Dotty Dreads a Disaster

by Diane Ezzard

  “Oh, you’re a girl. Well, I suppose its women’s lib, and anything goes these days. You’d better come through.” He walked in front and Dotty scurried behind. “It’s a girl, Marjorie. It’s a girl.” Dotty thought it sounded like someone had just given birth.

  “Yes, I know it is, Albert. Now run along and make yourself useful.” Albert stood in the doorway frowning. “Make a drink.” She shooed him out of the room. “Have a seat. Dotty, isn’t it?”

  Dotty nodded and plonked herself down on a grey corduroy sofa. The Braithwaite couple were retired, and Mrs Braithwaite had seen Dotty’s card in the local hairdresser’s shop. Albert returned not long after with a tray of drinks and a plate of chocolate digestives. Under normal circumstances, Dotty would refuse the biscuits as she was dieting again, but she took one to be polite.

  “Take a few. We only get them in for guests. We both have diabetes and can’t eat them.” Dotty thought it strange to buy biscuits they couldn’t eat, so she took another two to show her consideration and smiled. She finished her drink and Marjorie asked her all the questions she could think of. Marjorie wanted to know more about Dotty’s family than finding out her prowess as a gardener. In fact, the only question relating to gardening was about her age.

  “You look very young to have your own gardening business, dear.”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Gosh, you don’t look that old.” Dotty believed her youthful looks were more down to her beauty regime than her genes. She used a face pack twice a week, exfoliated on alternate days, always used serum and moisturiser and gave her face a deep cleanse every bedtime. She had also recently splashed out on eye cream and neck cream because you can’t be too careful. Wrinkles could appear any time. With all the effort she put in, she hoped to still look youthful in her sixties and seventies if she could keep up her efforts until then.

  “Thank you,” Dotty said, blushing.

  “So, you’re not married, yet?” Marjorie asked as she pointed to Dotty’s bare wedding ring finger.

  “No, I’m very much single. My last relationship was a disaster. Ray was a nightmare to get rid of. He just wouldn’t take no for an answer. We were only together for a short time and it’s taken me months to get him to see I’m not interested.”

  “Oh dear, young love never runs smooth. Those were the days. I knew straightaway when I met my Albert that he was the one for me. You know immediately, don’t you, dear?”

  “I wish Ray could have worked out sooner he wasn’t the one for me. He must have been thick not to get the message.” Marjorie gave a shallow sigh. From her nostalgic gaze, she was no longer listening to Dotty. Her memory cells sprang forward with visions of Albert as a young man with his long hair. They were both teenagers in the Swinging Sixties but were more mod than rocker. Albert owned a gleaming blue scooter and would take Marjorie on day trips to Southend. Ah, those were the days.

  “Would you like me to show you the work we want you to do?” Marjorie asked, coming back into the moment.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Follow me. There’s a lot.” Marjorie pulled a face. “Albert can’t do it anymore with his bad back.”

  They walked around to the back of the house. Dotty was taken out to the garden.

  “Wow, that’s huge.”

  “Yes, it’s rather deceptive. You can’t tell from the front of the house just how much land is round the back. As you can see, we have a lot of trees which means a lot of leaves.” Dotty had never seen as many leaves as those sat in the Braithwaites’ garden. It was as though they had been collecting them up for her. “Do you have one of those machines that hoover them up?”

  “No, but I’m sure I can get hold of one.” She stood admiring the hues of orange and brown that nature produced in autumn just before the harshness of winter took the last few leaves away. There were speckles of yellow and red to inspire her creative juices. As Dotty spoke, a gust of wind brought another ton of leaves swirling into the garden. She worried that as soon as one set of leaves cleared, another would appear. She’d have preferred to be out there painting the scenery rather than clearing it away.

  The two women stood together viewing the spectacle for some time. More leaves fell from the interlocking branches of the trees above. This would be a thankless task. It wasn’t a good idea to take this job on, but Dotty needed the money. She was at the stage of borrowing off her mum to go on a night out and that wasn’t good.

