Waiting for Sarah.

Larry picked at his grubby fingernails. Using the blade of a rusty penknife he plucked out small lumps of caked black dirt, flicking them onto the floor of his battered Volkswagen Crafter van.

She knew too much and had to be dealt with.

The left thumb was proving to be a tricky one. He had caught his nail it on the lining of his weathered green army Parka jacket earlier. Not wasting time, he subsequently chewed it off and filed it by rubbing the tip swiftly over his black corduroy pants.

Wiping the knife, he finally caught a glimpse of Sarah leaving her workplace.

I have a lot to do this evening. Pick up the dry cleaning and do a food shop on the way home. Chicken and roasted vegetables for dinner sounds good. Then make calls to some friends in the force. Maybe there will be some fresh leads on this murder hunt.

She descended the steps from the red sandstone building in such blurring quick movement. Sarah paused to do something on her phone. Larry started the engine of his white van. He checked that his electrical numberplate changer was working. He followed stealthily, not getting too close. The alleyway beyond the north end of the park would be where he would make his move.

I turn on music - Calvin Harris beats fill my ears and tune out the day. A smell of pine trees and a warm autumnal breeze invade my nostrils - a complete contrast to the frustration I seemed to encounter all day. This investigation is going nowhere - fast.

She walked gracefully as always, pointing her toes like a ballerina, moving effortlessly. Her slight, slim frame could be blown along by a strong wind. Larry had watched her for the past few days and knew her ritual. This would have to be timed right down to the millisecond.

Her long red hair billowed behind her as she moved along the tree-lined path that framed the exterior of the city park. The contrast of her hair and her bright canary yellow coat made her stand out against the more earthy colours of the oak trees and dark railings.

The song Summer was interrupted by an incoming call. The tone on the opposite end of the phone was terse and forthright. The instructions from the Detective Garda were clear and simple. 

Sit down and stay put. We're coming to you.

She walked down past the eastern side elf the park and entered the pedestrian entrance. This wasn't her normal habit. He had to pull up and park, watching her from a distance.


Her routine had been broken by a phone call. Her expression changed dramatically. She began to look around, doing a full 360 degree turn.

Her multi - coloured spin reminded Larry of Wonder Woman.

Except this girl wasn't anyone special - she was just a cheap journalist bitch.

And she had seen Larry's face. And she would pay.

I was now shitting myself. How would this evil bastard know who I was? Was it the story that flushed him out? Or was the Detective over-reacting? 

How did he know what I looked like?

Sarah sat down but then got up from the park bench.  Confused, she sat back down again. Her gaze darted to and fro, watching anyone that approached her with suspicion. Larry had to act swiftly.

How long would they be? I knew that in the city I wouldn't be too far away from a copper, but what would I do if they didn't get here in time? 

I searched my handbag for anything that resembled a weapon. My apartment keys were the best option, as I slipped them in between my fingers with the metal prong protruding.

She was spooked, rummaging around her handbag.

If the murder hunt was stalling, well I definitely had a new lead! If this Detective was correct, he was coming for me. 

I was number four.

Larry donned the uniform, hat and pulled on a hi-viz jacket before closing the side door of the van. He walked at an even pace and entered the park at the same point Sarah had. She was just metres away.

Thank God they're here! A lone Garda approaches me with his hands upturned, indicating calm down. His dirty hands register with me, but don't distract me fully.

I feel anything but calm. I say nothing but exhale loudly. The last few minutes have been anything but normal.

She suspects nothing. She trusts the uniform, silly bitch.

"Sarah, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. You were quicker than I expected." 

He takes me by the elbow, leading me toward the street and a parked white van.

"My colleague had told me where you'd be - and what you'd be wearing."

His grip is firmer than I first imagined and I can feel him near lifting me. I know this is wrong - his hands, the information he divulged - but he is very strong.

Out of the corner of my eye I see another two Gardai running toward us. 

With guns raised. 

My stomach sinks. Oh shit.

Time to go Sarah. Time to go.

Bright Pink Knickers.

My eyes struggle to open.  Sleep is caked at the corners, preventing light getting through. A dullness seeps through me.

