ALL STITCHED UP by Sue Harding

First out of the gate...

All Stitched Up


Lions and tigers and bears – oh, my!

Like Dorothy, I’d like to click my ruby slippered heels and fly away. There’s no place like home; there’s no place like home….

But home will have to wait, even though my slippers are coloured ruby red. Well, perhaps not slippers so much as plastic-covered sneakers. And bloody gore, not so much rubies.

The human body contains, on average, 10 pints of blood and I seemed to be standing in copious amounts of Sigrid Mortensen’s vital fluids. Exactly how much blood she’d lost is a figure I’d find hard to be certain of, considering how much might have soaked into the carpet. Imagine tipping an eggcupful of water on the floor and note how great a pool it makes; well, there was considerably more than an eggcupful of Sigrid’s blood to account for. More than quite a few eggcupfuls actually.

Anyway, no amount of wishes from the Wizard of Oz could make this case wrap up quickly. It’s a strange one, alright. I mean, normally the autopsy occurs after the body’s brought to the morgue.

“What do you make of that?” Bruce had said, pointing towards Sigrid’s torso as he’d pulled back the sheet that had obscured the violation of her flesh. There were slight traces of blood on the fabric, a perfect reversed-image print which matched the impressively executed ‘Y’ incision.

I’d leaned forward for a closer inspection.

“No mistaking it,” I’d replied. “That’s definitely fine needlework. Standard ‘baseball’ stitching. Left handed, judging by the slight angle.”

That’s when something kicked in. It made me keep my further observations to myself.

Bruce and I have worked together for some time; there are few secrets we keep from each other, but now I felt the need to keep silent.

We’d continued to process the crime scene, automatically recording and examining the minutiae of the case until there was little more to be done. Then I’d despatched Bruce back to the lab to prepare for Sigrid’s arrival later.

Meanwhile, as the mortuary technicians lift her tiny-framed body into the plastic repository that will be her temporary sarcophagus, I now have to try and walk through the minefield in my head created by that sudden realisation earlier.

The left-handed stitching. The precise, almost textbook, accuracy of the incisions, as if measured exactly. And the girl’s name – Sigrid. Or maybe, Siggy?

As I step back and collect my things together I recall a young highschool student from one of the career guidance modules we run from time to time. Thanks to the popularity of the TV shows that centre on our craft, careers in forensic medicine have a certain attraction despite my insistence that the bulk of the work is mundane and repetitive and far from glamorous.

We’d been really busy that week. Bruce had been away on a fishing trip, so it had fallen to me to handle the school kids. I was ready for the nauseous fainting of the boys when we took them round the labs. It was always the needles that made them pass out. The girls seemed to take it in their stride.

So when a young student asked intelligent and pertinent questions about autopsies I’d decided to not hold back on the details. Thinking he’d be shocked, I’d outlined the basic procedure in fairly clinical terms. At first I’d been amazed that he understood some of the terminology, then I’d realised there was something familiar about him. Of course it made sense he’d be aware of some of the medical vocabulary, given his background.

I hadn’t seen him for a good few years. When his parents split up his mother had gained custody. Now he’d moved schools and returned to the area.

“You’ll help me learn, won’t you?” he’d asked. “I don’t want Dad to know. Not yet. Not until I’m sure I can really make a go of it.”

I’d shrugged my shoulders; loaned him textbooks, hesitantly agreed to the subterfuge. He’d even bought pig’s trotters from the butchers’ just so he could practice his sewing technique, saying it was the last honour we could show to the departed - treating the body with the utmost respect.

That’s when I’d noticed he was left-handed. And the last time I’d seen him I recalled his remarks about meeting up with a new girlfriend; said her name was Siggy.

Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, everything shapes up but I really don’t want to try them out, afraid they might just fit.

So now I’m hesitating, taking my time packing up and wishing I could click my heels and be home.

Because somehow, I still have to work out how I go back to the lab and tell Bruce I think his son is a killer.


BIO:

Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here:
http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/

ALL IN THE DETAIL By Sue Harding

Sue's back to prove it's...

All In The Detail

She knows.

I'm certain of it.

There's that subtle twist in her tone. And the delayed glances.

And now I have an interesting dilemma. Do I deal with her now, or wait until later?

