Trapped – Final Part, A Short Story

When a man is challenged to a fight at a party, he chooses to walk away. But the evening throws up consequences no one could envisage:

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Trapped!  Ending (750 words)

You wake up in hospital. The police came soon after your mate Simon alerted them and found you lying on the ground.  The gorgeous woman had fled and the door was unlocked, so they didn’t need to force entry.  
So what exactly happened during those few days of madness?
Once you recovered, you gave a police statement.  The case went to trial and a judge ordered a Hospital Order.
That’s when you discovered a little more about the events of those few days following the party.

First, the gorgeous woman had recently left psychiatric care and was staying with an aunt who lives close to your flat. The aunt herself had psychological issues and didn’t take much notice of her niece’s behaviour.  The gorgeous woman and her aunt had a considerable stash of psychiatric drugs, including potent sedatives and hypnotics. In fact, a couple of years earlier, an investigation officer had questioned the gorgeous woman following allegations that she’d slipped a powerful sedating liquid into a friend’s drinks, but the police could not prove it.
The gorgeous woman had spent time under a supervision order as a result of embarking on several obsessive stalking campaigns, the last one revolving around her boyfriend once he finished with her (apparently, he’d found her behaviour unpredictable and frightening and felt he must terminate the relationship for his own safe and sake of mind).
On the night of the party, the gorgeous woman went online and discovered her ex-boyfriend had started a new relationship.  She headed to the local pub (about five minutes from your flat) where she began plotting how to create chaos and despair for her ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend.  In the pub, she met a bloke who clearly wanted to get her into bed. She went back to his place, but he quickly fell asleep drunk and snoring and she decided he was of little use to her.
During the time between leaving this man’s flat and arriving by the alleyway leading to your flat, a fight broke out off the High Road among a group of men, leading to one bloke punching another and knocking him unconscious (this man later died, as the woman described that Sunday afternoon in your flat).
When the gorgeous woman met you, she told you her boyfriend had just kicked her out and had nowhere to go  (as you remembered correctly).  You invited her in, and at some point, it appears you got a tipsy and told her about the party you’d gone to earlier, including how a drunken bloke had provoked everyone and tried to start a fight with you.  
The police think she decided to use this information to trick you or even blackmail you into helping her get revenge on her ex-boyfriend and his new-girlfriend.  Once she made the decision, she slipped something into your drink and reinvented the story of the fight she had just witnessed, making out that the provocative bloke from Simon’s party had challenged you to a fight on the High Road and that you’d killed him in self-defence.    
 At first, she probably believed she’d convinced you.  She finally turned on you, though, and injected you with a sedative before fleeing the scene. Somehow, it seems, she sensed you no longer believed her. Perhaps this occurred when you requested eggs and toast when the previous day the sight of eggs had nearly caused you to throw up. Whatever the case, she tricked you into going into the bathroom to change into a fresh set of clothes, waited for you to come out, then thrust the syringe into you, rendering you powerless until the police found you.

Anyway, you made it. You survived.  You’re back at work.  
It’s spring now and one of your mates has invited you to a barbecue.  It’s a beautiful sunny day and loads of people have come.  You feel really happy.  Yeah, life’s brilliant.
And then you see him.
The bloke from the party a few months earlier. The drunken bloke that provoked you at Simon’s and likened you to a dog.  Long hair, weird earrings.  
He’s come to the barbecue too.
So you avoid him and laugh it off. What a loser.  
But later, after a few drinks, he comes over and extends his hand.
‘Simon’s told me what happened.  Mate, I’m so sorry. I was out of order that night. I never meant to cause so much trouble. I feel really terrible about it. Will you accept my apology?’
What do you do?

