No Other Darkness Read online

  Praise for No Other Darkness

  “Last year, Sarah Hilary’s Someone Else’s Skin was acclaimed a superb debut. It was no fluke. No Other Darkness is just as excellent, and DI Marnie Rome is a three-dimensional character of an emotional depth rarely encountered in the world of fictional cops.”

  —The Times (London)

  “At the center is a queasily equivocal moral tone that forces the reader into a constant rejigging of their attitude to the characters. And did I mention the plotting? Hilary’s ace in the hole—as it is in the best crime thrillers.”

  —Financial Times

  “Unnerving and compelling.”

  —The Lady (London)

  “Riveting … Sarah Hilary delivers in this enthralling tale of a haunted detective, terrible crime, and the secrets all of us try to keep.”

  —Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “An exceptional new talent.”

  —Alex Marwood, Edgar Award–winning author of The Wicked Girls

  “Truly mesmerizing from its opening page to its thunderous denouement. A haunting, potent novel from a bleakly sublime new voice.”

  —David Mark, author of the DS McAvoy series

  “Sarah Hilary cements her position as one of Britain’s most exciting and accomplished new writers. Complex, polished and utterly gripping, this is a book to make your heart pound.”

  —Eva Dolan, author of the Zigic & Ferreira series

  Praise for Someone Else’s Skin

  “Fans of Val McDermid and Ian Rankin will love this tremendous debut. Someone Else’s Skin puts Sarah Hilary and DI Marnie Rome squarely on the map. A gripping, disturbing examination of domestic violence with gravitas in spades, this book haunts you well after its finish.”

  —Julia Spencer-Fleming, New York Times bestselling author of Through Evil Days

  “A truly engrossing read from an exceptional new talent. Hilary writes with a beguiling immediacy that pulls you straight into her world on the first page and leaves you bereft when you finish. Intelligent, emotional, and totally unexpected in terms of where it goes. I truly loved this book.”

  —Alex Marwood, Edgar Award–winning author of The Wicked Girls

  “I briefly interrupt my Internet detox to say thank you for sending me Someone Else’s Skin. Finally finished it this morning. So brilliantly put together, unflinching without ever being gratuitous … and I love the way Sarah writes—every other page has a line I wish I’d thought of myself. It’s the best crime debut I’ve ever read and deserves to be MASSIVE.”

  —Erin Kelly, author of The Poison Tree

  “If this first entry is anything to go by, Hilary’s sense of plot and subtle character building will make the DI Marnie Rome series one to watch.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “[Hilary] skillfully interweaves multiple viewpoints on the way to the mystery’s unsettling conclusion.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Gripping and full of graphic details about the lives and psychology of her characters, both abusers and their victims. You might be surprised at the end to learn which is which.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “A supurb debut and an impressive new cop-heroine, modern, passionate, and mixed-up.”

  —The Times (London)

  “A tense, deep, and dramatic tale of domestic violence.”

  —The Independent (London)

  “An intelligent, assured, and very promising debut.”

  —The Guardian (London)

  “What an entry on to the thriller scene Hilary has made with Someone Else’s Skin. She writes deftly, unobtrusively, subtly drawing her readers in… . It’s the story that really drives this novel, though, and this is a corker: twisty, tricksy, and, on occasion, seriously scary. This is an extraordinarily good debut.”

  —The Observer (London)

  “There’s an accomplished writer learning her trade here, and it richly deserves to succeed.”

