A Song of Isolation Read online

  Film star Amelie Hart is the darling of the silver screen, appearing on the front pages of every newspaper. But at the peak of her fame she throws it all away for a regular guy with an ordinary job. The gossip columns are aghast: what happened to the woman who turned heads wherever she went?

  Any hope the furore will die down are crushed when Amelie’s boyfriend Dave is arrested on charges of child sexual abuse. Dave strongly asserts his innocence, and when Amelie refuses to denounce him, the press witch-hunt quickly turns into physical violence, and she has to flee the country.

  While Dave is locked up with the most depraved men in the country and Amelie is hiding on the continent, Damaris, the victim at the centre of the story, is isolated – a child trying to make sense of an adult world.

  Breathtakingly brutal, dark and immensely moving, A Song of Isolation looks beneath the magpie glimmer of celebrity to uncover a sinister world dominated by greed and lies, and the unfathomable destruction of innocent lives … in an instant.

  A SONG OF ISOLATION

  MICHAEL J. MALONE

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  London, 2010

  She sat in the back of the parked taxi, hand tight on the handle of the door, and looked around, scanning the street for strangers.

  ‘You okay, Miss Hart,’ the driver asked.

  ‘I’m…’ It always took her by surprise when people recognised her. She’d only been in three movies so far, two as a background character and one as the main character’s best friend. ‘…Fine. I’m fine, thanks.’ She met his gaze in the rear-view mirror. His ex­pression was open, growing concern in the strip of face she could see as he read her lack of movement.

  She felt her pulse thrum in her throat and forced a long, slow breath, hearing the quiver of it in the shell of the car. It’s fine. Everything will be fine. Leaning forward in her seat, she looked around herself again, cursing the poor light.

  Then she thought of that morning, just a week ago, waking up and finding a small photo beside her on the pillow. A photograph of her own sleeping face, with just enough of her shoulders showing above the bedclothes to see the blue pyjama top she was wearing at that very moment.

  She’d screamed, jumped out of bed and checked every window, every door, every cupboard. Looked under her bed, checked the shower, looked behind every door again. Then she called the police.

  ‘We’ll send someone round as soon as we can,’ the person said.

  ‘Just like you did the other nine times I called.’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice, and had hung up. There had been other strange happenings: letters in the post every day for a month, each one saying if she didn’t return his love he’d kill himself; panties missing from her washing line; small love hearts drawn in the corners of her windows with spray paint.

  This was the first time she’d been back here since the photo mysteriously settled on her pillow.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ the driver asked. He hadn’t talked too much during the journey from the studios. Only to ask about the movie she was working on. And to say he’d read in a movie maga­zine that they thought this new one was going to be her breakout role. ‘Fancy being in a movie with Tom Hardy,’ he added. ‘My missus proper fancies him.’

  He’d taken her low-key response as a cue not to ask anything more.

  ‘Can I book you in for noon tomorrow, please?’ she asked. She was due on set with Tom at 2.00 pm. That would give her time to get through make-up and wardrobe, and have a quick read through the scene.

  ‘Noon tomorrow.’ The driver took his phone from its holder on the dashboard and scrolled onto another page. ‘That’s fine, I’m available.’

  ‘And … can you wait until I’m inside before driving off?’ She almost asked him to go into the house and check it for her, but she hated appearing so weak.

  ‘Course, mate,’ the driver replied, his eyes crinkling in a manner he probably thought reassuring, but it just looked creepy when all she could see was the back of his head and his eyes in a strip of mirror. ‘I always do for my ladies.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Amelie said. Then she read the price on the meter, found a note in her handbag and handed it to him. ‘Keep the change.’

  She braced herself, and opened the door. Staying at Lisa’s had been a welcome retreat, but she couldn’t continue to impose on her friend, and she couldn’t let this freak, whoever he was, run her life.

  On the pavement, she scanned the house. The creep of the ivy over the large sandstone blocks, handsome bay windows either side of the oak door, the lion-head brass knocker. It looked exactly the same as when she’d left. Just as it was the first time she’d seen it and fell in love and couldn’t not take over the rental. But that simple image had tarnished what had once been her haven.

