Descent

By Marion Kay

The cause of Esther Richardson's undiagnosed health condition has been a mystery for as long as she can remember. When a series of chilling events bring with them confusion and darkness, clues also emerge. Will she be able to piece everything together before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maple Publishers
• Release date: Sep 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914366499

Book preview

Descent

Author: Marion Kay

Copyright © Marion Kay (2021)

The right of Marion Kay to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First Published in 2021

ISBN 978-1-914366-50-5 (Paperback)

978-1-914366-49-9 (Ebook)

Published by:

Maple Publishers

1 Brunel Way,

Slough,

SL1 1FQ, UK

www.maplepublishers.com

Cover Design and Book Layout by:

White Magic Studios

www.whitemagicstudios.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or translated by any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

Chapter One

Nature, although simplistic in her methods, wields a power that surpasses simple comprehension. Effortlessly responsible for an array of allure - and yet despite the magnificence of the result, she does not boast by offering a sound for falling snow. Essie stood at the kitchen window, transfixed by the ivory blanket stretching into the distance, halting, abruptly, at the top of the bank, spilling like marzipan over a cake edge. Soft bird song fused with coarse voices from the mistuned radio were the only sounds that hung on the air. Verifiable by the local council, it was fact – a full two hundred residents lived nearby, yet seemingly all resided behind force fields because you never heard other people. Never. Flixham was a small village on the outskirts of North West England. Hidden away, unconcerned with folk elsewhere, the locals lived simple lives surrounded by complexly beautiful views. In stark contrast to residents of the bustling, vigorous towns, and cities nearby, the Flixham populace considered drama to befall the community when the local shop ran short of bread. When assessed against Manchester or Liverpool, city dwellers would find the place achingly monotonous. Slim country roads warped and forked, vein-like, across the terrain. Should two cars meet on the same thoroughfare, they could not pass one another in unison. The loose stone driveway leading up to Essie’s house was a single, slender lane; fir trees lined both sides and obscured the view of the valley below. When blue skies spoiled, turning black as the sun departed, a swarm of bright stars ignited the heavens - rich and vibrant, beckoning sky gazers from near and far to take advantage of the pollution-free air enrobing the protected hills. Despite its obvious appeal, Flixham lacked excitement, but it was the only place that Essie had ever truly known. Her parents had moved to England from Galway before she had been born, so her full twenty-eight years had been spent living within the confines of this sleepy, clandestine place. It was little wonder that day trips to Manchester or London filled her with a discernible unease. Her parents often remarked on how they had made the decision to leave their families for a better life here, and Essie had always known that the deciding factor had been her father’s job. The opportunity to join a law firm spanning the length and breadth of the UK was too good a chance to pass up, and the move certainly had nothing to do with hopes of discovering an upgraded weather system here, that was for sure. They had exchanged the prospect of their property being swept into the Atlantic for the risk of having the British rain drizzle on the land around their home until it eventually fell into the valley beneath. Not unlike the landscape around her, Essie’s approach to life was uncomplicated. She knew what she wanted and was fiercely independent as a result; she could never bring herself to overindulge in purposeless plans like her friends would all too often. Frequently described as a homegirl, Essie happily bore the title like a medal. For despite all the allure of the rest of the world, the United Kingdom had many charms, perhaps the most perplexing being the number of seasons it would offer in such a short space of time. Snow came in May, warmth in February, and storms made appearances whenever recycled weather brazenly approached the edges of the small island, looking for a place to play. White weather like today’s was perpetually unexpected in line with British culture and as such, everybody would panic on cue as soon as it appeared. Some may have been forgiven for wondering if the only weather the island could cope comfortably with was ‘light breeze’. Today, icicles hung from the apple tree like sharpened bread knives, as if a thousand glass arrows had been fired from high above. Essie smiled. Her mother cared far too much for that tree despite it never having borne any fruit worth eating. Perhaps someone ‘up there’ was trying to put her out of her misery once and for all by killing it, she pondered.

