Nine Lives

By Jaye Marie

The trouble in Kate's life begins when an old flame turns up. Too many odd things start happening and she doesn't trust him. When her cat is slaughtered in her kitchen, followed by her brother and the similar death of a neighbour, she knows it is a warning and she could well be next.

A stranger, who seems to kill indiscriminately, accompanied by the voice in her head that hovers between sarcasm and unhelpful misleading advice, dominates the tone of Nine Lives. Convinced she has only one life left and could be next to die, Kate decides to run. But in the absence of knowing who the killer might be, what would be the point of running?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaye Marie
• Release date: Apr 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386197584

Jaye Marie

I have been an editor and proofreader for many years, but only recently written my own book.It was an enjoyable experience, once I stopped fighting with my characters and let them have their own way. Consequently, I ended up with quite a different book from the one I intended to write. But I like it and hope you will too.

Book preview

Chapter One

Kate’s days were too long, the nights never-ending. She didn’t belong in this life, this face, this body. It was all wrong.

She had wished for death many times, and it passed her by so often. It cheated her yet followed her everywhere. It whispered to her. Black thoughts plagued her dreams, monsters wearing the face of her mother, brother, and husband. She wished such evil for them, and it had returned to sit like a monkey on her back.

Kate heard the teasing voice and ignored it, wondering again if she was going insane. Why was it still pestering her after all these years? Why couldn’t it leave her alone?

None of what it said made sense, so she filed it in her mind as some deviance she must have been born with, like colour blindness.

Friday had been a busy day like any other. Kate was tired and ready for bed, prepared to forget the day and switch her brain off, but the heartburn that plagued her all day seemed to have another agenda.

Pushing the unruly mop of curly hair away from her face, she studied the canvas before her, trying to decide if the painting was good enough. Wasting time trying to be creative when she felt like crap? It had the elements her customer loved, so they should like it. A stunning waterfall was the focal point, with ethereal greens and blues in every shade imaginable captured in the white foam of the spraying water. The image seemed to shimmer and move the more you looked at it.

She knew the place well; it was in Cornwall. A truly magical place where you could climb the rocks and get close to the falling water. Close enough to get soaked, she thought, smiling at the memory. She knew she would have to go there again, and soon.

There was something about water; it seemed to communicate directly with Kate’s soul. She loved nothing more than being near or in it at every opportunity. A simple boat ride would be much more special if she were soaked. Water could always make her feel good and create extraordinary artwork. This transferred to anyone who loved her paintings and was all she cared about.

Deciding to call it a night, she took a last look at the canvas, reasonably pleased with what she had accomplished. The wet paint glistened like moonlight on the water, and she wished, as always, the effect would remain when the paint was dry.

Initially, she thought the voice just wanted to confuse her as it kept telling her what to do or, usually, what she shouldn’t do.

Why did she instinctively never notice its instructions, seemingly sincere appeals, or sarcastic quips? She knew from experience to refuse to cooperate sometimes led to a disaster of one kind or another. Still, something other than the voice told her that obeying was worth more than her life.

Either way, she seemed powerless to do anything other than follow her instincts, even when she knew deep down she was wrong.

It was almost as though she was meant to fail, to suffer. To know and feel just how stupid she was like she was born with something missing. She often wondered if the voice was, in fact, the devil because sometimes it would seem as though it was. All that medieval temptation and mysteriousness - it could well be, she thought, but what was its business with her?

A small part of her brain always sympathised with the devil. He had been cast out; hadn’t he fallen from grace and all that? They did seem to have a lot in common. It didn’t explain why this voice had annoyed her for most of her life. There was no reason she could see or imagine, or was it the only thing that listened whenever she prayed for help?

The voice didn’t seem evil to her. Sometimes there was something else just underneath the surface, something she could sense but never strong enough to make her toe the line. She never obeyed the slightest suggestion, and despite the consequences, she didn’t intend to start now. She often wondered if her life would have been any different if she had, or would it have been worse?

What could it possibly do to her anyway? It was just an annoying voice in her head and couldn’t hurt her, could it?

She finished her cigarette, stubbing it in the overflowing ashtray and looked at the painting again. Oh well, she had done enough for one night. She wiped the paint from her fingers with a piece of rag that smelled strongly of linseed oil and went to the kitchen.

Indigestion developed into razor blades in her stomach, and she pulled a face. She used to suffer a lot in the past when she was worried or going through yet another crisis. Why was it bothering her now?

Lately, though, her life had evened out, which was just as well, for she was getting too old to face any more trouble. She was moderately happy and free from problems; at least, she thought she was. There was no annoying pig-headed husband to drive her nuts anymore, no pestering family turning up at inopportune moments. She was her own boss, doing something she loved. If she could sell more of her work, it would be perfect.

Then she could move to a remote island, somewhere she would not see or hear other people with all their noise, but she was content for now.

