The Widow - the opening pages
A 'look inside' type preview can be found on most online retailers' sites but I am posting the first few scenes here as a teaser for anyone who would like an immediate peek.
Please note that the published ebook format is easier to read than the preview here!
Please note that the published ebook format is easier to read than the preview here!
The Widow
A British Police Thriller
(Featuring Detective Sergeant Fiona ‘Fifi’ Fielding)
First in a series of standalone thrillers inspired by the Seven Deadly Sins
Deadly Inspirations - Book One
‘Greed’
by
Will Patching
***
Copyright 2019 Will Patching
The right of Will Patching to be identified as the
Author of the Work
has been asserted by him. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, and incidents in this publication are the product of the author’s warped imagination.
Real organisations, events and places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
***
A British Police Thriller
(Featuring Detective Sergeant Fiona ‘Fifi’ Fielding)
First in a series of standalone thrillers inspired by the Seven Deadly Sins
Deadly Inspirations - Book One
‘Greed’
by
Will Patching
***
Copyright 2019 Will Patching
The right of Will Patching to be identified as the
Author of the Work
has been asserted by him. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, and incidents in this publication are the product of the author’s warped imagination.
Real organisations, events and places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
***
Chapter One
Friday – The broken man
Friday – The broken man
‘Your husband is dead.’
The foreign voice crackled and buzzed in Lorraine Rowe’s ear. For several seconds she held the phone in front of her face, staring at it in disbelief, her hand trembling, the implications tumbling through her mind. Even with the earpiece at this distance, she could hear him, his rasping breaths echoing down the line.
Lorraine felt the floor sway and she put out her hand to steady herself, clutching hold of the kitchen sink for support, her knees threatening to buckle under her. A dozen thoughts flooded her brain, swamping her mind, and her throat refused to respond while she struggled to process the shocking news.
Not that it was unwelcome. The man she married, the husband she once loved, had turned into a vicious, violent pig.
She pushed herself away from the sink, wobbled the few paces to the breakfast table before slumping onto a hard chair. With her forehead resting on her palm, elbow propped on the table for support, she tried to speak but still her tongue refused to perform. The caller grew impatient.
‘You hear, lady?’ A wheeze and a cackle accompanied the remark. ‘Wheeler… I kill him.’ More heavy breathing echoed down the line, then he shouted. ‘You not speak? You want this. I know. He tell me.’ His voice dropped, the menace in his message curdling her insides. ‘Cost you big money.’
‘What… do… you—?’
The words had to be forced from her reluctant throat, her parched mouth and swollen tongue. Even her teeth felt brittle. She didn’t manage to finish her question. The man interrupted, his impatience flaring once more, along with his temper. She held the phone away from her ear again as he yelled at her.
‘Don’t fuck at me, lady! Or you join him…’ A few beats passed. He grunted, sniggered. ‘You see what happen. You not pay.’
‘I… don’t… understand.
‘Two millions.’
‘What…?’ For killing Wheeler? Lorraine blurted, ‘You’re insane!’
‘Listen me. Husband say plenty before he dead.’ That cackle again. ‘He angry you. Say you cheat him.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘You have money. His money… He owe me.’ The menace in his tone intensified, sending a wave of nausea flooding through her. ‘Now you owe me.’
‘I don’t have two million pounds!’
‘Wheeler say you do.’ He paused, sighed for effect. ‘You forget? I help remember.’
The click and following silence left her open-mouthed, wondering what he meant. Her smartphone clattered as she dropped it to the tabletop, her eyes wide, staring at it through interlaced fingers as she clutched her head and tried to calm her breathing. The shocking news of Wheeler’s death, the surreal nature of the conversation with the thug who claimed to have killed him, the threats to her own well-being, combined and congealed into a ball of terror wrenching her stomach to her knees.
Perhaps it was all a lie…
Lorraine sat up, her mind alive with the possibility that this was just another of Wheeler’s sick schemes. He’d done far worse to her. Could it be him? Faking the accent and disguising his voice with some sort of electronic device? Or did he put one of his friends up to it?
Moments slid by with her rationalising away his death, desperate to fend off the fear festering in her gut, threatening to overwhelm her.
Her cellphone chirped.
A message from Wheeler’s number—the same number that had just called.
With quaking fingers, she reached for the device, pulled it towards her, swallowing hard, not wanting to see what the man had written. What threats he had sent.
