Kerry Barnes - The Hunted - A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked

‘Get the man a drink, Eric. It’s gonna be a long night. Travis, I want everything you have on these Harmans.’

Jackie was nursing a bruised cheek and drowning her sorrows with another large glass of vodka, disguised with orange juice.

Cooking up another storm, she eagerly waited for Mike to get up from his bed and get on his hands and knees to apologize and offer to send her off on a shopping spree with a fat wad of banknotes. Besides, as she saw it, he owed her big time. Little did she know that Mike wasn’t even in the house.

Fifteen minutes later, as she was about to pour another drink, he appeared in the kitchen, looking washed out.

‘Oh, been on a bender, ’ave ya? Well, you best ’ave a fucking big bunch of flowers ’cos this shiner is not going away anytime soon. And if you think I’m gonna say I walked into a wall, you’re very much mistaken!’

Mike was exhausted, his mind now riddled with worry. Getting an earbashing from Jackie was the last thing he needed.

‘Jackie, just shut it!’

She jumped down from the kitchen bar-stool and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Shut it? Fucking shut it? Have you looked at my face? Well, ’ave ya?’ she screamed like a woman possessed.

Mike lowered his head. At that precise moment, he wished it was Jackie sitting on the chair with a screwdriver through her eye.

‘Don’t you dare walk away from me!’ she screamed, chasing him across the marble floor. ‘You ain’t getting away with it. I swear, Mike, you’re gonna pay.’

In a fit of rage, Mike spun around, grabbed his wife around the throat and squeezed, watching her eyes widen in fear. She struggled to remove his grip and could feel her throat closing up. Unable to breathe, she really believed she was going to die. Then he let go and she collapsed on the floor, retching and gasping.

‘One more word from your vile mouth and I’ll fucking annihilate you. Now, I’m going to my bed and you’re going to leave me in bloody peace, ’cos, Jackie, I’ve had enough of ya.’ His face was red and angry, and saliva had formed at the corners of his mouth.

She knew she’d lost this fight. As he walked away, she grabbed the bottle of vodka with shaky hands and poured it down her throat. Then she slammed the bottle down hard on the worktop. ‘Cunt!’ she said to herself.

Yet, deep down, she knew he wasn’t that bad – well, not to her and their son. There was many a woman who would give their right arm to be married to Mike Regan, living in a fuck-off mansion, with diamonds in the drawer and furs in the wardrobe. However, all she wanted – ever wanted – was his attention. She craved it. Life should be about her. She felt she’d earned it, coming from nothing.

So motherhood was a complete fuck-up. She missed the nights out in the clubs, being treated like royalty just because she was Mike’s bird. She only stopped taking the pill because she thought he was getting a wandering eye. Really, she didn’t want kids, end of. Pregnancy would ruin her very sexy body. Yet as soon as her son was born, she saw the end of the flash socializing and all the attention that had been focused on her.

Mike had taken a new stance on life. At last, he was settling down. The trips to their villa in Spain were spent building sandcastles and going out on their boat; he was totally absorbed in their son. The neglect, as she saw it, turned to resentment, and so she began to despise the boy. He looked at her with either sorrow or hatred, but either expression grated on her. Those sweet words that Mike had said to her before the birth were now reserved for their son, and the truth be known, she was jealous and did everything to draw her husband’s interest back to her.

It started with the boob job because she caught him looking at a woman with bigger tits than hers. Then she turned her attention to her lips because she assumed he liked that sort of thing. However, all the trips to the beauty salon for Botox and fillers made not one iota of difference: he only had eyes for his boy. When the parties at their home became tame, she tried to liven them up by making cocktails and encouraging the men to drink. But when she downed a few herself, that just infuriated Mike, and so he put a stop to those too.

So now she saw herself drowning in a humdrum way of life. And her wild behaviour became a major source of friction between Mike and herself. His sharp digs irritated her. ‘How fucking old are ya?’ he would say, or ‘Grow the fuck up and be a mother. You ain’t on Jeremy fucking Kyle.’

If only he knew how much she wanted out of this prison called adulthood. It was purgatory for a young hot-blooded woman like her, who craved sex and a heady lifestyle. For Christ’s sake, she was only fucking twenty-six.

Just as she was about to reach for another hidden bottle of vodka, the doorbell rang. Without looking through the spyhole, she opened the door. It was Tracey, Eric’s girlfriend.

‘Cor, Jackie, the state of ya face. What’s ’appened?’ asked Tracey, following Jackie into the kitchen. Plonking her new Gucci bag on the floor, Tracey clambered up onto the bar-stool, preparing herself for the gossip.

‘That bastard up there, clumped me one last night.’ She tried to force a tear; at least she could expect some sympathy from her sister-in-law-to-be.

Tracey looked as made-up and fake as Jackie. Perhaps more so. She’d also undergone the boob job, hair extensions, and lip fillers. And yet, unlike Mike, Eric preferred his birds tanned and toned. She flicked her long bleached mane over her shoulder, placed her hands on the granite worktop, showing off her fake fingernails, and gazed down with pride at the tiny crystals she’d recently had glued on. ‘So, what’s ’appened then, Jack?’

Jackie poured them both a drink and sniffed back the fake tear. ‘I dunno, Trace. He ain’t the same. I reckon he’s got another bird. Ya know what it’s like. Fucking give ’em a kid and then they ’ave ya tied down and go off looking for a fresh bit of skirt.’

Tracey sipped the bitter vodka and poured more orange juice to dilute the rough taste. ‘Oh, I dunno, Jackie. Mike ain’t like that. He’s probably got a lot on his mind.’

Jackie gave her an evil glare. ‘And how the fuck would you know, Tracey?’

She was annoyed that her so-called friend was now sticking up for the enemy, as she saw him.

‘Oh, come on, Jackie. We all know what his line of work is! Perhaps he’s having a bit of bother.’

With a screwed-up face, Jackie spat back, ‘Who cares about his business! Look at me bleedin’ face. I didn’t do that meself, did I?’

Tracey raised her eyebrow as if to say ‘Who knows?’

‘What? D’ya think I’m lying, then?’

‘Wind ya neck in, Jack. We all know you like a drink. I’ve seen you so outta ya nut, you’ve fallen all over the show.’

Jackie shot her jaw forward in anger. ‘Don’t come it, Tracey. I know your game. Ya come in ’ere all done up, with ya tits hanging out and half ya arse showing. Hoping I wasn’t in, were ya?’

Tracey slammed the glass down, nearly shattering it. ‘Now, you listen, Jackie. I didn’t come ’ere to bloody row, and I don’t like what you’re saying. But I’ll not be surprised if he does go elsewhere. I mean, look at the state of ya. And, Jackie, you’re hardly Mother Teresa. He ain’t blind, love.’

Those words were like a red rag to a bull. Jackie launched herself off the bar-stool, and on her way to taking Tracey down, she managed to snatch a clump of her hair, pulling her heavily to the floor. Tracey yelped like an injured dog. She had hit her knee hard and was in absolute agony. Her friend’s shrieks of pain brought Jackie back to reality. But before she had a chance to say she was sorry, Tracey pushed her away. Grabbing her bag and hobbling towards the door in her noisy stiletto shoes, she shot Jackie an evil glare.