6.0 - The Face Behind The Mask Read online

  Preface

  The greatest show on earth may pose the greatest danger…

  1950: Tufty the clown is a circus favourite, drawing fans from miles around. But behind the painted white face, the upturned red lips and bouncy wig, there lurks something far more sinister…

  Present Day: When Walter discovers an old clown suit, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to it. Putting on the suit feels electric, but that’s when the voices in his head get louder, and suddenly he finds himself acting in ways he never would have imagined.

  Police officer Annie Ashworth is enjoying her maternity leave spending time with baby Alfie. Until there is a new serial killer on the loose in Barrow, which might explain the cold presence she senses in her house. She’s sure a spirit needs to be put to rest, and she’s always been right in the past. But who is the man in the mask who haunts her nightmares? And why is he wearing a clown suit…

  Prologue

  Summer 1950

  Twenty-year-old Gordy Marshall was in the stuffy attic of his parents’ semi-detached house admiring his reflection in the only full-length mirror. He’d found it hidden up here when he was a teenager. He had no idea why his dad hated mirrors. He had a thing about them and there were only two apart from this one in the whole house: one in the bathroom and one in the hall. He’d never been allowed one in his bedroom, which Gordy thought was just absurd.

  He’d found this one hidden under a sheet one day when he’d come up here looking for something to make a clown costume out of. He knew that his mother kept an old trunk up in the dark, dusty attic full of costumes that she’d worn when she was a dancer for the circus. He’d found the trunk and sat for hours, looking at the shiny silk and sparkling dresses. There had been a photograph album full of pictures of when his mother was in the circus. She had photos of herself next to the lions, elephants, trapeze artists and clowns.

  The clowns fascinated him the most. He was leaving to join the circus and become a clown. He couldn’t tell his mother of his dreams because she no longer seemed to have any of her own. She was a downtrodden, mean-spirited woman who did whatever her husband told her to. Gordy couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed or joked.

  He’d listened in awe to her tales of circus life when he was a kid. One day his dad had come home and heard her telling him all about the handsome trapeze artists and that had been it. The next morning his dad had taken him to school and when he’d come home his mother had been in the kitchen making tea while wearing a pair of dark glasses and a scarf around her neck – even though it was a warm autumn day.

  She had stopped laughing and joking after that day. She didn’t tuck Gordy in after that either, and the stories had stopped.

  Today he was admiring the costume that he’d made himself, holding it up and standing in front of the mirror. He picked up the old satin washbag his mother had thrown away a few months ago and took the white greasepaint out of it. Gordy took his time applying it to his face. It had to be just right. He finished the thick coat of white and took out the red, drawing on the big, false, red smile. He drew the thick lines around his eyes and smiled as he stood as close to the glass as he could.

  Turning his head left and then right he admired his skilful handiwork. He never heard the front door open; he was so fascinated seeing himself for the first time in full make-up. He stepped into the costume that he’d made out of some black and white stripy satin material he’d found in the bottom of the trunk. He pulled it up and smiled. There were three black pom-poms in the middle of his chest, which had taken him ages to make.

  He pulled out the big, black ruffle that was to be fastened around his neck and lifted it up. Once that was secure he took the wig out of the suitcase next to the trunk. It was a bright orange curly wig from the haberdashery shop, which didn’t look particularly spectacular until he cut away the curls, leaving just three tufts of bright orange hair sticking up. As he tugged it down onto his head he grinned at the reflection staring back at him. From now on he would be called Tufty the clown.

  A loud bang, then a high-pitched screech, made him jump. ‘Gorrrdy Marshall, what the hell have you got in here?’ He grimaced at the way his mother shouted his name. For God’s sake she needed to remember he wasn’t some snot-nosed brat any more. He was a grown man and the noise came from directly below him, which meant she was in his room. Going through his private stuff again. The last time she’d done that was under the pretence she was changing the bedding.

