Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  Who Is She?

  Ben Cheetham

  Who Is She? Copyright © 2018 by Ben Cheetham. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at bencheetham.com

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  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Thank You!

  Other Books by the Author

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Her eyes popped open like someone surfacing from the worst nightmare of their life. A thousand bells seemed to be clanging in her ears. There was something in her mouth. A tasteless, gritty substance coated her tongue and clogged her throat. She spat it out and sucked in huge, ragged gasps of air. Her vision wobbled into focus. Shreds of pale light glimmered through a shivering canopy of darkness. Moonlight? Her fingers clutched spasmodically at something damp and cloying. Soil? Where was she? How did she get here? There was a strange, terrible smell. Both sweet and bitter. Like burnt meat. Oh shit, oh shit. What was going on? Why did her head feel as if it was made of cement? There was no pain, but her senses screamed that something was very, very wrong. Was she hurt? Was she dying?

  She squinted as a bright light flashed into her eyes. Flames? Had she been in some kind of accident? She tried to cry for help, but somewhere between her brain and mouth the words were scrambled into, “Heeefff gggppt!”

  The light swept over her body. Her gaze automatically followed it, taking in a filthy multicoloured blouse and slender hands that looked as if they’d been scrabbling at dirt. The dome of a potbelly hid her legs. The light strayed to one side, picking out the angles of a deep, rectangular hole. Twisting roots protruded through the hole’s walls. Its rim was fringed with grass, yellow-brown leaves and piles of what looked to be freshly dug soil. A word went off like an alarm in her bewildered brain – Grave!

  What if it wasn’t an accident? What if someone had deliberately hurt her? What if they were about to bury her? Another word came at her, thundering over and over – No! No! No! It gave her the strength to turn her head, look beyond the light and try to identify its source. She made out a hand holding a torch. The hand was dirty like hers, but with fingers as thick as Cumberland sausages. It appeared to be attached to a human shaped bush.

  She blinked. Her vision cleared a little more. The thing wasn’t a walking bush. It was a bulky figure draped in camouflage netting, their face lost within a deep hood. She opened her mouth. Who are you? What have you done to me? Her short-circuited brain translated the questions into, “Wwwfffll ffgggoo? Wwgg yyyyeee?”

  The figure stood as motionless as the surrounding trees. What was their game? Were they waiting for her to die? Again that word boomed in her head – No! She wasn’t going to lie there and die like a wounded dumb animal.

  Move, she silently yelled at herself. Move! She focused all her strength, all her will, all her fear on obeying. Tremors ran through her, building like steam in a kettle. She planted her palms against the earth and pushed. A pair of heavy-duty black boots came into view beyond her potbelly. Bare skinny legs criss-crossed with scratches. Thighs caked with gluey-looking soil.

  Move, move...

  Shaking all over, she fought her way to her feet. There was an itch between her thighs. She half-expected the camouflaged figure to pounce on her and wrestle her back to the ground. It wouldn’t have taken much effort. She felt as if the slightest breeze would knock her off her feet. But the only movement the figure made was to direct the torch at her feet like a spotlight on a stage. Did the bastard want her to dance? Well they would be waiting a long time!

  Keep moving.

  She turned away from the figure, reeled forwards a few steps, stumbled to her knees. The ground seemed to be rocking like a boat in a stormy sea. She used a tree trunk to drag herself back to her feet. The itch between her thighs was intensifying. Something was running into her eyes. She swiped it away. It wasn’t sweat. It looked as black as oil. Why is there oil on my head? she wondered. It isn’t oil, replied some other more lucid part of her mind. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was that she kept putting one foot in front of the other. With each faltering step, her boots sank into a soft carpet of leaves.

  Then she was beyond the reach of the torch’s beam. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The figure stepped forwards so that the light touched her again. Jerking back around so hard that she almost overbalanced, she staggered onwards. The ground began to slope away from her with increasing steepness. Her footsteps gathered momentum until she was running wildly, arms flailing. Branches whipped and clawed at her. Tree trunks tried to buffet her off her feet. But somehow, through a mixture of sheer determination and luck, she managed to remain upright.

  Her lungs felt as if they were on fire. So did the space between her legs. It was as if someone had recently rammed a hot poker inside her. Had she been raped? Oh god. Was that it? Had some sicko knocked her out and stuck his filthy cock in her? What if he was diseased? What if he had hepatitis or HIV?

