A New Novella - The Shadow in the Dark (Part one)

 

I had just taken a fork turning at the junction of the Aylesbury Pike, just beyond Dean’s Corners when the rain began to come down hard around me. It was six in the evening in early Autumn in north-central Massachusetts as I drove my white Toyota Camry through a sprawling forest belt, past brier-bordered stone walls overgrown with wild weeds and brambles, and out along the side of a sloping rock-strewn meadow. 

 

I had Joni Mitchell’s seminal art-rock/jazz album, The Hissing of Summer Lawns, playing on the car stereo as the narrow road curved and dipped, and I drove on past a small cluster of disused farm buildings falling to ruin with rotting gambrel roofs open in places to the raw elements. I passed a broken steepled church, missing its cast iron bell, that loomed over an untended cemetery where gravestones lay fallen, overgrown and forgotten. 

 

Joni was telling me that in France they kiss on Main Street, which came as no surprise to me, for the French are just so very French. Whether I’d be doing any kissing this weekend remained to be seen, for I was on a rescue mission of sorts, hoping to salvage my ailing relationship with Martin Bastable, who was presumably still my boyfriend if I played my cards right. 

 

We’d argued last weekend, and in retrospect it was my fault, I guess, because Martin was clearly trying to avoid a confrontation at all costs. Me and my stupid pride. I had to keep pushing and in the end provoking him. We had a table booked at a small restaurant in down town Springfield where Martin lives. I’d been working some long hours lately and Martin had been feeling neglected, so last weekend was supposed to have been time for us both to unwind and get to know each other a little better. Though God knows we’d been dating now for more than six weeks, having met at a singles bar which, God’s truth, I hadn’t known was a Singles bar when I’d walked into it. I was in Springfield that night for a work seminar, and the hotel bar was being renovated, so…

 

Well, we laughed a lot when I realised my mistake and Martin had said, ‘hey, unless you’re married, or one of those radical feminists (I think he meant New Feminists, because there’s obviously nothing wrong with ordinary feminism) why not stay for a drink? It’s a quiet night.’

 

Long distance relationships. Huh. I think I’d promised myself in my college years that I’d never be so desperate that I’d even consider a long distance relationship, but Martin seemed nice and he hounded me all night for my phone number, so in the end I gave it to him. I know it probably sounds old fashioned, but I sort of like being chased by a man. I like to know he wants me enough to make an effort to catch me. And, yeah, Martin didn’t give up.

 

So, yes, this was going to be our weekend. I’d booked a hotel and we were going to spend our first full three days together. I had no idea what was going to happen, or how far I was going to take things. I was a lot more nervous than I probably showed, because, here’s the big reveal – I’m a virgin. Yes, Ashlee Ellis is still a virgin at the age of twenty-five. How did that ever happen? 

 

Well the New Feminism movement was rife in Mount Holyoke College (Abiding Motto: ‘That our daughters may be as corner stones, polished after the similitude of a palace — Psalms 144:12’) while I studied there for three years, and I’d have been ruined – literally ruined -  if I’d stepped out of line in any way with a boy from the nearby towns. The Sorority Sisters watched their precocious charges like hawks, which is a complete turnabout from Holyoke’s golden years as a liberal and progressive beacon of academia. Things really have changed in the last ten years or so in the so-called land of freedom. 

 

What was it that Bryony Addison, the tightly buttoned poster girl for New Feminism at Mount Holyoke College,  had said when she introduced herself that first day in class? “You have red hair, Ashlee. How very interesting.”

 

Yes, they were a bit like that. 

 

And then work took over my life and, well, in my line of work these days a woman really has to prove herself as exceptional if she’s going to break through the glass ceiling. That means long hours and saying ‘yes’ to extra assignments as and when. All work and no play makes twenty-five year old Ashlee Ellis very much virtus integra. 

 

And don’t I know it.

 

Martin had been a Gentleman so far, and I think he actually assumed I was a virgin when we met for our first date. He actually did that holding the door open for me thing, and helped me to be seated when we went out to eat. Do I look like a virgin? Do I give out that vibe? Is there something about me that makes men think I’m a delicate blushing flower who needs to be handled gently?

