Esther Chilton

If you’d like to be included in this slot, please get in touch: estherchilton@gmail.com. Poems can be up to 60 lines and prose 2000 words. If you’d like to add a short bio and photo, then great. All I ask is that there’s nothing offensive.

My guest writer this week is a lovely lady I’ve got to know through The Writers Bureau. She’s taken several of my courses and belongs to our writing group. It’s been fantastic to see how her writing has gone from strength to strength. Please welcome Fiona Brown with a short story.

The Escape

By

Fiona Brown

“Hello, Alison,” came the familiar voice—low and smooth to the casual listener but loaded with menace for Alison.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

How had he found her? She thought she had finally escaped—but here he was.

One hard push, she thought. That’s all it would take to get rid of him. She could shove him in front of the next train and pretend she hadn’t seen it coming.

But there were too many CCTV cameras now.

They’d never bothered her before. “It’s only people who’ve done wrong that worry about CCTV,” she’d once said when her friend complained about invasions of privacy.

Now she was the one who’d be in the wrong. Perfectly ordinary, goody two-shoes Alison.

Alison and Alan—the perfect couple. Alan was always the centre of attention: the fun, thoughtful neighbour, the generous colleague. Alan would do anything for anyone… except Alison. She was “lucky to have him,” as he kept reminding her on a daily basis. 

They didn’t see what went on behind closed doors. They didn’t hear the whisper-turned-growl in his voice when she stayed out too long. They didn’t see the smashed phone, the bruises hidden under long sleeves. She couldn’t tell her neighbours, they wouldn’t understand.

Alison had been saving for months—well, years, really. £100 a month for five years. Not much, but enough to buy a ticket to somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

One hard push.

No. She wasn’t going to hurt him. She wouldn’t sink to his level. He’d done so much to destroy her—she was a shadow of her former self—but she wasn’t going to lose her freedom for him.

She’d finally mustered the courage to leave, but he’d caught up with her and now had a vice-like grip on her arm. Of course, to everyone else on the platform, he was smiling, in control. But the pressure on her arm and the sharp glances he shot her told a different story.

She tried to wriggle away but couldn’t. She was trapped.

“Is everything okay?” asked an elderly lady nearby.

“Yes, of course. My wife’s feeling a bit sick, that’s all,” Alan replied, loosening his grip slightly.

Alison took the opportunity.

“I feel sick!” she said, darting toward the toilets.

Three minutes until the train. She had to waste time until then. She slammed the cubicle door shut and locked it.

She had to make that train.

A couple of minutes later, she heard it pull into the station. If she timed it right, she could board during the confusion as people got off.

She took a deep breath and ran out, merging with the crowd and stepping onto the train. She saw Alan on the platform, scanning the waiting room, then the train.

Alison shrank down onto the floor between two rows of seats, trying to avoid his hawk-like gaze.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she peered through the gap between the seats, watching him scan the platform. He looked furious, his eyes darting around like a predator searching for prey. For the first time, Alison saw her husband panicking in public, his cool mask cracking, revealing the ugly truth underneath.

The train doors slid shut with a finality that sent shivers down her spine.

She hoped he wouldn’t board—that he’d miss her completely. But as she peeked through the window, she saw him move toward the doors.

Panic surged through Alison as she crawled along the aisle, staying low. She had to reach the next carriage. At the door, she fumbled with the handle—her hands shook so badly she could barely grip it. Finally, it opened. She slipped through and closed it behind her.

In the new carriage, she spotted a familiar face—the elderly woman from the platform. An empty seat waited beside her.

“Are you alright, dear?” the woman asked, eyes sharp and knowing.

“Yes,” Alison said, her voice a little too high.

The woman patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll be at King’s Cross soon.”

Alison nodded, but her mind stayed locked on the door. Any moment now, Alan might come bursting through.

The train began to slow. The announcement for King’s Cross crackled over the intercom.

Alison stood, clutching her bag tightly. She gave the woman a weak smile. “Thank you.”

As the train halted, Alison positioned herself near the door, waiting for passengers to start disembarking. She stepped onto the platform, eyes scanning for Alan.

There he was—at the far end of the platform, peering into the train windows. Alison ducked behind a pillar, heart racing. She couldn’t stay here.

She spotted a coffee shop across the street and headed there, keeping her head down and walking quickly.

 “Please don’t see me,” she whispered to herself over and over.

The bell above the café door jingled as she entered. She chose a seat in the back corner, away from the windows. Her hands trembled as she clutched her coffee.

She pulled out her phone and searched for places to stay nearby. A small bed and breakfast a few streets away popped up. She headed there quickly, always checking over her shoulder.

When she arrived, she checked in under a false name and locked the door behind her. Finally, she leaned against it, breathing deeply.

She was safe—for now.

Alison collapsed onto the bed, drained from the day. As she closed her eyes, she thought about the life she wanted to build. A life where she could feel safe. Where she could smile and mean it.

An idea sparked in her mind. She sat up, rifling through her bag, and exhaled in relief.

She had her passport.

The next morning, Alison left the B&B before dawn, scarf pulled high, hood low. She walked past King’s Cross toward St. Pancras. She had a new destination in mind.

At the ticket desk, a woman greeted her with a serene smile. How did she look so fresh this early?

“Bonjour, madam! How can I help?”

“Morning. Is it possible to book a ticket to Paris, please? On the next train if possible?” Alison asked.

“Let me check… ah, oui! There are some seats on the 7:01 a.m. train. You’ll have to run! Do you have your passport?”

“Yes, I have it!”

“Good! You’d be surprised how many people forget it,” the woman said with a smile. “The ticket is £129. Would you like to pay by card?”

“Cash please,” said Alison quickly, pulling out her money with shaking hands. The ticket agent processed the payment, then handed her the receipt and ticket.

“You’re all set! This way—quickly!” she urged, guiding Alison across the slippery floor and through the ropes at Check-In. “My colleague will help you now. Au revoir! Safe travels!”

Breathless, Alison passed through security and made her way up the travellator to the platform. The Eurostar seemed to be waiting  just for her, to take her to safety.

She found her carriage, took her seat, and waited.

This time, when the train pulled away, there was no tap on her shoulder. No voice in her ear.

As the train swallowed her into the tunnel, the lights flickered, then steadied.

Alison pressed her head to the window and watched England recede into the background like a film on fast-forward.

***

Author Bio

Fiona Brown has spent over 30 years working with businesses to bring clarity and structure to the way they manage contracts. Most of her career has been in the pharmaceutical and biotech worlds, where she’s helped teams make sense of the small print and build processes that work.

Fiona has lived most of her life in leafy Berkshire, with easy access to London and Windsor, where she indulges her passion for history. Whether marvelling at the beasts adorning the buttresses of Hampton Court Palace or attending the Ceremony of the Keys at the Tower of London, she’s never far from a historical adventure. When not exploring Britain’s rich past, Fiona can be found walking her dog, Charlie, or immersed in crime fiction. Her husband often jokes that she’s simply researching the perfect crime for when his time is up.

Although Fiona has long been involved in the world of contract writing, she joined The Writers Bureau to nurture her creative writing skills.