This is a tale about how the events of one day have such catastrophic consequences on the future.
Hudson Bell is a consultant for the police. A former DI, he spends his days helping to find missing children.
May and her son go on a road trip to celebrate his birthday; Robert and Nadia buy their dream house by the sea.
But as each look to enjoy a new life, none of them can shake off what happened on that fateful day. One of them blames the others and will stop at nothing to seek revenge.
One accident and five lives changed forever.
He didn’t want to be here. It was a Tuesday evening. A dark winter’s veil wrestled any light away on his long walk, wind battering his face with sharp-cold air, and him quick to find solace in the most unlikely of places. A generic eyesore of an underfunded building that was no more welcoming than the weather outside.
The apologetic reception area silently blamed everything that kept people away. A Netflix television binge won out to socialising at the various clubs that used to be on offer at this community centre.
The paint on the walls had grown tired, peeling away like a tactical retreat; or left for dead in forgotten piles of small chips on the floor.
Abandoned staples were the aftermath of some staple gun killing spree. The act of a self-medicated volunteer with too much enthusiasm for the mundane. One who couldn’t care less whether or not the small bits of metal would ever be removed. In years to come they might be the only thing that kept the walls together. That and melancholy-induced nostalgia, and dirty regrets. Ghostly apparitions of kids smoking spliffs, drinking sweet cider and snogging would be all that was left from over a decade of youth clubs that no longer existed.
Inconsequential paperwork adorned a noticeboard. Dog-eared, and aged, a lot of it now out of date. Jumble-sales, charity events, weight-loss meetings and other historical groups nobody gave a shit about anymore.
Then through the swinging doors, that the police had battered their way through on more than one occasion, sat a soulless group in a frigid atmosphere. The sprinkling of people had been forced together through bad luck, and tragedy. A random cut of society, who with the best will in the world would never choose to be in a social environment with each other. Ever.
Uncomfortable plastic chairs were haphazardly dropped around on the wooden floor. Neither in a sloppy semi-circle, nor in rows. It had been years since the floor had been varnished. Memories scratched into it and trampled down for evermore. The meagre budget carefully spent elsewhere.
Hudson Bell sat quietly at the back of the room waiting for this shit to be over. He’d only been there five minutes, and was already bothering his watch by counting down the time left. He was desperate for a cigarette. He’d not smoked in five years, but these idiots were driving him with the desire to fill up his lungs with something toxic. It wasn’t their fault. They were, by circumstance, extremely self-centred. But this support group was not doing it for him. Each one of them had a sorry story to tell. He didn’t want to hear it. He was still too raw to care about them, or what they had to say. He wished them well, and a speedy recovery, but honestly, he couldn’t give a shit about them past that.
His name was scribbled in marker pen on a lopsided label he’d slapped onto his chest. Not because he wanted people to know his name, but because it was part of the rules. Nobody is anonymous, they were fond of saying. Ironically, that was all he wanted to be nowadays.
This was his third meeting. The regulars told him it would get easier. He found that hard to believe. Not unless they started to introduce alcohol, drugs and loose women. Now that would be a meeting worth attending. Even on a fucking Tuesday night.
Thank you, Jim Ody and Zooloo’s Book Tours
About the author
Jim writes dark psychological/thrillers, Horror and YA books that have endings you won’t see coming, and favours stories packed with wit. He has written over a dozen novels and many more short-stories spanning many genres.
Jim has a very strange sense of humour and is often considered a little odd. When not writing he will be found playing the drums, watching football and eating chocolate. He lives with his long-suffering wife, three beautiful children and two indignant cats in Swindon, Wiltshire UK.