Resentments and Revenge

by Diane Ezzard

  “Please come, Mum.” She didn’t acknowledge me.

  “Mum, come on, we need to go.” No response.

  “Hurry up Mum.” Still, she ignored me.

  I wasn’t happy. Whether it was the bright shade of her crimson lip colour I didn’t like or the fact she didn’t respond to me, I didn’t know.

  In the dream, I began to panic as I sensed trouble brewing. I kept looking around. I had to act now. I tried one last time, shaking her.

  “Mum, Mum, we’ve got to leave.” She continued to face the mirror.

  “Come on Mum, we’ve got to go.”

  I shouted out, but Mum still didn’t acknowledge me. I began to cry. Fear enveloped me. I knew we were in danger. I watched her as she slowly applied another coat of lipstick and massaged her lips against each other. She didn’t respond to me, so I turned away from her and ran.

  That was when I woke up. Slowly, I re-entered the land of the living with a big stretch. Max jumped off the bed. My palms were sweating, and my pulse was racing. The anxiety rose in my chest. I had left Mum again and even though I knew it was only a dream, I didn’t feel good. My stomach ached as I thought of the memories of her.

  Might as well get up now I’m awake, I thought and walked over to open the curtains. I squinted as I looked outside. It wasn’t the brightness of the day that greeted me. The clouds looked grey and forlorn. I begrudgingly put my dressing gown on and pottered into the kitchen.

  I had Max now to look after, and I enjoyed spoiling him. My first job in a morning was to get him a saucer of milk and his food.

  “Come on Max, here’s your breakfast,” I said. He didn’t even give me the chance to get the food out of the can. He had his nose busy poking inside, trying to get at the fishy delights.

  There weren’t many places for a kitten to wander around and explore, especially with a flat as small as mine. When he got bigger, I knew I would have to let him out to discover the big wide world, and that scared me.

  After feeding Max, I reached up into the cupboard to get the breakfast cereal. I sat for a few minutes, crunching a mouthful of fruit and fibre, contemplating the day ahead. Saturday usually meant doing chores which I detested, followed by a trip down to the shops to get my groceries for the weekend.

  Shopping list done, I began milling around the place, starting with tidying up the kitchen. After walking into the hall to get the mop out of the cupboard, I checked myself out in the mirror.

  My hair looked tangled, so I picked up the hairbrush and brushed it. It had a sheen and style that many women envied. I loved the comments I got about my beautiful long red locks.

  The flat never seemed lonely on a Saturday, thanks to James Martin. Saturday Morning Kitchen was a favourite TV programme of mine. It formed part of my weekend ritual that included eating a bacon butty for lunch and a curry later that night. I didn’t think of myself as a creature of habit, but there were certain behaviours that ran so deep, they were a regular part of my life now.

  I had a passion for food, which spanned from cooking to watching cookery programmes on TV. I owned a vast range of recipe books and of course, I loved eating. Thankfully, I enjoyed running, as my frame would have been a lot larger had I not.

  I wasn’t one to try new recipes; I usually kept to classics like chilli and fish pie. I often dreamed of being the head chef of a Michelin-starred restaurant. Sadly, the culinary skills I possessed fell a long way short of that. Sometimes, I’d be in the shower, merrily singing away and realise that the sound accompanying me wasn’t violins but the smoke detector going off in the other room. I would then remember that I’d put a couple of rashers of bacon under the grill.

  I was concentrating on watching Rick Stein making a fish stew before getting up to tackle the ironing. Wrestling to put the ironing board up wasn’t easy in the small confines of the kitchen. There was very little room to manoeuvre. I sighed heavily and frowned. I didn’t like housework, least of all the ironing.

  Suddenly the house phone rang. The old-fashioned cream coloured telephone sat a few feet from where I stood. I’d bought it to tone in with my muted decor. The penetrating sound of the intermittent bell ringing made me jump, and with jerked shoulders, I listened intently to the shrill tone. It was unusual to hear the house phone these days. Most people phoned me on my mobile. In fact, I only used the landline for the internet, so I couldn’t imagine who it could be. Only Dad rang me on the landline, and we had a set time every Sunday night to speak. He never detracted from that, so I knew it couldn’t be him. I decided not to answer. It was probably one of those PPI compensation calls or the ones that ask if you’ve been involved in an accident.

  The phone got louder with every ring. The noise had distracted me from the ironing, and lacking concentration, I hadn’t realised that I’d misjudged the iron plate. The hot iron toppled over, and I instinctively put my hand out to catch it.

