sample: Prologue
   It had sounded like an egg cracking open, except amplified between his ears. But it couldn’t be sticky egg yolk he’d felt running down his face, for he knew it was blood, his blood. He fought with the dense shrubbery as it whipped and lashed at his flailing limbs, fingers grasping, but nothing could stop him rolling further down the grassy verge. His head crashed into another loose rock, inducing the pain to a new excruciating level. It seemed like a lifetime until his battered limbs came to a halt. He could now taste his blood as it engulfed his mouth, and at that second, he thought he might choke on it. In a desperate attempt he tried to lift his head, until an electrifying pain shot through the back of his skull and made its way down his spinal cord. He could feel the life draining from him, as he lay staring up at a bloodied landscape.
   When finally his brain pulped the last of its memories, he saw her face one last time.

1989
   Dave Banford was nervous when he got the job to interview the parents of missing boy, James MacIntyre. The East Kilbride police station, situated outside the city of Glasgow, received the call from the anxious parents at ten o’clock that evening on the 15th of July. It was Dave’s first big job since joining the police. He and Sergeant Frey visited the couple at their home in the St. Leonards area of East Kilbride to take a description of the missing boy.
     It had been tough, for his mother was hysterical, but the boy’s father kept his strength and answered Frey’s questions.
     “He’s a very quiet boy is our James, so it’s not like him to be out this late. Nobody has seen him since this morning at school.”
     “Do you know what time that was - when he was last seen?” asked Frey.
     The father slowly nodded his head. “Luke Johnston said he last saw him at English class and that was before noon.”
     “Is Luke a friend of James?”
     “Yes. James had told him he was coming home for his lunch as he did every day, but that was a lie.” Mr. MacIntyre looked away as his wife’s sobbing became unbearably louder.
     “Why would he lie about coming here for his lunch breaks?” asked a young Banford.
     Frey shot him a glance, reminding him of who was in charge. The young officer took the hint and stepped back from the Sergeant.
     The mother tried to speak between sobs; “H-he hasn’t come home for his lunch since he w-was at primary school.”
     “Are you sure he didn’t come home this afternoon?” asked Frey.
     The father nodded his head. “Yes, I was here and there was no sign of him.”
     Sergeant Frey asked them a few more questions, and took a note of James’ friends phone numbers. They took a description of the fifteen-year old boy before assuring the couple that they would find him skulking away somewhere before the night was over.
     When the two policemen got into their car, Banford asked Frey what he thought of the situation.
     “The boy’s probably on drugs. They all are these days.”
     “But the parents painted a perfect picture of their son,” said Banford.
     Frey started the engine up. “Don’t all parents?”

    He placed the car into first gear before letting go of the handbrake before glancing over at a solemn young Banford.

    “Oh come on Dave, this shit happens all the time. The kid disappears, worried parents call us, paint a rosy picture of the kid, and finally the next day, the kid returns home with a raging hangover.”
     Banford glanced over at Frey.

    “Yeah you’re probably right. We’ll get a call in the morning saying he’s home and the parents are embarrassed in wasting our time.”
     Frey threw a light punch to the side of his right arm.

    “You’re catching on quick son. You just wait and see, you’ll be sitting where I am before you know it.”


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