by Comley, Mel
It suddenly dawned on her that she would be spending the next five days by herself, snowed in, in a log cabin, high up in the mountains. Tara Murphy had been looking forward to this holiday with her husband, Gerry, all year. But at the last minute, Gerry's boss had begged him to forego his holiday in order to save the vital account that would keep their management company from going under.
Gerry had insisted that Tara should go on holiday without him. She had complained countless times but it had proved pointless. Gerry had urged her to telephone all her friends to see if anyone could accompany her on the trip, but at this late stage all her friends had made other arrangements. It was Christmas after all.
When she arrived yesterday the sun had been shining and the views had been spectacular. The cabin, which stood isolated on the highest peak around, was on the edge of a pine tree forest. But when she woke up this morning and looked out the window, everywhere was covered in snow and it was still falling, hard. This was not her idea of a wonderful Christmas.
"Come on, girl, we've got to make the best of things."
Luckily, Tara had stopped off at the supermarket on her way up to the cabin. The rental car's boot had been full of carrier bags laden with groceries that would see her through the next four days. Searching through the cupboards she pulled out a frying pan, took the eggs out of the fridge, broke them into a bowl and beat them with a fork.
After eating her omelette, she put on her coat and ventured outside. To the side of the cabin, under a wooden porch, was a good supply of timber that the owner had chopped up ready to use as firewood. She breathed a sigh of relief that the wood hadn't been left out in the elements. Carrying an armful of logs inside, Tara searched the area next to the wood-burning stove looking for the firelighters. Remembering how her grandfather used to build his open fires she placed firelighters, screwed up newspaper, and finally twiglets inside the stove before lighting it. Shortly after there was a roaring fire in the grate which added a source of comfort to the lounge area. Pulling up the easy chair she positioned it in front of the fire and sat for the next few hours reading her magazine. What else was there for her to do?
On the one hand she welcomed the peace and quiet. Tara led a hectic life, working long hours as an air hostess. Quite often she was away from home several days at a time on long haul flights, which was why, this time with her husband meant so much to her. But then as the day dragged by the peace and quiet became unbearable.
Several times while preparing her dinner, she thought she heard noises outside the cabin. Scared, she ran to the window but saw nothing.
That night she'd slept with her head buried below the ten layers of blankets, well, slept wasn't really the right word. She'd never felt so terrified or alone in her life before. At 6am she got up and cleaned out the fire and started a new one before making herself a bacon sandwich. When she went to retrieve more wood, she stood on the porch looking out at picturesque scenery that at any other time would have been something she cherished. But now, she shuddered at the feeling of isolation gripping her insides, it wasn’t long before resentment towards her husband took over.
She doubted if she would be feeling this way had she been isolated on a desert island in blistering heat, relaxing on a sandy beach. Being trapped in a snowstorm had never been high up on her list of priorities.
The hours dragged by and her mood deepened. This had to be the worst Christmas she'd ever spent. She gave herself a serious talking to and decided to make the best of her time alone. Hunting in the cupboards in the spare bedroom, she found a collection of puzzles. Sitting on the Aztec style rug in front of the fire, Tara emptied out the pieces of the 5000 piece round puzzle. This was new to her she'd never attempted this kind of puzzle before and relished the challenge.
Sometime during the evening, immediately after dinner, she heard a noise on the porch. Jumping to her feet, she ran into the kitchen and picked up the frying pan. Her heart pounded as she hid behind the front door. Fear tickled its way up her spine, she turned to look out the window but all she saw was darkness. A noise she couldn't distinguish sounded outside the front door. Her hand trembled as she held the frying pan above her head, ready to strike. When something scratched the door and flicked the latch Tara sucked in her breath. Her heart missed several beats. Oh my God! Do they have bears up in the Alps?
Then there was nothing.
Tara let out the breath she was holding in and returned to sit by the fire, crazy thoughts of escaped lunatics on the run racing through her mind. Don’t be daft, they’re hardly likely to come all the way up here, are they?
This was Christmas Eve what a way to spend it, scared witless and alone. Gerry would certainly have a lot of making up to do when she got home, if she got home!
After knocking up a chicken stir-fry with the trusty frying pan, Tara spent the evening reading by the fire, one ear cocked listening for her visitor to return. She was just about to go to bed at 9pm when she heard heavy footsteps on the porch outside.
Her first instinct was to scream but she soon realised she’d go unheard. Instead she flew into the kitchen to fetch the frying pan sitting on the draining board.
As if in slow motion she watched the latch go down on the door. Damn I forgot to lock the door when I fetched the wood for the fire.
The door eased open. The cold night air crept in along with the intruder. She was ready as usual with the frying pan held high above her head, unable to breath for fear of alerting the stranger of her whereabouts. She could tell her visitor was a male, but snow covered his coat and hair.
Suddenly, she yelled and charged, whacking the intruder over the head and shoulders nonstop until he fell to the floor.
She was just about to swipe him round the face when he called out her name. “Tara … what the hell …?”
Dropping to her knees and throwing her weapon aside, she took his face in her hands. A face she’d known and loved for the past ten years.
