One Way Out- Chapter Five

I changed it because the old storyline wasn't really going anywhere.

“Rachel,” a voice whispered urgently in her ear, “you need to wake up.”

“Again?” she groaned, rolling over, “what do you have to do to get five minutes of sleep in this place?”

A low voice laughed, making the bed vibrate. “They let me out,” it said, “but they still don’t know who killed him.”

She sat up quickly, giving herself head rush.

“What d’you mean killed him?” she demanded, “I thought he died of an overdose?”

Edward shook his head sadly. “Someone strangled him,” he said quietly, “it wasn’t an overdose; it was murder.”

“And they suspect you?” she asked quickly, narrowing her eyes.

He shrugged his shoulders. “He was my roommate,” he said, his voice thick, “and my best friend.”

“But why did they suspect you then?” she asked, “Surely you wouldn’t kill your best friend?”

He shook his head frantically. “No,” he said, “but there were no prints on the body, no DNA; nothing to incriminate anybody.”

“You were drunk!” she exclaimed, “How would you have destroyed all evidence when you were drunk?”

He smiled. “That’s exactly what I told them,” he said, “but they need to look as though they have some leads.

“So they let you go?”

“Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

She rolled her eyes. “I can see that,” she said, “but you’re not a suspect anymore?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think so,” he said, “like I said, they haven’t got any evidence so…”

She stayed silent for several minutes, trying to piece together the information. His name had been David Parkinson. He had been Edward’s roommate and best friend. He had been strangled and placed face down in a pool of vomit.

“Why d’you think he was killed?” she asked quietly.

Edward ran his hands through his hair. “The usual motives I suppose,” he said, “revenge, power…maybe he knew something he shouldn’t have done?”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she said, “why kill him at a party like that? There were hundreds of people there.”

“They must’ve known that we’d all be drunk,” he said quietly, “or high so we wouldn’t be able to remember anything”

“So,” she said, her mind working frantically despite her tiredness, “whoever the killer is, they’ve been to one of those parties before.”

“That doesn’t help,” he said, “thousands of people have been. They could’ve been at Oxford twenty years ago for all we know.”

“But they must’ve known that he would be at that party.”

Edward shrugged his shoulders. “David went to all the parties.”

She frowned. “Did he, did he do drugs?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, nodding, “we all have.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, “Did he sell drugs?”

“I don’t know,” Edward said, staring at the standard issue duvet cover, “he might’ve done-he always had so much money- but I don’t think that’s why. I mean, if he was a dealer, why not make it look like an overdose? Why strangle him?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “he must’ve known something then.”

“What though?” he asked, “he was my best friend and he never said anything.”

“I know,” she said, reaching out and putting her arm around his shoulder, “but there are some things which you just can’t say.”

“Whatever it was, it was big enough to make it worth killing him.”

“And if they think for a moment that we know,” she said, looking into his eyes, “they’ll kill us too.”

“But we don’t know?” he said, turning away and breaking her gaze.

“Whoever is behind this,” she said quietly, “isn’t going to take chances. They won’t just ask us nicely over a cup of coffee. They’ll kill us whether we know anything or not.”

He buried his face in his hands. “You have to get out of here,” he said, “If you leave now, they won’t follow you. I was his best friend. They’ll think he told me something and then you’ll be in danger too.”

“No,” she said, “I can’t leave you and besides, I have my second interview tomorrow.”

He smiled. “The director of admissions was at the party,” he said, “you don’t need to go to any interviews anymore. I’ll speak to him.”

She looked at him. “Does it really work that way?” she asked, wondering whether she should feel repulsed at the news that the director of admissions could be swayed by her attending one party or relieved that she wouldn’t have to sit through another dreary interview.

He nodded. “It worked for me,” he said, “listen, where do you live?”

“Guildford.” She said.

“You’ll have to get the train,” he said, “and you’ll have to be seen alone. Call me when you get home.”

