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  Here Lies Alice

  J.A. Baker

  Copyright © 2022 J.A. Baker

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  The right of J.A. Baker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-98-9

  Contents

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  Also by J.A. Baker

  1. February 2018

  2. A Year Later

  3. Lauren

  4. Alice

  5. Peter

  6. Lauren

  7. Alice

  8. Peter

  9. Alice

  10. Peter

  11. Alice

  12. Lauren

  13. Alice

  14. Peter

  15. Alice

  16. Lauren

  17. Peter

  18. Alice

  19. Peter

  20. Alice

  21. Lauren

  22. Alice

  23. Peter

  24. Alice

  25. Lauren

  26. Alice

  27. Peter

  28. Lauren

  29. Alice

  30. Peter

  31. Alice

  32. Lauren

  33. Peter

  34. Alice

  35. Lauren

  36. Alice

  37. Lauren

  38. Alice

  39. Peter

  40. Alice

  41. Lauren

  42. Peter

  43. Lauren

  44. Jade/Alice

  45. Peter

  46. Jade/Alice

  47. Lauren

  48. Peter

  49. Lauren

  50. Alice/Jade

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by J.A. Baker

  Undercurrent

  The Cleansing

  The Retreat

  The Other Mother

  Finding Eva

  The Uninvited

  The Woman at Number 19

  The Girl I Used To Be

  In The Dying Minutes

  Looking For Leo

  The Face of Clara Morgan

  The Midnight Child

  For those who went before me, I’ve tried to keep you alive.

  If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.

  — Khalil Gibran

  1

  February 2018

  It’s always the dog walkers and the early morning joggers that find them, isn’t it? They begin their day full of hope, ready to greet the hours ahead with a smile as they step out into the crisp morning air only to have those hopes dashed by their grisly find, their minds tarnished, the sight before them forever embedded deep within their brains.

  The young woman stares down at the ground, realisation dawning. She thought initially that it was a stray shoe; a discarded trainer, one of many that litter this area, along with empty coffee cartons and crisp packets. She sees them all the time and wonders how they get there. Always one, never the pair. Babies’ dummies, empty aerosol cans, mouldy food wrappers – she has stumbled across them all while out on her morning run, but this is different. She doesn’t know how it’s different, or why. It just strikes her as an eerie find. A shoe would slide down the embankment. It wouldn’t just sit there, poking out from a pile of fallen leaves. It’s the angle that worries and intrigues her. It’s almost perpendicular. As if it’s attached to something. Her skin prickles, ice sliding beneath her flesh.

  She stands, stares up at it, her breath hot and sour, misting the air in front of her face; perfectly formed vapour clouds that appear in a small pulsing orb before vanishing into the atmosphere. The mornings are getting lighter. Winter seems to have gone on for a hundred years. She shivers, thinks about carrying on with her run. It won’t do her any good, standing here getting cold. She has to keep moving, keep the blood pumping through her veins, otherwise she will seize up, her muscles knotting, pain shrieking through her limbs when she tries to move. And yet there is something about that trainer – the angle of it perhaps – that doesn’t sit well with her.

  Moving closer, scrambling on her hands and knees to clamber up the bank, she can see even from a distance that it isn’t a trainer at all. It’s a proper shoe – cream leather with a short square heel. Mud has almost disguised it beyond recognition, clumps of dirt and rotted leaves sticking to its surface. It’s an incongruous sight – the type of footwear somebody would wear to an office – smart, functional, not too glamorous. Not the sort of thing that gets lodged on a riverbank.

  Her eyes are drawn to the steep slippery incline above her, covered with moss and leaves and the general debris nature leaves behind after a cold, dark winter. Pressing on, she clambers up until the item is close to her face. She shivers and backs away a fraction, the thought of slipping never far from her mind. It’s a steep gradient, almost vertical, requiring her to use her hands and feet to make the ascent. Her foot is lodged against the base of a tree that, along with many others nearby, appear to defy gravity. Standing upright, their deep root systems probably help to knit together this bank, stopping any erosion or landslips.

  She shuffles ever nearer, one hand resting against the rough bark of the tree to steady herself while the other reaches down and brushes away the twigs and leaves that surround the shoe. Her hand hits something solid, something cold that makes her recoil. She lets out a shriek, hoping it isn’t what she thinks it could be, yet knowing deep down that it probably is. This is a quiet shaded area and yet she has never felt frightened or unsafe here. It’s next to the river, just two minutes from the nearest village but the canopy of trees and its deep-set location make it feel a million miles away from everything. It’s peaceful, calming. And now this.

