Samantha's Promise

By Nicholas J. Ambrose

Tired, strung out, and overworked Samantha Brown’s week goes from bad to worse when a collision with a stranger sends her folder of graphic design work flying—right into a well-placed puddle.
At least she has the weekend to fix the damage.

But the weekend is rarely peaceful. Samantha has to babysit her sister: scatterbrained ten-year-old Imogen, who is fussy, no good at cards, and loves listening to the radio at stupid o’clock in the morning.

This weekend, Imogen wants only one thing: to go on a bike ride with her big sister.

Deadline looming, that’s impossible. Instead, Samantha does the next best thing: she promises they’ll go next week.

As the month passes, though, Samantha’s promise fails to materialise, slipping further and further until she has almost forgotten about it. After all, there’s always next week—and Imogen can go by herself if she’s that desperate.

But unbeknownst to Samantha, next week might never come. Because there’s something very, very wrong with Imogen—and her time is quickly running out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas J. Ambrose
• Release date: Aug 31, 2014

Book preview

SAMANTHA’S PROMISE

Nicholas J. Ambrose

SAMANTHA’S PROMISE

Nicholas J. Ambrose

Copyright © 2014

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords edition.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Afterword

Also available from Nicholas J. Ambrose

A Note to the Reader

If you came here from ALONE, by Robert J. Crane, please re-read this book from the beginning. The excerpt of SAMANTHA’S PROMISE you may have seen comes from an older publication, initially released in 2012. This version is a full rewrite, made in 2014, and includes numerous sweeping changes.

Thank you.

This book is dedicated twice:

My sister, Leanne, receives the first

for birthing the seeds of this novel.

My grandfather, Tom, receives the second.

I miss you.

(Prologue)

Not too far from now, a ten-year-old girl named Imogen Brown is going to fall down the stairs. She won’t do any considerable damage to herself—children, like the drunk, have the fortunate tendency to kind of bounce—but her sleeves will come up and show an odd rash she has spent some time hiding. This rash will herald a doctor’s visit, followed by a trip to the hospital.

But this is not where the story begins. It actually starts one evening around four weeks prior with a girl—no, young woman, she must remind herself, because twenty-two certainly makes her an adult no matter how she thinks—on her way home from work.

It begins with Samantha.

Collision

(Chapter One)

1

Samantha Brown was late.

To add insult to injury, it was raining.

Scowling from the alcove into the office where she worked, bag slung over one shoulder and enormous file stuffed with papers in hand, she frittered in her bag for her phone. Staying late meant she had undoubtedly missed the last bus, but if she could phone her mum …

She found it in her jumble of clutter. Out it came, and—

Dead.

She thumbed the power switch. Might still have some juice. Even a minute’s worth; just enough to call home …

Nothing at all. The screen didn’t even flicker.

Oh, come on. Don’t do this.

She tried again. Harder, this time, because that would surely work where her last attempt had failed.

Nada.

She cursed, and dropped the phone back into her bag. Stupid thing. And stupid Samantha, for forgetting to charge it.

She pouted into the murk.

It had been sunny this morning. She hadn’t even packed a coat!

Maybe she hadn’t missed the last bus, she decided. Because if she had, the alternative …

Lamenting her luck one last time, Samantha darted from the cover. On skinny, spry legs, she bounded as fast as she could to the bus station.

2

Pixie cuts did not take much to grow sopping, and the quarter-mile Samantha ran was enough to plaster all her blonde hair flat to her head.

At least the bus stands provided cover.

She stalked through. A couple of teenagers in hoodies cast her a look—Yep, I look like a drowned rat. Mind your business.—but she ignored them in favour of appraising her folder as best she could without stopping. A3 sleeves were full of meticulous drawings.

She hoped no water had found its way inside.

One person sat at stand C. Hands were stuffed in his coat pockets, and he kept eyes on the floor.

A scrolling digital display inside the stand’s curved roof announced the next services: their number, as well as arrival time. During the day it was full and ever-changing. Now, only two scrolled: the 89, due in thirteen minutes, and another 89 over an hour later.

