A Place In France Read online

  A PLACE IN FRANCE

  AN EXTREME HORROR NOVELLA

  BY

  SAM WEST

  A PLACE IN FRANCE

  AN EXTREME HORROR NOVELLA

  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.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’re a lot younger than everyone else around here,” Alan Evans said, a short, portly, grey-haired gentleman in his seventies. “And it’s so quiet, I hope you won’t find the change of pace boring.”

  Felicity Walsh, or ‘Flick’ took a large gulp of red wine – a moving-in gift from Mary and Alan Evans, their new neighbours. But she and Tom had barely even landed and this was all a bit much. They seemed like a sweet couple and everything, but she was knackered after the nine hour drive today, and an uncomfortable night in a Formula One hotel last night. Plus all the headache of moving out of their old house yesterday, yet alone moving country. Christ, they hadn’t even finished emptying the trailer yet.

  “Boring? Heavens, no, the change of pace is just what we need. I guess we were both getting pretty burnt out.”

  There’s the understatement of the century, she thought.

  She glanced over at her husband Tom as she said it. He was looking tired. Too tired. His dark-brown eyes usually shone with mischief and humour, but today they looked flat and sunken, the skin beneath them smudged with black.

  It’s the same look he had just before his breakdown…

  She shivered, despite the heat of the June day. She didn’t want to think about that – this was supposed to be a fresh start.

  “So what did you both do, if you don’t mind me asking?” Mary said.

  Mary smiled sweetly at her, her eyes watery and the paper-thin, slack skin of her eyelids magnified by her glasses. Absently, Flick noticed how her silvery-blue eyeshadow had settled into her wrinkles.

  “I was an editor for a newspaper, and now I’m writing a book.”

  “A writer. There are loads of writers living in the Dordogne, isn’t that right, Alan?”

  “Yes, there are, but you’re the only one in this village, far as I know. I have loads of stories I can tell you, you know, give you a bit of inspiration,” he said with a wink.

  Flick smiled, but inside she groaned. Great, just what she needed – one of those pricks who always wanted to tell her their boring ‘true’ stories because she was a writer.

  Should’ve said I was a teacher.

  “Do you have a publisher?” Mary asked. “Have you written any other books or is this your first one?”

  “It’s my first one, but there should be a few takers once it’s finished.”

  Another topic that Flick couldn’t be arsed getting into. She had connections in the publishing industry from her old job and she was ninety percent sure that one of the big five would take her chick-lit style thriller. In the unlikely chance that there were no takers, she would just self-publish the damn thing.

  But she was too tired to get into the ins and outs of this now.

  “How about you, Tom? What did you do in England?”

  For a second, a shadow passed over Tom’s face, but just as quick it was gone again.

  “I used to be an air-traffic controller,” he said with a bright smile.

  “Oh, I hear that’s pretty stressful,” Alan said with a deeply concerned look, like he actually gave a shit and wasn’t just being nosey.

  “Yeah, it was. I guess you could say that I fit every stereotype going with that one. I had a nervous breakdown last year.”

  Flick went to him and put her arm around his waist. “But that’s all in the past now, and we’re very much looking forward to our new adventure here in France.”

  She squeezed his waist, proud of him for his honesty, for opening up to near strangers.

  And maybe now they would stop with the quick-fire questions, and bugger off to let them get settled.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Alan said with that overconcern of his. “Are you going to do anything here? You’re awfully young to retire.”

  Obviously not, then.

  Flick was beginning to wonder if she and him were going to have a problem. God, how she hated this ‘getting to know you’ crap.

  Stop being so harsh. They’ll be okay once the novelty of having new neighbours wears off. They’ll soon mellow out…

  It was just that she didn’t want to get into it all, not right now; not when there was a mountain of unpacking to be getting on with.

  “We’re just going to take one step at a time,” Tom said genially, but there was no disguising the way his entire body tensed beneath her arm.

  It was a touchy subject. Flick was absolutely cool with him not working, seeing as money wasn’t much of an issue.

  At the relatively tender age of thirty-eight, Tom had received a massive severance pay from the airline company that he had worked for. Not only that, but Flick’s mother had not long died, and as Flick was an only child, all her mother’s money had come her way. And it was a lot.

  But again, this was none of their business. As far as Flick was concerned, they were being a right pair of nosey bastards; they may as well have asked, how the hell are you going to support yourselves?

  “If you’re a bit of handyman, there’s plenty of work around, if you want it. Lots of Brits, Americans and Dutch are here, doing up their wrecks. Yes, plenty of work around…”

  “I’m not really much of a builder,” Tom mumbled.

  Flick gave him a quick, final squeeze, then wandered over to the pile of boxes in the kitchen area of the big, open-plan room. “I know the kettle’s here somewhere,” she said pointedly, hoping that they would take the hint and just piss off already.

