The Funfair

by Leah Pitt

Genres: Mystery; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

"A compulsive, page-turning thriller - kept me invested and guessing from start to finish. Loved it"- Jennie Godfrey, Sunday Times bestselling author of THE LIST OF SUSPICIOUS THINGS on The Beach Hut

The sweet smell of fresh popcorn. The circus music. The lights of the ferris wheel. The hand across my mouth.
THEN
Popular kids Rachel, Penny, Tom and Jake love it when the fun fair comes to their seaside town every year. It's always the best night of summer.
This year is extra special: it's the last fun fair before the high-flying group leaves for university and they plan to make it a fun fair to remember.
NOW
Rachel still lives in town, caring for her mother, avoiding everyone. There are rumours about her: how she was supposed to go places, how she never accepted her prestigious drama school scholarship. How she hates the fun fair.
When Penny, Tom and Jake arrive back in town to celebrate Penny and Tom's wedding, Rachel is faced with the group she was once so close to. Before long, the memories from that last carnival come back to haunt them... and Rachel is right back in the House of Horrors once again.
A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Beach Hut - perfect for your summer reading...

Release date: May 29, 2025

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

Rachel

2000

T he classroom was stuffy and noisy, the windows steamed up from the rain. Mr Simmons hadn’t arrived yet and everyone was talking loudly across the classroom at each other. I doodled ‘R 4 L’ on my maths exercise book, then drew a little heart around it. I was admiring my handiwork when someone scraped the chair beside me back and I jumped.

Tom sat down next to me, his face red and his pale blonde hair wet from the rain. His school shirt strained a bit across his stomach, showing a hint of soft pink flesh.

‘You okay?’ I asked, taking in his dishevelled appearance.

‘Football practice,’ he muttered, bending over and taking his maths book and pencil case out of his bag.

‘Since when do you play football?’ I asked in disbelief. Tom and I had been friends since Year Four and I had never seen him go near any kind of sports equipment.

‘My mum. She said I needed to start doing some exercise this term.’ His face went even redder and I felt my own growing hot in embarrassment.

‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, awkwardly. ‘Maybe Year Eight will be your year.’

‘When has any year been our year?’ Tom asked, rolling his eyes. ‘We’re losers.’

‘We won’t always be losers,’ I said, looking across the room at where Isaac Evans and Khalid Malik were sitting on Sasha Kennedy’s desk, both vying for her attention. Her skirt was rolled right over, showing smooth thighs. ‘We’ll only be losers if we never try and change anything.’

‘I see you’ve really changed,’ Tom said, pointing at the italics and heart I had drawn on my maths book. ‘Still obsessed with Liam Haughton, are you?’

I flushed and quickly picked up my pencil, rubbing the drawing out. As I did so, the classroom door opened. I expected it to be Mr Simmons, but it was Liam Haughton. My heart seemed to stop in my chest. Liam’s hair was wet, like Tom’s, but Liam’s looked like he was on a modelling shoot: it was all spiky and cool-looking. His blazer was slung over his shoulder and his shirt sleeves casually folded up to his elbows. For one second, his eyes seemed to meet mine across the classroom and I stopped breathing. Then I blinked and he was no longer looking at me. Isaac and Khalid were calling him, making room for him on their desk whilst Sasha quickly reapplied lip gloss. Liam ignored them, however, and stayed in the doorway, pulling out a brand new Nokia 3210 from his trouser pocket.

I turned excitedly to Tom, my heart racing.

‘Wait, do you play football with him, now?’

Tom narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously.

‘Yeah, so?’

‘Well, you can put in a good word for me, can’t you? Just mention how funny I am, or something.’

‘No way! I’m not doing that,’ Tom said, immediately. ‘I’ll get booted in the head. Also, I don’t have any breath left for talking, I can barely get up the pitch.’

I folded my arms and sat back in my chair with a huff.

