Chapter Twenty-Five

The rest of the day passed without anything special happening. We sorted out things that belonged to Shelly and stored them in the spare bedroom. I didn’t even note what went into each box as I believed the Morgans would be sorting through their daughter’s stuff at some point.

After dinner, I feigned tiredness and opted for a soak in the bath and then an early night. I wasn’t in the mood for social niceties even if it was with my mum and sister. I left them in the living room arguing over Netflix.

The bathroom was warm, the bath hot, the events of the day began to take their toll. For the first time in quite a while I believed I could sleep; for the first time in a long while I relaxed. My eyes kept closing, my brain telling me now was a good time to rest, and I kept snapping them back open, knowing that to fall asleep in the bath was dangerous and I should get out of it, dry myself, put on my nightwear and go to bed.

I wasn’t expecting someone else in the bathroom with me. I’d locked the door. Definitely locked it. But then again, the only reason I’d known someone was in the bathroom with me is because this someone put, what I believe to be, a hand on my head and shoved me under the water, the scented fluid instantly entering both my nostrils and mouth.

Initially, shock stunned me, but only momentarily. My hands grasped the side of the bath and tried to pull me upwards but the hand on my head was strong, the combined actions just making me slip further and further underneath the water. The figure above me was a dark mass, just a watery blur in the shape of a person. Everything was indistinguishable apart from the pale place where the face should’ve been and dark circles that could’ve been cut out of white cloth.

I grabbed the arm of my assailant and it was thin but held that wiry strength. I dug my nails into flesh, panic overriding everything else; my lungs were trying to expel the water I’d inhaled, the cough building behind my lips. I knew I didn’t have long and I fought, my legs instinctively kicking wildly against the water before my feet tried to anchor on the bathtub so I could use them as leverage. But no. Nothing was shifting this weight off me.

The light was fading yet becoming brighter, the oxygen inside my body was battling to get out and I knew it was seconds before I would involuntarily open my mouth and let the water inside.

Resignation hit. Why fight this? This could be the answer to everything.

I stopped struggling. Stopped kicking my legs, stopped trying to loosen the hand from pushing me under, letting my arms slide under the water. Just stopped and accepted this was meant to be.

Calmness, peace and tranquillity. All the same and so ultimately different. The hand lifted enabling a lightness of being to fill me from the inside out; the sensation that I could, if I wished, float to the surface, float into the air and drift away and not have to worry about anything anymore.

I opened my mouth.

Hands grabbed around my torso, dragged me upwards to break the surface. Reality came in the form of air, air battling against the splutter of water exiting my mouth at the same time as my need to inhale.

I heard a voice saying my name, saying “no” repeatedly but I was so heavy, so leaden, I couldn’t respond. The light was mixing with the dark and a fiery sensation ripped up my throat, my lungs burning so much it was as if they were heating the water as it made its way up my trachea.

I slumped to the ground and onto my hands and knees, the pain of contact sudden and hard, but I was too focused on dispelling water, too focused on gasping wildly to worry about anything else. I hadn’t even considered why the person who’d tried to drown me had suddenly had a change of heart and had pulled me free.

Exhausted, I collapsed, my face slapping against the floor moments before the rest of my body slithered down too.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t sure where I was. I knew I was lying flat but through the small slits of my eyes, there was only whiteness. Had I died after all? Was this heaven?

No. Definitely not heaven.

The surface underneath my body was hard, cold and hard, almost like I was recumbent on concrete. The surface at the side of my face, however, was different. Something seemed soft there, almost as if I had it propped on a pillow.

For a moment, I was confused why I was spread-eagled on the floor in the first place.

I squeezed my eyes closed once again hoping the action would kick start a memory and a reason why I was in this position.

“Hey.” The voice was gentle, soothing. “You’re awake.”

I batted my eyelashes in response, initially too exhausted to speak.

“Cover her with this. She must be freezing.” A different voice. My mum’s voice.

Something soft and warm covered my side, a stark contrast to the side of me that was pressed against the floor.

I looked straight forward, my hand was close to my face and I couldn’t resist wiggling my fingers, the action slow and clumsy but absolutely fascinating.

“We should call for a doctor, Ellie.”

Doctor? Why? For whom? I’m perfectly fine.

Without warning, the image of being underwater washed over me. Panic surged and I scrambled to a sitting position, the movement igniting another bout of coughing and gagging.

Weirdly, an element of surprise hit when I realised I was seated on my bathroom floor, the tiles wet and cold, my mum and sister kneeling beside me, both soaked too.

I grabbed the cover that had been over me, which turned out to be a bath sheet, self-conscious in my nakedness.

“Wha-what happened?”

Ellie looked at my mother as if she had the answers to everything.

“Did you see him?” My throat was rough, aching.

“See him?” Ellie glanced at my mum, confusion evident.

“Her then. Whoever it was who tried to drown me.”

My mum rested her hand on Ellie’s shoulder, her fingers tightening.

“No one tried to drown you, Kat. You fell asleep in the bath.”

“No I didn’t. Someone was in here.” I knew by their expressions they didn’t believe me.

I attempted to stand but my legs thought otherwise.

“Wait a little longer, love.” My mum moved closer, sat on the floor next to me, her hand taking mine.

It was only when she had my hand in hers that I realised how cold I was. Her hand was warm and soft in contrast to mine. I shivered. The chill of everything tearing through me making me shiver again. I needed to move, to walk, to dress. Needed to get up off the freezing cold floor before my body froze to it.

I tried to stand but the amalgamation of lethargy, cold and the wetness of the floor stopped me.

“I think...”

“I’m cold, Mum.”

That was enough to get them both to help me to my feet, wrapping the towel around me and then leading me to my bedroom.

***

“No. The bathroom door was open.”

Ellie was adamant. So was I. I knew I’d locked the door before getting into the bath. It was what I always did. Even when alone in the house. It was habit.

“I came upstairs to get Mum a cardigan and the door was open. I thought you’d finished and came in to nip to the loo.”

My head was hurting. Everything was wrong. I’d locked the door, shut and locked it. There was no way it was open.

Another thing. Ellie said she’d noticed my arm hanging over the side of the bath as she entered the room, that was what had alerted her straight away that something was wrong, but I remembered my arms slipping under the water.

“Your body was slightly turned to the side as if you were in bed asleep, your arm hanging over the rim.”

I’d been flat. I knew that. The person who had tried to fucking drown me had made sure I was pinned to the base of the bath.

But the more I argued, the more looks they passed to each other. I knew they believed I was losing the plot, and maybe I was, but to me the events in the bathroom earlier were as real as my mum and sister were as they sat with me.

They didn’t call for a doctor. I put my foot down with that one. I eventually agreed with everything they said just so they would stop fussing and leave me alone. I even pretended to suddenly remember not locking the bathroom door, adding a little laugh for extra measure. I was fine. It was an accident. I fell asleep.

But that didn’t stop Ellie from insisting she share my bed. I knew her comment about Mum snoring was a lie. Knew she was keeping watch over me. At one time I would’ve loved that she took care of me but now it made me slightly angry.

Did Ellie think I was losing the plot because Shelly had died? The events of the inquest bringing back my obvious heartache thus instigating an attempt to drown myself? Was the supposed “blurred figure” a figment of my imagination to allow myself to rationalise what had happened?

To be honest, I didn’t give a fuck. I was tired. I needed to sleep. And maybe, just maybe, having my sister in my room with me might repel the bad dreams plaguing me.

As I drifted off, I didn’t realise that bad dreams didn’t always necessarily stay as dreams. However, in the matter of hours, I would be finding out a lot more than I’d ever thought possible.

***

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning, Ellie went into Rothbury to fetch fresh bread and milk whilst Mum and I continued to pack away Shelly’s things. Nothing was mentioned about the incident the previous night and I was happy with that. I was really trying to stay positive, to stay focused, to be more like I used to be.

I didn’t hear Ellie’s car on the driveway as I was too engrossed in the task at hand. The optimistic side of me believed the sooner I could get everything of hers packed away, the sooner I could put everything behind me.

However, the realist side of me was too busy being chewed up with guilt.

It was Mum who came and got me, told me she’d made coffee and to come and get some whilst it was hot.

I knew something was not right when I entered the kitchen. Ellie was seated at the table, Mum in the seat next to her. Three mugs congregated in the middle of the table and I stretched out and grabbed one.

Nothing was said. They just watched me take a sip of my coffee, their expressions unreadable.

“Have you put arsenic in my drink?” An attempt at humour that fell as flat as flat could get.

I raised my mug again, frowning over the rim. “You two are freaking...” I noticed the newspaper in Ellie’s hand. “What?”

“Maybe you should sit down, love.”

My Mum moved around the table and took my arm before gently guiding me to the chair next to my sister.

Ellie pushed the newspaper over to me, the headline of the Gazette announcing, “Death of Woman: Couple Admit Blame”.

Couple admit blame? What dead woman?

I placed my mug on the table, lifted the paper and scanned the contents, Shelly’s name appearing from the lede paragraph, the Wilsons from the second.

However, by the third, my name had been introduced.

“What the actual...” I stopped the swear word from leaving my mouth but had to clamp my lips together for it to stay there.

“Katherine Hammond, 36, partner of the deceased, explained her views of the accident at the inquest held at Alnwick Registry Office on Fenkle Street yesterday morning. Geoffrey Davis, Coroner, questioned Ms Hammond about the night her partner, Michelle Morgan, was struck down by a vehicle on an unnamed road near Yetlington. Ms Hammond told of ‘a thunk sound and a cry of what I now believe to be someone in pain’.

Mr Davis clarified elements of Ms Hammond’s witness statement, chiefly the order of events. He reiterated parts of the evidence, especially when the witness had stated ‘then heard what I now know to be a car stopping’ before noticing Ms Morgan ‘on the ground. Not moving’.

Ms Hammond continued to add that although she initially ‘couldn’t see properly’ she’d seen a light and ‘heard a roaring sound’ she considered could have been the sound of the storm.

Mr Davis asked the witness if the roaring sound could have been ‘the sound of a car?’ but her answer was unclear.

However, Mr Davis carefully questioned Richard and Sonja Wilson about the evening of the accident using evidence supported by Ms Hammond’s testimony. Although both husband and wife gave a statement to the police after the accident, and have already admitted knocking down Michelle Morgan, new evidence has come to light.

Davis focused on the order of events gleaned from Ms Hammond’s answers, linking these to the speed the Wilsons were travelling and how quickly they had reacted to Ms Morgan being in the road. Richard Wilson stayed adamant that he was travelling at a reasonable speed for the type of road and had responded quickly and efficiently when a person had appeared from nowhere.

Next to be questioned was Sonja Wilson, and Davis wasted no time with the same questions that would just go over the same points again. Instead, Davis asked Mrs Wilson to explain the mood within the car before the accident. More specifically, were they feeling worried, tense or anxious being out in the middle of a storm in a place in which they were not familiar? Mrs Wilson replied with “Well, we had the Sat Nav but the storm had interfered with the signal. That’s why we took a wrong turn. Then another one. Ricky was getting quite annoyed with it.’

Davis pushed for more answers, the inquest bordering on more than an inquest at this point. When asked if her husband’s attention had been fully on his driving, Sonja had faltered slightly before answering with a yes.

More questions ensued until it was established that maybe Richard Wilson had taken his eyes off the road whilst he fiddled with the Sat Nav, a very common occurrence this day and age.

Mrs Wilson added “He just wanted to see the road better. The Sat Nav shows the road.”

But, tragically, not the people on it.

Mr Davis once again asked Mr Wilson to return for questioning. The first question was for him to validate what his wife had said. The second asked Mr Wilson if he had applied the brakes before hitting Michelle Morgan with his car.

Initially, Wilson answered yes but recanted his answer when Davis pointed out that Ms Hammond had specifically said there had been ‘a thunk’ and then ‘a cry of... pain’, then the ‘noise of a car stopping’ meaning the brakes were applied after Michelle Morgan had been hit.

At this point, Mrs Wilson began to cry.

The inquest continues Wednesday from 10 am and is open to the public.

Nausea welled and I opened my mouth and gagged loudly, then gagged again.

How could this be? The Wilsons were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They weren’t to blame for Shelly’s death. I’m the one that’d pushed her. If it hadn’t been for me she wouldn’t have been in front of the car, wouldn’t have been out on the road in the first place. She’d only been there because she’d been trying to get to me.

If only I hadn’t left the house.

If only I’d done what she’d told me to do and stayed put then she’d still be alive and the Wilsons wouldn’t be in this situation.

If only I’d admitted what I’d done when I’d spoken to the police.

If only, if only, if only. But however many times I wished for an ‘if only’, the end result stayed the same. Shelly was dead and it was my fault.

I threw the paper towards the table and ran out through my utility room, just making it outside before vomiting sour tasting coffee and not much else. Then I vomited again, the strain of it pulling at my stomach muscles.

Placing my hand on the wall, I steadied myself, my breathing ragged and painful, my cheeks wet. Using the back of my hand, I wiped across my mouth before using my fingertips to wipe away tears.

A hand gently touched my back, lifted off momentarily before landing more firmly on my left shoulder blade. I knew without turning it was my mum. Just the touch of her was so familiar that I could never mistake her for anyone else. She didn’t say anything.  She didn’t need to. Her concern for me was almost palpable and that made me feel even worse. I knew, without a doubt, that my mum genuinely believed I was torn up about the death of Shelly. Who wouldn’t believe that? To the rest of the world, our relationship had been successful, full of love, had a future. Why would they have thought any differently? Shelly had always been the epitome of a loving partner. She made sure they believed that. And supportive? No one could compete with how Shelly fully supported everything I did. They believed my working from home was a cover up for me doing fuck all. These people also believed that Shelly was the main provider and the money I earned was just pin money.

They couldn’t be farther away from the truth.

The only reason I worked from home was so I didn’t get the chance to speak to anyone whilst she wasn’t there to supervise it.

I gagged. Wiped my mouth and my tears. Straightened up and half turned. My mum’s arm slipped around me and she pulled me into her hug. The sob within cracked outwards, the tearing of it almost audible.

“There, there, there.”

Even in my state, I questioned what that phrase meant. It was nonsensical, childish, stupid. However, it brought a sense of familiarity that tagged itself with the touch. It was compassionate, sympathetic, understanding. It meant everything, said everything whilst actually saying nothing.

“Let’s go inside, eh?”

Her voice was gentle, loving and reassuringly my mum.

