Chapter 1
“You’ll keep an eye on her, won’t you, Oliver?” My aunt’s fingers twisted a silk blouse into a wrinkled knot before jamming it into her paisley overnight bag, the zipper straining against the hasty packing. Her reading glasses slid to the tip of her nose as she glanced up at me. “Claire and I have had this caravan weekend at Dorset marked on our calendars since the daffodils were blooming, and now the office rings me up about some accounting catastrophe in London that apparently only I—with my twenty years of experience—can sort out.”
“Of course, Auntie Bridget. I’ll be there for Claire. You know I’ve got her back.” I assured her, leaning against the doorframe of the cramped guest bedroom, my fingers drumming an idle rhythm against the peeling paint. The truth was, I welcomed the chance to spend more time with my 16-year-old cousin. Ever since we were children splashing in the murky waters of Lake Windermere, I’d felt a special bond with her—the kind forged during predawn practices when the pool lights cast eerie shadows across our goggles and the chlorine burned our nostrils raw, both of us understanding without words the weight of expectations that pressed down on our shoulders like the water’s resistance.
“And you drive safely—I know what you youngsters with new licenses are like.” Aunt Bridget’s voice quavered as she pressed her car keys into my palm, the metal still warm from being clutched in her sweaty hand. The Toyota’s silver fob dangled between us, catching the afternoon light that streamed through the dusty Venetian blinds. I knew that was the main reason she had asked me to take Claire off for the long caravan weekend in Dorset—I was the only person near her age with a full driving license, the laminated card still crisp in my wallet after passing the test on my third attempt just six weeks ago.
I nodded, tucking the car key into my jeans pocket. “Don’t worry, Auntie B. I’ll have her back, literally and figuratively.” I winked, trying to lighten the mood as I shut the overstuffed suitcase for her with a satisfying thud.
She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “I just—” she began, then stopped herself and let out a shaky sigh. “Thank you, Ollie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” With that, she gave me a quick hug, her perfume enveloping me in a cloud of lavender and anxiety, and dashed out the front door.
As I watched her red mini-Cooper disappear around the corner, I felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders like the water had so many times before. I’d always been the dependable one, the rock for my family and friends—and now, for some reason, my aunt had deemed me fit to watch over her most precious possession: Claire.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and not just because of the chill in the air. With a good hour before Claire’s final bell, I decided to familiarise myself with Aunty B’s Yaris. The car protested as I ground through the gears on the quiet residential street. Six weeks with a license and I still couldn’t manage a smooth hill start. The last thing I needed was Claire witnessing me bunny-hop through traffic, her eyes rolling behind those rectangular frames she’d started wearing last summer.
After parking the Yaris at a crooked angle across two spaces in Tesco’s crowded lot, I snatched a red plastic basket that still bore the sticky residue of someone else’s spilt energy drink. I prowled the aisles for weekend essentials: a family-sized bag of cheese and onion crisps, those chocolate digestives Claire always demolished by the sleeve, and a jar of those fancy Spanish olives that made me feel sophisticated. In the spirits aisle, I hesitated before selecting two bottles of cheap Tesco own vodka—the blue label ones that were stronger than the red —their glass cold against my sweating palms. At the self-checkout, a tired woman with faded purple hair and chipped nail polish barely glanced up from her phone as my ID remained tucked safely in my wallet, the machine beeping its approval of my illicit purchase.
The drive to Claire’s school took me through the winding country roads, the Yaris’s small engine straining as we climbed the rolling hills. The caravan park wasn’t far, just on the outskirts of the sleepy seaside town of Boscastle, but tonight, it felt as if the distance expanded with each mile. I parked around the corner from the school’s main entrance, not wanting to risk any unwanted attention from overzealous teachers or nosy parents.
As I waited, I fiddled with the cheap plastic bottle opener keychain Aunt Bridget had given me for my sixteenth birthday, the imitation silver now tarnished with age and use. The bell finally rang, and the school’s iron-wrought gates spewed out a sea of uniformed students—blazers carelessly flung over shoulders, ties askew.
Claire emerged from the crowd, unmistakable even from a distance. The wind caught her dark hair, whipping it around her face as she navigated between groups of students. She hoisted her overstuffed backpack higher on one shoulder with casual strength. Something tightened in my chest as I watched her approach—my cousin with her too-long limbs and the metallic gleam of braces when she smiled.
“Hey, Ollie!” she called out, waving a manicured hand as she approached the car. “Mum couldn’t make it, huh? I hope it’s not anything too serious.”
“Nothing serious,” I said, tugging at my collar where sweat prickled beneath it like tiny needles against my skin. “Last-minute accounting emergency in London. She told me to tell you she’s sorry.” The words tumbled out with the stiff cadence of a primary school play, but Claire was already hefting her backpack—its canvas fabric worn thin at the corners—into the boot with a hollow thud.
