In The Blood (Lies the Dead Tell Book 1) Read online

  In The Blood

  Lies the Dead Tell: Book 1

  H.B. Lyne

  Published in 2019

  Copyright © H. B. Lyne 2019

  H.B. Lyne asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Acknowledgements

  My awesome Patrons; Andy, Isaac, Linzy, Richard, Willow, Martin, Monica, Sonia

  My editor; Zoe Markham

  My cover designer; Olivia Pro Design

  My writing buddies who encouraged this work; Angeline, Sacha, Ali and Imogen

  For Kathleen

  Table of Contents

  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

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  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  I never really knew my parents. I thought I did. Hell, with my gift, I thought I knew everything. I thought no one could keep secrets from me. But my parents had a whole life hidden from me, somehow.

  When I learnt the truth, I honestly thought I would break. I questioned everything I thought I knew. I mean, if I could be so wrong about my own parents, how could I possibly trust anything else?

  I'm getting there now. Slowly piecing it all together. I'm rewriting their lives, or the version I thought I knew.

  I'm re-framing my entire life; what I am, my purpose, my place in all this madness. Everything I wanted before the big reveal seems so mundane now, so pointless. I was still a child, in comparison. Now I see it all. I see why I have this gift. I know what I'm supposed to do with it, finally, after years of questioning, doubting and denying it. Now I get it, at last.

  My parents would be proud, I think. They would be honoured. Maybe this was what they wanted for me all along.

  I'm beginning to understand why they kept it from me. I get that it's so much bigger than them and I get that they needed to protect me. I understand now. But damn, it's hard to accept. It's hard to sweep aside the hurt of being lied to all my life by the people who brought me into this world and who raised me to be honest and trusting.

  It feels as though they didn't trust me with this.

  But I know better, when I'm being rational.

  They couldn't be bold; the risks they took were measured; they had a plan. They couldn't be open about it. That part was always meant for me. I'm the one who has to carry on their mission. I'm the one who has to lead, who has to be bold.

  This is going to be legendary.

  It scares the shit out of me, if I'm honest. But this is how it has to be.

  #

  It was one of those slate grey days. Those cold, November days that blend together because you're caught in that murky bit of the year when it's a bit too soon to get excited about Christmas, but you don't really have anything else to look forward to. The decorations were all up in the shops, but I'd walk past them with my Grinch-face on, determined to wait until a respectable time to get in the mood, like the 1st of December.

  I'd just finished an essay and turned it in, but I can't remember now what the title was, or even the subject. It was my third and final year of university and I wasn't loving my course. A bit like the limbo of November, I was stuck between my core degree module and an elective that I was really looking forward to the following semester. But I had to get a pass in this crappy History of Art module first. I hate it. I'm no academic. I like the practical side, that's what I'd trekked all the way to Caerton for. My parents assured me that it was the best art course in the country.

  Honestly, I didn't care much where I went, I just had to get away from home. Home was a ghost town. Oris was a reasonably big city, actually, full of people; but it was full of my personal ghosts. My mistakes. My regrets. I hated it and my parents got that. They didn't like the idea of me being far from home, but they understood why I had to go and they encouraged me to choose Caerton University.

  They always supported me. Even when they found me on the bathroom floor, fourteen years old, in a pool of my own blood, both wrists open. I thought I was crazy. The voices in my head and the flashes of other people's lives; I thought I'd gone mad.

  But my parents saved me. Literally, they saved my life, but after my physical wounds had healed, they let me know it was safe to tell them absolutely everything. So I did.

  They were visibly relieved. My mum laughed. Not like a big belly laugh, but that sighing laughter people release when they've been holding on to too much tension. I think they expected me to come out with something worse than, "I can read minds".

  But their relief didn't last long; they were worried and they got all guarded. But they supported me as best they could. They believed me. That was enough, really.

  So when I was trudging back to my shared flat on that cold, November afternoon and I got a phone call from a number I didn't recognise, but with the local area code for home, something dropped out of the pit of my stomach.

  It was the hospital. My parents had been found in their car in the bottom of the river. A tragic accident, they said. At first I was too shocked to even question it. There had been flooding reported in the news. That river was forever bursting its banks. Usually it was just property that was lost, but sometimes people, like my parents, were swept away.

  I jumped on a train that afternoon. Just dropped everything and left. I must have called one of my professors on the way to let them know what had happened, but I barely recall doing so now. Everything was a blur of confusion and overwhelming sadness.

  I got a message from one of the professors in a different faculty who I'd struck up a friendship with shortly after arriving in the city. She was cool and liked my artwork. Her message came through when I was halfway home. Just a simple, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Eve. Let me know if you need anything."

