133 Hours | Book by Zach Abrams

May 2

May 2 133 Hours

Book summary

As Briony arrives at work, she discovers she's lost over five days of her life without any memory of where she's been or what transpired. Fearing for her sanity, she’s determined to uncover the truth behind the missing time. With the help of her friends Alesha and Jenny, they enlist a retired detective to assist in their quest for answers. As they piece together fragments of memories, they realize something terrible might have befallen Briony during those mysterious hours. Follow this captivating journey of mystery and suspense as the secrets of those lost days slowly unravel.

Reviews from Goodreads

“This is a great mystery thriller that moves along and keeps you wondering”

— Helen

“133 Hours is a fast-paced thrill ride that kept me entertained through the entire story”

— Jessica

“ A gripping read from start to finish”

— Michele

Excerpt from 133 Hours

This is my flat, my private place of refuge. It’s a traditional Glasgow red sandstone tenement, built in the late Victorian era, well over a hundred years ago. It’s been modernised and now comprises a square entrance hall with all apartments off it; a double bedroom, large bay-windowed lounge, dining kitchen and a family-sized bathroom which has a white enamel three-piece suite with an electrically powered over-bath shower. In the short time since moving in, I’ve upgraded all the decorations and added my personal touch of style.

I don’t know why, but something feels odd. I walk from room to room, but I see nothing out of place. However, whether imagined or otherwise, I have a feeling that someone has been here. At my request, Jenny came in to collect my change of clothes, but it’s something else… as if someone’s been here who shouldn’t have been. Maybe I’m being stupid; it’s probably paranoia. After what I’ve been through today, it makes sense to be suspicious about everything, but maybe, just maybe, my fears are justified.

For all I know, while I’ve been AWOL, anyone could have taken my keys from my handbag and used them. I remember there are other sets, too. The landlord and agent each have a set to be able to access the flat if there’s an emergency. Who’s to say that a previous tenant didn’t retain keys as well? I realise I’m probably being ridiculous. I haven’t felt uncomfortable with the flat, or with the agent and landlord holding keys, in the months since I moved in, so why now? It’s obvious why now, and my real fear has nothing to do with the landlord or agent. Whoever abducted me had access to my keys and they could have been in the flat. God knows what else they might have done.

Distractedly, I pick up my mail and leaf through it. There’s the normal stack of advertising blurb accompanied by what looks like a utility bill and a statement about my Council Tax. I’m about to cast them aside when I spot a hand-delivered envelope with my name in bold script on the front. I rip it open to find a notification from the landlord expressing concern that my rent hasn’t been paid, and it’s late.

Much as I’ve loved the flat and I know I’ve spent a small fortune personalising it to make it mine, I now feel uncomfortable in it and I suspect my discomfort is not just a temporary blip. Albeit, I haven’t been able to check what’s happened about the rent payment; I reckon it’s immaterial. Given my current concerns, if I will not feel safe and comfortable here, I’ll have to serve notice to leave. I remember being given one of the new Private Residential Tenancy agreements, which allows me to end the agreement by giving only twenty-eight days notice. I must sort out the problem on the rent first, but I can’t see myself wanting to continue with the tenancy.

Alesha says she’s happy to sit and wait while I take a shower. I show her into the lounge where there are two large, deep button leather sofas. She sinks into one and picks up some magazines from my coffee table to leaf through. Meanwhile, I go into the bathroom and strip off. I set the temperature to near-scalding, step into the over-bath shower and stand under the flowing water. It’s only been an hour since my last shower. Feeling a compulsion to cleanse myself, I spread shower gel all over my body and rinse off, repeating the exercise multiple times.

Afterwards, I stand still, allowing the water to flow over me. I close my eyes tight. I try to think… I want to remember, at least I think I want to remember. An image comes into my head, I don’t know why. The picture is of a girl lying naked on a bed and I see three men standing around her. I can see them clearly; I can describe them in detail. In turn, they undress, slowly and deliberately. She seems oblivious to the men and what they do, as first one of them spreads her legs, inserts his erect penis and rapes her, followed by each of the others doing the same. She is unresponsive; her face is blank, distant, impassive.

