Killer Fiction Competition - Winners

However, tough as they were, decisions have had to be made. So, without further ado, the three winning entries are...

The winner

Golden Hour by Bean Sawyer

Diana's feedback:

The writing is atmospheric and draws in the reader into this police procedural. The authors evokes feeling of a teenage girl out with her boyfriend and stuck in charge of her younger brother (and dog) well. It’s one of those nightmarish moments you could imagine – distracted for a moment and then the boy disappears while the couple are too wrapped up in each other. We are introduced to DCI Floyd (it might be good to make it clear that she’s a woman straight away unless that’s deliberate) who is in charge of the case and that is dealt with nicely. It might be worth looking at the dialogue again as it can be slightly stilted on occasion although it adds to the overall story. 

-1-

13:22 pm

Zak Falknor

The River Cych sparkled in the sun as it bubbled over Zak’s toes. His trouser legs were rolled up, but he pulled them even higher over his knees anyway – just in case. He paddled in front of the little stone bridge where Clara sat close to Noah. Their legs dangled over the edge of the stone slabs, toes only just touching the surface of the water, talking quietly about boring stuff, giggling every now and again. Zak had even seen them kiss when they thought he wasn’t looking. He didn’t want to watch anyway. It looked horrible. 

This was Mr Thomas’s sheep bridge. Zak had given it that name after a particularly wet winter when the water levels on the Cych were so high that the bridge went under water. He had come down to the river with his dad to see the flood, only to find several sheep floating by the bridge. They had been washed downstream from Mr Thomas’s field further up the valley. They looked strange upside down in the water. It was the first time he had seen a dead animal, and Zak had never forgotten it. 

He picked up a stick that had wedged itself between two big stones. He hit the water with it, breaking up the frothy effluent that had gathered. It was splashing over the front of his Spider-Man t-shirt. Wolf, the grey long haired terrier barked a high pitched bark that echoed through the wooded valley. 

‘Zak, stop it. You’re getting him all excited,’ Clara complained.

She’s so bossy. He hesitated for a moment, before throwing the stick into the woods as far as he could. Wolf scampered off into the ferns snuffling and growling like he was chasing a rabbit. Stupid dog.

Clara and Noah resumed their conversation. 

‘Will you play with me now?’ Zak asked. They didn’t hear him. ‘I’m hungry, Clara,’ he said, wading through the water towards them. Zak’s bare feet touched the slimy surface of the river bed. He lost his footing for a moment – his arms automatically springing out to regain his balance. 

Clara and Noah turned towards him. ‘Oooh, you nearly fell in! Bout time you had a bath, Zakky!’ Noah teased.

‘No I didn’t.’ Zak screwed his face up. 

He stood in front of Clara and Noah, throwing water over them with cupped hands. 

‘Zak, that’s enough!’ Clara shouted jumping to her feet. She sounded just like their mum, when she was angry.

‘He started it,’ Zak said, jabbing his pointed finger at Noah. He poked out his tongue for good measure. 

‘Your little brother is so rude,’ Noah laughed.

A yelp echoed through the valley. They all turned their heads.

Wolf.

Clara exchanged a concerned look with Noah.

‘Wolf,’ Clara shouted upstream. ‘Come on boy!’

There was nothing. No sound. Just the noise of the river hurrying towards the Teifi.

‘Wolf!’ Zak shouted. His voice was wavering. ‘Where is he, Clara?’

Noah jumped into the water and picked Zak up, placing him on the bridge. ‘It’s okay, little man. I’ll go and look for him. He won’t be far.’

‘I’m coming too,’ Clara stated. ‘Zak, just wait here for us.’

Zak nodded.

There was another yelp. 

‘It came from over there, this time,’ Noah said before charging off through the ferns.

‘We’ll be back in a minute, Zak. It’s really important you stay here, yeah?’ She kissed his head and disappeared behind Noah.

