Night Shriek

NIGHT SHRIEK

By

Michael Wolfitt

First published 1983 by Granada Publishing Limited

The Edition published by The Black Dahlia Company Limited

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Michael Wolfitt 1983 & 2013

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from The Publisher.

ISBN 978-0-9575479-3-3

Cover design by Amanda Campbell-Gold

Image: © Svetlana Mihailova/123RF.com

To my friend Ronald who has been a constant source of help and information in the writing of this book.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Fancy something Different?

Chapter One

It had been a good evening. But then they always had a good time when they saw Steve and Sue. The four of them were old friends, now. Roger had met Steve when he’d joined JOY Advertising four years ago. They’d hit it off right away and six months later the two of them had been put together, as a Writer/Art Director team, on some of the agency’s biggest accounts.

The nice thing was that their wives had become friends too. They often met for a cup of coffee, or went shopping together. Roger was glad for Hilary. She didn’t have any family to speak of. Only an aunt who lived down at Brighton. And while the two of them were close, they didn’t see so much of each other since Aunt Joan had taken to travelling all over the place for the Red Cross.

Roger looked at the speedometer and eased his foot off the accelerator. He would have to be careful. That last brandy Steve had poured must have put him near the danger mark. He looked across at Hilary. ‘You should be wearing your seat belt, young lady.’

Hilary patted her swollen tummy.

‘I can’t, junior here’s getting a bit too big for comfort.’ Roger grinned. ‘I dread to think what size he’s going to end up. There’s still another three months to go.’

‘He’s going to be a big strong boy, like his dad,’ Hilary said and lent over and kissed Roger on the cheek. Roger kissed her back and got hooted at by a grey Fiesta for his pains.

‘Nearly home,’ he said.

‘Mm! We can snuggle up together, just the three of us,’ Hilary teased, her green eyes sparkling.

Roger laughed.

But only for an instant. Because it was then he saw the red van coming across the road, straight at them.

Ian Wert had had a good evening too. A good day come to that. He’d been to watch Fulham’s first home game of the season. What a load of rubbish. Still, they’d had a bit of fun on the terrace with some supporters. They wouldn’t be back in a hurry!

Then four of them had gone to the Jolly Brewer and had had a few before going on to the party. Not that they’d been invited. Ian grinned at himself in the windscreen as he remembered the last time someone had tried to stop them going to a party. Christ, what a bleeding mess they’d made of the place. And it hadn’t only been ciggy ends they’d left on the carpet. It was Pete who’d suggested they all drop their trousers and leave a little extra present.

Ian turned right into Warbury Road and thought about the party he’d just left. There’d been some good skirt there. Willing too. One of them more so than the other. He’d had a couple of them in the back of the van. It always worked as soon as they saw the back of the van with the mattress and the sheets and pillows. Done out like a proper bedroom it was. Something seemed to get into them. And it wasn’t just him. He laughed out loud. Christ! The size of the tits on that first one. You didn’t get many of those to a pound! Perhaps he’d go back and have her again. She didn’t seem to mind what she did.

He turned left and left again at the lights. He turned the volume up on the radio and put his foot down on the accelerator. There was still a way to go.

And then suddenly the grey Fiesta was there. Coming straight at him wandering all over the road. Stupid bastard. What did he think he was doing? Ian put his hand on the horn and kept it there. But it was too late.

‘Hilary and Roger are really happy, aren’t they?’ Sue said as she washed up the last of the dinner plates.

‘Yes. The perfect couple. I told Roger they’d be appearing in the commercials soon.’

Sue laughed. ‘Silly.’ She emptied the washing-up water away and went over to the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen.

‘It’s nice. Especially these days when everyone else seems to be breaking up. And anyway, Hilary’s never really had any family before. Only that aunt of hers down in Sussex.’

‘Softy!’ Steve teased.

Sue laughed. ‘Well, it is.’

Sue opened the tin of Choosy she’d got down from the cupboard and spooned some out into the cat’s bowl.

‘Here you are, Buster. Say please.’

She held the bowl up above the cat’s head and waited until the tortoiseshell cat stood on its hind legs and tipped the bowl with its head.

‘Good boy,’ Sue said and put the bowl on the floor. ‘You’re soft about that cat, too,’ Steve added.

Sue looked at him and batted her eyelids. ‘Then give me something else to be silly about.’

‘Come upstairs and I might . . .’

And that was as far as Steve got. Because at that moment Buster let out a high wailing screech and bolted out of the kitchen, leaving his evening meal uneaten.

Roger heard Hilary scream as she too saw the red van coming towards them. And heard the urgent note of the van’s horn. He realized that he’d taken his eyes off the road for a second, maybe less, and that the' car had wandered badly over to the right. Roger stamped hard on the brake and tried to wrench the wheel over to the left. The red van came on. Hilary sobbed a strangled ‘No’ and put her hands, instinctively, over her stomach to protect the baby.

There was a high-pitched screech of tearing metal as both drivers wrenched at their gear levers. Rubber burned on the tarmac road. And then there was the more solid crunch of metal as the two vehicles hit.

