Dark Corners

‘Dark, gripping and with a twist that leaves you breathless’

John Marrs

‘Utterly brilliant … the final twist left me breathless. Darren O’Sullivan is proving himself time and again as an exceptional storyteller’

Lisa Hall

‘I was gripped by this taut and emotional thriller’

Louise Jensen

‘Engrossing, compelling and twisty from the first page to the shocking ending. This book grabbed me and didn’t let go’

Michele Campbell

‘Exquisitely written … a ripping good read’

Suzy K. Quinn

‘A stellar and original concept, brilliantly executed. The final chapters had my heart in my throat! O’Sullivan is certainly one to watch’

Phoebe Morgan

‘An outstandingly taut story which grabbed me and then spat me out breathless at the end’

Angela Marsons

DARREN O’SULLIVAN is the author of psychological thrillers, Our Little Secret, Close Your Eyes and Closer Than You Think. He is a graduate of the Faber Academy and his debut novel, Our Little Secret, was a bestseller in four countries. He lives in Peterborough, Cambridgeshire where his days are spent either behind his laptop writing, in front of a group of actors directing theatre or rolling around pretending to be a dinosaur with his young son.

You can follow Darren on Twitter and Instagram @Darrensully or on Facebook/DarrenO’Sullivan-author.

Also by Darren O’Sullivan

Our Little Secret

Close Your Eyes

Closer Than You Think

Dark Corners

Darren O’Sullivan

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Darren O’Sullivan 2020

Darren O’Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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.

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008342029

Version 2020-03-14

Note to Readers

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008342012

To my boy, and my girl

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Also by Darren O’Sullivan

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

15th July 1998

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

15th July 1998

I can’t sleep thinking about what we will do tomorrow.

I’m scared he will know; I’m scared he will be watching me…

Chapter 1

August 1998

Three weeks after…

Onward they trudged. Step by step. Deeper into the woodlands, trying as best they could to maintain the straight line they had been instructed to hold. They didn’t speak, they could barely look one another in the eye. They all knew just one look would confirm their worst fears, that the searching was in vain. They weaved around bushes and climbed unsteadily over fallen trees. The mud, thick and heavy, made progress even slower, and on a few occasions the sludge underfoot dragged wellington boots clean off tired feet. The summer had burnt bright and long, one of the hottest on record. But the woods were dark, cold. The air didn’t move there, but hung heavily, its damp breath ancient, a thousand whispered secrets over a thousand years, clinging to everything within. And somewhere within, she might be alive. Hoping to be found. It had been three weeks since she had vanished, three long weeks. It didn’t ring the bell of hope. Regardless, they didn’t stop moving, they didn’t stop looking.

In the middle the group walked Neve. She moved silently, helped those who were stuck and in return was helped when she became stuck herself. They had walked for long enough that the snapping of twigs and rustle of animals moving in the undergrowth no longer startled them. Upon reaching a clearing, they were told by the search leader, a policeman called Thompson who had led the investigation, to stop and rest. Finding a felled tree, Neve sat and took a moment to look up through the thick canopy of summer leaves to see the sky beyond. It was beginning to morph in colour as day changed into night, a beautiful pink hue wrapped around a cloud. It looked contented, peaceful, oblivious. She assumed it would be another hour until it was too dark to continue, and that would mean another night passed with no sign of her, the twenty-second long night in the scared village. Neve caught her father watching from the small group stood in a circle, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, discussing the next step. He smiled, trying to be reassuring, but she could see the worry in his eyes. He looked tired, older somehow. But then again, everyone in the village now looked tired and old, and afraid.

After a few minutes of rest and foot rubbing, boots were back on and they were moving again, quietly scanning the patch of ground in front of each step. Punctuating the sound of snapped twigs, heavy breathing of those less fit, wind through the treetops and bird call was one word spoken every now and then. A single name, her name.

Chloe.