The END    

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Trapped! Final Crisis – A Short Story

When a man is challenged to a fight at a party, he chooses to walk away. But the evening throws up consequences no one could envisage:

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Trapped!  the final crisis ( 800 words)

You wake up late on Tuesday morning, groggy and disorientated. For a long time, you remain on the sofa bed, still and silent as you catch your thoughts and weigh up the situation.
‘What happened yesterday?’ you say, finally.
‘Yesterday?’  The gorgeous woman says. ‘I didn’t know you were awake.’ As usual, she’s sitting at the table, smiling as she texts away.  ‘Are you feeling better?  A bit sleepy, I expect. Those painkillers are potent, aren’t they?’  
‘Which painkillers?’
‘The tablets you were prescribed by the doctor.  Don’t you remember?’
‘When did I see a doctor?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. We took a taxi to the walk-in at Finchley Memorial. They wanted to send you for a brain scan, but you refused, so they gave you some potent painkillers and told you to contact your GP as soon as possible. You probably shouldn’t take any more tablets unless you really need to.’
‘I don’t remember going to a walk-in.’
‘Precisely. The tablets made you drowsy and you forgot about it. I wouldn’t worry too much. The side effects will wear off in a couple of days.  By the way, the friend I was telling you about is coming over this evening instead. I had to cancel last night, as there’s no way you would have been up for it.’
‘Right.’
‘Why don’t I make us a bit of brunch? You haven’t eaten since Sunday morning. You need protein.’
‘Okay,’ you say, to buy yourself some time.  
You finally accept the truth. The full truth, not part of the truth. The gorgeous woman’s lied all along. You didn’t take a taxi to a walk-in yesterday. You didn’t accept a prescription for painkillers. You didn’t kill a bloke in the early hours of Sunday morning. You fell for the woman’s story because you fancied her and wanted to play the hero by offering her safety from her abusive boyfriend.  Or so-called boyfriend who probably doesn’t exist.
You must find a way out of the situation.  Now.
And the tiredness?  The dizziness?  The amnesia?   She must have slipped drugs into your drinks over the last few days.  
You have to escape from a woman as unstable as this.
Only problem, you need to take a couple of steep flights of stairs down to the ground floor in order to exit the building and summon help, and you’re way too heady and giddy for the stairs.
‘Are there any eggs left?’ you say.
‘An unopened box in the fridge, I believe.’
‘Any chance you could you do boiled?’ you say, knowing that these take the longest to prepare. ‘I’m pretty famished.’
‘Certainly. Would you like toast as well?’
‘Thanks.’
Lying back on the sofa bed, you snuggle deep under the duvet so that you can use your phone without the gorgeous woman seeing.  You intend to text for help. But before you can do that, a news headlines flashes up on the screen, along with a photograph of the woman.
ANXIETIES GROW AS POLICE CONTINUE SEARCH FOR MISSING WOMAN
The photograph.  It’s her, definitely.  
You scan read the article, enough to get the gist. The woman recently left psychiatric care and should not be approached, although the article doesn’t give a reason why people should avoid her.
You text Simon with the woman’s name, saying you’re in an emergency and in danger. You ask him to contact the police immediately, as the woman would hear you phone the emergency services.  As an afterthought, you forward the text to another mate.
You get out of bed, fighting the urge to topple over.  You intend to grab your keys and leave the building best you can, but when you look at the door you realise that your keys are no longer in the lock.
So where are they?
In the gorgeous woman’s handbag, most probably.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she says from the kitchen area. ‘But you’ve been wearing those same clothes for three days.  Would it offend you if I asked you to freshen up in the bathroom?’
‘It’s fine’
‘That’s very reasonable of you.’ She turns the pan on the stove down and wanders over to the wardrobe to select a jumper, trousers, underwear and socks. ‘Okay? Take your time, and brunch will be ready soon.’

So you head to the bathroom. A good start.   Complicity seems the best option. Pretend to go along with the woman, fool her, and find your keys.  
Plus, the police will arrive soon.
After a struggle to retain your balance, you manage to change into fresh clothes, and you step back into the main area of the flat, hoping to retrieve your keys from the woman’s handbag.
‘Looking for something?’ a voice says behind you.  
You feel something like a needle pierce your skin and everything blackens. And just before you lose consciousness, you catch a glimpse of the gorgeous woman.  
She looks furious.
‘I don’t like being betrayed,’ she says.
And that’s the last you know for a while.

Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

Trapped! Part 4 – A Short Story

When a man is challenged to a fight at a party, he chooses to walk away. But the evening throws up consequences no one could envisage:

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You come to late on Monday morning with a vice-like headache and a metallic taste in your mouth. The gorgeous woman’s sitting at your table, smiling as she texts on her phone.
‘You’re awake,’ she says.      
‘Yeah,’ you mutter.
‘You don’t look well at all. We might have to consider finding a walk-in clinic if there’s no improvement by tomorrow. I’ll need to do a bit of legal research, though. It could be that we don’t have to disclose the reason for the blow to the head if you are not presenting as an emergency.’
That’s when memories of yesterday trickle back. The party on Saturday night. The bloke that wanted a fight. Waking up on Sunday to find a stranger in your flat. The news that you punched the bloke hard enough to cause a fatal injury. The uneasy notion that the gorgeous woman might have lied to you.  After all, she went out last night, didn’t she?  She left the flat, despite telling you that you had concussion and needed a person present at all times.    
‘Where did you go last night?’ you say.  
‘My flatmate got locked out, so I hurried back to let her in. I’m really sorry about that. I assumed you were asleep. It only took me a few minutes. I had no choice but to go back and let her in. It was raining heavily.’
‘Yeah, of course,’ you say, observing her carefully.  There’s no hint of hesitation on her part.
‘Remember the friend I was telling you about yesterday? I helped her out of a major crisis a couple of years ago?  She’s been grateful ever since.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘She’ll be here about around half seven this evening. We can discuss a cover story then.’

The gorgeous woman has prepared a cooked breakfast, but you can’t eat. The sight of poached eggs makes you gag and you stagger to the toilet to throw up, although nothing comes out. You can barely stand, so you spend a good ten minutes sitting on the toilet seat, wishing you’d stayed asleep.
‘I need to get checked out,’ you say, once you’ve finished in the bathroom.
‘I agree,’ she says. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t call for medical help straight away.  Obviously, I was worried about the hospital alerting the police, which they would have had to do. But you’re right. We’ll get a taxi to a walk-in.’  

The gorgeous woman’s online, trying to locate a walk-in with the least waiting time. You sip black tea to settle your stomach, and look at your texts. Your mate Simon has sent you another text, asking about the text you sent him last night?  Were you concerned about the food poisoning?  Or did something else occur?  He seems perplexed.
You start to compose another text but you don’t know what to tell him. After all, the local news headlines yesterday confirmed that a man died in a fight on the High Road in the early hours of Sunday morning.  And if you really did kill the bloke from the party, you face a prison sentence. You mustn’t say anything to Simon in that case. How can he help you, anyway?
Without warning, your mind travels back to a couple of nights ago after the party. You see the gorgeous woman approach you from the alleyway near your flat, tearful but stunningly beautiful. She tells you she has nowhere to go, no money. Her boyfriend has thrown her out.  She’s scared, she says. Her boyfriend’s got a temper.  So you let her into your flat.
Startled, you take a sip of tea.  
More missing information returns… this time, she’s sitting at the table in your flat during the early hours of Sunday morning. You’re both laughing over a bottle of wine. You don’t normally drink wine, but someone gave you a bottle as a token of appreciation for helping them move home last month. Presumably, you opened the bottle of wine after you invited the gorgeous woman into your flat.    
Wait.  If that’s the case and these flashbacks reflect what actually happened, you can’t have killed the bloke.  You’re innocent.
Which means the gorgeous women’s lied to you from the start.
She turns now and smiles at you. The smile is benign, yet it contains sinister undercurrents.  She knows that you know.
‘Poor Harry,’ she says. ‘You don’t look very well at all.’
Your eyes are getting heavy again and you feel dizzy. You start to sway on the sofa bed before blackness swoops, swallowing you up like it did before.  

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Silent, The Car Journey

The story should, hopefully, be self-explanatory from the content.

