CHLOE

My surroundings are unfamiliar. My back is cold. The room is dark. Where the hell am I? What's going on?

I lift my head and open my eyes. I am lying on my back on my kitchen floor, staring up at the nicotine-stained ceiling that was never painted after the previous tenants were evicted, before I moved in. I have no recollection of how I came to be here.

I hear sirens in the distance and I lie still, listening. They grow closer, and with them comes an increasing sense of panic, yet I'm not sure why - sirens are a common sound around these parts. I sit up, my bottom numb and aching, and look up at the clock on the kitchen wall. 

Eleven fifteen. 

How long have I been here? Why am I lying on the floor? Why do I feel like a cold hand has closed tightly around my throat, restricting my breathing? 

I take a few deep breaths before pulling myself to my feet. My legs are unsteady beneath me as I walk to the kitchen window and peek through the gap in the blind at the empty space behind the block of flats, in the direction of the sound of the sirens. 

There is a small huddle of people by the children's play area, standing in a circle staring at a shape on the ground, illuminated by the faint orange glow from a distant street lamp. Someone, a man perhaps, is kneeling down on the floor peering closely at the dark mass lying in the dirt. Even with the windows closed I can hear agitated conversation, and a second later a police car comes screeching into view, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Two officers jump out and race towards the knot of people, one of them shouting something into a radio attached to his armoured vest. Another car arrives a few moments later, and two paramedics jump out, one carrying a large duffel bag. 

Someone is hurt. Seriously hurt, by the looks of things. 

I watch as the paramedics kneel at the side of the person on the ground. The circle of people moves back, giving them space as they begin chest compressions. The policemen are now talking to individuals in the crowd, shouting at some stragglers who are attempting to slink away unnoticed. Nobody is ever keen to talk to the police around these parts, not even when it could be a matter of life or death. 

Sirens wail again in the distance, and half a minute later an ambulance arrives with two more paramedics who begin unloading a stretcher out of the back and hurry over to the person on the ground. It is a few minutes before they manoeuvre the wretched mess onto the stretcher, and as they stand up and lift, a bloody face is illuminated in the blue flashing light from the ambulance.

Chris.

I gasp involuntarily, stepping back from the window and letting the blind drop back into place. A wave of nausea hits me out of nowhere and I stagger shakily to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time before I vomit.

The image of his bloody face dances in front of my eyes as I lean over the bowl on my knees. Suddenly I can smell Chris' exposed flesh, the dry, stony ground, the summer evening. I can feel the anger emanating from Harry as though he were standing behind me now, his teeth bared, his eyes wide and manic, his hands balled into fists. I picture the motionless shape on the ground, Harry standing over him, and the fear rises in me, causing my stomach to heave again.

When I have finished I sit back on the bathroom floor, my body trembling and my skin clammy. I don't remember getting from the downstairs door up to my flat. It is just a blank, a void. Did I pass out in the kitchen? Did I fall and hit my head? 

I lift my hands to my hair and press my fingers into my scalp gingerly, but nothing feels tender. I just feel weak and drained. 

I pull myself to my feet and rinse my mouth out in the sink, remembering scratching Chris' hands as he restrained me, and fighting another wave of nausea as I imagine his skin and flesh under my fingernails. I scrub my hands with soap and splash cold water on my face, and then walk into the kitchen and see my phone lying on the floor, a new message blinking at me.

It is from my landlord.

Rent is now one month in arrears. You need to pay what you owe in full or be out by the end of the week. No exceptions.

I stare at the text in confusion. I paid my rent last month, in cash. Didn't I? 

I catch sight of another text in the thread that I don't remember seeing before.

Rent is two weeks overdue. If you don't pay, I'll have you evicted. Your choice.

This was sent two weeks ago, but I swear I have never seen it before today. How have I missed this? Why does he think I owe him money? I'm so confused, and the sirens and blue lights outside the window aren't helping me think clearly. 

I am afraid to look outside again, but I have to know what is happening, and if Chris is OK. I gingerly take a couple of steps forward and peer through the gap in the blind. The ambulance is just pulling away, but there are now three police cars and people everywhere, standing in small huddles. Some are inching slowly away from the scene, no doubt eager to stay under the radar. I squint into the darkness, wondering if any of them are Harry, but then I remember Katie's words several weeks ago about Harry's time in prison. With his experience with the law, surely he will be long gone by now, or at least lying low until the fuss has died down.