  Something smacked her hard across the chest, clothes-lining her onto her back. She lay winded, tears misting her vision. She wiped her eyes. A branch vibrated above her. There was no sign of her rapist – if that’s what the camouflaged figure was. Her hand trembled down to her vagina. It felt torn and shapeless. She looked at her hand. More oil. No, not oil, that other part of her mind cried out again. You’re mutilated. Ruined!

  For a moment her strength deserted her. She was too exhausted even to cry as the question came to her, Why not just lie here and die? It would be easier. A three-quarter moon glowed through the trees. She could see its pocked surface with almost painful clarity. Her gaze fixed on a cluster of dark patches. That light bulb’s dirty, she thought. It needs cleaning. She lifted a hand as if to touch the moon. Clean... Clean moon light... Light clean bulb... No clean... No... No! You will not die here. You will keep moving and live.

  She wrenched her gaze back to the woods. St
ill no sign of the camouflaged figure. She attempted to sit up, gritting her teeth, straining every muscle. She succeeded in lifting herself a few centimetres before collapsing backwards. It was no good. She didn’t have the strength to stand. Then crawl, she commanded herself.

  She rolled onto her belly. Waves of fiery pain radiated from it. I can’t do it. Yes you can! Fuck the pain. Fuck whoever did this to you. Just crawl!

  Digging her fingers into the mulchy ground, she clawed her way forwards. She was no longer fearful. She couldn’t afford to be. She needed every last scrap of energy to keep worming a path through the undergrowth. The oil was in her eyes again. It’s not oil. It’s– Oh for fuck’s sake, it doesn’t matter what it is. Just keep moving. Movement is life. Keep moving and your heart will keep beating. Pull with your hands, push with your feet, pull with your hands...

  Over and over, she mechanically repeated the process. Centimetre by centimetre, she advanced. Time dissolved away. How long had she been doing this for? Minutes? Hours? Her entire life? Perhaps this was all she’d ever done. Why was she crawling? She couldn’t remember. All she knew was that she had to crawl. Crawling was her life’s purpose. Nothing else mattered. Where was she going? Where had she been? She didn’t know. Like a worm on a hook, she knew how to do only one thing – move. Move, crawl, push, pull, push, move, forwards, onwards...

  Then she saw it. Up ahead through the trees. A light! A bright, shining speck that brought her mind flooding back. She remembered the figure. The walking bush. This light wasn’t a torch. It was too bright. Too high off the ground. A window? She headed towards it. Her limbs were doing strange things. She couldn’t seem to coordinate them to function in unison. It was as if each arm and leg had a mind of its own. She had to consciously tell them what to do. Right hand grab that root. Now pull. Left leg bend at the knee. Push off that tree. Good. Now left hand it’s your turn.

  The light was getting close. It was attached to a tall thin post and cast its white glow over a black surface with a broken white line running along its centre. It took her a few seconds to put names to the things she was seeing. Lamppost... Road... Road! Roads mean vehicles. Vehicles mean people. All you have to do is get to it. Get to it and you’ll survive. Even as she thought it, one car sped by, then another and another.

  The road was only a few metres away, but she might as well have been trying to climb Everest’s final ridge without oxygen. Every movement was an agony of concentration and effort. You’re not going to make it. Good try, but no dice. Was that the saying? Or was it, no cigar? Cigars. God, she loved the smell of cigars. Or did she? For that matter, what did cigars even smell like?

  A movement in the shadows of a nearby tree yanked her back into the moment. The camouflaged figure stepped into view. The fucker’s playing with you like a cat. A sob tried to force its way up her throat, but she held it in. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Right hand lift up. Middle finger do your thing. Come on you piece of shit finger. Do it! Her middle finger reluctantly unfurled. It trembled in the air for a second before dropping to the ground. The figure showed no reaction to the defiant gesture.

  She summoned up one last Herculean effort. Her fingers clawed at the earth. Pull, push... She knew it wasn’t going to be enough, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Then the ground was falling away again and she was slithering down a grassy bank. The bank spat her onto the road. She used the momentum to crawl into the path of oncoming headlights. She feebly raised a hand to alert the driver. The vehicle didn’t slow down. She saw her death in its lights. Please let it be over quickly, she thought. There was a screech of brakes. A car swerved sharply, narrowly avoiding ploughing into the embankment. Its front doors flew open. Two lads sprang out and ran towards her. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Their horrified expressions told her all she needed to know about the state she was in.

  “Oh shit, Kyle, look at her head,” gasped one of them. She could just barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.

  “What happened to you?” the other asked shakily.