***

This would’ve been the perfect time to admit everything. Not just about the accident, but everything leading up to the accident, too. However, I was still struggling to admit that what Shelly and I had was not love, not a relationship. It was ownership. Dominance. The breaking of a spirit. In the end it was anyway; the beginning wasn’t all bad. I really liked Shelly when I first met her and, at one point, near the beginning, I did believe that maybe, just maybe, it could’ve been more than just liking.

We did have fun. We did laugh, go out, socialise, talk. Our sex life was healthy. The relationship, too, was healthy.

This was at one point, as I said, near the beginning.

Then everything seemed to shift, to change, to morph into a world where whatever I said or did was wrong.

 Therefore, by the time I’d realised that I was smack bang in the middle of an abusive relationship, I’d accepted it. I must’ve accepted my fate as why else would I have allowed the abuse to continue?

Could the reason have been that I was too embarrassed about being caught up in this destructive and abusive scenario to acknowledge to myself what was happening? I’d always believed I would’ve been the type to identify the telltale signs of being with an abusive partner; and when I didn’t, I thought, and thought others would think it too, that I was an idiot.

However, whatever the reason for me being in a troubled relationship, the worrying part shifted to what Shelly would do if I tried to leave her.

Initially, Shelly wasn’t violent.  A bitch, yes, but not violent. Her modus operandi was hurtful comments, slamming doors, sulking for days and making me feel guilty about everything she didn’t agree with. At first, her jealousy was quite endearing as she put it down to “loving me too much”.

However, the early pouting episodes and jealous comments changed significantly once we’d moved to Northumberland. I’d given up my job as a Medical Receptionist in a busy Medical Practice and taken up work mainly as a medical transcriptionist working from home. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement until I found my feet and got a job where I could get out of the house.

I’d started transcribing other stuff too, legal and secure documents, written and audio. I didn’t mind the work, quite enjoyed it actually, but I missed the company of working with others. Missed being in a place where normal things happened.  Missed being with normal people.

I did go to meetings, did get offered to go out to lunch, did get asked to do some extra work in an actual office, but Shelly didn’t like that. She was jealous of everyone I met. She was even jealous of me, actually me, meeting other people.

So, by and by, things got worse. By and by, the hurtful comments, slamming doors, sulking for days and making me feel guilty about just about anything, progressed to a slap, a pinch, a push. Progressed to hair-pulling, a punch, a kick. Progressed to a beating.

And who could I tell? No. Not tell. That’s not how I viewed my situation. To whom could I admit my failure? My family? Not really. My contact with my family had become minimal. I’d always been close to my parents and both my sisters but, obviously, Shelly had gone on and on and on about them having too much say in our lives, something that was a lie. I knew it then and I know it now. Another reason was I found it hard to pretend to my family that I was happy, that life away from them was everything I’d dreamed about and more. It was quite difficult putting them off visiting when I was working from home but my excuses of being snowed under had worked. I knew they didn’t believe me but it was easier to lie than to face the truth.

So what about confiding with my friends? What friends? I didn’t have any friends anymore. “Clean break” as Shelly had drummed home. She’d not stayed connected with anyone, not even her work colleagues since we’d moved. It wasn’t until much later did I discover she didn’t actually have any friends back in Manchester, not that I knew of anyway.

Yes, I’d met people since I’d arrived in Northumberland, some really nice, friendly people. But Shelly’s idea of moving to the area was to get away from me having friends or any kind of independence at all and I, stupidly, caved in and allowed her to manipulate me into cutting myself off from any kind of social life.

Despite my life being shackled to the homestead, Shelly’s life seemed to be one of friends and fun. Well, when she wanted it to be. Weirdly, she appeared to be extremely popular with people. She could, as I well knew, turn on the charm whenever she needed. Everyone, initially, became suckered into her good looks, intelligence, ease of communication. Shelly was a beautiful and alluring woman who could, with one look, make a person feel as if she was centre of their world. Right from the very first moment I’d met her, she’d literally charmed the pants off me. I’d definitely been attracted to her devil may care attitude. Shame I hadn’t realised she was just the devil and the “may care” was only on show when she wanted something or there was an audience.

On second thoughts, I’d never really met any of Shelly’s new friends, a bit like her old ones. She’d told me about them, told me of the fun she’d had in the office, the lunches she’d had with her colleagues from the accountancy office where she worked. But that being said, not one of them had individually sent a condolence card. I’d received one, a generic “In Sympathy”, but it was from the company and not a specific person from her office. Even her belongings from her desk had been posted to me in a medium sized parcel, the framed photograph of Shelly and I, wrapped in a cardigan she must’ve left at work, placed right on the top. If I’d have loved her more, then maybe I would’ve been upset about the way she’d been treated, but...

So, yes. This could have been the perfect time to unburden myself. A perfect time to admit that I’d fallen victim to an abuser and had done what so many other victims of abuse had done before me and would most definitely continue to do. I believed I could change her. Believed if I went along with what she said everything would be okay. I’d consented to moving away, consented to the ultimate isolation from friends and family, if only for a quiet life, to stop Shelly nagging. I’d given up my independence. Given up my voice. Allowed the first signs of abuse to go unchecked, the escalation of emotional, mental and spiritual abuse to take root and rot.

Then I’d allowed the physical abuse to start. The most obvious abuse but not always the most damaging. That had already happened when she’d tried to crush my spirit.

And to top it all, I’d believed her when she promised me that it would never happen again.

But the worst of all was the outcome of my retaliation after nearly three years of abuse.

I killed her. As sure as black is white, I killed Shelly Morgan. If I’d have stopped her earlier, she would be alive. If I hadn’t agreed to move, agreed to give up my job, she would be alive. If I’d have left her when I realised her cruelty, she would be alive. As soon as she’d raised her hand to me, hit me, pinched me, pulled my hair or blacked my eyes, I should have packed my bags and ultimately saved her life. I should have reached out, asked for help, called my parents, my sisters, my old friends. I should have called the police and asked them to get me out of there. Why did I think running away in the middle of a storm was a reasonable thing to do? How far did I think I would get on foot? And why didn’t I just accept that when she’d caught me, she’d caught me? I should have taken the beating and gone home, shouldn’t? I could’ve waited it out for one more night, couldn’t I?

No. I didn’t think there could have been one more night. Not this time.

To admit to the accident would mean admitting to everyone, including myself, that Shelly had been an abusive partner. Not only that, I genuinely believed that to admit to Shelly being an abusive partner also meant I had to admit I’d been weak and stupid, and if I’d have gotten my act together and spoken out, then Shelly would still be alive.

Yes, in the end I’d tried. Even decided to stop the fighting, the abuse, the fear by running away, by dialling emergency services. I knew deep inside me that before that moment I’d believed myself to not be a fighter, to not be the kind of person who takes pleasure from hurting another living thing. Unlike Shelly. And through the guilt of my actions and the guilt I felt for the Wilsons, there was still a part of me that embraced a semblance of satisfaction in knowing Shelly was dead.

It was for that reason that I didn’t say a word. How could this be the perfect time to admit what had happened when I still had to repress the spark of joy I felt when I realised I’d eventually shown Shelly that I was stronger than her?

Nope. I had to wait. Had to run it through inside my head a bit longer before I would expose my life to the world. If I believed the Wilsons would face prison, then I would step up and take the blame.

But why should I get locked up again? I’d already served three years, and I promised myself that my behaviour would be exemplary from now on.

***

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I hadn’t wanted to go to the inquest. Hadn’t wanted to sit through the crap that I knew I would have to sit through. But unless I wanted to wait until the news updated after everything had been said and done, then I had to get my arse back into the room and hear it all first hand.

I was surprised the inquest hadn’t resumed on Tuesday and had missed a day before beginning again on Wednesday. I’d spent Tuesday combing the internet for any snippet of news about the case as I didn’t want to have any more surprises. However, all I managed to find was news of what I already knew - maybe because only the Wilsons and myself had given evidence up to now, and, by all accounts, Geoffrey Davis still wanted to speak with them.

This was the worrying part. Would the Wilsons bury themselves even more deeply in the shit when they were spoken to again? Would I have to stand up and declare my guilt, inform the stunned room that I had, in fact, shoved the abusive fucker in front of the speeding car whilst adding that I thought the headlights were lightning?

I didn’t want to think about it. However, I needed to think about it. Wanted, needed, and longed to think about it. The overwhelming urge to do nothing else but think about it was swallowing me up, and I wanted to dissect this urge, just like the evidence given, from the inside out.

So, even though I was unsure of my actions, or what was going to be the outcome, I needed to bear witness. It was a bit like a killer observing the scene from the crowd when the police were investigating a murder.  But then again, I was the killer observing the scene whilst the murder was being investigated.

My mum and sister insisted on coming with me into Alnwick, Ellie stating that she wanted to go to the chemist for some trumped up reason or other and Mum wanting to go to Barter Books.  I knew even before we left the house that this would all change even before we parked the car.

“I’ve just had an idea.” Ellie was looking over her shoulder as she reversed into the parking space in front of Fenkle Street Registry Office.

I wanted to say, “Really? As in about two hours ago kind of ‘just’ having an idea” but stayed passively silent whilst staring at the side of her face.

“Why don’t we all go to Barter Books for lunch?”

As if I hadn’t seen that coming.

“That’d be lovely.” It was obvious that my mum had tried to make it sound as if the idea Ellie had proposed had been a surprise. Like me, she couldn’t act either, although after three years with Shelly, I’d gotten better at it.

“What d’ya think, Kat?”

I hadn’t even realised that Ellie had parked the car, stopped the engine, taken off her seat belt and was now facing me and expecting a response.

What I thought and what I said were two different things.

“Yes. I could meet you both there say...” I pretended to work it out, “about one ish? It’s only ten minutes from here.”

“Well...” I knew my mum was struggling to formulate a way to get out of whatever she believed she’d gotten in to, and by the expression on my sister’s face, she wasn’t doing too well either.

I sighed, the ache in my chest releasing with the air.

“If you want to come into the inquest you can. Both of you can. I just didn’t want you to be bored.”

We all knew that was a lie but no one pulled me up on it.

“Let’s grab a coffee to take in with us.”

I didn’t wait for the response.  Just got out of the car and slammed the door shut.

My mum and sister stayed still, obviously momentarily stunned, before moving as if on fast forward.

Twenty-five minutes later, we were all waiting outside the same room I’d been inside on Monday. The Wilsons were already there when we arrived, their faces wan, their whole beings appearing drawn. My smile was forced and I knew they must’ve misunderstood the reason behind my half-formed grimace-cum-smile. They would’ve assumed that I’d read the article in the Gazette and was now deliberating how to process the news that maybe they were not as focused on the road as they should’ve been. Maybe they were expecting me to make a scene. Kick off good and proper and begin shouting that they’d killed my partner because they’d been buggering about with a Sat Nav, buggering around with the Sat Nav and, maybe, going too fast for the type of road and the weather conditions.

However, that, as it happens, was not the reason for my forced greeting. My reason was more selfish, more worried, more guilt ridden. My attempted smile hoped to welcome and diffuse any of their concerns; hoped to show solidarity. We were in this together. If they were under suspicion then so was I.  If they were accused, then I would take the brunt of it. The Wilsons, obviously, didn’t know this. And I, for one, would not be volunteering any information unless absolutely necessary.

“How’re you holding up?”

The sound of Sonja Wilson’s voice startled me and I jumped slightly. I attempted to mask my initial reaction only to make the situation worse.

“Just want...” I waved my hand around in the direction of the door, “this... this all to be over.”

She made a noise of agreement, her mouth twitching as if deliberating what she needed to say next.

Thankfully, the door opened and Geoffrey Davis appeared, his “Good morning,” claiming the attention of most of us.

“Is that the coroner?” my mum whispered.

I nodded and moved to go in. However, Ellie grabbed my upper arm and stopped me, her fingers digging slightly. The Wilsons entered, followed by a few other people that I didn’t know personally but recognised from Monday’s session. Shelly’s parents were not amongst them, something that didn’t really surprise me.

As soon as the last one went in, Ellie turned me to face her, my mum standing to the left of her.

“Are you going to say anything to them?”

“Who?”

“Them!” The word came out loudly quiet. Ellie nodded towards the open door.

I frowned before repeating “Who?”

“Them. The Wilsons.”

I frowned even more, my head shaking slowly from side to side in more of confusion rather than negation.

“Why would I be saying...?”

Ellie looked to my mum for some kind of moral support, or even just someone to roll her eyes at in abject disbelief.

“The Wilsons!” The words came out partly as a hiss. Ellie gestured again to the doorway. “Are you going to speak to them about the Sat Nav thing? About not paying attention?”

I froze. Shock obvious. 

“Don’t upset her, Ellie.” My mum laid her hand on my sister’s arm so we looked like a small chain of people. “Katie’s suffering enough at the moment.”

I laughed, short, sharp and sudden. I don’t know who was more surprised, them or me. However, thankfully, I didn’t add words to my outburst. Just covered my sister’s hand with mine and lifted hers off me.

Without a second glance, I made my way into the room to take my seat at the inquest. A minute or so later, my mum sat next to me, shortly followed by my sister, low level chatter buzzing around the room.

The sound of the door closing acted as an unseen order of quiet, the chatter turning to whispers, turning to shuffles, turning to expectation, turning to stillness.

Then Geoffrey Davis spoke and all silence was shattered.

“Could Richard Wilson please come to the front?”

As he stood, there was part of me that stood with him.  As he moved to the front, his wife initially holding his hand until he was too far from her, there was a feeling within me that I, too, walked to the front with him.  And as he sat in front of the coroner, his whole being crumpling as it tried to scaffold his life back together, I wanted to shout out that Shelly Morgan deserved everything she got.

But, like the chicken I am, I stayed shtum. Stayed agonisingly quiet. Stayed in my seat and pretended everything I heard was a shock. 

Worst of all, I stayed the lying killer I knew myself to be.

***

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Present Day

Amelia leaned back in her chair, her hands still resting on the table, her expression stunned.

“I’m exhausted.”

And I was. Exhausted right down into the marrow of my bones.

Lifting both hands, I combed my fingers through my hair, the action soothing in some weird way.

“I think I may try to sleep for a little while longer.” I stood, the chair legs scraping across the floor. Amelia leaned over the table and caught my hand, her skin warm against mine.

“Thank you.” Her voice was quietly soft, nearly reverent.

I shrugged, moved my lips slightly as if this was enough of a response.

“I can imagine how hard that must’ve been for you to relive all of that.”

Her fingers gently stroked against my hand, her eyes dark, the colour fluid.

Instead of commenting, I shifted the conversation back to going to bed.

“Do you want to grab a couple of hours, too?”

Amelia’s fingers paused in their caress, her eyes seeming to penetrate more deeply into mine.

“I’d love that.”

