Ripple Effect Read online

  Ripple Effect

  N.A. Cooper

  Copyright © 2022 N.A. Cooper

  The right of N.A. Cooper to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-66-8

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Norfolk 1996

  1. Fifteen Years Ago

  2. Now

  3. Now

  4. Now

  5. Fifteen Years Ago

  6. Now

  7. Fifteen Years Ago

  8. Now

  9. Now

  10. Fifteen Years Ago

  11. Now

  12. Now

  13. Fifteen Years Ago

  14. Now

  15. Now

  16. Fifteen Years Ago

  17. Now

  18. Now

  19. Fifteen Years Ago

  20. Now

  21. Fifteen Years Ago

  22. Now

  23. Now

  24. Fifteen Years Ago

  25. Now

  26. Now

  27. Now

  28. Fifteen Years Ago

  29. Now

  30. Now

  31. Fifteen Years Ago

  32. Now

  33. Fifteen Years Ago

  34. Now

  35. Fifteen Years Ago

  36. Now

  37. Now

  38. Fifteen Years Ago

  39. Now

  40. Now

  41. Now

  42. Fifteen Years Ago

  43. Now

  44. Fifteen Years Ago

  45. Now

  46. Fifteen Years Ago

  47. Now

  48. Now

  49. Fifteen Years Ago

  50. Now

  51. Now

  52. Fifteen Years Ago

  53. Now

  54. Fifteen Years Ago

  55. Now

  56. Fifteen Years Ago

  57. Now

  58. Fifteen Years Ago

  59. Now

  60. Now

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  To Rex and Kit

  For filling my heart with love and our home with laughter

  Ripple Effect – the continuing and spreading results of an event or action.

  ‘The ripple effect is huge when something like this happens.’

  Oxford University Press

  Norfolk 1996

  I’m sat on my dad’s knee. The wind is blowing through the grassland, dandelion seeds flying weightlessly through the air – a storm is on its way. Clusters of clouds crowd the sky, a patchwork of greys, hostile and intimidating. Crows circle overhead, a series of loud caws piercing through the howls of the wind. I’m worried about them. ‘Poor crows. They’ll get blown away.’ Dad pulls me close, his grip strong around my waist. ‘They’ll be okay. Their feet are special – when they relax, they grip. They’ll find somewhere safe and they won’t let go.’

  1

  Fifteen Years Ago

  I’m waiting where he told me to, in the space between the trees and the abandoned manor house. It’s half past nine but still light, the low sun casting long shadows that are playing tricks on my mind. It’s been an unbearably hot day and the humidity is still clinging, determined to make it into the night. I stand in the shadow of the old east wing, graffiti covering the entirety of the wall, a collage of garish scrawls trying to pass for art.

  Feeling vulnerable and exposed, I check my watch again. He’s late. The excitement of sneaking out of the house has waned, replaced by a sense of foreboding, the stirring of doubts that have remained hidden until now.

  I’m starting to think it’s a bad idea, a fantasy that should have remained in my head, when I hear something – the soft crunch of leaves; the snapping of twigs underfoot; the faint rustle of the trees as they’re disturbed.

  I’m hit by a sudden wave of fear: what if it’s not him? Then I see him. He emerges through an opening in the trees and hurries down the forgotten footpath snaking out towards the house. Towards me.

  I run to him, the excitement returning – boundless, reckless. I throw my arms around his neck and he lifts me off the ground, pulling me close to his chest and kissing me hard.

  “You’re late, Mr Miller.”

  “I’m here now aren’t I.”

  “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  He smiles. “Never! But what did I tell you, outside school it’s Danny. Mr Miller makes me feel old.”

  I laugh. “You are old!”

  “Oh is that right?” He picks me up and lifts me over his shoulder, carrying me back towards the house. I fight at first, playfully thrashing around and giggling, then I let myself go, my arms hanging towards the floor as he carries me effortlessly over the dry hard ground.

  He bends to put me down against the graffitied wall and part of me wants to hold onto him, to not let go of the moment. I could stay like that forever, caught in his grip, going wherever he goes. I feel him push me into the wall behind me and take my face in his hand. His palm is warm and smooth and I lean into it, savouring the contact, the feel of his skin on mine. “You looked so good at school today.”

  I kiss him again and he responds eagerly, his hands slipping under my dress and caressing my body. I let him, enjoying his greed, the feeling of being desired.

