It’s half past eight on my dashboard clock. Fred will be at his parents’. I take the corner too fast, ripping up the hill, blood hissing in my ears.
Stopping the car, I run up their driveway, banging on the door. When there’s no response, I turn the handle. It gives and then I’m pelting down the hallway, following the sound of voices to the lounge.
They’re watching TV, dinner trays on their laps. “What the heck…?” Monique says.
Len sets his tray aside. “You okay, love?”
“Where’s Fred?” I look around the room as though he’s hiding. “Where is he?”
They exchange a wary glance. “Well, not here,” Monique says. “We haven’t seen him all day. He’s not home from work yet… Why?”
“Because—” I stop myself just in time, instinct telling me to shut up.
“Is it about the solicitors?” Len says softly. “Did you get the petition?”
It arrived today, at least I guessed that’s what it was. I haven’t opened it yet. But now this will be my story—the reason I’m here. I clutch the lifeline, nodding.
“Well, barging in here is hardly going to bolster your plea.”
“Shush, Monique,” Len says, flapping his hand at her.
“Don’t you shush me!” she snaps.
I step backward, withdrawing. “Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have come.”
“That’s okay,” Len says.
“No, it isn’t. She didn’t even ring the doorbell!”
“Yes, she did.”
Did I? “Sorry,” I call again, leaving as unhurriedly as I can bear, my head hung as though repentant.
Pulling out of the road, panic needles my temples and I step on the accelerator. Where is he? The golf club? A bar in town?
I head to High Street, trawling it, hoping to spot him walking along the road, sitting in the window of a bar. It’s a long shot though. I’m better off trying his office. He could still be there? I should have asked Len if that was likely. Sometimes he stays late if on a deadline, but I don’t know whether he is because we haven’t spoken about minutiae lately—have lost track of each other’s routines, turning them to dust.
Pixel8D Designs is on an old trading estate on the edge of Shelby. No one lives out here anymore because the river often bursts its banks. Sometimes, it’s so bad there are pools of water in the fields, dark bottomless crevices. I’ve always found this part of town creepy, isolated.
I pull into the car park underneath the office block, hands slipping on the steering wheel, relieved that there are a couple of vehicles here and the lights are still on upstairs. It’s an ugly building, on stilts for protection from flooding. The car park lighting isn’t great, the corners deep and desolate.
There are no security cameras that I know of. The perfect scene for a crime.
As I am getting out of the car, everything is so quiet, nausea rises in my stomach. I leave the keys in the ignition, the door open in case I need to get away quickly. I’m so preoccupied with the shadows all around me, I don’t see right away what I need to know.
Fred’s BMW is here.
Oh, thank goodness. I exhale, pulling my cardigan around me.
I’m walking toward the main entrance, thinking about what to say to Fred, when my shoe grinds on glass, the noise jarring me. There are diamonds of shattered glass everywhere, catching the light.
I notice then that there’s someone over in the corner by the bicycle cage; a dark shape moving. Instinctively, I squat down behind a car, my heart hammering.
Did they see me?
I don’t know that it’s anything bad. It could be someone getting their bike.
And then my phone rings. Grabbing it from my pocket, I go to stop it, Jam’s name flashing on the screen, but it’s too late.
They’re coming, feet crunching on glass. I bow my head, faint with fear, limbs melting.
He stops right in front of me. I stare at his feet. Heavy boots.
I think of Will, Alice, my mom, Dad. I think for one moment that he can’t see me. He’s pausing, considering something. And then he’s crouching down, on my level, balancing on heels. He’s wearing a mask, eyes glinting.
I swallow, unable to move. And then he stands up, pulling something from his pocket. A rope. I start to cry. “Don’t. Please! Let me go. I—”
“Shut up!” He yanks me to my feet as though I’m a doll, retracts his fist and before I know what’s happening, he punches my jaw. I fall backward with the impact, onto the ground. Grunting, he drags me to my knees. I try to bite his hand as it gags me. So he punches me again and this time I’m silenced.
I taste blood as it trickles into my mouth. “Get up!” he hisses. When I can’t, he wrenches my arm, shockwaves of pain rattling me.
Making a knot with the rope, he glances around him as though someone’s coming. Anyone could come from upstairs. Fred. I lose consciousness for a second. Maybe more. He’s holding me underneath my arms, dragging me, my feet grating on glass.
And then suddenly, he lets me go. My back meets the concrete first and then my head. And I’m gone.