Sea of Lies Read online

  Sea of Lies

  Rachel McLean

  Contents

  Join My Book Club

  Author’s Note

  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

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Read The Prequel

  Thicker Than Water - the first book in the Village series

  Please Review This Book

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  If you want to find out more about the characters in Sea of Lies - how they escaped the floods and arrived at the village - you can read the prequel for free by joining my book club.

  Please see the end of this book for full details.

  Thanks,

  Rachel McLean

  Author’s Note

  This book is a standalone sequel to Thicker Than Water. It’s designed to be read alone but you may enjoy it more if you’ve read the first book.

  Prologue

  Sarah slid the patio doors open quietly, careful not to wake her parents. She’d seen him out there, a flash of white on the grass behind the house. She had no idea how he’d got out.

  “Snowy!” she hissed, pulling the door shut. She wrapped her arms around her chest; the wind was rough on the clifftop in September, especially this early in the morning.

  She peered back up at the bedroom windows, checking that her parents’ curtains were closed. Nineteen years old and still treated like a child. But it was nothing compared to the way her father treated her mother.

  Satisfied, she rounded the side of the house, heading for the village square. Snowy liked to head for the bins at the back of the pub in search of scraps. He rarely got lucky; their isolated refugee community was obsessed with minimising waste.

  “Snowy!” she called again, wishing the cat would reappear. She wanted her bed. The air was damp and the thin blouse she’d dragged on to come outside – it wouldn’t do to risk being seen in her nightclothes – was getting soaked.

  She reached the front of her house and stopped. Someone was coming out of the Dyers’ front door, four houses along.

  She pulled into the shelter of the wall and watched, her heart pounding. There was a reason she only came out here early in the morning or late at night. They stared at her, she knew they did. They gossiped about her. She was a freak, the only girl her age who didn’t play a useful role in the village. Her father rarely let her leave the house, so she had little choice.

  A figure backed out of the Dyers’ door. Tall and lean, struggling with something he pulled behind him. What was Ben Dyer doing dragging things around at this time of day? She shrank back into the wall, her breaths shallow. Could it be something to do with the men that his sister Jess had insisted on rescuing from their stricken trawler two nights ago? Her father had been raging about tit, full of disdain for the actions of Jess Dyer, their new steward. The village had taken the men in, temporarily at least. Ted didn’t trust them, but he was powerless against Jess and the rest of the village council members. It was what this community did; take in the dispossessed, the desperate. They’d all been that way once.

  The man had mousy blonde hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb for a very long time. He wore a pair of jogging bottoms that were a couple of sizes too large. He turned and heaved his burden up, supporting it against his side.

  Sarah gasped. He was dragging Ruth Dyer, Ben’s wife. She leaned on him precariously, her arms flopping at her sides.

  But Ben Dyer had dark hair.

  Sarah took a step forwards, her heart hammering against her ribs. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

  She heard footsteps behind her. She closed her eyes. Her father had caught her.

  She turned, ready to face the tongue-lashing. Snowy would have to make his own way home.

  A man advanced on her. He was heavily built with dark, greasy hair and wore a creased blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. No coat. He had a tattoo that snaked from his wrist into the folds of his shirt.

  This wasn’t her father.

  “Who are you?” she breathed. She looked back towards Ruth. Another man had joined the first now. They were hauling her away, towards the beach. Sarah felt a cry stick in her throat.

  She felt movement and turned to see the man close to her, his face hard. He pushed his hand towards her face and she let out a whimper.

  “Shut up, lass,” he said. He sounded impatient, irritated. She’d caught him and his friends taking Ruth. Would they punish her, silence her?

  He had something in his hand. A cloth. It smelt sharp, medical. She pulled back as he shoved it into her mouth.

  She felt his arms go round her as she collapsed, the sound of birds above her head echoing in her ears. Then there was nothing.

  Chapter One

  Five Days Later

  Sarah stared at the approaching beach, her heart thumping in her chest. She could make out dim figures waiting for them.

  She raised a hand to wave then dropped it. She was tired. More tired than she could ever remember. The adrenaline had got her out of that festering cell and to the beach with Martin, then back again after her second capture. Now all she wanted to do was sleep.