‘Listen, if you want to speak to him, go and do it. You’re the one who said we should start trying to change things. Go for it.’

I bit my lip for a second, looking over at where Liam was now typing on his phone. With a sudden burst of adrenaline I got to my feet. Tom was right: I needed to change something, to make something happen. Now was the perfect opportunity.

I clumsily pushed my chair back and hurried over to where Liam was standing. My limbs felt weird and prickly, like they could just drop off.

‘Hey Liam,’ I said, coming to stop in front of him. For one second, he didn’t register my greeting: his eyes stayed fixed on his phone. My mouth went dry. Was he seriously just going to ignore me? Leave me standing here in silence in front of him? But then he looked up, his dark eyelashes mesmerising as he blinked at me.

‘Alright?’

‘Yeah,’ I said breathlessly, wishing I had thought to crunch a quick Polo first. There was a long pause and I could feel my hands shaking. Say something, I thought desperately. I took a deep breath.

‘I just . . .’ I began, but before I could say anything else, a paper spit ball came flying through the air, landing hard on the side of my head. I shrieked and immediately tried to claw the disgusting thing out of my hair, but it was wet and gooey. In the corner, Sasha and her stupid mates were howling with laughter. I looked over and saw Khalid holding a straw in his hand, rolled up paper on the desk in front of him.

‘Sorry Raquel,’ Sasha called loudly, her face red with suppressed laughter.

‘It’s Rachel,’ I snapped. When I turned back to Liam, instead of looking shocked, he looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. My face burning, I hurried back to my desk. Tom gave me a sympathetic look as I sat down and started scrabbling in my bag for my hairbrush and mirror.

‘Maybe it’s time to give it up, Rach,’ he said, as I finally located my hairbrush and started trying to get the disintegrating spit ball out of my hair. ‘It’s been years now. I don’t think Liam Haughton is ever going to notice you.’

Chapter Two

Rachel

Now

I wake suddenly, well before my alarm goes off. At first, I can’t work out what has woken me. Then I hear the creak of floorboards above me and the muffled sound of vomiting. I listen for a minute, my head lifted from the pillow, until there is another creak, followed by silence. Slowly, I kick the duvet away and climb out of bed.

I creep upstairs, trying not to make too much noise. The first door on the right, Dad’s study, is closed: neither Mum nor I ever go near that room, anymore. The second door along the hallway is ajar. I enter the room, which is dark, the heavy curtains blocking out the summer light. There is something unpleasant in the air: the warm, stagnating smell of body odour and unwashed sheets.

‘Mum?’ I whisper into the darkness. There is no answer from the bed. I walk further into the room, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. It has been fifteen years, but it is still strange, being in my mother’s bedroom like this. Uncomfortable to see parents in their softer, private states. Dad had been better at keeping her in a routine, making sure she wasn’t allowed to wallow for too long in the mornings, getting her fed and the hangovers cured as quickly as possible. I am a pale imitation of his caring nature. I can’t even begin to look after her the way he did. I am not sure either of us want me to.

As I approach the bed, I make out the unmoving shape of my mother. Even from this distance, she smells sharply of alcohol and stale cigarettes. I lean closer, my hands clammy, listening. Silence. I hold my own breath, waiting, unsure whether to reach out . . . and then Mum gives a low snore and rolls further onto her side. I sigh and my shoulders drop. She is fine. She is breathing. I creep back out of the room and close the door gently behind me. Tomorrow morning, no doubt, will be the same.

I leave the house an hour later, coffee thermos in one hand. Even this early in the morning, the salt-tinged air is already heating up. In the distance, the steep incline of the road provides a clear view of the sea, shimmering under the morning sunlight. Standing out against the horizon is the unmistakable shape of a Ferris wheel. Unmoving. Empty.

