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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2022 by Clare Mackintosh

  Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Hannah Wood/LBBG

  Cover image © Ildiko Neer/Arcangel

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  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—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published as The Last Party in 2022 in Great Britain by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group. This edition issued based on the hardcover edition published in 2022 in Great Britain by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Mackintosh, Clare, author.

  Title: The last party : a novel / Clare Mackintosh.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2022] |

  “Originally published as The Last Party in 2022 in Great Britain by

  Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group. This edition issued

  based on the hardcover edition published in 2022 in Great Britain by

  Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group”--Title page verso.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022006655 (print) | LCCN 2022006656 (ebook) | (hardcover) | (epub)

  Classification: LCC PR6113.A2649 L37 2022 (print) | LCC PR6113.A2649

  (ebook) | DDC 823/.92--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022006655

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022006656

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Area Map

  New Year’s Day

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Part Two

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Excerpt from Hostage

  Prologue

  One

  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my book club crew—the best bunch of readers around.

  And now the whole wide lake in deep repose

  Is hush’d, and like a burnish’d mirror glows.

  —William Wordsworth

  New Year’s Day

  No one in Cwm Coed can remember what year the swim began, but they know they wouldn’t welcome the New Year in any other way. They don’t remember which year it was that Dafydd Lewis went in wearing nothing but a Santa hat, or when the rugby lads bombed off the jetty and drenched poor Mrs. Williams.

  But everyone will remember today’s swim.

  There’s been snow on the peaks since before Christmas, and even with the protection from the mountains, the temperature in the town hasn’t climbed above freezing. The lake itself is bitter. Colder than last year! People gasp, at once gleeful and incredulous. We must be mad!

  As if rebelling against the clear skies, wisps of mist curl above the surface of the water, their reflection giving the disorienting impression that the sky’s been tipped upside down. Above the mist, the air is vivid blue, an echo of last night’s moon suspended above the forest.

  From the very top of Pen y Ddraig mountain, Llyn Drych seems more river than lake. It’s long and serpent-shaped, each bend a flick of the dragon’s tail it’s said to represent. Drych means “mirror,” and, when the wind drops and the water lies still, the surface shimmers like silver. The reflection of the mountain stretches into the center of the lake, so solid you feel you could step onto it, no hint of the black and fathomless depths beneath.

  Along the path that winds its way up the south side of the mountain—from the dragon’s back to its head—ramblers stoop to pick a pebble from the path. They straighten, feel the weight of it in their hands, then look around sheepishly before hurling the stone toward the water. Legend has it that Llyn Drych’s dragon rises up if its tail is hit—few ramblers can resist the myth.

  Around the edge of the lake, pine trees stand sentry, their shoulders so close that if one were felled, you could imagine them all toppling, one after another. The trees steal the view from the village of Cwm Coed, but they take the worst of the weather too, which feels like a fair exchange to the people who live there.

  On the far side of the water—less than a mile from where the crowd is now gathering—a line of buildings squats in the foothills. The trees directly in front of them have been ripped from the ground, the wood used to clad the lodges and make the vast carved sign that stands at the end of the long private
drive—each letter as tall as a man.

  The Shore.

  There are five of them, so far. Two-story rectangular boxes, with timber roofs and decks thrusting forward, extending out above the lake on stilts rising from the mist. Metal ladders glint in the winter sun, the docks bereft of the boats that tug at their ropes in summer.

  Luxury lakeside lodges, the glossy brochure calls them.

  Carafanau ffansi, Ffion’s mam says. Fancy caravans. Airs and graces.

  A bloody eyesore, most of the villagers agree. And at that price! For a place you can’t even live in all year round. Owners are not permitted to make The Shore their primary residence, says the website. As if North Wales needs any more weekenders.

  Soon, there’ll be another row behind this first. Another behind that. A spa, a gym, shops, an outdoor swimming pool.

  “God knows why they can’t swim in the lake.” Perched in her car, Ceri Jones pulls off her tracksuit bottoms, goose-fleshed thighs white against the dirty bumper.

  “Because it’s bloody freezing, that’s why.”

