The Bride

John Nicholl

Description

She’s on trial for murder… Now it’s her turn to tell her story…

The truth is that I loved James with my whole heart. We were soulmates: meant to be together forever. I had just found out I was carrying his child.

But it’s time to tell my side of the story. It’s time everyone knew what happened on our wedding day, on our honeymoon, and on that fateful last drive together. It’s time everyone found out about the secrets and about the threat that loomed over our marriage. It’s time everyone found out who really killed James.

And I need everyone to believe me. To believe I’m not a killer. Because if they don’t, then my baby won’t just have no father… she’ll have no mother.

An totally gripping psychological thriller full of jaw-dropping twists, that will keep you reading late into the night. If you loved Gone Girl, The Mother-in-Law and The Housemaid, you’ll be hooked on The Bride.

Readers LOVE The Bride:

‘I had goosebumps on my goosebumps. I found this book impossible to put down and finally turned the last page at 1am. Yes. this book is that good!!!… MUST READ!!!!!’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Absolutely addictive and gripping. I seriously WOULD NOT even start this book unless you have cleared your schedule because you will not be able to put it down!!! I absolutely blew through it in one sitting and it genuinely was unputdownable!!! A true page turner absolutely rammed with suspense, tension and everything you want when you read a psychological thriller.’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘The hairs on the back of my neck are still up!… Makes your skin quiver… I was well and truly hooked… The twist had my mouth dropping and rereading twice!’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I was hooked… W{::}ill leave you with shivers down your spine and chills in your heart. Some of the twists in this book left my jaw on the floor. And the ending blew me away. Outstanding!’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Absolutely brilliant… Immensely readable… Gripping… Never slows down at all.’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Completely unputdownable… reeled me in right from the very start. [The twists] left me speechless. I did gasp out loud at the ending which I thought was brilliant.’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Women Sleuths
• Hard-Boiled
• Thrillers
• Suspenso
• Reino Unido
• 21st century
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• United Kingdom
• Psychology
• Great Britain
• Wedding
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Noir
• Fiction
• Royaume-Uni

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804263976
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE BRIDE


JOHN NICHOLL
For my family.
CONTENTS



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


More from John Nicholl

Acknowledgments

About the Author

The Murder List

Also by John Nicholl

About Boldwood Books
1

My name is Daisy Earl; just twenty-three years old, an expectant mother and already a widow, haunted by events, counting the cost, struggling with painful reality day after day. And I’m writing this book primarily for the child inside my womb as my due date fast approaches. I need her to know the truth – my truth – as I’ve lived it, as it’s happening to me. There’s been so much mindless speculation since my arrest, so much online abuse, a media frenzy, and so many lies. Some people seem to see me as a monster – fools who’ve never met me, trolls who don’t know the facts. But I’m so very far from that. I’m a victim of events. A survivor innocent of any crime. That’s the reality, whatever the haters say.
I want to give my unborn child a chance to read this when she’s old enough to understand. I want her to know what really happened in my words if I don’t get to tell her myself. Her lovely father disappeared before he ever had the chance to meet her. That’s when I learned what grief is. She lost him before her birth. And now she’s in danger of losing me too. Not because of anything I’ve done. Not because of any fault on my part. But due to an imperfect justice system that sometimes gets things wrong. I wouldn’t be the first to be wrongly convicted. I’m the only reliable source of information, but will the court believe me? I have no way of knowing. People make mistakes. All I can do is hope.
I’m keen to write my story for all the reasons stated. But I’m not devoid of insight; I know the telling won’t be easy. Even now, a part of me finds it difficult to accept what’s happening to me. My previously happy existence was blown apart, mercilessly destroyed in a way I could never have predicted. And that all seems crazy, even to me.
Yes, real life can be stranger than fiction. It can change in the blink of an eye. Everything we know, love, trust and rely on can be turned on its head at a blinding, wrecking-ball speed we can’t hope to resist. And that’s the way it has been for me. Bang! An irresistible tide. Suddenly, I’m the central figure in a tense drama not of my making. A high-stakes game it’s impossible for me to control. So much has changed in such a short time as my life continues to spiral out of control, faster and faster, never to be the same again.
There are no women’s prisons in Wales. And so I find myself remanded and incarcerated in the South West of England, over 100 miles from home, charged with an alleged murder that was nothing of the kind. I’m sitting alone in my cell with a notepad on the small table in front of me and a plastic biro in hand. Not exactly the most salubrious accommodation for an innocent young woman expecting a baby, but it’s where I’m forced to reside. A concrete box, bars on two square windows, a steel door, graffiti scratched into the four stained walls, and a bright electric light above my head that highlights every inch of this awful place. I’ve seen so much suffering in this world within these walls, so much unhappiness. And time passes slowly. Oh, so very slowly. Minutes can seem like hours, hours like days. I’ve been here for six seemingly never-ending weeks already, with another three weeks until my trial. That’s quicker than usual, apparently, or so I’m told. I wish I’d started writing sooner now. But if I work hard and put in the hours, I’m sure I can finish in time. It’s not like I’m doing anything else. I’ve given a flavour of my situation and opened a window just wide enough to peep in. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I may have said too much already. I need to start at the beginning if this is going to make any sense.
2