Zak stood alone on Mr Thomas’s sheep bridge. The sound of Wolf’s yelp had frightened him. All he could think about was dead sheep. Fat and bloated. Black tongues hanging out of their mouths and staring eyes. He closed his eyes tight and listened. The summer breeze gently rattled the leaves. Swishing. Whispering. A branch creaked as it rubbed up against the bark of another tree. Beneath him, the water jostled the stones, moving them further along the river bed. Birds busily chattered. A bee moved slowly nearby, stopping at every flower.

A whimpering broke through the sound of the woods. It was soft, yet unmistakable. More importantly, it was moving towards the old mill, in the opposite direction to where Clara and Noah had gone.

‘Wolf?’ 

Zak glanced upstream. ‘Clara! I can hear him,’ he shouted. There was no answer. He stepped off the bridge onto the soft mossy floor and followed the sound of his dog.

-2-

13:46 pm

Clara Marsh

Noah cut through the ferns with a stick, beating them down. 

‘This is useless. We’re going to have to go back – Zak is on his own,’ Clara said.

‘But what about Wolf?’

‘I’ll tell my mum and Rob. They can come and look for him. Anyway, he knows his way home over the meadow, he’s been here a hundred times before.’

Noah dropped the stick into the undergrowth and turned around to face Clara. They stood together, alone in the forest. This is what they had wanted – to be together. Not like this though. Their intentions had been dashed when Clara’s mum had insisted they take her little brother with them. 

Clara smiled. ‘Thanks, Noah.’

‘What for?’

‘For waiting.’

Noah took her hand. ‘You’re worth waiting for,’ he said and placed a quick kiss on her cheek. 

Clara felt the heat rising in her face and turned to walk back down the pathway Noah had made. 

‘Wolf might have gone back to the bridge anyway. Zak’s probably teasing him with a damn stick again by now.’

‘Clara?’ Noah interrupted.

‘Yes.’

‘You do want to – you know. With me. Don’t you?’

Clara stopped walking and turned to Noah. ‘Of course. I want my first time to be with you, Noah. I really do. It’s my bloody mum. I think she knows what’s going on between us and keeps trying to interfere.’

‘Doesn’t she like me?’

‘Of course she does. She wants me to wait though. She doesn’t want me to make the same mistake she did at fifteen.’

‘She doesn’t think you’re a mistake!’

Clara paused. ‘Yeah, well, her life would have been a whole lot easier without me. Zak and Evie have Rob. I didn’t even know my dad.’

Noah pulled Clara close and touched her face. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’ He leant his forehead against hers. ‘I’m glad you were born,’ he said. ‘Mistake or not. Anyway, if I got you pregnant, I’d be there for you and the baby. Forever.’ He kissed her lips, clumsy and passionate. Clara could taste garlic on his breath, yet she kissed him back with the same desire, her hands running through his short curly hair. His fingers touched the soft skin exposed on her shoulders under her strappy top. They travelled down her arm finally resting on her breast. She hesitated for a moment, drawing away from his mouth.

Noah looked into her eyes; his hand poised awkwardly. She touched his face. It was still soft. He didn’t have any signs of hair growing around his mouth yet. ‘Not now,’ she whispered. ‘Zak.’

Noah reluctantly let his hand fall to his side. ‘Zak,’ he repeated. 

Clara adjusted her top. They continued back along the path in silence. She smiled to herself, playing with her fringe. It was going to be so special – so exciting. Noah was gorgeous. They could come back here later, when everyone was in bed. Blushing, she turned round and smiled at him. Noah smiled back.

They were close to the bridge now. 

‘Zak,’ she called. ‘We’re back!’ 

As they turned the corner, they could see the stone bridge, just as they had left it – her bag and their belongings dumped in a pile. No Zak.

‘Zak?’ Clara called out into the woodland, then to Noah. ‘Where is he?’

Clara ran down to the bridge and looked up and down the river. She picked up Zak’s sandals. ‘Well, he hasn’t got anything on his feet!’ Once more she cupped her hands round her mouth and shouted his name. Noah joined in. Their voices were swallowed by silence.

‘I don’t like this, Noah, where is he? I told him to stay here.’