He reached over to the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper before scrambling around for a pen. He scrawled his number across the sheet of paper and handed it to her.

“Just call me, okay?” he said.

She nodded, folded up the piece of paper and laid it on her desk. “I’ll start packing.”

He got to his feet and walked to the door.

“Listen,” he said, his hand on the doorknob, “if they-if they kill me, tell the police everything I’ve said today.”

She nodded.

“And make sure they catch the bastard.” He said smiling and walking out of the door.

Ignoring the questions that were running through her mind, Rachel threw her clothes into the suitcase without bothering to fold them. She wrenched her coat off the coat hanger in the wardrobe, snapping it in the process. Sighing, she picked up the fragments of plastic and threw them in the bin. However, just as she was about to continue packing, a photograph caught her eye. Her hands white and shaking, she extracted it from the bin and stared at it, disbelief etched across her face.

She recognised her mother’s smiling face immediately, although she hadn’t seen her that alive in years, but the tall, handsome man standing next to her looked unfamiliar. She flipped it over to see if there was a date pm the back. Scrawled on the white paper was the words ‘Kate and I. June ‘97’

She narrowed her eyes. She had been born in October of 1996 so this photo had been taken after she was born and whilst her parents were still married. Who was the man? A lover? She knew that both of her parents had had numerous affairs whilst they were married but she’d always assumed that they were happy for a couple of years before her mother’s resentment over her lost future set in and Dad turned to his endless parade of big-breasted secretaries for companionship.

Unable to answer any of her questions, Rachel slipped the photograph into her suitcase and made up her mind to ask her mother about it when she got home. Just as she was about to pick up a pair of jeans, she remembered that she was still wearing her cocaine-covered dress. Her mother would skin her alive if she even suspected that her daughter had been anywhere near a packet of drugs. Rachel whipped the dress off and bundled it into her suitcase, taking care to cover it with her other clothes. Then she pulled on a pair of jeans and a jumper and resumed her packing.

By the time she had finished packing, it was almost seven o’clock and, when she looked out of the window, she found that it was pitch black. Knowing that she would either have to walk to the bus stop in the dark or wait here to be murdered, she picked up her purse and the piece of paper with Edward’s number on it and put both in her coat pocket before pulling on her coat and picking up her suitcase. She walked out of the door and switched off the light before making her way along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the cold night.

As soon as her feet left the college and landed on the pavement, her blood went cold. She was alone and there was a killer on the loose. Whilst Oriel had been beautiful by daylight, in the dark it terrified her; every nook and cranny appeared to be moving in the wind and the streetlights cast an eerie glow over the courtyard. The hairs on the back of Rachel’s neck stood up. It felt as though someone was watching her. Not daring to look behind her, she sprinted down Oriel Street, her suitcase making a racket as it bumped over the uneven pavement.

Every fibre of her being screamed at her to run faster away from the darkness but the problem was that the darkness was all around her. The inky black darkness crept along the street, threatening to swallow her whole unless she could outrun it. The tall buildings loomed over her, their soul-less eyes staring blankly down at her. The bushes rustled in the wind and she ran even faster until she was sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her towards the High Street. A bitter, metallic taste began to fill her mouth but she continued to run, afraid that if she slowed down, she would turn around to find someone chasing her. For once, she was glad of her mother forcing her to run in order to escape her endless awful friends.

By the time she emerged from the shadowy street and onto the well-lit High Street, her lungs felt fit to burst but she continued running, gritting her teeth and staring straight ahead, refusing to even glance behind her in case her fears weren’t groundless.

