TODAY, WE ARE THRILLED TO WELCOME BACK OUR GUEST AUTHOR, LUCY BRIGHTON, WHO IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM HER NOVEL, 'FINDING GRACE' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
First Chapter:
John 1:12
“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.”
Prologue
Ten Years Ago
The door slams shut and I’m plunged into total darkness. Taking a step back, I wobble, and before I can steady myself, I’m falling. I grab out in all directions but find only damp air.
I land with a thump at the bottom of the cellar steps. All I want to do is scramble back up and run as fast and as far as I can until I find a grown-up who can help me. But my ankle’s killing from the fall.
I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry and rough that it barely works. A loud, echoing scrape pierces through the darkness, making my whole-body tense. Something is being dragged across the door.
I strain to see in the blackness. Something light feathers against my face. What is it? A rat? Mouse? Bat? Things with too many legs and sharp, wet mouths. Maybe a strand of cobweb come alive? No, I’m being silly.
I move on shaky legs. I’m still strong enough to manage a few steps. My ankle throbs but I can walk on it and climb the steps steadily, wishing there was a light or a banister.
Once at the top, I grab the rusty door handle and rattle it. The door moves a little but then stops. I push harder, but it won’t budge. Something is wedging it shut.
I’m trapped. Does anyone know I’m here? Ma must be looking for me. But then a cold thought surfaces: Simon Peter’s face, his hand on my back pushing me down. He knows. He’s the one who put me here. “Hello? Let me out!” I press my ear to the wood, nothing. “Help!” I shout again, but the word is swallowed by the silence. I slam my fists against the door until my hands sting, the pain sharp and bright, but the wood holds.
“Please!” I say, a pitiful noise that makes me hate myself because I sound like a baby. I try to remember what Ma said about being brave, about thinking of good things and counting backwards from ten. I count. Nine, eight, seven…
My eyes adjust a little to the dark and I tread carefully back down the concrete steps, one hand pressed against the wet wall, getting slimier as I go.
Why didn’t Ma stop Simon Peter? She must not know. She’ll be looking for me by now. She has to. I push my back against the cold, damp wall at the bottom step, wrap my arms around my raised knees and wait. It won’t be long. I rest my chin on my knee, and my trouser legs rise, exposing my ankles to the cold, reminding me of Ma telling me boys my age grow like weeds.
Somewhere deeper in the cellar, I hear a soft whimpering.
“Hello.” The voice is distant.
“Hello!” I shout, ignoring the growing pain in my throat and the fact I’m desperate for a wee. Is it Ma? Is someone coming to get me out?
“Hello.” The voice is weak.
I grope around the edge of the cellar.
“Mummy?” A girl’s voice. Closer.
“No, I’m not your mummy. Where are you? I can’t see.”
“Down,” she says. I can hear her breathing, raspy and hard, like she’s just finished running a race.
I drop to my knees and crawl along the edge of the wall, feeling for the corner where the air shifts slightly cooler. Her voice echoes from the left, thin and reedy, and I drag myself toward it. She is crying now, a tiny, frightened sound that makes my chest squeeze. Younger than me, maybe six or seven.
“Talk to me,” I say, the air thick and damp in my chest.
“Here,” she says.
I reach a small opening, like a tunnel, and slither through on my belly. The passage is barely wider than my shoulders, and I have to turn my head sideways to fit. Ahead of me, a thin crack of light filters down from a grate somewhere overhead, casting faint stripes across the dusty stone. I crawl toward it, the grit scraping my palms.
"Hello," the voice says again, closer now.
The tunnel ends in a little room no bigger than a cupboard. I can't stretch out my arms or stand up. Thick cobwebs cling to every corner, and dust coats my tongue. Unlike the main cellar, this little room is directly beneath a rusted grate set into the ceiling, letting in a dim glow that shows me the girl's wide eyes gleaming in the dark.
"Are you okay?"
"My chest is tight," she says, breathing heavily.
My own breath is loud in the small space. Each inhale feels as if the stale air has no oxygen in it.
The girl is older than I first thought, maybe eight or nine, and her face is smeared with dirt.
“Why are you down here?”
“Contemplation time,” she says, like she thinks I'd know what she means.
“Contemplate what?”
“My sins.”
That makes me bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard I almost tear out a chunk. What is this place and why has Ma brought us here?
The girl grabs my arm, her fingers digging in deep. “You’re new.”
“Erm yeah, we got here last night. How long…” I’m scared to ask the question, but I force myself. “How long have you been down here?”
Her breathing is more even now. “I dunno. Not that long, I don’t think. A day or so maybe.”
My stomach lurches and my hands go numb. I can’t be locked in here a whole day. Or more! I press my lips together, so I don’t scream. I don’t want to lose it. I’ll get out, back to Ma and everything will be fine.
“Who put you here?”
“Simon Peter. For my own good.”
“How is being locked down here with the spiders and the cold for your own good?”
She tuts like Ma does when I ask a stupid question. “You need total silence to be able to contemplate your actions and listen to the word of the Lord.”
She’s speaking like it’s something she memorised, like we used to in assembly at school. When Ma said we were coming here and I wouldn’t have to go back to school, I was so happy. I would be free from the bullies and the mean comments from the teachers.
“Have you tried shouting through that grate?” I say. I just want out of this cellar and to go home, back to my bedroom and my Iron Man posters. This is not the big adventure Ma promised.
“No point. What are you down here for?” she whispers, her voice so soft I almost can’t hear it.
“Because I told Simon Peter that Mrs Marsh told us people came from apes.”
“I see.” She sits on an upturned crate. “You’ll need to learn about the Bible and God and stuff.”
I suck in a deep breath, wondering how many breaths are in this concrete box inside a concrete box inside another concrete box. It’s like the little dolls stacked inside each other that Mama brought me back from Spain last year.
“But what if we get hungry and thirsty and need the bathroom and…”
“Calm down,” she says, and suddenly she’s the older one, crouching next to me, resting her hand on my shoulder.
My stomach twists and I bend over and swallow hard, then take in a slow, deep breath and hold it. When I let it out through a tiny gap in my lips, my heartbeat finally evens out. My thoughts stop spinning, and I look up.
“You must have faith, you see. It’s easy, really. You just need to remember that the Lord will provide and you just need to agree.” She says it like she really believes it.
In the darkness, I can make out her smile, too wide, the corners of her mouth pulled tight while her eyes stay flat and black.
“I’m Grace, by the way. Welcome to Salvation Rise.”
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AUTHOR BIO
Lucy is a Yorkshire-based writer who loves reading, writing and having ridiculous conversations with her naughty dog, Loki. She has taught English for almost two decades and has a degree in English and an MA in Creative Writing.
After enjoying success with her shorter fiction, she decided to venture into the murky depths of thriller fiction. Her published works include: Finding Home, Finding Truth and Finding Grace.
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COMING SOON: On Sunday, 27th September, we are thrilled to welcome back our guest author, Elizabeth Green, who is sharing
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