Free 24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller by Claire Seeber Page B

me to the station in Sherborne. She hasn’t stopped talking since she pulled out onto the dual carriageway, but I’m so riveted by her painfully slow driving, willing her to put her foot down, that I’ve heard little of what she’s said. Fortunately she doesn’t seem to expect any answers.
    I come to when she points at the scratches on my face.
    ‘I had one of those,’ she says. ‘Bastard.’
    ‘One what?’
    ‘Bloke who used to deal it out.’
    I try to hide my wince.
    ‘Takes one to know one,’ she glances at me and lights another super-long cigarette off the last. Surreptitiously I wind the window down a little. I think of the policeman’s unfounded accusations about Emily and I smoking in the hotel room. But it was Sid who couldn’t kick the habit, not me.
    ‘Sorry,’ she exhales a long plume of smoke. ‘Filthy habit, I know. But it’s got me. Well and truly got me.’
    ‘I used to, a long time ago.’
    ‘Gotta have a little pleasure in this dull old life, haven’t you?’
    ‘Yes definitely.’ I try to smile. The wind rushes through the crack in the window, making my ears vibrate.
    ‘So you’ve got away from him.’ Like an attack dog, she’s back on her subject. ‘For now, at least.’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I look away.
    ‘Your boyfriend. I heard you back there. You said something about having a row.’ She changes up a gear. Hallelujah. ‘And just look at you.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You don’t need to be so defensive.’ A tower of ash is building along her cigarette. I watch it with fascination.
    ‘I’m not.’
    ‘I’m on your side.’
    ‘There’s no side to be on,’ I say.
    How long before the tower falls?
    ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s bloody hard to get away from them.’
    ‘I’m not ashamed,’ I say clearly. ‘How long before we reach the station?’
    ‘Ants in your pants?’ she says.
    I look at the clock. ‘I’m just worried about reaching my daughter in time. She’s on her way back from holiday.’
    ‘Don’t tell me you’re worried about him getting there first.’
    ‘Who?’ I frown.
    ‘Him,’ she gestures at me. The ash falls, speckles the dashboard. ‘Whoever did that to you.’
    ‘No one did this to me.’
    ‘So why did you tell Mike back there? I heard you say you’d had a row.’
    ‘I just – look …’ I falter. ‘Please. I appreciate your concern, really, but it’s not me that I’m worried about.’
    ‘It never is,’ she says darkly.
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘It means women who are victims worry more about their kids than themselves. And because of that, the bastards get away with bashing the mothers.’
    ‘Is that really true?’ I consider her words. ‘Isn’t it just that you get into such a terrible cycle, and a slump, that you can’t get out of it again?’
    ‘So you do know what I’m on about.’ She’s triumphant.
    ‘No,’ I say staunchly. ‘I counsel women, that’s how I know.’ I am hugely relieved to see the sign for the station looming up against the washed-out sky.
    ‘I see,’ she indicates right to turn off the carriageway. ‘And like I said before, it takes one to know one.’
    One tiny part of me is tempted to unburden myself. I’ll never see her again; her judgement will make no difference to my life. A stranger’s empathy can be a tempting lure. But I quickly see sense. I don’t have time to share a sob story. And anyway, it’s no one’s business but my own.
    ‘Please. Can we just agree to disagree on this one?’
    She shrugs. ‘It’s your funeral.’
    I shiver. For a moment, I have forgotten Emily, lying somewhere in the dark. Guilt pierces me.
    ‘But you mark my words,’ she’s off again. Thankfully we are at the roundabout outside the station. ‘If you don’t get out now, whilst you’re still young, you’ll never get out.’
    I don’t answer. She’s starting to sound evangelical.
    She pulls up; I practically fall out of the car in my haste. ‘Thank you so