One Hundred Days, page 1
Copyright © 2023 Donna Sage
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Cover illustration by Dave Hill.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador
Unit E2 Airfield Business Park,
Harrison Road, Market Harborough,
Leicestershire. LE16 7UL
Tel: 0116 2792299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks
ISBN 978 1803134 369
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Contents
FRIDAY
SATURDAY
DAY 1
DAY 2
DAY 3
DAY 4
DAY 5
DAY 6
DAY 7
DAY 8
DAY 9
DAY 10
DAY 11
DAY 12
DAY 13
DAY 14
DAY 15
DAY 16
DAY 17
DAY 18
DAY 19
DAY 20
DAY 21
DAY 22
DAY 23
DAY 24
DAY 25
DAY 26
DAY 27
DAY 28
DAY 29
DAY 30
DAY 31
DAY 32
DAY 33
DAY 34
DAY 35
DAY 36
DAY 37
DAY 38
DAY 39
DAY 40
DAY 41
DAY 42
DAY 43
DAY 44
DAY 45
DAY 46
DAY 47
DAY 48
DAY 49
DAY 50
DAY 51
DAY 52
DAY 53
DAY 54
DAY 55
DAY 56
DAY 57
DAY 58
DAY 59
DAY 60
DAY 61
DAY 62
DAY 63
DAY 64
DAY 65
DAY 66
DAY 67
DAY 68
DAY 69
DAY 70
DAY 71
DAY 72
DAY 73
DAY 74
DAY 75
DAY 76
DAY 77
DAY 78
DAY 79
DAY 80
DAY 81
DAY 82
DAY 83
DAY 84
DAY 85
DAY 86
DAY 87
DAY 88
DAY 89
DAY 90
DAY 91
DAY 92
DAY 93
DAY 94
DAY 95
DAY 96
DAY 97
DAY 98
DAY 99
DAY 100
EPILOGUE
FRIDAY
Mary began to make her way home through the cold, dark evening.
She stood at the bus stop doubled up, recovering her breath. She had a stitch in her side, everything in her bag was jumbled up, and for what?
“He could have waited, he must have seen me,” she thought resentfully.
Oh well, only fifteen minutes to the next one. But that was all it took; her toes were ice, her ears hurt and she could feel her nose swelling.
The bus came round the corner, warm and welcoming, a puddle of light spilling out all around it. The doors closed behind her like comforting arms and for a few minutes, Mary just sat. As the warmth slowly seeped into her, she began to take an interest in her surroundings: a man she recognised as a regular sat opposite politely ignoring his neighbour crowding him with shopping bags; a young girl chatted on her mobile phone; an older woman was giving instructions down hers as to how to cook fish. A little boy about two years old further down the bus wriggled in his seat. He drummed his feet against the seat in front.
“No,” said the middle-aged man next to him sternly.
Mary became aware of the man opposite again; he had gone white and was staring towards the end of the bus.
“Are you all right?” she asked the man. He nodded; he was fine, thank you.
SATURDAY
Another rejection letter landed on the mat.
“That one was my best hope,” Mary muttered to herself bitterly. “If this goes on much longer, I won’t stand a chance of getting back into research work.”
She dropped the letter in the bin.
As she wandered round the flat doing the weekend chores, Mary’s dissatisfied state coloured everything she touched but:“I will not give up. I will look for a more interesting temp job than the one I have. And I will move out of this dingy flat,” she vowed defiantly.
Going through the advertisements occupied a few hours but did not yield results, so Mary posted a CV online and settled down to wait for her friend Gemma to arrive. They had planned to go bowling or out for a run but Gemma had caught her heel in an uneven paving slab and sprained her ankle so Mary suggested they order a take-away and have a night in.
“You can put your foot up and rest,” she advised.
Mary soon recovered her usual good humour as she and Gemma sat putting the world to rights over a glass of wine although, as always, Gemma was less concerned than Mary whether the world was right or not. Gemma found her friend’s chatter interesting since she never listened to the news herself but tonight her foot hurt and she was tired. The doorbell rang, the food was here and Gemma was eager to eat. Mary tipped it onto plates and for a while all was quiet.
“How’s Max?” Mary inquired.
“Fine, fine. You can ask him yourself when he comes to pick me up.” Gemma looked thoughtful then added: “Speaking of boyfriends, there’s a new intern starting at work tomorrow.”
“Oh no, don’t start that again.” Mary’s tone was decisive.
