Backwards Into Hell

Part Two: The LFG

Abigail's Diary

Thursday 28th October

I sweated under the heavy lights of the interview room. It was grey and stuffy and the chair was specially designed to be uncomfortable; all the springs of the cushion stuck into your skin, and the back had two pointed elbows that dug into the small of your back.

The table was metal, the only cold thing in the room, and next to an old, white radiator that blasted heat.

Across from me was a man who'd forgotten how to smile. He had a pointed, grey moustache, was short and stout, and smelt faintly of Walker's crisps.

'So—' he flipped through a musty yellow folder— 'you say you broke into The Lodge because, and I quote, you thought you'd seen your son's face at the window.'

I swallowed. It was a lie, and an obvious one at that.

'Tell me, how was John involved?'

'He wasn't.'

The man, Officer Barlow, narrowed his eyes.

'He just happened to be awake, that's all,' I said.

'And John had never shared your impulse to break in?'

I shook my head.

'For the tape.'

'No,' I said.

He reached forward with a stubby forefinger and flicked the cassette. The whirring noise cut off and I couldn't help but wonder why the police were still reliant on such old technology. Barlow slid the tape into the folder and checked his watch.

'Thank you, Mrs—'

'Miss.'

'Miss Jones. It's getting on a bit now so it's unlikely we'll interview you again before tomorrow but if any more details should suddenly come to you, please make your nearest officer aware.' He said everything in the same tone—one of fatigue, sarcasm, and a general fed-up-ness.

After that, I was allowed back to my cell. It was a very clean, very empty room, and what constituted a bed was little more than a raised portion of solid floor. I laid back on it and my shoulder blades tapped the cement. Unless they found any evidence against me, this would be my last night here.

Forty-eight hours.

After that, they would charge me with murder, or let me go.