Redemption Song

by Laura Wilkinson

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

`Engaging and lively, empathetic and addictive? I was hooked from the off? Sarah Rayner, international bestselling author of One Moment, One Morning `Redemption Song is a very evocative novel, which explores the idea of forgiving not just others, but yourself.  Through the intertwined lives of a group of damaged people, a real sense of hope jumps off these pages.  Clever and thought-provoking.' Araminta Hall, Richard & Judy Book Club author. If you lost everything in one night, what would you do? Saffron is studying for a promising career in medicine until a horrific accident changes her life for ever. Needing to escape London, she moves to a small coastal town to live with her mother. Saffron hates the small town existence and feels trapped until she meets Joe, another outsider. Despite initial misgivings, they grow closer to each other as they realise they have a lot in common. Like Saffron, Joe has a complicated past ? one that?s creeping up on his present. Can Joe escape his demons for long enough to live a normal life ? and can Saffron reveal the truth about what really happened on that fateful night? Love is the one thing they need most, but will they ? can they ? risk it? Redemption Song is a captivating, insightful look at what happens when everything goes wrong ? and the process of putting the pieces back together again.

Release date: January 28, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 287

Sample

Acknowledgements

As seems to be the way with me, there’s a long list of people to thank. The contributions of these lovely folk have made Redemption Song a stronger book. You have my heartfelt gratitude. Any errors, and distortions of fact, are all my own.

In no particular order:

Phil and Julia Cook of Portslade Baptist Church for welcoming a non-believer into their church and home, and for answering questions that, at times, must have seemed very stupid indeed. Grace and generosity under fire.

Jo Canon, author and doctor, and Ian Williams, graphic novelist and GP, for answering all things medical.

Nick Ellis for information and help with bat questions. If you’d like to know more about these fascinating creatures: www.bats.org.uk.

Paul Bacon for advice on legal matters, court procedure and sentencing. I have taken some liberties with police procedure and court sentencing to serve the plot. I hope you’ll be forgiving!

Fred Davies, aka the BigFella, for carpentry expertise.

The unnamed undercover copper for police procedure and a snippet of information that solved a whopping great plot hole.

My patient, and sensitive, beta readers: Katy O’Dowd, Julie-Ann Griffiths, SR, Norma Murray and Elizabeth Donnelly. You are superstars.

The entire team at Accent Press who work so hard for their authors. Enormous gratitude. Special mention to MD Hazel Cushion for her vision and energy, and to my editor, Greg Rees, who has faith in me even when I don’t and who believed in this story from the outset.

Sarah Rayner, bestselling author of One Moment, One Morning, and Araminta Hall, author of Richard & Judy Book Club choice, Everything and Nothing, for taking the time to read the manuscript and offering such generous quotes.

Big thanks also to the very many more friends and colleagues from real life, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram (we’d be here all day) who encourage and support me along each journey that it is the madness and joy of creating a novel. I’d be bonkers without you, assuming I’m not already.

And finally, my three lovely lads: the BigFella, Ginger1 and Ginger2. You don’t much care about the bookish stuff, but there’s so much love in your hearts, and that’s what counts.

P.S. This is a work of imagination. Coed Mawr is a fictional seaside town. It is inspired by the beautiful landscape of North Wales and in particular the resort town of Llandudno for which I have held a lifelong love. As a little girl, my grandparents often took me and my sister there during the long summer holidays. In Llandudno you will find a pier, though no art nouveau ballroom; you will find a cable car linking the two Ormes (the Great and Little) but you will not find tall trees on the cliff top shielding the town from the mountains; you will not find Devil’s Rise, nor Mr Roberts, Joe, Rain or Saffron. Like all the characters, they live only in this novel.

Forgive, and you will be forgiven.

Luke 6:37

Prologue

The couple stagger to the front door. Before he lifts the latch, he looks at her and says, ‘We’re good, aren’t we?’

‘We’re good,’ the girl replies, after a brief pause.