I hear the sound of a repetitive monotone bleep before my eyes adjust fully. They focus on a small TV screen about ten feet away.  The colour pink flashes behind my eyes as I close them once again.

The next time I wake my throat is on fire. My movements are stunted as I try to wriggle my fingers. They respond as the rest of my body remains motionless.

As I clack my dry mouth open, I feel movement beside me. My wife’s face comes into view. She is speaking to me frantically, but I am not quite hearing her. 

I can see her lips moving and I notice how beautiful she looks. Despite the puffy cheeks and dark circles. A thought pops into my head - why does she look knackered? I smile at the word and how funny it sounds in my head.

Water is brought to my lips. I sip through a straw, being very aware of how the plastic feels against my tongue. I don’t know if five seconds or five hours pass, but the next thing I know is that several people are in the room. The room is too bright for me as I drift off again.

As I wake once more, I am far more alert to my senses, yet still a bit ropey. There is no hazy or almost surreal feeling like before. But everything moves as if in slow motion. And the next thought that pops into my head - women’s knickers?

Things start clicking into place. I am far more in control of my body and voice, and am starting to feel the pain from my two splintered and shattered legs. I know that I am paralysed from the waist down – long before any man in a white coat confirms it. 

I have come to terms with it – my flying career is over. 

I will never be a commercial pilot again.

On the fourth day, I am up to seeing visitors and investigating officers. The doctors don’t want me to be over exerted. 

Flashes of moments in time start coming back to me.

It was the end of a long day. We were about nine hours into our duty. 

Hurry up and wait was the theme of the day. 

Pressures were being applied by ATC and our own company to maintain the schedule.

That's where the slow motion starts.

Tim got up to use the restroom from the left seat and I strapped in. 

Thank God I did.

Out of nowhere, we hit a large pocket of clear air turbulence.

Tim’s body hit the underside of the overhead control panel, flopping him down hard.

Blood oozes from his head. I can see a diamond shaped gash.

Haley has survived the initial pocket in the forward galley. I heard her hitting the floor. 

I contact Haley through the interphone and buzz her in.

She screams at seeing Tim’s limp body on the controls, after I have contacted ATC and appraised them of our situation.

I calm her down and advise her to strap into the third seat.

Then pocket number two catches us by surprise.

Tim is a heavy, dead weight missile in the cockpit - flapping left and right.

His right arm hits me square in the left temple.

No one is flying the plane. 

I am conscious but unresponsive.

ATC keeps hailing me.

Flashing lights, sirens and horns are lighting up the control panels like a Christmas tree in suburbia.

I notice how pretty they look.

I hear a loud, bone-chilling shriek behind me.

I turn my head to see blood spattered all over my left shoulder epaulet. The deep red colour contrasts starkly against my white shirt.

Perfect shaped circles of spattered blood.

The sweet smell of sweat fills my nostrils.

Then I see Haley with her blood stained uniform standing in the gap in front of the locked cockpit door.

My first thought is “what is she doing out of the third seat?”

She is freaking out. Her skirt has risen up, almost to her waist.

Exposing her bright pink - almost luminous, knickers.

A fabulous, yet distracting sight. 

I somehow know I shouldn’t be staring.

Another blood curdling shriek from her brings me out of my reverie.

Thirty two seconds later, I manage to regain some control of the aircraft.

We crash land into a field, just over two miles away from our final destination.

Only for Haley’s knickers – no one would have survived.

A Good Day to Kill. 

The wailing sound of a siren jolted Gordon awake. He glanced quickly at the bright red numbers on his bedside clock. It was twenty minutes before he was due to rise.

For weeks, he was nervously waiting for this day to arrive. The sense of anticipation was nearly palpable. His mouth was bone dry. He guzzled a large gulp of water from the glass beside the clock.

Swinging his tall, lean frame out of the bed he stood up and stretched his body toward the sky. He went through a regular routine of neck and shoulder rolls to loosen out his upper body. He needed to be as limber and flexible as possible.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water several times on his face. Once he had dried his face with a small towel, he made sure to dry up the marble countertop. He then opened a banana that he had left there the previous evening. The day always went well when you prepared properly.