  I couldn't even bring myself to reply. All I could do was stare out of the window at the rain and windswept countryside as it rushed by.

  When I got to Oris station it was dark and the window was mostly black but dotted with lights. It was one of those grand, old stations with high, vaulted ceilings and a dozen platforms. I stood at the door as the train pulled in, the strap of my bag digging painfully into my shoulder. My fingers hovered over the button, ready to press it the moment it lit up.

  I squeezed out between the doors even as they opened and ran along the busy platform, dodging the passengers waiting to board. I took the stair
s two at a time. My calves were burning by the time I reached the top. I ran across the bridge as a train came rattling through beneath it.

  My heart ached in my chest but I was desperate to get to Peter. I knew he was waiting for me on the far side of the barrier.

  I gripped my ticket tightly in my gloved hand and hitched my bag up on my shoulder as I jogged down the steps on the other side of the bridge. There was a small line waiting to get out through the row of ticket barriers and I craned my neck as I waited, searching the crowd beyond for a sign of my tall best friend.

  I couldn't see him and grew more and more frustrated as I made my way slowly to the front of the line. I shoved my ticket into the machine, silently praying that it didn't get stuck and flash up a red light, refusing to open the barrier for me. I got the green light and the little doors swung open to let me through.

  I pressed through and strode forward, still searching for Peter.

  "Eve!" his voice called over the hubbub of loved ones greeting one another. I spotted him moving forward out of the crowd towards me.

  Tears began to stream down my face and I charged into his arms. I was wrapped up in a thick coat, scarf and gloves, but our cheeks touched briefly as he gripped me so tightly I couldn't quite breathe. There was a whisper in my ear and at first I thought it was Peter, but then I felt that whooshing feeling I always got with the visions and I knew he hadn't said a word.

  "Does she know the truth?"

  'The truth about what?' I almost blurted out. But the dizzy feeling stopped me. Peter put me down and took my bag. He knew not to try to hold my hand, or to touch me at all, really. The hug had been the expected gesture towards a grieving friend, he did what society said you should do to console someone. I'd invited it, which was rare, and he must have known that I needed it. I brushed the tears off my cheeks with a gloved hand and we set off walking.

  We walked out through the vast foyer, which was bustling with people swarming around newspaper vendors and a large ticket office. Peter led me out to the car park in silence. My head was racing with questions, but I couldn't ask anything that would reveal I'd read his thoughts. I chewed on my lip and glanced sideways at him. Finally I settled on one safe question:

  "When did you get a car?" I asked as we strode towards his little blue Honda.

  "Last month."

  "You didn't tell me."

  "No. Well, we haven't been in touch as much lately, have we? And I wanted to surprise you at Christmas."

  "Oh." The momentary relief ended. He was right. There had been some distance between us recently. I'd been busy with my life at university. I hadn't been the best friend. I tried to sweep aside my guilt. "All that money you earned working in the chip shop but never spent. There I was taking you for a typical, tight, Yorkshire git. But you, clever clogs, you were saving for your own motor?"

  "Yep. Impressed?" He smiled. He had the best smile.

  "Well, I've already clocked up nearly thirty grand in student loans and I'll probably never finish my degree, so yeah. I think you made the smarter choice staying here and working."

  "Don't say that. You don't know what'll happen. You could go back after the funeral." His smile had vanished. My cheeks throbbed with the tears that were always just under the surface these days. "Sorry," Peter blurted. He opened the boot and dropped my heavy bag into it. I climbed into the passenger seat and took a deep breath, fighting the tears.

  We drove to his house with the radio blasting out rock music and the windows down. The wind was like ice on my face, but it was exactly what I needed. Peter still lived with his parents about a five-minute walk from my parents' house. It was only a short drive from the train station, but 20-year-olds with their first car take any excuse to drive. Hey, my bag was pretty heavy.

  We drove down the narrow street, cars packed in on either side with their wheels up on the pavement. There were potholes every few yards and Peter's car bumped up and down as he navigated slowly over them, the road too narrow to avoid them. About half way along the street, Peter pulled his car carefully up onto the kerb in a small space. I looked out of the window at the narrow terrace, its own windows bright with warm and welcoming lights.

  The door was flung open before we'd reached it and Peter's mother was there, bathed in light, tears on her face and a handkerchief clutched in her hand.

  "Eve!" she cried out and pulled me into a tight hug. I patted her gingerly on the back and she released me quickly. "Come in and get warm." She stood aside and ushered me into the narrow, terraced house.

