Time for a story—Tricia McGill

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 One of the questions we authors often get asked is, where do you get your ideas? For me a lot of my ideas come at the crack of dawn as I wake up from a dream--but there are times when an idea will not come, so that is when I go through some of my old short stories to stir the brain up. I came across this short short that is so old I have no idea when I penned it. In my search I also found another story that has now become the background for my next book.

A Friend in Need

    She pulled her tattered dress about her shoulders. Branches caught at her hair as she ran. The sound of her breathing, loud and laboured, reverberated around her head. Footsteps pounded behind her. “Oh God,” she cried on a sob.

   

    Trying to increase her speed, she tripped over a root and just stopped herself falling flat on her face. Blood was oozing from the cut above her left eye, and the graze on the back of her neck where he’d hit her with something solid was beginning to throb violently.

    

    “Please let me live, God, and I promise I’ll never go off the rails again,” she whispered.

    All went quiet. Hopefully, he had lost track of her. All she could hear were birds rustling in the trees above her. The night was as black as a tomb. Thunder rumbled off over town and she jumped out of her skin. Surely the road wasn’t far ahead. He’d only driven down the track for about five minutes before he’d stopped and ordered her out at knife point.
          

    What was that? She breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was the headlights of a car directing her towards the road. Her feet were torn to shreds. She had tossed her high heels away so she could run.
          

    A sob caught in her throat as she fought through some scrub and saw the strip of bitumen ahead. A set of headlights lit up the dark sky. Panting and sobbing at the same time she almost threw herself in front of the car. It slewed to the right of the road as she was caught in its headlights. The passenger wound down the window and she recognised Mrs. Jenkins who worked in the supermarket.
            

    “Please, I need help,” she cried, her voice coming out in a croak. Pulling the torn and bloody dress tighter about her, she moved nearer the car.
            

    “Drive on quick, Cyril, we don’t want tarts like that getting in our car,” Mrs. Jenkins said in her cracked and strident voice.
            

    Cyril Jenkins put up a mild argument but began to drive off. And Mrs. Jenkins gave her a wicked grin out of the window. She remembered calling the woman a rude name only last week. Giving another despairing sob, she began to stumble along the side of the road. When she heard another car approaching she stopped and began to wave. This one slowed down a fraction, and as it passed her she just made out the driver.
         

    Mrs. Morris. Another person who wouldn’t spare her the time of day. Who was she to think herself so high and mighty? Latest rumour was that she was carrying on with the local vet.
           

    Her legs were getting weaker. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep going. It began to rain, great soaking drops that saturated her hair, and the frock she hugged about her, in seconds.
            

    She heard another car approaching. This time she made no attempt to hail it. What was the point? They wouldn’t stop for her. She supposed it would be all over town by tomorrow. Who would pity her? No one. As usual they’d say she got what she deserved.
            

    The car slowed and she turned slightly, expecting it to go past as the others had. It stopped and so did she, the rain now rushing down her face. Her bra and underslip clung stickily to her body and her feet stung.
            

    “My goodness, what on earth are you doing out in this terrible storm, and what’s happened to you?” a kindly male voice said as she collapsed in a heap at his feet. She felt herself being lifted in a pair of strong arms. “What on earth have you done?” the voice asked and she tried to tell him, but her eyes wouldn’t open and her mouth had gone so dry that words wouldn’t come out of it.

***

    The sun streamed through the blinds and she felt cozily warm beneath a blanket. Moving slightly she realised she wore a fleecy sort of nightdress and her feet were bandaged. The ache in her head had subsided, but when she moved her neck a pain shot up to her scalp.
            

    “Ah, so you’re awake. How do you feel?” Elsie Trotter, the nurse asked, and she knew she was in the small hospital on the edge of town.
            

    “I feel fine now,” she whispered as she took a sip of the water Elsie held for her.
            

    “What a to-do you’ve caused,” Elsie said excitedly. “The press are waiting to interview you. Sir Henry Whittenberger found you wandering out on the back road. He’s paid for all your medical expenses, and we’re to keep him informed of your progress. The local paper wants to print your story, and who knows, by tonight you could be featured on the six-o-clock news.”
            

    She sank back on the pillow, her head whirling. What a turn up for the books. And if they thought she’d caused a to-do already, wait till they heard who’d tried to rape her at knife-point. Then the feathers really would start to fly in this neck of the woods.

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