Never Have I Ever

by Lucy V. Hay

Genres: Women's Fiction; Amateur Sleuth; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Never Have I Ever been punished for what I have done . . . 'An unsettling whirlwind of a novel with a startlingly dark core. 5 Stars' Sun on The Other Twin Twenty years ago Four teenagers discover a new game. They add their own rules, going from sharing secrets to sharing firsts. And then it all goes spiraling out of control. Now A woman gets a note through her door which chills her blood 'Never have I ever been punished for what I have done' She thought this was over. But it looks like it's her turn to play Because no matter how far it goes, you have to obey the rules of the game. And the game is never really over. 'Well written, engrossing and brilliantly unique, this is a fab debut' Heat on The Other Twin

Release date: December 12, 2019

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 255

Sample

Writers often lead solitary lives, but unlike the rather self-important Sam, I would like to acknowledge it takes MANY people to make a book!

First thanks to my amazing editor, Eve Hall at Hodder, whose suggestions and edits were always on the button. Mad respect to my agent Hattie Grunewald and all the wonderful book agents at Blake Friedmann, especially Isobel Dixon. I will miss you all.

Thank you to Devon and Cornwall constabulary, who talked me through a variety of police procedures, including ‘inactive mispers’. Thanks to those who have catalogued everything related to Mad Cow Disease and Hand, Foot & Mouth online. Cheers also to the 90s weirdos who have made a billion websites and videos dedicated to all things 90s. What a trip down memory lane! Any mistakes are mine.

To my unholy trinity of writing BFFs, many thanks to JK Amalou, Jenny Kane and Elinor Perry-Smith. Your unwavering support means so much. Elinor even trekked with me to the very top of Ilfracombe’s Capstone Hill when we both had a hangover. That’s dedication.

Thanks to my daughters Emmeline and Lilirose who escorted me on many more ‘research’ trips to Ilfracombe. The Coke floats in Johnny C’s diner are AWESOME. I never get bored of watching you both doing back-flips on the green by the crazy golf.

Thanks also to my wonderful Bang2writers, especially the (self-named) ‘Angel Bitches’ headed up by Emma Pullar, Olivia Brennan and Liam Kavanagh. Your support on the chat thread is always such a tonic!

Respect to ‘him indoors’ aka Mr C. Babe, you really got on my tits for *reasons* whilst I was writing this book … But this was handy because Sam and Mo were having problems too. Ours weren’t so bad, but thanks for the inspiration. Seriously, love you always.

Lastly, thank you to Damien Hirst for Verity. She might be controversial, but that’s good art. Personally, I never tire of looking at her. I wish she could have made Ilfracombe pier her home when I was a teenager. I might have felt more inspired and less like I wanted to go off the rails! (Kidding.)

L.V. Hay

In my dreams, I always hear crying.

I awake with a start. Primed and ready for Caleb’s wails, I rush through to his bedroom. The cold flutter of anxiety in my chest forces my feet into action. In the few seconds it takes me to cross the landing, my brain jumps forward, ahead of my body. In my mind’s eye I see an empty cot, an open window, a fluttering curtain in the breeze.

No, there he is: my precious boy, asleep, arms raised over his head. My heart melts at the sight of him; his angelic blond curls, his rosebud lips. He’s just thirteen months, but I can’t imagine life without him: it’s unthinkable. He could be a cartoon baby, he is that perfect. All mothers say that, but in Caleb’s case it’s one hundred per cent true. Even strangers stop me in the street to tell me how gorgeous he is.

I know it’s all accidental; I couldn’t possibly have controlled the genes and cells that make up my only child. I didn’t have much to give him by way of good looks, anyway. My dark hair is greying; my face is too angular, my nose more of a beak. I am tall for a woman and have nice wide shoulders, but also an ample bum that’s far too big. Hopefully Caleb will take more after his dad. Though he is also a little thicker round the waist than when we met, Mo still has a pleasing look of a blond surfer about him. Not that he’s ever ridden a wave in his life. He’s not the outdoors type, but a house mouse.

Even so, strangers telling me how lovely my baby is still makes me puff up my chest with pride every single time. It makes all the sacrifices worth it, not to mention the sizeable dent in our bank balance. Mo is joking when he calls him the ‘million-pound baby’, but in real terms Caleb might as well be. We’d near bankrupted ourselves to get him. I don’t care. I would do it all again.