What has you smiling, then?

Her eyes still trained on the snowscape outside, Essie answered, dazed, I think it’s delirium, dad. I’ve just walked in from possibly the worst night shift I’ve ever had. Her gaze darted side wards and landed on her father. Well, when I say walked in, I mean, I attempted to…

Sorry. Sorry, love. It wasn’t this bad last night. I’m heading out now to sort the path. Pacing to the kitchen door, her father hesitated, looking perplexed.

Essie smiled, noticing his dithering, They’re around your neck.

Eh? her father replied, confused. Oh, you mean my glasses? Yes, I know. I’m - erm, looking for the door key. Your car is at the bottom of the lane, I hope?

Yeah. I’m in again tonight so I’ll walk down later and drive from there.

Ok. Well, get yourself to bed. It’s almost eight.

Listlessly, she turned, fetched up her coat and bag from the kitchen table and headed for the stairs, Night, dad!

God bless! He replied, distracted by fastening the half-broken zip on his rain jacket. Oh, Essie, Jack called for you last night. Said your phone must have died because he couldn’t get through?

Not halting nor turning to face her father, Essie shouted from the hallway Ta. I’ll call him when I wake up.

Essie loved Jack Gilmartin, but he was caged by paranoia and that caused challenges. Never controlling, but perpetually stuck in a state of worry about anything and everything, it was no surprise that he got on so well with her mother. Despite this, and overall, his faults were few and his charms abundant. An only child, raised in the city of Manchester until the age of seventeen, Jack had spent most of his adolescent life being quite literally everything to his mother. His father had left when Jack was fourteen years old, unable to cope with the mental health issues imprisoning his wife, and the reverberation of his actions had spanned the following sixteen years. He loved his mother. Ever caring and harrowingly apologetic about the way his life had evolved - attributable to her own issues, Kathleen was a good woman. Blighted in many ways, but the owner of a good soul. Essie’s heart often broke for Jack. Situations would arise, only serving to highlight his inability to dream or be untroubled because of the sheer weight of the responsibility that he was so accustomed to carrying. Old beyond his years!, Essie’s mother would often remark, saddened by his story. Jack’s destiny in this world was to be a human chameleon, constantly adapting to be a son, a protector, a carer, … a boyfriend. And the only role that he was paid to do - a Finance Manager. He’d missed the chance to pursue his dream of becoming a veterinarian, owing to the drama that had engulfed his younger years. Meeting Essie had changed him. He had become calmer, more able to cope with his lot. And Essie had found her place alongside him, becoming a better version of herself along the way. Still, despite all the good, Jack wasn’t perfect. His ever-present attendance was a blessing to his mother, yet an occasional annoyance to Essie. She was independent, dangerously so, and there was little that unsettled her. Her late Irish grandmother, God rest her soul, would describe her, as a child, as the girl who wouldn’t see the aim as getting through the woods unharmed by the wolf but rather to find, and kill the wolf to eradicate the problem once and for all. Never shy around her problems, Essie was a force of her own making. So now, too tired to even consider a basic conversation, Essie was indifferent. Jack would have to wait to speak to her. The role of a nurse was a demanding one, this he knew, and night shifts were the hardest. Her tiredness began to leak into irritability as she placed her bag on the dresser, and spotted a note from her mother – ‘call Jack’. Rolling her eyes and starting to undress, she glanced over at the window. There was Roger, as usual, perched on the outside ledge, looking in as if to check she was home and ready for bed. Essie had often wondered why birds seemed to observe more than they should care to. He appeared, without fail, every morning. Eerie in his demeanour, his black coat always pristine. He looked fake. Nature on display once again, she thought. Landing into bed a mere four minutes after setting foot in the room, Essie pulled the covers over up around her neck and slept, at last.

Knock, knock! Are you awake Esther?

No, mum, Essie replied, her tone deliberately sarcastic.