In the cabinet outside the bathroom, he donned his running gear he had laid out piece by piece. He started from the bottom up.

All the lines from the famous brand maker lined up symmetrically up and down his body. That pleased him. He pulled the black balaclava down over his head and fixed it so no part of his face was visible - apart from the eyes.

Having checked and double checked his gear, he chewed on some nuts and seeds. Disposing of one layer of running clothes in a bin along the way would be easy. Picking out the right bin without CCTV coverage was crucial.

Confusion, camouflage and speed would aid his escape. One slip up on his behalf could lead to his arrest. Alleyways and tunnels were his best friend. Sewers were a last resort.

He was already sweating just thinking about it.

Walking into the living room he sat down and studied the routes in and out of the park. He knew the park well, but wanted to absorb everything. Cameras would be monitoring his every move but that's where the excitement lay. The elusive chase. He would be one step ahead of them.

Once Gordon was sure of the route and backup routes to slip and slide into, he sat with his back against the front door. This was his sixth time weeding out the slack jawed imbeciles that congregate and clutter the running lanes of Central Park at the weekend.

With twenty deep breaths relaxing his every core he visualized committing the act. And then he saw himself bobbing and weaving, escaping their clutches.

It was time.

He picked up the map and burned it in an empty metal can. Slipping on latex gloves he removed the slim ultra light blade from it's plastic wrapping and slid it into the scabbard concealed in his left arm sleeve. Placing leather gloves over the latex, he now was ready to step out into the frigid air.

It was time to remove another annoyance. 

  

Search for a Good Samaritan.

He scratched the back of his near bald head as he seemed to scramble his brain for that last number. He exhaled loudly, drawing a blank.

“Pick the winning ones,” I offered.

“If only it were that easy!” he responded.

My ash walking stick made a loud clack against the tiles underfoot as I tried to prop it up against the neighbouring lottery stand. He kindly, quick as a flash, spun around and lifted it from the ground for me.

“Thanks a million son – if I bend down for that I might never get up again! Age is a terrible affliction, don’t you know!”

“Ah sure listen I played football last night myself and I’m creaking in places that I didn’t know I had places!”

“And why would you be aching at your young age?”

“Oh, I’m older than I look, despite the lack of growth on top!”

He smiled a broad mouth of yellowing teeth, yet his eyes were soft and luminescent. They were a deep brown colour, contrasting against his pale complexion. He was a beanpole of a young man, definitely a foot above my miniscule five foot frame.

“Jaysus I can’t remember the last number she always gets me to do! Can you believe that? We’re together twelve years and I do the same numbers for her every week – what the hell is that number?” he pondered.

“Well what numbers have you got?”

“I’ve got 2, 6, 10, 23, and 28 - but can’t remember the last one.”

“Is it a birthday, house number or special date?”

“No, it’s none of those. Jaysus what do I do now? She’ll kill me if I just throw a number in.”

“Can you give her a quick ring? Then that way she can’t blame you.”

“No, unfortunately I can’t – she’s at work.”

“Well you have to pick something. It could be lucky.”

“Jaysus I wouldn’t win an argument. It’d be like my luck to be the actual week where her numbers come up and I have one of them wrong.”

“Oh sure doesn’t everyone dread that scenario? To see your numbers come up when you haven’t had time to do them.”

“I think I saw an article in one of the Sunday papers where this guy was in hospital getting some operation done and couldn’t get out to do his lotto. And then guess what? His fecking numbers came up in the one week he didn’t do them!”

“Ah jaysus, that’d be hell. Talking of not getting a chance to do them – where is the eejit behind this counter to serve us? I’ve a bus to catch at ten to four.”

“Yeah you’re right. There hasn’t been anyone at this counter for some time.”

The large bustling post office was heaving with customers and four staff tended to them in rotation. Another couple waited in line to process their lottery tickets too. We waited another minute or two patiently.

“What time is it there son?” I asked of the young gentleman.