 

I don’t know. 

 

I’m slim, five feet three inches tall in my stocking feet, but three inches taller with heels; slim figure with nice curves, if not exceptional curves. My breasts are a sensible b-cup, and I think I have full, plump lips with a hint of an overbite when I’m about to speak, fair skin, a heart shaped face, shoulder length red hair, striking green eyes and good cheekbones. Does any of that scream chaste?    

 

Of course, chaste kisses are very much en-vogue in certain quarters, these days. Look at all those new female pop stars who make a big thing about no sex until marriage. White Silk groups, they’re called. These days the Chastity Five have the two biggest selling albums of the year, putting Taylor Swift to shame. 

 

I drove past the banks of a swollen river, and past the derelict remains of one of those old fashioned wooden bridges that makes you think you’re driving past Sleepy Hollow and about to be chased by the Headless Horseman. Wooden planks blocked the bridge from being used on either side, presumably because of safety concerns. 

 

So last weekend could have gone any way we cared to mention. I certainly hadn’t ruled out sex together, though we hadn’t explicitly talked about it, and I hadn’t made any plans beyond being nervous every time I pictured it possibly happening. The funny thing is, Martin didn’t really strike me as old-fashioned in that respect. He seemed to be a man who had, shall we say, enjoyed women before. He was strong, but not cocky. He had, I don’t know,  natural confidence about himself that I found attractive. Little things, like, he would decide things for me, without even assuming I needed to be consulted, and yet his choices were invariably good ones. 

 

I’m a grown woman. I like the attention of a man, not some apologetic boy who fears upsetting me. 

 

And yet he had upset me. 

 

It was stupid. So stupid. Why had I blown things out of proportion that night? It was almost as if I’d felt I had to challenge him. We were about to order, and then I had to spot the special category at the end of the menu, highlighted in its own pink box.

 

“Nutri-girl?” I must have rolled my eyes in disbelief. “They offer Nutri-girl meals here?”

 

“Do they?” Martin was gazing at the steak options.

 

“What sort of woman is going to a restaurant to order a bowl of Nutri-girl with noodles?” I put the menu down in disgust. “And why am I seeing adverts for Nutri-girl meals wherever I go these days? Their marketing budget must be insane.”

 

Martin hardly looked up as he said, “well I suppose some women are concerned about their health. Good for them.”

 

“Their health?” I must have seemed annoyed by that because Martin then lowered his menu and gazed directly at me with those clear blue eyes of his.

 

“Well, yes, it may not be an exotic dish, but scientists agree that a pouch of basic Nutri-girl has everything a healthy woman needs. Four weeks on a Nutri-girl only diet and a woman sees stronger nails, clearer skin, glossier hair, and even some redistribution of fat tissue to breasts and bottom. Eight to twelve weeks on and her breasts become more rounded, firmer, provided she continues to eat Nutri-girl. How is that bad?”

 

“You’re joking, yes?”

 

“Ashlee?” He genuinely seemed puzzled by my reaction.

 

“It’s bland tasting gruel,” I said.

 

“Well, there are many different flavour pouches available for women who find the taste unpalatable, though Prescription Nutri-girl only comes in unflavoured pouches, of course.”

 

“There’s a Prescription Nutri-girl now?” I said. “How does that work?”

 

“Prescription Nutri-girl is cutting edge science. I have no idea how it works, but a woman on a prescription diet can actually see little to no progress in ageing, provided she doesn’t eat anything else. Something to do with ageing being the decay of skin cells that don’t regenerate, and the Prescription Nutri-girl ensures that they do. Women are clamouring for it, apparently.”

 

“Some women.”

 

“Well,” Martin smiled, “women who want to resist becoming old.”

 

“So they are happy to eat bland mush in return for no laughter lines by the time they’re in their mid-thirties?”

 

“Tell me how important that is to you in ten years’ time,” he said.

 

“If it’s so wonderful, why don’t men eat Nutri-girl?”

