Jill returned home from Leeds late in the evening. She hurried from her car to her front door, and quickly let herself in. Despite having not had any physical harm done to her since the attack, she was still incredibly nervous about being alone, especially at night, in a pretty much deserted street, lit only sparsely by the streetlights.
She'd left early that morning to get to Leeds in time for the interview, so the postman hadn't come past on his rounds. Once she'd securely locked the door, she looked down to see only one single letter. And sure enough, her name and address were spelt in the familiar lopsided letters. The postcode too was the same as all the others; Whitby.
Jill signed as she tore it open, suddenly feeling weary. The paper displayed the same threats, the same demands. It was draining. Not that it wasn't terrifying. Every letter made her that bit more scared, that bit more nervous, on her guard.
But it was tiring as well. She kept going over and over it, but she couldn't understand why she was being punished so much. If it was money they wanted, surely they would have demanded one large sum by now, and left, not forcing her to deposit small amounts, and staying around, increasing the risk of being discovered.
She was pretty sure it had something to do with Gordon. They'd thrown the bricks through the windows of Gordon's house when she was there. No damage had been done to her own home. Though she sometimes felt panicked when near her own windows.
It had to be about more than vandalism though. When they'd lured her to the secluded house and attacked, they'd made a point of her relationship with Gordon. Perhaps she was being punished about it. But why? And how did they know?
She hadn't thought anyone knew, couldn't think of anyone that could possibly have known. If she could, she might some idea who they were, but she was at a loss. And she didn't know how much more she could take.
It was the following Monday. Jill had just entered the area behind reception, looking forward to a cup of tea. The morning had involved a longer than usual list of patients complaining of colds and sore throats and numerous hypochondriacs. It was mornings like this that made her wonder why she'd spent all those years at studying and training.
She flicked the switch on the kettle when the phone rang, then listened to Lizzie's "Good morning, The Royal," in her chirpy, singsong voice. She smiled gently as she poured the now boiling hot water from the kettle and into the familiar white cup with red band patterned with flowers. "Dr Weatherill!"
She sighed and put down the kettle, turning to Lizzie.
"Phone call for you."
"Is it an emergency?" she asked to which Lizzie shook her head. "Put it through to my office then please."
"Right ho doctor!" the receptionist called to Jill's retreating back.
Jill entered her consulting room empty handed, her cup in reception just holding cooling water. She picked up the telephone receiver on her desk, and settled down on her chair. "Hello?"
She listened to the caller, and nodded, then rolled her eyes at her foolishness. "Okay, thank you. I'll call you back later when I've come to my decision... Bye."
She replaced the receiver in its cradle, and leant back in her chair, deep in contemplation. What was she to do? She had only a few hours to make her decision. How could she be certain the decision she made would be the right one? It had to be right not just for her, but for everyone else involved as well. She couldn't let anyone down. She sighed and rubbed her forehead, the beginnings of a headache evident as the pressure and worry of her uncertainty increased.
She did however, become certain of one thing. There was one person she needed to speak to. And the outcome of that conversation would perhaps make her decision for her.