Danielle Ramsay - Broken Silence

‘No!’ She yelled, feeling physically sick as the car disappeared.

She stood alone, feeling utterly helpless.

Panicking, she looked at the Victorian terraced row of houses on either side of her.

Realising that there was a light coming from the secondfloor of a three storey house further down the street, she ran as fast as she could towards it. She pushed the ornate cast iron gate open and ran up the pathway towards the heavy, red panelled door. She repeatedly pressed the old fashioned doorbell. There was no answer. She then started to bang furiously on the door.

‘Please … Anyone … Help me!’ She desperately called out.

She waited a moment, but nothing happened.

‘Come on! Someone! You’ve got to hear me! Please … anyone …’ She shouted.

‘Kikite su manimi shliundra! Ordered a deep, guttural voice.

She froze, recognising the voice. She knew it was over. She had tried her best to outrun them, but they wouldn’t give up, not until they had her.

Trembling, she slowly turned around. His six foot two, threatening body was stood by the gate. The shorter one was stood behind him, waiting with his muscular arms folded.

‘No …’ She whispered.

Seconds later a car idled down the street, coming to a stop behind the two men.

‘Ateiti cia kale !’ The taller man ordered as he stared straight at her, ignoring the car.

‘No … please …’ She begged.

‘As tai dabar apskretele! He barked, gesturing for her to come to him.

She shook her head as tears started to trickle down her face.

‘No … no …’ She muttered.

‘Fucking bitch!’ He cursed in a thick accent as he strode over to her.

She turned and started pounding hysterically on the door.

‘Help me! Someone! Help me!’ She screamed as loud as she could.

He brutally grabbed her from behind. She attempted to struggle, but it was pointless.

He covered her mouth with a leather-gloved hand and dragged her backwards down the path. Her heels scraped, ripping the skin as she tried her best to resist.

Still with his hand over her mouth, he took her to the idling silver Mercedes. The passenger window buzzed down and a heavily set man in his late forties looked at her.

He roughly tilted her face towards the passenger window.

Tears trailed down her cheeks as she realised that the drunken voices on the promenade had faded into the blackness of the night. She was completely alone with them.

She waited, hardly daring to breathe as the man in the car decided what to do.

Seconds later he nodded at the man holding her. Then, without a word the electric window buzzed shut.

She was unsure of what it meant.

‘Please … please … let me go … I promise I won’t talk …’ She begged.

Her captor seemed to relax his grip on her.

‘I promise I won’t say anything.’ She continued, hoping that he would let her go.

‘Nusishypsosi shaltais dantimis shliundra! He hoarsely whispered, brushing his lips against her cold, glistening cheek.

The pungent smell of strong, stale tobacco lingered on his sour breath.

His hands gently encircled her throat and slowly started to squeeze.

‘No … no … please?’ She begged as her fingers tried to prise his hands from her neck.

She questioningly looked towards the dark tainted glass of the Mercedes’ passenger window. But she couldn’t see anything. She then looked at the other man who was silently stood by the car with his arms folded, impassively watching.

She caught his eye, but he looked past her, as if she didn’t exist.

Terrified, she struggled, clawing and scratching at the hands around her throat.

But he pressed deeper into her malleable flesh.

‘I … I … can’t breathe …’ she gasped, suddenly realising what was about to happen.

He grunted with satisfaction.

She frantically tore with bloodied, broken nails at his unrelenting hands as her lungs began to burn. As the exploding pain became unbearable she suddenly thought of her sister and her mother, realising that she would never see them again.

Ten seconds later she felt the fight leave her body.

‘Kekshe … ‘ He softly grunted as her body began to spasm.

Chapter Two

Shivering, a woman in her late-thirties hid behind the heavy curtains as she tentatively looked out of the bedroom window. It was eerily quiet now. She had been startled awake by someone banging on the front door. Followed by hysterical, drunken screaming.

She watched, relieved as a car disappeared down the road and presumed that the girl who had been drunkenly screaming a few minutes earlier had been picked up. She looked down at the street below. It was empty. She thought about calling the police again and thought better of it. Whoever it was had gone now. And what could she say? That some drunken girl had been banging on her door at 3AM, ranting and raving? To the police that was a normal occurrence in Whitley Bay on a Friday or Saturday night.

And sadly for her, and the other residents in the street, this was becoming a regular problem. The street had set up a resident’s association to combat the drunken intimidation they encountered at weekends and in particular, Bank Holidays. But the association had hit a brick wall with the council. It was simple; the councillors didn’t live there, so consequently it wasn’t high on their agenda. That, and thefact that the pubs and clubs in Whitley Bay brought in easy revenue.

Every weekend she was guaranteed to be woken by some disturbance caused by the pubs in South Parade. Either taxi cars speeding up and down the street, or police helicopters hovering overhead as they tried to catch some drunk who’d gone too far. And then there were the revellers, too high and too smashed to make their way home quietly.

The amount of times she would wake up to vomit outside her gate, empty, smashed vodka bottles or beer cans indiscriminately left behind. And then there were the half-eaten Indian’s or pizzas’ from the restaurants lining the promenade at the bottom of the street, all dumped outside.

She yawned, and decided to go back to bed. Whoever it was had gone.

‘What’s wrong now?’ Sleepily muttered her husband as she climbed into bed.

‘Nothing,’ She answered.

Not that he cared, she thought. He somehow blocked all the noise out. Even when someone was banging and screaming at their front door he never budged.

‘Just a drunk,’ he had flatly stated when she had woken him.

And as soon as he had said it the commotion had stopped.

‘See? What did I tell you?’ He had groaned as he turned and buried his face into his pillow.

Resentful, she watched him now as he rolled over and fell immediately into a deep slumber. It would take her hours to get back to sleep, she bitterly thought. She could still feel the adrenalin and anger coursing through her tense body. She hated hearing drunks in the early hours of the morning, shouting and cursing outside. But that girl’s screaming had really gotten to her. She felt on edge, fearful that something wasn’t quite right. Maybe she should have done something. Frustrated, she turned and stared at the orange glow of the street lamp as it shone through the window, wishing that the house wasn’t in negative equity so they could get as far away from Whitley Bay as possible.

Chapter Three

Sunday: 5am

Jack Brady turned over and groaned. His head was thumping and the relentless buzzing wasn’t helping.

‘Buggering bugger!’ He cursed.

He blindly stretched his hand out and reached for his BlackBerry.

‘What?’ He irritably demanded, wincing with pain at the exertion.