Malone The Torments

The chilling sequel to the bestselling gothic thriller: THE MURMURS
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-916788-29-9
Verlag: Orenda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 2, 300 Seiten

Reihe: The Annie Jackson Mysteries

Annie Jackson and her brother Lewis return to investigate the disappearance of a family friend, leading them to spellbinding mystery that digs deep into a past that should, perhaps, remain undisturbed ... A chilling gothic thriller from the critically acclaimed author of The Murmurs... `Annie and her brother, Lewis ... find themselves uncovering a world of black magic and murder. A creepy tale with the terrifying legend of the baobhan sith at its core´ Observer `Malone is the master of twists, turns and the unexpected´ Herald Scotland _______ Annie surged forward, but she was too slow, too late. A hand came over and down, and she felt a sharp pain at the back of her neck. Then all became smoke, and silence. Hiding from the world in her little white cottage on the shores of a loch, Annie Jackson is fighting to come to terms with the world of the murmurs, a curse that has haunted female members of her family for centuries. While she is within the ancient, heavy stone of the old dwelling, the voices merely buzz, but the moment she steps outside the door they clamour to torment her all over again, bringing with them shocking visions of imminent deaths. Into this oasis comes her adoptive mother, Mandy McEvoy, begging for Annie's help. Mandy's nephew Damien has gone missing, after dropping off his four-year old son at his mother's home. Unable to refuse, but terrified to leave her sanctuary, Annie, with the help of her brother Lewis, is drawn in to a secretive, seductive world that will have her question everything she holds dear, while Lewis' life may be changed forever... The second book in the critically acclaimed Annie Jackson Mysteries series, The Torments is both a contemporary gothic thriller and a spellbinding mystery that deeps deep into a past that should, perhaps, remain undisturbed... _______ Praise for Michael J. Malone `A tense, creepy page-turner´ Ian Rankin, New Statesman `One of the best books I've read ... Dark, tender, human, haunting, compassionate, gripping and rooted in Scotland and its history. A triumph´ S.E. Lynes `His biggest smash hit yet ... an assured paranormal thriller in which the paranormal isn't even the scariest part...´ Herald Scotland `A fine, atmospheric chiller´ Douglas Skelton `Mesmeric and suspenseful´ Marion Todd `One of the best books I've read ... Dark, tender, human, haunting, compassionate, gripping and rooted in Scotland and its history. A triumph´ S.E. Lynes `Poetic and beautifully crafted´ Caro Ramsay `A beautifully written tale, original, engrossing and scary... a dark joy´ The Times `A deeply satisfying read´ Sunday Times `A fine, page-turning thriller´ Daily Mail `Brilliantly creepy ... a spine-tingling treat´ Daily Record `Prepare to have your marrow well and truly chilled by this deeply creepy Scottish horror ... A complex and multi-layered story´ Sunday Mirror `Unsettling, multi-layered and expertly paced´ CultureFly `Disturbing but compulsive ... I loved it' Martina Cole 'Both thought-provoking and heartbreaking´ Foreword Reviews

Michael Malone is a prize-winning poet and author who was born and brought up in the heart of Burns' country. He has published over 200 poems in literary magazines throughout the UK, including New Writing Scotland, Poetry Scotland and Markings. Blood Tears, his bestselling debut novel won the Pitlochry Prize from the Scottish Association of Writers. Other published work includes: Carnegie's Call; A Taste for Malice; The Guillotine Choice; Beyond the Rage; The Bad Samaritan; and Dog Fight. His psychological thriller, Suitable Lie, was a number-one bestseller, and the critically acclaimed House of Spines and After He Died soon followed suit. Since then, he's written two further thought-provoking, exquisitely written psychological thrillers In the Absence of Miracles and A Song of Isolation, cementing his position as a key proponent of Tartan Noir and an undeniable talent. A former Regional Sales Manager (Faber & Faber) he has also worked as an IFA and a bookseller. Michael lives in Ayr.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Malone, Michael J.

Leseproben

Chapter 2

Annie

Happily, the murmurs were fairly quiet during Annie’s shift at the café. And she was kept busy enough that she was distracted from their constant drone. But there was one man who set off that other part of her curse – the knowing how someone was about to die.

The crew of the local lifeboat were running a practice drill out in the waters of Loch Aline, and when they finished, they berthed just by the café and popped in for bacon rolls and cups of tea.

One young lad caught her attention. His blue eyes shone with the pleasure at being included in the team, and he soaked up the words of the experienced men and women around him

That familiar sick taste bloomed in her mouth. Lights sparked in the periphery of her vision, his face blurred, the skin on it peeled away and she could see the bone beneath. A flash of noise and movement, and in her mind’s eye Annie saw a small, dark-blue car all but wrapped around the trunk of a tree.

A voice of insistent horror filled her ears. A mass of unintelligible words, murmuring and sibilant, and woven through that the sound of flames and of wood sap boiling and cracking in the heat.

These feelings of dread and sickness rose in her every time she received one of these premonitions. She battled against them, as she always did.

‘You alright, hen?’ a man she was about to serve asked. She realised she’d paused in the action of setting down a cup of coffee in front of him.

She looked around. Out of the café window she saw a little blue car, fully intact. The car in her premonition.

She coughed. ‘Whose is the wee Corsa?’ she asked, wondering how she might avert a disaster, knowing at the same time that whenever she’d tried to warn someone about how they were going to die, it always ended badly for her, and more importantly, didn’t stop the death from happening.

Someone at the table said, ‘That’s your wee heap of shit, Lachlan.’

The young man with the blue eyes held his hand up.

Everyone laughed. Annie read the strong camaraderie, and realised the young man’s death would affect the whole team.

