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JOSEPHINE COX
The Loner
COPYRIGHT
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Josephine Cox 2007
Josephine Cox asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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available from the British Library
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Source ISBN-13: 9780007221134
EBook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN 9780007279548 Version: 2017-08-10
DEDICATION
This book is for my Ken, as always
My thanks to my large and wonderful family for all the love and support you have always given me. And to my many friends, including the ones who read my books and write to me. What would I do without all of you? Stay well, be good, and if you can’t be good, be naughty!
CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
PART TWO
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PART FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PART FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHATTERBOX
ENJOYED THIS BOOK?
EXTRACT
THE LONER
ALSO BY JOSEPHINE COX
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
PART ONE
Blackburn, 1955
The Road to Ruin
CHAPTER ONE
SHE MADE A ghostly figure as she silently wended her way through the dark, shadowy streets.
Late again, she thought. But there was little regret as she recalled the fun-filled evening, with good company and a man’s arms about her. Why should she feel guilty? What was so wrong about her having a good time? She was still relatively young and vibrant. The men liked her and she liked them, and there was more to life than sitting at home and being a good little wife. Life was too short for that.
As she turned into Derwent Street, she thought of young Davie. Only then did she feel ashamed. She hoped he wasn’t waiting up. She didn’t want to see the sadness in his eyes when he saw her arrive home at this late hour, giddy with booze and caring for nothing or no one, except him, her darling son.
‘You’re a bad woman, Rita Adams,’ she told herself. ‘You should have been home hours ago.’ She gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘There’ll be sparks flying, you’ll see.’
Her unsteady footsteps echoed eerily against the pavement as she continued her way past the row of terraced houses. At this hour, most people were in bed and only one house was lit up. This was her home. This was where her family would be waiting and watching. She thought of her child again, and the guilt was cutting, ‘Davie’s a good boy. He doesn’t deserve a mother like you.’ There were times when she hated herself.
Shivering in the cold night air, she clutched the lapels of her coat and drew it tighter about her. ‘Remember now,’ she muttered, ‘you’ve spent the evening with your old friend,
