For Rye Gavin Gardiner (best book club books for discussion TXT) 📖

turtleneck. ‘Like the crazy shit going on around here. You know, I never wrote any of my books to hurt anyone. All I ever wanted was to find…’ He replaced his glasses, then looked at her, his eyes deepening. ‘…truth.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Your nightmares, that truck, Sylvia…I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.’

‘I know, Quentin. I told you to stop blaming yourself.’

He took her hand and squeezed.

Always at the right times.

‘Ren, the money thing. I’d like to make you an offer.’

She pulled her hand away. ‘Oh…Quentin, no. Really, it’s—’

‘My wife, Eleanor,’ he interrupted. ‘Well, ex-wife. Like I said, she’s a fan of yours. My daughter is too, bless her heart. I caught bits here and there. To be honest, I might be a bit of a fan myself.’

‘Detective O’Connell mentioned your daughter. You sound like you love her very much. Am I right on thinking she’s an actress? Will she be joining you here for—’

‘No.’

Silence.

‘I’m continuing with our plans to film in Millbury Peak. We’re getting underway soon, but there’s an issue with some of the dialogue.’ He kicked some leaves. ‘It works in the book we’re adapting, but in the script it feels a bit…inhibited. There’s a hefty romance thread I feel needs a woman’s touch, a woman with experience in that kind of thing.’

‘Quentin, I’m sorry, but I haven’t, well…written for a while, and I’ve no experience in film, and—’

‘Your father,’ he cut in, ‘your financial worries concern him, right?’ She looked down. ‘No pressure. Total flexibility. All I need is a woman’s touch.’ He stepped closer. ‘Your touch, Ren.’

The flame was withering, the warm glow of the small stone room fading with it. Renata glanced up into the man’s eyes.

‘I don’t need an answer now,’ he said. ‘I’m only asking you to consider my offer. Tweak the dialogue, see what you can do. Your finances would be taken care of. Besides, we writers gotta stick together, right?’

His eyes were pools of electricity. Was that glimmering the spark of creativity? The spark of an artist? She didn’t care for the genre in which he worked, but maybe there was more to the man than she’d thought, more to this ‘truth’ he claimed his writings were searching for. And his offer? Well, she was here to think things through. Now she had even more to ponder.

‘It’s late,’ said Quentin, their faces close. That ancient, pointless guilt rose in her stomach again.

Hallowed be Thy name.

Renata turned away and pulled a fresh candlestick from her satchel. ‘I think I’ll stay a while longer.’ She felt him placing his thick blazer over her shoulders. ‘Quentin, you need that.’

‘Guess you’ll have to see me again to get it back to me, won’t you?’

His footsteps disappeared down the spiral staircase. She went to the window and rubbed an antiseptic wipe over her hands as she watched him trudge through the graveyard, scribbling in his notebook as he went.

Her memories of Millbury Peak, this town frozen in time, had been slowly returning. Nevertheless, something told her there were memories destined never to re-emerge. She glanced at Horror Highway, still staring up from the stone floor. How could some cheap horror be the cause of such persistent dreams, such real dreams? She thought of this ‘truth’ Quentin mentioned, the truth he said his work was pursuing.

Renata stared into the blank mass of fog. It was like an impenetrable wall, a veil.

Maybe some truths were best left buried.

9

The thirteenth count stabbed.

Her trembling hands still gripped the imaginary wheel upon waking. She opened her eyes to find no fire, no brimstone, and certainly no wheel. Her hands weren’t dripping with the usual sappy, jet-black oil from the dreams, and there was no road to explode behind her, no fire to pour from the sky. She sat up and massaged her temples.

The momentary agony still echoed in her head like the reverberations of a silenced orchestra. The final stab, the thirteenth, was always the worst. But they were all getting worse. Not just the pains but the dreams themselves, which were becoming more chaotic with every passing night. She groped the sweat-drenched sheets for the red spade. Of course, it remained in her dreams. She pulled the coiled noose from under her pillow and stood to look out of the window, stroking the coarse rope. The fog continued its embrace of the house, the smoky veil still in place.

She edged open the door and peered down the hallway towards the laughing elephants and bears.

NOAH

Creeping past the master bedroom, she approached the decorated door and reached for the handle.

Come in! Come in! giggled the elephant.

Time to figure this thing out! Come on in and play! chuckled the bear.

‘You there, girl?’ snapped Thomas from his bedroom.

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Pills,’ he spluttered, ‘I need an early dose.’

She went to the lavatory on the landing and gave her hands a swift wash. Staring into the open medicine cabinet as she turned off the tap and dried her hands, she thought back to when she’d first arrived. The cabinet’s shelves had been lined with bottles and blister packs, as well as multipacks of hand soap – her own addition. Supplies were now running low, and her father’s increasing demands for extra doses weren’t helping.

‘She dealt with that,’ said Thomas when Renata had hesitantly mentioned the need for replenishment. ‘Kitchen drawer, repeat prescription.’ No more needed said.

Sure enough, vend as required had been hastily scribbled onto the slip she found in the drawer. She folded it and stuffed it into her pocket, deciding this would be the morning to restock before going to accept Quentin’s offer.

‘Mr Ramsay?’ she said into the telephone, wiping her hands on her sweater. ‘It’s Renata Wakefield. Yes, Vicar…uh huh. Well, I have a favour to ask. I’m very sorry,