‘The shaggin’ wagon,’ one older man shouted.

Lachlan joined the laughter, good nature on show, and shot the speaker a finger. Then he turned to Annie and winked.

‘Why? Want to buy it?’ he asked with a cheeky grin.

‘Be careful, hen,’ one of the older members of the team counselled. ‘He’ll be after your phone number next.’

More laughter.

‘Maybe once you get that slow puncture fixed, mate,’ Annie replied.

Everyone chuckled as their young friend’s attempt at banter with the waitress backfired, and Annie could see that none of them knew who she was: the infamous Annie Jackson who’d uncovered the truth of the ‘Bodies in the Glen’. As far as they were concerned, as far as everyone in the local area was concerned, she was Annie Bennett. She’d decided to adopt her birth mother’s surname as part of her attempt to blend in to the local population as just another incomer.

Moments later she returned to the table with Lachlan’s roll and bacon. As she placed his food down she leaned forward and urged quietly, ‘Get your tyres seen to, eh?’ He looked up in surprise, but before he could respond, she quickly walked away, her heart thumping.

The rest of her shift passed without any further dramas – the lifeboat crew leaving just before she did.

As one of the older members walked past he said, ‘Best rolls and bacon in the area.’ Annie knew him. Geordie Harrison. She had come across him several times. He owned the local hotel and bar, and was prominent at any community gatherings. Geordie was a small, lean man with a shoulder-length mane of grey-and-black hair. Something told her that there was money behind many of his dealings with the locals, that they were performative rather than coming from any wish to develop a sense of meaning in his life.

She was sorely tempted to offer young Lachlan another warning via Geordie, but fear stilled her tongue. Her warnings never had the desired effect – no one ever listened, and all that happened was at best, strange looks, and at worse, a mouthful of abuse. It was, Annie determined, another way for this curse to punish her – she knew the details of someone’s demise while being aware there was absolutely nothing she could do to change the situation. She smiled at Geordie and he went on his way.

Throughout the morning Annie had become aware of the stares of a woman in the corner, and her studied indifference when Annie looked over. She was middle-aged and slim with chin-length white hair, wearing sturdy shoes and what looked like a quality waterproof jacket. At first sight, Annie thought she might be a walker, but she could feel the woman’s eyes on her back wherever she came out of the kitchen, and she realised there was more to her.

Periodically, ever since she had been in the news, people would seek her out. Mostly it was by letter – addressed to her by name, often only with the word ‘Ardnamurchan’ as the address – and mostly these letters would end up unread in the bin. When they first started arriving she read them out of guilt, but the distress she invariably picked up from them became too much. Occasionally, people would find their way to Lochaline or Mossgow, hang about with her photo on their phone for heaven knows how long, and pounce the moment they saw her. They would then plead with her to help them find their lost relatives or friends.

It was heartbreaking. The weight of their loss was stitched into their expressions and the shape of their bodies. But that pain often turned to anger or disgust when she declined to help them.

Seeing this woman, Annie groaned, sure it was going to happen again. And on top of the guilt she was already feeling over Lachlan, it was too much. A quick look at her watch and she saw that her shift was about to end, so she ducked into the kitchen, whipped off her apron and told her boss, Jan, she had to leave straight away. But before she reached the door, the woman intercepted her, placing a hand on her arm.

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ the woman said quickly, the eagerness in her eyes betraying the lie. ‘But if I could just talk to you … ’

Playing out in Annie’s mind, as clear as the woman barring her exit, Lachlan’s car surged forward, hit a tree. His scream of fear and fright sounded in her ear. Then, she saw his bloodied and crushed head against the steering wheel before he was engulfed in flames. And in the background her murmurs crowed their terrible tune of demented pleasure at her pain.

‘Please God, no,’ Annie shouted. ‘Leave me alone. Enough.’ In desperation she moved to the door. Perhaps she could catch up with Lachlan. Wave down one of his friends? In her haste she collided with the woman, and knocked her back onto the corner of a table.

The woman groaned. Corrected herself. Grimaced. Held a hand to her back. ‘But you must read this,’ she insisted. ‘And then get in touch. We need to talk.’

Annie took the letter automatically. But then anger surged. Even after Annie’s rudeness and their accidental collision, this woman wasn’t deviating from her plan.

‘Jesus,’ Annie said, and slammed the envelope down on to a table. ‘Just give up, will you?’ Then she pushed past the woman and left the café before she said something truly nasty.

Sadly, there was no one from the lifeboat crew still in the car park, so she couldn’t deliver her warning. So she made her way back home, dropped her car keys onto the kitchen table, took a seat, and with a mind full of images of the dying Lachlan and the desperate woman in the café, she waited for her heart beat to slow to a normal rate and for the murmurs to drop to a quiet hum.

Going out of the house was worth it, she told herself. Besides, she had no other option, despite how difficult it was, and if she moved back to the city, it would be ten times worse. There she wouldn’t have the almost-quiet she experienced whenever she walked inside the cottage.

If only there was a way to bottle that and take it everywhere she went.

Annie made herself a cup of tea and a sandwich, and after she had finished and washed up her dishes, she settled down by the unlit fire with a book and tried to savour the silence.

Apart from Annie herself, and the very occasional visitor, the only people who used the road to her cottage were forestry workers. This really was a quiet, unpopulated place to live. The nearest houses were around five miles away down the single-track road, where it joined the B-road. Left took you to Lochaline, and right to Mossgow, and at this junction was a terrace of four white cottages, built, she guessed, to house estate workers. Most of the area, she knew, was owned by Conor Jenkins’ family, but the local gossip was that Conor would inherit none of it...