The Camel Trail

The Camel Trail - Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Another night, another nightmare. Hindsight was one of Sarah’s better qualities. It settled with her in the living room like a lead weight. She cradled a large glass of white wine, watching the time tick by on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. She tucked her feet up under her on the chair, one hand gripping the cool glass, the other pushed down between her thighs for warmth.

The nightmare—Frankie, again, laughing and cursing and beating and drinking and stinking and touching—had woken her just before three o’clock, a cold sweat on her spine, the bedclothes sodden at her midriff; had she really been that scared of him? Was she still scared of him, after all this time?

She had pulled the covers off the bed, ran them through a short cycle in the washing machine, and now they were draped across chairs in front of the electric fire to dry.

She found herself momentarily wondering what Frankie’s life was like now—was his cell a stark reminder that he was no longer the man he had been? Was he bullying other, lesser men than he? Or, the thought flashed wickedly in her head, was he being bullied? Had the predator finally fallen?

She stifled a yawn. No matter how far away he physically was, Sarah knew that in her head, in her mind, he’d always be right around the next corner. His shadow extended well beyond his reach.

It wasn’t so much his touch she feared, or his voice; it was his sheer presence. If she saw him now, standing in her living room, she knew she’d lose that iron will she had exuded in the courtroom. She knew everything would be just the way it was. As much as she hated to admit it, Frankie Catchpole ruled her life even now.

She rubbed her eyes in tiredness and finished her glass of wine.

Through the net curtain that didn’t quite reach the bottom of the living room window, tiny flecks of white sifted down from the leaden sky.

* * *

‘It’s snowing, it’s snowing!’

‘Kevin? What time’s it?’

Kevin pulled back her thick woollen blanket, failing to notice the missing sheets, and knelt up on the bed beside her. ‘Come on! It’s morning. It’s snowing.’

Sarah rubbed a hand over her face. She couldn’t remember what time she had finally crawled back into bed. ‘Put the kettle on,’ she said.

‘Can we make a snowman?’

‘Later. What time’s it?’

Kevin shrugged. ‘Can we make one after you’ve had a cup of tea?’

‘What age are you?’ Sarah groaned.

‘Can we?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Okay,’ he said—maybe usually meant yes—and he ran from the room.

Sarah stretched and turned onto her side, wiping a thin line of saliva from the corner of her mouth. She focused on the clock. It had just gone seven. Whatever happened to Saturday morning sleep-ins?

‘Are you up?’ Kevin called up from the bottom of the stairs.

‘I’m up,’ Sarah croaked. She dropped her legs out over the side of the bed and arched the stiffness out of her back. Flicking the curtain to one side, she saw the rooftops opposite covered in several inches of snow as though someone had come out in the night and painted them all white. Somewhere in the sky, the sun was trying to push its way through the clouds, sunlight glistening off the thick sheet of snow.