  They moved into the kitchen to discuss terms. Dotty didn’t know how much hiring a leaf machine would set her back, so she added on extra to compensate. She showed Marjorie the price as she seemed to be in charge and the one holding the purse strings in this house. They had just shaken on the deal when a crashing sound came from the hall. Both women looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “It’s only me, Gran,” came a voice that Dotty thought she recognised. She frowned and seconds later a tall young man stood at the kitchen door.

  “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?” he swept his lanky fringe off to the side.

  “Hello, Ray. How are you?” Dotty had a sickly feeling growing inside her stomach.

  “Do you two know each other?” Marjorie looked at them both.

  Book One in the Sophie Brown series –

  I KNOW YOUR EVERY MOVE

  A sinister phone call, an unknown visitor. Sophie's life is about to be turned upside down

  Sophie has worked hard to free herself from the clutches of addiction and turn her life around. Practising as a counsellor, in a women's centre in Manchester, she now helps other girls in trouble.

  She forms a close relationship with Cassie, one of her clients and tries to help her escape the clutches of a violent boyfriend.

  But is Sophie being followed?

  How can she uncover the truth, when she can't trust what is real?

  The more she delves, the closer she gets to danger.

  Can she revisit her own dark past before it is too late?

  Get hooked on this dark, twist-filled suspense thriller that's in the vein of works by Rachel Abbott and Mark Edwards.

  Available through Amazon - mybook.to/ikyem

  Chapter One

  YESTERDAY

  Something soft and feathery brushed past the end of my nose. I sneezed and opened my eyes.

  “Oh Max,” I said.

  The vision of loveliness that met me made me smile. What an adorable furry sight to wake up to in the morning. Sat on top of the silver satin duvet cover lay Max, the new addition to my family. At twelve-weeks-old, Max was a cute, mischievous bundle of joy. With big doleful eyes looking up at me, my heart melted. I stroked his velvety golden coat and tickled him under his chin.

  “Want your breakfast, Max?”

  I ignored the sound of him purring as I pressed my phone and looked at the time. 6.42. I groaned. I didn’t need to get up early today. It was Saturday, so no work and I’d had a fitful night’s sleep.

  I’d had that dream again. The same one I’d been having over the last few months. I was running away from something or someone. I didn’t know what, but I always woke up full of tension and fear. Thankfully, I never got caught. One minute I was jogging by the river, on my usual route, the next I’d been transported to a house. The combination of the red poppy wallpaper and mint green leather sofa was a scene I knew well from my childhood. Mum stood by the mirror in the hall, carefully putting on her lipstick. She wore the last outfit I’d seen her in, a tan polo neck ribbed jumper and fawn herringbone tweed skirt. I pulled at her arm.

  “Please come, Mum.” She didn’t acknowledge me.

  “Mum, come on, we need to go.” No response.

  “Hurry up Mum.” Still, she ignored me.

  I wasn’t happy. Whether it was the bright shade of her crimson lip colour I didn’t like or the fact she didn’t respond to me, I didn’t know.

  In the dream, I began to panic as I sensed trouble brewing. I kept looking around. I had to act now. I tried one last tim
e, shaking her.

  “Mum, Mum, we’ve got to leave.” She continued to face the mirror.

  “Come on Mum, we’ve got to go.”

  I shouted out, but Mum still didn’t acknowledge me. I began to cry. Fear enveloped me. I knew we were in danger. I watched her as she slowly applied another coat of lipstick and massaged her lips against each other. She didn’t respond to me, so I turned away from her and ran.

  That was when I woke up. Slowly, I re-entered the land of the living with a big stretch. Max jumped off the bed. My palms were sweating, and my pulse was racing. The anxiety rose in my chest. I had left Mum again and even though I knew it was only a dream, I didn’t feel good. My stomach ached as I thought of the memories of her.

