Authors: C.J. Johnson
Still, her mother's actions didn't make sense. When anything bad happened, her mother was the one sat in the corner, shaking and crying. Her way to get through distressing situations was via a visit to a doctor to up her medication. She just didn't act like this.
She did understand her mother's disappointment at Cheryl's failure to rush straight to the hospital, but she was always the one to defend Cheryl, no matter what she had done. Although her mother would've been deeply disappointed, she wouldn't have voiced those feelings and would a created a whole list of excuses to explain Cheryl's absence.
Cheryl shook her head as tears filled her eyes. First Harold, now her mother.
Two people that, just a week ago, she could count on. Now, they were gone.
Everyone hated her.
Just then, her mobile rang.
Him!
He hadn't contacted her for a couple of days now, but with everything that had been going on, she'd completely forgotten about him. She remembered how nervous he'd made her. Now, his threats to ruin her were far less worrying considering her life was already ruined.
Pulling her phone from her handbag, she looked at the screen. Her heart sped when she realised that the number was unknown.
Fear clutched her, then she mentally shook herself.
She would not give the small amount of control she still had to some phone-stalker that didn't even have to guts to face her.
"Hello," she answered firmly.
"You bitch," the female voice said, her voice unrecognisable to Cheryl. "I want my fucking things back or I'll tell the police everything."
"Who the hell is this?" Cheryl said, annoyed that on top of everything else going wrong, she was also receiving someone else's angry phone call by mistake.
"You think you're so clever. Should've thought it through before you plastered yourself in that nasty perfume you always wear. Kinda made the mask pointless."
"Sarah?" Cheryl asked, recognizing the voice.
"Paul found out that I'd been mugged and came straight over. Scott was already with me and right there in front of the police, they started fighting. They both spent the night in jail because of you, and now they wont talk to me. That's why you did it, you jealous bitch!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cheryl said slowly, her own anger melting away at the absolute rage in Sarah's voice.
"I smelt you, you stupid bitch! I'll find proof, just you watch. I'll be sat there to wave you off when you get sent down. And I'll be fucking laughing."
The phone went dead. Stunned, Cheryl dropped it back into her handbag and waited for her taxi, trembling.
***
Arriving home forty minutes later, Cheryl smiled when she spotted Harold's car parked on the driveway.
He's come home early to see me! He wants our marriage to work.
Joy, a joy she never believed Harold would ever make her feel without buying her something expensive, filled her.
She wanted her life back. Her old uncomplicated life where everything went her own way. She paid the taxi driver and rushed up to the front door.
She wondered if Harold had heard about her father's accident. He'd know she was alone and upset. Perhaps it'd made him realise that he didn't want to lose her.
She opened the front door and rushed inside, calling Harold's name.
"In here," he shouted.
He was in the living room.
"I'm glad you're home," Cheryl said loudly, shrugging off her coat. "I really want to work this out."
Smiling she rushed into the living room—where the smile immediately fell off her face.
Harold stood looking at her, his coat on and a large suitcase resting beside him.
Harold glared at her, the once puppy-dog expression of love gone from his set face and narrow eyes.
It was over. She had lost him.
"I'm filing for divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable differences," he told Cheryl coldly. "In the divorce, I'm offering you this house, your car and 10,000 pounds. If you take it and walk, everything will go smoothly. If you try to take anything else from me, I'll make you very sorry. I'll drag your name through the mud and let everyone know what a cheap easy slut you are."
Cheryl's face flushed red. "You can't do this, Harold. And anyway, it'd be your word against mine. You can't prove anything."
Harold sneered at her and pulled a face that made Cheryl think of a person who had just realised they'd stood in dog dirt. "I have pictures of you, Cheryl. Pictures of you...pleasuring a man in an alley. I have pictures of you in a car, with another man. I have pictures of you heading into a hotel to meet yet another man. Believe me Cheryl, I will make sure these pictures get around, even if I have to make copies and post them through doors myself. I want you out of my life. Once the divorce is final, I want to forget that I ever knew you. This will be the last time you'll see me, unless of course you decide to try and take me for more than what I'm offering you."