  “It’s in the very top box,” Tom said, not missing a beat.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Flick saw Mary take Alan’s empty glass out of his hand and make her way over to Flick in the kitchen. She set the wine glasses down on the draining-board.

  “Well, you’ve got enough to be getting on with, we’ll leave you to it.”

  About bloody time and hu-bloody-ray for that.

  “Oh, okay then,” she said, hoping that her relief wasn’t too obvious. “Thanks so much for the wine. You’ll have to come round for dinner once we’re a bit more settled.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you so much. And you must come to us soon, too. Don’t forget, if there’s anything we can do, and I mean anything, we’re right next door.” The woman chucked slightly. “Well, you know, as next-door as it is possible to get on this street.”

  Flick returned the smile, but it felt tight and unnatural on her face.

  “Yes. Thanks, Mary. And you too Alan, it was really nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise dear, likewise,” Alan said, beaming over at her. “Come on Mary, let’s leave this lovely young couple to it.”

  Amidst a flurry of thanks and goodbyes, the older couple finally left. No sooner had the front-door shut behind them, she and Tom visibly slumped.

  “Thank fuck for that, I thought they were never going to go,” Tom said.

  “Yeah. I still can’t find the kettle.”

  “Fuck the kettle, we have wine.”

  Retrieving the almost empty bottle from the windowsill, he ambled over to her with a grin.

  “Well, we did,” he said, tipping the remainder of the bottle into her empty glass on the counter top. “Never mind, I know where there’s another bottle.”

  “You have no problem locating the
wine, but the kettle is another matter…”

  She shrieked when he lunged for her, scooping her into his arms and tilting her backwards in a swoon. “Priorities, beautiful lady, priorities.”

  When his mouth clamped down on hers, her head swam. Even after four years of marriage he still had the same, devastating effect upon her.

  He groaned softly into her mouth and her body sparked into life.

  “You know what? Forget the wine,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

  Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, arousal tickling the back of her eyelids. “But there are still a ton of boxes left in the trailer, and I’m so tired,” she breathed, returning the kiss.

  “Uh huh, then let’s to bed, sleepyhead.”

  She squealed when he scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothing, which, as far as Tom was concerned, probably wasn’t far from the truth. She was only five foot one to his six foot five, and he strode out into the hallway with Flick dangling in his beefy arms.

  Revelling in the strength of him, for he always made her feel like a princess being rescued from a tower, she playfully nipped the side of his neck.

  “My hero,” she purred.

  “You’d better believe it, sweet-cheeks.”

  He hoisted her up higher in his arms, making her shriek, and carried her up the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The first thing Flick did when she awoke was instinctively reach out for Tom on the other side of the blow-up mattress. Her eyes snapped fully open when her hand patted empty space where his body should’ve been on the other side of the bed.

  Sunlight pierced her retinas and she groaned, pulling the pillow over her head.

  “Wos the time?” she slurred, too tired to care that she was talking to herself.

  Groaning, she prised away the pillow and sat up. The blow-up had deflated sometime during the night, probably not helped by the prior evening’s vigorous sex, and her backside was pretty much resting on the floorboards.

  The blow-up mattress is eating me, she thought, wondering how the hell she was going to extract herself without doing herself an injury.

  She performed the most ungainly of logrolls and landed with a thump on the floorboards in a mass of sprawled limbs. As she lay there in her undignified position on the floor, she realised that she was naked, and the window opposite the bed was curtain-less, the shutters having remained open for the duration of the night. She just lay there on the floor for a moment, feeling utterly sorry for herself at all the unpacking and all the stuff she had to do today.

  Next to the blow-up mattress, she spied the t-shirt that Tom had been wearing yesterday and she extended an arm and pulled it over her head. Given their size differences, it came almost to her knees.

  Getting to her feet and pleased with herself for the lack of hangover, she went to the window and pulled it open.

  Closing her eyes for a second, she breathed in the warm, fresh morning air. If filled her lungs with its clean sweetness, so very different from the stink of London.

  I can’t believe we actually live here, now.

  This little village, surrounded by countryside, was just so quiet, so peaceful. No cars came up here unless people lived here because it was a dead-end off a B road and was as dead as a doornail to start with.

  When she opened her eyes again, movement over the road snapped her out of her brief contemplation.

  In front of the detached, stonewall house opposite, which was the mirror-image of their own, small, two-bedroomed house, stood a woman who was withered, ancient and stooped. She was staring up at her window, and even from this distance, Flick could see that her face resembled an old map, both yellowed and crumpled. A bright red scarf was tied over her head, and clumps of white hair hung about her face. Her clothes swamped her, the sack-like skirt heavy and unruffled by the morning breeze.

  She cut a fierce figure, standing perfectly still like that, her mouth set in a grim line and her little eyes blazing.

  Flick hazarded a wave, but was hardly surprised when it wasn’t returned.

  “Suit yourself,” she muttered under her breath, her lips twisting up into a facsimile of a friendly, half-smile.

