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Just Before I Died: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Ice Twins
S. K. Tremayne
Sometimes you can’t even trust yourself…The chilling new psychological thriller by S. K. Tremayne, author of the Sunday Times No. 1 bestseller, THE ICE TWINS.How long can they keep you in the dark?It was just a patch of ice. Just a bit of bad luck. But it was nearly enough to kill Kath Redway, spinning her car into Burrator Reservoir in the beautiful Dartmoor National Park.Miraculously, Kath escapes her accident with a few bruises and amnesia. She is shocked but delighted to be back in her remote moorland farmhouse with her handsome husband Adam, and her shy, gifted daughter Lyla. She’s alive!But her family is not so delighted. Her husband is cold, even angry. Her daydreaming daughter talks ever more strangely, about a 'man on the moor'. Then, as chilling fragments of memory return, Kath realizes her 'accident' was nothing of the kind. And now her life collapses into a new world of darkness, menace, and terror.
Copyright (#u1511b4cf-7791-5034-a47a-e248e7f84d04)
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.
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge StreetLondon
SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © S. K. Tremayne 2018
S. K. Tremayne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photographs © Jayne Szekely / Arcangel Images (landscape); Dorota Gorecka / Trevillion Images (woman); Sveta Butko / Trevillion Images (girl); Shutterstock (feather in girl’s hand).
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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 e-books
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2018 ISBN: 9780008105907
SOURCE ISBN: 9780008105884
Version: 2018-09-18
Dedication (#u1511b4cf-7791-5034-a47a-e248e7f84d04)
For Star, on Kes Tor
Poor Kitty Jay
Such a beauty cast away,
This silent prayer should paint some peace on her grave
But something broke her sleep
From ‘Kitty Jay’, by Seth Lakeman
Table of Contents
Cover (#ud44a746a-cd6a-51ab-9e2a-5069fde1f003)
Title Page (#uace2b185-afb3-5415-940e-3e8c464a3eab)
Copyright (#u909f494c-5dc9-5e7d-8b17-a1177c65a872)
Dedication (#u266cc4e6-5bda-5bf3-903a-ce32ad86c5a4)
Epigraph (#uff2ffd96-efa9-5ff7-878c-a5a0f4639302)
Author’s Note (#udb94e930-e597-59ea-851c-15592d428401)
Huckerby Farm (#u300e3352-d486-529f-a75f-f709de5ccc1a)
Princetown (#ue5e75c81-c058-5946-93e8-13b7b1d4d1ed)
The Lych Way (#u720de0ec-3274-54e1-932f-249637cbb457)
Huckerby Farm (#uc22e03a4-215c-5246-9bc4-6eacbf2e699c)
Grey Wethers (#u8a28a42e-aa05-50aa-9761-3c9a9cc2b048)
Hobajob’s Wood (#u0ab8d5de-afa2-5c1d-8b54-b262ce8e0f35)
Huckerby Farm (#u55763a61-71db-5750-9321-a68063576c45)
Warren House Inn (#u6a6ad284-e6a1-54c3-824d-06085c16856b)
Vitifer Leat (#u84496d78-c930-5f63-902a-8e0d01a2a5dc)
Salcombe (#u6bf09996-f80b-5bd0-937b-24115ba32126)
Burrator (#ub92c1e94-4acd-5d64-aa02-469bd4fe15d7)
Venner (#u4abed69b-5813-56ce-bfd7-ff06a52c5507)
Princetown (#u096de25c-9a8e-5fe7-a31d-729288549c19)
Hexworthy (#ucb54cd3a-f0f3-584e-980b-fe0c4da504cd)
Salcombe (#u5d92f9bd-e36b-5a30-bbce-689b2370aa10)
Two Bridges Hotel (#u6b1259ea-b650-5f2a-a05c-b98756f662b2)
Morrice Town, Plymouth (#u0c73525f-af54-5001-9733-5994294b0087)
Black Tor (#u89cb437e-7cb7-5c88-a263-918a4cb0c185)
Huckerby Farm (#u48fafa6e-560d-50b9-8df2-980459f37a3d)
Huckerby Yard (#ua545e5dd-ef8e-5152-9e08-aa525d7817bd)
Salcombe (#u2de9bd01-52d5-5620-9ab1-95a2b2397dd4)
