My name is Graham Smith and I am a short story writer at the hardboiled /
noir end of the crime fiction genre. I live in a little village with a
population of no more than 500. The village is near Gretna Green on the Scotland
England border.
My blog is http://grahamsmithwriter.blogspot.com
My Amazon page can be found at http://www.amazon.com/Graham-Smith/e/B006FTIBBU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
I
am also a review for the well respected site http://www.crimesquad.com
There Goes the Bride
by Graham Smith
‘In ten minutes time I’m off to marry the
man of my dreams’ Suzanne updated her Facebook status. Glad she had insisted on
being on her own for the last hour without her mother or sisters suffocating
her. She laid down her Blackberry, checked her make-up one last time and exited
the bridal suite, locking the door behind her as she made her way downstairs.
‘She’ll be here
any minute now,’ thought Garry, resisting the urge to check his watch again. He
was stood in front of the anvil at Gretna Green
waiting for Suzanne. She was already 5 minutes late, but to be fair to her she
was always late and wasn’t it traditional for a bride to be late anyway?
* *
* *
Ten minutes previously Michael Johnson had
turned up at the Gretna House Hotel to collect Suzanne with his stretch
limousine, only to be told by the receptionist that she had been picked up by
another chauffeur some five minutes earlier. Confused he had called the wedding
planner who had booked him, only to be asked why he had not yet delivered the bride.
‘She’s no’ here.’
‘Then where is
she?’
‘I dunno? Lisa
said she was picked up by another chauffeur five minutes ago and she was
wearing her wedding dress.’
‘Doesn’t sound
like she’s run off then. And she knows where to go, as we met there yesterday
and it’s only half a mile for Gods sake.’
“What do we do
now then?’
‘I’ll need to
speak to the groom. Shit! There’s another wedding here in twenty minutes and
they’ll lose their slot if she doesn’t show up soon.’
‘What about
calling the police?’
‘Christ no. Well
at least not yet.’
* *
* *
‘Excuse me Garry can I have a quick word?’
‘Yeah sure. Best
be quick though as she’s bound to be here any minute.’ Garry’s thick Yorkshire accent was higher than usual due to his wedding
day nerves.
‘Actually that’s
what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh fuck. Please
tell me she is coming,’ he pleaded,
his mind filled with dread.
‘It seems as if
there has been a mix up to me and she’s got in the wrong car. When the driver
from Prestige Cars went to pick her up she had already gone with another
chauffeur. She was wearing her wedding dress though. I’m sure there’s no need
to panic.’ She reassured him.
‘D’you know
anything about this?’ Garry demanded of his future brother in law. ‘Nowt to do
with me. But I can’t say I’m disappointed.’
‘That’s enough!’ said
Garry’s best man, well aware of the bad blood between the two men.
* *
* *
‘Where are we going? This isn’t the way to
The Blacksmiths.’
‘Just a small
detour. You’re supposed to be a little late.’
‘I don’t want to
be late. Please take me straight to the Blacksmiths,’ said Suzanne, growing
uneasy. First there was a different chauffeur with a different car saying the
other driver had been in an accident with her chosen wedding car and now the
new driver was making her very late.
‘You’re not going
to be getting married today. Instead you’re coming with me.’
* *
* *
Garry, trailed by the wedding planner,
charged into the reception of Gretna House Hotel and demanded that Lisa, the receptionist,
tell him who had collected his bride to be. They had lost their wedding time,
yet his only concern was for Suzanne’s welfare.
The poor girl
stammered tearful answers to his questions, while the wedding planner called
round all the local chauffeur companies trying to ascertain who exactly had
picked her up. Unfortunately none of them could help as they had been at other
wedding venues.
With neither
course of action giving any clues, Garry pulled his mobile from his sporran and
dialled 112 the mobile emergency services number. He quickly and concisely
explained what had happened saying he thought that Suzanne had been abducted.
* *
* *
‘Jimmy here’s one for you to check out.
Possible abduction of a bride from Gretna Green .’
‘Waste of bloody
time’ muttered DS James Peters ‘Tenner says she’s done a runner.’
‘Aye well, go
down, show face and check it out anyway. It was called in by a Garry Brown who
she was due to marry at fourteen thirty hours. The details are on here.’ He handed
him the email from emergency services.
When Peters arrived
at the hotel he was met by a frantic Garry who quickly babbled out what he
knew. As he was calming Garry down to get clear details, they were approached
by one of the wedding guests whose skimpy outfit threatened to distract him
from the task at hand.
He vividly
remembered when his wife used to dress this way and engage him in whole nights
of torrid passion. Since the birth of their second child she seemed to dress
exclusively in the Mumsy range from Matalan and has as much interest in his
needs as the kitchen table. Dragging his attention from her uplifted chest he
focused on the words she was saying.
‘Look, she was on
Facebook just before she left.’
Peters reached
for the I-phone she proffered and read the Facebook post.