But there were no words. Just a file containing a single image.
After a minute or so of hesitation, she tapped the JPEG icon with a reluctant finger, her brain refusing to acknowledge what she might see.
The photograph filled the small screen and Lorraine leapt up as if scalded. She staggered back, her eyes fixed on the terrifying image, her mouth gaping wide with a nascent scream stillborn the moment it reached her larynx. The ball of terror in her belly welled up and she gagged, her hand ineffectually clamping her lips and nose as she swivelled and sprayed her half-digested breakfast into the sink.
The foreign voice crackled and buzzed in Lorraine Rowe’s ear. For several seconds she held the phone in front of her face, staring at it in disbelief, her hand trembling, the implications tumbling through her mind. Even with the earpiece at this distance, she could hear him, his rasping breaths echoing down the line.
Lorraine felt the floor sway and she put out her hand to steady herself, clutching hold of the kitchen sink for support, her knees threatening to buckle under her. A dozen thoughts flooded her brain, swamping her mind, and her throat refused to respond while she struggled to process the shocking news.
Not that it was unwelcome. The man she married, the husband she once loved, had turned into a vicious, violent pig.
She pushed herself away from the sink, wobbled the few paces to the breakfast table before slumping onto a hard chair. With her forehead resting on her palm, elbow propped on the table for support, she tried to speak but still her tongue refused to perform. The caller grew impatient.
‘You hear, lady?’ A wheeze and a cackle accompanied the remark. ‘Wheeler… I kill him.’ More heavy breathing echoed down the line, then he shouted. ‘You not speak? You want this. I know. He tell me.’ His voice dropped, the menace in his message curdling her insides. ‘Cost you big money.’
‘What… do… you—?’
The words had to be forced from her reluctant throat, her parched mouth and swollen tongue. Even her teeth felt brittle. She didn’t manage to finish her question. The man interrupted, his impatience flaring once more, along with his temper. She held the phone away from her ear again as he yelled at her.
‘Don’t fuck at me, lady! Or you join him…’ A few beats passed. He grunted, sniggered. ‘You see what happen. You not pay.’
‘I… don’t… understand.
‘Two millions.’
‘What…?’ For killing Wheeler? Lorraine blurted, ‘You’re insane!’
‘Listen me. Husband say plenty before he dead.’ That cackle again. ‘He angry you. Say you cheat him.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘You have money. His money… He owe me.’ The menace in his tone intensified, sending a wave of nausea flooding through her. ‘Now you owe me.’
‘I don’t have two million pounds!’
‘Wheeler say you do.’ He paused, sighed for effect. ‘You forget? I help remember.’
The click and following silence left her open-mouthed, wondering what he meant. Her smartphone clattered as she dropped it to the tabletop, her eyes wide, staring at it through interlaced fingers as she clutched her head and tried to calm her breathing. The shocking news of Wheeler’s death, the surreal nature of the conversation with the thug who claimed to have killed him, the threats to her own well-being, combined and congealed into a ball of terror wrenching her stomach to her knees.
Perhaps it was all a lie…
Lorraine sat up, her mind alive with the possibility that this was just another of Wheeler’s sick schemes. He’d done far worse to her. Could it be him? Faking the accent and disguising his voice with some sort of electronic device? Or did he put one of his friends up to it?
Moments slid by with her rationalising away his death, desperate to fend off the fear festering in her gut, threatening to overwhelm her.
Her cellphone chirped.
A message from Wheeler’s number—the same number that had just called.
With quaking fingers, she reached for the device, pulled it towards her, swallowing hard, not wanting to see what the man had written. What threats he had sent.
But there were no words. Just a file containing a single image.
After a minute or so of hesitation, she tapped the JPEG icon with a reluctant finger, her brain refusing to acknowledge what she might see.
The photograph filled the small screen and Lorraine leapt up as if scalded. She staggered back, her eyes fixed on the terrifying image, her mouth gaping wide with a nascent scream stillborn the moment it reached her larynx. The ball of terror in her belly welled up and she gagged, her hand ineffectually clamping her lips and nose as she swivelled and sprayed her half-digested breakfast into the sink.
***
Detective Sergeant Fiona Fielding wriggled her broad hips against the arms of the wooden chair she had been sitting in for the last twenty-three minutes, her eyes straying to the clock above and to the right of the actual source of her discomfort.
Professor ‘Call-me-Rick’ Asker.
