Who Wants to Live Forever?
Read Who Wants to Live Forever? Online
Authors: Steve Wilson
Murder. History. Mayhem.
Recently divorced, Ethan Hudson is looking for something to occupy his time and, encouraged by his daughter to get out more, he decides to sign up for a local evening history class. Hoping to meet new people, little does Ethan know that this course will change his life forever…
This is no ordinary history class. Instead, Ethan and his classmates are introduced to a series of mysterious murder cases that occurred over the last century within the county. At first they seem unrelated, but soon Ethan’s inquisitive and suspicious mind, fed on crime novels and detective shows, begins to see a pattern connecting the murders. But how could a series of murders dating back to 1911 have anything to do with the present day? And can Ethan solve the mystery before it is too late?
Who Wants to Live Forever?
Steve Wilson
STEVE WILSON
says: I suppose in many ways I’m a late-starter as far as writing goes, waiting until I bought my first PC in 2000 before beginning a novel from an idea that I’d been mulling over for some ten years. That novel eventually became a trilogy, but my writing was sporadic during much of the noughties.
Things began to gather pace once I became a member of a local writing group, where I found being amongst like-minded peers of great benefit, and in 2011 — after writing short stories for a couple of years — I registered for the National Novel Writing Month, with the aim of writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. And that’s how “Who Wants To Live Forever?” came into being.
The premise for this novel had been with me for half a dozen years, ever since I attained a Post Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing. Work commitments prevented me from completing the course to Masters level, but I had already started to map out my major writing project, around the topic of unsolved murders in Lancashire in the twentieth century, and those plans formed a basis of what eventually became the novel.
When I’m writing, I spend a lot of time on the web as I enjoy researching the stories almost as much as writing them. I try and make the plotlines factually accurate, although I have to be careful and try not to let the story go off on a tangent as my research inevitably leads on to other non-related topics.
As to the future, although I primarily write crime or mystery tales, I’d like to explore other genres, if only out of interest.
This book is dedicated to my wife and children, who have had to carry on conversations around me while I have immersed myself in my writing. Also to my friends and colleagues at Fylde Brighter Writers, whose support and constructive criticism have helped me become a better writer, and to Victoria, Helen and Sue for their editorial assistance and advice, which I have found invaluable.
Contents
Prologue: Foreword — Thursday 14th September 2000
Chapter One: Week 1 — Overview — Tuesday 20th September 2011
Chapter Two: Week 2 — Manchester — Poisoning — Tuesday 27th September 2011
Chapter Three: Mike — Monday 3rd October 2011
Chapter Four: Week 3 — Ormskirk — Bludgeoning — Tuesday 4th October 2011
Chapter Five: Amber — Friday 7th October 2011
Chapter Six: Week 4 — Rochdale — Shooting — Tuesday 11th October 2011
Chapter Seven: Gail — Tuesday 11th October 2011
Chapter Eight: Week 5 — Bolton — Drowning — Tuesday 18th October 2011
Chapter Nine: Emma — Tuesday 25th October 2011
Chapter Ten: Week 6 — Vickerstown — Plummeting — Tuesday 1st November 2011
Chapter Eleven: Trish — Sunday 6th November 2011
Chapter Twelve: Week 7 — Elswick — Hit and Run — Tuesday 8th November 2011
Chapter Thirteen: Debbie — Sunday 13th November 2011
Chapter Fourteen: Week 8 — Accrington — Stabbing — Tuesday 15th November 2011
Chapter Fifteen: Louise — Monday 21st November 2011
Chapter Sixteen: Week 9 — Heysham — Suffocation — Tuesday 22nd November 2011
Chapter Seventeen: Week 10 — Darwen — Electrocution — Tuesday 29th November 2011
Chapter Eighteen: Mrs Rhodes’ Diary — Thursday 1st December 2011
Chapter Nineteen: Afterword — Summer 2022
Epilogue: Quebec — Wednesday November 30th 2022
Foreword — Thursday 14
th
September 2000
Amber Davore looked down at the lifeless form splayed out on the bathroom floor. Just minutes earlier, that body had contained the hopes and dreams for the future of fifty-five-year-old Alan Ingleby; now, it was nothing more than an empty shell.
Amber had known about his heart problems, and had used the knowledge to full advantage. Steam rose in equal measures from the near-overflowing bath and the hot mug of tea that Ingleby had placed on the floor seconds before his departure from this world; Amber leant forward to turn the tap off, only just managing to stop herself in time. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered, incensed at her foolishness. Her own heart was trying to force its way out of her ribcage and she took slow, deep breaths in an attempt to regain a measure of calm. Her foot knocked the mug, splashing the hot brown liquid over Ingleby’s outstretched arm. She smiled, a mirthless smile; she had often heard it said that somebody was dying for a cup of tea, but perhaps this time Ingleby might be considered to have taken it literally. Her attempt at light jocularity only partially settled her nerves.
