1 Chapter 1: Prologue

Tuesday, 7 September 1982. Six-fifteen PM.

The tall man cried as he hugged the limp body. Soundlessly and almost tearlessly he showed his despair. Crying for the child and for himself. The small, beautiful and now lifeless creature hung heavy in his arms. A little girl of only ten years old, she had been no threat. He knew what he had done, and he knew what was going to happen. There was no covering this up. There was nowhere to escape to before they came for him. Her friends had seen his face, seen where he lived and seen what he had done. No, this was not something he could run away from today. He lay her body on the ground and sat down next to her head. Stroking her hair, the tall man looked past the trees, and waited.

Monday, 20 May 2019

The rain was absolutely torrential, reducing visibility to mere metres. Even with the wipers on full speed, the windscreen barely allowed sight of the road ahead for more than a fraction of a second. Why is it, Jim thought angrily, that car manufacturers see fit to include the latest technology into a car dashboard, which no-one ever uses, yet can't get a bloody windscreen wiper to actually do its job?

Jim began to regret his decision to take this route, an A road in the depths of Somerset. He could have used the motorway and at least been able to stop at the services for a coffee, hoping the rain was short-lived. This particular road, like most country roads in Britain, was full of potholes, mismatched tarmac, and was too narrow for more than one vehicle most of the time. It was also not subject to restricted low speedsanother problem with Britain's Victorian-era hangover.

This latter problem raised its head whilst Jim fiddled with the wiper speed. A Ford Focus, with its headlights on full beam, came gliding round the bend a hundred metres ahead. Jim swore loudly as he squinted. The irritatingly bright headlights caused him to lift his foot from the accelerator. The driver of the Ford seemed far less bothered about the current conditions and continued at a speed more suited to a dry summer's day. Jim's heart pounded involuntarily as he feared the worst, gripped the steering wheel and, pointlessly, breathed in to make himself smaller.

A deafening crack filled the car. The noise was the Ford, clipping Jim's wing mirror and sending it shooting into an overgrown hedge. Jim's ears rang and he could almost hear his own blood pumping. Unharmed but furious, Jim slipped into a tirade of abuse as he realised the Focus was actually a police car, yet clearly had no intention of stopping. Dealing with the damage to Jim's car was obviously far too mundane a task for the Formula 1 Flying Squad.

"Fuck's sake. What the fuck was that? Pricks!" Jim shouted, at no one who could hear, before pulling over to the left and turning off the engine. He gazed through the window at a blur of raindrops, not able to see that his wing mirror was now just a metallic stump. He flicked on the hazard lights and sat upright, head back, eyes closed. This was not how today was supposed to go.

When Jim woke up that morning, in his small Portishead flat, everything was dark and quiet. He was supposed to go to work, but had already texted in as sick, having no desire to go to an office populated by people he had grown to hate. The world, in fact, was populated by people he had grown to hate, but at least 99% of them did not have cause to speak to himunlike the morons in his drab corporate shoebox. Jim worked as an IT administrator, which everyone knew just meant he turned computers off before turning them back on again. Anything more severe than that and he needed to get a budget code from another office via people he had never seen in person. He hated the job, hated the people, and pretty much hated himself. This was his eighth sick day this year. It was May. Not even half the year gone and Jim was setting himself up for an HR meeting about his 'welfare' and 'wellness', which really meant 'disciplinary'.

As Jim sat in the uncomfortable seat of his ageing Seat Ibiza, he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He considered the benefits of staying in this sedentary cocoon until the rain stopped and he could be bothered to move again. This idea was made less attractive by another speeding vehicle flashing past at an uncomfortably close distance. Another Battenberg-coloured police car. Jim hoped the bastards crashed, and then chastised himself for thinking it. He was supposed to have a new mantra of positive words and thoughts. 'Bastards' was not one of those.

Jim's original planafter texting his supervisor an unnecessarily detailed description of fake bowel problemswas to go to the gym. Or, rather, go to the sauna at the gym and sit there until he got too hot; then have his obligatory morning coffee in the gym member's bar. There was no point in exerting himself with the exercise machines in case some steroid-pumped teenager tried to sell him yoga classes. Potentially, he could have a heart attack, or worse, get bored.

Cranking the key and flicking off his hazards, Jim proceeded along the same route. He no longer intended to head to his original destination. Motivation evaporated along with the rain, and he decided that the gym was no longer where he wanted to be. There were bound to be too many people there. There always were.

Within seconds of pulling away, Jim saw what was undoubtedly a very deep puddle around 100 feet away. A massive pothole filled by the unceasing rain. Sensible actions were quickly dismissed, and he carried on through it, not caring how much water got splashed under his unloved auto. Unbeknownst to Jim, who was far from a car connoisseur, the countryside's muddy water made its way forcefully into the cylinders, essentially flooding the engine. The car carried on for a few more metres before the engine cut out entirely. Running on inertia, Jim pulled the car over to the side of the road again, before letting loose a few more juicy expletives.

"Oh, brilliant. Absolutely fucking beautiful. Well done. Well fucking done. Driving along on moving wheels is clearly in the too-hard-to-do box today."

Jim turned the key to start the engine and was met with the sounds of a car in denial.

The more he cranked the key, the more stubborn the car sounded, and after a few tries he gave up. Picking up his phone from the front passenger seat, Jim unlocked the screen. No signal. The phone landed back on the seat with a dull thud and Jim rolled his eyes.

"For fuck's sake." He said, for it was his new favourite phrase.