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Two Years Earlier, Lucy

‘What would you like to do?’ Arthur Harlesden said. ‘Coffee and a bite to eat at the Service Station.’

‘Suppose so.’

Arthur started the engine and drove away into the night, past a gift shop and a mobile phone store and a guest house opposite a pub by a set of lights. He took the road further inland, by fields and rows of tiny aerials that resembled baby bulbs.  She vaguely remembered these from ten years ago. ‘I was sorry to hear about Lily,’ she said, to break the silence.

‘Thank you,’ Arthur said. ‘Three years ago it was, my Lily’s passing. A young woman too, relatively speaking.  She’d only just turned seventy. That’s no age these days.’  A pause. Then:  ‘She was very fond of you, my Lily was. We both were.’

‘Thank you,’she said, avoiding eye contact. They lapsed into silence again. Outside, the rain continued splattering against concrete. Arthur flicked on the car radio. Classic FM. Piano and violin fading away. She searched her mind for any memories of the elusive Lily Harlesden, but they refused to come. Lily Harlesden might well have never existed. It was scary not to remember a woman who’d taken on a grandmotherly role, a key figure for a child. She wondered, as she often had over the years, if the fire had caused damage to her memory. If so, did she really want the memories back?  Something terrifying might be waiting. Like a man wearing a balaclava, slowly turning into Dad.

‘Did you know I’d returned?’ she said.

‘No, apart from thinking I recognised you from somewhere when you served me dinner at the House. Other than that, I had absolutely no idea that you were back in the area. Why the mystery?  It’s a delight to see you.  I’ve often thought about you and wondered how you were doing.’

She stared out of the passenger window, watching the fields and the sea disappear, along with the final embers of sunset. The fading scenery made her sad, reminding her of another occasion when she and Dad had stood  on a different coast, watching the evening slip away, neither speaking, Dad subdued, sighing.

Arthur took a right and they passed a windmill, prompting another short tug of memory. The windmill with its associations of flour and bread and a dairy close by. How could she have forgotten the windmill?  She was in a different car, a two-door vehicle with seats warm from the sun, Dad driving, Mum in the front passenger seat, and they’d just driven past the same windmill after stopping off at a café for lunch. She was sitting in the back of that car with her face glued to the window, conscious of the tension in the front.  Mum and Dad silent, taut…an atmosphere, a violin string tightening and tightening until it finally snapped. That had happened to Dad sometimes…his neck tightening, a warning of growing anger.  

‘None of my adoptive family know I’m here,’ she blurted out to Arthur. ‘My adoptive parents think I’m on a walking holiday with a group of friends. But I’m not a runaway, you know. I’ve got somewhere to stay and a job.’

Silent, The Party At Night (2)

The story should, hopefully, be self-explanatory from the content.

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Two Year Earlier, Gavin

Later, Philippa fumbled around in her bag for a half bottle of vodka. I jerked my head to the side, indicating that I needed to talk to her. She followed me to the railing overlooking the sea, a glazed smile on her face.

‘What’s going on?’ I said

‘You’ve already asked me that.’

‘Do you know Steve and his brother?’

‘Not before today. Steve and his mate Jace got talking to me this afternoon and they invited me to the party.’

‘But Steve and Jace aren’t even here.’

‘I’m not responsible for that,’ Philippa said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’ve just got us into an argument with Terence Harlesden’s son.’

‘So? He’s an idiot.’

‘I don’t understand why you invited me to the party.’

‘Relax. Scott’s not going to say anything.  He hardly speaks to his father and he doesn’t get on with his brother.’

‘Whatever. The whole thing seems totally weird.’

‘What does?’

‘Everything.  All this stuff about the fire.  Why was Scott so upset just then?’

‘He’s drunk.’

Philippa turned back to look at the kids, then faced me again. Dropping her voice, she said, ‘It’s very complicated. His parents split up and he doesn’t get on with Terence. I should have warned you about it. Look, there’s a lot I can’t tell you at the moment.’

