Just Before I Died: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Ice Twins
Sometimes you can’t even trust yourself…The chilling new psychological thriller by S. K. Tremayne, author of the Sunday Times No. 1 bestseller, THE ICE TWINS.How long can they keep you in the dark?It was just a patch of ice. Just a bit of bad luck. But it was nearly enough to kill Kath Redway, spinning her car into Burrator Reservoir in the beautiful Dartmoor National Park.Miraculously, Kath escapes her accident with a few bruises and amnesia. She is shocked but delighted to be back in her remote moorland farmhouse with her handsome husband Adam, and her shy, gifted daughter Lyla. She’s alive!But her family is not so delighted. Her husband is cold, even angry. Her daydreaming daughter talks ever more strangely, about a 'man on the moor'. Then, as chilling fragments of memory return, Kath realizes her 'accident' was nothing of the kind. And now her life collapses into a new world of darkness, menace, and terror.
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © S. K. Tremayne 2018
S. K. Tremayne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photographs © Jayne Szekely / Arcangel Images (landscape); Dorota Gorecka / Trevillion Images (woman); Sveta Butko / Trevillion Images (girl); Shutterstock (feather in girl’s hand).
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2018 ISBN: 9780008105907
SOURCE ISBN: 9780008105884
Version: 2018-09-18
For Star, on Kes Tor
Poor Kitty Jay
Such a beauty cast away,
This silent prayer should paint some peace on her grave
But something broke her sleep
From ‘Kitty Jay’, by Seth Lakeman
Table of Contents
I’d like to thank everyone who assisted me in my research on Dartmoor, in particular Tim Cumming, for his inspiration, and Loic Rich for his company. Likewise I am indebted to: the staff of the Two Bridges, White Hart and Gidleigh Park hotels; the makers of Plymouth Gin and the brewers of Dartmoor Jail Ale; and my editors at The Times and The Sunday TimesTravel Magazine: Jane Knight, Ed Grenby and Nick Redman.
As always I must thank Jane Johnson, Eugenie Furniss and Sarah Hodgson for their wisdom, advice, and professionalism.
There are many references throughout this book to various Dartmoor locations and place-names. A few of these have been altered or invented, by me, although I hope that the book, in general, is a faithful representation of the uniquely beautiful Dartmoor landscape. Any unintentional errors are entirely my own.
My thanks to Seth Lakeman for allowing me to quote from the lyrics of his songs.
Saturday morning
The dead birds are neatly arranged in a row. I don’t know why they are dead. Maybe they were slaughtered, by a domestic cat, in that cruel, unhungry, feline way: killing things for fun. But I don’t know anyone who keeps a cat, not for miles. We certainly don’t. Adam prefers dogs: animals that work and hunt and retrieve, animals with a loyal purpose.
More likely is that these little songbirds died from frost and hunger: this long Dartmoor winter has been hard. The last few weeks the ice has bitten into the acid soil, gnawed at the twisted trees, sent people scurrying into their homes from little Christow to Tavy Cleave, and has turned the narrow moorland roads to rinks.
I shudder at the returning thought, as I cradle my hot coffee and gaze out of the kitchen window. Ice had been a danger on the roads for a while. Yes, I should have been more careful, but was it really my fault? I looked away for a moment, distracted by something. And then, it happened, on the dark road that runs by Burrator Reservoir.
It was just a little patch of ice. But it was enough. I went from heading home at a sedentary pace to being in a car out of control, skidding terribly, ramming the useless brakes, in the frigid December twilight, sliding faster and faster towards the waiting waters. All I remember is a strange and rushing sense of inevitability, that this had somehow been meant to happen all my life: my sudden death, at thirty-seven.
The rising black water had always been meant to freeze me; the locked car doors had always been meant to cage me. The icy liquid in my lungs had always been intended to drown the last of my gasps, on this cold, anonymous December evening on the fringes of the moor, where the bony beacons and balding hills begin their descent to Plymouth.
But it didn’t kill me.
I fought and swam, blood streaming – and I survived. Somehow, somehow. Yes, my memories are still ribbony, still ragged, but they are returning, and my body is recovering. The bruising on my face is nearly gone.
