Scared to Breathe: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

By Kerena Swan

A woman’s dream home turns into a nightmare in a novel that’s “a perfect blend of psychological thriller and gothic suspense” by the author of Blood Loss (Fictionophile).

When Tasha witnesses a stabbing at the train station in Luton, she is compelled to give evidence in court that leads to Dean Rigby being convicted. But when Dean’s brother vows revenge, Tasha is afraid and no longer feels safe in her own home.

Tasha’s partner, Reuben, hopes to marry her and start a family soon. But he’s concerned about her state of mind and urges her to see a doctor

When Tasha is left a derelict country house by her birth father, she sees an opportunity to escape Luton and start a new life. After visiting Black Hollow Hall she sees it as the perfect opportunity to live a life without fear.

At first Tasha feels liberated from her troubles. The gardener, who is partially paralysed but employed to maintain the grounds of Black Hollow Hall, is welcoming. But soon she realises the Hall is not quite the idyll she imagined.

When Tasha discovers that a woman jumped to her death there years ago following the murder of her husband, strange events begin to take place and she fears for her safety. Has the Rigby family found her? Is someone trying to scare her into selling the house? Or is she suffering from paranoia as Reuben suggests?

As Tasha’s sanity is put under pressure she begins to wonder if Black Hollow Hall is going to be her salvation or her undoing . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781504071970

Book preview

Chapter 1

The darkness outside has turned the window into a mirror, reflecting back the bright train carriage and the empty blue seats that surround me. Empty, that is, except for the older man with messy grey hair and unshaven chin. He might have started the day as a smartly dressed businessman, for all I know, but now he resembles a tramp. A drunk and volatile tramp. He’s watching me. I avoid eye contact and sit with my legs tensed, ready to move away if I have to. He’s quiet now but I heard him shouting and swearing earlier at a teenager squeezing past him to get off the train. The older guy had sat, uninvited, next to the young lad and drunkenly regaled him with stories, his agitation increasing as the young lad ignored him and looked out of the window. He’s got a quick temper and he’s not rational. The last passenger to alight had given me a pitying and almost apologetic look as he got off.

It’s just me and the scary guy now.

He grabs the seat in front of him and my heartbeat quickens as he lurches unsteadily to his feet and moves nearer. Only one row nearer, thankfully, but perhaps he’s making his way to me in fits and starts. I’ve made a mistake in choosing a seat with a table. It means there are spaces facing me and any moment now he might–

I jump as another train flashes past, making the windows bang and rattle. Spooked, I make another mistake by catching the man’s eyes on me as I turn away from the noise.

‘Hello beautiful,’ he says, his words slurred by alcohol. He waves his can of lager, his middle finger lifted towards me. ‘What’s a lovely young girl like you doing all alone?’

I hardly think thirty-two is young but I suppose it might be from his perspective. He looks to be in his mid-sixties and has probably stayed too long at his office retirement party. He’s wearing a crumpled, cheap suit jacket and half his dinner down the front of his shirt. The remains of a curry, judging by the yellow and brown hues.

He leans forward to peer more closely at me and I shrink back into my seat.

‘Look at you with your shiny hair and big grey eyes. Gorgeous.’ His wet tongue flicks over his lips, turning them into fat, shiny slugs.

I suppress a shudder and look away. I wish I was curled up on the sofa at home with Reuben, winding my finger into one of his blond curls, his soft lips kissing my cheek. I wish I was in my cosy pyjamas and slippers with a milky drink in my hand and a drama to watch on the television. Instead, I’m trapped in a draughty train carriage with a worrying stranger. I wind a single hair around my forefinger and pull on it – just hard enough to feel it through my scalp – but stop myself before I tug it out. Crikey, it’s a long time since I’ve been anxious enough to pluck my hair out, a weird habit I’d started on my first day at school and one I’ve battled with ever since.