‘So you do know Steve and his brother then.’

‘Never met them or Jace before today.  But I know a lot about the fire. It’s on the Internet for everyone to see. And I have my connections, as you already know.’

‘You’re seventeen, Philippa. Same as me.’

‘And?’

‘Well, seventeen’s a bit young for powerful connections, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘I’m resourceful.’

‘Are you really seventeen?’

‘Course I am.’

‘What type of connections do you have?’

‘I can’t tell you that yet.  Trust me. Everything will become clear in a day or two. Lets go back to the party now.’

We returned to the fairground, my questions unanswered.  But since my main concern was a relationship with Philippa, I decided to let the questions go for now.

Silent, The Party At Night

The story should, hopefully, be self-explanatory from the content.

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Two Years Earlier, Gavin

The guys in army clothing, Jace and his mate Steve, didn’t turn up, and no one seemed to know where they were. Kids still at school milled around, knocking back vodka and cider, criticising everyone over the age of twenty-one. They didn’t say much to Philippa or me at first. Just looked us up and down, as if we were teachers or something. They all spoke with accents. Mild Scouse, with Innit and Bro added.  

‘Hey,’ this kid in a hoodie shouted, sounding drunk. He was about fourteen, fifteen. Rusty freckles, bloodshot eyes. ‘I used to live at Lyme House in the flat that burnt down ten years ago.’
He said this twice. The second time, I realised he was speaking to Philippa and me. ‘My granddad’s Arthur Harlesden, former Mayor of Blackpool,’ he went on.  ‘I used to live in the flat when I was small and he used to come and visit us all the time.’

‘Seriously?’  I said.    

‘I’m Steve’s brother. My name’s Scott.’

‘Oh, right, I said.  Like, what’s going on?  Why is Arthur Harlesden’s grandson here?  How does this tie in with Steve?  ‘So Terence Harlesden’s your dad then?’

‘Might be,’ the kid said, sulkily.  ‘What’s it to you?’

I felt Philippa kick my foot.  Quiet, she mouthed. I was pretty hammered, but not hammered enough to miss the warning in Philippa’s expression.  The whole thing seemed really weird, just like earlier when Arthur Harlesden entered the dining room at the House and stared directly at Philippa who turned away.

‘Steve’s two years older than me,’ the boy was saying. ‘I’ve got a little brother as well.  Pete. He’s nine. Jace is our Steve’s best mate. He’s cool. Everyone wants to hang out with him.’

The boy continued. Yawning, I switched off and took another swig of cider. I began to regret drinking so much, since just after dinner. The stuff was messing with my head. I could see patterns and faces, eyes blinking back at me. Thoughts not my own popping into my head in the same way that sounds do. Again, I saw her. The girl by the railings, the waitress from Lyme House.  Pale, tragic face. About to jump into the waves.  No, I must stop her. Don’t jump!

Startled, I opened my eyes. Steve’s brother Scott kept nudging me with his foot. He grinned. ‘All right, mate? Are you listening to this? I was telling your girlfriend here about the girl from Lyme House who should have died but didn’t.’

Girlfriend!  I expected Philippa to deny this, but she didnt. ‘Lucy Harlesden,’ the boy Scott went on.  ‘She’s my third cousin, me mum reckons. Her parents moved to the flat after we left. Her dad taught violin at the school and was deputy principal. Mum reckons he paid a couple of men to burn the flat down when the rest of the school were on holiday.’

‘Why would he do that?’ I said.

‘Dunno,’ Scott said. ‘Mum reckons some people are evil.’

‘I think your mum should get her facts straight,’ Philippa cut in. ‘Lucy’s father wasn’t responsible for the fire. Someone…’

‘Everyone knows it was the dad, Douglas Harlesden, ‘ Scott interrupted. ‘He was a nutter who killed his wife.’

‘There’s no evidence he did anything actually,’ Philippa said. ‘And I don’t think he was that bad at all. You just stop saying nasty things about Douglas Harlesden. You can’t have been more than about four or five at the time – so how would you know what really happened?’

