Miss No One

by Mark Ayre

  Bobby's note remained in Abbie's pocket. Earlier, she had guessed Bobby would never give her an ultimatum, as Ben had. This note was proof. Too kind to ask Abbie to surrender her duty to protect their relationship, Bobby had made the decision for her. Rather than back her into a corner, he decided to cut ties and disappear. Abbie would never see him again.

  The note had the potential to return Abbie to a life of isolation. Ben's final call might have broken her or turned her into an avenging angel who, while consumed by misery, would go hunting for Ben, would try to destroy him.

  But no. Abbie King was not who she once was. These devastating setbacks would not destroy her, and she would not let the grief consume her.

  Abbie had been in the car for hours. The moment she stopped, she withdrew The Stand and held it close. She told her sister she loved her and promised silently she would do the hardest thing of all.

  She would take these latest setbacks in her stride and push forward in building a life. She would not allow grief and loss to close her down.

  Not this time.

  Abbie returned The Stand to the pillowcase and put the pillowcase in her bag. Following her house's destruction, that bag now contained everything she owned. It wasn't much, but Abbie had never been into possessions.

  Leaving the car, locking the door, Abbie felt some trepidation as she made her way up the drive. But she was determined to be strong. Determined to be the new Abbie King.

  At the home's entrance, she refused to hesitate. She knocked on the hardwood door and stepped back, waiting.

  Five seconds passed, then Abbie heard footsteps from the hall inside. The door opened, and a woman who had recently turned sixty stood in the soft glow of the hall.

  There was a beat, then Alice Rayner broke into a smile.

  "Abagail," she said, "you can't need a lawyer already. I'm afraid Ariana's had a bit to drink."

  Abbie opened her mouth to ask the question she needed to ask. To say what she needed to say. When she tried, she found herself unable to speak. For years, she had been used to keeping in control of every situation. She rarely asked for anything, and when she did, it was usually a weapon or for a body to be removed from a crime scene. She avoided personal situations.

  On the doorstep, her mouth flapped like a goldfish.

  Alice rolled her eyes.

  "I ever meet your mother, I'll give her a piece of my mind," she said. "Come on. Come in."

  There was to be no choice. Alice grabbed Abbie's arm and dragged her into the hall, closing the door behind them. Linking arms with the younger woman, Alice led the way past the living room and towards the kitchen. As she went, she pointed up the stairs.

  "We thought you could have the same room as last time, but you know we have a few empties, so you can take your pick. You know I make big breakfasts, and we always keep the fridge well-stocked, but if you need anything else, at any time, you only need ask. Oh, and of course, I've written down the wifi password."

  They were in the kitchen now, Alice leading them towards the door into the bar of the large home, but Abbie stopped before they could go in.

  "I don't... I don't understand." She felt stupid—like a small child.

  "Your house burned down," said Alice, as though this explained everything.

  "I was going to stay in a hotel," said Abbie. "I was just going to ask if you didn't mind me staying local, popping round on occasion."

  Alice smiled. "Sweetheart, do you want to stay in a hotel?"

  Abbie hesitated. "Well, no, of course, it wouldn't be my preference, but—"

  "Well, shut up then, and come this way."

  Abbie bristled. She was the dismissive one, not the dismissed. As Alice opened the door to the bar and stepped through, Abbie followed.

  "Listen, I just saying I don't want to be an imposition, and I completely understand if—"

  She stopped.

  She had stepped into the long bar to find herself facing the remnants of Alice’s family—the one’s that weren’t deceased or in prison. Her daughters, Ariana and Alex; her son, Anthony; and her grandson, Ollie.

  On a banner on the far wall were giant block letters proclaiming: WELCOME HOME, ABBIE.

  Stunned, shocked, floored by the kindness of this gesture, Abbie put a hand to her mouth and almost collapsed.

  Dealing with knife-wielding monsters and gun-toting maniacs, Abbie was in her element. She thrived.

  Dealing with the warm, loving embrace of a family, she was almost knocked flat.

  "I don't know what to say," she said.

  "That much is clear, and it's fine because we have only one question for you, Abagail King."

  Alice said this as she stepped around the bar and grabbed a bottle. She held it up and beamed at her new house guest.

  "How do you take your vodka?"

  Abbie King returns in…

  TWICE SHY

  Coming November 2021

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  Twice Shy - Chapter One

  Abbie had driven by numerous "WELCOME TO X" signs over the years as she arrived in new towns, cities, and villages never before visited. Maybe as many as a hundred. Perhaps even more than that.