  The hall led straight to the back of the house, past a door on the right into the small living room and a passage that led upstairs. I stepped down a tall step and into the flagstoned kitchen. It was the homeliest place on earth.

  Opposite the hall was a door into the back garden. Along the back wall was a wide window and under it a double sink. Over to the right was a dark green AGA that kept the room toasty warm all year round. It sat in a deep, stone fireplace and above it hung a dozen pots and pans. Right in the middle of the room was a large, pine table and six matching chairs. Along the wall beside the hall was a long settee, draped in a home-made patchwork quilt.

  "I'll put your bag upstairs," Peter said softly behind me, and he had disappeared up the narrow staircase before I'd even glanced over my shoulder.

  "Thank you for having me, Mrs Wilkes."

  "Oh, it's my pleasure, sweetheart. I couldn't have you going back to that empty house. Not yet. You're welcome here as long as you need to be."

  I just nodded. I held back more tears and wished I was back in the car with the wind on my face again. Peter's mum bustled around me, taking my coat and handing me fresh hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. She ushered me into a chair at the table and before I knew it, the table was laid with a buffet of nibbles and she was insisting I eat. But I hadn't been able to eat all day. I picked out an almond from a dish of mixed nuts and put it to my lips to appease her worried, crinkled eyes, but I couldn't chew it, and discreetly knocked it to the floor and kicked it under the table.

  The hot chocolate was nourishment enough and I sipped it slowly, welcoming the warmth and soothing creaminess of it.

  Peter came back into the cosy kitchen, followed by his father. He was a greying, thin man with a fondness for baggy cardigans. He greeted me with a stiff smile but spared me any sentimental platitudes. I liked Kirk Wilkes very much. I'd spent more hours than I could count sitting listening to him playing the piano. It was the most soothing thing in the world when my gift emerged. I could drown out the voices and the unwanted images when he played.

  There had always been a fondness between us and he had always insisted that I call him Kirk. I never really felt comfortable calling Peter's mum anything but Mrs Wilkes.

  She was wittering on about the flood and all of the news items that had emerged over the last few days. I tried not to listen, afraid she would mention my parents.

  That haunting whisper that had greeted me along with Peter came back and I strained to listen over the noise of the company in the kitchen. It was just a memory, nothing new, but I reached out for it, trying to grasp it in my mind. I needed to pull it closer and hear it again to understand.

  Did I know the truth about what? What had my last conversation with my parents been about? Probably something mundane like the cost of the machines in the laundrette. I couldn't remember. Why couldn't I remember? That should be something that stood out. It should be significant. I'd never hear my mother's voice again so I had to remember her last words to me. It was so important.

  A hand pressed gently on my shoulder and Peter's dad was standing there, all blurred. I blinked and tears tumbled down my cheeks, accompanied by a sob.

  Mrs Wilkes was silent for the first time since I'd arrived.

  "I think I'll just go lie down for a bit." My voice was barely more than a croak.

  "Of course," Kirk said softly. I got up and walked quickly to the stairs just off the hall before the kitchen step. Pet
er was right behind me and I let him follow, too broken to resist. My fingers brushed the walls, which pressed in tight on either side of the stairs. The narrow passage opened onto a wide landing and Peter brushed past me to get to the guest room door first. He opened it for me and I saw he had lit candles for me. There was even a small dish of chocolates on the night stand, probably courtesy of his mother. I forced a smile and went inside.

  "Thanks, Peter," I whispered.

  "That's okay."

  "I really just want to be on my own."

  "Okay, sure." He nodded solemnly and closed the door, leaving me in solitude. I sat on the end of the bed and stared at my bag, which was perched on a chair in front of the wardrobe. I don't know how long I sat there, staring, tears falling silently. At some point I heard the piano in the living room directly below me. It was a melancholy ballad, not a song I recognised, but I knew that Kirk was playing it for me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day was a blur. I felt barely there, but Peter and his parents whirled around me, making things happen. Food appeared in front of me; I was moved from place to place. I was occasionally made to answer questions. I didn't mind, really. I couldn't function alone so I let my new, adopted family take care of everything. As long as I didn't have to make decisions I could manage not to cry.

  That came to an abrupt halt at the funeral director's office late in the afternoon.

  "We have this casket, very dignified. Simple, but classic."

  "Yeah. Okay. I don't think they'd mind."

  "And which church would you like us to—" He stopped, a concerned expression on his pale face. He was nice enough: calm, patient. He wore a black suit. He must wear that every single day, I thought. I could barely look at his face. I twisted my fingers around each other in my lap. He understood. He dealt with this every day.

  "They weren't religious," I croaked. "No church. Humanist, I guess. That would be nice."