Lost, p.1
Lost, page 1
Lost
Rebecca Guy
Copyrighted Material
This book is entirely a work of fiction, all names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Rebecca Guy.
ISBN: 978-1-913241-07-0
Rebecca Guy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photo © Shutterstock
Copyrighted Material
Want access to exclusive behind the scenes content and extra’s?
Want to be the first to hear about promotions, discounts, forthcoming titles and competitions?
Get all this and more by signing up to my mailing list - It’s free and I never spam!
Details of the current freebie at the end of the book.
Follow on Amazon, Instagram, Facebook, Goodreads, and Pinterest
www.rebeccaguy.co.uk
Also by Rebecca Guy
Ruin
Shattered
Haunted
About Author
Rebecca Guy was first introduced to all things paranormal at the tender age of ten when she received Hans Holzer's 'Ghosts–True Encounters with the World Beyond' from Father Christmas. She tortured herself with the stories late into every night, after which she was too terrified to sleep. Thanks Santa. The trauma started a love affair with all things horror and supernatural and she now like to write her own novels to torture herself and others with until they can't sleep. After all, sharing is caring. Rebecca was born and raised in Staffordshire. She still lives there with her three children and a beagle called Rosie.
For Dawn, whose enthusiasm and dedication ensure that my writing journey must continue, with love and thanks and many more enjoyable reads to come!
Contents
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
35. Chapter Thirty-Five
36. Chapter Thirty-Six
37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
40. Chapter Forty
41. Chapter Forty-One
42. Chapter Forty-Two
43. Chapter Forty-Three
44. Chapter Forty-Four
45. Chapter Forty-Five
46. Chapter Forty-Six
47. Chapter Forty-Seven
48. Chapter Forty-Eight
49. Chapter Forty-Nine
50. Chapter Fifty
51. Chapter Fifty-One
52. Chapter Fifty-Two
53. Chapter Fifty-Three
54. Chapter Fifty-Four
55. Chapter Fifty-Five
56. Chapter Fifty-Six
57. Chapter Fifty-Seven
58. Chapter Fifty-Eight
59. Chapter Fifty-Nine
60. Chapter Sixty
61. Chapter Sixty-One
62. Chapter Sixty-Two
63. Chapter Sixty-Three
64. Chapter Sixty-Four
65. Chapter Sixty-Five
66. Chapter Sixty-Six
67. Chapter Sixty-Seven
68. Chapter Sixty-Eight
69. Chapter Sixty-Nine
70. Chapter Seventy
71. Chapter Seventy-One
72. Chapter Seventy-Two
73. Chapter Seventy-Three
74. Chapter Seventy-Four
75. Chapter Seventy-Five
76. Chapter Seventy-Six
77. Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter One
April
'You look like hell, Mac.'
Mac Macauley looked up at his older brother; the only person from whom he would take such a statement. Tom gazed at him across the table, his eyes narrowed and scrutinizing. Finally, seeming to accept Mac's state of hell, he gave a small nod and flipped open the paper. Mac felt his stomach sink.
'Want me to make you feel worse?' Tom said, eyebrows raised over the paper's edge.
'Sure, why not?' Mac said with a sigh, leaning back into the chair and bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his head.
Tom placed the paper - ‘The Times’ of all things - down onto the table between them, spinning the writing to face Mac. He placed a finger on the article as if it didn't already have a screaming headline that may as well be emblazoned in red and roaring with flames.
HAS THE MIND MAN LOST HIS MIND?
After another embarrassing send-off, you have to wonder if the guy who says you can have it all, Mac Macauley, really has lost it all. The motivational sensation who once filled the Royal Albert Hall with his astoundingly fool proof plan to hack the mind, and access the subconscious to create the perfect life, regardless of circumstance, once again left us with a lack lustre feel at his latest talk in Islington yesterday. Seemingly a theme after the loss of his wife six months ago, the media mind-hacker can't seem to get it together, forcing us to wonder if there really is a mind-hack after all, or whether his framework is built on less solid foundations when faced with real tragedy...
No. Not today.
Mac dragged his eyes away from the article and back to Tom's, hoping his brother wouldn't see the thud of his heart under his worn jumper.
'It's a good point,' he said with a shrug as he reached for his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He pulled one free and put it between his lips.
'What?' he said, catching Tom's frown.
'Sula hated that. You'd given up.'
'For all the good it did me. Sula's dead.' His heart gave a small jolt. A lot less of a shock at saying the words out loud now than he'd had in the beginning. The effects of true love and companionship already fading.
No, not fading. Suppressed. He closed his eyes.
'What happened?' Tom said gently.
Mac opened his eyes, confused.