‘Don’t look so scared! I won’t eat you.’ The old guy is persistent, his eyes fixed on me. ‘I’d just like to know you better.’ His laugh exposes stained bottom teeth that have toppled sideways in his gums.

I turn to the window again, my heart hammering in my chest, and briefly cup my hands around my eyes to shut out the brightness of the carriage lights and the image of him. Outside, dark shapes rush past like spectres in the night. Am I nearing my stop? Maybe I should move along to the next carriage. He might follow me though, and I don’t want to inflame him. Some men enjoy the chase.

The train slows and lights shine onto a deserted platform. I peer at the name of the station. Luton Airport Parkway. Just two more stops to go until Leagrave, thank God. It’s only the end of August but I feel cold. I pull my cardigan tighter around me. The train moves off again and I lift my bag strap over my head and across my chest to keep it secure when I rush off the train. I see a loose hair on my blouse and brush it off. Did I pull it out after all? Soon be home, I tell myself. All I have to do is get through the station and over the footbridge to where Reuben will be patiently waiting to take me home. I can easily outrun this alcohol-sodden old fool.

I look at my watch. Gone midnight. No wonder the train is so deserted. Kirsty knows I don’t like travelling from London at this time of night and I feel a flash of anger towards her for putting me in this situation.

‘Let’s go and see Becca and Rachel for a couple of drinks,’ she’d said this afternoon. ‘Becca’s got a new job and I want to hear all about it.’

‘I don’t want to be late back,’ I’d said. I know it never is just a couple of drinks.

‘Come on. You haven’t seen them in ages. They’re meeting up at a new pub and it won’t take us long to get there. It’ll be fun and I promise we won’t be late.’

It was fun to start with but I was conscious of the time. As the evening wore on and they all became more giggly and stupid, I became more sober. After two glasses of prosecco I’d had enough and wanted to go home but I didn’t want to break up the party and even less to travel back across East London alone. I really should be more assertive. But if I’d spoken out they’d have teased me, calling me a fun sponge and tried to coax me to drink more. And if Kirsty and I had left earlier I know the others would have been moaning about me after we’d gone. They’d probably have asked Kirsty not to bring me again. That would have been preferable to this, though. I look at the man in the window and my chest tightens as his reflection catches my eye. He grins and moves a row nearer.

Next time.

Next time I’ll stand up for myself. Maybe. The fact is that I’m no Kirsty. She lives a glamorous, fast-paced life as a casting director for the fashion catwalks and is used to the busy, challenging environment of London. She has an air of self-assurance around her that seems to protect her like a force field.

‘Bugger off, will you?’ she’d say to the man, and he’d back away. I know I should try to emulate her but somehow I can’t find the confidence or the aggression. The good manners instilled in me from an early age win every time and I worry that something even worse might happen. Being brought up by loving, adoptive parents was great but they were very protective of me. It’s difficult not to see danger everywhere when your childhood has been spent being told ‘Don’t climb to the top because you might fall’ or ‘Don’t stay out after dark, you don’t know what bad people are out there’ and ‘We prefer your friends to stay here rather than you sleeping there’. I think this anxiety might have instigated the hair-pulling. I can’t blame them though. I suppose their overcautious parenting is understandable given that they lost their first three babies to miscarriages.

The train slows and I sneak another look at the man, hoping he’ll get off at Luton. He doesn’t. Instead he starts crooning a love song about me being the only girl in the world. I rub my damp palms on the rough fabric of the seat.

‘You need to get out more, socialise a bit,’ Kirsty had said. ‘You’re becoming a recluse.’

I accept her invites once a month or so because I enjoy her company and value our friendship. I don’t want to be one of those people who neglects her friends once she settles down with a man. I’ve known Kirsty since we were children. I’d much rather stay at home though, challenging Reuben to a game of Scrabble.

The train reduces speed as it nears Leagrave and I stand up. At last! My nerves are shattered sitting here on the slowest train in the world with only a filthy drunkard for company.