“Eh, it’s twenty minutes to four exactly.”

“Ah I can’t wait much longer – my bus could be early and I can’t afford to miss it. If I don’t catch it I have to wait another hour. And the cold of the evening drives my arthritis wild.”

“Yeah its mad how quickly the evenings are drawing in, isn’t it?”

“Every year passes more rapidly than the last. Make use of your youth, if I can pass on any advice to you.”

“Have you far to travel?”

“Not too far – the next town over. The bus ride takes about half an hour, depending on traffic and how often it stops.”

“Do you know - I might go up and ask them to tend to us. We’ve been waiting here for over ten minutes.”

“I genuinely can’t wait much longer son – I better go as crossing that road to my bus stop with this dodgy hip of mine will take at least five minutes.”

“Are you sure? Do you want a hand?”

“No son – I’m well able to look after myself despite my whingeing. Good luck to you – whatever number you finally decide to pick.”

“Pick a number for me then before you go? Then my wife can’t blame me if I get it wrong. I can blame you – the anonymous stranger.”

“Go for number 13. And my name is Philomena. So you can blame that doddery old woman.”

“Thanks for that Philomena. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck to you. Nice chatting to you too.”

I waddled out of the post office into the main thoroughfare of the shopping centre. People, young and old, stepped around me milling about to their destinations. Everyone seemed to be moving much faster than I. The chilly November wind assaulted my very core as the automatic glass doors opened to the street.

A police officer stood on the opposite side of the road, clapping his hands together for warmth. He smiled warmly as I took my time crossing the black and white pedestrian lines. Traffic waited for me as I scuttled across. From there it was about a hundred yards downhill to my bus stop.

The bus shelter was thronged with young men and they sat on the narrow bench, oblivious to my presence. They played on their phones, unaware of the world around them. Thank god I had my stick to keep me up. I propped my back against the window of a disused shop window for further support.

As I saw my bus approaching at the traffic lights a couple of hundred yards away, I spotted someone familiar jogging across the middle of the busy road. The bus pulled up to the stop as I recognized my friend from the post office. He held out his hand.

“Good luck to you Philomena!” he said, slightly out of breath.

I stood incredulous. What was he handing me?

“What’s this?”

“It’s my good deed for the day. You didn’t get a chance to do the lottery. You never know!”

“You didn’t have to do that!”

But he was gone before I got a chance to finish my sentence.

And that’s why I need to find that Good Samaritan.

Because I owe him half.

Creative Daily Scribe: BIG I, SMALL f. Why didn’t I stop? What emotion o...

Creative Daily Scribe: BIG I, SMALL f.
Why didn’t I stop?
What emotion o...: BIG I , SMALL f. Why didn’t I stop? What emotion on her angelic face assured me that she was okay? What if I had stopped? Would ...

BIG I, SMALL f.

Why didn’t I stop?

What emotion on her angelic face assured me that she was okay? What if I had stopped? Would it really have changed anything? Or was her mind made up?

Would she have told me to “mind my own business”? Or would she have reluctantly accepted a kind ear from a helpful stranger?

And now, because of my selfish inactions, a fourteen year old girl called Eve, killed herself. She was lying on a cold metal table in a sanitary morgue while I sat in my own kitchen, clutching a mug of hot coffee. I wondered why I didn’t take five simple seconds, for a truly troubled teenager.

My indecisiveness pricks my conscience, asking the same questions over and over again. Like a woodpecker chipping away at a tree – my own self-worth is eroding hour by hour.   

Years of training, clinical practice and common sense were absent when needed most. I saw the hopelessness in her face, gait and eyes. But I ignored it, consumed with my own issues.

In that brief moment when I glimpsed Eve’s tearful face, I should have stopped.

I know that now.

Her young enchanting eyes told a tale of desperation. Hers was a story of lost hope and of those who let her down. Her head hung, heavy from the weight of continual disappointment.

It is hard to describe, how you let someone down that you really never met or spoke to. A glance was all I got, but I saw the fear, apprehension and anxiety in her face. And I did nothing about it until it was too late.