Senior resident psychiatrist at King’s College Hospital and, of far more consequence to Fiona, an independent consultant contracted to work for London’s Metropolitan Police. A man with an intense stare and probing manner that left her feeling naked and exposed, certain her deepest secrets were already known to him. The professional air he sported further suggested it was only a matter of time before she verbalised those secrets and offered them up to him in abject admission of her pathetic state. Like a predatory bird, he appeared totally relaxed, unruffled, patient, but ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness.
She sniffed and re-engaged the yellow-tinged hazel eyes of this all-seeing mystic perched on the seat on the other side of his desk. The surface was spartan—just a box of tissues, a blotter, pad and pen. The small office was similarly bare of ornaments. No certificates or diplomas adorned the walls. Call-me-Rick had no use for such ego-enhancing credentials. Not even a desk phone. Nothing to distract from the matter in hand.
Seven more minutes and I’m out of here.
Fiona felt the tissues rip and glanced down at her hands, horrified to see the paper twisted and knotted, the shredded flakes littering her trousers, a mini snowdrift on the dark material stretched across her thighs.
When did that happen?
Not long after she’d whipped a handful from the box on the professor’s desk while feigning a sneeze and blowing her nose.
To conceal the glistening moisture of the tears she’d been holding back.
What was the point? He could read her mind.
She brushed at the debris, her hands nervous and fidgeting as they flapped and fluttered, sending a shower of tissue fragments to the carpet. If only she could relax.
‘We have plenty of time, Fifi.’ Professor Asker sat forward, resting his forearms on the table, his widespread hands conveying openness, his smile transmitting the same. His voice, low and rich, rumbled into her brain. ‘I have no other appointments as I wanted to keep the time free for you today. Detective Superintendent Dawson told me I can keep you here for as long as it takes.’
Shit.
That was all she needed. She checked the clock again, an automatic response. Hope faded. She refocussed on her tormentor’s bulbous nose but said nothing. During the four previous brief sessions they had spent together, she’d soon learnt to keep her mouth shut, unwilling to respond until he insisted she answered him. The man was a psychic devil masquerading as a psychiatric doctor.
‘Last time we met, you intimated that your nightmares had returned with a vengeance.’
Intimated…?
Bastard.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But they have, haven’t they?’ He pushed the tissue box closer to her and leaned back, his fingers steepling, the manicured nails touching his outsized beak, his head dipping as he peered at her from under grey, spiked brows. ‘That’s if they ever went away.’
Fiona grunted what she hoped was a non-committal answer.
‘Tell me about them. And the flashbacks. How they’ve changed over time. How accurately they reflect the traumatic incident that prompted them to appear.’
A drop of sweat tickled her armpit before soaking into her shirt. She became aware that both underarms were damp. Her collar too. Worse, she could smell the scent of her own fear.
Or was that something else only inside her mind?
‘I’ve described them to the Met’s psychologist umpteen times, Rick!’ She had—a censored version of them. ‘On video. Transcribed too. You must’ve seen the interviews and read my file. This is a waste of time. I just want to get back to work.’
‘You are back.’
‘To my old role with Major Crimes. I’m on light duties until you tell my boss I’m fit to work with them again.’ A voice inside her head whispered: You’re lucky to have a job—any job. She knew it but could not come to terms with it. With the tissue remnants clutched in her fist she thumped his desk in frustration. ‘I’m a homicide detective—a bloody good one—and I’m wasted sitting around reviewing Misper paperwork and other such crap.’
‘You feel that your role in helping track down missing persons is crap?’
‘Oh, God! No!’ She wanted to relax but could not. She tossed the tissue into the bin across the room, her pent-up frustration threatening to boil over. Her tone became the unpleasant whine of a two-year-old brat. ‘Why do you always twist what I say?’
‘You think I twist your words?’
Bloody hell! Here we go. Keep your mouth shut, Fi.
She shook her head, let out a deep sigh and folded her hands in her lap.
A full minute passed as they eyed each other in silence.
‘I’ll do a deal with you.’ The professor pursed his lips, picked up his pen and tapped his notepad with the tip. ‘You have a problem vocalising painful events, Fifi.’
‘Oh, puh-lease—’
‘It’s a self-imposed barrier. You’re a strong, self-confident, highly competent, cool-headed, professional detective and a credit to the police force. An asset to any investigative team.’
