The Bride: A completely addictive, gripping psychological thriller from John Nicholl

1

My name is Daisy Earl; just twenty-three years old, an expectant mother and already a widow, haunted by events, counting the cost, struggling with painful reality day after day. And I’m writing this book primarily for the child inside my womb as my due date fast approaches. I need her to know the truth – my truth – as I’ve lived it, as it’s happening to me. There’s been so much mindless speculation since my arrest, so much online abuse, a media frenzy, and so many lies. Some people seem to see me as a monster – fools who’ve never met me, trolls who don’t know the facts. But I’m so very far from that. I’m a victim of events. A survivor innocent of any crime. That’s the reality, whatever the haters say.

I want to give my unborn child a chance to read this when she’s old enough to understand. I want her to know what really happened in my words if I don’t get to tell her myself. Her lovely father disappeared before he ever had the chance to meet her. That’s when I learned what grief is. She lost him before her birth. And now she’s in danger of losing me too. Not because of anything I’ve done. Not because of any fault on my part. But due to an imperfect justice system that sometimes gets things wrong. I wouldn’t be the first to be wrongly convicted. I’m the only reliable source of information, but will the court believe me? I have no way of knowing. People make mistakes. All I can do is hope.

I’m keen to write my story for all the reasons stated. But I’m not devoid of insight; I know the telling won’t be easy. Even now, a part of me finds it difficult to accept what’s happening to me. My previously happy existence was blown apart, mercilessly destroyed in a way I could never have predicted. And that all seems crazy, even to me.

Yes, real life can be stranger than fiction. It can change in the blink of an eye. Everything we know, love, trust and rely on can be turned on its head at a blinding, wrecking-ball speed we can’t hope to resist. And that’s the way it has been for me. Bang! An irresistible tide. Suddenly, I’m the central figure in a tense drama not of my making. A high-stakes game it’s impossible for me to control. So much has changed in such a short time as my life continues to spiral out of control, faster and faster, never to be the same again.

There are no women’s prisons in Wales. And so I find myself remanded and incarcerated in the South West of England, over 100 miles from home, charged with an alleged murder that was nothing of the kind. I’m sitting alone in my cell with a notepad on the small table in front of me and a plastic biro in hand. Not exactly the most salubrious accommodation for an innocent young woman expecting a baby, but it’s where I’m forced to reside. A concrete box, bars on two square windows, a steel door, graffiti scratched into the four stained walls, and a bright electric light above my head that highlights every inch of this awful place. I’ve seen so much suffering in this world within these walls, so much unhappiness. And time passes slowly. Oh, so very slowly. Minutes can seem like hours, hours like days. I’ve been here for six seemingly never-ending weeks already, with another three weeks until my trial. That’s quicker than usual, apparently, or so I’m told. I wish I’d started writing sooner now. But if I work hard and put in the hours, I’m sure I can finish in time. It’s not like I’m doing anything else. I’ve given a flavour of my situation and opened a window just wide enough to peep in. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I may have said too much already. I need to start at the beginning if this is going to make any sense.

2

I’m a very ordinary woman who had an unremarkable childhood, a girl-next-door type, the kind of person people can trust, not a scheming shrew like some idiots like to think. No one could ever have guessed what was coming down the line. Not me nor anyone else.

I grew up in a happy home close to an estuary beach in beautiful west Wales, the daughter of a schoolteacher father and a bookkeeper mother, who loved me from my first day of life. I went to the local primary school where my father taught, just a short walk from our modest bungalow on the edge of the village. It was a happy time, yes, happy; I think that’s the one word which best sums it up. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but then whose life is? My parents had their issues like everybody else.

There was sometimes a tension in our home, an atmosphere. Mum and Dad often argued about the same issues, seemingly without resolution. Never about anything major, just silly things. Things which mattered to them.

‘I wish you’d stop taking those pills, Delyth,’ my dad often shouted. That was a regular theme. ‘They’re doing you no good at all. It’s time you had another talk with the doctor. I’d throw the damned things down the toilet if it were up to me.’

I can remember it all so very clearly. And it often comes to mind. ‘Oh, be quiet, Tim,’ Mum would reply. ‘I’ve got anxiety, you know that. Why I keep having to tell you, I don’t know.’

‘I’m just trying to help you, Delyth,’ he’d say, almost pleading. ‘I’m concerned, that’s all.’

But she wouldn’t listen. She’d shake her head, glaring at him, or storm off full of indignation. It wasn’t always easy for me to listen to. But I got used to it. And most of the time, things were wonderful. So I don’t want to over-stress the negatives.