  —The Daily Mail (London)

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  SOMEONE ELSE’S SKIN

  Sarah Hilary lives in Bath with her daughter, where she writes quirky copy for a well-loved travel publisher. She’s also worked as a bookseller, and with the Royal Navy. An award-winning short story writer, Hilary won the Cheshire Prize for Literature in 2012. No Other Darkness is her follow-up to Someone Else’s Skin.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  penguin.com

  First published in Great Britain in digital format by Headline Publishing Group 2015

  Published in Penguin Books 2015

  Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Hilary

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ISBN 978-0-698-15116-1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Colin Webber

  Cover image: Peter Dazeley/Getty Images

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise for No Other Darkness

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  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

  PART TWO

  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

&
nbsp; 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

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  For my mother, the best in the world

  Five years ago

  Fred’s crying again, a snotty noise with a whine in it, like the puppy when she’s shut outside. Archie’s the oldest so it’s his job to take care of Fred when Mum and Dad aren’t around, but he’s fed up of drying Fred’s tears and wiping Fred’s nose. Most of all, he’s fed up of telling Fred it’s going to be okay. Archie doesn’t like telling lies, especially not to his little brother.

  Fred’s only five but he’s got a way of looking at you like the puppy when he knows you’re lying. ‘No more scraps, girl. All gone,’ but Budge always knew Dad was lying and she started whining even before he shut her outside. There’s a smeary spot on the sliding door where she put her nose when she looked at you, begging to be let back in.

  ‘I want Mummy,’ Fred hiccups. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  He’s twisted the sleeping bag so that Archie can’t see the zipper. There’s a long dirty streak up the side of the bag where the cement floor’s rubbed. The sleeping bag smells bad, like everything else down here. Fred smells bad, and so does Archie.

  He says, ‘You’ve got to lie still. It’s night-time, go to sleep.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like night-time,’ Fred whines.

  There are no windows down here, so Archie can’t show Fred the dark outside, the way he would at home. He shows Fred the watch face, even though Fred’s only just learning to tell the time. ‘Little hand’s on the eleven, see? That means it’s eleven o’clock.’

  ‘I want a banana,’ Fred sobs. ‘Elevenses I have my banana.’

  ‘That’s eleven in the morning. This’s eleven at night.’

  ‘Then I want Mummy to tuck me in.’

  Archie’s skin’s too tight around his neck. ‘You are tucked in,’ he says. ‘I tucked you in.’

  He rolls away so that his back’s turned to Fred. It’s mean, but it’s what Archie does at home so he thinks maybe Fred will take the hint and go to sleep. After a bit, he decides it must’ve worked because Fred’s gone quiet, except for a couple of sniffs, and that whistle in his chest. His face is white but it’s a hot white, like when the sun’s gone behind clouds.

  The whistle in his chest means something’s wrong inside.

  Fred’s sick.

  Archie knows his brother’s hungry, because he’s hungry too. If he was back home he’d say, ‘I’m starving,’ but he’s scared to say that here, in case it’s true. In case they really are starving, him and Fred. Archie won’t tell lies, and he won’t say things – terrible things – that might be true. In case it makes them come true, like a jinx, or a dare.

  When Fred says, ‘Mummy’s never coming, nor Daddy,’ Archie tells him to shut up. It’s the only time he gets angry with his brother. ‘Of course they’re coming. Shut up.’

  Archie blinks his eyes open in the dark. He doesn’t need to pretend for Fred, not right now. Even if he’s awake, Fred can’t see. He saw the watch because it’s got a little light in the side, but it’s too dark for him to see Archie, and anyway, Archie’s turned away. He could pick his nose or cry – he could cry for Mum and Dad, as long as he cries quietly – and Fred won’t know. He can’t see Archie’s face, just the back of Archie’s T-shirt where the label sticks up.

  Archie should’ve put on pyjamas at bedtime. He made Fred put on pyjamas, but it was hard work and by the end of it Archie was too tired to be bothered with his own, so he’s gone to bed in his T-shirt and shorts. It’s the first time he’s done that: broken the rules. He should’ve brushed his teeth, too, but he didn’t. He made Fred brush his teeth and then he pretended he’d done his, when Fred was using the bucket.

  It scares Archie that he’s started breaking the rules, but it also makes him feel brave, like when he stood up to Saul Weller at school. Instead of hitting Archie harder, Saul gave him a brofist. Sometimes it pays to break the rules.