Fiona gawped at him. In their previous sessions together, he had not once shared any judgemental comments about her, merely probing her, digging into her psyche, dragging her damaged soul into the daylight. The lines around his eyes crinkled, his forehead furrowing as he assessed her response while she said nothing.
‘You’re also stubborn, more than a little controlling, mildly obsessive, overly independent, unable to accept help when you need it, and right now? Suffering badly.’ He held up a hand, silencing her as she went to interrupt him. ‘You’re wrapped so tight you’re going to explode again unless you let me help you.’
‘How?’
Fiona had long ago convinced herself she’d recovered, confident she was back to her old self. Almost four years had elapsed since her abduction, and the nightmares had started troubling her soon after. They first arrived during her hospitalisation, worsened throughout her enforced period of recuperation, became more frequent, more vivid by the end of her extended Caribbean vacation spent at her mother’s home. Once she arrived back at work, enthusiastically throwing herself into the role she loved, she had been grateful that the frequency of these vile dreams diminished although they never fully went away. She had been getting on with life. Keeping busy. Doing her job. Then, six weeks ago, the event had destroyed any conviction she’d had about being back to normal.
‘Work with me. Stop resisting, Fifi.’
‘The Met’s psychologist said I have to help myself. Can only help myself…’ Her tone turned defiant, her face set, determined. ‘And that’s what I’ve been doing.’
‘Delayed onset PTSD creeps up on you—sometimes years after the traumatic episode. Even the most well-balanced, grounded individuals can find themselves teetering on the brink.’ Fiona knew he was including her in that category, one she had always felt was her natural niche. He went on, drawling his syllables, his tone mesmerising. ‘Nightmares and flashbacks are par for the course. We try to forget traumatic experiences, not wishing to revisit the root cause of our angst, but they often refuse to leave us. They remain buried deep within our subconscious minds, multiplying, gathering power. The pressure building. A dormant volcano waiting to erupt.’
‘I know all this.’ She’d heard it a dozen times already. How a sudden explosive release could result from such repressed memories.
‘Before you can fully recover you must acknowledge the true extent these nightmares affect you, the power they have over you.’ He pushed the pad and pen across the desk and stood. ‘I’m popping out to get a coffee and a sandwich. When I get back, I expect to see a detailed handwritten account of the nightmares you are currently experiencing. How they differ from the reality you remember. No holds barred. No holding back. The truth, Fifi.’ He strolled around the desk and rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder, a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Deal?’
‘And if I do this, you’ll sign me off. Let me get back to Major Crimes?’
‘One step at a time, Detective. We’ll see about that when I’ve read what you have to say.’
She wanted to believe him. To trust him. Tears threatened to leak again.
What the hell’s up with me?
She avoided eye contact, her vision blurring, and nodded an acknowledgement, her fingers closing around the pen.
‘Just be honest with me, Fifi.’ A beat passed. ‘And yourself. Okay?’
Professor ‘Call-me-Rick’ Asker.
Senior resident psychiatrist at King’s College Hospital and, of far more consequence to Fiona, an independent consultant contracted to work for London’s Metropolitan Police. A man with an intense stare and probing manner that left her feeling naked and exposed, certain her deepest secrets were already known to him. The professional air he sported further suggested it was only a matter of time before she verbalised those secrets and offered them up to him in abject admission of her pathetic state. Like a predatory bird, he appeared totally relaxed, unruffled, patient, but ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness.
She sniffed and re-engaged the yellow-tinged hazel eyes of this all-seeing mystic perched on the seat on the other side of his desk. The surface was spartan—just a box of tissues, a blotter, pad and pen. The small office was similarly bare of ornaments. No certificates or diplomas adorned the walls. Call-me-Rick had no use for such ego-enhancing credentials. Not even a desk phone. Nothing to distract from the matter in hand.
Seven more minutes and I’m out of here.
Fiona felt the tissues rip and glanced down at her hands, horrified to see the paper twisted and knotted, the shredded flakes littering her trousers, a mini snowdrift on the dark material stretched across her thighs.
When did that happen?
Not long after she’d whipped a handful from the box on the professor’s desk while feigning a sneeze and blowing her nose.
To conceal the glistening moisture of the tears she’d been holding back.
What was the point? He could read her mind.
She brushed at the debris, her hands nervous and fidgeting as they flapped and fluttered, sending a shower of tissue fragments to the carpet. If only she could relax.
