Chapter One

Global warming, the war on terror, world peace! All these problems fade in comparison, when it’s a quarter to midnight on New Year’s Eve and you’re stuck in the queue to use the toilet. Well, at least that’s how Rachel felt. ‘Trapped’! Five floors up, in the ultra-modern, glass clad, Isis nightclub. A slave to the basic bodily functions and nightclub owners who prioritize dance floor space as opposed to extra toilet facilities. 
“What is it with the British and their queues anyway?” reflected Rachel.

To her right she could see straight through the impregnated glass walls and onto the town square below, where hundreds of revellers were busying themselves with fireworks, and alcohol, an interesting combination Rachel thought. She could also see… “Excuse me are you in the queue?” asked a voice from behind. Rachel turned to face the person who posed this very intriguing question. Staring back at her was a young woman of medium build, with long black hair. She had very sharp well-defined facial features: a prominent nose, high cheekbones, dark blue eyes and lips that looked like they may have been surgically enhanced. She wore an elegant, navy blue dress that stopped just above her knees, which she complimented with black strapless high-heeled shoes. “Yes I am. Tragic isn’t it?” replied Rachel. The woman nodded in consent and Rachel turned her attention back to the queue before her, which moved forward a few steps. A few steps closer to salvation, Rachel thought. Salvation being a relatively hygienic toilet and full-length mirror, in which she could check her hair, adjust her make up and confirm her overall appearance. Again gazing through the glass walls at the revellers outside she remembered that something had caught her eye earlier, what was it? She looked out at one of the neighbouring buildings and was sure that she had seen three people standing in what appeared to be an office, but the office was now empty. And besides what was so strange about that? Not everyone has the privilege of a day off on New Years Eve. What company owns that building anyway? And what do they do that’s critical enough for employees to be working so late on New Years Eve? “Ahhh!” she remembered, there was a bright flash that appeared to have originated from inside the office, where the three people were standing, just a couple of minutes ago. That was what was strange; the flash appeared to come from the inside and not the outside of the building. Surely it was just a reflection of the light from the fireworks outside? Just then, she was again disturbed, but this time by one of the night clubs security guards running past her. Rachel could almost guess exactly where he was going, straight into the female toilets. A few seconds later another security guard made an announcement “Ladies can you please use the toilets on the fourth floor? These toilets will be closed for the rest of the night. Thank you for your cooperation”.

The excerpt above was written by The Story We All Wrote Team

As Rachel awoke on her warm, cozy mattress bed she felt the cushiness of it envelope her exhausted body.  She didn’t want to wake up from the strange dream she had that night. An odd sense of excitement was in her dream and it had to be more interesting than her day-to-day work at Unicorp. There were rushing security guards, gun flare and a strange woman who clearly had something to hide.  As the mid-morning sun beat in through the tall arched windows of her penthouse apartment Rachel realized she hadn’t been dreaming at all.   She was still wearing her evening clothes from the New Year’s Eve gala at the “Isis”.  Did she have a hangover?  She wasn’t sure.  She sat up in bed moving as rapidly as a decrepit old woman.  She rubbed her eyes and lay back down on her mattress to stretch her body.  Every muscle seemed to have been exercised beyond their limits last night.  She had been running to an elevator and that woman was there…. that woman.  Rachel shook her head as if that would jar some cobweb-coated memory to the forefront of her brain.  “She didn’t mention her name but she looked vaguely familiar. We talked for a while after we finished using the bathrooms.” Rachel murmured aloud.  She got up and headed to the kitchen for some coffee.  Surely that would clear the menagerie of clouded thoughts.  When she entered the chrome and glass kitchen Precious, her grey Siamese cat was sitting on the glimmering counter giving Rachel a disdainful look.  Obviously she had forgotten Precious and her morning ritual of Elegant Medley’s.  Today should have been her Florentine garden mix with turkey, especially for the holiday.  Rachel rubbed Precious once around the top of her head and Precious turned to snub her careless owner.  Rachel moved to the other side of the kitchen where she saw her evening shawl and a pink slip of paper stuck to the fringes on the end.  She picked up the note.  It was torn and had an attractive handwriting on it.  When Rachel picked it off her shawl she could smell the scent of Magnolias and Peony.  That was the fragrance the strange woman was wearing.  Rachel couldn’t read all of the note as it was smeared and had gotten wet; what she could read was….”Tom Dob… Clapham Junc… “

The excerpt above was submitted by Donna on the 22nd July 2007

Illegible messages on fancy pink paper did nothing to clear the fuzziness in Rachel’s mind.  There was only one way to clear the cobwebs from her addled brains and that was a shower followed by a grande cappuccino and cinnamon Danish from Harvey’s Patisserie on the corner.  Thankful that small Mom and Pop operations – or small family run businesses as they were called here in the UK – had to remain open, even on New Year’s Day, Rachel turned to leave the kitchen.  Precious had other ideas, however, and almost tripped the woman up as the feline rumba was danced around her ankles.  “Okay, okay, I give in,” she laughed, heading back to the cupboard where she kept Precious’ costly meals.  “You are a spoiled cat, you know that?” Rachel gently scolded as she reached up for the tin.  “Ow!”  A shooting pain stabbed at her shoulder and she pulled back quickly.  Reaching across her chest with her left arm to rub the tender spot, Rachel felt a few small abrasions in the skin.  The cuts were not terribly painful, more like a graze, but they did begin to bleed again as Rachel rubbed at them trying to gauge their size and shape.  What the hell had happened last night?  She couldn’t remember being cut and she certainly didn’t remember anything which could have caused her any muscle pain.  It almost felt as though someone had wrenched the joint out of the socket, or at least pulled strenuously on her arm.  This day was becoming stranger with each passing minute. 