  The T-shirt label tickles. Archie’s neck is bony, and every bit of him hurts. He’s cold all the time. If he was at home, he’d pull the duvet higher. The sleeping bag won’t be pulled. It’s sweaty inside, and it stinks. Archie hates the stink almost as much as he hates the dark, although he’d never admit it, not to Fred, not even to himself.

  At home, their bedroom’s at the top of the house and Mum used to say she’d put up special curtains to block out the light, but she never did and Archie’s glad because he doesn’t like the dark and besides there’s a tree outside their window where a blackbird nests. They couldn’t see the bird if the curtains were special.

  Archie wishes there was a window down here.

  But all he’d see would be earth, packed and black.

  Even if the window was in the roof, like the one in Saul Weller’s house, all he’d see would be earth.

  They’re buried, underground.

  The thought makes Archie sick, makes his wrists skip like he’s run a race. A sour taste leaks into his mouth, like puke coming up. He doesn’t want to think about it. He screws his eyes shut and thinks of the blackbird, its yellow beak and blinking eye, watching through the branches of the tree at the top of the house where the light comes in and puts stripes across the foot of his bed, and Fred’s.

  Fred murmurs in his sleep, ‘Mummy. Mummy …’

  He has to keep quiet. They both have to keep quiet. That’s the first rule, and the most important one. They promised to keep quiet.

  Archie curls his hands and fits a fist into his mouth to stop him from hushing Fred, from saying, ‘It’s all right. She’s coming, it’s all okay,’ because it’s wrong.

  It’s wrong to tell lies, especially to your little brother.

  PART ONE

  1

  Now

  DS Noah Jake watched Debbie Tanner swinging between the station’s desks with her cake tin, like a burlesque dancer collecting big tips. DS Ron Carling dipped a hand into the tin with his stare on DC Tanner’s chest as if someone had stuck it there: googly eyes. Debbie had a stupendous chest; it managed to make her plain white shirt look like a basque.

  ‘Muffins,’ she said. ‘Home-made.’

  Carling took a muffin from the tin, making appropriate noises of approval. He’d put on three pounds since Debbie joined the unit.

  Noah’s phone buzzed: a text from Dan. Not work-safe, not remotely. Noah wiped the text with his thumb, holding in a smile. The cake tin landed under his nose.

  ‘Take two,’ Debbie said. ‘Unless Dan doesn’t have a sweet tooth.’ She gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘But he’s going out with the best-looking DS in London, so I’m guessing he does.’ She proffered the tin. ‘I made them fresh this morning.’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s a bit soon after breakfast for me.’

  What time did she get up, to bake a tin of muffins before 9 a.m.?

  ‘I’ll leave one for later.’ She plucked a muffin and placed it next to Noah’s keyboard, where it pouted at him from its paper cup. ‘Next time I’ll make a Jamaican batch. Banana pecan. Maybe your mum has a recipe?’

  ‘DS Jake, a minute?’ DI Marnie Rome beckoned from the doorway to her office, looking pin-neat in a charcoal suit, her short red curls tidied back from her face.

  Noah got to his feet, pocketing his phone.

  DC Tanner followed him into Marnie’s office, swinging her tin. ‘Muffin? I make them with courgette. It’s much better for you than butter. Not that you need to watch your figure.’ She
patronised Marnie’s flat chest with a sympathetic smile, reaching her free hand for the pot plant on the edge of the desk, feeling with her fingers for the soil packed around its roots.

  Marnie sat behind her desk, nodding at Noah to take the chair on the other side.

  The plant was a cactus which, when it was in the mood, gave out spidery white flowers. It was giving them out now, but Debbie checked the soil anyway, as if someone as busy as DI Rome couldn’t be relied on to look after a cactus. Noah winced at the familiarity, but Marnie simply said, ‘How’s the paperwork going, detective?’

  ‘I’m right on top of it,’ Debbie promised. She turned on her heel and wove her way back to her desk, prow and stern swaying dizzily. No wonder Ron Carling and the others stared.