Seaview House

SEAVIEW HOUSE PAULA HILLMAN Copyright © 2023 Paula Hillman The right of Paula Hillman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8331-7 Contents Love best-selling fiction? Part I Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Part II Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Part III Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Acknowledgements You will also enjoy: A note from the publisher Love best-selling fiction? Love best-selling fiction? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Facebook Twitter Instagram Part I Chapter One AUGUST 2018 There isn’t a windier island than Walney, according to its locals. They cling proudly to the notion that theirs is the lowest-lying, the narrowest and the most weather-worn island anywhere in the world. It lies, a beckoning finger of sandstone and salt marsh and dune, in the shallows of the Irish Sea. And central to it all is Seaview House. The place shimmers in the island’s collective memory, with its squared-off air of importance and its huge bay-windowed eyes. Every family has heard about the fish gargoyles, entwined around pillars on the stone porch. Many have admired the shell motifs cut into its red-brick façade. Most know it was a vicarage during its best years; some were even invited into its draughty office for youth groups or the preamble of weddings and baptisms. Jill Francis remembers every room, each memory lodged as a tribute to her survival. Today, as hot as any other in this drought-ridden August, she holds her breath as she runs past; the place is on her route around the island and hard to avoid. It’s just a house… it can’t hurt you. That’s the kind of thing she would say to her pupils. But Jill isn’t convinced. Trapped inside Seaview is her story, woven into the fabric of Victorian brick and white marble, a story of sea-blue and washed-out skies. She has never told it; to do so would be the end of everything she has worked for. Lucky then that no one else has access to her story. Apart from the other player. She shakes his image away. Most days she can run past Seaview and keep him at bay. Today, the heat-soaked breeze drags him out. Her black running vest sticks across her shoulders and she pinches at the fabric to free it. Sweat-drenched hair falls across her face. She turns to the sea and lets the wind do its work. Gulls shriek, catching at the warm currents of air. Her days are her own now school is over; there is nothing more pressing than thoughts of teatime and television. Passing Seaview every day allows control. It is just a house, after all, though boards cover the windows and a necklace of warning chains have surrounded the gardens for years. But the view it gives across the island’s channel can always pierce Jill’s heart. Bright rays of sunlight beat down, giving a texture to the water, jade at its high point, black at its deepest; through squinting eyes this could be the Caribbean. Jill has never travelled there, or anywhere else much. Travel unravels her, like an unfamiliar touch. On she runs. The bridge swings into view, straddling the channel in its gallant way, on thick, concrete legs. Jill is no longer an island person, saltwater mingling with her blood. It’s a good place to run, is all; running away is something different. A motorcycle chugs past, all cherry-red gleam and the rider’s blue jeans stretched out towards the front wheel. Nice, she thinks. Wind in your hair, patchouli in your nose, the past. Headteachers can’t be bikers. Her staff are still shocked she has her licence, never mind turning up on a bike. As she turns her head to look, her toe catches on an uneven paving slab. She lurches forward, trying to right herself but the momentum from her speed is too great. Her knees hit the ground first, then her left hip and thigh. A moment passes. She feels the burn and sting of grazed skin, the pain of jolted bone. Then the humiliation of falling in a public place. But no ordinary place. She is lying opposite the gates of Seaview House. Fear puts her on high alert. The control is shattered. ‘Do you need some help?’ A youthful voice, coming from somewhere above. She squints into the sun and sees a tall and slim outline. Then another. ‘I think I might,’ she gasps, then tries to sit up. ‘We watched it all happen. One minute you were running, the next, you’d hit the deck.’ Two young men are standing over her. One holding out his hand, the other shielding his eyes and firing up his mobile phone. ‘Shall I call 999,’ he says. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that.’ ‘Don’t be such an idiot,’ the other young man growls. ‘There’s no blood or owt. Well, maybe just a little bit.’ Jill takes his hand and hauls herself up. Though some of her muscles are painful, her bones seem to be intact, and she can stand without