I begin walking down the sloping road lined on either side with grand, red-brick Victorian mansions. They were the most desirable houses in town, once. Four storeys, jutting bay windows, wrought-iron railings and intricately decorated archways over the porches. Now, a faint air of melancholy seems to hang in the air instead, the houses sad imitations of what they once were: loose slates on roofs, overgrown gardens, patches of flaking rust on the railings. Just like the rest of the town, the houses bear the hallmarks of better days gone by. The small seaside town of Hollow Bay, once a vibrant place to live, had been missed off the list of towns worthy of a commutable train link or trendy high street, like the nearby Margate or Whitstable. And so it was forgotten, like everyone who lived in it. Out of date. Irrelevant. 

As I walk, the summer air lifts some of the heaviness that clings to me from being in the house I have spent thirty-four years living in. I pretend, sometimes, that the house I am leaving is my own: with a bright, modern kitchen and a fridge covered in magnets and photos, leaving behind a husband and a dog, or even a child. That I will come home to the smells of dinner and chatter, perhaps the soft pop of a wine bottle being opened. Anything but the tense silence.

I reach the bottom of the road and turn right, where the promenade is separated from the sandy beach by a low stone wall. The main row of shops lining this end of the promenade have all grown tired and sad, either shutting down completely or becoming cheap takeaways or phone shops. As I walk, my eyes are drawn to one particular shopfront at the very end. A boarded-up restaurant, where a wooden sign above the door reads ‘John’s Catch’ in faded ocean-blue. Beneath this, in small, peeling letters: ‘Fish and Seafood Restaurant – Est. 2005.’ The paint has chipped away over the years and some letters have vanished. I can’t bear to look through the one sliver of grimy window that isn’t boarded up, to see reminders of Dad’s coastal charm vision: whitewash walls and distressed wooden tables and chairs. A restaurant forever waiting to be opened by a man who never arrived. It is just another reminder, as if the whole town wasn’t enough, that nothing turned out the way it was supposed to.

Chapter Three

Rachel

Now

Twenty minutes later, I walk into the front office of the small high-street law firm, Rowland & Associates, and put my bag down on my desk.

‘Good morning,’ Didi, the only other secretary trills, stirring her yoghurt pot. She is dressed in her usual attire: a black blazer and neon-bright dress that matches the colour of her nails. The phone rings, but she doesn’t make a move to answer it.

‘We don’t open for another four minutes,’ she informs the flashing switchboard.

‘Morning,’ I say, also ignoring the phone. My head is heavy from my early morning wake-up and I stifle a yawn. ‘Coffee?’

‘God, yes.’

I leave the secretarial area at the front of the building and head upstairs to the kitchen on the first floor. The office building is small and tired, made up of little more than a handful of rooms where the firm’s lawyers work, a basement full of old paper files and broken computers, the kitchen and one bathroom. The kitchen, like the rest of the floor, is painted a sickly pale yellow that reminds me of tobacco-stains, but it is bright and, with the windows open, you can just about hear the sound of the waves. I put the kettle on and water the wilting plants on the too-hot windowsill whilst I wait for it to finish boiling.

Back downstairs, I hand Didi a fresh mug of coffee and she smiles gratefully at me.

‘How was your weekend?’ I ask, sitting down at my own desk.

‘Oh, it was okay,’ she shrugs. ‘We’ve been trying to persuade Dad to get a new boiler before the winter, but he keeps saying no. It’s so frustrating.’

‘Why doesn’t he want one?’

‘Says he can’t afford it and he doesn’t want handouts. My mum’s new boyfriend said he knew someone that can get a discount but he went ballistic, said he wasn’t a charity case. He’s so proud.’

I feel a wave of sympathy for Didi: after Dad died, Mum and I were left with very little. Once his life insurance had run out, it was up to me to keep a roof over our heads. Mum was hardly in a state to work. I know I would have hated accepting help from anyone; not that any was offered.

‘Has he always been like that?’ I ask. Didi opens her mouth to reply but the door bangs open and Charles, the firm’s owner, walks in, his mahogany-coloured face – thanks to hours spent on the local sun-beds – screwed up in annoyance.

