by Andie Fessey
Placing his hand on her shoulder, her skin felt cold to the touch.
Still, it’s not the warmest of nights.
He gently shook her, but she did not respond.
Feck, an ambulance it is then.
Glancing down at her large breasts, he glanced around to see there remained nobody in sight.
He glanced at the nearest lampposts, followed by the closest building but he could see no sign of any CCTV cameras.
Taking a deep breath, he felt his stiffness pressing hard against his trousers.
I may not get the chance again. And anyway, it will give me something to fantasise over later.
Leaning forward, he cupped one of her breasts in his hand, it felt cold to the touch but as he rubbed and squeezed at her large nipple, he felt it stiffen, growing firmer under his touch.
Moving his hand away, he glanced around again.
With no sign of anybody in sight, he placed his hand on the top of her thigh, cold but silky smooth under the touch his fingers, not noticing from his angle, the side of her other thigh displayed nail marks raked deep upon it, caked in dried blood.
He moved his hand up her thigh.
Feck, this is one short dress.
He worked his hand further up, tracing the contours of her skin with his fingers.
A quick feel and then I’ll call 999.
His fingers brushing against the fabric of her briefs, he slipped them inside, resting them over her pubic mound.
Nice, trimmed.
“What? Feck!” He cried, feeling his arm grabbed in a vice like grip.
He quickly removed his other hand.
He expected it to be the arm of a police officer, but in the second it took him to remove his hand from in-between her legs, he turned and saw the hand belonged to the woman herself.
“Sorry? What? Shit!”
Staring at her face, he found himself staring into eyes the colour of deep crimson. The pupils once an emerald green, swam in pools of blood.
Her mouth, an open grimace, her perfect white teeth clicking together as she brought her head to the arm she held, the web of dark, thick veins under her skin, pulsating strongly.
Managing to pull his arm from the reach of her mouth, it snapped shut centimetres from his sleeve.
She snarled, groaning with a gurgling, guttural rasp as she came at him again.
With his free hand, he punched her in the face, the strike hitting her in the softness of her nose.
He knew her nose was broken, feeling it snap under his knuckles. The liquid splaying from the wound and her nostrils appearing too dark and thick to be blood.
“Look love I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his arm as hard as he could to get away from her.
Moving to him again, her teeth clicked open and shut repeatedly.
Dragging his arm and placing the heel of his shoe on her stomach to brace himself, he pulled hard.
The manoeuvre successful, but he landed hard onto his coccyx.
Groaning in pain, he scrambled as she moved to him, her face a mask of pure savagery as she grabbed at him, hands splayed open, grasping at his legs, she managed to grab hold of one of his shoes.
“Feck off!” he yelled, kicking her in her chest with his free foot.
She fell, still grasping his shoe, then grabbed at his leg again with her other hand.
“I said feck off bitch!” He shouted, as this time his foot connected with her shoulder.
Falling, she retained a grip on his other foot.
He repeatedly kicked at her with his free foot, managing to catch her on her shoulder, breast and arm, but her strong grip on his foot continued.
His kicks rained upon her upper body, but still she would not release the grip on his foot, her fingers now scrambling to grab at his leg.
Finally releasing her grip, she dug the fingernails of one of her hands, deep into the flesh of his calf.
He yelled aloud as her nails raked his skin.
Now she released her grip on his foot, coupled with the anger surging throughout him, he could pull his foot free, scrambling from her grip.
Bent over now on her hands and knees, she crawled slowly to him.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he brought his leg back and kicked her squarely in the jaw, her head arcing, her arms raising from the floor.
Staring at him, snarling, she moved to him again.
Using the whole of the underside of his foot, he kicked her backwards against the wall.
Landing hard, she sat spread-eagled, black fluid running freely down her face, her green dress now stained dark.
Placing her hands on the floor either side of her, she began lifting herself up.
His childhood years of playing Gaelic football did not appear wasted, as taking a step forward with his left leg and bringing his right leg back, he brought his right foot forward forcibly in-between her spread thighs.
Though sickened by the grotesque sight of her, he still felt nauseous, as the hard tip of his shoe connected with her pelvic bone, the snap resonating through the whole of his leg.
“Love, I’m sorry but you attacked me, you deserved it,” he said, staggering.
Panicking, he looked around to see if anybody noticed their altercation, but nobody witnessed it.
Turning his gaze to her, he noticed a pool of black liquid oozing from between her thighs.
His mixed feelings of guilt, anger, shame, confusion became interrupted by her moans and the chatter of her snapping teeth.
Looking at her, he found her head now held at an awkward angle, but she still stared at him through red, angry eyes, a look of pure violence upon her face, as she moved slowly closer to him.
“Feck off!” He screamed at her, turning and running to the apartment block.
Passing not one soul and arriving at the secured entrance door, he leant against it, catching his breath.
