As Chance Would Have by Shelia Bugler

PROLOGUE

Dungarvan, Co. Waterford, Ireland, 1985

Billy didn’t stop running until he reached McCarthy’s farm. It was only then, as he leaned against the low stone wall that separated McCarthy’s half acre of land from the road, that he realised he was still carrying the gun.

He held it up and examined it. Slivers of moonlight glinted on the still-warm barrel. He lifted his arm back over his shoulder and, letting out an involuntary roar, flung the gun across the field. Moments later, he heard a faint splash as the gun landed in the soft, soggy land the other side of the wall.

Then he was off again, racing past the farm and around the corner, skirting around the edge of the town and on up the hill that led onto the Waterford Road.

His footfalls echoed across the empty countryside, feet pounding against the rough surface of the road and splashing through puddles. And all the time, over and over in his head, he kept replaying the image of the man’s face, or rather what was left of it, after he had held the gun to it and pulled the trigger.

The lights of the town didn’t reach this far up the hill and the moon, by now, was completely hidden behind the clouds moving in from the sea. Not that the darkness mattered to Billy, who was as familiar with the twists and turns along this road as he was with the contours of his own face.

Near the top, he turned left into a narrow driveway, his pace never faltering, feet crunching along the gravel surface, as he raced towards his destination.

At the house, he ran up the three steps leading to the porch and started pounding his fists on the red painted door, calling out the owner’s name.

After some time - he had no idea how long - a light came on overhead. Then, moments later there was a scraping sound as the door slowly opened. Billy looked up at the silhouette of the squat, broad-shouldered man who stood there.

“Please, help me,” Billy gasped. “I’ve killed him. Jesus Christ. I’ve fucking killed him.”

The man reached out, put his hand on Billy’s shoulder and said six words that would haunt Billy for the rest of his life.

 “Don’t worry, Billy,” he said. “I’ll sort it.”

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CHAPTER ONE

Lewisham, London, 2007

I started seeing my dead father again the morning after my thirty-first birthday. I hadn’t seen him for over six years, so when he turned up that morning out of the blue it was something of a shock, to say the least. Especially as I’d only recently come around to accepting the opinion of Ruth, my counsellor, that these sightings of him were nothing more than figments of my imagination.

Ruth’s theory - Dr Ruth Usher, MSc, to give her her full name and title - went something like this. Because of everything that had happened to me, she said, I was feeling scared and vulnerable. As a result, I was subconsciously craving a father figure, someone to protect me and make me feel safe again. In the absence of such a figure, my mind just went ahead and made one up. In other words, I was seeing things that weren’t really there. Such as my father.

She also pointed out gently - everything was very gentle with Ruth - that my ungirlish love of thrillers and horror films merely added to the likelihood that I would believe these illusions. That basically my subconscious had taken ideas from these films and adapted them to suit my own pathological needs (not that she phrased it quite like that, of course).

Gradually, if somewhat reluctantly, I began to accept that Ruth might be right. A decision helped by the fact that, as I slowly recovered from what had happened and got my life back together again, he disappeared from my life once more, thus proving her point that he only appeared when I needed him.

All nice and tidy then. Until I turned thirty-one and my life started unravelling again.

The morning had started off badly with a fearsome hangover kicking in halfway through the fried breakfast I’d optimistically cooked. My flat, in the attic of a large Victorian conversion, suddenly felt unbearably hot. As I wiped away the small droplets of sweat that had broken out across my cheeks and forehead, I knew I was in for a rough day, although I had no idea then just how rough it was going to be.

My undigested breakfast sat heavily in my stomach and the stale smell of cooking filled the air, making me feel queasy. There was a persistent, throbbing pain behind my eyes and I wondered, momentarily, if I might be going blind. Before I could give this prospect proper consideration, my phone rang, the loud shrill jolting me out of my self-obsessed morbidity.

“I see dead people,” a voice croaked into my ear when I picked up the receiver.

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