Sleep

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2019

Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2019

Cover photographs © Henry Steadman

Cover design © Henry Steadman 2019

C.L. Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008301316

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008221027

Version: 2019-02-18

Praise for C.L. Taylor:

‘Claustrophobic and compelling’

Karin Slaughter

‘Smart, packing a punch to the heart, and dark in all the right places.’

Sarah Pinborough

‘Terrifying … this brilliant book stayed with me long after I finished the last page.’

Cass Green

‘Highly original – kept me utterly enthralled.’

Liz Nugent

‘Twisted, unbearably tense, and a shock ending.’

C.J. Tudor

‘The Missing has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, luring us into the heart of a family with terrible secrets and making us wait, with pounding hearts for the final, agonizing twist. Loved it.’

Fiona Barton

‘Fans of C. L. Taylor are in for a treat.’

Clare Mackintosh

‘Black Narcissus for the Facebook generation, a clever exploration of how petty jealousies and misunderstandings can unravel even the tightest of friendships. Claustrophobic, tense and thrilling, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.’

Elizabeth Haynes

‘A gripping and disturbing psychological thriller.’

Lucy Clarke

‘As with all her books, C. L. Taylor delivers real pace, and it’s a story that keeps calling the reader back – so much so that I read it from cover to cover in one day.’

Rachel Abbott

‘A dark and gripping read that engrossed me from start to finish.’

Mel Sherratt

‘Pacy, well-written, and anxiety-inducing.’

Lisa Hall

‘A compulsive read.’

Emma Kavanagh

‘Kept me guessing till the end.’

Sun

‘Haunting and heart-stoppingly creepy, The Lie is a gripping rollercoaster of suspense.’

Sunday Express

‘A rollercoaster with multiple twists.’

Daily Mail

‘5/5 stars – Spine-chilling!’

Woman Magazine

‘An excellent psychological thriller.’

Heat Magazine

‘Packed with twists and turns, this brilliantly tense thriller will get your blood pumping.’

Fabulous Magazine

‘Fast-paced, tense and atmospheric, a guaranteed bestseller.’

Mark Edwards

‘A real page-turner … creepy, horrifying and twisty. You have no idea which characters you can trust, and the result is intriguing, scary and extremely gripping.’

Julie Cohen

‘A compelling, addictive and wonderfully written tale. Can’t recommend it enough.’

Louise Douglas

See what bloggers are saying about C.L. Taylor …

‘My eyes were simply glued to the page, I couldn’t tear them away!’

The Bookworm’s Fantasy

‘An intriguing and stirring tale, overflowing with family drama.’

Lovereading.co.uk

‘Astoundingly written, The Missing pulls you in from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until the final full stop.’

Bibliophile Book Club

‘Imaginative, compelling and shocking – The Fear is a highly engrossing read.’

The Book Review Café

‘The Fear is a dark tale of revenge and just when you think you know where the story’s going, the author takes you by surprise!’

Portobello Book Blog

‘[The Missing] inspired such a mixture of emotions in me and made me realise how truly talented you have to be to even attempt a psychological suspense of this calibre.’

My Chestnut Reading Tree

‘Tense and gripping with a dark, ominous feeling that seeps through the very clever writing … all praise to C.L. Taylor.’

Anne Cater, Random Things Through My Letterbox

‘C.L. Taylor has done it again, with another compelling masterpiece.’

Rachel’s Random Reads

‘In a crowded landscape of so-called domestic noir thrillers, most of which rely on clever twists and big reveals, [The Missing] stands out for its subtle and thoughtful analysis of the fallout from a loss in the family.’

Crime Fiction Lover

‘When I had finished, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and wrung it out like a dish cloth.’

By the Letter Book Reviews

‘The Fear is a gripping, fast-paced read.’

The Book Whisperer

‘The Missing has such a big, juicy storyline and is a dream read if you like books that will keep you guessing and take on plenty of twists and turns.’

Bookaholic Confessions

‘Incredibly thrilling and utterly unpredictable! A must-read!’

Aggie’s Books

‘A gripping story.’

Bibliomaniac

‘It’s the first time I have cried whilst reading. The last chapter [of The Missing] was heart-breaking and uplifting at the same time.’

The Coffee and Kindle

‘Another hit from C.L. Taylor … so cleverly written and so absorbing that I completely forgot about everything else while reading it. Unmissable.’

