Squeezing her arm, he yanked her backward and forced her against the wall at the top of the stairs. Twisting her head away from his stare, she gritted her teeth and battled his crushing grip. She would not scream, would not allow him the privilege of seeing her pain, and yelled out a profanity demanding her release.
Holding her tight, and with his voice tainted with venom and his expression carrying a wretched smugness, he informed her he would achieve his aim. As though proving a point, he pressed himself closer, crushing her breasts to his chest and exhaled his putrid breath in her face.
Wriggling and tussling, her body swelled with her efforts and her skin burned. Yet her energy was wavering and her muscles weakening. Driven by terrifying images of his ghastly needs, she gathered the last bit of strength, and in one last push, freed her leg trapped by his thighs, kicked him in the shin and kneed him in the groin.
Jerking and yelping, he slackened his grip.
She pulled herself free. In a desperate attempt to get away, she lost her footing on the staircase, landed on her hip and thigh, and continued to the bottom, beating each step with an agonising thud. Her vision swirled and her pain contorted her body. Crying out her agony, she clenched her thigh and searched for a consoling hand or gesture. She did not see him standing smugly at the top of the stairs, but she could sense his gratification dripping from his pores. He showed no remorse, not even a smidgen, and whispered that she deserved it.
Later, when others were present, he said it was an unfortunate accident and begged for forgiveness. To her horror, they believed him. Why could they not see beyond his quivering voice and glassy eyes? Now, she was the villain.
There was only one solution. Despite all she would lose, she had to leave.
Motioning back and forth with her hand, Megan caressed the large purple bruise hidden beneath her faded jeans as disbelieving voices rattled, tormenting, provoking. She scrunched her face, urging the demons to leave, and focused on the rhythmical sound of the train. Like a heartbeat, it was graceful and flowing yet powerful and discreet; it was a comforting sound, providing a moment of solace in a period of unease.
She gazed out of the window, blanking out her nagging recollections and absorbed the tranquillity of the ever-changing countryside. Beyond an intermittent hedge was a vast green space, where horses grazed, cattle strode along a country lane, and birds swooped overhead. Dwellings appeared, and in the distance, there was a power station emitting billowing plumes of gas. Shuffling in her seat, wearily moving her aching body, a comforting sense of community emerged. She wondered about the lives of the people hidden behind the brick and stone structures. Did they suffer as she had? She placed her hand across her middle. It rose and fell in response to her strained breaths.
Megan had given up everything - her job, her friends, and Ben, her partner – and felt suffocated by the prospect her new start and the loneliness that would follow. It was not what she would have wanted, or predicted. Ben had seemed like a kind and compassionate man and she had hoped for longevity in their relationship; yet it was not to be, and her chest swelled with a curious mix of anger, guilt, and sorrow. Rising to her feet, easing the stiffness within her thigh and the tension in her mind, she paced the carriage.
A middle-aged man wearing a loose-fitting sweater and ragged jeans plodded towards her. Even though Megan moved aside, waiting in her gap between two seats, he still managed to bang his arm into her.
‘Hey . . . watch what you’re doing,’ she said.
He passed her a cursory glance and continued along the carriage and out of view. Searching for sympathy, she scanned the other travellers and caught sight of a young woman glaring at her from behind a newspaper. Wanting solitude, away from judgemental eyes, so sure that everyone could detect her weaknesses and vulnerabilities, she returned to her seat.
The train eased to a halt. She looked through the finger marks on the window at the new trail of passengers, before noticing her faint reflection in the glass. Her hair was far from lush and often untidy, but she liked the colour and brushed aside floating strands from her face. Ben had called it butterscotch. He had often run his fingers across her scalp and inhaled the sweet smell of avocados and coconut. He had loved the aroma. She had loved him.
The train eased away from the station. Next to the railway line were dilapidated industrial buildings with boarded-up windows, walls spray-painted with sketches and slogans, and disused car parks and wasteland overrun with weeds and broken concrete. Smashed glass bottles littered the ground, and cans and takeaway wrappers collected in bushes.
The train gained speed, travelling over rivers and under roads. It was a monotonous journey, and she rotated her ring and chewed her lip as she tried to keep her mind free from her ponderings. Nevertheless, every so often an image of Ben appeared inside her head. Even the train offered reminders of their relationship, as despite the short time they’d spent together they had shared many moments. In her mind, his deep-throated laughter echoed and his eyes sparkled. Needing convincing that her departure was the necessary and correct course of action, she placed her hand on her sore thigh.
The train pulled into another station. She glanced through the window and watched a group alight. She was half way to her destination and would soon be able to step inside her rented accommodation, close the door, and forget her traumas. She would look for a job and build a new life without the complexities of a male companion. She did not need anyone, after all, there had been many moments during the last thirty-one years of her life when she had been without a male figure, and she had coped.
Someone was staring. Irritated by the intrusion, she lifted her head. Her skin tingled with cold as a deep sense of familiarity emerged. The man looked about sixty years old and he had a firm physique, his mouth was loose and his face flushed. He had short grey hair, a rounded face, and a smooth complexion, and he rested his arm on the back of a chair for support.
'Do I know you?' she asked.
He stood for a moment, speechless. 'No . . . do you mind if I sit down?'
She shook her head.
She had seen him before, but where? He had an air of refinement and was smartly dressed in well-fitted attire, and from what she could see, his clothes did not have designer labels. He also appeared to be studying her, and when she started chewing her lip, his attention became more concentrated. Strangely, she did not feel threatened but comforted. It was an unfathomable experience.
'I'm sure we have met before,' she said.
He smiled and then shook his head. 'I would have remembered.'
'Have you ever lived in Halifax?'
'No. I've never even visited West Yorkshire.'
'I used to live there.' She swallowed her agony. 'I'm moving to Rodley in Nottinghamshire. I'm making a fresh start.'
He gawked. She touched her cheek, wondering if she had something on her face, but there was nothing there. Unsettled, she turned away. After a few moments, he regained her attention.
'I live in Rodley,' he said.
'Really? What's it like?'
'It's okay. Clean, not a lot of crime. The town centre is pleasant . . . there are some decent bars, restaurants, and shops. Are you staying with family?'
'No. A friend of mine rents out properties. He's found me a place to stay. I haven't seen it . . . I haven't even visited Rodley before.'
'Why Rodley?'
She rotated her silver crossover ring, a gift from her mother, and tried to formulate a response that sounded intelligent or meaningful. 'Why not?'
'Do you have a job there?'
'No. That will be my first task.'
'You may need a bit of luck. There's not a lot around.'
'I'm not worried about what I do. I'll find something eventually.'
He nodded. 'I like your attitude.'
He had large earlobes and even white teeth. His back was straight, his knees pressed together and his feet were flat on the ground. He caught her scrutinising him and smiled. She smiled back.
'What's your name?'
'Megan Armstrong. You?'
'Larry Carr.'
She jerked. The name was familiar. Where the hell had they met before? 'Have you been on television?'
He chortled. 'No.'
'I'm sorry, but I do know you.'
The sound of a ring tone disturbed her ponderings. She reached into her bag, studied the small screen, frowned, and pressed the decline button.
'Is something wrong?'
She held the phone tight within her fingers and the coolness crept into her hand. 'No.'
'You look worried.'
'I've just split up with my partner. It wasn't working out.'
'I see.'
She looked at her thigh. 'He keeps ringing me. He won't accept it's over.'
'Break-ups can be nasty. I lost someone I loved many years ago. For ages, I had regrets. There was such a lot I should have done differently, but I was aggressive and controlling and I wouldn't listen.'
'What happened?'
Hesitating, he stared at his hands. 'She left . . . I never saw her again. For years, I would pray, the last thing at night, that when I woke the next day she would be there beside me. She never was.' A sad expression formed on his face. 'Make sure you make the right decision for the right reason. You only get one life, one chance.'
Accepting the wisdom of his words, she drifted to the moment of her escape. She had barely given Ben opportunity to explain, defend himself even, and wondered if she had been too hasty. However, as soon as the thought entered her head she reconsidered and her face became pinched. He had had his chances but he had never taken them, there was no reason she should feel guilty. Pushing aside her doubts, she returned her attention to her companion.
He held a fist close to his mouth. 'Do you have any kids?'
'No.'
'Well, that's a blessing. It can get messy when kids are involved in breakups.'
'Tell me about it!'
He tilted his head.
'Sorry, I was muttering to myself . . . Ben has a son.'
Drawn to his sympathetic expression, her problems rushed to the tip of her tongue, and her chest heaved and her sore leg pressed into her jeans. Devoid of energy and washed of colour, she yearned for a consoling hand. Yet, now was not the time; she was not going to pour out her troubles to a stranger and searched for a change of subject.
'I understand there's an art gallery in Rodley,' she said.
His face lit up. 'Yes. We've had a few well-known artists live in the region over the years. Some have their work displayed there. Do you paint?'
'I dabble.'
He held a wistful gaze. 'The building is of architectural interest as well. It-'
'Yes. The archway and alcoves.'
'I thought you hadn't visited Rodley.'
'I haven't.' She was perplexed. 'I must have seen it somewhere.'
The image was crystal clear in her mind. She could see the walkway to the main entrance, the patterned brickwork above the windows, and the row of alcoves. There were other features there too, but since she knew nothing of architecture, she could not name them.
She returned her attention to Larry. 'Are you into art?'
He fumbled with his reply.
She watched. She waited.
'I knew an artist once,’ he said eventually. ‘Her work was quite dark . . . she was not well known.'
'What was her name?'
He jerked. 'You wouldn't know her.'
'Maybe you could show me some of her work one day.'
He averted his gaze. 'Maybe.'
She detected his reluctance and it triggered a worry he may not want to see her again. It was a bizarre thing to consider since they had only just met, and it made no sense. Nonetheless, after a few moments of silent pondering, she caught him studying her and noted the sparkle in his eyes. Believing that he was sensing an inexplicable connection, she decided to be bold and asked him if he would like to meet up again.
He smiled and said he would.
They continued to make easy chatter, talking about music and films and avoided personal matters. It provided her with a valuable escape, and her mental tension regarding the staircase incident started to evaporate. In addition, his companionship reassured her that she had made the correct decision regarding her departure, and she felt increasingly optimistic about her future.
After what seemed like a short amount of time, she noticed that the train was nearing their destination and sped past a deserted station a few miles to the north of Rodley. Visible through the window was a supermarket with a vast car park, empty fields with overgrown grasses and meadowland, and a housing estate and commercial buildings.
The conurbation grew and the train slowed. Megan had no idea where her house was located and she wondered if she might even be looking at the very area. There was a road running parallel to the railway line, there were billboards, small shops, and townhouses. There was a sign welcoming visitors to Rodley.
Without warning, an inexplicable hotchpotch of images rushed into her mind. Blood dripped from her stomach drenching her clothes, and a figure loomed, shadowy and indistinct. She saw herself running, she fell to the ground in agonising pain, and a knife glimmered.
Then the images faded.
Her pulse throbbed and her head felt light. Needing air, she pressed her hand to her throat urging her queasiness to subside and rested her head on the back of the seat for stability. Her body was rigid and her eyes hazy as perspiration dripped from her red-hot skin.
Larry enquired after her.
'Someone kills me . . . I saw a knife . . . blood . . . my stomach.'
Having mumbled an inaudible comment, he strode towards the carriage door, ready to exit the stationary train. When she didn’t move, he reached for her suitcase and bag, placed it near the exit, and grabbed her hand. Urging herself forward on wobbly legs, she followed his lead and exited the train.
‘Will you be all right now?’ Larry asked.
His question faded into insignificance. Had she just seen her destiny? Was she going to be murdered? Nauseous and light-headed, and experiencing an intense sense of foreboding, she held him in her gaze.
He must have realised her troubled mindset, as moments later, she was inside a cab and waiting for her bags to be loaded into the back.
'Where to?' the driver asked.
Silence.
'Megan,' Larry said, looking through the open window, 'where are you going?'
'21 Rochester Street.'
The car pulled away. With her hand on the window and her stomach churning with dread, she watched his figure fading into the distance.
Trembling, Megan tottered into the living area, leaving her bags near the outer door in the hallway, and dropped onto the plain blue sofa. She grabbed a cushion, pressed it to her abdomen, and stared with misted eyes at her surroundings.
The room was bright and airy, with comfortable seating at one side and a small oval dining table and chairs at the other. The window at the front of the house had partial net curtains, providing privacy from the street, whereas the patio doors at the rear were free of adornments, and from what she could see led to a shared garden with a lawn, a paved area, and flower borders.
It would suffice, but it wasn't home.
Outside, a car screeched to a halt. Megan jolted and looked at the window. Sprinting into her mind were visions of her death, and with her ears trained on the slightest of sounds, her eyes leapt to the door. Holding her breath, she pressed harder onto the cushion, urging her inner turmoil to subside and yearning for the comfort of her previous house where she knew every creak and groan of the building, the level of sound from passing traffic, and the noisy habits of her neighbours. Here, her ignorance was intimidating and her senses worked tirelessly to still her anxieties.
Unable to evacuate the image of dripping blood from her mind, she thought of Ben. Drawn to their intimate moments of laughter and companionship, she dialed his number.
'Megan. Where are you? I've been worried.'
His deep tones comforted, yet her mouth dried and her voice refused to function. She cradled the phone in her hand, holding onto his every word.
'What's going on?' he asked.
'Someone's going to kill me.'
'What?'
'I saw it at the station. Someone plunges a knife into my stomach.'
'Where are you?'
'Rodley.'
'Where are you staying?'
Hesitating, she thought of the fall and her bruised leg. 'I'm renting a house.'
'Where?'
Her regret mounted, she could not respond.
'Don't go anywhere. I'm coming for you.'
'No!'
'Megan. You're upset. You need me.'
'I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I shouldn't have called. Stay away!'
She ended the call, put the ringtone on silent, and flung the phone onto the sofa. Lord! She was so stupid. Why had she called Ben, of all people? He was the last person she could trust, after everything that had happened.
Exasperated, she ran her hands through her hair and listened to the silence. Beyond the sound of her breath, the noises were faint, but she could just about detect people chattering, footsteps, and a closing door. It was coming from next door, and while she was grateful it wasn't an intruder, it provided her with little comfort. Craving a distraction from her swirling thoughts, she switched on the television and lugged her bags up the stairs.
There were two bedrooms, both furnished, and there was a small bathroom with a shower cubicle, a toilet, and a basin. The first bedroom was decorated cream with a purple border and had a single bed, a wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. The second was larger, with a more extensive wardrobe system, a double bed, and a dressing table. She opted for the second room and dragged her bags inside.
Weighed down by her anxieties, Megan was unable to relish the moment. She had imagined her joy as she made the house into her home; instead, she felt out of place, as though a foreigner in a strange land and craved familiarity. Drawn to the suitcase, she crouched to the floor, her fingers brushing the lush peach coloured carpet, and searched for her photographs.
She laid her clothes on the bed, bathroom accessories on the dressing table, and shoes and sandals in the wardrobe. Then, a glossy image set in an aluminium frame glinted in the artificial light. Clutching it, she stared at the photograph and her eyes welled with tears. It was her son, Joshua, on his third birthday, four months, one week, and two days before his tragic death.
Born into a failing relationship, Joshua had been a breath of fresh air, and her relationship with Andrew improved. However, as fatigue set in and the joys of parenthood became less clear, the drink became a necessary distraction for them both. When facing criticism from her mother, she insisted that the little boy never suffered; he wasn’t neglected and was clean and well fed, and slept soundly. He had been a happy child.
Megan traced the image of his rounded face and blond wisps of hair with her finger, and then shut her eyes. Her stomach tightened as her imaginings flowed. Joshua was against her, his warm, soft body caressing her soul, his hand gripping her finger, and his eyes twinkling in the light. A solitary tear slid down her face. He would have been twelve years old now, closing in on adulthood. He should never have died.
Recounting the moment of his death was a bad habit, and its cycle never-ending. It was a story she had told countless times; at the same time, it was not something she wanted to remember.
She had been out shopping and left Joshua with Andrew. It was a misjudgement, and something that would haunt her forever. She hadn’t realised how severe Andrew’s drunken state had been as beer almost constantly coated his breath. Had she been more astute, she would have prevented the accident. It was a crushing reality.
With images of the empty aspirin bottle lingering in her thoughts, she placed the photograph on a unit by the side of her bed and yearned for a reunion. She even considered her premonition and decided her death would be a blessing and a chance for them to be together once more. However, almost instantly, she succumbed to a primordial instinct, a will to survive, and it horrified her.
The instinct of motherhood should be greater. There had been a time when she could have taken her life, but nine years had passed and she had started to enjoy life again. Did that make her a bad person? She surmised that if she had a choice to be with her son or continue a lonely existence, she knew which option she would take. It was a no-brainer. However, she reasoned that there was no after-world, whether it was Heaven and Hell or something else, and that there were no guarantees she would ever meet her son again.
Exhausted from the perpetual distress, she slumped onto the bed, her head resting on the pillow. Like it or not, this was now her home. She may not have any friends close by, and she may not have Ben or Joshua in her life, but she was in a better position than yesterday. Her escape had been a sensible move.
Nonetheless, her motivating thoughts lacked strength and a vision of her death flashed into her mind. Determined to stay strong, she told herself it had occurred because of an over-active imagination. For the sake of her sanity, her future, she must eradicate her fears, and she must not contact Ben again.
The following day, with no food in the house except for a few basic essentials left in the fridge, Megan's first task was to go shopping. Her house was conveniently located on the edge of the town centre, in the middle of a small row, so it would be little effort to acquire goods. She grabbed her handbag, locked the door, and strode away from the house, her flat shoes leaving no sound of her journey.
The intensity of the sun bleached the ground and infiltrated her skin, and a light wind cooled. Leaves shimmered on their branches, sodden by a heavy overnight rainfall, and the paving stones, two-tone in colour, dried in the warmth. Revitalised after a good night of sleep, and having willed aside her loneliness and worries, she strode towards the hollering stallholders in the market square, feeling relaxed and comfortable with her surroundings. Holding onto a deep sense of solace, she scanned the meandering folks. This was her home; this was where she belonged. She smiled at the prospects.
Drifting along, passing through the market square and along the main street, she had no destination in mind, and wandered aimlessly, her first desire being to explore. However, it was as though she had planned her journey, as she took a direct route, passing alongside streets and through a narrow alleyway, before arriving at a small, enclosed recreation area hidden behind the houses and shops. Somehow, she knew it was there, a jewel amongst the humdrum of city life, and it was chilling.
Questioning why she seemed to know the town intimately, she concluded that she must have visited as a child. Perhaps her birth mother, and not the woman she knew as her mother, had lived there, although there had never been an indication of such. Yet, it made sense and explained her intense desire to live there.
She stood and gazed at a flower border. Pinks, yellows, and blues mingled, drifting in swathes. The petals extended outwards in the sunlight, and the leaves were robust with bold colours. It was a pretty sight, a work of art.
'It is quite beautiful, isn't it?'
She jerked. Behind her was a woman of about fifty years old with shoulder length hair and with a face so recognizable that it caused her skin to tingle and her heart to beat ever faster.
'I'm Verity.'
'Megan.'
Their eyes locked.
'Are you new to the area?' she asked.
Her mouth was agape and she felt unable to speak, only managing a weak nod. She sensed she was depicting an image of a gormless fool, yet for some reason, it did not seem to matter.
'It's a pretty town. I've lived here all my life. You have good taste.'
She scanned their surroundings, noting the trees and shrubs, the playing area and the benches. Even the traffic noise was less, making it difficult to believe that they were in the centre of a busy town.
'I'm surprised that this place is not better used,' Megan said.
'There are times when it is. Kids spend more time indoors these days, not like we did in our day. There's a pretty pond over there. Have you seen it?'
She said she hadn't and followed her companion to its location; yet, she knew where to go and could almost describe it in her mind. She could visualise herself as a girl paddling in the water and reaching down to look in her fishing net. There were other children close by, a girl and two or three boys, and the boys were fighting.
Bewildered by the emerging and nonsensical memories, she averted her gaze.
Moments later, they turned a corner, passing around a hedge, and saw a moorhen scooting across the glistening water, searching for cover. The pond was small but beautiful, and there were reeds near the edge and lilies on the surface.
'I spent most of my summers here with my brothers and sisters,' Verity said. 'I didn't live too far away, just a few blocks in that direction.' She pointed. 'My sister and I used to come to catch frogs. Instead, we spent most of our time breaking up our brothers’ fights.'
Her colour drained. Surely, it was a coincidence.
Apprehensive, she followed in Verity's trail, striding around the perimeter of the pond and headed to a clearing, to picnic benches and a community notice board. As they chatted, a comforting familiarity replaced her unease. It was so strong that it seemed extraordinary, and it caused her a moment of tension. Not wanting to accept it as anything detrimental, she told herself that Verity was a friendly woman and that their blossoming relationship was another good omen.
'About thirty or so years ago, this area was quite an eyesore,' Verity said. 'The pond was full of rubbish and any flowers that blossomed soon disappeared. It wasn't a safe place to be - a few people were attacked.'
'That doesn't surprise me, it is hidden from view.'
'Eventually, the community took control of it. They have a rota to watch out for troublemakers. I must confess, when I was in my teens, I was one of the ruffians.'
'I've done my fair share of bad things too,' Megan said, 'I was into graffiti. I turned my interest around and started drawing on paper.'
She passed a blank stare.
'I was a bit of a wild child,' she continued, 'I was adopted when I was six years old having been in foster care for a while. It took ages for my new parents to calm me down. I used to play truant from school and I would bully other kids. I've grown up a bit since then.'