  “Come with me.” He puts his hand out for me to hold and I take it, following his lead to the other side of the wall, a space afforded some degree of privacy by the old manor. Empty bottles of Smirnoff Ice and Bacardi Breezers litter the floor, broken glass protruding awkwardly between the weeds.

  He takes his rucksack off his back and opens it, pulling out a blanket and lying it on the floor, kicking a couple of empty cans out of the way as he smooths it down. I watch him, the way he moves, his self-assuredness. He goes back to his rucksack and pulls out a bottle of champagne, uncorking it and taking a drink straight from the bottle.

  “Here,” he says. I take it and drink, suppressing the urge to spit it out. It’s warm and bitter, a distinct tang to it which makes my eyes sting. I take another drink and he smiles, approving, the corners of his eyes creasing as he does. He sits down on the blanket, looking up at the sky through the stark remains of the dilapidated roof. I join him. He’s changed since school, swapping his shirt and tie for a plain white T-shirt and cut-off jeans. His hair is messier too, no longer brushed neatly to one side. He looks different and I can’t help but wonder if I’m seeing him the way his wife sees him – the casual Danny, the husband and father.

  “What did you tell her?” I ask, though I know he doesn’t like to talk about his family.

  “Erin,” he warns. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is I’m here.” He puts his arm around me and pulls me into him. I pass him the bottle of champagne an
d he takes a drink before setting it down next to the blanket. He looks at me and for a moment I think he’s going to tell me he shouldn’t be here, that it’s wrong – but he doesn’t, he just pushes me to the ground and kisses me once more. It feels different. There’s an urgency to it and I understand that it’s going somewhere, to the place where this has all been leading – two months of unspoken possibilities all resulting in one inevitable end.

  “It’ll get better,” he says afterwards. “You’re inexperienced. It takes a while.”

  Shame washes over me at the thought of my comparative naivety.

  “Hey,” he whispers, sensing my embarrassment. He puts his finger under my chin and lifts my head up until our eyes meet. “It was nice.” He kisses me softly then tilts his head to one side, his expression apologetic. “I’ve got to go, wait here for half an hour in case anyone sees me leave, okay?”

  “You’re going already?” It’s dropping dark but he seems to have been here for no time at all. My heart tightens at the thought of him leaving.

  “It’s late, Erin. And it’s a school night. Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?”

  “I’m fifteen not five,” I snap.

  Disappointment flickers across his face and I instantly regret my childish response. I stroke his face with my hand, tracing the outline of his jaw. “Sorry, I understand.” He raises his eyebrows. “Honestly, I do.”

  “Good, because I don’t want to be with some kid. I was drawn to you because of your maturity.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.” He gets to his feet. I stand and watch as he folds the blanket and stuffs it back into his rucksack. “Remember, half an hour, okay?”

  I nod. “Okay. When will I see you again?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Not at school, I mean when will I see you again… properly?”

  He slips his rucksack onto his back then sighs. “I’ve got a lot on at work this week before the holidays. But…” He pauses, thinking about what he’s about to say. “Melissa and the kids are visiting her parents for the first week of the holidays so I’ll have some free time, maybe you could come over.” He notices my excitement and quickly adds: “It will have to be very discreet though, Erin.”

  I throw my arms around his neck and jump onto him, my legs clinging around his middle. He holds me there, suspended in a moment which feels too good to be true.

  “I take that as a yes?” He laughs.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  He pulls away from me, loosening his grip until my feet touch the floor again. I want to reach out for him, to pull him towards me, but I realise he’s already gone. I can see his loyalties shifting back towards his family, his eyes failing to meet mine and the distance between us growing, the empty space filling with uncertainty.

  “I’ll text you,” he says, “but remember to delete it afterwards.”

  He kisses me briefly on the forehead and turns to leave, walking along the overgrown path and disappearing into the trees. I check my watch: 10.20. The darkness has swept through the forest without me realising but now I’m alone it’s all I can think about. I walk unsteadily, feeling my way around the wall and into the sheltered space where I’d left my bag. Inside, my hand finds a small torch. I turn it on, the narrow beam highlighting fragments of the space – tree roots; litter; graffiti; the champagne bottle, still half full. I pick it up and drink, letting my back slump down the wall until I’m sat on the dry dirt below. I shine the light on my watch and wait.

  2

  Now

  There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Each can exist independent of the other, or they can be woven together so tightly that it becomes impossible to separate them. In my dream I am alone, but it’s peaceful – I’m not lonely, I’m happy – an island among the rough seas. I feel powerful, unassailable, the solitude is comforting. I hear waves crashing against rocks, a thunderous to and fro, the ocean dancing with the land. I’m mesmerised by the transcendent beauty of it, the waves that have travelled countless miles to end up at my feet.

