One Bad Thing Read online

  Also by M. K. Hill

  Sasha Dawson series

  The Bad Place

  The Woman in the Wood

  ONE BAD THING

  M.K. Hill

  An Aries book

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

  Copyright © M. K. Hill, 2022

  The moral right of M. K. Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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

  ISBN (HB): 9781788548342

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781788548359

  ISBN (E): 9781788548373

  Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5 -8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  For Eileen

  Everybody, sooner or later, sits down to a banquet of consequences.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  1

  What you have to understand is, it was a very bad time for me.

  That’s not to excuse what I did, which was indefensible, and I will never forgive myself. I fully accept responsibility for my actions. But I wasn’t in the right headspace. I was immature, full of anger, grief-stricken. And besides, what we did – what I did – was intended, in a clumsy and callous way, to redress a wrong; to balance the universe.

  I’m truly sorry for what happened, and all I can say is, lesson learned.

  In the months that followed, when my mental health hit rock bottom and I finally dragged myself out of depression, I often thought about apologizing to our victim. But I was never able to find him. I tried the bar where we picked him up, and even went to his flat, but he had left a few weeks before, leaving no forwarding address. So, no, that didn’t happen.

  At first, I thought the guilt would poison my life, that I’d never get over it; but it didn’t, and I did. And in the years and decades that followed, a lot of what happened has drifted from my memory. I suppose if I was really sorry for what I did, and truly contrite, I would think about it more often – every day, every week, once a month. But I don’t, and it all seems such a long time ago now. A lot of things have happened in the years since, and it’s almost like it never took place at all.

  Almost.

  It’s true to say that in the intervening years I’ve tried to be a force for change, and to help people where I can – and I think on the whole I’ve succeeded in that. I’m not saying I’m a completely good and perfect person, but I’m not a bad one either, I’m really not. After all, no one is all good or all bad. We all just muddle along the best we can, trying not to hurt people, don’t we? Sometimes we let ourselves down, but if we’re determined to do the right thing, if we make a conscious effort to treat people well, I don’t see why we have to let the guilt of our previous bad behaviour, those silly mistakes we all make from time to time, tear us apart.

  However, I’ve learned to my cost that you can never totally leave behind that one bad thing you did. You may try to forget it, and to drown out its nagging echo by living the best life possible, but it will catch up with you. And if you’re unlucky, it will turn your life upside down.

  But here’s the thing. I’ve also learned that when the past comes back to haunt you, and you face the prospect of losing everything you love, there’s only one way to escape that one bad thing.

  And that’s by doing something worse.

  2

  ‘Our Queen of Hearts is here for you, caller, go ahead!’

  It’s my last time behind the mic on Craig’s radio show, which is broadcast every Saturday afternoon across London. I’ve been appearing as the show’s resident psychologist, its agony aunt, for two years now, but all good things come to an end, as Craig explains at the top of the show.

  ‘Our Queen of Hearts is going up in the world, she’s got a gig on television, some little daily morning magazine show with, oh, just a few million viewers. But the saintly Hannah is all ours for one last time, and she’ll be here for the next hour to sort out your problems. If you’re feeling down about something – and the world is an anxious and scary place right now, so who can blame you? – call us and she’ll give you good advice on how to cope.’

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ I say into my mic.

  He laughs, says, ‘Ring us now on the usual number!’ and punches in a jingle with the telephone number on it.

  Phone lines on the console in the production gallery next door light up as people begin to ring in. The calls are always a mixed bag. It could be people who are struggling to cope financially, or whose relationships are crumbling; sometimes, if someone says they’re feeling suicidal, I may speak to them after the show to make sure they seek help from the Samaritans or their local GP. The truth is, all I can ever really do is provide a sympathetic ear. But it’s been proved that sharing a problem, taking it out to examine it in the cold light of day, is the best way to begin to tackle it. It’s when you bottle up those negative emotions, toxic feelings and secrets that the situation can spiral from bad to worse.

  And on this, my last show, the calls come thick and fast. One of our regular callers, Simon from Dollis Hill, bless him, phones to say he’s feeling sad because I’m leaving. Melissa from Crystal Palace cries on-air because she’s fallen out with her daughter. Family problems like hers are common, and I try to encourage the pair of them to keep communicating. Finally, Nicholas from Acton, who is
agoraphobic, speaks very movingly about the debilitating anxiety he experiences whenever he leaves his house.

  ‘Thanks, Nicholas,’ says Craig. ‘You stay safe.’

