She was running. The white wedding dress caked in mud and blood. She tore down the streets, never daring to look behind her. Her hair was knotted and filthy. Tears streamed down her face mixing with the dirt. Her hands were covered in congealed blood. She swerved around a corner, still running as fast as she could. She could hear shouting from afar yet she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. Were they even shouting at her? No matter, she thought, she had to keep running. He was dead and her prints were all over the knife. He was dead. Those words seemed to ring clearest in her mind. He was dead. They echoed. She didn't want to believe it. How could he be dead? It just didn't seem possible. How could he be dead? The greatest man she'd ever known, the one man who had ever truly loved her. But, she told herself, he was dead. She had seen it happen. She had as good as held the knife.
Her mind was fuzzy. She thought back, she could see herself at the reception. They were dancing. Everyone was laughing and crying and shouting jovially. Old friends and new friends. She blinked. What had happened then? Her mind seemed to have blocked it out. As she tried desperately to remember, she suddenly realised she'd been standing rooted to the spot for too long. The shouts were coming nearer, now mingled in amongst deafening police sirens. She looked down at her feet. Sighing, she kicked off the high-heeled shoes she'd been wearing and set off again. Her mind was racing nearly as fast as she was. She had to get home. She had to get out of these clothes. She was sprinting down a dark alleyway now, the shouts becoming more and more audible behind her. She reached the end of the alleyway.
She kept running. For the first time, she chanced a glance backwards and her eyes connected with the sight of ten people running straight towards her, some were police, the others her colleagues. She kept looking back as she continued to run. Then came a sickening crack and for a brief second she realised she had looked back for too long. Dazed, she staggered backwards, wondering what she had collided with. Her mind slipped in and out of consciousness. Her eyes struggled to stay open. She felt herself beginning to sway and then fall backwards in the dark. She braced herself for the cold impact of the tarmac but it never came. Instead she found herself being held tightly. She forced her eyes open, and then her heart sank.
"It's okay, I've got you. I've got you," said a voice calmly. She tried to focus on the speaker but a sense of crowding was overwhelming her as those who had pursued now encircled. The speaker spoke again. "Are you Jacqueline Naylor?" She thought about this. Without speaking, Jac nodded. It happened instantaneously. Her arms were forced behind her back and she could feel the cold metal of handcuffs closing around her wrists. A second voice pierced the air.
"Jacqueline Naylor, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Joseph Byrne, you do not have to say anything but it may harm you defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?" Jac nodded. Next second she could feel a hand gripping her shoulder tightly, manoeuvring her away. At last Jac realised what it was she had hit. A police car. How depressingly predictable, Jac couldn't help thinking. She felt her head forced down as she was ushered into the backseat. The policeman clipped on the seatbelt. Jac didn't say a word as the car drove away. She continued on in silence as the car came to a halt outside Holby South.
"Get out," said a gruff voice. Jac opened her eyes. The car door was open and the seatbelt unclipped. Jac made no movement. A bear-like arm gripped her and pulled her roughly into the open air. Jac did not attempt to resist. Her whole body seemed to have seized up. There was no point to anything any more. No point.
TO BE CONTINUED