The beginning of everythinG – a sneak preview
PROLOGUE ONE
EIGHTEEN MONTHS EARLIER
It was getting worse. Much worse. She’d known for some time that it was coming. She could feel it deep inside her. An unease, a shortness of breath when she hadn’t even been moving. A quickening. It left her drained, exhausted. The clock ticked steadily, a regular reminder that he was late; two minutes to ten, one minute to ten. He’d never let her down before. He’d always been there when she needed him. Reliable, calming.
Where was he?
The bell in the clock tower had been tolling for the last half hour! She felt if he didn’t arrive soon, she would lose control completely. She hadn’t had the panic attacks for years, but she knew that they were there, just beneath the surface, waiting to leap out at the slightest opportunity. She shuddered at the memory of mealtimes disrupted, as she paced the long corridor, trying to exorcise the mounting panic, to walk the pain into oblivion.
Where was he?
Unbidden, the golden gun flashed into her mind for the briefest of moments. Oh, please, Lord, she mustn’t think of that now! It couldn’t come back. Deep breaths, deeeep breaths. Ten minutes past ten.
Where was he?
She’d lit the beacon at nine o’clock, when it all started and it was still alight now. She could see the green flames reflected in the windows of the Palais de Danse, twinkling emeralds in an otherwise black velvet sky. He must come soon; he must hear the summons of the bell. Her heart beat faster now, too fast. She must slow it down. Think of something else, something warm, something safe, something happy. She’d always felt safe in the den under the table in Grandma’s kitchen. She loved her visits to her grandparents. They were some of the happiest times of her life and the kitchen had been the heart of the home, full of the smells of fudge and toffee that she and her little brother had made with Grandma.
She jumped violently, as a jarring sound rent the air and her heart pounded harder and faster than ever. She hadn’t heard that sound for years. It was the old fairground steam organ. But surely it couldn’t be? She had been a young woman when that had finally given up the ghost.
Ghost! No, no, she must not think of it.
The strident sound forced itself through every crack and crevice in the old building and invaded her world. In her mind, she could once more see so vividly the beautiful, slender, plaster conductor with his gilded baton in his hand and his skin so pale and lustrous, jerking sharply from side to side as he stood on the pedestal at the front of the magnificent machine, elegantly conducting, as the pipes blared and the cymbals clashed.
Oh, where could he be?
He’d never missed a call before, never failed her in all these years. Perhaps she should set off the flare? No, no, not yet. She had never had to resort to that, but there again, the old organ had never blared into life before, either. The situation was escalating. She should act now, before it was too late.
As if sensing her anxiety, the organ music was suddenly and slurringly joined by another long-forgotten sound. She knew with a sinking heart that the old carousel had begun to turn like a weary record, the magical, mythical animals relentlessly bobbing up and down, as they moved round and around.
Tears pricked her pale grey eyes and rolled down her soft pink cheeks and she realised beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was now too late. She was so tired, so very tired of trying to keep it out. She turned her head and looked at the old carriage clock on the mantlepiece. Nineteen minutes past ten. A minute away from the exact time that she was born, ninety years ago today. There was no hope now, nothing she could do but sit here in her shabby old chair and wait. Nothing.
The music was growing louder, faster, more insistent. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe!
A faint light showed under the door, growing stronger, a light that began to burn with the intensity of a firework. Firework! She pushed her thin, bony finger onto the button on the box by her armchair and felt, rather than saw, the rocket flare leap into the sky. Her watery eyes were filled with light, as she saw shards of fire explode, pink hot and burning, into the night sky.
Her heart seemed to throb in her ears and she held her breath, eyes now flooded with tears and fixed on the white-hot crack at the bottom of the door.
The music stopped abruptly and the door crashed open and her final thought on earth, as she stared into those eyes, was of the devastation to come.
PROLOGUE TWO
EIGHT YEARS EARLIER
Donald Makepeace put the cooler down on the sand and breathed deeply. He did it again and smiled to himself. There was nothing like a good lungful of fresh, sea air. He’d waited all year for this day and he was going to make the most of it. The sky was a clear blue and the sun strong enough to make even the most fleeting of glimpses of it an impossibility. He unloaded the bags from his shoulders and dropped the windbreak to the sand. Turning around, he beamed as his wife, Charlotte, made her slow way across the sand. The pale pink straw hat shielded her face and cast a rosy glow on her cheeks. He thought to himself that she had never looked so beautiful. Little Charley scampered around her, as they made their way along the beach, the wheels of the buggy cutting tramlines in the sand. They had arrived early and the beach was deserted, apart from a couple of dog walkers on the shoreline. Donald picked his spot carefully – far enough from the café not to be bothered later by the inevitable crowds and near enough to the pier to ensure lots of visits before the day was through. Charlotte, he knew, would prefer to sit in her deckchair on the sand with her book. She always agreed to their holiday being at a seaside resort with a pier, as long as she didn’t have to look at it – really not her cup of tea at all.
