don't leave bits of wood lyin' around for long. Anyhow, why you askin'?"

"Dunno really. I fancied doin' some carvin' of me own..."

"Carving?" Rita smiled as she negotiated a busy roundabout on to the M1.

"More to the point, mate, you can carve the Sunday roast if you like." Frank added.

Jez sunk back in his seat unaware that Freddie's dummy had slipped to the floor and the eighteen month-old was cramming his fist into his mouth instead. He was also oblivious to Kayleigh fidgeting trying not to wee, for in his mind he was already searching for the ideal piece of driftwood with which to make a swan. His favourite creature out of everything, and sometimes on Sunday afternoons when the family had taken the van to the river Avon near Warwick, he'd watched in awe as they’d floated by then strutted up the bank for titbits. They were bold, fearless - everything he wasn't. Even Jip had run a mile.