'The talk?' Tom gestured to the paper, which accused innocently from the tabletop. Ignoring Tom's disapproving look, Mac lit the cigarette as he thought.
What happened? That's a good question, Mac. What the hell happened?
He’d lost it. That's what happened, just as the paper said. Lost his wife, lost his life. And now his career was busy getting lost, too. Why not? When life shit on you, it really took a dump, and then it added some more to the pile for good measure.
'You read the article,' he said with a mirthless laugh. 'I lost my wife. Lost her, like we were strolling around Sainsbury’s, and she wandered down the wrong aisle. Like an odd sock, she just got…' he threw his hands in the air, '…lost. As if she can be found. Like she'll just turn back up with a smile and say 'gotcha! Had you going for a minute there, didn't I?'
Tom raised his hands. 'Okay, okay. I get it, and I know it hurts. Listen, Mac, maybe it's time for a break, you know?'
Mac took a drag of his cigarette, his face flushing under a week and a half of dark stubble. Heck, the one thing he hadn't lost was the ability to grow a beard. How about that?
'Why would I need a break?'
Tom's mouth bobbed open as he fished for the right words to say. 'Well, you haven't stopped, Mac. All the booked engagements, all the talks, the shows, the interviews. You've just kept steamrollering right through.'
'That's how we get through these things, right? We carry on, Tom, because there's nothing else to fucking do is there? What do I have left? You think I want a mini break in the Maldives? Work. My work is all I have. I want to help people-'
'You're wrecking it, Mac. You need a break. You can't keep going-'
'I have to keep going, I have no choice. It's okay for you, Tom. You're not in the public eye. There's no escape for me. Ever since Sula died, people with cameras have been camped on my lawn. My fucking lawn, Tom. And do you know why? Not because they care, not because they want to wish me well, oh no, because they want to see me collapse. They want me to crumble. They want pictures of me looking wasted and beaten. They want to be there to capture it all, to laugh, to write their stupid stories. Because they want headlines like this-' he waved a hand at the paper, which fluttered and crackled under the force of the air thrown at it. 'This sells, Tom. It sells.'
Tom was nodding. 'Yes-' he s
'Tragedy sells, shock sells, bereavement sells, falling apart sells. No one wants to listen to the good news anymore. They're all baying for blood. My wife died, Tom, she died, and they love it, they...' Mac felt his voice quiver, felt the depth of emotion cut him short, and felt the hot tears threaten to burst forth. He jabbed his thumbs into his eyes, removing them before they arrived.
Mac heard the scrape of a chair and felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.
'Yes,' Tom said, closer to him now, 'that's exactly what they want, because they don't know you. They don't care. It's so easy to de-humanise these days. So easy to tear people apart on social media, in the paper, on the news. But Mac, you're giving them exactly what they want.'
Mac looked into the crow-lined eyes of his brother. His best friend. He cared, Mac knew that, could see the depth of emotion running behind his eyes too. He had known and loved Sula like a sister, as had Tom's wife - who was still here. Flesh and blood.
A stab of unfairness ran through him at the aneurysm that had taken his perfectly healthy wife with a ferocious disregard for the lack of her years.
Tom placed a hand on his arm.
'Look at you, Mac. Have you looked in the mirror? Seen your clothes, your hair, your face? When did you last have a shower? You have to stop because you're giving them fuel. Your career will be over if you keep going. Is that what you want?'
'No, of course not. Being able to help people reach their potential isn't a career, Tom, it's a calling. I have to do this. There are people that need my help...'
'You are one of them,' Tom said. 'Take a break. In six months, a year, you'll be-'
'A year?' Mac spluttered. 'I can't take a year off. Don't be ridiculous.'
'Call it development. You've barely had time for yourself for the last ten years. Read up, learn, look at new theories, rejig the framework. Think of it as a working break. One where you don't need to take a shower and look the part. One where you don't need to worry about getting lost when giving a talk because you think you see her in the audience. Take books, get researching, write a whole new fucking formula, but take a break, Mac, please. We're worried about you.'
Mac swallowed. Tom was forgetting the one problem with his little theory.
'Tom, the other reason I can't take a break is a little more obvious. They won't let me. Wherever I go, Whatever I do at the moment, they're there. Always. Sometimes just one, sometimes a dozen. Do you think I'm going to get off the plane in Gibraltar to find not one person has discovered where I'm going and on what flight? To find not one of them has followed me? I'm stuck. From all angles. I've tried to ask for privacy, I've tried the ‘leave me alone’, it's not working.'
'Because you look like hell when you're asking. You look broken. It's what they want.'