Once he felt composed enough, he fished his wallet from his rear pocket, pulling out the swipe card for the building. Placing it into the device connected to the metal security door, he swiped downwards and the door unlocked and he entered the apartment block.
He made his way straight to the shower as soon as he entered the apartment, the water running scalding hot, but he allowed the hot liquid to cascade across his body.
After towel drying his body and hair, he picked up his clothes, entering the spacious living area of the apartment and throwing them onto the leather sofa.
Picking up his suitcase from nearby and placing it on the leather sofa, he thrust the clothes he wore inside, ensuring he put his shoes in first.
He gazed through the windows overlooking the docks and the city. Amidst the kaleidoscope of the City lights, he saw the aura of blue lights scattered across the vista.
He could not hear anything of the outside world, due to the strengthened glass the apartment windows were constructed with. He knew, if he opened the glass door leading to the small balcony, he would hear the cacophony of sirens.
Leaving the door shut, he continued packing his suitcase, constantly turning his gaze to the intercom unit on the wall, convinced the police would call to arrest him.
They never called.
He fell asleep upright on the sofa, the alarm of his mobile phone next to him, awakening him from his slumber.
He looked at the time on the display.
Shit, I’ve only had about two hour’s bloody sleep. Still, better than none I suppose.
Rubbing his aching neck and his shoulders, he sat up, feeling the onset of a headache coming on, is head feeling as if full of cotton wool and behind the bridge of his nose, an acute aching.
Walking to the bathroom, he relieved himself.
Producing a large wad of phlegm, he spat into the cistern. Staring into the water as his bladder emptied, he noticed swirling in the now yellowing water, blobs of dark matter.
Raising his hand to wipe his mouth, he stared at his palm.
There were stains of a dark liquid upon it.
&nbs
p; He thought back to the evening before.
I didn’t snort anything?
He had not done ‘it’, for months.
‘It’, being a habit, too expensive to maintain anymore.
His phone ringing in the other room, he felt a momentary wave of panic as he made his way to retrieve it, the memories of his walk to the apartment flooding to him.
Shit, it’s the police, it’s going to be the police.
Reaching the coffee table where his phone lay, ringing and vibrating, he picked it up with apprehension, staring at the screen.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he recognised the number calling as that of a local taxi firm, whom his company employed whenever their staff were in the North West.
Answering it, he was informed his driver waited outside to transport him to John Lennon airport.
He informed the caller he would be at least thirty minutes and the driver would have to wait.
The account belonged to his company after all, so it was not like the money came from his own pocket.
Walking to the bathroom, he realised he did not have time for another shower, but he needed to brush his teeth as his mouth tasted rank.
He also needed to check his leg where the woman scratched him.
Raising his leg, he placed it on the edge of the bath, finding the scratch, though not deep, sat angry and red surrounded by pale white skin.
Fecking bitch.
Locating a small first aid kit in the cabinet above the sink, he closed the cabinet door, noticing in its mirror how bloodshot his eyes were, dark shadows surrounding them.
Great, Kieran will think I’m using again.
Turning the tap, he splashed cold water over his face.
Feck it, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. I’ll let Kieran do one of those drugs detecting things when I get back to the office, if he says anything.
Finishing getting dressed, he made one last sweep of the apartment, ensuring sure he did not leave anything behind.
Grabbing his suitcase, he donned a pair of his sunglasses, before descending downstairs to the awaiting cab.
The journey to the airport took significantly longer than usual, the traffic being heavily congested.
He never saw so many emergency vehicles on these roads, even after making the trip to Liverpool at least once a fortnight for the past three years.
The driver relayed to him the stories about the attacks occurring throughout the night and into the morning.
The driver mentioned something about the hospital, but he could not hear the words clearly, his headache worsening.
He shivered.
Fecking flu.
Arrived at the airport, his check was a quick, uneventful one.
He barely sat on one of the seats in the waiting area, when the announcement called for his flight.
Standing in the queue to board the flight, he felt nauseous and drained.
At least I can grab some sleep on the flight.
His allocated seat on the small plane was located to the front adjacent to the emergency exit, enabling him to stretch his legs.
After the rest of the passengers for the flight to Dublin boarded, the air stewardess performed the mandatory safety demonstration, which he knew by heart and bored him to tears.
Completing the demonstration, she sat at the seat facing him.
Glancing at her legs through his sunglasses, he smiled at her, though his head pounded.
Her tight uniform suiting her frame perfectly, he thought to himself he would try to get her number later, another trolley dolly to add to his list of conquests.
But first, he would attempt some sleep on the short flight over the Irish Sea, feeling shattered and hoping a nap would stop the infernal headache wreaking havoc within his skull.
