The Darkest Night

by Victoria Hawthorne

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Some secrets last for generations . . .

A bewitching and haunting story of family secrets - and the lengths some will go to protect them.

A MISSING WOMAN

When Ailsa Reid becomes the subject of a trial by media after an incident at the school where she works, she escapes to the comfort of her grandparents' house in Fife. But she arrives to find her grandmother, Moira - recently diagnosed with dementia - has gone missing, and her grandfather, Rupert, gravely injured.

AN ABANDONED CHILD

Desperate to ensure Moira's safe return, Ailsa must rely on the help of her estranged mother, Rowan, who abandoned her at birth. Tensions simmer between the two women as they attempt to piece together the lead-up to Moira's disappearance.

A TERRIBLE CURSE

But to move forward and find Moira, both Ailsa and Rowan must look to their ancestors, and to a story about witches burned on the hill above the Reid house centuries ago. Can they break the bonds of history in time to save their family? Or will the Reid curse be their undoing?

Perfect for fans of C. J. Cooke and Rebecca Netley.

Release date: April 25, 2024

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Now

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as headlights flash past on the other side of the motorway. They are mesmeric, like flames in the darkness beckoning a moth. It has been a long drive, and the now-cold coffee does little to revive me. I drain the cup anyway. The sun has already set; the longest night has been and gone, but the Scottish winter clings to the darkness like the final leaves to fall after an autumn storm. I’m almost there.

I think of Gran and Pop waiting for me in the warmth of the kitchen, a stew bubbling away on the hob, freshly made bread cooling on the counter. I can almost smell the shortbreads carefully arranged on a plate and picture myself dusting the sugary crumbs from my lips. The sat nav tells me there’s still an hour to go; I should stop, pick up another coffee and a bunch of flowers for Gran. I remember Pop telling me that when they got married, he’d promised Gran she would always have flowers, and throughout more than five decades of marriage, he has never broken that promise. For the past thirty years, I have helped him keep it. From picking wildflowers as a toddler, petals crushed between my clumsy fingers, to sending bouquets filled with guilt for every event I was absent for over the past two years. At first it was exciting, telling them that I would be in Brussels for Christmas and Paris for Easter with my new boyfriend. A summer trip to Spain, Greece in October. They hid their disappointment well, buried beneath their happiness that I was out in the world, exploring, expanding, seeking a love like theirs. But then it all came crashing down, and I hid myself away, too ashamed to reach out. Now I have no choice. I need the comfort of my childhood home, and the two people who are my grandparents in name but so much more in reality. The people who I hope, so desperately, will still love me, despite what I have done.

I pull into a service station and park up, then sit for a moment, watching people go in and out of the building, which is lit up like a funfair. I stretch out my spine, rolling my shoulders backwards and forwards. I can feel a knot developing on my right shoulder blade, a familiar ache from hours spent leaning over a desk, marking papers. The air is cold when I open the door, a burst of laughter from a car a few rows along making me jump as I tuck my chin into my scarf and hurry towards the entrance. As I’m washing my hands in the bathroom, I glance up and find my own eyes in the mirror. Noting the dark circles beneath them and the yellowish tinge of my skin under the harsh lights, I look away.

Arms loaded with flowers, fresh coffee and a chocolate bar, I make my way to the car, hesitating before opening the door and laying the flowers down on the back seat. Back on the motorway, I turn the radio up loud and start to sing along with the Christmas songs I have always loved, my way of forcing the panic that has accompanied me on this journey back into its box. I can’t afford to freak out, so I bury myself in happy memories. Christmas was always a special time of year at home. Images of Pop lifting me to place the star atop the tree flash through my mind, of Gran patiently untangling the lights and wrapping them around the branches. I try to focus on what is to come, instead of what is following behind me.