  Damn, I swore under my breath. The heat of the iron burnt through to my fingers and I screamed out. I was annoyed with myself for being so stupid. I quickly managed to shimmy past the ironing board to get to the sink. I put my hand under the cold-water tap. Ow, did that hurt. I kept my fingers under the icy blast of water, and I heard the phone still ringing.

  That didn’t sound like a friendly bell, more like the harsh warning sound of a siren. The loud noise blocked out the pleasant familiar tones of the omelette competition on TV. I urged the phone to stop. My heart pounded, and my fingers throbbed with pain. Why didn’t it stop? I became irritated. The constant sound of the phone began to take on a macabre tone, and I became afraid to remove my hand from under the cold flow of water. Should I answer? No, I’ve left it this long.

  My mind started playing tricks on me. Memories flooded back of a time when I had been trapped in the clutches of someone else’s obsessions. A shudder came over me. What if it’s him? No, I knew I was being silly now.

  What if it’s important? Pull yourself together, girl. If it’s urgent, they’ll leave a message, I told myself. I turned the tap off at the same time the phone stopped ringing. I picked up the remote control and turned off the TV.

  The silence was eerie, and I could feel the thudding of my pulse. A knot churned over in my stomach and nausea crept up from my guts into my throat. My palms started to sweat, and the perspiration dripped from my forehead. My mouth was dry. A tightness developed in my chest and I bit my lip. Why was I getting so nervous about a phone ringing?

  I walked over to the table, tentatively picking up the receiver with my good hand. My nerves erupted when I heard the tone that indicated there had been a message left. Stop getting so worked up, girl.

  This was stupid. Breathing rapidly, I took the phone to my ear. A wave of cold air came over me as I listened intently. And I listened, and I listened. Nothing. I breathed a sigh of relief. Probably one of those nuisance companies, I thought.

  I shook my throbbing hand and decided to leave the ironing until another time. I went into the bathroom to get a shower. I stood under the hot water for longer than normal and I chastised myself for getting so worked up over the phone. The water poured down, covering my body. The heat of it felt good. My fingers were still smarting. The shower door normally gave adequate sound proofing but, even with soap in my ears, I heard the ringtone of the house phone again.

  I’ll leave it, I thought to myself. It’s probably the same annoying company that rung earlier. The ringing had stopped by the time I got out but, when I reached for the towel, it started up again. I was becoming irritated now.

  Briskly drying myself down, I put on my dressing gown then went back into the kitchen to make myself a drink. I put the water in the kettle. The phone started ringing again. Whoever was phoning certainly wasn’t taking no for an answer, so I decided to check the phone for messages in case an emergency had come up.

  I knew I shouldn’t be agitated over this, but I’d had such bad experiences in the past with menacing calls. I now had an unfounded fear around phones. Blind panic overwhelmed me as
I listened and heard the distorted robot-like voice of a text call coming through the receiver.

  “DON’T THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH THIS.”

  What on earth did that mean? Get away with what? It was a strange message, and I didn’t understand. Then I realised there was another message to listen to, so I pressed the button and waited.

  In the same spooky, tinny voice of technology I heard, “SLUTS END UP GETTING WHAT THEY DESERVE.” I started shaking.

  I wondered if I could have misheard the messages so played them again. No, there was no mistaking the words. I pressed in the digits to find out the number the calls had been sent from, but the voice came back, ‘Caller number withheld.’

  I walked over to the sofa and sat down, my shoulders hunched, slowly taking in what had just happened. I wrapped my arms around my body and rocked from side to side, thinking. Was this a wrong number and all a mistake or could this be something more sinister?

  Available through

  Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2tyMlmU

  Amazon USA: http://amzn.to/2tdEdc5

  Book Two in the Sophie Brown series –

  AS SICK AS OUR SECRETS

  We all keep secrets, don’t we?

  Sophie used to be fearful, with a troubled past. Now, she's a confident young woman helping others turn their lives around -

  or is she?

  A nasty surprise awaits her after the funeral of a friend and she soon finds out that nothing is as it seems.

  Caught up in the dark world of gangsters and villains in the heart of Manchester she attempts to find Cassie's killer. Following a trail of lies, she gets so wrapped up delving into the lives of others she doesn’t notice her own life falling apart, back into the grips of addiction.

  Can romance blossom for Sophie after all the mistakes she has made in the past, or will her only comfort be drink? Things never end up the way she intends.