‘Three a.m. at the police station, representing some arsehole who decided his interview was the perfect time to tell his whole life story,’ he says, by way of greeting. His usually pristine grey hair is slicked slightly off-centre and his eyes are red. ‘Bloody alcoholics.’

Didi meets my eye and looks away, quickly. Most people in town know about Mum. But if Charles realises that he has said something awkward, he doesn’t show it. Not that he would be remotely bothered, in any event. He stops in front of my desk and pulls a blue legal pad out of his bag, dropping it onto my desk where it lands with a slap.

‘Get those attendance notes typed up, would you?’ he asks, already picking his bag up and heading towards the door.

‘With pleasure,’ I mutter sarcastically under my breath. Didi pulls a look of sympathy.

‘And Shelly McKenzie is coming in today,’ Charles says over his shoulder, ‘make sure you buzz me as soon as she arrives, don’t keep her waiting.’

Once Charles has gone Didi rolls her eyes.

‘Unbelievable.’

‘Don’t you just love Mondays?’

‘What did you get up to this weekend, anyway?’ Didi asks.

‘Oh,’ I say, caught off-guard. ‘Just . . . saw some friends. The usual.’

‘That reminds me, don’t forget about my party next Saturday,’ she says, as she flicks through a pile of files on her desk, looking for a particular one. ‘The weather looks a bit shit, but my friends are going to lend me a gazebo. You can bring whoever you want.’

My stomach knots. Didi and I had both grown up in the area, but she had gone to a school in another town, where her mum worked, so neither of us knew the other until she joined the firm two years ago. We had an immediate bond, but she’s been increasingly inviting me to things outside of work, despite how often I find excuses. This party is the latest one, and she made sure to ask about the dates I was free before she organised it.

I haven’t answered and I look up to see Didi watching me with an odd expression on her face.

‘You’ll have fun,’ she says. ‘My school friends are really excited to meet you.’

Her words feel loaded, as though she isn’t going to give me an out.

‘Sure,’ I say, already thinking of a million excuses to use before next Saturday. ‘I, uhh, I’ll be there.’

‘Good.’

Didi looks happy and I dismiss the small fissure of guilt that I have no intention of going: I don’t want to go to a party full of Didi’s friends from school.

I turn back to the post, trying not to think about the school friends I had had, once upon a time. I had also loved parties, once, too. But that had all changed, fifteen years ago. Don’t think about it. That is the last thing I want to think about.

Chapter Four

Rachel

2004

T he music pounded through the house, making conversation almost impossible unless you yelled in someone’s ear. It was hot, too, all the bodies pressing against each other in the lounge, dancing to the music. It was weird to see so many people crammed into my house, carelessly bumping up against my parents’ sideboards, standing on the sofa, knocking pictures on the wall so they were wonky. I would have to make sure that absolutely everything was put back tomorrow, before my parents got back from visiting Grandad in Essex. I looked around the room, hopefully, but didn’t spot who I was looking for. It’s still quite early, I told myself. There’s time.

‘Hey Rach,’ a girl called Chloe said as she danced near me. My eyes widened when I saw she was with some of the popular crowd who had just finished Year Thirteen. They were actually here, in my house. ‘Thanks for the invite. Tonight rocks!’

‘No problem,’ I said, as cool as I could manage.

‘I heard you didn’t invite Sasha Kennedy,’ Chloe said, her eyes going wide. ‘She’s furious at you.’

I shrugged and gave a fake-innocent look.

‘Must have slipped my mind.’

Chloe burst out laughing and went back to her friends.

‘Great party!’ Isaac Evans yelled in my ear, coming up to me, holding a beer bottle. His free hand drifted down the small of my back, skimming my behind in my denim skirt.

‘Get lost, Isaac,’ I said, wriggling away from him. ‘I’m not interested.’

