July 2014
Under the overbearing heat of the unbearable summer sun, a lone deer lies dead on the sloping footpath, one open, unseeing eye turned up towards the canopy of rustling pine trees, and the empty azure sky.
Two cars, bearing the crest of the Northumbria Police, scream past. Blue lights blaze. Desperate tyres spin.
The endless black tarmac cuts a harsh, ugly line across the Cheviot Hills. Rolling green fields and drowsy brown fallows. Sparse wooden fence-posts and old stone farmhouses. The country lanes can't fall away fast enough, the miles stretching out in a taunting torture, white-painted road markings leering and sneering, "It's too late. It's far too late."
Behind the police cars, an ambulance sprints along, rig rattling over the potholes, paramedics squinting into the glare of the afternoon sunlight. And for them too, the same cruel gloat of the tattered road: "It's too late. It's far too late."
A body lies in Chase Valley Woods, pale limbs embedded in the brown earth, skin burned and twisted and red with agony and terror. A crucifix glints in the intrusive sun, bright gold a shriek of light, bone white. Sheared hair lies strewn all around, littering torn roots and tearstained eyes.
It's too late. It's far too late.
And that's obvious, even as the sirens screech in the distance. That's obvious, especially as the sirens screech in the distance. Something else has happened, something so much worse that it's inconceivable.
Because nobody knows about the body in the woods.
YOU ARE READING
This Still Happens
Teen FictionWhen Chris, an old friend, assaults him for being gay, Gordon goes against the advice of his remaining companions, and takes violent revenge. Vengeance, though, is never as sweet as expected. Now Chris wants to kill Gordon and his friends, and he wo...
