Harvest by Steve Merrifield Read Free Book Online Page B

frothing heads. She slipped a chocolate
bar into the gaping pocket of his combat trousers. “Don’t tell your
mum.” She winked at him in an impression of her former self.
    A door slammed shut with a
terrible bang.
    Claire pushed past him and ran
towards Amy’s room. Jason was so startled by the noise, the rough
treatment and Claire’s fearful shouts for Amy that he didn’t have
to time to think or put down his cola, but followed as fast as he
could without slopping his drink all over the floor. He rounded the
corner and found Claire standing at Amy’s closed door. The handle
jumped up and down and urgent little thumps sound from inside the
room.
    Claire grabbed the handle and
plunged it down and leaned into the door. It opened a few
millimetres, meeting strong resistance. A soft green light spilled
out from the narrow crack before the door was sharply forced
closed.
    Claire jumped back from the door
in confused surprise and Jason staggered away a few shuffled paces
in a defensive instinct. Amy wasn’t strong enough to force the door
shut against Claire, and by the sounds of it Amy wanted out just
much as Claire wanted in. His limbs felt like rubber and he crossed
his legs against an urgent tingling in his bladder. The green light
frightened him.
    Claire promptly regained a
strong hold on the handle with one hand and spread another against
the door, then leapt at it, throwing all her weight against the
wood. The door cracked open under her exertion and Amy escaped
through it. She tangled into her mum’s legs, clambering around her
and frantically pulling her away. Claire instantly dropped into a
crouch and swept Amy into her arms. Jason watched the door swinging
smoothly and idly open on its hinges in the wake of being released
from Claire’s efforts, now that Amy had escaped it didn’t seem
stubborn at all. The green light was gone.

    On the twelfth floor Craig
hesitated outside Kelly Mason’s front door for a moment then
knocked and waited, trying to ignore a dull anxiety that squirmed
uncomfortably in his stomach and tickled his throat. Craig had sat
at home for an hour with Vicki’s judgement of him burning in his
chest and festering in his thoughts.
    He disagreed with her; he
could make an objective journalist. The things that
Claire had said were fact, and the content of what she said would
conjure emotion in most people. He was sure that as cynical as
Vicki was, even she was only half-joking about the mother killing
her daughter, and despite Vicki’s dislike of children, the human
side of this story couldn’t be lost on her personally. He reminded
himself that he had given up trying to work out Vicki’s mind a few
weeks after they had met.
    Craig knew he could
handle interviews better, but while he was a photographer he
wouldn’t get the opportunity, he wasn’t qualified to approach any
paper but his local rag, and Vicki’s boss, the editor of The Camden Gazette , wanted to keep
him where he was; easier to employ a new writer rather than
possibly lose a photographer. The
Hampstead and Highgate News had shown little interest
beyond their regular writers and contributions from established
freelancers.
    After returning to his
flat Craig had looked about his home knowing that two floors above
him in another flat, a family was falling apart and a mother was
losing her heart and mind. This story was too close to home for him
to pass up. He had always enjoyed writing, he had poured over short
stories as a kid, never really finishing anything, and even when
his love of photography had taken over his writing had been
knocking around in the background. He accepted he was a
photographer now, but if he was to get
into writing, he reasoned he had to do something sometime. If
writing news was part of that then with something happening on his
doorstep he had just the opportunity and the unique perspective to
understand how this hit those around him. He needed an outlet for
his creativity – he certainly wasn’t