'I've done lots of stuff far worse than graffiti. I think many of us did as kids. I was from a big family, not that that is an excuse, but we were quite poor so stealing became commonplace.' She peered at Megan. 'Never big things, just sweets, bread, fruit . . . things like that.'
A vision sprung into her mind. She saw herself reach for a bar of chocolate in a shop and place it into her pocket before dashing away. The details were crisp and clear and seemed real. However, when she thought about it some more, she realised that she had never stolen and so it could not have been a memory.
'Have you met your birth family?' Verity asked.
'No. I've had no desire to. I know most people would be curious, but it just doesn't interest me. I may share the same genes as my real parents, but I can't see that there would be any other connection.'
Verity was silent.
'Having said that, this town has sparked my curiosity. I’ve never been to Rodley before, but so much of what I have seen is familiar. It has made me wonder if I spent my first few years here.'
'Maybe you should find out.'
She hesitated. 'Maybe.'
'What brought you here?'
'You know, it's strange. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been drawn to the place, and I have no idea why. I was told I used to talk about it all the time, even described certain things.'
'Like what?'
'I can't remember the details. Mum said I would talk about a house and people.'
'People?'
'Don't ask me to clarify, I can't. I must have made it up.'
They drifted towards a picnic table and paused alongside. 'When I arrived in town, I had a premonition,' she said cautiously. 'I thought I saw my death.'
'What exactly did you see?'
She pressed her arms to her middle and took a deep breath, steadying her voice. 'A knife went into my stomach. I saw blood, lots of it.'
There was silence and a sense of awkwardness. She looked at her companion, craving sympathy or an intelligent comment, but the woman was quiet and stared into the distance, not even acknowledging she had heard. Rotating her ring, she waited for her to speak.
Verity stared at Megan’s hands then lifted her gaze. When their eyes locked, she appeared to be about to speak. She did not.
'It was probably nothing . . .’ Megan continued, ‘an overactive imagination or stress. I keep telling myself the future hasn't yet happened.'
She nodded uneasily. ‘You’re probably right.’
'Having said that, I might do a bit of investigating to see if I can find out what caused it. It was very intense, very real.'
'I'd be interested to know what you discover.'
'Stop by my place some time, I live near the market. 21 Rochester Street.'
She nodded. 'I'll do that, but I must go. Work calls.'
They exchanged details and parted company. Striding away, Megan pondered the pleasant conversation that they had just shared, and feelings of an emerging and strong friendship enveloped her. Grateful for the friendship, she looked back along the street to Verity walking with confidence with a short gait, despite her long legs, and with her bag swinging at her side. Content, Megan strode to the market square and mingled with the peaceful crowds.
The market stalls sold a variety of produce, from household items to food. She stopped and perused the groceries. The prices were competitive and the quality was exceptional, the cabbages were crisp, the broccolis with tight heads, and the apples were firm and unblemished. She made her selection and wandered to the next stall.
Someone was shouting. She stopped and turned around, and looked at a man calling to someone a short distance away. She dismissed the incident and was just about to return her attention to her own tasks when two women caught her attention.
They were in their seventies, and stood and stared at her while making the occasional comment and pointing fingers. Uneasy, she looked over her shoulder. There was no one of significance at her rear. Irritated, she glared at the women. One had jet-black curly hair and was heavy-set, and the other had grey-blonde hair and was slender.
The heavier woman strode towards her. 'Are you Saskia's daughter?'
Her heart pounded. 'Who?'
She glimpsed at her companion. 'Just someone we knew . . . you look just like her.'
'Oh?'
'It's the hair,' she said.
'And the face,' her companion added, then turned to face her friend. 'She has the same angular jaw bone and chin as well.'
'And the same body shape.'
'Do you mind?' she said. 'I am standing here!'
The heavy-set woman turned to face her, her expression deadpan. 'I could have sworn you were related. Are you sure you don't know her?'
'I've never heard of anyone with that name.'
She turned back to her companion. 'Jane will have a heart attack if she sees her.'
'Who's Jane?' Megan asked.
'Saskia's mother. She hasn't seen her since she left. It must be at least thirty years ago.'
She stepped away. 'Well, it's nothing to do with me.'
She could sense their eyes pressing into her back. Her mind was hazy, her ears alert.
'They have to be related,' one of the women said, 'it proves she wasn't murdered.'
Her body jarred. She spun around. 'Murdered?'
'Oh yes. That's what some people used to say, but there was never any proof.'
'Why would anyone have wanted her dead?'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'Why does anyone kill?'
She turned away, her mouth dry, her pulse racing, and her breath short and fast. Had she had visions of the other woman’s suffering or were their lives to tread a similar path? Driven by a sense of foreboding, she hurried away.
>Megan placed her shopping bags on the hallway floor, returned her door key to her handbag, and deposited her lightweight purple jacket in the cloakroom under the staircase. Wanting to unload her purchases, she headed to the kitchen.
There were cupboards and drawers along the length incorporating a sink unit, a cooker, and a washing machine, and to her rear was another unit, with a microwave and toaster at one side and a few ceramic jars at the other. She opened the cupboards, one was virtually empty and housed a few cans of vegetables, a second contained glasses and mugs, and a third contained a matching set of porcelain containers each with a different drinks label. In a lower cupboard was a vegetable rack.
Having decided where to place the goods, she unpacked her bags. She had bought the basics - a breakfast cereal, spreads and jams, bread, milk, coffee, sliced meat, and an assortment of vegetables. She would purchase the rest later, and along with a few personal touches, the house would soon feel like home.
She headed into the living area and kicked off her shoes. The carpet was soft beneath her feet and the warmth of the afternoon sunshine caressed her skin. She sat down, her legs at an angle, and pondered the comments made by the two women in the market square. Surely, her appearance was unique.
Uneasy, she headed to the cloakroom under the staircase. On the inside of the door was a small square mirror. She checked her appearance and ran her hand through her strands of butterscotch hair. She had hazel eyes with a tinge of green, a pale, almost white complexion, small tight lips and a straight nose.
If the comments were true, then she felt she must be related to Saskia. There was no other logical alternative. She pressed shut the door, shuffled back to the sofa and wondered if she should search for her birth mother. She had always been adamant that it was unimportant to do such a thing, but now, as she faced inexplicable peculiarities, she was starting to reconsider. Saskia must be her mother, and Megan must have witnessed her murder. But why would she have forgotten about it until now? Would it not have been imprinted on her mind? It may have even gone some way into carving her personality. Needing answers, she reached for her phone.
'Hi Mum,'
'Hello love,' Pamela said, 'everything alright?'
'I've moved to Rodley.'
'Rodley? What's happened?'
'I've left Ben.'
'Why?'
'It wasn't working out, but that's not why I rang. I-'
'I thought you were happy with Ben.'
'Mum, just leave it,' she said, 'I don't want to talk about it. There is something else. I need to know who my birth mother was.'
Pamela hesitated. 'I didn't think you were interested.'
'I'm not, not really. It’s just that I've learned I look like someone who lived here about thirty years ago. Rumour has it that she was murdered.'
'Murdered, why?'
'I don't know.'
'Her surname was Johnson,' Pamela said, 'you already know that. I might be able to find her first name for you. I have it somewhere.'
'Thanks.'
'I'll ring back.'
Megan's excitement mounted as she waited for the call. The knowledge that Saskia was her mother would dismiss her fears and settle her mind, especially if she could prove that she had been killed. She would be able to explain the similarities in their appearances and brush aside moments of déjà vu. She could restart her life, freed of the burden that had so far clouded her path.
She walked to the patio doors and looked into the shared garden. The dappled sunlight created a pattern on the paving and seed heads danced in the breeze. Craning her neck, she looked further along and saw an elderly woman resting on a bench and chatting with a child. The girl was probably her granddaughter.
Verity and Larry sprung into Megan's mind. It made sense to believe that they were her relatives, perhaps an auntie and uncle. Or perhaps Larry was her father. Oh lord, that made sense too. It would explain her instant sense of security and the ease in which the conversation had progressed. She was sure he had felt it too; it was in his eyes.
Her phone rang. Her pulse raced.
'Hi Mum.'
'Your mother’s name was Julie.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes love, I'm sure. Julie Johnson.'
'It doesn't make sense. I was so sure.’
'What did you think it was?'
She chewed her lip. 'It doesn't matter. Could there have been a mistake?'
'It's unlikely.'
'Did she have a middle name?'
'The papers didn't say.'
Silence.
'Megan, why does this murder worry you so much?'
'Do you remember how I used to talk about Rodley? Well, it's so familiar Mum. I must have been here before.'
'And you think Julie was from there.'
'It's the only explanation. She must have been killed.'
'Should I find out how to go about tracing her?'
'No, it's okay.'
'Are you sure? It's no problem.'
'I'm sure.'
Megan was baffled. She was so sure had been right and believed that there could be no other explanation.
A thought struck her. Maybe Julie was known by another name. It seemed a possibility, and the more she thought about it, the more she considered it likely. Proving it, though, might not be so easy.
The following morning, Megan wondered how to prove her connection to Saskia, and concluded that she would have to roam the streets in search of clues. It was likely that someone would make a comment and may provide her with the evidence she needed. If she was lucky, she may even see the two women from the market square, or better still, she may meet Saskia's mother, Jane. Her hopes and expectations rose.
For now, she would enjoy breakfast. She set the table, placing out a cereal bowl and a spoon, a box of cornflakes and a carton of milk, a tub of margarine and a knife, and a mug of coffee. Back in the kitchen, she hovered by the toaster and inhaled the sumptuous aroma. Her stomach was churning for food and her mouth was dry.
She enjoyed making an effort at breakfast time and recalled her explanation to Ben. It showed a willingness to start the day with a positive attitude, and whilst she sensed he had disagreed, preferring to have a quick coffee in front of the television, he had often joined her. She appreciated his gesture, but it was not enough to keep them together, and her anger and disappointment swelled.
The toast popped up. She placed it onto a plate and moved to the table. Ben should have supported her more; he should have listened to what she had to say and he should have been more understanding during their disagreements. With a growing irritation, she stared outside, absorbing the warm glow of the sun.
It was a pleasant view, but it did not ease her torment. With hunched shoulders, she gazed at the edge of the paved area, tracing every smudge and every crack, and appealed with her ponderings to subside. Their relationship was over; there was no turning back. Yet no matter how she tried, she could not eliminate Ben from her mind. She knew she loved him and it was infuriating.
Did he wonder about her? Had he taken her claim regarding her premonition seriously? She reached into her handbag, extracted her phone, and looked at the little screen. She had missed four calls from Ben and two text messages, and her satisfaction crept to her lips. She was about to open one when a little voice inside her head screamed an objection. He had hurt her. Why had she forgotten?
Disheartened by her inability to forget her pain, she deleted the messages and placed her phone into her bag. Providing she didn’t relent, he would give up. In fact, she was surprised he had taken her fears seriously at all. He had never believed anything she had said in the past. What had changed?
Apprehensive of what she may discover, Megan reached for her thin jacket and bag and stepped towards the outer door. Once outside, she reached for her key, but it slipped from her hand and landed under the window. Nearby was a concrete ornament, a painted fox. She considered it tacky.
Stepping away from the house and mulling over what she hoped to achieve, she chose to take a circuitous to the town centre rather than heading straight to the market square, and took an immediate left and headed along a residential street, absorbing the tidy dwellings with matching designs.
The wooden doors each had a glass arc, the windows were constructed of PVC double-glazing, and many of the gardens had bedding plants that were laden with a colourful display of flowers. The street was devoid of life, except for a woman placing a bag of rubbish in the dustbin and a suited man striding towards his car with a briefcase. Even the cars appeared to be avoiding the area.
She strolled through an alley, turned right onto another street, and joined the main road leading to the other side of the town centre. Amidst the houses was a church spire. She dodged the traffic, took a left turn and then a right, and arrived at the gates of a small cemetery. Magnetised by the eerie silence, she headed straight to a grave.
A deep sadness rose from within. Megan looked at the inscription. Frank Fox. A father and husband, born 21 May 1935, died 8th February 1979. She clasped her hands across her middle and stared. Emanating from a place close to her heart was a heavy sensation, and for a moment, images of a man cuddling and comforting her formed in her mind. Struggling with her burden, she tightened her arms around her body.
Her initial reaction was that the grave belonged to her father, but given that his death occurred two years before her birth, the idea was ridiculous. She glanced at the surrounding graves. None of them triggered any emotion, so why was this one so special? She needed answers.
Sensing someone watching, she spun around and looked at the exit. No one was there. She craned her neck, trying to see beyond a wall. It was a little too high to be certain, but the street appeared empty of pedestrians.
Willing aside her growing paranoia, she continued towards the town centre. She tried to dismiss the weirdness from all around, and decided, as Verity had suggested, that she was suffering from stress. Her escape from Ben had been intense and traumatic, and although it appeared to have been an impulsive decision - a reaction to an accident - she had endured their difficult relationship for much longer. It would take a while to recover.
She turned a corner. She was on the edge of a pedestrian precinct and a short distance away was a monument of a local hero. Overwhelmed by an inexplicable fear, she stepped backward, her skin cold and quivering and her hand pressing to her middle, rising and falling with her laboured breathing. Sensing danger, she looked down to her palm. Blood dripped from her skin and pooled on the floor. She let out a tremendous cry.
A pain ripped through her. She doubled over, looking at the ground. She heard footsteps, heavy and rhythmical. She raised her head and peered through her hair. A man was heading towards her. His eyes bulged and a knife was tight in his hand and coated in blood, her blood. She tried to scream. No words escaped.
She must have fainted because the next she knew she was on the floor. People crowded around, but one face, in particular, caught her attention and their eyes locked and her heart pounded in her throat. When he glanced down her body, she looked at her middle, searching for blood: her clothes were clean and her skin intact.
'Are you okay?' he asked.
She checked herself again and nodded, her mouth agape. He had black hair with streaks of grey, his skin was coarse, and skin free of stubble. Upon his neck was a birthmark in the shape of a star.
'I hope it wasn't my fault you fainted. You looked at me as though you had seen a ghost.'
'No,' she said, 'I have a habit of fainting . . . low blood pressure.'
He nodded.
He had a quiet manner with a soft caring voice and kindness within his eyes. She wanted to reach to him, hold him, yet at the same time, deep within her was a feeling of terror. Logical in her analysis, Megan told herself that this man could not be responsible for her vision, nor would he be her killer. She rose to her feet.
'Can I buy you a coffee?' he asked. ‘It might help settle you down.’
Whilst suspicious, she was also curious and agreed to his request. Moments later, they were inside the café with coffees and seated at a table near the window. The man introduced himself as Ron.
'You remind me of someone I once knew,' he said, 'a dear friend.'
'Saskia.'
'You knew her?'
She shook her head. ‘Someone told me. I would love to see a picture of her. I can't believe that we look that similar.'
'You do, it's uncanny.'
'Was Saskia her real name?'
He gave a questioning glance.
'I was wondering if she was my mother. It would explain a few things.'
'Like what?'
'I have memories. I think I used to live here.'
'She never had a child,' he said in a certain voice.
'Oh.' She chewed her lip and looked at the street and the shoppers. 'Did any of her family have a child adopted? A sister maybe.'
He shook his head. 'I knew the family well.'
'How so?'
He stared into his coffee, as though drifting to a forgotten time, and then looked up, briefly directing his gaze towards her before his eyes slipped outside through the window. 'It was a much smaller town back then. I lived close by.'
'What was she like?'
'Headstrong, responsible, a bit reckless . . . there is not a lot else I can tell you.'
'Do you think she was murdered?'
'No. She went away. Travelled Europe.'
'I think she was stabbed.'
His expression darkened. 'Why do you say that?'
'Just something I've heard.'
An uncomfortable atmosphere filled the air and an inexplicable sense of unease crept towards her. Her heart started to pound, she clutched her stomach, and she focused on the birthmark on Ron's neck. She wasn’t certain if he’d noticed her looking; regardless, he raised his hand to his neck, disguising the mark.
'I'm sorry to be rude, but I am going to have to make tracks,' he said, 'I am due at the community centre. I help young people sort out their problems.'
'That sounds satisfying.'
'It is, and even though I don't like to boast, I am quite good at it. They open up to me.'
'That's nice.'
'I enjoy the company . . . I live alone.'
He swallowed the rest of his coffee and eased himself away from the chair. 'Nice to meet you, Megan.'
'You too.'
She took her time finishing her drink and pondered their curious meeting. It was a disturbing thought that so many people recognised her, and it was as though she had spent part of her life with amnesia. It was also regrettable that she had missed her opportunity to ask him further questions. His hasty departure had caught her unawares.
Stepping outside, she freed herself of the gentle drone of voices from within the café and looked at the statue. Her panic aroused; her legs quivered, her ankle was sore, and her stomach clenched with pain. She glanced down, but it was all just a memory, a faint hint from the past. Nevertheless, despite telling herself to regain control, she was still unable to walk by the statue and took a diversion, travelling along a back street and walked along the main road hoping for another way into the centre.
Something caused her to glance to her rear. A figure rushed into a doorway, hiding from her view and causing her skin to ripple. It could have been her imagination, but she wasn't going to take that chance, and scurried along a side street and quickened her pace. Up ahead was the edge of the shopping precinct. Relieved to be back in company, she entered a clothes shop.
There were summer outfits to her right, shoes to her left, and clothing for men and children at the far end. Everyone had a sense of purpose and paid no attention at all to her sudden appearance. Reassured, she caught her breath and feigned interest in the skimpy tops hanging on a rack close to the door. Yet she was in no mood for shopping, and pondered the bizarre reality of her situation.
There was no doubt in her mind that Saskia’s murder had occurred for a reason, and her instincts told her she carried a secret or had witnessed an atrocity. The intensity of her notion was bewildering. She knew nothing of the woman, yet deep in the pit of her stomach, she sensed she knew too much. Something inside of her was awakening and she was powerless to stop it.
Driven by a yearning to go home, and wanting only to console herself with memories of her son, she followed a woman and child outside the shop and continued past a card shop, a shoe shop and an estate agent. Yet her nervousness remained. Repeatedly, she told herself that everyone was a stranger and that no one cared what she did.
Something inside of her refused to listen.
A man thrust a leaflet into her hand. Striding out, she looked at the detail - an art event at an out of town location - but before she could read all everything, someone crashed into her. She jolted and stepped backward.
'Sorry,' the middle-aged blonde woman said, 'I wasn't watching what I was doing.'
'Do you know where this place is?' she said, presenting the leaflet.
'Yes. Take the road by the station that leads out of town. There is a lane a mile or so on the right. It's along there.'
'Do they have these events regularly?'
'I've no idea.'
'Okay, thanks.'
She needed a distraction and hoped it may re-ignite her interest in drawing and painting, and stuffed the leaflet into her bag and continued along, weaving through the hordes and avoiding the gaze of shoppers and office workers. In her mind, all eyes pressed into her, all fingers pointed, all comments speaking of her similarity to Saskia; in reality, everyone was oblivious.
Needing to hear a friendly voice, she reached for her phone. Her finger hovered over Ben's number. She ignored it and instead called Verity. There was no answer.
Reprimanding herself for her persistent nervousness, she wondered if she should start proceedings to contact her mother. Julie Johnson must know something, and she may have even been a friend of Saskia's. Undecided, she progressed along a quiet road towards her house, glimpsed over her shoulder to check for traffic, and started to cross.
The sound of an accelerating car alerted her, causing her to spin. A car was heading straight towards her and driving on the wrong side of the road at speed. With her blood pounding her muscles and her fear intense, she ran to the other side and stepped into the safety of a doorway. The car whizzed by, heading away and turning a corner.
Once she had gotten over the initial shock, she trotted home and arrived on her doorstep hot and breathless. Fumbling in her bag for the door key, she caught sight of the ornamental fox by the window laid on its side on the ground. Seeing as another sign that someone tracked her, she presented the key to the lock, stepped inside, and with her senses alert, she shut the door.
At her feet was a newspaper cutting. She reached down, noted the scrawled ink warning to be careful, and looked at the headline referring to a missing person and the photo of Saskia. It could have been her; the resemblance was uncanny and her blood drained.
A knock at the door caused her to jolt. Holding her breath, she stood motionlessly and stared at the wooden door.
'Megan,' a voice said.
'Ben?'
'Yes, it's me.'
She opened the door and flung her arms around him. ‘Thank the Lord you're here.'
With the newspaper article clenched between her fingertips, Megan pulled away from Ben and stepped into the living area. The word "missing" appeared to pounce from the paper, threatening, warning. She looked at the image of Saskia and struggled to still her quivering body. Her heart was thumping and her pulse reverberating in her throat. She dropped onto the sofa, cold and numb, and gazed at the fireplace.
'Can I see that?' Ben asked.
He took the article and stood motionless, reading the text. She watched and waited, urging his calmness to pass to her. Her stomach felt like a whirlpool, her thoughts wild and turbulent, and one thought echoed, loud and persistent. It was happening again, someone was trying to kill her.
'Did you know Saskia?'
She shook her head.
Who sent this?'
'I don't know.' Her voice was high-pitched and frantic. 'When I arrived I had a vision someone stabbed me, just here.' She pointed to her stomach. 'Someone is going to kill me. Everywhere I go I remember things. I even recognise some people.'
'Perhaps your real mother lived here.'
'That's what I thought - it's the only thing that makes sense. But Saskia wasn't my mother, I've already checked.'
'Maybe they were friends. You could still have witnessed the murder.'
'But I would have remembered! You're not going to forget something like that.'
He placed his hand on her thigh. Uneasy, she moved away, stepping towards the patio doors and searching for a moment of tranquillity. The garden was still and silent, there were unblemished red and yellow roses along a border, birds hopped on the manicured lawn, and butterflies and insects hovered over the smaller blooms.
