I Do Not Sleep

Judy Finnigan
is a bestselling author, television presenter and columnist. In 2004, Judy’s name became synonymous with discovering and sharing great fiction, through the Richard and Judy Book Club, where authors including Kate Mosse, Rosamund Lupton and Victoria Hislop were championed and brought to the attention of millions of readers. Her first novel,
Eloise
, was a
Sunday Times
Top Ten bestseller in both hardback and paperback.

Also by Judy Finnigan

Eloise

COPYRIGHT

Published by Sphere

978-0-7481-3261-4

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Judy Finnigan 2015

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Lyrics to ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ by Oscar Hammerstein II, © Bayjun Beat Music, Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp, Williamson Music Co.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

SPHERE

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.littlebrown.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

I Do Not Sleep

Table of Contents

• About the Author
  

• Also by Judy Finnigan
  

• COPYRIGHT
  

• Dedication
  

• Epigraph
  

• The Island
  

• Prologue
  

• Chapter One
  

• Chapter Two
  

• Chapter Three
  

• Chapter Four
  

• Chapter Five
  

• Chapter Six
  

• Chapter Seven
  

• Chapter Eight
  

• Chapter Nine
  

• Chapter Ten
  

• Chapter Eleven
  

• Chapter Twelve
  

• Chapter Thirteen
  

• Chapter Fourteen
  

• Chapter Fifteen
  

• Chapter Sixteen
  

• Chapter Seventeen
  

• Chapter Eighteen
  

• Chapter Nineteen
  

• Chapter Twenty
  

• Chapter Twenty-One
  

• Chapter Twenty-Two
  

• Chapter Twenty-Three
  

• Chapter Twenty-Four
  

• Chapter Twenty-Five
  

• Chapter Twenty-Six
  

• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  

• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  

• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  

• Chapter Thirty
  

• Chapter Thirty-One
  

• Chapter Thirty-Two
  

• Chapter Thirty-Three
  

• Chapter Thirty-Four
  

• Chapter Thirty-Five
  

• Chapter Thirty-Six
  

• Chapter Thirty-Seven
  

• Chapter Thirty-Eight
  

• Chapter Thirty-Nine
  

• Chapter Forty
  

• Chapter Forty-One
  

• Chapter Forty-Two
  

• Chapter Forty-Three
  

• Chapter Forty-Four
  

• Chapter Forty-Five
  

• Chapter Forty-Six
  

• Chapter Forty-Seven
  

• Chapter Forty-Eight
  

• Chapter Forty-Nine
  

• Chapter Fifty
  

• Chapter Fifty-One
  

• Chapter Fifty-Two
  

• Chapter Fifty-Three
  

• Acknowledgements
  

• Author Note
  

For my much-loved children:

Tom, Dan, Jack and Chloe

And also for our latest family addition:

Darling little

Ivy

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow…

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

MARY
ELIZABETH
FRYE
,
1932,
BALTIMORE
,
USA
.

The Island

The Island of St Michael of Lammana has been lashed by vicious seas since prehistoric times, and only eighteen feet below the windswept surface legend says there is a complex network of ancient caves. There are scores of them, and they are evidently man-made, dating from the very early Etruscan period, two and a half thousand years ago. To this day the ancient lore holds sway, and the caves guard their dark secrets undisturbed. Who knows what lies beneath the stunted woods and rocks that litter this inhospitable and unwelcoming little sanctuary? Because, however unlikely, a sanctuary it was for eleventh-century Christians. They believed the island was holy and built a chapel there around the year AD 1085. A cell of Benedictine monks, affiliated to Glastonbury Abbey, dwelt continuously on Lammana, sometimes numbering only two because living there was almost impossible, so harsh was the environment. The frequent storms were unpredictable, ripping across the tiny island (only a mile in circumference) and if you were out on one of the many treacherous footpaths when the gales were unleashed, you were in grave danger of being swept onto the rocks below. And the tides were turbulent. Many were the drownings around Lammana; not least those of the fishermen who bravely plied their trade, battling through cruel and monstrous storm-tossed waves, desperate, terrified but driven by the need to put food in their children’s mouths, before, defeated, they perished, their boats run aground on the sandbar lying hidden beneath the sea.

So, for the most part, Lammana was unreachable except in the rarest, fairest weather. The rest of the time people stayed away, safe in Looe, despite the siren call that sighed softly across the water when conditions were clement, the sun shone, and (viewed across the short distance which separates the island from Hannafore) the magic mysterious vista of this most ancient place was at its most seductive. Some could not resist its charmed spell. Often they did not return; and the legend of Lammana was born.
Stay away, stay away
, the wind whispered.
Do not come here, traveller. You are not welcome. This sanctuary is a chimera. You may think you see a glimpse of paradise, but paradise is lost, and you shall surely risk the inferno if you attempt to regain it here
.

Prologue

May, Cornwall, 2009

Molly walked along the coastal path, head down, oblivious to the beauty of the day, the singing surf, the call of the gulls, the sheep dotting the coarse green grass. She always kept her head down on this walk, determined not to feel any pleasure in her surroundings, as if she were afraid of being moved by the loveliness of this place. She had armoured herself against enjoyment; there was no longer any of that to be had in her soul, and should any momentary surge of joy caused by the brisk salty beauty of the footpath touch her heart, she regarded it as a betrayal. Besides, it made her cry, and she’d done enough of that for a lifetime.

No, this pilgrimage was not a pleasure, it was a grim necessity. She did it every day; it was an hour’s walk along the coastal path to get from her rented cottage in Polperro down to Talland Bay and then on along to Looe, until she reached the spot. Only then would she lift her head, only then when she knew what she would see: the island. This was the whole point of her journey; this view had become the whole point of her life.

She stood, every day, never sitting down on the nearby grass. She never brought a drink, or anything to eat. She just stared steadily at the wooded green contours of the island, so close to the mainland yet so remote and secret, cut off for weeks at a time by roaring seas, treacherous riptides, and the terrifying sandbar between the foreshore and Looe Harbour, where so many fishing boats had come to grief.

People watched her, of course. Tourists passed with questioning looks. The locals who walked the path had stopped trying to approach her. Instead they shrugged and whispered in the shops in Looe.

‘That poor woman,’ they said. ‘It’s terrible what happened; she seems to be losing her mind.’

And she stood, watching, motionless except for her hands. They never stopped moving, winding themselves incessantly through the folds of a thick woollen scarf. Joey’s favourite, left behind in the cottage. Red, vibrant, the colour of life.

And afterwards, the punctured colour of death.

Chapter One

Five Years Later

Adam glanced over at me as he overtook a battered old Transit van on the A38. We’d passed Exeter, which meant there was less than an hour to go to get to Treworgey. He smiled hopefully at me, willing me to feel happy, or at least positive. I saw his look, did my best to smile back. At least we weren’t going to Polperro. At least we were staying slightly inland, at a farmhouse in the Looe Valley, with beautiful views; we knew the place well, having stayed at the old homestead many times when the children were small. I remembered Joey and Daniel, careering down the slope beside the house on their skateboards; how Danny had broken his arm riding his bike round a treacherous bend in the lane, which the family ever after called Broken Arm Corner; how Adam took him to Derriford Hospital in Plymouth; and how ridiculously proud Danny had been when they arrived back at Treworgey with his arm in plaster and a sling. I really did allow myself to smile as I thought of Danny’s self-important face and his little brother’s woebegone look as he realised his sibling had trumped him in the stakes of parental concern.