The Woman on the Pier by B P Walter

Author:B P Walter [Walter, B P]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: One More Chapter

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Mother

May. Three months after the attack.

The road is being pummelled with rain so hard it looks like a carpet of fireworks. I drive the car faster than I should down the street until I get to his house. The broken sofa is still there, its material clearly soaked through, darkened by the weight of the moisture.

I inch the car carefully into the only spare space, aware it would be tight if any of the neighbours opposite tried to get theirs out, then turn off the ignition and get out. I’m halfway across the road when I remember Jessica’s phone. It’s in the glove compartment. I turn back and just manage to get my hand under the handle of the car door when the throb of cramp hits my leg, causing me to lose my balance. I grab hold of the door as it swings open, and the change of angle twists me back and I’m sent toppling into the middle of the road, landing on my side with a horrible jolt that I feel reverberate across my body. ‘Fuck!’ I shout; I can’t help myself. The whole thing is so awful. I shouldn’t be here. I’m out of my depth. I don’t know what I’m doing. I scrabble around, trying to get into a position to pull myself up, my right hand scratching on a small fallen tree branch that’s presumably been thrown to the ground by the storm. The wind is still raging, making it hard for me to straighten up, looking towards the house I had planned to enter. Once I’m steady I lunge forward into the car. Eventually I’m in and reaching for the glove compartment. I scoop up Jessica’s phone, then pause. Should I just go now? I have a chance. Another chance, one of countless chances I’ve had to put an end to this strange, dangerous game. But a small voice inside me keeps telling me that to leave now would be giving him another chance. Giving him the permission to carry on living his life as if my daughter never existed, never mattered, never died.

‘Are you OK?’

The voice can just about be heard over the roaring wind. I turn round and close the car door. He’s standing there. Michael Kelley. I stay completely still and for a while there’s just the two of us, standing in the rain. We both must look a sight. He’s in a vest-type sports top and grey tracksuit bottoms that are steadily growing darker as the rain hits them. One of his feet has a sock on it, the other is bare. I, on the other hand, am coated in water and dirt from the road. I can see my wrist is bleeding and I’m dimly aware of a leaf stuck in my hair, fluttering in the corner of my vision.

‘Yes,’ I call back, ‘I just tripped.’ I stagger towards him. I’ve done something to my ankle during the fall and feel it protest as I put weight on it and reach his side of the road.

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