Roger felt himself pitch forward and hit the windscreen. He lost consciousness, but not before he’d heard Hilary let out a cry that sent a shiver deep down into his heart.

Ian Wert had slowed the van down as much as he could, but it didn’t stop the impact of the crash throwing him up at the top of the windscreen. The glass shattered and he felt blood run down over his eyes. ‘Christ! I’m going to be blind,’ he thought as he felt splinters of glass slash at his face.

He felt a pain in his leg and looked down, but he couldn’t see anything. Everything was hidden by a red mask. He moved his hand down and touched his knee. His trousers were wet. He pressed his fingers against the cloth and felt a softness around his right knee. And then he too lost consciousness.

Hilary tried to pick herself up from the floor of the car but found that she was wedged between the seat and the dashboard. She called to Roger but he didn’t answer. A tear ran down her face. And then she felt the wetness between her legs and the pain in her stomach. ‘Oh God! The baby was starting.’

She tried to put her hand on her stomach to still the movement, but her arm was caught by the torn metal of the door. Hilary called Roger again, more urgently this time, but still he didn’t answer. She wondered if he was alive. She wondered if the baby would live. And she began to cry.

The call to Alpha Foxtrot Two Zero was timed at 1.09 a.m. It had been a quiet night for Police Constables Jim Scott and Bob Holloway. Nothing more than a couple of drunks and a disturbance in Hugh Street. A domestic fight that had gone a bit beyond the pot-and-pan throwing stage. ‘I ’ope it’s worthwhile, this one,’ Bob Holloway said.

‘Bloodthirsty bastard. What about the poor buggers in the cars?’ Jim Scott asked, his London accent soft in contrast to the Yorkshire man’s thick northern rasp.

‘Serve ’em right. Probably bloody pissed any rate. I could just murder a jar of Theakstons Old Peculiar right now. Your southern ale’s like horse-piss.’

Jim Scott grinned, ‘I don’t know why you don’t go back up to bloody Yorkshire. You northern savage.’

‘Southern poofta,’ came back the friendly reply. ‘Hey up, here we are.’

Scott looked over to the right at the two crashed cars and the ring of people in their night-clothes and overcoats.

‘Christ! What a bloody mess! This is going to take the rest of the night.’

Carol Coren had been lying awake in bed when she’d heard the crash. She had been awake for an hour and a half. And, if the crash hadn’t come, she would have lain awake for another two hours, at least. Carol knew that, because that’s what happened every Saturday night when Bill had been to the pub.

The pattern hadn’t changed for the last three years. And she knew in her heart of hearts that now it never would. Well, not for the better anyway. How could it when she knew she didn’t love Bill any more? Only it wasn’t just that. Carol didn’t just not love Bill, she hated him. Hated the look and the smell of him. Hated everything about him. Couldn’t bear him to touch her. And that’s what he always wanted to do when he came back from the pub on a Saturday night.

At first she’d tried to resist, but he was too strong for her. And then he’d get angry and start yelling about how it was his right. And rather than let the neighbours hear, or get another beating, she let him do what he wanted. Everything he wanted. Even the thing she hated most. The thing that hurt her and made her feel sick.

After it was over Carol could never sleep. Not for a long while. She just lay awake and thought about getting away and being on her own, somewhere. She was only 31 it wasn’t too late to start again.

In the country, perhaps. That’s where she’d been brought up. Life was so peaceful there, and simple. She remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell her of village life. Even though some of them were strange, odd, Carol somehow understood them. They were her people, people like her. Not like Bill.

But then she supposed that was why she’d married him. Because he was different. From another world. And to Carol it had seemed so bright and new and shiny.

But it hadn’t lasted. And sometimes lately, when it was really bad, she had thought about killing Bill with the big carving knife from the kitchen drawer while he was asleep. Only she knew she’d muck it up, like she’d seemed o muck up everything in her life. Since she’d left the village.

And then she’d heard the crash. Bill hadn’t. Too much beer. Carol had put on some clothes and gone down to see what had happened. And to help, if she could.

As it happened, she did help. She helped so much and for the strangest reason that she never went home again.

Carol was already trying to open the car door and reach Hilary when the police arrived.

‘Has anyone called an ambulance, luv?’ PC Holloway asked.

‘I don’t know. I will if you want.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll do it on the radio. Do you live near here?’

Carol pointed to number 27.

‘Could you let us have a couple of blankets?’

‘Yes, anything else? Do you think she’d like a cup of tea?’

PC Holloway looked hesitant. He was pretty sure they shouldn’t give anyone anything until medical help arrived. But on the other hand if a pot was being made, there was always the chance he might end up with a cup.

‘It wouldn’t do any harm to fill a couple of Thermos flasks if you or the next-doors ‘ave got ’em.’

Carol nodded and scurried off back to the house.

Both doors on the Fiesta were jammed closed and the two police constables decided to wait until the Accident Unit arrived with special cutting gear.