Neve could hear the way that it had changed in the past few days. They used to call for Chloe as a question. As if to say, Chloe, can you hear us? Chloe, where are you? Now, the question mark had gone, the tone had deepened. Her name was now called because it was something they needed to do. If they fell silent the search would be over. With each day, each night, the hope dwindled. A few nights out alone, a person could survive. A week would be tough, but not impossible, but after three, without a sign or sound, it didn’t look good. And it placed them all in the awful position of wanting to find her, but not being the one to find her. No one said it, but as Neve looked at those around her, she could see fear in their eyes – a fear of being the one to stumble across a 16-year-old girl, face down in a bog, bloated and blue. The village was used to accidents, death even. The mine that the village was built around had been a dangerous place to work, and men and women were often injured, sometimes horrifically. Pain and loss were a part of who they all were, it was part of their DNA. But no one was prepared to find Chloe. ‘This sort of thing doesn’t happen here,’ they said to one another after she had gone missing. ‘We look after our own.’

Despite the seriousness of Chloe’s disappearance, gossip was rife. And being a small, ex-mining village, gossip quickly became political. The ‘scabs’ who’d crossed the picket line in 1984 blamed the strikers, while they in turn insisted it was one of the ‘scabs’. When on the rare occasion the gossip didn’t thrive on the bitter feud that ran like ice though the vein of the village, the adults whispered, in agreement, about Chloe’s mother, Brenda, who everyone knew had been vile and cruel to Chloe since the day she was born. It had been noted that Brenda hadn’t been on one single search, but instead holed herself up at home, curtains drawn, refusing to speak to anyone until the police banged on her door. It was widely discussed that if anyone had harmed Chloe, it would have been Brenda. There was also another name that they should have been discussing, a name that Neve and her friends had spoken to the police about, a name that was only ever mentioned by the adults in the village after a few drinks in The Miners’ Arms or social club. A name that when brought up, sent a shiver down the spine of the highly superstitious community.

The Drifter.

They didn’t know who he was, and apart from Neve and the rest of her friends, no one else had seen him. He had been spotted hanging around the closed mine, always at night. And, most worryingly, Chloe herself had told Neve he had been hanging around outside her house just before she vanished.

The police were looking for him, stating he was a person of interest. They speculated that whoever he was, he was indeed connected to the mine. Which meant he more than likely lived in the village itself. But so far, no one had been spoken to, no one arrested. It was as if he were a ghost.

The line of people searching came to a clearing that looked towards the mine. The small part of woodland they needed to search showed no signs of Chloe. It was time to return to The Miners’ Arms, where they would either go home, or learn the next quadrants they intended to search before heading out again, light permitting. Neve was tired, and although she wanted to continue to look, as she landed on familiar territory of tarmac underfoot, her legs wobbled and failed her. Her father instinctively caught her before she hit the ground.

‘Neve, you need to sleep.’

‘I need to help.’

‘You can’t like this. You need to sleep, come back fresh.’

‘Dad, I’m fine.’

‘Neve, please. I know…’

‘Dad, you don’t know anything. Just leave me alone.’

Neve pulled herself away from her father and bounded towards the pub, her unsteadiness resolved by her defiance. As she entered, the noise of a thousand conversations swept over her. The energy inside was electric; the village determined to find the missing girl. The pub tables had maps rolled out, the corners held flat with pints of bitter. People were beginning to tie the laces on hiking boots and check torch batteries, ready to head out on the next wave. But, as the door closed behind her, the energy dipped as people noticed her entrance. Some sympathetic smiles were offered, as well as gentle nods of recognition. She knew they wanted to ask her about the Drifter, whether he was real or supernatural. She was glad they didn’t. Because, although she didn’t believe in ghosts, what other explanation was there?

After the brief dip with her entrance, the electricity increased as the next wave of searchers readied themselves to step into the woods, until the landlord held a radio to his ear and shouted:

‘Everyone, shut up! Something’s going on.’

Silence swept through the pub, everyone looking towards the landlord who turned up the radio and asked whoever was on the other end to repeat what they had said.

‘We’ve found something, over by the old mine entrance,’ a male voice returned, his desperation and sadness clear for everyone to hear.

‘What – what have you found?’ the landlord asked.

‘A top. We’ve found a top. It’s covered in blood.’