“My God, Gerry, what are you doing here?”
He looked dazed and in shock. “I came to spend Christmas with my gorgeous wife. I wasn’t expecting to get beaten up by her though.”
Tears of guilt and relief poured down her cheeks. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were coming.”
“Merry Christmas, darling. I dread to think what you would’ve done if Santa had been your secret visitor.”
They laughed and shared a loving kiss. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a lonely Christmas after all.
Mel Comley writes gritty no nonsense thrillers. She also writes Mills and Boon type romances. You can find out more about Mel on blogs.
If you’ve enjoyed these stories why not take a look at my thrillers.
Here’s the first chapter of Cruel Justice, the first in the Lorne Simpkins trilogy.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B005QOY4FM
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005QOY4FM
Prologue.
Friday August 30th, 2007
The pain from the welts on the woman's naked back intensified. She had no concept of time, no idea how long she'd been tied up. Her hands had lost all feeling from being tightly bound to an old wooden chair.
Is this how her life would end?
It had taken a while, but her nostrils had finally grown used to the vile stench permeating her temporary cell.
Time, all she had was time. Time to think, time to ask the same question over and over. Who was he? And why was he holding her captive? What unspeakable thing had she done in her life to make a complete stranger treat her this way? I'm a kind and caring person, aren't I?
What type of person kept a woman locked up in a hellhole like this?
He tortured her with silence when he brought her food, if you can call week-old bread food. She had tried different ways to get a reaction out of him, shouting, reasoning, even her pitiful attempt at begging had fallen on deaf ears. His sneer, and the way his dark eyes roamed her naked body in response, made her skin crawl.
Now
her own thoughts had started torturing her. Her aching limbs cried out for warm lavender-oil filled baths, if only to wash away the urine stinging her legs and the faeces clinging to her behind. She felt utterly degraded. It was a far cry from her usual opulent lifestyle.
Every waking minute dragged into agonisingly long hours. Please, when will this nightmare end? How will this nightmare end? She asked her maker, repeatedly.
Water dripped constantly in the corner adding to her torment. She blocked the noise out by reminiscing happier moments, hoping it would help prevent the craziness threatening to seep into her mind. Fearing her life would soon come to an end, she prayed endlessly that her dead husband would be there to greet her when she finally passed over. How wonderful it would be to feel his comforting arms around me now.
Her heart leapt into her throat when the hatch door swung open. The sudden rush of daylight hurt her eyes, causing them to water. She winced and was swiftly reminded that her right eye was swollen from the beating she had received a few days earlier.
The man gingerly made his way down the precarious ladder, followed by another person.
The imprisoned woman's pulse accelerated, furiously gathering momentum. He crossed the stone floor and stopped in front of her.
"Please … please let me go," she pleaded, in a childlike voice.
The man stared at her for a moment before the vilest of laughs escaped his lips. "Why? Tell me why I should let you go?"
"I beg of you, please, tell me what I have done?"
He smirked, and circled her chair in a menacing manner. "Ah, ignorance is a blissful thing."
Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it back down. "Please, I'm begging you. Please tell me what I've done wrong?"
Through clenched teeth he said, "If only you had done something. Helped in some way, but you didn't, did you? It was far easier to just leave us there. To let us rot in that shithole for years. Well, now you know how it feels."
The man's words and aggression made her flinch. "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you mean. Do I know you?"
"You're all the same. You avoid helping those who cry for help. Your kind makes me sick." As though filled with a terrible venom, his lips turned down, then he jerked his head and spat on her face.
"You and your ilk think you're all so mighty. But you're no better than the shite you're sitting on. You're all full of it!"
Tears ran over the bruises on the woman's cheeks as he ranted at her.
"You're a filthy, whimpering, bitch! What are you?"
She bowed her head.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you."
She held up her head.
"Now what are you?"
"I'm a filthy..."
"Yes? You're a filthy what?"
Snot ran into her mouth as she said, "I... I'm a filthy... whimpering, bitch..." Her throat tightened for want of a sip of water. She needed to wipe her nose.
His laughter filled the room.
"Please, could I have a drink of water?"
"Oh, madam would like to quench her thirst?"
"Please?"
"And how about something to eat? You must be hungry. No?"
"Yes."
The man pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped his hands into them. He then moved to the back of the chair.
She couldn't figure out what he was doing but when he stood in front of her again he smiled. She gulped at the sight of what he had in his hand. Her heart pounded.
"Open your mouth."
"Please don't..." Her brow furrowed.
"But you're hungry. Right? You said you were hungry. Now open your mouth. Wide."
Eyes stinging, she opened it, and the wider she did so the more her already-chapped lips cracked.
"Yes, your kind are full of it."
He moved closer and shoved a handful of faeces into her mouth.
"Now chew and swallow it!"
Between gagging and sobbing, she consumed her own filth.
He looked at her pubic area. "You really are a filthy bitch." He removed the gloves and tossed them on the floor.
Between bouts of hysterical laughter, he continued shouting obscenities but his words seemed jumbled to her already confused mind.
Still very much amused, he turned and walked towards the ladder.