Outside, on the gravel driveway, a battered Peugeot purrs. It is out of place in front of this grand house, with its columns and porch. The girl leans towards the driver’s side window and notices, for the first time, how old her rescuer looks. Not old, like the people she meets every day, but middle-aged. Flecks of grey in his hair glitter in the dull, dead-of-night light; his jowls sag. He is tired – and no wonder – but he is still a handsome man. She notices the way women react around him, all fluttering smiles and sparkling eyes; she sees the way he responds, all compliments and charm. Lately he seems happier in the company of relative strangers rather than those closest to him, but she could be imagining this. After all, she’s not around so much now.

‘Hiya. Thanks a billion. You didn’t have to.’

‘Yes, I did. Get in the back. Boys in the front tonight.’ He smiles.

The car pulls away before she’s finished clicking her seatbelt on. He’s in a hurry to get home and it’s quite a long drive, certainly for this time of night.

‘So, the big match tomorrow?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Any of chance of winning? After a night like this? Not what you’d call the best preparation, eh?’ The older man laughs and the younger one joins in. There is mutual affection and respect between them. The girl feels sad and yet very, very lucky.

‘Who knows,’ the boy says.

‘You’re young and it’ll be good practice for the other big day this year.’

The boy reaches behind him and squeezes the girl’s hand.

They twist and turn through deserted country lanes and she studies the backs of the men’s heads, their outline and form. They are prime specimens, both of them. There is nothing to see out of the window, only the dense foliage of hedgerows, and the sky has clouded over; there are no stars in sight. They are travelling fast, in the middle of the road, and she is rocked from side to side. Her eyes feel heavy, and her head begins to loll, her neck no longer able to support its weight.

She is on the brink of sleep when a cry disturbs her.

‘Brake!’

She hears the screech of tyres, feels the tilt of the car. And she is turning, rolling, bouncing off the interior of the saloon, the roof is coming towards her. She hears a cry – it is hers. There is a crunch. Then, nothing.

Silence.

No. Not quite. The hiss of the engine. She is crawling out of the smashed window, on her hands and knees. Her palms are covered in blood but she cannot feel any pain. Her engagement ring is no longer on her finger. She can’t feel anything. The car is upside down, bonnet crumpled against a stone wall. A sheep lies dead at the side of the road, its small head at an impossible angle.

She hears moaning and crawls to inspect the front of the car. Both men remain strapped in their seats. The airbags haven’t opened. The car is old, hasn’t had a full service in years.

She begins to shake. It seems impossible, but she is alive.

Alive.

Nearly two years later…

Chapter One

Saffron pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor, head resting on the wheel, and turned the key for the umpteenth time. Zilch. Nada. Absolutely nothing. Not even the horrible screech of an engine trying and failing to catch. After slapping the wheel five times, she wrenched the key from the ignition and leapt out of the Standard, slamming the door behind her and kicking the wing on the driver’s side – hard – before banging her fists on the bonnet. Her foot throbbed; even Doc Martens couldn’t protect her toes from the force of her assault. Thank God these old bangers were built like tanks. The last car she’d driven, a modern one, was so flimsy she’d feared it might fly away in a high wind. It had reminded her of her father’s model cars; the motorised ones he took racing with the other geeks, a hobby lovingly mocked by Saffron and her mother.

A seagull shrieked overhead and Saffron jumped.

Damn those birds. Another disadvantage of living here. Shit! Mum. She’ll be worried.

She pulled her phone from her duffel coat pocket, hoping to find a local garage online as well as making the all-important call to let her mum know what had happened. No connection, of course. Nothing worked in this poxy place.

I only came here to be around for Mum.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ she yelled, hitting the bonnet over and over, voice thick with rage and frustration. Tears threatened. Fear of denting the car – it was a classic after all – and exhaustion, stopped her pummelling. She folded over the bonnet, rested her brow on the metal. The air was sharp; the engine had cooled already, the metal soothing against her dewy skin. Her throat contracted and her chest heaved with sobs. Lame. But she couldn’t stop. Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have described herself as a quitter or a fraud. But so much overwhelmed her these days and the truth, often mercurial, seemed more elusive than ever.