The Spaldings’ Farm (#ue0b78702-2a68-5a13-9533-6d2186d33f54)
Dartmoor (#uc4524a51-95b9-59ad-a5ac-ba9ca3c9f992)
Dartmoor (#u3dc34b73-456e-557a-9a53-bb5fd4b9fb7f)
Huckerby (#ub9845f3c-a0ce-5fe9-b157-6326fd90fc16)
Bellever Tor (#uf8fc2226-12d9-5fb9-97b5-99f712eeb1ed)
Tavyhurst Church (#u08eb44fc-3710-57e9-b973-249864fbdaa8)
Kennec Farm (#u8c0ff20f-9d58-544d-8336-57c9b034fc47)
Huckerby (#ue611a519-2ea4-5714-aed5-5cca86f71ae5)
Drizzlecombe (#uc9fd219f-8da9-5d2f-b6ba-16d15b0b3f8e)
Huckerby (#u5e6f8729-f41d-53ca-899c-0cf53407ed93)
Three Crowns Inn, Chagford (#u74a05a60-aedf-5d71-b4cb-a88dcca8d490)
Dartmoor (#u18df620f-686c-586a-a042-35773f92e4ce)
Huckerby (#u2afc8153-8573-536e-a649-53961f10c3eb)
Hobajob’s Wood (#u35e44d3a-2bd1-58d3-b5a5-84360d70a456)
Dartmeet (#u356dde81-aaff-5bb4-ab86-efe3907c26a2)
Keep Reading … (#u14cd97b6-d612-59b5-ae49-8e7b04638162)
About the Author (#u55bebd5c-3a7b-5be7-9f97-3e14f96f9bd9)
Also by S. K. Tremayne (#uf2381e10-d06b-5459-b9c0-beb3bdaf2ef8)
About the Publisher (#u37a9ebb4-ee8f-5008-bcbd-73b290dc20b0)
Author’s Note (#u1511b4cf-7791-5034-a47a-e248e7f84d04)
I’d like to thank everyone who assisted me in my research on Dartmoor, in particular Tim Cumming, for his inspiration, and Loic Rich for his company. Likewise I am indebted to: the staff of the Two Bridges, White Hart and Gidleigh Park hotels; the makers of Plymouth Gin and the brewers of Dartmoor Jail Ale; and my editors at The Times and The Sunday TimesTravel Magazine: Jane Knight, Ed Grenby and Nick Redman.
As always I must thank Jane Johnson, Eugenie Furniss and Sarah Hodgson for their wisdom, advice, and professionalism.
There are many references throughout this book to various Dartmoor locations and place-names. A few of these have been altered or invented, by me, although I hope that the book, in general, is a faithful representation of the uniquely beautiful Dartmoor landscape. Any unintentional errors are entirely my own.
My thanks to Seth Lakeman for allowing me to quote from the lyrics of his songs.
Huckerby Farm (#u1511b4cf-7791-5034-a47a-e248e7f84d04)
Saturday morning
The dead birds are neatly arranged in a row. I don’t know why they are dead. Maybe they were slaughtered, by a domestic cat, in that cruel, unhungry, feline way: killing things for fun. But I don’t know anyone who keeps a cat, not for miles. We certainly don’t. Adam prefers dogs: animals that work and hunt and retrieve, animals with a loyal purpose.
More likely is that these little songbirds died from frost and hunger: this long Dartmoor winter has been hard. The last few weeks the ice has bitten into the acid soil, gnawed at the twisted trees, sent people scurrying into their homes from little Christow to Tavy Cleave, and has turned the narrow moorland roads to rinks.
I shudder at the returning thought, as I cradle my hot coffee and gaze out of the kitchen window. Ice had been a danger on the roads for a while. Yes, I should have been more careful, but was it really my fault? I looked away for a moment, distracted by something. And then, it happened, on the dark road that runs by Burrator Reservoir.
It was just a little patch of ice. But it was enough. I went from heading home at a sedentary pace to being in a car out of control, skidding terribly, ramming the useless brakes, in the frigid December twilight, sliding faster and faster towards the waiting waters. All I remember is a strange and rushing sense of inevitability, that this had somehow been meant to happen all my life: my sudden death, at thirty-seven.
