DANIELLE RAMSAY
She felt sick, really sick.
She moaned as the ground started to swirl in front of her.
‘Oh fuck!’ she slurred as she drunkenly collapsed onto her hands and knees.
Trembling, she waited for the nausea to pass.
Finally certain that she wasn’t going to puke she pulled her long blonde hair back from her face and looked around, but it was too dark to make sense of the rubble and halffallen walls of the abandoned farmhouse. She suddenly realised that she was alone.
‘You fucking shit!’ she yelled out, angry that he had just left her there in the middle of nowhere.
She waited, but there was no response. The surrounding trees and bushes conspired against her, rustling and creaking, fooling her into believing that someone else was there.
‘Fuck you and your fucking attitude! I hate you! You hear me? I fucking hate you!’ she screamed defiantly. ‘You’re the one with the problem, not me!’
She slumped back onto her knees and stared up at the black starless sky. Everything seemed so pointless. She hated him. She hated him for using her and then just throwing her to one side. She would have to be stupid not to notice that he wasn’t into her any more. She had heard the rumours. Who hadn’t? She knew there were other girls, but she’d hoped that she had meant something to him. She had foolishly believed that he could take her away from her crap life; that he could somehow save her. But now that he had got what he had wanted, he wasn’t interested any more.
She felt a cold wetness on her face and realised she was crying. She wiped her damp cheeks aggressively, angry with herself for feeling like this. Angry that she had let him get to her.
‘I don’t fucking care what you say. I’ll tell whoever I want to about what you’ve done to me. Then you’ll be sorry! You hear me? You’ll be the fucking sorry one, you bastard!’ she threatened, ignoring the tears as they continued to fall.
Exhausted, she attempted to get to her feet. Certain that she could stand she pulled out her mobile phone from the front pocket of her short black denim skirt. She tried to make out whether she had any new messages or calls.
‘Bastard!’ she muttered when she realised she didn’t.
She started to scroll through her phone book looking for his number.
Suddenly she heard footsteps coming up behind her. She smiled, relieved that he’d come back.
She froze as the smile faded from her lips.
‘I … I … didn’t mean the things I said … yeah? I was just really mad with you, that’s all …’ she stuttered as she shook her head.
It took her a second to register what was about to happen. Shocked, she dropped her phone as she numbly staggered backwards as she tried to get away.
In her panic she tripped over and fell to the ground. She grabbed her scarf which was lying beside her and rolled over onto her knees as she attempted to get up. But a hard kick to her back winded her, forcing her down again.
Suddenly the scarf was pulled from her hand.
‘Ahh!’ she cried out as her head was yanked back by her hair.
She felt something being slipped around her throat. She couldn’t understand what was happening. And by the time she did, it was too late. The scarf was already securely knotted around her neck. She screamed as she clawed at the material. But the harder she fought, the tighter the scarf was twisted, silencing her.
She frantically tore at the scarf, desperate to breathe but she couldn’t loosen its hold over her. Panicking, she scratched at her neck ferociously as the burning pain in her lungs intensified. Finally, she collapsed forward, un- conscious of what was about to follow.
The phone was ringing. It had to be bad. He could feel his heart pounding. He turned over and buried his head into the pillow but the ringing continued. He tried to ignore it but it was pointless. He opened his eyes and lay there for a moment drenched in sweat.
It was dark, still night. He looked down at the cluttered floor gingerly and squinted at the alarm clock, his head exploding with the effort. It took a few seconds before he could make out it was only 4.30 am. And another couple of seconds before he realised the phone was still ringing. He stretched out his trembling hand and groped around on the floor.
‘Yeah?’ he mumbled hoarsely.
‘Detective Inspector Brady?’
Without answering, he disconnected the call and dropped the phone to the floor. His head was thumping. He had the mother of all hangovers, which wasn’t surprising considering he’d been on a suicidal bender for the past couple of weeks. He had been downing a toxic mixture of whisky and beer to forget his wrecked life and block out the recurring nightmare he had had for as long as he could remember. But lately nothing seemed to work. Even when he sank into a drunken sleep he always woke up sweating, heart racing.
He tried to recall the previous night. All he could remember was drinking too much and then …
He felt sick at the thought. He winced as the knot in his stomach tightened. He turned his pounding head tentatively. A young woman lay asleep on her stomach beside him, naked from the waist up, the duvet discreetly covering the rest of her body. Her thick, dark, shoulder-length hair was spread out over the pillow. He watched as she gently breathed in and out. He couldn’t even recall her name let alone what she did for a living.
He swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the sour taste in his mouth. Never before had he plummeted to such a nadir. There hadn’t been anyone since Claudia, his wife, had left. And now here he was with some young woman who he didn’t even recognise lying naked beside him.
The drinking was supposed to distract him from who he was, not make him feel even worse about himself. He thought about getting some painkillers and decided that he couldn’t be bothered to get up and rummage around in the dark. The last thing he wanted to do was wake up Sleeping Beauty.
The phone started to ring again. He froze as she started in her sleep.
‘Fuck!’ he muttered.
He stretched his right hand out and blindly searched amongst the months of debris scattered on the floor.
‘What?’ he answered in a thick Geordie voice, silencing the shrill ring.
He watched as she stirred briefly before slipping back into a restless slumber.
‘Brady?’ questioned a low, deep voice.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘DCI Gates.’
‘Sir?’ questioned Brady, thrown.
‘You’re a hard man to get hold of, Jack,’ continued the dispassionate voice.
‘With all due respect, sir, I’m not expected back until Monday.’
He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken them. Gates wasn’t the kind of man that you wanted as an enemy.
‘You have half an hour to get it together.’
‘But …’ he objected.
‘I’ll have a car waiting for you. Make sure you’re ready,’ Gates ordered, leaving him no choice.