Oh, thank God he's leaving. For a moment, she closed her tired eyes, but when she opened them he was on his way back. It was then she noticed the metal bar in his right hand.
Oh, God, Is this the end?
"You disgust me!" He shuffled closer.
Covered in goose-bumps, and teeth chattering, she peered up into the evil, black, eyes angrily eating through her flesh.
"Did you hear me?"
"I … I don't understand. What have I done to deserve this?" she mumbled, through cracked, soiled lips.
"I have had enough, you stuttering, smelly, bitch."
The bar raised, the woman's piercing scream filled the tiny room, but her screams were lost in his madness. The bar crashed down and in one blow smashed her skull wide open. Her life's blood ebbed away.
He continued hitting her as images of his childhood ran through his crazed mind. Strike after strike, he punished her, unaware that her last breath had left her body five minutes before.
Satisfaction overwhelmed him.
A large saw lay in the cellar corner, and as though about to reach an orgasm, he grabbed it and positioned it on the woman's lifeless neck. Back and forth, back and forth, he pushed it, faster, faster, and as he cut through the tendons and bones he clenched his teeth until her head fell onto the floor.
The third person had silently observed the proceedings and stepped out from the shadows.
Turning to look at her, he could tell by the way her face lit up, she was pleased with the precision and the eagerness of his actions.
"The first part of the puzzle is now in place," said the man.
"Yes, and we both know there's no turning back, now."
"Yes. This is just the beginning..."
Here’s the first chapter of Impeding Justice.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0045UA6F0 http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0045UA6F0
Chapter One
At the sound of helicopter blades whirling in the distance, Detective Inspector Lorne Simpkins leaned over the steering wheel and peered at the sky. She couldn’t see the chopper, but judged it to be hovering beyond the towering buildings which bordered the Thames to her left. She imagined the armed response team crouched inside it, guns locked and loaded, waiting for her call.
If this tip-off turned out to be good, precious minutes would be lost getting the team to her. For the millionth time she rued the fact that she and Pete couldn’t carry guns on these missions. Fucking politics.
They drove past the alley for the second time, still quiet, nothing suspicious. She eased the car to a standstill. Pete shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to her, she turned and asked, ‘Nervous?’
‘No. As usual the dry cleaners sent these trousers back to me a size smaller than when they went in…’
‘Yeah, right, Pete. The fact you’ve gained about a stone lately, wouldn’t have anything to do with them shrinking, I suppose?’
‘Hey, it takes a lot of calories to keep my shape, you know. Besides, I eat more when I’m stressed and these wild goose chases don’t help.’
‘Let’s hope this one’s for real and we finally nail the bastard.’
‘Twenty quid says it’s another Brixton?’
‘No thanks. Take the far side of the alley, get into position and stay put until I give the all clear… Christ, Pete, fasten up your bullet-proof, and start taking this seriously, will you? If it turns out to be another dud lead, so be it, but…’
‘The bloody thing gives me indigestion, squashes me in like a fat thigh in a stocking, I’ve had a bigger one on order for yonks. One of the vest-type that fastens at the side, but...’
‘Look, zip up and shut up, �
��cos if this is for real, we’ll be sussed before we get out of the car.’
Lorne took up her position, leant forward and surveyed the long, narrow alley. The stench of urine and the rotting, fly-infested waste, spewing from overturned bins tinged her nostrils. She motioned the all-clear to Pete and waited for him to dash across to the other side, before checking the alley again and giving the thumbs-up.
They picked their way along the graffiti-stained walls. A skinny dog, hunting for its next meal, growled at them, but hunger won over conflict and he grabbed a chicken carcass and made off with it. Lorne released the breath she’d been holding and mouthed to Pete, ‘Anything?’
‘Not a fucking dickie bird, if you’d taken up the bet, I’d be twenty…’
A crack split the air. Pete slumped to the ground. Horror, held Lorne rigid, as she saw his bullet-proof fly in all directions. Oh no, Pete, no! You didn’t do the bloody thing up.
His body jerked as he took another hit. Lorne bent over, making herself as small as she could, to cross over to him, but a sting vibrated off her face and spun her to the ground.
She swallowed back the rising panic and delved into her inner resources. Everything by the book, Lorne – make the call. Grabbing her radio she said, ‘Back-up needed…OFFICER DOWN.’
The sound of the helicopter changed from a distant hum to an urgent drumming and its blades chopped the air faster as it sped towards them.
Pete groaned. Thank God, he’s still alive… But, he needed her help. Another spray of bullets echoed down the alley. Dust and rubble jumped into the air. Lorne looked around, desperate to find a way of getting to him.
Behind her, a large, steel, rubbish bin stood just inside the backyard of one of the shops. Its contents bulged out of the top, but the wheels looked in good condition. She positioned it between her and the gunman, more bullets ricocheted off the walls and the ground. Some hit the bin. Splinters of plastic bottles, tin cans and debris showered her, but her shield held good and she made it across to Pete.
His throat rasped as she ripped his shirt open. A ragged hole in his stomach and a wound near his heart put the fear of God into her. Shit...this is bad.