‘It doesn’t seem
like she planned on not turning up. Almost all of her posts are about the
wedding.’
‘So what are you
doing to find her?’ Demanded Garry, snatching the phone from Peters, who was
wheeling away and reaching for his own mobile.
‘Guv, its Jimmy.
The missing bride was on Facebook 10 minutes before she was due to be married
saying how she couldn’t wait to marry the man of her dreams. I don’t think
she’s done a runner.’
‘Speak to the
hotel staff and see where all the guests are from, it might give us some kind
of handle on what’s happened. I’ll be there soon with some more bodies.’
‘There’s folk
from all over the country Guv. I’ve been here ten minutes and I’ve already
heard Scouse, Brummie and Geordie accents. You know how busy Gretna
* *
* *
The car pulled up outside a lonely cottage
on the shore of the Solway Firth . Trapped
inside Suzanne wondered at what was next for her. Se had tried in vain to get
at the female driver but the partition had remained resolute against her
attacks, as had the driver to her entreaties. The chauffeur climbed out and
opened the rear door using her left hand while brandishing a large kitchen
knife in her right.
‘Get out and walk
slowly to the cottage. The door’s open, turn left and go into the bedroom. I
don’t want to cut you, but I will. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
As they walked towards
the cottage, Suzanne could feel the tip of the knife at her back which coupled with
the fact she was wearing a full skirted wedding dress and high heels prevented
her from trying to run away. Deep down she knew she could never outrun her
athletically figured abductor dressed as she was. ‘Why have you kidnapped me?’
The only answer
she received was a shove in the back, propelling her through a door and onto a
bed in the tiny room. The door slammed shut and the sound of bolts shooting
home finally broke her composure.
‘Why me’ she
sobbed as terrible thoughts run through her head. I’m going to be killed! Hacked
to pieces by that mad woman!
* *
* *
As more CID cars pulled up the hotel drive
Peters quickly informed his DI what he had achieved so far which, was only to
learn that no-one had seen anything untoward and that there was a CCTV system which
they were accessing to see if it had recorded Suzanne leaving the building. He
also directed the Family Liaison Officer to the suite where Garry and Suzanne’s
family were cloistered. Garry was now absolutely distraught and on the verge of
cracking up. His mood swinging between murderous intent to whoever had taken
Suzanne from him and teary prayers for her safe return. The only constant in
his behaviour was the certainty with which he insisted she had not gone of her
own volition.
Peter’s
dispatched a young DC to speak with a local resident who he’d seen trimming a
hedge as he arrived. His DI stalked around with a scowl on his face and his
mobile clamped to his ear as he informed his DCI of the situation and conducted
the investigation.
Nothing was going
for the police so far. There were five different wedding parties at the hotel
coming from all different areas of the UK
* *
* *
Night fell on the cottage by the Solway Firth . Suzanne had examined every inch of her
prison and found that the only possible means of escape was through a tiny
window at head height. She doubted she could fit through the opening even if
she could break all the glass away without being heard by the mad woman who had
snatched her. Then she heard a door slam followed by the solid thunk of a car
door closing. An engine coughed into life and she heard the scrunch of tyres on
gravel.
Upturning the
metal bucket which had been her unused chamberpot to use as a stool, she hit
the glass with the heel of an expensive wedding shoe and when it broke she
quickly smashed all the remaining pieces as close to the wooden frame as
possible.
She then slipped
off her wedding dress and shoved it through the hole. Grabbing the sheet from
the bed she folded it and laid against the base of the window to protect her
from any remaining shards of glass.
It was now or
never, so she put her arms and head through the aperture and with her hands against
the outside wall she hauled herself off the bucket. That first momentum got her
head and shoulders through the window and she was now wedged half way through
with all of her twelve stones resting on her stomach, which in turn was resting
on the bottom of the window. She could feel glass cutting into her and the
first trickle of blood starting its gravity fed journey downwards.
Wriggling was
excruciating so she braced herself and with the logic that it was the same as
ripping a plaster off quickly, she heaved and lurched with all her might until
she had birthed herself from the tiny window.
Landing in a
heap, Suzanne had grazed her shoulder and her head had collided with a row of
bricks which were bordering the lawn.
Suddenly she
heard an engine approaching. Ignoring her injuries she snatched her dress and
shoes from their landing place and ran along the shore to hide behind some
gorse bushes. Headlights appeared and just when she thought her captor had
returned she saw the car turn in the opposite direction.
She considered
running after it for help but she was too scared that they may be accomplices
of her kidnapper. Instead she pulled her wedding dress back on and fitted her
shoes back onto her feet. Her wedding lingerie was in tatters and she had at
least a dozen cuts below her waist including a long jagged tear on her right
leg where she had inadvertently dragged her limb along a shard of glass she’d
missed. Each of these cuts was oozing blood steadily and she knew her wedding
dress would be ruined in minutes.
* *
* *
‘Why haven’t you found her? She’s been gone
for seven bloody hours now. You got the reg plate from the security camera
didn’t you? Surely with all the technology you’ve got, you can find one fucking
stretch limo.’