‘You were interested last summer,’ he said, his face dropping.

‘I wasn’t interested, I was bored. Big difference.’

I left him in the lounge and pushed my way through the crowd, out into the kitchen. People called out to me as I passed, telling me what a great party it was. I smiled, smugly. I had been desperate to host a party for ages, jumped on the opportunity as soon as it arose. It was the done thing, to solidify your place in the social rankings. Which is exactly why I made sure not to invite Sasha Kennedy.

A group of people, including my best friend Penny, were playing beer pong in the kitchen: the wooden table was covered in spilled beer and cups were all over the floor. I glanced around, but the person I was looking for was still nowhere to be seen.

‘Rach, come join,’ Penny said, as she raised her arm and released the ping-pong ball. It bounced once on the table, arced through the air, and then landed just shy of one of the cups. The group erupted, and the full beer cup she was expected to drink was presented to her by one of the guys in our year. Penny squealed and grabbed my hand as she threw the drink back, her eyes screwed up.

‘Your turn!’ Penny said when she was finished, pulling me towards the circle and wrapping an arm around me.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I said, glancing towards the back doors. ‘Save some beer for me.’

Penny nodded and released me. I walked through the kitchen and out of the open back doors to where groups of people were scattered around the back garden in the warm June night. I scanned the groups smoking and messing around and felt my heart sink. Nothing.

I pulled my cigarettes out of my back pocket and lit one up, just as Tom appeared on the patio beside me. Over the past four years, he had carried on playing football and started going to the gym, too. The result was that his puppy fat was almost completely gone, though he still wore baggy shirts a lot, as though he hadn’t quite realised he didn’t have to hide his body anymore.

‘Hey,’ he said, tugging the packet out of my hand and putting a cigarette to his own lips. ‘This is a serious party. Have you seen Georgina Clarke and her friends are here?’

I nodded, unable to shake the sinking feeling of disappointment, even if the rest of the party was still a success. Tom sat down on the garden bench behind us and I joined him. He held out a glass of vodka and Red Bull, which we shared back and forth for a while.

‘When did this happen?’ Tom asked, looking around at the people laughing and chatting in the garden. ‘When did we become part of the popular crowd? No longer the weirdo and the fatso. And you, queen bee, no less.’

‘Other people haven’t come,’ I said, the same sinking feeling creeping over me, ruining the exhilarating feeling of hosting a successful party.

‘You’re not seriously talking about Liam?’

I nodded, reluctantly.

‘Wow, you really are hung up on him, aren’t you? What’s it been, like four, five years?’

‘Six, but who’s counting?’

‘Listen, there are plenty more fish in the sea. I mean you should know, you’ve done a hell of a lot of swimming the last year or two,’ Tom sniggered.

‘Hey!’ I said, hitting him on the arm. ‘Shut up.’

‘Speaking of fish in the sea . . .’ Tom said, suddenly looking a bit awkward. ‘Reckon you could put in a good word to Penny for me?’

I grinned. Penny had had her eye on Tom for ages but neither had approached the other one.

‘I don’t think I need to put in a good word, Tom. I think you just need to talk to her.’

He squinted at me through his cigarette smoke.

‘You reckon?’

‘Yes. She’s inside, go find her.’

‘Okay great.’ Tom stood up and chucked his cigarette on the floor. Then he looked back at me.

‘Are you going to be alright?’

I nodded.

‘Don’t worry,’ Tom said. ‘I’m sure he’ll come.’

Chapter Five

Rachel

Now

The next few hours pass in the usual blur of phone calls, typing up statements, and dealing with clients. At eleven, the door opens and a woman steps into the foyer wearing a tight, bodycon dress, her blonde hair poker-straight and her eyes hidden behind too-large sunglasses. Expensive tennis bracelets and diamond earrings sparkle in the August sunlight. Though she is in her early thirties, something about her outfit gives the impression of a child playing dress up in their mother’s clothes and jewellery.

