Wrong Turn

Loosely inspired by ‘Don’t Stop on the Motorway’ by Jeffrey Archer

It was 1:00 am when the train reached Derby station. I didn’t have the stomach for traveling alone. My journey from Bristol, to say the least, had been miserable.

Stepping out of the train was such a relief. In fact, I was so excited that I almost ignored that a man had been following me for quite some time now. I looked around for help. The station was almost empty but for the lady who had been traveling on the same train, seated couple of seats ahead of me.

I ran over to her and explained my situation. Both of us looked back at the man. He was medium built but had a queer haggard look about him. He seemed quite agitated.
We increased our gait, but so did he.

Sylvia, that’s her name, told me that she was visiting her aunt in Derby. She was in her mid forties, bespectacled, with wavy brown hair and streaks of red that was cut short and looked as if it was in desperate need of a comb. Her breath smelt faintly of peppermints, with a mild undertone of nicotine.

I glanced back again trying to locate the stranger following us. He was very much still there. He was calling out and waving his hands frantically.

I told Sylvia that the stranger was still trailing us and suggested that we run. She agreed and there we were - two ladies running out of the rail station.

I looked back again. The man was chasing us down, still waving a news paper that he held in hand. I told Sylvia that my house was just 15 minutes walk from the rail station.

When we exited the station, Sylvia said that she better accompany me till my house. ‘Two were better than one’ - I seemed to agree.

As we sprinted along, we took turns to check if the man was still following us. He was still very much there. Maintaining a safe distance but surely following us.

"Darn! I think we took a wrong turn somewhere. It’s a dead-end!" I explained Sylvia. She stared at me. We looked back to see if the stranger still followed us. We had managed to lose him.

Sylvia let out a sigh of relief. "I think we have lost him. Let’s walk back and try to find your house" she said. She held my hand and slowly walked away from the alley.

Sylvia squealed like a mouse when her throat was slit. I watched her bleed. I always get excited when I see blood. I wiped the cut-throat blade and threw it in the pool of blood as I always did. That was my signature.

Morning I picked my daily dose of newspaper. The headlines ran with a black and white sketch of me by the side.
Daily Mail: "Lady Cut-Throat strikes again! One witness identifies the victim and mentions seeing her with the killer."

Regards,
Rosh