How was she to get home now? The day was closing in and the roads were icy, despite the so-called thaw promised on the news, and this road – if you could call it that, it was little more than a dirt track – was well shaded, particularly in the dip where the stone bridge crossed the river before the steep incline of the hill. Only a fool would attempt Devil’s Rise in slippery conditions; only Saffron. There’d be no passing traffic. Locals steered clear in this weather, and there were no tourists at this time of year. The coast road was their route of choice, regardless. She thumped the bonnet a final time.

‘You’re not going to get it started that way.’

She jerked upright. Had she imagined a voice? A male voice? No. The silhouette of a tall figure loomed in front of a beaten-up Land Rover. How come she’d not heard its approach? They weren’t smooth machines, not a like a Mercedes or a Porsche. She wiped away the remains of her tears, determined not to appear a useless cry baby. He walked towards her, raking fingers through brown hair. The sides were closely cropped – a number two, Saffron guessed – with a strip of weightier hair across the top. She noticed his torn jeans and donkey jacket. He looked a bit rough.

‘It’s not going to start any other way.’ She scowled, kicking herself for sounding so belligerent. This man was her only hope of getting out of there. Her salvation – or damnation. He might as easily be Satan himself.

You just can’t keep your big mouth shut, can you? Be nice.

Composing herself, she forced a smile. ‘I’ve tried everything.’

‘You want me to take a look?’ She noticed a pack of cigarettes poking out of his jacket pocket; heavy tar, judging by the gravelly voice. In hospital, she’d seen enough throats and lungs wrecked by smoking to know. A bad boy. Man; he looked at least thirty. He didn’t sound like a local.

She shrugged.

‘Open her up, then.’ He stroked the Standard’s bonnet, as you might a cat or dog; like something loved.

Saffron bent in and groped around for a lever. She couldn’t find one; she hadn’t got a clue how to open the damn thing. She understood the complexities of the human body: the skeleton, muscles, lymphatic and nervous systems. But an old car? No way. Head wedged beneath the steering wheel, hand groping about, she considered how she must look: backside in the air, pretending to know what she was doing.

‘You won’t open it from there.’

For the second time in minutes she jerked up, banging her head against the wheel in the process. Ouch. This bloke was turning out to be an almighty pain in the arse.

‘That must’ve hurt.’

She stepped aside, longing to rub her throbbing skull, but refusing to acknowledge her pain. He was smiling, enjoying her discomfort. A base impulse to thump him flashed, but repairing people was more her style than damaging them. So instead, she looked him in the eye, straight-faced, and admitted that she didn’t know how to access the engine.

‘So you’ve not tried everything,’ he said, stressing the ‘everything’, looking at her directly, grinning, daring her to return his smile. ‘There’s no internal lever.’

‘Seems not.’ She held his gaze but didn’t smile, and as she stared she noticed that his eyes were different colours: one light brown, one green.

Heterochromia iridum. How rare.

‘Like David Bowie,’ he said, raising an index finger to eye level.

‘What?’

‘The singer. Brilliant. Big way before our time.’

It was only as he moved to the front of the car, slipped his hand under the bonnet, above the grill, and the bonnet clicked open that she remembered Bowie reportedly had eyes of different colours. She thought about telling him she understood but chose to remain silent. She didn’t have to justify herself to a stranger, even if he did have nice hair and interesting eyes.

He’d not wanted to stop. But how could he not? It was cold, getting dark, and she was obviously in trouble. There might not have been another passing vehicle for hours, if at all.

Joe prodded a couple of cylinders and unscrewed the lid of the oil tank. At least, what he thought was the oil tank. He tried to hide his relief when it turned out he was right. He lifted the dipstick and inspected it: the level was good, that much he knew. Truth was, he knew little else about mechanics. He was a practical man – good with his hands; as well as being a skilled carpenter; he knew his way round a boiler, some basic electrics, and was useful with a paintbrush. But much as he enjoyed looking at and driving cars, the internal workings baffled him.

‘Engine’s flooded,’ he guessed, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘You’d never get her up the hill anyway. Not in these conditions.’ He smiled at the girl, again, despite himself. She was a strange one, standing there, hands on her hips, for all the world trying to look as if breaking down in the middle of nowhere as light was fading from a late-winter’s sky was no big deal.