 

“Men don’t want bigger breasts or a more rounded, perky bottom. Women do.”

 

“Ae you suggesting I want bigger breasts?”

 

Martin gazed at me but said nothing.

 

“What? Is there something wrong with my cup size?”

 

He still said nothing.

 

“I find this insulting.”

 

“None of us are perfect, Ashlee. I work out at the gym three times a week to build more muscle. Why shouldn’t a woman consider a Nutri-girl diet to raise herself to a c-cup.”

 

“A woman? Any specific woman? Who do you have in mind? Any specific woman who isn’t currently a c-cup? Do you even know what cup size I am?”

 

“I’d say you are a b-cup, Ashlee, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.”

 

“But you’d rather I grew a little?”

 

“We shouldn’t be arguing, Ashlee. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend. Looking forward to us getting to know one another.”

 

“Did you deliberately bring me to a restaurant that has a large Nutri-girl menu in a decorative pink box? Were you going to suggest I tried it?”

 

“Ashlee, you’re being silly now.”

 

“I am NOT, repeat, NOT going to ever eat Nutri-girl!”

 

We stared at one another for a moment, and then I got up. “You know what, I have a headache. I’m going back to my hotel. I don’t think tonight is a good idea. If you ever decide to act like a halfway decent human being, then ring me, otherwise its been nice knowing you, Martin.”

 

And with that I’d stormed out of the restaurant.

 

And by the time I’d got back to my hotel I was already kicking myself for acting that way. I ordered a bottle of white wine from the hotel bar, kicked off my three inch heels, massaged my aching feet, and waited for what I thought was an inevitable phone call, but none came that night, nor the next morning.

 

I reviewed that scene a thousand times in my mind and then a few days later I called Martin.

 

He told me to come down to Springfield the next weekend, as if nothing had even happened.

 

The rain was heavier now, striking the windscreen of my Toyota Camry with considerable force. My windscreen wipers were battling furiously to keep the glass clear. I rounded a corner and checked the Sat Nav on my dashboard. Normally I would have driven down motorways all the way to Springfield, but the Sat Nav had warned me of an accident that had blocked the main freeway and was expected to last several hours. The alternative route had taken me down narrow country roads I’d never driven through before. 

 

Where exactly was I? God only knew. Somewhere in rural Massachusetts and Far from the Madding Crowd. The swollen river was to my right again, with steel crash barriers dotting the side of the road. I leaned forward as I drove, straining to see through the heavy rain, conscious that it was now seven in the evening and growing dark. I had hoped to be in Springfield by eight, and meeting Martin by nine. That now didn’t seem likely. I considered pulling over for a few minutes and calling him, but when I quickly glanced at my phone I saw that there was next to no signal.

 

Great. This really was the back of beyond. 

 

No man’s land.

 

The steel crash barriers thinned and disappeared and suddenly I was driving between bramble covered stone walls again. The wipers continued to swish left and right as the rain continued to fall. 

 

Yesterday I had gone to a department store to buy some nice lingerie for the weekend. My friends had always said that making up after an argument often led to passionate sex, and if that was going to happen then I wanted it to be special for Martin. Should have been easy, yes? I hadn’t treated myself to expensive lingerie for a few years now, and so was surprised when I discovered that the lingerie section of my local department store had been moved well back, away from the racks of dresses and skirts and blouses, almost as if there was something shameful in displaying bras and panties that weren’t simply utilitarian in design.

 

There was an underwear section, front and centre, but it consisted of old fashioned and tasteful garments. Bustles, tight corsets, bloomers – like a grandmother might have worn in 1946. The lingerie – small, light, silken things that would feel wonderful against my skin – those items were relegated to a back area, under the purview of a stern looking woman with her hair worn back in a tight bun. She wore no makeup and was dressed in an ankle length skirt and tightly buttoned blouse. She regarded me with an air of displeasure as I asked to see some French silk knickers. 

 

“There is not much demand for such things,” I was told.

 

“Really?”

 

“Most women are feminists these days,” she told me.

 

I think she meant New Feminists. 