As she made her way down the High Street, her free arm began to pump furiously as she sprinted like a world-class athlete down the road, praying that no cars came around the corner. For once her prayers were answered and as she hurtled around the corner to where the bus stop was, she was relieved to see that a bus had just pulled up. Not daring to look behind her, she ran up to the doors and heaved her suitcase on board. She scrabbled around in her purse for some change to pay for her bus fare. Then she made her way down the bus, put her bag on one of the luggage racks and sank into a seat by the window. As she stared out at the dark night, her blood ran cold; a tall man dressed in black was bent double on the pavement, catching his breath. Feeling her eyes on him, he looked up and stared at her, the light of the lamp illuminating a long scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to the corner of his mouth. His teeth pulled back into a sadistic smile as the bus sped away and, just as he was about to disappear from view, she caught sight of him drawing a finger across his neck.

Her senses heightened, she stared straight ahead throughout the journey to the station, prepared to leap to her feet every time the doors opened and someone else got onto the bus. There was no way that she would be able to escape. By running away, she had made it look as though there was something for her to run from although, if she had stayed in Oxford, they would probably have murdered her in her sleep. Then the awful truth began to sink in; they would follow her to the station and lie in wait. Someone would follow her onto the train and kill her in the middle of the carriage and if they didn’t do that, they would follow her home and kill her there.

Whatever she did, they would hunt her and there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it. She was a dead woman and they were going to kill her for knowledge that she didn’t have. She hadn’t even known David Parkinson. All that she knew was that he had died at a party that she had attended; she and about several hundred other people. She hadn’t done anything to make herself a target.

As the bus pulled up outside the station, Rachel got to her feet, swaying slightly as the bus jolted over several potholes, and pulled her suitcase off of the luggage rack. When the bus ground to a halt, she walked up the aisle and thanked the driver before marching up the steps to the station, determined not to look behind her. If they were going to kill her, she didn’t want to see them before they did it.

She bought a ticket to Guildford and was told that the next train would take her to Reading where she would have to change and get on the train to Guildford. Then she made her way out onto the relatively busy platform where she stood in the cold for several minutes before the train arrived at around seven thirty.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that every carriage on the train had people in it. As the train stopped at the station, she located the busiest carriage and got on, throwing her suitcase onto another luggage rack before finding a seat opposite a man in a suit who was staring at the screen of a laptop. There was no way anybody could kill her whilst she was sat on the train now. She was surrounded by people which made her untouchable.

As the train sped away from Oxford, Rachel leant her head against the cool glass of the window and watched the blur of the countryside flash by. Pinching her nose between her forefinger and thumb, she closed her eyes, wondering how on earth she had managed to get herself into this position. A couple of days ago, she had been Rachel Abbott, the girl who had an interview for a university place that she didn’t want and now she was Rachel Abbott, the girl who had partied with the Mayor of London and who was now being chased by a murder. Strangely enough, she almost missed her old life, as miserable as it had been. At least she had only had to worry about how she was going to get out of studying law. Now she was worried about making it through the night and into the morning without having her throat slit.

She watched the man with the laptop out of the corner of her eye. He was still staring at the screen of the laptop, not typing and not clicking on anything. Curious. She shook her head slightly and returned her attention to the flashing scenery. Not everyone was a potential murderer. Besides, the man had been on the train before her so there was no way he was there to follow her the second she got off and kill her. However, that didn’t stop her from pinching herself every few minutes to stop herself from falling asleep.

All of a sudden, her stomach rumbled loudly and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten all day and she’d been on a strictly liquid diet the night before. She resolved herself to buy a snack at Reading station.

“The next station is Reading. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.” Called a calm female voice. Rachel jumped to her feet and pulled down her suitcase before racing up the aisle to the doors, where she stood until the train stopped at Reading. She looked down the carriage. The man in the suit had got up.

No Rachel, she told herself, he isn’t here to kill you. She stared straight ahead as she waited for the button that opened the door to flash green. When it did, she slammed her hand on it and raced off the train, barely remembering to lift her suitcase over the gap. She dashed across the platform to the nearest shop where she bought herself a bacon sandwich. Taking a bite out of the sandwich, she walked up the stairs, lifting her suitcase with one hand and holding her sandwich with the other, all the while cursing herself for not taking the lift.

