Her Father's Mistake Read online

  HER FATHER’S MISTAKE

  AN EXTREME HORROR NOVEL

  BY

  SAM WEST

  Her Father’s Mistake

  An Extreme Horror Novel

  By

  Sam West

  Copyright Sam West 2017

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  FOREWORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  This book is set in the fictional, sleazy, seaside town of Broadgate. In my head, it is nestled somewhere between the very real towns of Ramsgate, Margate and Broadstairs, the places in which I grew up and spent my early adulthood. Those of you familiar with my work may recognise the seaside town of Broadgate from my novella, ‘Dreamworld’. Seeing as ‘Dreamworld’ was an apocalyptic novella, it is fair to say that the events in ‘Her Father’s Mistake’ took place before those of Dreamworld. These two books are in no way connected and are as different as can be; ‘Dreamworld’ is a supernatural horror and ‘Her Father’s Mistake’ is set firmly in this world. I just happen to like the town of Broadgate a lot and felt a little sad when I burned it the ground. (But that’s a whole other story, and one you won’t read here.)

  Anyway, without further ado, let’s get to the story – it’s why you’re here, after all. There is a wronged psychopath on the loose in Broadgate, and blood must be spilled…

  Until next time,

  Sam West.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Claire Atwood sat on the windowsill in her bedroom with her chin resting on her bare knees, smoking out of the window.

  “Shit,” she said, on hearing a creaking on the landing on the other side of the door.

  Quickly, she lobbed the half-smoked fag, but she wasn’t quick enough. Her mother burst through the door, her face flushed and eyes flashing. Her mum was a petite, fine-featured, composed and icy-cool blonde who looked much younger than her forty-five years. But now she just looked like a crazed bag-lady that had been possessed by the devil, further enhanced by the fact she was wearing her husband’s grey-flannel pyjama bottoms, and one of his ancient, fraying t-shirts that completely swamped her slight figure with a picture of the group ‘Soundgarden’ emblazoned across her chest.

  “I knew I could smell smoke. Jesus Christ, Claire, I can’t believe you’re smoking,” she said, her eyes still bleary from sleep and her usually immaculate, shoulder length hair sticking up every which way.

  Claire slid off the windowsill, tugging at the hem of her too-short, faded to the point of invisibility, Winnie the Pooh nightshirt. It barely covered her crotch and she knew she should’ve chucked it out years ago, seeing as she was no longer a five foot five, skinny thirteen-year-old, but a five foot ten, heavily curved, nineteen-year-old. But somehow, she couldn’t bare to part with it, just like she couldn’t bare to part with ‘Boris’, her mangy old teddy-bear with one eye that she still cuddled every night.

  “Mum, God, why didn’t you knock?”

  “Why didn’t I knock?” she repeated in a shrill voice. “Er, let me think. Oh, I know, it’s because this happens to be my house, and therefore this is my room, and I do not believe you are smoking in it. Oh my God, Claire, how long have you been smoking? Do you want to die? I can’t believe you would let me down like this.”

  “Is there something you wanted, Mother?” she asked with a flick of her waist length, blonde hair.

  But she was finding it very hard to be disdainful when dressed in her Winnie the Pooh nightshirt and flashing her knickers.

  “Yes, there bloody well is, as it happens. So I just called up Janice, and she said she bloody well fired you two weeks ago.”

  Oh, fucking shit, here we go…

  “Why did you call Janice? Are you spying on me?”

  Claire knew she had been caught out – a double-whammy with the smoking, no less – but still she couldn’t seem to stop herself from going into self-defence mode.

  “No, you ungrateful little brat, I’m not spying on you. And don’t you dare backchat me. Where the hell have you been when you were supposed to be working?”

  Claire had the good grace to look a little sheepish, because God, this was just so embarrassing.

  “You know, hanging out with friends, and stuff.”

  “Hanging out with friends?” her mum said. “Hanging out with friends and stuff?”

  For God’s sake, why does she have to repeat everything I say, like, twice?

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “What the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell us? What have you been doing with these friends? I presume by friends you mean a boy, and you’re out having sex, and smoking and drinking. Are you taking drugs?”

  “What? No! How could you even think that?”

  No point mentioning that she was a virgin and didn’t drink… And as for fags, she only smoked a few a day when things got too stressful.

  “Oh, I don’t know, because somewhere along the line you turned into a pathological liar. Oh God, what have I ever done to make you like this? I only called up the restaurant to plead with Janice to let you have tonight off. The McQueens are desperate for a babysitter as their live-in nanny is having a family crisis and had to fly back to America. And the other girl they were going to use because you couldn’t do it because you couldn’t possibly get out of your shift at the restaurant has let them down. So I asked Jeff to give me ten minutes to see if I could get you to do it.”

  “You had no right to do that, I’m not a bloody kid. You can’t just call up my work and ask if I can have the night off. You could’ve got me sacked.”

  Her mum laughed, but it sounded more like a dog barking. “You are kidding me, right?” Her eyes narrowed to slits as she pointed a finger at her. “And I have every right, young lady. All the time you live under our roof, you abide by our rules.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Jeff McQueen is a sleaze. The only reason he wants me to babysit his devil-spawn is because he wants to get inside my knickers.”