  You can purchase it now through Amazon –

  UK edition: http://amzn.to/2AtL4Ft

  US edition: http://amzn.to/2BTR1I2

  Book Three in the Sophie Brown series –

  THE SINISTER GATHERING

  She was looking for peace but found death.

  Sophie attends a well-being retreat hoping to find herself, instead, she finds a dead body.

  Coming to the Scottish Highlands, she hopes to escape life and get in touch with her inner self. She wants to free herself from the anxieties that have gripped her for years.

  Peace and harmony are advertised but what she discovers is anything but.

  She is around women with other ideas. As she gets to know the strange bunch staying at Glenloch Hall, fights and arguments become the norm.

  She should never have entered that fateful property.

  THE SINISTER GATHERING

  Prologue

  She darts into the woods. Branches link together like limbs urging her not to enter. The forest is black, but she must go in there. A breeze stirs the leaves. The back of her neck pricks. The path forks. Which way to go? A fox crosses in front of her, breaking off a twig from a low-hanging tree. As the trail curves away, she has a choice to make. She runs deeper into the darkness.

  Her breathing is rapid. She does not stop to look over her shoulder. Her arms thrash at the twigs and bushes. She runs and trips over an unseen log. An overhanging branch scratches her face. She steadies herself. The rain is relentless. Hair is plastered to her face. Sweeping strands aside, she murmurs words of undecipherable distress. She ignores the whistling wind and looks from left to right.

  A moonless night; the darkness as terrifying as her thoughts. She can taste the blood. The pounding of the rain against the foliage adds to her sense of foreboding. Twigs crunch underfoot mingling with the sodden path.

  Her mind fills with terrifying thoughts. Gross images flash across her memory. She stumbles over some ivy entwined through the grass, hidden from view. She can’t steady herself this time and crashes into a tree. Pain pounds through her shoulder. A clap of thunder roars through the air.

  Leaning against the trunk, she rubs her shoulder and winces. She shudders with the intensity of the pain. The lightning highlights her muddy clothes.

  Another flash of lightning brightens up the sky. A flicker of movement enters her periphery. She moves her head. Catching her breath from the knot in her stomach, she stumbles forward. She brushes tiny leaves off her shoulder and pushes forward.

  The boom rolls across the meadow announcing its superiority. The boughs of the trees sway in the strengthening gust, surrendering their leaves without a fight. A streak of silver splits the sky. Fired up with adrenaline, the rain pelts against her skin like bullets. The wind howls like a wolf. Another crash of thunder and the trees shake in unison, the warning too late. Lightning comes again. A brilliant shock of white in the black sky forks silently to the unsuspecting ground. She continues at speed. There is no shelter from the harsh surroundings.

  Her journey continues as she sets off further into the unforgiving forest. She flinches as she runs. Breathing rapidly, her eyes dart around. A swish here and a branch snapping there. The sudden noises make her jump. She is not alone.

  With each step, a jarring pain from her shoulder shoots through her body. She slips on wet leaves and reaches out holding onto a branch.

  Her breathing is shallow. Mud smears her face. Her hair is matted. Her energy levels are low. The torrential conditions have depleted her spirit. She stops to catch her breath. Her limbs are exhausted. Resigned to her fate, she closes her eyes.

  Panic consumes her. Her stomach tightens as she prays. Is it time for me to meet my Maker? An arm pushes forward. She stops dead. Her head droops backwards. She screams. Her body freezes, numbness taking over as shadows loom overhead. She doesn’t need to look up. A wave of nausea attacks her as she glances around. A sharp silver blade flashes before her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she screams.

  Her words are lost against the cruel elements. She screams again, acknowledging her fate. Her body jerks and the shiny metal pierces her skin and sinks into her flesh. She cries out making desperate guttural sounds.

  Thick crimson blood flows out of the wound in her neck as she drops to her knees convulsing and trembling like a rabid dog. She calls out, but it is too late for pleas. Her sounds are ignored. The blade sinks into her neck. Blood trickles onto the ground, intermingled with mud, turning the puddles deep red. Her body collapses to the ground. She is motionless.

  You can purchase it now through Amazon –

  UK edition: https://amzn.to/2zMWiD8

  US edition: https://amzn.to/2zNHZOC

  You can also save money by purchasing all three books in a boxset together

  The Sophie Brown Mystery Series Books 1 – 3 –

  I Know Your Every Move

  As Sick As Our Secrets

  The Sinister Gathering

  Amazon UK link: https://amzn.to/2Pf8wxz

  Amazon US link: https://amzn.to/2ATPa8v