The Nurse

Valerie Keogh

Description

The NUMBER ONE bestselling psychological thriller from Valerie Keogh!

‘Keogh is the queen of compelling narratives and twisty plots’ Jenny O'Brien

'A wonderful book, I can’t rate this one highly enough. If only there were ten stars, it’s that good. Valerie Keogh is a master story-teller, and this is a masterful performance.' Bestselling author Anita Waller

Do No Harm…

Bullied, overlooked and under-appreciated, Lissa McColl learns at an early age to do very bad things.

As a nurse, she is respected and valued for the first time in her life. But Lissa hates her job and the selfish, rude and inconsiderate people she has to deal with.

But being underestimated in this job had its advantages. Lissa can get close to people, find out their secrets… sometimes with deadly results...

Reader Reviews for The Nurse

'I was blown away with this book!' ★★★★★ Reader Review

'I didn't see the twist coming at all!' ★★★★★ Reader Review

'A rollercoaster of a story!' ★★★★★ Reader Review

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Fiction
• Noir
• Suspense
• Crime
• Medicine
• Psychology
• Domestic
• Psychological thriller
• Medical thriller
• Suspenso
• Thrillers
• Medical
• Psychological
• Mashups

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 21 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804154847
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE NURSE


VALERIE KEOGH
For Robert and Wendy with love.
CONTENTS




Part I


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


Part II


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


More From Valerie Keogh

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Valerie Keogh

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
PART I
1

I was ten when I made the decision to kill Jemma.
Her family – parents and an older sister – had moved from London to our small country village six months before. The first morning, Jemma had waltzed into our class completely unfazed by the wide eyes and audible whispers that followed her progress like sunflowers to her sun.
Our teacher, Miss Dryden, a tall willowy woman with steel grey hair and watery blue eyes, held a hand lightly on her shoulder and introduced her. ‘I know you’ll all be delighted to welcome Jemma to the class and help her to settle in.’
She was the first new girl to have joined our primary school class and she brought with her an air of city sophistication that easily dazzled us. Her clothes, hair, shoes, even her schoolbag were all a little bit exotic. To us girls who desperately wanted to grow up, she appeared to have reached heights we only aspired to.
It wasn’t long before she became the girl everyone wanted to be friends with, not long before I, and others like me, discovered that the girls who surrounded her were arranged in a distinct hierarchy. There were the best friends, limited to four; a larger circle of girls who were allowed to join in the chat on occasion; a wider group who were allowed to peer in; and then a final group who were deemed unworthy of any access. For an individual or group to prevail, there needed, after all, to be another for them to lord it over. A group they could all be superior to.
I was in this latter group. I don’t know why. Perhaps the pairing of the slight frame I’d inherited from my mother, with the overlarge nose and mouth inherited from my father, didn’t present a beguiling appearance. Perhaps that was all it took… to look different.
Despite my appearance, school had been a happy place for me before her arrival. Inclusion was taken for granted. When it began to fade away, I was confused and bewildered.
The name calling started first, a mere week after Jemma’s arrival. At first, I didn’t understand, didn’t know they were referring to me, when I heard one or more of her inner circle shouting watch out here comes Jaws, or, have you been telling lies again, Pinocchio . Each time they would fall around themselves with laughter, as if the sobriquets were amusing rather than mean… and painful… and confusing.
I wasn’t the only victim. There were four other members of my unpopular group who received an equal share of this new unwanted attention. If only we marginalised group of five had gathered together, if we’d found strength in our common woes and learnt to fight back, but that never happened. Perhaps we were afraid of confrontation, or was it that we regarded each other with as much disdain as Jemma and her cohorts did. Whatever the reason, we stayed individually isolated in our roles as victim.
Over the following months, the bullies seemed to grow taller and bigger. I was the perfect victim, smaller and thinner than my tormentors, too easy to push around. They took more delight in their ‘fun’ with every passing day. When I didn’t react, they’d close in, jostling me, grabbing my schoolbag, plucking at the sleeve of my coat.
That day, I didn’t see whose hand had sent me flying. When I turned to challenge the act, I knew it was useless, so I picked myself up and walked away as quickly as I could. The stinging damage to my hands and knees brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall till I was a street away. On my own, overwhelmed by confusion, sadness, and frustration, one heaving sob started a free-for-all. I was barely able to see as I walked the short distance to my home.
My knees were skinned, the palms of both hands scratched and bloody. The band that kept my long thin hair back from my face had been lost. Tangled strands fell forward, catching in my tears and the bubble of snot that vibrated from one nostril with every pathetic hiccupping cry.
The back door was open, and I saw my apron-clad mother busily stirring something on the hob. ‘Hi,’ she said, without looking around, my noisy sobs lost in whatever was bubbling in the pot. It was silence that made her turn, one finely plucked eyebrow arching higher in a question she didn’t need to ask when her eyes took in my dishevelled appearance.
She dropped the wooden spoon on the counter with a clatter that sent beads of sauce flying in a messy circle. Then I was in her arms and clasped to a bosom almost as flat as my own. ‘Lissa! What happened?’
‘One of the girls pushed me.’
Through my tears and pain, I saw my mother’s horrified face and head shake of disbelief. ‘No, darling, I’m sure it was an accident.’ She bathed my wounds as she muttered reassuring words, convincing herself, not me, that her version of my story was correct.
There was so much pain in her eyes that I couldn’t help it, I relented. ‘I remember now, I tripped and fell.’
I was rewarded by a warm comforting hug, by the relief on her face that she didn’t have to confront something nasty, cruel and mean.
Young as I was, I knew she was emotionally fragile. If her world didn’t run on happy lines, she’d retreat into herself, hiding away until the wave of whatever outrage had occurred, had receded. Once it had, she’d be back, full of loving smiles, ready to be the best mother a lonely, sad goblin of a child could want.
So it was better to lie. To keep the nastiness from seeping into our home.
Young as I was, I tried to protect her, but I couldn’t stop the world turning…
2