‘Ah, we’re getting off at the same stop, my precious,’ he says. ‘Fancy a little nightcap somewhere before you go home?’

My heart sinks. The man stands too close behind me and staggers, grabbing a handrail, as the train judders to a standstill. I press the button to open the door then leap out like a startled animal breaking from the undergrowth. The platform is totally deserted, dark shadows skulking beyond the pools of light. I hurry over to the stairs and sprint up, only to pause near the top. The footbridge runs at right angles to the steps and its high sides mean it isn’t possible to see if anyone is using it until the corner is turned, so I need to make sure there’s no mugger waiting to snatch my bag as happened to Mrs Coleman at the dry cleaners. I glance behind me to check the drunken man isn’t catching me up, then peep around the corner. A man is approaching from the other side. Young, athletic, dark-skinned, his walk loose and easy… Is he a threat? Should I go forward or back? Reaching into my pocket for my keys, I slot one between my clammy fingers to use as a weapon if necessary.

Before the guy draws nearer, there’s a flash of movement behind him. I’ve barely had a moment to process the fact that it’s another man – young and hooded – before he’s grabbed the arm of the first man and swung him around.

‘Give me your phone, watch and cash or you get this. Your choice.’

Oh God, not just a mugger but a mugger with a knife. He’s waving it in the black guy’s face, the long silver blade catching in the light. I scream at the black man in my head. ‘Give him what he wants!’

Instead, his body bristles with anger as though the knife were no more than a plastic toy he could swat aside with ease.

‘Fuck off and get a job, you wasteman, or you’ll get this,’ he says. He holds up a fist and yanks the mugger’s hood down, exposing flaming ginger hair, a white face and, oddly, a mangled ear with the top half missing. There’s a push and a grapple then the black guy doubles over, staggering, one hand clutching his chest, the other grabbing at the mugger’s sweatshirt. Jesus, he’s been stabbed. I want to run back down the steps but my legs won’t respond to my brain. The black guy slumps to the ground and the mugger leans over him to pull the knife out with a wet, sucking sound, then grabs the man’s jacket and rummages for his wallet, knife poised to attack again.

‘Stop it!’ The voice is mine even though I had no desire to speak. The mugger looks up, surprise tightening swiftly to menace. Oh no! Oh no! My stomach lurches as though I’m in a plummeting lift as he walks towards me with deadly intent. I turn and run back down the stairs, hearing fast, heavy footsteps behind me. My throat, choked with fear, strangles my scream. I jump the last few stairs and throw myself at the figure stumbling along the platform.

‘Hello, my lovely!’ The unsteady man beams with delight and grabs me around the waist, swinging me around and trying to pull me into a waltz. ‘Changed your mind, eh? The ladies always did find me irresistible.’ He chuckles, then pulls back abruptly as I shout in his ear.

‘He’s got a knife! He stabbed someone.’ I look up the flight of steps.

The mugger has paused halfway down, to take in the scene. His eyes lock with mine then, slowly, he drags a thumb across his throat before turning around and running back up the steps. I hear his feet thud across the bridge, echoing in the silence, the sound fading as he leaves the station.

‘Who’s got a knife?’ The drunken man sways and turns to look towards the empty steps.

Five minutes ago I didn’t wish to be within ten feet of this old soak but now I almost want him to keep hold of me and protect me. ‘We need to call the police. And an ambulance. We need to see if the man’s still alive,’ I say, trying to breathe evenly.

The drunken man seems to be sobering a little. ‘Let me take a look,’ he says.

He makes his slow way up the steps with me right behind him. At the top he narrows his eyes, thrusts his head forward and peers around the corner. ‘Jesus!’ He straightens up, sobering rapidly now. ‘Where’s my phone?’ He pats his pockets.

‘I’ve got one.’ I draw my phone from my bag and, with shaking fingers, eventually manage to call 999. It’s hard to get my words out – hard to think rationally to describe what has happened as my mind tries to spiral away to safer territory. We approach the prone form on the ground, glancing nervously towards the steps to make sure the mugger isn’t coming back, and hear a groan. A dark pool of blood is spreading across the floor.

