BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The irritating noise of the phone breaking through his sleep had been so frustrating, Jude reached up, collected it off the bedside table and launched it across the room. He hadn’t opened his eyes. He could hear a crack as the device hit the wall. At least the beeping noise stopped.
When he did open his eyes, it was with a struggle. He took a moment to register where he was and gather his wits. He was in his own bed. He was alone. He couldn’t remember getting back. He tried to piece together what happened. His wife was gone. Helen was off to visit her sister, Hannah. She had just had a baby. Three summers ago Helen had caught them in bed together. It was best Jude just stayed at home. No point having unnecessary drama when the woman had just given birth.
He had managed to work things out with Helen. They had been married for five years and despite the infidelity she would never leave him. Jude Baxter was a celebrated actor. He had been in front of cameras ever since he was a little boy and these days he was most known as Dr Shardlake on Coldford City’s most popular soap opera, MARCH OF OUR TIMES. She liked the lifestyle too much and your husband having it away with your sister whilst you’re at the hospital with your mother, was a price Helen was willing to pay for it.
It left Jude on his own. He never did too well on his own, especially in the sprawling Cardyne Hills mansion he lived in. It was so vacant when there wasn’t a party going on.
He must have gone out. Jude could vaguely remember heading into City Main for a beer. He would be damned if he could remember the name of the bar he started in. He must have drank a lot from there.
He had kicked off his loafers. They were covered in mud. They were ruined and he had walked muddy footprints into the bedroom with them. He couldn’t remember even walking in mud. Hopefully someone would be able to clean the mess before Helen got back. He’d have a look online for another pair. They were from last season anyway. The more immediate issue was dealing with the headache. It was starting to get worse now that he had woken up. Oh shit! The phone!
He remembered the cracking sound when he had launched it across the room. He picked it up. It was functioning. The screen was cracked. Through the damage he could see:
25 MISSED CALLS
EDNA CALL: ENDED – 25 MINUTES
MSG: CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS – EDNA
UNKNOWN NUMBER CALL: ENDED – 15 MINUTES
1 VOICEMAIL – 4 MINUTES 32 SECONDS
The battery was running low. He wondered what he had been saying to his agent on the phone for almost thirty minutes. He opted to check the voicemail, incase Helen had been calling with flight times. He called the inbox. As the generic voice guided him through the headache became really, fucking painful.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
1:53am
“Mr Baxter? It’s Dr Winslow speaking. I assume you have returned home. The arrangements have been made. I must speak to you urgently about your next steps and small matter of payment. I’ll be at the clinic until four pm.”
END OF MESSAGE.
Dr Winslow? Why the Hell had he been calling a doctor at that time of night for? What kind of doctor even was he?
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The battery completely gave up. He left the loafer and muddy stains behind and drew himself to the kitchens, barely able to keep himself steady. That was no easy task. He found clothes by the door he must have pulled off, leaving him in the underwear he had slept in. A stool from the breakfast bar had been toppled over. A glass of whisky had smashed on the floor. He might have thought he had been robbed. The door had been left unlocked, and the security was off. His car wasn’t in the driveway either.
His hands went to his ribs which ached. They were bruised. He was only just wakened enough to notice. Suddenly the memories of the previous night started to sharpen.
He had been in an accident. He had been driving drunk. He was in an accident. Shit! He had hit someone. What happened to them.
“It’s Dr Winslow. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”
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