 

I was made to feel guilty as I purchased a matching bra and knickers set in white French silk. The set came to well over two hundred dollars, but I felt Martin would go wild if and when he saw me wearing such things. 

 

The underwear was packed in my luggage and stored in the boot of my car. I still hadn’t made my mind up whether I would wear it, but I had the choice if I turned out to be brave enough.  

 

I drove on past a line of trees. The Sat Nav showed I was passing through a densely wooded area to my left and right, and then the road curved again and I was suddenly following the swollen river once more.

 

I slowed down as the road began to follow a series of s-bends. It was getting harder to make out what was ahead of me, but thankfully no one else seemed to be driving down this way, so I had the road to myself.  

 

I glanced at the Sat Nav and it suggested I would be back on the main freeway in another fifteen to twenty miles. The closest town seemed to be a place called Dunwich that I’d never heard of. With a bit of luck, and all being well, I might make it into Springfield by nine-thirty. A quick check of the mobile phone and I saw there was still no signal worth mentioning. 

 

Another sharp s-bend, and then another, and I was back along the river bank again. The rain was streaming down my windscreen and the wipers could only clear a small part of the screen at a time. 

 

And then my mobile phone suddenly rang. I glanced at it in surprise – surely there was no signal - but then just as I did, just as I took my eyes off the road for a few precious seconds, a figure ran out from some bushes to my left, directly into the road ahead of me. 

 

I slammed on the brakes and turned the car instinctively to the right, just as the naked figure of a girl ran towards me, waving her arms in wild panic.

 

My car cleared the edge of the bank, ploughed through the corner of a rusting barrier and tipped sideways in the slick mud. I felt the side of my car strike a tree stump hard and I was thrown forwards, striking my head against airbags that suddenly inflated in time to save me from going any further. My precious Toyota Camry tipped and rolled, and I screamed as it then righted itself, sliding further down the bank to the swollen river below. Before it could slide any further it wedged itself against another tree stump and my head was flung back, against the head rest.

 

Everything seemed to stop for me then. I sat there, caught between seat belt and air bags and felt the world begin to revolve as if I was on an out of control carousel. 

 

And then I think I passed out. 

 

When I woke, it took a few seconds before I understood where I was, and recalled what had just happened.

 

There had been a naked woman, running out in the rain storm directly in front of my car. She had been waving her arms in the air. I had pulled to the right and gone off the edge of the road, sliding down the muddy slope towards the swollen river. Only raw luck had prevented my sliding any further.

 

My shoulders hurt. As did my ribs. I ached all over to be honest, but I didn’t think anything was broken.

 

To the side of the car my door had sprung open. It was open as far as it might go before it wedged itself in the wet mud. Rain had been blown in to where I sat, and my pants were soaking wet down to the knees. I gasped and tried to clear my vision. Slowly, painfully, I unbuckled the seat belt and forced my way out of the tilted car. 

 

Had I hit the naked woman? I didn’t think so, but…

 

I crawled away from the car and managed to stand up after a couple of minutes. My trouser pants were coated in mud and my white blouse and tailored jacket were swiftly soaked as the rain continued to fall. I limped for a moment, sliding in the mud, unable to get a good footing in my strappy heels. Every time I put a foot down, a heel stuck itself in the slippery mud. Where was I? The edge of the river was a mere three feet away. From the speed with which it was flowing I knew I had had a lucky break. If my car had sunk into the water I might have drowned before I could have escaped. 

 

I slipped again as I climbed back to my car. When I reached inside I couldn’t find my mobile phone. 

 

Great, Ashlee, just great.

 

First things first. Retrieve the most important valuables in the glove compartment and then climb back onto the road and see if the naked girl is there. Please God, don’t let me have hit her. 

 

I worked the glove compartment open to pick out the two things I couldn’t leave behind, but when I reached inside, my hand and my fingers found nothing but half a bag of travel sweets, some envelopes, a pen, and a few tourist brochures. I scrabbled around, not believing for a moment that the compartment was otherwise empty.

 

My Glock Gen 5 handgun was gone. Simply vanished, as if it had never been there.

 

And with it my FBI badge.