Page 93 of Worse Than Murder
‘Nothing.’
I shiver. ‘I suddenly feel very vulnerable in this nightie.’
‘Would you like me to wait while you run back to your room and change into army fatigues?’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘Sorry. I’m nervous. Carl does not need this right now.’
‘No. I know.’ I place a hand on his arm and can feel him shaking.
There’s another sound. It comes from the main part of the restaurant. A chair is being moved.
‘Give me the gun.’
‘What? No. You’re not licensed.’
‘I’m not going to fire it.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘I’ll hit him with it.’
‘I’m not letting you go in there on your own.’
‘And I’m not letting you go in there with a loaded gun. Hand it over. Now. Come on.’
Reluctantly, he does. I break the gun and remove the cartridges, handing them back to Philip. ‘Now, I’m tired and I’m starting to get cold. I have no intention of spending the night listening for someone to nick a few bottles of scotch.’
I push open the kitchen door and walk, confidently, inside. Philip follows. There’s nobody in here, and all the lights are off. I go to the opposite door which leads into the dining area and push it open. Light from the full moon filters through the half-closed vertical blinds.
I swing the barrel of the gun in front of me. I can’t see anyone. From somewhere deep down, I latch onto a hint of bravado.
‘Okay, whoever you are, we know you’re here. We’ve called the police and I’m holding a loaded shotgun. You either get arrested or you get a bullet in your shoulder. Your choice.’ I hardly recognise my own voice. I sound tough. If only I felt it.
A door to the corridor is pushed open. It slams against the wall and whoever is behind it, tall, dressed in dark clothing, comes charging out into the restaurant. He barrels into me, sending me flying to the floor. The gun is torn from my hands. I cry out in pain as my head hits the ground. Philip calls out. The man turns on his heel, points the gun to Philip and squeezes the trigger. Nothing happens. He swings the barrel towards him and hits him on the side of the head with it. The sound of metal on bone echoes around the empty restaurant. Philip falls to the floor. He’s unconscious before he hits the ground. The intruder then drops the gun and legs it towards the exit.
I prop myself up on my elbow. My head is foggy, my vision blurred. I try to see whoever has broken in, try to find something that I can remember in the cold light of day.
‘Jack!’ I call out.
The figure pauses momentarily, before fleeing into the night.
Sheffield, South Yorkshire
Dr Adele Kean had been staying in an outpost close to Kangari Hills Forest Reserve. The plane that landed with fresh supplies had been unable to take her to Freetown International Airport, so she had paid for a local to drive her there in a Jeep with no suspension and no air conditioning. It took a little over five hours before she arrived, hot, sweating, shattered and aching. However, she had made a new friend in her driver, David Bangura, who had given her his life story and told her all about his wife, Aminata, who he clearly loved. She was pregnant with their first child and the smile he couldn’t remove from his face showed how much he was looking forward to being a father. As Adele waved him goodbye, she hoped she would see David again at some point. He was a good man.
Adele had a five-hour wait at the airport before boarding a plane to take her to London Heathrow. She slept for the majority of the fourteen-hour flight, waking only to have something to eat, then again an hour before landing when she went into the bathroom to freshen up and change into clean clothing. She felt refreshed as she stepped onto British soil for what seemed like the first time in years, but was, in fact, only five months. She had seen a great deal during her time in Sierra Leone. She’d seen people living a life with the very basics of provisions, sometimes even less than that. The country had intermittent electricity supply, limited resources when it came to health care and education, but what she had seen among the people she came into contact with on a daily basis was gratitude and humility. She rarely saw anyone without a smile on their face (unless they were in great pain), and they made Adele feel very welcome when she went into their homes. They had little in the way of luxuries. They were living the simplest of lives, but together, in their family units, they were happy. Landing back in England during a time of massive consumerism, Adele almost felt sickened, as she witnessed the comparisons of poverty and riches. Sierra Leone was a fourteen-hour flight away. Compared to London, it may as well have been another planet.
From Heathrow, Adele made her way to St Pancras where she boarded a train to Sheffield. In less than two and a half hours, she would be back in the city she’d hoped never to return to. It had been her home for the last two decades, but it had also robbed her of her son, a close colleague and friend, and seen her come face to face with the evils people inflicted upon each other.
The train took Adele up the spine of the country. She sat back and stretched her legs. She looked out at the countryside and watched it blur past her. As she passed through towns and cities, she saw what was classed as depravation in England. In Sierra Leone, it would have been called luxury. She tried not to compare the two. She knew people in England were struggling with the cost-of-living crisis, but when she had seen people with literally nothing but the clothes they were wearing, it was hard not to want to tell people who at least had a roof over their heads, electricity, running water, smooth roads, a public transport service and free education and health care, to count themselves lucky.
She closed her eyes and tried to block out the sights of England. She thought of David Bangura and his wife Aminata and what their experience of bringing a child into the world would be like compared to an English couple with access to the NHS. She hoped Aminata would go full-term without any issues. She prayed the labour would go as smoothly as possible with no complications.
Adele steps off the train, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her, and stands in the familiar surroundings of the train station. It’s the early hours of Wednesday morning. She’s knackered and is in desperate need of a shower, a cup of tea, and something covered in chocolate to eat. With heavy legs, she goes to the taxi rank and asks the driver to take her to Ringinglow. He tries to make small talk, asking Adele if she’s been on holiday and is happy to be home. She gives him monosyllabic answers and soon the conversation runs dry. She’s not being intentionally rude. She simply has no answers to give him.
Her home isn’t easy to find, and Adele has to give him directions once they hit Ringinglow Road. They pull up outside the former farmhouse, and she can’t take her eyes off it. Despite the darkness of the morning, she can see the house is unlived in and neglected. Weeds are growing through the broken tarmac and the windows are in urgent need of a good wash. She pays the driver, gives him a good tip, and drags her suitcase up to the front door. She hadn’t taken her keys with her, but had sent a text to Scott who had put a spare set in a key safe attached to the side of the house. She taps in the four-digit code and retrieves the keys. They feel heavy in her hand.