Though she wasn’t Joe’s type – too lanky, lean bordering on skinny, dark hair with skin so pale you could make out the light blue veins mapped on her forehead – she was intriguing. Not that Joe had a type. No woman, that was his current preference, but once he’d seen her, swinging those long legs at the unfortunate car’s tyre, he’d been unable to drive by. He was a little spellbound, and when she’d looked at him, with those ice blue, furious eyes, well … She’d stirred something in him he’d not felt in a long time. Something more disconcerting than straightforward lust.

How old was she? She looked young. Twenty, maybe twenty-one, he reckoned.

Don’t be a lech, Joe. She’s angry, vulnerable. Probably got an ASBO hidden under those stripy tights. If they still have them.

A small voice inside his head muttered that the law had been altered.

‘Can I have a smoke?’ she said, pointing to the packet of Marlboros poking from his jacket pocket.

‘They kill you. Anyway, they’re not mine.’ He hadn’t intended to sound as forceful as he did, but he hated smoking.

The law has changed. Behaviour Orders or something now.

‘You’re not my dad,’ she laughed.

‘I’m certainly not.’ She was a stroppy one.

‘Where you headed? Coed Mawr?’ he said, more kindly this time. It was the only place she could be going – only locals knew of the short cut – though judging by her accent she wasn’t from round these parts. Surely not a tourist in February? She sounded like a Londoner. Was this another reason why he felt drawn to her: she reminded him of home?

‘Only one place this hill leads to,’ she said. ‘You going there?’

He closed the bonnet. ‘As you said, road only leads one place. Luckily for you.’ He sighed; he’d banked on being able to get the car started. That was stupid of him. He had no option but to take her with him.

Her voice raised an octave and she sounded as if she might cry. ‘You mean you can’t get this thing started?’

‘Not today. And that’s no way to refer to a beaut like this.’ He patted the Standard and wondered what a woman like this wanted with a classic car. It was exquisite.

‘But I can’t leave it here. My mum’ll kill me.’

Ah, that made sense; it wasn’t hers. Of course it wasn’t. Her anger was a way of disguising fear: she’d knackered her mum’s prized possession. Joe wanted to laugh.

‘We’ll roll it to the side here; it’ll be safe and I’ll come back with a rope tomorrow.’

Her brow furrowed.

‘Tow her to a garage, if she won’t start,’ he explained.

‘You sure there’s nothing we can do? It’s just … it’ll be such a pain … And how come you’re so sure you can make it in that?’ She pointed at the Land Rover.

Joe pointed at the deep treads on the wheels. ‘This motor’s built for all weathers.’

‘Seems like I have no choice.’ She stepped forward and slipped on the black ice. Lurching, Joe caught her by the arm, preventing her from hitting the ground. He held her until he was sure she was steady. She felt so fragile beneath his grip, like a wisp of air. With a temper like a hurricane, he imagined.

This close, he caught her aroma: patchouli. Normally, he hated that scent; it took him right back to his expensive, and loathed, private school where kids in the sixth form pretended to slum it by growing their hair and wearing handmade shirts from Peru, the powerful smell of the oil unable to hide the stink of money and privilege. But on her, it smelled good; warm and heady; in direct contrast to the chilly, distant young woman before him.

Once she was upright, she held out an outstretched hand. ‘Guess we should introduce ourselves.’

He hesitated. ‘Joe. Joe Jones. People call me JJ.’ He reached for her hand, but he was too late. She’d withdrawn it.

She waved instead. ‘Saffron. Saffron de Lacy. People call me Saffron.’

How did a young woman in a backend seaside town in Wales get a name like that? Joe wondered. Saffron. The name conjured vibrant colour, exotic spices, joy. This woman conjured graveyards, bloodless corpses, and angst with her heavy eyeliner, dark hair, and translucent skin.

‘Nice to meet you, Saffron.’ He rolled his arm and gave a deep bow. She almost smiled, and mentally he licked his finger and swiped the air. Point Joe.