Well, it has to be later, of course – right now I'm knee-deep in blood, guts and a particularly nasty case of vomited vindaloo. The things you see on this job! Still, with forensics it’s always somewhat of a challenge. But, it keeps life interesting and I’m always learning something new – comes in useful in my ‘other’ line of work!

Now, going back to what I was saying before, what I mean is, do I wait and see what she does next or do I........damn! Dropped the bloody tweezers. Paul Hollis, call yourself a professional! Yuk! They're all slimy and wet now. I'll have to open a new pack.

Right. Where was I? Oh yeah. Dealing with little Miss Sarah. She’s been on the team nearly a year now but just lately I've noticed her watching me. She's a good actress. If I catch her staring she doesn't look away guiltily. At least she doesn't draw the attention of the others. That's good. So, when it happens no one will guess there was something going on between us.

That's a laugh - 'something going on'! Nah, she's not my type! And way too young. No, I mean no-one will realise that she was showing just a little too much interest in my extra-curricular activities.

Have to act now, really. She pretty nearly pulled me up on a case a couple of months ago. Myra Vale, that stabbing jobbie? I made a silly mistake. Used a brand new knife block. Little Miss Clever-clogs noticed none of the other knives had ever been used.

Full marks to her for spotting it, I have to say. Pity. She’s showing promise. Not too many of the newbies are so observant. Managed to bluff my way out of it, though. Good job I’d kept that receipt. Wasn’t too difficult to suggest Myra had probably only just bought it.

Hang about, this is interesting - what have we here in this pocket? Hmmm. Screwed up ATM receipt. Right, in the bag you go, deal with you later.

You see, that’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. To Joe Public, an old receipt like that might be meaningless, but as part of the evidence in a crime it could make or break the case. People have been known to swing for less. Well, they don’t ‘swing’ any more. We don’t have capital punishment nowadays, but you get my drift, right? It’s all in the detail.

So - back to my problem with Sarah.

I think I’ll have to nip it in the bud. I’m on a nice little earner at the moment. People pay me rather well for 'services' rendered, regardless of whether it's just 'altering' the evidence afterwards or doing the 'job' properly so there is no evidence in the first place! I can’t afford to have her poking her delicate little nose into my affairs. So, it’s just a question of how and when.

Forensics work gives me so many options, but time is running out and I really need to make a decision. Next Thursday, I think. That’ll be good. I’ve already looked at the duty roster. She’s off for three days so there’ll be plenty of time to set the scene. Then, when she doesn’t turn up for the next two shifts, we’ll check up, see if everything’s OK. That's when we'll find her. Naturally we’ll all be shocked.

I’ll be senior on duty. Of course, as she’s on my team, no-one will stand in my way of taking charge - we look after our own in this business. And I’ll certainly make sure she get’s looked after! Before. And after.

Actually, thinking about it – that screwed up receipt might be an idea. It could be a prescription. A few choice drugs, filled out in her handwriting. I can alter the toxicology reports, make it seem like there was a history of abuse.

Hmmm.

Yup - the Hollis mind is on the case! Add a retrospective testimony on my part, put my thespian tendencies to work, beat myself up about not having aired my private concerns about her behaviour. What a waste of a young life.....such a shame.....

OK. Done here. Just pack up the gear and get back to the lab.

“Sarah? Do you want to come in and do a ‘last look’? See if you can catch me out this time?”

I like letting the junior team members have a final look round at a crime scene. It’s always a good teaching point – when you’ve done everything, have a fresh pair of eyes try to spot anything you might have missed. It’s easy to become so engrossed and miss something fundamental.

I don’t think I’ve made the ‘deliberate mistake’ too obvious.

Might as well let her have a moment of glory.

It’ll be her last.

It’s all in the detail, you see.


BIO:


Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here:
http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/
 

FRIDAY, FRIDAY By Sue Harding

Friday, Friday
I’m cold.

Despite the pain I’m in it’s strange, but I can feel the cold. Like when you sweat and feel that coolness on your skin as it evaporates.

I can feel that, now. But it’s not sweat. It’s blood.

There are so many puncture wounds and rips in my flesh that at times I can’t really tell exactly where the pain is coming from.

My muscles ache. I want to lie down and rest but they won’t let me. Just when I think they’ve finished they start all over again. But I know this is just the beginning.

What a difference a week makes. A few days ago I was in a very different place. Not geographically. In fact, I was just a few hundred yards from this building. But it was a world away from the present reality.