  Town names meant little to her. Abbie only noted the signs because it was sometimes helpful to know where she was. Especially when she had arrived as a stranger in this new place, hoping to save the life of someone she had never before met. On such occasions, Abbie glanced at the signs, internalised the name, and thought little more about them. After all, what should a place name matter to her? It was the name of the innocent Abbie intended to save and the wicked she hoped to defeat that she desired to learn. They were the ones who mattered.

  This sign was different.

  Abbie had woken a little over two hours ago, at midnight on the dot, and, save one slight adjustment, had followed her usual routine. A hot shower while she processed the nightmare from which she had woken, a drink of water, a strong black coffee, then straight to the car and onto the open road.

  As always, Abbie drove without recourse to maps or GPS. She took turns at random, with no specific destination in mind. No vague one either.

  The face of the innocent that Abbie needed to save stuck in her mind like chewing gum in her hair. That face was her compass. As long as Abbie could see it as she drove, she knew she would arrive where she was needed.

  The slight change in routine had added only a minute to Abbie's journey.

  For the past three months, she had been staying with Alice Rayner and several of Alice's children. Abbie had previously saved Alice's life, and the two women had become close. Alice was sixty, a little over thirty years older than Abbie, and had become something of a mother figure to her. So, while Abbie was used to leaving without a word or without letting anyone know, on this occasion, Abbie had scrawled a quick note, explaining her sudden departure. Alice knew about Abbie's calling and likely would have deduced why her houseguest had left in the night without a word. She almost certainly would not have worried. But it was common courtesy, so far as Abbie was concerned, to let her hostess know why she had gone and that she hoped to be back, so long as she was still welcome. And so long as her latest mission did not spell her end. Which was always possible.

  Then, the sign.

  Abbie saw its approach and glanced its way. Four seconds later, it was close enough to read. The name flashed across Abbie's mind, and a jolt ran through her heart.

  Based on no conscious intention, Abbie slammed her feet onto the brake pedal as her mind registered the town's name.

  The road she drove was long and straight, two lanes. It was shortly after two in the morning, and there were no other cars in sight. Despite this, Abbie rarely drove beyond the speed limit and had not been on this quiet mid-May night. But the speed limit on this stretch of road was generous. Abbie slammed the brakes too hard whil
e travelling at some speed, and the car rebelled. The brakes clamped, but the wheels hated to stop rolling. They fought the instruction and screamed in rebellion. The car jolted, and Abbie shook. It skidded, and the wheels screeched along the tarmac, not turning but still moving. Abbie watched the sign slip by, and the car rotated as it slid along the road, as though determined to taunt Abbie with another look at the town's name as revenge for hitting the brakes.

  The car stopped with another jolt. Abbie's shoulder smacked the window, but she hardly felt it. Her heart was slamming into her chest far harder than her shoulder had hit the glass, and her stomach was churning. Her head was swimming.

  In the quiet calm of the now still car, she took deep breaths, seeking to regain control of herself. Abbie was known as a measured woman. Though the events of her past had left her damaged, she rarely showed emotion she wanted to conceal. For many years, most of the people she met would have claimed she experienced no feeling at all. On more than one occasion, someone had called her a robot.

  Things were different now. Her experiences and the relationships she had formed over the last few months had gone some way to freeing her emotions from the cage in which she had entombed them. Did that make the sight of the sign hit harder? Abbie wasn't sure. She felt that even at her emotionless peak, the effect rendered upon her by the town name would have been profound.

  Slow, measured breathing wasn't helping, and all of a sudden, waves of nausea overcame Abbie, leaving her scrambling for the handle of her car door.

  She threw it open just in time, but when she tried to dive out, the seatbelt yanked her back. It was too late to go for the release. Abbie pulled the belt away from her chest, ducked her head beneath it, leant out of the car, and threw up onto the concrete.

  She threw up again, then took long, deep breaths. Controlled. This time it helped. Her fingers fumbled for the seatbelt catch, and it popped loose, causing her to jerk forward, causing her almost to fall from the car into the puddle in the road.

  Which would have been disgusting.

  After preventing that fall, Abbie reached under the passenger seat and grabbed her trusty drawstring bag. Lifting her feet, she swung them out of the car and over her vomit. With a hop, she cleared it and stumbled to the side of the road.

  She collapsed.

  Empty fields lay to the left and the right of the road. The town into which she had to go was ahead; nothing but open road behind.