With a groan, I realise I’m totally awake, all hopes of a lie-in forgotten. I pad over to the bedroom window and peek through the curtains at the early morning sun. We’d chosen this house because of its high position: I could see right across the valley, down across the town towards the pier. The arriving boats with their midnight catches look like toys. I sigh at the beauty, my breath frosting the window pane. I’d missed this, the whole time I was in London. That sense of peace that only watching the sea, undulating back and forth with the moon, can provide. Lakes and rivers might be beautiful too, but for me they are not the same.

I wander out to the landing. Discarded socks, pants and wet towels mark where Mo had already been. Downstairs, there will be a dish half-full of cereal left on the counter; a barely drunk coffee next to it. Mo’s entire life is summed up by a detritus of crap he leaves behind him; mine by picking up after him. He’d got up at four to make it to Bristol airport for six. His flight wasn’t until eight, but Mo has always been punctual to the point of ridiculousness. He’s flying out … where? I can’t remember. It will be marked on the calendar.

I trudge downstairs, to the open-plan living room and kitchen, avoiding the boxes on the landing. The carpet beneath my feet is grubby with age; there’s nineties lime-green décor throughout that stretches all the way down into the living room below. It’s why we’d got the house at a knockdown price. We’d had to consolidate and go bargain hunting. As well as five years of IVF, a combination of university loans and Mo’s failed first two businesses had left our finances in the crapper. For all of Mo’s fevered proclamations of needing to ‘take massive action to get massive results’, we’d simply ended up with massive debt. Don’t get me wrong, my husband has many admirable qualities and works hard at his consultancy business, but for all his ‘blue sky thinking blah blah blah’, Mark Zuckerberg he ain’t.

Sure enough, I find Mo’s leftovers on the side in the kitchen. I pick them up to rinse them out, flicking the radio on by the sink as I do so. The rhythmic, all-encompassing guitar sound of a Foo Fighters song springs into life. Panic bursts through me as my brain makes the connection, recognising the song. I wrench the radio plug from the wall, silencing Dave Grohl’s dulcet tones forever.

The kitchen returns to silence. Shallow breaths catch in my throat; I laugh at my over-the-top reaction. When I was a teenager, Foo Fighters were my favourite band. But I can’t listen to them these days, too many memories. But I’m overreacting, probably because I’m back in Ilfracombe. Either that, or I’m losing my grip.

I make myself a coffee to give my hands something to do and settle my nerves. I relish the quiet in the house; it’s rare I get a moment to myself. Caleb is a wonderful baby, but is into everything. I need eyes in the back of my head to ensure he’s not doing something he shouldn’t, like drawing on walls or ransacking the fridge. Only the day before, I’d caught him turning out the cupboards again. He was happily squeezing tomato puree straight from the tube into his open mouth. He looked like a baby vampire, red smeared around his mouth and on his front teeth. Still, it was good for him at least. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him off.

I ponder what’s left to do in the house. Caleb’s bedroom is the only room that is finished. Because he is our little prince, Mo and I had started there, putting everything into making sure his room is a fitting palace. I’d studied YouTube tutorials for hours and hung wallpaper with little spaceships on. He has a bookcase and bed linen, even a spaceship canopy hanging from the ceiling. In contrast, every other room is filled with boxes and black rubbish bags. We’d abandoned unpacking the rest of the house when we’d had to go back to work.

‘Can’t you do one or two boxes tomorrow?’ Mo had said at dinner the night before, his face creased with irritation as he’d surveyed the chaos. ‘We have been here … what? At least four weeks, now.’

‘I’m working,’ I reminded him. I got used to Mo’s lack of understanding about my writing years ago. Never mind the fact book eight of my DI Robyn Dallas series paid the deposit for this house.

‘Yes, I know that.’ Mo dropped the cutlery and flexed both his hands, as if trying to distract himself. ‘I mean, between chapters or something? Or maybe get your mum round to give you a hand?’

I returned to picking at my dinner with a fork, digesting his word choice. Give you a hand. Like I’m the only one who lives here. I bit my tongue. I might as well be. A couple of days ago – between chapters – I’d calculated how many days Mo had spent in our new house. Nine. We’d been here thirty.