Noah shrugged. ‘Yeah, you know what he’s like, he’s probably hiding. Are you hiding, mate?’ he shouted. ‘If you are, it’s not funny now, come on out.’

‘Zak, don’t be a dick! Come here now!’ Clara added.

The silence that followed made her heart beat fast. Noah went to take Clara’s hand. She pulled away. 

 ‘Shit. I don’t like this. Why can’t he just listen and do as he’s told?’

‘Let’s follow the track back. Maybe he got bored of waiting for us and went home,’ Noah suggested.

‘Without his shoes?’

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. 

‘What are you doing?’ Noah asked.

‘I’m phoning Mum.’ She pressed a few buttons. ‘Shit, no reception.’

‘Zak,’ she shouted for a final time, her voice breaking. ‘He’s not here, Noah. I know Zak. He wouldn’t take it this far. We have to get help.’ She started to cry.

‘I want my Mum.’

-3-

14:20pm

DCI Cerys Floyd

DCI Floyd sipped the cup of herbal tea she had been offered. Jane Falkner paced up and down, her baby asleep in her arms. On the sofa sat a teenager, her boyfriend cradling her in his arms. This seemed to agitate Mrs Falkner even more.

‘Clara,’ Jane snapped. ‘Explain to the detective exactly what happened. How you left your brother alone while you went off for a romp in the woods with – him. And now Zak is lost.’ 

Clara looked up. Her eyes were puffy. She held a handkerchief by her nose. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ Her words were soft and shaky. ‘Wolf ran away.’

‘Wolf?’ 

‘Yes, detective, our dog. He ran off when Zak threw a stick… ’ 

Jane snorted. Clara continued. ‘We heard him yelp. Zak was scared, so we went to get him, he sounded hurt.’

‘And did you find him?’ DCI Floyd asked. ‘Wolf?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have a photo of Wolf?’ DCI Floyd asked.

Clara reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She pressed a few buttons and handed it to her. DCI Floyd carefully looked at the photo, and handed the phone to DC Evans. ‘Can you copy that, send it out to all the vets and rescue centres.’ She looked at Clara. ‘Funny looking wolf,’ she smiled. ‘Was Wolf chipped, Mrs Falkner?’

‘Yes, but I never got round to changing the address. Can someone tell me why are we talking about the damn dog? I want to find my son!’

‘Let them do their job, mum,’ Clara sniffed.

DCI Floyd looked from Clara to Jane. ‘We have a search team out in Cwm Cych looking for Zak as we speak, Mrs Falkner. I can assure you we are doing everything we can to find your son. There’s a chance that Zak is with Wolf. We have to look at everything at this stage.’

Jane Falkner still paced the confined room rocking her baby. DCI Floyd put her cup on the table and stood. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Falkner,’ she said. Then looked directly at Clara. ‘Thank you,’ she said. 

Her eyes briefly met with Noah’s as she closed the door behind her.

In her hand, she held a photograph of a six-year-old boy. He was smiling, revealing a large gap in his teeth, the tips of the new ones showing through his gums. His hair was short and black, his eyes blue. Unusual. He wore a black t-shirt with a yellow Batman logo, last seen in a Spider-Man t-shirt. The lad liked his superheroes. What six-year old didn’t like the premise of a super human being that could rid the world of evil? 

DCI Cerys Floyd looked back at the small wooden chalet, the Falkner’s home, as she got into the passenger seat of the car that was waiting for her.

‘Take me to the bridge,’ she said fastening her seatbelt.

The runners-up

Three Corner Wood by Patrick Brandon

Diana's feedback:

This story that starts with a dad getting into a car to help an old woman who has lost her car keys leaving his family waiting, and waiting, has that creepy feel of a horror film or those shaggy dog tales you tell round a campfire. I’d take out the comment the child makes about her looking like a witch. 