After rolling the Standard into the layby before the bridge over the river, Joe hopped in the Land Rover, turned on the engine and then the heating while Saffron gathered her things. He wanted to make the journey as comfortable as possible and see if he could inject a little colour into those ashen cheeks.

To Saffron’s dismay, Joe’s motor couldn’t get up the hill either. It slipped and slid and made no progress upwards. At least it didn’t conk out in the process, but it did mean that they’d have to take the long way round to Coed Mawr, and that meant twenty-five minutes with him as opposed to ten. She tried the radio but couldn’t find a clear station and there was no sign of any CDs. She had no idea what they’d talk about. Her head was swimming with how she’d explain to Mum, who would be sick with worry by the time they got back. Perhaps she’d get a phone signal once they hit the main road. She gripped the handle above the window tightly, leant her head against her arm, and gazed at the heavy grey sky. She hoped Joe would take the hint and keep quiet. She couldn’t call him JJ; what kind of a name was that? It made him sound like a cheesy teen idol, or a rapper.

‘Looks like snow,’ he said.

So he couldn’t take a hint.

‘Ur-huh.’ She continued to stare out of the window.

‘Weather report got it all wrong today. A thaw they said.’

‘Ur-huh.’

‘Bet it’s pretty here when it snows.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said, tilting her head in his direction. Obviously, he wasn’t going to shut up, and the effects of a good upbringing were hard to shake off; she couldn’t be so rude as to ignore him completely. He’d been kind, tried to help, given her a ride home. Without him, she’d have been screwed.

‘How’s that?’

Saffron explained that it was her first winter here, it had been unusually mild so hadn’t snowed, yet, and it was, more than likely, her last winter here. So, no, she didn’t know whether it looked pretty all covered in white, but neither did she much care. She wasn’t planning to stick around for long. This was a gap before she went back to repeat her foundation year at one of the London teaching hospitals, Barts, King’s, UCL, she didn’t much care which; they were all good. Whichever one would have her in truth. Competition was fierce and she was no longer an ideal candidate.

‘So you’re a doctor? You don’t look old enough.’

‘I’m twenty-five this summer.’ After a pause, her indignation settled, she continued, ‘And I’m not a doctor, not yet. Right now, I’m not sure that I ever will be.’ She wondered why she was confessing; she’d certainly not meant to. It had slipped out. She’d not even told her mum she wasn’t certain she would return to medicine; they didn’t talk like they used to. There was so much, and nothing, to say.

‘Didn’t think it was possible to take a break like that. Medical training’s pretty intense.’

‘They sure as hell don’t make it easy. Anyway, how come you know so much about the medical profession?’

‘I don’t.’ He laughed. ‘Ignore me.’

She felt sick at the thought of going back. She’d need to put in extra work – catch up, and she wasn’t sure she was up to it any more; she hadn’t stepped inside a hospital for over six months. Her mind had been all over the place, what with the move and everything. She’d knuckle down soon; she had no choice. She couldn’t stay here for ever.

He must have sensed her unease because he said, ‘You’ll be fine. No one likes staying behind. But for what it’s worth, I think it’s better to get a bit of life experience. It’ll make you a better doctor, more empathetic. Experience a world outside of hospitals and pain and sickness. Same with teaching and any intense profession. There’s a danger of becoming very insular. If that makes sense.’

‘It does.’ She turned away from the window. ‘You sound like you know.’

‘Yup. I messed up my A levels first time round. Everyone else went off to uni; I stayed behind. Resented it for a while, but when I went to college, I appreciated it more, studied hard.’

‘What did you study?’

He laughed, dismissive. ‘Nothing useful.’

Saffron was surprised. He looked like a labourer; someone who’d have left school as soon as possible. His knuckles were calloused and his fingernails were a bit grimy.

You’re a terrible snob, Saffron de Lacy. He’s probably got a higher IQ than you.

And as she looked – really looked – at him, she decided that he was better than interesting-looking. She was about to push him on what he did study but before she got the chance, he pulled into the main road into Upper Coed Mawr, turned to her, and asked, ‘Where to, exactly?’

The honk of a horn; a screeching of brakes.

