The Other Mother

J A Baker

Description

A shocking psychological thriller from bestselling author, J.A. Baker!

Three troubled women. One deadly secret.

Lissy and her daughter, Rosie, live a quiet life and keep themselves to themselves. But when shocking events at Rosie’s school are revealed, their peaceful existence is shattered.

Meanwhile, middle-aged women Erica and Beverley appear to have perfect lives, but behind closed doors, things are not all as they seem.

All three women are tied together by a terrible secret from their past – the murder of a child. And one of the women is to blame.

But is the person responsible the same person who was blamed all those years ago?

As the truth slowly begins to surface, it becomes clear that one of the women has revenge in their sights....

Perfect for fans of Sue Watson, Valerie Keogh and K.L. Slater.

What people are saying about J.A. Baker...

'Superbly written with a cast of crazy characters who will make you look differently at your co-workers from now on.’ Bestselling author Valerie Keogh

'Fast-paced, riveting thriller. Gripped until the last page!' Bestselling author Diana Wilkinson

'I read this story in a single day. Once you begin, it's difficult to put it down. 5 stars from me!' Bestselling author L.H. Stacey

'A twisty, creepy story, expertly told. Perfect for reading on dark winter evenings…with the doors double-locked and bolted. Highly recommended!' Bestselling author Amanda James

Please note this is a reissue of The Other Mother by J.A. Baker.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Women Sleuths
• Hard-Boiled
• Amateur Sleuth
• Thrillers
• Suspenso
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• Psychology
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Noir
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 29 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781805491620
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE OTHER MOTHER


J. A. BAKER
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

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43


Acknowledgments

More from J. A. Baker

About the Author

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
To my muse and inspiration.
You know who you are…
Weak people revenge
Strong people forgive

Intelligent people ignore
ANON.
1
AFTERWARDS

I hold the knife aloft, fury splitting my veins, pulsing though me, burning my flesh as it traverses round my body. A furnace of anger driving me on – making me do it. I take a shuddering breath and stop, poised, thinking about everything that has happened. I stare at the face beneath me; see how the features are contorted with terror. The knife trembles in my hands. I grip it tighter as it slips about in my palm. It feels alien against my hot skin, the metal smooth and cool, the blade glinting as it sways about. I gasp. This isn’t me, not the real me.
‘Don’t do this. Put it down. Please, just put the knife down.’
I shake my head. The room seems to move. Images rush past me, a blur of colours merging and fusing, seeping into my brain making me dizzy. I grip the handle tighter.
‘Let me go and I won’t tell anybody about this, I promise.’
I try to speak but the words won’t come. They stick in my throat, hot and clunky, no way to escape. Trapped. I widen my eyes and a trickle of saliva escapes from my mouth and runs down the side of my face.
A small whimper, ‘Come on, you know this is wrong. Just let me go. Please… let me go !’
The knife wobbles in my hand. It’s heavy, a deadweight. I hold on to it. I must go ahead with this. All I need to do is push; place all my weight on it and drive it home. That’s all I have to do.
The air is thick with fear, the smell of it filling my nostrils; an acrid, pungent stench ripping through me, over me. Great waves of terror gliding across wet skin.
Outside, birds sing, cars drive past, life rolls on. The mundane continues. Just as it did all those years ago and as it always will. People everywhere, eating, sleeping, going about their lives while others kill and die and grieve. Life offers no compassion. It is a cold, hard mistress and we are all its victims. I stand here ready to do it, to finally bring an end to it all.
A noise close by alerts me. My heart thumps even faster. I keep my back to it. No time to reconsider. My mind is made up; it has been for a long time now.
‘Put it down,’ the voice calls from behind me, a gentle beckoning for me to stop.
I bring the blade up, hold it high above my head and stand with my legs apart, ready. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Everything is different, wrong, spoiled. Nothing is as it should be.
‘Please,’ the voice in front of me begs, ‘please put it down. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘We’re all sorry,’ I murmur before everything goes black.
2
CHILD A

