The Unforgiven (The DS Mia McAllister #1)

Prologue

The meet up wasn’t really what she’d been expecting, of course what should she feel running into an old friend after so many years?

How many years was it now? Thirteen? Fourteen?

Half a lifetime ago; enough time that Chelsea couldn’t remember being the girl she was then. She wasn’t even sure who she was now.

Two kids, a broken engagement, a bloke, Neil, that she wasn’t sure was good for her (because it depended on what his mate, Craig was filling his head with), and rent she wasn’t sure she could afford this month, but here she was, having drinks with an old friend because it meant she could avoid what was really going on in her life.

“So, what are you doing with yourself now?” Chelsea asked, still not sure whether the person sat in the pub with her was the same one she’d known that summer when they were kids.

There was an odd smell, she wasn’t sure where from, but it was peculiar and it was giving her a headache.

Her friend looked completely different; could one person change so much? She supposed it was possible.

There was a shrug from under a thick coat. “Studying mainly. Have you heard from any of the others? I lost touch with them. We didn’t go back after that summer.”

Chelsea wasn’t surprised; after everything that happened that summer, keeping in touch hadn’t been on her agenda.

She’d wanted to forget all about it, really.

In fact, she remembered being pretty horrible that summer, taking her frustration out on whoever was there.

She felt a pang of guilt over the way she'd behaved that summer.

She'd not always been kind, yet she'd been welcomed with a smile from her old friend – one that she probably hadn't earned.

“Only on socials.” She shrugged, checking her watch which was new and she shouldn’t have bought it because it would’ve covered a month’s rent. Priorities, Craig would say. She needed to get her priorities right.

Craig could fuck right off. Maybe he was after his mate Neil, and that was why he was always such a dick with her.

“Do you live round here?”

Chelsea laughed. “As if. We moved to Liverpool – we had to after our Cal had that run in with that gang. They said he was dealing on their patch. Maybe he was – I don’t know.” She checked her watch again. “Look, it’s been really good seeing you, but I need to head off.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I thought we could get a bite to eat. My treat.”

Chelsea felt a slight pang of hunger and ignored it, like she was used to doing.

Her kids were with their dad for the week because it was the Easter holidays – about time he had them for longer than a couple of nights although he’d probably palmed them off on his mum.

At least she’d feed them more than beans on toast.

“There’s a really nice café I know about. We could go there. Are you getting the train back to Liverpool later?”

Chelsea shook her head, trying to work out what had changed with her old friend’s face.

Age was one thing; a nose job was definitely another.

She wondered how much it’d cost. “I’m staying at a mate’s tonight.

Kids are with their dad, so I’ve got a bit of freedom for once.

Makes a change from hearing someone shout ‘mum’ every two point five bleeding seconds. ”

They both laughed, but Chelsea wasn’t sure why.

“Have you got kids?”

A shake of the head, a glance outside. “No. Not yet. Not sure I will. It’s still raining but I think it’s meant to get heavier. Shall we head off to the café? It’s better than this dump of a pub.”

Why not? Chelsea couldn’t think of a reason not to.

The mate she was staying with wasn’t expecting her until she turned up and if she wasn’t in, Chelsea knew where she kept the spare key – under the gnome that was missing its nose.

Neil never took her out for food; he said that she needed to keep her figure, but really it was because he was a tight arse, and Chelsea never ate it all anyway.

Nice food somewhere warm could be alright.

“Yeah. It’s a bit grim in here anyway. I thought this bit of Manchester was meant to be posh and trendy now.

” She looked around her, pulling on her coat, designer of course, or at least that was what Neil told her.

“It’s a bit grim out there too.” It really was.

The rain was sheeting down, the sort of rain that could only fall in Manchester, battering the city with heavy, thick drops of cold that drenched you quicker than you could put your hood up.

Chelsea didn’t say anything as they walked out of the pub towards a thicket with a path running through it.

It was the sort of place where teenagers would hang around in the evenings, drinking cider and experimenting with poppers.

Or maybe they didn’t do that anymore, they probably stayed at home with their games consoles and never left their bedrooms.

“Where is it we’re going?” She felt a bit lost now, not quite sure where they were or where this café was. This wasn’t a part of Manchester she knew, not that she knew Manchester anymore.

“It’s about ten minutes away. Just near the canal. It reminds me of that building we hung around in that summer.”

Chelsea knew what building that was. It was the one they’d locked someone inside, the very person she was speaking to now.

For the first time in a long time, Chelsea felt something other than anger or irritation, or the fleeting beat of love when she looked at her kids.

Fear.

Her breathing shallowed. Rain beat down around her, a cacophony of thuds that quickened to the same time as her pulse.

“I think I’ll head back actually. I’m getting pissed wet through.” She turned around, facing the direction she was pretty sure they’d just come from, and felt in her pocket for her phone.

It wasn’t there.

“I think I’ve left my phone in the pub too. Better give my fella, Neil, a bell. He gets a bit possessive, you know.” She turned around one last time, the sound of the rain drowning out anything else, deafening her.

If it hadn’t been raining, maybe Chelsea would’ve heard her old friend’s footsteps on the ground, crunching the twigs that’d broken from the army of trees.

If it hadn’t been raining, maybe she’d have been able to run, instead of sliding on the bedding of old rotten leaves which she tumbled down on a thin, dirty mattress as the blade of a knife failed to glimmer in the lightless, Manchester evening.