Marie Richardson was a spirited woman. Perpetually animated. Essie often wondered how her strait-laced father had selected this particular lunacy. But it seemed to work, and their thirty-nine-year marriage was the proof. Essie was her father’s daughter - logical, methodical yet feisty if provoked. If there were a Richardson family spectrum, Michael and Essie would hold up the opposite end to Marie and Arthur. Still, everything needs balance, Essie often contemplated. Recently retired from her role as a doctor’s receptionist, Marie’s life was now dedicated to jigsaws, radio phone-in competitions, and fretting. Her Irish accent had lingered over the years. The same was true for her husband, but he managed to avoid becoming decidedly more Irish depending on who he was speaking to - something that Essie and Arthur teased Marie for endlessly. If the charm of the Emerald Isle were required, Marie wouldn’t hesitate, and the patients at the practice had adored her for it.

So, how was work? Any news? Did you have enough de-icer? Marie’s gaze darted about the room as she spoke, looking for things to straighten, tidy or simply pass comment on.

Just the three questions this morning, mum? Still dreaming of that role with MI6?

I’d be good in MI6. Marie countered, energetically. Wait, is that the one based in the UK? I wouldn’t want to have to fly anywhere.

Essie began to laugh, Work was fine, not sure what news you’re hoping for? I bought more de-icer yesterday. And I don’t think you’re in danger of having to do anything at all for MI6, so I wouldn’t worry.

You’re not too old to be grounded for giving cheek! Marie replied, her hands on her hips and her mouth smirking.

Raising both hands, goadingly, Essie chuckled, Suits me! Call Maeve and tell her I won’t be in tonight because I’m grounded!

Her smile sliding away, Marie exclaimed - her tone worried Why? What’s wrong at work?

Essie immediately regretted the attempt at comedy. Nothing! I’m joking. Now, do you think there’s a chance I might get a cup of tea? I’ll be leaving bad reviews for this place on TripAdvisor.

Her mother smiled and headed for the door, picking up the note from the dresser on her way. Screwing it up into a ball, she turned as she closed the door — Don’t forget to

Essie cut her off mid-sentence Call Jack! I know!

Listening to her mother begin the walk downstairs, Essie lunged across the bed to pull her phone free from her bag, plugged in the charger, and headed for the wardrobe, leaving the device to charge as it rested on the bedside table. Opening both doors of the closet wide, she began to scrutinise piles of folded clothes. Telling herself for the third time that month that she really would try harder to not wear the same things all the time, she dragged a sweatshirt from the top of one of the stacks. Positioning herself in front of her full-length mirror, Essie dragged the jumper over her head before tightening the bow cord on her pyjama bottoms. Scanning the mirror as she did so, she pulled her long ebony hair into a top knot and secured it far too tightly with a bobble, knowing full well that a headache would soon form. Most compliments Essie received featured her eyes - eyes that mesmerised as large, oval stones of obsidian glass set deep in olive skin. Their co-star, her eyebrows. Thick and full, perfectly shaped to frame the region they dwelled in. The intensity of the two together often betrayed her for almost always being accused of having ‘resting bitch face’ was a symptom. Beneath the centre of her right eye, a small beauty spot was visible - the darkest brown against the backdrop of her olive skin, prominent and unusual. Essie didn’t try to hide the blemish, instead always deciding to leave it un-disguised, obvious. Often asked about her origin, she was always amused by people’s perception of some rustic Italian upbringing being swiftly crushed by the reality of her arguably dull Northern English childhood. She was petite. Athletic. Friends hated that she could eat anything her heart desired without gaining a pound.

Glimpsing over at her phone, she saw that it was charging gently, yet the battery was still too low for her to switch it on. Essie stretched to push the wardrobe doors closed, turned out of the room, and headed unhurriedly down the stairs.