  Might as well get up now I’m awake, I thought and walked over to open the curtains. I squinted as I looked outside. It wasn’t the brightness of the day that greeted me. The clouds looked grey and forlorn. I begrudgingly put my dressing gown on and pottered into the kitchen.

  I had Max now to look after, and I enjoyed spoiling him. My first job in a morning was to get him a saucer of milk and his food.

  “Come on Max, here’s your breakfast,” I said. He didn’t even give me the chance to get the food out of the can. He had his nose busy poking inside, trying to get at the fishy delights.

  There weren’t many places for a kitten to wander around and explore, especially with a flat as small as mine. When he got bigger, I knew I would have to let him out to discover the big wide world, and that scared me.

  After feeding Max, I reached up into the cupboard to get the breakfast cereal. I sat for a few minutes, crunching a mouthful of fruit and fibre, contemplating the day ahead. Saturday usually meant doing chores which I detested, followed by a trip down to the shops to get my groceries for the weekend.

  Shopping list done, I began milling around the place, starting with tidying up the kitchen. After walking into the hall to get the mop out of the cupboard, I checked myself out in the mirror.

  My hair looked tangled, so I picked up the hairbrush and brushed it. It had a sheen and style that many women envied. I loved the comments I got about my beautiful long red locks.

  The flat never seemed lonely on a Saturday, thanks to James Martin. Saturday Morning Kitchen was a favourite TV programme of mine. It formed part of my weekend ritual that included eating a bacon butty for lunch and a curry later that night. I didn’t think of myself as a creature of habit, but there were certain behaviours that ran so deep, they were a regular part of my life now.

  I had a passion for food, which spanned from cooking to watching cookery programmes on TV. I owned a vast range of recipe books and of course, I loved eating. Thankfully, I enjoyed running, as my frame would have been a lot larger had I not.

  I wasn’t one to try new recipes; I usually kept to classics like chilli and fish pie. I often dreamed of being the head chef of a Michelin-starred restaurant. Sadly, the culinary skills I possessed fell a long way short of that. Sometimes, I’d be in the shower, merrily singing away and realise that the sound accompanying me wasn’t violins but the smoke detector going off in the other room. I would then remember that I’d put a couple of rashers of bacon under the grill.

  I was concentrating on watching Rick Stein making a fish stew before getting up to tackle the ironing. Wrestling to put the ironing board up wasn’t easy in the small confines of the kitchen. There was very little room to manoeuvre. I sighed heavily and frowned. I didn’t like housework, least of all the ironing.

  Suddenly the house phone rang. The old-fashioned cream coloured telephone sat a few feet from where I stood. I’d bought it to tone in with my muted decor. The penetrating sound of the intermittent bell ringing made me jump, and with jerked shoulders, I listened intently to the shrill tone. It was unusual to hear the house phone these days. Most people phoned me on my mobile. In fact, I only used the landline for the internet, so I couldn’t imagine who it could be. Only Dad rang me on the landline, and we had a set time every Sunday night to speak. He never detracted from that, so I knew it couldn’t be him. I decided not to answer. It was probably one of those PPI compensation calls or the ones that ask if you’ve been involved in an accident.

  The phone got louder with every ring. The noise had distracted me from the ironing, and lacking concentration, I hadn’t realised that I’d misjudged the iron plate. The hot iron toppled over, and I instinctively put my hand out to catch it.

  Damn, I swore under my breath. The heat of the iron burnt through to my fingers and I screamed out. I was annoyed with myself for being so stupid. I quickly managed to shimmy past the ironing board to get to the sink. I put my hand under the cold-water tap. Ow, did that hurt. I kept my fingers under the icy blast of water, and I heard the phone still ringing.

  That didn’t sound like a friendly bell, more like the harsh warning sound of a siren. The loud noise blocked out the pleasant familiar tones of the omelette competition on TV. I urged the phone to stop. My heart pounded, and my fingers throbbed with pain. Why didn’t it stop? I became irritated. The constant sound of the phone began to take on a macabre tone, and I became afraid to remove my hand from under the cold flow of water. Should I answer? No, I’ve left it this long.

