While You Sleep: A chilling, unputdownable psychological thriller that will send shivers up your spine!

‘So the son was alive?’

‘Most definitely. A frail boy, Bonar says, very pale, but to all appearances well cared-for, though he suspected he might be mute. So William saw no need to get involved. He was engaged to be married by then, to a girl from an Edinburgh clergy family of some standing – he was moving up in the world and had no wish to be burdened with the care of a widowed sister and sickly nephew on a remote island, particularly when that sister had more than enough money to look after herself and there was a rumour of illegitimacy hanging over the boy. He writes encouraging Ailsa to sell the land and move to Edinburgh so they can see more of each other, but he doesn’t make much effort to persuade her.’ He stopped for another gulp of coffee and shook his head. ‘Perhaps if he had taken more trouble with her, the story might have had a different ending.’

Zoe watched him with a frisson of excitement, waiting for the reveal.

‘Would you like to see her?’ Before she could answer, he crossed the room to a vast walnut cabinet against the back wall, crouched to unlock the top drawer and drew out a leather folder crammed with documents. After some riffling through papers he held out a yellowed photograph, curling at the edges. She reached out for it, aware of a strange tightness in her throat.

‘I’ll put another pot of coffee on,’ Charles said, setting the folder down on the desk and leaving her with the picture.

Zoe looked down. The photo in her hand was a formal portrait, the woman sitting stiff-backed in her black dress with its high lace collar and wide skirts, hair severely parted and pulled back into a bun. The face was stern, not beautiful but strong-featured, with fierce dark eyes that stared into the lens as if issuing a challenge. No wonder the locals left her alone, Zoe thought; the force of that gaze would make anyone step back and apologise. Around her neck, Ailsa wore a silver Celtic cross patterned with ornate tracery.

‘Formidable woman, isn’t she?’ Charles’s voice over her shoulder made her jump. ‘Shall I get you a refill?’ He leaned over for her empty mug. ‘You wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her, to judge by that expression. You can see why she made the villagers nervous.’

‘So what did happen to her?’ Zoe called, as he pottered back to the kitchen.

‘I’m about to tell you,’ he said. At the same time, the bell above the shop door chimed. Charles emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel, as Mick appeared in the archway to the main shop. His gaze alighted on Zoe with the photograph in her lap and she watched his face working to suppress a reaction. Again, Zoe felt she had incurred his disapproval; guilty, she glanced at her watch.

‘Thought I might find you here.’ Mick pressed his lips together, but his reproving look was directed at Charles.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Zoe said, half rising. ‘I didn’t realise how quickly the time had gone.’

‘It’s my fault entirely,’ Charles said, with his charming smile, flipping the cloth over his shoulder. ‘I persuaded her to stay for coffee, I’m afraid.’

‘And a wee history lesson, I see.’ Mick nodded to the picture in Zoe’s hand.

‘I asked him to tell me,’ she said, looking at Mick. She did not want to be the cause of ill feeling between the two men, but she found Mick’s efforts to hide the stories from her both irritating and a little ridiculous. Perhaps he was ashamed of having a family history that included witchcraft, or madness. That sort of thing still mattered in a place like this. ‘The island is so fascinating. I thought it might be inspiring for my painting.’

Mick’s face clouded further. ‘I don’t think—’ he began, but changed his mind. ‘I need to get back up the pub in a minute. If you do a quick dash round the shop now, I can run you home, but we’ll need to get a shift on.’

Zoe stood. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Couldn’t I get a cab? That way I can take my time and explore a bit more.’

Mick laughed. ‘A cab, she says. Good luck with that.’ He folded his arms and appeared to relent. ‘Nae bother. You’ve my mobile number – if you can’t get a lift, I’ll be free again after about four, you can try me then.’ His eyes darted back to the photograph. ‘And don’t believe anything he tells you.’ He turned and stalked briskly out of the shop, leaving the bell jangling as the door banged behind him.

Zoe caught Charles’s eye and he grimaced.

‘We’re in the doghouse,’ she said, handing back the photo, avoiding a last look at the woman’s stare. ‘I shouldn’t have kept him waiting, when he was going out of his way to help me.’

‘It’s me he’s angry with,’ Charles said, though he didn’t sound as if this troubled him unduly. He picked up the document case and tapped it with a tobacco-stained forefinger. ‘But I only ever promised not to write publicly about the story without his blessing. I certainly never agreed not to discuss it. And as a publican, he should have a better grasp of human nature. The more he tries to stop you hearing, the more curious you’re bound to be.’ He took a long look at Ailsa McBride before slipping the picture back among the other papers. ‘How was your first night in the house, by the way?’

Zoe hesitated. For one reckless moment she considered telling him about the singing and the locked door, the figure on the beach. It would be a relief to voice the strangeness of it aloud, to have someone as unflappable as Charles reassure her that she had imagined it. But in the same instant she recalled the dream that had preceded it, her own nakedness and fierce desire, and felt unaccountably ashamed, as if he would be able to read traces of that dream in her face. Besides, he had seen her at the pub; he must have noticed how quickly the whisky had gone to her head. He would be too polite to tell her it was the drink, but she could hardly expect to be taken seriously. She shrugged and smiled.

‘Fine. I needed the sleep.’