The rising black water had always been meant to freeze me; the locked car doors had always been meant to cage me. The icy liquid in my lungs had always been intended to drown the last of my gasps, on this cold, anonymous December evening on the fringes of the moor, where the bony beacons and balding hills begin their descent to Plymouth.
But it didn’t kill me.
I fought and swam, blood streaming – and I survived. Somehow, somehow. Yes, my memories are still ribbony, still ragged, but they are returning, and my body is recovering. The bruising on my face is nearly gone.
I survived a near-fatal accident and I am determined to number my blessings, as if I am an infant doing sums by counting her fingers.
Blessing number one: I have a husband I love. Adam Redway. He seems to love me too, and he is still very handsome at thirty-eight: with those dazzling blue eyes and that crow-dark hair. Almost black, but not quite. Sometimes he could pass for a man ten years younger, he has that agelessness, despite the toughness of his job; perhaps it is because of his job.
He doesn’t earn that much, as a National Park Ranger, but he adores the moors where he was born, and he adores what he does: from repairing walls so the Dartmoor ponies can’t range too far, to taking troops of school kids to see the daffodils of Steps Bridge, to guiding tourists, for fun, all the way down Lydford Gorge, spooking them out with stories of the outlaws who lived there, in the sixteenth century, the Gubbins who lived in caves, and became cannibals, and died out from inbreeding, and madness.
Adam loves all this: loves the poetry and the severity of the moor. He likes the toughness and the strangeness; he grew up with it. And over the years he has allowed me to become a part of it: we have a happy marriage, or at least a marriage happier than many. Yes, it is regular, ordinary, even predictable. Right down to the sex.
I am sure my friends from uni would laugh at the homeliness, but I find it deeply reassuring. The world turns: rhythmically and reliably. I desire, and am desired. We haven’t made love so much since the accident, but I am sure it will return. It always does.
What else can I give thanks for? What else makes me glad to be alive? I need to remind myself. Because these flashbacks are pretty painful.
Quite often I get sudden, frightening headaches: headaches sharp enough to make me cry out. It’s as if something is crunching in my mind, bone grating on nerves.
Like now. I wince. Setting the big coffee cup by the sink, I put a hand to my forehead, to that tender place where I must have hit the steering wheel, cracking bone and brain and a week of memories into fragments, like a shattered pane of winter ice on a moorland dew pond.
Deep breaths. Deep, long breaths.
Focus on the positive, that’s what the doctor said. Be thankful every day. Makes the healing quicker. Mends the mind faster.
I like my job, working in the National Park tourist office. It’s not the archaeological job I wanted when I graduated from Exeter University. It’s not my dream, and it doesn’t pay well, but I get to write the leaflets, to talk about history, to enthuse to day trippers, and the park authorities let me join the digs in the season, slicing into the turf to find Bronze Age barrows or buried kistvaens – sunken chests – of Neolithic skulls and femurs and backbones, the remains of people who lived here when the moors were warmer, and drier. Kinder.
Better than all that: I love this rented granite house we live in, five miles south of Princetown, lost in the high moorland, a mile from the next inhabited building, the Spaldings’ farm, and two miles from the nearest hamlet, with its pub and tiny shop that sells processed ham and charcoal briquettes, and little else.
I love the wild remoteness, the deep starry skies and deeper silence. I love the dreaming, arthritic, moss-hung rowan trees that line the lanes. I like that the moorfolk call them ‘quickbeams’, or ‘witchbeams’. I also love the battered, stubborn, obstinate history of it all. Huckerby used to be a proper farmstead, and it still has barns and outhouses crumbling in the Dartmoor rains, sprouting cornflowers and campions in the haze of high summer, but the only intact building is the one we live in, a classic moorland longhouse, possibly six hundred years old.
Once there would have been a sizeable family here: humans at the top of the house, animals down the other end. Cattle warming people under the same Devonshire thatch. Now the house is converted, the roof slated, and the interior modernized. Yes, it’s hard to heat and it still gets damp. But it has character. And it is occupied by me, and Adam, and Lyla our daughter, and our two dogs Felix and Randal.