As an only child, I was the sole focus of my parents’ attention, and due to this nurturing, or perhaps my inherent nature, I was a bright child. I took delight in excelling, and before Jemma’s arrival I was easily, and by a large margin, top of the class. My parents didn’t hide their pride in me. ‘We need to start putting money away for university,’ my mother would say to my father as every monthly payday came around.
He was a big man, and tall, and he’d laugh, grab her around the waist and kiss her. If I was there, I’d try to squirm between them desperate for my share of his affection. Sometimes, if I tried hard enough, he’d swing me up in his arms and I’d hold on to the moment for as long as I could, lost in his love. Whether it was me or my mother he was hugging, he’d dismiss her concerns in the same way. ‘Don’t worry about that now.’
At ten, university was almost two lifetimes away. I was more concerned with what was happening the following day. Perhaps, I should have discussed my worries with my father, the name calling, pushing and shoving I was being increasingly subjected to. But when he was home, the conversation was always bright and bubbly, each of my parents outdoing each other with cheerfulness. Their mutual love spilling over and… sometimes… including me.
My father was a sales representative for a medical company. His territory covered the south-west of England including the cities of Bath and Bristol. The workload had meant he’d often had to spend a night or two away, but when the company had expanded four years before, that had changed. Now he was working away three to four nights a week and every second weekend. The absence was hard on my needy, emotionally fragile mother. If they rowed about it, if she begged him to get a different job, one that didn’t entail so much time working away, I never knew. In all the years, I never remember hearing a raised voice or an unkind word. When my father was home, he was funny, charming, loving. The best, most indulgent, adoring, attentive husband. He’d take mother out for dinner; they’d go for long walks in the countryside and lunches in country pubs.
Occasionally, they’d bring me along.
Sometimes, I’d arrive home from school feeling incredibly sad, and they’d be in their bedroom with the door locked and I’d have to wait till they came out hours later. If I was feeling particularly sad, I’d sit on the floor outside their room, press my ear to the door and listen to their sounds of love – the laughter, whispers, grunts and groans – and I’d feel less lonely, less sad. Once, or maybe it was twice or three times, they didn’t come out at all. I’d make myself some jam sandwiches for my tea, and watch TV with the volume turned way down so as not to disturb them.
My father didn’t like it if I did.
When he was home, Mother would wear her best jewellery and prettiest clothes. Her hair would be washed every morning, make-up carefully applied and reapplied at intervals during the day. She dazzled: her eyes sparkled, her laugh was more joyous, her voice sweeter and she danced… around the kitchen as she cooked, in the garden as she pegged out clothes, with my father, with me, without either of us. To see her was to make you smile and your heart feel full.
When he went away again, she’d be distraught for a full day. Every time. She’d mope around the house dragging heavy feet along the floor. She’d refuse to eat or to cook anything for me, so I’d scavenge from the fridge ea