  The colour drained from her mum’s face, and inwardly she cringed. Just because it was the truth, it probably didn’t follow that she should go out of her way to goad her.

  “I’m calling your father.”

  “Fine. And I’m going out.”

  “No, you’re really not, you’re staying right where you are. In fact, you’re grounded.”

  “Grounded? I’m bloody nineteen-years-old, you can’t ground me!”

  “If you know what’s good for you, you will not leave this house until I say so.”

  Their eyes locked like two warring cats. Claire may have been a teenager, and she may have been spoilt, but she wasn’t a bitch. She’d been lucky with the parent lottery and even at her relatively tender age, she understood and respected that.

  Her mum was basically pretty cool, and so was her dad, when it came down to it. Okay, so they had been a little on the strict side when she was growing-up, but the strictness was never born of malice.

  Claire sighed heavily. “I was going to tell you, I just didn’t want to upset you. I was going to tell you when I found another job.”

  “Upset me? Upset me? You lie to me, to us, and you’re smoking. What else aren’t you telling me? I knew this year-out plan was a bad idea. I’ll get a job and save up some money, she says. I’ll get my driving-licence before I go to Uni, she says. But oh no, change of plan, I’ll smoke, lie, drink, and put it about like a cheap tart instead. Christ, Claire, why can’t you be more like your brother?”

  Her mum’s words stung as surely as a slap across the face, leaving her too stunned to reply. Sh
e knew she wasn’t like that, so then why was she being such a bitch to her? And even though she had been expecting her to play the brother card, it still stung. Ryan, her elder brother by ten months, could do no wrong in her parents’ eyes. Which massively got on her tits because she knew for a fact that her darling brother was rather fond of the old Bavarian Marching Powder and was a total man-whore.

  It’s so unfair…

  “I’m going to call your father, and if you leave this house, I swear to God, your life as you know it will turn into a living hell.”

  She turned on her heels and stalked from the room with admirable dignity, considering she was dressed like a homeless person or a mental patient.

  When she was gone, Claire curled up against the headboard and cried like a baby.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “So to sum up, Paul, I’m sorry to say that we are going to have to let you go.”

  Paul Breed just stared at his boss dumbfounded, his backside wedged undignifiedly in the tiny plastic chair. Surely he hadn’t heard right? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.

  Just tell him the truth.

  But he couldn’t. Where would he even start? Every last thing that James Atwood thought he knew about him was a lie.

  Everything else aside, this was the first proper job he’d had in ages and things had been going so well. Well, this was the first proper job since ever, if truth be told.

  And now this.

  Had the mighty James Atwood found out that his entire CV was complete bullshit? That he hadn’t, in fact, been working in a fictional office in Lancaster for the past three years? Had the bastard found out that for the duration of his twenty-five years, he had been in and out of numerous care-homes, foster-homes and mental institutions? Had he found out that he was a thief, an ex-drug-dealer, and a murderer?

  Is this where my journey ends? Have the police finally caught up with me?

  “Let me go? But I thought I was doing well,” he said tentatively, his head in a tailspin.

  He had been so sure that James Atwood had invited him into his office this Monday morning to offer him a contract.

  “Your three-week probation period is up tomorrow. I’m really sorry, but ultimately, I just feel that you are not a good fit for our company. Of course, I will be happy to give you a glowing reference for your future employer. I…”

  James Atwood’s mobile-phone rang on his desk – the Doctor Who theme – interrupting his stream of words.

  Hatred bubbled in Paul’s guts; pure acid and venom that made him want to lean over the wide, oak desk and rip out the cunt’s throat.

  At least he’s just sacking me because he doesn’t like me, and not because he knows…

  “God, I’m sorry, I have to take this, the wife never calls the mobile unless it’s a dire emergency… Yes?” he snapped into the phone. “Is this important? What?... She did?... Look, can this wait? I’m in the middle of something here….”

  Atwood fell silent, listening to his ranting wife, his expression stony. Paul strained his ears, trying to catch what Mrs Atwood was saying, but he couldn’t pick out any individual words. It was like in those old-fashioned cartoons where the woman speaking on the other end of the line ranted and nagged at incomprehensible, high-pitched speed.

  “Just tell her from me she’s grounded and I’ll deal with her when I get home. Yes, I am fully aware that she’s nineteen, but all the while she lives under our roof, she will abide by our rules…. Oh good Lord, you said what? No wonder she’s upset… Yes, yes, I know it’s not your fault… Look, can we do this later?”

  More ranting from the speed-talking voice on the end of the line and Atwood held the phone away from his ear. “Later,” he said more emphatically, before severing the call.

  “Problems, Mr Atwood?” Paul asked innocently, all the while fantasising about pummelling his too-handsome face to a bloody pulp.

  “Never have children, Paul. They make your life a living hell.”

  Paul followed James’s gaze to the framed photo on the desk. From where he sat, Paul could only see the back of it. “Can I see?” he asked.

  A flash of something that Paul couldn’t quite make out passed over his face. Uncertainty, perhaps?