Are you waiting for the 68? Samantha asked the man.

He looked up only to shake his head. 89. The 68 went about ten minutes ago.

Damn. So she had missed it.

Does the 89 go through Camford?

No. Sorry.

Double damn.

What to do?

She scrutinised a wall of timetables inside the bus stand.

Pointless. Camford was an annoying little village, and public transport didn’t pay it much heed. And much as she might wish otherwise, the waiting man was correct: the 89 did not give Camford even a passing glance.

Brilliant.

Samantha cast the bus station a dark look. Rain still came down—and without transport or a working phone, there was only one thing for it:

She would have to walk.

3

Samantha huffed. The half-mile she’d run had started her sweating, hot and sticky and in no way diminished or made less unpleasant by the streaming rain.

Things would be easier if she didn’t have this stupid great folder to carry around!

She was just thinking this when a car blasted past. Its horn blared—at her? Wasn’t the horn supposed to be used as a warning, rather than making fun of sodden passersby?—and—

Samantha let out a great cry. The car’s tyres sailed through a puddle at the road’s edge—all over her.

She stopped to splutter. It was cold, and dirty, and—

Oh … oh, Christ …

She held up her folder. Sodium lamps painted its front yellow.

The wet across the front was unmistakeable.

It might not be so bad, she thought desperately. Maybe the front had caught the full brunt of it (minus what Samantha herself received).

She hiked her bag up her shoulder and opened the folder. She scrutinised the pages behind plastic, ran a finger across the edges where the sheets could be slipped in and out …

Dry. Oh, thank God, dry!

She breathed a great sigh of relief. She flopped the folder shut, pivoted to continue her long run home, and—

Slapped headfirst into a man stepping out the door of the local pub.

The collision was so instant Samantha had no chance but to flounder. The folder was in her hand one moment; the next it had burst loose, sprayed open in a fan of pencil drawings and notes and everything she’d been doing for weeks and weeks and weeks …

And it landed straight in the offending puddle which had threatened it mere moments before.

4

On the little TV Samantha could be bothered watching (which occurred mostly when her mum or Imogen stuck something on and Samantha happened to be loitering), the main character would stare aghast.

Doing that here would only multiply the damage—hazardously. More hazardously. Whatever.

She wrenched up the folder. Water fountained away.

No, no, no …

Now she could give the thing a ghastly look.

Christ, sorry, said the man behind. Are you all right?

Samantha whirled, eyes blazing.

The man was a little older, she figured, and taller (which wasn’t saying much). He had a mop of scraggy black hair, a five o’clock shadow (or an eight forty-five shadow; thanks again, work!). A dark denim jacket hugged a faded shirt with some band’s logo, and his jeans had either been washed many a time, or were made to look that way.

And, to add insult to injury for the second time tonight, he was dry, while she … she …

Samantha puffed herself up. You! She jabbed a finger. You knocked me over! All my work is ruined!

He looked flustered. I didn’t mean …

It’s soaked! God damn it, now I’m going to have to spend all weekend re-doing it! I’m already behind! And her accusations turned into a muttered monologue as she cast over the folder and its sopping contents again.

Err … is there anything I can do? the man stammered.

Samantha let out a dry laugh. It was that or cry. Not unless you can put me back five minutes ago. Or five hours.

At last, she let the folder drop closed. It was too late. The damage was done.

Well, at least her weekend’s plans were sorted: reconstructing her entire portfolio.

When the weekend started, at any rate. She still had another couple of miles to go before arriving in Camford. And the rain wasn’t letting up any.

Sorry.

The man was still hanging about. Samantha slumped her shoulders and cast a backward look at him. He stood awkwardly.

Are you close to home? he asked. It’s wet, and … Under Samantha’s dark glare, he trailed off.

No, Samantha said. I’m not.

Have you got a ride?

Absolutely. That’s why I’m soaked. She shook her head. Course I don’t have a ride. I missed my bus after work. And then like three others.

