Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down

Same question every time. ‘Yep.’

Gary stepped on to the bank, then hesitated.

‘What now?’ said Ronnie, hands on hips, scowling.

Gary rubbed his hand around his mouth. ‘I dunno.’

‘They’ve probably left it and gone somewhere. Done a runner or something. Come on, let’s get back on our boat. We’ve gotta get it back to the yard. I don’t want to be caught up with loads of traffic on the A12.’ She turned away from him and began fiddling with the rope.

‘It doesn’t …’ Gary hesitated. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’ He sniffed the air. ‘It smells funny.’

Ronnie sniffed too. ‘That’s just the countryside, isn’t it?’

Gary put a foot on the other boat and knocked on the sliding canopy. ‘Hello? Anybody there?’ He glanced at Ronnie, then tried the door. It was stuck.

He knocked again, and frowned. ‘I’m just gonna—’

‘Gary. I think you should leave it.’ He was bound to make a mess of things and then they’d be in trouble. And she wanted to get out of there. Pronto.

Too late. Gary tugged at the door. It slid open. He stuck his head inside.

‘Ronnie, it smells minging in here.’

His voice, thought Ronnie, was wavering, as if he was scared, and all at once she was worried. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t go in, Gary.’ She shivered and looked around. Goosebumps. Why had she got goosebumps? There was nothing but water and sky and flowers and green stuff. Too much green; she preferred the concrete blocks of home. ‘Gary, come on, let’s go. We’ll tell that lot at the boatyard when we get back. Let them come out and deal with it.’

But Gary had already stepped inside.

Twenty seconds later he stumbled out, fell off the boat, and threw up in the grass.

2 (#uefcda61b-480a-591a-8ce3-26e5b31140dd)

Afterwards, Alex Devlin would associate the music of Wagner with the time her relatively settled life began to slip from her control.

The day hadn’t started well, beginning with a disjointed conversation with her parents, just as she wrote the last sentence of her most recent article for The Post.

‘Your father would like to see you, Alex,’ her mother said, her tone mildly censorious.

Guilt immediately corkscrewed through her. ‘I know, Mum, I will come.’

‘When though? You always say you’re going to visit and then you don’t. Here’s your father. Talk to him.’

There was the muffled sound of the phone being handed over.

‘Who is this?’ Her father’s once mellow voice now reedy.

Alex clutched her phone tightly. ‘Alex. Your daughter.’

‘Oh yes, Alex.’ He paused, and Alex could almost hear the effort he was making to form the right words. ‘When are you coming? Your mother says you haven’t been.’ Another pause. ‘For a long time,’ he finished.

‘I’m—’

‘You like balloon animals.’

She closed her eyes, hearing the note of anxiety in his voice. The making of animals out of balloons had been one of those things that they had done together when she was young, just her and him. It used to make her laugh.

‘I’ll make some for when you come round.’

Alex’s throat was blocked. The time for her father to make balloon animals had passed long ago.

‘The weather’s been nice.’ It was her mother again.

‘I’ll come over,’ said Alex, knowing she must.

‘Can you make it later? This afternoon some time?’

‘Of course.’ She looked out of her study window, and could just about see the sun glinting on the water of Sole Bay.

‘Thank you.’ Her mother put the phone down.

Her plan had been to spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon on the beach after having been immersed in the world of extreme couponing for the last few days. (Spend hours scouring the Internet! Browse newspapers and magazines and cut out vouchers! Organize your vouchers in folders and ring binders! Keep your vouchers handy in your purse!) Not exactly stretching the brain but it did at least help pay the bills. And gave her tips on how to save money at the supermarket, which was particularly appropriate as she was going to have to fill the fridge with food for Gus who was coming to stay with her in Suffolk. How was it that she spent a fortune in the supermarket (vouchers or no vouchers) and the food she bought was all gone in an instant as soon as her son turned up? Locusts could learn a lot from him, she thought. Still, it was going to be lovely to see him. It had been a long time. And thank God she’d finished that wretched article, and had sent it away with the press of a button. Couponing. Channel 4’s Cathy Newman she was not.

She sighed. It had to be done. No, she wanted to do it. God knew life had been hard enough for her mum and dad, what with having to cope with her sister, Sasha, as a troubled teenager – unsuitable boyfriends, self-harming, all spit and fire. Alex had done as much as she could, although she hadn’t been a model daughter either.

But it was so hard to see her once gentle father slowly turning into someone else. Early-onset dementia, they called it. A miserable twist of fate, she called it. And because she had found it hard, she had not given her mum as much support as she should have done. Her excuses had been her work, visiting Sasha in the mental health unit – anything, really. But it wasn’t good enough.

She looked out of the window of her study. The sun and the promise of the kiss of warm early summer air on her skin beckoned. An hour? Maybe half? To recharge her batteries, that was all. Then she would go and see her parents. She pushed back her chair and went to fetch a towel.

Alex settled on the sand, finding a comfortable spot where there weren’t any pebbles sticking into her skin. She was sheltered from the worst of the sharp sea breeze by the dunes.

The sun was warm on her face. She closed her eyes, feeling drowsy. A few more minutes she thought, though it was becoming more difficult to ignore the creeping guilt.

In the background, she heard the sea dragging on the shingle at the shoreline, mingling with the insistent barking of a dog, and children playing a game of volleyball on the beach.

‘It’s my serve,’ said a girl.

‘No, it’s not, it’s mine.’ A boy’s voice, younger. Brother perhaps?

A sigh. ‘Go on then.’

Thwack! The sound of the ball being hit.

‘Yesss!’

‘Oh.’ This from the girl. ‘Shall we call it a draw?’ she said.

‘No, you lost,’ said the boy.

Alex smiled. Kids arguing. Fine when they weren’t your own. She sat up and then leaned back on her elbows. A few hardy souls were trying to swim in the North Sea, their screams testament to how cold it was. A dragon kite was flying high above her. She was trying to clear her head – be mindful, as some yoga teacher had once told her – trying to think of nothing.