With just a few steps and a modest jump, she perched herself on the kitchen table, her legs dangling over the edge. Essie rhythmically picked various items from the fruit bowl for inspection before placing them back, her main aim being deciding whether she was in fact hungry at all. The fruit bowl itself was enough to render anyone appetite less. With its gawdy 1970’s print and muddied green hue, it was fit for nothing but the bin. The Richardson household was an eclectic graveyard for things of days gone by. Not believers in new technology and the latest trends, Essie’s parents would keep an item until either its owner died, or it did. The one time the house ever had a chance at looking partially normal was Christmas when the sheer amount of festive tack disguised the year-round clutter. Pouring herself some orange juice, Essie squinted as she looked out of the window. The lively winter sun cloaked her view with layers of light. Did you only have enough money to pay dad to do half of that path?

Smiling wryly her mum replied, No, he’s gone to take Arthur to college. He’ll do the rest once he’s back.

College? On a Saturday!? Essie exclaimed, surprised that Arthur had enough motivation for more than the bare minimum where college was concerned.

Her mum chuckled, Honestly, I think it’s to do with a girl. Some homework support class for German studies.

Ahhhh, I see. Well, that makes more sense. Maybe Germany will take him for us if he passes!, Essie supposed, smirking.

Arthur was, if not by his own admission, a part-time student, full-time entertainer. Seemingly in a constant state of desperation to impress everyone around him, he exuded an air of boyish charm intermingled with a worry inducing disregard for common sense. He was the reason why Marie had a habit of welcoming her worries before they had arrived. Essie often wondered what the original plan had been. Of course, the well-chronicled version of events was always relayed thusly; Marie and Michael had not realised that they had wanted a second child until ten years after Essie was born. Essie had often thought that a decade was too extensive an amount of time to class as a ‘break’. Marie had been forty-two when she fell for Arthur, so Essie - aged ten, could vividly remember wondering what the ‘lovely surprise’ was going to be. Sadly, for her, it did not transpire to be a horse like she had hoped. Having a much younger brother came with an array of trials. The toughest at the present moment being the wave of guilt that emerged each time she ‘ruined his life’ by not taking him to ‘extremely important’ gatherings. Arthur liked Jack, and Essie was glad of the fact. It served as one of the reasons why she had been with him for so long. Eight years last month. Time flies when you’re not noticing it slipping by. The sound of loud vibration brought her out of her daydream. Her phone - it was ringing. Unthinking, she jumped down from the table and dashed for the stairs, orange juice in hand. She watched, helpless, as the bright liquid erupted over the rim of the glass with urgency and landed on the kitchen floor. ‘Why is it that you have half a glass of orange juice in your hand until you spill it, at which point it turns into three litres of the stuff?’ she thought, frustrated.

Before Essie had a chance to react, her mother’s voice played I’ll sort it, don’t worry!. Rushing to be of assistance whilst waving her out of the room, her mother pulled the glass from her hand.

Thanks, mum, came the reply, apologetic in tone. Essie darted through the hall, ignoring the post falling through the front door and advanced up the stairs two at a time, wiping her juice-stained hands on her pyjama bottoms as she went. Diving into the room and grabbing her phone, she answered just before the call dropped.

Hey! she managed, out of breath.

Essie, I’ve been worried. Jack’s voice came in a heavy tone down the line.

Pulling the phone away from her ear, her gaze skimmed the screen. Five unread messages, all from Jack. She winced, placing the phone on the dresser, and hitting the speakerphone button she replied nonchalantly I’ve told you before and ever since I started working nights, that you don’t need to worry!

After five seconds of complete silence, Jack spoke. Well, did you get home ok last night? he quizzed, concern ruling his voice.

No, no. I’m currently lying in a ditch.

Trying not to break his steely composure he replied, Don’t joke, Ess, you know I worry.

I know, I know. I’m sorry. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow night?

His response came rapidly, she loved how excited he always seemed to see her. Yep. I’ll be round about seven. Oh, I said I would get Arthur from a friend’s house on the way, he messaged to ask me earlier.

