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Authors: Jenny Blackhurst
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away and call the police, yet instead I cover my hand with my jumper and push open the front door.
‘Hello?’ I shout nervously. There goes your element of surprise, Sherlock . No one answers my shout, and encouraged by the fact that I haven’t had my head bashed in with any of my own ornaments yet, I take a step inside.
My hallway has been trashed. There is no other word to describe the scene that greets me. The table where I keep my post has been smashed, the drawer and all its contents have spilt out on to the floor and everywhere is covered in red paint. The walls are smeared with it, droplets marking a trail into the kitchen ahead. I’m perversely reminded of one of those demonstrations against women who wear fur. I know I shouldn’t go in. No good can come of it. Edging forward, I push open the kitchen door.
The kitchen is, if possible, even more of a mess than the hall. Cutlery has been scattered all over the place, my juicer lies smashed across the kitchen counter and the toaster is in bits on the floor. Paint smears the walls, counter tops and floor; my house looks like a scene from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.
A sudden thumping noise from upstairs makes me cry out in shock. It is unmistakably the sound of footsteps running across my landing, and before I can react, it’s on the stairs. As whoever is in my house runs down the stairwell, I scan the mess for something I can protect myself with. My trendy designer knife block is empty, all six knives sticking menacingly out of the wall. They have been driven deep into the plasterboard and I can’t wrestle any of them free. That’s when the panic sets in.
Fumbling with my keys, I am trying desperately to open the back door when I hear the front door slam loudly. Breathing heavily and beginning to feel hot all over, I practically fall into the back garden, pulling my phone out of my pocket. I scan through my contacts with a shaky hand and press call. Cassie’s phone rings and rings: no answer. I scroll down, and relief courses through me when the phone is picked up and I hear the deep voice at the other end.
‘Nick? It’s me, Susan.’
‘And after you exited out of the back door, what did you do then, Ms Cartwright?’
I try to let out my sigh slowly so that the officer doesn’t notice my impatience. I have been sitting in Ludlow police station for nearly three hours now and am going through my statement for the fourth time. They already know who I am – the probation service is obliged to keep them informed, in case of situations like this I suppose – and when they arrived it was almost as though they’d been waiting for something like this to happen.
‘That was when I called Nick, um, Mr Whitely,’ I repeat, knowing what the next question will be, and not really knowing how to answer it.
‘And why is it that after finding your house and possessions trashed and a possible intruder in the property, instead of calling 999 you decided to call a reporter you met for the first time today? A reporter who lives almost three hours away?’
‘The intruder wasn’t still in the house,’ I reply defensively. I realise that that isn’t the point of what he’s asking me, but I don’t like what he’s implying, and being obtuse – along with the sarcasm – is another one of my specialities when I’m pissed off at someone. ‘I tried my best friend first. She didn’t answer.’
‘But you had no idea where the intruder was?’ the officer presses. ‘And yet you had a whole conversation with Mr Whitely before you called for help?’
He has a point, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him know that. It’s none of their business why I called Nick before the police, but it certainly wasn’t to report a story, which is what he’s insinuating. Him and the other three officers who have interviewed me since rescuing me from my back garden a quivering mess.
‘I wouldn’t say a whole conversation,’ I reply, digging myself in deeper. ‘And I
‘Hello?’ I shout nervously. There goes your element of surprise, Sherlock . No one answers my shout, and encouraged by the fact that I haven’t had my head bashed in with any of my own ornaments yet, I take a step inside.
My hallway has been trashed. There is no other word to describe the scene that greets me. The table where I keep my post has been smashed, the drawer and all its contents have spilt out on to the floor and everywhere is covered in red paint. The walls are smeared with it, droplets marking a trail into the kitchen ahead. I’m perversely reminded of one of those demonstrations against women who wear fur. I know I shouldn’t go in. No good can come of it. Edging forward, I push open the kitchen door.
The kitchen is, if possible, even more of a mess than the hall. Cutlery has been scattered all over the place, my juicer lies smashed across the kitchen counter and the toaster is in bits on the floor. Paint smears the walls, counter tops and floor; my house looks like a scene from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.
A sudden thumping noise from upstairs makes me cry out in shock. It is unmistakably the sound of footsteps running across my landing, and before I can react, it’s on the stairs. As whoever is in my house runs down the stairwell, I scan the mess for something I can protect myself with. My trendy designer knife block is empty, all six knives sticking menacingly out of the wall. They have been driven deep into the plasterboard and I can’t wrestle any of them free. That’s when the panic sets in.
Fumbling with my keys, I am trying desperately to open the back door when I hear the front door slam loudly. Breathing heavily and beginning to feel hot all over, I practically fall into the back garden, pulling my phone out of my pocket. I scan through my contacts with a shaky hand and press call. Cassie’s phone rings and rings: no answer. I scroll down, and relief courses through me when the phone is picked up and I hear the deep voice at the other end.
‘Nick? It’s me, Susan.’
‘And after you exited out of the back door, what did you do then, Ms Cartwright?’
I try to let out my sigh slowly so that the officer doesn’t notice my impatience. I have been sitting in Ludlow police station for nearly three hours now and am going through my statement for the fourth time. They already know who I am – the probation service is obliged to keep them informed, in case of situations like this I suppose – and when they arrived it was almost as though they’d been waiting for something like this to happen.
‘That was when I called Nick, um, Mr Whitely,’ I repeat, knowing what the next question will be, and not really knowing how to answer it.
‘And why is it that after finding your house and possessions trashed and a possible intruder in the property, instead of calling 999 you decided to call a reporter you met for the first time today? A reporter who lives almost three hours away?’
‘The intruder wasn’t still in the house,’ I reply defensively. I realise that that isn’t the point of what he’s asking me, but I don’t like what he’s implying, and being obtuse – along with the sarcasm – is another one of my specialities when I’m pissed off at someone. ‘I tried my best friend first. She didn’t answer.’
‘But you had no idea where the intruder was?’ the officer presses. ‘And yet you had a whole conversation with Mr Whitely before you called for help?’
He has a point, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him know that. It’s none of their business why I called Nick before the police, but it certainly wasn’t to report a story, which is what he’s insinuating. Him and the other three officers who have interviewed me since rescuing me from my back garden a quivering mess.
‘I wouldn’t say a whole conversation,’ I reply, digging myself in deeper. ‘And I
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