A sound in the hallway makes me jump and I turn towards the front door of my flat, my heart pounding. There are voices very close by - male voices. I tiptoe towards the noise and peer through the peephole. Two police officers are standing outside the flat next door, presumably waiting for someone to appear. They'll be waiting a while - the old woman who lives there is stone deaf and as miserable as sin. Even if she's heard the knock she won't answer. 

My heart is in my mouth as I watch the police officers turn towards my door. I take a step back, silently, and hold my breath as I wait for the knock. Even though I am anticipating it, it still takes me by surprise when it comes, rattling through the confusion of the night like a clumsy intruder.

I don't move. I don't want to speak to them. I don't know what to say. If I admit to witnessing the fight I am incriminating Harry, and he has already warned me earlier tonight that he would shut me up for good if I started shooting my mouth off. I don't know much about him, but I now know he isn't afraid to use violence. Yet the motive and provocation behind his attack on Chris seemed to be the way in which Chris was treating me. Why did he defend me, if he doesn't have a small shred of decency in him? None of this makes any sense, and time isn't on my side to try and work it out.

There is another knock on my door, but I remain where I am, putting my hand over my own mouth to avoid making any involuntary sounds, and willing the police to go away. My entire flat is in darkness, so they must believe there is nobody in, because after a moment I hear their footsteps retreating along the corridor to knock on someone else's door.

I can't stay here. I can't be questioned by the police, who will want to know every detail of Chris and Harry's argument, of why I was involved, of why Chris ended up unconscious in the back of an ambulance. I don't want them prying into my life, asking about the way Chris treats me and why I won't stand up for myself.

I need to get away. I need to get out of here.

I run to the bedroom and shut the door behind me, pulling the curtains closed and switching on the bedside lamp to give me enough light to see what I am doing, hopefully without drawing attention to myself should anyone look up at the window. I pull my rucksack out of the bottom of the wardrobe and begin tossing in the few clothes I own at random, barely paying attention to what I am doing as my inner panic takes over again. Jeans, tops, jumpers, underwear... My bag is half full when I realise that I don't even know where I'm going to go, and that if I decide to return I won't have a home to return to if my landlord is true to his word about evicting me.

"Fuck!" I curse, abandoning my frenzied packing and sinking down on the bed momentarily, covering my face with my hands. 

I don't know what is wrong with me. I don't know why I can't seem to think straight, or why I feel so afraid. Chris has terrorised me for months, and now he is incapacitated. I should be relieved. But... what if he comes back to finish what he tried to start? What if he wants revenge - on Harry for hurting him, and on me for being the cause of it? What if Harry isn't here next time to stop him? What if his dirty, clammy hands make a grab for me again and won't let go, and he forces me to do something against my will...

I pull at the roots of my hair, taking in ragged breaths to calm myself, and steel myself to push these thoughts away. I need a clear head. I need to get away. I can't spend the next few weeks or months living in fear of retribution if I tell the police what happened.

After all, what's keeping me here, really? A dead end job in a dingy pub with a boss who doesn't respect me and punters who make me feel dirty just by looking at me? A flat that I'm being forcibly removed from in a few days, that has mildew on the window frames and stinks of stale urine? An area where I can't take the short cut home from work at night for fear of being attacked - a fear that proved justified only an hour or so ago?

I have talked myself into it now, and I stand up from the bed feeling confident and determined all of a sudden. I am taking control of my own life, for the first time ever. 

I open the drawer next to my bed and pull out the envelope containing this month's wages from the pub. I stuff it into the side pocket of my rucksack and just as I am about to close the drawer I catch sight of another envelope caught in the drawer runner. I reach in and pull it out, ripping the flap in the process, and look inside. I realise with a flutter of nerves that I am looking at last month's rent money, that I was convinced I had paid. How on earth did this get stuck in here, and how could I have forgotten to pay it? Oh well - it has worked in my favour for once. I'm going to need all the cash I can get if I'm getting away from here to start afresh somewhere else. 

I stuff this into my bag too, and then retrieve a selection of essential toiletries from the bathroom. I look around the tiny little flat, feeling almost sad that my entire worldly belongings can be contained in a small backpack, without leaving anything of value behind. I came here with nothing and I will be leaving with nothing, except a sense of pride at taking the initiative to get out of this hell hole before I succumb to the same fate as its other miserable inhabitants.

I give one final glance out of the kitchen window where the police have now cordoned off the scene, and decide on taking the front exit out of the building to avoid speaking to anyone. I check the peephole (the hallway is now empty) and pull on my jacket, throw my purse into my now full bag, and haul it onto my back. I close the door noiselessly behind me and tiptoe down the stairs in my trainers, making no sound. I step out onto the pavement at the front and walk quickly up the well-lit street in case anyone has seen me, glancing at my reflection in a shop doorway as I pass. I look like a frightened rabbit with my shoulders hunched, my head bowed and my eyes wild. I hurry on, not knowing where I am headed but eager to get away as fast as possible, to somewhere safer than here. Anywhere is safer than here.