  Slamming the brakes, spinning the car to a stop had left it side-on across the left lane of the two-lane highway. There were no cars in sight, and Abbie could hear the approach of no engines. Still, she had to move her vehicle soon. Should any car approach, they would have plenty of time to adjust, to go around the roadblock Abbie had created. But she couldn’t risk it. There would be no car wreck on her conscience today.

  Rising, throwing the drawstring bag over her shoulder, Abbie forced herself back to the car. Forced herself to sit, to start the engine, to move. She pulled off the road onto the gravel and then grass. She parked alongside a fence that defined the boundary between council and farm owned land. Still fighting to control her breathing, Abbie evacuated her car again, taking her bag, and dropped onto the grass at the side of the road.

  The welcome to sign was on this side of the road, also. It was only five or so metres behind, but Abbie didn’t look. It was like a curse. Reading it would condemn her to more vomiting or worse, even though, theoretically, looking at the town itself should have caused more problems. It didn't work like that, though Abbie didn't know why.

  Bum planted in the grass, the cold night air nipping at her, Abbie pulled the bag from her shoulder and grabbed the neck, widening the hole. From within, she extracted a folded pillowcase.

  Abbie’s hands were shaking. Closing her eyes, taking her deepest breath yet, she regained control of her digits. With utmost care, she unfolded the pillowcase and removed from within her battered and bruised copy of The Stand.

  Laying the pillowcase over her lap, Abbie lay the Stephen King epic over the top. Delicate fingers peeled back the cover and first couple of pages until she found herself staring at the dedication.

  For Tabby: This dark chest of wonders.

  And beneath that, the name of the book’s previous owner. Before Abbie had taken possession.

  Violet.

  It was this scrawled name Abbie lay a finger on, as she had so many times before. Though she was convinced by the existence of no supernatural phenomenons, Abbie found herself filled by strength when she touched that name, as though that long ago penned signature provided a link to the long since deceased writer.

  “Help me, Vi. Help me go on.”

  Abbie did not believe communication with the dead was possible. She knew speaking with her sister while pressing her finger to a word said sister had written years before she had died was nothing more than a psychological crutch, but that was okay. It was a kind of placebo. What mattered was that even though Abbie knew this: it worked.

  Having seen the town’s name, Abbie wanted to turn and flee. To get into her car and return to the seaside town where she had been living for the past three months. To the warm embrace of Alice, her pseudo mother, and to the friends Abbie had begun to make there. More than anything, she wanted to whip her tail between her legs and run.

  “I love you, Violet. Give me the strength to go on.”

  In her dreams, Abbie had seen the face of a teenage girl in pain. She had woken knowing neither the name nor the location of the teenager. She knew nothing other than that the girl would be killed within the next forty-eight hours, should Abbie not rise to do something about it.

  When she considered all that, how Abbie felt—this visceral reaction to learning into which town she was driving—meant nothing. The girl’s life was all. This teenager could be her only focus. Abbie shouldn’t have needed to talk to the memory of her sister to know, but she did. She had to roll with that.

  “I love you, Violet,” she repeated. “I’ll make you proud.”

  Abbie did not believe the dead could feel pride any more than they could feel hunger or an annoying itch on the end of their nose. What she meant was, I will continue to try and be the kind of person I think you would have been proud to call your sister.

  Violet would never know this was Abbie's intention. But Abbie knew. And that was enough.

  With as much care as she had used in extracting it, Abbie returned The Stand to the pillowcase and returned the pillowcase to her drawstring bag. This done, she returned herself to her car and started the engine.

  From her window, she could see the sick she had left in the road. She shook her head.

  “That’s revolting. Abbie, don’t be so repulsive again.”

  Self-castigation over, Abbie left the grass and moved back onto the road. Despite the dread that continued to build in her heart, stomach, and soul, she forced herself to drive on.

  She moved back up to the speed limit, and she drove into the town of her birth.

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  The Abbie King Thrillers

  Have you read them all?

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  Deep Water

  On the cusp of her sixtieth birthday, ex-gunrunner Alice Rayner wants nothing more than to put her life of crime behind her. But multiple criminal factions will go to any lengths to acquire Alice’s remaining cache of weapons.

  Can the mysterious Abbie King help Alice vanquish her enemies and ensure the peaceful retirement she so craves?

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  Miss No One

  A young girl is missing. She has two days to live. Abbie King is confident she can save the child’s life - until she is framed for the attempted murder of a police officer and becomes public enemy number one…