‘Mrs McKenzie,’ I say, standing and buzzing her through to reception immediately. ‘How are you?’

‘It’s Shelly,’ the woman says, removing her sunglasses to reveal bloodshot blue eyes underscored by dark circles. ‘And I’m a fucking mess. I keep hoping I’m going to wake up, that this is just all one big nightmare.’

She sinks into one of the faded blue armchairs in reception, rubbing her temples with her fingertips.

‘Let me get you a coffee,’ Didi says in her reassuring tone and slips out of the room. I glance at the clock: Charles said to bring Shelly straight up but I want to give her a moment.

‘I spoke to my mum this morning,’ Shelly continues, looking up at me with wide eyes. ‘Do you know what she said? “I’m worried about you, dear, there’s a lot of innocent people in prison.” She’s been watching all these true crime documentaries, she’s convinced I’ll be next.’

I bite my lip as Shelly buries her face in her hands. The McKenzie attempted murder trial is one of the biggest cases the firm has ever dealt with. Shelly McKenzie – a wealthy woman from the next town over – is charged with the attempted murder of her much older husband whilst he slept. Shelly insists that she is innocent, but there was no visible break-in. No witnesses. The press are having a field day with the case and Charles is more stressed than ever: it was pure luck that he was the solicitor on duty the night that Shelly was arrested, but he now needs to keep the case, which is increasingly attracting media attention.

‘Everything is going to be fine, okay? You’ll get through this. Just one day at a time,’ I assure Shelly, echoing, I suddenly realise, the words my own dad said to me back when I was eighteen. I suppress the chill that erupts across my skin.

Didi reappears with a coffee for Shelly.

‘Shall I take you up to Charles? He’s ready for you,’ Didi says, with a gentle smile.

Shelly sniffs and stands up. She looks at me for a moment, her jaw tense. I feel as though she wants to say something, but she doesn’t know how.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ I say. ‘We’ll make sure of it.’

At this, Shelly’s tanned shoulders drop and a tight smile breaks through her stiff expression.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

Didi takes Shelly upstairs and I stand in the middle of the office for a moment, feeling jittery. Shelly’s case is everyone’s worst nightmare: something happening to the person you love, you being accused of the crime. For something to do, I pick up a cardboard box of files from next to my desk and make my way out of the room and along the hallway to a heavy wooden door at the very end. Reluctantly, I pull it open and, shifting the box to my hip, feel for the light-switch with my free hand. The lights flicker on with a soft humming sound, casting a dim orange glow across the metal spiral staircase leading to the basement. I swallow. I hate going down into the basement. It brings back claustrophobic memories of the darkness, of danger lurking in the shadows. Already I can feel pinpricks of sweat breaking out across my skin. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in the middle of an office building. Seeing Shelly McKenzie must have stirred something within me. Swallowing my irrational fear, I carefully make my way down the spiral steps, my palms clammy against the thin cardboard.

Once I am down into the dark, musty basement, I navigate the rows and rows of shelves holding cardboard boxes of files in alphabetical order and slot the one I am holding back into the waiting gap. The decades of old client files are supposed to be transferred onto the new digital systems or destroyed, but it is slow going and hundreds remain. Hundreds of stories, of police interviews, of trials.

On my way back, I pass the rows beginning with the letter K. There, on the shelf, is a file with my name on it. It is a thin file, faded over time, with only a small handful of papers in it. I have never gone looking for it in the nine years I have worked here, never taken it off the shelf. That file is the reason that I haven’t spoken to my school friends in fifteen years, the reason my own mother blames me for my dad’s death, the reason that it took me so long to get a job in town. It was only after Charles, who had recently moved to the town and taken over the firm, took a chance on me, despite my lack of qualifications. I doubt he even knows this file is here. I should have told them, really. So that they could move it somewhere confidential. But I have. . .