  Anger filled his chest and he turned to run downstairs to see what she was screeching about. He ran into his room the same time as his father came running up the stairs. She was holding his old sweet tin in her hands, staring down at the contents. He muttered, ‘Fuck.’ As she held the open tin towards him she screeched.

  ‘What the hell is in here? I feel sick. I don’t know if I want to know or not.’

  He shrugged at the selection of small bones from the animals that he’d killed over the years then kept in there as keepsakes. ‘Stuff, my stuff, that you have no right to be going through, you nosy cow.’

  His father walked in behind him and shouted at him, ‘Don’t you dare speak to your mother like that – and what the hell are you dressed like a circus freak for? Do you know how idiotic you look? What if the neighbours saw you?’

  Gordy felt the white-hot rage that he’d kept buried inside him since the day in the woods when he was twelve years old and had almost killed his friend Andrew. He had hit him across the head so hard with a tree branch that it had knocked him out cold. His anger erupted that day because Andrew had laughed when Gordy had confided in him that he wanted to be a circus clown.

  Luckily for Gordy, Andrew hadn’t seen the rage coming. He’d spent three weeks in a coma and when he woke up he had no idea what had happened, so Gordy had escaped any blame. Then there was his teacher when he was fifteen: Mrs Goldsmith, who had made it her purpose in school to make fun of him. She hadn’t thought it was as funny when he waited by her house one cold, dark January night. She had made him stay behind at school again and Gordy had known his father would go mad with him for being late.

  He had found a rusty old axe in the bushes in the park and had taken it. He hid it behind the low wall of the park, which was opposite Mrs Goldsmith’s house. He had retrieved the axe and waited in the shadows of the backstreet she had to walk past to get to her house. She hadn’t even had a chance to scream as the anger had filled his chest when she came into view. The axe had hit her across the back of the head. She’d fallen and Gordy had run for his life.

  He had felt no qualms about leaving her lying on the cold ground bleeding and all alone. He’d laughed to himself all the way home that he’d shown her. She wouldn’t be making fun of him in class again. She hadn’t died, but she never came back to school. He’d heard his mother talking about how she was barely able to talk and feed herself any more.

  Now he stared at his father. Once more the anger filled his chest. He didn’t care if his mother saw him dressed this way. She knew what the circus was like, but he hadn’t expected his father to be home. He was such a bigot and all he cared about was Gordy having a proper job, with prospects, and being respectable. His job working for his dad at Marshall and Marshall Accountants was about as exciting as watching paint dry and Gordy knew that he couldn’t do it a day longer. The time had come to leave and he wasn’t sorry in the least.

  ‘I’m leaving to become a clown. I’ve been offered a position in the circus.’

  His father’s face turned the colour of beetroot. He spluttered as spittle flew from his mouth while trying to find the right words. ‘You leave this house looking like that and you’re never coming back.’

  His mother had b
egun to cry, and then she let out a high-pitched scream as she ran at him. Her small fists pummelled his chest. He grabbed them in his huge hands to stop her. His dad bellowed at him to let go of her and Gordy lost it. Was he not allowed to defend himself? His father could punch and kick her yet this wasn’t allowed? It was ridiculous!

  Shoving his mother to one side he strode across the room, pushing past his father. He needed to get out of this suffocating house of misery. He had a suitcase packed already in the hall cupboard; he was wearing his most precious items of clothing. After running down the stairs he grabbed his case and walked into the kitchen where he had left his wallet.

  His mother, who had found her second wind, was now running down the stairs, screaming at him. Without pausing, he picked up the sharp axe off the fire grate his father used to split the wood. Swinging it with full force he watched as, in slow motion, it hit his mother’s neck and a fountain of red sprayed from it. Her eyes began to glaze over as she fell to the floor.