“I’ve met him before,” Gemma continued. “He’s a friend of Max’s. He wants to get some experience of book-keeping and tax and so on before going into business for himself. His name is Ben. He’s cute…. and rich.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
But Mary knew there was no stopping Gemma once she had made up her mind so she determined to look on the bright side; someone new at work might relieve the boredom. Especially if he upset Gary.
Sunday
DAY 1
Mary was feeling lazy. She stretched out her hand and her fingers connected with her book. She drew it towards her being careful not to knock out the bookmark and positioned it half under the bedclothes then lying on her side, she began to read.
A cup of tea would be nice but she was nearing the exciting bit. She flicked through the pages to see how many there were to go. Quite a few. Tea it was then. And then back to bed to finish the book.
By the time Mary finally got up, it was nearly lunch time. It was easy to waste the afternoon and by dinner time Mary was even feeling optimistic about the impending week at work bearing in mind the entertainment possibilities presented by a newbie falling foul of Gary’s little ways.
She settled down in the chair and turned on the television. Flicking through the channels she came across a newsflash; a little boy – Jared Parker – had been kidnapped. As soon as they put up a photograph, Mary let out a gasp. It was the little boy she had seen on the bus.
She replayed the scene in her head; the boy being told off for kicking the seat, the man sitting opposite her watching and turning white…. was it something to do with the little boy or coincidence? The man was looking along the bus but he might not have been looking at the little boy and anyway, even if he was watching him, so what? She had been watching him herself. Anybody would. His antics made it impossible not to.
She must put it out of her head. But stories like that always bothered Mary; the poor little boy, his poor family. Mary knew only too well the disbelief stabbed through by the underlying knowledge of indisputable fact, the hope that sprang eternal that a loved one would somehow come back.
Mrs Parker’s exhausted state would not be enough to make her sleep tonight.
Mary picked up her phone and dialled the number given at the end of the broadcas
“I saw a man watching Jared Parker on the bus,” she informed the constable at the other end. He noted the circumstances and took a description.
“We’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you again,” he said.
“And that’s the last I’ll hear of it,” thought Mary.
She cut herself a slice of cake, made a mug of coffee and found a film to watch. Gradually, she became engrossed in the story then the moment the titles had finished she made another cup of coffee and headed for bed. It was getting late.
* * *
The door banged shut shaking the musty wooden shed and Mary was alone in the dark. She reached out her hand and met dirty sacking, cold and slimy to her touch. She withdrew it, knocking a rake from the wall. It clattered down missing her head by inches and she sat, frightened, on the damp floor, breathing hard and wondering what to do. She must think. Now: the door is over there. She crawled to it and tried to tug it open but her childish strength could not make it budge. All was quiet. Mary waited and listened. Where was Ellen? He had Ellen. Mary had watched him tuck Ellen under his arm and carry her away. She slumped against the wall. A spider crawled across her face and she screamed in terror. She beat on the door until she was exhausted then lay on the floor in despair, her dress dirty and torn. In spite of the cold (or perhaps because of it) she began to doze. Suddenly, there were voices. They were coming her way. She shouted and shouted…. until she woke herself up dripping with sweat and shaking all over.
Stupid, stupid dream. It was always the same; it had not changed down all the years.
She pushed back the bedcover and sat on the edge of the bed cooling down, then she gulped some water from a bottle she always kept on the bedside cupboard. She opened the drawer and took out a photograph of Ellen. Not that Mary needed a photograph; she could remember every detail of what her friend looked like. They had been inseparable. In her memory it was always summer and they always had fun. The picture did not show two little girls running through the long grass, holding hands and spinning round until they were giddy, but as Mary looked at it, she could still hear Ellen laughing.
She put the photograph back in the drawer, blowing her friend a kiss as she did so. It was long ago when she had stopped expecting Ellen to walk back through the door, had accepted it would not happen.
“I’ll never forget you.”
Mary lay down. It was rare for her to dream about the shed any more. It was that missing child that had set it off; well, once they found him, the dreams would recede again. She drifted into a fitful sleep. She had work in the morning.
Monday
DAY 2
Mary woke early. She turned on the television news hoping to hear that the little boy had been found. No such luck.
“I hope the police have some leads they’re not telling us about,” she muttered. “Otherwise….” Mary shuddered. Otherwise help would be needed on a supernatural scale for there to be a happy ending.
“Gosh, look at the time.” Mary shoved her sandwiches into her bag, put on her coat and ran for the bus.
