CHAPTER 1

Four flies move slowly in the blood and mess. Bruising has blackened the skin. Pieces of bone from the cranium protrude through ripped and broken flesh. The skull is misshapen, its surface warped and bloated. Dead.
Each time the flies move, a minute ripple disturbs the sticky surface of blood.
Dew has soaked his clothes. All around him droplets of water hang gleaming like miniature streetlights from tall strands of grass. Occasionally, a drop falls. It lands and rolls slowly over his pallid flesh. Then it disappears from view beneath him.
A track of flattened grass leads from his body. All along the track, there are traces of blood. Mostly diluted by the dew, but some thick and newly clotted.
One arm is folded under his body. The other stretches out, fingers splayed. Gripping onto nothingness. His fingernails are dirty, the mud and grime bold against his grey, white skin. A blood-stained Doc Marten boot lays a metre or so from the body.

The flies didn’t move when the dog first came. Sniffing around the body, salivating wildly at its discovery. It found the thin, bloodstained jacket lying some feet away. It pulled and tugged at it like a toy.
Then a whistle and a call. The dog left.
Now more movement.
The dog was returning. With its owner. But still the flies still didn’t move…

Five thirty.
Will Davenport jerked awake moments before the alarm. His body damp, his skin clammy. The sheets tangled and knotted beneath him. The night had not left him to peaceful sleep.
He leant across the bed and turned the alarm clock off. He cursed his tiredness. He’d been dreaming about Lucy Sykes.
His first ghost.
Now one of many. But Lucy Sykes kept a stronger hold on him. You never forget your first love, your first kiss, your first car.
Your first ghost.
A four-year-old girl. Brown eyes set against the palest of skin. Honey blond hair tied back with a frayed pink ribbon. Lying at the bottom of the stairs like a discarded doll. Her eyes open and staring at some distant, faraway point.
He had fallen into those dead brown eyes. And become forever lost.

Will took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. He shook his head and swung his legs over the side of the bed. A large black and white photo hung over the headboard. It showed a man and woman holding hands on a beach. To the right of the woman, a young sandy haired boy was staring distracted towards the sea. In the background, families were playing on the sand; making sandcastles, eating ice creams, playing football.
But the boy just stared out to the horizon.
The date was written in neat, italicised script in the bottom right corner of the photograph - June 1984. Will was 10 years old.
Within 10 years of the photo being taken, both his parents would be dead.

He walked to the window and drew back the curtains. His own glassy reflection stared wearily back at him. The boy from the photograph had now become a sandy haired man, his hair cropped short, his face tired, his skin looking older than his 32 years.
He pulled open the window and felt the fresh air cool against his damp body. The bedroom smelt stale. Too many cigarettes and too little time spent airing the place.
He looked out over the small cottage garden at the rear of the house. The lawn needed mowing and the flowerbeds needed weeding. He silently promised he’d get down to it at the weekend. But he wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t.