I’m a very ordinary woman who had an unremarkable childhood, a girl-next-door type, the kind of person people can trust, not a scheming shrew like some idiots like to think. No one could ever have guessed what was coming down the line. Not me nor anyone else.
I grew up in a happy home close to an estuary beach in beautiful west Wales, the daughter of a schoolteacher father and a bookkeeper mother, who loved me from my first day of life. I went to the local primary school where my father taught, just a short walk from our modest bungalow on the edge of the village. It was a happy time, yes, happy ; I think that’s the one word which best sums it up. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but then whose life is? My parents had their issues like everybody else.
There was sometimes a tension in our home, an atmosphere. Mum and Dad often argued about the same issues, seemingly without resolution. Never about anything major, just silly things. Things which mattered to them.
‘I wish you’d stop taking those pills, Delyth,’ my dad often shouted. That was a regular theme. ‘They’re doing you no good at all. It’s time you had another talk with the doctor. I’d throw the damned things down the toilet if it were up to me.’
I can remember it all so very clearly. And it often comes to mind. ‘Oh, be quiet, Tim,’ Mum would reply. ‘I’ve got anxiety, you know that. Why I keep having to tell you, I don’t know.’
‘I’m just trying to help you, Delyth,’ he’d say, almost pleading. ‘I’m concerned, that’s all.’
But she wouldn’t listen. She’d shake her head, glaring at him, or storm off full of indignation. It wasn’t always easy for me to listen to. But I got used to it. And most of the time, things were wonderful. So I don’t want to over-stress the negatives.
I know Dad worried about Mum, and now that I think about it, he worried about me too. I think that’s worth mentioning. It’s strange the way the memories flood back as I write. Maybe things weren’t always as happy as I thought. I sometimes had nightmares for no apparent reason. Awful dreams that woke me in tears. I remember, early one morning, Dad rushing into my bedroom with Mum close behind.
‘Are you okay, Daisy?’ he asked, wringing his hands, a concerned look on his face. ‘You screamed out loud. You sounded scared.’
I recall wiping my eyes as my lovely mum sat beside me on the single bed.
‘I had a bad dream,’ I mumbled as Mum hugged me tight.
‘Another one?’ Dad asked. ‘What about this time?’
I don’t think I remembered anything about my dream that morning, or at least not that I can think of now. And anyway, I don’t think it’s worth focusing on that aspect of my life any more than I have. Because I was lucky to be loved in a way not all children are. And I was fortunate to enjoy our rural idyll’s freedoms as I played with my young friends. I’ve lost touch with them all now, but we were close then. I feel sorry for children who live in large cities. I realise there are benefits, but they miss out on so much, growing up too fast. I was blissfully naïve, unaware of the dangers lurking in dark shadows. That would come later as fate sank in its fangs. Back then, I felt safe and secure, the bad dreams apart, just as every child should. A fantasy, perhaps, but one I’m glad I lived.
I went to the local comprehensive school at eleven, travelling the eight miles by train each morning to the pleasant market town of Carmarthen on the River Towy, or the Afon Tywi , as it’s written in the lyrical Welsh language.
I remember that first morning, the fearful apprehension as Dad drove me the short distance to the station.
‘Everything is going to be fine, Daisy,’ he kept repeating, full of good intentions but with only limited positive impact.
‘Is it, Dad, is it?’ I said in reply. Wanting to believe him, but not quite.
‘Of course it is. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re a big girl now; you’ll be fine.’
His words offered solace, but being the youngest child in the first year of a much bigger school still came as a shock. However, the anxieties of that first day were soon tempered by experience as I settled into my year group, mixing mainly with an old primary school friend initially but soon making new ones. Sadly, those friendships didn’t last into adulthood either, something I’ve had to accept. People move on. Things change. And I guess it’s no great loss. Such is life.
I began enjoying my lessons, particularly English, history and art, as the weeks passed. My marks were good, better than expected, and close to the best in my class. I remember the beaming smile on my dad’s face when he read my first end-of-term report. It seemed he could hardly contain his excitement as he informed my mum of my newfound success, his musical, singsong voice rising in pitch and tone. He was expressive, brimming with emotion. I hadn’t seen him like that before, never once. He seemed to come to life. His eyes lit up. He glowed. As if, at that moment, all of life’s burdens had melted away.
‘She’s done wonderfully well, Delyth. A chip off the old block if ever there was one.’
My dad laughed at full volume and then continued talking, now in full flow, communicating with repeated hand gestures as well as words. He pointed at the report on my laptop screen. ‘Look at those marks, brilliant! An average of over 80 per cent. She’s almost as intelligent as her father. Not quite, of course, but not far off. Maybe she’ll be a teacher, too.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said and meant it. I was grateful. The praise felt good. I wasn’t the most confident child in the world. And even now,