Arriving at work, she discovered that Gary had allocated Ben a desk right in her line of sight. She studied him critically. Gemma was right, he was cute. In fact, he was film-star good-looking and demonstrated impeccable taste in his choice of shirt and jacket. The only thing out of place was his thick, unruly hair but that merely added a boyish charm.
Gary’s voice broke into her reverie.
“Mary, this is an A-5-73 document so why did you file it under A-5-74?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Gary clearly expected an answer.
“Sorry.”
What else was there to say? Mary had made a mistake as everyone does from time to time and Gary was making her feel like a child being told off by teacher for some misdemeanour. He picked up the report and strode back to his desk. Mary imagined him adding a point against her name to a tally in his head and sighed.
Gary’s desk was in the far corner and from this vantage point he could see the whole office whilst retaining a high degree of privacy himself. Not, however, total privacy and as she observed out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw something move next to him. Or she thought she did. Part of the ever-present shadow in the corner behind him detached itself – a man was standing there.
Gary continued to concentrate on his report, unaware of the visitor. He raised his coffee mug to his lips and as Mary watched, the figure stepped forward and applied a skilful tweak so the mug slipped in Gary’s grasp. It hung at an angle of forty-five degrees and as though in slow motion, a gloop of coffee splodged out onto his tie, fallout drops spattering his shirt. He brushed ineffectually at his clothes and looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the accident. Mary became conscious she was staring and looked away just in time, suppressing her smile of pleasure at justice done. Gary would never believe that it was not just the satisfying spectacle of him looking an idiot that held her attention, it was also the handsome man he seemed completely unaware of standing next to him, smiling and signalling to her: “Got him.”
Gary marched past her and headed out of the door and down to the car park to his car. Free to direct her attention to her mystery friend, she turned her gaze in the direction of Gary’s desk once again. He was backing into the shadow, finger to his lips in a silent “Shh….” Then he was gone.
Mary shuffled the papers on her desk, selected one and walked over to Gary’s desk. As she went to put the paper down, she looked at it, clicked her tongue and turned on her heel as though she had been about to leave it but had spotted an error and changed her mind. But the real purpose of her little walk had been to give her the chance to closely examine the corner of the room. There was nothing there.
Mary returned to her own desk and sat down. Of course, there was nothing there. Gary had spilt his coffee, pure and simple. Ghosts aren’t real. Pity, though: he had summed up the situation in the office and cheered her up by quietly taking His Self-Satisfied Pomposity down a peg or two, no harm done.
But he had been there: she had seen him. She wasn’t crazy and her eyes hadn’t deceived her. And why shouldn’t he be there? Who says there’s no such thing as a ghost?
Instantly, Mary answered her own question: “My mother. My school teachers.”
A miserable child stood before her accused of lying, her resentful reaction echoing down the years: “How would they know, anyway?”
But the child was a child no more. She was sensible, balanced and not at all impressionable. Light plays tricks. The brain plays tricks, especially when tired. Mary had not seen a ghost in years and the reason was simple: her mother was right. Ghosts do not exist. Only children yearn for a playmate and invent what is not there.
Cora had seemed so real Mary still found it hard to believe she had been a figment of her imagination but: “I have a vivid imagination. I desperately wanted a friend my own age so I made one up. I got older and I grew out of it. Ghosts do not exist.”
Gary returned wearing a bright golfing jumper over his now open-necked shirt and flung open the window. Mary was a little cold but it was a small price to pay.
Come lunchtime, there was one obvious topic of conversation: Ben the ideal boyfriend who, Mary noted a little sourly, had managed to navigate Gary’s moods and foibles perfectly that morning, unlike herself. Give him time.
Of course, Gemma had made up her mind before he even arrived and Vicky, Mary’s other friend in the office, did not take much convincing to agree that Ben and Mary would make a lovely couple.
“He’s nice,” they said and Mary could not deny it. He was good-humoured and patient to a fault, acting as though he did not even notice Gary’s habitual sarcasm and cheerfully carrying out whatever he had been asked to do as if Gary were the politest individual in the universe.
“Give him a chance. If he asks you out: go. It’s only a date, it’d be good for you.”
“If he asks me,” thought Mary. Like they weren’t plotting something.
And sure enough, the moment she was alone, Ben came over and asked her out. Apparently, he had happened upon this quaint little pub and thought perhaps they might stop by after work before it got too busy.
Ben found them a table and went to the bar. Mary studied him like a specimen in a jar. Some indefinable quality made the barman notice him, made the jostling crowd part to let him through with the drinks. Mary was glad of his old-fashioned attitude; she had not wanted to join him in the crush.