  Like most of the homes in this part of London the house was set back from the street by a small front garden. Six paces and she was up her garden path and at the door. As she walked she rum­maged in her bag for her keys.

  With a start she realised they weren’t in the little zipped com­partment in the side wall of the bag. Nor in the middle section. She pushed aside her purse, her diary, her phone, fingers scrab­bling for the tell-tale solid metal. Where were they?

  She became aware of movement in her peripheral vision. To her right. Coming up from behind the still-waiting taxi.

  Jesus. Where were her keys? She remembered checking on them when she’d left Lisa’s that
afternoon.

  A cough. Her head whipped round. A man. Head bowed, wearing a flat cap, walking slowly.

  Mouth dry, she dug furiously through her bag. Where were they? How many times had she told herself to get a smaller bag?

  She tried the zipped compartment again. There they were. She exhaled in relief. How had she missed them?

  Key now in hand, she thrust it into the lock, but before she opened the door she turned. The man was at the top of her path. The streetlight just above cast him in a jaundiced glow.

  He grunted. ‘Evening, sweetheart.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Mr Denby.’ She almost sagged with relief against the door. It was only the old man from three doors down.

  ‘Told ya,’ he chuckled, ‘it’s Larry.’

  ‘Course it is. Larry,’ she said and worked a smile into her ex­pression.

  ‘Lovely evening.’ And with a tip of his hat he continued on his way.

  Waiting for a moment till her heart slowed, Amelie turned the key in the lock, opened the door and stepped inside. Before she shut it, she waved at the driver. He returned the gesture and drove off.

  Inside, back against the door, she listened as the car moved away, then she strained to hear if there was any other noise in the house.

  Silence.

  The familiar sounds of the area registered. A dog barked from somewhere behind her. A door slammed next door. A car, then another, drove past. Someone, a child, called out to a friend as they ran past. Life, moving on, completely unmindful of her troubles.

  She put the chain on and clutched the keys in her fist, one pointing out from between two fingers like a makeshift knuckle-duster. A stunt guy on her last movie had shown her this little trick when weird things first started to happen in her life. She suspected it wouldn’t cause much damage, but she felt reassured by it. If anyone came at her she’d aim for the eyes. Make as much of a mess as she could before running to safety.

  Keeping her footfall as light as she could she made her way down the long hall, past the dining-room door and through into the kitchen. The back door was locked, just as she left it, and all of the windows were closed.

  Retracing her steps, she went back down the hall and edged into the living room. All the seats were vacant, the windows shut.

  But the curtains were open. Meaning if he was out there he could see everything.

  On her hands and knees, she crawled over the carpet to the large bay windows, and eventually, with a lot of tugging and some heavy breathing she managed to close them. Then she made her way onto the sofa, where she collapsed.

  What are you doing, she asked herself?

  Who crawls along their living-room floor to shut their curtains?

  She looked down at her hands, they were shaking. Wine would help; she could almost hear Lisa’s voice. And smiled. And felt that smile loosen the muscles in her neck, in her back, all the way down to her feet.

  She was safe. There was no need to worry.

  A noise.

  A creak as someone moved above her head.

  In her bedroom.

  Without thought, barely breathing, she made her way towards the door as silently as she could. From the creak of the old floor-boards she could tell whoever was up there was also on the move.

  At the living-room door she paused. Thought about her phone. Would she have time to call? No, her best plan was to get the hell out of this house.

  Now.

  Folding herself into a crouch she stuck her head beyond the doorway and looked up. There, as if inhabiting the shadows at the top of the stairs, stood a man.

  Cursing her decision to put the chain on she charged at the door. The man thundered down the stairs. Fumbling with the chain, she managed to release it. Hand on the snib lock, she turned.

  The door was open. Just.

  He was right behind her.

  He slammed her into the door and it closed.

  She tried to scream, but a hand clasped over her mouth. There was some sort of cloth in his hand. With a sweet, chemical scent. She felt the weight of him crush her against the door. His hardness at her hip. Hot breath, and beard bristles scratching her ear as he whispered:

  ‘Do as I say and you’ll get out of this alive.’

  Chapter 1

  Lanarkshire, Scotland, 2015

  There was a knock at the door.