Alba in Book Land

Dedication

In memory of my beautiful friend, Heidi Moore.

Epigraph

To die, to sleep –

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to – ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished.

Hamlet, Act III, Scene I,

William Shakespeare

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for C.L. Taylor

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Part One

Chapter 2: Anna

Chapter 3

Chapter 4: Mohammed

Chapter 5: Anna

Chapter 6: Anna

Chapter 7: Steve

Chapter 8: Anna

In Memoriam

Chapter 9: Anna

Part Two

Chapter 10: Anna

Chapter 11: Alex

Chapter 12: Anna

Chapter 13: Steve

Chapter 14: Anna

In Memoriam

Chapter 15: Anna

Chapter 16: Mohammed

Chapter 17: Anna

Chapter 18: Trevor

Chapter 19: Anna

In Memoriam

Chapter 20

Chapter 21: Steve

Chapter 22: Anna

Chapter 23

Chapter 24: Alex

Chapter 25: Anna

In Memoriam

Chapter 26: Anna

Chapter 27: Steve

Chapter 28: Anna

Chapter 29: Dani

Chapter 30: Steve

Part Three

Chapter 31: Anna

Chapter 32: Mohammed

Chapter 33: Anna

Chapter 34

In Memoriam

Chapter 35: Anna

Chapter 36: Anna

Chapter 37

Chapter 38: Alex

In Memoriam

Chapter 39: Anna

Chapter 40

Chapter 41: Mohammed

Chapter 42: Anna

In Memoriam

Chapter 43: Anna

Chapter 44

Chapter 45: Alex

Chapter 46: Anna

In Memoriam

Chapter 47: Anna

Chapter 48

Chapter 49: Anna

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52: Christine

Chapter 53: Anna

Chapter 54: Anna

Chapter 55: Katie

Acknowledgements

Reading Group Questions

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

If you’re reading this then I am no longer alive. Someone has been stalking me for the last three months and, if I am dead, it wasn’t an accident. Tell the police to speak to my ex-boyfriend Alex Carter about what happened in London. That’s where all this started.

The following people came to Rum for a walking tour, arriving on Saturday 2nd June. I am pretty sure one of them killed me.

– Joe Armstrong

– Christine Cuttle

– Fiona Gardiner

– Trevor Morgan

– Malcolm Ward

– Melanie Ward

– Katie Ward

Their bookings and contact details can be found on the laptop in reception and in the medical files in the right-hand drawer of the desk. I have written down everything that’s happened since they arrived (and before) on the attached pieces of paper.

I hope you’re not reading this. I hope it’s screwed up in the bottom of a bin and that I’ve managed to escape. I don’t know what else to say. Please tell my parents that I love them, and Alex that I hope he’s okay and that he shouldn’t feel bad about the way things turned out. I wish I’d never come here. I wish I had never agreed to I wish a lot of things. Mostly that I could turn back time.

Anna Willis

Acting Manager, Bay View Hotel, Isle of Rum

P.S. I am so sorry about what happened to David. Please tell his family that he was a wonderful man, full of heart and dry wit, and I was very fond of him. Please reassure them that his passing was very quick and he didn’t suffer.

Chapter 2

Anna

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

Sunday 25th February

The mood in the car couldn’t be more different than it was on Friday. On the way to the Brecon Beacons I couldn’t hear the radio above the chatter and laughter. The team groaned when I told them we’d be spending a weekend in February on a team-building retreat, but most of them rallied once they got in the car. Now, on the way back to London, they’re subdued – physically and mentally exhausted and, more than likely, hungover. Mohammed, sitting beside me in the passenger seat, is snoring. Peter, who amused the table with his impression of Michael Mackintosh over dinner last night, now has his head against the window and his coat pulled up over his shoulders. Beside him, Freddy Laing has his headphones jammed over his ears, his eyes shut and his arms crossed over his chest. I doubt he remembers what he said about me last night. I know he was drunk, they all were, but it doesn’t excuse the things he said when he thought I’d gone to bed.

‘I can’t believe she’s going for the marketing director job. She’s got no chance.’

Freddy’s voice drifted across the hotel lobby to the desk where I was waiting impatiently for the receptionist to replace my wiped room card. I knew immediately that he was talking about me. Helen Mackesy, director of marketing, had been poached, leaving a vacancy. And it had my name on it. Unfortunately, Phil Acres, sales promotion manager, had been making noises about going for it too.

