by Belle Brooks
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Published 2017
ISBN 9780994634795
One Fear
©2017 by Belle Brooks
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Obie Books, Po Box 2302, Yeppoon QLD Australia 4703.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All rights are reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in past in any form. This edition is published in arrangement with Obie Books Q.L.D.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Obie Books
Po Box 2302
Yeppoon Qld 4701
AUSTRALIA
Cover design by Tracey (Soxie) Weston.
Editing and Proofreading by Karen Harper and Lauren McKellar
Formatting by Jaye Cox
For:
Jack, Mia and Alyvia
I’d never give in to my fear.
I’d always fight to come home to you.
Mumma loves you, forever and always xx
A NOTE TO THE READER
This book has been written using UK English and contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style.
Please remember that the words are not misspelled. They are slang terms and form part of everyday Australian vernacular.
“Hell hath no fury like a mother’s love for her child. I will fight until my last breath escapes my lips, and my heart beats no more. I will never lie down and say ‘die’.”
The wolf
The howls of dingoes fill thick air. They’re ravenous, and their need to kill is strong—so is mine. I lie listening to their hunger for blood; it’s intoxicating. I will have her and release my demons when I get my feed. Patience is the key.
Her long brown hair — matching brown eyes — she’s all I see. Well, apart from the thick black numbers spotting each blade on the fan circling above me. One through to five. Her tests.
The sense of elation coursing through my veins comes from the hunt, and never knowing the exact moment I can claim her. It won’t be long now—she’s letting her guard down and becoming reckless in her self-protection. This pleases me.
One, two, three, four, five becomes inked to her skin in my mind. That flawless silk covering, protecting her flesh, is now tainted. She will never beat me—her weakness is displayed for all who take the time to observe her.
My revenge is close. I can taste its sweet tang on my tongue. She will pay for what she’s done, and I will finally get the satisfaction owed to me when I scratch her name from the list of bitches who had this coming to them.
Women disgust me. She fucking disgusts me.
My ultimate prize is all but a moment away.
“Be patient,” I breathe.
The stickiness accompanying another humid summer night only intensifies the hatred whirling deep within my soul, causing my fists to clench tight and my teeth to grind.
“Close your eyes and picture all of her. Do it now.” I manage to relax as her curvy silhouette and her pretentious and corrupted innocent smile rush into view.
Morgan’s blood will be spilt … soon.
Morgan
His breath coats my flesh as he kneels behind me, his body hunched and covering mine. Rough fingers pull away strands of wet hair glued to the side of my face, exposing my neck completely. His nose runs along its length, sniffing loudly as he goes. I cringe with fear from his touch.
Please don’t touch me.
“Your skin is soft, smooth and pale, just like skin ought to be on a woman,” he says with lust. He twirls his finger into my hair. “Brown hair and big brown eyes … yummy,” he swoons, as his lips tug at my earlobe.
I whimper softly, continuing my downward glare, keeping my eyes focused on the ground as previously instructed.
Stop touching me.
Panting, I’m urgent in trying to supress my need to scream bloody murder at this invasion. The storm, still supplies moderate sprays from above, and every inch of my body trembles even though I will it to cease immediately.
I want to go home. Who the hell is this man? The devil?
“We’re going to play a game. Do you like games, Red?”
I can’t find any words to answer. Even if I could, my throat is tensed so tight, no sound would project.
“What are we, deaf now?” he snarls, pulling my matted locks, ripping my head backwards. The rain stings my face.
“No,” I breathe.
Letting go, he pushes my nose into the rocks.
Pig. I think the word, but my heart isn’t in it to say it aloud. Closing my eyes tightly, I beg internally for help.
“I will ask you again. Do you like to play games, Red?”
“I don’t know,” I whimper. Tears, mix with the raindrops flowing along the length of my face until they drip from my quivering jaw.
“I don’t know. Good answer,” he says.
The combination of gravel and sharp jagged rocks crunch beneath footsteps, growing more distant. I contemplate running, but in every crime show I’ve watched, running gets you nowhere but dead.
Thud.
Something drops to the ground. I jolt, catching what I believe to be a backpack from the corner of my eye. When did he come back? Why didn’t I hear him coming back?
“You’ll be needing this,” he says, before an eerily haunting laugh booms. “Now remember, I’m always watching. Follow the path leading into the bushland, and you’ll find the first piece of your puzzle.”
My eyes dart upwards, trying to locate the bushland he’s referring to, but I struggle to see anything apart from shadows being casted by the moonlight. With one hard swallow, I flick my eyes back down swiftly.
No, don’t do this to me.