She stood, her hand fitting snugly into mine, her chair scraping backwards like mine had.

Even though my suggestion for sleep had been nothing more than to actually sleep, my expectation for the next couple of hours had suddenly shifted to something else.

Jiminy woofed from behind us, the sound startling me back into the present.

“I’ll let him out first. You can go on ahead if you want.”

Amelia shook her head. “I’ll wait for you... both of you.”

Once again, I pulled on my Wellington boots and slipped my Barbour jacket over my pyjamas.

I opened the back door and stepped outside. The rain had completely stopped and the light of morning was inching its way through the darkness, the edges blurring like ink in water. Jiminy trotted outside and I followed him.  The wind still held a power but not a gale; the steady gust refreshing and cold. Instinctively, I pulled the front of my jacket together and shivered, wishing I was more sensibly dressed.

Jiminy sniffed around, his bravery extending to two feet from me. The weak light of dawn enabled me to see the destruction left by the storm. Debris was strewn across my garden, branches, leaves, parts of a fence, even sections of hedges. I’d seen some of the damage earlier, but the extent was far worse than I’d noticed then.

“I wonder what the roads are like.”

I hadn’t expected to hear another voice so close. Amelia moved around me, her hair madly flying around as the wind captured it. She had her arms wrapped around herself, coat-less and shivering.

I moved closer to her, opened my coat and tried to put it around her, the material not allowing that to happen. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her, the flaps of my coat opening to accommodate her body next to mine, the coolness of her met the warmth of me and she snuggled closer.

“I should try to call for someone to tow my car.”

Her voice rumbled into me, the feel of it delicious.

“True.”

“And let my mum know I’m fine.”

“Yes.” Then added, “She’ll be worried about you.”

“I wasn’t expected back for another couple of days. But I’ll call later in case she’s been trying to get in touch.”

Amelia pressed closer, her cheek rubbing against mine. Even though the wind still blew, her breath was so distinctly different from normal air. I should’ve been surprised that I knew the difference but I wasn’t. An innate part of me had expected it.

Her lips were soft, so incredibly soft. Her tongue gentle as we kissed. My whole being morphed into hers and the debris and the wind and the world slipped away.  I was enchanted, enraptured, bewitched.

Cool air met my skin when she pulled away, my hair dancing wildly, touching my face in frantic whips.

 Blinking my eyes open, I was once again captivated by the darkness of hers.

“Let’s go to bed.” She stepped away from me, her hand slipping over my jacket, down my arm and took my hand in hers.

A tug and I was following her, Jiminy racing ahead and into the house before us.

***

Amelia led me upstairs, her hand loosely fitting into mine. We didn’t rush, just quietly made our way up the stairs and along the landing. Jiminy had decided to stay in the living room, the fire more of a lure for him than we were. 

As we entered my room, my growing expectation exploded into full blown desire. I pulled Amelia back, her body turning and pressing snugly against mine. Because she was marginally taller, I had to tilt my head slightly to meet her eyes.

Lifting my hand, I caressed the side of her face, my fingertips memorising the contour of her cheekbones, her jaw, her chin; my thumb swiping over her plump lips before I shifted from outlining her profile to cupping the side of her face with my whole hand.

Different emotions flooded me as I held her gaze. So many, and not all of them welcomed. Desire was in the lead, shortly ahead of guilt, the latter stopping me making my next move.

However, as soon as Amelia’s lips met mine nothing else mattered. The heat of her filled me and I just wanted more of her, wanted more of wanting her, wanted more of feeling wanted.

My hands slipped down her back, and even though the material of her pyjamas was soft against my palms, I knew from experience her skin would be softer still.

Before I had the chance to make my move, Amelia pulled my top upwards, my arms lifting with the momentum. Our kiss broke briefly but resumed with even more fervour, my hands trembling slightly as my fingers searched for the buttons of her top.  Amelia leaned away from me and my mouth searched for hers.

“Here.”

Her voice was sensuously deep, the resonance of it rippling through me. She yanked her top off, the action fluid, the bob and bounce of her breasts mesmerising. Again, she kissed me and again I was consumed by her mouth, her tongue, her lips.

Skin on skin, the heat of her morphing into the heat of me. I wanted her so bloody much, so very bloody much, the ache of it was gloriously painful.

I knew I was moving backwards, her body pressed against mine and determinedly moving me to the bed. I offered no resistance. Why would I? My bed was exactly the place I wanted us both to be.

My legs hit the mattress, my body lowering, my arms pulling Amelia down with me. She paused, lifted herself slightly from me and removed her bottoms before removing mine. I moved more into the centre of the bed, Amelia following, stretching her leg over to straddle my stomach.

The morning light was coming through the gap in the curtain, the fingers of it stepping up my covers and around her body. Her face was silhouetted, the light still behind her but cloaking her shoulders, threading through the outer locks of her hair to act like a nimbus.

Amelia placed her hands on my chest, her palms against my skin, before slowly slipping her fingers downwards to circle and cup my breasts.

Another jolt of longing shot through me, my body jerking with the want of her. Her thumbs grazed my nipples and the sensations were so intense they mimicked lightning strobes firing within.

I slipped my hands up her forearms noting the strength in them. Then up her upper arms to slide over her shoulders and pull her downwards and onto me, her lower body moving downwards.

A gasp left my mouth as having her cover the length of me was my undoing. The solidity, the lightness and weight of her was divine. Warm skin, warm breath and warm lips fused; the marriage of sensations perfect. I wanted her so much. And not just want; I needed her, too.  This was more than plain desire, if desire could ever be classed as plain.  The essence of what I was feeling, the essence of how she made me feel, was more than just this. More than just sex. I didn’t know Amelia very well. Didn’t know more than what she’d allowed me to see in the hours since she’d knocked on my door. Even so, it hadn’t stopped me having sex with her, opening myself up to her even though I’d constantly questioned why I’d done what I’d done with her.

As I said, it was more than that. More than sex. The way my body reacted to her was primal, responding to her on the basest level yet tipping into the ethereal. Animal attraction meets spiritual awakening and it was magnificent.

Amelia’s mouth was on my neck, lips massaging willing skin, a tongue tracing a path that sparked jolts of desire throughout me. She moved her leg between mine, and even though she was on top of me, it was as if our bodies moved into the other rather than on - her body moving into me, mine moving into hers.

My hands glided over silken skin, luxuriating in every inch of it, smiling into her neck as my hands gripped the curves of her bottom. My lips were massaging her throat when she moaned a delectable moan and I nearly came before we’d really begun.

Our rhythm was paced, slow, languidly indulgent. Each push, each thrust, each perfect movement against, and into, each other added another layer of longing, added the need to increase the tempo yet knowing we needed to keep this loving slow and steady.

This was so unlike our previous lust filled sessions. Those had been furiously insistent, the outcome deemed more important than the act itself.

Or so I’d thought at the time. Maybe it’d always meant more.

Amelia kissed along my collar bone, her hair dancing over my chest, her breasts pressing against me with each slow thrust. Capable hands caught my hands and lifted them up over my head just as her hips firmly pushed into me, the action perfectly timed. Amelia moved her face lower, her tongue flicking against an erect nipple to elicit a moan from me. When her lips closed over the pert nub, I raised my chest higher, wishing more than anything that she could fit the whole of me inside that sensuous mouth of hers.

Lifting my head, I looked downward and was captured by dark eyes, the depths of which were bottomless. She still held my hands over my head, still held my nipple between her lips, and now she also held my gaze. Sparks sparked within and I wanted her to frantically fuck me whilst also wanting her to take me just as she was doing right at that moment; take me gently, firmly, leisurely and definitely. I wanted to say her name as I came; wanted to hear her cry out mine in the heights of orgasm; wanted to make love to her all over again and experience it all as if it was the very first time.

Our hips moved in perfect rhythm, my lower body rising to meet hers. The ball of arousal within me fired exquisite jolts throughout my body every time contact was made.

Amelia rolled her tongue around my nipple and a moan escaped from me, then her. She moved from one breast to the other, her mouth and tongue and teeth driving me crazy.

She released my left hand, hers stroking down my inner arm, tingles rippling as she moved, her hand stroking down the curve of me to slip between our bodies and between my legs.

I momentarily paused, anticipating her next move.

Her fingers pressed downwards, separating and delving closer to where I knew I was so ready for her to be. Amelia lifted slightly, adjusted herself before pushing a finger inside me, the length of it delicious. The sensation of her inside me made my hips push forward and into her, wanting more, wanting her deeper. She pulled back, joined the first finger with a second and entered me again, her mouth sucking my nipple inside as she did so.

“God!  Yes!” The words groaned from me, my body shuddering with ecstasy.

Once again, Amelia pushed into me, her whole body guiding her fingers inside, the momentum of her and me perfect, the result of which making me crave her even more.

Again, she pushed, entered and filled me, my legs widening, my hips lifting with each thrust. The whole of my body reacted to her, the whole of my mind too. Being with her made me feel so full, so whole, so absolutely complete.

Amelia moved from my breast to kiss my neck, her lips both soft and firm, the heat of her breath warming more than my throat.

I pulled her closer, her body seeming to morph into mine. My orgasm was blossoming, the swell of it spreading, insistently fulfilling the promise of deliverance.

“Katie.”

Her voice in my ear was deliciously sensuous, the whole of it seeming to gloriously echo through my veins, creating both an ache and a balm.

My hands slipped down her back to cup her bottom. Amelia moved slightly, the heat of her pressing against my thigh divine: the action of her pressing against me all-consuming. Another thrust, her need connecting with mine, our bodies moving perfectly together, her fingers slipping effortlessly inside me.

Mouths met, her moan meeting mine as surely as our bodies were doing. Amelia’s kisses were addictive, her mouth delectable, her lips expert.

Everything was building, swelling, burgeoning. The metronomic movement increasing, the tempo once seductive and leisurely was now furiously passionate and I knew I was so close to cumming.

Amelia broke our kiss, her mouth moving to my ear.

“You’re so bloody beautiful, so bloody beautiful.”

I wanted to answer her but words escaped me. I wanted to tell her how she was making me feel, how she had awakened something within me that I was only now realising was dormant and not dead, but, again, I didn’t have the ability to bring those words out into the open.

“I want you, Katie.” She kissed my ear lobe. “I want this so much.” She kissed my ear lobe again, her body moving against, and with, mine.

The sound of her voice, mixed with the sensation of our bodies, was ecstasy; knowing she wanted me, wanted “this” was even more so.

Amelia lifted her head, her face half in shadow, her eyes seeming to collect all the light in the room to make them glisten and spark with life.  Her thrusts were still perfectly timed, her fingers still moving in and out of me, her wetness still smearing over my thigh, and I was still totally besotted by her.

“I want us, Katie. I… want… us.”

Everything stilled. Everything paused. Everything became everything as the ache and swell and longing I held for Amelia Griffiths came crashing around me in an explosion of light and colour and life. My orgasm was blindingly wonderful; the noises coming from my mouth were primitive and animalistic. Amelia’s orgasm joined mine mere moments after I tipped making it even sweeter than I thought could be possible.

Although the rhythm was not in sync, our bodies connecting at will, the contact we shared was perfect. Her breathed, “Ohhh Katie,” sent more jolts of pleasure through me and I was filled by her, filled by us, filled by it all.

I wanted to confess all, wanted to tell her how she made me feel alive, made me feel wanted, but I kissed her instead and hoped she understood.

Our bodies slowed, the rhythm unhurried and full. Kisses gentled, fingers stroked, our need satiated for now.

As we settled, Amelia spooned me, her arms holding me closely against her, the rest of her body flush. The image of us was faultless: lovers embracing and readying for sleep.  And after all that happened throughout the night, I should’ve drifted off nearly straight away. But, alas, sleep was avoiding me. My brain was still engaged in what had transpired between Amelia and I just beforehand. No. Not our lovemaking, although the aches in my body did act as a wonderful reminder of that.

What kept me awake was what I’d admitted about Shelly.  I hadn’t told anyone before what life had been like with her. Hadn’t told anyone that she’d been abusive - both verbally and physically. Hadn’t told anyone that I’d been too weak to put my foot down about moving home or giving up my life and job and family and friends. Hadn’t told anyone what had happened on the night that Shelly died - that I’d run away in fear of my life. And I had never told anyone I’d shoved her in front of a car and killed her.

The thing is, I still hadn’t told anyone how bad the abuse was - just really focused on the verbal. And I still hadn’t told anyone the last part. When I’d told Amelia my story, I’d omitted that bit, too, said Shelly had stumbled, or some shit like that. I just couldn’t say the words “I pushed that evil bitch.”

Even though I didn’t know it was a car that had created the blinding light, at the moment I’d shoved her, I’d wanted her dead. Wanted Shelly Morgan dead and out of my life.

I’d gotten the first part of my wish but, unfortunately, not the second. What I’d done that night, maybe even before that fatal shove, had haunted me ever since. And by the looks of what had transpired since, Shelly would be in my life forever. I knew for a fact that she was haunting me. Knew it as soon as I’d seen the watery blur looming over me as I struggled for life as I was held under the water by the dark mass all those months ago.

I couldn’t help but question why I’d seen that figure and why I’d forgotten I’d seen it before.  The same figure that I’d believed to come from my imagination to stop myself getting a beating. The same figure that’d appeared in my garden the previous afternoon. The same bloody figure described to me by the woman who was at this precise moment pressed against my back. And the same figure who had held my head under the water a month after Shelly had died.

Even weirder, if that was even possible, was that the Wilsons’ description of the figure in the road had elements of what I’d imagined. Then, to top it all off, the glaring light from the car headlights had made Shelly’s face pale, deathly pale, her eyes shaded and appearing as just dark sockets, just like the fucking figure I’d invented.

Was I going mad? Were the events from eleven months ago driving me insane? Again.  I thought all that madness was behind me. Thought I’d gotten past all of that.

Amelia mumbled something and pulled me closer as if she knew I needed her.

However, even having her close against me, even knowing what we shared was something so much more than a one-night fling, I still knew I wasn’t going to get my happily ever after.

There were two scenarios that could be happening.

One: I was being haunted by my ex-partner whom I’d pushed in front of a vehicle and her ghost or spirit, or whatever the fuck the supernatural and paranormal world called it, was out to make my life as unbearable as possible.

Two: I believed I was being haunted by my ex-partner whom I’d pushed in front of a vehicle as she was out to make my life as unbearable as possible. The fact that I believed in the dead coming back to get revenge on me was enough for me to consider I was once again losing my mind.

Either scenario did not look good for me.