Ben appeared by her side.
'Someone was following me and I almost got hit by a car.'
'Are you okay?'
She nodded frantically.
'Did you see who it was?'
'Of course not! I was too busy running.’
'It could have been an accident.'
'No, it wasn’t. The car was on the wrong side of the road.’ She folded her arms. ‘It has to have been something to do with Saskia.'
'What do you know about her?'
'Nothing. I don't know who she is or what she was involved with - I don't know a thing about her.'
He lowered his arm onto her shoulders. It was clear he wanted to console her, but she resisted, pulled away, and strode into the kitchen. Wanting to busy herself, she decided to make sandwiches and took sliced ham and lettuce from the fridge and bread from the bread bin. Then, she flicked on the kettle.
'First thing this morning I went to the local cemetery,' she continued, 'there was a grave for Frank Fox. I think he was my father.'
'Oh?'
'I knew the grave was there. I felt desperately sad. Only . . .'
'Only what?'
Her voice softened. 'He died two years before I was born.'
Ben frowned.
'I knew I shouldn't have told you.'
'You have to admit, it does sound strange.'
'This entire town is strange.'
There was a deep yearning in his eyes. 'So come home.'
Tensing, she thrust the plate of sandwiches into his hand, poured water into the prepared coffee mugs, and followed him to the dining table. Her jaw clenched, her face set.
'We should talk about what happened at home,’ he said. ‘You never offered me an explanation.’
'There is nothing to say. I don't want you in my life.'
'Why are you so contradictory? You let me in, obviously pleased to see me, tell me your problems, make me lunch, and then tell me you don't need me at all.'
'Of course I was pleased to see you, but I would have been pleased to see the postman too. Someone tried to kill me for Lord's sake.'
There was a staid look in his eyes. 'Are you sure you're not exaggerating just a little bit?'
‘Why do you never believe me? And you wonder why I left!'
'Yes, you're right! I do wonder why you left. A short note is not an explanation. Don't I deserve a bit more?'
'I've been telling you for weeks how unhappy I was. Have you any idea how you hurt me?'
'I never hurt you, not intentionally.'
'Of course you did. You seem to think I said things for fun. Do you know what it’s like not been believed? When I said I wanted something to stop, I meant it. Why would I lie?'
He gulped and looked away.
She knew that he was thinking that she had been spinning lies and causing needless trouble, but that was so far from the truth it was ridiculous. How could he have been so blind? Did he ever realise how his behaviour pained?
'You shouldn't have come,’ she said stiffly. ‘It's over between us. There's no going back.'
'I can tell you still love me.'
She held a determined stare. 'No, I don't.'
'We'll talk later . . . when you're calmer. I need you, Megan. David misses you too.'
Infuriated by his unwillingness to accept anything she said, she held her tongue. She may as well have been talking to herself. Nothing changed.
They continued to lunch. With her teeth gritted, Megan listened to Ben as he chatted about his friends in Halifax. He was either oblivious to her resentment or ignoring it, and it did nothing to help her mood. Nevertheless, as he continued with his tales of university life, sharing the finer details of the practical jokes he played on his friends, her demeanour softened and she remembered why she had loved him.
Then his happy disposition melted and their eyes locked.
'You should contact your birth mother,' he said. ‘She may have answers to your problem.'
'But she wasn't Saskia.'
‘So you’ve said, but she might know something.'
Her lips tightened.
'What are you so afraid of?'
‘I’m not afraid! She didn't want me and abandoned me. How could I form a relationship with someone capable of that? No one would have been able to rip me away from Joshua, ever.’
Her heart weighted. Would she ever be able to forgive herself for his death? He should be with her, watching television, playing on a games console, or listening to music. Her punishment was everlasting.
She turned back to Ben. 'There is no way I could have ever considered putting a child of mine up for adoption. That's why I understand how you are with David.'
'What do you mean?'
'Come on, don't act stupid. David comes first with you. He has to.'
She pushed back the chair then stepped to the sofa. Her head ached and her neck was tense. She had had enough of stressful conversations for one day and wanted silence. Having stretched her neck and shoulder muscles, and released an obligatory groan, she shut her eyes.
'Let me give you a massage,' Ben said.
Willingly, she dropped to the floor, sitting between his legs. His fingers and thumbs pressed along each side of her spine, and he manipulated her shoulders and eased her taut neck. The sensation was heavenly, and she shut her eyes and blanked her mind. Next, he lightly fingered her scalp. His tender touch smoothed out her stress-induced undulations, and he massaged her forehead, temples and eyes. She released a pleasurable moan.
Soon, his warm breath was on her skin and his soft lips caressed her cheek and ear. In response, her body tingled and her fine hairs stood on end, working their way along the length of her back. She turned to face him. He cupped her face with his hands and their lips met. Breathless and with a memorable urgency, they made their way to the bedroom and made love.
Afterwards, laid motionless on the bed, she considered their beautiful reunion. Not wanting the moment to end, she snuggled into him, pressing into his silky warm skin and ran her fingers across his chest. It was a familiar excursion, a delightful moment.
He broke the silence. 'Where did you say you felt yourself being stabbed?'
She pulled away and scowled. 'Why do you have to do this now?'
'Look at your stomach.'
Her anxieties flooded towards her. The birthmark on her middle resembled an old wound. It looked like a frayed line, as though her skin had been sliced and had not knitted together; it looked like a stabbing.
'Do you think it’s significant?' he asked.
She levered herself from the bed. 'It's just a birthmark. Let it go. I don't want to talk about it.'
Unexpectedly chilled, she could barely dress, and slipped into her jeans and struggled with shaking hands to fasten the buttons on her blouse. Once she’d donned her flat shoes, she elbowed past Ben and descended the stairs. He was quick to follow.
'Do you believe in reincarnation?' he asked.
She passed him an irritated stare.
'Let’s assume it happens. I think you could have been Saskia in your last life. You seem to have some of her memories and her stab wound.'
She stopped and gawked.
'You even look like her. It makes sense, Megan.'
She leaned against a kitchen unit and rotated her ring. It was not a concept she could grasp. If everyone came back as someone else, vengeance would be commonplace. It would be widespread and uncontrollable.
'Plus,’ he continued, ‘you did say you felt Frank Fox was your father. Maybe he was, in a way.'
She gawped, stunned. According to the newspaper article, Saskia’s surname was Fox. How could she have failed to make the connection? Even so, his notion remained difficult to accept. She did not want the memories and she did not want to be Saskia. The woman could have been evil, a murderer, she could have committed atrocious acts. How would she feel then? Would she feel Saskia's guilt or God forbid her satisfaction? It was difficult enough coming to terms with certain aspects of her life without having to deal with those from another.
She forced a determined stare. 'I won’t accept it as reincarnation. I must have witnessed something as a child. That's the only explanation. Whoever murdered Saskia must have realised I was a witness and now they’re on to me.'
His phone sounded. 'Hold on.' He answered the call. 'David, what's wrong?'
As he spoke, his voice had an irritated edge. At the same time, he tried to remain calm and assertive and asked a series of obscure questions. Something was wrong, and in spite of being unaware of the problem, her irritations grew. David had always had perfect timing, forever drawing them apart and causing needless trouble. It was difficult to accept his sincerity.
Muttering her disapproval, she stomped to the dining table to clear away the dirty crockery. Moments later, Ben appeared at her rear. 'I'm sorry Megan,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I'm going to have to go back. David's got himself into a bit of trouble.'
'He's seventeen! Can't he look after himself?'
He stepped towards her, pleaded with her for her understanding, and reminded her that he was his son. But she wasn’t swayed. Nothing changed. David was always causing trouble, and Ben always sided with him.
'I'll be back first thing tomorrow, I promise,’ he said.
'Don't bother.'
He stood, hesitant. 'I'm sure I'm right about Saskia, but try not to worry and don't go out in case someone else has reached the same conclusion.'
'I can look after myself.'
'I know you can. I'll be on the end of the phone if you need me. We will find out what happened.'
He gathered his belongings and left the house, striding to his car and taking one last glance at the house before driving away. As she watched the car fade from view, his last words echoed in her mind. She did not want to know what happened; instead, she wanted to hide.
Perhaps Ben was right. Perhaps it would be better to stay indoors, at least for the moment.
Ben's difficulties with David took much longer than he anticipated and he still hadn't returned days later. Stubbornly, Megan ignored his text messages and refused to answer his calls, driven by a simmering anger. He knew she was in danger yet he had left her alone. It was wrong and disrespectful, and more proof of his disputable love.
She should have been glad. A break-up had been what she had craved. However, since his suggestion that she was Saskia's incarnated self, she felt insecure and wanted his companionship. She didn’t know who she was or how she should feel. Did character traits remain? Did bad remain bad? Was something beyond her control guiding her actions and her life? Ben seemed to have a deeper understanding of such things since he was the one who had placed this ridiculous notion inside her head. However, rather than his comments soothing her, he had created untold turmoil and fled. Once again, he was causing her incomprehensible misery and she wanted to forget him.
The doorbell sounded. Megan peered through the window, saw it was Verity, and opened the door.
'I thought you might fancy a chat,’ she said, ‘that's if you're not doing anything.’
'Sure, come in. I'm going out, but not until later.'
'Going anywhere nice?'
She pointed to the leaflet on the mantelpiece telling of the art event. 'I used to draw and paint quite a bit. I'm hoping it'll trigger my enthusiasm.'
She studied the leaflet.
'Fancy a drink?'
'A coffee if you have any, milk, no sugar. I need the caffeine.'
She hurried away, switched on the kettle and prepared two mugs.
'Nice place you have here,' she called, 'handy too.'
She stepped back into the living area and hovered by the door. 'Yes, I was lucky. I hadn't seen it until I moved in. A friend of mine found it. It's perfect for one person.'
'I don't know why, but I assumed you were married,' she said.
The water started to bubble. She returned to the kitchen, poured the water into the mugs, and headed back to the living area.
'I've just ended a difficult relationship. It's been harder than I thought it would be.'
'Having regrets?'
'Ben won't accept it’s over. He came down a couple of days ago. He didn't stay long - he had to go back to his son.'
'Did you manage to sort anything out?'
'No, when I left Halifax I was sure I’d done the right thing.' She rotated her crossover ring. ‘His presence has made everything more complicated. I wish he hadn't turned up. '
'Maybe it's worth another go?'
She hesitated. 'Maybe, but I don't think I'd be doing it for the right reason. Someone tried to run me over the other day. I think I'm in danger.'
'Do you think it was deliberate?'
'The car was on the wrong side of the road. It was definitely deliberate!'
Another reason for you to return to Ben. Why didn't it work out?'
She placed her hand over her fading bruise. 'He has a son and so there were three of us in the relationship. I never felt as though I fitted in. When I moved in, they did their best to make me feel comfortable. We decorated a couple of the rooms, I added personal touches - made it look a bit more feminine - and we even replaced a couple of pieces of furniture with something I'd chosen.'
Verity nodded, urging her on.
'Problem was it has just been the two of them for years. They’re both set in their ways.'
'These things take time.'
'I gave it six months . . . that's plenty.'
'Do you love him?'
She chewed her lip searching for an appropriate answer that was neither an admission nor a denial.
'I think you should give it another go,' she said, 'you'd be better off out of here.'
Megan scowled. 'Why are you so desperate to see me leave?'
Silence.
'If you know something, you should tell me.’ She paused. ‘Have you been following me?'
'You look like someone I once knew, Saskia Fox. I think someone killed her. There could be a link to you.'
'Not you as well! I don't know anything about Saskia.'
She hesitated, her eyes narrowed, her gaze penetrating. 'Regardless of whether that’s true or not, you should keep your head down.'
'Why? What do you know?'
She looked at her coffee.
'Frank Fox was her father, was he not?'
She gawked and her eyes flitted. 'What do you know about him?'
'It wasn't a regular death . . . was it?'
'Who the hell told you that?'
She was baffled. She had no idea where they had come from or why she had said it and claimed it was a wild guess.
Verity’s discomfort was obvious and amusing. Megan tried hard to avoid a smile slipping to her lips, but she could not disguise the enjoyment that settled onto her face.
'This attitude of yours is unhealthy,' her companion said, 'it'll get you into trouble. Go back to Ben and forget Rodley. It’s no place for you.'
'You sound to me like you're hiding something.'
She threw back her coffee, picked up her handbag, and headed to the door. 'Of course I'm not, I just don't like talking about it. I was close to Saskia.'
With narrowed eyes, she followed her to the door. There was much she wanted to know, and unlike had been the case with Ron she didn’t want to miss the opportunity. However, her instincts told her that Verity would be reticent to speak out. She also believed that Larry might be more forthcoming.
‘Do you know Larry Carr?’ she asked.
She spun around and gave her a steely glare. 'What do you want with him?'
'I want to find him.'
'He's bad news. If you take any of my advice, take this. Don't even speak to him . . . leave well alone.'
'Perhaps bad is appealing to me.'
Her face tightened. She hesitated and then spoke almost silently. 'You are so alike.'
'What did you just say?'
'I didn't say anything.'
'You just said, "you are so alike". You were close to her, weren’t you?'
She didn't respond and advanced away from the house. Smiling, Megan watched her stride away, unperturbed by their fractious exchange and confident that her new companion would soon return.
Luke returned to his desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, and thought about Imogen. Her enthusiastic demeanour was the opposite of his previous assistant, who had been lazy and insulting. In comparison, Imogen was a breath of fresh air and added a sparkle to the dreary days indoors.
He glanced at the clock upon the wall - a matt-black digital timepiece - before his eyes wandered across the bookcases and to an assortment of books and papers resting at angles on the shelves. He was a private investigator specialising in cases relating to the paranormal and the unexplained, although those cases were rare and most of the time he maintained his interest in the form of a hobby.
The bottom row was where he placed his personal work, and where he stored a copy of an article on reincarnation he’d written for a paranormal magazine. He recalled the television interview that followed, occurring just a few weeks previous, but he did not relish his moment of fame, and his voice quivered and his skin heated. Imogen, new to the job, claimed not to have noticed and looked at him with reverence in her eyes. A slight smile crept across his lips.
There were footsteps. He looked through the open door and gawked. Imogen had arrived dressed in purple leggings, a short black skirt, and a yellow and red floral lightweight jacket.
'What are you wearing?' he asked.
She looked down and her face dropped. 'What's wrong with it?'
He gulped. 'I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. You look fantastic.'
'Is it the jacket?'
'It's . . . unusual.'
She removed it and hung it on a hook near the door. 'I think it’s pretty.'
'It is. Just ignore me. What do I know?'
He looked at her perplexed expression. At least she had the confidence to wear such an outrageous outfit. He struggled to get beyond a basic striped shirt and black pants.
'I doubt you know a thing about women's fashion.’ She sank onto her chair. ‘Did you see that programme on the unexplained last night?’
He shook his head.
‘Then you missed a treat. Someone saw a flock of sheep on the road, only they weren't alive, they were ghosts. Imagine that!'
'It is more common than you think.'
'Cool! I can't wait to see my first ghost. I never thought I'd see animals, though.'
'Have you heard of the black shuck?'
She shook her head.
'It's a ghostly black dog with fire in its eyes. It roams the Norfolk, Essex, and Suffolk coastline. There have been sightings since before Viking times.'
She rested her elbows on the desk and placed her head in her hands.
'Imagine this. You are walking along at night, minding your own business, and to your rear, you hear the pad of heavy footsteps. You turn around. Your heart is thumping and your steps quicken. Out of your eye corner, you see a huge dog. It's about the size of a calf, and it's following you, keeping pace with your every step. You can't get away.'
'Go on.'
‘Its flaming eyes attract you to look, but you cannot help it. It draws you in.' He paused, searching her expression for a tad of fear.
'What happens next?' she interjected.
'Legend says you'll die within months.'
She stepped away from the desk, headed towards the kettle in the corner by the door and flicked the switch. Then she bent over, reaching into the cupboard for the coffee jar and powdered milk. He looked at her bottom, rounded yet firm, and he traced the length of her legs. She turned around. Hastily, he looked away.
'Where can we see one of these dogs?' she asked.
He chuckled. 'I've not put you off then?'
'Of course not. I’m no wimp!'
‘It’s said they haunt old straight roads located on ley lines.'
'Cool. Have you seen one?'
'No, but I have spoken to people who say they have.'
'And they're still alive?'
He smiled. 'I think so.'
She poured the boiled water into the mug and returned to her desk. 'What a great job we're in.'
'It has its moments.'
He stared at the report on his desk. There were times when the unexpected happened, but he’d never had such a case, as all his cases had had a logical explanation. However, it didn’t stop him hoping for something phenomenal to happen, something that would re-ignite his enthusiasm and something that would take him back to the days when he was like Imogen, permanently expecting strangeness.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he reconsidered. His passion for the paranormal had cost him his relationship with Sarah, his one love. They had been together for almost two years and he felt ready to take the next step, but inadvertently he had let his work take control. He had talked endlessly about his job, obsessing over the finer details, and for a while, she listened. When his fascination started to get in the way of their prior engagements, her irritation mounted and they parted company. He was devastated. He could not change who he was and so he had chosen his job. His regrets lingered months on.
'Don't let your enthusiasm run your life,' he said, 'get perspective.'
'Oh?'
'A lot of people don't understand our interest in the paranormal.'
'My Mark does. He has pictures of UFO's on his wall and everything.'
Luke thought about the models in his house: the spaceships, the aircraft, and the cars. 'Then you are lucky. Sarah didn't understand me. I had to hide them.'
'Then you were with the wrong person. You're the most interesting person I know.'
'Not the biggest geek.'
'Maybe just a bit.'
He averted his gaze, settling his eyes on the report of a rare paranormal incident and read the details. It had been a simple case of someone using paranormal activity to frighten someone else; it had been a fiendish act, using animal organs, blood, and recordings. He flicked over the page. The details were clear and explicit. Imogen had done a good job.
He put the document to one side and looked through his email in-box. He eliminated the sales junk before opening a bulletin from a paranormal society. There was little of interest in the document, and he was quick to dismiss the reported sightings of ghosts. It was a disappointing fact that most people fabricated their claims. If only life was more exciting.
'Oh, I haven't told you,' she blurted, 'I'm definitely psychic.'
He raised his head.
'When I left work last night, something occurred to me. I wondered what I would do if someone collapsed in the street. You know, should I help them or should I leave them to it?'
'And?'
'Anyway, you never guess what? I was walking through town and a man dropped to the ground, right in front of me!'
'What did you do?'
'I couldn't believe it. I just stood there and gawked. I so knew it was going to happen.'
She ran her fingers through her hair. It was smooth, fawn, and pinned using sparkling pink hairpins. The style she had created made her look youthful and innocent. Had he not been aware of her wisdom and intelligence, he may have considered her somehow lacking.
'Did you help him?' he asked.
'Someone else got to him first. Don't you think that proves I'm psychic?'
'It does.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'Are you making fun of me?'
He smirked. 'I wouldn't do that.'
'One day you'll be grateful for my abilities.'
He was already grateful. She was an asset to his business, and not only because her presence brightened his day, but for her investigative skills too.
The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and announced who he was.
'Is that the paranormal guy?'
'Yes, that's me.'
'The one who did the report on reincarnation?'
He shuffled on his seat. 'Yes.'
'You said in your report that a person alive now can often look like the person they once were.'
'Yes,'
'Well, a woman has appeared in the town who is the spitting image of someone who lived here thirty odd years ago. It's said the woman disappeared, but I think someone murdered her.'
He picked up his pen and turned to a clean sheet on his notepad.
'Her name was Saskia Fox.'
'The woman who disappeared.'
'Yes.'
He scrawled down her name. 'Why do you think she's been reincarnated?'
'She must have been. They are so similar . . . they even have the same mannerisms. But not only that, Megan remembers being murdered, and I'm worried it may happen again.'
'What's her surname?'
'Armstrong. Megan Armstrong.'
'Where are you?'
'Rodley, Nottinghamshire.'
'And you are?'
'Larry Carr.'
'Okay Larry, I'll look into it.'
'I have a picture of Saskia if that's any use.'
'Yes, send me that.'
'You should come,' he said, 'I think she's in trouble.'
'Why do you think that?'
'Just a feeling.'
Luke wrote down Larry's contact details, passed on his mobile phone number, and ended the call. Leaning back into his swivel chair, he reiterated the conversation in his mind and decided it might be worth investigating, even for curiosities sake. Chewing the end of his pencil, he stared at the name Saskia Fox, ringed and underscored, before returning to his computer and accessing a document containing historic missing persons’ files.
It took a while, but eventually he found a case relating to her. Locals believed the young woman, aged twenty, had been murdered, claiming that her disappearance was out of character. He scrolled down, expecting more information, such as names of relatives or friends, but there was nothing more there. After a little more thought, he concluded that there must have been some evidence that she had moved away and that there had been no case to answer.
Not discouraged, and driven by an innate longing to discover evidence of reincarnation, he considered the spirit passing from Saskia to Megan, where all memories from previous lives, including lessons learned, stayed within the subconscious mind. The prospect was bewildering and exciting, as well as incomprehensible.
Some cases he had heard about were unfathomable, and children, in particular, seemed most affected. Youngsters had talked endlessly about another life and another family, describing details that they could not know. There were sad cases, too, where children needed psychiatric help, broken-hearted to be separated from loved ones. Most of the time, the memories faded as the person aged, but sometimes the opposite occurred, and the memories triggered later in life. Perhaps that was what had happened in Megan's case.
