The Road to Hell by Gillian Galbraith

like those of a devout Muslim in a mosque.
    ‘Who’s there? Who’s there . . . please, please?’ she begged, terrified now, desperate to see whoever it was who was following her, tormenting her. Feeling weak, she
managed to get to her feet and started to limp away from the sounds, the eerie laughter. Her hair flapping into her eyes made them sting and water, and she clenched and unclenched her jaw, forcing
herself onwards, trying to ignore the knife-like pain in her knee.
    Another noise filled her ears, this time like the hissing of a snake, and she looked up and saw a figure standing in front of her. It seemed huge, looming over her, and she knew in her bones
that it intended her harm. Without thought she tried to escape from it, flinging herself into the nearby thicket, fighting her way through the jagged hawthorn and blackthorn bushes, feeling nothing
as their thorns ripped through the flesh of her head and hands. Startled, a bird flew up at her, again hitting her squarely in the face, and she screamed, unable to contain herself, horrified by
its feathery feel.
    From some place deep within the thicket came a strange scrabbling sound, as if something, or someone, was clawing its way through the undergrowth to get to her. To get at her. Hearing it, she
quickened her pace until her damaged knee gave way, and she fell forwards, exhausted. She had reached a clearing at the edge of a rock face, and a hundred feet below, the burn shone like polished
steel in the light of the newly-risen moon. In the silence she remained motionless, breathing shallowly in an effort to keep quiet, terrified that the sound of her teeth chattering might give her
away.
    For five more minutes she remained where she was, unable to stop the shivering that racked her body, but alert, listening for any of those horrible sounds. None came. Whatever it was that had
been pursuing her had, finally, gone. It had given up. She let out a sigh of relief, newly conscious of her own thumping heartbeat. And then, both behind and in front of her, she heard the
familiar, tinkling little laugh.

 
4
    The first to wake the next morning, Alice slid from under her lover’s outstretched arm and edged quietly out of the bed. In the dark her hand scrabbled on the bedside
table searching for her watch. Finally she found it, carried it into the kitchen and turned on the light. 7.32 a.m. Christ almighty! Neither of them had remembered to set the alarm and now she
would be late for work. But all was not lost, she thought. If she drove instead of walking as usual, she could still make it on time.
    In the cold bathroom she hurriedly threw on those of yesterday’s clothes that she could find, and then brushed her teeth using the disgusting sweet, striped stuff that Ian insisted on
buying. She made a mental note to beg him once more to get something else. Or, conceivably, to do the shopping herself, for a change.
    The bread bin contained only a single, stale croissant which she scanned for mould. Finding only a patch the size of a pinhead she ate the croissant with some raspberry jam, mould and all.
Gulping down the last of her tea she set off down the tenement steps towards the street, confident that she would make St Leonard’s by eight-fifteen. Halfway down she remembered that she had
neither closed the front door of their flat nor given Ian a farewell kiss. Rattled at having to use up more precious minutes, she turned round and tore up the two flights of stairs and rushed,
panting, back into the flat.
    Unthinkingly, she clumped along the bare boards of the corridor leading to their bedroom and flung the door open. Despite the racket, Ian remained asleep. A miracle, she thought, or, and more
likely, the effects of last night’s drink. Light from the corridor outside illuminated his face, and for an instant she gazed at the slumbering man, touched by his vulnerability. Time stood
still. His dark hair lay in curls over his forehead and his long lashes were