Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (good beach reads .txt) 📕

I urge, not much further. I slow right down to get as much distance out of the remaining fuel as possible. A huge lorry looms behind me then overtakes, the driver gesticulating rudely as he passes. My hands are sweating when, a few minutes later, I pull into the forecourt of a petrol station. I’ve never been so relieved to see one.

I park away from the pumps and look around, praying the car will start again so I can move it to the petrol pumps. I have to find a toilet first. There must be one. Yes! Over there. I scurry off to relieve the discomfort in my bladder, keeping my head down and my furry-edged hood pulled up to cover most of my face so the cameras won’t identify me. I give my hands a thorough wash, cleaning the blood from around my nails then I rinse strands of hair. For a moment I see again the spray of blood and feel the warmth of it on my skin. I shiver as goosebumps rise on my flesh. Back in the car, I pull my make-up from my bag and carefully cover the bruises blooming under my eyes. I squirt some perfume onto my neck and open my parka jacket to spray my jeans and black sweatshirt before carefully fastening it again.

I manage to refuel my little car but don’t fill the tank right up. I only have £50 in cash and I can’t risk the police tracking my debit card. I head to the shop for a drink and snack with my hood still up. Thankfully the weather is cold so I don’t think I look suspicious.

I’m back on the motorway within ten minutes. The dark snow clouds are behind me now and I feel safe from pursuit but the tedium of the road and traffic is giving me too much time to think. I picture the bedding bundled into the boot of my car, stripped in a moment of panic at the thought of them finding my DNA. The folds of linen must be smeared with our lovemaking.

Perhaps I should have cleaned the cabin more thoroughly. Hoovered the floors, maybe, to get rid of hair and fibres. But there must have been plenty of other people passing through there – loads of different DNA. Robert led me to believe he owned the place when he said he had a cabin in Loch Tay. The perfect place for us to spend a romantic week and plan our future together. I’ve been so gullible. Again. Let down by myself as much as Robert. I rub at a bruise where he’d grabbed my arm. He was no better than all the others in the end. He was just like my father, in fact.

A police car with flashing lights approaches on the other side of the motorway and my guts twist with anxiety. I run through my movements so far. I got on the motorway at a junction further away so hopefully they won’t link me to the area and I’ve travelled at a steady pace so as not to trigger a speed camera. Cameras. Shit. What about automatic number plate recognition cameras tracking my plates? Will they know where I get off the motorway and where I go after that? I need a way to disguise my car. Wait. I suddenly remember what my dodgy neighbour did. I rummage through my door pocket, pushing aside used tissues, old black sunglasses with a crude repair where the arm snapped, and loads of sweet wrappers. I know it’s here somewhere. I used it to fix the sunglasses and my cheap headphones when the lead frayed.

‘Yes!’ My voice seems loud in the quiet car. I’ll get off at the next junction. I don’t travel far before I see a sign and a slip road. I leave the motorway and drive until I spot a remote country lane then look for a gateway I can pull into. I use the black masking tape on the front number plate first then turn the car around and use it on the rear. I’ve watched the neighbour do this on his driveway and it’s surprisingly simple, yet effective. Instead of PU59 FTL my number plates now read RU58 ETE.

By the time I reach the outskirts of Milton Keynes my neck aches and my right calf is stiff from pressing the accelerator, but I don’t feel as tense as I did. The town shines with orange streetlights as I navigate one roundabout after another. A sudden clattering of hail against the windscreen makes me jump. I’m an exhausted wreck and I hope my welcome from Mum is going to be warmer than the weather. It must be two years since I last saw her, and we’ve barely spoken.

I turn into the Netherfield estate and my spirits slump further as I cross a grid of streets lined with rows of flat-roofed boxes. I try to imagine cosy interiors and happy lives being played out, but fail miserably. For me, this place signifies pain, rejection and hopelessness. I regret not staying in Manchester now, but I can go back there tomorrow. I’m too tired to contemplate driving any further tonight.

Getting no reply at the front door, and seeing that the lounge curtains are closed, I drive around the back of the terrace and pull up into the carport. The gate is difficult to unlatch and creaks in protest as I go through to the back garden, cold rain stinging my face. I press the little torch on my keyring and look around. A broken table leans like an injured pub brawler against the fence, chairs are scattered on the long grass nearby and a rusted barbeque rains flakes of orange metal to the ground. Bags of rubbish are heaped one on top of another near the back door and broken pots spill soil and dead plants onto the green-stained patio.

Not much has changed then. I follow the concrete path to the