He looked at his in-tray and his tasks, and then he looked at the time. It was a quiet day and he could do with a break from the monotony of office work. It would only take an hour or so to drive to Rodley, and decided it might be worth the effort. He also reasoned that if someone had murdered Saskia and Megan's memories were beginning to emerge, she could be in danger.
A sound alerted him to his mobile phone. A photo of Saskia had arrived. He studied the image, placed the phone in his pocket, and looked at Imogen.
She was working at her computer, her tongue was resting on her lip, her shoulders were rounded as she leaned forward, and her blue eyes fixed on the screen. She was in her early twenties, a few years younger than he was, and she oozed allure. His eyes wandered down her body and across her pink shimmering top. He looked at her skin, soft and creamy. He looked at her lips, red and lush. He imagined the seductive sound of her voice.
She raised her head.
'Fancy a trip out?' he asked.
'Cool! Where to?'
'Rodley. That call was from a man called Larry Carr. Saskia went missing in 1979, aged twenty. No one has seen her since. However, the locals believed someone murdered her. Now, Megan has appeared, apparently the spitting image and with memories of a death.'
'Cool, let's go,' she said, raising herself to her feet.
'Slow down. I need to do a few things first.'
'Like what?'
'For a start, I want to print off a picture of Saskia, and if we are going to pay Larry a visit, we need to take his address.'
'That won't take long. I'll freshen up and then we'll go.'
Smiling, he watched her leave the room.
The sun had warmed the car enough for Luke to feel trickles of perspiration slip down his body as he fastened his seat belt and placed the key in the ignition. Needing fresh air, as well as needing to disperse Imogen's perfume, which was a beautiful floral scent although a tad overpowering, he opened the window. Comfortable, he started the car and headed along to the main road.
They’d progressed a distance and neared their destination when his journey took him to a dual carriageway to where the traffic was troublesome and cars congregated in queues at a roundabout. He edged forward, metre-by-metre, unaware of the reason for the holdup. After what seemed like an eternity, he glanced at the flowing traffic at the other side of the junction and glimpsed at a supermarket.
'I'm going to stop and get a sandwich for lunch. How about you?' he asked.
'Good idea.'
As Luke pulled into the car park, his taut muscles relaxed and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. It had taken more than forty minutes to pass through the junction when it should have only taken a few minutes. It was a frustrating waste of valuable time. He puffed out, eased the car into a spot near the door and turned off the engine. They strode to the entrance, weaving around shoppers with trolleys, and walked straight to the sandwich counter.
It was still early in the day, and the sandwiches were aplenty. He selected a chicken baguette and a bottle of juice and progressed to the cashier. Imogen appeared at his side a minute later holding an egg mayonnaise sandwich, a small bottle, and a bar of chocolate. They waited in the queue.
The customer with the cashier was struggling to make her purchases as her debit card refused to function. Panic etched onto her flushed face. The cashier tried again, but it still did not work, forcing the woman to fumble in her purse and count her coins. Removing his gaze from the awkward situation, he glanced at the man in front of him. He had a full head of hair that was black yet greying, and upon his neck was a distinctive birthmark. It looked like a star and had blurred edges yet distinctive points. In his basket were tins of food, sanitary towels, and a cheap bar of soap.
Within a few minutes, they had been served and walked back to the car, and continued the journey to Rodley.
'Do you think you've been reincarnated?' Imogen asked.
'Quite possibly, but I don't have any memories. Do you?'
'I'd love to think so. Do you think we follow our loved ones around?'
'Like your soul mate?'
'Yes, or even your parents and brothers and sisters. We are in this world for such a short time, so it seems likely that our spirits would form friendships.'
'That's a nice way of putting it.'
'I would like to think that when my parents die it won't be the last I see of them.'
'So you'd like to come back and be with them again?'
'Yes, but this time they'll be my children.'
He chuckled. 'I like it.'
An odour of smoke wafted through the open window. Crinkling his nose, he reached for the button to close the window and glimpsed at the industrial estate on his right. Black billowing fumes rolled across the sky.
'Are we going to visit Megan?' Imogen asked.
'Not immediately. I don't want to worry her if she is not in danger.'
'Maybe we should find out what she looks like. See if there is any similarity to Saskia.'
'Could do, what are you suggesting?'
'We could park on her street and see if she is about.'
'It's a bit of a long shot. She's probably at work,' he said.
'I think it might be worth a try. Shall I ring Larry and see if I can find out anything more about her.'
'Okay. His number is on my notepad in my bag.'
She stretched her arm into the back of the car.
'Can you reach it?'
'Got it.'
She opened his bag, reached for the pad, and pressed the number into her phone, and a few seconds later, she was talking with Larry. Luke started to listen to the conversation, but his mind drifted. He was desperate to believe Megan had Saskia's memories, but having had many disappointments over the years, his instincts were telling him otherwise. The alternatives were more likely true. Perhaps they were related, or maybe it was a coincidence. Regrettably, he feared it would be another wasted journey.
She ended the call. ‘Megan is new to Rodley. She arrived on the train a few days ago escaping a broken relationship. She doesn't have a job and hopes to find one soon.'
'Have you got her address?'
'Yes. Larry gave me directions.'
When a sign for Rodley appeared, she guided him around the outer ring road and into the town centre. They passed a rugby club, a large veterinary surgery, and a cluster of takeaways before Rochester Street emerged on the left. Once he made a quick turn, they determined Megan's house, and he stopped the car. It was difficult to ascertain if she was within the house as the net curtains prevented them from seeing inside.
'I think we should see if we can see anything at the back,' he suggested.
They exited the car and walked along the street, passing her house. Having taken an immediate left along another street, they peered over a wall at the small group of houses recognisable as Rochester Street. When Luke scanned the tidy shared garden, he was stunned. Megan was by the rear of the house, and she looked exactly like Saskia. Just to be certain his memory was deceiving him, he extracted the printed image from his pocket, unfolded it, and compared the two women.
He showed Imogen the picture. 'This was Saskia.'
'Wow! They are so alike.'
They strolled away, returning to the car.
'I'd love to look like someone else,' she said.
'I doubt you would . . . especially if the other person had been murdered.'
'It's still exciting.'
'You must lead a dull life.'
‘Really Luke. It’s me you’re talking to! You should know better than to make such comments.’
‘Fair enough.’ Smiling, he opened the car and climbed inside. 'I'd like you to do a background check on Megan. See if you can find anything out: where she originates from, her family, her job . . .'
'Saskia too?'
'Yes, but hopefully we will find out what we need to know from Larry.'
'Cool!'
'Did you tell him we were on our way?'
'I did.'
The lunchtime traffic had started to clog up the streets, creating a stressful journey around the outer ring road. Luke looked at the queues up ahead and the café a little way on his left, and thought about his rumbling stomach. Unlike some of his friends, he struggled mentally if he missed a meal, often feeling nauseous and light-headed. Glancing at the time, he asked Imogen to pass him his baguette.
They made slow progress to the traffic lights. He peered into the café and saw a few single men at tables. It seemed to be clean, with a simple décor suitable for those with basic needs. He assumed that the food would be greasy - eggs, bacon and sausage - and the waitress would be a buxom brunette with excessive feminine charms. His eyes drifted to the road.
The traffic lights turned green. He placed his sandwich onto his lap, released the handbrake and pulled away. As his satellite navigator had failed, Imogen gave the directions, and moments later, they turned into a cul-de-sac and crept along the street, searching the semi-detached dwellings with bay windows for number eighteen.
'His house is near the bend,' she said.
He squeezed the car between two others and turned off the engine. They stepped outside, walked along the driveway and knocked on a glass door at the side of the house. Seconds later, a man wearing a crisp white shirt, blue tie, and black trousers, opened the door.
'Larry Carr?'
He nodded. 'Luke Adams I presume.' They shook hands. He turned to Imogen. 'Miss Morrison.'
They followed Larry through his kitchen and into the dining room. There was a rectangular table in the centre, a cabinet alongside a small leather sofa, and numerous photographs of military aircraft upon the otherwise white wall.
'Are you a military man?' Luke asked.
'No. It's just a hobby. I did have the privilege of flying in one a few years ago . . . a present from my daughter.'
'That must have been an experience.'
'It was awesome . . . not for the faint-hearted.'
'I can imagine. I've been in a small aircraft . . . that was scary enough for me. You feel close to the elements.'
Luke pulled out a chair and joined Larry at the table, and listened as Larry shared his experience, enthusing over the design of some of the engines.
'I must confess,' Luke said, 'I don't know a lot about flying, but it does sound like a fantastic hobby.'
'It is. I've spent a lot of my time at a viewing platform near an RAF base not far from here. That's where I took most of these photographs.'
'They are good.'
'I have hundreds, probably thousands, in the attic.'
'It must have taken quite a bit of your time.'
'It did, although it was a valuable escape.'
Larry clasped his hands on the table and lowered his head, his eyes holding a reflective gaze. Then he looked up, aware of Luke's questioning expression. 'My marriage was failing.'
'That must have been difficult.'
He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. 'Not really. The only thing we had in common was Danielle.'
'Your daughter?'
He nodded. 'Best thing that has happened to me. I didn't think so at the time mind. I must confess I was a mess back then.'
'Oh?'
'It's not important. Now, about Megan.'
He retrieved his notebook and pen from his bag. 'Can you go through your meeting again, from the start?'
'When I got on the train she was seated alone in a quiet carriage. It was as though I had stepped back in time. I thought it was Saskia. They have the same hair colour, almost the same hairstyle, and even the same body shape. Have you seen her?'
He nodded.
'I managed to get a photo . . . just in case you hadn't. I thought you'd be interested.'
Larry leaned backward and opened a drawer in a cabinet, and pulled out a couple of photographs and placed them side-by-side on the table. One was of Saskia, the other Megan. The differences were minor. Saskia had less fat around her neckline, and her eyes were larger and closer together.
'Do you think Saskia has been reincarnated?' Larry asked.
'It is a possibility, but it's too early to tell.'
'Megan even has the same mannerisms. She rotates her ring and chews her lip just the way Saskia did.'
'Did you notice anything else?'
He shook his head. 'There was one thing that I thought was strange. She said she had never visited Rodley before, but she knew what the art gallery looked like.'
He took notes. 'You said on the telephone that she remembered being murdered.'
'Yes. It happened just as the train was pulling up at the station. She seemed to go into some sort of trance, and then said she saw blood and a knife. She said: "someone kills me". She was terrified.'
'So she felt as though she was in danger?'
'I would say so. She had her hand on her stomach . . . as though in pain.'
'Did she say anything else?'
'No. I helped her off the train and put her into a taxicab.'
'How much did you talk to Megan while you were on the train?' he asked.
'All the way to Rodley. She was good company. I felt like I had known her for ages.'
'Like old friends?'
'Yes, exactly.'
'You seem a friendly man, it doesn't surprise me.'
'I think she wanted to stay in contact,' he said, 'but it felt a bit weird given that she looked like Saskia.'
'What relationship did you have with Saskia?'
'I didn't know her particularly well.'
'Would you say you were friends?'
'I suppose.'
'Good friends?'
He folded his arms. 'Just friends. She was married. I wouldn't have gone there even if I had wanted to.'
'How did you meet her?'
'Probably in a pub . . . I can't remember.'
'What was her husband's name?'
'Ron Maddison.'
'Do you know where I can find him?'
'Afraid not.'
Luke scribbled Ron's name in his notebook. 'What other family did she have?'
'She was from a large family. I think there were seven or eight kids in total. She was closest to Verity, the eldest of her younger sisters.'
'Is Verity still around?'
'I've no idea. I've not seen her in years.'
'What was their surname?'
Larry was thoughtful. 'Fox.'
'Anything else you can tell me about Saskia?'
'No. Like I said, I didn't know her that well. She was quite a few years younger than me.'
'Do you know if she was involved with any local clubs or anything like that? I'd like to speak to as many people as I can who knew her.'
'She hung around in pubs most of the time, or during the day at the shopping centre. She didn't seem the type for clubs, at least not the type you're referring to.'
'Why do you say that?'
'I wouldn't have thought she was into anything structured . . . liked to feel she was a free spirit.'
'What do you know of her disappearance?' Luke asked.
'She left without warning . . . apparently went travelling in Europe.'
'Did you know she had plans to leave?'
'No. Like I said, I didn't know her particularly well. Although having said that, I do recall that she once said she wanted to go abroad. She had dreams of working in a resort . . . somewhere hot, I think.'
'So it wasn't a surprise.'
'No.'
'But you said on the telephone you believed that she was murdered?'
Larry turned sideways on his chair, still facing Luke, and rested his arm on the back. 'That’s the rumour that goes around the town. I was in two minds . . . always have been. It's quite possible that she just left.'
'Did she have any enemies?'
'I wouldn't have thought so. She was down-to-earth and well liked. I don't think anyone would have had reason to kill her.'
Luke chewed the end of his pen, searching for obvious gaps in his interrogation.
'Is there any way of proving Megan is Saskia?' Larry asked.
He looked up from his notes. 'We'll have to first confirm Saskia is dead, but after that, I'm afraid not. I wish I could say there was. Often memories emerge - things that can't be explained. It's speculation that a reincarnation has occurred. There is little proof, although we do get some occasionally.'
'I have read about some fantastic cases, including yours, where private details about someone's life are spoken by someone unrelated.’ He paused. ‘I believe reincarnation must happen. What a waste of a life otherwise.'
'What is your interest in this case? Imogen asked.
Larry turned, expressing surprise and irritation, and spoke abruptly. 'I'm worried for Megan. She seems a nice young woman. I'd hate to see anything happen to her.'
'Have you spoken to her since her arrival?'
'No.'
'But you took a photograph.'
'I just happened to be out with my camera when I saw her a little distance away. I didn't want to disturb her . . . she looked preoccupied.'
'What was she doing?'
'She was in the local cemetery looking at a gravestone.'
'Whose was it? Luke asked.
'I've no idea, I didn't hang around. He eased himself free from the chair and table. 'I'm sorry to end this, but I have an appointment to attend.'
Luke returned his notebook and pen to his bag. 'Thanks for your time Larry, you have been most useful.'
They shook hands.
'Anytime,' he said. 'And if you can confirm she has been reincarnated, I would be most interested. It is a fascinating subject. I've read all your work. You're the best in your field.'
'Thanks.'
They strode to the car.
'Fancy a coffee?' Luke asked.
Imogen nodded.
Luke strode around to the driver’s side of the car, climbed inside and started the engine. As he pulled away, heading for the café on the main road, he pondered Larry's behaviour and responses. His first impressions were positive, Larry appeared friendly, he was quick to answer the questions, and did not seem in any way to be trying to deceive. It was understandable given that Larry had instigated the meeting. But was he worried about Megan's safety? Could that be justified?
To Luke, reincarnation was an exciting phenomenon but rarely did anyone share his enthusiasm, except, of course, Imogen. He glanced to his colleague, who was busying herself with her lipstick, and wondered if her passion was genuine.
'What did you think of Larry?' he asked.
'He was hiding something.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Just an instinct.'
She placed her lipstick in her bag, put it onto the floor, and leaned back in the seat. 'It all seemed a little bit too rehearsed, and I thought he was a bit slick. Did you see him glancing at himself in the mirror?'
'No,' he replied.
'And I doubt he had an appointment. I think he was starting to feel uncomfortable with the questions.'
'But he had a suit on.'
'So? I noticed a computer was on in the next room, and there were things scattered across the sofa and coffee table. He didn't look like he was going anywhere in a hurry.'
'What kind of things?'
'It looked like he had emptied a drawer or a box, as though he was searching for something. There were pens and pencils, small boxes, wooden ornaments, sponge balls, and so on. I couldn't see anything unusual.'
He indicated right and turned into the café car park.
'Did you see him tapping his leg?' she asked.
'No.'
'He started doing it when you asked about Saskia. I think it was a nervous reaction. He did it when he mentioned his marriage break up too.'
Luke held the door of the café open and allowed Imogen to pass through, before following her to the counter. A strong odour of fried foods lingered in the air and there were ring stains on the tables. They purchased coffees and progressed to a table in the corner of the room, away from the other customers.
'You're not a bit like you appear,' he said.
Her eyes narrowed. 'Is that supposed to be a compliment?'
'Of course it is. You are bright . . . and observant.'
She leaned back and folded her arms. 'But I look a bit stupid.'
'No, that's not what I meant. You don't look stupid at all. It's just that you are pretty, and -'
'Pretty girls can't be intelligent.'
His skin warmed. He reached for his coffee and tried to bury his face in the warm vapours. 'Of course they can, and you are.'
'But that's not how I appear to you.'
'Yes . . . I mean no.'
'I think you should quit while you are ahead Luke.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean-'
She chuckled. 'Relax, I'm teasing.'
The tension lifted from his shoulders. If only he could engage his brain before his mouth.
'I'm going to freshen up . . . give you a moment to recover,' there was a glint in her eye, 'I won't be long.'
He watched her perfect form totter to the toilet at the far side of the café near the entrance. She was wearing leggings, making it easy to trace their solid structure, and imagined them firm, supple, and smooth. Then he thought of her feet, dainty with manicured toenails painted red. She was different to Sarah, and whilst he enjoyed looking, he had to admit that she not his type at all.
He made mental comparisons with his ex. Sarah was a serious woman, and even though she did have a sense of humour and with it a beautiful smile, she rarely cracked a joke. Teasing her was futile, as her mind was so often elsewhere, pondering some case or other that she was working on. Being a lawyer was a time-consuming job.
His heart was heavy. He loved Sarah, and still saw her on occasions, sharing moments of intimacy. He knew that she saw their relationship as a matter of convenience, but he clung onto her every word and every breath. It pained him to watch her depart, having become joined once more, but he could do little else. To Sarah, the sex only filled a gap. If he applied pressure, he knew it would end. In his opinion, a little intimacy was better than nothing.
Imogen exited the restroom. There was a sparkle in her eyes and the sunshine rested on her fawn hair, creating an almost translucent patch. Her arms swung at her side and her gait was carefree. She almost looked as though she floated across the linoleum floor, her manner pure and innocent.
'One or two things don't make sense to me,' she said, sitting back down. 'Larry said he didn't know Saskia particularly well, but he knew about her mannerisms and ambitions.'
'I've wondered about that too.'
'He said she had wanted to work abroad and be a free spirit. If that's true, then why did she marry, especially at such a young age?
'She must have changed her mind and fallen in love.'
'Either that or she was unhappy in her marriage and was looking for an escape. I think Larry knew her better than he admitted.'
'There was no point pushing him. We need him to open up on his own terms . . . at least until we have evidence.'
'Agreed.'
'Did you see anything to indicate he lived with anyone?' he asked.
'No.'
'Me neither.'
A balding man with a large round belly stood up and strode to the exit. Imogen followed his gaze, and together they watched him walk out of the door and approach a truck.
'The kitchen was grimy too,' she said, 'I can't believe a woman would live like that.'
'That's a bit sexist.'
'Well, it's true. There were dirty pans on the hob, and the sauces spilled across the worktop. He wanted to give the indication he was neat, with his suit and all, but everything else pointed to him being a bit of a slob . . . likewise in the lounge. There were too many contradictions. There were smears on the window as well.'
'You're a stickler for detail,' he said.
'And not a bit of a dreamer?'
He raised an eyebrow. His phone sounded. 'Not at all.'
It was a message from Sarah asking to meet. His heart flip-flopped as he imagined a night of passion, skin on skin. He would have to go shopping to buy her favourite bottle of wine and ingredients for a meal. What should he make? Lamb chops, chicken, or fish? His day just got a whole lot better. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and his eyes danced.
'Good news?' Imogen asked.
'Sarah wants to meet.'
'Is reconciliation on the cards?'
'No, I doubt it. We meet up every now and again. I usually make her a meal and we drink a couple of bottles of wine.'
'That sounds cosy.'
'It is.'
'You're blushing!'
He shuffled. 'I'm not!'
'You so are!'
'It's not what you think.'
They headed towards the exit. Luke nodded his appreciation to the waitress and they stepped into the cool air.
'Are you sure about that?' Imogen asked.
Silence.
'She's using you. You should forget her and move on. There must be plenty of women out there glad for an opportunity to go out with you.'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'
'I mean it. Forget Sarah. You can do better.'
Disheartened, he climbed into the car. Whilst he hated to admit it, she was right and he should move on. Yet he still hoped that Sarah would change her mind and something within her may ignite. Realistically, what were the chances of that? Their relationship had failed, for whatever reason, and Sarah, being the type of woman who knew her mind, was unlikely to change. She was a strong-minded woman, gritty and resolute. He imagined her scent, delicate and seductive, and he visualised running his hands along her warm silky skin.
'Back to the office?' Imogen asked.
His enthusiasm had waned. He had contemplated visiting Megan, but memories of Sarah's frequent reprimands with his involvement in the paranormal lay heavy. Saskia's reincarnation was probably fantasy. Megan was unlikely to be in any real danger.
'Back to the office,' he said, 'I need you to find Ron Maddison's address . . . and Verity's if you can.'
'Cool. It's exciting isn't it?'
He indicated right, joined the main highway, and found himself in another queue of traffic.
'I can't wait until I talk to my Mark.'
'Oh?'
'I want his views on reincarnation. Just imagine, if you could find out who your soul mate was before you had even met, you would save yourself loads of time by avoiding dating the wrong person.'
He edged the car forward, inching closer to the car up ahead. Even if he’d had the knowledge that his relationship with Sarah was going to fail, he would still have gone ahead with it. How sad was that?
'We should go down that lane,' she said, 'I think it's a short cut.'
'Okay, it's worth a try.'
He thrust the car into gear and turned onto the lane, grateful to be able to pump the gas.
'Wow! That's Megan.' Imogen blurted. 'I am so psychic!'
He removed his foot from the accelerator. 'Where?'