‘I’m sorry Garry.
We have done everything we can. It’s now just a case of waiting for the
kidnappers to either contact you or her family.’ DS Peters was as frustrated as
Garry. The investigation had started off well but had ground to a halt. CCTV
cameras had identified the cars number plate, but when they had traced it
through the DVLC they had found it actually belonged to a Ford Fiesta instead
of the stretch limo it was attached to.
* *
* *
Suzanne had decided against following the
road in case the woman returned so she walked along beside the gravelly shore,
keeping on the grassy verge so her heels were not impeded by the soft going.
Her dress was now covered in saucer sized red polka dots where her wounds had
leeched blood through the material of her dress. She encountered a river which
was too deep to ford and too fast flowing to swim across so she simply followed
it upstream until she came to a farmhouse.
Seeing a light on
in a downstairs room, she ran across the yard and banged repeatedly on the door
with her fists. A ruddy faced farmer answered the door with a shotgun in his
hands.
Seeing her
bedraggled and bloody appearance he quickly put down the weapon and shouted for
his wife.
‘The police,
we’ve got to get the police.’ Now she was safe she let her emotions go and
dissolved into tears of relief, terror at what she’d endured and pain from the
myriad of cuts which littered her body.
The farmer called
the police and then he asked her if she wanted to call anybody while they
waited for the police to arrive.
‘My fiancé Garry.
I don’t know his number though.’ She confessed. Her mobile had made memorising
numbers unnecessary. ‘He’s at the Gretna House Hotel. His name’s Garry Brown.’
‘I’ll get the
number for you love. Andrew, put the kettle on will you? She needs some hot
sweet tea.’ In the time honoured tradition of farmer’s wives she was calm under
adversity and firmly believed that a cup of tea could cure all woes.
* *
* *
Peters ran into the room. ‘Garry, she’s
turned up safe. She’s at a farm five minutes from here.’
‘Is she ok? Has
she been hurt?’ Anxiously Garry searched the detective’s face for bad news but
saw none.
‘We only had the
999 response from the farmer’s wife but it seems she has had a rough time but
is basically alright. She escaped and made her way to safety so she must be
fairly okay.’ Seeing you can relief on Garry’s face he made an offer he knew
would be accepted. ‘You can come with me to get her if you like.’
‘C’mon then lets
go.’ Garry was making for the door when the receptionist stopped him and told
him that Suzanne was on the phone for him.
Peters waited
patiently outside with a cigarette, while Garry and Suzanne had a very tearful
conversational reunion. His shift had officially finished hours ago but this
was one of the few occasions when the job was brilliant and thoroughly
rewarding.
Suzanne was
sitting at table in the farmhouse kitchen sipping tea laced with a strong and
peaty malt whisky. The mixed aromas of moorland and Darjeeling
When a knock at
the door produced Garry and a detective called Peters she simply ran to the man
who by now should have been her husband. Once they had separated from their
embrace, Peters called an ambulance and started to get Suzanne’s story.
His interest
chirped up when he found out about her escape and the route she had taken to
get to the farmhouse. A quick consultation with the farmer revealed the only
cottage not occupied by long standing locals was used for holiday letting.
He saw Suzanne
into the ambulance and then rapidly mobilised the two detectives who had
followed them from the hotel and using an unmarked car went to the cottage followed
by Garry’s best man who wanted to learn who was behind this so he could learn
who had ruined Garry and Suzanne’s wedding day.
Seeing the stretch
limo parked up and the cottage door open Peters and the other detective entered
the cottage only to find a woman lying on the floor. An empty vodka bottle and
two aspirin containers lay beside her.
‘Fuck me it’s
Karen.’ Garry’s best man recognised the woman who Garry had jilted at the altar
all those years ago.
© Graham Smith 2011
Graham Smith is married with a young son. A
time served joiner he has built bridges, houses, dug drains and slated roofs to
make ends meet. For the last eleven years he has been manager of a busy hotel
and wedding venue near Gretna Green Scotland
An avid fan of crime fiction since being
given one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books at the age of eight, he has also been
a regular reviewer and interviewer for the well respected review site
Crimesquad.com for over three years.
He has three collections of short stories
available as Kindle downloads and has featured in anthologies such as True Brit
Grit and Action: Pulse Pounding Tales as well as appearing on several popular
ezines.
Twitter - @GrahamSmith1972
Amazon Author Page
Goodreads
My own eBooks
Gutshots: Ten Blows to the Abdomen
Harry Charters Chronicles
Eleven The Hardest Way
Anthology Entries
Off the Record 2: At the Movies
True Brit Grit
Action: Pulse Pounding Tales
Flashy Shorts
Nicely ratcheted up tension until the nerves are pulsing raw and then a believable escape and excellent reveal in the last sentence. More real than most all of the superhuman serial killers we see in stories these days. Good'un, Graham.
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