He hits a muddy patch and skids, almost ending up on the ground until he manages to use the shovel to stop his fall. For the first time, he’s out of his depth. His heart pounds. His fingers tighten around the torch as he continues, searching for signs of the woman.
He quickens his pace and his chest begins to heave. Panting and panicked, he’s running now. There’s no sight of her at all. How can this be? How can she have managed to hide in such an open area?
The torchlight finds a mound in the distance. It is little more than an irregular shape at first, but as he runs towards it, he realises it is a group of large rocks. The perfect hiding place. There’s nowhere else for her to be. He laughs quietly to himself as he heads over to the rocks.
“Would you like to finish digging your own grave?” he says, dipping the light across the stones. “Because I would be happy to let you. I thought I was doing you a favour by taking on the heavy lifting but now I understand that you feel left out. You’d like to do it yourself. Feminism, am I right? Equal opportunities!” He laughs, this time as loud as he likes. He wants to enjoy this moment, to relish it, to know that he has outwitted her yet again.
He steps around the rock and shines the flashlight into the blackness beyond.
“There you are.”
She is curled in a ball, with her knees up to her chin. The torch reveals the whites of her eyes, terrified and bulging like they’re being squeezed out of her skull. He almost feels sorry for her but then he remembers what she’s done. He knows what he has to do, and he’ll enjoy every minute of it.
He drops the torch to his feet and grabs the shovel with both hands. Taking a step closer, he raises his weapon, ready to bring it down on her skull. It’s time for the messy solution to his problem. But to his surprise, instead of the satisfying thwack against flesh and bone, the shovel connects with a dull thud on the soil. He scrabbles to find her with his hands, but can only feel the cold, hard ground. He reaches for the torch. The place is deserted. Somehow, she has dashed forward, disappearing into the dark.
It’s time for another chase.
CHAPTER7
FAYE
Iwake suddenly, the sugary cocktails still pulsing through my system. My head is stuffy, the room a little wobbly. But I’m okay. I know where I am, who I am, and what I’m doing.
With stiff legs, I head downstairs, make a cup of coffee and sit out on the patio, watching the sun come up over the sea. Sitting here, I start to relax and the hangover begins to ease. It’s good to clear my mind sometimes, to meditate and dissolve my worries. Meditation is supposedly good for the brain and I read somewhere it can even help prevent dementia. Although, I remember my response to the doctor when I was diagnosed.
“I guess playing Wordle every day was a waste of time after all. Brain training my arse.”
My phone pings.
I enjoyed our date last night.
He’s up early on a Sunday. And he didn’t wait to message me either. I’m almost put off by how keen that is, but I appreciate someone who doesn’t play games. God knows I had enough of that during my marriage.
I text back:Me too. Good conversation. Pretty good dancing. Excellent kissing.
Exquisite kissing,he replies.
I smile and take a sip of coffee. This is new to me, this back and forth, the dopamine hit when my phone dings. Most of my dating occurred in the early nineties, before texting was a thing. Instead, boyfriends left messages with my university flatmate when I wasn’t around. None of them were sexy.
But I’ll work on the dancing, he texts.
I respond:Perhaps I was too hard on the dancing. And you’re right about the kissing.
Can I take you out again?he asks.
This all feels a little too good to be true. Is he naturally charming or trying too hard? I can’t be sure. Maybe I’m selling myself short. After all, we had a blast last night and why shouldn’t he want to text me right away? Then there’s the issue of my dementia hanging over me like the sword of Damocles. But Alistair doesn’t want a serious relationship and I’m enjoying myself, so does it really matter? What is it they say, you only live once? I remember watching a viral video on YouTube with some bloke screaming YOLO before diving off a cliff. He had a point, but he also went on to break several bones in his body. Not sure his advice was worth much after that.
I’d love to,I respond.When are you free?
How about Tuesday night? I have something in mind.
That sounds great,I type.Looking forward to it.Then I add impulsively.Especially if there’s more kissing.
I hope so,he replies.
The warm fuzzy excitement of flirting with a man is suddenly spoiled by thoughts of the viral photo. It’s still out there being shared on social media. Hopefully Alistair won’t even notice it and the whole business will simply fade away.
I’m visiting Mum today and part of me is not looking forward to it. There are difficult conversations to be had, ones that have been avoided for more than thirty years.
