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Summary
It had all happened so fast; one minute she was walking along the border separating the North and South sides, and the next, a group of motorcycles were swarming her and she was snatched up. Cheryl has no idea how long ago that had been now, but it feels like she’s been here for hours; sat in a cold room, on a no doubt dirty floor, and tied to what feels like a wooden pole. She wouldn’t know for sure though, not with the black pillowcase over her head.
The footsteps finally reach the bottom of the stairs and then stop, and Cheryl feels her heart beating out of her chest as she waits. No sooner do the footsteps start approaching is the cover roughly ripped off her head, and after Cheryl’s eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, they focus in on the face of FP Jones.