I know Dad worried about Mum, and now that I think about it, he worried about me too. I think that’s worth mentioning. It’s strange the way the memories flood back as I write. Maybe things weren’t always as happy as I thought. I sometimes had nightmares for no apparent reason. Awful dreams that woke me in tears. I remember, early one morning, Dad rushing into my bedroom with Mum close behind.

‘Are you okay, Daisy?’ he asked, wringing his hands, a concerned look on his face. ‘You screamed out loud. You sounded scared.’

I recall wiping my eyes as my lovely mum sat beside me on the single bed.

‘I had a bad dream,’ I mumbled as Mum hugged me tight.

‘Another one?’ Dad asked. ‘What about this time?’

I don’t think I remembered anything about my dream that morning, or at least not that I can think of now. And anyway, I don’t think it’s worth focusing on that aspect of my life any more than I have. Because I was lucky to be loved in a way not all children are. And I was fortunate to enjoy our rural idyll’s freedoms as I played with my young friends. I’ve lost touch with them all now, but we were close then. I feel sorry for children who live in large cities. I realise there are benefits, but they miss out on so much, growing up too fast. I was blissfully naïve, unaware of the dangers lurking in dark shadows. That would come later as fate sank in its fangs. Back then, I felt safe and secure, the bad dreams apart, just as every child should. A fantasy, perhaps, but one I’m glad I lived.

I went to the local comprehensive school at eleven, travelling the eight miles by train each morning to the pleasant market town of Carmarthen on the River Towy, or the Afon Tywi, as it’s written in the lyrical Welsh language.

I remember that first morning, the fearful apprehension as Dad drove me the short distance to the station.

‘Everything is going to be fine, Daisy,’ he kept repeating, full of good intentions but with only limited positive impact.

‘Is it, Dad, is it?’ I said in reply. Wanting to believe him, but not quite.

‘Of course it is. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re a big girl now; you’ll be fine.’

His words offered solace, but being the youngest child in the first year of a much bigger school still came as a shock. However, the anxieties of that first day were soon tempered by experience as I settled into my year group, mixing mainly with an old primary school friend initially but soon making new ones. Sadly, those friendships didn’t last into adulthood either, something I’ve had to accept. People move on. Things change. And I guess it’s no great loss. Such is life.

I began enjoying my lessons, particularly English, history and art, as the weeks passed. My marks were good, better than expected, and close to the best in my class. I remember the beaming smile on my dad’s face when he read my first end-of-term report. It seemed he could hardly contain his excitement as he informed my mum of my newfound success, his musical, singsong voice rising in pitch and tone. He was expressive, brimming with emotion. I hadn’t seen him like that before, never once. He seemed to come to life. His eyes lit up. He glowed. As if, at that moment, all of life’s burdens had melted away.

‘She’s done wonderfully well, Delyth. A chip off the old block if ever there was one.’

My dad laughed at full volume and then continued talking, now in full flow, communicating with repeated hand gestures as well as words. He pointed at the report on my laptop screen. ‘Look at those marks, brilliant! An average of over 80 per cent. She’s almost as intelligent as her father. Not quite, of course, but not far off. Maybe she’ll be a teacher, too.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said and meant it. I was grateful. The praise felt good. I wasn’t the most confident child in the world. And even now, when I think back to that day, it fills me with pride. It bubbles up, filling my chest. My dad’s opinion mattered to me as a child, and it seems it still does. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed when so much else has. I’ll try to give my child that same encouragement if I ever get the chance.

James Robin Earl entered my life when I was just fifteen, a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday. He was about a year older than me. I later learnt he’d moved to our quiet Welsh coastal village from the Greenwich area of London with his parents after his father was given the opportunity to work from home as a successful architect. They moved from their small end-of-terrace property close to the Thames to a large detached mock-Tudor house fronted by impressive gardens with a glorious sea view. It seemed like a good deal to me.

James appeared shy when I first saw him at the local village youth club, slightly diffident, much like me. But I found an intelligence about him and a quiet strength too. I later discovered he was a lover of books, again, like me, not the typical teenager, and our friendship largely stemmed from that. I particularly enjoyed Agatha Christie back then, despite my youth, and I still do. The extremes of human behaviour have always fascinated me. In my current circumstances, the irony isn’t lost on me.

James and I said nothing to each other on that first evening at the youth club. As I recall, he sat at the edge of the room, saying very little to anyone. He’d entered a new world, an alien society in rural Wales with a different history, culture and customs. No wonder he was silent. But we talked when I next saw him, this time seated cross-legged and alone on a grassy knoll close to the sea one warm May evening. He glanced in my direction, raised a hand and waved as I strolled past with our family dog, and then he said hello in his English accent.

‘Hi, Daisy, isn’t it?’ he called out with a grin.