CHAPTER 1

The car park and it's borderline of trees had faded to sepia in the evening light. The last wave of Sunday walkers were returning on a tide of muted colour, their breath clouding the chill air as if they were stepping from an age of steam. Families, couples, groups of friends, and a solitary figure, standing at the edge of things, watching and waiting, her searching eyes finally fixing on one family – a man and woman with two boys and black Springer Spaniel in tow. They passed right in front of her but paid her no mind, and she straightened in readiness when they stopped beside a mud-dashed Morris Minor.

The man passed dog and lead over to his eldest son, while his wife stood holding the hand of the youngest. The older boy gave the lead a little tug, but got no reaction. His father patted himself down, looking for his car keys, found them in his jacket pocket. His little dance was the prompt that drew the old woman over. She came on slowly, looking pained. Only the boy registered her approach. He looked up, and instinctively drew his charge in, winding the lead around his wrist. His mother turned, sensing her son’s attention being called elsewhere. As far as the boy was concerned, the new arrival was pure witch. But all that his mother saw was a well turned-out elderly woman, wearing an expensive coat and shoes that were the wrong kind for walking, making her way with some difficulty across the uneven surface of the car park. It took her an age to get to them, and by the time she was shuffling the closing yards, all eyes were turned to her. She came to a stop a few yards short of them, clearly out of breath from the short journey over.

‘Excuse me. I’m so sorry to…bother you, but...’ She paused to get her breathing under control, and when she resumed, her words started to regain their natural rhythm. ‘I seem to have…lost my car keys. I was wondering whether you might be…able to help me. You look like such a nice family.’

The younger woman glanced at her husband, who threw her a wary look, a slighttightening around the eyes that said, No.

‘Where did you lose them?’ she asked, ignoring his signal and turning back to the old woman.

‘Well, if I knew that, dear, they wouldn’t be lost now, would they!’

It took a few seconds for the initial stab of shock to subside, to be replaced by a slow burn of embarrassment that brought a flush to the younger woman’s cheeks.

‘I mean, when do you last remember seeing them?’

Sensing she had overstepped the mark, the old woman gave the younger woman a shy, conciliatory smile. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so sharp with you. It’s just that I’m so worried. I can’t remember the last time I saw them. And now I can’t get into my car.’

‘You poor thing,’ the younger woman said, mollified by the apology. ‘That’s awful.’

Her husband hadn’t registered the old woman’s rudeness at all. He had his back turned, busy with his keys, leaving the matter to his wife. Once he had the door unlocked, he opened it only a few inches, as if fearing the woman might try to leap inside. ‘Which is your car?’ he asked, twisting to face her, his hand still on the door.

‘Over there,’ the old woman said, pointing out across the car park. ‘Next to the jeep.’

‘The Fiesta?’ the man asked.

‘Yes.’

Without a word, he closed the door and marched off across the car park, the gravel unnervingly loud under his feet, signalling his irritation. He carried out his inspection in an exaggerated, pantomime manner. He walked around the car and tried the doors, and then he bent down at the driver’s window, shielding the glass with his cupped hands to peer inside. The old woman let out an exasperated sigh, but didn’t protest further. The man knelt down on one knee in the loose gravel, and glanced under the chassis. He got to his feet and wiped the dirt from his knee, and then wandered around the vehicle, eyes fixed on the ground. He made his way back over.

‘No sign of them,’ he said.

‘I have checked,’ the old woman said, the snap coming back into her voice.

‘Have you retraced your steps?’ the man asked ignoring her sharpness.

‘Out there?’ she said, indicating the dark wall of trees surrounding the car park, the footpaths feeding off in all directions. ‘It’s hopeless.’

‘Where do you live?’ asked the younger woman, her arms now wrapped around her youngest son, who was pressing himself into her for comfort.

‘Not far,’ said the old woman. ‘It’s a five minute drive – if that.’

The woman glanced at her husband. He grimaced. ‘Five minutes at the most,’ repeated the old woman, her back turned to them and her eyes fixed on her car. ‘I suppose I could ask someone else...’

The man dug his hands in his trouser pockets and ground his heels into the gravel, planting himself against any further movement. He looked down, pursed his lips, chewed for a second and then said, ‘We won’t all fit in the car. Not five of us. Not safely.’