'So, what's the solution, Tom, because from where I am, it seems you're enjoying this discussion a little too much. Pointing out how dirty and slovenly I am-'
'No, Mac. No. That's not it. Not at all. And yes, I do have a solution. One that I think will work. Just hear me out.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Good,’ Tom said, then he took a breath. 'Do you ever watch Bear Grylls?'
Chapter Two
AUGUST
The old four-by-four truck bounced its way slowly down the dirt track. Pines sheltered either side of the unkempt mountain road which Tom had said ran on for three long miles right out into the desolate Scottish wilderness. Five miles per hour was all he could manage, or risk wrecking the truck's suspension, which gave Mac a lot of time to think. Time to think about what he was doing and whether he had made the right choice, time to wonder if he was capable, time to wonder if he was mad. Beck certainly told him he was a ‘Creep’ from the radio, which cut out with every bump of the road.
It had taken four long months to get to this point, much to Tom's disgust, but things had to be taken care of. When it looked as though Mac would never take up the offer of the small, isolated cabin on Loch Spiorad, Tom had offered him a million to go and stay the year – 'call it loss of earnings, but please, for the love of God, stay the damn year!'
Eventually, despite starting to feel stronger and more himself, Mac had decided he would go. A year wasn't the end of the world, and anyway, he had social media. A few Facebook and Instagram lives would keep his name out there, and he could record and upload some more videos with a loch-side setting. A few ideas had begun to take seed until Tom shattered his thoughts.
'There's no internet,' he stated, 'and we're taking your phone.'
'My phone?' Mac had said, wide eyed, 'Oh, I don't think so.'
'You'll get another, with limited contacts and limited data per month. They can trace you, Mac. I don't need a horde of media splashing my secluded cabin across the news along with a picture of you in that god awful jumper with a ten-day shadow across your chin. You can have it back afterward. Here.'
He had thrust a new phone into Mac's hand and held out his other hand for Mac's phone, which he had given up reluctantly after seeing the problem with taking it along with him.
No ties, Tom had said. None. He was to use Tom's truck and the new phone. Off media grid. Off GPS. Gone. Completely.
And so, he had been hustled into Tom's house at 3am after leaving through the back door of his own house with a single bag and his golden retriever, Rolo. After stumbling through a small track flanked by trees and out onto a neighbouring street he was collected by Tom, who screeched off so loud it was a wonder no-one had seen him go. At Tom's house, he was to put his bag in the truck and leave. The directions were written on a piece of notepaper for fear of voice recording giving the game away. Tom was very thorough, and very paranoid, but two hours later, humming along to the radio, alone on the road, Mac had to admit it seemed like the perfect getaway.
The sun had been high in the summer sky as he found the small turning for the lane that lead to the three-mile track. Little used, Tom had said, and Mac thought that was an understatement. It barely existed at all. Even now, he wasn't sure this was the right way, or if it was a vehicle track at all. If the instructions hadn't marked waypoints along the route that Tom had set up for his own guidance, he would have tried to turn around long before now.
But here he was, with all his worldly possessions for the next year, bumping down a track that would have done better as an off-road test course, and thinking how Sula would have laughed that he would even consider coming to a place like this with his limited physical skills.
'Who you think you are?' she would smile, her mocking voice in lilted Italian. 'Some great explorer, huh? Ralph Fiennes? You have trouble with can of baked beans, tato!'
Tato had been a term of endearment she had told him long ago, but even now he wasn't sure she hadn't been calling him a potato for all these years. She had howled with laughter when he pressed her, shoulder length tight black curls falling back from an oval face which lifted to the sky, and the biggest brown eyes he had ever seen filling with tears of laughter at his serious question. Laughter had been her go to emotion. She could find humour in the solemnest of situations, lightening the atmosphere, and lifting people up with her along the way.
He should know. Depression had dragged him way down when he had met her. He owed her his life.
But now he could give her nothing.
A familiar pain worked its way into his heart, and a moan escaped his lips. Hot warmth pressed against the back of the hand resting on the gear stick; and then it was gone, leaving a cold wetness in its place. Mac blinked back tears and looked over to the passenger seat to see Rolo grinning at him, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted in the heat of the midday sun. Mac couldn't help but grin back. Then he let out a chuckle and rest an elbow out of the truck's open window.
'All right, all right. I know, I'll stop.'
Rolo grinned out of the windscreen, wind ruffling his gleaming golden fur as he licked his lips, sniffed the air, and returned to his grin. Mac reached over to give him an affectionate scratch behind his ear, silky fur leaning into his hand.
'I need to stop. I'm the mind guy, right? I know how this works. I have to stop dwelling and move forward. There is no future in the past. I need to wrap the memories, reset the thermostat, and head off on a different course. She's not coming home. It's been ten months. Did you know that?'