I stopped working immediately after informing the Police. I couldn’t face patients or the smarmy idiots I work with. While they said all the right words, I knew they meant none of it. They said they understand my situation and condescendingly state the phrase “we’re all human.”

But I know that some of them may have acted differently. But they weren’t in my position. Self-righteousness oozes from their pores, reveling in my torment.

I know that some of them are now forming papers in their head, about my situation. How can they possibly profit from this sad scenario? Apart from my boss, most of my workmates are vultures. They bicker about everything and would clamber over each other just to get ahead.

The hateful cynicism I have towards them courses through me. They are not worried about Eve’s parents or the mental wellbeing of the idiot who passed the poor fourteen year old – just before she jumped from a bridge to her death.

Our lives are short. That’s one thing that I will take away from this mess. The biggest thing I have learned is to always trust your gut. If it screams that something isn’t right, you should listen to it – no matter how silly the situation seems or how proud you are.

Turn around and ask the question.

“Are you okay?”

Those three words can mean more to someone in despair, than the other three words famously depicted in movies. It gives a lifeline to those that are literally, teetering on the edge. It gives them hope that someone somewhere, is looking out for them.

That’s why my ignorance in those few brief seconds, now makes me doubt myself.

Who will trust my professional or educated opinion, if I barely trust myself?

Two days ago, I ignored my instincts. In that moment, my life as I know it, changed.

I had just completed an eleven hour day, dealing with the needs of others. I returned home to a mountain of housework, dinner to make for the two boys and a wicker basket full of clothes to wash. Doing everything on my own this past year or so was beginning to take its toll.

Just after 8pm, I went for a jog to wean out the days’ stresses. By pounding the pavement, I would drain the negativity of the day out through the balls of my feet.

My body was only warming up in the first half mile when I saw Eve.

It was her seated position that first piqued my interest. Why would someone sit on the grass, facing a small, boring, concrete wall? You could tell from behind that she was a teenager, due to the slumped shape of the shoulders and thin physique.

I initially guessed that she was listening to music, under the mop of thick black hair, escaping the world’s loud droning soundtrack. Her tousled hair poured over her shoulders and lay upon a red and black lumberjack shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a dark t-shirt of some kind.

My squeaky, spongy trainers announced my approach toward her. I had gone running in the rain two days previous and not all the water had drained from the soles. Even through the gaps in the narrow railings, I could see the desperation etched all over her face as she turned to meet my gaze.

Those piercing, ice-cold blue eyes penetrated my core. And yet when I think back, how could I have ignored them? The bewitching brightness of her misty eyes contrasted sharply with the dullness of the grey concrete wall that lay behind her.

It took mere moments to take in such vivid detail. But I continued on, forcibly silencing my gut to turn around. Why I did that, I may never know.

I ran down the hill, over the bridge and past the football pitch. I ran for the next two and a half miles, wondering about the emotive face of a troubled teenager

I ran a loop just so I could check back on her. But she was gone.

In more ways than one.

I returned home and thought no more about it. I put the kids to bed and ignored the flashing light on the answering machine. It was probably my soon to be, ex-wife.

The following day I checked in for work as per usual. As I pulled my car into the underground car park, the news report over the radio glued me firmly into the drivers’ seat. I felt a cold unnerving chill rake down my spine, despite the heat of the summer morning.

“Police are appealing for information on the whereabouts of fourteen year old girl Eve Taylor. Eve was last spotted in the…”

I knew straight away.

I just knew it was her. The pained expression on her face. The sense that no one listened or cared. I had a chance to try and prevent it, but my own problems came first. This is what stung most.

Was the empathy within me gone?

My legs felt heavy climbing the one flight of stairs to the ground floor of our offices. I was out of breath too, but quickly realized I was hyperventilating. Luckily for me, my boss Shirley spotted me struggling. She hooked me from under the crook of my armpit and led me into her office.

I told her about what I thought I had seen. I trusted Shirley’s judgment implicitly. She was always calm and assessed everything rationally. She advised that the best course of action would be talking to the Police.

