Paula Hillman, author

While I’ve been writing book six, I’ve been thinking a lot about an idea I had. It would be a second book about Blackthorn Wood, and what happened to Cassie and Freddie after. I wrote the first chapter straight after Blackthorn went to the publisher. Here’s a snippet…what do you think?

Blackthorn…the sequel

With the sunshine warming my shoulders, I take a moment to think about how far I’ve come. Only three years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to stand outside Blackthorn House and look up at the place; I’d still be trapped inside. There are daffodils in the borders and buds of blossom on the cherry trees. And there’s freedom in my heart. Henry waves at me from the bench at the end of the garden, where he’s sipping coffee and trying to lace his boots. He sees Freddie as his boss and me as the reigning monarch. What he thinks of Si is less clear.

           ‘You coming in or what?’ Freddy sticks his head out of the open back door. ‘Only there’s work to be done, clients to see, that kind of thing. I didn’t hire you to sunbathe.’ But he is smiling.

           You didn’t hire me at all,’ I say. ‘And it’s my house, remember.’ This is how we speak to each other. It’s coarse yet smooth and easy. He saved my life. There’s no changing that.

           ‘Just get in here.’

           ‘I am.’

We’ve managed to put in a temporary entrance for Freddy’s clients. Henry is working on the proper one, but getting building materials is proving to be more problematic than we thought, given the pandemic is now considered to be over, the word normal reigning supreme.

           Inside the basement office, I inhale the clean smell of new paint and fresh carpet. Freddy is now hunched over his desk, shuffling papers. The dreadlocks he’d had when I met him have been replaced with a man-bun: new clients still do a double-take when they discover he’s the therapist rather than me.

           ‘You haven’t seen that bar of chocolate I brought in this morning, have you? I thought I left it on here.’ He starts pulling open drawers. ‘I’ve got to have some sugar before I see Angela Moon. She sucks the life out of me.’

          I make a fake gasp. ‘How unprofessional. You shouldn’t talk about clients like that.’

           ‘Bog off, Cass. You know exactly what I mean. If I’m to help her, I need reserves.’

I do know what he means. When we’d planned to work together, my role was to be the provider of admin skills and strategy. Almost two years of fearful workload in a world where people were shut in their houses, terrified the very air they were breathing would kill them and their families, had meant I’d fallen into the role of listener and sympathiser. Something I’d aced in my previous job. Not that we mention it much now. My old colleagues would rather shrink into lampposts or duck down behind hedges than face me. So Freddy’s take on client-confidentiality means I’m in the loop. And Angela Moon is a blood-sucker.