  Abruptly, she turned away from the window, not wanting to admit to herself that the woman had given her a shock. Pushing all thoughts of the strange neighbour out of her mind, she headed for the stairs in search of Tom.

  She found him down in the kitchen, making coffee. He was barefoot and dressed only in his underpants.

  God, he’s so gorgeous, came the automatic thought.

  His ripped torso, still tanned from their recent two-week break in Greece, rippled with suppressed strength. Somehow, he always reminded her of a Panther relaxing in the sun, like his laid-back vibe was entirely a front to lull everyone around him into a false sense of security. There was always this air about him, like he could leap into action at any given second and tear out the throat of his enemy.

  “Why are you up so early?” she asked. “Oh God, you found the kettle, I knew I loved you.”

  “It’s not early, it’s gone ten. How did you sleep?”

  “Like the dead.”

  She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head only came up to the middle of his back, and she breathed in deeply the scent of his bare skin as she lightly traced the horizontal line of black hair on his stomach that disappeared under his boxers.

  When he twisted round in her arms to face her, it suddenly struck her how awful he looked.

  Bloody hell, he looks completely wrecked.

  The dark smudges under his eyes that had taken root yesterday appeared ten times worse today. His face had that crumpled, knackered look, the ridges between his eyebrows more prominent, making him look like he was scowling.

  “Sweetie, you look knackered. Didn’t you sleep well?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Why not? I thought I tired you out good last night,” she said, giving his rump a playful squeeze.

  “I have the worst headache. Do you have any idea where the Paracetamol is?”

  “In with the bathroom stuff, I think. Want me to look while you make coffee?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  He let go of her and twisted away to spoon the instant coffee into two mugs. She frowned at his back, suddenly on-edge. Once again, the same thought that she’d had last night when the neighbours had been here slammed into her mind:

  This is how he acted before the breakdown.

  Not appreciating the worrying turn in her thoughts one little bit, she assertively strode out of the large, open-plan room and into the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

  The brown moving-boxes were piled up high in here too, and she groaned in despair at the sheer magnitude of the task of unpacking them that lay ahead.

  Her gaze settled on the box she vaguely recognised as the one she had stuffed her all beauty products and the medicines in. She tore at the masking tape with her fingernail and pulled open the flaps.

  “Bingo,” she said, spying the carrier bag bulging with packets of pills and topical ointments.

  I wish he hadn’t stopped taking the pills last month. These past few weeks have been off the wall stressful…

  Great. Yet another, black-as-a-dog’s-guts thought that she quickly quashed. If Tom claimed that he was feeling completely better, then she just had to trust him.

  But he’s not better. You know he’s heading for another breakdown…

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.”

  She snatched at the bag, but froze on the spot when she heard a knock at the door. Suddenly, she was conscious that she was practically naked, and there was no way to sneak up the stairs without being seen by whoever was at the door as the stairs were right in front of them.

  She thought about legging it, but then heard Tom’s footsteps in the hallway. The bathroom was close enough to the front-door for her to hear everything. She leaned against the bathroom door and strained her ears as the front-doo
r creaked open.

  “Hello,” Tom said.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur,” a woman’s voice replied, swiftly followed by a whole stream of French that Flick didn’t get a word of.

  She was learning, but her French was still piss-poor. Whoever it was that was on her doorstep sounded deeply upset about something or other. Not angry, just upset.

  “I’m sorry,” Tom was saying, overriding her rapid stream of speech. “Je ne comprend pas, Parle vous Englais?”

  “Non,” the woman said, before continuing in French.

  Oh, for goodness sake, she thought, her hand curling around the doorknob. With a final glance down at herself, she pushed open the door. It sounded like Tom could do with a bit of support out there, modesty be damned.

  The first thing she saw was Tom, his bulky frame filling the doorway. By some miracle, he had managed to magic up a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from out of some box in the living-room. She sighed deeply. If only the same could be said for herself. Yes, her t-shirt came to her knees, but she felt vulnerable not wearing any knickers. Still, she reasoned, even thought she was braless, she was slim enough and small-chested enough to make this fact not too in-your-face.

  On hearing her coming up from behind, Tom stepped to one side, revealing the figure on the doorstep.

  Flick stopped in her tracks.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” the old woman in the headscarf said with gravity. “Bienvenue en France.”

  Welcome to France.

  “Merci, Madam, you are very kind.” She paused for a second, searching for the French words with her limited vocabulary. “Vous etes très gentil.”

  The woman nodded, the corners of her mouth almost pulling upwards into a smile.

  Almost.

  Her small eyes, as quick and as cold as a rat’s, swept over her naked legs and bare feet, all traces of the near-smile vanishing. She started speaking in French again, and Flick was instantly lost.

  She held up her hands in surrender. “Nous sommes désolés, nous ne parlons pas Francais.”

  We’re so sorry, we don’t speak French... Did I say it right?