**Diary Entry – Waiting for Him…**
The dew still clung to the grass, the mist lazily retreated toward the far bank of the river, and the sun was already rolling up from the jagged edge of the forest.
Jonathan stood on the porch, drinking in the beauty of the early morning, breathing deep the crisp air. Behind him came the slap of bare feet. A woman in a nightgown, a shawl thrown over her shoulders, stepped out and stood beside him.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Jonathan sighed, filling his lungs. “You should go back inside, you’ll catch cold,” he said softly, adjusting the shawl that had slipped from her smooth, pale shoulder.
She leaned into him, wrapping her hands around his arm.
“Don’t want to leave you,” Jonathan murmured, his voice thick with tenderness.
“Then don’t,” her voice was like a siren’s song, coaxing, tempting. *Stay, and then what?* The thought sobered him.
If it were that simple, he’d have stayed long ago. But twenty-three years with his wife couldn’t just be tossed aside, and the kids… Lottie was practically out of the house already, spending more nights at her fiancé’s than at home. And little Alfie was only fourteen—right at that difficult age.
A lorry driver could find work anywhere, but the pay here wouldn’t be much. Right now, he could splash out on expensive gifts for Liz. But if his wages dropped by half, would she still love him the same? Hard to say.
“Don’t start, Liz,” Jonathan brushed her off.
“Why not? The kids are grown—time to think of yourself. You said it yourself—you and your wife are just going through the motions.” Liz pulled away, sulking.
“Ah, if only I’d met you sooner…” He exhaled sharply. “Don’t be angry. I’ve got to go—already running late.” He moved to kiss her, but she turned her face away. “Liz, I’ve got a load to deliver. Got to make it home by tonight.”
“You always make promises. You come back, stir everything up, then rush off to your wife. I’m tired of waiting. Mark’s been asking me to marry him for ages.”
“Go on, then,” Jonathan shrugged.
He thought of adding something, but stopped himself. Slowly, he stepped off the porch, rounded the house, and made his way through the garden to the bypass where his lorry was parked. He always left it there—didn’t want to wake the village at dawn.
He hauled himself into the cab. Usually, Liz would walk him to the lorry and kiss him goodbye. But today, she hadn’t followed. Properly upset, then. Jonathan settled in, slammed the door, and before firing up the engine, dialled his wife’s number. He never called in front of Liz. A robotic voice informed him the phone was switched off. No missed calls, either.
He pocketed the phone, started the engine, listening to its deep, steady growl. The lorry shuddered awake, shaking off the last of its drowsiness, and rumbled forward, swaying over the uneven track. Jonathan gave a short honk, then pressed the accelerator.
On the porch, the woman shivered as the engine faded into the distance, then went back inside.
On the radio, Ed Sheeran crooned softly. Jonathan hummed along, thinking of the woman he’d left behind. But soon, his thoughts turned homeward. *What’s going on there? Can’t reach her for two days. When I get back, we’ll have words…*
Meanwhile, Emily, Jonathan’s wife, was waking from anaesthesia in a hospital bed—and remembering everything.
***
They’d been married over twenty years—twenty-four, to be exact. A lorry driver, good pay, solid family, a nice house, two kids. Lottie was all grown up, about to marry and move out, working as a hairdresser. Alfie, fourteen, dreamed of joining the Navy.
Then came the call. At first, Emily thought it was a prank or a wrong number.
*Hello, Emily. Waiting for your husband? He’s running late…* The voice was sickly sweet, dripping like syrup.
“What’s happened to him?” Emily snapped, already picturing an accident.
*Oh, something has. He’s with his mistress,* the voice purred.
*Who is this?* Emily shouted into the phone.
*Oh, just wait… wait…* A woman’s laughter echoed before the line went dead.
Emily pulled the phone from her ear, hung up. But the laughter lingered, ringing in her skull. Panic set in. Thoughts tangled—images of crashes, another woman in her husband’s arms. Who else knew he was on a run? Only the mistress herself. How dare she call, mock her?
She dialled Jonathan’s number, then hung up. What if he was driving? What would she even say? Distracting him was dangerous. She’d wait till he got home. She tried to busy herself, but everything slipped from her grasp. That voice, that laugh—it wouldn’t leave her.
Of course, neither Lottie nor Alfie was home. Lottie was out with her boyfriend; Alfie had gone to a friend’s birthday.
She needed air. Emily changed, grabbed her bag, and stepped out—just a quick trip to Tesco for mayo, onions, and a couple of beers for Jonathan. He liked one or two after a run. She’d cook tomorrow before he got back. He’d promised to be home for dinner. *What if he never comes back?* The thought gnawed, but she shoved it down.
She decided to walk—clear her head. But the supermarket was a trek, so she cut through the alley. One side was a concrete wall; the other, a row of garages. Isolated, dimming light, but the quickest route. She picked up her pace.
Then—sharp tug. Her bag was yanked from her grip. She stumbled backward, nearly fell. Spun round—just a fleeting glimpse of a man’s back as he sprinted away. *No chance.* But she ran anyway. Everything was in that bag—cash, cards, keys, phone.
“Stop!” she shouted. He vanished around the corner. Her heel caught a stone, twisted—she slammed onto the pavement. Pain shot through her hip, elbow scraped raw. She tried to rise, but agony lanced up her leg, white-hot. Tears welled. Her ankle was already swelling, purple in the fading light.
No phone. No way to call for help. Panic rose like a tide. No one would hear her shout here. Only drunks and troublemakers lurked in places like this.
Could she crawl? The wall ended at houses eventually—someone might spot her. But who’d approach a woman scrabbling on the ground? They’d think she was drunk. She sobbed.
All because of that cursed call. Trouble never comes alone. She’d lost her mind, walking through these alleys at dusk. No one even knew where she was. For the first time in twenty-odd years, she wouldn’t be there when Jonathan came home…
She slumped against a rusted garage door, afraid to move, afraid to set off the pain again. Tears streaked her cheeks; she wiped them with dirty hands.
Then—headlights. A car pulled up. A man got out, unlocking a garage. Emily gulped air, then screamed: **”Help!”**
He turned. She cried again, voice breaking. He approached, stopping just short.
“Someone robbed me—twisted my ankle—please, call an ambulance!”
He hesitated, pulled out his phone—then put it away. Emily stiffened, fingers scrambling for a stone, a stick—anything.
Instead, he crouched. Even in the dim light, the swelling was grotesque.
“Ambulance’ll take ages. I’ll lift you—hold onto my neck.”
She nodded, still crying. One arm around her waist, the other under her knees, he hauled her up with a grunt, carried her to the car. She clung, feeling his strain, her leg throbbing.
At the car, he set her down, opened the door. She balanced on one foot, leaning against the bonnet. He helped her in, handed wipes for her face and hands.
“What happened?” he panted, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Went to Tesco. Tried a shortcut. Got mugged. Thank you—I’d have been stuck all night.”
He offered his phone. “Call your husband. Family.”
*Husband’s driving. Can’t.* She dialled Lottie.
“Lottie, it’s Mum—” Music blared in the background.
“**Who?**”
“I’ve hurt my leg—going to hospital!”
“**What? Can’t hear!**”
“**Hospital!**”
“**Call you back!**” The line died.
Fingers shaking, she tried Alfie. No answer.
“Bloody hell!” she burst out.
“No luck?” he sympathised.She stared at the empty doorway where Jonathan had stood, then turned to Ivan with a quiet sigh and whispered, “Stay.”
