Time Is Running Out Read online

  Time is Running Out

  Michael Wood

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

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  Copyright © Michael Wood 2021

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  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

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  Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008460624

  Ebook Edition © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008460617

  Version: 2021-02-11

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading…

  You will also love…

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Wood

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  To Simon Browes

  For replying to my disturbing questions with bizarre answers.

  Let’s hope nobody ever reads our text messages.

  Chapter One

  Tuesday 8th January 2019 – Mowson Lane, Worrall, Sheffield

  Vivian Harrison couldn’t sleep. She sat up in bed, stared at the alarm clock and watched as the green figures changed from 4:22 to 4:23. She sighed. Next to her, her husband, Malcolm, was snoring gently. Why was he able to sleep when she couldn’t? Bloody men.

  Vivian listened intently to any sound coming from the next room. Most nights she heard muffled crying. She wanted to go in, hug him, tell him everything was going to be all right, but Malcolm told her not to. It caused her physical pain to see the torment this family was going through, hence the sleepless nights. And the indigestion. And the heartburn.

  She threw back the duvet and swung her legs out of bed. It was a bitterly cold morning. She slipped her feet into her carpet slippers, grabbed her floor-length dressing gown from the bottom of the bed and wrapped it around her, tying it tightly at the waist. As she left the bedroom, she glanced back at her husband curled up in bed. He looked comfortable, warm, safe, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips. She wondered what he was dreaming about. She wondered how he could dream at all with everything going on around him.

  On the landing, she walked slowly in the dark, avoiding the creaking floorboards Malcolm had promised to fix for the past fifteen years and never bothered to do anything about. Outside the spare bedroom, she stopped, placed her ear against the door and listened. There was an eerie silence. She could feel the powerful emotions emanating through the door. A whole universe was slowly dying in that room and she was impotent to do anything about it.

  Since he’d moved in, Vivian’s sleeping patterns had gone to hell. She managed a few hours a night, and they were fitful. Any hint of a noise and she was wide awake. She shivered in the cold and tore herself away from the door.

  She tiptoed down the stairs carefully without turning on a light so as not to disturb anyone. While everything was quiet, everything was fine. Or so she believed. Once in the kitchen, she closed the door behind her and squinted as she flicked the switch and the room was lit up with a brilliant white light. She filled the kettle and turned it on. While waiting for it to boil, she leaned against the worktop and stared into space.

  They’d had a lovely Christmas. Vivian had turned sixty on Christmas Eve, and what was left of her family had gathered round for a special meal cooked by Malcolm and her sister. She’d sat in the living room, surrounded by nieces and nephews and their children. Those too young to understand marvelled at the real Christmas tree and played happily with toys, huge smiles on their faces. Those who did know the recent history of the Harrison family sat awkwardly on the sofa, faces blank, not knowing what to say in case they put their foot in it.

  Malcolm had presented Vivian with a diamond necklace for her birthday and the following day gave her a set of matching earrings. They were gorgeous, and she found herself smiling for the first time in months. On Boxing Day, they wrapped up warm and went for a long walk in the Peak District National Park, just the two of them. They stopped for lunch in a cosy pub and left all of their troubles at home, which, unfortunately, were still waiting for them when they returned. Vivian had gone upstairs to change, seen the door of the spare bedroom ajar, looked in and found him hanging by the neck from the light fitting. They cut him down and called for an ambulance. Malcolm performed CPR and brought him back to life just as the sirens were heard coming down the road. It was a depressing end to 2018, a
nd it was going to be sad start to 2019.

  The kettle boiled, bringing Vivian back to reality. She hadn’t felt the tears roll down her cheeks but saw little splashes of them on the worktop. She wiped them away and set about making herself a strong cup of tea. She opened the cupboard above the kettle and took out a tin of biscuits. She’d overbought for Christmas, as usual, and there were plenty of snacks and treats left. It was times like these when worrying about calories and your waistline went out of the window. Chocolate was needed, and she had plenty to choose from.

  The kitchen door opened sometime later, and Malcolm padded in, dragging his feet along the floor.

  ‘What are you doing up?’ he asked her. ‘It’s still pitch-black outside.’

  She looked up and saw her husband with wild grey hair, his dressing gown half hanging off his shoulders and his eyes barely open. She giggled.

  ‘I’ve never known anyone go to sleep and wake up looking like they’ve spent eight hours in a tumble dryer.’

  He tried to neaten himself up. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being comfortable in your own bed. Still not sleeping?’

  She shook her head. ‘Would you like a cuppa?’

  ‘I may as well, now I’m up.’

  Vivian stood up and went to make another cup of tea. She’d almost finished the one she’d been drinking, so made a second cup for herself.

  ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘My mind must realise when you’ve got up and wakes me up. For some reason, I can’t sleep without you next to me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a lovely thing to say.’ She turned to him and blew him a kiss.

  ‘When you were in hospital for those three days having your shoulder done, I hardly slept a wink: tossing and turning, kicking the duvet off. I need to feel a warm body beside me.’

  ‘You could have hired an escort,’ she said with a cheeky grin on her face.

  ‘If you’d have been away any longer, I would have done.’

  She gave a throaty laugh and placed two mugs on the table. ‘Then you’d have been in hospital with exhaustion.’