  Loud and firm.

  ‘You going to get that?’ Amelie looked at her boyfriend, beside her on the sofa, thought about the bottle of champagne she’d found hidden at the back of the cupboard under the sink, and was relieved there might be some sort of a distraction.

  Was he really going to do it? Now? Today?

  Shit.

  How was she going to respond?

  She shifted in her seat, and, plucking a cushion from the pile at her side, placed it over her tummy.

  ‘Wish you’d stop that,’ said Dave. It may have been her imagin­ation responding to the champagne sighting, but he seemed a little on edge. ‘You’re not fat.’

  ‘And you’re still not going to the door,’ she replied with an inner grimace. She hated it when he did that. Read her movements and got them spot on. ‘Anyway, it’s nearly dinner time. Why are you snacking?’ she asked, looking at the giant packet of crisps beside him on the sofa. Another giveaway, she thought. He always ate when he was nervous.

  ‘Starving,’ he said. ‘Doing the garden’s hungry work.’ Then he laughed, leaned forward and snuffled at her neck.

  Despite herself she laughed, but then pushed him away. Then felt guilty for doing so. She’d been doing a lot of that lately. Feeling guilty. About how she was treating him.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, his tone all honest concern as he leaned back into his cushion.

  ‘Door?’ she repeated,

  ‘It’s probably someone trying to sell us something. Ignore it … they’ll go away,’ Dave said, brushing crisp crumbs from his jeans.

  ‘It’s Good Friday and nearly dinner time. Who’s going to be selling stuff at this hour?’

  ‘Someone who’s desperate.’ He sat back in his seat and regarded her. ‘You okay, honey? Something bothering you?’

  She crossed her arms, thinking she wasn’t ready to unburden herself in case she said something she would later regret. When they’d met she was Amelie Hart, movie star. One-hit wonder, to be precise. Against all the odds, and after a few flops, her fourth movie had hit the public consciousness and the great unwashed couldn’t get enough of her.

  Her dream came true.

  Except the dream came with a whole lot of baggage she couldn’t deal with. Most of which Dave knew nothing about, and that was why he couldn’t understand why she was always reluctant to answer the door.

  It sounded again. Amelie turned away from it and pulled her knees up to her chest as if that might form some kind of protec­tion.

  ‘Jesus, they’re not for giving up, are they?’ Dave looked over his shoulder in the direction of the front of the house. He got to his feet as if it was a huge effort. ‘I’ll get it then, will I?’

  ‘Please?’

  Whoever it was, Amelie hoped it was something important. Something big enough to distract Dave from asking a question she wasn’t sure how to answer.

  Chapter 2

  Dave walked to the door, checking the little box was still in his pocket, aware he was possibly about to make a huge mistake, but unable to step aside from the path he had decided upon.

  A marriage proposal would do it, right? Clarify Amelie’s mind as to what she wanted. He couldn’t bear the thought of life without her, and he was all but certain she only needed a nudge to settle things in her own mind once and for all. And he needed to risk that nudge because the uncertainty was driving him mad.

  To be fair, he was lucky to have her.

  The Amelie Hart shared a home with him. They’d met in the north of Scotland, up by Loch Mor
lich. He’d been there on holiday on his own. Nearing the end of a week he’d devoted to learning about forestry in an estate nearby. It was a job he’d long wanted to do, but Dad insisted he go to university and get the required qualification to join the family accountancy firm. It hadn’t stopped his longing to be in among the other, more im­portant to the planet, green stuff, so he’d jumped at the chance he was offered while attending a stuffy champagne reception for some equally stuffy law firm. One of the partners had just in­vested in an estate ‘up there’ – he’d waved his hand lazily, struggling to remember the name of the place, as if the entirety of the Highlands of Scotland hung in the air just above his head. Dave perked up at the mention of it and said he’d always wanted to work on the land, and it was arranged. A week’s work experi­ence. He remembered the feeling of elation, and the lawyer’s look of incredulity.

  Amelie had been walking between one of the lodges on the estate and the local shop, at a time when she had disappeared from public view. Romantic cliché alert, they would always say as they recounted this to new acquaintances: she’d dropped one of her gloves, he raced after her to return the errant item.