'Back there. She looks like she was heading towards that old house. I think we should go see what she's doing.'
'Okay. I'll turn around.'
Once the road cleared, he spun the car around and headed to the parking area. Imogen was straining her neck, trying to look beyond the bushes.
'Someone's following her,' she said.
He unbuckled his seatbelt. 'I can't see anyone.'
'There, look.'
Someone was dashing between the trees and hedgerows, wearing jeans and a dark plain jacket. It was impossible to see if it was a man or a woman.
'I think they're after Megan.'
He flung open the car door, pressed it shut, and joined Imogen as she climbed the wall and headed towards the old brick building.
With her thoughts concentrated on the art event, Megan left the house, keen to rekindle her passion. Striding along a footpath adjacent to the main highway out of Rodley, and oblivious to the monotonous drone of engines and car fumes, her expectations were high. There should be demonstrations and goods to purchase, maybe she would be able to meet local artists or find out about local groups. It was an exciting prospect, and wanting a reminder of the details, she retrieved the leaflet from her pocket and absorbed the details.
There was no graphical depiction and it was poorly designed and produced. The text was too small and hard to read, there were no names of business sponsors and it was not centralised on the sheet. It looked homemade. Nonetheless, unwilling to be discouraged, she continued her journey and pondered her artistic inclinations.
Her preference was to draw rather than paint, and she used different thickness of a pencil to create shading and effect. Her hope was that the event would provide her with a few tips, else in the least provide inspiration. It might motivate her to try something different, perhaps oils or acrylics. It was time she moved away from her normal style.
After her adoption, she spent many hours with a sketchpad and a pencil in her hand. Her mother told her she had a natural ability and drew images beyond her years, but she paid little attention, and other than doing an A-level in art, she had no will to make a career of it. However, now that she was making a new start in life, perhaps it was time she did something she loved. She should go freelance and produce images for the local greetings card manufacturer. It was an exciting thought, but her preferred theme would have to change.
In the past, much to her mother's dismay, she had drawn images of the darker side of life, such as brawls outside bars and clubs, drunks, and the homeless. She had argued that happiness was something that many people never experienced and she wanted to speak out for them. Life was not all rosy and people must take notice.
With hindsight, she believed her inclinations were due to a troubled childhood, a consequence of her life with her birth mother. Her memories were hazy yet she knew it had not been an easy time. She recalled a room. There was a bed on one side and a kitchen on the other. There was clutter and disorder. There were few toys. Visitors often appeared, almost daily, but they never tried to form a relationship with her and often argued with her mother. Megan recalled sitting on the bed, invisible and unwanted.
Breathing a replenishing breath, she concluded her life since the adoption had been good, at least once the adjustment period was over, and while the pain of abandonment lingered on occasions, she admitted that Julie Johnson had done Megan a massive favour. Yet still there was a void in her heart; it was irritating knowing nothing of her past.
Saskia had to be a relative or close friend of her mother's. It was too difficult to accept that a spirit could float through the air and land in some random stranger, it was all too weird and not a notion she could accept. Ben was most definitely wrong.
Her footsteps made gentle thuds as she turned onto the lane. There were houses on the right, and trees and fields on the left. She peered up ahead, searching for the venue, but saw nothing. Once again, she glanced at the leaflet. She was definitely on the correct lane, so she put aside her concerns and assumed, as she followed the natural bend in the road, that her destination would soon become obvious.
Pinned to a tree trunk on the edge of woodland was a small square piece of paper informing visitors of the art event. Mesmerised by a sense of familiarity, she stopped at a stile, paused for a moment to take in the scenery, and then climbed the ladder. Stepping onto the weedy path, a strong sense of expectation emerged, excitement mingling with apprehension. Yet it was not for the art; it was for something else, something she could not identify.
Nettles and brambles made passing along the path difficult. She stamped on the spiky branches and flattened the waist-high plants. The nettles were easy to trample, but the brambles, with strong thick vines, less so, and they sprung back. She moved forward with caution, keen to avoid the spikes from scratching her exposed flesh and tearing at her thin jacket. Despite her efforts, they clung to her clothing, gripping with determination. Unable to make a quick release, as there was not sufficient space for her fingers between the thorns, she backed away, freed herself, and looked for an alternate route through the woodland.
Back at the stile, there was another path running adjacent to the wall. She ducked under the branches of a tree, stepped around ferns and hopped over a log. It was tranquil with birds tweeting in the canopy and a dog walker in the distance, but it was not what she had expected.
Where were the other visitors? There must be another entrance and a car park. She scanned the leaflet, confirmed she was in the right place, then scrunched it up and replaced it into her pocket, now able to recite it word for word. She should have been more concerned given the danger she knew she was in, but she could not remove her excitement, feeling as though she was heading to something familiar. Megan knew every bend and slope of the footpath and was not at all surprised when she emerged from the cover of the trees and found herself standing on the edge of a field. She glanced back towards the road and to an empty parking area, before looking towards the dilapidated house.
Her heart pounded, and for a second, the crumbling brickwork, sunken roof, and broken windows faded. Instead, she saw shimmering glass, long floral curtains and a small tidy garden. Peering through the window were two young women. Megan blinked, but when she looked again, they were gone, passing through the mists of time. She sensed she had known them intimately, and believed one of the women to be Saskia.
Megan's sedate steps progressed into a jog, prickles formed on her skin, and her adrenaline surged. Captivated, she looked through the cracked glass at the dusty fireplace and saw more images of the young women chatting, but this time there was an older woman in the background holding something in her hands. She had a mass of mid-brown curly hair and thick-framed large glasses. This was her house. This woman was Saskia's grandmother.
Entranced, Megan walked to the solid oak door with peeling brown paint and tried the handle. It creaked open. She padded the dusty wooden floor, inhaling the stale damp aroma, and progressed to the kitchen at the end of the hallway. The sun’s rays draped across the worktop and the linoleum floor illuminating the chunky radiator on the far wall. Skimming her hand across the cool, gritty surface, she stepped to the other end of the kitchen.
The worktops were free of accessories, except for a few jars and ceramic containers, the sink had a coating of grime and pans rested on the hob. She bent over and opened a cupboard in the corner. Inside there was row upon row of darkened glass bottles, each labelled but some had faded ink. When she picked one up a sense of laughter filled her ears. She drifted through time.
The two young women whispered and giggled as they perused the elderly woman's stock.
'What should we use this time?' The dark-haired woman asked in a low voice.
'We need something to make them ill. I don't want them at the fete at the weekend.'
'So,' she looked at the bottles, 'something that will cause them to puke?'
The woman with butterscotch hair grinned. 'At least.'
'How about this?'
The voices faded. Megan looked at the bottle in her hand and the dried powder within. It was labelled purgative, and beneath, in small block writing were the words, ‘Dog's Mercury’. She placed it onto the surface and reached for another. That one was a carminative and labelled Mint. She crouched down and scanned and rotated the bottles. They were all herbal potions and the two women had misused them.
Megan's stomach churned and her throat tightened. She wrapped her arms around her middle fighting a chill. Something horrendous had happened as a direct result of the two young woman's actions, but no matter how she tried, she could not access her hidden memories. Attempting to force images forward by staring at the bottles was pointless, yet she persisted, craving the elusive answers.
Had Saskia's grandmother been aware of Saskia's actions? Who had she been trying to make ill? Megan covered her mouth with her hand as a clear sense of guilt emerged. Saskia had done untold damage. Had she paid the ultimate price?
In a daze, and drawn by a need to reacquaint herself with what appeared to be a once-familiar house, She walked up the stairs, passing beneath cobwebs and leaving footsteps on the dusty carpet. Fighting an unfathomable guilt, she took a gulp of air, urging her frantic heartbeat to calm, and fought the cries from the past that were persistent in pummelling her conscience. They were Saskia’s mistakes. She had played no part. But it was a futile attempt. The facts, she sensed, were hidden just beneath her conscious mind, and they were moving ever closer to the surface. She wanted them gone, craved silence, but instead listened to a voice from the past. It had been an act of harmless fun. The victims were embarrassing and irresponsible, and deserving of the outcome. Unable to respond, she chewed her lip and cautiously pushed open a door.
The bedroom was furnished with a fitted wardrobe, and the carpet smelled of urine. Edging forward, she could see part of her reflection in a full-length mirror, and her anxieties mounted, suddenly aware of her solitude. She listened to the silence, broken only by occasional passing traffic, and she watched the trees sway in the breeze. Her heart pounded and her skin tingled. This was no art event. What the hell was she still doing here?
She reached into her pocket and dialled Ben's number.
'I've been trying to get hold of you,' he said, 'why haven't you returned my calls?'
'I've been busy. Look, I need you to listen. I'm in this house. It should have been an art event but there's no one here.' She ran her fingers through her hair. 'I don't think I should be here.'
'So get out!'
'It's familiar. I think it was Saskia's grandmother’s house. There are potions. Saskia was using them to poison people.'
'Is anyone else there?'
She listened to the creaks and groans of the house, more pronounced now. 'Maybe . . . I'm not sure.'
'Get out, quick. It sounds like a trap.'
She whispered into the phone. 'I think it's too late.' She heard a dull knocking sound coming from downstairs, turned her head and crept towards the landing. Her pulse pounded in her dry throat. 'I have to go.'
She replaced her phone into her pocket and tiptoed towards the staircase. The sounds continued, louder now, yet she could see nothing down below. Hastily, she stepped into the next bedroom. A rush of air enveloped her. The window was open, and just beneath the ledge was the roof of a small building. She decided to try for a quick escape, but then, out of her eye corner, a moving shadow caught her attention. She screamed.
Something hit the back of her knees, her legs buckled, and she hit the ground with a thud. The pain reverberated upwards and a weight on her back forced her to the dusty floorboards. Someone yanked her arms to her rear, forcing her chin into the ground. She turned her head. A curtain of butterscotch hair ruined her view. All she could do was release a piercing exclamation of condemnation as someone tied her arms and legs with rope. It cut into her skin, slowing the blood supply and causing a tingling sensation to develop in her feet and hands.
She cried out a request for freedom.
Miraculously, her assailant fled, leaving by the open window. Comforted, she tried to rotate, wriggling this way and that, keen to catch a sight of whoever was leaving. She saw legs dressed in jean but nothing else. Then footsteps sounded on the staircase and landing, progressing ever closer.
She had to get away, and with her heart thumping and sweat forming on her forehead, she tried to free her hands. The ropes tightened. She tried to turn over, but she was helpless and at the mercy of whoever was approaching.
As soon as Luke and Imogen entered the room and introduced themselves, it became clear that they were there to help her, engendering a rush a relief. Whilst Luke hurried to the window then fled downstairs, Imogen untied the ropes.
'Did you see who attacked you?'
'It happened too fast. All I saw was a pair of legs . . . in jeans.’
'You should get checked out.'
She raised herself to her feet. 'No, I'm fine. I just want to go home.'
'Can we take you there?'
'Thanks. That would be good.'
Her body was shaking and her legs were weak and unwilling. She leaned on Imogen for support and together they progressed down the steps. Luke was standing a short distance away scanning the fields and trees.
'Did you bang your head?' Imogen asked.
'No. I just feel a bit dazed. It's probably the shock.'
'Why were you here?'
She reached into her pocket for the scrunched up leaflet. 'Someone in town gave this to me. Clearly, it was a setup. There is no art event.’
‘Can you describe the person?'
'Sorry. I didn't pay any attention.'
'Was it a man or woman?'
'A man I think. What's going on?'
She glanced at Luke and then turned back towards her. 'We don't know, but we'll need to ask you a few questions when you feel able.'
'Is this to do with Saskia?'
'What do you know about her?'
'Nothing. That's just it. But everyone tells me I look like her.'
Imogen did not respond, but guided her along a track to the car and instructed her to get inside. Then, she trotted back to Luke, who was starting towards them, and they shared a conversation. Curious, she watched, rotating her ring.
Seconds later, Luke headed back towards the building and Imogen drove her home. They arrived minutes later. Imogen passed her a business card relating to their private investigative business and told her to keep them informed of any peculiarities.
‘Can you tell me anything about this?’ Megan said.
‘I doubt we know as much as you.’ She paused. ‘I suggest you keep a low profile until we learn more.’
She nodded, reluctant.
‘Are you sure you are going to be okay?' she added.
She opened the door of the car. ‘I am . . . I’m a big girl!’
Having climbed out, she pushed the door to and hurried towards her house a few doors away. Whilst she presented an image of calmness, her senses and nervousness had intensified. An elderly woman, her neighbour, was looking out of the bedroom window, there was a passenger in a vehicle staring at her, and there were pedestrians striding towards her, their expressions worrying and hostile. Even the empty vehicles parked on the roadside seemed to pose a threat, and she scanned the inside of each one.
'Megan!' a voice called.
She jolted and looked up, her pulse reverberating in her throat. 'Larry. It's so good to see you. What are you doing here?'
He closed the vehicle door, set the alarm, and walked towards her. 'I just thought I'd come and see you. How are you getting on?'
She turned, looked back at Imogen and waved. Imogen was on the telephone, her expression grave. Apprehensively, she waved back.
'It is so good to see a friendly face,' she said.
She reached into her bag for the door key, and with trembling hands managed to make contact with the lock. Once inside, she breathed a massive sigh of relief.
Her expression alternated between a smile and a grimace as she considered throwing herself at Larry, grateful for his perfect timing. Since he seemed bemused by her obvious appreciation of his visit, she held back, fearful of looking weak or desperate, and leaned into the worktop and listened to his gentle chatter.
Focusing was difficult. Her sore wrists and ankles were painful reminders of what had just happened and her body quaked. She had been lucky that Luke and Imogen had arrived when they had; there was no means of knowing what would have happened otherwise.
Would she have been left there indefinitely? Would she have been bundled off somewhere? Would she have been abused and raped?
Fighting the horrid imagery, her breathing quickened and she felt nauseous and weak. Even Larry’s soft, caring tones could not draw her, and her voice froze.
'You don't look good. Is something wrong?' he asked.
She took a breath, forcing forward her strength, and focused upon his caring demeanour. 'No, I'm fine. Carry on.'
'I'd finished anyway.'
They progressed into the living area. She noticed his eyes wander around the room; he looked at the television and the sofa and chairs, he scanned the mantelpiece, he gazed at the dining area and peered through the patio doors. There were few personal touches, except for a photograph of Joshua, one of a few scattered around the house. There were no paintings, no ornaments, and no books or magazines. It gave little away about her personality, or perhaps it said at lot.
'This little boy is gorgeous,' he said. 'Who is he?'
She swallowed a lump in her throat and her eyes misted. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She shook her head in dismay.
'Oh, I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?'
'No, not really.'
The silence was awkward. He perched himself on an armchair and looked at her with sympathy. She lowered her head and wrapped her arms around her middle, squashing her hands into her armpits. A vision of her beautiful young son appeared before her. He had grown with her, and was blond, tall, slender and handsome; he protected her and cared for her; he was her rock.
'I was a mess back then,' she said. 'Andrew, Joshua's father, was an alcoholic. I had no idea how bad he was, or what he had become. I wasn't much better. I was irresponsible. I should never have left Joshua with him.'
'What happened?'
She gulped and took a few moments to gather strength. 'Aspirin overdose. He was a bright little boy, destined for good things. He loved counting and was good at it too. I think he would have done something with numbers one day - maybe been an accountant or mathematician. I think about him every day – the things he missed, his school days, and his little friends. My life would have been so different with him around. I was such an idiot.'
'You shouldn't blame yourself. These things happen.'
'I was his mother. There's no one else to blame.'
'If you want to blame someone, blame Andrew. It sounds to me he played a part in what happened.'
'I never realised that he was in no state to look after a little boy. He's banged up now, where he deserves to be.'
'Because of Joshua?'
'No. He got into drugs. I don't have a lot of sympathy for him. He could have dealt with things differently, but instead he wallowed. I, at least, tried to learn from what had happened.'
'From what you have said, you seem to have come through the other side as a better person, if I may say so.'
She hesitated. 'I’m stronger for it, but I would give all that back to have my boy in my arms again.'
'Of course you would. I have had my fair share of problems too.'
'Oh?'
He looked towards her, mentally reaching out. 'My wife couldn't accept I wanted to go out with the lads on a weekend and gave me grief. One night I went out in a stinking mood and got myself into an argument with a woman in a bar. I swung at her. God! I felt so bad afterwards. I had never hit a woman in my life, and I haven't since. I tried to make it up to her by . . .' He paused, passing her a sad look and struggling to continue.
Under no circumstances could she approve of a man using brute force towards a woman, yet due to his visible regret, her appreciation of his situation emerged. Everyone made mistakes; it was an unfortunate human trait.
'What happened?' she asked.
'I followed her home, pleading with her to forgive me, but it just seemed to make matters worse. So I sent her a bunch of flowers. Then she accused me of stalking her.'
'That sounds a bit harsh.'
'I couldn't see her point of view at the time, but I can now. I hope I have mellowed a bit over the last twenty or so years.'
'I think you must have. You don't seem that type at all.'
'I admit, at times,' he said, 'I used to a hot-headed, but I still knew the boundaries. When you’re with a group of men, these things can happen. You give as good as you get. I'm not like that now . . . but I'm not a wilting flower either.'
'I wouldn't like you if you were.'
He smiled and looked away.
She did like him, despite what he had done. He had an air of excitement about him. Perhaps he was a thrill-seeker and liked the adrenaline rush, and it reminded her of her youth when she would hang around on the streets with her friends and look for trouble. Their favourite prank was to ring a doorbell and cause the dogs to charge to the window and bark. It seemed childish now, although it was funny at the time, especially as the owner often screamed at them as they ran off down the street. She recited the story.
He smiled. 'When I was a lad I used to get stink bombs from joke shops and put them through letterboxes.'
She pulled a face. 'I don't want to get on the wrong side of you.'
'I'm harmless . . . a big cuddly teddy bear.'
'With the teeth and claws to match, I should imagine.'
He gave her a wry smile.
She looked at him, slumped in the armchair with his arms resting on the sides and depicting an air of confidence. They seemed to have a connection and understood each other without either of them making rash judgements. It was a comforting sensation and one that she would cherish. He was honest, friendly, and had acceptable imperfections, but he was not Ben.
Would he be worrying about her strange phone call earlier? She had ended the conversation rather abruptly. Concerned, she reached for her phone and looked at the small screen: she had missed several calls.
'Have you been to the art gallery yet?' Larry asked.
Her fear deepened. She should have been at an art event right now. She stood up, reached for the empty mugs and the packet of biscuits, and withdrew from the room, her breathing taut and her pulse quickening. 'No, not yet.'
He appeared in the doorway. 'Have I said something wrong?'
'Did you know a woman called Saskia Fox? She used to live in Rodley years ago.'
He turned and walked back to the living area. 'Why do you ask?'
His voice had a nervous edge, causing her to feel as though she had said something off limits. She followed him into the room. He was standing by the patio doors, gazing outside.
'I know that I look like her,' she said.
He turned and smiled. 'You do. You're just as pretty.'
'Did you know her to talk to?'
'Not really.'
'I think my birth mother was from around here and knew Saskia. It would explain why I can remember certain things.'
'Like what?'
'I knew her father was called Frank and I've just been to a house.' Her mouth was dry. She forced herself away from the horrors of the attack, drawing on the hidden strength of her son. She had coped with his death. This was nothing in comparison. ‘I think it had belonged to Saskia's grandmother. I felt as though I'd been there before.'
'How did you find it?'
Her knuckle was in her mouth, forcing still her anxieties. She looked at him. Her voice wouldn't start.
He was waiting, expressionless. 'Is it local?'
She nodded. 'Saskia used herbs to poison people. I saw them at the house . . . kind of.'
'Really?'
She nodded. 'I'm certain someone killed her. Those images I felt at the station related to her. I must have seen it happen.'
'At least it's not a premonition. What are you going to do?'
She folded her arms and shook her head. She was going to tell him that she didn’t know; instead, she told him she was trying to forget all about her.
'Wise. You shouldn't get involved.'
Her phone sounded. She glanced at the screen. 'Just a minute, I have to take this.' She accepted the call. 'Hi Ben.'
His voice was gruff. 'I've been going nuts with worry. Why can't you pick up?'
'I've been busy.'
'God! I've been pacing the room. Couldn't you ring straight back?'
'I'm sorry.'
He puffed out. 'Are you okay?'
'Yes. Look, I can't talk now. Can we do this later?'
'No! I've been trying to get hold of you for days. I'm coming down . . . staying with you for a while. I've made arrangements to work from down there.'
'That's not a good idea.'
His irritation was clear. 'I'm no use to you at the end of a phone. I can't cope with getting your calls and then not being able to do anything to help. We can find out about Saskia together, and then when it's over I'll go . . . if that is what you want.'
'Promise?'
'That's what I said!'
'So just friends.'
'Just friends.'
She hesitated. Maybe it would give them an opportunity to sort through things without the distraction of his son. 'Okay. When will you be down?'
'First thing tomorrow.'
'See you then.'
'Bye.'
When she hung up, Larry was staring disapprovingly.
'I thought you were making a fresh start,' he said.
'We're friends, that's all.'
He stood up. His face had flushed, his eyes were dark and piercing, and lines crossed his brow. 'You said it was over . . . you were terrified of him on the train.'
'No . . . I wasn't.'
'You weren't happy.'
She followed him out of the room. 'Anyway, what has it got to do with you?'
He huffed. 'He's not good for you. You can do better.'
'You don't even know Ben. You're in no position to judge him.'
He stomped to the door. 'The pain in your face was enough to tell me of his type. You'll stay clear of him if you know what's good for you. I don't want to see you hurt.'