That was when people wanted to be with me. I had some very good friends, but this – this has driven most of them away. The fear of this happening to them has made them run.

It’s dark. There are still a few hours to go before daylight. More time to rip more flesh.

It could have been so different. But this is all part of the plan. I can’t change it. I can't back out now. I don’t want to, even with all this pain and terror. It is…..necessary.

It’s tempting knowing that I could clap my hands and have done with it. If it was just me, perhaps I would. But it isn’t just me. And so much depends on carrying this through, right to the bitter end.

I can hear them coming. What’s already gone is nothing to what’s coming up, I know that. But I have to look beyond it.

The pain will pass.

Eventually.

They only see the here and now. But I know the bigger picture. They think this will finish it. How wrong can they be.

It’s Friday.

But Sunday’s coming.


BIO:

Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here:
http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/

ON THE JOB By Sue Harding

ON THE JOB


Paul Hollis looked away.

In one quick glance he'd learned everything he needed to know. Myra Vale's body lay discarded like a rag doll on the floor beside the bed. Her face was still contorted in a look of surprise, her eyes staring, the knife hilt sticking out from just below her ribs. Yeah, she was dead alright.

Hollis stepped over her body, careful not to catch his shoes in the sticky pool of blood that had already soaked into the carpet. She was dead, and so was this line of enquiry. A real dead end.

He pushed open the tattered net curtain and stared out through the grimy window. The street below was quiet. Empty. The world had not yet woken up. The first fingers of dawn were itching to tear back the darkness of night.

The sickly smell of Myra's body tapped at his consciousness, reminding him that while he daydreamed she lay waiting for him, her eyes sightlessly watching his every move.

He turned reluctantly back. He'd seen enough bodies in his time and hers was certainly nothing new. For once he just wanted out, to leave this all behind him, start again. Feel clean. But he knew that he had work to do.

The knife hilt reflected the overhead light. It was a polished steel handle with a large and unwieldy blade. Just the sort of thing to make the right kind of statement: a weapon seized in a moment of frenzy.

Of course, he'd been anything but frenzied in his attack. He'd been cold and quick and despite the energy he'd expended on terminating Myra's life, her death had been quick. He hadn't relished twisting the knife, replicating the wounds an amateur might inflict, but his contract demanded it.

Hollis moved across to the kitchen area of Myra's small and pathetic world and picked up the hold-all he'd discarded when Myra had backed away from him in surprise. He reached inside to retrieve the knife block with its remaining four blades neatly in place and set it on the counter. He moved it back, then changed its position until he was satisfied, then knocked it over. It set the scene: the block toppled over by the suspect as they drew the murder weapon.

A cursory examination of the area afforded him the assurance that everything was in place. His client had been quite specific about the manner in which Myra had to die and now, as he looked around, Hollis was satisfied that the scene was ready for the next act.

He didn't want to know the details of why Myra had become an unnecessary burden to the woman who had contacted him. Maybe she'd been having an affair with his client's husband. Or perhaps she'd been threatening to extort money. Hell, it could even be sibling rivalry for all he knew. He didn't care. Just another job. Unpleasant, but a necessary source of extra income. And it made good use of his talents, too. A test of his skills.

Hollis lifted his bag and eased out of the door, pulling it to behind him, but not closed. He paused, mentally running through what had just transpired, ticking off all the elements of the crime scene, working back in time much as he would do when he returned later, assembling the evidence.

He remembered the mantra drummed into him, all those years ago when he'd begun his career in the forensics department: “Every contact leaves a trace”, and resisted the urge to remove the gloves he wore. No time for silly mistakes, he thought. He saw his watch through the latex cuff. With luck he could get out of Myra's flat and back to his own place with enough time for a reasonable nap before he got the call-out.

BIO:
Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here:

http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/

ACT OF MERCY By Sue Harding

Act of Mercy


She left the house right on cue. He’d planned this for weeks. He knew her routine and there she was, right on time. David Palmer watched as she crossed the road and carried on walking. He didn’t want to risk her catching sight of him. He made himself wait and let her get a good way ahead, before he got out of the car to follow her. She looked gorgeous, as usual, her long blond hair catching in the breeze, bouncing along in time to the gentle momentum of her gait.

That’s what made it such a shame. It shouldn’t happen to people like that. Young and vibrant, with everything to live for, the world at their feet. He picked up his speed, keeping her in sight, even though he knew exactly where she was headed. He’d rehearsed this several times but now it was for real. He wanted to be there, to be sure it all played out as he’d anticipated. Exactly as he’d planned.