‘I see,’ said the old woman, still with her back to him and gazing across the car park. ‘Well, I suppose you're right.’

‘And the dog,’ he added as the clincher.

‘You take her,’ said his wife, maybe a little too keenly. ‘I’ll stay here and look after the boys.’

‘But it’s freezing,’ he said, not pleadingly, but as plain fact. ‘And it’ll be dark soon.’

‘We'll be fine,’ his wife said. ‘There are lots of people milling around. And ten minutes won’t make much difference.’

The man lowered his voice for her ears only. ‘Why doesn’t she just go and ask someone with a bigger car?’

To the older boy’s reddening ears, it had begun to sound more like an argument than an exercise in reason, and he found himself looking at the old woman. She was ignoring the bickering she had initiated and was staring at her car, as if waiting for it to do something. The argument buzzed on formlessly in the boy’s ears and only registered any coherence when his father closed proceedings with an abrupt, ‘OK. We’ll do it your way. I’ll take her; you stay here with the boys.’

The old woman hadn’t heard, engrossed as she was with her car.

‘What will you do about your car?’ asked the younger woman, following her gaze.

Pulled from her musings, the old woman turned and smiled. ‘My neighbour has a spare set of keys. For emergencies. She’ll will drive me back to collect it.’

The man gave a little grunt and took to examining his own keys.

‘I’m cold,’ said the youngest boy.

‘Why don’t you both give Jasper a little walk,’ his mother said. ‘That’ll soon warm you up.’

The older boy gave the lead a half-hearted tug. The dog mustered all of its talents and lay down.

‘Where to, exactly?’ the man asked, not in the best of moods.

The old woman, suddenly aware of the breakthrough, turned and gave a trembling sigh. ‘Oh…How kind. You take a right at the end of the lane. Then left after half a mile or so.’

‘OK.’ The man opened the front passenger door and waited.

A moment later the old woman was struggling to get into her seat, not limber enough for the contortions needed.

‘There,’ she sighed, happy at last with the arrangement.

The man slammed the passenger door shut and stomped around to his side and climbed in. All eyes were on the car now. The old woman had become a dark and silent shape behind the glass, her features further confused by reflected dusk. The car coughed into life and the engine settled into a throaty rumbling. The man reversed and turned the car, pointing it towards the exit. He rolled off for a few yards then braked harshly, idling for a few seconds to wind his window down.

‘Ten minutes.’

Then he wound his window up and drove off.

His wife stood with her sons and watched the tail lights shrink and draw closer together with distance, imagined him scowling into the rear-view as he headed off down the long rising lane that led from car park to the main road. She gave a little laugh, relieved, but also a little uneasy.

‘What an odd woman.’

‘She’s a witch,’ said her eldest.

‘Don’t be rude.’ But the feeling that perhaps there was a grain of truth in what he said unnerved her. Then she suddenly realised.

‘I didn’t ask her name.’

#

Half an hour later and still he hadn’t returned. She told her sons to walk around and stamp their feet to keep warm, but the dog refused to move, and they were too tired now anyway. Both were leaning against her, shivering in fits, while she wrapped one arm around each to keep them warm. The darkness of the forest was spilling out into the emptying car park. Only three cars left now – a five door saloon nearby, a little farther off the jeep, and next to it the old woman’s Fiesta.

‘When will Daddy come back?’ the youngest moaned.

‘Soon,’ the woman said.

The old woman had said ten minutes. Fifteen minutes hadn’t been that big a difference. But half an hour? She kept glancing down the long rising lane, hoping for the flash of headlights turning in.

Ten minutes later, she said, ‘We’ll start walking. That’ll help warm us up.’

‘But it’s miles,’ whined the eldest. ‘What if he comes back and we’re not here?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Michael! There’s only one way in, and one way out. He won’t miss us.’

The boy groaned and straightened up, and gave the lead a desultory tug. The dog, much to his surprise, sprang to its feet. It stretched and yawned and shook itself and then looked up at him expectantly, its tail wagging lazily.

