My Michelle.- Complete Story!

Chapter 3 - Secrets

"NO Ian .....please .... NO!"

 Ian held her. His hands grasping her arms so tightly, it made her cry out in pain.

"Tell me then?"

"There's nothing to tell! I haven't done anything!"

He shook her hard and threw her to the floor.

"Don't lie Bitch!

He kicked at her. Michelle scrambled away, trying her best to avoid the blows aimed at her. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back. He held her by the hair and pulled her face close to his.

"Nothing happened then?

"No Ian," she sobbed, "I promise! Please...don't hurt me, I love you. I promise you nothing happened at all!"

"LIAR!" he roared and punched her hard in the face. She fell to the floor, her head reeling from the blow. He picked up a newspaper and thrust it angrily into her face. "What's this then?"

She blanched. THAT photograph! The one the reporter had taken the night before of her in the restaurant with Paul!

"How do you think I felt finding this on the plane coming over here? WELL? You know what happens when you make a fool of me don't you?"

Michelle whimpered in fear. She knew that there was nothing that she could say or do. She had fled from him in America because of the violence he seemed to enjoy using against her. She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Later,  she moaned and winced, every movement causing pain. Her mouth felt dry and her lips swollen. Gradually pulling herself up to a sitting position,  pain shot through her ribs and back. Thankfully the room appeared to be empty. She struggled to her feet and moved forward, looking around warily as she did so. There was no sign of Ian. Relieved, Michelle let herself out of the flat and started walking...not really sure where she was going to go. She just knew she wanted to get as far away as possible from Ian.  It was a dark March evening, raining and cold. Shivering increased the pain she discovered, causing her to breathe faster and shallower. Panic growing, she stepped into a doorway, using it for a moment to get away from the wind and rain and draw breath. Where was she going to go? Then, despite her dazed state, she remembered something Paul had told her when they had been in the restaurant the previous evening. Her heart beat faster - she had to try. It wasn't far. Surely he'd help her?

As she walked, people eyed her with curiously - a young woman in a state of distress, out alone at night, poorly dressed against the biting cold wet weather. Someone tried to stop her, to offer help but she pushed herself passed them. Unseeing of the glances, she continued, only stopping outside the gates of a large three storey Georgian town house.  There were still lights on in some rooms. The gates were locked but there was an intercom so she pressed the button.

"Who is it?" a woman's voice asked.

"Please ... I need Paul."

"I'm sorry. Mr. McCartney doesn't speak to fans at the door."

"Please...I'm not a fan....I'm a friend." She felt tears well up and begin to choke her. She fought back the urge to cry. "Please ...just tell Paul  it's Michelle.....he'll know who I am."

"I'm sorry I...."

"PLEASE!" Her voice broke as she pleaded further, "Please, tell him it's Michelle. Tell him I've been hurt! .... PLEASE!"

The intercom crackled then fell silent. 

In desperation, she turned, about to walk away.

 "Michelle?" Paul's voice came through the intercom.