‘We have plenty of time, Fifi.’ Professor Asker sat forward, resting his forearms on the table, his widespread hands conveying openness, his smile transmitting the same. His voice, low and rich, rumbled into her brain. ‘I have no other appointments as I wanted to keep the time free for you today. Detective Superintendent Dawson told me I can keep you here for as long as it takes.’
Shit.
That was all she needed. She checked the clock again, an automatic response. Hope faded. She refocussed on her tormentor’s bulbous nose but said nothing. During the four previous brief sessions they had spent together, she’d soon learnt to keep her mouth shut, unwilling to respond until he insisted she answered him. The man was a psychic devil masquerading as a psychiatric doctor.
‘Last time we met, you intimated that your nightmares had returned with a vengeance.’
Intimated…?
Bastard.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But they have, haven’t they?’ He pushed the tissue box closer to her and leaned back, his fingers steepling, the manicured nails touching his outsized beak, his head dipping as he peered at her from under grey, spiked brows. ‘That’s if they ever went away.’
Fiona grunted what she hoped was a non-committal answer.
‘Tell me about them. And the flashbacks. How they’ve changed over time. How accurately they reflect the traumatic incident that prompted them to appear.’
A drop of sweat tickled her armpit before soaking into her shirt. She became aware that both underarms were damp. Her collar too. Worse, she could smell the scent of her own fear.
Or was that something else only inside her mind?
‘I’ve described them to the Met’s psychologist umpteen times, Rick!’ She had—a censored version of them. ‘On video. Transcribed too. You must’ve seen the interviews and read my file. This is a waste of time. I just want to get back to work.’
‘You are back.’
‘To my old role with Major Crimes. I’m on light duties until you tell my boss I’m fit to work with them again.’ A voice inside her head whispered: You’re lucky to have a job—any job. She knew it but could not come to terms with it. With the tissue remnants clutched in her fist she thumped his desk in frustration. ‘I’m a homicide detective—a bloody good one—and I’m wasted sitting around reviewing Misper paperwork and other such crap.’
‘You feel that your role in helping track down missing persons is crap?’
‘Oh, God! No!’ She wanted to relax but could not. She tossed the tissue into the bin across the room, her pent-up frustration threatening to boil over. Her tone became the unpleasant whine of a two-year-old brat. ‘Why do you always twist what I say?’
‘You think I twist your words?’
Bloody hell! Here we go. Keep your mouth shut, Fi.
She shook her head, let out a deep sigh and folded her hands in her lap.
A full minute passed as they eyed each other in silence.
‘I’ll do a deal with you.’ The professor pursed his lips, picked up his pen and tapped his notepad with the tip. ‘You have a problem vocalising painful events, Fifi.’
‘Oh, puh-lease—’
‘It’s a self-imposed barrier. You’re a strong, self-confident, highly competent, cool-headed, professional detective and a credit to the police force. An asset to any investigative team.’
Fiona gawped at him. In their previous sessions together, he had not once shared any judgemental comments about her, merely probing her, digging into her psyche, dragging her damaged soul into the daylight. The lines around his eyes crinkled, his forehead furrowing as he assessed her response while she said nothing.
‘You’re also stubborn, more than a little controlling, mildly obsessive, overly independent, unable to accept help when you need it, and right now? Suffering badly.’ He held up a hand, silencing her as she went to interrupt him. ‘You’re wrapped so tight you’re going to explode again unless you let me help you.’
‘How?’
Fiona had long ago convinced herself she’d recovered, confident she was back to her old self. Almost four years had elapsed since her abduction, and the nightmares had started troubling her soon after. They first arrived during her hospitalisation, worsened throughout her enforced period of recuperation, became more frequent, more vivid by the end of her extended Caribbean vacation spent at her mother’s home. Once she arrived back at work, enthusiastically throwing herself into the role she loved, she had been grateful that the frequency of these vile dreams diminished although they never fully went away. She had been getting on with life. Keeping busy. Doing her job. Then, six weeks ago, the event had destroyed any conviction she’d had about being back to normal.
‘Work with me. Stop resisting, Fifi.’
‘The Met’s psychologist said I have to help myself. Can only help myself…’ Her tone turned defiant, her face set, determined. ‘And that’s what I’ve been doing.’