  His father came charging at him, screaming Gordy’s mother’s name. Gordy knew he had no other choice now and swung the axe at his father. He watched as the fight left the huge bully of a man and he collapsed to the floor next to his wife. The spreading puddle of thick, red blood began to pool around both of their heads.

  Gordy threw the axe into the open fire and the handle began to smoulder and burn. Flames jumped from it as the wooden shaft caught alight. He expected to hear sirens in the distance, but all he heard was silence. For the first time ever the house was truly quiet. After washing his hands in the sink he dried them on the tea towel and picked up his case.

  For the first time in his life he felt liberated; he felt free. He turned to take one last look at the crumpled, bleeding, dead humans he’d left behind – humans he had once loved, a very long time ago. He shrugged. He could get changed, but there was no reason why he had to. The circus was only a mile away down the road on the wasteland next to the park; he could walk there as if he belonged. No one would recognise him and he would finally be able to be himself after all this time.

  Chapter One

  The sea of black and white parted as if by Moses himself at the arrival of the horse-drawn hearse. Two lines of neatly formed police officers stood with their heads bowed, all wearing their number one smart black dress tunics. Black boots polished highly enough to see their own reflections in. Pressed, crisp white shirts and the creases in their dress trousers immaculate.

  Annie Ashworth stood at the back of the crowd of mourners; next to her was her friend and retired police sergeant Kav. She was still on maternity leave and thankful that she was, so she hadn’t had to face the indignity of trying to squeeze into her too small uniform. She doubted very much that her tunic would fasten; neither would her trousers.

  She hadn’t wanted to come to Stuart’s funeral and had forced herself to leave the house this morning because she felt partly responsible that he was dead. No, that was wrong. She felt wholly responsible that he was dead. If he hadn’t turned up at her house that night, steaming drunk and being aggressive, then none of this would ever have happened. She wouldn’t be here now, standing watching her husband, Will, leading the guard of honour and trying to keep it together while looking distraught.

  She’d only ever seen him cry twice: once when he thought she was dead at the hands of serial killer Henry Smith, and then at the birth of their son, Alfie. Think about Alfie and how gorgeous he is. Don’t look at the… It was too late. Her eyes landed on the solid oak coffin with the Union Jack flag draped over it. Stu’s flat cap and a beautiful display of white roses, lilies and gypsophila adorned the top of it. She felt her legs tremble, but Kav’s strong hand gripped her elbow. He bent down and whispered, ‘Don’t even go there; this wasn’t your fault.’

  Her eyes filled with tears because, no matter how many times they told her it wasn’t, she would always – every single day for the rest of her life – blame herself. As the officers saluted at the passing of their colleague she blinked and turned away. She’d come here for Will, who had worked with Stu and been his friend for the last five years; he’d supported her through so much and now it was her turn. Annie knew that what Will really needed was to get this over with, then go to the pub and get shit-faced with the rest of his team in CID. He could reminisce about the good old times, try to forget the bad and generally get it all out of his system.

  She whispered back, ‘I should never have come.’

  Kav shrugged. Annie was aware that he felt just as awkward as she did because it had been him driving Stu home that night. He’d jumped out of Cathy’s car and done a runner into the pitch black along the wintry, desolate coastal road. Kav had set off a panicked search that had ended with Stu throwing himself in front of a fast-moving police car.

  Debs, Stu’s estranged wife, walked in between Stu’s parents holding their hands. Annie admired her strength. She didn’t know if she would have been able to do that. It was nice that his parents didn’t blame her or Annie; in fact they hadn’t blamed anyone and had accepted that their only son had made a reckless, drunken decision that had left him unable to feed himself, talk or open his eyes. As cruel as it was, it was kinder that he’d died. That was no way to live your life. Annie thought that Stu would have agreed with her wholeheartedly.

  There were so many mourners that Annie was relieved they couldn’t fit inside the small church and happily took her place standing outside. It was a warm summer’s day, the kind of day that made you want to pack up a picnic and go sit on a blanket on the beach. It was far too nice a day for a funeral; the sun was certainly shining down on Stuart today. She just hoped he’d finally found some peace.

