Alice and Leon stare up at the hotel, their bags at their feet. Surrounding mature trees sway, moaning in the wind. A metal sign halfway up the hill, advertising Flynn Hotel, rattles and squeaks in the wind. A stone dog guards the entrance.

As though a door to the skies opens, rain suddenly hammers down – sharp, heavy drops. ‘And you wanted to come here, why?’ Leon says, with a smile, picking up his holdall.

Alice laughs, but inside she is full of doubt. She looks up, rain stinging her skin. At the top of the building is an arched, barred window in the roof. ‘The attic room,’ she says, her body stiffening.

Leon’s gaze moves to where hers has landed. ‘I guess so,’ he says. ‘Creepy.’

‘Mmm,’ Alice says, head spinning. She knows already that the walls are muddy brown and the carpet is grass green.

Chapter 11

1976

Verity

The bullies circled, faces menacing. Verity had seen them from the cliff edge, as she leant against the wire fence at the foot of the sprawling lawn at Flynn House.

And now, fists clenched, she raced towards them, black plimsolls sinking into the sand with every footstep, chestnut-brown plaits swinging as she dashed to save her younger brother.

She’ll kick the living hell out of each and every one of them. They all deserve to die.

She wasn’t tall, but she was older than the brats who targeted her skinny brother. The weight she carried – not fat, muscle – gave her an advantage over them. Made her look older than her nine years.

‘Hugh,’ she cried, as she got closer, her breath raspy. He was on the ground now, and even from a distance she could see he’d peed his grey shorts. She would wash them out when she got him back to the house. Their father couldn’t know. He would beat Hugh if he found out.

She continued onwards. Why had Hugh strayed so far? But she knew why. She could see the small red bucket lying on its side, shells strewn across the smooth sand. He loved collecting shells.

One of the kids – there were three in all – looked up. ‘It’s Verity!’ It was the girl who lived above the shop on the seafront. Within moments the nasty kids scattered – scaredy-cats disappearing in different directions.

Hugh was crying when she reached him. She crouched down beside him, began picking up the shells, plopping them back into the red bucket. ‘What have I told you?’ she said. He was only ten months younger than her, and yet he was so much smaller, a weedy poppet. He was a child and she was the grown-up; she had to be.

‘To stay near Flynn House,’ he whimpered, wiping his grubby tear-stained face with the back of his hand, spreading his cheeks with sand. ‘To never leave.’