He whistles a slow drawn-out sound. The hairs stand on the back of my neck. A shiver travels the length of my spine. He’s going to dispose of me here. In the pitch black of the night, whilst it’s raining.
A car engine starts, and the sound of tyres moving along the macadamized road has me drawing a large mouthful of air. It doesn’t take long until the sound can no longer be heard. I remain frozen before finally finding my voice and screeching out loud. “Help me! Somebody!”
I tremble with fright. Sniffling in between every sob.
I’m going to die here.
I can’t feel any pain in my head or on my knees from my previous injuries. The only pain I feel is the breaking of
my heart, until a dull ache finally crawls like an invasive maggot under my skin, attacking every nerve ending in its wake.
Attempting to reposition onto my bottom from my knees proves difficult. My pencil skirt is a straitjacket, hampering the action. I try desperately to stand, but my legs don’t have enough strength to lift my weight upright on their own. Eventually, I plummet onto my bottom with a needy gasp, and as I thump down on the ground, I hear the loud rip. My eyes search for the location of the rip, only to find my leg now poking through a split in my skirt that wasn’t there before. At least my legs are no longer constricted even if my hands remain bound in front of me with duct tape. Rotating my head, I stare at the bag I’m unable to reach, laying beside me only centimetres away. Is there a knife in there so I can cut the tape? Shaking my head, I note how pathetic this thought is. I’m pretty positive a man who wants to play games, would not supply a weapon.
Trying to break the tape, I move my wrists up and down vigorously, but I don’t make any progress. I huff, experiencing a raw burning sensation that grows intense at my wrists the more I struggle. I’m desperate to get this tape off and to free myself from these binds.
Okay, Morgan … you need to focus if you are going to have any chance of surviving. Think Morgan ... what do you remember about duct tape? I still, with a nagging sense to run hampering me, whilst playing images from crime shows I’ve watched in my head. How to Survive the Un-Survivable—I remember watching this program with my best friend, Linda. It showed a step-by-step guide for the exact situation I’m facing. Duct tape-bound hands. Raise your hands above your head, and with all your force bring them down in front of you, whilst pulling your arms outward. Yes.
“God, I need for this to work,” I plead, in the hope that I can follow these instructions correctly.
Quivering legs hold me up as I manage to find rocky ground and stand. I raise my hands high above my head and I yelp when my right shoulder clunks as if it’s dislocating from the joint. Breathing heavily, I secure my hands into fists and with every bit of strength I can summon, I throw my arms downwards, ripping them away from each other simultaneously. The tape snaps. My hands are no longer joined. I groan, easing it past my lips in relief, before the force of my previous movement sends me hurtling back to the ground with a hard crash. A bark explodes through my pained lips, one reminiscent of an injured dog, and it causes my breath to linger in my throat as my eyes squeeze tightly shut. Willing air to rush into my lungs helps me endure the agonising pain of the jagged rocks, littered throughout the gravel, digging into my tender flesh.
“Please help me.” The long strand of mucus hanging from my nose has me wiping with my palm as I cry so hard my shoulders shake from the force.
I’m really hurt.
Agony is the only way to describe how every inch of my body feels, and with each echoing howl I release, my fear intensifies.
Allowing my eyes slowly to part once more, I spy the bag. I’m saddened by its small size, but take not a minute longer before reaching out my shaking hand, and sliding it to my side. A zipper, cold to my touch, is situated at its back and another shines under the moonlight on a pocket at its front. I’m instantly reminded of the small backpacks our children had when they were little. However, this particular bag doesn’t appear to have a cuddly Elmo or Dora picture embedded on it to provide a feeling of warmth and safety.
With caution, my fingers slide the wet zip around, hoping whatever is inside will help me figure out how in the hell I can escape from this mess in one piece. Imagining the contents to contain a dry jacket and long pants brings hope, because my teeth chatter to a crazed beat and not even my numb fingers pressed against my lips can calm them. Sadly, I still have enough sense to know it won’t.
Placing my hand into the bag’s opening, I remove its contents one by one. The first item is a small canister. It swooshes as I swirl it from side to side. Water? Poison? Water mixed with drugs? Whatever liquid resides inside, I can’t drink it, even if my mouth is begging for moisture.
I reach in again, this time retrieving a small black torch with a button on its end. My jittering fingers press down, resulting in a single stream of light.
A torch. This is at least something.
Soft raindrops are more tender against my pained skin as they slide the length of my arm. I again shift my hand in the direction of the bag. A compass, bandage, pen and hard-covered notebook soon follow and I wonder what this all means. Why did he leave these things for me? Are they a part of this game?