I found myself pleased to see him. I turned towards him, nodding with a smile, rather than hurrying on by as I likely would have had one of the local Welsh lads approached me. One or two tried their luck, but I was never receptive to their clumsy advances. With James, it was different. There was a mutual attraction right from the start.

‘What’s your dog’s name?’ he asked, his second question. I could tell he was keen to talk, and I was happy to reciprocate.

‘Polly, she’s a retriever.’

He picked up a small stick washed up by the tide and threw it, studying me the whole time, never looking away. ‘Have you done something different with your hair?’ he asked, question number three. And so unusual for a boy of his age.

I looked away, averting my gaze to the sand, shifting my weight from one foot to another. ‘Just a wash and cut, that’s all.’

Another smile lit up his boyish face as I raised my eyes. ‘It looks great, really suits you.’

I felt myself redden. I must have blushed crimson. I pointed to a well-thumbed paperback on the ground next to him, keen to change the subject but flattered. ‘What are you reading?’

He picked the book up, stroking the dog with his free hand and pushing the animal away when she licked his face. ‘It’s, er, it’s a thriller recommended by my mum.’

‘Any good?’

‘Yeah, it’s great. You can borrow it when I finish if you like?’

I nodded again, not wanting our exchange to end. ‘Okay, thanks, I will.’

James flashed another smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking. Do you fancy going out sometime, just you and me?’

It wasn’t something I had to think about. In my head, I was already shouting: Yes! I couldn’t get my words out fast enough. ‘Yes, yes, I would.’

And that was it. We arranged a first date. It all started with that conversation. James was an individual who didn’t follow the crowd. I liked that about him; he stood out. I stopped to talk because I liked him; instinctively, it felt right. That came as a surprise. It wasn’t something I’d experienced before. I was comfortable in his presence. It was almost as if I’d known him all my life. As if our meeting was written in the stars. I’m not over-romanticising the past. I realise some may think that. But it’s really how it was. I can’t say I loved him from that moment, but there was a connection. I knew our meeting was significant right from that day. I later told my mum that I’d won the relationship lottery. I felt so lucky, so fortunate to be that girl. If only it had lasted longer than it did.

I can picture James back then as if it were yesterday. The years melt away as I cast my mind back, pictures playing behind my eyes as if in real time – large, bright and bold. I can see his lightly tanned, freckled, sixteen-year-old face, topped with a tangle of shining jet-black curls, his bright blue eyes, his slightly uneven white teeth, and his long, slim body, dressed in faded jeans, a loose white cotton T-shirt and open-toe sandals, the type popular with surfers. Thinking about him, it’s almost as if I can reach out to touch him, take his hand in mine and feel the warmth of the blood flowing in his veins. Almost, but not quite. He’s always just out of my reach. I can never quite grasp him, however hard I try. If I call his name, there’s no one to answer. If I search, there is no one to find.

James pecked my cheek before we separated that evening, something I’ll never forget. It was as if my heart had missed a beat. I felt an energy surging through my body, a spark, an electric current like I’d never experienced before. It was one of those magical moments that stand out in life, a high point. We already had a bond that I believe we both recognised and appreciated. It was meant to be.

I looked back and waved when I finally stood to walk away about twenty minutes later. I’d never felt so self-aware. I was desperate for him to like me as much as I liked him. And I believed he did. I really did. Everything had changed. My world seemed a different, better place. I didn’t want to leave him. I could have stayed there forever. A tad overdramatic but true.

We went to the cinema the following Friday evening, travelling to Carmarthen by train and then walking hand in hand from the station. We sat near the back, ate sweet popcorn, and kissed, sensual, lingering, for the first wonderful time. It was all about our connection. The film didn’t matter. I can’t even recall the title. It was a mindless comedy I don’t think either of us particularly enjoyed. We had that in common, too. I wrote all about it in my diary when I got home, not about the film, about him, the kisses, how his erotic touch made me feel. Two pages of joyful, happy writing decorated with small hearts coloured with a red felt-tip pen. I pictured James touching me, fantasising as I put out the light, too excited for sleep. There were no bad dreams that night. It was as if my entire existence had finally found meaning, the most romantic, delightful development. I cry when I read those pages. That’s how our love began.

3

‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ James said with a grin as we sat together at a secluded riverside spot, well away from potentially prying eyes on a sunny September afternoon. I was sixteen, and he was seventeen. And we were in love. I remember our first time so very well.

I nodded once as James squeezed my hand, looking into my eyes. I was a virgin. What we were about to do was a big deal for me. Hormones were surging through my teenage system. But there were still nerves.

‘Have you got the condoms?’ I whispered after James kissed me insistently for a second time, unzipping his trousers.

And that was all it took, no more words. I like to think James was gentle, patient and caring, as well as passionate. Within a short time, two became one. We were lovers as well as friends.