I manage to avoid the traffic around Edinburgh and soon I’m on the Queensferry Bridge, the water dark and fathomless beneath me. I open the window and inhale the scent. It is only now that I feel like I can breathe. I’ve missed the sea after years of living on the outskirts of London, trying to get my fill from the rivers that wind through the Home Counties. But it isn’t the same. I can always hear the siren’s song of the sea, calling me home, and now I’m finally here. I take the coastal road into the town I once called home, memories flashing through my mind of summer days spent on the beach, fingers coated in sand, seashells clinking in pockets. The caravan park is silent as I drive through, just a few windows lit, and then I see it, the cemetery which looms above the house. And on the cliff between them, an iron ring, hammered into the rock hundreds of years ago. The ring they used to hang witches from, where they burned them alive.

I shiver, remembering the stories from my childhood. I used to dream of them, the women they burned on that hill, and now I am one of them. There’s no smoke without fire, one parent wrote on the post that marked the beginning of the end. The turn of the tide. They were right; I had been the one to light the fire that would consume me, though I didn’t know it then.

As I pull into the driveway, half-hidden by overgrown pine trees, I notice the ambulance, its flashing lights turning the world blue. I get out of the car and stare into the yawning mouth that is the front door of my childhood home, my mind frozen in fear and confusion. Then there is movement, a burst of sound as two paramedics rush out of the front door, a stretcher carried between them. Suddenly my limbs are no longer frozen. I run towards them, pulling up as I realise who is lying on the stretcher. Pop.

‘What happened?’ I gasp, and the paramedic’s head jerks up as if I have surprised him, materialised out of nowhere like a ghost out of the mist.

‘And you are?’ he asks in a thick local accent, though he isn’t anyone I recognise.

‘Ailsa Reid. I’m his granddaughter. This is Rupert Reid.’

The paramedics don’t stop moving as I speak, and I follow along beside them, peering down at Pop. His face is covered by an oxygen mask and his eyes are closed, and is that . . . blood?

‘What happened?’ I ask again.

‘We got a call about twenty minutes ago to say a man had suffered a blow to the head. No other information.’

‘A call? From who?’

The paramedics are lifting Pop into the back of the ambulance now. ‘They didnae leave their name.’

‘Where are you taking him? Can I come with you?’ I move towards the steps but then I remember Gran. She must have been the one to call them. ‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ I ask the paramedic, who is hooking Pop up to more machines. He glances at me with something like pity before he speaks.

‘No one else. We’re away to Kirkcaldy, you can meet us there.’ And then the doors are closing and Pop is gone.

I run into the house, switching on the lights to check each room. The sitting room at the front of the house is empty, as is the largely unused dining room. I check the downstairs toilet and even the cupboard under the stairs before going into the kitchen. I hit the light switch and it takes a few seconds for my brain to realise what I’m seeing. Blood on the tiles next to the sink, a puddle spreading across the floor towards me. So much blood. My hand moves to cover my mouth and I realise I am trembling. I force myself to look away.

The table is in disarray; the saltshaker has been smashed, granules and tiny shards of glass littering the surface. A mug is on its side, a pool of tea leaking from the mouth. There is no sign of Gran. I turn and run back through the hall, taking the stairs two at a time, and push open the door to my grandparents’ bedroom. The light is already on, the room as neat as it always is. No signs of bags being packed; I throw open the wardrobe to check for missing clothes, but it all seems to be there. I cross the room and inspect the dressing table. It looks like all of Gran’s toiletries are still there, the bottles of perfume neatly lined up. So where is she?

I check the other rooms, and when I get to my old bedroom, my eyes start to fill with tears. Someone has attacked Pop, and Gran is missing. Did they take her? Or did she . . .? Gran’s fuse has shortened quite dramatically of late, the frustration and fear since her dementia diagnosis balling up inside her and turning to fury, but could she really do something like this?

No. I sink down onto my old bed, my head in my hands as I try to regulate my breathing. Pop must have fallen, and Gran must have been out when it happened, at the shop getting something she’d forgotten, or maybe buying us a fish supper. She could return at any time, warm parcels in hand, a can of Pepsi bought specially for me, which Pop will try to take sneaky sips of. I should stay here, shouldn’t I? In case she comes back. We should go to the hospital together. But then who called the ambulance?