  She pointed to the woods. We need to get the fuck out of here! “Wnnnfffg tthhhhrrr!”

  The one called Kyle seemed to get the gist of what she was trying to say. “Let’s get her into the car,” he said.

  “We need to call the police.”

  Kyle nervously eyed the darkness beneath the trees. “I’m not waiting around here for the police. Just get hold of her will you.”

  He took hold of her arms. The other boy grabbed her legs. His face twisted as if he was about to puke. “Oh my god, she’s messed up bad down there.”

  “Don’t look. Come on. Get your arse in gear, will you?”

  Her body sagged between them, bare buttocks scraping the tarmac. Her limbs flopped about awkwardly as they manoeuvred her onto the backseat. The seat’s fabric felt soft against her skin. So incredibly soft. They propped her up and fastened a seatbelt around her.

  “We’re taking you to hospital,” Kyle told her.

  “She’s getting blood everywhere,” said his friend. “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

  “Shut up and get in the car.”

  Both boys started to turn, but stopped dead. She saw what had captured their attention. Her hulking, camouflaged tormentor was standing at the top of the bank. For an instant the boys seemed to be mesmerised by the sight. Then Kyle thrust his friend towards the front passenger door. He sprinted around to the driver side, barely avoiding being clipped by a passing car.

  “You’re not insured,” yelled his friend.

  Ignoring him, Kyle rammed the car into gear and floored the accelerator. The car bunny-hopped and the engine cut out. “Shit!” cried Kyle.

  “Go, go, go!”

  “I’m fucking trying.”

  The engine flared back into life. This time it stayed that way as they accelerated sharply. The woman twisted to look at her tormentor. The figure made no move to pursue the car. She unfurled her middle finger again. A high-pitched sound found its way through the ringing in her ears. She realised that she was laughing frenziedly. The laughter stopped as the car jerked leftwards. Her head flopped in the opposite direction. Turning, she glimpsed herself in the rearview mirror.

  Bloodshot brown eyes bulged from a mask of grime and blood. A tangle of matted auburn hair hung around her shoulders. She looked like some kind of fairy-tale creature that had been abandoned in the woods as a baby and raised by wild animals. There was a circular hole in her forehead just below her hairline. The hole was big enough to poke her little finger into. Its edges were blackened. Burnt looking. Blood trickled from it, dripping off her left eyebrow.

  “That was one scary looking... I dunno what,” said Kyle.

  The other boy twisted towards the backseat. “Hey, what’s your name?”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was unconscious.

  Chapter 2

  Brrring, brrring, brrring. Jack’s hand groped out from under the duvet towards his mobile phone. He squinted at its screen – ‘Steve Platts’. Clearing his throat, he put the phone to his ear. “What’s up, Steve?”

  “We’ve got a bad one. Unidentified woman. Late twenties or early thirties. Gunshot wound to the head. Signs of sexual assault.”

  Jack glanced at the alarm clock – 2:34 am. “Dead?”

  “Nope. They’re working on her at North Manchester General. From the sounds of it, I don’t much rate her chances.”

  “What else do we know?”

  “Not much. Two lads driving home from a night out nearly ran her over. They took her to the hospital.”

  “What time?”

  There was the rustle of a notepad being consulted. “They picked her up at approximately one fifteen and arrived at the hospital at twenty five to two.”

  “You said they almost ran her over. Does that mean she was on her feet?”

  “It means someone put a bullet in her head and instead of dropping dead she legged it. Imagine that.”

  Jack didn’t
particularly want to imagine that. “Where do you want me?”

  “M61 southbound slip road. Junction 2. Worsley Braided Interchange.”

  Jack jotted down the destination. “Got it. See you soon.” He hung up and phoned Laura. “Sorry to do this to you, sis, but–”

  “Yeah, I know,” she broke in, her voice thick with sleep. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  He put down the phone and reached for the socks he’d dumped on the carpet earlier that night. He dragged on jeans and a sweatshirt. Detective Chief Inspector Paul Gunn liked his team to dress professional – shirt, tie, suit – but to hell with that. It was early November. It had been a cold day. The night would be even colder. He headed for the bathroom, splashed water over his face and short brown hair. He ran a hand over his stubble. He could do with a shave, but there was no time. He padded to a half-open door. Beyond it was a bedroom whose sky-blue walls were papered with posters of pop stars. Toys, pens and books were neatly arranged on a desk and bookshelves. Clothes lay folded on a chair. Unlike Jack, Naomi kept her room tidy.