Young Writers Society

All of a sudden, what had happened began to sink in, infiltrating every fibre of her being, sowing fear and doubt into her tumultuous mind. It had been alright when they were racing through the streets but now that she was sat in a cell with nothing to do but think about what had happened…

She hadn’t killed anybody. She didn’t even know who was dead. The only reason the police wanted to talk to her was because she had been on the motorbike with Edward. But he hadn’t killed anybody either, had he? She still couldn’t remember what had happened at the party. All she could remember was drinking cocktails and laughing a lot. There had been drugs, she knew that. When she remembered the drugs, her eyes widened and she looked down at her skirt in alarm. The white powder was still there. Groaning, she sank to the floor and buried her head in her hands. They’d know what it was. They weren’t stupid. She was going to go to prison. That was as long as her mother didn’t murder her first.

Without warning, the sound of someone unlocking the door echoed around the small cell, filling her with fear. The door was flung open and a policeman walked in. She clenched her fists in an attempt to stop her hands from shaking.

“Miss Abbot,” he said as she clambered to her feet, “we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She nodded and followed him out of the cell. It was only questions. They weren’t accusing her of anything. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

The policeman led her down the corridor and opened the door to a small room where a policeman and a policewoman were sat at a small table. They all looked up when the door opened. Rachel closed her eyes momentarily as the policeman showed her to a seat opposite the policemen. Once she had sat down, the policewoman leant forwards.

“We just want to ask you a few questions, okay?” she said, her honey-blonde hair shining as she leant into the light. Rachel nodded.

“Do you know this man?” the policeman asked, sliding a picture of a twenty-something man with jet black hair and bright blue eyes. His icy eyes appeared to stare straight through her and she looked away.

“No.” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

“Are you sure?” the policeman asked, leaning forwards so that the bottom of his tie brushed against the wooden table.

She nodded. “I’m certain.” She said firmly.

He sighed. “What about this man?” he asked, pushing another picture towards her. She looked down and her eyes widened as she saw the haughty face of Edward Huntington-Stafford.

She looked up. “Yes.” She muttered.

“When did you meet him?” the policewoman asked, pulling the laminated picture towards her.

“Yesterday, I think,” Rachel muttered, trying to work out how long ago her first interview had been, “I met him after my first interview.”

The policewoman narrowed her grey eyes. “Do you know who he is?”

“Edward Huntington-Stafford,” Rachel said confidently, “he’s studying at Oriel.”

“Do you know what he does?” the policewoman asked, surveying Rachel through slit-like eyes.

Rachel shook her head. “No,” she said, “I only just met him.”

“And yet you were caught fleeing on his motorbike?” the policewoman asked sharply, staring at Rachel incredulously.

Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “He woke me up and said the police were coming,” she said, her voice faltering, “I didn’t know what to do so-so I followed him outside…”

Her voice faded away and she rested her head in her hands, “I haven’t done anything,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands, “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

The policewoman snorted and opened her mouth but before she could speak, the man laid a warning hand on her arm. He nodded and she closed her mouth, leaning back into the shadows and folding her arms.

“Rachel,” the man said kindly, “were you at a party last night?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I went with Edward. He said it would make me change my mind about going to Oxford…”

“Do you know what happened at the party?” he asked, leaning forwards and smiling at her.

She shook her head frantically. “I had some drinks,” she said quietly, racking her brains desperately, “but when I woke up I couldn’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?” he asked, “Nothing at all?”

Her eyebrows knitted together and she closed her eyes. “We went upstairs,” she said, “there was a games room up there, I think. They had a cocktail bar…I had some cocktails. I’m sorry but I really can’t remember anything.”

“Does the name David Parkinson mean anything to you?” the policeman asked, scanning her face for a reaction.

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him,” she said, pointing to the picture of the black-haired boy, “is that him?”

The policeman looked at the woman, who nodded. “Yes it is,” he said, “and he’s dead. Do you know anything about that?”

She screwed up her eyes. “There was a boy,” she said as the memory came flooding back, “as we were leaving. He was lying face down…he had black hair…”

The policewoman leant forwards, her eyes eager, “Where was he lying?” she asked, her voice hard.

Rachel’s hands shook. “At the end of the corridor,” she said quietly, “in a pool of sick.”

“Do you know who called the ambulance?” the policeman asked.

“No,” she said, “I thought he’d passed out.”

“Why did you think that?” the policewoman asked quickly.

“Because he wasn’t moving…” Rachel said, her face white, “…I thought he had just drunk too much or something.”

“Did you see him drinking?”

“No,” Rachel said, “there were a lot of people there. I didn’t see him.”

The policeman turned to the woman. “I think we’re done here,” he said, nodding at Rachel, “she doesn’t know anything.”

The policewoman nodded her agreement. “Someone will drop you off at your room.” She said, nodding at Rachel.

A sickening scraping sound filled the small room, causing Rachel’s stomach to churn; the policewoman had got up, shoving her chair behind her. She crossed the small floor space and opened the door, ushering Rachel out.

“I’ll drop you off.” She said, smiling up at Rachel.

“That’d be great.” Rachel said, forcing her face to smile back.

The policewoman smiled back and ushered Rachel into the foyer and out of the door. She pointed to a sleek black car.

“I see no reason to attract unwanted attention,” she said, “do you?”

Rachel shook her head; the last thing she needed now was for her mother to find out that she’d been questioned by the police. The policewoman drew a pair of silver keys out of her pocket and unlocked the car before walking around to open the passenger door for Rachel.

Several minutes after, they were speeding along a road towards the dorm where Rachel was supposed to be staying.

“Do you know who Edward is?” the policewoman asked after a while.

“What d’you mean?” Rachel asked quickly, her confidence flooding back now that they had left the police station.

“Here.” She said, passing a folded piece of paper to Rachel.

Rachel stared at the piece of paper for a few moments before taking it from the policewoman’s perfectly manicured hand. She unfolded the paper and stared at the printed words that were etched on the sheet of paper.

Rachel Abbott

Nash’s bakery in the covered market at 2pm today. Be there and all will be revealed.

Rachel turned to look at the woman. She bobbed her blonde head up and down once before the car began to slow down.

“We’re here,” she said before pointing to the piece of paper and adding, “Destroy that.”

Rachel nodded and got out of the car and began walking to her room where she planned to go to sleep for a couple of hours before making her way into town for a visit to a bakery. She didn’t know why she was planning on going but she knew that she had to find out more. She had just spent several hours in a police station and she wanted answers. She wanted to know who had killed David Parkinson or at least how he had died.

As she sat down on her bed, she glanced at the skirt of her dress. There was white powder on it. The police had to have noticed it. They were used to handling drugs charges, weren’t they? They could probably spot cocaine at a hundred paces and yet they’d ignored the white powder on her skirt.

She shrugged her shoulders and lay down, curling up and falling asleep in the hope that when she woke up, all of her problems would be miraculously solved.