  The laughter comes fast and high—fueled by last night’s New Year’s Eve party, by too much wine and too little sleep, by cold that forces its way through toweling robes and lodges itself into bones.

  “Good night, though.”

  There are murmurs of agreement.

  “Chwarae teg.” Fair play. That lot at The Shore know how to throw a party. More importantly, they know to invite the locals. Curiosity wins over grudges, every time.

  Splinters of ice cluster in the shallow puddles on the lakeshore, cracked by toes freed from fur-lined boots.

  “There are still ten minutes to go. You’ll get frostbite.”

  “Can’t even feel it. I think I’m still pissed.”

  “This better sort out my hangover. I’ve got the in-laws coming for lunch, and they give me a headache as it is.”

  “Kill or cure.”

  “I’ll take either.”

  The first of two klaxons rings through the crisp air, and a cheer goes up.

  “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be!”

  Coats and robes are cast aside, towels draped over waiting arms, and hot water bottles readied for the return. There’s a rush for the shore—a tangle of white limbs and bathing suits, brave bikinis and judicious woolly hats—and excited chatter so loud they wonder if they might miss the second klaxon. But when it sounds, there’s no mistaking it, and they let out a whoop and a “Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!” as they run toward the lake, screaming as they reach the icy water.

  When they’re deep enough, they plunge. Mind over matter, through the low-lying mist. Cold clamps a vice around their chests, mouths opening in shock as their breath is wrenched away. “Keep moving, keep moving!” cry the veterans, dopamine pumping smiles to their faces. Ripples become waves, the movement of people this way and that, as the wind picks up and sends shivers across shoulders.

  As the mist begins to clear, a woman cries out.

  It stands out among the screams of excitement, sending shivers of a different kind down the backs of those waiting on the shore. Those still in their depth stand on tiptoes, straining to see what’s happening, who’s hurt. The rescue boat dips its oars into the water. In and out, in and out, making its way toward the commotion.

  Out of the mist floats a man.

  Facedown, and quite unmistakably dead.

  Part One

  One

  New Year’s Day

  Ffion

  Ffion Morgan scans the prone figure beside her for signs of life. The man is tall, with broad shoulders and black hair cropped close to his skull. On the back of his neck, where a shirt collar might lie, is a small tattooed name. Harris.

  Ffion clears her throat, testing the silence with a tiny, tentative noise, as though about to make a speech she isn’t sure how to start. The man doesn’t stir. That makes things easier.

  There is, however, the small matter of the arm.

  The arm is big. It has smooth dark brown skin, stretched across the sort of bicep Ffion always wants to bite, although clearly now is not the time. It lies diagonally across Ffion’s stomach, its hand hanging loosely by her hip. Habit makes her check the man’s fourth finger and she’s relieved to find it bare. She looks at his watch. Eight a.m. Time to split.

  She shifts her legs first, shuffling them sideways a millimeter at a time before bending her knees to drop her feet to the floor, all the time keeping her torso still, like a contortionist folding herself into a box. She waits a moment, then presses her upper half into the mattress as she slides slowly toward the edge of the bed. The maneuver is practiced, honed over the past year, thanks to whatever misplaced gene it is that makes men cast out a proprietorial arm in their sleep.

  The owner of this morning’s arm gives a grunt. Ffion counts to fifty. If he wakes, he’ll suggest breakfast—or coffee, at least—despite neither of them wanting it. Not with each other, anyway. Ffion blames Generation Z. All those feelings. There was a time when men showed you the door before they’d even tied a knot in the condom, but now they’re all woke. It does her head in.

  She tries to recall who the arm belongs to. Harris doesn’t ring a bell. It begins with M, she’s sure. Mike? Max? She fishes for pieces among the murky depths of the previous evening’s drinking, reeling in a memory of straight white teeth, a shy smile, a desire to please that she found as attractive as it was unusual.

  Mark?

  She tears a piece of skin from the inside of her top lip. Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck. She hates it when she can’t remember their names. It feels…slutty.

  Marcus!