She simply stated that my information might not be pertinent to their investigations into the young lady’s disappearance. I might have seen someone else entirely. I was jumping very quickly to a sudden conclusion, she said.

But I knew my gut was right.

Half an hour later I was sitting in a communal grey office of the local Police station. I talked to the Sergeant in charge of the case. He didn’t say much, but I could tell by his body language that he didn’t approve of me. No matter how many times he said there was nothing I could have done, I knew deep down inside, there was.

Put yourself in the Policeman’s shoes for a moment. How do think it would look when a Clinical Psychologist doesn’t stop to help a young lady – who is clearly in emotional dire straits? And then this person feels the need to explain himself the following day?

I could see his analytical brain ticking over. I knew questions like “Did he know the girl prior to the incident?’ and “What had he to gain by not stopping?” were running through his head.

I knew guilt was written all over my face and that’s why he was suspicious of me. As he asked more questions of me, I drove myself further into trouble.

As I fell further afoul of myself, his radar picked up. His probing instincts told him to delve deeper. As I spoke, I wondered if he would start investigating me after I left the station. What criminal record of mine would surface that I didn’t know about? I knew I wasn’t guilty of anything, but what would they dig up on me?

Would he investigate my motives for coming to the station? Why would I ignore a teen in despair?  I knew he was judging me. But my own self-judgment was far more important. Self-loathing was now atop my conscience.

An hour later I left my office for the day. My boss, despite her deep concern for my mental state, told me to take as much time off as I needed. I wasn’t sure how I would cope with this. I had the haunting image of Eve behind my eyes. I had to start coping with it and didn’t know where to start.

So yesterday evening, I reluctantly walked down to the bridge where I thought Eve may have abandoned hope. The old stone wall had gritty jagged edges on top, but enough space to wedge a shoe into. I couldn’t bring myself to look over the edge to the fast flowing water below, but its deafening rumble was enough to know that the current was strong and forceful.

This morning, after a restless night without sleep, the news on the radio reported that Police divers had located a body. It reported that it was that of a young female. I knew once again it was Eve. She was somehow speaking to me, from beyond the despair.

The body had been found downstream, close to the mouth of the river that washes into the sea. It wasn’t confirmed yet whether it was her, but basic geography told me that her river washed toward the sea.

If they hadn’t found her, she might have been swept out to the ocean, never to be seen again. Her parents will see a bloated version of their beautiful daughter - but it will still be their daughter.

At least I am grateful that at least her parents will have a body to bury. Not having that closure can be excruciating.

I’m don’t know whether I should attend the funeral. But I need closure too. Or am I being selfish? And do I mainly want to apologize to young Eve?

I wonder if the Sergeant told the family that they had a witness to her last moments. Were they told that I could have intervened? And my actions could have or might have saved her?

How do I move on?

How can I function as a father?

How can I EVER trust my own judgment again?

Creative Daily Scribe: Wife of a Terrorist. I ran out of the house just t...

Creative Daily Scribe: Wife of a Terrorist.
I ran out of the house just t...: Wife of a Terrorist. I ran out of the house just to get away. Some of the photographers and bloodhound journalists followed for a few...

Wife of a Terrorist.

I ran out of the house just to get away. Some of the photographers and bloodhound journalists followed for a few blocks but I soon gave them the slip. Here I sit on a wooden park bench, wanting the pounding rain to cleanse my forever tarnished soul.

My chest heaves as tears mix with the waters of the puddle beneath my feet. For a moment I am lost in thinking that when the storm clouds clear, my DNA will evaporate into the sky along with the rainwater. Right now, I wish I could float away too. I have never in my life, felt so alone.

My makeup is starting to run on my pale skin. My mascara is smudged all over. I really don’t care anymore. I dig my nails into the flesh of my left arm, just to check that I am still alive. It takes blood to flow before I feel pain. I didn’t think I could feel possibly any worse, but now I do. I try to use my sleeve to wash some of the salt from my eyes.

The adrenaline-sapping past couple of days have tested my own convictions about life. Mainly about how some people view it as a cheap resource. Am I just a pawn in telling the morbid tale of my bastard husband?