Harold picked up his suitcase and walked past her. She didn't turn, but heard him hesitate behind her. "Perhaps now that you have a house, you can stop offering yourself to men in alleys and cars. Really Cheryl, for as often as you hand yourself out on a plate, you should start charging."
Cheryl gasped and tears streamed down her face as she heard Harold walk away. He left, slamming the door behind him.
I can't take anymore. Please, stop this. I can't take anymore.
Cheryl sank to her knees, sobbing into her hands.
Chapter Twenty Six
Mike laughed as Alfie scowled. "I do believe I've beat you again, Alfie."
"This is a stupid game," Alfie muttered, pulling a face that reminded Mike of when Mandy first started to care for him and she'd asked if he liked broccoli.
Alfie's mum Liz laughed. "It'll be his favourite game again when he plays me. I can't win for peanuts." Mike tidied the board game away, smiling as Alfie asked if he could play his mother at just one game at home.
"Fancy playing Buckaroo with me tomorrow Alfie?" Mike asked.
Alfie immediately brightened. "Yeah! I can whoop you on that."
"Whoop him," Liz said sternly. "I'm not sure I like that kind of talk Mr-five-year-old."
"I'm nearly 6," Alfie said.
"In 8 months."
Alfie shrugged, a wistful expression on his face. "Time goes so fast. It only seems yesterday that I was a baby." He shook his head and sighed dramatically, a perfect impression of his mother who often spoke as if she were on a theatre stage. Mike, Mandy and Liz all laughed and Alfie grinned. "That's what my mum says."
"And mum says it's time to go now."
It took another 10 minutes to get Alfie ready to go home. Mike grinned as he watched the two grown women struggling to get one child ready for the outdoors. When they both stepped back, Alfie regarded Mike forlornly.
Mike stifled a laugh.
Although it was cold outside, Mike didn't think it was as cold as Liz seemed to think it was. With his big bubble jacket, large gloves, scarf, woolly hat and his hood pulled over the top, Alfie reminded Mike of the marshmallow man in Ghostbusters.
"Are you going home by the way of the north pole?" Mike asked Liz, who laughed.
"Mum, I can't breathe."
"You know how colds land right on your chest, Alfie."
Alfie stayed quiet, knowing it wouldn't do any good to ask his mother to remove some of the layers. "Can I have a hot chocolate when I get home?"
Liz smiled. "Of course you can. We'll both have one and watch some cartoons before bed."
"Yeah! Bye auntie Mandy and uncle Mike."
Mike laughed as the boy run-waddled his way to the front door. They all said their goodbyes. "Don't forget I'm whooping you tomorrow, uncle Mike."
Mike and Mandy laughed as they shut the door. "I could murder a coffee," Mike said and Mandy pointed to the kitchen.
"Pot's in there."
"Yours taste better."
"You just pour it from the pot and add milk."
"Go on, sweetie." Mike gave her his best smile.
"For Pete's sake," Mandy grumbled, making her way down the hallway to the kitchen.
"No, do it for my sake. Pete can make his own."
He heard Mandy huff out a laugh as he sat down. He really enjoyed spending time with Alfie, the boy was the best cure for the blues than anything else.
But tonight, even Alfie hadn't been able to completely banish the dark thoughts that swirled around Mike's head.
No matter what he did, or what activity he was doing, Cheryl Turner lurked in his mind. Was another man going to die before Mike could stop her?
Cheryl was smart; she'd have to be very stupid to do away with another husband and make it look like an accident.
That didn't mean she wouldn't do it, though.
Mike pictured the courtroom in his mind; Cheryl on the stand and denying the murder of her second husband. Mike found it difficult enough that she'd killed one man and got away with it; he'd hate for someone else to lose their life before they could take her down.
He was so deep in his thoughts that he startled when Mandy handed him his coffee.
"Want to tell me what's on your mind, Mike? You're so troubled lately."
"It's nothing, Hun."
"I know it's something to do with work. Or, at least, I hope it is, based on what you've been saying in your sleep."
Mike looked at her and she stared into his eyes. "Mike, who is Cheryl?"
