Twist Of Fate

Five

CHLOE

My surroundings are unfamiliar. My back is cold. The room is dark. Where the hell am I? What's going on?

I lift my head and open my eyes. I am lying on my back on my kitchen floor, staring up at the nicotine-stained ceiling that was never painted after the previous tenants were evicted, before I moved in. I have no recollection of how I came to be here.

I hear sirens in the distance and I lie still, listening. They grow closer, and with them comes an increasing sense of panic, yet I'm not sure why - sirens are a common sound around these parts. I sit up, my bottom numb and aching, and look up at the clock on the kitchen wall. 

Eleven fifteen. 

How long have I been here? Why am I lying on the floor? Why do I feel like a cold hand has closed tightly around my throat, restricting my breathing? 

I take a few deep breaths before pulling myself to my feet. My legs are unsteady beneath me as I walk to the kitchen window and peek through the gap in the blind at the empty space behind the block of flats, in the direction of the sound of the sirens. 

There is a small huddle of people by the children's play area, standing in a circle staring at a shape on the ground, illuminated by the faint orange glow from a distant street lamp. Someone, a man perhaps, is kneeling down on the floor peering closely at the dark mass lying in the dirt. Even with the windows closed I can hear agitated conversation, and a second later a police car comes screeching into view, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Two officers jump out and race towards the knot of people, one of them shouting something into a radio attached to his armoured vest. Another car arrives a few moments later, and two paramedics jump out, one carrying a large duffel bag. 

Someone is hurt. Seriously hurt, by the looks of things. 

I watch as the paramedics kneel at the side of the person on the ground. The circle of people moves back, giving them space as they begin chest compressions. The policemen are now talking to individuals in the crowd, shouting at some stragglers who are attempting to slink away unnoticed. Nobody is ever keen to talk to the police around these parts, not even when it could be a matter of life or death. 

Sirens wail again in the distance, and half a minute later an ambulance arrives with two more paramedics who begin unloading a stretcher out of the back and hurry over to the person on the ground. It is a few minutes before they manoeuvre the wretched mess onto the stretcher, and as they stand up and lift, a bloody face is illuminated in the blue flashing light from the ambulance.

Chris.

I gasp involuntarily, stepping back from the window and letting the blind drop back into place. A wave of nausea hits me out of nowhere and I stagger shakily to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time before I vomit.

The image of his bloody face dances in front of my eyes as I lean over the bowl on my knees. Suddenly I can smell Chris' exposed flesh, the dry, stony ground, the summer evening. I can feel the anger emanating from Harry as though he were standing behind me now, his teeth bared, his eyes wide and manic, his hands balled into fists. I picture the motionless shape on the ground, Harry standing over him, and the fear rises in me, causing my stomach to heave again.

When I have finished I sit back on the bathroom floor, my body trembling and my skin clammy. I don't remember getting from the downstairs door up to my flat. It is just a blank, a void. Did I pass out in the kitchen? Did I fall and hit my head? 

I lift my hands to my hair and press my fingers into my scalp gingerly, but nothing feels tender. I just feel weak and drained. 

I pull myself to my feet and rinse my mouth out in the sink, remembering scratching Chris' hands as he restrained me, and fighting another wave of nausea as I imagine his skin and flesh under my fingernails. I scrub my hands with soap and splash cold water on my face, and then walk into the kitchen and see my phone lying on the floor, a new message blinking at me.