The Victim

Copyright© Copyright Ruth Harrow 2023 Ruth Harrow has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publishers.This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Contents CopyrightPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneChapter Thirty-TwoChapter Thirty-ThreeChapter Thirty-FourChapter Thirty-FiveChapter Thirty-SixChapter Thirty-SevenChapter Thirty-EightChapter Thirty-NineChapter FortyChapter Forty-OneChapter Forty-TwoChapter Forty-ThreeChapter Forty-FourChapter Forty-FiveChapter Forty-SixChapter Forty-SevenChapter Forty-EightChapter Forty-NineChapter FiftyChapter Fifty-OneChapter Fifty-TwoChapter Fifty-ThreeChapter Fifty-FourChapter Fifty-FiveChapter Fifty-SixChapter Fifty-SevenChapter Fifty-EightChapter Fifty-NineChapter SixtyChapter Sixty-OneChapter Sixty-TwoThanks for ReadingMore Books By Ruth Harrow Books By Ruth HarrowIn Her FootstepsYou’re All MineIn Her WakeDear SisterJust One LieThe Silent WifeThe Victim PrologueIt’s been a normal day at work. It’s the journey home where it really hits the fan. I’m over halfway back to my house when something terrible happens.Just like every day, I unfold my headphones and slide them over my head. Immediately, the sound of traffic is muffled. Familiar melodies flow into my ears and the day I’ve spent handing out cups of coffee and cakes blows away in the cool breeze.I push my chin down into the furry grey snood Mum bought me from Next. She got the same one for Claire too, but in blue. Mum still fusses over the two of us like we were still twelve. I smile. Neither of us would change her for the world.My feet ache. My back does too from wiping up tables and clearing away used cups and muffin crumbs all day. I only have this evening to recover. At home, my best friend Claire is always happy to run me a hot bubble bath or ease the tension out of my shoulders with her skilful Shiatsu.Then tomorrow I will have to do it all again. But I don’t mind much. It’s nice to see so many faces, regular and new. I don’t know how I would manage my job if it wasn't for the friendly ones. But the customers keep me busy and I love hearing about their lives, especially if they are more interesting than my own. That’s virtually a given.Twilight falls as I reach the gravel path that leads beside the nature reserve lake. Seeing the swans and geese floating serenely atop the water calms me. The white of their shapely bodies glints out from the falling darkness. This is what I need after a noisy day of rushing around after others.My feet carry me automatically home along the path I tread every day. Chapter OneNowOK, so feminism has taken quite a hit in the last decade or so, but women should still expect to walk home alone after work without incident, shouldn’t they? Even if it is dark and the winter nights drawing in mean daylight starts fading at 4 PM.My best friend Leah was one of these women.Now she is gone.Leah was always going to do whatever she wanted and no one would stop her. She fell foul of this way of thinking because she had the unshakable belief that she was safe. Hard as nails.This was in spite of the horror stories I had told her about the truth of human nature. And I certainly had gleaned a tale or two from my early childhood in care. Too much for a young child. That was before Leah’s mum adopted me as a twelve-year-old.‘Any bloke who comes near me is in for a shock,’ Leah had laughed once punching her fist in the air. It was one day after school when her mother, Helen, pointed to an advert for self-defence lessons in the newspaper.Helen had later dropped us both off anyway at the Snowdome leisure centre in the centre of Tamworth for the classes. But our adventurous fourteen-year-old selves didn’t take them seriously. We had instead used the unchaperoned opportunity to venture elsewhere in the building during every session.We raided the vending machine for Sprite and Doritos and laughed through the glass at the newbie skiers as they scrambled around, limbs akimbo, on the indoor snow slope. On hotter days we would venture out to the lake at the edge of the car park, the water rippling the sun across our faces.Leah thought bad things only happened to people in the news. Until one day she became a headline herself. She paid for her stubbornness with her life.