Isn’t there someone who could have picked you up?

My phone’s dead. And probably waterlogged with the rest of her bag, at this rate. Look, thanks for the chat, but I’ve got to go. It’s dark, and the road between here and Camford doesn’t have any lights on it.

Camford? The man’s face twisted. That’s a couple of miles away.

You don’t say.

"You’re walking?"

No, I’m flying there. I just flap this folder— she gave it a cursory wave, shaking loose an extra spray —and take off. Now, if you don’t mind—

Hey, why don’t you come in here? The man gestured to the pub door. Yellow warmth bled out from the glass. I know the bloke behind the bar. You can borrow the phone; book a taxi, or see if there’s someone around who can give you a lift.

Samantha considered. Or didn’t. The prospect of a phone, and a place out of the rain … Her mum would be home by now, and she’d be happy enough coming to pick her up. Imogen could entertain herself for fifteen minutes.

She should jump at the chance. But she’d spent the whole exchange jumping down this man’s throat—

And rightly so! All my work—

—and pulling an about-face wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded.

The man waited with a look of apprehension. Probably weighing up just legging it.

As though it might defuse things, or win her over: I’ll buy you a drink? he suggested.

No, thanks, said Samantha. But I will borrow the phone. Begrudgingly: Please.

The man lightened. All right. Yeah, okay, cool. Come in. He stepped for the door and held it open. After you.

Samantha trotted stiffly through.

The pub was small and, Samantha thought, quite homely. A bar stretched the left-hand wall, bottles and measures behind it, as well as a slouching middle-aged man bent over a newspaper.

Deep, dark wood tables and chairs littered the floor. Few were filled. The patrons’ low conversations were matched by the fuzzy drone of an old CRT television mounted near the ceiling. A game of darts was on. Not far away was the pub’s own dartboard. Because who didn’t want to watch darts while they played it?

The barman looked up as sopping Samantha stepped in. He cast her an amused glance—Ha ha, she thought drily—before looking to the man accompanying her.

Thought I’d got rid of you for the night, Rupert.

The man—Rupert—said, Not quite. Can my friend here borrow the phone?

The barman folded his newspaper closed. Hang on. I’ll get you a towel as well.

He disappeared through a rear door.

Rupert eyed the game of darts, and planted himself in one of the tall chairs by the bar.

Samantha remained by the door.

You can come in, Rupert told her.

I’m wet.

Bry’ll clean it.

I’ll leave puddles.

It’s his job. Rupert pulled out the seat nearest. Go on. He won’t mind.

Samantha weighed it up.

Fine.

She stepped off the doormat. Sure enough, a healthy trail followed her.

She didn’t sit, choosing instead to wait rigidly, and hopping tracks between three concurrent sets of hopes: that Bry would be quick, that Rupert would not make conversation, and that the other people in here had not turned to look. She didn’t know which one she wanted for most.

Number two was almost thwarted when Rupert opened his mouth—but Bry stepped through the door again, carrying two towels, and a cordless phone.

He handed one to Samantha. Take the edge off. He lay the phone down for her. Get as much of the wet off before you make your call. Don’t want to go up in a puff of smoke.

Thanks.

Bry stepped through the hatch door in the bar with the other towel, and dropped it on the floor. He pushed it across Samantha’s trail using his foot.

Get anything else for you or the lady? he said to Rupert.

Rupert glanced to Samantha in case she had reconsidered. She busied herself with roughly drying her head and hair, so he shook his head. Nah. Cheers, Bry.

All right.

Head dry and hair still up in needles but getting there, Samantha took the phone.

She dialled and waited.

Hello? came a young girl’s voice.

Imogen, go put Mum on.

Sam! Why aren’t you home yet? Suddenly the ten-year-old became the voice of authority. Mum tried calling you but your phone was off.

Go get her, Samantha said.

"Mu-um! Samantha’s on the phone!" The background filled with Imogen’s footsteps as she bounded through the house.

Samantha? said her mum when Imogen handed the phone over. Is everything all right? I tried calling, but—

My phone ran out of battery. I missed the bus home. Can you come pick me up?