  The noise becomes louder and louder, increasing in intensity until it no longer sounds like waves at all but a shrill and threatening echo. The vibration of my phone pulls me from the waves, rhythmic bursts of energy hammering against the glass top of my nightstand. I want to sink back into sleep, to return to the comfort of the water, but the noise continues and I reluctantly pick up the phone and check the display. John. I check my watch, 5.08am. I put the phone back down and listen as the vibrations fade to silence, content in knowing he won’t try calling again. I toss and turn for a while, sleep just out of reach, until I’m satisfied that enough time has passed.

  He answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi,” I say, stifling a yawn.

  “Sorry it’s early, I’m waiting to go to bed.”

  It will be just gone one in the morning in New York. I wonder what couldn’t wait.

  “Happy birthday,” he says. I look at my watch, checking the date, my mind still foggy with sleep. “Listen, can you be around this morning for a parcel? I’m expecting some legal documents that I need to get over to the office ASAP.” It annoys me – probably more than it should – that he uses the acronym as a word.

  “What time?”

  “Earlyish.” He over pronounces the ish and I realise I could be waiting around all day.

  “Okay, I’ll run early. I’ll be back for nine.” I try to make it sound like a statement but I realise, to my annoyance, that it’s a question.

  “That’s fine. Can you drop them at the office for me?”

  “Sure, but why don’t you just get them sent straight there?”

  “They’re… sensitive. I don’t trust the receptionist with them. Leave them on my desk.”

  I decide not to ask anything further, caught between not caring and knowing it will annoy him if I probe. “Fine, I’ll drop them off.”

  “Thanks. Then go and treat yourself – get yourself something nice, whatever you want.”

  I bite my lip, preventing myself from saying things that can’t be unsaid. “You’d better get some sleep.”

  “One more thing – I’ve got to stay in New York longer than I’d planned. Three, maybe four days.”

  “Okay,” I say, my mind already wandering.

  “Right, I’d better get some sleep, I’ve got an early meeting.”

  “Night.” I hang up.

  The sun has begun to rise by the time I step outside, a deep orange glow breaking the horizon and seeping into the cloudless sky – a world in suspense, stuck somewhere between night and day. There’s been a frost overnight and patches of it still cling to the ground, reflecting under the glow of the street lights. I start my watch and run, turning right at the end of the paved driveway onto the sleepy crescent, then another right onto the main road into town. I run against the wind, a couple of miles of steady downhill gradient until I reach the outskirts of town. On my left, Oakwood Park sits behind huge, black, wrought-iron gates, quiet at this hour but well lit. I run along the central walkway, flanked on either side by large English oaks, their leaves rotting on the ground beneath them. Uplighting pierces the path, guiding the way as I pick up my pace past the old stone war memorial still covered in a blanket of red poppies.

  At the north side of the park a narrow footpath opens up into the dense woodland. I have to move over to one side to make way for an excitable Labrador bounding towards me, tail wagging, its owner apologising in its wake. I stick to the main footpath once I’m inside the woods, aware of a subtle change in atmosphere, the outside world unable to penetrate the buffer of trees. I usually feel safe here – protected – but there are times I feel like an intruder, an unwelcome guest in a revered space. The silence is so absolute, so haunting, that it seems artificial somehow.

  I run past an old wooden bench where a fresh bunch of flowers has been left. Pink roses today; a different flower each
week. They weren’t here yesterday – a wilting bunch of lilies had stood before them. Last week a teddy, propped up against the back of the bench, left to endure the elements. When I went back the following day, it had gone. I wonder about the person leaving them, the offerings made to a life already lost. A tragedy, maybe, someone consumed by grief, returning to that old wooden bench that has started to rot, to leave gifts for someone who’s probably doing the same. There’s no plaque or markings on the bench, nothing to indicate who it stands for, just a long line of flowers and the occasional gift. Last Christmas there had been a wreath, but no card; no words of sorrow or regret, love or loss. It’s a funny thing, grief. It can make you do things a happier version of yourself would have considered quite absurd.

  I reach the end of the footpath and take the unmarked trail to the left which forms a semicircle back round to the main footpath. The first part of the trail is uneven underfoot and I have to take extra care not to trip over, navigating around fallen branches, tree stumps and marshland, the earthy smells of the forest thick in the air. Light is filtering in through the trees, narrow beams dissecting the ground as the sun rises.