  Her breathing is ragged, her skin flashing hot and cold simultaneously. She gives the soil and dirt and leaves one final push, sweeping it all aside to reveal a glimpse of dead flesh. It’s a leg, its texture grey and mottled. She fumbles in her pocket for her phone, praying to a God she doesn’t believe exists that she can get a signal.

  Sweat rolls down her back. She is cold and clammy as she stares at the screen, panic biting at her. No bars. No signal. No way of getting any help.

  Shit!

  She clambers and crawls higher up the embankment on watery legs, her innards roiling, the image of the decaying limb burnt deep into her brain. By the time she reaches the top, her knees are scraped and bloody, her hands covered in leaf mulch. Strands of wet hair hang in her eyes. Sweat courses down her back.

  Her phone springs to life. She cries out, her voice a loud echo. Relief blooms in her chest. She punches at the screen, calls 999, her voice a croak as she hears somebody speaking on the other end. A welcom
e voice. A helpful soothing sound that eases the fear and helplessness that are currently slamming into her; violent blows that leave her winded and breathless.

  ‘Body,’ is all she can say before her legs give way and she collapses onto the wet grass. ‘I’ve found a dead body.’

  Man jailed for murder of local teacher

  Phillip Kennedy, 40, of Wainwright Court, York, has been found guilty of murdering a local teacher. Her bruised and battered body was found on the banks of the River Ouse by an early morning jogger.

  Sophia Saunders, 38, a teacher, suffered severe head injuries and her body was dragged down an embankment before being covered with leaves and branches. She was discovered by an unsuspecting jogger who alerted the police to the grisly find.

  Phillip Kennedy pleaded not guilty throughout the trial, lowering his head and weeping as the verdict was read out in court.

  Judge Sebastien Ward said the killer would be shown no mercy and should expect to serve a long sentence for a heinous crime against an innocent woman.

  Kennedy was led from the dock by police officers, turning only once to glance at the victim’s husband who bore a dignified silence throughout the proceedings.

  Sentencing will take place later this month.

  The Yorkshire News, October 2018

  2

  A Year Later

  Alice

  I see him before he sees me. I shuffle forward on unsteady legs, my hands trembling as he turns and looks my way. His eyes are blind to my presence; always glancing elsewhere, their unseeing stare shifting over and beyond me. This is always the way, me chasing after him, watching, waiting, hoping that one day he will finally turn my way and sense that I am here. Weeks and weeks of longing for him to speak and acknowledge me. Anything. I will take any crumbs he decides to throw my way. That’s how anxious I am for his attention. Does that make me sound sad and desperate? Probably. But that’s because I am. I need him to want me, to be with me. It’s just how it is.

  The group of bodies move out of the church, their voices a gravelly murmur. People turning, speaking to one another, talking in hushed tones, heads dipped together respectfully.

  Only when we are outside does the noise level return to normal, people’s whispers raised to their usual volume, their voices carrying over the warm air.

  ‘How’s your mum? Still not well?’

  ‘Yes, John’s still working over at the big supermarket. Been there for over ten years now.’

  ‘Lovely session, don’t you think? Went really well.’

  ‘My arthritis is getting worse by the week. Don’t know how I managed to make it here today.’

  The voices around me are no more than white noise as I scan the crowd for signs of him. He’s disappeared. No hanging around for idle chat, Peter has vanished from the throng, heading away from the crowd before anybody has a chance to engage him in conversation. I admire him, being unwilling to become embroiled in the pointless, boring minutiae of other people’s lives. The rest of us are all too polite to say no, to tell people that we have better things to do with our time than to stand and listen to their endless litany of ailments or be subjected to the mindless repetition of banal news about their lives; news that is insignificant and trivial to us and important only to them. We all have our damaged existences that we strive to conceal. Peter has his and I have mine.

  I wonder if he has noticed me watching him from afar? I don’t suppose he has. Why would he? He doesn’t know me. Or at least, I don’t think he does. I’m just another face in the crowd, another member of the group who is mourning the loss of somebody close to them. I know him though. I definitely know him. We have a lot in common. It’s just that he doesn’t know it yet. For the past year I’ve been wandering aimlessly through life, rudderless and confused with nobody and nothing to assist me, to tell me that everything is going to be just fine. Nobody to stop me from collapsing in a heap. Until I realised that Peter attended the grieving sessions in church, that is. It gave me a purpose, knowing I could get close to him. It was a chance, possibly my only chance. Hope flourished within me. I had something to aim for, something tangible I could cling on to. Something that could turn my life around, make it worth living again.