‘He’s alive but he’s bleeding,’ I tell the operator, trying to stop my voice from wobbling, then give our location. I put the phone on loudspeaker, place it on the floor near to me and tell the man to take his jacket off to make a pillow. What to do? What to do? The operator is still talking and I try to follow her instructions. Stay calm. You can do this, Tasha. I roll the injured man onto his back and lift his clothing to expose the wound. Blood wells and shines and I can hear a bubbling noise as air escapes his lung.

‘Have you got a credit card?’ The emergency operator asks.

‘Yes, yes!’ I grab my bag and rummage through my purse for my credit card, pull off my soft cardigan and bunch it up, then press the Visa card and cardigan over the wound, making sure I’ve left a small gap for air to escape. It’s strange how my first aid training is all coming back to me. I hadn’t wanted the responsibility of being the office first aider but I’m glad I did the course now. I relay what I’ve done and the operator tells me I’m doing well. The drunken man watches, then, swaying slightly, wanders towards the exit.

‘Don’t go!’ I say.

He stops and looks at me in surprise. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he says.

I hear a groan. ‘It’s okay,’ I say, trying to reassure the guy on the ground. ‘Help will be here soon.’

The transport police arrive within minutes, which surprises me, and an officer takes over from me while another leads me down the steps to a bench. I sink into it, my legs beginning to tremble with shock.

‘The ambulance will be here soon,’ he tells me. ‘You’ve done really well and probably saved his life. Did you see what happened? Would you recognise the attacker again?’

I lift a shaky hand to brush hair out of my eyes and am shocked to see my fingers are covered with blood. I think of the mugger’s ginger hair, white face and mangled ear. ‘Yes, I definitely would.’ I describe him to the officer, who makes a few notes.

‘We’ll need you to come to the station to give a proper statement and we’ll need your clothes to run forensic tests on them,’ he tells me.

I look at him in alarm.

‘We’ll check for fibres: we need to eliminate your contact with the victim.’

I nod. If it means they’ll catch him quickly then I want to help all I can. Poor Reuben will be even later to bed but he’ll understand the seriousness of the situation.

‘Will I get them back?’ I ask. I’m wearing my best outfit.

‘I’m afraid not,’ the police officer says. ‘Would you want them back after what’s happened?’ He looks at me with a small frown.

I look down at my blouse and realise how much blood I have on me. I shudder.

‘No, I guess not,’ I say, ashamed I’d even asked.

My phone rings and Reuben’s face flashes onto the screen. ‘Tasha! Thank God. What’s happening? The police and ambulance are here and they’ve cordoned off the area.’

‘A man was stabbed. I saw it.’ My voice catches and wobbles and I have to swallow before I can speak again. ‘I’m with the police. Can you go and fetch me some clothes and meet me at the station? They need mine for testing.’

‘Are you hurt?’ he asks.

‘No. Just scared.’ I feel tears prickle but take a deep breath which seems to help.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Everything will be okay. I love you, Tash,’ he says and hangs up.

The officer is watching me. ‘The other witness doesn’t look too reliable to me,’ he says. He inclines his head to the grubby man sitting on a bench nearby, legs outstretched before him, his head tipped back and his eyes shut as though he’s sinking back into drunkenness.

‘He saved me,’ I say, ‘but he didn’t see anything. He was still on the platform.’ I think of him swinging me around. ‘He didn’t even see the man when he came after me.’ As we walk towards the exit and the waiting police car I pause and look back to see a police officer standing guard on the opposite platform. An officer dressed from head to foot in white is putting crime scene tape around the bottom of the staircase where I’d last seen the ginger-haired mugger. A cold shower of dread drenches my insides.

Oh God. He’d stared at me and threatened me, hadn’t he?

‘Will I have to give evidence in court?’