Eventually, after pulling several of the muscles in her arm, she made her way out onto the platform where she waited for the train to arrive and take her home. As she stood watching a mother saying goodbye to her daughter, she remembered that she should probably call her mother and tell her that she was on her way home.

She rummaged around in her suitcase for her phone, taking care not to leak tomato sauce over her things. Eventually, she located the phone and pulled it out to find that it had managed to attach itself to the photograph of her mother when she was younger. Resolving herself to ask her motherabout it as soon as she got home, she folded it up and put it inside her coat pocket before turning her attention back to her phone.

She dialled her home number and waited impatiently whilst she waited for her mother to pick up.

“Hello?” a voice said eventually.

“Good evening mother,” Rachel said calmly, watching an old woman greet a young man as he got off a train, “I’m just calling to let you know that I’m on my way home. I’m waiting at reading now.”

“Home?” her mother asked, her voice high-pitched, “what about your interview?”

“I rescheduled it for this morning,” Rachel lied, I’ll explain when I get home.”

Her mother was silent for a few moments. “Do you want me to meet you off the train?” she asked eventually.

“That would be nice. I’ll be in at eight thirty” Rachel said before hanging up and returning her attention back to her bacon sandwich which was, by now, slightly colder than she would have liked.

She shuffled her feet as she waited for the train to arrive. It was cold and it had started to snow. Shivering, she finished her sandwich and licked the tomato sauce off of her fingers. She stared at the train tracks, willing the train to arrive soon before someone came onto the platform looking for her. She hated her home and she resented her mother but right now, she would be delighted just to see her mother’s face, even if it did mean that she would have to answer a never-ending line of questions about why she had left Oxford early.

Eventually, the train pulled into the station, by which time her naked hands had gone completely numb. She picked up the handle of her suitcase and marched up to one of the doors, waiting whilst several people got off before getting on and repeating the same process of putting her luggage away and finding a seat that she had already undertaken on the previous train.

As she sat on the train, she began to rehearse how she would talk to her mother. Should she just demand to know who the man was or should she be more subtle about it? No, the time had come for her mother to give her answers and she didn’t have the time to beat around the bush; for all she knew, she could be dead before the morning and she wasn’t going to die knowing that her mother had more than a few skeletons in the closet. It wouldn’t matter whether her mother wanted to tell her or not; she was going to find out the truth somehow and then she was going to call Edward and tell him everything she knew. Unless, of course, he was already dead.

She stared out at the inky sky which was devoid of stars tonight. It was as though the stars had been watching from behind the clouds and they were too ashamed of the corrupt world below them that they couldn’t bear to watch tonight. She didn’t want to watch but sadly she, unlike the stars, lived on the lonely planet and so she would have to play her part in the drama that was unfolding. What her part was, she didn’t know but she knew that she would have to play it and play it convincingly; after all, her life might depend upon it.

By the time the train pulled into Guildford station, she was prepared to face her mother and all of her endless questions. She picked up her bag and left the train before making her way to the exit where she knew her mother was waiting.

“Rachel,” a woman exclaimed, rushing towards her and enveloping her in a Chanel scented hug, “what on earth are you doing here?”

The woman drew back, holding Rachel by the shoulders and Rachel looked down into the face of her friend, Abbie.

“Oh,” she said airily, “I just got back from Oxford.”

Abbie’s green eyes narrowed slightly; she had set her hopes on Oxford but she hadn’t been offered an interview. “How was it?” she asked, her voice higher than usual.

“Oh it was fine,” said Rachel, inching her way towards the exit, “listen I need to meet my mother so I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Abbie smiled. “I look forward to hearing about it.” She said through gritted teeth.

Rachel smiled and waved goodbye before marching towards the exit. She scanned the gloomy car park, looking desperately for her mother’s silver car. She spotted it sitting behind a large red car and she ran towards it. Her mother looked up as she approached and appraised her daughter, looking for any clues about why she had come home so early.