He rounded the corner a hundred yards or so behind her, dodging between other commuters as he turned onto the busy high street. He singled her out and continued on behind. It was harder to keep her in view, but he wasn’t too worried. He glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time yet. He would already be there. Waiting.

She turned and disappeared along with the early morning throng of commuters, office workers, students, and teenagers on their way to school, heading down into the subterranean vaults of the Underground.

Palmer pushed his way through the oncoming traffic of lemmings heading in the opposite direction, recently disgorged from below, and turned left and down the first flight of steps. He avoided the Subway wrappers and discarded McDonalds packaging, and the remnants of someone’s takeaway meal from the previous night. He didn’t want to make the silly mistake of slipping and hurting himself and then missing out. He needed to be there when it happened. To see. To know that it was done properly. He didn’t want her to suffer unnecessarily.

He pushed his way through the barrier and across the concourse onto the first escalator. There was time to pause and look ahead. She was moving down on the left-hand side, passing by those who were content to stand and enjoy the ride. He stepped out, too, and walked steadily downwards, focusing on her hair, less bright in the artificial light. He watched as she paused and then stepped smartly off and picked up her speed, walking around the corner out of sight.

He ran the last half-dozen steps, skipping over the leveling treads, then followed the signs and turned left into the waiting masses. His eyes darted around, momentarily anxious, yet he knew she could only be a few paces ahead of him. He saw blond hair cascading down over a grey wool coat. It wasn’t her. She’d been wearing black. He searched again through the brunettes, the redheads, the mousey-haired peroxide failures and then he relaxed. She was already stepping onto the downward escalator, dipping out of sight almost as soon as he’d identified her. He waited his turn, shuffling forward, step by step until he felt the slight jolt of the treads carry him forward and then begin to descend.

He locked his eyes on her, pausing to think through what was about to happen. A simple accident. Fatal. Tragic. He knew there would be some who would claim it wasn’t an accident, of course. The family would know. He’d made sure of that. He’d told them and then sworn them to secrecy. Some of them had accepted it fairly straight away, after the initial shock. Others needed more convincing. In the end, love had learned to overcome any distasteful feelings, ready to accept the outcome, ready to almost welcome this act of mercy.

She was so pretty. How could they let that happen to her? How could they watch her change and wither before their eyes, as the cancer ate away at her. Better a swift, ‘accidental death’. They went along with the plan, grieved with him, offering their own strength to carry him through the dark days ahead.

The escalator had reached the bottom, it’s passengers stepping off, turning right, or left, some carrying straight on, each towards their preferred destinations.

Palmer swung off and headed for the southbound platform. He moved along, close to the wall and then he saw the man, up ahead. They exchanged small, knowing nods, acknowledging each others presence, then he looked at the indicator board. The next train was due in two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds and it would be over. He wondered if he would have one last look at her face, one last smile, one last silent goodbye.

He looked across the sea of bobbing heads in front of him, and saw her fair hair glistening in the fluorescent lights. He took a last glance towards her, hoped it would be quick. She was his wife after all. Another quick glance as the man sidled nearer, until he stood behind her. Palmer felt the slight chill of the air forced out of the tunnel, watched as it flicked up wisps of blond hair. So pretty. Such a shame.

He heard the shrieks and gasps around him, and the scream. He didn’t think it was her voice. At least, he hoped it wasn’t. Moving back as the rest of the crowd surged forwards in morbid fascination, he turned away, retreating back towards the exit, fighting against the latecomers who poured down onto the platform, drawn by the commotion.

He heard the muffled announcement over the P.A.system, but he carried on, walking up the ascending escalator. It was over and he felt a strange sense of loss. She had been so beautiful, but he tried not to think about how she looked now. They had shared just a few brief months of happiness together. A whirlwind romance. A fairytale wedding. And now this.

He remembered the tears in her father’s eyes as he’d told the family about her illness, saying how she’d begged him not to tell them anything, but how he felt they had a right to know. How she’d confided in him her plan to take her own life rather than suffer the ravages of the treatment as well as the cancer itself. How he’d decided to take that burden mercifully from her and had made arrangements for it to happen when she wasn’t expecting it. And then, finally, he’d begged them to carry on as normal and not let on they knew, respecting her decision, pretending everything was OK.