  “Sure,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, turning the picture round for Paul to look at.

  The photo was a snapshot of the four of them, taken on a sunny day. They were laughing into the camera with Atwood in the middle, his arms draped over his wife and daughter, with his handsome son next to his wife. The first thing he noticed was how blonde and sunny his wife and two kids were – how they contrasted so nicely with his dark good looks. It really did make him feel quite ill.

  Paul drank in the sight of the two women, not paying any attention to the son. At first glance, they might have been sisters rather than mother and daughter. The daughter was almost as tall her dad, and the mother barely came up to his chest. Mrs Atwood was classically beautiful in a delicate, Michelle Pfeiffer kind of way. Miss Atwood was a lot more robust. She was easily as beautiful as her mother, but it was a different kind of beauty. Her facial features were similar, but everything was that much heavier, from her stronger jawline, to her bee-stung lips. She had her mum’s dazzling, powder-blue eyes, but like the rest of her features, they were a lot bigger than her mother’s.

  James Atwood cleared his throat and Paul snapped his gaze away. Shit, he had been staring for way too long.

  “They look nice.”

  Really fucking nice. So fucking nice I’d like to fuck your wife and daughter until they scream for mercy.

  “They are. Ryan’s doing so well, he’s studying for a Structural Engineering degree at Oxford. And Claire’s a good kid. Mostly.”

  Atwood sighed heavily, dry-washing his face. He peered over his glasses at him, as if debating whether to share anything further. Paul kept his expression neutral, his eyes wide and guileless.

  “My daughter may be nineteen, but all the while she lives under my roof, there are rules, damn it. She treats our home like a god-damn hotel, out all hours of the night getting up to god-knows-what with who-knows-whom, without a care for me and Mary. I guess we’ve been too soft on her, she probably needed a much firmer hand growing up…”

  He stopped mid-flight, as if suddenly realising that he was pouring his guts out to a guy he was in the process of firing. Clearing his throat, he got back to the subject at hand.

  “Look, Paul, I happen to like you, and I like to think that I’m a pretty good judge of character. You always show up for work on time, you’re conscientious, and polite to the customers, even if you are a little quiet. But the thing is, a member of staff has complained about you, and in this day and age, I am forced to take such complaints seriously. Especially when that complaint happens to be about sexual harassment in the workplace. And I know it’s early days, but you don’t appear to be gelling with the other staff-members to the extent that I would like. Comradeship in this profession is essential when we have to present a friendly, united front to the public.”

  “Who’s complained about me?” Paul asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

  The tremor was not born of sadness, or disappointment, but pure, unadulterated, white-hot rage. It boiled in his chest, making his heart hammer and his skin flame.

  “I’m sorry, Paul, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Paul thought back over his short time at the tourist attraction, ‘I Can’t Believe It’s True!’. Yesterday, he’d had an altercation with Louise, the stuck-up bitch who sold tickets on the front desk. Okay, so maybe he’d been caught ogling her chest, but then, if she didn’t want people to look at them, then she shouldn’t wear a top that made her tits look like two distorted, tightly taped-up water balloons.

  Take a picture, why don’t you? she had said.

  Paul had slunk away with his cheeks flaming. Not in embarrassment, but in outrage. In his head, he had cut her open from sternum to groin and paddled in her guts, but not wanting to ca
use a scene, he had retreated.

  “It was Louise, wasn’t it? If someone’s been saying things about me, I think I have a right to know.”

  “Okay, fine, I’ll level with you. You’re obviously a sensitive lad. She said you made an inappropriate comment about her, you know, her breasts.”

  Paul bridled in genuine indignation.

  “I did no such thing. I swear, I didn’t say a word.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul, that’s as maybe, but the fact remains she has made a formal complaint of sexual harassment. And sadly, you don’t seem to be settling in as well as I’d hoped.”

  “I see,” he mumbled, twisting his hands anxiously in his lap.

  “I really am sorry that this hasn’t worked out,” he said gently. Obviously, he had mistaken his enflamed skin for blushing and Paul wanted to kill him for his patronising tone. “I’ll make sure that you leave here with a glowing reference, and you will find a small-bonus in your pay-packet, a little thank-you for your time here.” Atwood stood up and extended his hand.

  For a second, Paul just stared at it, his mouth dry and his heart racing. A fleeting image of pulling hard on that offered hand and smashing it into the top of the oak-desk flared in his mind. And when he had done that, he would grab the stapler and staple his fucking eyeball…

  Instead, he stood up and accepted the offered hand, allowing Atwood to pump it rigorously up and down.

  “Thank-you, Paul, I appreciate the time you have put in with us. A decision like this is never easy.”

  He let go of Paul’s hand and opened a drawer of his desk, frowning to himself. Paul’s gaze was drawn to the movement of his hand, and he saw a stack of messy papers and opened envelopes with their letters poking out, on top of which was a little black, leather-bound book.

  His address book…

  “Funny, I was sure your wages were in here. Oh yes, that’s right, Fay was about to hand them to me and I had intended to put them in the drawer, but then Jeff called and I forgot,” he said, more to himself than to Paul. “Excuse me for a second.”