Chapter 2

19th November 2019

Morning

I roll onto my side. Open my eyes, stretch. The edge of a dream lingers for just a moment, and with it a smell. Before I can process what it is, it fades. I can’t remember what was in my dream either, but as my heart is racing, I know it can’t have been good. I wait for my head to begin to throb. Nothing. Maybe I’ve dodged a bullet this morning? Maybe I remembered to drink a pint of water and eat a teaspoon of sugar? They say it helps to stave off a hangover.

I wait to hear Oliver moving in the flat; he has always been better in the mornings than me. I expect to hear him flicking on a kettle or the news playing on the TV in the lounge. But it’s quiet, and then it hits me, hard. A crippling blow to my stomach. Of course, it’s quiet, Neve, you idiot. Oliver left. Oliver left three weeks ago. I must try to not forget that. It only makes it harder. I sigh and roll onto my other side, facing where he used to lie beside me. The corner of his pillow feels cold against my cheek. But then really, if I’m being honest with myself, it was probably cold against my cheek long before he left.

A dim morning light comes through the window. I didn’t draw my curtains, again. From where I lay, I can see the trees in Brent Lodge Park. Oliver loved that about this flat, always saying the trees and that huge expanse of grass on the park was our back garden. He loved how green it was, the birdsong that floated into our bedroom in summer.

Outside looks cold, the sun is early in the sky, I guess it’s about half past six. Colder than yesterday. I think I’ll just stay in bed for half an hour longer. I grab my phone; the screen is blurry. I look in the bedside unit to find my glasses. They aren’t there. God knows where I’ve left them this time. Squinting I open my clock app and set an alarm, just twenty more minutes and I’d get up for work. But I see the time. It’s 8.41 a.m. I’m late. Again. And I knew Esther was going to be pissed.

Jumping up, I make a dash for the bathroom, then as I fumble into yesterday’s clothes which lay in a heap at the foot of my bed, I feel the drill in my skull start to vibrate, its intensity growing with every second until my eyes ache. I never had hangovers when I was young. Now, they were making up for lost time, hammering me harder than I felt they should. Dressed, I run for the door, grabbing my glasses which were on the radiator shelf where I keep my keys, which of course weren’t there. I check the kitchen sides, moving two empty bottles of wine into the recycling bin. I check the coffee table in the living room, down the side of the sofa, coat pockets. I even check in the fridge. But I cannot find them. Deciding I’ll leave and call the landlord to let me in later, I grab my bag and open the front door. Hanging on the other side is a photo fob of me and Oliver, swinging from my front door key which is sat in the lock.

‘Shit, Neve.’

Closing the door behind me I pocket my cold keys and walk as fast as my hangover, which was beginning to steam-roll over me, would allow, towards the station. It was a short walk to Hanwell station where I would hop onto the train to Ealing Broadway. A quick walk across to the Underground and then the Central line for five stops to Shepherd’s Bush. On the other side, ten minutes to work. On a good day, I could do the commute in twenty-five minutes. But I could already tell it wasn’t going to be a good day, and regardless, I was supposed to be at work for nine. It was now 8.52 a.m. There was no way I would be on time. Taking out my phone, I took a deep breath and called Esther.

‘Good morning, The Tea Tree.’

‘Esther, it’s Neve.’

‘Neve? Where are you?’

‘Running late.’

‘Again.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You sound hungover.’

‘I’m all right, just tired. I’ll get an Uber.’

I could hear her sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘That’ll cost a fortune. Anyway, it’s pretty quiet. When do you think you’ll get here?

‘Half past, at the very latest.’

‘Right.’

‘And later, why don’t you go home early? I’ll look after the place. How does that sound?’

‘You’ve just dug yourself out of a hole.’

‘Thought I might.’ I smiled, having lightened the mood which had seemed strained between us over the past few weeks. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

She hesitated and I knew what was about to come; it was the conversation she had started on several occasions in the last few weeks but stopped herself for fear of making me feel worse. I had cut her off every time with some distraction, but this time I just waited for her to continue, knowing she needed to get it off her chest.