Mike took a deep breath and lowered his head, stunned that his obsession with this case had taken over his dreams. He was aware of Mandy staring at him, her face an expression of concern.
"It started a long time ago." Mike hesitated. This case happened at the exact same time as their separation. Although it'd had been a blessedly short separation and had resulted in a stronger marriage, he and Mandy had never discussed that dark time.
This was bound to open an old wound for Mandy.
Mike sighed. "7 years ago. The house fire that killed a man, I was positive his wife had killed him."
Mandy's face sagged and she lowered her head. He knew she was remembering their separation, the arguments, the fertility results.
Mike thought of the moment that Mandy accused him of wanting this woman to be guilty because he felt Mandy was guilty, guilty for being unable to give him a child. He squeezed her knee.
"Short version," he said. "Lee and I were called to investigate the murder of a young woman who's body was dumped by the roadside. We learnt that for a week prior to her murder, she had been receiving anonymous love letters. Then, a call came into the station; a woman complaining about disturbing anonymous letters sent to her home and work address. Wondering if the two cases were linked, we went to take a statement from the woman. It was her; Cheryl Turner."
Mandy's eyes widened in an almost comical way. "Did she recognise you?"
Mike nodded. "Oh yeah, she did."
Mandy regarded him thoughtfully and he shook his head. "I know what you're thinking, and it's not like that. There's more. I went to visit her old neighbours—"
"The ones who complained about you?"
"The very ones." Mike looked at her. "She confessed to them, Mandy."
"She
confessed?"
Mike nodded.
"Why didn't they report her?"
Mike sighed. "She threatened them. She said she'd tell the police she was having an affair with the husband, make it look like he'd killed Cheryl's husband so he could have her. With other factors thrown in, it would've been plausible."
Mandy gazed at him stunned. "You were right. All those years ago, you were right." Mandy shook her head. "She burnt her husband alive." Mandy shuddered. "I can see why this is getting to you so badly."
"She's remarried," Mike said and Mandy stiffened.
"Nothing's happened to him, has it?"
"Not yet. But that's what's worrying me. Am I going to have to wait before she does it again before I can nail her?"
"My God. So what, you just have to sit back and do nothing? Isn't there anything you can do?"
Mike shook his head. "Dave Turner's death was ruled an accident. The alcohol level in his blood was so high the pathologist said that a wrecking ball could've gone through the house and the victim probably wouldn't slept through it. There's nothing I can do."
"Jesus. I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything," Mike said grimly. "Just hope; hope she doesn't do it again. Or hope that if she does do it again, she makes a mistake this time. She's gotten away with murder once, pray to God it doesn't happen again."
Chapter Twenty Seven
Cheryl stood panting in the large master bedroom that she used to share with her devoted lap-dog husband.
The room was a mess.
In a rage, Cheryl had smashed and destroyed everything in sight. Glass littered the carpet, glass from the large mirror and various pictures of she and Harold.
I'm the best thing that ever happened to him, the best he'll ever get. How dare he walk out on me.
An old familiar urge began to gnaw at her, the urge to hurt herself, but she quickly dismissed it. She didn't want to hurt herself, she really wanted to hurt Harold.
Fat, balding ugly Harold who had decided to leave
her.
How dare he.
At that moment, she considered taking Harold for everything he was worth, everything she was entitles to as his wife. But, beneath her rage, she knew she couldn't.
Harold had said he had proof.
Where he got it from, she couldn't know, but the thought of those pictures of her circulating was too much to bear.
It's a shame he doesn't drink. I could do a Dave on him.
The thought took her breath away instantly and a mental image of a burnt cadaver reaching for her filled her mind, but this time it was Harold.
The image sapped all her rage away and Cheryl sank to the floor, curling up in the foetal position and not caring about the glass scattered over the floor.
She thought of the first nightmare she'd had about Dave. He'd appeared by her bedside, burnt and grinning. She awoke with a scream, then leaned sideways and reached for her glass of water. A burnt hand, the tendons exposed, black and crumbly had grabbed her wrist and she had screamed. She awoke with Nicole by her side, shaking her then holding her as James had held out some tablets.