At first, I wonder if she might actually be dead, but then I see her eyes flicker and I can discern that she’s breathing. I feel sick watching this play out in my mind’s eye. Why am I visualising this? Am I the girl? Am I recollecting what’s happened to me? I try to concentrate on what the girl looks like. There’s no question, she is more than a bit like me. Her face is more angular, but she’s just about my figure. She’s trim and toned, the same shape and a similar hairstyle, straight layered with a side-swept fringe, but while she’s blonde, my hair colour is a cherry red, with highlights. She can’t be me, surely. I try to concentrate on the images in my head. The scene replays but it’s not the same; the girl remains mainly unresponsive. This time there are variations in the action. I watch in horror, seeing her manipulated on the bed with each of the men penetrating her in different ways.

My face is wet, and it’s not from the shower. I realise that I’m weeping. It can’t be me. Please, please, don’t let this be me. It can’t be a memory. Please, please, it must be a dream, a fantasy, a nightmare. My legs buckle, and I sink to my knees, then lower, until I’m lying in the bath, adopting a foetal position, my arms clutching my legs. If I can make myself small enough, then maybe I can disappear. Racking sobs overpower me and I’m having difficulty breathing. The shower jets are continuing to douse me.

In the distance, a voice is calling, then I hear a thumping sound and a crash, the sound of wood splintering. I’m aware the water isn’t running over me anymore and I prise my eyes open. Alesha is standing over me. She drapes a towel across my shoulders and pulls me towards her, hugging me to her.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she says. “You’re safe. I’m here to protect you.”

Only with her help am I able to step from the shower and pat myself dry and then throw on clothes before exiting the bathroom. Alesha’s dress is soaked from holding me, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I can see she looks relieved. Her face is tear-stained.

“I could hear you crying,” she tells me. “I tried knocking, but you didn’t answer. The door was locked, so I had to force it. I’m sorry, I’ve caused some damage. Are you okay now?”

I tell her about what I saw; the visions, my doubts, my fears.

“I’m sure it will only be your imagination playing tricks on you,” she says. She’s trying to calm and reassure me; however, she can’t maintain eye contact and I know she doesn’t believe what she’s saying. “You said you could visualise the men clearly. Did you recognise any of them? Have you seen them before?” she continues.

“No, I’m certain, I don’t know them. I haven’t met any of them.”

“In that case, I think you should write down their full descriptions, as accurately as you can, and give it to the police.”

I tell Alesha where I keep pens and paper. She finds a pad and takes notes as I recall the descriptions.

All three aged maybe in their thirties. First man is a little above average height, about six one, I guess; stocky, not fat but muscular, shoulders like a bull, looks as if he works out a lot; round head, almost circular and no hair; he has a shaved head. Large nose with a kink halfway down; must have been broken at some point – a boxer or rugby player, maybe. Pale, pale skin; teeth are even but yellow-coloured, could be nicotine.

Second guy is smaller but not by much; he’s skinny but not puny, wiry, actually. Sandy-haired and freckled; his face narrow, eyes close together, blue I think or maybe grey. A tight mouth and heavy jaw; a tuft of hair on his chin, not enough to describe as a beard.

Third guy looked older; a lot smaller, not much over five foot, I reckon. Olive skin, Mediterranean features, thinning dark brown hair and stubble on his face. Very dark eyes, almost black. When he smiled, I saw he had two broken teeth at the front.

“That’s really good. It will give the police a lot to go on,” Alesha says. “I’m thinking back to crime movies I’ve seen. What is it they ask? Did any of them have distinguishing features?”

Much as I hate to do it, I close my eyes and make myself visualise them again. The effort gives me an acidic taste; I try to ignore it. “Yes, the first guy had a large tattoo on each of his arms; a snake wrapped around a sword.”

“Were both his arms the same?”

“Yes, I think so, at least they were very similar. Second guy wore a large signet ring on the middle finger of his right hand, also a bracelet, heavy linked silver. Oh, first guy again, had a diamond stud in one ear.” I screw my eyes tighter shut, “the left ear. And guy three chews his nails, they’re short and very uneven.”

“Okay, I’ve got all that,” Alesha says. “Now I reckon you could murder a nice cup of tea, or would you prefer something stronger?”

“Tea would be good,” I answer. For just now, my brain’s cloudy enough without taking anything to mix it up more.

“I’ll sort it out. You just sit there and relax for a bit.”

“I’ll let you make it, but I’ll come next door with you. I can show you where everything is.”