He raised his head, eyebrows cocked in a question. ‘You didn’t find the silence unnerving? People often do.’

‘I’m OK with silence,’ she said, still smiling, though her face had begun to feel rigid.

‘That’s good. Few people really know how to be comfortable with it, I find.’

‘Will you tell me the rest of the story?’

Charles appeared to be on the point of answering when the shop bell rang again and a wavering voice called out as the door banged shut.

‘Anyone there?’

Horace lumbered up from under his chair to greet the newcomer. An elderly woman in a clear plastic rain hood picked her way through the piles of books, nosing the air like a woodland creature.

‘There you are!’ Her watery eyes alighted on Zoe. ‘Oh, but I don’t want to trouble you if you’re busy, Professor.’

‘No trouble at all, Betsy. It’s always a pleasure to see you.’ He pushed his chair back, turning to wink at Zoe over the woman’s head. ‘Do help yourself to more coffee, Ms Adams, and a book, if you like.’

But Zoe sensed the earlier intimacy had been broken; Mick’s appearance had cast a shadow of guilt over their conversation. She picked up her jacket and tucked The Myths That Make Us inside it.

‘Thank you – I should get on with my shopping. I’ve taken up enough of your time.’

‘Not at all.’ He waved a hand. ‘I’ve left you on a cliffhanger so you’ll have to come back and see us.’

The old dog followed her to the door, sniffing at her legs. She scratched his head between his ears on her way out and he made a low, throat-clearing noise of appreciation, sitting down solidly in the doorway. Zoe turned to see the elderly woman watching her through the glass as she walked away.

5 (#ub5e9202d-7191-5822-bded-edca3cf7cbc1)

She spotted the young teacher as he jogged across the empty playground, clutching the hood of a waterproof hiking jacket around his face against the downpour, while she cowered under the brick archway of the bike shop yard, peering out at the sky, bewildered by its sudden betrayal. She took a bold step forward into his line of sight, one hand protectively clamping the saddle of her new bicycle, pretending she hadn’t noticed him. The plastic carrier bag from the supermarket knocked against her leg as it swung from the handlebars.

‘Oh. Hello again.’ Edward’s face lit up as he approached; rain had spattered his glasses and he had to take them off and wipe them with a tissue. ‘You picked the wrong day for a bike ride.’

‘I know, right?’ Zoe pushed a wet strand of hair out of her face and grinned. ‘What’s going on? It was fine when I came out.’ She patted the bike. ‘And I just paid the guy to take this for a month. He didn’t tell me it was monsoon season. Reckon I could get a refund?’

‘If he gave money back for every day it rained here he’d have gone bust long ago.’ Edward smiled. He seemed nervous. ‘Seriously, though. You can’t ride all the way back in this. You should wait it out – the weather changes from one hour to the next.’

‘I see that.’ She pulled her scarf tighter. ‘I was going to take my groceries home. You guys are not big on cabs around here, I understand.’

He laughed. ‘Uh, no.’

‘I guess it’s back to the bookshop till this clears up.’ She glanced along the street. ‘Your Professor will think I’m hitting on him. Though I’m not sure I can afford to pay my way in buns.’

‘You can wait at mine if you like.’ The way he said it; too quickly, trying to make it sound casual. ‘I’m across the green there, in the School House.’ He indicated through the billowing curtains of rain.

She frowned. ‘But you were on your way somewhere.’

‘Nothing urgent. I’ve got biscuits, and coffee,’ he added, as if to persuade her. Zoe wondered if he had seen her from the window; if he had come out specifically to bump into her. The possibility fired a small, bright buzz in her chest.

‘Well – that’s really kind. If you’re sure I won’t be in the way?’

‘Of course not. Charles will be closing up soon anyway, you might as well. Here, let me take that.’ He reached out for the bike; she unhooked the bag and let him steer. Together they scurried across the green, heads down into the rain as it drove harder all around them, bouncing up from the road and sluicing along the gutters in a brown stream.

She stole a glance at his profile as he fumbled to unlock the gate at the side of the School House, the bike balanced against his hip. Neat, regular features, glazed with the uncomplicated smoothness of youth, save for that fine crease between his brows that hinted at deep preoccupations, a serious involvement with the world. A brief shiver of unease rippled through her; an absurd sense that she should not step across the threshold into his life, that to do so would be to invite a curse, as in a fairy tale. She shook the rain from her hair briskly and smiled as he held the front door open.

The School House was built in the nineteenth century from the same hard grey stone as the school it served. Inside it had been furnished sparely, the floral curtains and plain upholstery faded, the carpet’s pattern worn indistinct by the feet of previous tenants. Edward had imposed little of himself on his home, Zoe thought, as he showed her into the cramped living room. A curved silver wireless speaker on the walnut dresser; a black-and-white photograph of dreaming spires in dawn mist; a music stand under one narrow window, his violin case leaning beside it. Scanning the room, she had the impression that he had barely unpacked, and did not intend to stay long. Only the bookshelves offered any glimpse of him. They had been carefully arranged, poetry and classics together, literary novels and the kind of non-fiction she saw extracted in the New Yorker and always intended to read one day. Browsing the spines, she began to feel intimidated by him: his obvious intelligence, his earnest intensity.