Chapters (74)
- Cover
- Praise
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Chapter 55
- Chapter 56
- Chapter 57
- Chapter 58
- Chapter 59
- Chapter 60
- Chapter 61
- Chapter 62
- Chapter 63
- Chapter 64
- Chapter 65
- Chapter 66
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Extract from The Mayfly
The owner replaced the photograph and retrieved the novella, flipped through the pages, held it tentatively, like it was charged with something dangerous. The owner had read the novella countless times, but there was always a little detail emerging, a new hidden message in the text. The writing was exquisite. It had taken the owner a long time to figure out that the novella was more than a simple story. It was a portal, a window into a secret past. A key.
The owner read from the passage again:
When she wakes, she finds the sheets are wet with God knows what. She blinks. A little sunlight, enough so she casts a weak shadow.
The girl rubs her eyes. She has no concept of time; it is raining outside. She can smell the mildew on the walls; she doesn’t know what it is but she hates it.
She stumbles to a table nearby. There is a wooden doll. She picks it up. The doll has yellow hair in pigtails and a red dress. She is smiling at the girl, but the smile is worn and almost faded completely. There is a key at the back, so the doll plays music. The girl winds the key and the tune strikes up.
Ting, ting, ting.
The doll is her friend. The feel of the doll in her hand – the slight vibration created by music – comforts her. Sometimes, the girl talks to the doll; tells the doll all her secrets, the things she’s thinking. The things she could do in the outside world.
She tells the doll that she hates the man and the woman and wishes they were dead.
But the thought throws the girl into panic. The basement is all she has known. The man and woman are the only people she has, unless you count the wooden doll. Maybe the girl doesn’t want to see what the real world is like. Maybe it’s worse than this.
There is a toilet in the corner of the room. She hears the pipes creaking at night, like poltergeists laughing at her in the dark. She wonders if she could flush herself away – where she might end up. The sea perhaps? The ocean?
The girl shakes the thought out of her head.
It is futile.
She is already dead.
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Priest rubbed his hand down his face and stared again at the body slumped in the boot of Elinor Fox’s VW.