A noise cut through the cold air, perhaps a branch snapping underfoot. The woman stared into the darkness of the tree line. Muffled voices took on shape as figures entered the clearing – five walkers, the orange pinpricks of three lit cigarettes bobbing and weaving like fireflies. She watched them as they passed, two men and three women, their voices lowering to a hush when they saw her and the boys. She followed their progress as they headed off towards the Jeep, and she toyed with the idea of calling out and asking for a lift – there was room enough. But instead of stopping, they carried on past the Jeep and made their way over to the Fiesta, and her breath stalled. After a brief fussing with keys, the doors were opened and the interior light came on. They squeezed noisily inside, and then the doors slammed shut and they were swallowed by interior darkness, only the soft glow of the instrument panel vaguely illuminating the driver’s face.

The woman felt she was caught in an endless downward plunge. The engine started up and the headlights blazed into life, blinding her momentarily. She averted her eyes from the glare and pulled her boys close. The wheels bit into gravel and the beam of the headlights swung off, aiming down the long, rising lane.

The boys hadn’t noticed anything unusual in it. They were waiting for their mother to start walking. But she stood, rooted, watching the tail lights dwindle and draw together. The engine seemed to grow louder and clearer the farther away it got.

‘What is it?’ Michael asked, finally sensing her unease.

She didn’t answer, his words far away, hardly registering at all.

‘What is it?’

‘Walk,’ she said.

And so they walked.

Longing for Grace by Maria Malone 

Diana's feedback:

I was intrigued by the underlying sense of menace that came through and the writing was very atmospheric. I’d like to see it sharper still.

She cut across the promenade, down the steps in front of the café and onto the beach, the heels of her boots sinking into soft sand. The light was going, the sky blackening. Wind sliced through her coat and she did up the buttons and tied her scarf around her neck as she made for the shore where the sand was firmer. The sea was a long way out. Inside her pockets her hands shook and she made them into fists. She told herself she had done the right thing, the only thing; that he had left her with no choice. 

Out to sea the lights of container ships blazed. Waves broke and water rushed forward in a ragged line of foam. It started to rain, a few drops. She took in a deep breath through her mouth and tasted salt air and seaweed. Along the beach she went, picking her way across rocks towards the causeway and the lighthouse, the rain wetting her hair. 

At the cemetery she turned right at the gatehouse and cut through rows of crumbling headstones, their inscriptions worn away. She squeezed through a gap in the privet hedge and into the Jewish plot, skirting the narrow path at the side of the crematorium, passing rows of crosses and stones with their plaques. A low wrought iron rail enclosed the garden of remembrance with its weathered angels and forgotten family plots. Creeper clung to an ancient leaning Celtic cross. Under her coat, her shirt was damp. She pushed her fringe off her face, crouched at a headstone, picked up a vase that had blown over and took out the dead and flattened flowers. Rain ran down the shiny marble slab. She wiped at it with the cuff of her coat and ran a finger over the surface, tracing familiar shapes cut into the smooth stone. It was too dark to make out the words, not that it mattered since she knew them by heart. A choking feeling caught at the back of her throat. Grief had made her harder, less trusting. More vulnerable. She felt a tug of something, the thread that bound her to him and was unbroken still, despite all that had happened. Straightening up, she smoothed the front of her coat. It was damp, from the rain and something else. 

She had his blood on her. 

1

The flat was in darkness. Stella took off her boots and moved from room to room, drawing blinds, switching on a string of lanterns that cast a soft violet glow into the hearth of the living room. She lit a candle in the bedroom, releasing the scent of sandalwood. From the kitchen at the far end of the narrow corridor that ran the length of the building came the sound of a radio that had been left on, playing to itself all day. It was a relief to be home, to creep around in the semi-darkness, only the voices of disembodied strangers for company. No one to answer to, no accusing eyes. She lay on the bed and wrapped her coat around her, dragged a pillow from under the duvet and buried her face in it. She wished she had not said she would see Doug. From the hall, the sound of the phone ringing brought her round. When she picked up the receiver she heard music and chatter. Bar noise. 

