The Next Girl(Detective Gina Harte #1)(73)

‘They’re coming for you, son.’ His mother’s voice echoed through his mind.

‘Shut up. Shut up.’ He massaged his aching head.

He turned his headlights off and stepped out of the car. He sniffed his fingers. The smell of petrol still lingered on his hand. He’d definitely wash and change before he saw Deborah. The last thing he needed was her having a crazy fit on him like the other day. And the time before that, she’d chipped his tooth with a cup.

Holland Street was devoid of human activity. He looked at his watch; it was just past six in the morning. A generator purred from one of the shops. He heard a loud thump as someone shouted. The words were unrecognisable from this distance. He continued walking along the back of the shops until he reached Primrose Lane.

The three-storey terraced buildings blocked out the light. He crept towards the edge of the main road, peeked around the corner of the building and saw the police. His heart felt as though it were in his mouth. ‘Why are you in my flat?’ he whispered as he turned and walked away.

He had to get back, decide what to do next. If they found him, they may eventually find the farm. What would happen to Mother if he had to leave quickly? Maybe she’d end up in a home. She was never going in a home, he wouldn’t allow it. He always knew what was best for her.

He had to do something, but he didn’t have much time. They’d never understand the depth of his love and devotion for Deborah – no one would.

Now that they’d fallen out and Deborah was in a mood, he had no idea what she’d say. He’d only chained her up because he wanted to keep her. He loved her so deeply, so passionately. She had to love him back. She’d given birth to their child. She stroked his hair on the nights when he was upset. She told him she loved him to outer space and back. He never hurt her, except when she attacked him first. Admittedly, she’d purposely angered him many times and he sometimes had to give her a scare, but she drove him to it.

With shaky hands, he managed to get the keys in the ignition and drive away with his lights off, passing the Angel Arms and the Cleevesford junction before heading back along the country road to the farm. There was only one way out of all this. One way.





Fifty-One





Sweaty. She was sweaty but cold, then hot, then sticky and sick and tired – so tired. As she gave in to sleep, shapes danced in the darkness beyond the end of the bed. Was it a bed? She had dreamed that she was floating on a blanket, a magic blanket that Aladdin would use. One that took the traveller anywhere they desired to go. Debbie had chosen Andalusia in Spain, where her mother had once had a villa. She and Luke had gone there a few times before the children had come along. They’d enjoyed many a week alone as a new couple. The children would’ve loved it, but her mother had sold it before they were born. She had needed the money for her retirement.

The blanket took her there and landed in the garden. ‘There’s only one catch,’ the blanket said. ‘You have ten minutes. Use your time wisely. After that, I will depart and you will have to make a choice: go back to your reality or stay in the villa garden forever. You can never move forward, you can never leave. You can never dream, you can never come back.’

Luke spotted her emerging from the shrubbery at the end of the garden. Holding out a large glass of red wine, he waited for her to arrive at the table. She smiled and took the glass. She sipped the wine and leaned into Luke’s chest, waiting for him to embrace her and tell her everything was going to be okay. But though he coldly allowed her to lean against him, there was no warmth. She pulled away and swigged the rest of the wine. Why wasn’t he pleased to see her? Was it the new woman? Had she been brought here so that he could end their marriage?

She took the last gulp of wine and placed her empty glass on the table. Her body normally responded quickly to alcohol, but she felt nothing. Her stomach rumbled. Little dishes of tapas were spread out on the table. She reached down and grabbed a handful of croquetas de jamón and rammed them into her mouth. It had been such a long time since she’d enjoyed good food. If the wine wasn’t doing it, then maybe the food would. She chewed what was in her mouth, waiting to savour the ham and cheese, but there was nothing. She tuned to the side and spat the mulch onto the ground. ‘What’s going on, Luke?

He looked at her, no smile, no reaction, and no answer to her question.

‘Tell me why I’m here.’

‘Five minutes,’ said the blanket.

‘Why am I here?’ she asked.

Luke picked up a plate of fried chorizo and held it in her direction.

‘Say something.’ She grabbed the plate and smashed it on the slabs in front of her. He picked up the bottle of wine and proceeded to top her glass up.

‘Three minutes,’ the blanket called.

Luke, please.’ She placed a hand on his arm, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t pull her into an embrace, or stroke her hair with affection, as he’d always done.

‘One minute,’ the blanket cried. You can stay forever or come back with me, but you have to choose. If you stay, you can never leave.’

The world she had entered had no substance. What was a world without warmth, aroma, taste and love, devoid of everything to which humankind was so beholden? She stood and stepped back towards the blanket, staring at Luke as she got further away. The centre of his chest vanished, revealing nothing but the back of the garden fence. This world had no heart. Luke had no heart. He’d left her; he’d moved on. She was alone.