Time sped by and exhaustion grappled with my aching bones until eventually, I succumbed and dropped onto the mattress in a heap. It was strange having the whole bed to myself; it was like a weekend away in a quaint boutique hotel except I was on my own and not part of a couple. It felt good.

  I smiled contentedly and slipped into an effortless sleep, weightless and worry free. A whole new life ahead beckoned me and I needed every ounce of strength to face it. I slept soundly and awoke the next morning refreshed and lighter than air.

  Breakfast was scrambled eggs on toast washed down with coffee. I had already made my mind up to go for a long walk before the predicted rain clouds came scudding in from the west, saturating the land and making discovering local areas a highly unappealing pastime.

  I scrolled through the list of unanswered emails on my phone and decided against opening any of them. There was nothing there that couldn’t wait, no pressing urgent matters that needed to be dealt with immediately. Instead, I made another coffee and took my time drinking it, savouring the slightly nicotine flavour of the caffeine as it hit the back of my throat with a bitter kick.

  I finished my coffee, showered and got dressed, pulled on an old pair of boots and was ready to go. On impulse, I grabbed a jacket even though the forecast was already changing its mind, claiming the bubbling clouds would now make their way down the west coast before heading out into the English Channel. We needed the rain. The gardens were parched, the grass tinder dry. According to the local newspaper I picked up on the way into the village yesterday, fires were already beginning to take hold in the nearby hills, set off by the meddling hands of bored children who had taken to walking the area with matches and a need to be entertained and stimulated; a deadly mix when we were experiencing one of the hottest, driest summers on record. Still, despite the more recent forecast of no rain, I erred on the side of caution and hoisted my thin summer jacket over my shoulder and set off.

  I had barely made my way out of the village and was heading towards a farm that sat on the outskirts when I passed an elderly gentleman, his back hunched, his countenance one of simmering anger. Something deep in my gut told me to move out of his way, to give him and his fury a wide berth.

  I tried to step around him, thinking it best to avoid any difficulties or confrontation, but as I made to do so, he grabbed my arm roughly, pulling me closer until our faces were almost touching. I stared at his skin, lined and flaking, and watched his rheumy eyes as he leaned in close to me. Flecks of spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth with each word spoken. ‘Watch your back, boy. You just watch your back!’ His voice was croaky, his accent suggestive of a life spent locally, having never ventured out into a world beyond the North East of England.

  I shook my arm free and sucked in a breath as he pushed past me and kept on walking, his gait lumbering, his frame twisted and bent with age. His head rocked from side to side and I wasn’t sure if the movement was a deliberate act or an unintentional, age-related tremor. I had a good mind to holler after him, to tell him to mind his own fucking business, but something deep inside me held me back. Shouting in the street wasn’t my thing. I was better than that. There could have been any number of reasons why he did what he did – a case of mistaken identity, dementia perhaps, or maybe he was just the local idiot. Every village had one. People who roam around aimlessly, making stupid uncalled for comments to anybody stupid enough to listen.

  I shrugged and kept on walking. I wasn’t interested in any of his motives. I had my own plans for the day, and brawling and arguing with strangers didn’t figure in them.

  Determined not to let this strange scenario get the better of me, I lengthened my stride and pushed my shoulders back, my face pointed towards the heat of the sun. Had I not encountered Lily’s warmth and friendliness yesterday, I would be questioning my decision to move here. I blotted out those thoughts, convincing myself that Whitchurch’s locals were permanently on edge, suspicious of new faces and fearful of strangers frequenting the place. They were on red alert, perceiving everyone as a threat and expecting a barrage of questions from hard-nosed reporters desperate for any scrap of information, any morsel or piece of vicious gossip – whether true or completely unfounded – just so they could get a quick story and sell papers. This was just how Whitchurch was and I simply had to adapt to their quirky, peculiar ways and get used to it. I couldn’t change these people. It would be me that would have to modify my ways and develop a tolerance to their distrust and borderline madness. I had infiltrated their world and they saw me as a threat. I would have to work hard to dispel that idea.