            Precious meowed again, distracting Rachel from her ponderings.  “Give me a minute, will you?” she scolded the cat, an action completely out of character for the normally controlled woman.  As the youngest Mergers and Acquisitions Manager for Unicorp Banking, Rachel was not used to letting down her emotional barriers, even in private.  At twenty nine years old, she felt she had her life totally under control so the fact that she had become annoyed by the cat was testimony to her unsettled mood.  Not knowing what had happened the night before was really disconcerting, especially for a woman who, as a rule, drank very little and normally woke up with her faculties completely intact, even if others didn’t. 

            Rachel took a deep breath and reached for the can again, this time using her left arm.  Precious purred with anticipation, especially when Rachel snapped up the ring pull and the powerful stench of gourmet cat food flooded the small kitchen.  Rachel spooned the contents into the dainty white bowl, the words MY PRECIOUS stencilled on the side in glittery pink writing; she had purchased two matching bowls at Harrods as Christmas gifts for the cat.  Rachel had not been exaggerating when she told her cat earlier that she was spoiled.  Precious was almost like a surrogate child for the dedicated career woman.  Rachel put the dish down on the floor and headed once more for the bathroom hoping the shower would work its magic on her foggy memory.

            Rachel stepped onto the sumptuous marble tiled floor, the under floor heating warming the hard stone deliciously.  Although her mother was constantly bemoaning the fact that there was no husband on the horizon, let alone a grandchild or two, Rachel had to admit that there were certain advantages to dedicating herself to her career.  Take this apartment, for example; a high rise city locale with stunning views over the Thames, carpets so thick you felt like you were walking on air, Italian silk sofas and up to the minute gadgetry installed throughout, a walk-in wardrobe with a shoe rack to die for – all courtesy of Unicorp while she resided in London.  She had heard whispers, though, of a transfer to New York which made Rachel squirm with anticipation of the kind of luxury she would be living in there.  Coming from a life of mediocre middle class back in Baltimore, landing a scholarship at Harvard had paid off in more ways than one. 

            Thankfully, the elegant Mon Cherie dress was undamaged.  Rachel slipped off the soft blue satin, careful not to catch any of the crystal sequins in her Cartier watch – a gift from her boss, Bob Markham - and slipped it back onto the hanger she had left on the back of the door the night before.   It was amazing the dress had not been ruined in her bed and Rachel could not imagine why she had done such a thing.  The dress had cost over two thousand pounds; that was over four thousand US dollars.  No matter how much money she earned, Rachel still remembered what four thousand dollars could buy ‘in the real world’, as her mother put it, and she was always mindful of every penny.  She considered the purchase of the dress money well spent, however, especially as it had caught the eye of Roger Coleman, a visiting high ranking executive from the New York office.  Impressions were, after all, everything. 

            Rachel showered quickly, wincing again as she moved her shoulder to soap her slim body.  She decided to forego shampooing her hair for the moment, perhaps later when her shoulder was better, and finished her ablutions as quickly as possible.  Ten minutes later she was back in her bedroom pulling out a red t-shirt and black jeans.  She decided to top off the ensemble with a pair of black thigh length boots and retreated to the bed to pull them on.  She finished unzipping the first and shifted her weight to ease on the second.  She felt something hard under her left buttock and scooted over slightly to finish zipping up the boot.  She stood up, stamped her feet slightly to make sure she had a comfortable fit, and pulled back the duvet.

            Rachel’s hand flew to her mouth covering her gasp of shock.  Contrasted against the stiff white sheet was a small black handgun, its grip ribbed, the barrel smooth and snubbed.  She swallowed nervously, unsure what she should do next.  Should she call the Police or try to get rid of the damning thing?  Obviously the right thing would be to report it to the authorities but how could she explain how it had come to be in her possession?  ‘I can’t remember, Officer,’ was just not going to cut the mustard.

            Rachel was jolted from her reverie when her mobile phone, which was sitting on the bedside table, vibrated rapidly, skitting across the smooth glass surface.  She stared at the object, assumed guilt steeling its icy fingers round her heart for a few seconds before realisation snapped her mind back to reality.  It’s okay, she thought, it’s just the phone.

            Rachel reached for the slim silver Motorola, her thumb nail slipping into the crevice and snapping it open.  “Hello?”

            “Rachel, it’s Carolyn.”

            “Carolyn?” she answered, confusion locked horns with a fragment of memory as they jostled for supremacy in her conscious mind.

            “Carolyn Dade, you remember… from last night?” 

An image of the woman from Isis popped sharply into focus and Rachel knew instinctively this woman was a major piece of the puzzle from last night.  “Oh yes, Carolyn,” she said trying to cover her hesitation, “How can I help you?”

“Do you still have the gun?”

“The gun?”  Rachel’s eyes flew in alarm to the offending object.

“Oh come on, Rachel, this innocent act is becoming very tiresome.  Yes, the gun.  My gun… the one I asked you to hold for me last night.  Do you still have it?”

“Yes… I’m looking at it right now.”

“Great!” the relief in Carolyn’s voice was audible over the telephone.  “I’m outside your building now.  Oh, and Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“Try to remember who I am when the doorman asks if I can be buzzed up, will you?”

The excerpt above was submitted by Amanda on the 26th August 2007.

 

The excerpt above was submitted by Amanda on the 29th November 2007.