  She felt her father’s weight shift next to her. He was clutching his wounded shoulder, muttering under his breath. She looked at him and felt ice run down her back.

  She looked back at the beach, searching for her mother. Mum, have you come out? Did you dare?

  The boat was nearing the shore now, its occupants shifting, preparing for landing. Ruth was sitting in the boat in front of Sarah. She stood up, her face pale as the sea and her lips trembling. She smoothed her hands on her blood-stained trousers and sniffed the air.

  Ruth had been in the cell next to her, and Sarah hadn’t even known it. Sarah had even run off without taking her. Ruth was the wife of t
he village steward – former steward, Sarah corrected herself – and the doctor to their village of refugees. Sarah was nobody.

  She hoped the village would forgive her. Their community had been through enough; each of them making their way here after the floods six years earlier, and demonised and attacked by the residents of nearby Filey ever since.

  Ruth turned. “Sarah, can you help me with Roisin?” Roisin had been imprisoned in another cell; she’d lost blood.

  Sarah nodded. She wasn’t used to being asked for help, but her ordeal made her one of them now.

  She leaned over Roisin and, together with Ruth, took her weight. The boat’s keel scraped on sand, slowing as they crept up the beach. People came forwards, arms outstretched. No one spoke.

  She saw a pair of hands reach for Roisin and looked up. The girl’s mother.

  “Oh my God, my poor girl. Michael, come here. Help her.”

  A tall stocky man pushed his wife out of the way and leaned into the boat.

  “Sweetheart. What have they done to you?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” said Ruth.

  The man looked at Ruth and nodded. His lips were tight and his face lined with worry.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Ruth nodded. She helped him manhandle his daughter out of the boat, Sarah flailing to help.

  Ruth turned to Sarah. “I need to check you over too. Your face. And your foot.”

  Sarah put a hand to the knife wound on her forehead. Her foot throbbed but she’d managed to ignore it for the last few hours.

  “My dad first,” she said.

  “Of course. Ted, can you stand?”

  Sarah’s father grunted and pushed himself upright. His dark coat was stained with blood and his face was ashen.

  “Will he be alright?” Sarah whispered.

  “Shut up, girl. I’ll be fine.”

  Ruth threw her a sympathetic smile. “Can’t argue with that. I’ll need to take you up to the pharmacy though, Ted.”

  “Can’t be doing with that. Fussing’s for women.”

  “It’s also for a man who’s been stabbed in the shoulder. You’ll need antibiotics.”

  “Then bring ‘em to the house.” He put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder and stumbled out of the boat, all but falling onto the sand. No one came forward to help him.

  “Where’s your mother?” Ted muttered.

  Sarah clambered out of the boat, ignoring the pain in her foot, and went to his side.

  “She’ll be at home, Dad. Waiting for us.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Sarah looked up to see the crowd parting to let them through. A few people threw her awkward smiles but no one spoke. In contrast, behind her Ruth was being thronged by well-wishers wanting to welcome her home.

  Sarah shrugged and pushed on. She was used to this.

  “Stop.” Ted stopped walking.

  “What?”

  “Wait.”

  “Come on, Dad. Mum will be worried.”

  “No. The boat’s going back out. I need to wait.”

  She felt her stomach dip. “No, Dad. Let’s get home.”

  He glared at her, panting. “I need to talk to that little bastard. Find out what he did to you.”

  She looked out to sea. The boat was heading south again, silhouetted by the reflection of the low sun on the waves. It would return soon, with the rest of the villagers who’d gone to the farm, their rescue party. Plus one extra passenger.

  “Dad, can’t this wait?”

  He shrugged off her hand. “Go home. See your mother. Tell her we’re back.”

  He turned to the beach. Harry would be on that second boat, her father’s friend. Would he restrain him? Did she want him to?

  Ruth was level with them now. “Sarah. Come to the pharmacy, will you? Bring Ted.”

  “I’ve already told you,” said Ted. “I’m fine.”

  Ruth put her hands on her hips. “You can intimidate my husband, Ted Evans, but it won’t work on me. Your wound needs cleaning up. You need drugs.”

  “Talk to Dawn. Give her the drugs. She can clean me up, too.”