I lift my head, exhaling slowly as I open my eyes. The room has barely changed since I left, though there isn’t a speck of dust on the bedside table, and the floorboards have been swept and mopped. The bedding is fresh too; I can smell the lavender scent of Gran’s washing powder. She’ll be back soon. I should go downstairs and put the kitchen back together before she returns, but the thought of cleaning up Pop’s blood makes me feel nauseous. Should I call the police? I slide my phone out of my pocket then hesitate, the idea of heavy boots and buzzing radios and the cold metal of handcuffs making my head swim. She could be innocent. She could be guilty.

My eyes find the window and the dark outline of the church against the sky. I can just see the edge of it from here; I stand and peer out of the glass, craning my neck. Our nearest neighbours are a little way down the road, a cluster of mid-century buildings with paved driveways and neat hedges. So different to this house, which stands in the middle of the hill as if carved out of the cliff face. Some of our ancestors are buried in the graveyard above, visited by Gran every week, fresh flowers propped against the headstones. Alastair, Selina, Elspeth, Cordelia. So many names, so much history. Gran has carefully traced the family back through the centuries, printing page after page and sticking them in the book she’d creatively named The Reid Family.

I turn to the bookcase in the corner, running my eyes down the spines of beloved tales until I find it, nestled between my collection of Point Horror and a copy of The People of the Sea. I smile at the memory of Pop reading those folk stories to me, tucked up in bed or camped out under the stars. As I pull out the Reid book, something falls out, dropping to the floor. I reach down to pick it up, turning it over in my hands. It is smaller, A5 size, with thin pages. I flick through it, then almost drop it when I hear a door slam downstairs.

‘Gran?’ I call as I descend the stairs, almost tripping halfway down and only just catching myself on the banister.

‘Careful, hen,’ a voice says. ‘You’ll break yer neck.’ The woman steps into the light and I freeze. I haven’t seen her in years, and yet her features are burned into my mind so that I recognise her instantly. Rowan. My mother.

I stare at the outline of the woman framed in the doorway. My mother, though I do not call her that and she doesn’t call herself that either.

The sky behind her is leaden, thick clouds heavy with rain covering the stars, and the sea rages against the wall like a bear trying to escape its cage. The cliffs to the right loom over us as I take her in, this woman who gave birth to me thirty years ago, and who abandoned me less than a week later.

‘Ailsa,’ she says in her soft, breathy voice, and I feel something tighten inside me, my frayed nerves turning to something I am more familiar with: anger.

‘What are you doing here?’ The words are sharp and I see her flinch. We have never pretended to be mother and daughter, and I haven’t seen her since I moved to the outskirts of London and cut all contact with her for good.

‘What’s happened here, Ailsa?’ she asks. ‘Where’s your gran?’ She doesn’t call her ‘Mum’ either. I wonder when she stopped.

‘What are you doing here?’ I repeat, slowly, biting the words out. I feel my hands clench into fists by my side and I force myself to relax them.

‘I’m early,’ she says, cocking her head at me like an exotic bird, ‘but I’m here for the dinner.’

Christ. I’d forgotten all about the sodding dinner. This was to be Gran’s last birthday at home before she moved into a care home, and it dawns on me that she wanted everyone to be here, despite what had gone before. Uncle Doug will be on his way up soon, and I’ll have to explain it to him too. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath before speaking.

‘Something’s happened,’ I whisper. ‘Pop, he . . . He’s gone to hospital. He was attacked.’

Something flits across Rowan’s face. ‘Where’s your gran?’ she repeats.

‘I-I don’t know. She’s not here.’

‘What do you mean, she’s not here? Where is she then?’

My fingers tighten around the banister as I fight the urge to shout at Rowan, this so-called mother, this so-called daughter who has been neither to anyone. I can’t remember the last time she visited me here, and she has never been to my flat down south. ‘I never set foot in England if I can help it,’ she would say if I asked, which I wouldn’t.

‘Ailsa?’ Rowan takes a step forward, her hand reaching out then pausing before her fingers touch mine. ‘Let’s stay calm, aye? She has to be somewhere.’

‘She’s not in the house,’ I tell her, swallowing my irritation. ‘Upstairs is empty and the attic is locked. I don’t think she even knows where the key is.’