‘If we find him and he doesn’t plead guilty, probably yes,’ the policeman says. ‘We’ll have a much stronger chance of getting him sent down if you assist us.’

Oh no. I don’t want to get involved in this. ‘But the victim will be a much better witness than me. He got a good look at his face.’

‘From what you’ve described you saw enough to convict him as well. Those features are distinctive.’

I look at him sharply, sensing that distinctive means familiar in this case. ‘Do you know who he is?’ I ask.

The police officer pinches his lips together and looks away. He gives a slight nod of his head then looks directly at me again. ‘Let’s just say you’ll be doing society a huge favour if you get a Rigby put away. Between you and me, they’re a family of scumbags.’

But I can’t possibly give evidence, because if Rigby gets off he’ll come after me. I’ll never feel safe again.

Chapter 2

Ihang my thick jacket over the back of the chair and switch on my computer then walk across the spacious, brightly-lit office to the small kitchen. My hands are chilled from the brisk October morning so I hold them over the radiator before filling the kettle.

‘Hi Tasha, how was your weekend?’ Amanda gives me a wide smile and her blue eyes crinkle with warmth. She passes me the jar of coffee.

‘Good, thanks,’ I mumble, and put a heaped spoonful of coffee into my mug with two sugars.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, plucking a couple of stray hairs from my jacket. ‘Oh God, it’s today, isn’t it?’ She looks closely at my face.

I flash her a weak smile. ‘Yes. I really hope he pleads guilty.’ If I was religious I’d be praying to God now.

‘Would that mean you don’t have to be a witness?’ Amanda asks. She flicks her thick caramel-coloured hair over her shoulder then picks up two brimming mugs of coffee. She always drinks two, straight up, first thing in the morning.

‘Hopefully,’ I say. ‘I’m dreading them telling me I have to appear in court.’ I slop some milk into my mug then put the container back in the fridge. A waft of stale yoghurt drifts out. ‘The magistrates’ court sent it straight to the crown court because they could only sentence him up to six months. I was told the severity of his crime is likely to incur a longer sentence if he’s found guilty, so today is his first hearing in the crown court.’

‘Good. He bloody well deserves more than six months. He might have killed that guy if you hadn’t intervened. So if he pleads guilty, does that mean you don’t have to appear as a witness?’

‘Yes. If he’s got any sense, he will. He’ll get a lesser sentence if he does.’

I open the door for her and she walks steadily over to her desk, coffees in hands. Amanda had been horrified when I told her I’d witnessed a stabbing, as had the rest of the team. They’ve all been really supportive and I’m grateful for it but I think they’re misguided when they say I was a true heroine. I don’t consider myself to be brave and I’m sure if Reuben had been there, he’d have done more. Chased after the mugger perhaps and rugby-tackled him – like a woman had done on the news recently. Now that was brave.

I sit in front of my computer and respond to a couple of emails. I need to distract myself so I bring up my latest project. I’m designing a set of cards for Valentine’s next year for a chain store, and I’m trying to find a unique angle. I think about Reuben and how I’d like to show how much I love him when an idea pops into my head and the ‘I love you more than…’ range begins to take shape. I start with a box of chocolates for those in new relationships then work my way up to ‘I love you more than… my cat’ and ‘I love you more than… my car’. I design simple, fun pictures then decide to print them off and tack them to the white walls before I send them to Ian, my boss, for approval. We all do this in the office and comment on each other’s work.

‘Tasha, meet Laura. She’s our new writer.’ I swivel my chair and see a young woman with cropped black hair and Kohl eye make-up standing next to Ian. I’d been so caught up in my work I hadn’t heard them approach. I glance at the huge clock behind them for the tenth time this morning. I’m surprised time has passed so quickly when I feel so nervous, but then designing and drawing always absorbs me.

‘Hi, Laura.’ I stand and offer my hand but my phone rings. I lurch forward to pick up my bag instead. ‘Sorry! I really need to get this.’