‘She’s really out of touch with digital marketing,’ Freddy said. ‘She’s been in the job for so long she can’t even find the pulse, never mind put her finger on it.’

There was a low laugh. Mohammed, most probably. I knew it wouldn’t be Peter. He was forty, eight years older than me, and kept himself to himself. Mo and Freddy were closer in age, mid-twenties, and sat together at work. They spent more of their time chatting than working but I never told them to be quiet. They were professionals, not children. As long as they got their work done and didn’t disrupt the others I let it go.

There was a pause in the conversation, then Freddy laughed uproariously.

‘MySpace advertising. Fucking love it. Yeah, she’s probably been telling Tim that blogs are the next big thing in social media marketing. GeoCities blogs!’

More cold, cruel, mocking laughter. My stomach tightened. I’d worked to get where I was. I’d been desperate to go to university to study design after my A-levels but we couldn’t afford it. Mum had been working two jobs and I owed it to her to start helping out financially. After what felt like a million interviews, and two years working in a hotel bar, I was finally offered a job as a marketing assistant for a computer software firm. My boss, Vicky, was brilliant. She took me under her wing and taught me everything she knew. That was twelve years ago and digital marketing was still in its infancy but I loved it. I still do.

‘Miss Willis,’ the receptionist called as I marched across the lobby, the blood pounding in my ears. ‘Miss Willis, your room card.’

There was a yelp of surprise, the squeal of trainers on tiles and more laughter. By the time I reached the lounge, Freddy and Mo were gone.

Mo snorts in his sleep, snapping me back to the icy, glistening road beyond the windscreen. The drizzle that clung to our hair and faces as we got into the car a little after 8 a.m. is now icy hail. The wipers speed back and forth, squeaking each time they sweep left. The sky is inky black and all I can see is a blurry refraction of the orange-red tail-lights of the car in front. We’ve finally hit the M25. Not long now until we’re back in London. I’ll drop the boys at a tube station, then go home. But I’m not sure I want to.

Squeak. Swish. Squeak. Swish.

The wipers move in time with my pulse. I’ve had too much coffee and my heart jumps in my chest whenever I remember what Freddy said last night. After he fled the lobby I searched the ground floor of the hotel for him, fuelled by anger and indignation, then gave up and went to my room to ring Alex, my boyfriend.

He didn’t pick up on the first ring. Or the second. He isn’t a fan of phone calls at the best of times but I wanted to hear a friendly voice. I needed someone to tell me that I wasn’t a bad person or shit at my job and everything was going to be okay. I texted him instead.

I’ve had a really shit night. We don’t have to chat long. I just want to hear your voice.

A text pinged back a couple of seconds later.

Sorry, in bed. We can talk tomorrow.

The curt tone of his message sliced through what was left of my self-confidence. We’d drifted apart. I’d sensed it for a while but I was too scared to bring it up because I didn’t have the energy to fix what was broken or the head space to deal with a break-up. I poured myself into my work instead. Sometimes I’d stay late because I couldn’t bear the thought of going home and sitting on the sofa with Alex, each of us curled into the armrests, ignoring the space between us but feeling the weight of it, as though it were as large and real as another person.

Maybe I shouldn’t go for the marketing director job. Maybe I should give up work, leave Alex and move to the countryside. I could go freelance, buy a small cottage and a dog, take long walks and fill my lungs with fresh air. There are days at work when I feel I can’t breathe, and not just because of the pollution. The air’s thinner at the top of the ladder and I find myself clinging to it, terrified I might fall. Freddy would love it if I did.

Squeak. Swish. Squeak. Swish.

Get. Home. Get. Home.

The hail is falling heavily now, bouncing off the windscreen and rolling off the bonnet. Someone snorts in their sleep, making me jolt, before they fall silent again. I’ve been driving behind the car in front for a couple of miles now and we’re both keeping to a steady seventy miles an hour. It’s too dangerous to overtake and besides, there’s something comforting about following their red fog lights at a safe distance.

Squeak. Swish. Squeak. Swish.

Get. Home. Get. Home.

I hear a loud, exaggerated yawn. It’s Freddy, stretching his arms above his head and shifting in his seat. ‘Anna? Can we stop at the services? I need the loo.’

‘We’re nearly in London.’