He trudged up the steps and out into the morning light, feeling the fresh air on his skin. There was a new energy about his step as he walked forward and hailed a cab. After all the strain of the last few weeks he was glad it was finally over. There was plenty of time to get to the airport and he relaxed back into the seat.

A couple of months, he thought. He’d let the family know he’d decided he couldn’t face returning to live without her. They would understand, clear the house and sort out the estate for him.

Shame. She was a pretty little thing. Then again, so were some of the others he’d already said goodbye to. Funny how the autopsies never revealed any signs of cancer. But then, he always planned it that way. It never ceased to amaze him how gullible people could be.

He checked the ticket in his wallet and smiled, then lowered the window and tossed the gold band from his finger.

Bio:


Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here:
http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/

BLIND JUSTICE By Sue Harding

Blind Justice


Emerson was tired. Tired of the chase. Tired of always being one step away from resolving the matter. But now, maybe, he sensed things drawing to a close. He had followed the man down the corridor, knowing the dead end that lay ahead, feeling a curious but cautious sense of finality. One way or the other.

He pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold, his eyes tracking carefully across the room, until the lights went out. He blinked as if subconsciously trying to clear the dark shadows and then stared blindly into the black void.

“Feeling afraid?” The voice seemed to come from somewhere on his left. He didn’t answer, remaining rooted to the spot.

“On my territory now, friend. We play by my rules.” The voice, taunting him, again from the left but nearer. Emerson was aware of his heart pumping blood around his body, creating a pressure that echoed against his eardrums. It took a while to hear beyond the regular palpitation but his brain, deprived of visual stimuli, swiftly diverted its attention to the matter in hand.

As he grew accustomed to the alien environment he heard the almost inaudible sound of someone breathing. Instinctively he held his own breath for a moment. If he could hear his adversary, he reasoned, then he himself could be heard. Besides, this was all new to him. Osborn had whatever advantage there was, being almost totally blind.

“So, aren’t you going to talk to me?” Osborn had moved. The sound now came from in front of him and Emerson noted something new in the voice, perhaps a slight hesitance? Maybe Osborne wasn’t quite so confident after all. He kept silent. Any noise would give the man an edge.

He waited, slowly turning his head from side to side, straining to hear any clues, hoping that Osborne would grow careless. The muscles in his legs ached from standing in such an awkward position, but after the lights had gone out he had not dared to move. He’d noticed the broken glass littering the floor, sparkling, the jagged edges pinpointed in the overhead light and now he realised that Osborne had planned the whole thing down to the last detail. He smiled, almost in admiration.

“You’ll get tired soon,” Osborne laughed. “You’ll make a move and when you do, I’ll know.” He laughed again and Emerson realised the man had changed direction and moved further away. But how could he do it? How did he manage to move without crunching through the glass himself?

He tried to focus. The slight echo of the man’s laughter had died but in its place there was something else. Emerson struggled to determine what it was, concentrating, his brain trying to visualise the auditory signals it received.

No more voices now. Osborne had obviously learned from Emerson’s own silence. Again, that subtle resonance. Emerson analysed it carefully, tuning in to it, beginning to distinguish a pattern which he was able to follow.

Recognition dawned and he smiled to himself, slowly understanding the hushed, sweeping sound he had managed to isolate. Of course Osborne knew exactly where to tread. Like a dancer, he slipped and glided across the floor, bare feet negotiating a path by pain.

Emerson followed the sound, noting the direction and raised his gun. It felt strange to carry out the familiar procedure, without sighting along his outstretched arm. Instead he lowered his head, allowing his ears to determine the direction in which he would aim.

After the silence, the loud report shattered the air with an almost deafening roar, echoing into the darkness. For a moment he was unaware of any sound but the ringing in his own ears, unable to process any other noise, in the same way that the ability to focus is impaired after staring at a bright light.

He heard the tinkling sound of glass shards being pushed away and a gentle thud as Osborne fell. Emerson gradually became conscious of the rasping breaths associated with a chest wound and knew it was nearly over. He turned and eased the tension in his muscles, waiting for the final gasps to decrease and then finally disappear. No last words of regret, or even defiance. Soon would come the last, sonorous, sigh acting as a full stop, ending the tale of Osborne’s unrepentant evil.