That’s if she could get this indigestion to sod off.

While making the last cup of coffee before bed, she took another antacid tablet, hoping to knock the heartburn into submission so she could sleep.

A wave of nausea and dizziness hit her, and she clutched desperately at the worktop, wondering how long it would last this time. This wasn’t like before; she felt hot and seemed to be moving in treacle. She sat down on the nearest kitchen stool, hoping it would pass or ease off as it had in the past, but if anything, she felt worse by the minute. There was no pain, apart from the heartburn, which was trying to burn a hole in her chest. When she checked her pulse, it was dancing all over the place, seeming to stop altogether for long moments as she frantically tried to hold herself together.

This can’t be happening now, she thought. Was she finally going to die, or was this just another one of its games? She didn’t care anymore; she just wanted to stop thinking and feeling. Just stop.

The voice was busy telling her she needed help, but Kate didn’t want to listen. She didn’t need any insidious remarks tonight. Please go away and leave me alone.

As she sat there, trying to decide what to do, Dylan, her silver tabby, walked into the kitchen and wrapped himself around her ankles.

‘Hello boy, where have you been?’ She hadn’t heard the cat flap, so he must have been asleep on her bed. He nuzzled her hand and stared at her as if worried about her. ‘I am okay; go back to sleep.’ she loved him dearly, but other things were on her mind.

She was probably right; this was nothing new. She had been having these turns for a while now, and they had always stopped before. As she sat there, she began to realise that, this time, something was wrong. She was sweating and sleepy, and a strange thing was happening. Instead of the annoying pain of heartburn, it turned into a clamping grip of iron that threatened to worsen. It was time, it seemed, to call an ambulance.

Chapter Two

What happened next was like trying to watch a film through a heavy net curtain. Far too many people were in her flat, but none were talking to her or each other. Foul-tasting pills were pushed into her mouth. She wanted a drink of water but couldn't get anyone's attention. Then something was wrapped around her arm, and she was dimly aware of someone looking at her.

Something warm and fluffy gently pushed against her hand, and she realised it was Dylan, back to check on her again. He was an intelligent animal and always seemed to know when she needed to fuss with him. What would happen to him if she weren’t around?

Then she was pulled to her feet; what was happening now? Where were they taking her? Two men in bright Day-Glo jackets led her outside to a waiting ambulance. She didn't understand how she was walking; she wasn't controlling her legs. How was she moving? What was happening to her? Worrying about finishing her latest artwork tried to take shape in her head, but she couldn't seem to make herself care about anything. She was glad she had cleaned the paint from her fingers earlier, and that was all that seemed to matter.

Once inside the ambulance, more pieces of equipment were attached to her, and machinery hummed and beeped. One of the men was talking, and it all sounded far away and very technical. Then the ambulance started, and the ride to the hospital was a nightmare. There didn't seem to be enough room to swing a cat, what with all the equipment, and the ambulance man was not exactly skinny. He appeared to put his hands all over her to keep his balance. The driver must be a maniac.

When she arrived at the hospital, she expected to see the emergency department, but they took her to what appeared to be a state-of-the-art operating theatre. She didn't know it then, but this was where they usually took people with a heart attack. This was technology at its finest, but she could not appreciate any of it. By this time, she was pumped so full of morphine she literally didn't care if it snowed. Nurses tried to reassure her, but she didn't care what they did. They asked if there was anyone she wanted them to call, and she shook her head. There was her brother Danny, or her agent and friend Samantha Cameron, but she didn't want either of them there, so she said no, there was no one. That suddenly seemed so incredibly sad she felt like crying.

The pain in her chest was terrible but wasn't bothering her much. Whatever the doctor was doing was nothing worse than someone holding her arm tightly. She looked in his direction, and all she could see above the mask he wore were his dark eyes, concentrating hard on something in front of him. They seemed to be kind eyes if a little young. She wondered if he was tired. It was late, after all; she heard the nurses talking about being woken up to come and help her.

All the machines and equipment around her seemed wrapped in plastic bags, and it struck her as funny they hadn't unwrapped everything when they bought them. No, that wasn't right.

Something was happening to her arm; he was squeezing it harder than before, and then he said something about feeling something cold. Was he talking to her?

Then she felt it; a weird coldness was slowly creeping up her arm and into her chest. What was he doing? She was so tired and desperately wanted to fall asleep, and it wasn't happening.

A strong waft of a familiar fragrance drifted over her as she lay there. She struggled to open her eyes, expecting to see a nurse nearby, but no one was close enough, so where had it come from?

The scent of flowers made her think of her mother for some inexplicable reason. She died when Kate was sixteen. Because of her miserable childhood, made infinitely more miserable by her mother, Kate should have hated her. All the time she was growing up, Kate thought she did.

Now, all Kate felt was sadness for the woman who clearly hadn't been happy either, never managing to find anything to make her life worthwhile.