‘Neve, I get what you’re going through, I really do, but we are partners in this. That means we share the work, share the responsibility.’

‘I know, Esther, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m going to try harder. This isn’t fair.’

‘I get things are pretty shit for you right now. But they aren’t easy for me either.’

‘Of course.’

‘My childminder costs have gone up, and I can’t afford to be here all the time, both for my family, and my pocket.’

I knew what she was saying without actually saying it. She was telling me I didn’t have responsibly like she did. I didn’t have a two-year-old who needed my time. I didn’t have the mortgage she had. My life was a mess, but it was still less complex than hers. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m sorry, Esther.’

‘I hate being a nag.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re more than entitled to be pissed off. I’m just grateful you can say it.’

‘Me too. See you soon.’

She hung up and I knew, despite her being kind and understanding, she had had just about enough of my apologies. As I entered the train station, I vowed to make it up to her somehow. Although I wasn’t quite sure how or where I would start. Hanwell station was packed, as expected. And as I fought my way through the small gaps in the crowds, I wished I’d showered as I became conscious of my own smell of sleep and booze and regret. Ducking behind a brick pillar I opened my bag and rifled until I found a small canister of body spray, quickly coating myself in its sweet floral scent. An older person stood close by looked at me disapprovingly, but I didn’t care. I still didn’t smell clean, but at least I didn’t smell of body odour.

A train pulled in and I jostled with the crowd on board, my shoulders pressed between two men who were much taller than me – one had his armpit perilously close to my face. Still, at least he had had a shower that morning. As the train lurched from the station, I felt my stomach lurch with it and within a minute I could feel a sweat start to break out across my top lip. I tried to remember how much I’d had to drink last night. I remembered coming home from work about seven, eating a Pot Noodle for tea and pouring my first glass of wine. From there, I know I drank more – there were two bottles on the side this morning. I had to wonder: was it OK I had become someone who drank to excess most nights? I almost let myself wonder what Oliver would say about it. Thankfully, the train announced we were pulling into West Ealing, stopping me from hearing his voice. It wasn’t healthy. I wanted to convince myself that I still didn’t know why he left, and that it was a complete shock, but I think deep down I saw it coming. He said we had grown apart; we had become different people. He was right, of course. He was open, honest, he had no shadows, he thought of the future, of the things that came with the future. Things I couldn’t bear thinking about. I guess I had always known it, but I didn’t see it, I didn’t want to. I saw us having our problems, as all couples did, but I thought we would work through our differences. I knew he loved me fiercely. And I loved him the same. I really thought we would go the distance. But love isn’t enough, is it?

When I found his letter three weeks ago, I assumed, right up until the moment I opened it, it would be a note saying something sweet and funny. My heart crumbled when I read that he wasn’t coming back. The things I thought were little and we could work through were impossible for him.

The man beside me coughed, making my head thump. He apologised and I smiled, but judging by his reaction, I was fairly sure it looked more like a grimace. Embarrassed, I looked away and opened my bag to grab a packet of ibuprofen. I swallowed three dry, then I pressed my head against the cold glass of the train door and counted my breathing, stopping myself thinking about Oliver, until Ealing Broadway came into view.

Fighting my way off the train, I allowed myself to be swept up in the crowd heading towards the Underground and onto the Central line to finish my journey. I grab a bottle of water en route from a newsagent to stave off the claggy feeling in the back of my throat, forewarning me I would throw up, unless I was careful. As I paid, I looked through the gap in the sliding door where the cigarettes sat, wanting to be smoked. I almost asked for a pack of Marlboro but stopped myself. I was fucking up today as it was without having a cigarette after so long without one. So, I boarded the Tube with a fault sense of victory. After what felt like a lifetime crammed into the metal carriage, I made it to Shepherd’s Bush, unscathed.

The Tea Tree, the coffee shop Esther and I set up three years ago, was about half a mile from the station and the walk usually took about ten minutes. However, as I stepped in the front door, the blast from the overhead heater making me feel nauseous once more, I saw it had taken me nearly twenty minutes to cover the short distance.