  ‘And thank you, Hannah. I think I speak for all us listeners when I say we’re going to miss you,’ Nick says, and in an echo of the words that have become something of a catchphrase for me, adds, ‘Always be kind.’

  I feel quite choked up. ‘Aw, thank you, I’ll try.’

  Glancing at the studio clock, I see I’ve been on-air for nearly an hour. As usual, the time has flown by. There’s another half hour to go, and then I can go home to my husband and my baby.

  But then she calls, and everything is changed forever.

  Her name flashes up on the screen in the studio and Craig fades her up. ‘Hi Diane, how can Hannah help you today?’

  Craig can’t believe his luck when the woman on the line begins to tell listeners the story of what happened to her brother, Martin. How he met two people who bullied and traumatized him. He grins at me across the studio, and I try to mirror his enthusiasm, but beneath the table my hands, damp with sweat, are clamped between my knees. Every bitter word she utters is crystal clear in my headphones.

  ‘And then those people, people he trusted, and believed were his friends,’ she says in a menacing throaty rasp, ‘this Cameron and—’

  ‘Just a reminder, Diane,’ Craig says quickly into his microphone, ‘for legal reasons, we’re not allowed to use names.’

  ‘The man and the woman, they treated him no better than a dog and left him confused, shocked, humiliated.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Craig eagerly catches my eye. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of anything so cruel.’

  He tries to sound sincere, but hunched close to the mic, his eyes flashing with excitement, he struggles to hide his glee. There’s no question this call will go straight into the end-of-year compilation of the best moments on the show. Diane’s story about the humiliation of her brother at the hands of two strangers is broadcasting gold.

  ‘And your poor brother, how is he now? How is Martin?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ The caller sucks down a deep, shuddering breath. ‘He killed himself years ago.’

  ‘Oh, Diane, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Craig’s voice is full of compassion, but his eyes sparkle. ‘Do you think… could he have done it because…’

  ‘Martin was a sensitive man, and I believe he never got over what happened to him. It ate away at his confidence and self-respect. And my life is a mess too, Craig. I can’t stop thinking about what was done to him, it keeps me awake at night. Martin didn’t deserve being treated like that, nobody does.’ You can hear a pin drop in the dismal silence between her words. ‘I miss him so, so much.’

  ‘I understand,’ says Craig softly.

  ‘I want to know what Hannah thinks.’ Diane’s deep voice is a growl in my headphones. ‘I’d like to hear what she says about it.’

  ‘Hannah Godley, our Queen of Hearts, is here for you, Diane.’ Craig’s voice oozes concern. ‘And I personally want to thank you for sharing your story with our listeners. I understand how difficult it must be for you.’

  It’s my turn to speak, to dish out advice. We’re live on-air, hundreds of thousands of people are listening across the city, so I try to gather my thoughts. But my hands tremble beneath the table, my mouth is parched.

  Craig raises his eyebrows, go ahead, because there’s nothing worse for a radio show than dead air.

  ‘Diane.’ When I’m finally able to speak, I try to sound my usual bright and positive self, but my voice is a croak, and I have to take a sip of water. ‘Thank you for your… thanks for calling in. What happened to… Martin, is it?… is clearly bringing up a lot of feelings for you right now, and I’m not sure talking about it here is really going to help.’

  Across the desk, Craig stares at me as if I’ve gone mad. As far as he’s concerned, Diane’s raw emotion and macabre story are dynamite, and he wants to keep her on-air for as long as possible.

  ‘I’d like to help you,’ I say, ignoring him. ‘But your story is very personal and I don’t think speaking about it in such a public way is the correct thing to do.’

  ‘No,’ she says quietly, ‘I bet you don’t.’

  ‘So I’m going to suggest that I talk to you after the show,’ I continue quickly. ‘We’ve got your number, and I promise that as soon as we’re off-air, I’ll ring you back and we can talk. I’m going to help, I want to help.’

  ‘I didn’t call for sympathy, or for help.’ Diane’s angry voice fills my head. ‘I called to tell you that I’m going to make the people responsible for Martin’s death suffer for what they did. I’m going to make them pay.’

  Craig sits bolt upright, eager to get involved in the conversation now it’s taken an unexpected twist. ‘Diane, thoughts of revenge are perfectly normal, but it’s not something that…’ He frowns. ‘Diane, are you still there?’

