Welcome back, to part three of my mini-series on my love for prologues. And, you know, I really do love them! I have realised that, to date, all of my novels have some form of prologue, although not all of them are labelled as such.
I love planting seeds (and definitely not the gardening kind – my dad could tell you about my efforts from a very young age at how adept I clearly was, even then, at destroying the planting!). The seeds contained in a prologue could, potentially, make or break a reader’s full experience of the story – or the story that I, as author, have imagined you will experience, that I want you to engage with and think about, long after you’ve read the book.
As I said in Part 1 of this mini-series on prologues, there are various reasons for using a prologue in a story, but the most important thing to remember as a writer is that it has to do something. It’s not just a random scene that is disconnected from the story. Quite the opposite – it’s intrinsic to the story in some way. Without it, it’s possible that there are deeper elements to the narrative, or potentially even basic and important ones, that the reader would miss out on if the prologue wasn’t there.
If you’ve read any of my books, or read the extracts in the other posts in this mini-series, you may have realised I have often used the prologue as a device to point the reader to something that happened at some time before the book ‘proper’ gets started. In the extract from The Secrets That Haunt Us, for instance, the letters directly impact the ‘present’ of the story. Because of those letters, two characters have already set their course of action for the story, and the prologue goes some way to explain why, although the full impact of those letters at the beginning is fully and tragically clear until much later on. In the extract from That Killer Image, an event in the villain’s past leads to his atrocity later in life – and here I also give the reader a sneak peek into the truly creepy, split-second, psychological moment that follows him through the entire novel.
Today’s extract is the prologue from No Deadlier Time. This book is a suspense thriller which borders on (or for some readers, is) also psychological horror. Again, because I just can’t help myself it seems, this reveals a past event which impacts so much more than the main characters of the story. It foreshadows what might happen, should Harry, a boy in this prologue, follow in his father’s footsteps once he’s older. But does he? You won’t know unless you read the book (no spoilers here!). It also introduces another character who appears in a minor role here, yet is embroiled in this family’s story in ways you can’t possibly imagine. Or can you..?
Please note that, as my extracts are crime-related books or dark fiction of some kind, they are suitable for an adult readership. Please read responsibly.
Happy reading!
Claire
~~~
Prologue
MAY, 1949
‘Come closer, Jonah. Come on. You’re not afraid, are you? Not of this. I can see it in your eyes. Are you afraid of me, then? You’ve got it the wrong way round, boy. Such the wrong way.’
The laughter that leeched out of the man was bitter. The teenaged boy clung onto the back of the hard chair, as if his young brain had decided to use it as armour. The man stopped laughing and sat up as straight as he was able, forcing himself to look powerful. He couldn’t have a barrier between himself and his son. He needed to show the boy. Let him know what his fate would be. It was the perfect sixteenth birthday present. It was everything he had. And the boy would have to take it, soon, whether he wanted it or not. Whether he understood it or not. And whether he could control it. Or not.
His reflection caught in the silver teapot, held captive and distorted there. His eyes didn’t look like they belonged to him anymore. He seemed more like a wild animal, bloodshot veins clambering all over his eyeballs, his mouth snarling and baying for blood. But whose? Did it matter anymore, after everything that he’d done?
‘Come and see its secrets.’ His palm lay outstretched, the fob watch perched in its centre. Tick, tick, tick. The sound filled his head and lingered in the air. It drowned out the ravens outside. Was this a blessing or a curse? As he looked through the window and across towards the other wing of the house, it was impossible to ignore that they were gathering on the roof of his wife’s bedroom, lining up, watching. Waiting. If the window was open, they would fly in and pluck him to pieces with their lethal, midnight-coloured beaks. They’d already devoured his mind.
His son crept forward, his face fixed on the white raven that sat at the top of the watch. He knew that was what Jonah was looking at because he’d done exactly the same, that day the watch had become his. You’re mesmerised by the raven; you hear the ticking of the watch; then life is there for the taking. And you can’t match yourself against the power of it all.
‘Do you know why this watch is special, Jonah?’
The mop of dark hair on the boy’s head shook a ‘no’ while his eyes grew wider as he got closer and his face became transfixed. All the birds were visible to his son now – one at every hour. The object in the man’s palm no longer looked like a watch, not to him. Just a conspiracy of ravens. The eleventh hour had come and gone. It was ingrained in his skin now, in his soul. Just the last hour to go – he felt it coming to an end. Felt the stare of the white raven.