Rachel dashed around to the boot and put her suitcase away before hopping into the passenger seat. She waited for her mother to demand that she answer her questions but her mother just stared straight ahead, her mouth thin.

“Mother,” she said after several minutes, “are you going to drive home or are we just going to sit here all night?”

Her mother sighed and started up the car. She still hadn’t said a word.

Rachel took a deep breath. “I need answers.” She said as soon as they had left the station car park.

Her mother answered her eyes. “Answers to what?” she asked icily.

Rachel reached inside her pocket and pulled out the photograph. “Who’s this man?” she asked, pointing at the face of the man standing next to her mother.

Her mother looked at the photo briefly and sighed.

“I’ll explain when we get home.” She said firmly.

“Why can’t you explain now?” Rachel asked, frowning.

“You’ll find out.” Catherine said, staring straight ahead and refusing to look at her daughter.

Rachel sighed and sat in silence for the remainder of the journey home to their square house in a nice road in a nice part of Guildford.

As soon as they pulled up in the large driveway of their home, she sprang up and pulled out her bag before running up to the front door where she waited impatiently for her mother to unlock the door. Her mother, however, took her time walking across the drive to the door, her lips pursed and her face white.

The second she unlocked the door, Rachel raced in and dumped her suitcase on her bed before leaping down the stairs two at a time.

“Right,” she said, bursting into the sitting room, “I need answers.”

Her mother sighed and sat down on the sofa. “Sit down,” she said, pausing whilst Rachel sat down, “that man,” she continued, “was a friend that I met in Oxford when I went up for my interview. He found me after I’d had you.”

“And?”

Her mother closed her grey eyes. “Your father and I had married in haste when I found out that I was pregnant,” she said slowly, “and I think he resented me for that. By the time that photo was taken, I’d already discovered that he was already having an affair. Robert was somebody who had known me before marriage. He was different. I mean, I knew that he was wealthy but somehow, he wasn’t as…obsessed with money as your father’s friends.”

“What was his name?” Rachel demanded.

Catherine twisted a lock of her blonde hair in her hands. “Robert, Robert Stafford.”

“What happened to him?” asked Rachel, amazed to find that her mother had had a past.

Catherine frowned. “He was married,” she said quietly, “and he had a son and an estate to run. His father had died before he could go to university so the estate was all he had left. He was in Oxford on business when I met him.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “What was his son’s name?” she asked.

“Edward,” her mother sighed, “I believe they named him Edward Huntington-Stafford.”

Rachel swore and her mother stared at her but, for once, she didn’t say anything.

“Do you know him, dear?” she asked.

Rachel nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

Her mother frowned. “Yes,” she said, “Robert took me to one of those parties when we were in Oxford. His younger sister invited him. I believe she married the Mayor of London eventually.”

“I know,” said Rachel, “and someone was killed at this party. Did that ever happen at any of the one’s you went to?”

Catherine groaned. “What was his name?” she asked.

“David Parkinson.” Rachel answered, finding herself slightly taken aback.

Catherine nodded. “His father was Robert’s second cousin.”

“Did he go to the parties?”

“I think so,” Catherine said carefully, “but then again they all did.”

“Who did?” Rachel asked quickly.

Catherine looked at her daughter for a moment. “Anyone who was anyone in Oxford went to those parties,” she said quietly, “for people like Robert, it was their birth right and one that they exercised.”

“Were you and-and this Robert-?”

“Lovers?” her mother said, her mouth twisting as she said the word, “for a time, yes, but it ended when he remembered his wife. He hadn’t married her for love, you see but nonetheless, she was the mother of his son.”

“Did anyone die at the party you went to?”

Catherine opened her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but they never found out who killed them.”

“How did they die?” Rachel asked.

“Strangled.” Catherine said bluntly.