Scott’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘I know because we used to live there and my mum met him once or twice. She reckons he was evil. What’s it to you anyway? You’re stuck up and weird. I’m going to tell my brother Steve you’re causing trouble.’

‘Go ahead,’ Philippa said.

Scott turned to me: ‘Got a cigarette on you? I’ve run out.’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Freak,’ he said, and turned his back on us.

Silent, The Meeting At Night

The story should, hopefully, be self-explanatory from the content.

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Two Years Earlier, Lucy

She continued waiting, moving about to keep herself from getting cold. The waves danced to and fro, causing vibrations to pass through the pier-structure. They reminded her of glockenspiels and of the lonely corridors of the former Prep School for musicians.  The Ogre had run the School like a convent.  

A sound distracted her. A thud.  The main door of the Theatre opening, then shutting. A man stepped out, wearing a suit and an overcoat, his silhouette illuminated from the outside theatre lighting. The man opened up an umbrella and peered in the distance, as if searching for someone.

Arthur Harlesden.

She started after him.  

Caught up. ‘Arthur?’

He stopped, stared intently at her. ‘Didn’t I see you earlier at the House?’

‘You did. I need to talk to you.’

‘Do you?’

‘It’s really important.’

Arthur went pale. ‘Oh, my goodness.  I know you.  Lucy Harlesden – isn’t it?  Douglas and Margaret’s daughter.  I thought there was something familiar about you at dinner, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  What on earth are you doing here?’

Silent, The Pier At Night

The story should, hopefully, be self-explanatory from the content.

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Two Years Earlier, Gavin

Free wine after the concert. Lots of it. Later, Philippa and I headed off to Jace’s party, stepping into the drizzle and a strong smell of cigarette smoke. The sun had nearly disappeared, leaving a dazzling glow that hurt my eyes. I heard shouting and laughter in the distance. A gust blew at us.

‘It’s meant to be summer and it’s freezing,’ I said. ‘Where’s the party?’

‘The abandoned fairground.’

‘In this weather?’

‘Jace won’t cancel.’

‘How do you know that?  Do you know him?’

‘No,’ Philippa said. ‘He and his mate Steve got chatting to me earlier and he invited me and whoever else I wanted to bring to his party. I’d never met him before today.’

‘Oh, right. Well, let’s hurry then.’  I could hardly stand straight from all the drinking I’d done. The music from the performance kept rushing about in my head, particular phrases echoing, making me sad.

Philippa nudged me. ‘Don’t make it obvious, but that girl over there by the railings. She works at the House.’

‘Which girl?’

‘She served us dinner earlier. Over there.’

Part of the way down, a figure stood alone, leaning against the railing. As we got closer, I noticed her skin was surprisingly pale in the fading daylight. Ghostlike.  I recognised her: one of the waitresses from Lyme House. Honey-blonde hair.

The tide was in, swirling around at the bottom of the pier structure, a dangerous turbulent colour. A girl standing by the railings in a drizzle, staring blankly at the water. There were buoys and emergency notices nearby.  ‘Maybe we should go over,’ I said.

‘She seems fine to me.’

‘I’m not sure she is. I think we should go and check on her.’

‘I disagree. Best not to get involved.’

‘I’m going over.’

I doubt the girl could hear us, but whatever. She glanced over at us suddenly, and I detected the type of stuff going around in her head, even from a distance. You know the sort of feeling? Peering in a mirror and seeing your own state of mind reflected.

Philippa marched on, her long inky hair blowing in the wind. I caught up. ‘Look, I’m going over,’ I said. ‘Just to make sure she’s okay.’

‘I’ll wait here for you then.’

So I went on my own, but when I got there, the girl had gone. Just like that. A ghost vanishing into the night without a trace.  