Emerson relaxed. No hurry. He didn’t care anymore what Osborne had done, or what it had cost to stop him, it ended here. Now. He had all the time in the world. He could gladly wait and let Osborne depart into the next.

Bio:

Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here: http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/

YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE? By Sue Harding

TKnC welcomes another newcomer with...

Your Worst Nightmare?


Your worst nightmare? The one where you’re running, right? You’re running away from something. Or someone. You have to keep running because whatever, or whoever, is chasing you is so terrifying you’ll do anything you have to in order to get away. Hell, it’s so scary, you can’t even picture what it is, your brain just won’t let you even begin to build that image in your mind.

Or maybe it’s the one where you can’t run. You can’t even move. You try to will your arms and legs to shift but they won’t budge. And sometimes you even have to tell yourself to breathe, to take another lungful of air. But you don’t want to. Because maybe if you don’t breathe you’ll pass out and then when you come round, whatever it was that frightened you won’t be there anymore; it was just a nightmare.

I’ve had nightmares like those before. Both kinds. But this one right now is something altogether different. Because I don’t remember even being asleep.

What I do remember is knocking on the door. I’d been here lots of times before, but this was different. I hadn’t changed and the people who lived here hadn’t either, but the situation was altered, different. Awkward.

I was knocking on the front door of my ex-wife’s parents, Ted and Alice Heathcliffe. It had been years since I’d last seen them. Their daughter, Cheryl, and I had been together about eighteen months before we’d decided to get married. As in-laws went, they were OK, I suppose. Polite, a bit reserved, friendly enough I guess. But I never felt like I really belonged, you know what I mean?

Anyway, we had a kid. A girl. Called her Melanie. She was beautiful. All fathers say that, but she was really special. And she was mine. Well, ours. But to me she was the only flesh and blood I’ve ever known. I was abandoned as a baby, raised in foster homes.

You soon learn two things in that scenario. One - you learn to be grateful; no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse. Two - you learn that nothing lasts forever. Just when you start getting used to things you get moved on. Well, that’s how it worked out in my case, anyway.

I kept my nose clean, obeyed the rules, left school and learned a trade. I was doing alright as an electrician. You don’t get the big money straightaway, but I was doing OK. And when I called to do a job at the shop where Cheryl worked she made me a cuppa. Best way to get a tradesman on-side - make him a brew. Anyway, she had a nice smile, corny I know, but we seemed to get along. A few dates and she could have led me around with a ring in my nose.

So getting married was like having this whole family move into my life. When Melanie arrived, all new and wrinkly but perfectly formed, I guess I think life was just about perfect. I should have remembered the rules. Rule two, anyway.

I don’t know where it started to go wrong but things fell apart fairly quickly. When Melanie was about three months old, Cheryl started spending a lot more time with her folks. True, I was working all hours trying to keep the business ticking over. When you’re self-employed you have to take whatever comes your way, whenever. I did a couple of out-of-town contracts so Cheryl took Melanie and stayed with her folks while I was away. Then it was an extra night here, a weekend there and before I knew it Cheryl had stopped coming home.

We divorced and I battled to see Melanie, to be a part of her life. The visits were sporadic at best, but I’d jump through hoops just to have the chance of some precious time with my daughter. My daughter. Mine.

Anyway, I was surprised to get a call from Alice. It seemed churlish not to at least turn up, even if it was a case of checking out some wiring. I suppose they figured I might do the job on the cheap. It got me through the door, at least, and maybe it might lead to me getting to see Melanie again.

Alice answered the door. A welcome smile, not too gushy. I made sure I wiped my shoes meticulously. There was no sign of Cheryl, or Melanie. But then, I should have realised there wouldn’t be. My heart thumped to my boots, but I was here to do a job so I got on with it. I’d noticed the ‘For Sale’ board in the front garden, guessed they wanted to be sure the house was in good order.

The fuse box was in the cellar. Dank, dark and not very pleasant, but I’ve worked in worse places. I had a quick look, noted down details, checked cabling. It wouldn’t take too long. I had enough stuff on the van, but maybe if I said I needed to come back another day, I might have another chance to see Melanie. I wasn’t too worried about Cheryl. For whatever reason she clearly didn’t want anything more to do with me. Damned if I know what I did, but there you are. The curious thing was there was no sign of Melanie at all. It was as if she never visited her grandparents, no toys left here for when she visited.