I’m so very glad I can hold onto that memory. It’s a place I often visit in my mind’s eye. Because memories are the one thing I have left of him. I sometimes think nothing matters more.

My parents were initially less than enthusiastic about our growing commitment. But that all changed as they got to know him better. I recall my dad smiling shortly after James left the bungalow one dark autumn evening.

‘You’ve got a good one there,’ Dad said in his singsong voice. ‘He’s a bright lad. And he’s not frightened to express an opinion. I like that. Quite impressive for someone so young.’

‘Do you like him, Dad? Do you really like him?’

He laughed. ‘I said so, didn’t I?’

Mum didn’t say anything in support, but I’m sure she was thinking along the same lines. Because James’s intelligence shone out. He knew so much about so many things. And I was glad my parents approved. I saw it as another milestone. One less thing for them to argue about. Another hurdle overcome on my way to long-term happiness.

James entered the sixth form a year before me. And I wasn’t in the least bit surprised when he achieved three A-stars at A level two years later.

‘I’ll be studying history at Swansea,’ he told me, an announcement rather than a discussion. We’d talked about our future studies and shared a love of learning. But the reality of his going still felt a shock. Ferryside to Swansea is only about forty minutes by train and a little longer by car. So I told myself things could be a lot worse. I tried to look pleased as we sat talking, but my true feelings were written all over my face.

‘What’s up, Daisy?’ he asked. ‘Come on, I know there’s something.’

‘No, it’s great; I’m delighted for you,’ I said. ‘It’s the course you wanted at the university you wanted. What’s not to like?’

James reached out, touched my face, and wiped away a tear. ‘What are you really thinking?’ he asked. ‘Come on, you know you can tell me anything. You’re not crying for no reason at all.’

And then it poured out of me, an emotional torrent. Everything I’d been thinking. All the things I’d dared not say.

‘What if you meet someone else? A more intelligent girl, perhaps, or someone prettier, someone who grew up in a big city like you?’

‘That’s not going to happen.’ A quick reply.

I wanted to believe him, but with me, there were always doubts. ‘I know you’re attractive to other girls,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen them looking.’

He looked away, I think suppressing laughter, but I can’t be sure. ‘Oh, come off it, Daisy,’ he said. ‘You’re being ridiculous. It’s you I love. I could have gone anywhere. I’ve got the grades. But I chose Swansea because of you.’

Why on earth did I let my anxieties get the better of me? James did love me. He spoke the truth. I would lose him, but not yet. He was as committed to me as I was to him. Even after leaving for Swansea, he was so very caring, ringing or texting me often, sometimes ten or even fifteen times in one evening on the rare occasions I went out.

‘Where are you, Daisy? What are you doing? Who are you with? What time are you going home?’

He repeatedly asked the same four questions, I think needing reassurance I was safe and well. That’s the sense I make of it. Yes, I was truly loved for as long as our relationship lasted. Later on, I saw a lot in my role as a nurse. Some might say too much. Not everyone is nearly so lucky. Some never experience love, let alone true love, at all.

James usually came home every two or three weeks during term time. And I occasionally made the journey on those weekends he didn’t get back. Although, of course, he sometimes had to prioritise his studies.

‘I’ve got too much work on, Daisy,’ he’d say as I cried and pleaded. ‘You can come next week or perhaps the week after. Stay in with your mum and dad, concentrate on your revision, and I’ll let you know once I’m free. You’ve got no idea of the pressure I’m under. It’s a really full-on course.’

I didn’t see as much of James as I’d have liked. But I understood. He explained it often enough. And his first year of higher education passed surprisingly quickly despite my angst. I applied for a place at the same university to study nursing, and I worked even harder now, ensuring I gained the results I needed, two As and a B. It wasn’t so much the course that attracted me, although I was interested in nursing. My primary motivation was being with James. Work matters, careers, success and all the trappings that go with them are all very well, but they’re not life, not what really matters when we look back to evaluate our lives. Experience has taught me that. Life’s trappings can all seem so very important until a real crisis hits, bang, and then, in an instant, they don’t matter at all. I realised that even at eighteen, although I couldn’t have put it into words back then, not as I have now. That’s glaringly obvious from reading my diary. The comments are simplistic, clumsy even, but the foundations are there. I talk of the course briefly, with no particular passion I can identify, but so much more of my scribbled, girlish writing was directed towards James, almost to the point of obsession. I feel sure the depth of my love made the future loss I didn’t see coming all the harder to bear. That seems obvious. How else could it be?

We rented a small flat in the Uplands area of the sprawling Welsh seaside city two weeks before my first term began. James had worked at a local bar during the evenings to create a deposit, and I contributed a small amount from my savings. The flat