Despite our financial situation, Mo is a good provider and we will break even eventually, especially now we have moved. But we would also benefit from him being at home with us more. Those endless appointments, drugs, IVF cycles have taken their toll on our relationship. We were supposed to be so happy. At last, a child of our own; what we’d dreamt of, for so long. Now Mo and I look across the dinner table at each other like work colleagues from a job we’d long since left.

But maybe Mo is right; I’m not pulling my weight. My eighth book, still imaginatively titled Untitled DI Robyn Dallas Project, isn’t due with the publisher for a while. I could afford to take a few weeks off and unpack the house. All the time I’ve spent trawling Goodreads for new reviews and taking BuzzFeed quizzes about which Disney villain I am could have been better spent making our new house a home. Who knows, maybe Mo would even want to stay here a bit more with us? An absurd vision spears through my brain: I am in a red apron, baking; Mo is on the floor with Caleb playing trains. The cliché lifts my spirits and I smile to myself as I wander through from the galley kitchen to the hall.

There’s a mess of post on the doormat by the front door. I pick it up, flicking through it absent-mindedly: it’s mostly bills, free newspapers and flyers. I pause as I take in a last envelope, a familiar scrawl on the front. I’d had letters like this before, passed on by my publisher. I’ve received fan mail in my time; mostly from old grannies, pleading with me not to kill off DI Robyn Dallas’s hunky sergeant, Kye Thomson. But these letters were different. I’d had three, back in London, and I’d hoped that was the last of them.

The first time, I’d laughed off my unease. Like many writers working from home, I live a reclusive life, enjoying my own company. I have friends in London, but most are acquaintances or Mo’s friends. I much prefer to stay home and watch movies or read books when I’m not writing myself. I am on social media, but only for work. I guard my past and even my real name, Samantha Brennan (née Russell), jealously. This had led several sites and magazines to label me as ‘Author Enigma SJ Scherer’. My agent Carole had loved that, so told me to keep it up. I didn’t find it difficult.

But the first letter had been fairly innocuous, talking about us writing our own book together like ‘James Patterson and those other ones’. I’d waved that first envelope at Mo, joking I might run off with my ‘stalker’.

Mo looked jokingly distraught at the thought of me leaving him, and it gave me a thrill. It must have hit a nerve, because later that same night, after a few cheeky vinos, we’d had sex on the sofa whilst watching one of the Alien movies. We’d lost ourselves to a soundtrack of fake machine-gun fire and Ripley yelling ‘Get away from her, you BITCH!’

A second letter arrived a few weeks later. That one had been sad. The writer, going by the name of ‘N1Fan’, made a variety of confessions. No one understood them; no one loved them; their only solace was my books. My conscience pricked, I’d thought about writing back, an email at least, only to discover there was no return address, online or otherwise. There was no Twitter handle or website URL, either. Thwarted, that letter had gone in the recycling box, too. Perhaps all N1Fan needed was to get these feelings off their chest.

The third letter had been a marked change that reinvigorated all my previous misgivings. N1Fan’s previous melancholy had vanished, replaced by a petulant rage akin to a teenage girl’s, replete with an overuse of exclamation marks. In the letter, N1Fan accused me of being ‘too stuck up’ to write back. N1Fan also accused me of a number of imagined transgressions, as well as stealing an idea from an episode of The Bill.

I’d not been overly concerned – after all, no one else had picked up on the story’s similarity – but I was perturbed by the radical about-face in tone. The murders of Beatles frontman John Lennon, actress Rebecca Schaeffer and the attempt on American president Ronald Reagan’s life back in the eighties loomed heavy in my mind. What if I was in danger?

I’d finally called Carole.

‘Congratulations, you’ve arrived, darling! A crazed stalker. How exciting.’ Carole sounded a little worse for wear on the other end of the line, even though it was barely two o’clock in the afternoon. She’s the old-school type of agent, which has worked out well for me. A social animal, Carole’s schmoozing and long, liquid lunches have done DI Robyn Dallas proud, with my last book deal cashing in a five-figure advance.

I’d smoothed the letter out on the counter top. ‘Well, I’m not sure I’d say “crazed”.’

I already felt as if I’d overreacted. I’d spent a lot of time in therapy for anxiety over the years and discovered sometimes, just speaking these things aloud helped quiet my fears. That said, I always try to keep my panic in check anywhere near Mo, or my mother. Despite Mo’s reckless business sense, his personal life is ruled by Murphy’s Law, ‘whatever can go wrong, will go wrong’. It’s the one thing he has in common with Lindy. I’ve tried reason, but neither of them can be swayed from what therapists call ‘catastrophising’.