How did I not know? How could I have lived with this monster for eleven years and not suspect him of such unspeakable acts? How did I not see the telltale signs? Did I turn a blind eye to anything remotely off?

Forever I will be judged by the hatred in people’s eyes, wondering if I ever knew. They will wonder if I was complicit in the gruesome tragedy. I do not care about what they think, even though deep down inside, I do. I know I am innocent of their accusing glances.

Even my own direct family has had their suspicions, but no one shares their thoughts. I can tell by the way they shuffle about and avoid my gaze. This, above all other times, I need their support. Instead I get mutterings and shrugged shoulders.

We shared everything together. We were the picture of happiness. Was it all just a façade? Or was it evil lurking behind toothy grins?

I hope our two children of eight and six years old, are not affected by this. I don’t think they fully comprehend the situation, but they know that their Daddy is in some sort of trouble. They have been shielded, to an extent. I honestly hope they are young enough to forget this all in time. But snippets and snapshots of history will forever know our surname – all because of him.

How could I not have spotted any sign of such vulgarity, racism and ignorance? Were there any signs that he was capable of such atrocities? He was always so kind and thoughtful. Where did he hide his weapons? Where did he fund the cash needed to finance such a vendetta against innocent men, women and children?

The police have drained me mentally and physically. Here the rain is reinvigorating my body, washing away the insinuations that have been thrust upon me. They don’t believe me. They could not believe that I had absolutely no inkling. In my heart I know that I am innocent. I was not complicit in any of that bastard’s dive into depravity.

My solitary moment in the park is interrupted by an ever eager journalist with a camera. It is pointed in my direction as the reporter speaks into a microphone from about one hundred yards away. They’re trying to be quiet, but are making more noise than the howling wind and bone-chilling sheets of rain.

I don’t care if I look like shit. People have made up their minds about how dark my soul must be anyhow. So a brief glimpse of a grainy picture of a soaked woman, sitting on a park bench crying her eyes out - won’t change their minds anytime soon. They’ll just think I’m even more mental than they first thought.

I sit back and spread my arms out up to the sky. This is the first bit of peace and quiet I have had to myself in almost a week. No insane or inane questions. No arguing - defending my own good name. I can hear my own heart beating, fuelling my empty stomach and soul. I stop crying. I pull down the rolled up arm of my blouse to cover the drops of blood on my arm. Hoisted aloft, the blood falls toward my armpit. My sense of desolation deepens – no one can help me or answer my questions.

I walk toward the cameraman and his bubbly blond sidekick. I look directly into the lens of the camera and politely ask that they leave me and my family alone. The pint sized blond fires questions at me, just like Albert did from his guns one week ago. I ignore them all and walk back toward the house.

My cameo in the park is already running on the news as I re-enter the house. I walk up the stairs and turn on the shower. I step into it, still fully clothed. My mother has followed me, concerned for my wellbeing.

I crawl into a bawl. I rock back and forth in the tub. The feeling of pounding water seems to soothe me. My mother turns off the shower and holds me close. Despite her frail frame, she manages to squeeze me tighter than I ever remember. The hug takes me and I cannot cry anymore. I wail.

I disrobe the wet clothes and scuttle under a warm duvet. Reassurance from my mother distracts me from the shivering. How does life move on from here?

Will this nightmare ever end? When will the sins of his actions be washed away? Will life ever be the same?  

Frantic.

The iron metal side gate clattered loose. It clanged repeatedly, hard against the open latch. The first bang woke me, but the repetition made me sit bolt upright in my bed. 

The security gate could only be opened from the inside.

My pulse started to race. I gulped down the glass of water on my bedside locker to calm myself. I tried to switch on the bedside lamp but nothing happened. I tried the main room light but that too failed to illuminate.

The howling of the wind outside confirmed to me that either the power was gone in the neighbourhood - or something else was at play.

Glancing out the bedroom window I couldn't definitively tell if it was a neighbourhood problem. Rain lashed the pane in intermittent sheets of thick and misty ocean spew. Visibility was less than fifty feet. I powered on my mobile phone and quickly saw that I had little or no reception. Was this just coincidence?