I decided to play fair. It wasn’t a big job, couple of hours maybe. I nipped out to the van and got some gear. Ted met me at the door and ushered me into the kitchen for a cuppa. This is going well, I thought. And Alice always did make nice cakes. A new recipe, she’d said. Needed a guinea-pig. I was glad to oblige.

Funny thing was, about half an hour into the job I started to get blurred vision. I couldn’t seem to get my eyes to focus. And then I kept dropping the screw driver. I was lying on the floor when Ted came downstairs. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me, then pulled an old chair over. I’m not a big chap, but I was surprised Ted could manage to drag me onto the seat, dead weight and all that. I could hear the grunts he made with the exertion. I suppose you can always find the strength to do what you have to.

I remember Alice appeared with an old clothes line. I hadn’t seen her come down the stairs. Now I was upright, my head was slumped on my chest and I couldn’t move it. But I saw her slippers and forced my eyes to move up in their sockets, seeing her legs and the bottom hem of her apron. And the rope in her hand. And that’s about the time I began to get scared.

Ted looped the rope around the chair and then around me, tying me to it. Not that I was in any position to get up and leave. No, it was to stop me from falling off. Curiously, I almost felt grateful, until I remembered that I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. I was screaming inside my head. Why were they doing this? Couldn’t they see I needed help? Why didn’t they call for an ambulance?

Alice was talking now. Along with the blurred vision, my hearing wasn’t doing so good, either. It sounded like she was talking into a bucket. Echoing, know what I mean? But I realised she wasn’t talking to me. She was telling Ted to get a move-on, something about getting everything sorted out before the van came. Ted finished tying the rope round, fiddling with the knots behind me. My bodyweight was dragging me slightly to one side. I was uncomfortable, but there was nothing I could do. Even as they both turned and walked back up the stairs all I could do was look at a damp patch on the floor. It started near my foot, and I noticed my jeans were wet, all round the seat. Then everything went dark.

For a second I thought I’d gone blind, until I realised that the light had been turned off. Pretty soon my eyes got used to the dimness. There was a small airbrick up on the wall, little pinpoints of light growing sharper. My vision started to improve, but I still couldn’t move. I could hear them moving about, upstairs. A door slammed and then a banging noise, like someone hammering nails. I caught a faint sound of Ted whistling. He seemed relaxed, happy even.

That was a couple of days ago. They haven’t been back downstairs to see me. My lips are cracked and dry, and although I’ve gone past being hungry, I’d kill for a drink.

At first I thought it was some kind of bad joke but as the hours have passed I think I know they aren’t going to come back. I heard more banging earlier, like furniture being carried about. I think that’s to do with what Alice said about getting ready before the van comes. I heard the hiss of airbrakes, like on a large lorry. A removal van, perhaps? I heard the crunch on the gravel outside, people walking in and out of the house.

I’m still wondering about Melanie. She’d be about four now. I’m surprised neither Alice nor Ted mentioned her when we were chatting in the kitchen, having a cup of tea. And there were no photographs. I seemed to remember them being doting Grandparents, but there were no pictures of a fair-haired girl with a cheeky grin. That’s how I imagine Melanie, getting up to mischief.

Memories and imagination. That’s all I have left now. Oh, and the car seat. I’d bought a new one for the van, so I could carry her safely, if I was ever allowed to take her out again. The old one was wrecked in the crash. That was the last time I was allowed to see Melanie. She looked so peaceful and sleepy.

That was about the time Cheryl and I split up. I haven’t seen either of them since. That’s why it was a surprise that Ted and Alice invited me round. I’ve been away for a while, not been able to get back here. Unavoidably detained, so to speak.

So, it was a nice gesture that they got in touch. I don’t think they really needed anything done with their wiring; it was just an excuse to see me again. But I wonder why they wouldn’t answer my questions about Cheryl or Melanie? It’s like they don’t exist any more.

It’s been quiet for hours now. I think they’ve gone. I’m starting to panic a bit. It’s cold and dark down here in the cellar. Like being buried. Like Cheryl and Melanie, now I come to think of it. My heart is thumping in my chest. They’re not coming back. None of them are. They’ve left me here.

Alone.

I wonder how long it’ll take before I wake up.

Because this is a nightmare, right?

Bio:
Sue Harding works in a library in Warks. Having spent years 'shelving' books, she's starting to 'write' them instead! Sue blogs here: http://irefusetogoquietly.blogspot.com/