Inheritance Read online



  First published 2015 by Thomas Wymark

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, places and events

  portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the reader.

  It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be

  reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial

  or non-commercial purposes without prior

  written permission.

  Before you enjoy this book …

  … would you like to get more from Thomas Wymark?

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP AND GET YOUR BOOK

  Or visit www.thomaswymark.com

  Hurry - grab this 5 star thriller while you still can …

  INHERITANCE

  By Thomas Wymark

  01

  I had never been a violent woman.

  I never swore (too much).

  I never really wanted to hurt anyone — much less kill them.

  And doctors never really used to be weird.

  But things can change.

  ‘The good news, Mrs Marsden, is that you were only unconscious for six or seven minutes.’

  He didn’t smile. He wasn’t joking.

  But I couldn’t see how being unconscious for any amount of time constituted “good news”. Unless the bad news was really bad.

  The doctor clicked the end of his ballpoint pen. Was he emphasising a point, or just trying to annoy me?

  ‘And we’re pretty sure —’ click, click, click ‘— there will be no lasting damage. In fact —’ click, click, click ‘— everything appears to be more or less normal.’

  I was not without imagination or humour, but normal seemed to be stretching it.

  ‘And the bad news?’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘Bad news?’

  ‘You said that being unconscious was the good news.’

  ‘There is no bad news. The fact that you were unconscious for only a relatively short period of time is good news.’

  Definitely weird.

  I had been admitted to hospital two days earlier.

  As they wheeled me onto the ward I spotted my details written on a white-board: Christine Marsden - concussion - skateboard injury.

  I smiled, in spite of the pain. The truth was, I had never been on a skateboard. The throbbing wounds on my face and head didn’t tell the whole story.

  I was a teacher at a primary school in Bath. Parents’ evening was just around the corner and we had all been working late. Teachers do that. Work late. And long. And at the weekend. But that’s our choice.

  Parents’ evening always caused mild panic throughout the school. Two days before the actual night, would see the wrong teachers going into the wrong classrooms “by mistake” or under some pretence or other, just to see how the other teachers had made their classrooms stand out. Desks were scrubbed clean, dustpan brushes (never the dustpans) appeared from nowhere and all the bins overflowed with screwed up paper and dried out paint pots.

  Where I could find good reason I’d make sure the kids’ work was marked as positively as possible.

  As tempers frayed we all watched each other in the staffroom, from behind our coffee cups.

  It would all be fine, the morning after. But until then, I was working late.

  My self imposed deadline was 7pm. Get it all done by then and then get out. My stomach had already started to moan by 5pm. In all the panic I’d forgotten to eat lunch (again). At five to seven I’d had enough. I was ready to kill for food. And ready to kill any teachers or parents who didn’t appreciate the work I’d put into making the classroom look as good as it was ever going to look.

  Neil would have already made tea for himself and the kids. I was going through another vegetarian phase, so I knew he wouldn’t have made anything for me. Which was fine.

  The journey home was a struggle right from the start. My seatbelt wouldn’t pull across properly and when it eventually did, it was twisted. OK. I could live with that.

  Within minutes of leaving the school car park my eyes started drooping. Too many late nights backed up by too many early mornings. There was no way I was going to be bothered to faff about with any vegetables when I got home. Something “ready made” from the supermarket felt like the right move.

  I steered the car with one hand and checked the contents of my purse with the other. Several coins fell out, one dropped between the seat and the handbrake — no doubt the highest denomination I had. The car juddered as I tried to adjust my eyes to the darkness, and to counting the money as I drove. There wasn’t enough. Even if the missing coin was worth the most, I still didn’t have enough cash for a cheap vegetarian ready-meal. And I wasn’t even being fussy.

  Of course I had my bank card. But that was a whole other matter.

  At the best of times I found the ‘chip and pin’ scenario in supermarkets awkward. I knew how to stick my card in the machine. Sometimes I got it the right way round first time. Often I didn’t. I had enough brain capacity to remember four digits. Sometimes I remembered the correct four digits for the card I was using. Often I didn’t. And even if I remembered the correct four digits and the correct card the right way round, I didn’t always get the digits in the right order.

  It wasn’t because I was stupid. It was because I was stressed.

  As a teacher, I should have been used to stress. And in a class full of kids, I was. But at the head of an ever growing queue at the supermarket checkout the stress hit me. That was my weak point. The checkout. I’d overheat. I’d have to take my coat off, if I was wearing a coat. My cardigan, if I was wearing a cardigan. My face would flush red, which would make me even more stressed.

  And if by some miracle I managed to get the whole thing working perfectly — card in, four digits, correct order — I would forget to cover what I was doing as I did it. It was as though I was showing the world — look, I can do this.

  ‘Someone will see your number,’ Neil would say. ‘You need to cover it up. They’ll steal your card. Then what will you do?’

  Maybe it was Neil’s fault that I got so stressed.

  At a cash machine I was fine. No problem with cards the wrong way around. No problem with remembering a four digit sequence in the correct order. No problem covering the whole thing with my other hand.

  So my usual method to buy things consisted of: go to cash machine; get cash; buy stuff.

  So simple even a primary school teacher could master it.

  I left my purse open on the passenger seat and concentrated more fully on the road. Darkness, tired eyes and hunger did not make for a comfortable journey. After ten minutes I saw the lights of the supermarket on the high street. The cash machine was built into the side of the supermarket.

  Perfect.

  Except that the easiest way to get to the cash machine was to park (illegally) at the bus stop opposite, run across the pavement and get the money out, run back to the car and then drive around the end of the road to the entrance to the supermarket car park. Clever to have a cash machine attached, stupid to position it on the wrong side of the supermarket entrance. Great for pedestrians, or people wanting to catch a bus.

  I checked in my rearview mirror. No buses as far as I could tell. I’d only be a few seconds. A minute or two at the most. Just get the cash and straight back to the car. Where was the harm in that?

  I pulled up at the bus stop, grabbed my purse, shoved it in my handbag and opened the door. Then stuck the hazard lights on. Then turned the engine off and put the keys in my handbag. A quick last check, no buses, and then a sort of semi-running movement to the cash machine. Although the cash machine was a shining beacon, the surrounding street lights seemed to be down a b
ulb or two. That was good. I didn’t want any of the kids, or their parents, spotting me parking illegally to get money from the cash machine. Little things can turn into massive stories in a school environment.

  I checked over my shoulder a few times, covered my digit-pushing fingers and requested £50. Enough for a slightly better meal and a half tank of petrol for the car in the morning.

  I slipped the money into my purse, slipped my purse into my handbag and headed back, semi-running movement, to the car.

  Halfway between the cash machine and the bus stop I heard a noise. Almost felt the noise. Like a train ratcheting over the tracks, with a gust of wind running before and after the carriage. That’s what it was like.

  The reality was a boy on a skateboard shooting out from the darkness, skimming along the pavement, heading towards me.

  He wore a hoodie. And a smile.

  I halted my semi-running movement and stepped backwards, away from him. As he drew level he reached out an arm and grabbed hold of my handbag. I gripped it tight and brought him to a stop. I yanked the bag, trying to pull it away from him. But instead I pulled him nearer. He breathed alcohol and sweat.

  He still had the bag, and he was much closer to me than I was happy with. I opened my mouth to scream. But in the time it took for the sound waves to fulfil their side of the bargain he flicked his skateboard up, caught it with his free hand and brought it crashing down on my forehead. The pain was instant and piercing, unlike my scream which turned out to be a forced grunt. Briefly my world became a blazing bright white.

  02