'You hardly know me.'
He opened the door and a gust of air rushed towards them. She folded her arms and watched him step outside, bewildered by his unsubstantiated anger.
'Send him back home Megan.' His voice was assertive and coarse. 'I'm not sure I can be friends with you otherwise.'
Baffled, she closed the door. The audacity of the man! How dare he dictate who she could and could not have as friends?
The night seemed as though it would never end. Megan turned onto her left side, hoping that this time she would find a comfortable position, but instantly her arm and shoulder muscles screamed out, tight and trapped. She turned over, thrashing wildly. The sheet had knotted, around her legs, and the duvet was slipping to the floor. She craved calmness and most of all sleep, but the attack the previous day replayed in her mind. She was thrust to the floor and tied; the dust tickled her nostrils, her eyes were gritty and moist, and her flesh was squeezed. She pleaded with the tortuous images to stop. They repeated on and on, each time more draining, more vivid.
Curling into a tight ball with her ears pricked and her hand in a fist, she searched for a distraction. The leaves tussled in the breeze and the house breathed, creaking and groaning, but other than that, it was quiet; there were no cars on the road and no voices emanating from the street. There was darkness and solitude. It provided no comfort.
A knocking sound emerged from the street below. Jolting, she tightened her grip on the sheet and peered towards the window. The lights from the streets filtered through the lightweight curtains, and in the shadow was the silhouette of a swaying branch. Craving obscurity, she buried her head under the covers. Her trauma replayed.
She knew that she should have never approached the ramshackle building, well aware, as she emerged from the woodland, that the art event was bait. But the house had charm and allure and held a mystifying significance. Unable to resist a glimpse into the past, she had fallen into her assailant's trap.
She needed answers, yet at the same time feared them. Murderers were often close to their victims, so whoever had killed Saskia and was now after her, must have been a close friend or relative. She knew nothing about the stranger’s life, let alone who her family were, and her ignorance was terrifying.
Laid in bed, she listened to the click-clack of heels as someone walked by the house. The sun was rising, the day beginning. There were voices of friends sharing a happy moment as they travelled to work, and there was a drone of the engine and the sound of a car horn. A door slammed shut. She imagined a kiss, a cheery wave, and a hasty clamber into a vehicle. She imagined a monotonous day at work, free from worry.
Megan had worked as a receptionist at the local hospital dealing with appointments and admissions. Her colleagues were friendly and the workload was neither excessive nor slight, and she enjoyed the routine, which commenced at eight-thirty in the morning and finished at four-thirty in the afternoon. Working full-time had its advantages, aside from the obvious financial ones, as it had taken her mind from her relationship problems. Now, she had too much thinking time.
With memories of her troubles in Halifax prominent in her mind, she considered ringing Ben to urge him to stay away. She should not have agreed to accommodate him and reprimanded herself for her moment of weakness. What had she been thinking? Their relationship was over. All she was doing was prolonging the agony . . . for them both.
Her eyes closed. She shifted into her favourite position, flat on her stomach, and urged peace to favour her.
Megan awoke with a start, bolting upright at the sound of the doorbell and glanced at the clock. It was not yet ten o'clock; surely, it was too soon for Ben’s arrival. Hastily, she clambered out of bed, peered behind the curtains, and looked at the street below. He had arrived and stood in the small front garden looking at something further down. His mass of dark-brown wavy hair fluttered in the gentle breeze. He brushed it aside.
She pulled on a pair of socks, and still wearing her blue and white pyjamas, rushed downstairs and unlocked the door. Ben grinned and leaned towards her, his lips pursed.
She scowled and backed away. 'Just friends, remember.'
'Can't I offer my friend a kiss?'
'No . . . we agreed.'
His face dropped. Unwilling to be drawn, she strode into the kitchen, switched on the kettle, and placed some bread into the toaster.
'We are going to have to set some ground rules,' she said, glimpsing at him. 'This is a temporary arrangement and then you go.'
'I am not going to stop trying to win you over.'
She frowned. 'You should forget about me. Move on.'
He leaned against the worktop, arms folded, head back, and his expression smug. ‘In the same way that you've moved on from me?'
'Exactly.'
He was observing her and her body tensed and her movements became jerky. Wanting a moment away from him, she told him she was going to dress.
‘Then I'll do breakfast,’ he said. ‘What else do you want? Eggs or cereal?'
'One egg please.'
She slipped away, had a quick wash and dressed, and returned a few minutes later to find the dining table set, and the coffee and toast ready. Moments later, he brought in two plates, plonked himself down, and leaned into the chair. He was wearing fitted jeans, a white collared top, and brown shoes, and he looked sensational. Her eyes wandered across his broad shoulders, and to his neck and face. He had well-defined cheekbones, a prominent chin, and an askew nose. He caught her looking: she looked away.
'I have brought a few more of your things down. Clothes, music, art folder . . . stuff like that.'
She should have been happy yet her disappointment lingered.
'I thought it would please you,' Ben said.
'I am pleased. I like it here.'
'So what's wrong?'
'Nothing's wrong. I'm just surprised.'
'It might take a while to sort out this Saskia business, so I've brought quite a bit of my stuff too. I'll unload the car after we've eaten.'
She nibbled at her toast. It was crisp, cold and lacked flavour, and it reminded her the day she departed from Halifax. She had risen early, before Ben and David had awoken, and having dressed she grabbed her bags and descended the stairs, tiptoeing to avoid the creaks. With her ears alert, she had a quick drink, rushed her breakfast, and then scribbled a note, leaving it on the kitchen surface. Her thigh throbbed and her heartbroken, but her mind was clear. She had plans and nothing could change them. Yet still, she had gazed wistfully at the house as she had departed. She reasoned it was more due to the way the relationship had ended than for any other reason. She did not believe in life-long love. Joshua had taught her that.
'While you are here, I am going to do as I please,' she said.
He nodded.
'If I want to go out on my own, I will. No arguments.'
'Of course.'
'And you will sleep in the spare bedroom.'
He looked away, uneasy.
'You're not sleeping with me! This is my house, my rules. Just friends remember.'
She waited for a response. He was staring out of the patio doors, his face creased with concern. She knew he would try to sidle his way into her affections, but she would refuse him. This time, she would be in charge.
'Anything else?' he asked.
'We share the housework and the shopping and we respect the others privacy.'
'What about this Saskia business?'
'If I want your help, I'll ask for it. Otherwise stay out of it.'
Was she too harsh? He didn’t seem concerned, surprisingly. What was he up to? It was disappointing that he was not retaliating, and in the very least, she had expected him to be pleading with her to discuss their failed relationship, but he had not uttered a word. Whilst suspicious, she decided he had given up on her. Irritated, she stood up, grabbed the empty mugs and plates, and strode into the kitchen.
He appeared in the doorway. 'What happened yesterday?'
'I was thrown to the floor and bound and gagged.'
He smiled. 'Seriously, what happened?'
'I am being serious . . . well, apart from the gagging bit.'
He approached her, arms outstretched. She dodged under his arm, escaping to the dining table, and gathered the tablemats.
'Are you okay?'
'Do I look like I'm okay?'
'Megan, don't be sharp with me.'
She placed the mats into a cupboard, returned for the tablecloth, and folded it using the existing creases as a guide.
'Are you annoyed at me?' he asked.
She scrutinised him. She should be glad that he had finally realised that their relationship was over, but she wasn't. She wanted to see him groveling for her affection. 'No, I'm not annoyed with you.'
'So tell me about it, from the start.'
She took a breath and steadied her nerves, and told the story from start to finish. Ben was attentive and when she had finished asked if she had any idea who was responsible. She said not.
'Maybe someone has an axe to grind. Perhaps they didn't like Saskia, and because you look alike, they are taking it out on you.'
‘That could be it. I don't want to be involved, but I have a feeling I am not going to have a choice.'
'Whoever gave you the leaflet was involved. It's a pity you can't remember anything about them.'
'They had a pile of leaflets in their hands. Mine must have been different to the others. It did look a bit tacky.'
'You should be careful. Don't trust anyone.'
She scowled and folded her arms across her middle. 'I'm not going to hide away.'
'I didn't think you would. Even so, you should make sure you stay in public places.'
She reached for a cushion and pressed it into her abdomen. 'It's not going to be that easy. However hard I try, there are going to be times when I'm alone. And this could go on for months. I'm not going to be a prisoner in my own home.'
He was studying her. He was thinking about taking her back, to his home.
'I'm not going back to Halifax,' she said.
'Why not? As you said, this could go on for months. You would be safe there.'
She bolted upright and extended her neck. 'I've told you. I don't want a relationship with you. You shouldn't have come. It's wrong.'
'What are you scared of?'
'Do I need to answer that?'
His eyes pressed into her. She wasn't about to say tell him something that he should already know. If he was that stupid, he didn’t deserve an explanation.
'Is it about the accident and your bruised leg?'
'It was no accident!'
'Come on, please. Be reasonable.'
She jumped to her feet. 'Me? Be reasonable? I'm not going through this again. I've told you, over and over again how I feel, yet you've dismissed everything I've said.'
'I thought we were going to put it behind us and make a fresh start. A lot happened that shouldn't have, and things were said in the heat of the moment. I want you back Megan. I love you.'
She folded her arms and scowled.
'Please reconsider. We've all learned from the incident. We can make this work.'
'Not until you can admit I was treated badly.'
There was bewilderment in his eyes. Still, they talked at cross-purposes.
Ben levered himself up from the sofa. 'I should empty the car. Fancy giving me a hand?'
She followed him to the doorway, stopping at the threshold when she experienced a wave of anguish. As shivers ran up her spine, she held her arms close to her body, pulling them tight, and scanned the immediate vicinity. There was a man walking a small dog, a couple of teenage girls tottering towards the shops with linked arms, and there was a builder with a tool box in hand, walking to a van. Anyone of these people could have been her attacker. She made a tentative step forward and strained her neck to look further down the street, searching for anyone who may be observing her.
'Here,' Ben said, 'grab this.'
Warily, she moved towards him, accepted the box, and carried it indoors. He shadowed her, urging her to move faster, and dropped a couple of bags in the hallway before striding back to the car.
'You've brought a lot of stuff down,' she said.
'Quite a bit is yours.'
She carried the box indoors and perused the acrylics, pastels, and sketchpads. Her interest had vanished, the association with the attack too great, and so she placed it into the cloakroom under the staircase, out of sight. Grudgingly, she strode back to the door, skirting around the growing pile of bags and boxes, and looked outside to Ben, resentful of the amount he had brought. This was her house and he was cluttering it up.
He dropped another two bags inside and shut the door. 'That's the lot.'
'Why is there so much?'
'As I said,’ he said, carrying two bags upstairs, ‘we don't know how long it's going to take to sort out this Saskia business. I wanted to make sure I was prepared.'
Irritated, she looked at the pile, and then leaned over and unzipped a bag. Blood rushed to her head and she started to tremble.
'No!'
She picked up a PlayStation game and looked up the staircase. Ben was peering over the banister looking sheepish.
'This is David's,' she said.
'I was going to tell you.'
'He's not staying.'
'I thought it would be okay.'
'Okay? After everything that has happened!'
Megan flung the game onto the floor and rushed into the living room. Her skin rippled; her breaths frantic. She ran her hands through her hair and stared at the photograph of Joshua, searching for solace. Then she listened to Ben's heavy steps as he descended the stairs.
'It was a misunderstanding - it will be okay,' he said, 'it's a new start, for us all.'
'No Ben, not David.'
'That's not fair. We come as a package.'
He reached across to touch her. She flung his arm aside and glared.
'I want you to go. This was meant to be the two of us.'
'He won't cause trouble. He wanted to come.'
She puffed out. 'I'll bet he did.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
She strode to the patio doors. His eyes pressed into her.
'I couldn't leave him,' he said.
'Sure you could. He's old enough to look after himself.'
'He likes you Megan. I wish you'd give him a chance.'
She pushed him aside. 'I'm going for a run. I want you gone by the time I get back.'
'I can't do that. I'm picking him up from a friend's soon . . . and he's made other plans.'
'Then he'll have to unmake them!'
She stomped upstairs, changed into her jogging bottoms, top, and trainers, and left the house, her adrenaline surging.
Megan's rhythmical steps pounded the paving stones as she turned onto her street to return home. Ben's car was absent. Believing that he had gone to collect David, she felt little relief. Unwilling to ponder the situation, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. The hallway was clear of baggage, but rather than searching the house for Ben and David's possessions, which she felt sure were there, she stepped into the kitchen and poured herself a cooling glass of water.
She gulped the liquid in between tight breaths and felt the coolness pass to her stomach. Her skin coated in perspiration, and droplets slithered down her cheeks. She glanced at her pale-blue top, and the vast patches of sweat that had formed under her armpits, on her sternum, and under her breasts, and her chest rose and fell. It was a satisfying sensation.
Having quenched her thirst, she climbed the stairs. Her legs were quivering and she longed for rest, but first she needed to remove the sticky substance from her body. She peeled off her sodden clothes, noticing the tidemarks had extended to her bra and knickers, and strode to the bathroom for a shower.
The hot water gushed, trailing along the dips and valleys of her body and massaging her tired muscles. She closed her eyes and focused upon every drop, every trickle, enjoying every blissful moment. Then she applied the shower gel to the sponge and swept it across her body in circular motions. Her tension dispersed, she felt revitalised and cleansed.
She stepped out of the shower, removed the worst of the moisture with a towel, and headed to the bedroom and perched on the edge of the bed. There were voices emanating from the street. Familiar voices.
Her anger bubbled. Scowling, she pushed the bedroom door shut and sat back on the bed where she continued to dry her moist body. The outer door opened. Ben said something to David. She closed her ears.
It would be different this time. This was her home. They were guests.
But why had she invited them? Oh Lord! She had been stupid.
She glanced at the fading bruise on her leg. This time she would gain the upper hand. She patted her legs with the towel.
The door opened. Megan screamed and covered herself with the towel. David looked at her and smirked.
'Sorry,' he said and shut the door.
'Stay out of my room!'
She threw on her clothes and stomped into the hallway. David was lounging on the bed in the next room. She went inside.
'What the hell do you think you were doing?'
He grinned. 'I thought Dad said my room was the second one.'
'Like hell you did! Leave me alone!'
'Now that's not very nice. Dad wants us all to make an effort.'
She looked into his eyes, wild and untrusting. She looked at his lips and saw his satisfied smile. Then she thought of his gleeful expression when he opened the door and saw her naked body. Biting her lip, she scuttled from the room.
'Don't forget, you have to be nice to me. You wouldn't want Dad to find out what you're capable of, now would you?'
She jerked to a standstill, and turned around and glared. His expression was vile. How could he be Ben's son?
This time, he would not gain control. This time he would not blackmail her with her secret.
The sun's glow captured her, warming her skin through the patio doors and generating a sense of well-being. Mesmerised, Megan's tired features aroused, softening under the intense light as she looked through the glass to the garden, beyond the smeared fingerprints to the fine blades of the grasses, to the flimsy yet firm petals on the roses, and to the rippled texture of the bark on the tree.
There was a padding of footsteps in the room above. Stiffening, she stared at her plate.
'Are you okay?' Ben asked.
Taut, she reached for her mug, accidentally tapping her plate as she drew it to her mouth. 'What do you think?'
'You seem on edge. I wouldn't worry too much about this Saskia business. It'll sort itself out.'
'You think that's what is worrying me?'
'Megan, please. Can't we try again? I want us to make a new start, all of us.'
'That was my plan too. Then you arrived.'
'Don't be like that.'
'What do you expect?’ she hissed. ‘You know why I left, yet . . . yet . . .'
David's hefty footsteps sounded as he descended the stairs, two at a time. He emerged at the door wearing jeans that barely covered his rear end and a plain black t-shirt. His hair was wild and bushy with natural kinks, and it drifted across his face. Habitually, he removed the limp strands that rested on his angular cheekbone, placing them behind his ear. He had the same facial structure as his father and the same thick mass of hair, there was no doubting their relationship, in spite of their opposing characteristics.
David reached across the table for a slice of toast, took a bite, and dropped the remaining toast onto an empty plate. Then he stepped away.
'David,' Ben said in an irritated tone. ‘Finish it please.’
'It's cold.'
'Of course it's cold, it's toast.'
'I'm going to make some more.'
As soon as he disappeared into the kitchen, she sighed.
Ben looked at her, concerned. 'I'm sorry you don't feel comfortable, but we're here now, and until we find out who's after you, we're staying.' He reached for her hand. 'I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.'
She did not respond and looked at the doorway, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
He lowered his voice. 'He said he'll try harder. Please, give it a go, for me.’
‘You actually believe him.’
‘I do, and I know I've said it before, but I do think you should stay around the house more.'
‘I can't stay in all the time. I'd go out of my mind. Anyhow, I have to find a job.'
'Can't you paint? It's a perfect opportunity.'
David strode into the living area holding two slices of toast, and slumped onto the sofa and began flicking through the television channels with the remote control. He caught her looking and his detached expression dissolved.
She turned back to Ben. 'Painting is not going to pay the bills.’
'I can do that.'
She scowled. 'And I need privacy to paint.'
'David's not going to be around all the time and I'll stay out of your way. In fact, I'll have to go visit some clients.'
She looked at him, thoughtful.
'I love to see you do your art. You're good.'
'I'm out of practice.'
'So what are you waiting for? Now's your chance.'
She pushed her chair back and stretched out her legs. She could not find the motivation, nor reproduce the calmness required. It felt like a monumental battle just to gather her equipment together.
'Have you ever produced images of Joshua?'
'I didn't paint much back then.'
'How about doing it from photos? It could be therapeutic.'
Out of her eye corner, she noticed David looking at her and smirking. She focused her stare onto the table, her tension rising, and told him it wasn’t a good idea.
He rose to his feet. 'Okay, but you should consider drawing something. It would be a good distraction.' He left the room and headed upstairs.
Hastily, she gathered the dirty cutlery and crockery and scurried into the kitchen. David's presence was suffocating, and she felt anxious and vulnerable and needed to keep busy. She cleaned the surfaces with a damp cloth, removed the crumbs from the toaster, and wiped away a smear from the fridge door. David appeared at her rear.
He wrapped his arms around her body, trapping her against the worktop as his essence floated under her nostrils, and his warm breath moistened her neck. 'You came to me in my dreams last night. Naked and lusting.'
She thrust her elbows backward and wriggled out of his grip. 'Leave me alone!'
His lecherous expression turned her stomach, and she felt sickness rise to her throat. He was peeling off her clothes with his eyes, and progressing along the length of her body, meandering along her curves before settling on her breasts. Defenceless to his thoughts, she covered herself with her arms the best she could and backed away,
He edged closer, forcing her into the wall. He gripped her arm and stroked her face with his fingertips. 'You are pretty.'
She was trembling.
There were footsteps.
Ben appeared in the doorway. 'What's going on?'
David smiled confidently at his father and stepped away. 'I was just thanking her for everything she does around the house.'
He grinned and turned to her. 'And so we should, you do a fantastic job.'
'That's not true!' She glared at David. 'He was touching me! You saw it.'
'David?'
'Come on Dad, why would I do that? She's . . . she's a mother figure to me.'
Ben smiled; he believed.
'But . . .' words evaded her. Their expressions, sorrowful and oppressive, forced back her complaints. They would never believe her, never had, it was a futile attempt. 'You're both pathetic!'
'I'm sorry I upset you,' David said, 'I didn't mean to.' He turned to Ben. 'I'll be more careful in future.'
More careful not to be caught, she thought and elbowed past.
David was slick and far too quick with his responses, and according to Ben, he could do no wrong. His pride in his son was nauseating and her skin crawled. She felt dirty and contaminated. She felt belittled.
She stomped into the living area.
Ben shadowed her. 'I understand it's difficult for you, but you're the closest thing to a mother David has ever had. He realises there may be times when he has crossed the boundary, but it's only because he's in unknown territory and craving affection.'
'Bull!'
He reached for her hand. She yanked it away.
'He just told me that he is trying hard to do the right thing.'
'Like hell!
He frowned.
'He's clever, I'll give him that, and he's sucked you in.'
'Megan, please be a little more gracious. He made an honest mistake and apologised. He's not used to being around older women. Please give him time.'
David was leaning against the doorframe, smirking. Once again, he had won. She slumped onto the dining room chair with her arm resting on the table and stared out of the window. Ben watched her with a penetrating sadness. In his eyes, she had flipped. Did he think she was craving attention? Did he think she was jealous?
It was infuriating, and she folded her arms and kept her body rigid. Admittedly, there had been times when Ben and David's bond had caused a pang of jealousy - they believed in each other, trusted and relied in their union – but only because she should be having the same relationship with Joshua.
She should not have allowed Ben to return. If she had been stronger, she wouldn't have needed him to come to her rescue. Her behaviour was pitiable. David had seen her weakness, her feeble nature, and he had taken advantage. Worse still, she had allowed him to.
She had failed in her escape, failed as a mother to Joshua, and failed as a partner to Ben. What did she have left? She had no job, no friends, and no income. If only she had not chosen Rodley as her destination, and if only she did not look like some random stranger who had been murdered. Maybe then, she would have made positive steps forward and found an element of happiness.
Light-footed, Ben stepped towards her. He lifted her butterscotch hair away from her face and kissed her cheek.
'When are Luke and Imogen arriving?' he asked.
She glanced at the clock. 'Soon.'
'And don't forget I love you.'
With a heavy heart, she watched him stroll away.
Megan remained at the dining table and flicked through a newspaper. Out of her eye corner, she glimpsed at David who was in front of the television, and every so often, he either leered or gave her a self-satisfied grin. She held an impassive pose.