‘Can you turn the heating down?’ he adds as I glance from the rear-view mirror to the road. ‘I’m sweating like a pig.’

‘I can’t. The heater on the windscreen’s not working and it keeps fogging up.’

‘I’m going to open a window then.’

‘Freddy, don’t!’

Anger surges through me as he twists in his seat and reaches for the button.

‘Freddy, LEAVE IT!’

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment there is a car in front of me, red tail-lights a warm, comforting glow, the next the car is gone, there’s a blur of lights and the blare of a horn – frantic and desperate – and then I’m thrown to the left as the car tips to the side and all I can hear is crunching metal, breaking glass, screaming, and then nothing at all.

Chapter 3

TWELVE HOURS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

There’s someone in the room. My eyes are closed but I know I’m not alone. I can feel the weight of their gaze, the pinprick crawl of my skin. What are they waiting for? For me to open my eyes? I want to ignore them and go back to sleep but I can’t ignore the churning in my belly and the tightness of my skin. They want to hurt me. Malevolence binds me to the bed like a blanket. I need to wake up. I need to get up and run.

But I can’t move. There’s a weight on my chest, pinning me to the bed.

‘Anna? Anna, can you hear me?’

A voice drifts into my consciousness, then out again.

‘Yes!’ But my voice is only in my head. I can’t move my lips. I can’t get the sound to reverberate in my throat. The only part of me I can move is my eyes.

Someone’s walking towards me, their cold blue eyes fixed on mine. There’s no rise and fall of a nose and mouth, just a smooth stretch of skin, pulled tight.

‘Don’t be scared.’

They draw closer – staccato movements, like a film on freeze-frame – move, stop, move, stop. Closer and closer. I screw my eyes tightly shut. This isn’t real. It’s a dream. I need to wake up.

‘That’s right, Anna. Close your eyes and go back to sleep. Don’t fight it. Let the pain and guilt and hurt go.’

I’m dreaming. I have to be. But it’s too vivid. I saw blue curtains hanging on a white frame around my bed, a white blanket and the mound of my feet.

No! No! Stop!

I scream, but the sound of my voice doesn’t leave my head. I can’t move. I can only blink frantically – a silent SOS – as I’m grabbed by the wrist. They’re going to hurt me and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

‘Open your eyes, Anna. I know you can hear me. Anna, open your eyes!’

Alex?

He is beside me, his face pinched with worry, his eyes ringed with shadows, stubble circling his lips and stretching along his jawbone.

‘Anna?’

There’s a needle in the back of my hand. Alex catches it with his thumb as he rubs soft circles onto my skin. A sharp pain travels up the length of my arm.

Stop. The word doesn’t travel from my mind to my lips. Why can’t I speak? A wave of panic courses through me.

‘Rest, rest.’ Alex touches a hand to my shoulder, pressing me back into the bed.

Alex? Where am I?

There’s a blue curtain, hanging from a rail surrounding the bed, and a white blanket, pulled tight, pinning me to the sheet. At the end of the bed is the mound of my feet. Am I still in the dream? But it’s not a faceless stranger wrapping their fingers around my wrist, it’s Alex. I focus on my hand, resting limply on his, and tense the muscles in my forearm. My fingers contract and then I feel it, the softness of his skin under my fingertips. I’m not dreaming, I’m awake.

‘It’s okay,’ Alex says, mistaking the relief in my eyes for fear. He gingerly perches on the bed, avoiding my legs. ‘Don’t try to speak. You’ve been in an accident. You’re in the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead. You had some internal bleeding and you’ve been operated on. They had …’ he touches his throat, ‘… they had to give you some help breathing, they said your throat might hurt for a few days, but you’re going to be okay. It’s a fucking miracle that you…’ He swallows and looks away.

Survived?

The memory returns like a juggernaut, smashing into my consciousness. I close my eyes to try and block it out but it doesn’t disappear. I was in the car. I was driving and it was hailing and the windscreen wipers were going back and forth and back and—

I snatch my hands up and over my head, cradling my face with my arms as the truck slams into the side of the car. The seat belt digs into my collarbone and chest as I am thrown forward, then I am turning and spinning and twisting and my head smashes against the steering wheel, the seat rest, the window and my arms are wheeling around, my hands reaching for something, anything to anchor myself, to brace myself for impact, but there’s nothing. Nothing. Everyone is screaming and all I can do is pray.