‘Keep your eyes on the road!’ she yelled.

‘It’s OK. Only a boy racer at the lights,’ Joe said, obviously startled by her reaction. ‘You OK?’

Composing herself, she reassured him she was.

‘So, where to now?’ he asked.

Oh hell. She’d forgotten to call Rain. She’d be livid when Saffron pitched up, relieved but furious.

‘Drop me anywhere. Everywhere is close.’ She needed time to gather her thoughts. Mum would be cross twice over: no phone call, and she wouldn’t want to think of her beloved car abandoned at the river’s edge overnight. She’d not wanted Saffron to take the car, but after some serious emotional blackmail Saffron had got her own way. Now, she wished she hadn’t. The bus would have been so simple, but she avoided being a passenger as much as possible.

He was insistent. ‘I’ll get the car tomorrow, come what may. Let me explain to your mother.’

‘I’m not five. Bit old for that, aren’t I?’

‘Sorry. You’re right.’

She shrugged and pointed in the direction of home. Correction: where she lived temporarily. This would never be home.

It had never been easy – introducing people to her mum, and though Saffron knew she was far too old to feel awkward, she couldn’t help it. She hated it. She hated her mum. She loved her mum. But if Joe did come in, Rain would curb her anger.

‘Well, if you don’t mind?’ she smiled at him and he returned her smile, nodding.

‘I won’t stay. In and out.’

‘Here,’ she said, pointing, before bending to grab her overstuffed bag from where it lay at her feet.

‘The vicarage?’ His surprise was evident.

‘Yeah. ’Cept, you don’t really call it that. That’s Church of England. We’re Baptists. I mean, Mum is. It’s called a manse.’ Saffron swung open the door and jumped down. ‘Come on then, if you’re coming.’

Chapter Two

The huge sign outside the church building proclaimed, Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Saviour. The church was plain, little more than a house, other than the large round window at its centre and the arched wooden door. To the left was another building – the church hall with a frayed banner draped across the front – and to the right, a house of pale brick, almost yellow, with a square bay window. Like the church, the house was shabby. Neglected, but still beautiful. The paintwork was in need of attention, some of the frames looked rotten, and the chimney stack was cracked. Mid-late Victorian, Joe thought, built about the same time as the church and most of the grander properties in the lower town.

Chapel, the Welsh call them chapels.

Saffron ignored the front door, with its coloured glass and brass knocker, and slouched down a narrow pathway running between the chapel and the house. Joe followed her through an unlocked wooden gate, after which the passage opened out into a garden, bare except for a small flower bed in front of the window, a thick yew in the centre of a frost-tipped lawn, and a gnarled wisteria at the far end.

At the back door, he waited patiently, saying nothing, while she scrabbled around in her bag for her keys. After several unsuccessful attempts to locate them, swearing like no vicar’s daughter ever should, she tipped the bag’s contents onto the concrete. There was still no sign of the keys.

She pushed herself up. ‘You must have them.’

It was an accusation, not a suggestion. But she was right. Joe recalled that he’d taken them – the bunch large enough for a gaoler – to lock the Standard. He raced back to the Land Rover, certain he’d thrown them into the space behind the handbrake; the space where he normally kept change for parking.

When he returned there was no sign of Saffron. He walked back to the street and noticed that the front door was ajar. After rapping the knocker, he gave the door a push. It swung open to reveal a wide hallway with a black and white tiled floor. He called out but remained on the doorstep.

Saffron appeared within seconds, waving him in. She’d removed her duffel coat and Joe noticed she wasn’t entirely devoid of curves. Still way too skinny though. He waited while she closed the door behind him, feeling uncomfortable and regretting his offer to give an explanation to her mother. It was awfully dark in there. It smelt of damp and old wood. He noticed a barometer on the wall and tried to read it. She stomped past him – the clumpy boots clattering on the tiles – and led him past a telephone table and into a cosy kitchen-diner thick with steam. The only notable feature was a huge Yves Klein print over the fireplace, its modernity out of character with the rest of the room.

Whatever Joe had expected Saffron’s mother to look like it was nothing l. . .