Authors: Patrick Redmond
Apple of My Eye
Patrick Redmond was born in Essex in 1966. After attending school in Essex and the Channel Islands he completed a Law degree at Leicester University and then a Masters at University of British Columbia in Vancouver. He spent ten years working in the City of London specialising in Commercial and EU law, before leaving to become a full time writer.
His first novel,
The Wishing Game
, hit the bestseller lists in the UK, Germany and Italy. He has published three novels since, which together have been translated into fifteen languages. His latest novel,
The Replacement
, is due out in 2014. Patrick lives in West London.
The Wishing Game
The Puppet Show
Apple of My Eye
All She Ever Wanted
The Wishing Game
‘The setting is genuinely chilling, and the atmosphere of menace and sterility riveting’ –
Daily Express
‘Patrick Redmond’s chilling debut novel is a first-rate page-turner’ –
Daily Mirror
‘The repressive world of single-sex boarding schools is a fertile ground for novelists, and Redmond grasps every opportunity for delineating the resulting psychological deformations with relish … Such is the hard-edged skill of Redmond’s writing that the carefully structured revelations about the past have a bitter and compelling power’ –
Times Literary Supplement
‘Assured writing sets up evil to overcome the weak in this deft, Hitchcockian portrayal of a malevolent microcosm of warped power’ –
Publishing News
‘
The Wishing Game
is dark and gripping, like an anaconda. I could not pull myself away: an astonishing debut’ – Tim Rice
‘Thanks to Redmond’s masterfully subtle fore-shadowing, a brooding sense of impending disaster is maintained throughout his gripping suspense thriller’ –
Publishers Weekly
‘Redmond has a way of making individuals seem both more human and more vile as new levels of detail are unearthed. Even his villains manage to become more understandable, vulnerable and complex as the book marches on … An impressive debut’ –
Washington Post
‘Redmond marries a sure grasp of psychology with a beguiling narrative that allows its series of revelations to unfold in a totally organic fashion … But his principal gift, as in
The Wishing Game
, is an effortless grasp of narrative texture, and multiple levels of sympathetic insight into his brilliantly drawn characters –
Crime Time
‘A highly successful thriller: a page-turner, certainly, but also original, well-constructed and intelligent’ –
Spectator
‘As dark psychological thrillers go, this is
dark
… A good read’ –
Maxim
‘His style is strictly no frills – simple, sparse and straightforward … but he does have a way of making you gag to know what happens next’ –
Daily Mirror
‘A mesmerising narrative, plainly but urgently told. Redmond’s particular talent lies in the book’s careful structure, its plotting and steadily accelerating pace – and in the psychological veracity that made the previous book a stunner … An excellent novel: clearly a talent to watch’ –
Tangled Web
‘A dark and bloody tale which keeps the tension going right until the last page … A superb, intelligent read’ – Joanne Harris
‘A compelling novel that draws you deep into the world of children at the mercy of the dangerous adults. Disturbing and gripping’ – Natasha Cooper
‘An intense, gripping read’ –
Heat
‘The lurking tension and twisting cruelty in Redmond’s writing and plotting make for a hypnotic, compelling read’ –
The Bookseller
‘The ghastliness of the English class system lies at the heart of Redmond’s creepy psychological thriller … Du Maurier meets Patrick Hamilton’ –
Guardian
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-7515-5478-6
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Patrick Redmond
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
100 VictoriaEmbankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
Contents
Praise for Patrick Redmond’s books
To Mike
As always, my thanks go to my mother, Mary Redmond, for being the first person who encouraged me to write.
Secondly, my thanks go to my cousin, Anthony Webb, and to my friends who all offered encouragement, advice and patient good humour whilst suffering heavy doses of my so-called creative angst. A big thank you to David Bullen, Emile Farhi, Paula Hardgrave, Simon Howitt, Iandra MacCallum, Rebecca Owen, Lesley Sims, Gillian Sproul, Russell Vallance and last but not least, Gerard Hopkins, for serving an exceedingly good curry.
Thirdly, my thanks to my agent, Patrick Walsh for all his efforts on my behalf, and to my editor, Kate Lyall Grant for her ongoing faith in my work.
Finally, my thanks to Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau and all the team at Simon & Schuster.
Hepton, Greater London: 1945
A late afternoon in June. In the stuffy office with grey walls the doctor cleared his throat and prepared to act out the scene he knew by heart.
‘There’s no doubt. You are pregnant. About five months, I’d say.’
The girl made no answer. But then it could hardly have come as a surprise.
‘So no more starving yourself. You need to keep your strength up. After all, you’re eating for two.’
Still no answer. He sat back in his chair and studied her. She was a pretty thing; strawberry blonde hair, delicate features, pale blue eyes and no wedding ring. A small hand rubbed at a lower lip. The white blouse and knee-length skirt made her look like the child she still was. Her name was Anna Sidney and she was three months short of her seventeenth birthday. He had read that in her file. And he had read some other stuff too.
