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Back Day of the Accident
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. What readers are saying about
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. Part Two
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. Part Three
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. 55
  65. 56
  66. 57
  67. 58
  68. Epilogue
  69. Acknowledgements
  70. THE NEXT THRILLER BY NUALA ELLWOOD
  71. THE BEGINNING

42

Wednesday 9 August

As I make my way across the farmyard towards the house I’m struck by how neglected it looks. The tarmac is covered in potholes and weeds; the door of the barn is broken and hanging off its hinges. It’s like I’m walking through a ghost estate. How could Barbara have let Ketton House Farm fall into such disrepair.

My stomach twists as I approach the farmhouse. The thought of confronting Barbara terrifies me but I know I have to do it.

Unlike the yard, the house appears to be in good order. The windows are gleaming and the doorstep looks like it’s been freshly painted. There’s a basket of geraniums hanging above the door. The ground is damp beneath as though someone has just watered them. I imagine Barbara behind the door, watering can in hand, ready to pounce.

Come on, Maggie, I think to myself as I stand on the step, you have to do this. I take a deep breath, then knock three times on the door. I’m not even sure what I’m going to say. My head has turned to fudge. I wait a few moments then knock again. There’s still no answer, though I’m sure I can hear the muffled sound of voices behind the door. Maybe she left the radio on before she went out. I knock one more time just in case before turning and walking back across the farmyard.

I head for the gate, but as I do, something on the far left of the yard catches my eye. I turn and see a dilapidated round building with moss and ivy trailing over it.

The playhouse. Where most kids would have been content with a plastic Wendy house, Ben got his very own outbuilding, a roundhouse built in the late 1800s. We used to play for hours in here when I was a kid. I remember thinking it was like the turret of a castle that had fallen to the ground. But then it had become something else; something darker.

I stand looking at it, willing myself not to go there, to just turn round and get the hell out of here. But curiosity gradually gets the better of me and I slowly make my way towards it.

The windows are filthy and cracked; the tiles on the roof are broken, the stone exterior crumbling. I think back to the last time I was here. It was the night of Barbara’s party. When we arrived Barbara had swept my parents into the house, thrusting glasses of champagne into their hands. ‘Oh, Margaret,’ she called over her shoulder as I stood awkwardly on the step. ‘You don’t want to be in here with the old fogeys. Why don’t you go and see Ben and his friends? They’re in the playhouse.’