‘Let’s check the garden then.’ Rowan turns to the pegs behind the door, her hand hovering over a long navy-blue coat. ‘Is this hers?’

I stare at it as if I can’t quite believe it’s there, hanging on the peg like any normal day. But this is not a normal day. My grandfather has been attacked and is on his way to hospital. My grandmother is missing barely a week before Christmas, and she’s left her coat behind. I lift it up to discover her handbag nestled beneath it, her purse inside and, at a glance, nothing else is missing. I find her house keys and car keys in a side pocket, though she hasn’t driven for a few years. Panic flickers through me.

‘The garden,’ Rowan says softly, and I push past her, barely stopping to slip on my shoes before throwing the back door open and stalking into the garden. It is a long space with a small patio by the door and overgrown bushes along both sides. A rickety shed leans against the rear fence, and a pile of kindling is stacked up beside the log pile, waiting to be burned. A large outbuilding, which used to be a doctor’s surgery, sits crouched next to it, windows dark with grime.

The outside lights flicker on and illuminate the patio as I cup my hands around my mouth and call Gran’s name. A bird startles from a bush beside me and takes flight, wings flapping, to the woods beyond the back fence. I walk the length of the garden, taking out my phone and switching on the torch as the darkness grows thicker around me. I reach the gate and turn back, my eyes on the kirkyard above the house, the gravestones sticking out of the ground like rotten teeth. I suppress a shudder.

‘The gate is locked,’ Rowan says, fingering the sturdy bolt Pop installed a few years ago.

‘Fuck,’ I say. I know Gran couldn’t have gone through and reached over to lock it behind her; she’s barely five feet tall, and her hands are so arthritic she sometimes has trouble opening the milk, let alone wrestling with a metal lock. ‘Fuck.’

Rowan turns back to me. ‘I’m sure she’s fine, Ailsa,’ she says.

I glare at her. ‘Are you? And why would that be?’ She stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. ‘She has dementia, Rowan. Sometimes she doesn’t even know her own bloody name. She’s out there, somewhere, by herself, with no coat and no keys, and no way of contacting anyone.’ I close my eyes and try to breathe. Panicking won’t get us anywhere. I need to calm down. I need to think. Where could she be?

I feel Rowan come up beside me, imagine her hand fluttering in the space between us, unsure. ‘I just want to help,’ she says, and I open my eyes. ‘Why don’t we pack a bag for him? You can take it with you, when you go to see him.’

‘Him,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I suppose you don’t have a name for him, do you? Not even Dad?’

‘I called him Poppy once,’ she says in a small voice, and something about her demeanour makes me stop, water sprinkling over the flames of rage. She moves towards me and I let her take me by the arm and lead me back into the house. ‘Come on, we need to get you warmed up. You’re freezing.’

And at her words I begin to tremble, my teeth chattering. I allow her to guide me into a chair at the table and watch as she fills the kettle with water and opens a cupboard for mugs. She knows where everything is, but of course she does. Nothing has changed since she left.

While the kettle boils, Rowan takes out a tin and begins to roll herself a cigarette. As she brings the paper to her lips, I reach out and take two cigarettes from a pack on the side – dementia has erased Gran’s memory of giving up almost twenty years ago, an argument we decided we couldn’t win – and hold one out to her. She takes it tentatively, as if I might snatch it away again, and tucks it behind her ear while she makes the tea.

‘Sugar?’ she asks.

‘Two,’ I say. She stirs it in then places a mug in front of me, her own cupped between her fingers as she slides onto the chair opposite. We are both ignoring the blood in the corner, as if it might go away if we don’t look at it. She lights her cigarette, then holds the lighter out for me. I lean across the table and touch the end of the cigarette to the flame before sitting back. I hold the smoke in my lungs, fighting against the urge to cough, and stare up at the ceiling. There is a crack running along the middle, from the window to the light fitting, and I trace it with my eyes, wondering how long it’s been there.

‘Ailsa.’

I snap my gaze back to Rowan, suddenly annoyed with how my name sounds in her mouth. She hasn’t lost her accent, despite spending the past thirty years travelling the globe. The last I’d heard, she was living in Spain. I remember Pop once saying that she reminded him of his own mother, who had been born into a nomadic tribe in Australia. A wanderer, he’d called her. Deserter, I thought but didn’t say.