***
LUCY

She worked her way through half a pack of cigarettes while she waited for Arthur Harlesden to come out of the Theatre, struggling to keep them going in the rain.  After a while, she saw a couple of students from Lyme House walking towards the former fairground.  She’d served them earlier at the evening shift. A girl with long black hair, dressed entirely in black, and a lad, chunky build, thick raven hair. They were walking towards the old fairground when they stopped and stared at her. She found that irritating.  The next time they turned to gape, she slipped away, hiding behind one of the disused vendor booths.

And then, the lad came to talk her. What did he want?

She kept silent, and he left, clearly puzzled over the way she’d managed to make herself invisible.  

Silent, The Desolate Evening

The story should, hopefully, be self-explanatory from the content.

Two Years Earlier, Lucy

She wished she’d put on better clothing instead of rushing off like that. The weather had changed. Overheard, clouds had gathered, casting shadows along the private driveway. She hurried. As a child, she’d disliked the driveway, viewing it as long and lonely, a pathway to nowhere. The tall hedges and bushes blocked out the evening light, producing a dim hue and a chill, despite the clammy atmosphere.  

She quickened her speed, thinking of earlier and the disturbance in her room and the sense of someone watching in the field.  The Ogre, obviously. She reached the country lane leading into town. Ahead lay rows of fields with picnic tables and a golf course. The rain shelled her, like pellets. Halfway along the lane, she came to a village.

The village church, surrounded by headstones and a gate. She remembered the church from ten years ago, although she’d never gone inside, as Dad hadn’t liked religion. For a few moments, she was a little girl again and Mum and Dad were there, smiling at her. Dad, indulgent, with flushed cheeks, slightly overweight in later years; Mum an older copy of herself, light skinned and auburn blonde.

Brushing aside the memory, she took shelter in the church porch and fidgeted with her phone. The downpour deepened. She sent another brief text to Ash.  He was off to a party, he’d texted earlier. She still hadn’t told him about the Ogre’s return.  

After a while, she set off again, sprinting the remainder of the way, over the main road and through the High Street, dodging a group of kids jumping up and down on the benches. Soaked, she continued on past the Tourist Information Centre and down the shore path, up the steps to the promenade, aware that she looked a mess.

This awful town.  Cold and windy and wet. Dirty and grey with the pier stretching out into the water.  She disliked the place. Lyme House had isolated her from real mum and dad. It had made Dad too busy to spend time with her and Mum too preoccupied with loneliness to notice. Now, ten years on, she saw it all again, how it had been back then…tagging along behind Mum and Dad on an empty pier in the rain on a Bank Holiday Monday, past an ice cream sign that had blown over, conscious of Mum and Dad’s unhappiness and the rough waves.  A new start, Dad had promised before their move here.  But all along, Dad had planned to leave them. The police had discovered that later, and her adoptive family had never forgiven Dad.

And then, that woman again.  The woman with the long, dark hair from the music room in the flat where Mum and Dad had lived. A stunningly beautiful woman like a celebrity, playing a game with Dad. Touching one another, giggling. The woman and Mum seated opposite each other at the dinner table, but at some point, Mum had got up abruptly and left the room.  And after that?  No one knew.  

Tonight, the wind smelt of sea, fresh and salty, with an oily touch in the air. The promenade walkway was damp from the weather. Sand and mud and cigarette butts littered the path. A large group of school kids in hoodies stood outside the amusement arcade, laughing and stuffing their faces with chips. She kept her eyes on the ground when she passed them, sensing their collective gaze.

The rain slowed to a trickle. She sat on a bench near the railings and continued waiting for Arthur Harlesden, eyes fixed on the water and the Grand Theatre further along.  She had things to discuss with him, questions her adoptive parents had refused to answer, like Dad’s final phone call to Arthur twenty minutes before the fire.  

She felt her mobile quiver in her bag.  Boyfriend Ashleigh responding to her text. Good. She reached in the bag for the phone, took it out.

Not Ash.

Private Caller.  Probably, Ash calling from a mate’s phone and withholding the number. Having a bit of a laugh with her. Sometimes, he’d ring and get Bruce to bark down the phone.  

She answered the call.

No one spoke. ‘Ash?’  