‘Delayed onset PTSD creeps up on you—sometimes years after the traumatic episode. Even the most well-balanced, grounded individuals can find themselves teetering on the brink.’ Fiona knew he was including her in that category, one she had always felt was her natural niche. He went on, drawling his syllables, his tone mesmerising. ‘Nightmares and flashbacks are par for the course. We try to forget traumatic experiences, not wishing to revisit the root cause of our angst, but they often refuse to leave us. They remain buried deep within our subconscious minds, multiplying, gathering power. The pressure building. A dormant volcano waiting to erupt.’
‘I know all this.’ She’d heard it a dozen times already. How a sudden explosive release could result from such repressed memories.
‘Before you can fully recover you must acknowledge the true extent these nightmares affect you, the power they have over you.’ He pushed the pad and pen across the desk and stood. ‘I’m popping out to get a coffee and a sandwich. When I get back, I expect to see a detailed handwritten account of the nightmares you are currently experiencing. How they differ from the reality you remember. No holds barred. No holding back. The truth, Fifi.’ He strolled around the desk and rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder, a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Deal?’
‘And if I do this, you’ll sign me off. Let me get back to Major Crimes?’
‘One step at a time, Detective. We’ll see about that when I’ve read what you have to say.’
She wanted to believe him. To trust him. Tears threatened to leak again.
What the hell’s up with me?
She avoided eye contact, her vision blurring, and nodded an acknowledgement, her fingers closing around the pen.
‘Just be honest with me, Fifi.’ A beat passed. ‘And yourself. Okay?’
***
With her third glass of wine in hand, Lorraine contemplated turning her smartphone back on again. It was lying where she had left it, face down, discarded on the kitchen table, the off button smeared with a few spots of vomit. After retching in the sink, her stomach stripped raw and painful, her long brown hair speckled with flecks of bile-stained breakfast bagel, she had considered packing her bags and fleeing. When her eyes had once more landed on the offending image, she’d panicked and with fumbling fingers, still wet with stinking puke, shut down the device in the hope it would give her some space to think.
For over forty minutes she had remained seated in her kitchen, staring out at the trees at the end of her garden through rain-streaked windows. For much of that time, her mind was a complete blank, her all-consuming panic driving any rational thinking to the fringes of her consciousness. All that remained was an overpowering urge to get away from London, from Wheeler’s creditors, his killer. That sensation was easily trumped by the paralysing fear that kept her glued to the chair.
Only when the house phone rang did she stir. The insistent clanging had broken through her torpor and catapulted her from her seat. She leapt up and ripped the cord from the wall socket, cursing Wheeler all the while. More time passed with her breathing slowly, desperate to calm herself, to think rationally. She ended up against the double-fronted fridge-freezer, her forehead resting against the cool metal, her arms above her head, hands gripping the top of the door, unable to stop her silent sobbing.
Eventually, her legs began to give way and her weight cracked the door open as she righted herself. The interior light twinkled, reflecting off the half-exposed green-tinted glass, offering a subtle invitation to drink the white wine inside.
Why not?
She grabbed a bottle, unscrewed the cap, hesitated briefly while letting the scent of alcohol tease her nostrils, and slopped a quarter of the contents into a glass. That first drink went down in seconds but the stench clinging to her fingers tainted it, her nose crinkling in disgust. After washing her hands in the sink, she poured a second glass, also downed that in one go, and found herself sitting at the table again, the third glass at her lips, her eyes on the dead smartphone.
Calmer now, the alcohol having done its job—the pleasant buzz taking the edge off her fear—Lorraine once again considered running. Any doubts she’d had that Wheeler might not be dead, that he had arranged the call to test her again or blackmail her, had dissipated the second that image had seared itself into her brain. His face had been battered, but it was him alright. His broken body would be her everlasting memory of him, she was sure.
She glanced over the rim of the glass and tried to focus on the sole picture she’d kept of him. Her favourite—and a daily reminder of how people change. It had pride of place on the kitchen wall. Wheeler, handsome, delighted and proud on their wedding night. Eight years they’d been married, lovers for double that. He’d always been a Jack-the-lad, a petty criminal when she first met him, but a good looking one, and, back then, a right charmer.
Tears prickled as she remembered. She blinked them away, thinking how deliriously happy she’d been.
Deluded too.
Wheeler had ducked and dived, been arrested several times but was never convicted of anything more serious than possession. He had been riding a lucky streak and knew it, constantly crowing about his genius, his own good fortune, convinced it would last forever.
