The Darkness Within: A heart-pounding thriller that will leave you reeling. Lisa Stone
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with you. Shane broke the terms of his probation by not informing his probation officer where he was living. Added to which, he was driving while banned, over the legal limit of alcohol in his blood and in a manner likely to cause harm to other road users. As soon as he’s out of hospital he’ll be returning to prison.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t realize.’
‘No. I take it he didn’t involve you in his criminal activities? He hasn’t been arriving home with expensive items, for example? Items he can’t provide receipts for?’
‘No, not as far as I know. You can have a look around if you like.’
‘Thank you.’ Tim was already on his feet.
‘So Shane won’t be home tonight?’ she asked, still trying to come to terms with it.
‘No. You can phone the hospital now if you want and see how he is.’
‘I will,’ Rosie said. ‘After you’ve had a look around.’
She watched as Linda joined Tim and they went first into the bedroom. The flat was only small and Rosie could hear them moving across the floorboards, opening and closing the wardrobe doors, and then the drawers. There was nothing to see in there apart from the wet patch on the carpet smelling of disinfectant. She’d no idea what they were searching for and frankly she didn’t care. Shane wasn’t coming home tonight and she was starting to feel relieved. They came out of the bedroom and searched the bathroom and then had to pass through the living room to enter the kitchen. She heard them open and close the cupboard doors.
‘You’re very good doing your washing on a Saturday evening,’ Linda called.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
She heard the stainless-steel bin ping as one of the officers opened and closed it. They would have seen the bloody tissues she’d used to wipe her bleeding nose and mouth. And very likely the duvet cover in the laundry basket waiting to go in the wash. They came out and Linda returned to sit beside her while Tim remained standing.
‘Is there anything you want to tell us about Shane?’ Linda asked, encouraging confidentiality.
Rosie shook her head. Linda looked at her for a moment longer then sighed.
‘OK, love. I’m going to give you the number for the Domestic Violence Unit anyway,’ she said, taking a card from her pocket and handing it to her. ‘You can just phone for a chat if you wish. You don’t have to give your name.’
Rosie gave a small nod but didn’t look at the card.
‘We’ll leave you to it then. Phone us if you need to. We can see ourselves out.’
Rosie stayed where she was as they left. She was still struggling to come to terms with what had happened and wondering what she should do for the best. Phone her mother? Phone the hospital? Speak to the Domestic Violence Unit, or change the locks? Possibly all of them, but in which order? Suddenly her life had changed in a way she could never have foreseen, and while she was sorry Shane had had an accident it had opened up an escape route. A huge weight lifted from her shoulders. There were decisions to be made and opportunities to be taken, and a light now shone at the end of what had been a very dark tunnel. She needed to galvanize herself into action. The washing machine bleeped as it finished its cycle and she stood to unload it. Once she’d sorted out the washing she’d start packing Shane’s belongings. And although she wasn’t a religious person, she said a silent thank-you to someone out there, grateful that she had been given this chance.
The Reverend Andrew Wilson was going about his normal early-morning duties. He’d let Mitsy, their old Labrador, out for a run, had taken his wife and son up a cup of tea and now set out across the Maybury village green to unlock his eighteenth-century church, St Stephen’s. Mitsy had followed him as usual, circling playfully at his feet, despite her age. Dressed casually but wearing his clerical collar he walked swiftly across the damp grass, still wet from the rain of the night before. At 8 a.m. on a weekday he didn’t expect to see many of the villagers out; the commuters had already left for the station in the neighbouring town, so he tended to see the same few faces: the milkman who also delivered groceries, the paperboy finishing his round before going to college, and two dog-walkers. They all greeted him as usual with a warm, pleasant but slightly formal, ‘Good morning, Reverend,’ and he replied using their first names. He knew most of the villagers in his parish by name and he liked the village way of life. His previous parish had been in a deprived inner city which he’d initially believed was his calling. He’d done his best for five years and then asked to be moved, saying he felt he could no longer meet the challenges with everything else that was going on in his life. The bishop had been very understanding, and three months later he and his family had arrived here.
Unlocking the outer door, Andrew left Mitsy sitting obediently in the vestibule as he unlocked the second door and went into the main body of the church. He savoured the welcoming aroma of well-oiled oak, candle smoke, and the slightly musky damp of the solid stone walls. It was reassuring and comforting; a reminder of age and endurance. The church had stood here for nearly 300 years and would remain long after he had left this earth. That he was merely passing through and part of a bigger plan helped nudge his considerable worries into a slightly better perspective.
Facing the altar, he stood at the end of the aisle and crossed himself, then went to a box on the wall and switched on the lights and heating. Mrs Tremain, much-respected chairperson of the parish council, would arrive punctually at nine o’clock as she did most mornings to say a prayer in memory of her dear departed husband, and she didn’t like to be cold. Then at ten o’clock his darling wife, Liz, would lead the Bible study class while he went about his many duties in the parish. He would return to lock the church at nightfall as he did every evening apart from Sunday when he held Evensong. It was a pity the church couldn’t remain open twenty-four hours as it had in previous times – offering shelter and warmth to the needy – but vandals and thieves had put a stop to that some years before when they’d stolen the silver candlesticks from the altar and smashed a stained-glass window.
Andrew went up the aisle to the little altar with its white cloths, simple wooden cross, Bible, and candles in steel holders. Lowering his head he began his usual silent prayers, thanking the Lord for all that He had blessed them with, remembering those less fortunate and those living in famine and war-torn countries. He asked for guidance to make decisions wisely, and then mentioned by name parishioners who needed some extra help: Mr and Mrs James, whose son had been injured while serving in the army abroad; Mrs King’s husband, who was recovering from stomach surgery; Mr and Mrs Watson, who had just moved into a nursing home and whom he would visit later that afternoon; and last but not least his own son, Jacob. He always felt slightly uncomfortable, almost guilty, asking for help for his own, but he was sure the good Lord understood why it had become absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t have asked had it not been essential. Forgive me Lord for asking again but if it is your will … He struggled now; his prayer needed to be answered even if it wasn’t the Lord’s will. He was desperate and his wife was desperate too, and if he was honest they were both struggling with their faith, as they were being tested as never before. When life went well it was easy to have faith, he acknowledged, but when it went badly, really badly, and you stood to lose your only child, it was surely enough to shake the faith of even the most devout and ardent of believers?
‘Please don’t test me further in this way,’ he said as part of his prayers. ‘Anything but this. Not my son.’ As he spoke, the small inner voice of God reminded him that He had sacrificed His only son for the sake of humanity, which wasn’t what Andrew wanted to hear at all. He finished praying by thanking the Lord again and then asking that this day be the one.
Uncharacteristically, Mitsy began frantically scratching at the church door. Crossing himself, Andrew turned from the altar just as the door flew open and his wife Elizabeth ran in, without her coat and out of breath.
‘What