Silence.

The caller rang off.

She was about to ring Ash back.  Hesitated. She shivered and got up, aware of an unusual sensation.  Someone watching her.  Just like earlier in the field a few minutes before discovering that the Ogre had rummaged through her travel bag. She could feel it again.

She looked round.  Nothing, apart from the sea and the rain and the outline of the Grand Theatre and the kids further up the promenade, shouting, laughing and screaming.

Silent, The Old Flat

The story should, hopefully, be self-explanatory from the content.

Two Years Earlier, Lucy

The House was silent now, her duties over for the evening. The people had gone. On the first floor, she peered down the narrow corridors, listening out for sounds just in case –  although it didn’t really matter, as everyone would find out who she was at the final concert three weeks from now.  She would have Ash and Maxine with her then. Which reminded her. She ought to text Maxine and tell her about the Ogre’s return.  She hadn’t done that yet. Something was stopping her from revealing this latest information to Maxine.  It was too raw. Agnes represented a lot more than a stern unfriendly teacher from the past. The Ogre represented all the other stuff.  Mum and Dad. Some things were off limits – even to Maxine.

Lyme House. A museum, dead.  The smell of varnish. The empty rooms looked identical. Once, the House had teemed with music but rarely laughter as the Ogre had insisted on discipline all the time, not fun. The paintwork had changed since then, creating a darker, more claustrophobic, atmosphere.

Ten years ago, she’d stayed in the flat directly under the corridor, just before the fire that killed Mum and Dad.  The flat had faced both sides, back and front. The lonely evenings. Some men have drinking buddies.  Dad had his String Quartet. It was the same thing, really. They used to rehearse in the main music studio at the front of the flat most evenings while Mum grew increasingly preoccupied with Distant Learning, perched at the old computer in the front of the flat night after night. The Quartet members had all been heavy smokers, like Dad, and the cigarette smoke had seeped into the living area of the flat, clinging to the furniture and ceiling.  A silent corridor had stood between the recording area and the living quarters, a symbol of the growing silence between Mum and Dad.  Usually, Dad had returned late from rehearsals, even though the rehearsals had often taken place in the flat.

She came to the plaque on the wall, placed there by Arthur Harlesden in memory of Mum and Dad. According to the police and the locals, Arthur’s son Terence had saved her life and tried to save the lives of her parents.  At least, that’s what people said, but she had no memory of her rescuers. It didn’t trouble her exactly. More, the figure she’d seen that night, watching in a balaclava.  

She spent a few moments by the plaque before continuing along the corridor.  She reached a fire exit put in since the fire. The new fire door threw her, bringing it back to her after all this time. Bannisters, old-fashioned ones that had smelt of varnish, matching the smell in the corridors shed just walked along.  The bannisters, brown like cough syrup, had led from here to Dad’s recording studio in the downstairs flat. Tiles, no carpet. Mum and Dad had disliked carpets. A large rectangular room with a grand piano and recording equipment and chairs arranged in a semi-circle, along with music racks and metronomes. Overflowing ashtrays, a half bottle of brandy.

The memory came from nowhere…first, she notices the giggling, a sound like tinkling china. She enters Dad’s music room and sees Dad and a woman with long dark hair playing a game…touching, laughing.  Teasing.  When Dad sees her, he tenses and frowns. Very, very angry.  She’s disobeyed him again by coming in when he’s asked her not to.  The woman looks at her briefly and then at Dad, who’s still frowning.  She runs back to her bedroom, through the silent corridor that separates the back from the front, and creeps into bed, lying on her side, breathing slowly, pushing her thoughts away.  

The memory vanished. And then, the next one started…Mum and Dad at the dinner table in the old flat…Mum silent, hands trembling, the woman sitting opposite Mum.  Dinner a night or two before the fire.  Mum must have suspected that Dad was having an affair. Better get out of here.

She turned to go and left the House, setting off for the pier on foot.  She intended to speak to Arthur Harlesden after the concert at the Grand Theatre, to take him by surprise.