***

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Seven months earlier

The inquest was over. The Wilsons’ actions on the night Shelly died were noted as admissible and the case against them was not taken any further. It didn’t stop Richard Wilson and his wife looking absolutely dreadful as each day dragged on. It didn’t stop the obvious guilt they were feeling from taking over their lives. Three times Richard was interviewed at the inquest, three times he was dragged over that night in question with absolute pragmatism. An inquest, as we were led to believe, was not a place where judgement was made. Geoffrey Davis stated right from the start that his “job is to look only at the facts. I do not have to establish why Ms Morgan died. Just how, when and where.” He was there to put the puzzle together and we were all the pieces to help him do that. It did help, however, if the pieces were not trying to be different kinds of pieces to create a different kind of picture. A picture that, ultimately, didn’t quite create a truthful picture, or make any bloody sense in the end.

Guilt consumed me. Every single fucking day, guilt consumed me. It didn’t just stop when the inquest verdict came out as accidental instead of unlawful killing like we all were beginning to think. However, the coroner decided that even though the Wilsons were not paying due care and attention to the road, especially considering the weather conditions, their driving had not been a serious driving offence. They’d not purposefully driven dangerously. Therefore, accidental death sufficed. Shelly’s death, although unnatural, was deemed to not be unlawful. It was an accident. Plain and simple.

As we all knew, a coroner cannot attribute blame to any individual or imply liability. Geoffrey Davis couldn’t point the finger at Richard Wilson and blame him for the death of Michelle Morgan even if the room full of people believed it. However, if he thought the death could’ve been prevented then he could recommend that this could become a case to be taken further.

His narrative verdict was a clear summing up of a balance of possibilities. His mantra of “it is more likely than not” accompanied many statements of fact. It was more likely than not that if Richard Wilson had fully focused on the road instead of trying to mess with the Sat Nav, Shelly Morgan would still have been hit by his car. The weather put paid to that. It was more likely than not that even if he’d been travelling at half the legal speed allowed on that specific road, Shelly Morgan would still have been hit and died from her injuries. It was more likely than not that the deceased was out in the storm without a coat through choice and not coercion as the only other person out in the storm was her partner, Katherine Hammond. Richard Wilson testified that Ms Morgan was on her own in the road and not controlled by another in any way. Therefore, it was more likely than not that Shelly Morgan was in the middle of the road because the tarmac was easier to traverse than the soaked ground.  Or, then again, it was more likely than not that because Ms Hammond was walking close to the side of the road leaving less room for Ms Morgan to tuck in which, in turn, left her vulnerable.

And after all of this, I should’ve been relieved. Should’ve celebrated that the Wilsons were not going to be charged and, therefore, I didn’t have to admit to anything.  And this added to the guilt.

Fuck. The guilt. It literally made me crazy.

But at least now we could bury her.

The funeral was a quiet one. My family attended only to support me and not to show any remorse that Shelly was dead. Why should they? None of them really knew her, and I don’t just mean the cruel and abusive side of her either. Shelly had barely had contact with anyone in my family and for that I was pleased. Shelly’s parents came to the service, and a young man, who I believe must’ve been her brother - Joe or Jack or John, something like that. I didn’t get to speak to him. Just noted a slight resemblance to Shelly when he threw a dirty look in my direction when the service was underway.

Deep down, I didn’t really expect any of Shelly’s family to attend the gathering back at the house and was surprised to see the Morgan’s car pull up just as I’d returned from the Crematorium.

They crowded into the corner of the room, plates piled high with food from the small buffet my sisters had put together, eyes furtive and defensive. I didn’t want to speak to any of them but I knew, as host, I had to. By the time I plucked up the courage, only Harrison remained.

Really, I should have thought through what I hoped to say before approaching the hostile camp.

“I’m pleased you could make it.” I meant the reception; Harrison didn’t quite see things from my point of view.

“You’re pleased I could attend my daughter’s funeral?” He leaned towards me, his eyes flashing with nothing short of disgust. “Really?”

Prickling heat spread like wildfire over my neck and face; I believed I couldn’t quite catch my breath.

“I...”

“Have done enough damage.” He shoved his empty plate into my hand, his expression full of hatred. “My daughter is dead because of you.”

He pushed past me, spinning me slightly. When he reached the hallway, he stopped and looked up the stairs before moving on and, as I believed, out of my house.

I stepped forward, my intention to follow and apologise, but one step was all I could manage. His words echoed, the truth of them paralysing.

An arm curled around my shoulder and pulled me into a solid chest. Even without looking, I knew it was my dad. He didn’t say anything. Just supported me in the way he knew best. Silent, and uncertain about showing a soft side.

Weirdly, it must’ve been fifteen minutes later that I saw Shirley Morgan walking down the path towards the place where the cars were parked. Even more weird was noting that Joe or Jack or whatever the fuck Shelly’s brother was called didn’t leave my house for another five minutes after his mother had left.

Even though I checked upstairs, checked the other rooms in my house, I couldn’t pinpoint anything amiss, couldn’t detail any reason why they should have stayed longer, longer and hidden away from the other guests. It may have made more sense if I’d seen them carrying some of Shelly’s things, even some of my things, but they, as far as I could tell, left empty handed.

However, I knew the next time they visited that wouldn’t be the case and put the events down as them casing the joint for future dealings.

***

Four months had passed since Shelly died. Four months. I should’ve been moving forward, moving on, but I couldn’t. I was consumed by the knowledge that I’d pushed her into the road. Not only that, but that I’d pushed her into the road, kept my mouth shut and allowed the Wilsons to blame themselves. I wasn’t proud of myself. Far from it.

After the inquest, I wanted to get my life back to some semblance of order. Wanted to but, in reality, couldn’t. My parents and sisters badgered me to put the house on the market and move back to Manchester but I said no. Why? Fuck knows. I didn’t have any friends here, didn’t have a job I cared enough about to keep me here, didn’t have anything holding me at the house. My mortgage was paid off and, to the anger of Shelly’s parents, the house, and everything in it, was all mine. I’d offered them Shelly’s belongings, and Shirley and Harrison Morgan had scrabbled through everything like they were hunting for a bargain at a flea market. They’d taken only what they deemed to be of value - not sentimental value, but monetary like Shelly’s laptop and phone, her jewellery - and left me in no uncertainty of how they felt about me. It came as no shock to find out they believed I was a gold digger who’d robbed them of their daughter’s life and property. Their second of two visits to the house had been as awkward as the first. All they’d done was weigh up the value of the property and pilfer the metaphorical silver. I didn’t even argue when they packed some of my own personal belongings in with the rest of the valuables.

“You’ll be hearing from our solicitor. Don’t you worry about that.” Harrison Morgan informed me whilst his wife threw visual daggers in my direction.

I muttered, “Okay” in response as I had no clue what else to say. But, they left, and that’s what really mattered.

However, the months of silence after their threat indicated they’d discovered that actually, they didn’t have a legal leg to stand on.

Shelly’s clothes and all the other paraphernalia that makes up a life was still stored in my spare room; a life boxed up and waiting for someone to care enough to come and collect it all. However, as it turned out, no-one did care enough. Certainly not her parents, her brother or any friends she’d professed to have. My mother suggested donating it all to charity and I’d agreed. However, when it came down to it, I just couldn’t part with any of her things. Just stored them away as if I may need them one day for some reason or another. Or part of me did feel a semblance of pity for a woman who’d died and it seemed as if no one gave a shit.  Yes. Shelly had not been the best partner a person could’ve had but didn’t she deserve more than to be cast off to a charity and forgotten? Her parents hadn’t even wanted her ashes - those were in my spare room, too.

“You need to get a plot for her you know, love.”

My mother was right. I needed to sort out Shelly’s remains. Do something with them. But what? Fuck knows. It was one of those conversations I hadn’t thought of having with her when she’d been alive.

“Hey. When you die did you want to be interred or scattered? What about me having a tattoo using a bit of your ashes? Better still, shoot you off to the moon in a tube?”

Shelly hadn’t been religious - not by any stretch of the imagination. However, one scenario I’d never thought would happen was for that small casket containing the powdered remains of a woman I used to live with to be making it possible for her to still be “living” with me. I’d always believed that when you were dead you were dead. Seems like I was wrong. I’d the feeling that Shelly Morgan was back to shake her gory locks at me in some way or another.

Or, as the doctors and my family believed, instead of being haunted, I was having a breakdown. Losing the plot. Grieving myself into madness. Yes. My actions could’ve been interpreted as strange but I genuinely believed that Shelly was still in the house with me. I sensed her, sensed something other than myself, or my family, within these four walls.

I just wanted to be alone. Wanted Shelly out of my life once and for all, wanted my family to leave me alone, too, but they were concerned with me for some reason or another. I’d tried to convince them that I didn’t need babysitting, didn’t need someone following me around and checking I was eating, washing, sleeping; checking I wasn’t moping around in the house, rambling around it like a stray ball bearing, bouncing off the walls in my attempt to stay confined in the pretence of trying to free myself.

But whatever I said to my family made not a jot of difference. However, the initial “Come home” requests were becoming fewer yet more deliberate. This wasn’t because they’d changed their minds about me upping sticks and dragging my arse back to Manchester. No. It was because of my reaction every time they asked me. Selling the house was not an option. Getting rid of Shelly’s stuff was not an option. Moving the fuck on was not an option.

Why?

Because I honestly believed that if I sold the house, if I gave Shelly’s belongings away, if I moved the fuck on then people would discover what I’d done.

There. I’d said it. Admitted it. Confessed all.

Now all I had to do was say, admit and confess everything to someone other than myself.

***

Chapter Thirty

Six months earlier

Another month had passed. Another month of doing nothing. Another month of allowing myself to dig my guilt trench even deeper.

“You need to go out, Katie love. Holing yourself up there won’t bring her back.”

I wanted to answer with “Wanna bet?” but plumped for “I’m fine, Mum. Just moving on with things, you know.”

My mum paused on the other end of the phone and I knew she wanted to say something that highlighted the fact I was not moving on. Instead, she asked to speak to Phoebe, my middle sister, whose turn it was, I believe, to keep an eye on me.

“Phebes? Mum wants you.”

Phoebe stopped chopping leeks for her homemade soup, wiped her hands on her jeans then took the phone from my hand.

“Hey. What’s up?”

I hooked my foot around the kitchen chair and dragged it outwards, turning it slightly so the seat would face where my sister was leaning her back against the kitchen counter. I sat. Tilted my head. Observed the interplay of mother and daughter and enjoyed how Phoebe tried to avoid saying things aloud to alert me of their plotting and planning. I couldn’t quite understand why this was something they would try to do considering we were all aware of what the unspoken conversation was about. And just because the words didn’t hit air, didn’t mean that my family didn’t think I was a basket case.

If anyone could’ve seen me at that present moment, he or she would say that I was the picture of calmness and sobriety. However, if this same person would’ve seen me at 3:24 am, the observation would’ve been different. Apparently, screaming and crying and racing around the house in the middle of the night was not deemed normal. Leaving the house and chasing things that were not there was also a big fat no no. Shouting out Shelly’s name to the darkness was also classed as something that most people would perceive to be on the abnormal scale.

Phoebe had chased me, caught me, led me back into the house and tried to calm me as best she could. I told her I must’ve been dreaming, that my actions were obviously those of someone in the throes of a nightmare but we both knew this was not the case. I’d been awake. Fully and agonisingly awake. I wasn’t sure whether Phoebe knew I was awake or suffering night terrors, mainly because when she caught me, I was inconsolable, almost as if I was in the midst of a panic attack. By her account, I’d bolted upright, screamed, pointed at the doorway and announced there was someone watching us before taking off at high speed towards the place where I’d reportedly seen someone moments before.

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow.”

Phoebe turned her back to me, her voice muffled. I tilted my head slightly so my ear faced her back as if this could make me hear the conversation better.

“Dr Bailey. Yes. She knows.” Phoebe glanced over her shoulder at me; I pouted and shook my head slightly.

“She’s not happy about going.”

“No, I’m not.”

Phoebe winked at me. “But she’s agreed to go, mainly to shut me up.”

“And Mum.”

I lost interest at this point. I’d agreed to see Dr Bailey and talk over my nightly episodes. These “episodes” had increased in frequency in the last four weeks, so much so, that they were becoming almost a nightly occurrence. Phoebe had only witnessed the one as she had only arrived the previous day. Ellie, Mum and Dad had had a taster in the times they had been here. However, last night had been a cracker, even if I say so myself. I’d nearly reached the lane before Phoebe had convinced me that being outside in my pjs and barefoot was not the best way to take in the night air. To be honest, I didn’t really give a fuck and told her as much. But I let her lead me back inside the house, mainly because she didn’t know that the thing I’d been chasing was no longer a threat to us both. It’d continued to move up the lane. I know this because I’d seen it as clearly as I’d seen Phoebe. I also knew the figure was not real and there was a real chance that I was losing the plot.

The morning had been filled with phone calls and surreptitious murmurings. Eventually, I told Phoebe to make an appointment with a doctor if that is what she wanted to do. I was more than surprised when she had secured an appointment for the next day. This is the bit that worried me the most. Getting an appointment so soon was unheard of. Usually, a patient had to be at Death’s door to get to see a doctor this side of a fortnight’s wait. Things must be worse than I thought.

I must be worse than I thought.

And that thought made me feel worse.

***

The night didn’t pass quietly. I didn’t sleep soundly even though I’d my sister in the bed next to me. But I did nod off quickly, the actual time it took me to get to sleep almost doglike. However, like usual, I was awake again a couple of hours later.

A noise woke me. A scraping, a dragging, a something in my room that moved from one place to another without it being bloody picked up and carried. This something was like a chair being pulled across a wooden floor. The sound in itself wouldn’t have mattered so much if I hadn’t been in my bedroom, my carpeted bedroom, where the noise would have been decidedly different to one I could hear.

I sat up, reached for the lamp switch but didn’t turn it on. Even though the room was dark, it wasn’t so very dark that I couldn’t make out shapes in the room. The dragging, scraping noise momentarily stopped before starting once again. I keened my ears to where the hub of activity seemed to emanate and caught the movement of a small white orb near the base of where my dressing table stood.

The orb stopped. And so did the noise.

I shuffled forward in my bed, the covers gathering and pushing downwards and to the side, my eyes never leaving the orb. The lighted shape seemed to swell and increase in size, not much, but enough to be noticeable. Then, smoothly, silently and slowly, it ascended the leg of the dressing table and landed on the flat top of the counter of it.  At this point, I was tempted to wake Phoebe and ask if she could see what I could see. But there was a part of me that was worried that she wouldn’t and I didn’t want to add ammunition to my family’s already growing arsenal of my madness.

