The Weekend

THE WEEKEND L. H. STACEY CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Acknowledgments More from L.H. Stacey About the Author The Murder list About Boldwood Books For Aunty Kay, my godmother. You've always been there, looking out for me and steering me in the right direction. Thank you x PROLOGUE LIZZIE Ten Years Before As I look up, I notice just one or two tiny stars. They’re shining at me like diamonds, poking through a grey and overcast sky. One where clouds float erratically across the moon, giving the sky an eeriness all of its own. Staring intently, I realise that the sporadic sound of music can still be heard from within the grand hall of Kirkwood Manor and that the double doors have been flung wide open to allow the air to circulate around large, stuffy rooms. Spotting the vocalist, I watch the way he walks to the doors and pokes his head through them in a meagre attempt to gauge how many are actually listening. Turning to the other two musicians, a keyboard player, and a guitarist, he seems to begin a debate. One about whether they should continue or whether they should pack up their instruments and call it a night. … after a few whispered words, the odd nod, and a smile, they continue to play, even though the house has now emptied of over a hundred or so inebriated people. Most of whom had recently graduated and in a last flourish, had spilled out and into the grounds or dissipated into the night with only the left-over litter, the empty bottles of both wine and champagne that had been left scattered all over the grounds, the last reminder that they’d been there at all. Whereas, my few remaining friends had begun a number of sordid, hedonistic parties. None of which looked as though they’d be ending any time soon. Smiling, and imperiously, I swim though putrid smelling water, until I’m central to the lake. The chill of it has seeped deep into my naked body and through dazed, intoxicated eyes I try to focus on the fire baskets that are scattered around the gardens. I watch the sparks that shoot wildly upwards in colours of bright orange and red and I stare at the musicians through the inferno of fire, all the time imagining their music bouncing across the water towards me like huge, animated characters, and in my mind’s eye they’ve taken on the form of quavers and crochets. Inflated like the biggest of helium balloons. All different in size. And while laughing at how ridiculous it all seems, I take wide eyed pleasure in the eerie reflections of an overhanging willow tree which reaches out and over the lake. It has long, spindly branches that droop downward, until they dip themselves into the water, in a place where the leaves keep falling, to create a dangerous and boggy edge to the lake. ‘Thomas… where are you?’ I shout as loud as I can. I can’t understand where he’s gone, why he doesn’t answer, or why I’m alone. But quickly, I disregard the thought, throw my head backwards euphorically and immediately I feel the coldness of the water against my scalp, only to feel something flutter past me. It makes me jump nervously and with my mind in overdrive, I desperately try to imagine what it might have been. I try to remember what fish I’ve seen in the past, as opposed to the more dangerous ones I’ve heard the boys constantly joke about. ‘Watch out for the bottom-biting pike.’ Henry had once joked, ‘You don’t want him grabbing your arse, now do you?’ The thoughts flash repeatedly through my mind, as the bright, well-strung tree lights that were scattered around the garden’s perimeter suddenly begin to dim. It’s as though they’re being switched off in a strict rotational order and as I watch it happen, a deep sadness overtakes my thoughts. The lights had been pretty, and although it was still the middle of summer, it was now past midnight and since darkness fell, they’d been blinking repeatedly, giving the whole garden a look of Christmas and now I can’t do anything but watch despairingly while all the time using my arms and legs against the water to spin myself around, as one string after the other goes dim and then dark. Sighing, I battle with the pond weed that’s begun to tangle itself around my ankle. Deciding that it’s time I got out of the water, I kick it away and move tentatively towards the embankment, all the time using the house as a bearing I slide my feet against the thick silt that covers the bottom of the lake. It’s a feeling I don’t like, and I worry about what I’ll stand on. What lies deep beneath the surface? I think back, remember all the things that had been carelessly tossed into the water over the summer. All the things we purposely wanted to lose. Holding out cautious fingers, I reach for the old wooden diving platform, but quickly turn away as I spot partially naked bodies lying between the reeds. They’re illuminated by the fire baskets, prone, all curled up together in a tangled mass of arms and legs and I try to decipher who is who. Certain parts of the