put his hands to his face and staggered. More liquid was thrown on him. Then the smell of burning flesh was all around him as he dropped to his knees.
Crying out, he writhed on the ground. Some bastard had thrown acid at him. It was going to ruin his face! Fear coursed through him, tears were too painful to form. In desperation, he rolled over, trying to dampen his hands on the tarmac, wet from a recent thunderstorm.
He could hear nothing but his own screams as his skin fell from the backs of his hands. Breathing heavily, he tried to listen, to see if his attacker was still there. Was there anyone near him now? He pulled a hand away from his face, but pain ripped through him again and he cried out. It was as if his skin had shrunk, stretching like torn cling film.
Time seemed to slow as the burns went deeper. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder and he was pulled over onto his back. Someone straddled him.
He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t even hold out a hand in defence. All he could do was shout.
In silence, his attacker raised a knife high in the air.
WEDNESDAY – DAY 2
Grace slowed down to catch her breath, and her run became a jog.
The house she was renting was around five miles from Bethesda Police Station, depending on which road you took, in a part of the city called Weston Coyney. Caverswall Avenue was just through a set of busy traffic lights and near to Park Hall Country Park.
The house was a pre-war semi, tucked away at the top of a cul-de-sac. Phil and Becky Armstrong, who lived next door, had been relieved to see her moving in, telling her in much detail about the rowdy family who had been evicted. It explained why it was clean and recently decorated, with a newly fitted kitchen and bathroom. Everything had been trashed before the last tenants had left.
Making sure the sound of the machine couldn’t be heard through the walls of the adjoining house was the first thing Grace had checked with her neighbours. There was nothing worse than the drone and pounding of a treadmill, especially in the early hours of the morning. Luckily, she had space for it at the back of the house in the small conservatory, and the couple told her they couldn’t hear anything. They said they didn’t mind a bit of noise here and there after what they’d had to live with for the past six months.
She glanced at her watch: 5.35 a.m. Today’s date had played heavily on her mind for the past few days. It was surprising she’d got any sleep really. But she had forced herself to read on her Kindle until she’d drifted off.
It was in the early hours that she’d woken up covered in a layer of sweat and sat up in bed. She could feel tears on her face; she hadn’t cried in her sleep for a long time. She’d reached for the pillow on the empty side of the bed and let her tears continue.
The day had hardly begun and yet she was already dreading seeing the date on any paperwork she’d have to complete. September twelfth. Five years to the day that her life had changed forever.
In early 2013 she’d had a healthy husband who loved running with her and playing football every weekend. But shortly after his birthday in July, his weight began to drop a little, and it became difficult for him to shake off any minor bugs. His energy levels plummeted and, after a blood test at the doctor’s, he’d been fast-tracked to the hospital as a matter of urgency.
Five years ago to the day, they had found out he had acute myeloid leukaemia. The consultant had spent an hour with them going through what could be done. It was curable and correctable with chemotherapy, but there was no possible way of knowing whether, even if they cleared it this time, it wouldn’t come back. It had – three times in total – and he’d lost his fight in 2016.
Grace ran faster to stop images pushing themselves to the forefront of her mind. Matt had been thirty-two when he was diagnosed; she had recently turned thirty; and they were both in the prime of their lives. It had been heartbreaking to see her soulmate waste away.
She recalled the night he’d frightened them when he’d started to throw up and all this black stuff had come up, making Grace retch too. She could clearly remember the time he’d punched the wall in anger and then wept in her arms at the injustice of having to leave her behind. The times she’d administered his drugs because he’d been too tired to get out of bed. And that one moment when he had begged her to kill him, to put him out of his misery, would be forever etched on her heart.
She’d never had herself down as a nurse, but that’s what she’d become during his last few months, until he was unable to be cared for at home and was admitted to a local hospice. She hadn’t told anyone, but it had made it better for her. She had someone to watch over him all the time she wasn’t there. She didn’t want to be his carer – she wanted to be his wife.
Now, she hated not having to think for two people any more. Holidays, get-togethers, even the food shopping – when she did any – was all for her. It still took a lot of getting used to. Losing her mum as well, less than twelve months after, had almost taken her over the edge.
After a few more seconds, she switched the speed up on the machine. She pushed herself further and further, faster and faster, until eventually she had no choice but to stop.
In the kitchen, Matt’s smile stared back at her as she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. She closed the door and ran a finger over his image. The photo had been taken before the disease had made him into a skeleton with no hair. Here he was healthy, eyes shining with no bags underneath them, glowing skin and a ferocious appetite for life. After two years, the memories of him at the height of his debilitation had faded and this was how she remembered him now.
She moved to the kitchen window. It looked like another nice day ahead, clear blue skies and warmer-than-average temperatures. How she wished there weren’t dark clouds hanging over her. You shouldn’t dwell on the past, her mum used to say to her, but it was far easier said than done when the past had taken away a planned future.
Two hours later, showered and energised but still feeling emotional, she closed the door to the side of her that she didn’t want people to see and headed to work.
Bethesda Police Station was situated in the street of the same name, at the bottom of the city centre. Before 1910, Stoke-on-Trent was made up of six towns. It became a federated city with a merger in that year, Hanley then becoming the main shopping centre of the Potteries.
Grace had already been told by several disgruntled members of the public that Hanley was not, and never would be, Stoke-on-Trent’s city centre as it was known on signposts. Stoke was the centre, it was where the railway station was situated and where the civic centre had been until recently. But to her, Stoke was a drive-through town with a few roads. It seemed that most of the money and resources were focused on Hanley, which was great for where she was based. Some areas had been pedestrianised, making them feel safer and a pleasure to walk around, perhaps sit in to have a sandwich during a work break. At night, like most cities of its size, it had its problems with the homeless and drunk and disorderly. Violence was often rife at kicking-out times, but for the most part it boasted a good vibe.
Coming back had been quite an eye-opener for her. Of course, she didn’t