  “Very well. Can you ask her to come to the pharmacy, when you get home?”

  He grunted and walked past her towards the sea, not making eye contact.

  She turned. “Ted, you’re going the wrong way.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “Stop telling me what to do, woman. I can look after meself.”

  Ruth looked at Sarah, her expression one of exasperation. “You’ll come?”

  Sarah nodded. “Will it be quick?”

  “I have to see to Roisin first.”

  “In that case, I’ll wait with my dad. Come on later.”

  Ruth shook her head. “You need rest, Sarah. Your forehead could get infected.”

  Sarah raised her fingers to the welt on her forehead, remembering. The knife. Ted hurtling through the door, throwing himself on her attacker. Martin coming at him, plunging a knife into the man’s throat. The sucking, gurgling sound of blood leaving his body.

  She swallowed a wave of nausea and spread her arms to steady herself. “Alright.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ruth picked up pace, catching up with Roisin’s family who were almost at the village square and the pharmacy beyond. Sarah looked back at Ted. He stood at the shoreline, fifty feet from the crowd that had stayed behind to wait for the second group. He stared out to sea.

  Don’t hurt him, Dad, she thought. Let me deal with him.

  Chapter Two

  The boat dipped under the weight of the five men and one woman. It wasn’t built for a load like this; a family craft, it would have been designed for a couple of adults and two kids, four adults at a push.

  It wasn’t the first time Martin had sailed in it. The first, he had been barely conscious, hardly aware of the storm raging around them. The second – well, best not to think about the second.

  Across from him, Ben stared at the sea, his eyes dark. Ben Dyer. The reason all this had happened. In the farmhouse kitchen, there’d been shouts and recriminations. Robert, the leader of the men Martin had been living with until a few hours ago; he and Ben had history, and Robert had taken his revenge by snatching Ben’s wife Ruth. Three others, too, including Sarah.

  From what Martin could see, Ruth didn’t belong to anyone. She’d managed to get herself out of her cell and to the beach with no one’s help. When she’d been recaptured, she’d retaliated in the most definitive of ways. He blinked, putting the memory out of his mind.

  The sun was high in the sky now, or as high as it got off the North Yorkshire coast at the end of September. It pulsed down weakly, as if aware of how little he deserved its warmth. He shifted to face it, hoping he would dry out. Not much chance of that, with the constant spray.

  They rounded a dark, heather-clad cliff and the village came into view. He held his breath. The windows of the houses at the cliff edge glinted in the sun. He wondered if one of them belonged to Sarah’s family.

  The group at the front of the boat – two men, one young with pale weather-worn skin, the other plump with dark skin, along with Jess, the village steward – had stopped talking. They spotted him watching and looked away. Ben, sitting at the back, was staring at the village now, muttering under his breath. And Harry, next to Ben, was staring at Martin, his disdain undisguised. All Martin knew of Harry was that he was an ally of Sarah’s father. And that Robert had locked him and Ted up together when they’d attempted to rescue Sarah.

  Was he thinking about what Martin had done, or about what might happen to him when they arrived?

  “Nearly there,” said the dark-skinned man. The boat leaned and turned for the shore.

  They made for the boathouse, passing a crowd on the beach. The villagers watched, some running after them. No sign of Sarah. Ted was there though, looking like he wanted to disintegrate Martin with the force of his stare. Martin stared back, his heart pounding.

  This was a bad idea. H
e should have stayed behind with Bill and the other men. Without Robert, the men would be directionless, but there was a chance they’d change their ways. That was where he belonged, not here. Bill would be in charge now; would things be different?

  Then he remembered the way they’d crept up on him as he followed Sarah back through the dunes, intent on fleeing with her. The twine that Bill had tied round his wrists to restrain him.

  Martin didn’t belong anywhere.

  The boathouse doors were pulled open and they chugged in. The dark-skinned man grabbed a rope and Harry jumped out to tie the boat up. One by one, he guided his fellow passengers out of the boat. Each of them headed out of the boathouse at speed, looking for someone from the first boat no doubt.

  Harry and the other man stayed behind, securing the boat and unfolding a cover they pulled out of a hatch. They left Martin in the boat.

  He watched them, his mouth dry.