  Every week at the group sessions, I watch him; scrutinising his speech, his movements, every little thing about him. I need to know it all, to work him out, assess him. Become his judge and jury. Unlike me, he is able to speak coherently, to relax, converse with others in the group. Be himself.

  I am not a gibbering wreck but choose to remain silent, convinced everyone can see my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, convinced they can see deep inside my soul, into the blackness that festers there, the simmering resentment at being left to cope on my own in this scary and often harsh and unforgiving world. Of course, we are all weak and vulnerable. That’s why we’re here. Peter stands out from the others. He’s stronger, capable. It makes me wonder why he’s here at all.

  Every week as I watch him, I feel as if I am being drawn closer by an invisible strand. Each time I attend, I find myself trying that bit harder with my appearance, wearing more make-up, curling my hair. Not too much. Nothing too garish. It’s a therapy group, not a pick-up joint. I don’t want to turn up looking as if I am going clubbing. So instead, I wear perfume, brush my hair, do what I can to make myself noticeable and half decent without appearing too brash and brassy. Yet still he turns a blind eye, appearing to show little interest in anybody around him. Especially me.

  I’ve never been particularly drawn to religion, finding churches often oppressive and unwelcoming, but knowing Peter would be there every week was enough to lure me through these doors and so here I am, trailing after him like a small child desperate for attention. And here he is, barely acknowledging my existence. I will keep trying, however, and soon he will see me through his fog of misery and grief. Soon enough I will penetrate his armour, his invisible shield and then he will know who I am. I’ll make sure of it.

  I take a walk through the graveyard behind the church. It’s peaceful here, filled with silence save for the whispering of the breeze through the trees and the distant chirrup of the birdsong. I like this place. It’s sobering, a space for reflection and serious thought. A space where I can be me.

  I kneel on the ground, the soil wet beneath my flesh, and turn to the graveside. I empty the vase of stagnant foul-smelling water, flecks of dirt spreading next to my feet, and refill it at the tap next to the fence, then pluck out the withered flowers and rearrange the ones that still look half decent and haven’t succumbed to age and decay, their stems still straight and not withered and wilting. It is as I am patting down the gravel that I hear his voice above me. It causes me to stop and suck in my breath. My skin prickles as I turn to see him standing next to me, looking down with a wry smile on his face. His eyes are dark and impenetrable, fathoms deep.

  ‘I see you take good care of these people. This is a well-tended grave.’

  I sigh and suppress a smile as I stare up at him, scrambling to rise from my haunches and wiping my hands down the side of my trousers. It’s Peter. He’s here, speaking to me, watching me. Actually acknowledging my presence. At long last. I’ve put a lot of work into this moment and now here he is. Finally.

  ‘Thank you.’ My voice is a low murmur. I want to look away but am afraid of missing something. This moment has been a long time coming. I want to see everything. Every single movement, every blink and twitch, every breath that exits his body. I need to see it all. I’ve earned this. I can’t afford to make any mistakes, to lose this moment.

  ‘We’ve met before?’ He is smiling now, his eyes twinkling, his hand outstretched towards me.

  I nod, trying to mask my enthusiasm, returning his smile. ‘Yes, we have.’ Surprised at how strong his grasp is, how cool and steady it is, I shake his hand. ‘At the counselling sessions in church.’ He’s taller than I remember, a good six feet, perhaps more.

  ‘I thought so. I knew you looked familiar.’

&nb
sp; I want to tell him that I’ve been watching him for weeks and weeks and how has he not noticed me before now but remain silent, nodding instead and removing my clammy palm from his parchment-dry skin.

  ‘I’m not sure how much they’re helping, those sessions, but you never know with these things, do you?’ My voice is croaky in comparison to his mellifluous timbre, and my vision is blurred. I blink away the film covering my eyes and clear my throat. He must think me an idiot, this man. An idiot who is standing awkwardly, gazing up at him like a forlorn schoolgirl in the presence of her latest crush. I pull back my shoulders and try to inject some authority into my stance, flexing my fingers and jutting out my chin. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. Too long.