It didn’t though, did it?
Just like her love for him…
Lorraine drained her glass, swallowing down the contents without tasting anything. She refilled it to the rim, the bottle now empty, her vision fuzzy from tears and alcohol, her mind-numbing terror having receded, replaced by memories of better times.
They had both changed over the years she had known him, both tempered by the things they had been through, but in the end, Wheeler had turned into a different person altogether. The funny, charming wide boy had become sullen and unresponsive, aggressive and angry all the time.
Vicious and cruel too.
Yes, Wheeler may be dead now but the man she’d fallen in love with had long gone, replaced by a creature of evil.
‘Why, Wheeler? What happened to you?’ Lorraine caressed her throat with her free hand, her subconscious memories of the violence he had inflicted on her sending her slender fingers there. She gulped more wine, shook her head. Her voice cracked with anger and sadness, her questions loud, echoing inside her head repeatedly. ‘And what the fuck have you got me into now, you bastard?’
For over forty minutes she had remained seated in her kitchen, staring out at the trees at the end of her garden through rain-streaked windows. For much of that time, her mind was a complete blank, her all-consuming panic driving any rational thinking to the fringes of her consciousness. All that remained was an overpowering urge to get away from London, from Wheeler’s creditors, his killer. That sensation was easily trumped by the paralysing fear that kept her glued to the chair.
Only when the house phone rang did she stir. The insistent clanging had broken through her torpor and catapulted her from her seat. She leapt up and ripped the cord from the wall socket, cursing Wheeler all the while. More time passed with her breathing slowly, desperate to calm herself, to think rationally. She ended up against the double-fronted fridge-freezer, her forehead resting against the cool metal, her arms above her head, hands gripping the top of the door, unable to stop her silent sobbing.
Eventually, her legs began to give way and her weight cracked the door open as she righted herself. The interior light twinkled, reflecting off the half-exposed green-tinted glass, offering a subtle invitation to drink the white wine inside.
Why not?
She grabbed a bottle, unscrewed the cap, hesitated briefly while letting the scent of alcohol tease her nostrils, and slopped a quarter of the contents into a glass. That first drink went down in seconds but the stench clinging to her fingers tainted it, her nose crinkling in disgust. After washing her hands in the sink, she poured a second glass, also downed that in one go, and found herself sitting at the table again, the third glass at her lips, her eyes on the dead smartphone.
Calmer now, the alcohol having done its job—the pleasant buzz taking the edge off her fear—Lorraine once again considered running. Any doubts she’d had that Wheeler might not be dead, that he had arranged the call to test her again or blackmail her, had dissipated the second that image had seared itself into her brain. His face had been battered, but it was him alright. His broken body would be her everlasting memory of him, she was sure.
She glanced over the rim of the glass and tried to focus on the sole picture she’d kept of him. Her favourite—and a daily reminder of how people change. It had pride of place on the kitchen wall. Wheeler, handsome, delighted and proud on their wedding night. Eight years they’d been married, lovers for double that. He’d always been a Jack-the-lad, a petty criminal when she first met him, but a good looking one, and, back then, a right charmer.
Tears prickled as she remembered. She blinked them away, thinking how deliriously happy she’d been.
Deluded too.
Wheeler had ducked and dived, been arrested several times but was never convicted of anything more serious than possession. He had been riding a lucky streak and knew it, constantly crowing about his genius, his own good fortune, convinced it would last forever.
It didn’t though, did it?
Just like her love for him…
Lorraine drained her glass, swallowing down the contents without tasting anything. She refilled it to the rim, the bottle now empty, her vision fuzzy from tears and alcohol, her mind-numbing terror having receded, replaced by memories of better times.
They had both changed over the years she had known him, both tempered by the things they had been through, but in the end, Wheeler had turned into a different person altogether. The funny, charming wide boy had become sullen and unresponsive, aggressive and angry all the time.
Vicious and cruel too.
Yes, Wheeler may be dead now but the man she’d fallen in love with had long gone, replaced by a creature of evil.
‘Why, Wheeler? What happened to you?’ Lorraine caressed her throat with her free hand, her subconscious memories of the violence he had inflicted on her sending her slender fingers there. She gulped more wine, shook her head. Her voice cracked with anger and sadness, her questions loud, echoing inside her head repeatedly. ‘And what the fuck have you got me into now, you bastard?’
***
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