The orb moved slowly along the flat surface of the dressing table, stopping at the centre. I narrowed my eyes, the light of the orb sharpening and swelling as it moved higher and onto the mirror. I was expecting to see it reflected in the glass, my brain trying to justify and qualify the madness of the moment by rationality. However, the reflection was not an illuminated orb that floated a few inches above the tabletop. It appeared larger, as if it had been magnified. I tried to convince myself that it was because I’d been staring at it for too long and my mind was starting to lose its reference point, blurring my imagination with reality to form an optical illusion.

But no. My imagination wasn’t that good. Wasn’t that defined. Wasn’t that fucked up.

In the mirror, instead of a small luminescent orb, was a face. A white face. A gaunt face. A face facing me. Eyes focused on mine. Eyes I knew, even in this bad light, eyes I remembered to be full of anger and hatred and cruelty. But now these eyes were also full of accusation.

“She-lly?” The break in my voice was completely involuntary. I'm surprised I got the word out at all.

The spectral face in the glass was reminiscent of the hologram head of the great and powerful Oz in The Wizard of Oz, but more terrifying. Much more terrifying considering the person reflected in the glass was supposed to be dead.

Shelly opened her mouth, the movement deliberate, the translucent lips forming a word, a word I couldn’t make out.

Phoebe. I needed to wake Phoebe. She would know what to do. Without looking away from the face in the mirror, I grabbed what I believed to be Phoebe’s leg and shook it.

“Phebes. Phebes. Look!” My voice was low but insistent, a definite urgency and panic thrumming within the words.

She groaned and moved away, taking the covers with her. I grabbed the duvet and pulled it, saying her name once again. Phoebe muttered once more and I broke my gaze from the mirror and focused on my sister next to me. The covers were completely over her and I grabbed the top and pulled it back.

I wish I hadn’t. God. I truly wish I hadn’t.

It wasn’t Phoebe that turned to face me. It wasn’t my sister. Even in the dimly lit room, I knew it wasn’t my sister. It was Shelly. Fucking Shelly.

The scream I released could’ve woken the dead if the dead hadn’t been awake already.  Shelly sat up, reached out, spoke and tried to calm me. Tried to calm me as if any words coming out of a dead woman’s mouth would ever succeed in that.

I screamed again, scuttled backwards and fell off the bed, my backside hitting the floor on an angle, a sharp unforgiving pain shooting up my spine.

“Get away! Get off me!”

Shelly wasn’t on me but I wasn’t taking any chances. I scrambled onto my hands and knees, the carpet burning against my skin. Turning towards the door, I noticed the hologram spectre thing was no longer in the mirror. No surprise really considering what I’d seen there was now attempting to grab my ankle and pull me back towards the bed.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” The scream I then let out was flooded with words.  “Fucking die! Fucking die! Just fucking die!” 

I kicked out and heard Shelly grunt as my heel caught her in the stomach. I kicked again, leaned forward and clawed at her face, tried to grab her hair, tried to gauge her eyes out.

“For fuck’s sake! Kat! Stop!”

Not a chance. I’d been weak before. Shelly wasn’t going to get the better of me this time. There wasn’t a car to stop her now so I had to do it myself.

I lunged again, my nails clawing once more at her face, the contact disgustingly satisfying as they bit into flesh and tore.

“Jesus, Kat! Stop!”

Strong fingers caught around my wrist and held me fast. I went in with my left hand but was stopped by a sudden blow to my face. My teeth clacked together, my head rocked back, the pain of the movement sudden and painful to my neck. I blinked, my lids straining to open against the pain rocketing through my face. Once more, I lunged only to be slapped again, even harder, the sting of it sending a blinding heat across my face.

“Kat! It’s me! Phoebe. Me!”

I heard the words but couldn’t process their meaning. I just had to defend myself before Shelly finished me off.

Ripping my wrist free, I grabbed her throat. Using all my strength, I barrelled forward, taking the woman down, my hands gripping tighter, the satisfying indentation as her neck narrowed under my fingers. She tried to peel me off her but I wasn’t letting that happen.

Slam. Slam. Slam. I hit her head against the floor, the spark leaving my attacker the more I squeezed, the more I banged her head against the carpet.

“You fucking cunt! Just die! Die will you!”

A laugh sounded from the dresser, a laugh I knew so well. A laugh that belonged to the woman I was trying to throttle.

Confused, I looked over to the mirror. There was nothing there, No orb, no nothing. The person underneath was not fighting now. Not digging her fingernails into the back of my hands.  Not trying to slap me again. Not crying, not talking, not pleading.

As if I’d been prodded by an electric jolt, I released my grip, the head thunking dully onto the carpet.

I shifted backwards. Shifted off the body of the woman on the floor.  Slithered along the carpet before reaching the wall and standing, my gaze never leaving the dark unmoving mass on the carpet.

Frantically, the palm of my hand searched the plainness of the wall until it secured the light switch.

Click.

And even though the room lit up, my world spiralled into darkness.

Sprawled on the floor was my sister. Her arms by her sides, her night clothes in disarray. Her head was turned to the side; not the usual angle of a sleeper, not the usual angle at all. It was higher. Unnatural. Angry scored lines were on her cheek, smeared evidence of bleeding apparent.

I just stared. Rigid. Unbelieving.

It was my sister. My. Sister. Unmoving. Bleeding. Her neck purplish in the places where I’d gripped her. Gripped and squeezed and tried to choke the life out of her.

Or choked. Past tense. No “trying” about it.

It was this realisation that broke the spell. I don’t remember moving from the wall, don’t really remember kneeling next to her; I just remember the panic, the agony, the fear that she was dead.

“Phoebe?” My voice came from a distance, the hollowness of it disembodied.

I stroked her hairline, stroked her cheek, then realised this was not enough.

I had to check her pulse, check her breathing, check and check and check. I pushed down the rising panic gurgling in my chest.

“Phoebe?”

Tentatively, I touched her throat with my index and middle finger, the digits covering the carotid artery just next to her windpipe. Miraculously, I found it straight away, the pulse of it strong although rather quickened.

Phoebe moved slightly, a small groan escaping from her parted lips, her eyelids fluttered.

I stroked her hair away from her face, the strands of it clumped together for some reason. Eyelids fluttered more, the green of her iris appearing, the pupil a little larger than usual.

Relief engulfed me, a smile lighting my lips. “Phoebe?”

Fear gripped her. I sensed her body tighten and revolt just before she hit me as hard as she could at the side of the head.

That’s all I could remember for a while.

***

I don’t know how long I was out for but I’d definitely deserved the punch given to me. Phoebe was on the phone by the time I came around and, by the sounds of it, she was talking to my mother.

“They’re on their way.”

I knew she wasn’t talking to me but I wanted to find out who were on their way and why they were on their way. Was it Ellie? Dad? Who?

I tried to sit up but a pain shot across my head. Whoever was coming, I hoped they brought painkillers with them.

“No, Mum. I’m not overreacting. She was like a person possessed.”

A person possessed? Me?

Yes. Me.

Nausea welled and I tried to swallow it down. Phoebe glanced over her shoulder in my direction, the scratches down her cheek stark against her pale skin.

I vomited. And vomited again, my body heaving with the force of it. Bile, rancid, abhorrent. Shakily, I lifted my hand and wiped against my mouth, the drag of spittle slimy. I was crying, too. Crying for so many reasons that I couldn’t specifically decide on which reason was the one that had triggered the tears.

I’d attacked my sister. Attacked her and scratched her face. Attacked her and tried to strangle her - not to mention slamming her head against the floor. I could’ve killed her. Killed her and not even realised it was her that I’d killed. I was losing the plot, losing my mind, losing reality. Ever since Shelly had died, my life had turned to shit. Considering I’d believed my life had been shit before she’d died, this was a feat in itself.

“Got to go. They’re here now.”

I wiped my eyes again, the spit from my mouth smearing over the lids. Blue lights lit the back wall and I realised that the police were outside my house.

***

Chapter Thirty-One

I was wrong. Initially it was an ambulance, then a police car. Then two doctors. Seems as if they all had to be there before an approved mental health practitioner could be called in to finalise my sectioning. Three signatures needed, apparently. Or maybe that is something I just made up. Might as well make it up considering my life of late seemed as if it fell from the pages of a Stephen King novel - although my life was not as beautifully written.

“You are detained under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act.”

In the full scope of my imaginings, I’d never believed I’d have these words directed at me. I’d heard it in films and on TV, but never thought I would ever hear it for real even if it was directed at someone else near me or in ear shot.

Phoebe was checked over by a paramedic, her scratches cleaned, her throat examined. She hadn’t shown any evidence of concussion, no headache, dizziness, vomiting or dilated pupils but was advised to seek medical attention if she felt unwell.

“If you feel stunned, dazed or confused, pop along to A and E and get checked over,” the paramedic told her.

Phoebe looked across the room at me and I’d understood that, like me, she was probably feeling all of them but not because of a concussion.

I’d been relieved to be taken away. I went with them willingly just to escape her disappointment. I didn’t feel mad - angry or otherwise. I didn’t feel sane. I was just relieved. 

Riding in the ambulance was different to what I’d imagined, too. Dawn Simmons, the approved mental health practitioner, or Dawn AMHP as the badge dangling from her lanyard announced, joined me in the back. I fully expected her to begin her assessment of my mental well-being as we travelled, but no. The simple questions she’d asked me in my home seemed enough for her, and Dr Bailey and Dr Nolan to commit me for “up to 28 days” on an acute ward in St Georges Hospital, Morpeth.

Seems as if trying to strangle my sister and thump her head repeatedly onto the floor - let’s not forget whilst screaming out the name of my dead girlfriend - wasn’t classed as “mentally stable”. Who knew? Envisioning luminous orbs that shifted into luminous bodiless floating heads wasn’t the norm either. Looks like some people were right after all. When I came out at eighteen, a couple of my “friends” had said I wasn’t normal. Stupidly, I’d thought they meant sexually. And yes. I am being sarcastic.

“You do understand what is happening, don’t you Katie?” Dawn used that patronising voice that people tend to use when they believe they are better than you. I know I was being a fucker, but I didn’t really give a shit what was going to happen to me now. I’d physically, emotionally and mentally hurt my sister because I couldn’t differentiate between reality and fantasy. Being banged up in a loony bin was the best place for me. I know “loony bin” is not classed as PC, but I am mad after all. Dawn implied it so it must be true.

“What it means by detaining you under the mental health act is, well, specifically, it is Section 2, sub section 2b when you are det…”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Considering Dawn’s job was to work with people who were suffering from a whole spectrum of mental illnesses, her face showed such shock and surprise, I was tempted to ask if this was her first day on the job.

“Well, Katherine. I don’t think there is any need for …”

“The sound of your voice.” I tilted my head and glared at her, my expression daring her to speak.

She didn’t. Thankfully. The rest of the journey was spent in silence. I didn’t really like being left with my own thoughts but, on balance, I still preferred it to listening to someone tell me I was a danger to myself and others.

I already knew that. That was the whole fucking problem and the reason I was in the back of an ambulance on my way to a mental hospital in the middle of the night. Not everyone has the luxury of getting a bed in any kind of hospital, especially one to treat mental illness.

Fuck. I must be bad. But, weirdly, I didn’t feel it. Something had gone down in my bedroom earlier and it had nothing to do with my mental stability or instability.  And then there was the fact that I was trying to rationalise everything like a completely sane person would do.

But then again, would a person who was suffering from the delusion of mental well-being know it was a delusion?

“Okay. We’re here.”

Fuck.

***

The only medication I was willing to accept was paracetamol. That’s the only medication I understood.  My head was banging and I didn’t know if it was because of all of the crying I’d done, the shock I’d had, the fight I’d been involved in or the thump I’d received from Phoebe. But that was it. Nothing more than paracetamol was going to pass my lips whilst I was banged up. I’d heard so many scare stories, and transcribed case studies about them as part of my job, about patients taking medication they really didn’t understand and the side effects turned out to be worse than the illness.

Upon arrival at St Georges, I was taken through the security portal and into the reception area of the hospital. Dawn asked me to sit on one of the plastic chairs screwed down along one wall of the admin area. I didn’t speak; I just shuffled over, dropped my overnight bag on the seat next to me, and then slumped down.

In situations like this, or when I’ve been the focus of someone talking about me in the past, I usually find that the people doing the talking did so quietly and surreptitiously whilst glancing over in my direction. Not here. Dawn clearly, and loudly, explained to the woman standing partly behind a counter who I was and that I was a mad as a hatter - although she didn’t use that phrase. That was my interpretation. It may have actually just been her normal pitch and just sounded louder because of where we were. Or maybe it was because, for some reason or other, I disliked Dawn. Intensely. She hadn’t done anything bad - well, apart from agree to have me sectioned, and if I’d been thinking rationally, I would’ve have recognised that she was, in fact, just doing her job.

But I didn’t give a flying fuck about her, her job, or anything else at that precise moment. I just wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear.

“Hello, Katie. I’m Jade Robinson, and I’m here to explain why you’re here, what you can expect from us and what we expect from you in return. Okay?”

Jade Robinson was late twenties, or early thirties at a push. Her face was gentle, soft, open.

“I’m here to answer any questions you may have, too.”

I nodded. I didn’t really know what to say.

“Do you mind if I sit next to you for a minute?”

I shrugged and she took that to mean I didn’t mind her moving my bag to the floor and sitting in the place next to where it had been. I wondered why she’d bothered to move it when she didn’t sit in that seat. She must’ve had her reason, I just hoped it wasn’t because she was leaving a spot for Dawn who’d disappeared from sight.

“Firstly. Is there anything I can get for you?”

I shook my head and winced.

“A cup of tea? Coffee?”

“Water. Please.”

Jade stood and moved over to a water dispenser that was half hidden by the countertop.  When she returned, she held the plastic water cup to me.

“Have you a headache?”

Straight away, I was on the defensive.

“I’m not taking anything. You can’t make me. I know my rights.” I didn’t but she didn’t know that.

“I can’t give you anything.  Not even a pain killer. You must be assessed first.” She lifted a clipboard in gesture. “Let’s just go through some things, yes? Then we can get you settled.”

I wasn’t savvy with mental hospital etiquette and tried to not act surprised when Jade informed me that I could wear my own clothes and not have to slip my arms into a straitjacket over a backless hospital gown.

I looked down at my overnight bag, the one Phoebe had packed for me and passed to Dawn before we’d left. I would’ve preferred Phoebe to give me the bag but I understood that she was giving me a wide berth at the moment. I wished I could give myself a wide berth. Would’ve loved to escape myself for a while.

“You will be assessed tomorrow morning and then you can see your family.”

