Discarded by M. Hunter (the reading list .txt) 📕

‘Do you have any family?’ she asked.

He moved across to a framed photograph on the wall and carried it back to her. ‘This is my younger sister, and her three children. It’s a few years old now, so the children are all probably teenagers by now.’ He paused, lifting his glasses and moving the image closer to his eyes, studying it intensely. ‘The oldest one here is Billy, then there’s his brother Kieran – he’s two years younger than Billy – and then last but by no means least, our precious Vanessa.’ He lowered the frame and a deep sadness overcame him. ‘I do so miss them; they moved to Australia a number of years ago, and I haven’t seen them since.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she offered, meaning every word. ‘Do you speak to them on the phone ever?’

He returned the frame to the wall. ‘Alas, not as much as I would like. Their mum and I… we had something of a falling out before she left, and… now it’s just me rattling around in the old vicarage.’

‘I know how that feels,’ she admitted, thinking back to the reason she’d gone to the newsagent’s shop in the first place.

Watching him fiddling with the frame, she realised now that the entire wall was covered in framed photographs – some were cuttings from newspapers, including pictures of a younger-looking Reverend Peter.

‘What were you in the newspaper for?’ she asked as he stepped back from the wall.

It took him a moment to realise where she was looking, but then he moved over and studied the framed article. ‘Ah, yes, this was a local piece written about the work we do here to support orphanages in the county. You see, I was fortunate enough to have something of a privileged upbringing, and I feel it is my duty to do what I can to support efforts to improve the lives of less fortunate children. On this particular occasion, we held a church fête with all proceeds being shared between a number of orphanages and charities supporting the less fortunate. That day we raised over ten thousand pounds through a variety of raffles and donations from local businesses. I didn’t particularly want my picture in the newspaper, but they insisted as it was a celebration of community spirit. I don’t suppose you know what I mean by that?’

She considered the question. ‘Yeah, I kind of do, I think.’

The sound of knocking at the front door had him back on his feet and heading out of the room. ‘I imagine this will be for you,’ he called out over his shoulder, though she wasn’t convinced as she hadn’t seen any flashing lights pass the window behind the sofa.

Standing, she tiptoed towards the newspaper article, and read the story about the monies raised from the fête. Her eyes then wandered to the next framed article, this one without a picture of Reverend Peter, but equally admiring of his contribution to fundraising in the local area.

The next headline caught her attention. She couldn’t see mention of Reverend Peter’s name, but it spoke about the closure of a boys’ home somewhere further north, despite the fundraising efforts of a local vicar and a number of former residents at the home. The story was cut short by a fold in the page, and with Reverend Peter yet to return, she took down the frame and removed the fastening holding the glass in place. Lifting the back plate from the frame, she could see the story continued on the folded page, and learned that the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys had been closed pending an enquiry into the treatment of some of its former residents. The article was adjacent to a picture of a much younger-looking Reverend Peter standing stern-faced beside a taller young man in a dark suit, whose face looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

And then she realised exactly who she was staring at, and her blood ran cold. At the same moment Reverend Peter returned to the living room, but it wasn’t a uniformed police officer he was leading into the overly warm room.

The picture frame slipped from Joanna’s fingers and her mouth dried instantly as she saw the man in the grey suit hovering over her. She looked to the vicar, who was only half in the room, but no longer able to bring his gaze to meet hers.

Joanna shuffled backwards, until the curtained window stopped her escape.

Grey reached into his pocket and removed a pair of leather gloves, sliding his hands inside and interlocking his fingers to ensure a proper fit. ‘

‘You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble, young lady,’ Grey said. ‘I warned you what would happen if you tried to run away.’

Joanna couldn’t stop the wee trickling down her leg as she stood frozen with terror. She was tempted to beg for her life, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how terrified she was.

Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she whipped out the small cheese knife, and held it out with as straight an arm as she could muster.

Grey erupted into a deep and sickening laugh. ‘You got a lot of heart, kid, you know that? You think you can kill me? You think you have what it takes?’

The vicar mumbled something behind them, but Joanna could no longer see him as Grey towered over her.

‘I tell you what I’m gonna do,’ Grey mocked, sliding the grey blazer from his shoulders and draping it over the old-fashioned sofa. ‘I’m going to give you one shot. Okay? One chance to see whether you have what it takes to kill me.’

Joanna could barely hear the words, the boom-boom-boom of her heart echoing in her ears.

Grey knelt down and smoothed the creases from his white shirt with his gloved hands, thrusting his chest out towards her. ‘Here it is, kid: this is your one chance to kill me and make your escape. Are