  They sat at opposite ends of the breakfast table, Malcolm with his back to the door leading out to the hallway. Vivian watched while her husband rifled through the biscuit tin. They frequently exchanged jokey comments. They both had a dark sense of humour that only each other understood. Her smile soon faded though. Levity didn’t visit this house for long.

  ‘We can’t go on like this, Malcolm,’ Vivian said, her hands wrapped around the mug.

  He looked up. ‘I know,’ he said softly.

  ‘We need to do something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  She thought for a moment before shrugging. ‘I don’t know. Look, I know you said I shouldn’t, but how about if I just call round this evening and have a word?’

  ‘Vivian, no. It’s got nothing to do with us. He needs to sort out his own problems.’

  ‘But he’s not doing it, is he?’ Vivian said in a loud whisper. ‘He spends all day in his room. He hardly eats. He never goes out. If she could just see…’

  ‘Vivian,’ Malcolm said firmly. ‘It’s over. His marriage is over. And the sooner he accepts that and moves on, the better it will be for all of us.’

  His words echoed around the room. Vivian sat back in her chair. Her face a picture of sadness, worry and lost hope.

  ‘It’s not just his marriage, though Malcolm, it’s everything else that’s happened,’ she said, a catch in her throat. ‘He’s lost his job, his home, his brot…’ Her words were lost to her tears.

  Malcolm jumped up and ran to her side of the table. He put his arms around her and held her tight.

  ‘What did we do wrong, Malcolm?’ she asked between sobs. ‘We didn’t neglect them as children. We didn’t smack them or abuse them. We gave them everything they could want and look how they’ve turned out. One in prison and the other with a restraining order against him from his own wife.’

  ‘None of this is our fault. We did everything right. You did everything right.’

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, Malcolm. It’s making me ill.’

  He kissed her on the top of her head. ‘This needs to end,’ he said. There was force behind his words.

  He left the kitchen, opened the drawer in the cupboard in the hallway and came back with a cardboard folder in his hands. He sat back down at the table.

  ‘I was going to save this for when things improved, but I don’t think they’re going to anytime soon.’ He opened the folder and took out a brochure. ‘I’ve booked us a holiday in Venice for next month,’ he said, sliding it across to her.

  Vivian blinked away her tears. ‘What?’

  ‘Happy early Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You’ve always wanted to go.’

  ‘Venice? But you hate water.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You won’t even cross the Channel on a ferry – you always make us go through the tunnel.’

  ‘I’m aware,’ he said, with a hint of a smile. ‘However, I know you’ve always wanted to go, so we’re going. I’ll even go on a gonorrhoea with you.’

  She laughed. ‘Gondola.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Oh, Malcolm,’ she said. Her whole face lit up. Malcolm smiled in return.

  ‘I’ve got another surprise for you, as well.’

  She looked up expectantly from the brochure. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m on the pill,’ he joked. He took out another brochure from the folder. ‘I was thinking we could move house.’

  Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in shock. ‘Move? Why? Where to?’

  ‘We’ve been through so much in the last few years. I saw this development online,’ he said, pointing to the brochure. ‘They’re building new homes in Northumberland, near the coast. I’ve provisionally put our name down for a three-bedroom bungalow. They won’t be built until the middle of next year, and I’ll be able to take early retirement by then. I thought we could sell up here, have a fresh start. Just the two of us.’

  He reached across the table and took hold of his wife’s hand.

  ‘You deserve it,’ he said. ‘We deserve it.’

  Vivian’s face was one of surprise and amazement. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Thirty years of marriage and I’ve finally made you speechless. I never thought this day would come!’ He laughed.

  ‘What about…’ She flicked her eyes up to the ceiling again.

  ‘Vivian, he’s thirty-four years old. He needs to take his own life by the horns and do something with it. We can’t keep mollycoddling him.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I know I’m right. So, what do you think to this bungalow then?’

  She opened the brochure and looked down at the computer-generated images of what the estate would look like.

  ‘The main bedroom is en suite – you’ve always wanted an en suite,’ Malcolm narrated while Vivian looked at the pictures. ‘There’s a decent-sized kitchen with a separate utility room. No dining room, but we won’t really need one. And look at the size of the garden. You could finally have a vegetable patch.’

  Vivian looked up with a huge smile on her face, which suddenly dropped.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?’

  Vivian froze. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. She looked straight past her husband and out into the hallway. She started to shake. Tears rolled down her face as an expression of pure horror formed.

  ‘Vivian?’ Malcolm asked. He followed her gaze and turned around slowly. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Standing in the hallway was their son, Jake. Tall and slim with an intense look on his face. His eyes were wide and staring. His arms were out straight. He was holding a handgun in both hands, which was aimed straight at his father.

  ‘Jake, what are you doing?’
Malcolm asked.

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t move. A look of concentration was etched on his pale face.

  ‘Jake, please,’ Vivian cried.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, put the gun down. You’re frightening your mother.’

  Malcolm stood up and slowly approached his son.

  ‘How did you get hold of a gun?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘Jake, I know you’re going through hell right now, but we’re helping you. We’re doing everything we can for you. We’ve let you into our home and this is—’

  A shot was fired. It was muffled, no louder than a sneeze. Jake’s facial expression didn’t change as the bullet hit Malcolm in the centre of the forehead. He fell to the floor with a heavy thud and was dead before he hit the ground.