  I tied my jacket around my waist, realising it was definitely superfluous on such a hot and muggy day, and tried to clear my head. Skylarks danced in and out of a field to my right, their irrepressible, sweet song filling the already near-scorching air. It was only 10 a.m. and I guessed the temperature to be somewhere in the late twenties. I thought again about how television broadcasters would be talking about it being the hottest day of the year so far and newspaper headlines would scream at us that the entire country was in meltdown. I laughed to myself. We were so easily roused to anger or hysteria in the UK, so easily led by the media and their emotive, controversial stories.

  I stood still to take in the scent of nearby wild flowers and appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. I loved the cosmopolitan feel of city life with its immediacy and vibrancy, but rural locations always got me in my solar plexus, sending my stomach into a pleasurable lurch and stopping me in my tracks, making me take stock of my life. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of the slight breeze as it tickled my warm skin, causing the hairs on my arms to stand to attention. It would work for me, living here in Whitchurch. I would make it work.

  Walking on, I felt the vibration of my ringing phone as it rattled against my leg, where it nestled deep in the pocket of my cargo trousers. I stopped and lifted it out, squinting against the glare of the sun as I looked at the screen. Samantha’s mother. I clicked the decline button. I would sooner stick hot pins in my eyes than speak to her. It was all behind me now. It was time to move on. Durham was my new home. Birmingham was a part of my other life – a life I was only too keen to leave behind.

  Dropping the phone back in the side pocket of my trousers, I surged ahead, adrenaline racing around my system. I felt supercharged, as if I could take on the world, empowered by my newfound freedom.

  I kept on for a good few miles, forging ahead, a sense of purpose driving me. Any anger or resentment I felt soon dissipated, escaping out of my body and disappearing into the ether. My breath pumped out in ragged gasps. Perspiration gathered around my hairline and on the back of my neck, trickling down my back, causing my shirt to stick to my skin. I stopped and rubbed at my face with an old handkerchief and unfastened a few buttons on my short-sleeved shirt, wishing I’d worn shorts rather than trousers. As I turned around, I could see Whitchurch on the brow of the hill behind me, a mere speck in the distance. It occurred to me that I hadn’t brought any water with me. The temperature was growing by the minute – a relentless wall of heat that nipped at my skin and scratched at my dry throat. I would need a drink pretty soon.

  I brought my hand up to shield my eyes against the glare of the sun and looked into the distance. Ahead lay a picturesque landscape of endless rolling fields. No other dwellings in sight. If I had wanted to buy a bottle of juice, I should have headed in the opposite direction, where I would have stumbled into the next village, but as it was, there seemed to be nothing in sight for miles and miles, nowhere I could purchase a few provisions. I knew then what I had to do. Reluctantly, I turned around and made my way back, irritated at my short-sightedness and lack of preparedness.

  The walk back took longer, my legs heavy with fatigue, my body crying out for liquid sustenance. By the time I rounded the bend into Whitchurch, the cloying sensation in my gullet had developed into a raging thirst and I felt as if I had swallowed a sheet of coarse sandpaper. There was nobody around as I unlocked my front door and practically flung myself in, my body angled towards the kitchen where I held my head under the tap and glugged back as much water as my stomach could hold.

  I dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, sweat blinding me and dehydration making my head thump. I closed my eyes and waited for the ice-cold water to do its thing, to replenish the stores of liquid in my body. Once again, I felt the vibration of my phone as it hummed against my leg. Lifting it out, I glanced at the name on the screen and declined the call. As soon as I got my breath back, I would block her from any future calls. Speaking to Delores, Samantha’s mother, was something I could well do without. She had been a nuisance when Samantha and I we were together and had proven to be an even bigger one since we’d parted. I’d received three missed calls from her on the drive to Whitchurch and even now, she refused to stop calling me despite me not answering her. I wondered when she would begin to take the hint and leave me alone.