‘Is the father a soldier?’
A nod.
‘Is he still here?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
A pause. The hand continued to rub at the lip. ‘No.’
He shook his head, having seen it all before. Naive, romance-starved girl meets libidinous, silver-tongued soldier and is charmed into losing her virginity and much else besides. Someone had told him once that a woman learned to desire the man she loved while a man learned to love the woman he desired. Only some men were very bad learners.
But that was just the way of the world. He was old and tired and there was nothing he could do about it.
He picked up his pen. ‘You need more vitamins. I’ll give you a prescription.’ His tone was brusque and businesslike. ‘And you’ll have …’
‘He will come back.’ Her voice was soft as a whisper. ‘I know he will.’
‘No he won’t. They never do. Not in real life. Only in films.’ He carried on writing, trying to be quick. Longing to get home to his supper and bed. In the street outside a man walked by, singing loudly. It was only a month since VE Day and the sense of euphoria was everywhere. Peace after six long years.
The nib of his pen scratched on the paper. A drop of ink fell on to his desk. He looked up, searching for some blotting paper, and saw that she was crying. He remembered her file. What he had read.
And felt suddenly ashamed.
He put down his pen. She was wiping her eyes with her fingers. There was a clean handkerchief in his drawer. ‘Here,’ he said gently. ‘Use this.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Forgive me if I sounded harsh. I didn’t mean to. Life should be like the pictures, only most of the time it’s not.’
‘He told me that he loved me. That he’d send for me. That we’d be married.’
Of course. That was what they all said. But perhaps the words had been meant.
‘Do you like the pictures, Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s your idol? Clark Gable? Errol Flynn?’
‘Ronald Colman.’
‘My wife and I enjoy his films. The characters he plays. Kind and honourable. There isn’t enough of that in the world.’
‘He looks like my father.’
Again he thought of her file. Thought of the hard road she had travelled and the harder one that lay ahead. There was little comfort he could offer but still he felt the need to try.
‘Anna, people are going to try and make you feel ashamed. Don’t let them. A new life is growing inside you and that is a wonderful thing. My wife and I wanted a child of our own more than anything but we were never blessed. And that’s what it is, Anna. A blessing. No matter what anyone says to you, never lose sight of that.’
She looked up. Her tears were slowing. ‘I won’t,’ she said, and suddenly there was a world of dignity in her voice. ‘Because he meant what he said. He loves me and now the war is over we will be together.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I know it.’
That evening, after supper, Anna told Stan and Vera.
The three of them sat at the kitchen table of the house in Baxter Road. The window was open, looking out on to the tiny back yard that Vera insisted on referring to as a garden. The breeze, tinged with the scent of a hundred meals being cooked in neighbouring houses, never quite dispelled the smell of stale chip fat that hung in the air like invisible fog.
‘I knew it,’ Vera announced. ‘I said something was up.’
Stan nodded. He was a cousin of Anna’s father. A tall, thin man with receding hair, slack chin and asthma, who worked in a can factory two streets away.
‘I’m sorry, Stan,’ Anna whispered.
A sigh. ‘Well, I suppose these things do happen.’ His expression was sympathetic. Though a weak man, he tried to be a good one.
But it was not his reaction which mattered.
‘Not in my house they don’t.’ Vera’s small mouth was set in an ominous line. She was tall, like her husband, but twice as wide. ‘How could you do this to us after all we’ve done for you?’
Anna stared down at the tablecloth. From the living room came excited squeals as four-year-old Thomas and two-year-old Peter raced toy cars across the floor.
‘You had nothing. We took you in. We gave you a home and family and you repay us by acting like some tart.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘How did it happen, then? An immaculate conception?’
‘We love each other.’ Emotion rose up in her. She fought against it, not wanting to seem weak. Not now.
‘So where is he? This knight in shining armour.’
‘I don’t know.’
A snort. ‘You don’t know anything about him!’
But that wasn’t true. She knew his name was Edward. That he was twenty-five and nearly six foot tall. That he was not classically handsome but had beautiful grey-green eyes and a smile that could release a million butterflies in her stomach. That he had a small birthmark on his neck which he called his little map of England. That he spoke with the faintest trace of a lisp. That he was clever, funny and kind. And that they loved each other.
‘You fool! You don’t have the brains you were born with.’
‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ said Stan suddenly. ‘She hasn’t had it easy.’
‘None of us have had it easy, Stan Finnegan, but we don’t all spread our legs the first time some squaddie gives us a smile. We’ve done everything for this girl and this is how she repays us. We gave her a home …’
And so it went on. The anger, the contempt and the constant reminders of all she owed them. She sat in silence, feeling as empty and afraid as she had on the day three years earlier when she had returned home
after spending the night with a friend and discovered that a German bomb had destroyed her house and the lives of her parents and younger brother.