  Ffion grins at the ceiling, relief making her giddy. Rule number one: always know who you’re spending the night with.

  Marcus.

  Recalling his name unlocks the rest, New Year’s Eve unfolding in all its drunken, glorious splendor. Marcus Something-or-other (surnames don’t count)—a skydiving instructor (I’ll sort you and your mates out with freebies) who matched her shot for shot and slipped a hand around her waist when he leaned forward to make himself heard above the noise of the bar. Shall we head somewhere quieter? We could go to mine…

  Ffion closes her eyes and indulges in the memory of the tingle of Marcus’s thumb on her bare skin—so full of promise. For a second, she thinks about rolling over and waking him up and—

  No second helpings. Rule number two.

  Marcus’s bedroom has the sparse, anonymous feel of a rental. Magnolia walls and vertical blinds, a scratchy carpet bristling with static. Ffion sweeps her right foot across it and finds her underwear. Her left foot yields a sock, and as the breathing beside her steadies, she slides out from under Marcus’s arm and onto the floor with all the grace of a sea lion.

  The blue top she was wearing the previous evening is by the wardrobe, her jeans a few steps behind it. The classic clothes trail: Ffion is nothing if not predictable. With luck, she’ll find her shoes kicked off in the hall, her jumper in a puddle by the front door.

  She dresses swiftly, stuffing her socks into her jeans pocket for speed, and hunts fruitlessly for her bra before chalking it up as a loss. A quick wee and a peek in the bathroom cabinet (a box of condoms, a half-squeezed tube of hemorrhoid cream), then she checks for her car keys and skedaddles. The pavements are frosty, and she zips up her coat. It’s khaki green and covers her from chin to ankle, its warmth and practicality the trade-off for looking like a sleeping bag with feet. As she retraces her steps to her car, she does the traditional alcohol-units-into-hours calculation and concludes she can just about get away with it.

  It’s after nine when she gets home, and Mam’s making porridge. Two swimming costumes hang on the radiator.

  “You’ve never missed a New Year’s Day swim before.”

  Elen Morgan’s voice is neutral, but Ffion has thirty years’ experience interpret
ing her mam’s stirring techniques, and the way she’s snatching at the wooden spoon right now doesn’t bode well.

  Sixteen-year-old Seren bounces out of a pile of blankets on the big chair by the window. “They found a—”

  “Let your sister have some breakfast before we get into that.” Mam’s sharp voice cuts across Seren.

  Ffion looks at Seren. “They found a what?”

  Seren looks at Mam’s back and rolls her eyes.

  “I saw that.”

  “God, you’re good, Mam.” Ffion lifts the kettle from the Aga, sloshing it to check how much water’s in it before moving it onto the hot plate. “Did you ever think of joining the Secret Service? I imagine eyes in the back of your head are right up there with jiujitsu and fluent Russian.” She plugs in her phone, dead since the previous evening. “How was the swim, anyway?”

  “It wasn’t.” Seren shoots a defiant look at Mam. “I was only in up to my knees when they made us all get out.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, if you’d been there, you’d know,” Mam says tightly.

  “I overslept.”

  “At Mia’s?”

  Ffion gives a noncommittal mmm. Seren—sharp as a tack—looks between Mam and Ffion, instantly alert to the possibility of drama.

  “Because I’m told she was at the party till late.”

  Mia Williams. Two years ahead of Ffion at school: the sort of age gap that gives you nothing in common in your teens and everything in common a decade later. They are friends by default rather than choice, Ffion always thinks; who else would they drink with if not each other?

  “Mam, I’m a grown—”

  “And Ceri left early and saw your car heading out of the village.”

  Ceri Jones, the postwoman. Is it any wonder, Ffion thinks, that she prefers to do her socializing away from the town? You can’t fart in Cwm Coed without it making the front page.

  “I had an errand to run.” The kettle whistles, harsh and insistent, as though challenging Ffion’s lie. She finds a clean mug and drops in a tea bag.

  “On New Year’s Eve?”

  “Mam, stop being—”

  “I worry about you. Is that a crime?”

  “I’m perfectly safe.”