  I let the phone slip from my hand onto the table where it see-sawed and rattled around on the knotted pine veneer before coming to a halt. I leaned over and turned it off, gladdened by the sudden blank screen. At least she didn’t know where I had moved to. Knowing how tenacious she was, I had no doubt that she would try to follow me, desperate for me to speak to her about my relationship with her precious daughter. I wasn’t about to let that happen. I had had a gutful of that family. It was all behind me. Time to move on.

  I gulped down more water, unable to quench my raging thirst, then showered and changed into clean clothes. I would take a walk to the corner shop, buy a newspaper, perhaps even make small talk with some of the locals on the way there. I would establish myself as a proper villager because whether they liked it or not, I was here to stay.

  5

  ME

  I have a memory. I am a child playing in the back garden. My parents are milling about, pruning roses, making tea, doing all the normal, sensible things that adults do on a clear spring day when the sunshine is warm enough for people to venture outside after a long hard winter. They aren’t paying attention to what I’m doing. They know where I am, they know I’m safe and somewhere close by, but I am not in their direct line of vision. I am on the periphery of their activities.

  They are keen to get the garden in order, to clean the patio area, to sweep away the rust-coloured dead leaves left behind by the harsh winter we have just endured. My mother shouts to my father that she is making him a sandwich. I see him nod and smile, then raise his hand to wave at her through the kitchen window. To all intents and purposes, they are an ordinary couple; their behaviour is typical of thousands of other married people throughout the nation, throughout the world even. Except they are not normal, and they are anything but ordinary. But we’ll come to that later.

  They’re enjoying the onset of spring, looking forward to spending time in their garden, looking forward to being a family all together in the blissful warmth of the sunlight. The promise of summer is close by. They appear to be happy.

  That’s because they don’t know about me.

  They have no idea about the things that rampage through my brain, although they will soon find out. It will shatter their lives, smash everything they thought they knew about their small offspring into tiny little fragments, never to be repaired again. But then, maybe they helped play a part in my mental downfall. Perhaps they damaged their precious progeny with their unpredictable reactions and punitive sanctions. Or perhaps we will never know what caused me to be the way I am.

  I glance at my father who is bending over, his shoulders shifting up and down as he digs, his tiny shovel pressing deep into the wet soil in a rhythmic fashion. Other children would sidle up next to him, ask to help, dig alongside him in a clumsy fashion, mimicking his actions. But not me. I see it as a chance to set my demons free, to unleash all the hurt and hatred that has built up inside me. While his back is turned and my mother is busying herself in the kitchen, I pick up a small rock and begin bashing it against my leg.

  At first, I don’t feel the pain, just a grazing scratching sensation against my bare skin. I watch as blood begins to trickle down my shin: two thin lines gliding downwards in perfect symmetry. I am fascinated by them, my eyes fixed on the trickles of scarlet, incongruous and garish against my pale flesh. I bash some more, small flaps of rapidly bruising skin beginning to shift, splitting like fruit flesh under the force of a sharp blade. More blood oozes out, the crimson rush of liquid bright and starkly different to the pink epidermis of my small limb.

  I feel a flash of excitement and give my leg one final hard crack with the stone. The cry alerts my parents who come rushing over to me, their faces creased with concern. I shed no tears. The cry is reflexive. I am too young to stifle it. My parents are horrified, my mother in floods of tears. They have no idea what to do, how to react. What should parents do when they discover their only child has tried to smash their own leg and lies there, battered and bleeding? I am more in control than they are. Endorphins protect me, whistling through my system, giving me a sense of euphoria.

  There is a lot of shouting and confusion, wet towels applied to the wound, which even I can see is pointless. Further medical treatment is required for my injury.