‘This. This is the secret to our success. It’s been the driving force of the Eldritch family for, oh, who knows how long? It whispers things to the first-born son, gives us power. There has been a first-born son for generations. You’re the next one. The chosen one. You’ll have all the secrets. The watch will give you the power to build on everything this family has achieved. But there are rules to follow. Every man has to follow rules, doesn’t he?’
His boy nodded, his dark eyes still wide. Such a serious face.
‘Yours are written down. And the ones that aren’t, well, you’ll find them. Here.’ He screwed his finger end into the side of the boy’s head. Two eyes screwed up in a flinch, then stared back at him again.
‘Do you want this watch, Jonah?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Yes. It’s the best. And the worst. But it belongs in this family. Only to this family. It would be useless – and beyond cruel – to give it to anyone else. Remember that, always. It will belong to you, soon.’
If it was possible for those two young eyes to grow wider, then they did. The reflection of the watch face caught in them. The ravens danced in his irises. It had started.
‘Really? Promise?’
‘Yes. I promise, son. And you’ll be able to do anything. Be unstoppable. Because the watch will let you. You’ll feel it, and you’ll also feel when it’s time to pass on your gift to a son of your own. Don’t pull a face. There will be one. This isn’t a family of first-born females. It can’t be. There’s a reason it mustn’t be. And I hope you never find out why.’
The knock came, soft but determined. He was prepared for it. The young woman entered and hovered awkwardly, like a butterfly weighed down with its fate.
‘Excuse me, sir. You said two minutes to midday, sir.’
‘Thank you, Rachel.’
He gripped his boy’s arm. ‘Remember what I said, Jonah. You are my son. Everything that I have will be yours.’ He shut his eyes, just for a second. He heard the ticking. ‘You have no choice.’
He nodded in the direction of the young woman, not much more than a girl really, who looked at him with tears in her eyes and an expression of last-minute hope that he’d changed his mind. He’d burdened her too much, and for that he was sorry. He wanted to smile at her. He tried. But all he felt were his bloodshot eyes fastened onto the unspoken terror in hers.
His boy left the room, his shoulder encased in Rachel’s arm. She would keep him occupied. Make sure he didn’t come back into the room until it was over. Then all of it – the boy would have no choice for it to be his. Oh, the way Jonah had looked at the watch. He was his father’s son. He would believe everything he told him in the letter, true or not.
He laid the pistol on his desk. Poured himself a whiskey, opened the window, hung out of it and made a toast to the ravens. One flew over and sat on the windowsill. Caw, caw, caw. There was the ticking, the time running out, the sound of the raven, caw, tick, caw, tick, caw, tick. They were one and the same thing now.
The whiskey went down in one swift slug. He shut his eyes and a raven grew up out of the ashes of a thousand others. It cawed in time to the chimes of the watch: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.
He didn’t hear the twelfth strike. No one in the house did. Just the sound of the pistol.
***
TODAY
Do you believe that a house is evil and that, because of it, everything and everyone inside becomes ingrained with it, too? I don’t mean the actual bricks and mortar. At least, I don’t think I do. The house is the family, and the family is the house, after all.
I mean that rumours infiltrate whispers as people sit in the pub and get drunk, or while they’re milling around the front door of the post office, waiting for the queue to die down and for it to be their turn. Or maybe someone sees something and spins a tale of intrigue and invents superstition, just for attention, or just to pretend to themselves that it could actually be true. And then people start believing all sorts. Is this how it works?
Is it inherited, the way things are in an old family with centuries of dubious deeds and lies buried inside the walls? Do old sins cast long shadows? Or, just possibly, is it those dreadful, unspeakable things we’re told – those family secrets – that stay festering in our minds until they feed on the unsuspecting, on the innocent? And then they make a home in those who are susceptible to their malign charms.
I’ve given you my best guess about the way this particular story started, but the rest of it is as accurate as I can make it, reading between the lines. Truth is like holding liquid mercury. It shifts, slides, and it can be poison. When someone doesn’t want to tell you their story, sometimes you just have to wait. Wait until it surfaces, and until you can make sense of it. Or you can try.That’s where I come in, or otherwise you’d never hear about it. This is what I do. It’s my job, my livelihood. It’s a calling. I take someone’s story, and I try to give it the ending they want. Or that they need. I try so hard. But this is one I couldn’t help to make better. Because I am its ending, and its beginning. You’ll see what I mean.
A choice of books (with prologues!)