  There’s a deafening silence in my headphones; all I can hear is my own panting breath, the blood thrumming in my ears. Craig glances quickly at the producer in the gallery, who slices a hand across his neck. She’s hung up.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Craig tells the listeners. ‘We’ve lost Diane, but we’ll take more calls right after this news bulletin. Join us then, and remember…’

  He looks across the desk at me and I say unsteadily, ‘Always be kind.’

  The news jingle plays and an announcer begins to read the bulletin from another studio. Craig pulls down the faders to shut off the mics, drags his headphones down his neck.

  ‘Is she gone?’ he says, pressing a button to talk to the gallery. ‘Can we get her back?’

  ‘She’s not answering her phone,’ the producer says over the internal speaker.

  ‘Bloody typical.’ Craig is annoyed. ‘She was just getting warmed up, we could have had some more good stuff if she’d hung around.’

  ‘She was in pain,’ I tell him.

  Craig remembers to sound concerned. ‘Sure, she was in a bad way.’ He frowns at me. ‘You all right? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘Am I?’ I smile weakly. ‘I didn’t eat much at lunch.’

  After the show, Craig and the team pop a bottle of bubbly to celebrate my new job in TV, and we drink it out of polystyrene cups. It’s a nice gesture, but I barely taste the bubbles, and when I get a chance, I take the producer of the show aside.

  ‘Diane, the woman who hung up,’ I say to him quietly. ‘I’d really like to help her. Can I have her number?’

  ‘Ah.’ He makes a face. ‘Unless she gives us permission, I can’t give it to you. Sorry, data protection laws. But I can give her a ring to see if she’s happy for you to call.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I tell him, and I pick up my bag.

  The show has been a big part of my life for two years and I’ve a lot to thank it for. I’ve been podcasting and writing advice columns for magazines, but this regular Saturday slot has got me noticed by the people in television – the Morning Brew show, no less, which is the Holy Grail of daytime TV. When the champagne is finished, Craig and his team want to take me to the pub to continue the celebration, but I’m not in the mood.

  We’re in Soho, in central London, and the streets are busy with shoppers and tourists. The world is finally coming back to life after a weary couple of years going in and out of lockdown, and people are pouring into town this Saturday afternoon, many of them still wearing masks.

  I wouldn’t recognize Diane, with or without a mask. I’ve never met her – up until a few minutes ago, I didn’t even know of her existence, how could I? But I can’t help but scan the pavement as I come out of the building. I’m nervous, on the lookout for someone following me, someone who wants to make me pay.

  Because of one bad thing I did many years ago… something stupid, something bad, something hateful.

  3

  The lights in the compartment bli
nk on and off as the Tube train rattles up the Northern Line, throwing the passengers into intermittent shadow. Sitting in the seats, standing in the aisle, or peering into the carriage from the platform as we slide into each Underground station, their faces are mostly obscured behind masks or phones.

  As the train clatters along the tunnel, shunting left and right, a woman at the end of the carriage looks over in my direction. Every muscle in my body clenches as she moves towards me, eyes staring over her black mask. But then she steps over my feet in the aisle – I draw them in quickly – and drops into an empty seat further along the row.

  It’s stifling and uncomfortable in the enclosed space, I can barely breathe, and when the doors finally open at Kentish Town station, I hurry up the escalators to street level. It’s early evening, approaching six, as I scurry along the pavement carrying a glittery bottle–shaped bag containing Prosecco, a leaving gift from Craig and his team. Despite the dipping sun, it’s still as hot as hell – we’re a couple of weeks into another summer drought and even the breeze seems to scorch my skin – but I’ve never been so grateful to suck down the foetid, polluted air of the inner city in summer.

  Listeners of the show will have written off Diane as a crank, one of the many attention-seeking souls who regularly call radio phone-ins, and have probably already forgotten her bizarre and unlikely story.

  But I know better. Because the threat she made was aimed at me.

  That cruel thing Cameron and I did all those years ago is still the biggest shame of my life. And now it turns out that the man we did it to, our victim – I’ll never forget his name: Martin – later committed suicide. Diane’s story could be a bizarre coincidence, she may not even know she was talking about me. But I wouldn’t feel so shaken, so full of a nameless dread, if I hadn’t had at the back of my mind all these years the lurking feeling that sooner or later that incident would come back to haunt me.

  All I want to do is get home and shut out the world. I’ll play with Amber, make something to eat, relax in front of the telly. Maybe tomorrow Diane’s call will seem like a bad dream.