After all this time, Kate still missed not having a proper mother. She never had a dad either; he died during the war, so he had the ultimate excuse. Try as she might, Kate could never devise a decent reason for her mother’s behaviour. She had always been achingly absent whenever Kate needed someone to comfort her, and it would have been nice to have someone to rely on, no matter what.

A long time seemed to pass, with all the people in the room busy doing something and calling out to each other, and she couldn't quite figure out what they were saying. It was as though she was seeing things with the wrong glasses on. Everything was blurred and out of focus. She was moved again, the trolley she was lying on pushed down endless corridors. Ending up in a dimly lit room, made comfortable by an attractive, dark-haired nurse dressed in what looked like blue pyjamas. There were plastic stickers with wires attached all over Kate's chest, and something tight and painful clamped to her wrist. Apart from this, she felt much better. The pain had stopped, so that was something.

The nurse brought her a cup of tea; nothing had tasted so good. Suddenly she knew she would be all right; she would not die after all and might finally be able to sleep, even with the machine bleeping gently by the bed.

Chapter Three

Hospitals are quite different at night, Jack thought, as he searched storerooms and cupboards for something to wear that would identify him as someone with a right to be there. Even though no one seemed to notice him, he didn’t want any awkward questions.

He found a crumpled white coat that almost fit him and started his systematic search for the woman brought here earlier. She was supposed to have died, and from the ambulance staff's pace, they would not let her go without a fight.

He knew all about fighting. He fought to keep Kate, too, for all the good it did him. She was never happy with their relationship, always hoping it would turn out right, refusing to believe she had made another mistake.

Knowing she thought of him that way made him more determined to find better ways to hurt her.

He promised that life with him would be different and never explained quite how different it would be. In the beginning, she hadn’t questioned how Jack treated her but made careful remarks about him being a bully every time his rough games left bruises on her skin.

The child, David, was more of a problem. More of a problem than he realised, and he found himself trying hard not to hurt him too much as this tended to make Kate angry. Instead, he began to slip sedatives into the beaker of juice Kate insisted the child needed. Eventually, the child stopped whining, becoming quiet and withdrawn, even from his mother.

An orderly pushing a hospital trolley along the corridor interrupted his thoughts. Someone was lying on the trolley with a sheet draped over them. Was this Kate? Had she died? Then he noticed the foot peeping out from under the sheet. It was old and gnarled, not belonging to Kate.

Conveniently, it was the hospital's policy to put patient names on the door of their respective rooms, so he managed to find Kate quickly. As he peered through the small window in the door, he was keenly aware of all the possibilities. It was the middle of the night in an almost deserted hospital, and he couldn't believe his luck.

The room was dark, barely illuminated by a small lamp shining dimly on the bed. Jack’s pulse increased, and his breathing became rapid as his eyes became used to the gloom, and he found what he was looking for.

No one else was in the room, so he quietly opened the door and walked to the foot of the bed, his eyes devouring every detail. She was asleep and hopefully would not awake and see him there. The machine was bleeping gently, the display changing as he watched.

He was mesmerised by the image in front of him. Kate looked the picture of health and was unexpectedly beautiful. Her wild, untameable hair framed her face with lazy curls, and of all the times he had looked at her, this image would stay with him forever. He had expected to find Kate broken and beaten; looking every one of her forty-nine years, he was gravely disappointed.

He couldn’t believe that just a few hours ago, she was grey and deathly still, slowly dying, with people busily trying to save her life. Never the fittest person in the world, she smoked, was overweight and hardly ever exercised. How had she survived?

She was wearing a pastel-coloured hospital gown, which seemed far too big. Thin plastic wires snaked from beneath the gown and made their way to the machine beside the bed, the display of shining numbers recording the state of her health.

He stared at her face, peacefully unlined as sleep relaxed her muscles. The face he had once adored to the point of insanity and madness. They had been so good together, more than good; it had been amazing. He never understood how she walked away from him, leaving him inconsolable.

He could not stop staring at her face. The face he would once have willingly died for before his adoration turned him into a hateful monster capable of anything.

He wanted to touch her, needed to touch her but knew what would happen if she awoke and saw him.

The familiar heat started to rise in his chest, making its way slowly up his neck until his face glowed scarlet in the gloom. His fists clenched, and he raised them, looking at his fingers turning white with the pressure.

‘Why did you leave me, Kate, hmm...?’ Jack said quietly, knowing as he said it that he had no idea what to do if he was honest. Most of the time, he wanted her dead and constant scenarios played in his head of how and when it could happen. She should be dead if the power of thought could do anything at all. Not lying peacefully in a hospital bed, looking more beautiful than he remembered.

His eyes were drawn to her arms lying on the sheet, tubes and wires attached at several points. A large clamp-like device on her right wrist appeared to be