Recent events cause central character Gavin to look back at his student days in my new novel, a psychological thriller.
I arrived at the house by taxi late on a crisp but sunny Tuesday afternoon, having lugged my cello and bag of belongings on and off trains for most of the day. I’d come down from a small town north of The Wash, planning my journey to avoid London and the underground labyrinth, drinking coffee and munching crisps and smoking rollups on the way. The property – two houses knocked into one – stood alone in the middle of flat countryside, a grey-white building with double bay windows, broken chimney pots in the driveway and an entrance door situated around the side path. The landlord and his wife had sealed off the other entrance door, along with the second part of the house. Strictly Out Of Bounds, the letting agent had stipulated when I’d collected the keys from the office earlier. Ivy sprouted from the walls, untidy and unmanageable, and weeds had begun to shoot from under the concrete. The college campus was less than a mile and a half away, but all I could see were fields.