I exhale loudly, smoke pouring from my nostrils as I consider my words. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ I say eventually. ‘I turned up and the ambulance was already here.’

‘Was it his head? Did he have a fall?’

‘Yes. I don’t know.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I see her blow a curl out of her face. Her hair went from the same dark red as mine to grey when she was in her thirties, according to Gran’s photos. I touch a hand to my own hair, wondering if it will soon start to change.

Rowan finishes her cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray on the table between us. My gaze is drawn to one of the butts lying at the bottom, a smear of pink lipstick on the edge. Gran’s lipstick, the only colour she wears. But she doesn’t often wear makeup. Was she expecting to go somewhere? And then it hits me, a wall of sadness and exhaustion that makes me feel as if all the air has left my lungs. She’d dressed up for me.

In a rush I get up and open the oven door, finding the pie I knew I’d find, being kept warm inside. In the fridge is a bottle of Pepsi, something Gran only ever buys when I’m in the house, and a lemon tart on the bottom shelf. She’d been preparing a welcome-home dinner for me. She’d baked a pie and put on her lipstick and, at some point, maybe, she’d bashed her husband over the head.

I sit back down with a thud, pushing the heels of my hands into my eyes to try to dispel the images flashing through my mind. If only she knew why I had really come. If only she knew what I was going to ask of her.

‘Maybe you should try to sleep,’ Rowan says, glancing up at the clock. It is gone midnight. ‘It’ll be too late for visitors now anyway.’

Exhaustion suddenly sweeps over me, weighing down my limbs. ‘I’ll go in the morning,’ I murmur, trying not to feel relieved. Then I remember I have to call Doug.

*

I find myself in their room the next morning. Gran’s bed creaks beneath my weight as I sit down, eyes bleary from a restless night. The house is silent; I picture Rowan asleep on the sofa downstairs, a threadbare blanket thrown over her. I run my fingers across the pillows, the scent of lavender and the purple shampoo Gran has used for years hitting my nose. I close my eyes and picture her, this woman who is both grandmother and mother to me. I know her face as well as I know my own. I could draw each intricate line, every wrinkle at the edge of her eyes and around her mouth. The dressing table is as tidy as ever, bottles of perfume dust-free and neatly arranged, what she calls her ‘lotions and potions’ stacked in one corner. A jewellery box, a small tub of hair pins. A place for everything and everything in its place. But she is not here, and neither is Pop.

I drop my head into my hands, guilt flooding through me. If I’d moved back as soon as we all realised the dementia was getting worse, I could’ve supported her better. They were so proud of me for qualifying as a teacher, for landing the perfect job, dating the perfect man. They kept the postcards I sent from our holidays pinned to the fridge beneath ancient magnets. They pushed me to go, to pursue my dreams, because that’s what good parents do, but I should have come home sooner. I should have been here for them like they have always been there for me. If I’d been here, maybe I would have seen that something was wrong long before something like this happened.

And maybe you would never have met Andy Wright, a voice inside my head says. I jump up, the thought sending shivers through me, the name a physical thing I feel the need to get away from.

Pulling a duffel bag out from under the bed, I move to Pop’s side and open the top drawer, where I know his mobile will be. He rarely switches the thing on, so it’s bound to have some charge. I slip it into a pocket along with the tub he uses to store his dentures overnight, then I move over to the drawers and stare down at his clothes neatly folded away, wondering where to start. How long will he be in hospital for? Is he even awake? After a few moments, I grab some socks and underwear, some T-shirts and a pair of jogging bottoms, and stuff them into the bag, throwing his slippers on top. In the bathroom, I find a new toothbrush in the cabinet and a half-empty travel-sized toothpaste underneath the sink, and an unopened bottle of shower gel. Lemon, his favourite. The lemon tart would have been a treat for him, too.

I pause at the top of the stairs, the bag slung over my shoulder, and feel my vision blur. Is this real? It can’t be real. It feels lik. . .