‘Thank goodness for that, Don’, said Charlotte, as she collapsed by his side. ‘I don’t think I could have pushed this buggy much further.’
The buggy was laden with bags and blankets and weighed a ton, far heavier than the bags he’d carried.
‘Perfect spot, eh, though, love?’ smiled Don, mischievously. Charlotte kissed him and pinched his cheek.
‘You and your piers!’ she said and set about unpacking. Before long, the windbreak was up, the blankets down, the bags unpacked and Charlotte was in her deckchair, facing the sea, book on her lap.
‘Charley!’ called Don, who saw his son paddling at the water’s edge. ‘Come and let daddy put sunblock on you!’
Charley stumbled towards his father, arms outstretched and a huge smile lighting up his face. The feel of the sand shifting between his toes was familiar and the briny smells and the caw-caws of the gulls were reminding him of previous times like this. The sun was rising quickly now and he squinted past his father to the large, spindly structure that seemed to be crawling from the land into the sea. Lights flashed and flickered along its freshly painted spine and the faint jingle of fairground music drifted on the breeze towards him. His father snatched him up and whirled him into the air. Charley squealed in delight, flung his thin arms around his father’s neck and nuzzled into the warmth. He loved his dad and he knew, in his small mind, that his dad loved him, too.
‘Come on, boys!’ said his mum. ‘Scoot off on your adventure and give me a little peace!’
‘ You’re a little ‘peace’, aren’t you, Charley!’ said his dad, with a laugh.
Charlotte stood up and looked after them, as they stumbled along the sand, heading for the pier. She felt ahuge, warm glow deep inside for her two men. She felt so lucky, blessed even. Don was a bit of a dreamer, with his pier obsession occasionally driving her mad, but he loved her to bits and she loved him right back. They were perfect together. And Charley was perfect, too. She had to pinch herself sometimes, to make sure that he wasn’t a dream, that he was actually all theirs.
Oh, enough of this, she thought. She’d be crying if she were not careful! She sat down on her deckchair, popped her new mirrored sunglasses on her nose, straightened her sun hat and settled down with her book.
The smells were much stronger now; the sickly sweetness of candy floss and toffee apples and the tang of cheap vinegar on hot chips, mixed with the persistent aroma of the sea. From high up on the pier, the ocean was far more visible than from the sand. Charley stood mesmerised and watched the huge waves roll and tumble and crash on the shore.
‘Oh, Charley,’ his dad said. ‘Look at this!’
Charley turned and looked and there before him was an enormous carousel, horses and cockerels and lions and gryphons glistening in the strong sunlight, as they sped round and round and up and down to the urgent pounding of the music. There was so much to take in. Charley didn’t know what to look at next. There was a helter-skelter, a Ghost Train and there in front of him, a magnificent Ferris wheel, it’s little cars swinging, as it slowly, but surely made its way round and round. Charley could feel his heart beat faster with excitement, as he gripped his dad’s hand and stared and took it all in. Don looked down at his son and wished he could experience the newness of it all again, just like Charley. He hoped that one day, Charley would love piers and funfairs as much as he did.
The morning flashed by in a whirl of colours and lights and smells and sounds. Don and Charley had never been so happy together. It wasn’t until Charley said, ‘Can we have some chips, please, Dad?’ that Don realised the time. He suddenly realised he was starving, so Charley and he headed to the garish kiosk to buy piping hot fish and chips for three.
Charley stood patiently by his dad, while Don paid for their food and then he carried the little sachets of tomato sauce and the cheap wooden forks, as they made their way off the pier and down the slope to the beach. Don could feel the heat of their lunch coming through the polystyrene cartons, as he carried them across the sand. There were lots more people around now and the beach had become a carnival of colourful deckchairs and windbreaks. It had been so easy to remember where their windbreak was when it was the only one on the beach, but now Charley found it impossible to spot it, especially from his height. He couldn’t see the yellow and green stripes, or the little Welsh dragon flag on the end pole, anywhere.
‘Which way now, daddy?’ asked Charley.
Don scanned the beach and saw their pitch in the distance. He hoiked the fish and chips up under one arm and taking Charley’s little hand in his, led him through the throng towards their windbreak. They could see the little Welsh dragon flag flapping furiously now, marking their spot. As they neared, Charley broke his grip on his dad’s hand and rushed ahead. He disappeared around the corner of the windbreak, squealing with delight, full of such things to tell his mum.
Seconds later, he reappeared, eyes searching for his dad in the milling crowd, a puzzled look on his little face. Don speeded up and rounded the corner of the windbreak, but Charlotte was not there and neither were their belongings. The sand was clear and clean and empty, with no sign that anyone had been there, except for a broken pair of mirrored sunglasses and a paperback book.
Charley began to cry.