As always, Ben was oblivious and tapping away at his computer. He also peered at her on occasions and expressed either sadness or sympathy. That hurt the most. He was likely to be questioning low self-esteem and praising his son's honesty and maturity.
'I've decided to meet with Luke and Imogen in a café in town.'
Ben looked up. 'I thought they were coming here.'
'They are, but I can't do this with the two of you around. I need space.'
'If someone is after you, we're involved too.'
'No, you're not! This is my problem.'
'But I thought I was here to support you.'
She hesitated. He was right; they weren't there for companionship. She glanced at David. Ben did too, instigating David’s decision to go upstairs.
'Thanks son.'
There was a knock at the front door.
'It sounds like they're here,' Ben said.
She walked across the room and into the hallway, out of Ben's sight. David, who had been particularly slow in moving, followed on behind. She could feel his breath hot on her neck, she could smell his scent, and she imagined his lecherous gaze.
She spun around. 'Don't even think about it.'
He grinned and sauntered up the stairs.
She opened the door and welcomed Luke and Imogen inside.
Imogen looked different to what she remembered and was taller and more imposing and with a stronger physique. She was wearing tight pants, a yellow top, and a black shiny jacket, and she wore a glittering strand of beads around her neck. Imogen held out her hand, introduced herself, and demanded they used first name terms. Her palm was warm, her grip firm.
Both Luke and Imogen commanded authority. She tried to relax and welcomed them inside, leading them to the living area. However, as they moved into the spacious surroundings, her anxieties rose and her mind swirled with their imminent questions. She glanced over her shoulder and searched for Ben. He had wandered into the kitchen to make a drink.
Luke's eyes settled on the photograph of her son, and her body tightened. Silently, she urged him to look elsewhere and searched for a witty comment to use as a diversion. He moved closer to the mantelpiece and outstretched his arm. His hand rested on the frame.
Megan's heart pounded.
'Is this lovely little boy your son?'
Fear enveloped her. She saw the aspirin. She saw his dead body. She remembered the extensive list of questions she’d had to answer after his death. 'Nephew,' she murmured.
Ashamed and distraught, she ran out of the room with her head down and stopped with a gentle bump. Ben was before her, and clenched her arms and frowned. He eased her into the kitchen.
'What's wrong?' he whispered.
She clammed up. Joshua would be horrified. How could she have said such a dreadful thing? ‘I . . . I . . .’ she shook her head.
‘Megan. What is it?’
'I said Joshua . . .' she raised her hand to her mouth.
'They're not here to question you about Joshua.'
Her mortification tore her apart. She had denied her son was part of her, denied that he had ever existed. What a wicked, depraved act.
Out of her eye corner, she could see Luke approaching the kitchen, so she turned away and pretended to be busy in a cupboard. Her arms trembled and her face drained of colour as she imagined her son malevolently slashing her with his words.
'I hope you don't mind,' Luke said, 'I just had a peek in a sketchpad. Someone is talented. Is it yours Megan?'
Slowly, she turned her head and tried to speak. Her words trapped. She gawked, dumbstruck, and did not reply.
'I love the montage on the first page. You have put it together skilfully.'
Luke was smiling. Ben was smiling.
She started to relax. 'I was just doodling. I haven't drawn in earnest for a few years.'
'I particularly like the old man slumped on a chair. It is life-like.'
Ben reached for the tray and walked through to the living room. Luke waited, encouraged her forward, then followed on behind.
'I've always said she should make a career of it,' Ben said, 'I'm sure she would sell her work.'
'I agree. Have you ever had any framed?'
'No. It's not good enough.'
'You're quite the perfectionist then?'
She smiled. 'I suppose I am.'
After a few more minutes of general chatter, she had relaxed and forgotten her terrible comment relating to son. Luke must have realised she had de-tensed, as he broached the subject of the interview and told her he wanted to keep it as informal as possible. Then he asked her about her life in Halifax and her desire to move to Rodley. Whilst she told him about her journey, she left out her vision of the stabbing incident and the sense of déjà vu. Nor did she tell him of her lifelong yearning to visit the place, and claimed it was as though she had put a pin on a map.
'Do you have any friends or relatives here?' he asked.
'Not before I arrived.'
'And now?'
'Not really.'
'But you know Larry Carr?'
She frowned. 'I met him on the train.'
'What do you think of him?'
'He seems nice enough . . . easy to talk to.'
Luke leaned forward with his hands clasped. He had a tired looking complexion that was a little grey, and had fine mousy-coloured hair that only just covered his head. From what she could see, his scalp was not visible. 'What was your first thought when you met him?'
‘I thought I knew him,’ she said. ‘I was adopted when I was six. I think my real mother was from around here – maybe it was through her.'
'Have you ever met her?'
She shook her head.
'So what makes you think she was from Rodley?'
It’s the only thing that makes sense. I remember the town too, yet as far as I'm aware, I've not visited before. The day after I arrived, I walked straight to a recreation area. I think I used to play there. It was familiar.'
Imogen smiled. 'Many things from our past get buried in our subconscious. Did you recognise anything else?'
'Bits and pieces . . . the market square, some streets. I think my mother was a friend of Saskia's too.'
'Why do you say that?'
She gulped. 'I think my mother saw who killed her.'
'Did you see something too?' Luke asked.
Her skin rippled, and her pulse throbbed in her throat as memories of blood pouring from her stomach haunted. Her eyes flitted. She chewed her lip and pressed her hand onto her middle.
'I think I was there,' she said in a small voice. 'I can remember bits and pieces but not everything.'
'Would you consider hypnotism as a way of extracting the memories?'
'No! Definitely not!'
'It would be the quickest way.'
She straightened her back. 'I'm sure I remember everything there is to remember. I don't want to go back there.'
'I can understand that, but it could be a useful exercise. It's a common tendency to forget things that have the power to harm us. It is a form of self-protection.'
'That's the reason I don't want to recall anything.'
'More than likely, the opposite will happen. You'll be able to deal with what's happening and won’t feel trapped.'
'Even so, I'm not keen on hypnotism.'
'It's quite harmless. I can take you through the procedure if you like.'
She turned away from Luke and caught a glimpse of Joshua's photograph, and her determination strengthened. 'I don’t want to. And anyway, how can you be sure that someone murdered Saskia?'
'That's what we need to find out.'
'Shouldn't the police be involved?'
'There's no case to answer at the moment,' he said.
'I can't help you then.'
'You're paranormal investigators, not private investigators, are you not?' Ben said.
Luke shuffled. 'The paranormal side is more of a hobby.'
Megan was bewildered. 'Why were you hiding it from me?'
'We didn't want to worry you, not everyone is receptive to the idea.'
'Do you think Saskia has been reincarnated into Megan?' Ben asked.
'It's a possibility. Megan could have some of Saskia's memories.'
Overcome with shivers, she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.
'Religions and traditions deal with reincarnation in different ways,’ Luke continued, ‘but they all have one thing in common. It is said that a person is born many times and carries the memories of each incarnation in the subconscious mind.'
'But my memories are not in my subconscious mind.'
'No, sometimes they are triggered and come to the forefront and create unexplained phobias and reactions.'
'But why now?'
'It can happen to solve a problem. Perhaps in your case it’s to prove Saskia was murdered, and then to help find her killer.'
'So why doesn't everyone who has been murdered come back?'
'That's not something I can answer.'
She wrapped her arms around her front. 'No, it's all rubbish.'
'We don't think so. Of course, you're entitled to your opinion.'
Silently and sarcastically, she offered her thanks.
'We're not here to try to change your mind. We are trying to solve the case. The reincarnation may or may not be relevant. Can you tell me about the house?'
'I think it belonged to her grandmother. Saskia used potions to hurt people. I have no idea who or why, but I got a sense she thought they deserved it. I think someone may have sought revenge for the things she did.'
Luke wrote something in a notebook and glanced up. 'Where do these feelings come from?'
'I have no idea, but it's not what you think. I'm not Saskia. They must come from my past and my mother’s past.'
He passed a blank look.
'You don't believe me! You think I have her memories!'
'I'm keeping an open mind.'
He was trying to appear calm but she could sense his excitement bubbling beneath his skin. It was clear that he believed it to be a reincarnation. He was as crazy as Ben. They were never going to help her find her attacker; they wanted the scandal.
Luke continued to speak. 'Keep in mind that the hypnotism, or regressive therapy as it is known as when it refers to reincarnation, would give you all the necessary answers. It can't be easy not knowing what's going on.'
'I don't want to know anything else about Saskia. I just want whoever is after me to stop.'
'Unfortunately, the two are probably linked.'
She looked at Ben for support. He seemed calm, but underneath she could feel his need for answers were as strong as Luke's were. Also, if she weren’t careful, he would persuade her to be regressed. They may say that they wouldn’t question her about Joshua, but it might still happen. It was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.
She needed a friend to determine a way forward and considered Verity. Not only would she be able to discuss everything to do with Saskia, but she would be able to share her problems relating to Ben and David too.
'I've done here,' she said, 'I'm going out.'
Ben stared at her then turned to Luke. ‘Are you finished?’
‘I think so.’
He turned back to Megan. ‘Where are you going?'
'Verity's. I need to see her.'
'You know Verity Fox?' Luke asked.
It dawned. Fox. Frank Fox's gravestone. The potions. The other woman at the house.
'Verity is Saskia's sister,' she said weakly.
He nodded. 'It might be wise to stay away from her, at least until we know who killed Saskia.'
'Verity didn't do it. They were best friends.'
'Are you sure about that?'
She tried to probe deeper into her memories. All pathways were blocked, hard and inflexible; nothing would come.
'Have you met Ronald Maddison too?' he asked.
She gave a nervous nod.
'He was Saskia's husband.'
Oh Lord. What was she getting herself involved with, and how had they managed to track her down so quickly?
'Please stay away from them, for your own safety.'
Feeling suffocated, she rushed into the kitchen and stared out of the window. In the background, she heard Luke say goodbye to Ben, and a mumbled exchange followed. She believed they were speaking about her, but she didn’t care. She had far more important things on her mind than worrying about them and their crazy ideas, and folded her arms and considered her meeting with Verity.
Before she’d decided what she wanted to say, Ben appeared, interrupting her thoughts.
'Did you hire them?' she asked.
'No of course not.'
'But you knew who they were.'
'After they contacted you I looked them up on the Internet.'
She frowned, disbelieving.
He gripped her arms. 'I promise you, I didn't hire them. Although I must say I'm grateful to whoever did.'
Satisfied, she grabbed her lightweight coat and bag from the downstairs cupboard and headed to the door.
'Please don't go,' he said.
'I have to. Verity and Ron are aware of me, yet I know nothing of them. I don't like being at a disadvantage.'
'That's the reason you should leave it to Luke.'
'No. I trust Verity more than I do Luke. He's just in it for himself . . . he wants the excitement of reincarnation.'
Ben disagreed, but she was in no mood for a dispute and left the house. Squinting in the bright light and enjoying the warmth on her face, she started away.
‘Megan!’ he called. ‘Won’t you think about this for a second?’
‘I have and I’m going. Sorry you don’t approve!’
Elements of the interview crisscrossed Luke's mind as he eased away from Megan's street and headed out of Rodley. As Megan had said, it was possible that she had, unbeknown to her, witnessed a crime. He must not allow himself to get over-excited and relent to his fantasies. Delusion was all too easy.
He considered the facts. Megan claimed to have witnessed a murder, yet Larry said she imagined someone killing her. Assuming one of the statements was true, it could have been a memory, hers or Saskia’s, or it could have been a premonition. He glanced at Imogen, noticed her tapping into her phone, and asked her for her opinion.
Chuckling, she forced herself away from the text message. 'What did you say?'
'Do you think Megan's memories are from her childhood?'
A tinkle sounded from Imogen's phone. She opened it and burst into laughter. 'Sorry,' she said, 'my Mark's just sent me a joke.'
'Tell me.'
She leaned over, placing the phone into her bag. 'I can't do that, it's too crude for you.'
'I don't have an aversion to crude jokes.'
'But I have a problem telling you. It would be like telling my father.'
She thought he was old. She would be giving him a pipe and slippers next. 'I'm not that old . . . still in my thirties.'
'Golly. Is that all? I thought you must be closer to fifty.'
He spun to face her, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Her expression was deadpan and her lips formed a tight line as she looked through the windscreen.
Horrified, he returned his attention back to the road, slowing the car to a halt as he approached a queue of traffic. The silence was stifling. Should he respond? Maybe she was right; maybe he did look much older than his years. Surreptitiously, while the car was at a standstill, he peered into the rear view mirror desperate to remind himself of his youthful appearance. Lines were forming around his eyes and there were a few strands of grey hairs upon his head, but he didn't look fifty.
Imogen burst into laughter. 'I so had you!'
The tension in his face fell away. 'As if.'
'I saw you looking into the mirror.'
Heat rose to his cheeks. 'I was checking the traffic behind me.'
'Don't worry, you only look about forty-three.'
He grimaced. 'Like you're such an authority . . . barely off your mother’s hands.'
'I enjoy living with my parents’.'
'You mean you’ve never learned to cook and clean.'
'I do my share.' The car eased forward. 'Is it tonight you're cooking for Sarah?'
He felt a rush of warmth. 'Yes. I'm doing chicken breast in a creamy sauce.'
'And she is stopping over.'
'None of your business!'
'Sorry . . . Dad!'
He shook his head in dismay and turned along a leafy road. The adjacent houses had high fences, large gardens, and imposing electric gates. The obvious wealth was nauseating. Did the houses need to be so large? Did they have swimming pools and tennis courts too? What kind of person lived there? There was space for a small community in each of them.
'About Megan,' she said, 'you asked about her memories.'
He nodded.
'It’s possible they came from her childhood. The town seemed to have been the trigger.'
He joined a dual carriageway. 'It's a pity she wouldn't allow us to hypnotise her. I'm sure we would have found something out.'
'I think it was because of her little boy. She was very anxious . . . kept looking at the photo.'
'I put my foot in that one.'
'I did tell you she had lost her son.'
'I know. I didn't mean it to come out quite like that. What happened?'
'An aspirin overdose, an accident.'
'That's awful.'
They continued in silence. The landscape was mundane, flat and constant. Along one side were wheat crops, and on the other side was sugar beet. The road was straight with few bends and the traffic was sparse. Up ahead a truck chugged along at a steady pace. He pressed his foot on the accelerator, closed the gap, and overtook.
'I wish we could have stopped her going to see Verity,' he said.
'Don't you think Ben will be able to stop her?'
'He didn't seem too confident.'
'Why didn't we go to visit Verity?' she asked. 'That would have put Megan off.'
'I promised Mrs Francis we would be there at two o'clock. She wants to see the photographs today.'
The case had been straightforward. Mrs Francis believed one of her employees was contacting her customers and doing private business with them on the side. They had followed the woman, a Miss Canterbury, and obtained the necessary evidence. The work was uninteresting but it paid the bills.
'Couldn’t we have delayed by an hour,' Imogen said, 'Megan could put her foot right in it.'
'I am hoping she won't be that stupid. She knows the risks.'
'Do you think Verity is a suspect?'
'She has to be one of them. I'm not happy about Megan visiting her, but there was nothing I could do except chain her to the house.'
'This is so cool! Imagine having memories of a past life.'
'Let's not get ahead of ourselves. They still could be her memories.'
'You don't really believe that, do you?'
He could sense her glaring at him, the way Sarah had. She used to tell him reincarnation was nonsense, that there was no scientific evidence in his theories at all. 'You should only deal with facts,' she had said, 'anything else wastes time.' Her eyes had been like spears. He had felt belittled, worthless, and had been desperate for proof, anything to impress her. He would lay awake at night urging his brain to search for a convincing fact or quote, but he never found one solid enough. And even if he had, she would have brushed it aside, like she did with all of his unusual notions.
'Reincarnation is only a theory,' he said to Imogen, 'I doubt there is any truth in it.'
She gawked. 'That is not what you think. You have said yourself that Saskia is most likely Megan's incarnated self.'
'Don't mock me, and don't pretend to understand something that is beyond you!'
She gawked at him.
'Just let it go,' he said in a softer voice.
'This is about Sarah, isn't it?'
'This is nothing to do with Sarah.'
'I don't believe you,' she said, 'you have said in the past that she never understood you.'
'Of course she did. We were together two years. She always supported me.'
'Whatever.'
Could she see his lies? His skin was hot and sticky, he was scowling like a spoiled child and his lips were pouting. ‘Grow up,’ he heard Sarah say, and imagined her striding away.
'Leave Sarah out of this! It's none of your business.'
Her mouth clamped and her fists clenched.
A little further on, he had calmed sufficiently to glance sideways. Whilst her expression wasn’t stern, her silence proved she was upset, and understandably so. She was kind and understanding, and above all supportive, and didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of his shameful behaviour.
Driving along in silence, keeping his head fixed on the road ahead and his foot heavy on the pedal, he reflected on his outburst and pitiful whines. Even though he regretted that Sarah wasn’t more like Imogen, mostly he felt he had been unfair and unreasonable to Imogen. His feelings were intense and intolerable, so much so that he felt fit to burst.
He passed her a quick glance. ‘I’m sorry Imogen. I shouldn’t have said what I did. You deserve better than to have to tolerate a jerk like me.’
‘Thank you. Apology accepted.'
‘I know I can be a pain in the backside. It’s just . . .’ he paused. ‘It’s just at times Sarah stresses me out. I want tonight to be perfect, you know?’
She nodded.
He glimpsed at her and smiled. 'Can we forget about her and all the other stuff for the rest of the day?
'If that's what you want.'
‘It is . . . thanks.’
Despite an inner voice telling him otherwise, he needed Sarah in his life. He needed to feel her warmth and passion. He needed to convince her that he was now a private investigator, and not a paranormal investigator, or a waste of space, as she insinuated. He needed to eliminate his negative feelings and doubts and concentrate on having a good time.
Excitement mingled with nervous anxiety as Luke parked his car in the allotted bay close to the row of cottages, and strode to his house, passing through the small front garden and the colourful array of blooms. A scent wafted towards him. He glanced at the pinks and reds and saw spent flower heads, withering and brown, alongside the fresh blossoms. He should have clipped them away. Sarah would be sure to notice.
He stepped inside his house and scanned the living room for misplaced items and dirt. The television and fireplace were on his left, and two doors were on his right. One led upstairs and the other led into the kitchen. Along the wall on the far side was a sideboard, and resting on top of it were his models. There was a radio controlled Chinook, his favourite, a Porsche, and a spaceship from the film Star Trek. He should remove them and replace them with something more acceptable.
He slung his jacket over the back of the sofa and looked at the temperature gauge. It was still warm outside, and the sun's glow heated the room to a muggy thirty-one degrees centigrade. He stepped towards the window, automatically searching the glass for smears, before turning the handle and pushing it open. Fresh air gently caressed his skin and brushed against his cotton shirt. He inhaled, reached into a cupboard for an air freshener, and plugged it in.
Everything had to be perfect. He would dust and vacuum the room and then he would prepare dinner, but first, he should change into his casual attire. He ascended the staircase, entered the small bedroom, and dropped onto the edge of the bed. His hand rested on the lightweight duvet and swept across the smooth cotton beneath his skin. It felt gritty. It needed replacing with something else.
The covers were stored in the cupboard above the wardrobe. He stood on the tips of his feet, stretched out his arms, and reached inside. At the bottom of the pile was Sarah's set. It was made of silk and was a beautiful shiny cream colour. With a little effort, he managed to extract it without toppling the pile and laid it on the bed as he changed.
His body was tingling with nerves. He remembered their previous meetings and saw her slender body dressed in a long silk nightdress with shoulder straps and cap sleeves as she lay seductively on the bed. She had smiled at him, and strands of her hair had flopped into her face. He had leaned towards her, melting in her essence, and just for that moment, his life had been complete.
His body jarred. By the bed were books on paranormal events, a stark reminder of the reason for their separation. Panicking, he rushed around to the other side, picked them up, and frantically squeezed them into the bottom of one of his cupboards. Sarah must not see them. If he was to win her back, he had to convince her that his life had taken a different turn.
Having checked the bedroom for anything else untoward, he moved to the bathroom, gave the surfaces a quick wipe, and replaced the towels with a new set that were soft and freshly fragranced. Then he strolled down the stairs. His mind was still assessing his possessions and categorising them into approved or rejected when he remembered a photograph on his bedroom wall. He darted back upstairs, removed the image of a UFO hovering above a city, and replaced it with an image of the Norfolk coast.
Imogen's disapproval sounded in his mind and he immediately retaliated, offering a reason as to why he should rearrange his possessions. He loved Sarah and he needed her. It was more than a simple desire. She gave him the strength he needed to get out of bed, she gave him reason to look forward to evenings and weekends, she gave him reason to live. How could that be wrong? Relationships were about give and take.
Back downstairs, he put the ingredients for the meal on the kitchen worktop and started the preparations. Had Sarah ever compromised? Had she ever tried to understand his passion for the unusual? He told himself it did not matter, adding he could give up the paranormal cases if necessary. So why had he not already done it? Why was he even pursuing this case with Megan?
His face was creased and his movements abrupt, as Imogen's imaginary figure hovered behind him. He tried to block his mind with thoughts of his evening, one that he had craved for such a long time, but he could not dull his senses, and she continued to question his actions, speaking with an irritating screechy voice and following him everywhere.
Passing the time, he checked and double-checked the house for anything untidy or forgotten. He made sure Sarah's favourite CDs were at hand, and then he retrieved a book from a cupboard and placed it on the coffee table. Sarah had recently taken up sailing, so he had used it as the perfect opportunity to indulge her. He had found an instructor and sought his advice on the choice of book. Proud of his thoughtfulness, he perched on the arm of the sofa and imagined her appreciation. The doorbell sounded.