  My mind started playing tricks on me. Memories flooded back of a time when I had been trapped in the clutches of someone else’s obsessions. A shudder came over me. What if it’s him? No, I knew I was being silly now.

  What if it’s important? Pull yourself together, girl. If it’s urgent, they’ll leave a message, I told myself. I turned the tap off at the same time the phone stopped ringing. I picked up the remote control and turned off the TV.

  The silence was eerie, and I could feel the thudding of my pulse. A knot churned over in my stomach and nausea crept up from my guts into my throat. My palms started to sweat, and the perspiration dripped from my forehead. My mouth was dry. A tightness developed in my chest and I bit my lip. Why was I getting so nervous about a phone ringing?

  I walked over to the table, tentatively picking up the receiver with my good hand. My nerves erupted when I heard the tone that indicated there had been a message left. Stop getting so worked up, girl.

  This was stupid. Breathing rapidly, I took the phone to my ear. A wave of cold air came over me as I listened intently. And I listened, and I listened. Nothing. I breathed a sigh of relief. Probably one of those nuisance companies, I thought.

  I shook my throbbing hand and decided to leave the ironing until another time. I went into the bathroom to get a shower. I stood under the hot water for longer than normal and I chastised myself for getting so worked up over the phone. The water poured down, covering my body. The heat of it felt good. My fingers were still smarting. The shower door normally gave adequate sound proofing but, even with soap in my ears, I heard the ringtone of the house phone again.

  I’ll leave it, I thought to myself. It’s probably the same annoying company that rung earlier. The ringing had stopped by the time I got out but, when I reached for the towel, it started up again. I was becoming irritated now.

  Briskly drying myself down, I put on my dressing gown then went back into the kitchen to make myself a drink. I put the water in the kettle. The phone started ringing again. Whoever was phoning certainly wasn’t taking no for an answer, so I decided to check the phone for messages in case an emergency had come up.

  I knew I shouldn’t be agitated over this, but I’d had such bad experiences in the past with menacing calls. I now had an unfounded fear around phones. Blind panic overwhelmed me as I listened and heard the distorted robot-like voice of a text call coming through the receiver.

  “DON’T THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH THIS.”

  What on earth did that mean? Get away with what? It was a strange message, and I didn’t understand. Then I realised there was another message to listen to, so I pressed the button and waited.

  In the same spooky, tinny voice of technology I heard, “SLUTS END UP GETTING WHAT THEY DESERVE.” I started shak
ing.

  I wondered if I could have misheard the messages so played them again. No, there was no mistaking the words. I pressed in the digits to find out the number the calls had been sent from, but the voice came back, ‘Caller number withheld.’

  I walked over to the sofa and sat down, my shoulders hunched, slowly taking in what had just happened. I wrapped my arms around my body and rocked from side to side, thinking. Was this a wrong number and all a mistake or could this be something more sinister?

  Bibliography with Amazon links

  The Sophie Brown Mystery Series –

  My Dark Decline – prequel mybook.to/mdd

  One woman’s journey from oblivion to recovery

  I Know Your Every Move – Book 1 mybook.to/ikyem

  A sinister phone call, an unknown visitor — is Sophie being followed?

  As Sick As Our Secrets - Book 2 mybook.to/asaos

  Secrets and lies are rife in the dark world of gangsters and criminals.

  The Sinister Gathering - Book 3 mybook.to/singat

  Sophie went on a retreat hoping to find peace, instead, she found the body of a woman she had just met

  Resentments and Revenge – Book 4 mybook.to/resandrev

  A murdered young woman, a missing schoolboy, are they connected?

  A Life Lost – Book 5 mybook.to/allost

  She lost her memory and then her life.

  The Killing Cult – Book 6 mybook.to/tsg