‘Well, make sure you keep the letters,’ Carole giggled like a schoolgirl. In her sixties, she still has a harem of younger boyfriends. I had visions of her in bed with a buff young intern, desperate to break into publishing. ‘And remember, if anyone threatens you, call me first. I have a friend at the Telegraph who will be all over that: “SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR IN FEAR FOR LIFE”.’

‘Erm, thanks.’ The sarcasm dripped off my words, but Carole had already hung up.

I turn the fourth envelope over. Sure enough, that same heart in its wobbly scrawl on the back. There had even been one on the back of the angry one, so that was no guarantee this wouldn’t be ranty or weird. I might as well get it over with. Taking a deep breath, I rip it open and pull the letter out:

Dear SJ Scherer,

Remember, I am your number one fan! The first time I saw your books, I felt impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you.

I see you live in Ilfracombe now. We should go for a long walk on the cliffs together. I’d make you cocktails then we’d watch the sun set. Oh, say you’ll be my walking partner SJ Scherer, please … or should I say Samantha? ;)

N1Fan xxx

I drop the letter as if it’s hot.

Two hours later and Caleb is awake, bathed and breakfasted and deposited in front of CBeebies in his sitting donut. As I got him ready for the day, I’d obsessed over the supposed fan mail, wondering if I should call Mo. But Mo is old-school, at least in his mind. He’s the protector, the provider. If I called him now, no amount of reassurance that I’m fine and Caleb is safe would soothe his anxiety. He would feel compelled to call my mother to come over and guard us in his absence. Feeding off his concern, Lindy in turn would want to call the police. Later, Mo would turn up from wherever he had flown off to, all panic and proclamations, telling me everything would be fine, like some kind of knight in a rumpled Armani suit.

When I’d received the first letters, I’d thought it was just one of those things. Writers get weird fan mail sometimes, it wasn’t a big deal. I’d tamped down my anxieties, let myself be swept away by Mo’s enthusiasm for the move back home. I’d been afraid of my past anxieties and insecurities following me back to Ilfracombe, just like they had run me out of town when I was a teenager.

I won’t be a victim. Not again.

Anger crackles through me, sending my limbs out in jagged shapes. I feel like picking up a cup or plate and throwing it at the wall, like a character in a TV show who’s received bad news. N1Fan knows my name, my real name, and I’m starting to get an idea of who might be behind this. It’s just her style.

Aimee.

Her teenage glare invades my brain. I can see her so clearly, transported twenty-three years in an instant: her blue, almost translucent eyes, round face, dyed purple hair. Her fingers full of rings, spread out as she outlines her challenge. Did she really think she could pick up where she left off? I’m not a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl any more. I’ve lived a lot of life since that disastrous night, the last time we saw each other. She’d been a bully then, pure and simple. But I’m no longer so easily cowed.

‘C’mon, or you chicken?’

The other two gathered around; we were in one of their bedrooms. Maddy played with her strings of beads, her dark brown eyes and smile as wide as a cocker spaniel’s. Arms folded, Ruby brought up the rear, sulky and obstinate, but nevertheless curious.

Aimee placed one hand on my shoulder. ‘There are penalties for refusing dares, you know.’

I take a deep breath, scrunching the letter up in my fist. I can’t allow this nonsense to occupy any more space in my brain. It’s already taken too much. I am a grown woman, I don’t need to worry about this juvenile crap. Aimee had demanded that everything stopped and started with her. That curled lip, those accusing pale blue eyes. But I am an adult now; I don’t have to dance to her tune any more.

I take a deep breath and remind myself of the facts. Nothing in any real terms has changed. The letter had been addressed to my publisher, just like the other three. This means that N1Fan doesn’t know where I live, even if they do know I’ve moved back to Ilfracombe. There is no real evidence to suggest the writer is even Aimee.

I’m still perturbed N1Fan has used my real name. How could the letter-writer have discovered I am SJ Scherer? I’m absolutely certain I’ve never used my real name online, nor have I revealed it at the few events I’ve appeared at.

There has to be a simple explanation.