Jade’s words brought me back to the present.

“My family live away and I doubt my sister will want to visit.”

Saying this hurt. I felt so isolated, so alone that the agony of it jammed my throat.

“Hmmm.” Jade flicked the pages on the clip board to the beginning. “It seems as if a Phoebe Hammond has called just before your ambulance arrived. Your sister, yes?”

“Phoebe called here?” That couldn’t be right. She was the last person I’d expect to give a shit about me at this precise moment.

“Yes.” Jade’s smile was genuine. “She wanted to talk to you and I informed her that you hadn’t arrived yet.”

“Did she... Did she leave a message?” I wanted, and didn’t want, to know the answer.

Jade nodded. “Told me to tell you she did it because you’re her little sister and she loves you.”

I started to cry. Huge gulping sobs. Sobs that shudder through the body and expel into the air with an irregular rhythm. Jade didn’t try to comfort me, didn’t wash me with empty phrases like “Let it all out” or “There, there, there”. She just waited for me to do what I needed to do before she passed me a tissue so I could soak up the mess oozing from me.

“Shall we get you settled?”

I nodded, words not coming very easily after my breakdown. I leaned to get my bag but Jade got there first. I held out my hand and she passed the holdall to me, the familiarity of holding something connected to the outside world unsurprisingly comforting.

“I know it is not the thing you want to hear now but... I need to check through your bag to make sure everything is accounted for.”

“And to make sure I’ve nothing sharp in here, right?”

Jade smiled again, a soft nod of the head accompanying it.

“Let’s get to your room first, yes? Check your bag then.”

I agreed. Even though I’d been sectioned and was in hospital, I didn’t want all my belongings pulled out of my bag and put on display. I was exposed enough already.

In the reception area, the walls were a pale, insipid blue, the pastel shade sickeningly reminiscent of hospital wards of the past. However, once through keypad protected double doors, I was greeted by the clinical whiteness of a corridor, the overwhelming stench of disinfectant turning my stomach.

Our footsteps echoed off tiled floor, the distinct clip clop clipping of Jade’s heels, the staccato rhythm of each step unhurried, paced: my steps, in comparison, were sluggish, part drag and part flop.

White doors lined the left side of the corridor - door upon door upon door upon door - the gleam of the white woodwork blending seamlessly within the alcoves fitted in white walls, standing on the white floor; the fake light streaming through the windows lining the right side appeared celestial. All the doors were shut. Chrome levered handles added to the light, the keyhole in each being the only darkness. A need to congratulate Jade on the cleanliness of the place surged but I knew anything I said at this time would be used to substantiate my inherent madness. So, I kept quiet and kept moving.

I looked downwards and saw feet moving, stepping forward, the clip clop clipping continuing to emanate from the heels of Jade’s shoes whilst my boots looked out of place. My scuffed boots, my obedient feet, my slurred and sycophantic steps.

“Here we are.” Jade’s voice seemed bright like a bell boy who had delivered the guests to the penthouse suite.

My door was the same as all the other doors apart from one thing. All the doors were of white wood, chrome levered handles and single keyhole. But unlike all the others, this door stood wide open. The white tiled floors continued inside, breaking the threshold.

My room was small, the walls painted a pastel green. A single bed, a single wardrobe, a single nightstand with a single drawer and a single lamp above it screwed to the wall. To the left of the entrance door was another open door showing a clinically white bathroom.

That was it. My life in a single cell.

“Well. Let’s just check your belongings and I’ll let you get settled.”

My fingers flexed involuntarily on the strap of my bag.

“Just pop it on the bed and...” she gave a slight grimace. “I’ll need to take your boots too.”

I didn’t have to ask why as Jade must’ve seen my confusion and explained.

“Your boots have laces.”

I opened my mouth to ask what she meant but realised the implications of leaving laces in boots of a patient on a psychiatric ward. Resignedly, I placed my bag onto the bed and then began to unlace my boots.

As each item of my life was brought out of the holdall, it was marked down onto a piece of paper. One by one, tick, scribble, note. And as each item came out for inspection, another part of me faded. What had happened to me to end up in a place where they took my shoelaces because they thought I was a danger to myself and others? I wanted to blame Shelly but how could I? She was dead.

Yes. She was dead and I was going mad.

“I’ll be back through the night to check on you.” Jade’s voice broke through my self-pity and she waited until I looked at her before she nodded once as if reaffirming her statement.

“You’re not alone, okay?”

So why did I feel as if I was?

“I’m just at the top of the corridor.  If you need anything, just press this button.”

Jade placed her hand at the side of a small square on the wall next to the doorway, remarkably similar to a light switch apart from it wasn’t a switch but a largish circular button.

“We will be coming around to observe you throughout the night, too.  So my advice is to get some sleep.”

And she was gone. And I was left to let everything sink in.

It was not the best moment of my life.

***

Even though I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep, my head had barely hit the pillow before dreams engulfed me.

I was standing in the corridor of the acute ward. The white walls painfully white, the gleam forcing me to lift my hand to half shade my eyes. 

A noise from the left alerted me that I was not alone. Footsteps were moving, and I was unsure whether they were coming toward me or moving away.

I turned. Nothing but a never-ending corridor, a line of doors vanishing in the distance.

Another noise, this time from my right.

As I turned this time, I spotted someone just ahead, just out of a clear shot. The hunch of the body unfamiliarly familiar as if it was trying to protect itself from being seen. I shouted what could’ve been a name but the figure began to move away. I shouted again. Nothing. No acknowledgement. I started to follow, the gap between me and the person in front of me closing.

Another thrust forward and my fingers strained with the effort of attempting to capture the back of a coat, a swinging arm. Then again, and again, and then I caught hold of cloth and held fast, the figure halting in his or her tracks. And as “it” halted, so did I, the expectation of exposing what had been haunting my dream both intriguing and petrifying.

I couldn’t let go.

With agonising slowness, the shape turned. I half expected the face from the mirror the night I’d attacked Phoebe to greet me, to be facing me, but no. The eyes were present, hauntingly present. Green, startled and sorrowful. The skin was more ashen and greyer than white giving the appearance of illness rather than death. Blonde hair was matted, thin and matted, the natural wave of it struggling to form its curl. Reaching out, I placed my fingertips onto ice cold skin, skin that I knew in the depths of my soul had once been full of life, of colour, of warmth. 

The agony of touch. The despair of knowing what I was facing was more than a figment of a nightmare. It was a woman. A woman who was running from the inevitable. The ache of her, the grief of this was all-consuming for both of us. My fingers stroked along a sharp cheekbone, the skin flaking under my touch.

Panic climbed within me; the need to save her overwhelming.

I cupped her face, stroked her mouth with my thumb, the action eradicating her lips to expose gums and teeth. The horror of the scene didn’t stop me trying to make things right, make things better, make her well again. I gripped a little tighter, the skin turning to powder under my touch.

A sob tore free. From me or her, I was unsure, but it didn’t matter. I tried to comfort her by stroking her hair only to find clumps of it clinging to my fingertips. Whatever I did to try and make her better made things worse. The situation was beyond my control but it didn’t stop me trying to save her. Maybe it would’ve been better for the both of us if I’d walked away but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. That, as I now knew, was an impossibility.

My chest hurt so much. The pain of losing her was agonising. Words tumbled from my mouth, words promising I’d save her, I’d take care of her, she’d be better soon.

But would she?

Pulling her to me, I hugged her close, held her so very close, needing to feel her heartbeat against mine. 

The crack, the crumble, and then the disintegration of her body as it folded into itself, turning to ash to dust to death and leaving me holding nothing but air.

The howl of despair I released tore from my soul, the fracturing of my heart accompanying the doleful cry of the abandoned.

The figure had been me. It had been me who had broken into nothing. Me who couldn’t save myself. Me who now believed held nothing but air.

A voice.  A voice saying my name. A voice attempting to ease my panic, attempting to ease the agony of the situation. A voice I seemed to know.

And again. My name and an attempt to soothe. Hands on my arms, at the side of my face, my shoulders. Warmth and concern in both sound and contact.

A gasp left me, my eyes flew open, I reached out and grabbed onto the forearm of who I now know to be Jade Robinson. Relief burst from me followed by a sob.

And once again, I cried and cried and cried.

***

Chapter Thirty-Two

Almost a week. A fucking week. One fuck off week on a ward being treated as if I was mad. I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t.  I was plagued by guilt. That was all.  Guilt.  And that guilt led to stress. And with stress came a myriad of symptoms that could mimic a nervous breakdown. Not all of them, granted, but some. A couple at the very least. Even though I hadn’t found any evidence to support a person experiencing hallucinations as part of being stressed, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t a possibility.

But I did suffer with insomnia. That was one that could be ticked off from the stress / nervous breakdown comparison list. And if I did sleep, the dreams were bad. Upsetting.  No wonder I had outbursts. I was tired. People who are tired tend to be ratty.  That is a given. And even though I’d had bad dreams, I hadn’t tried to run after things that were not supposedly there. I hadn’t done that since I’d left home.

But I was told I’d still been sleepwalking. That wasn’t news.  Phoebe had told me I’d left the house and tried to make a run for it down the road before all of this “madness” had kicked off. Sleepwalking wasn’t a cause for concern. I hadn’t hurt anyone. And since I’d come into St George’s, I hadn’t escaped into the night and caused havoc, hadn’t made people wary of my mental well-being in the place where making people wary of my mental well-being was almost a given.

Well, apart from the screaming. This did tick the “not quite right” box. Bolting upright in bed and screaming as loudly as I possible could, actually. Had my eyes open, too, by what had been reported by so-called nurses.

These same “witnesses” said I looked panicked and full of fear. Who wouldn’t? I was screaming in the middle of the night, for fuck’s sake! It was probably because I knew I was sectioned and detained on a psychiatric ward. Who wouldn’t fucking scream?

Scream and sweat. Scream and sweat and breathe rapidly. Gasp, too. This didn’t help the racing heart rate they’d noted I had.

As well as all of this, I’d punch and thrash and swing my fists and flail my arms then try to do a runner but not as bad as before I’d been sectioned.

Apparently.

I barely remembered any of this. I just had a desperate need to protect myself from whatever was there. And whatever was there never really materialised, unlike before. I just knew I was in danger. Knew I had to escape something I couldn’t remember, couldn’t see and didn’t know was real or not.

Dr Khalil had tried to explain that he believed I was suffering from a form of parasomnia. Part sleepwalking, part night terrors. He’d read reports from staff who’d stated that I’d been confused, dangerous, aggressive when they’d attempted to wake me. I’d not known who they were when they’d finally woken me, but as soon as the realisation of reality hit, I became inconsolable and initially unresponsive to their attempts to calm.

I don’t remember that.

I don’t really remember anything apart from wanting everything to stop.

It took another week for the good doctor to decide to give me a polysomnography to monitor my brain and heart activity whilst I slept.

As they were discussing it, a seed of excitement bedded itself, mainly because l believed I’d actually get out of the ward and into a hospital for an overnight stay. Even though I was only replacing one ward for another, at least the doors weren't locked. Or maybe they still were for people visiting from a psychiatric ward but that didn’t stop me wanting to get out. Hopefully, this was the first step to me being cured, or failing a complete cure, just being allowed to go home.

But it wasn’t as simple as just going to a different place for a clinical assessment before having a diagnostic investigation. Seems that giving me a proper sleep study would prove to be too expensive for the hospital’s budget. So, I had, according to Dr Khalil, the next best thing. A home testing kit. 

A. Home. Testing. Kit.

Laudable or laughable? The latter, so I thought. It appeared that the hospital believed my mental well-being could be assessed by using a small monitor attached by a wire to a belt that is fastened around my midsection, attaching a clip to my finger, putting an airflow sensor under my nose and switching the monitor on - and I wasn’t even allowed to do it at “home”.

When they said “home”, they meant the ward. Taking the piss had gone to new heights.

Who knew that something as simple as a “home testing kit” could scare away all the horrendous thoughts passing through my subconscious as I slept! Amazing to think such a small object could realign my mental instability. Maybe, if I did well in my test, they would lift the section I’d been placed under and release me to the world once again. Better still, that small sensor under my nose may even stop whatever it was that was haunting every moment of my sleep.

And there was me thinking that all it did was measure my oxygen and heart rate.

Wankers. All of them.  Money saving, time wasting wankers. It was my head they should’ve been looking into as that was the bloody reason I was banged up on a mental ward in the first place. Considering I was the one who was supposed to be struggling with rational thought, even I could work out that their reasoning was not sound.

But I complied. Let them stick their monitors where they wanted and I would put up and shut up. What else could I do? Point out the obvious? Tell them they didn’t know their arse from their elbow never mind how to investigate parasomnia. Because, obviously, I could. I was the expert after all as I’d typed a few case studies about it when I was allowed near a computer in the time before madness had hit and taken hold.

But then again, it turned out that I did, in fact, know fuck all. Even though the sleep testing kit had no way of monitoring my brain activity, it did pick up over a doubled increase in heart rate. It also seems that night terrors are associated with rapid breathing, another symptom I’d displayed whilst being attached to the equipment.

“Interesting.” Dr Khalil muttered as he flicked through the results.

I waited for him to direct his attention to me.

“Linking these findings to what the nurse observed when he checked on you…” He paused and I leaned forward in readiness for his diagnosis. “Interesting.”

I leaned back into my seat and waited for him to finalise his thoughts on what he was reading. Why couldn’t he have compared and synthesised this information before summoning me to his office? Then he could’ve honoured me with his undoubted medical superiority without me thinking he was a twat.

“Seems the main cause of your distress is night terrors.”

And again, without me thinking he was a twat.

“By your records …” he shuffled from one set of notes to the other, “you’ve been suffering from these attacks since the death of your partner, yes?”

I nodded. Two weeks stuck inside a psychiatric ward for him to state the obvious. This was one of the main reasons why I’d been admitted - seeing strange shit in my dreams and thinking it was real - and also being a danger to myself and others. Can’t forget that one.

“Did you suffer from anything like this before Michelle Morgan was killed?”

Tact and diplomacy didn’t seem to be the doctor’s strong point.

He looked up from the notes, his eyes peering over half-moon glasses.

“You mean before the accident?” I held his gaze hoping that he’d realise that he needed to rephrase what he’d said. However, it was obvious that Dr Khalil just didn’t get the subtleties of phrasing. 

I sighed. Responded with a simple “No” and waited once more for the doctor to finalise what he was reading.

Although it must’ve been less than five minutes, it seemed so much longer until the doctor stopped, leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

“As I said before, the main cause of your distress is night terrors. However, there is a link here...” Dr Khalil replaced his glasses and tapped on the papers in front of him “and the death of your partner.”