Doug’s voice rose above the racket. ‘Steve?’ 

Only Doug called her Steve. It was something that had started almost at once. ‘Stella Stevens,’ he had said when they were introduced, liking the sound of her name, linking it with his. Stone and Stevens. Stevens and Stone. From then on she was Steve. Only rarely did he call her by her first name.  

‘You still OK for later?’ he said, his voice thick with drink. 

She heard shouting, groans of disappointment, and pictured a TV screen, a football match. They arranged to meet at The Paddy Field, a Thai restaurant set out like a canteen. Communal tables. Unlicensed. 

‘I’ll pick up something to drink,’ she said, knowing there was no need, as Doug would arrive, having already drunk too much, with wine bought over the counter at the pub. She closed her eyes. The last thing she felt like doing was sitting through dinner, making small-talk, pretending. Already, her appetite had gone and in its place anxiety churned in her gut. 

She set off late in a pair of heels she could hardly walk in knowing she would still arrive first, since Doug was never on time. Turning into Heaton Road, she clattered along to the off-licence and shoved at the locked door with her shoulder. A buzzer sounded and the door gave. The assistant, watching from behind the counter, face sallow under the strip light above his head, a mobile phone pressed between shoulder and ear, nodded as the door closed again with a click. ‘It’s too full-on, man,’ he was saying into the phone. ‘I’d only just put her on the bus and she was texting. I thought, alright.’ The broad Geordie accent made Stella smile. Al-reet.  ‘Then she sends another one – before I’ve even got home.’ He pulled a face. ‘Aye, I mean, what’s that about?’ Aboot. 

Stella had grown up on the coast a few miles north of Newcastle yet her own accent was so mild she didn’t even sound as if she came from the north east. She took a bottle of Spanish rosé, more red than pink, from the fridge and stood in front of the till. The assistant stepped forward and took her money, put the change on the counter without looking at her.  

The Paddy Field was having a quiet night. Stella had hoped the restaurant would be busy and that she and Doug would be squashed up against strangers, an effective barrier to the conversation drifting into awkward territory. She sat in the window facing the door, on the end of a trestle table where two couples were already eating. Flickering candles in shallow jewel-coloured dishes ran the length of the table. A fan swished in slow motion in the centre of the ceiling, sending ripples through tasselled squares of chiffon on the ruby walls. The air was warm and she slipped her coat onto the back of the chair, stuffing her scarf into a sleeve. The waitress, a slender woman dressed all in black, a thick braid of burgundy hair arranged over one shoulder, handed Stella a menu and opened the wine. Stella sipped her drink, tasting strawberries, and stared at the window. 

She felt tired, not up to the business of choosing food, eating and drinking, saying difficult things. The waitress was back, placing a small basket of prawn crackers, warm and drenched in oil, on the table. What Stella wanted most was to leave and go home, get into bed without washing her face or undressing, and sleep.  

A shape came down the road and she peered through the window. Too tall to be Doug, the stride too casual. The clothes were wrong too, the lapels on the jacket a bit on the wide side, the broad pinstripe of the suit bolder than he would wear. The waitress caught her eye and smiled and Stella smiled back, curling a strand of dark hair into a corkscrew, tucking it behind her ear.  

More than twenty minutes went by before a black and white taxi pulled up and, inside, a figure leaned forward to release the door and step out into the night. There was no mistaking the muscular frame, the unruly hair, dark as jet. Doug took his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a note, and indulged in what looked like a bit of good-natured, drink-induced banter, before gesturing at the driver to keep the change. As the cab pulled away and Doug swayed on the edge of the kerb waiting for a break in the traffic, a sudden image of him, inebriated, stepping in front of a car that was going a fraction too fast, flashed in front of Stella. 

It would be over, then, done with. 

And finally, a highly commended goes to Susan Clegg’s Northern Pines!

Diana's feedback:

I liked the writing and the feeling of disquiet here as a child follows her mother into the woods and hears her screams. Small point - I’d rather the John Clare poem was later on/cut back as slows pace. 

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