He adjusted himself as comfortable as he could, though moving made his muscles ache with each exertion, until he settled upon a position giving him the least discomfort, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses and drifting off into a deep darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
His sleep was a troubled one, more so than usual, but not surprising given the current circumstances and he knew his sleep would not have been the only troubled one.
It was reported on the News on the television, when they returned home from the stables the previous evening, the violent attacks persisted.
Both of their horses were fine, so they threw a couple of extra nets of haylage over and checked their rugs before they returned home.
They decided to grab an early night, to be fresh the following morning.
Awakening from a reoccurring dream he experienced since the ‘nastiness’ first began, he rolled his body over to turn and face Abigail.
She still lay asleep.
Deciding not to disturb her, he quietly and carefully moved his body from the bed, quietly walking to the bathroom.
After performing his morning constitutional, he walked downstairs.
The remote control for the large plasma television screen sat on the end of the ivory leather sofa.
He switched on the television with his finger moving straight to the ‘mute’ button, to not wake up either Abigail or Nate.
The first channel to appear on the screens, showed advertisements. He brought up the on-screen menu and, highlighting the channel for the National twenty-four-hour news channel, pressed the button to switch to it.
The news, immediately informing him the violent attacks did not stopped overnight, they escalated.
Walking across the living room, he opened a couple of slats of the blinds covering the large bay window
He peered outside into the morning light. The scene he now viewed of outside, the same scene greeting him each morning
Did I half expect to see lifeless bodies strewn around the street, up the drive and around our garden?
“Couldn’t you sleep properly either?” Nate said from behind him, startling him.
Visibly jumping, he let go of the blinds and turned around quickly, to see Nate standing in the doorway, already dressed.
“Bloody hell son, you scared the life out of me,” he said, laughing whilst his nerves began to settle down.
Nate turned his gaze to the television on the wall.
The sound remained muted, but he could read the subtitles and watch as various reporters and newsreaders in the studio talked silently into the camera.
“How bad is it Dad?”
He never lied to his son and possessed no intention of starting to do so.
“It looks pretty bad son. There have been loads of individual attacks around the city centre; they had cameras broadcasting from outside the concert stadium earlier on as apparently there have been several attacks around there. I’ve no idea what is going on at the Town Hospital and I don’t think they are too sure either,” he said, pointing to the television screen.
Nate continued to watch the unfolding news on the television set, as his Father walked across the room and placed his arm around his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about the mute son. I’ll go wake your Mother up.”
He left his son standing in the living room, and made his way upstairs.
Picking up the remote control from the sofa, Nate switched on the volume, whilst his Father awoke his Mother.
“What do we take with us Dad?” Nate asked, as they hurried around the house, collecting whatever they thought required for their journey.
“Clothes, food, torch, batteries. All that sort of stuff you see in the movies,” Jake replied.
Walking upstairs, Jake pulled the rope to the loft hatch. A set of ladders slowly lowered down.
Abigail popped her head from around the bathroom door, where she was busy grabbing toiletries.
“What are you getting love?” she asked.
“I’ve just remembered something.”
Climbing the ladders, he entered the loft, switching on the light.
Moving a few boxes of Christmas decorations, he found what he searched for
.
He developed an idea a couple of years earlier, of them taking up a hobby together as a family, signing the three of them for lessons at an archery school in Lancashire.
The hobby did not last long, but Jake bought three composite bows for them all. Now here they were, gathering dust as they sat in their loft in their bags unused since.
Grabbing them, he made his way down the ladder.
Abigail came from the bathroom carrying a box, filled with the likes of soap, toilet tissue and toothpaste. Her gaze immediately turned to the three holdalls, leaning against the landing wall as he closed the loft hatch.
“God love, you don’t think we’ll need them, do you?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea love, I really hope not but I would rather have something with us,” he replied, staring at her intently.
“I hope not too Hun,” she replied, nodding her head as she continued to stare at the holdalls, before heading downstairs.
She knew how protective he could be, to both her and their son and she found this to be another one of his endearing qualities, finding it to never made her feel suffocated, but reassured.
Nate came running up the stairs as soon as she descended them.
He looked at the holdalls, as he passed his father on the way to his bedroom to grab a couple more pairs of his treasured running shoes.
“Too right!” He exclaimed, with a huge grin upon his face.
The next hour or so being spent filling the rear of the 4x4 parked in their driveway.
There was no discussion over which of their two cars to take.
Her car, a small sporty hatchback, with hardly any spare room and most importantly, it did not have the massive tow bar fitted to its rear that the 4x4 possessed, for towing the horse trailer.
After filling the car, Jake double-checked the house, ensuring he switched off all the appliances such as the television and all the lights.
As soon as the task became completed, he set the house alarm and exited the front door.
As he closed the front door, their neighbours, John and Elsie walked from theirs.
A couple in their late sixties, they lived in their own house for countless years, before Jake and Abigail moved in.