Inside the Fiesta, Hilary could feel the pain in her stomach increasing in intensity and in regularity. More liquid seemed to be seeping out of her and running down her legs, but she couldn’t see whether it was blood or water.

Roger was still unconscious, but she could see his body moving and she knew he was alive. Every now and then she would call to him in a small frightened voice, but he didn’t answer.

Outside, Hilary could see the shapes of people watching and hear the sound of the rescue activity. A policeman’s head appeared at the window and shouted, ‘Are you all right?’

She shook her head and pointed at her stomach.

‘My baby! My baby!’ she shouted back.

‘We’re doing what we can,’ he said and moved away again.

Hilary told herself to stay calm. Like Sister Anne had taught her at convent school. Sister Anne and St Mary Divines were what she always thought about in any kind of crisis. But then that was hardly surprising since for so many years the two of them had played such a large part in her life.

There were many times when Aunt Joan couldn’t have her for the holidays. And then she had had to stay in the convent with Sister Anne all summer long. And once or twice over Christmas as well.

Sister Anne had been kind but very quiet. And that in turn had meant that Hilary had become very quiet too. It had taken Roger to bring her out of herself again.

Roger with his good commonsense. And his kindness. And his patience. She wished Roger could talk to her now.

She wished they would hurry up and get her out of the car. Every minute she stayed there cramped up, her stomach pressing against the hardness of wood and metal, endangered the baby’s life. She knew she ought to stay calm but something inside her head made her want to scream so they’d come and get her out.

Bob Holloway and Jim Scott had got the door of the red van open, the tortured metal finally giving way under the combined weight of the two bulky police constables. ‘Blimey, he doesn’t look too good, does he?’ Jim Scott asked.

‘Right mess. Another bloody uniform. I’ve only just got it back after that sodding drunk threw up all over me. Come on, let’s see if we can move the poor bastard,’ Bob Holloway replied and started to pull Ian Wert out of the van.

As the body started to come free, Jim Scott put his arms under Wert’s thighs and together the two policemen put the still, unconscious body down on one of Carol Coren’s blankets,

Carol put another blanket over the body and mopped away a bit of the blood from the young man’s face.

‘Are you all right here for a minute, luv?’ PC Holloway asked. Carol nodded.

‘Good lass.’

By now another police car, the police accident unit and an ambulance from St Michael’s Hospital had arrived. The crowd had grown too. Lights were on up and down the street and other cars had stopped.

Holloway and Scott busied themselves asking if anyone had seen the accident. Or if anyone knew either of the drivers. But no-one had seen anything.

By the time the accident unit had cut through the twisted metal of the Fiesta door, Hilary was at her wits’ end.

The baby was moving and the wetness between her legs was getting worse. Her breathing was irregular and the pains in her stomach hurt her. The ambulance men started to move her and Hilary cried out again. This time it was from the pain in her shoulder. She began to cry again. She wished her Roger were beside her.

The ambulance men lifted Hilary on to a stretcher and carried her to the ambulance. A woman was walking beside the stretcher talking to her, telling her to calm down, assuring her it would be all right'. It was Carol Coren.

Inside the ambulance a doctor made a quick examination of her and asked a few questions. Hilary answered between sobs.

‘I’m going to give you an injection,’ the doctor said. ‘It won’t hurt, it’s just to help you relax until we get you to the hospital.’

Hilary felt her dress being pulled up over her stomach and the prick of the syringe as it entered her thigh. ‘Where’s Roger, what’s happened to Roger?’ she asked as almost immediately she felt herself drifting off to sleep.

Roger was on a stretcher, still unconscious, but otherwise not badly hurt. He had minor cuts on his face and hands. And Dr Willis was ready to diagnose a case of concussion, but in a crash like this one, it was a small price to pay.

Ian Wert wasn’t so lucky. His face was not going to be a pretty sight, poor devil. But his eyes were all right. And the knee that looked such a mess was mainly cuts from the broken glass of the windscreen.

A second ambulance arrived and soon all three survivors were on their way to St Michael’s Hospital.

At the scene of the accident PCs Scott and Holloway started measuring skid marks and drawing up a diagram of the position of both vehicles. The accident unit had already taken photographs. And very soon a local garage pick-up truck was on its way to bring in two more wrecks.

People drifted back to their homes. Lights went out and Carol Coren gave PC Bob Holloway a cup of tea from the vacuum flask and cadged a lift to the hospital, making the excuse that she wanted to get back her blankets.

What she really wanted was somewhere to spend the rest of the night before starting a new life the next morning. She was also curious to know how the woman made out. Something in Hilary had cried out to Carol. Something Carol couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the pain that Carol understood so well. But maybe it was something more.

And there was something else too. Carol didn’t understand it, but the woman was strangely familiar. But try as she might, Carol couldn’t think why, or where, if they’d met before, it could have been. Maybe it would come to her later. And that was another reason why she had to go to the hospital.

Chapter Two

St Michael’s Hospital had been built in 1923. It was an ugly building when it was opened by the then Lord Ellesmere, and the many sprawling additions that had made their appearance over the next 60 years had done nothing to improve the look of the place.