Okay. Find out who this friend is though. I want to know if some hussy is trying to romance my baby brother!

Jack laughed, Poor kid. Text me later, love you.

Love you too, bye, bye, bye! she replied, in her usual cool style. After placing the phone back on the dresser, she turned and ran downstairs, eager to help her mum with the spillage she had just caused. As she reached the bottom stair and swung herself round the corner to walk down the hall, her dad appeared in front of her, back from the dangers of outside.

Well, it’s terrible out there. We’ve wet rain for sure! he exclaimed.

Essie rolled her eyes and resumed her walk. Continuing through to the kitchen, she found that all was now clear. There was no sign of the mess from five minutes earlier. But that wasn’t the only thing that was unexpected. An energised atmosphere existed constantly in the Richardson house. Between the uniform sound of the radio and chatter from her parents and brother, it was an undoubtedly vibrant family home. Yet somewhere in between her having ran upstairs not five minutes ago and now, the mood had changed. She could sense it. Sitting to join her mum at the table, Essie began to pour cereal into a bowl. Following a night shift, 3:30 pm was breakfast time for her. It was only when her mum tried to take control of the simple task that Essie really started to realise that something was amiss. Marie was habitually helpful to a fault but now, she seemed to be trying harder than usual. Meeting her mum’s gaze, confusion ruled her expression as she wrestled her for the cereal box. Mum, you’re acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.

Marie froze, wide-eyed and suddenly mute. Relinquishing her grip, her eyes drew downwards, and she grasped her coffee cup with both hands. Her gaze darted to the far kitchen counter and back. Her words seemed to fall out in fractured sentences. A letter, erm… has come for you. Just now. From the hospital. I think it’s your results.

Acutely aware that her father had now appeared in the kitchen doorway, very likely having heard their conversation, Essie stood slowly. With neither dialogue nor eye contact, she crossed the room to the counter, and without hesitation, opened the letter. The tension was palpable. Lionel Richie’s quiet voice trickling from the radio the only sound cutting through the silence. A whole minute elapsed whilst she read the black words from the crisp white sheet. She made sure there was no tell. Her parents waited, frozen in place, anticipating speech but no words came. Carefully folding the letter back into its perfectly creased appearance, she placed it down on the counter. Her stare cast downwards, she moved across the kitchen with a swiftness, passed her father in the doorway, and headed up the stairs.

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Chapter Two

Saliva hung from the centre of her mouth like treacle leaving the edge of a warm spoon. Resting her head in her palm, precariously balanced by her elbow on the toilet seat, she spat, wearily until, eventually, the spittle fell. After yanking the chain sharply, she slumped back against the wall, staring indolently at the pencil marks on the door frame. They must have stopped marking her height when she became a teenager because nothing much changed past that point. Fixated on the most recently recorded smear against her name, Essie reflected on all the years of unexplained health issues. Her mother would be surpassing her usual level of apprehension downstairs, knowing her daughter was unwell, knowing that yesterday’s letter had offered no relief. But Essie couldn’t bring herself to move. Rarely did her undiagnosed ailment cause this much distress, but today the case was such. For twenty-five years, Essie had struggled with the same affliction - well documented to family and friends, and most vividly to poor Jack. Nobody had any answers, despite well-meaning advice being shared constantly by those in the loop. Medical professionals were included in the list of those without remedy. Tests came back negative, inconclusive, and incomplete. As she felt another surge of nausea wash over her, she pressed her palm against the side of her head to try and stem the pain of her headache. Wincing, she closed her eyes, hoping that the sickness would pass quickly, and she could detach herself from the harshness of the cold tile floor. Thinking about the night before, she tried hard to recall anything that would help her to understand the immense pain and, more importantly, the nosebleed that had appeared as she woke. One frustrating commonality of Essie’s ‘episodes’ was that they were routine. The same chain of events had played out in the same way, at least once a week