Other People’s Houses, Claire MacKintosh

I live in North Wales, not far from Canolfan Tryweryn, the National White Water Centre. It’s one of my favourite places to visit, although I stay firmly on dry land (not least because there is excellent cake on offer in the café). I love open water swimming, but the thought of being trapped in a kayak terrifies me. I watch from the bank as paddlers of all ages launch themselves into the raging torrent of the Tryweryn, deftly navigating the rocks and fallen trees. Sometimes a kayak flips over and I gasp, my heart racing as I imagine the sudden silence underwater; holding my breath for the second or two it takes for them to right themselves. It is an inherently dangerous activity – which makes it the perfect place to stage a murder…

The third book in my DC Ffion Morgan series begins with the body of an estate agent discovered in an upturned kayak. Below is the opening to the novel, written while I ate cake on the banks of Canolfan Tryweryn. I’m happy to report that the only corpses I saw that day were on my page.

Prologue

The weather broke overnight, rain drumming on to baked earth and swirling along the pavements. There were few awake to see it, and, by the morning, summer was restored. Now the sun is hot and high, despite the early hour. Water has drained into gutters and soaked into the cracked earth, and all that’s left of the night’s sudden storm is a welcome freshness in the air and the swollen banks of the Awen. The river tumbles over itself in its effort to reach the lake, rushing over rocks and tree roots in a torrent of white foam. Every now and then, the force of the water dislodges a stick or a handful of moss from the bank and whips it downstream too fast for the eye to follow.

Fifteen-year-old Ed Clough is walking along the southern bank, away from the rafting centre. He has been sent to look for a missing kayak, and he is taking his time over it. Ed is supposed to be on kitchen duties this morning, but he spent yesterday evening at a Young Farmers’ rally and the thought of greasy bacon pans is making his stomach churn. He draws deep lungfuls of clean air and wonders how long he can string out his search.

Most of the rafts and canoes are locked in a secure unit at night, but there are a few old yellow kayaks on a rack at the back of the centre, and they occasionally go missing. They are carried aloft by drunk stags and abandoned in the road once enough fun’s been had, or they’re launched into the river by bored kids. Before Ed started working at the rafting centre, he’d once done exactly that with his best mate, the two of them sprinting down the banks to try and beat the empty vessel to the lake. They had lost by a country mile, as they’d known they would. White water won’t be beaten.

Just as Ed is about to turn around, he sees a glimmer of yellow through the trees. He brightens. Donna can’t give him a row about how long he’s been away from the kitchen if he finds the missing kayak. She might even let him off bacon duty.

The vessel is upside down between rocks, stern pushed under water and bow in the air. Ed tugs at it, but it’s hard to get a purchase on the resin hull. The bank is steep and slippery, and he grips a tree root with his left hand to stop himself from sliding into the water. He pushes his foot against the kayak, but it won’t budge. Ed sighs, then he kicks off his trainers and strips to his underpants. Donna better put something extra in his pay packet this month; this is above and beyond a minimum wage weekend job.

Despite the heatwave, the river is freezing. Mud squelches beneath his toes; something flits, tiny and fast, between his legs. Ed squeals involuntarily and immediately looks around, relieved to confirm there was no one to hear it. Waist-deep, he reaches over the kayak to grab the opposite side of it, so he can use his full force to yank it out from between the rocks and flip it back over. It’s stuck fast, and Ed pulls and pulls and suddenly it comes free. And now the kayak is right-side-up and it’s Ed who’s upside- down, thrown off balance and clinging on to the kayak as he flails for a footing.

It’s barely a second (although it feels like longer) before he resurfaces, cursing this stupid job, his stupid boss, the stupid kids who stole a kayak and let it float down river to lodge itself in these rocks and . . . and . . .

Ed stops thinking. He stops breathing. His entire body is trembling, goosebumps covering his skinny body from his ice-cold feet to the white-knuckled hand still gripping the kayak. The kayak that had been so hard to turn over not only because it was trapped but because it was heavy.

Because there was someone in it.

Ed’s stomach gives a sharp, painful spasm. The kayaker is dead, that much is obvious, and yet the face is . . . the face is moving. Ed cries out, and this time he doesn’t care who hears him.

It’s only river water, he tells himself, that’s why it looks as though the skin is sliding off the skull. River water seeping from the eyes and nostrils. River water trickling from the corners of those deep blue lips . . .

Ed’s throat fills with bile. He staggers backwards, then he turns and vomits into the foaming waters of the Awen.

Other People’s Houses is available in hardback, ebook and audio.

Website: www.claremackintosh.com