|Carruthers' Demise (standard:drama, 2702 words) [5/24] show all parts|
|Author: Brian Cross||Added: Jun 23 2011||Views/Reads: 1215/1042||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Carruthers makes an unfortunate discovery. Continuation of my drama.|
Chapter Eight Carruthers scrambled from the shower, snatching the phone from his bed. ‘Hello?' ‘Hello, this is Mrs. Winterman; am I speaking to the gentleman from the forest earlier?' ‘You are...' Carruthers' grip on the phone tightened upon recognition of the woman's voice, and the slight delay that followed did nothing to calm his nerves. ‘Well – I've been speaking to my husband – and I wasn't sure at first, but now – yes I do recall seeing a woman fitting the description you gave. Would she have been wearing a light blue top and jeans?' ‘Yes, she was.' Carruthers clawed his scalp, just wishing the speaker would crank up the pace of her speech. ‘We believe we may have seen her near the perimeter of the car park, close to the toilet block. There's an old dirt track runs nearby – it's not used much...' ‘Yes, but what was she doing there, was she...' ‘She was on her mobile phone. I recall now she seemed agitated if her body language was anything to go by. We didn't think anything of it you see, just somebody having a heated conversation, and then – well...' the woman paused, Carruthers heard a male voice in the background and then she let out a sigh. ‘A short while after a car came along the dirt road, a grey one I recall, and she walked straight over and got into the front passenger seat. After a few minutes it drove away – I never saw her get out, but as I say, we didn't pay much...' ‘What kind of car – did you see the driver?' Carruthers hands were shaking; he needed them both to clutch the phone. Another delay as the woman consulted the male. ‘No, I'm afraid not, my husband thinks the car was an Audi, but he's not certain. Visibility was poor by then you see, with the approaching storm...' ‘Never mind – Mrs.Winterman,' Carruthers said in a voice as unsteady as his body. ‘If you recall anything else please call straight away. And can I please have your details in case the police should...' ‘Yes, most certainly.' Helen Winterman provided Carruthers with an address in nearby Brockenhurst and he took spidery note on the hotel's courtesy pad. ‘I do hope everything is all right, Mr...' ‘Carruthers, Martin Carruthers. Thank you.' Carruthers terminated the call, feeling a gut wrenching sickness at the thought that his wife could have simply walked to somebody's car – somebody she'd obviously arranged to meet, because that would explain the phone call she'd made as she headed for the toilets – and then well out of his sight got into the car of her own free will and allow herself to be driven away; in effect, totally abandoning him for another man. But hang on – he took a bottled water from the mini-bar, wrenched off the cap and poured some liquid down his parched throat – just hang on because Chelsey wouldn't do that – however moody, unpredictable, changeable she'd been of late, his wife simply wouldn't abandon him in the middle of nowhere in favour of a pre-arranged meeting with another man. Would she? Well just let her turn up later with some cock and bull excuse at why she'd disappeared, sprung from the depths of a novelist's imagination. Except that it wasn't like that, it couldn't be. And so it went on, his mind the captive of see-sawing thoughts, illogical yet possible. He wanted her back; he wanted her back in the hotel room now; how he willed her to come through the door with a plausible explanation of Click here to read the rest of this story (265 more lines)
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