Prologue
2001
Shanice kissed her husband’s forehead. “You’re tired,” she murmured.
“No, no,” he yawned. “I’m fine. Let’s finish the film.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be silly. It’ll be on again tomorrow, anyway.”
“You’re not wrong. Bloodclaat Christmas re-runs.”
“If you didn’t want to watch it, you should’ve just said.”
But Herbert gave her an indulgent smile. “I know you love this Muppets nonsense. We’ll try again tomorrow, yeah? Just need a sleep…”
“Alright.” She kissed him again. “Lock up. Remember to turn the Christmas lights off.”
“Do I ever forget?”
With a private smile, Shanice elected not to answer.
She left him to deal with the evening routine—though really, it was morning. Somehow, they’d stayed up until 1 a.m., like they used to when they’d first met. Back when they were teenagers. Lord knew how they’d had the energy; she was absolutely shattered, just like Herbert.
Shanice padded up the stairs and headed to the bathroom, ready to brush her teeth and sink into bed. Tomorrow was Saturday, and one of Jennifer’s little friends was holding a birthday party. They were going ice skating. Shanice would take her, and the parents would all go for coffee while the kids had a lesson. Jenny was nervous, so she’d be awake at the crack of dawn, worrying herself. She’d never been skating. Now that she was eleven, embarrassment lurked around every corner.
In fact, Shanice should look in on Jenny now. Such an anxious child, she was. Always having bad feelings and worries. Shanice hoped her daughter would relax with age—preferably soon.
After rinsing off her toothbrush, Shanice nipped into Jenny’s room quickly. She had Herbert’s mobile phone, a Sony Ericsson, and she used the tiny, glowing green screen to light her way.
All seemed well. The little room was quiet and still. Shanice stepped close to Jenny’s bed, bent down, holding up her improvised torch. She was only a little surprised to find two big, brown eyes staring back up at her.
“Jenny,” she sighed. “You should be asleep, love.”
“Sorry, Mum,” Jenny mumbled.
“Try to relax. It’s very late. Your dad and me are about—“
A shout interrupted Shanice’s lecture. The words were unintelligible, but the voice was unmistakeable: Herbert. Shanice frowned.
Then the shout was quickly followed by a series of sounds that made Shanice’s insides feel hollow. A crash; more voices, ones she didn’t recognise. Men. Grunts, and a sickening thump.
“Oh, Lord,” Shanice breathed. Terror bloomed like fresh blood.
“Mum?”
She looked down, unseeing, at the source of the word. The mobile phone’s screen blinked into darkness. Automatically, she pressed a button and brought it back to life.
Jennifer.
Jennifer was here. Her baby. And there was somebody in their house.
The thought was like a slap. Shanice blinked, once; then she got her arse into gear.
“Baby,” she whispered, her words precise and rapid, “you listen to me now. Do exactly as I say. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“I am calling 999.” She pressed the buttons as she spoke. “I am going to give you this phone, and you are going to get up and hide under the bed. When the lady answers, you say that you are a little girl and someone is in your house, and your parents are downstairs.”
“Mummy?”
“And then you will be silent. Do you understand me? Tell her that, and then you stay utterly silent. Tell me you understand.”
Jennifer only stared. The glow of the phone bounced off of her brown eyes, and in an instant, Shanice remembered an entire lifetime. A very short lifetime. From screaming, crying birth to this moment. Eleven years. She prayed her darling would see more still.
“I love you, Jennifer. Do as I say.” And then, when there was no response: “Jennifer!”
“O-okay, Mummy.”
Shanice turned from her daughter all at once, and did not look back. She went into the cupboard on the landing, eased it open, and retrieved an uncle’s cricket bat. She gripped it with both hands and tip-toed down the stairs. She peeked around the bannister and saw a snatch of the kitchen, just a corner of linoleum floor and the bottom of a cupboard. And a hand. A hand that had held hers, that had stroked her hair, but was now completely limp. Bloodless, Shanice walked the rest of the way with bold steps. More of the kitchen came into view. The hand was attached to an arm, a shoulder, a body. Her husband’s body. Her mind stuttered on the thought, playing it again and again like a scratched record
Then a man stepped into view, his face covered—but she saw the precise moment that he noticed her. His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, or cry out, and Shanice could not have that. Her baby was upstairs, afraid. There could not be a sound.
So Shanice ran down the short hallway, her cricket bat aloft, and leapt over her husband’s body, and beat an intruder bloody without saying a word.
She did not see her daughter, peeking with wide eyes through the bannisters as she herself had done moments before.
And she did not see the second intruder. All she saw was his knife.