I threw my heavy cotton dressing gown on over my t-shirt. Before unlocking my bedroom door, I took a deep breath. My hand shivered as I grasped the handle. I hesitated, knowing I was going out there without any defence. History had taught me to be me cautious and less impulsive.

I wheeled around and reluctantly pulled open the second drawer of my wife's old bedside dresser unit. Unwrapping a thick white bath towel, I revealed my newest line of self defence.

It gleamed despite no lights being on in the room. I loaded the shotgun with six shells and placed six more into the right hand pocket of the dressing gown. I slipped my mobile phone into the other pocket. I grabbed the small yet powerful torch from the top drawer of the bedside locker and sellotaped it to the barrel of the gun. It shined a bright path in front of the gun.

The last time something went bump in the night inside my house, I ended up in hospital with broken bones and multiple bruises. The mental torture of night terrors took longer to heal. Every bump for many nights left me sleeping with one eye open.

There were no guarantees of safety once I stepped out onto the landing. My ears were listening out for any semblance of anything that didn't belong. I quickly scanned the landing, swishing the shotgun left and right. The torchlight showed nothing blatantly out of place. I flexed my left hand, trying to stop it from shaking.

The old oak floors creaked and groaned under my weight as I nervously shuffled down the stairs. The banister inched a little as I grasped it for support in the dark hallway. Reaching the front door, I started clearing the rooms from front to back. I felt a cold rush of sea air brush my bare toes from underneath the door.

It was then that I first heard the sound of branches scraping off the window of the study to my left. It made me wince but kept the adrenaline flowing. I moved slowly, checking every space that could hide an intruder.

As I reentered the hall, I heard something move in the kitchen.

I paused before turning the knob. I flicked the safety off the shotgun. My finger quivered on the trigger.

I moved quickly the aim of the gun from left to right, covering all angles. The dog flap fluttered. It flapped once again, making a somewhat similar noise I had heard in the hallway. But I wasn't convinced that it was the same noise. Not that I wanted to go outside, but I had to go investigate.

My dark green gabardine coat was on the hook at the back door. Putting it on and stepping into my navy wellies, I braced myself for the weather assault. Hearing anything above a roar would be difficult.

The flowerbeds under the windows were badly disturbed, as were the stones at the base to the iron gate.

Twigs and light branches flew left and right. The sound of waves crashing against the nearby rocks only added to the cacophony of sound. The smell of salt lingered in the air, dulling my senses further. The gate led out to a path that in turn led to the steep cliffs.

Nothing stirred - apart from everything.

Stepping out onto the shale path, I checked left and right. A bare sliver of moonlight eked through the rumbling clouds of discontent above. I checked the public car park to my right, which was entirely empty apart from the swirling mini-tornado of leaves.

As I made my way back to the gate, something moved, just out of sight.

I spotted a dark shadow further up along the path. I shouted out, but no one responded. I flicked the light to and fro along the path, but saw nothing. But I definitely saw something move.

Fighting my conscience which told me to go back inside, I nervously walked along the cliff path. The slippery shale stones were unsteady underfoot the rubber soles of my wellies. The overused, over trodden pedestrian path wasn't safe, but my instinct drove me onward.

The sound of the waves was getting louder as the nearer I got to the cliffs edge, as was the intensity of the mist which was becoming incessant.

Then I saw another movement in the corner of my eye.

Sitting on top of a cliff side grassy verge was my dog, Max.

The poor frightened thing barked back at me, half apologetic. I lowered my gun and ran toward him. The poor thing was shivering cold. I threw my coat over him and carried him back to the house.

Max was spooked by neighbours letting off fireworks in the run up to Halloween. He had been left outside by accident, and in his panic had somehow managed to unlatch the gate trying to get away from the local pups throwing bangers into neighbours houses.

I lit the fire and sat in the rocking chair with a cup of hot chocolate. Max dried off with the heat of the hearth and fell asleep at my feet. Meanwhile outside, the storm raged on through the night. 

He had frightened the bejaysus out of me, truth be told.