Page 1 of Box of Frogs
Chapter One
The man lying next to me was definitely dead. It wasn’t the glassy white caul on his eyes or even his unnatural stillness that gave it away. It was the fact that his head was entirely detached from his body, as if someone had unscrewed it like a burnt-out light bulb and dropped it casually on the ground.
I had the feeling I should probably be screaming. Instead I blinked and rolled away, dew from the perfectly manicured grass beneath me soaking through my thin blouse. Then I got to my feet, the sudden nausea tearing through me suggesting that standing up was a mistake. I grimaced. Even my mouth tasted foul – like wet dog.
Rubbing my hand over my forehead, and avoiding glancing at the body again, I looked around. Where the hell was I? The chill night air offered no clues but, over to my left, there was something tall and thin standing upright. A sign, perhaps.
I staggered over. My chest hurt as if I’d cracked a rib or two. I made it all the same, my legs shaking with astonishing violence. I was forced to clutch onto the metal pole as soon as I reached it in order to remain upright. The small triangle of material attached to the top of the pole hung limply. I squinted at it before my gaze drifted downwards and I dimly registered the hole. A golf course, then. How had I ended up here?
I tried to think. The last thing I remembered was... My stomach dropped. Nothing.Nada. Zilcheroony. I strained every brain cell I had but there was just a deep, dark chasm of nothingness. Then another horrifying thought occurred to me and, with desperate fingers, I searched my pockets. No purse. No identification.
I slapped myself around the cheeks in a futile bid to wake myself up. My fingers came away wet, sticky and dark with blood. I felt the sting of pain.
Suddenly my location and how I’d arrived here, not to mention what had happened to the corpse lying less than thirty feet away, drifted into insignificance. My cracked lips formed the words, a croaked whisper breaking the silence. ‘Who am I?’
As if in response, the wind strengthened and lifted my hair. I grabbed a curl and examined it: mousy brown. If I had a mirror maybe my reflection would jolt some memory but I was unlikely to find one out here. Whereverherewas. WhoeverIwas.
With my heart in my mouth, I stumbled back to the corpse. If I didn’t possess any ID, maybe he did. I fell to my knees by his chest and started fumbling with his clothes, trying to ignore the faint green tinge to his now-clammy skin. Surely he hadn’t been dead for so long that he was already beginning to rot? Perhaps it was simply the dark night that was imbuing his body with the strange hue. I clamped down my nausea.
Whoever he was, he was dressed for darkness, all in black like some kind of Hollywood villain. Black anorak, black shirt, black trousers. Even the buckle on his belt was matte black. I might not have known my own name but I knew that my John Doe had cash. Every item of his clothing was heavy and expensive.
I reached into his anorak pocket and drew out a single object – a solid metal sphere with a clip attached. Some sort of key fob, I guessed, although there were no keys attached to it. Disappointed, I kept searching. In his trouser pockets I found a half-empty pack of mint chewing gum. There was nothing else.
I pulled away, the scent of his aftershave combined with the reek of his blood doing nothing for the state of my stomach. Then I hesitated and leaned forward again, pushing him onto his side. My fingers delved into his back pocket. Empty. This time, however, as I drew away once more I spotted the sword lying on the ground. The man’s body had been concealing it.
Even with the congealed blood staining its surface, the blade was obviously well looked after. I touched it gingerly with the tip of my finger, hissing when it sliced through my skin. A moment later, the cut began to burn. Grey smoke rose from my flesh, wisping upwards into the air. I yelped, desperately rubbing the wound against the wet grass. The smoke dissipated but my finger still throbbed with pain. Gasbudlikin bastards. The blade was poisoned. A chemical perhaps, or some designer compound. No: acid. It had to be acid.
I looked in horror from the man to the sword and back again. A distant part of my brain told me to run, as if the man or the sword or both of them were about to rise up and attack me, but my feet felt like lead. A voice in my head screamed at me to move but my body simply wouldn’t obey.
I licked my lips. My thoughts were almost as sluggish as my limbs. Amnesia, concussion and a dead body – it was a hell of a way to spend a night. I gritted my teeth, willing myself to turn away but, before I could achieve such a heady goal, I paused. Something about the way the anorak lay against the man’s spine didn’t look right.
Avoiding going anywhere near the damn blade again, I lunged towards him with outstretched hands and flipped up the material. A leather sheath – black again, naturally – lay snug against his back. It had to be designed for the very sword that now rested on the ground between us.
‘You brought me out here,’ I whispered, raising my uninjured hand to the gash on my cheek . ‘You lured me here and you tried to kill me.’ A nervous laugh rose to my lips. ‘It didn’t work, you evil arsebadger. I got you first.’ Obviously.
I should call the police. The boys in blue would keep me safe and investigate this crime. I might have killed the man in black but any fool would recognise it was in self-defence; he was twice my size and he’d brought his own damned poisoned sword.
I nodded. Get off this golf course. Find a phone. Call the coppers. If I’d been reported missing by those who loved me, the police would know about it. I could be returned to the bosom of my loving family within hours. I ran my hands over the slight curve of my stomach. Did I have children? Were they crying for me even now?
I spun round and my body finally obeyed my commands. I whooped weakly. No doubt this amnesia business would wear off quickly too. With any luck, my nightmare was already coming to an end.
***
An old red phone box stood in front of the single-storey clubhouse. It might have been there purely for nostalgic reasons but I was pathetically grateful all the same. When I lifted the cracked plastic receiver and heard a dial tone, I almost sobbed. I punched in 999, barely pausing to wonder how I could remember that number but not my own name. I was connected almost immediately.
‘Hello. Emergency service operator. Which service do you require?’
Her voice was calm and reassuring but my mind went completely blank. ‘Uh…’
‘Ambulance, fire or police?’
My attacker was dead. There was no paramedic, doctor or surgeon in the world that could bring him back to life. ‘Police,’ I whispered. ‘I need the police.’
‘I’m connecting you to the police now.’ There was a click. My fingers tightened round the receiver and I tried to remember to breathe.
‘Police. What’s your location?’
‘I’m at…’ Gasbudlikins. What was the name of this golf course? I twisted away and craned my neck towards the clubhouse entrance in the hope of spotting a sign. Less than a second later, there was an explosive crack. Glass and plastic shattered. I screamed and turned back. The phone had been obliterated. As I struggled to compute what was going on another crack followed, together with more breaking glass.
