Tania Carver - The Creeper

The second book in the Detective Inspector Philip Brennan series, 2010

Once again thank you to David, Dan, Thalia, Andy and the rest of the team at Little, Brown. And to my agent Jane Gregory and everyone at Gregory and Company. Huge thanks to Joan Medland for her expert advice.

The version of Colchester General Hospital as imagined in this novel is entirely my own. As is Colchester, for that matter.

It was the little things she had noticed first.

Ornaments slightly out of place, a mug on the draining board that she thought she had put back in the cupboard, a damp towel in the bathroom that should have been dry. Little things. Puzzling things.

Unsettling things.

But not enough to be worried about.

If Suzanne Perry had known then how far it would go, what kind of nightmare her life would become, she would have been more than worried. She would have run as fast and as far away as possible.

Suzanne was twenty-six. She lived alone in a flat on the Maldon Road in Colchester. She worked as a speech therapist at the General Hospital. She had broken up with her boyfriend a few months ago and, while she had dated since then, she wasnt looking for anything serious.

She just wanted to enjoy herself.

Suzanne went out with her friends once a week, to a few bars in town, maybe a club. She liked dancing. She liked whatever was popular. She played Little Boots and Lady Gaga in the car and sang along. She enjoyed movies, especially comedies. And eating out, when she could afford it. Some nights she wished she had a boyfriend, some nights she liked nothing better than curling up on the sofa with a chick-lit novel, a bar of chocolate and a glass of white wine.

She was attractive and friendly and she didnt think she was anything special.

But someone did.

Someone thought Suzanne Perry was very special indeed.

The nightmare started in early June. Suzanne was asleep in her bed, in her room, in her flat. The doors locked and bolted, the windows secured. She thought she was safe.

She was wrong.

The thick, heavy drapes were pulled close at the window, the wooden blinds tight shut. As always. Since she had been a child she was a light sleeper, needing total darkness and silence. So her bedroom was like a sensory deprivation chamber. She loved that.

But this night was different. This darkness was different. Not comforting or secure but cold and deep, as if the safety of her womb-like room had been breached. She didnt know if she was dreaming or awake. The room was hers and not hers.

She lay on her back in her bed, her eyes wide open, her head propped up on pillows, stared straight ahead into a nightmare-black darkness of deep, dank shadows in which huge, hulking shapes could be glimpsed. She blinked, tried to move. Couldnt. Blinked again. Her head, full of imagined whispers and screams, ached.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness, moved towards her. Her heart raced, she tried to roll over, pull away. Couldnt. Her body wouldnt respond.

The shadow took shape. An outline against the blackness. A human shape, bulky, with two huge, glowing eyes at the front of its head. Bright, like car headlights. Suzanne tried to shield her face, but her arm wouldnt respond. She closed her eyes. The shadow moved in closer. Suzanne, her heart hammering, kept her eyes closed. Her brain sent a signal to her mouth: open, scream. Nothing happened.

She kept her eyes screwed tight shut, tried not to breathe. Pretended she wasnt there. Willed herself to waken.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyes. The dream room was spinning, a pitch-black kaleidoscope. She pulled it into focus. The shadow was right beside her, its bright eyes by the side of her head. She could feel its dream breath on her dream cheek.

She closed her eyes again, tried to move her lips, a mantra running through her head: Its only a dreamits only a dreamits only a dream

Then the shadow spoke. Low, burbling and monotonous, a rattle and rasp like a pan of water boiling dry. Crooned, painful words she didnt understand.

She tried to understand, form those words into sentences. There was something familiar about the sound, carried over from her waking life if only she could understand it. But the words shivered away into the recesses of her dream, lost and irretrievable.

Then the shadow moved, flowed over her body; it smelled of dark, oily, toxic smoke.

Then it wasnt smoke. It became hard, rough, unyielding. She held her breath once more, tried to call out. Nothing. She tried to pull her legs away, stand up. Nothing. Bring her hands up clenched as fists, fight the shadow off. Nothing.

Cold, hard hands touched her, ran down her sides. Her dream body recoiled, but stayed where it was. The hands slowly moved down to her thighs, to the hem of her T-shirt.

Its only a dreamonly a dream

The hands moved her T-shirt up, over her thighs.

Only a dreama dream

She screwed her eyes closed once more.

The shadow started talking again. The wounded, twisted crooning.

Wake upwake up

The crooning building, getting louder

Only a dreamwake up, pleasewake up

Then flash of light. A scream. Not Suzannes.

Then silence.

Suzanne opened her eyes. The shadow had gone. She was alone in the darkness once more.

Her heart was still hammering, her breathing harsh and ragged. She kept her eyes closed. Willed herself to go to another area of sleep. A safer, kinder one.

Suzanne slept.

A harsh, shrill noise crashed in Suzannes ears.

She jumped, opened her eyes. Blinked. Looked around. Sighed. Her womb-like bedroom. She closed her eyes again.

But the noise wouldnt let her sleep: Chris Moyles voice blaring out, telling her in his own unlovable way that it was time to get up.

She opened her eyes again. Something wasnt right. It took her a few moments but she worked out what it was. Sunlight was streaming round the edges of the blackout curtains.

Suzanne sighed again. Normally she liked to lie after the alarm woke her, cherish the last few foggy tendrils of sleep that had wrapped themselves round her. Leave it as late as possible before throwing the duvet back and reluctantly trudging off to the shower.

But not this morning. Not with the nightmare shed had. She didnt want to stay in bed a second longer than she had to.

Now she threw the duvet back, felt pins and needles all down her arms. She swung her legs round and down to the floor. They ached, felt heavier than usual, stiffer. She tried to sit up, felt her head spin. Blinked as the room refused to stay still. She flopped back on the bed again.

Her body felt as if she had done a particularly strenuous workout in the gym followed by a huge session in the pub with Zoe and Rosie then had just collapsed into bed and not moved all night. But she knew that wasnt true.

Shed had a night in, watching Corrie, eating a bar of Fruit and Nut. Couple of phone calls then a long bubble bath and an early night with a Kate Atkinson novel. No workout. Only a small glass of wine, what was left in the bottle.

Suzanne tried once more to stand and made it, her legs shaking, the room spinning. Maybe Im coming down with something, she thought. Swine flu, probably. She stumbled towards the window, placing one hand on the sill to steady herself, pulled back the drapes, ready to see what kind of day it was.

She didnt get as far as looking out of the window.