Considering he’d spent so much time working that out, I’d expected something a little more complex.

“Have you heard of PTSD? Post-traumatic stress disorder?”

I half shrugged, half nodded, the combination undecided.

“Let me explain.” He slipped his glasses up to meet the bridge of his nose. “Night terrors in adults are closely associated with mental disorders.”

This was not what I was expecting. Mental disorder? I didn’t have a fucking mental disorder. I was being punished; I had disturbed sleep; I was being haunted; I was being taught a fucking lesson. I did not have a mental disorder.

“Dependent, schizoid and borderline personality disorders may be the cause.”

Didn’t the man know when to shut the fuck up?

“Depression and anxiety are others.”

Seems like no.

“However, considering you say you haven’t suffered with anything like this until your partner was killed, then I am leaning more to PTSD as the instigator to your problems.”

Was this a good or bad thing? Mainly, would they release me? Was I free to go now I’d been diagnosed?

Dr Khalil stared at me almost as if he was expecting me to answer. I rapidly shook my head in both negation and confusion.

“Now let me explain, again, what we mean when we talk about PTSD.” He turned slightly, his eyes glancing to the notes at the side of him and part of me wanted to ask if he was looking it up.

“PTSD is the aftereffects of some kind of trauma in your life. Extreme stress or fright can cause it, too.”

He lifted his gaze to meet mine once again. “Some of the symptoms you’ve been displaying link to what we would expect to see in a patient suffering from the disorder.”

“Like?”

Even though it sounded as if I was challenging him, I wasn’t. I just wanted to know.

He pulled a face, shrugged.  “Nightmares are common, alongside insomnia. Reliving the traumatic event through flashbacks is another thing that could happen.”

That was not me. I wasn’t reliving the traumatic event.  I was seeing weird shit that didn’t involve Shelly flying through the air after being hit by a car. 

It didn’t even involve her slapping the crap out of me either.

“Do you feel isolated, Katie?”

“Isolated?” The word gasped from me, followed by a snort as I tried to cover my shock with a note of derision. “Of course I feel isolated. I’m banged up in here.”

Dr Khalil didn’t add anything as we both knew he wasn’t talking about my stay on the psychiatric ward. The only thing I didn’t know is whether he meant had I felt isolated even before Shelly died. I didn’t want to get into that, so I kept quiet.

He pursed his lips, paused, then continued.

“What about irritability?”

I think my behaviour to date already answered that one, however, I did believe I had a right to be arsey considering what I’d had to endure in the last two weeks - a definite feeling of injustice added to my current bad mood. But then again, I also knew I was acting in the same irrational way I would’ve acted when I was due on my period - although instead of this rattiness lasting a couple of days, it’d lasted weeks.

So when I spat out, “And your point?” I ticked the “ratty as fuck” box without having to explain a thing.

“I don’t have a point. I’m asking you to help me help you. I can’t do that unless you collaborate and work with me instead of against.”

I shrugged, took my right hand into my left and squeezed my fingers tightly, the action refocusing my mind to the physical pain I’d caused rather than the emotional pain I was desperately trying to avoid.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sectioned, obviously. “That’s a start.” Not really. It would’ve been a start if I’d voluntarily seated myself in his office.

Dr Khalil’s head tilted slightly, his eyes seeming to absorb me and everything about me.

“You may be seated in my office, Katie, but I don’t think you are really here.”

I laughed, short and forced. “I think you need to admit yourself to the ward, Doc.”

He didn’t laugh, smile, or even acknowledge I’d tried to use humour to deflect the truth in what he was uncovering.

“Even if you did take what I’d just said literally, there is still a definite difference between you and I.”

Not asking what the difference was between us was becoming difficult to achieve, so I opted for the cop out.

“Can I go back to my room now?” I made to stand.

“Not quite yet, Katie. We still have things to discuss.” He leaned over the desk, snatched a tissue for the box and proceeded to blow his nose whilst I waited.

“Do you feel guilty, Katie.”

“Why do you ask that?”

The sharpness of my question indicated that Khalil had hit the nail on the head and the nerve had definitely been plucked.

He sighed, stuffed the tissue into his jacket pocket, changed his mind and pulled it out again before depositing it into the wastepaper bin.

“Guilt is a common feeling with PTSD. Guilt that you could’ve stopped the event, guilt that you survived, guilt that you cannot let it go.”

I half expected him to say, “Guilt caused by the fact that you shoved your girlfriend into the path of a speeding car and then lied about it” but he didn’t.

“This kind of guilt eats away at us. And me telling you that you are not to blame for what happened to your girlfriend is not enough.”

No, it isn’t, because I am to blame and this is my punishment.

I surprised myself when I heard the words “So what do we do? What can I do to stop this?” come from my mouth.

“This means we need to start treatment.”

“Treatment?” A scene from Bedlam popped inside my head; a woman strapped down onto a board and dunked into freezing water - hydrotherapy, as they once believed, being an effective way to treat agitation.

I shifted in my seat, my whole body ready to bolt even though there was nowhere in which to bolt.

“Medication.”

Medication? I didn’t want to be medicated. That was one thing I’d stuck to since coming onto the ward. Psychiatric medication was still primitive, still in the early stages. I didn’t want to be a case study typed up by someone else transcribing my notes, the notes of someone whose initial symptoms were less detrimental, mentally and physically, than the side effects caused by the pills prescribed by a doctor.

Dr Khalil’s attention was on his papers again, his black Montblanc fountain pen gliding effortlessly over my notes.

“No.”

The pen halted and the doctor lifted his head slightly, dark eyes peering over his glasses.

“I don’t want to take any medication. I don’t need it.”

Dr Khalil’s eyes widened slightly.

“I just need time. That’s all.”

I leaned forward, he leaned back and I considered he was a little wary about my intentions. So, I reclined into my chair once again. I didn’t want to come across as antagonistic or threatening or aggressive, even though I’d probably shown all of these traits since entering his office. I just wanted to be heard. Just wanted to have some control over what happened to me; control of what went into my body.

It wasn’t long before I realised that being sectioned was not the best bargaining tool. And if I wanted to see the outside world sooner rather than later, I had to fall in line with the treatment that was being offered. I was, as they kept on reminding me, one of the lucky ones.

Weirdly, I didn’t feel it.

***

Chapter Thirty-Three

Present day

 It was gone 11 before we climbed out of bed. I hopped into the shower whilst Amelia contacted someone to tow her car.

The smell of coffee brewing greeted me as I descended the stairs and I realised for the first time in a long time I was happy to greet the day. Instead of my perception of the day seeming foggy, clogged and cloudy, it seemed cloudless, bright. My head, especially, seemed clearer. I almost convinced myself that I could think without my brain hurting like it usually did first thing in the morning. Considering all the weird events of the previous night and day, I felt good.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I used your landline,” she lifted what I assumed was her mobile and waved it in my direction, “as I still haven’t got a signal.”

“At least having some way to contact the outside world is an improvement.”

I moved over to stand next to her, my hand reaching out to touch her upper arm, the warmth of her seeping through her pyjama top.

Amelia closed the space between us, her lips brushing across mine, the sensation delicious. So much so, I leaned in for another sample.

The heat of her body against mine, the swell of her breasts, the perfect connection we shared... I never thought I would feel this way; I never thought I would allow someone to get so close, so under my skin, so into my...

Amelia pulled back, the previously unnoticed coolness in the room slipping between us.

“Coffee?” She smiled, the whole of her being enveloping the expression.

I nodded, smiled back, stepped away.

She placed her hand on top of the cafetière and slowly depressed the plunger.

“How long before the tow truck arrives?”

I pulled two mugs from the cup tree and pushed them towards the cafetière before fetching the milk from the fridge.

“They said they should be here in about 45 minutes.”

A weird sensation whirled around my belly, an echoey empty feeling.

“I need to meet them at my car. I’m not even dressed yet.”

Unhurriedly, Amelia poured the coffee into the mugs and I added some milk to each before returning the milk to the fridge.

“Maybe you should grab a quick shower.” I said, pulling a cup over towards me.

“You saying I stink?” She tried to look offended but the small laugh that escaped her said otherwise.

I wanted to tell her that her scent was the most delectable scent I’d ever inhaled. Smell is the most evocative of the senses, marrying itself to memory, and I knew the essence of her would be in my home, my head and my heart for far longer than she would physically be here. A part of me believed that when I said goodbye to Amelia that morning, I wouldn’t see her again.

“Maybe you do.” I tried to make my voice light, happy, and I think on a certain level I achieved it.

When I turned my attention back to Amelia, she was studying me, her expression intense. But when she noticed I was looking at her, she lifted her coffee as if in a toast.

“To my stinkiness.”

She clinked her cup against my cup before taking a sip, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Katie, I…”

And this was the point where she made her apologies and explained that it would be best if we drew a line underneath everything that’d happened between us. Explained that the events of the last however many hours were not the norm, that people reacted differently in these kinds of situations - extenuating circumstances, I believed she would call it. One of the first things she’d said after I’d stared at her like a lecherous, sex starved woman last night was that this was so unlike her, that she’d never done anything like this before in her life, that she’d misread the situation, made a mistake. 

Would she say the same things again?

“I don’t know how you feel about… about…” she gestured between us, “about this, about us and what… you know, what happened.”

I wanted to say, “You can take your coffee with you. Don’t worry about returning the mug.”

But, I just waited for her to let me down, waited for her to crush any thoughts about an “us” in the future.

Amelia placed her cup on the counter, her hand pausing slightly before she lifted it to touch my cheek.

“I want to see you again.”

Was there a “but” in there somewhere?

Her hand dropped. And I waited.

“I’m hoping you would like to see me, too.”

I tilted my head as I tried to read her.

“Maybe I misread the situation.” Amelia stepped backwards. “Ignore me.”

She gave a short laugh. “I’ll grab that shower and be out of your hair.”

It wasn’t until she brushed past me that I realised what was going on.

Grabbing her upper arm, I stopped her progress. Another tug, and she was facing me. One step forward and my mouth was on hers, the kiss light then deep, soft then hard then soft again before I broke away and looked into the most beautiful brown eyes I’d ever seen.

“I would love to see you again.” My voice was quietly assertive, the edge of it bordering on an intensity I’d not known I’d possessed. 

Amelia’s smile was so bloody beautiful, the radiance of it perfectly celestial. I couldn’t help but match it, my cheeks aching from the pull of my own smile against the resistance of my jaw muscles.

“Thank goodness.” She released a dramatic breath. “For a minute there I thought you were going to tell me to sling my hook.”

Instead of answering her, I kissed her again, our mouths perfectly sealing the next stage in this “want to be” relationship.

A click click clicking announced that Jiminy was on his way to the kitchen, his nails tapping onto the tiled floor. Amelia pulled me closer, the heat of her seeping into me, the scent of her deliciously addictive, the need to always be in this spot the most important thing in my life at that moment, at any moment.

I shifted slightly to observe Jiminy enter the kitchen. Everything about the scenario seemed so perfect, so familiar, so complete. The scene was so domestic and one that I hadn’t known I’d wanted until this precise moment. A pang of guilt hit but was so swift, it was gone before I could associate the emotion to anything I was experiencing.

Jimmy nuzzled his head against my calf and I half bent and tickled behind his ears.

“I think he wants breakfast,” Amelia noted. “You sort him out and I’ll grab that shower.”

She gave me a quick kiss and was gone, her coffee cup, too.

For a moment, I just stared at the place she’d been, the smile on my face aching and wonderful. I sighed, shook my head and looked back at the dog.

“Okay, Jim. Breakfast time.”

I moved to the fridge, considering what on earth I’d left to feed a dog, but instead of waiting to be fed, he trotted toward the utility room. I followed.

“You want to be a good boy?”

He wagged his tail, his attention split between me and the wood of the door.

After putting on my Wellingtons, I pulled free the bolts, turned the key and opened the door. Jiminy trotted outside and I walked behind him. 

The day appeared quite peaceful, almost apologetically reflective of what had previously transpired.  A crispness was in the air, more fresh than cold. Jiminy sniffed around searching for the perfect spot whilst I attempted to mentally catalogue the destruction. The devastation of the storm was even more noticeable now the sun was higher in the sky and the light was illuminating the damage caused, and once again, it seemed worse than when I’d come outside at dawn. Branches, leaves, parts of a fence, sections of hedges and more peppered my garden. My recycling bin was on the complete opposite side to where it usually was, sprawled on its side, the lid of it gaping open like a corpse’s mouth. Thankfully, there hadn’t been much inside the bin, even less now the contents were scattered about.

Jiminy squatted, his head lifting, eyes half closing, blinking, his nose sniffing the air - and, apart from the squatting, I did the same. The air was so fresh, clean, invigorating and even though everything around me appeared to be in chaos, I knew it was manageable. I knew I could get everything back in order with a little hard work, and not just the garden. Not just picking up after the previous day’s storm. My inner storm, too, seemed quieter today, more manageable in the stark light of day.

Jiminy began to wander around again, and so did my attention. The roof seemed fine, no tiles dislodged, the guttering was where it should be, the drainpipe was as straight as it ever was. The frosted glass of the bathroom caught my eye, my stomach creating excited little flips when I thought of the naked woman who was behind that window. Even though the day was cool, a heat warmed me. We barely knew anything about each other but I felt as if I’d known her forever.

“Woof!”

The single bark brought me back to the present, the suddenness surprising.

“Woof!”

I turned to see Jiminy a couple of feet from the dry-stone wall that bordered my garden and separated my land from the field beyond. The same dry-stone wall I’d seen a figure both behind and in front of yesterday. The same dry-stone wall I’d investigated in the middle of a storm the previous day in the belief that someone could’ve been injured and bleeding to death behind it. 

The same dry-stone wall I’d told Shelly there had been someone lurking behind just to get myself out of the shit.

Jiminy tentatively stepped forward, his neck stretching as he sniffed the space between him and the wall.

“What is it?” I have no idea why I asked a dog a question. Maybe I was trying to formulate my own answer.

I moved closer, and closer still. There was something on the ground. Something black, something bunched together, heaped up, longish.

Jiminy moved closer, sniffed again, whined. I should’ve grabbed the dog, turned and run back into the house, slammed the door and bolted it. But no. I stepped closer.

It was material. Black material.

Using my thumb and two fingers, I lifted the cloth into the air, the leaves and other rubbish falling free.

“What on earth?”

I lifted the material higher, the flow of it long, cloak-like.

Then it dawned on me. This appeared to be the same kind of material, the same kind of cloak that I’d seen on the figure the previous night. What the actual fuck? I wasn’t imagining this. It was tangible. I was holding it.