The moon cast an eerie glow, silvering the room, bathing everything in a soft metallic haze. Her skin was clammy as she sat immobile, jaw clenched tight. It was insistent, urgent – the relentless howling that filtered down from the room overhead. She drew her hands into tight fists, knuckles taut and white as she waited for it to stop, silently pleading for it to come to an end. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could bear to listen to it – that noise – the endless screaming that tugged at her nerve endings and clawed at her senses. She was at her wits’ end. Unfurling her hands and placing her bony fingers over her ears, she began to rock backwards and forwards. Humming loudly, her voice was a continuous, guttural drone – a feeble attempt to block it all out. The noise was unrelenting, knocking against her skull, a hammer bashing at her brain. It was useless. The screaming was still there, worming its way into her head. With a half shriek, she released her hands, her fingers springing free, flapping through the still evening air.
She looked around, her eyes desperately scanning the room, hoping for inspiration, hoping to find something, anything that would take her mind off the incessant caterwauling from above. A book, a magazine, the daily newspaper. Her gaze swept over the grey shadows stretched across the furniture, their familiarity providing no answers, no easy way out. She bit at her nails, already ragged and filthy, gnawed down to the bone, and didn’t know which was the most difficult to contend with – the screaming toddler above her, or keeping her thoughts in check, doing what she could to stop them from escaping, to stop them from creeping out into the open where she couldn’t possibly control them, where they would do what they always do. She shook her head and moaned as she thought about the incident at school.
Five minutes – that’s all she would give him. Just five more minutes to stop his awful, dreadful whining and then she would go up there and sort him out.
It couldn’t go on much longer could it? Surely, he would cry himself out, fall asleep a sodden mess of snot and tears?
Pulling a chunk of coarse wool off one of the cushions and rubbing at it fitfully, holding it between her pale, thin fingers, she stared ahead, her gaze listless. She had been tricked into coming here. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She had only agreed to do it because it was better than being at home. She shivered. Anything was better than being at home.
He had been so excitable all evening, this toddler who now seemed intent on disturbing the entire neighbourhood. And at first it was cute, seeing him run around, listening to his giggles every time she pulled a silly face, but then it had all gotten too much for her. He kept on wanting more. Shouting at her to do it again and again until her eyes were gritty and her head ached. That was why she had put him to bed – she couldn’t stand it any longer, having to put up with his constant demands for attention and big, fat snotty tears if she didn’t play with him all the time. He had climbed all over her, tugging at her hair and shoving his sticky fingers in her face, even pulling her eyelids open when she had pretended to be asleep. Even his chunky little legs and the way they wobbled when he ran; his bright blue eyes, pink-rimmed and glassy from crying all the time; his lisp and the way his tongue poked through his lips every time he spoke; they had all begun to get under her skin. By the time she had put him to bed, everything about him had started to put her on edge, made her want to gnash her teeth and tear at her skin with her ragged fingernails until the blood came. And she didn’t like feeling that way – she really didn’t – but she had no idea how to stop it. It just took over her entire being, like a possession, as if an entity had crawled under her skin and was ripping her sanity to shreds, tearing it apart bit by bit by bit. That happened sometimes, uncontrollable rages that howled at her brain, told her to do things – terrible things. Occurrences where she wanted to just bash things up, break whatever she could get her hands on: ornaments, clothing, people…
She squinted and stared longingly at the clock, wishing her friend would hurry back. She was only supposed to have gone out for a few minutes; a quick dash to the corner shop for two cans of coke, she had said. She would be back shortly, she had said. That was ages ago. More than an hour, probably nearer two. She was supposed to be here with her looking after him and instead she was out there somewhere, doing God knows what with God knows who. She always was quite the liar. And now here she was, all alone in this house, with that child. That child and his incessant crying and sobbing that just went on and on and on. A screeching, clingy toddler whose neediness was becoming just too much for her.
The howling from upstairs grew louder, making her head buzz, augmenting her fury and resentment. It crept over her, within her – the anger: hot, bubbling bitumen slithering around her body, coating her pale flesh, blackening her soul. Her skin burned and her eyes began to water. That sound. That high-pitched, endless shriek. It made her stomach clench involuntarily; turned her insides to water. Why wouldn’t he stop? Sometimes, when she was at home, alone in her bedroom, she cried like that but not for long and only when she was sure she wouldn’t be heard. Never around other people. Never. It was strictly forbidden. Crying is for soft people, for babies, her father would say. And she wasn’t a baby. Even when the sharp, metal buckle on his leather belt made an imprint on her back so deep she could fit her fingers in there, she didn’t cry. She refused to let the tears fall, keeping them carefully tucked away out of sight. Easier that way. Safer. And he was right. Crying was definitely for babies. Crying just brought on more of his anger.
She narrowed her eyes and stared at the pattern on the multi-coloured rug, then squinted hard and counted the red stripes that were woven in with the cream dots, looking closely at the brown and beige curves wondering who would design such a ghastly pattern. If she focused her eyes for long enough she could see shapes of things – people’s faces, animals, aeroplanes. Anything to keep her mind occupied, to stop the images galloping and rampaging through her head.
Biting at her lip, she flung herself back on the sofa and thought about the incident a few months back. For some reason, it made her go hot and filled her with