Hold My Hand by Serena Mackesy Read Free Book Online Page A

someone in the family – even something as little as their simply having bought it – we are constitutionally incapable of letting it go, however inconvenient. History (at least the stuff that reflects well on us), property – even clothes stay in trunks and wardrobes until the moth has eaten them away to nothing but a pile of brownish fluff. This place, for instance: there wasn't a single Gordhavo who wanted to live in the place after Granny died, but selling it was out of the question. We could have bought up half of Rock, before it got trendy with the Fulham set, for what this place would have fetched, and each of those Cornish fisherman’s bedrooms would have brought in twice as much in rent as they do here, and would have been far more likely to be occupied, to boot.
    Yes, but if we sold it we’d have to clear it out. Far better to leave that to the next generation, he thinks. Like the last one did to us. Shudders. God knows what's up there on that platform. The ladder must have given way decades ago and no-one has had any reason to poke their head up there to see. There are so many places like that about this property. No-one’s been into the coal-shed since the heating was turned over to oil – he doesn't even know where the key's gone – and the upper floor could have gone out of the boathouse altogether, for all he knows. Certainly, no-one's been near the place, apart from to change the padlock and put a DANGER NO ENTRY sign up, during his sentient lifetime. The pond's a nasty, weed-choked thing, its source spring too feeble to keep it clear, and he can’t imagine that the boathouse can have been very appealing, even in the house’s heyday.
    Gosh, we live differently, he thinks. Other people would think we were so spoiled, letting entire building fall to wrack and ruin, but we have too many. The simple truth is, we have too many.
    He half-drops, half-throws the bags onto a shard of empty space to his right. Hears something break and feels a small twinge of satisfaction at the sound. That’ll teach her to bugger off without a word.
    Bridget Sweeny. Doesn’t look like she’s going to run off with the first surfer she comes across in the summer. Didn’t seem too appalled by the workload. Didn’t ask a single stupid question about the house’s history or make any silly remarks about atmosphere. Didn’t come across as one of those people who have hysterics at the first problem. Seemed pretty sensible.
    He throws the light switch as he turns to leave the outhouse, and the circuit in the main house trips.
    She’ll need to be, he thinks, as he feels his way back across the courtyard under a starless sky.

Chapter Seven
     
    Crash.
    Oh God, did I lock it? Did I lock it? Did I remember all the locks?
    Sudden terror throws her rigid in bed, straight as a plank, sweat starting out on her forehead as though she has just walked into a Turkish bath. And yet she is cold, she is freezing under the thick covers because she knows that Kieran is outside, knows what he will do if he gets in.
    Crash.
    Now Yasmin is awake, too: eyes like soup-plates in the light creeping in round the curtains, she lies flat against the mattress as though some unseen force is crushing her downward.
    Crash. He's using his foot. If I forgot to put the bolts on, forgot the mortise, the Yale won't hold for more than a few of those kicks.
    Instinct tells her to hide, to get as far away from the noise as they can, to crouch somewhere in the dark, hands over heads, hope he’ll go away. But he won’t go. Not if he gets inside, and in this cramped flat there is nowhere to run to.
    I've got to go and check.
    No-no-no-he'll-kill-you
    Crash.
    Oh, Jesus, help me now.
    She sits up. Feels naked, vulnerable, once the covers are off and all that's between him and her skin is a pair of flimsy pyjama trousers and a cotton camisole, and maybe a flimsy lock. Swings her feet toward the carpet.
    Yasmin realises what she is about to do, that she will leave her,