I nudge open the front door with my toe and edge out. The vacant one-eyed doll stares at me as I shuffle back through the garden with O’Shea’s heavy body. I can feel his warm, sticky blood seeping underneath the collar of my jacket and connecting with my skin and I try to speed up. He can’t have long.
Stepping over the garden fence is like scaling Mount Everest. I try to ignore that I’m about to collapse and instead run calculations in my head. Forty seconds to get him to the car. Another minute to get back to the crossroads. Praise the heavens that I don’t already have to reverse and lose even more time. Then I can take the A road past Silverstein to Manorbridge hospital. Five minutes. Tops. I’ll register him under a false name in case he was telling the truth about the dead part. It won’t stop someone from finding him, but it’ll stall them until I can speak to Tam and get a permanent guard stationed.
I try to reach into my pocket for my keys but his leg is in the way, so I’m forced to squeeze my fingers around to grasp them. Yeah. I should have left them in the freaking ignition. I was stupid not to trust my instincts.
Gasping for breath, I lurch round to the passenger side and open the door. I throw in O’Shea’s blood-soaked body, noting with satisfaction that he’s still conscious and pressing tightly on his neck wound. I slam the door shut before dashing round to my seat and starting the car.
I move up the gears, accelerating down the empty street. Come on, come on. I turn left towards Manorbridge, then abruptly slam on the brakes as sirens scream their way into my consciousness. Part of me can’t quite believe it. The emergency responder must have taken my half-baked, half-garbled and half-finished phone call seriously, sending ambulances in both directions. Relief floods through me and I glance behind to welcome the cavalry.
Except it’s not an ambulance. I stare at the vehicle bearing down on us while O’Shea moans at my side. The familiar stripes of an armed response unit wink at me tauntingly as the tyres screech and it wheels round into Wiltshore Avenue. Trying to ignore the tremor in my hands, I very deliberately start the car moving again, away from the sirens.
I run over the phone call in my mind. I’m sure I said nothing more than the address and that I needed an ambulance. There was no reason to send goons with guns to check it out. And how in the hell had they arrived so quickly? I only hung up on the responder a few minutes ago; response times are never that fast. If I’d waited to enter the house until I was supposed to, O’Shea would have lost so much blood he’d probably be dead and I would be the sole witness to the crime. Or the prime suspect. I grip the steering wheel and swerve right.
‘What in the hell have you gotten me into?’ I say aloud to O’Shea, not expecting an answer.
His spooky orange eyes swivel in my direction and he opens his mouth.
‘Don’t speak,’ I tell him curtly. ‘Conserve your energy. You can give me answers later.’ I’m damned if I’ll let him croak on me before I find out exactly what is going on.
I press down on the accelerator, speeding up again, and make a snap decision. I don’t know who this guy is and why the police – and someone else much more violent – are so interested in him, but my interest is piqued. The hospital is now out. There’s only one place nearby where I can get him some proper medical help and avoid the suddenly undesirable eye of the law. I’d rather choke on my own tongue than go there but I’m out of other options. Shit in a hell basket.
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Dire Straits is available now: http://bitly.com/1CZb2v5
Acknowledgments
There is a whole host of people who deserve considerable thanks for their contributions. Clarissa Yeo for her fabulous artwork; Karen Holmes, Catherine Cousins and Helen at 2QT for their superlative editing; as well as Sue Spilsbury, Katherine Sopp, Elaine Wicks, Kelly Charles, Yvanca Wensing, Barbara Hall, Ann-Marie n Sandro Conti-Canalaro, Kris Kosche and Emily Price who took time to comment on the first draft. Gavin Golden at Il.lustr.us Media also deserves special mention for vastly improving my website. Swing by to www.helenharper.co.uk to check it out!
About the Author
After teaching English literature in the UK, Japan and Malaysia, Helen Harper left behind the world of education following the worldwide success of her Blood Destiny series of books. She is a professional member of the Alliance of Independent Authors and writes full time although she still fits in creative writing workshops with schools along with volunteering to teach reading to a group of young Myanmar refugees. That’s not to mention the procession of stray cats which seem to find their way to her door!
Helen has always been a book lover, devouring science fiction and fantasy tales when she was a child growing up in Scotland.
Helen currently lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia with far too many cats – not to mention the dragons, fairies, demons, wizards and vampires that seem to keep appearing from nowhere.