I gave the material a shake, heard the rustle of it and acknowledged the weight of it. I was not imagining this. It was as real as it ever could be.

Jiminy growled but I ignored him.

Why would this piece of material be pushed up alongside my wall when the figure I’d seen last night was either a spectre or part of my imagination? I’d investigated this wall. Checked for intruders. Found nothing, zip, nada.

Jiminy growled again.

“Don’t worry, Jim. It’s only …”

The blow hit the side of my head, the shock of it just as powerful as the impact.

Stumbling forward, I met the roughness of the wall. Another smack, another hit this time across my shoulder blades. I lifted my hands, the material still grasped in one of them. Whatever was hitting me wasn’t a fist, I’d experience enough at the brunt of knuckles in my past to know the difference. This was harder. Flatter. Longer. The throb of it ached through my back and into my chest to knock the air from me.

I heard Jiminy’s growl, his attempt to stop whatever was attacking me, before I heard the sharp yelp as he was struck too. But that didn’t stop him trying to help, trying to protect me. Another yelp, another cry and whimper, then nothing.

With this knowledge, the anger within me came to the surface.

Using my other hand, I gathered the edge of the material and turned, throwing the black shroud outwards and over the top half of someone behind me. Pushing forward, I captured the head and upper arms of my attacker, giving me a slight advantage. However, the piece of wood that must’ve been used to hit me previously, was in the grip of my assailant, and was still thrashing around, smacking against the top of my legs.

I yelled, the sensation of it ripping from the depths of me, dragging to the surface the force of the woman I used to be before I’d met Shelly. A strong, independent, powerful woman. And this strong, independent powerful woman had had enough.

I pulled my head backwards and lurched forward, the impact of my forehead hitting something just as hard, the sensation dizzying, my cry of pain joining the distinctive cry of pain coming from underneath the cloak.

However painful it was, it didn’t stop me repeating the action. My forehead contacted with what I can only assume to be a nose if the crunching sound I heard was anything to go by.

The figure dropped the piece of wood, staggered, tried to move hands to a cloaked face. Unintelligible words accompanied the grunts of pain but I didn’t allow my sentimental side to surface. I drew back my arm and landed a punch where I believed the face of the figure would be.

It staggered, fell, the distinct thud of it hitting the ground strangely satisfying. The cloak had fallen off the figure to reveal shoulder length greying hair, hands that moved with some speed to a bleeding nose, hands that were definitely female and definitely recognisable.

Shirley Morgan looked straight into my eyes; the hatred clear. Blood was smeared over her cheeks, over her fingers, running down her wrists.

“What are…?”

“Where is he?”

What the actual fuck?

“What have you and that slut done with him?”

“Him?” Shelly was not “a him”. And slut? What slut?

Shirley Morgan scrambled to her knees then pushed herself to her feet. Her nose was broken. Even if I hadn’t felt it crack underneath my forehead, the angle it was at was definitely not the angle any unbroken nose should’ve been.

“Jack! What have you done to him?”

She staggered forward and I pulled my fist back to plant her one again if she came any closer. Shelly’s mother paused.

“I haven’t seen… Jack?”

Shirley lunged forward and I stumbled backwards, my arm still raised. Instead of trying to hit or grab me, she scooped the material from off the ground and waved it at me.

“What’s this then?”

I shook my head, then added, “A cloak?”

I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on. The woman in front of me was volatile and I was unsure whether she was going to hit me again.

“Jack’s cloak! His!” She shook the material at me again, spittle leaving her mouth. “You’ve got him haven’t you? You must have. I’ve looked everywhere for him and nothing.”

She stared at the cloth as if it could give her the answers she needed. Her furrowed eyebrows suddenly lifted, her attention on me again, her face painted with red like a badly made horror mask.

Shirley Morgan straightened.

“If you haven’t seen him how come you have his cloak?”

A whimper came from near the wall. A small whimper, the kind of whimper a dog makes when it is injured.

“I found it.” I made to move to where I believed Jiminy was but Shirley Morgan stepped in my path.

“Bollocks!”

She came at me again, the blow hitting the left side of my face.

Anger surged within me. How dare this woman think she could come onto my property and treat me the same way her fucking daughter had.

“Touch me again and I’ll rip your hand off.”

She snorted, the sneer on her mouth the exact replica of her daughter’s.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really. I’ve had enough beatings from your daughter to last me a lifetime. I’m not taking it from her mother too.” I stepped forward and toward her, my shoulders straight, my head held high. “As I said, you touch me again and I’ll touch you back. Harder.”

The woman tilted her head and half closed her eyes to weigh me up, her top lip curling with disgust before she took a step closer to me.

“Oh yeah. You and whose army?”

“This army.” Amelia’s voice came from the side of me. I hadn’t even heard her coming never mind saw her approach.

Shirley Morgan’s attention shifted from me to the woman next to me then back again.

“Look. I don’t want trouble…”

“Is that right?” Amelia moved slightly in front of me, her presence reassuring even though I’d just started to feel as if I could manage the situation.

“I just want to know where my son is.”

Another whimper from near the wall caught my attention and made me move to the spot where Jiminy was, the dog lifting his head on my approach. I knelt next to him, cooing, stroking him gently. I heard Amelia speak but didn’t turn away from the injured animal.

“The same ‘son’ who was dressing up in that black cloak and trying to scare the living crap out of us all night you mean?”

I ran my hands down the side of Jiminy’s body, unsure what I was looking for but believing that’s what I needed to do to check if he was okay.

“He...” Shirley stopped. Probably undecided on how to develop the lie that waited on the tip of her tongue.

“No point denying it, Mrs Morgan. We know it was Jack.”

I paused in my ministrations and looked back at the two women.

How did Amelia know it was Mrs Morgan? Had I said her name? I was sure I hadn’t, sure I’d only called her her daughter’s mother, but that didn’t mean that Shelly was the daughter.

And again, Jack? Had I told Amelia about Jack? Had she heard Shirley say it?

A warm, wet tongue licked across the back of my hand, my attention returning to Jiminy. He was trying to get up but the effort seemed as if it was uncomfortable for him. Gently, I slipped my hands underneath him and lifted him, stood and turned to face the two women who appeared to be having a staring match.

Shirley Morgan’s expression showed a clash of emotions, the bleeding from her nose had eased but the effect of the smear of it was unsettling.  Anger fought against the genuine anxiety she must’ve been feeling.  Amelia’s face was completely unreadable.

It was at this precise moment that I truly realised I knew nothing about Amelia Griffiths apart from she had a dog and a mother. Yes. I’d seen her driving license. Seen she lived in the area and her age. But what, exactly, did that tell me about her?

Nothing.

I didn’t even know what she did for a living, what she liked to eat, her favourite film, colour, music. I’d allowed myself to get involved with a complete stranger, have sex with a woman I’d just met; we’d made love and I’d let down most of my barriers and believed I had a future with her. A future with a woman that I’d come to trust in the space of less than a day.

Less than a day. Trust.

How on earth could I know anything about this woman? Or trust her.

I’d thought I’d known Shelly, thought I could trust her, but look what had happened there? And I’d known her more than a day.

Wetness touched my face, the heat of a tongue meeting the heat of wetness running down my face. I hadn’t even realised I was crying until Jiminy tried to lick the tears away. The previous confidence I’d felt evaporated.

“I ... we need to find him.” Shirley Morgan had stepped forward, her hands up in surrender. “I’ve not seen him for hours. He’s not answering his phone, he’s not back at the car.”

“Tell us why you’re here first.” Amelia crossed her arms, her stance solid.

“I’m... I'm looking for my son, looking for Jack.  I told you. He’s mis...”

“No. Why are you here, here on Ms Hammond’s property?”

Why had she called me Ms Hammond? Why not Katie?

“I don’t see how...”

“Just answer the bloody question, Shirley.” This time it was me that spoke. “Why’d you think Jack would be here?”

I lifted Jiminy closer to me, the frail little frame of him nuzzling against me. Using my head, I nodded to the cloak.

“And why would he be wearing that?”

Shirley opened her mouth and I knew she was on the verge of denying any wrongdoing.

“As I said before, Mrs Morgan. No point denying that your son was on Ms Hammond’s property last night, dressed in that,” she gestured to the cloak, “with the hope of scaring Ms Hammond so much that she would leave at the earliest possibility.”

What the fuck was going on?

Amelia turned to face me, her expression open, her eyes appearing apologetic.

“Amelia?”

“I’m sorry, Katie.” Then she turned back to Shirley, directing her next statement to her.

“I’d better call this in.”

Call this in? Call what in?

“Amelia?” Why couldn’t I get past just saying her name? Why did she apologise?

Amelia turned slightly away from me, her hand moving to her waist before lifting to her face.  I knew she was holding something but I didn’t know what.

“N.G. This is Alpha Golf 33.”

Alpha Golf?

What was happening?

“In need of assistance. MISPER, possibly in trouble.”

MISPER?

“Copy Alpha Golf 33. This is N.G. What is your status?”

“State 6.”

Amelia turned to face me again, her skin looked both pale and flushed. Her brows were drawn and she looked harried.

“What are you doing?” Shirley Morgan said the words I wanted to say but was having difficulty saying. “Why have you a police radio?”

Amelia glanced over to where Shelly’s mum was standing and held up a hand as if to shush her.

“Hey hey hey! What do you mean possibly in trouble? Don’t hold your hand up.” A slap sounded and I could only assume it was Shirley slapping Amelia, probably to get her attention. “What’s MISPER?”

I waited for Amelia to explain but she placed her hand over her free ear and lifted the Airwave radio closer to her.

Whilst Shirley Morgan was speaking, the conversation between Amelia and whomever was on the other end of the line wasn’t clear, just snippets really. Maybe this was because the older woman talked over everything Amelia said whilst it was pressed firmly to her ear and muffling the noise.

“They’re on their way.” Amelia lifted the device away from her ear and seemed to examine it.

I just waited for her to turn her attention to me. The ability to feel anything was like a pulse. Inside, I felt numb. Not numb. Numb. Not numb. Jiminy wriggled slightly and I held him closer, his small body a comfort. But instead of looking at me, Amelia turned to Shirley Morgan.

“Assistance is on its way.”

Shelly’s mother stepped closer to Amelia, her hand outstretched. “But we need to be looking for him now. He could be injured. He’s been out for hours.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Morgan, but we need to wait for police backup. If the roads are clear, they should be here in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes! He could be dead by then!” She made to move away. “I’ll look myself. Fucking police are useless.”

As she turned, her attention focused on me. Absolute hatred oozed from her.

“If it wasn’t for you, none of this would’ve happened.”

“Don’t bring me into it.”

The laugh she gave was high and sharp.

“Don’t bring you into it? What a joke!” She laughed the same high pitched short laugh again. “If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be here.”

As she spoke, she moved past Amelia and came towards me, stopping a couple of feet away.

“I didn’t force you to come onto my property and start demanding we look for your son.”

“Your property? My daughter’s property, you mean.”

My eyes flicked to Amelia, but her attention was solely on Shirley Morgan.

“But, Shelly’s dead. How can...”

“Yes. My daughter is dead.” Shirley closed the gap between us, her face moving close to mine. Her voice lowered, the tone accusatory and hard. “And I know you killed her.”

It was as if all the blood in my body was sucked inwards to collect at one spot in the pit of my stomach. 

“I...”

“Why was my daughter out in the middle of a storm?” Her anger filled face was too close.

“Why was your son?” Amelia’s question broke through. “And, for that matter, why were you?”

“This is not about me!” The words spat from her. “She’s the one you should be interrogating. I just want justice.”

“But isn’t that about you and what you want?”

Shirley huffed, turned and moved away, muttering words that I didn’t have to hear to know they were less than complimentary.

Jiminy wriggled, mewled, wriggled again but I held him close. I was unsure what would happen if I put him on the ground and didn’t want to take the chance of him being kicked again by Shirley.

“I need to check him over.”

Amelia moved between Shirley Morgan and me, the older woman grunting angrily.

“Can I?”

Her expression was hesitantly expectant, her eyes meeting mine for the first time since she’d called the police. The darkness of her irises made me question how she could’ve hidden this part of her, not that being in the police was a terrible thing - just surprising. It was obvious Amelia Griffiths was not the woman I’d thought she was. She was, obviously, a police officer. She knew more about me, more about the case than I’d realised - knowing Shirley Morgan by sight indicated that.

Instead of turning and moving into the house like I’d planned to do, I moved slightly, opening my body language enough for Amelia to examine Jiminy. His plight was more important than my pride.

Amelia leaned down and checked the dog’s pupils, stroking his head at the same time.

“He seems okay.”  Her hand travelled down his side, the dog not making a sound.

“You should be looking for my son instead of looking at a fucking dog!”

Amelia didn’t look at Shirley, just continued to examine the dog before saying, “As I’ve previously told you. We need to wait for back up.”

Shirley exhaled loudly and the words she spoke were too low to catch.

“He seems fine. But if you’re still worried, I could get one of my team to take you to a vet to check him over.”

“Your...your team?”

Those dark eyes met mine once again.

“Katie, I need to explain.” Her voice was soft, pleading, intimate.

I shook my head, emotion welling inside me. “Not now. No. Not now. I get it.”

But I didn’t get it. I didn’t get anything. Nothing. I didn’t get why Shirley and Jack Morgan had been outside my house in the middle of a storm. Didn’t get why Jack had worn the cloak. Didn’t get why Amelia Griffiths had knocked on my door, injured, freezing cold, speaking of crashing her car to avoid what must’ve been Jack Morgan. Didn’t get why I hadn’t questioned the reason why she’d kept asking about the inquest.

Yes. She was a policewoman. She was, in some capacity, investigating either Shelly’s death or my harassment from the Morgan’s, harassment that until now I wasn’t aware of being the target.

But one of the main things I just didn’t get was why she’d slept with me, made love to me. Why she’d asked to see me again. Why she’d asked how I felt about “us”. The way she’d seemed so disappointed when she’d thought she’d misread the situation.

Amelia placed her hand on my upper arm, her eyes appearing to implore. 

“Maybe I misread the situation.” I stepped backwards, her hand slipping down. “Ignore me.”

The words she’d said to me earlier came back to mock us both. The scene between us now not so perfect, not so familiar, not so complete. Just real. And reality sucked.

But, however much reality sucked, it also made me aware of the ultimate thing I didn’t get.

Why had Amelia Griffiths made me fall for her?

She hadn’t made me; my heart had acted on its own. And now it had to deal with being broken.

The pain of this realisation served as an invisible punch to my gut and I turned and almost ran back into the house.

***

Continued

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