The Waiting Game

About
Hunting Shadows

‘Marks the entrance of a major new talent.

Sheila Bugler delivers a chilling psychological twister of a novel, laced with homespun horrors, a compelling central character in DI Ellen Kelly and a strong contemporary resonance. Fans of Nicci French and Sophie Hannah, prick up your ears.’

Cathi
Unsworth

‘Truly a
tour de force.

Imagine a collaboration between Ann Tyler and AM Homes. Yes, the novel is that good. Sheila Bugler might well have altered the way we view families and the very essence of mandatory Happiness. This is great writing.’

Ken Bruen

This book would be nothing without the help of my wonderful editor, Rachel Pierce. Her honesty, patience and good humour have got me through a very painful few months. Thank you, Rachel.

Others who helped kick this book into shape are Chris Curran, JJ Marsh, Gillian Hamer, Svetlana Pironko, Lorraine Mace. I owe a huge debt to all of you. A very special thanks to Gary Friel. Thanks also to Aidan Cunningham for the ‘crack cocaine pizza’ reference.

My family: Seán, Luke and Ruby, my parents (aka the local sales team) and Tom.

My friends: too many to mention, but you know who you are. I hope we’re all still having fun and misbehaving for a long time to come. There’s always a glass of wine waiting for you in Eastbourne.

Massive thanks, as always, to the great team at The O’Brien Press. To be published under the Brandon imprint is an honour.

She liked watching people. Liked it best when they didn’t know she was there. Watching them go about their pathetic lives, not realising how insignificant, how unimportant they really were.

Today was different. Today she was watching because she was scared. Trying to work up the courage to cross the road. Scared of rejection. It was an irrational fear, she knew that. After all this time, her mother would be just as excited as she was.

Maybe the house was the problem. It wasn’t what she’d expected. So often she’d pictured the life her mother had left for. A better life, with a better man than the one she’d had the misfortune to marry. A woman like that forced to endure a life with that useless loser … well, who could blame her for what she’d done?

Dirty net curtains made it difficult to see inside, especially
standing here on the other side of the road. She caught a glimpse of something, a shadow flitting across the grimy glass, but it was impossible to make out any detail.

A trickle of sweat tickled its way down her spine. Hot, even for August. The hottest summer on record, supposedly. She stepped sideways, seeking shade under the bony branches of a half-dead tree, the only visible sign of nature on the street.

In the house beside her mother’s, music thumped loudly through an open upstairs window. A young black man stood at the same window, staring down at her. When she returned his stare, he stuck his tongue against the side of his mouth and made a wanking gesture with his hand.

She imagined herself crossing the road, knocking on Wank Man’s door and teaching him a lesson. The thought of it made her smile. The stupid wanker smiled back. Getting it wrong, the way men always did.

She looked back at her mother’s house. A dirty-white terraced house in a row of identical dirty-white houses. Cheap and nasty. Not at all the sort of place she’d imagined for her mother. But maybe her mother had a perfectly good explanation for what she was doing in this dreadful, depressing place. The thought perked her up, shook her out of the dark mood that was threatening to ruin everything.

She smoothed down her dress – black, sleeveless, classy – and adjusted the red silk scarf at her neck. Her mother’s scarf. The only thing she’d left behind. The silk was embroidered with
thousands of tiny black butterflies. She could feel them now when she rubbed her thumb across the delicate threads. She anticipated her mother’s joy when she realised she’d kept the scarf for all this time.

She’d imagined this moment so often, different variations of it playing out in her head over the years. Now here she was, about to turn all that desperate longing into a reality.

She stepped off the pavement onto the road, never once taking her eyes off the house. Suddenly, she was there, standing at the front door, pressing the doorbell, hearing it ring inside the house. A moment later, the sound of footsteps …

Hush little baby, don’t say a word

Mama’s gonna buy you …

Someone was in the house. Chloe’s eyes shot open, her mother’s voice fading, replaced by other sounds. The rustle of tissue paper. The clang of water hitting the inside of the metal kettle. The
slip-slap
of leather-soled shoes on the lino floor. The soft, wheezy whistle of the kettle as the water started to warm up.

He was here again.

She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing happened. Her mind was awake, but her body was still asleep. She clenched and unclenched her hands, wriggled her toes, sensation coming back slowly.

Downstairs, the water had started to boil. The noise of it loud,
even up here in the bedroom. Taking her chance, she threw back the quilt, jumped from the bed, grabbed her bag and ran out of the bedroom, along the corridor and into the bathroom. There was no lock, but she closed the door and pressed her body against it, as if her weight could hold off the attack.

She was shivering, fear and cold making her teeth chatter. She clenched her jaw shut, top teeth grinding down on bottom teeth. A wooden floorboard creaked, too loud and too close. She
recognised
the sound. The second step on the staircase creaked like that. He was on the stairs. Moving towards her bedroom.

Quietly, quietly, she climbed into the bath, took the edge of the shower curtain and pulled it across. She lay down in the bath, arms clasped tightly around her shivering body, breath held, waiting.

She could hear him through the thin wall that separated the bedroom and the bathroom. Heard the
shuffle-shuffle
of his feet and the heavy in-out, in-out breathing that didn’t sound much like Ricky. But then she remembered what he was like when he got angry. Red-faced and the breath snorting through his nose. Angry because she wasn’t there, in her bed, where he’d been expecting her.

She fumbled in her bag. Fingers found the phone but couldn’t hold onto it. The phone slipped deeper into the bag. She turned the bag upside-down. The contents spilled onto the bath in a discordant clatter.

A flash of light along the corridor. Footsteps moving faster.
Into the small spare bedroom and out again.

She brushed a tube of lipstick out of the way and grabbed the phone. Finger punched 999. Seconds later, a woman’s voice: ‘Emergency services operator. Which service do you require?’

‘Police,’ she whispered. ‘Get me the police. There’s someone in my house.’

The bathroom door slammed open. She put her hand over her mouth to cut off the scream. On the phone, the woman was still speaking, asking for Chloe’s address. She hit the End button, terminating the call.

He came closer, his shadow on the shower curtain huge and distorted. He would kill her. He’d told her that’s what would happen if she ever tried to leave him.

Fingers curled around the edge of the shower curtain.

The scream came now, roared out of her, blocking out everything else. She dived out the other side of the curtain. She’d dropped her phone. It didn’t matter. She raced forward, bare feet slipping on the cold bathroom floor. A hand grabbed her arm. She shook it off, still screaming, and ran faster.

She stumbled down the stairs and along the narrow corridor to the front door. The bastard had locked it. She swung around, saw the shadow of him moving down the stairs. Something not right about it, but no time to think about that. At the back door she tugged the bolt, used both hands to open it. Nearly there now.

Something struck the back of her head. She stumbled against
the door but didn’t fall. Still standing, fingers still gripping the handle. She could do it. She pulled the handle, felt the door start to open.

Another crack across the head. She fell, face first. The black-and-white pattern of the lino floor rushed up to meet her.