Rachel got to her feet. “I have to make a call,” she said, “but I’ll be back, okay?”

She walked out of the sitting room and into the hallway and took out her phone and the number that Edward had given her.

“I’m home,” she said when he answered, “and I’ve got some information.”

“What?” he asked quickly.

“I found a picture of my mother and a man who turned out to be your father in my room,” she said, “and I asked her about it. She met him in Oxford and he took her to a party.”

Edward swore loudly. “Carry on.” He said.

“Someone died at the party,” she said, lowering her voice, “they were strangled and they never found out who did it.”

Rachel’s ears pricked up as she heard her mother moving around in the kitchen, presumably making herself a cup of tea.

“Rachel?” the voice on the other end of the phone demanded, “are you still there?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I got distracted. What did you say?”

Edward sighed. “I asked you who it was that died.”

“I don’t know,” Rachel asked, “I’ll call you when I find out.”

“Be quick.” He said and he hung up.

“Mother,” Rachel said as she walked back into the living room, “what was the name of the person that died at the party you went to?”

Her mother looked up and gulped a mouthful of tea, coughing when she discovered that it was still boiling hot.

“His name,” she said after a couple of seconds, “was James Huntington, Robert’s brother-in-law.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “The party was quite the family event then.” She muttered as she dialled Edwards’s number again and walked out of the door and pulling it to.

“Who was it?” he demanded, having picked up on the first ring.

Rachel took a deep breath. “Your mother’s brother. Your uncle.” She said.

“My mother didn’t have a brother,” he said indignantly, “she was an only child.”

“Not according to my mother, she wasn’t,” she said, “they were all there that night; your Dad, my mother, David Parkinson’s father, who was your Dad’s second cousin, your uncle, your aunt…”

“And when David died,” he said quietly, “all of their descendants were there. Coincidence?”

She shook her head. “I doubt it,” she said, “why don’t you talk to your Dad?”

“I’m on the train up to York as we speak.”

“That reminds me,” she said, “a man chased me to the bus stop.”

“What?” Edward demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I only just remembered,” said Rachel, “besides, he didn’t catch me.”

“Still-” he began but Rachel wasn’t listening; someone was talking in the living room and it wasn’t her mother.

“I’ve got to go.” She whispered before hanging up.

She crept towards the door and peeked through the gap. What she saw made her heart fall to the floor. She clenched her fists until her knuckles went white.

“Are you alone?” a man’s voice demanded, his back to the door.

“Yes,” her mother said, her face white, “I don’t know where my daughter is but she certainly isn’t here.”

“Are you sure?” the man asked, “Do you mind if I search the house?”

Her mother nodded and Rachel knew that she only had a few seconds to act. She tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the door silently before picking up a long, sharp knife as well a smaller but equally-sharp one. She exited the kitchen and waited in the hall, stood a little way back from the door.

“You do know that if I find her, you’ll both be punished.” The man said, his voice low and menacing. Rachel gripped the knife tightly as she heard loud footsteps make their way closer to the door.

Time seemed to slow down as the door opened, revealing the man who had chased her earlier on. Without thinking, Rachel raised the long knife and sprinted towards him and, before he could react, she had plunged it into his chest. He tried to dislodge it but she pushed it in deeper, twisting it. He gasped and bent over, wrenching it out of her hands. He gripped the handle and pulled it out, his hands red with his blood.

Adrenalin pumping through her veins, she drew the second knife across the back of his bare neck, causing him to gasp and fall to the floor. She stood with the bloody knife in her hand as his eyes turned glassy. Then she looked down at her crimson hands and sank to the floor.

Her mother came to the door, her face ashen. She stared at the body of the man for a while before locking eyes with her daughter.

“Who was that?” Rachel asked weakly.

“That,” her mother said, “was Henry Odell. He was at the party.”

And she sank to the floor next to her daughter and buried her face in her hands.