Ian is frowning at me but Laura just shrugs and turns her attention to the walls where the new range of Valentine cards is on display. I put the phone to my ear then walk away towards a quiet corner.

‘Natasha Hargreaves?’

‘Speaking.’ My insides twist. It’s the call I’ve been waiting for. I recognise the voice.

‘DC Phillips here. I promised to let you know the outcome of Rigby’s court appearance.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I say, impatient for him to tell me.

‘I’m afraid Mr Rigby pleaded not guilty so the case is adjourned for a full trial with witnesses and a jury. The framing of the charge is now attempted murder rather than grievous bodily harm. You’ll probably be compelled to give evidence.’

‘What about the victim? Surely he saw more than I did.’

‘We’ll be calling him too.’

‘But what about forensics? They can find all sorts of evidence now, can’t they?’

‘There’s very little to go on. A lot of people use that bridge.’

Should I or shouldn’t I be a witness? Could I live with myself if he then went on to hurt someone else? Hang on. What was that word he used? Compelled? ‘Can I refuse?’ I ask.

‘No, I’m afraid not. And if you do you’ll be on the wrong side of the law.’

I’ve never broken the law before. My biggest offence was keeping fifty pence change from my mum’s shopping and burying it in the garden to spend on sweets another day. I’d felt so guilty I’d dug it up an hour later and given it back to her.

‘To be honest, with the severity of the crime it was never going to be dealt with by the magistrates,’ DC Phillips says. ‘He’s committed grievous bodily harm with intent which is an indictable only offence. We’re hopefully looking at March for the hearing so it may be a few weeks before you receive a witness summons.’

‘March! But that’s ages away.’ I can’t agonise over this for another five months – my sleep haunted by nightmares where I’m chased and stabbed, not feeling safe on the streets. It’s already taken eight weeks to track him down and get this far. ‘Has Dean Rigby been locked up now?’

‘He’s been released on bail.’

‘You’re joking! How can that be possible?’

‘It’s the judge’s decision. We’re not at all happy about it but there’s nothing we can do. Please don’t worry though. He won’t come near you. He knows harassing the witnesses would increase his sentence and he doesn’t know who you are or where you live.’

I don’t feel reassured and as soon as he ends the call I ring Reuben.

‘Dean Rigby is still out there. The judge gave him bail! I’ve got to go to court and it’s not for four months.’ My voice is getting higher and louder and I can see heads turning towards me in the office. I step through the double doors and make my way downstairs. My hands are shaking.

‘It’s okay, Tasha, calm down. You’re a complete stranger to him.’

‘That’s what the police said. But what if he doesn’t get convicted? He’ll know who I am if I appear in court.’

‘He’ll get put away, I’m sure.’

I hear footsteps behind me. Ian puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently.

‘I can see you’re upset, Tasha. Why don’t you take the afternoon off?’

Relief is swiftly followed by gratitude and I smile at him and thank him. I don’t think I could focus on my work now.

‘I heard Ian’s suggestion,’ Reuben says. ‘Very generous of him. Shall I pick you up? We’ll go home and snuggle up on the sofa. Watch a film or something. I’m owed some time off.’

The pressure in my chest lifts a little and I breathe deeply. ‘That would be wonderful,’ I say. I fetch my bag and coat, thanking Ian on my way past his desk, and wait in the office foyer. Reuben will be here soon – St Albans, where he works, being only a short drive from Harpenden. It’s too cold to wait outside but even if it was a warm day I’d prefer the safety of the office building. While I’m waiting I check my phone for the local news. There’s no mention of Dean Rigby so far. In fact, I haven’t been able to find out anything about him, despite searching for hours.

Reuben arrives and pulls up alongside the building. I expect him to wait in the car but he runs over to me and gathers me into his arms.

‘I know you’re worried, Tash, but everything will be fine. I’m with you every step of the way.’

If only he could be with me all the time. The warmth of his body is