I smile as the answer unfurls in my brain. I’d posted my picture online; I look my age, late thirties to early forties. There’s every chance N1Fan had simply guessed at a name beginning in ‘S’ and got the right one. A simple search online of popular girls’ names from 1979 would reveal a shortlist. The language choice was quite revealing, now I re-examined it: ‘OR should I say Samantha?’ I’d read that as prior knowledge, but it was far more likely it was a literal question. N1Fan could just have easily written ‘Sarah’ or ‘Sally’.

I decide to take my mind off my remaining disquiet and keep myself occupied. I check on Caleb, who is lying on his back, bashing his baby mobile with his feet. I smile indulgently to myself, before going in search of Mo’s tools. Well, I say Mo’s; it’s actually me who uses them. We play at traditional gender roles in our house, but it’s me who does the DIY, takes the rubbish bins out and removes spiders from the bath. Mo is much more likely to be found making Victoria sponges and flapjacks in the kitchen. That is, when he is home.

I decide to start with our bed: it’s still in bits on the floor, the header and footer leaning against the wall. Its many small metal parts are still in the box where we’d packed them over a month ago before transporting them from London to Ilfracombe. I roll my shoulders, feeling the painful click as I do so. I’m nearly thirty-nine and Mo is well into his fourth decade. We are far too old to be sleeping on the floor.

I search for nearly forty minutes. I look in all the obvious places: boxes in the garage; the potting shed in the ‘deceptively large’ back garden (the estate agent’s words, not mine); in the storage area of the eaves. No go. I release a frustrated yell. Some self-help guru I’d seen on YouTube had said it’s a good idea to acknowledge our feelings by expressing them as sounds. I’d been giving it a try but to be honest, it just makes me feel stupid. Do I express the feeling of stupidity as a sound as well? I could end up in a weird loop of crazy noises forever.

I try to think like a metrosexual business consultant who has never actually used a screwdriver in his life. But I still have no success. I’m vaguely aware I’m creating more mess as I go, but I let this irony pass me by.

As a last-ditch effort, I trudge downstairs to the coal cellar at the bottom of the property. I look around the subterranean room with its white-washed, stone walls. There’s a couple of boxes of random crap, but not much else. A smile spreads across my face as an idea comes to me. Mo has always said he wanted a ‘man-cave’, a space which is just his. This would be perfect. I would get it ready for him, a surprise for when he came home. What does a man-cave need? A telly of course; one of those mini-fridges, obviously. Maybe I could get a mini pool table. Then Mo would need a bookcase full of his beloved business tomes and guides. I could put his desk up in the corner, lug his favourite chair down here too. Maybe Mum would help.

As I climb the steep steps back up from the coal cellar, I make a decision. I should stop wasting time and just buy a new screwdriver. It’s well past nine o’clock, Dyer’s hardware store on the high street will be open. I’d been avoiding the centre of town, but I should just bite the bullet.

Caleb is glued to the television screen in the living room.

I force enthusiasm into my voice. ‘Hey, who wants to go out?’

Caleb claps, holding out his arms for me. He’s always been more sociable than me, just like his dad.

I grab my bag, keys and Caleb.

There’s hardly anywhere to park in Ilfracombe, just like I remember. I’m forced to do a circuit of the high street. Caleb and I sing along with his nursery rhymes CD as I drive straight through town, an incongruous soundtrack to my old haunts. I’d been avoiding going into Ilfracombe High Street, having my groceries delivered via the internet. I watch familiar milestones sail past.

Very little has changed. A wave of nostalgia hits me. This had been our group’s stomping ground. Shops might have gone, but there are the buildings and roads I recall. The Pendle Stairway cinema, now called The Embassy, flies past; we’d all crept in to see Basic Instinct via a side door there aged twelve. The Bunch of Grapes pub is next, where we’d gone to see local bands play, or sing on Open Mic nights. Next comes the Queens Hotel, with its famous Tardis bar; I’d had my first shot of flaming Sambuca there and set fire to my fringe. There’s a Costa and a Subway now, but the Swiss Cottage café is still open, its distinctive teapot-shaped metal sign swaying in the breeze.

I remember sitting there around a table with a gingham red tablecloth, laughing with my friends, drinking hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows. In my mind’s eye, Ruby is giggling, the beads in her braids tinkling softly. Maddy is in her usual Goth get-up, her . . .