The backpack is empty when I dip my fingers in once more, and the disappointment that it doesn’t contain a mobile phone overwhelms me with faster flowing tears.
I need to get out of here.
My head shifts from left to right, before I gather the items in a hurry and attempt to throw them back inside the bag. The notebook slips from my grasp, landing with the cover opened on the ground. It’s a scrawled inking that has me scrummaging to take the torch back into my possession. What does it say? I hover the light over the page.
Welcome to the Game of Life. This is not like the game where you get a husband. You already have one of them. Or have babies. You already have two of them. And it’s not a game where you build a happy life for yourself. You used to have that, Morgan.
I cringe as I read my name. He knows who I am. He knows I’m married. He knows I have two children. He’s been watching me.
This is a game for saving your life. You are my number thirteen, the most important of them all. You are the ultimate prize to collect. My irreplaceable thirteenth contestant to play. Will you be lucky? Or unlucky? Only time will provide an answer to this question. I cannot wait to find out. Sadly, I must inform you, the twelve who played before you never did reach the end of the game and never made it home alive.
Teardrops slide uncontrollably down my cheeks, dripping onto the paper below. I close the cover in a snap. Burying my head between my knees, I weep for the loss of my freedom and the game I’m set to play against my will. Have I somehow entered hell and am I ever going to leave here? Am I ever going home? Reid, will always think I was angry with him—will always remember our last times together fraught with tension. Our children will always believe I never loved them and that I’ve abandoned them.
Why is this happening to me?
Craters tear into my heart, and I know I need to silence them before they engulf me—but I can’t.
I’ve failed.
I shouldn’t have said I’d stay late today to finish that stupid Strassman file. I shouldn’t have even gone back to work in the first place. So, why did I?
“I don’t want to play a game for my life!” I scream. “Take me home. Let me go home.”
I want to be in my husband’s arms more than I’ve ever wanted to be there before, tucked safely in the crest of his shoulder, smelling his intoxicating aftershave and body wash while running my fingers across his warm tanned skin. I need a chance to say sorry.
“I’m sorry, Reid,” I say softly. “Reid, I need help. Find me. Please find me, I’m so sorry. I need the chance to tell you I love you.” I beg this to the gloomy sky above, too frozen to run away, too frightened to enter the bushland, to petrified to even draw air.
Reid
This is the third night this week I’ve cooked dinner, put the kids to bed, and cleaned up alone afterwards. This is the third time this week she’s promised to be home and hasn’t made it on time. I feel Morgan’s doing this deliberately to punish me for all the years I had to work late or travel. I wouldn’t put it past her—not considering how Morgan’s been behaving lately.
I miss my wife, the one who was here to greet me in the evening and see me off in the morning. The one who doted on our family.
Sighing, I run my thumb around the rim of my now empty and oversized wine glass once filled with Morgan’s favourite red, then place it heavily onto the table. I wanted to show her tonight we will get through this rut we’re in. Offer her an olive branch. But now?
Her
glass of wine sits awaiting her arrival across the table from me. A candle burns with a dull flame, giving a tranquil calm to the room—it smells of lavender, her favourite scent. I look at the chair where she promised to be sitting, but it remains bare. Morgan is pulling away from me, drifting in slow motion just out of arm’s reach.
I think she’s going to leave me. Why do we always fight?
My stomach churns as I rise from the table and grab the bottle of wine from the bench before pouring myself another. I look around our almost-tidy kitchen, light odours from dinner still lingering in the air. The dinner I prepared. The one Morgan never made it home to eat, her favourite—chicken risotto with shredded parmesan cheese. A shaky breath parts my lips when I stare at her plate rested against the bench, covered in a single layer of clingwrap I applied to keep it protected. My jaw clenches tight, simultaneously with my hands. Why does she keep pushing my buttons like she does? Well, if she can’t be bothered being here, she can forget about eating it. I throw the plate with its contents in the trash. It’s dramatic, but is it symbolic of where our marriage is heading?
“Morgan, are you cheating on me?” I whisper as if it was being done against her lightly blushed cheek.
Turning my attention back to the kitchen, I survey all the modern appliances and the many things my wife just had to have, and I become even more agitated. I’ve tried to satisfy Morgan’s every desire, her every need. After all, her smile has always been the best gift I could have asked for in my life. And her laugh? Priceless. There is no monetary value for such a sound. Tender kisses from my wife are nothing short of a dream I never want to wake from. I’ve worked hard to give her everything she needed—no, wanted—and now she doesn’t need or want me anymore because she has it all. “You’re being crazy, Reid. Stop this now,” I mutter, unsure as to why I’m always so frazzled.