Work overran again?

No; I just thought I’d hang around for another four hours. Massaging her temples, Samantha closed her eyes. Yes, it overran. Can you pick me up, or do I have to book a taxi?

I can come. Where are you now?

It’s a pub on the high street. Called … Samantha fished around, looking for a sign.

Thoroughfare, Rupert put in.

It’s called Thoroughfare, Samantha repeated.

All right. I’ll head out now. See you in ten minutes.

Bye.

Just before her mother hung up, Samantha heard the beginning of the call, Imogen, do you— It presumably finished with ‘want to come for a drive?’ Samantha hoped she said no.

Everything sorted, Samantha? said Rupert. At her raised eyebrow, he said sheepishly, I, err, I heard your sister. When she shouted.

Samantha’s lips pressed into a line. Yes, it’s sorted. She handed the phone back to Bry. Thanks.

No problem. You finished with the towel? After her nod: Sure I can’t get you anything?

No. I’m fine.

You sure you don’t want anything, Rupert? Another cider?

Rupert gave it a momentary consideration. But from his sideways look at Samantha, it appeared she was his current concern, so he declined Bry’s offer.

The barman took phone and towels and ambled off.

There. All sorted. Now Samantha didn’t have to trek through the rain and the dark.

Now she had just two hopes: that her mum would arrive soon, and that Rupert would not make chitchat.

So, what sort of work doesn’t let out until nine on a Friday?

And there went number two.

5

I’m a graphic designer, Samantha said shortly.

Rupert made an impressed kind of noise.

Samantha resisted frowning.

What kind of graphics do you design?

Eloquent.

Product packaging.

Another one of those noises.

How’d you get into that then?

Voice dry: I applied.

Hoping to shut him down, Samantha lay her folder on the bar’s surface. She steeled, and opened the top flap.

Water had bled all the way through. Page after page wrecked, pencil lines indistinct and fuzzy.

Could she salvage them? Ease the sheets out and get at them with an iron?

Don’t be stupid. They’ll fall apart. You could wring them out like a flannel, the amount of water in those.

She sighed. God damn it.

Christ, said Rupert. I’m, err—I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean …

Fine, Samantha huffed.

Those are a load of your designs, right?

They were.

Christ. Sorry. Um—hey, could you stick the folder on a radiator? It’ll dry the water right out.

They’re ruined, Samantha said.

Oh. Rupert shrank. Sorry.

I heard you the first time, Samantha snapped. Rupert gave her an apologetic look. Samantha massaged her temples again. Look, it’s fine. What’s done is done.

Rupert didn’t offer any more. He simply sat in awkward quiet, looking unsure.

Depressing though it was, Samantha couldn’t help but continue flipping through dripping sleeves. With each sheet, she tried to calculate how long it would take to reconstruct her work. Refined art, this was not, which was a point in her favour, but still: the weekend was a write-off.

Not that anything was new there.

If you don’t mind me asking, Rupert ventured, why do you have paper designs? Isn’t everything digital these days?

I work on these in my spare time. I don’t have the tools at home. I do these in the evenings and rebuild them at work in our imaging software.

This made Rupert brighten. Oh! So you’ve got digital copies of it all then?

Samantha gave one short, sour shake of the head. No.

Rupert’s grin faded. Oh.

Don’t say sorry again. Don’t say sorry again.

Err … I’m sorry.

!!!

I know.

Can I, err, make it up to you sometime? Buy you a drink or something?

Oh, sure. That’s definitely going to make up for all the time I spent working on this stuff. A drink bought and paid for by the man who knocked it in the road in the first place. Yes, please.

Perhaps fortunately, none of this got to leave Samantha’s lips. From the street came the honk of a car; one Samantha recognised.

Oh, thank God.

She carted up her folder, pulled her bag up her shoulder, and cast Rupert a cursory look. My mum’s here.

And before he could say another word, she trotted briskly to the door and through it. Rupert caught a brief glimpse of a