  He hadn’t been a bad person. He’d just completely fucked up big time and had paid the ultimate price. It could happen to anyone. Throughout the entire service Annie’s attention kept getting drawn to one of the old tombstones in the churchyard. She couldn’t see anyone standing around in that area, but she got the distinct impression someone was hiding and watching.

  Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ began to play and the coffin was carried out of the church. Annie bowed her head, waiting for them all to pass. She wasn’t going to the cremation; she and Kav were going back to Jake’s house. Jake’s husband Alex was babysitting Alfie. Their fifteen-month-old little girl, Alice, was as besotted with her eight-month-old baby, Alfie, as Annie was.

  Will passed her by, his eyes puffy and red. He smiled at her and she smiled back. Jake, who was one of the last out, walked straight over to them. Bending down he kissed her on the cheek. He looked at Kav and grinned.

  ‘I may love you, Sarge, but I’m not kissing you in public; although I’m glad to see you bothered to have a shave for the occasion.’

  Annie giggled; Jake was so good at being bad without even realising it and he always managed to cheer her up no matter how dark a day she was having.

  Kav rolled his eyes at him. ‘Thank fuck for that.’

  ‘I’m not going to the crematorium. I’m bursting out of these pants and they itch like mad. My balls feel as if they’re on fire. Should we head back now and have a drink?’

  Annie and Kav nodded. Cathy wandered over.

  ‘What are you three up to?’

  ‘Nothing. I just asked these two reprobates if they were coming to my house. I bloody hate funerals.’

  Annie smiled. ‘Tell her the real reason you want to leave, Jake.’

  He poked her in the side. ‘Come on, who’s giving me a lift?’

  Kav pointed at Annie. ‘She’s the chauffeur today.’

  ‘That’s good. I get to be driven home in style by Miss Daisy. Bring it on.’

  The four of them wandered towards the small lane where Annie had parked. A car went past with Will in the passenger seat. He blew her a kiss. No matter how many times she saw him her heart always did a little flip. She lifted her hand to wave. They got into her Mercedes: Kav and Cathy in the back, Jake in the front. She waited for the long line of cars to pull out and follow t
he funeral procession before setting off. Jake turned to look at Kav.

  ‘Don’t you two be getting up to any funny stuff in that back seat. You’re both way too old for that sort of thing.’

  Annie laughed as Kav’s huge hand slapped Jake around the side of the head.

  ‘You never learn do you, Jake? Always respect your elders, especially when they can still kick your arse.’

  ‘Ouch, violence is never the answer.’

  She edged the car out after the last of the mourners and began the short drive to Jake’s house. She couldn’t wait to give Alfie the biggest cuddle ever. She hated funerals. They were a painful reminder that no one lived for ever, despite wanting to. Especially because she’d come close to dying herself a fair few times the last couple of years. It gave her the shivers just thinking about it.

  She parked outside Jake’s house and couldn’t get out of the car fast enough when Alex opened the front door with her baby in his arms. Alfie was growing so much he wasn’t going to be a baby for much longer. The last eight months had flown by so fast. She’d not had to think about much except looking after Alfie and she loved it. Although she was getting a little bored not having much adult conversation, she saw Jake a couple of times a week and Cathy kept in touch, as did Kav.

  Jo – her new-found friend – even popped in whenever she wasn’t busy. After surviving her husband Heath’s almost fatal attack at their cottage, Jo had recovered well and got herself a job in the village café where they served huge cakes. Annie especially liked Jo’s visits because she normally brought cake with her.

  Annie needed to seriously consider if she was going back to her job as a community police officer soon. Before she knew it her twelve months’ maternity leave would be up. Alfie reached his chubby hands towards her and his little face lit up when she smiled at him. She took him from Alex.

  ‘Has he been good?’