clenched with murderous fury, he moved his hand so that the tip of the knife was pressed against her windpipe. She could actually feel the adrenalin fizzing through her veins like a bolt of electricity.
A voice in her head was pleading with a God she had never believed in.
Please don’t let him do it.
Please make him see sense.
She managed to swallow back the blood in her mouth and let out a strangled sob. But that was about all she could do.
‘I can’t let you live, Megan,’ he said, and the harsh odour of his breath caused her nostrils to flare. ‘I realise that now. If I do I know you’ll make it your business to destroy me.’
She arched her body, desperate to throw him off, but he was too heavy and too determined.
Suddenly all hope took flight and she felt herself go limp.
Then she closed her eyes because she couldn’t bear to look at his face as he plunged the knife into her throat.
Beth Chambers
I jolted awake to the sound of my mother’s voice and the earthy aroma of instant coffee.
‘You need to get up,’ she said. ‘The paper phoned and they want you to call them back straight away.’
I forced my eyes open and felt a throbbing pain at the base of my skull, made worse by the harsh sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ I groaned.
‘Let me guess,’ my mother said, placing a mug on the bedside table. ‘You’ve got a hangover.’
I rolled on my side, squinted at the flickering numbers on the digital clock.
‘Bloody hell, Mum. It’s only half eight.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, her tone disapproving. ‘It’s also Saturday – one of only two days in the week when Bethany Chambers gets to spend quality time with her daughter.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ I said. ‘Is she still in bed?’
‘You must be joking. She’s been up for an hour. I’ve washed and dressed her and she’s having breakfast. She thinks you’re taking her to the park.’
I felt the inevitable wave of guilt wash over me. It had been a mistake to drink so much last night. But then how else would I have got through what had been such a tiresome ordeal?
‘How bad is it?’ my mother asked.
I closed my eyes, held my breath, tried to assess the level of discomfort.
‘On a scale of one to ten I’d say it’s an eleven,’ I said.
My mother exhaled a long breath. ‘Then sit up and drink some coffee. It’ll make you feel better.’
I hauled myself up and placed my back against the headboard. I had to close my eyes again to stop the room from spinning. When I opened them my mother was still standing there looking down at me. Her arms were folded across her ample chest and she was shaking her head.
I sipped at the coffee. It was strong and sweet and I felt it burn a track down the back of my throat.
‘When did the office call?’ I said.
‘A few minutes ago,’ my mother said. ‘I answered your phone because you left it in your bag – which you left on the floor in the hallway, along with your coat and shoes.’
I couldn’t resist a smile. It was like going back to when I was a wayward teenager. Most weekends I’d roll in plastered, barely remembering what I’d been up to. My poor mum had put up with a lot in those days and even now, aged 29 and with a kid of my own, I was still a bit of a handful. Still cursed with a reckless streak.
‘So how did it go?’ she said. ‘Was this one Mr Right?’
I shook my head. ‘I should be so lucky. Suffice to say I won’t be seeing him again.’
She gave a snort of derision. ‘I told you, didn’t I? The only blokes you’ll meet on those internet dating sites are losers and cheats. It’s a waste of time and money.’
And with that she turned and stepped back out of the room.
‘Can you get my phone for me?’ I called after her.
‘No, I can’t,’ came the reply. ‘If you want it you’ll have to get up.’
I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, tuneful sigh. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to accept that she was probably right about the dating thing. Last night had been awful. Another date, another disaster. The guy’s name was Trevor and in the flesh he looked nothing like his profile picture. Most of his hair had vanished since it was taken and he’d also grown a second chin. He said he was an IT consultant, and I believed him because he spent the whole time talking about what he did with computers.
It became obvious early on why he was still single at the age of 35. And if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d gone to the trouble of travelling all the way across London to meet me I would have left sooner than I did. But that would have been impolite, perhaps even a little cruel. So I’d stuck it out while knocking back the Pinot in an effort to numb my senses.
Over the last five months I’d dated seven men through online dating sites and Trevor was the dullest. He’d been even less entertaining than Kevin the chiropodist who had offered on our first date to examine my feet. When I wouldn’t let him he went into a sulk and accused me of being a snob.
No way was I a snob. When it came to men I’d always been happy to cast a wide net. I’d never discriminate against race, colour, or class, and I accepted that most guys around my age had baggage from a previous relationship. I just wanted someone who was honest, open, reasonably intelligent and with a sense of humour. It would help, of course, if there was also an instant physical attraction. But so far those I’d met online had lacked most or all of those qualities.
‘I suppose it’s time I called it a day,’ I said aloud to myself, knowing I didn’t really mean it.
The trouble was I missed being in a relationship. The divorce was two years ago and I hadn’t slept with anyone since. It wasn’t just the sex though. I missed being part of a couple. I missed the companionship, the intimacy, the stream of pleasant surprises that were part and parcel of a burgeoning relationship.
Of course being a single mum with a full-time job kept me busy. In fact I had hardly any time to myself. And that was essentially the problem. I wanted more fun and a touch of romance in my life. I wanted to fall in love again and maybe have another child. I wanted a home of my own and to share it with someone who’d get to know me as well as I knew myself.
My mother didn’t really understand me, or so she said. She reckoned I was being selfish, that I should forget about men and focus on bringing up Rosie.
‘You already work far too many hours,’ she told me when I first joined the dating scene. ‘You haven’t got time for a boyfriend or a husband.’
Then again she had her own reason for wanting things to stay as they were. As long as I remained unattached she got to have us living with her. Not that I’d ever complain. If it wasn’t for my mother I’d probably find it impossible to look after a 3-year-old and continue to work as a journalist.
Thanks to her I didn’t have to pay for childminders or meet the high cost of living in London. While married my husband and I had shared the exorbitant rent on a property in Dulwich. But Mum owned outright this three-bed terraced house in Peckham, and my contribution to the outgoings was relatively small.
She was also on hand to take care of Rosie.