  I am lifted into the house, into the aroma of fresh bread and coffee. Warm blood continues to pulse out, dripping over our clothes and smearing the furniture, staining the wooden table on which I am placed. A deep scarlet tinge bleeds into the grain, turning it a muddy-brown colour. It reminds me of coffins and dead bodies. I blink and look away.

  In the end, I am taken to hospital, where the wound is cleaned and stitched. I don’t cry. Doctors are astounded at my bravery. Children my age usually thrash about and scream when the stitches are administered. They cry for their parents and squirm for the love of their mother. But not me. I am different. But then, you already know that.

  The medical staff talk to me softly, their words precise and gentle, asking me in measured tones why I did it, why I took a large rock and battered my own body with it, ripping at my own skin, bruising my soft young flesh. I have no answers. I remain silent and they take this as me being in a state of shock. They give me medicine to numb the pain that I don’t feel. My mother holds my hand, her skin cold against mine, and my father places his hand against my cheek, his fingers rough and stained with blood. He speaks softly, his voice stilted and wary. He does his best to appear loving, ruffling my hair and trying to reassure me with carefully chosen expressions and phrases. None of these things soothe me. I felt a greater sense of calm when the sharp edges of the stone hit my soft flesh. I felt at peace at the sight of the blood.

  After much talking and deliberation, I am taken home, the car ride back a hurried journey of sneaked glances when they think I’m not looking, and low whispers that have an air of menace about them. They utter to each other hushed words full of angst and fear. Words about me.

  We have a rapid supper and then I am tucked up in bed. The exhausted eyes of my parents peer down at me. Their pallid faces are riddled with concern, confusion at my unexplained actions etched into their expressions.

  I close my eyes and sleep soundly as if nothing has taken place. I feel no pain, only a deep, gnawing ache to do it all again, such was the thrill I experienced from it. When I awake the next morning, the world is shiny and new. Nothing bad happened to me. I am cleansed and pure.

  You might ask why I am telling you this tale. What does it have to do with anything? It is apropos to nothing, I hear you say. The answer is simple. I am telling you this so you know what sort of person I am, so you know exactly what you are dealing with. Because if you think this act of mindless violence is repulsive and way off balance then you need to brace yourselves. This, my friends, is nothing compared to what you are about to find out. This sad little story, dear unassuming people, is just the beginning.

  6

  ‘You’re a reader then?’ I watched as the man behind the counter scanned my magazines and newspapers with a certain amount of trepidation, as if I was about to turn and run without paying. His voice was brittle and gravelly.

  I nodded, unsure how to answer such a strange question. His white hair glimmered under the glare of the overhead light, and his mouth hung open, concentration creasing his eyes as he leafed through all my reading material. I stared at his face, at his jaw slack with age.

  ‘We don’t sell many of these types of papers around here,’ he said, pointing at the copies of The Telegraph and The Guardian that sat amongst the newspapers and magazines I had grabbed off the shelf out of sheer boredom. The National Geographic, a photography magazine and another glossy periodical about cars sat in a bulky pile on the counter next to them.

  ‘The broadsheets?’ I replied as I counted out the correct money and handed it over.

  ‘Eh?’ His jowls wobbled as he looked up at me, uncertainty evident in his face.

  ‘The larger newspapers. That’s what they’re called – broadsheets,’ I said, aware I sounded condescending. I tried to soften my words with a smile.

  ‘Aye, well, there’s only a handful of other people round here who read ’em. Other folk tend to go for the quick reads.’ He looked up and surveyed my face, searching my eyes for some clue as to who I was.

  ‘And what about you?’ I asked, thinking I already knew the answer to this one. I had him down as a Daily Express sort of man. I was wrong.

  ‘Don’t do any of them, son. I don’t read newspapers and I don’t watch the news.’ He looked away from me and I hesitated, unsure how I should react. ‘Lost my daughter last year. Had a bellyful of bad news. My wife went shortly after her. I find it easier to just leave it all alone. Reading about it never changes anything, does it? Doesn’t make any of it any better.’