Purchase Link - mybook.to/UnboundTies
Author Bio – Born in Scotland, Made in Bradford sums up Liz Mistry’s life. Over thirty years ago she moved from a small village in West Lothian to Yorkshire to get her teaching degree. Once here, Liz fell in love with three things; curries, the rich cultural diversity of the city … and her Indian husband (not necessarily in this order). Now thirty years, three children, two cats (Winky and Scumpy) and a huge extended family later, Liz uses her experiences of living and working in the inner city to flavour her writing. Her gritty crime fiction police procedural novels set in Bradford embrace the city she describes as ‘Warm, Rich and Fearless’ whilst exploring the darkness that lurks beneath.
Struggling with severe clinical depression and anxiety for a large number of years, Liz often includes mental health themes in her writing. She credits the MA in Creative Writing she took at Leeds Trinity University with helping her find a way of using her writing to navigate her ongoing mental health struggles. Being a debut novelist in her fifties was something Liz had only dreamed of and she counts herself lucky, whilst pinching herself regularly to make sure it’s all real. One of the nicest things about being a published author is chatting with and responding to readers’ feedback and Liz regularly does events at local libraries, universities, literature festivals and open mics. She also teaches creative writing too. Now, having nearly completed a PhD in Creative Writing focussing on ‘the absence of the teen voice in adult crime fiction’ and ‘why expansive narratives matter’, Liz is chock full of ideas to continue writing.
In her spare time, Liz loves pub quizzes (although she admits to being rubbish at them), dancing (she does a mean jig to Proud Mary – her opinion, not ratified by her family), visiting the varied Yorkshire landscape, with Robin Hoods Bay being one of her favourite coastal destinations, listening to music, reading and blogging about all things crime fiction on her blog, The Crime Warp.
Social Media Links –
FB https://www.facebook.com/LizMistrybooks/
Twitter @LizMistryAuthor
Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland
She’s watching me; the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes. I don’t like it. It’s putting me off my stride. I want to draw her, but then I’d have to look at her and, if I do that, she’ll ask me again. I don’t want to answer. I just want to draw. Want to be left alone. Why is she still here, looking at me? Her eyes see right into my heart and it’s not nice. She’s poking about in there. Making it go all fast and bumpy; thurrump, thurrump, thurrumpity, thrump. I feel all sick. Wish she’d go … wish she’d just leave me alone. I like being alone.
I glance at her – just a quick one – but she notices and smiles. Her teeth are straight and very white, her eyes crinkle up when she smiles, but I still don’t like it. She could be a bad person – she probably is. Most girls are bad. Except maybe Coco. Yes, Coco wasn’t bad. I liked her.
Now they’re in my head again. They start off quiet, then they get louder till they’re shouting at me.
‘Don’t trust her!’
I must have said it out loud because she frowns and leans closer to me. ‘Did you say something? You know you can speak to me. I’m your friend.’
‘Don’t trust her.’ This time I don’t say it out loud. But it’s still banging inside … on my brain. It’s banging on my brain.
I can smell her perfume. Not lavender, something else, but it’s nice, I suppose. I shake my head and try to draw. If I ignore her, she’ll go. Yes, that’s what to do, I’ll ignore her. But she doesn’t go. She stays there looking at me, staring at me, making me feel sick. This isn’t good.
The girl’s asking me a question again. I don’t like it. ‘Can you remember what happened to your wife, Rory? Helen, can you tell me about her?’
Stop it, stop it. I want to yell them words at her, but she might get cross and I don’t like it when people get cross. I bend my head lower so she can’t see my face. I remember Helen. I’ll never forget her. Why would I? She was my world and she was going to have my baby. I turn to a blank page and I can’t stop myself. I choose charcoal because I can smudge it. I don’t want to draw her. Don’t want to see her like that. I press my hands to my temples and try to squeeze the memory away, but it won’t go. It won’t go – not till I’ve finished the drawing.
My beautiful Helen, hanging from the ceiling, smelling of lavender, my baby a puddle on the floor beneath her. The charcoal flies across the page and there she is – Helen. We had everything and now nothing. I smudge out her private parts, her eyes, her tortured face. My Helen, how did this happen to you too? First my mother and then you. At least now I’m in here it won’t happen again.
‘Oh yes it will. You know it will. Of course it will. You can’t stop it!’
Stop it, stop it, stop it! I want to scream, but my throat’s all dry and the words won’t come out. Helen … Mum.
‘She’s trying to trick you. She’ll get you in trouble. You can’t trust her.’
That’s not the lavender voice – it’s the monster one. It scares me. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to hide, but no matter where I go, it comes after me and I hate it. The lavender voice doesn’t come very often now. Maybe if I draw Helen or my mum, it will come back. Tell me it’s all right. I wish it would.
‘She’s trying to trick you. She’ll get you in trouble. You can’t trust her.’
The thurrumps are getting faster and the maggots are back in my tummy, like squidgy little creatures eating me up from the inside out. My hand’s all sweaty and it slips, and a big dark pencil mark appears right over my drawing. Right over my mum’s foot. This is bad. Very bad now. I can’t have that. Can’t have a pencil mark on her foot, that shouldn’t be there. No, it shouldn’t, not there. So bad … thurrump, thurrump, thurrump. The maggots wriggle and the colours flash. ‘Ouch’
‘You didn’t stop it then. You can’t stop it now. Who will be next?’
‘NO!’ I roar the word and the girl flinches, but still the voices come.
‘Don’t trust anyone!’
I want to scream it – let it out because keeping the words inside is hurting me. Thurrump, thurrump, thurrump, bang, bang, bang. I need to get this right. Need to make it right. I reach over for my eraser. Not to call it a rubber – don’t know why. It’s an eraser now. That’s what I call it. I don’t call it a rubber. Thurrump, thurrump, thurrump. Can’t breathe, can’t see.
‘Don’t trust her. Don’t trust anyone! Don’t trust yourself.’
‘You didn’t stop it then. You can’t stop it now. Who will be next?’
I fall to the ground and curl up, my hands over my head, my knees digging into my chest as the thurrump, thurrump, thurrump gets faster and the maggots wriggle and the colours explode from the top of my head and I remember…
‘Don’t trust her. Don’t trust anyone! Don’t trust yourself.’
When I wake up, I’m in bed. In my pyjamas, the nice ones that smell clean,
like being outside. She’s gone – the woman with the dark eyes. I look round my room to make sure. Then I lean over and peer under the bed, but she’s not there. She wouldn’t like it under there, I can tell. No, she wouldn’t hide under the bed, not in her nice clothes. Listening for a second to see if anyone’s in the corridor, I wait. No one’s out there, so I get up and pad across to the wardrobe. My heart’s thurrumping again – just a little bit. Not like before. Holding my breath, I yank it open, but the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes isn’t there either. Only place she could be now is the bathroom. I open the door and peer inside – it’s empty. Satisfied, I head back to bed, pull the over-bed table towards me and begin to draw the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes from memory. Nobody can see what I’m doing, so nobody can tell the voices to come.
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