“Typical Mum,” she said with a half-shrug that sent her dark hair cascading over one shoulder. The afternoon sun slanted through the windscreen, catching on the train-track metal in her mouth when she smiled, transforming it into a constellation of silver stars. “Caravan park first, or should we grab some proper rubbish to eat before we’re stuck with whatever’s in the camp shop’s freezer cabinets?”
“You’re the boss this weekend,” I said, stretching across the centre console to push open the passenger door, my elbow knocking against the half-empty water bottle wedged in the cup holder. “Though I’ve already loaded up on those chocolate digestives you demolish when you think no one’s looking—the ones with the dark chocolate, not the milk.”
“Drive on then,” she said with a casual flick of her wrist, her silver charm bracelet catching the late afternoon sun. She reached beneath the seat, slim fingers fumbling for the adjustment lever, nails painted a chipped midnight blue. The seat slid back with a metallic groan that echoed through the car’s cheap interior, giving her long legs more room—legs still clad in regulation navy knee socks despite the warming spring air. My gaze betrayed me, travelling from the hollow of her throat, past the constellation of freckles at her collarbone, down to where she’d unbuttoned the top few buttons of her school blouse, the shadow beneath the crisp white fabric momentarily drawing my attention before I forced my eyes back to the dashboard.
For years, I’ve been possessed by thoughts of Claire—a sickness that burns in my blood like poison. She’s only a year younger; we were barely adolescents when something inside me fractured and never healed. I told myself I was protecting her, watching over her like a guardian angel, but that delusion shattered against the violent truth: I’m obsessed with every inch of her. I memorise the way sunlight fractures through her dark hair, how her throat tightens when she laughs, the cruel perfection of her collarbones.
In the suffocating heat of the natatorium, chlorine burning my lungs, I’d grip the edge of the plastic seat until my knuckles whitened while she competed. My mother would elbow me, whispering about Claire’s perfect technique, oblivious to how I was drowning in my own depravity. They tracked lap times; I tracked droplets of water sliding between her shoulder blades, the obscene compression of her navy suit against her flesh, the way her body emerged from the water like some pagan offering I wasn’t strong enough to refuse.
Throughout childhood, our mothers arranged playdates that I pretended to dread. “Not Claire again,” I’d groan, while my heart hammered so violently I feared it might crack my ribs. The moment my mother announced her imminent arrival, time warped—minutes stretching into agonising eternities until that first knock. I’d sit rigid in my room, ears straining for the crunch of gravel under her shoes, the specific rhythm of her footfalls on our wooden steps—three quick ones, then a pause before the final two. By twelve, I could distinguish her knock from anyone else’s in the universe, a secret knowledge that burned inside me like swallowed fire.
Alone in my room, I’d surrender to these forbidden thoughts like a drowning man giving up the fight. Claire’s lips would possess mine in visions that seared through my skull, her taste imagined so vividly I’d feel my tongue go numb. My hands wouldn’t just explore—they’d claim her body with desperate, animal hunger. I’d see my fingers not tracing but branding the swell of her breasts, thumbs torturing her nipples until they stood defiant. When I pictured my hand violating the boundary of her underwear, the heat there wasn’t just warmth but volcanic, the wetness not just damp but drowning. My cock wouldn’t merely throb—it would pulse with such violent need that pain and pleasure became indistinguishable. I’d grip myself with punishing force, each stroke a confession and condemnation, until orgasm tore through me like a spiritual exorcism, my seed erupting in hot, shameful ropes across my heaving chest. After, I’d implode into myself, fingernails not just marking but mutilating my palms until blood formed perfect crimson half-moons, my prayers not whispered but snarled through clenched teeth. The shower water wouldn’t just scald—it would flense, my skin not blistering but liquefying, as I fantasised not about melting but about disintegrating atom by atom into absolute nothingness.
For days after, I’d avert my eyes from family photos, terrified her image might sear itself permanently into my vision. But then—Christ crucify me—I’d see her, REALLY see her, and something feral would rip through my chest cavity, shattering bone and sinew. That night, I’d lie crucified by shame while my damned hand betrayed me beneath sweat-soaked sheets, seizing my throbbing cock with violence, thumb smearing hot precum across the swollen head before plunging down with such force I’d bite through my lip to keep from crying out. Every brutal stroke hammered another spike into my soul as pressure built mercilessly at the base of my spine until orgasm detonated through me—not release but devastation—my seed spilling hot as hellfire while guilt coiled around my throat like barbed wire, choking off even the possibility of redemption.
Claire sat beside me, her thigh a hot brand against mine through denim, utterly blind to how each breath she drew ignited fresh blisters across my soul. Every casual flick of her wrist, every unconscious lip-bite, every goddamn innocent adjustment of her blouse collar was kerosene splashed onto the inferno that had scorched my nights hollow. Her existence wasn’t just my fantasy—it was my crucifixion, the voltage that jolted my spine when I touched myself in darkness. And she would never know how I clawed my own flesh raw with wanting her, how I’d rather tear out my own throat than let her see the monster wearing her cousin’s skin.