The bath was almost full, bringing Amber’s attention back to the present situation. She found the stopcock and turned the water off. That meant she wouldn’t have to be paddling in red-hot water while she completed her task. She spent the next half-hour correcting the wiring and making sure that everything appeared normal. Turning the water on again, she hesitated before shutting off the flow from the bath’s hot-water tap; Alan had been about to turn the cold water on when the current hit him, but once contact had been made the charge would have spread to reach all metal parts. There was no choice, though. She had to do it, to make certain that the electrical system really was back to normal; otherwise, when Ingleby’s daughter discovered the body in the morning when she came to collect him for work, the death would be treated as a murder, not an accident, and her life would become more difficult. Forensic science had made great developments over the decades, and the last thing she wanted was an investigation that might lead the police to her. Not now she was this close to her goal.
Steeling herself, she carefully reached out and touched the fitting with a single finger; there wasn’t even the slightest feeling of discomfort. Full of confidence now, she turned both hot and cold taps off and on repeatedly, laughing as the water started and stopped, splashing into the foam that Ingleby had been preparing to luxuriate in. Amber recalled the look of disbelief that had crossed his face when realisation came, a fraction of a second before the puff of life escaped his body to be encapsulated into her essence; he knew what she’d done, although he had no idea why she had done it. And he never would. Not now.
Amber checked again to make sure that everything looked normal. The bath was almost full; everything else was neatly in place. The bath! It was too full. If Ingleby had died while it was still running, it would have overflowed and water would have flooded the bathroom. Alternatively, if he had turned the water off first, and died while taking a drink prior to stepping in — which would certainly fit with the spilt tea on the floor — then the bath wouldn’t have been this full. It was lucky she’d noticed in time. She reached in and pulled the plug out to let some of the water escape, and was surprised to find the bath was still pleasantly hot. An idea formed. What better opportunity to wash away all vestiges of the deed than to have a nice long soak amongst the soapy bubbles? Besides, she was in no hurry.
She undressed slowly and walked over to the steamed-up mirror, wiping it with the back of her hand so she could get a good look at herself.
Hmm, that is definitely not bad for my age
, she thought. It was as if she had lost twenty years in an instant, with barely a wrinkle or an ounce of fat to be seen. Only the closest of inspections would have led anybody to believe that she was any older than her mid-thirties. And that was externally; internally, she felt as if she had only recently said farewell to her teenage years. “It’s a good job this isn’t the sixteenth century—” she laughed “—else I’d probably be burnt at the stake for being a witch. And they wouldn’t be far wrong,” she acknowledged. After all, hadn’t that been behind her choice of name, with Amber being the real name of one of the witch actresses in
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
? A far cry from the vampire films she had seen in years past, with whimpering women victims there only for the delights of Bela Lugosi. “Am-ber Da-vor-ez,” she said, in her best Transylvanian accent, enunciating each syllable as it tripped off her tongue.
She climbed into the bath and basked for a good half-hour before the waters at last began to cool. After drying both herself and the bath — as the water had obviously been used, there was no longer any point in trying to pretend that Ingleby had died after filling the bath — and cleaning the floor around the corpse, she put the damp towels in the laundry basket. Then she carried the now-cold mug of tea downstairs, poured the contents down the sink, and washed and dried the mug. She took a look at her watch. It was half an hour before midnight.
She took the back-door key from her pocket; it had been a simple task to take the original from Ingleby’s jacket while he was lunching in the company canteen, and she had been able to replace it before he had noticed it had gone. With the wax impression she had taken, it had been an easy job to make the crude — but effective — key that she now held. Amber was certain that nobody had spotted her entering the house that evening, but it was a little too early to leave; the last thing she needed was to be seen now, just as everything was more or less finished. She went into the living room and sat in the dark, waiting for the clock to tick slowly over, and almost three hours later she left the house for the last time.
As for Amber —
Well
, she thought,
this is the part I’m used to now. I’ll just lie low and remain patient, keep a low profile until it’s time
. Just once more, that was all. She turned the corner and disappeared into the night.
I stood outside the college wondering whether or not I’d done the correct thing; it had all seemed so worthwhile less than a week earlier when I had signed up for the Local History course that the Adult Education Department had included amongst their offerings for the new term, but now it came to it – well, to say I was having doubts was an understatement of hyperbolic proportions.
I suppose it was the thought of the others on the course that bothered me. I had seen some of them while enrolling, and they all looked so much more, well, scholarly really, than I was. It had come home to me when I was about to leave home an hour or so earlier, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror; what I saw didn’t exactly inspire me, and I almost turned back.
When you don’t see yourself every day — I don’t mean looking in the mirror when you’re having a shave or anything like that, but
really
seeing yourself — well, you tend to build up an image that doesn’t conform to reality. At least, that was what I did. But as I looked closely at my reflection in the glass, I had to accept that time really
had
taken its toll. Yes, that really
was
me looking back at myself: Ethan Hudson, late fifties, recently retired, with thinning brown hair flecked with grey. Or, to be more accurate, thinning grey hair flecked with brown.
Still slim
, I thought, trying to ignore the paunch that hung over the top of my trousers, obscuring sight of my belt. But I wasn’t kidding anybody. Who on earth would be interested in a body like that? So all I had to go on was personality, and that had taken a back seat ever since the acrimonious divorce two years ago that had destroyed whatever vestiges of confidence I might have had. With my daughter married but now living in Hampshire, and my son away for the next year as a volunteer on a project in Argentina, I was, I suppose, living a lonely existence; with post-work days seeming to last forever, it hadn’t taken a lot of prompting to make me take a look in the
Gazette
Adult Education Department’s column advertising the new session’s courses.