I make a beeline for the high street, but up ahead I can see a police car parked at the junction, and I almost stop dead in my tracks. At the last second I veer into a side road that leads around the back of the block to a row of garages and lockups, where I will be able to cut through and take the footpath towards safety. I pass a couple of parked cars and increase my pace towards the entrance to the short cut, but behind me I hear male voices and feel a wave of panic again. I duck down behind one of the cars, and see two officers walking down the road in my direction, one of them speaking into a radio.

"Looking for him now, sir. No sign of him at the address... got the missus covering for him as she claims she hasn't seen him since this morning. The local pub landlord reckons he came storming in looking for the victim a couple of hours ago. We're heading back there now to take a formal statement... not looking good for him now it's a murder enquiry."

My vision blurs, and the street swims before me as I struggle to keep my balance in my crouched position. A murder enquiry. Could they be talking about Chris? Does that mean he is dead? 

I hold my breath and watch from the shadows, trembling uncontrollably as they pass the car and continue along the road, turning to the right which would take them back to the play area where Chris was attacked. 

This is going from bad to worse. I'm a key witness to a murder, possibly even a suspect as - oh God, my DNA will be on his hand from where I scratched him. There will be evidence to link me to him and his death. I can't take this - I don't know what to do. I have no one to ask for help, nowhere to turn. 

I can hear my own breaths gasping, faster and faster, as panic takes over. I barely register what I am doing as I stand up and pull the car door handle in front of me. I am surprised when the door opens immediately, but as soon as I am sitting in the driver's seat I realise I have no keys to start the engine, no clue how to hotwire a car, and I have never driven before in my life. The confidence I felt only minutes ago has abandoned me, and left uncertainty and fear in its place. I have no plan of action, no path in front of me, no idea what I am doing or where I am supposed to go. 

I stare out of the front windscreen in desperation, pondering my next move. I can't sit here in full view of the world, but somehow the car provides some semblance of safety, albeit only temporary. I could hide on the back seat for a few hours until the police have gone, and then make my way to the tube station before sunrise. It might not be much of a plan, but it's the only one I have right now.

I turn and throw my rucksack into the back, and then climb over the handbrake between the seats. There is a soft, blue blanket scrunched up in a ball, and I am just about to reach for it to inspect it when I see a figure in the distance, turning into the road on foot with a large holdall slung over his back. Immediately I duck down behind the driver's seat, throwing my bag onto the floor at my feet. I pull the blanket over me at the last minute, wanting to avoid being seen at all costs, although it is pitch black down this street with no lighting except at either end. Just when I think it might be safe to sit up again the boot of the car is opened suddenly, making me jump in fright and I almost scream out loud. I clap my hand over my mouth as something heavy is dropped inside and the lid is shut again with a thump. A second later, the driver's door opens and someone gets in quickly, starting the engine immediately and moving off with a screech of tyres against tarmac before the car door is even fully closed.

If panic was what I felt before, it is nothing compared to what I am feeling now. I ball my hand into a fist and stuff it into my mouth, biting down on my tight, white knuckles to stop myself from screaming, or throwing up, or both. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes and I try to zone out, attempting to control my own hysteria before I make any noise and give myself away. I have no idea where the car is headed, but whoever is driving seems to be in a hurry by the way they are throwing the car around corners, and accelerating sharply. I can't see anything from under the blanket, but I would bet my few worldly possessions that we are darting down backstreets, weaving our way to our destination, rather than sticking to the straight main roads.

It is an eternity before the car pulls to an abrupt stop, and I daren't breathe as I hear the driver get out of the front seat and slam the door shut. I am just contemplating whether or not I should make a run for it now, when the back door opens and the blue blanket is whisked off me with a gasp, followed by an enraged growl.

"What the fuck?!"

I cower, covering my face with my arms, ready for someone to manhandle me out of the car, but it doesn't happen. I hear rapid breathing, and another "fucking hell!", then a thump as the back tyre is booted in obvious frustration.

The voice is terrifyingly familiar, and my stomach twists painfully as I lift my head from my arms to look into his face. His eyes are wide and furious, his teeth are gritted and the vein at the side of his head is pulsing menacingly.

"What the fuck are you doing on the backseat of my car?" Harry hisses.

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Credit to the talented jane_lausten for the amazing new cover! What do you think??