The Thirteenth by G L Twynham Page A

the burning car had almost obscured their position. Delta beckoned to the emergency services, holding her pink handbag aloft, almost like a siren, calling them onto the rocks.
    “Typically British,” Delta thought to herself as she waved. “Like you guys say, they are like buses: nothing, then they all arrive at once,” she told the injured man who, thanks to Val’s electric slap, was now conscious. All Delta was genuinely concerned with was finding her friend, getting out of this smoky situation and returning to civilisation and a hot skinny latte.
    Delta leaned over the man, keeping far enough away from him not to get herself any dirtier than she already was. “Do you know where you are?” she asked.
    The man lifted his head slightly. “I was on my way to Lanron. It’s two miles from here,” he responded weakly, then his head fell back onto the grass. Delta didn’t have the slightest clue where that was. Why didn’t they have more descriptive names in this country? If the man had said they were two miles from the nearest designer shopping outlet or Starbucks, she would have known where they were. Not that she was seriously worried. She was absolutely sure that she could get home eventually. Having Daddy’s plastic in her purse was a first class ticket to anywhere. What Delta didn’t know, was where exactly her best friend had popped off to. Val could be on Mars for all she knew!
    Val stood for a moment trying to get one clear thought into her head. “Come on,” she banged her forehead with the palm of her hand, “sort yourself out.” She looked around wildly for any visible clue to give her some sort of direction. She started to pace the shop floor. Pushing her hands into her jeans pockets she felt the sharp stab of cardboard under her nail making her wince in pain and pull out her hand. After inspecting her finger for damage, she cautiously reached back into her pocket and pulled out a business card. On the front, in what looked like gothic text, were the words; ‘The House of Art’ Proprietor: Shane Walker, tattoo artist, Address: 10 the High Street, Arcsdale, AE2 4JR Tel 01675 849666. Val pulled her phone out. “Great, no signal!” she spat at the screen, flipping it shut and shoving it back into her pocket.
    She needed to get to Shane’s. At least she could tell him and he (possibly) wouldn’t think she was as barking mad as the police would. “Don’t worry Delta, I’ll find you,” she said into the mirror before swiftly turning to leave the bookshop.
    Back at the crash, site Delta was surrounded by several hunky police officers and a few attractive paramedics. She smiled and for a few moments soaked up every second of attention, hoping that firemen were coming as well. She directed them all to the man on the floor, telling them quite bravely that she was fine. At that point, a young and very attractive policeman introduced himself as P C Flinch and asked Delta to move to one side of the road with him.
    “So tell me, madam, what exactly happened?” The young man leaned towards Delta, obviously drawn in by her American bombshell magnetism.
    “I have to be honest and say I don’t know. When I arrived he was on the floor and unconscious,” Delta replied sweetly, flicking back her blond hair and moving closer. Becoming visibly nervous he realised he was way out of his depth and staggered backwards, clumsily making room between himself and Delta.
    “Don’t go anywhere,” he stuttered. “I still need to ask you some more questions. I’m just going to get some advice from my Sergeant; we need to know what to do with you now.” He stumbled backwards almost falling into the ditch in his haste to get away from her.
    Delta watched as he made his escape towards what looked like the man in charge.
    “I think it’s time to leave; I need to find my friend,” she said under her breath. Looking around, Delta spotted a road sign. Making her way through the gathering crowd of uniforms she pulled