Sarah was as prompt as ever. Butterflies fluttered as they greeted with a hug and kiss and he breathed in her adorable scent. Pulling away, he scanned her slender figure, reminding himself of her form, and gazed at her navy blue dress with a crossover bodice and flared skirt. It looked expensive and she looked as sexy as ever. He complimented her choice of attire.
‘You’re a sweetie,’ she said and gazed at the book resting on the coffee table. 'For me?'
He nodded, and as he poured out the wine, he glimpsed at her flicking through the pages, her eyes shining and her focus set.
'Is it suitable?' he asked.
'It's just what I wanted. Thank you so much.'
He grinned. 'My pleasure.'
For a few minutes, he let her look and kept an eye on the food, simmering on the hob and baking in the oven. His primary aim was to ensure she was happy and relaxed, yet it was not a selfless act. A little voice suggested he was trying to buy her affections. He denied it unreservedly.
'How's work going?’ she asked, and closed the book.
His body stiffened and his throat dried. 'I've had a few cases to investigate. An extramarital affair and a businesswoman monitoring one of her workers . . . things like that. It's been quiet, but I'm managing to pay the bills.'
‘No big cases then?’
He peered towards her. She was leaning back into the sofa with her legs crossed and with a glass of wine in her hand. She was scrutinising him, searching for untruths. He had to remain attentive . . . couldn't let anything slip. ‘Nothing substantial.’
'What about the other stuff?' she asked.
'I'm phasing it out. I've stopped the advertising, and I haven't written an article for a magazine for a while.'
'That's good news. You'll do better without it. I saw that reincarnation interview on television.'
Heat progressed from his body, passing through his neck and up to his face. He scampered back into the kitchen out of her immediate view. 'I had to do that. It had been planned a while ago.'
'It looked like you could have done with a stiff drink beforehand.'
Imogen had not noticed his nerves. Imogen had praised him. 'Yes, well, we can't all be good at public speaking.'
'Did you practise?'
'Of course I did.'
Sarah appeared in the doorway. Her scrutiny was stifling. 'I would have offered you a few tips if you’d asked. A bit of deep breathing and slowing down your words would have helped you come across better.'
'Just let it go.'
'I'm only trying to help.' She wandered back into the living room. 'You looked older on television too. I couldn't believe it was you.'
So, he did look older than his years. Imogen was right. 'You're full of compliments tonight.'
'Just telling you how it is.' She patted the sofa. 'Come here, let's have a cuddle.'
'I have a meal to make.'
He put two plates into the oven to warm and placed the mats and cutlery onto the small rectangular table. She appeared at his rear, wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her breasts into his back. Ignoring a tingling sensation, he pulled away and shuffled to check the food.
'You're a bit tense tonight,' she said.
'No, I'm not.'
'I thought you would be pleased to see me.'
'I am pleased to see you.'
'So what's with the pouting lips?'
'My lips are not pouting.'
She reached her finger towards his mouth. He pushed her aside and placed the food onto the plates. He could sense her annoyance mount. If he weren’t careful, she would leave. That was not what he wanted.
'Sorry,' he muttered, 'I've had a busy day . . . been travelling quite a bit.'
'Have you a new assistant yet?'
'Yes, her name's Imogen. She's fantastic.'
'Imogen.' Sarah smiled. 'Do I sense a love interest?'
'No, absolutely not. Imogen is a colleague. She's far too young for me.'
'How old is she?'
'Early twenties.'
'That's not too young.'
'I'm not interested. I'm happy alone.'
He instructed her to the table to eat and served the food.
'Don't let me stop you,' she said, 'I will find someone eventually. This relationship of ours won't go on forever.'
He pressed his lips together and scowled. 'So you're just here for the sex.'
'Aren't you?'
How could he tell her he loved her and that he prayed that she would return to him one day? His yearnings had to stay private and he must hold his tongue.
'No one's forcing you to sleep with me,' she said.
'I feel used.'
'Don't lie. You enjoy it as much as I do.'
He opened his mouth to speak.
'And don't insinuate that I'm cheap either,' she continued, 'I didn't come here to be harassed. Either get over yourself or I'll leave.'
He placed a small piece of chicken into his mouth and chewed until it disintegrated, all the time avoiding eye contact. Sarah had every right to be angry. There was an unspoken agreement between them and he had no right to say the things he had. He resolved to focus upon the happier times they had spent together and considered her strength of personality and determination to succeed, their drinking binges in Spain and Tenerife, and their shared laughter and joy.
Having improved his mood, he raised his head and smiled. At first, Sarah did not smile back, but then her eyes shone. He traced every freckle upon her face, he followed the lines around her mouth, and he imagined his hands running through her lush dark-brown hair. Tonight she was all his. That should be his focus and motivation. He should discard the rest as unimportant.
Having apologised, they continued the meal and made general chatter that avoided relationships. Even though he presented an improved image, his tension remained. Something had changed between them, yet he could not determine what it was. Nevertheless, after they’d eaten, as was the norm, they drank more wine, listened to seductive tracks, and made their way upstairs. Everything was going well until he realised he was struggling to become aroused.
Ignoring his problem, he relented to her request to dominate, and fell onto his onto his back and allowed her to straddle him. Her warm hands fingered his chest, tenderly progressing towards his bellybutton, and her mouth caressed his face and neck.
Warming to the idea of her touch, he motioned her to remove her dress. Once she had lifted herself free, she swayed her body from side to side, her face melting with lust. He could not resist and rose to his feet and pressed his mouth to hers. Their warm soft flesh united and their bodies compressed. He fumbled with his fingers, searching for the zipper on her dress, and let it drop to the floor.
Sarah stood before him, donned in lacy underwear and as beautiful as ever. Right now, right there, she was his. Nothing else had any significance in his life. He would learn to live for the moment and relish the joy.
Scuttling away, Megan peered over her shoulder as she approached the end of the street. Ben was returning indoors, and did not see her looking, nor did he seem to be considering following her. She relaxed her tightened calf muscles and slowed her steps. It was all too much, David, Saskia, and the never-ending questions, and she needed a moment's respite.
Megan had a reasonable idea where Verity lived having received an address and vague directions a couple of days previous, but she needed to gather her thoughts and contemplate her line of questioning. So, she made a quick right turn, taking an alley between two rows of townhouses and headed to the recreation area.
A sweet rose-like aroma scented the path, originating from heavy blooms. The sun was intense and the heat gathered beneath her jacket. It was a beautiful day, and far too warm for extra clothing. She slipped free her arms and enjoyed the stimulating sensation of the cooling breeze upon her skin.
Luke and Ben were adamant that she was Saskia’s incarnated self, and sensed she would never be able to convince them otherwise. They were besotted with the idea, only wanting the excitement of the stranger's memories slipping from her mouth. Neither of them cared how she felt and how her insides ached with her ignorance, and she yearned for their consideration.
Whatever Saskia had done, or whatever she had witnessed, ended when she died. It was nothing to do with her; they were separate people with individual minds. She wanted no part, and pounded the ground, faster and more urgently until her legs and back ached. She had to get away, could not tolerate more pressure, and needed a sympathetic ear. Verity would comply and she would provide clues about Saskia's disappearance. It may have even been a random attack or an accident, or she may still alive and living in secrecy somewhere. She had to keep her hopes alive.
She arrived at the secluded recreation area near the centre of town. A group of boys kicked a ball, weaving from one end of a makeshift pitch to the other, and a short distance away five girls in their mid-teens huddled in a group on the warm, dry grass. There were a couple of dog-walkers following the path along the perimeter, and there was an elderly woman dressed in a drab dress and sloppy cardigan, slumped on a bench with her hands clasped across her oversized middle.
As Megan followed the path around the clearing a bird flitted by and her steps faltered. Curious, she followed its trail and reached another path, otherwise hidden from view. At either side were majestic trees with overhanging branches, and up ahead, just around a slight bend, was an archway and exit. She touched the cold stone and shivers descended her spine. She had been there before.
Her pulse raced. She was on a street, a familiar street. The townhouses looked Victorian, with slate roofs, sash windows, and patterned brickwork. From what she could see via the windows, the ceilings were high, and many had impressive chandelier-style light fittings. It was weirdly memorable. Was this where Saskia had lived, or perhaps her own mother? Craving memories, she continued to scan the street.
A house, standing alone at the end of the street, came into view. It was of similar design to the others, blocky and tall, but had a larger bay window and an impressive stone porch. Holding her breath, she stood near the gate, hiding beside a bush, and stared, mesmerised.
This had been Saskia's home. The lounge was on her left, the entrance hall in the centre, and the kitchen on the right. She could visualise her wandering through the rooms, yet she could not recall any family. Isolated, her loneliness had niggled, causing a disturbing feeling of unhappiness.
A shadowy figure moved in the lounge. She jumped and moved aside, hiding behind a hedge. Then the door opened and her pulse throbbed in her throat. It was Ron Maddison. This was where Saskia had spent her married life.
Quivering, she edged further along the hedge and peered through a gap between the branches. He strode to a shed next to the house and disappeared inside. Moments later, leaving the door closed but unlocked, he returned to the house.
Her temptation was too great. She peered over her shoulder checking that no one was around, and crept towards the shed, her eyes fixed upon the house windows. Laid upon shelves were tools, empty plant pots, and other garden paraphernalia, ordered and scrupulously cleaned and gleaming in the band of light that crept through the door. There were no cobwebs on the walls and no dirt on the floor, but there were piles of newspapers, each labelled in a different colour according to the year. They looked as though they had never been read, as the sheets were aligned and crease-free. She looked along the line. They were all arranged the same. The order was important.
There was a faint cry of a woman. Megan jolted and looked through the gap into the garden, and seeing it was clear, scurried away, returning to the hedge. Moments later Ron appeared. He frowned, shuffled to the shed and padlocked the door, then scanned the garden. For a moment, he was still and gazed in her general direction. She held her breath and steadied her trembling body, so sure he was looking. He had either not seen her or ignored her, and returned to the shed and yanked the locked padlock. Then he returned to the house allowing her to free her caged breaths.
For a few moments, she remained, pondering what she had just witnessed. If this man had been Saskia's husband, and she was Saskia’s incarnated self, why did she not feel anything for him? Hope glimmered. The reincarnation could not be true. Her memories had come via her youth. This man was a stranger and she felt nothing, neither comfort nor fear.
She took one last glance at the house and was about to stride away when something in the garden struck her. There were clusters of small plants lining the path to the house, each in full bloom. The ones closest to the porch were yellow, the next pink, then red, then blue. The order was the same as the newspaper labels, the yellow ones being nearest to the door, and the blue ones at the far side. How strange.
Deciding it was of no significance, and assuming it was an innocent obsession, she strode away.
Megan strode along the avenue, counting the houses up ahead to try to determine which was number forty-four. The semi-detached dwellings, constructed of stone slabs and pebble dashing, had in the majority, PVC double-glazing. Those without had wooden frames; some were glossy and clean, and others were rotting. Some houses had small porches and all had small gardens. A short drive leading to a garage accompanied each one.
She arrived at Verity’s house. There was no movement visible through the windows and no noise emanating from within. She knocked on the front door and peered through the frosted glass. A tall, lean figure walked along the hallway heading to the door, and moments later, the door opened.
'You've not left then?' Verity asked.
'I never said I was going anywhere.'
'You obviously don't know what's good for you.' She opened the door wider. 'Come on in.'
Verity turned around and headed to a door on the right. Megan followed, passing a coat stand and a broom cupboard, both on her left. A persistent scratching and rustling sounded from within, and she stopped and peered at the door that was almost resting on its frame. Then she heard a low-level cry, like a small screech. With her curiosity burning, she raised her hand to the door handle. It was thrust shut. Verity glared at her and ordered her to step into the lounge.
'Why are you here?' Verity asked.
'To see you.'
There was an ironing board leaning against a wall, cleaned sheets strewn over the black leather sofa, and CDs and DVDs scattered across the floor. There were books and magazines on the window ledge, a small case by the side of an armchair, and a pile of papers and a calculator on a small table. Verity pushed the lounge door shut, cleared a bit of room on the sofa and pointed for her to sit down.
'Have you sorted things out with Ben yet?'
She touched the silver band on her finger and looked at her lap. 'He's staying with me for a few days.'
'Is that what you want?'
'If it was just Ben that would be okay, but David has come too. He gives me the creeps.'
'So tell them to leave.'
'It's not that simple,' she said.
'It seems simple to me. It's your house, your rules.'
'I want Ben around, but not David. I can't expect him to leave. They come as a package.'
'How old is he?'
'Seventeen.'
'Then he is old enough to go back home. Why are you pussy-footing around?'
Weak and powerless, she could not find an appropriate answer.
'You said you had finished with Ben, yet it seems to me that you're back together. You need to make your mind up.'
She averted her gaze.
'Why don't you like David?'
'I just don't.'
'Does he treat you bad?'
'No,' her voice quivered. 'I'm just not used to teenagers, okay?'
'Does Ben know what's going on?'
Her eyes darted. 'Nothing's going on.'
'You're lying. I can read you like I could . . .’
'Like you could read your sister, Saskia.'
She frowned. 'If David is hurting you, you need to do something about it.'
'I just don't like him. Look, I came here to ask about Saskia, not to talk about Ben and David.'
'It seems to me you came here for my support. What's happened?'
'Nothing's happened! Let it go!'
She rose to her feet. 'As you please. Fancy a lager?'
'No . . . thanks.'
She left the room, leaving the door ajar.
The scratching sound in the broom cupboard persisted. Unable to resist, Megan crept to the hallway and rested her hand on the handle. Verity was oblivious and was bending over in the kitchen and peering into a cupboard. Nervously, she reached to open it, but before she succeeded, Verity cast an angry stare, thrust it shut and pushed her aside.
‘The noise bothered me!' she said in defence.
'The noise is none of your business.'
'Do you have an unusual pet?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'What is it?'
She encouraged her into the lounge. 'You didn't come here to talk about that. What is it you wanted to say?'
'Why didn't you tell me Saskia was your sister?'
'What's it to you?'
'Everyone says I look like her.'
'So you think it's your business.'
'I told you before, someone is after me, so it's every bit my business. I want to know about her.'
'And I told you to leave Rodley, but we don't always do as people ask.'
Verity rested one of her legs on the arm of the chair and the other on the edge of the table. She took a huge swig from the can.
'You must miss her,' Megan said.
'It's thirty years ago, I think I've got over it.'
'Are you always this difficult?'
Lines appeared on her face. 'I save my better side for you. Look at it from point of view. You appear in town, similar in appearance to Saskia, who was my sister and best friend, and you seem to know things about us. And not only that, but you want to know more. How do you expect me to feel?'
'Pleased?'
'Pleased? You're a bloody stranger! You think I'm going to blurt out all the family secrets. You could be anyone.'
'I think she was murdered, and I-'
'Boy, you catch on quickly. I could have told you that.'
'I was going to say I think I can help.'
'Are you a private investigator now?'
'Will you stop this?' she said. 'I am sorry if you are having a bad day, but that's not my fault. Someone followed me, and on another occasion, someone attacked me. I’m certain it's to do with Saskia. I've even had a warning through the letterbox.'
'What makes you so sure I didn't attack you?'
Her mouth dried. Verity was right, she could have attacked her, and she could have murdered Saskia too.
'Relax, I didn't.'
Was she telling the truth? Was she hiding her lies behind her impassive eyes? 'Do you know who killed her?'
She rotated the can with her thumb and forefinger. 'Maybe I do, but I'm not going to say anything.'
'Why not?'
'I'm not that stupid. Think about it. I start spreading rumours and then come the repercussions. I value my life.'
'Why was she killed?'
She strode to the window and gazed outside, pensive. 'I don't know.’
'But you know something?'
'I know you'd be better off out of here. You don't want to get involved, believe me.'
'I'm already involved.'
She held a firm stare.
'Please, someone is after me. I think you could have helped Saskia, but you didn't. Don't let it happen again.'
Verity averted her uncompromising gaze.
'If you can't tell me why she was killed, will you tell me a little bit about her? I have to know what's going on.'
'Do you know she was married?' she offered. 'His name was Ron. He was a wealthy man and in his day good looking, although I must say there was something a bit odd about him.'
'Odd, how?'
'I can't put my finger on it. Possessive? A little too perfect? It could have just been a personality clash . . . it's not important.' She placed the can onto the edge of the table and slumped into the chair. 'Saskia seemed to like him but she didn't love him. I doubt he ever knew her real reason for getting married.'
'The money?'
She gave her a blank look. 'By the time she married we'd grown apart. We never talked the way we used to and I missed her. I had to accept that she was with him and our relationship had changed, but it hurt, for sure. We had always done everything together - eat, sleep, chat, and play. We didn't have time for anyone else . . . we shared one life. It was difficult to accept she wanted to spend more time with Ron than with me.'
'Perhaps she loved him.'
'Hard to believe, but possibly true. Having said that, he didn't seem her type, which is why, when she disappeared, I wasn't entirely surprised. I could understand her wanting to escape from Ron if she didn't love him, but not from me. Sure, we had a few things to sort out - we had issues, but I still considered her my best friend.'
'Where did she go?'
'Spain. I pounded Ron's door for weeks, but he didn't say much. His loss, or so he said, was as great as mine.' Her eyes misted. 'I received letters from Saskia. She travelled to Europe, apparently pregnant.'
'Pregnant?'
She glimpsed from behind her can.
'Do you know a Julie Johnson?' Megan asked.
She gave her a puzzled glance and shook her head. 'I wanted to write back, but she was always on the move and never gave me a forwarding address. One day, she stopped writing.'
'Did she say why she had left?'
'She was ashamed. There had been a falling out and our family had long since denied us contact. It was years before I spoke to them again.'
'What had you done?'
'They blamed me for Saskia leaving . . . said if we hadn't fallen out, she wouldn't have left.'
'Okay, but what about Saskia? What had she done that was so terrible for her to be denied contact?'
She leapt to her feet. 'I'll get the letters.'
Megan's head was fuzzy with a tumbling stream of questions. Saskia had been pregnant. That had to mean something. Could Saskia have registered the adoption under another name? Maybe that was it. She must have returned to England with the baby, put it up for adoption, and disappeared somewhere. There was no reason to stay, no one left she wanted to see.
Verity returned with an intricately carved wooden box.
'When did the murder investigation start?' Megan asked.
'As soon as she left, more or less. She had left a few loose ends and it created suspicion in the town, but there was still little for the police to go on. Ron said he knew she was going, and since she was an adult there was little else anyone could do. There was no evidence of a murder.'
'Did he know about the baby?'
'I'm not sure it was his. The dates in the letters were unclear.'
'She'd had an affair!'
'The dates weren't clear!’ she stressed. ‘It could have happened after she left.' She opened the box. 'There is a lot I don't know about the last few months of her life.'
The letters, about six to eight of them, were in individual envelopes. It was difficult watching Verity open an envelope, retrieve it, and hold the flimsy sheet of paper out of sight, and she had to hold back her excitement. However, she still hoped Verity would share some of the details, and edged forward on her seat, displaying her interest.
'This one was the first I received,’ Verity said. ‘It arrived a week or so after I realised she had left. I remember opening it. I was so excited. It says: "I am going to make a new start, out of Rodley. I don't know when I will return, probably never. I'm sick of everyone.'''
'Can I read it?'
She folded it, replaced it into the envelope and put it in the box. 'It's private.'
'These letters prove Saskia was not killed, yet you still think she was. What am I missing?'
Her expression was deadpan. 'If she had been travelling, then she would have returned.'
The telephone sounded. Verity strode to the receiver situated near the window and with her back turned, started to speak. Seizing her opportunity, and with her eyes fixed upon her companion and with her pulse quickening, Megan reached into the box and took an envelope, fearful that her trembling hand may knock something over. She eased herself away from the table, urged her hot moist skin to cool, and stood up, ready to make an abrupt departure.
Out of her eye corner, Verity saw her and waved. She made a quick turn and waved back, and stepped through the lounge door and into the hallway. Needing a few seconds to calm her tremors, she placed her arms into the sleeves of the jacket, pulled it over her shoulders, and checked the letter was hidden and secure. She was about to exit the house when she once again heard the rustling sound in the broom cupboard. Verity was still talking. Taking her opportunity, she opened the door.
She screamed. A black and white cat was hanging from a peg, tied up by its back legs and tail. Its forearms were thrashing and its body was twisting, wriggling for freedom. It screamed an excruciating guttural cry.
Verity yanked her backward and slammed the door shut. 'Get out,' she said ushering her to the outer door.
'Let it go!'
'I'm teaching it a lesson. This hideous creature has been digging up my garden for weeks.'
Her mouth dropped open. 'It's not even your cat?'
'Of course it's not. I can't stand them.'
'Then you have to let it go.'
'And I will. Once you've left.'
'I'll tell the police.'
'Like they'll do anything. They never have before.'
The door slammed. For a moment, she gawked, and then headed away, drifting down the street. The poor little animal, she should go back and rescue it. Her steps faltered as she peered over her shoulder, looking to the stillness of the house and pondering her options. But just then, fleeing from Verity's driveway and racing across the road was the cat. It disappeared into the shrubbery.
What a wicked, depraved act. What was Verity capable of?
Verity could have killed Saskia and she could have attacked her at the old house. It made sense. She had said she wanted her out of Rodley, and she had known about the art event, having visited earlier the same day. She shuddered at the possibility. What had she said? Had she put herself in more danger?
She slid her hand into her pocket, expecting to feel the soft fabric beneath her fingers and found the letter. For a moment, she was unable to comprehend that she had had the courage to steal it. Then a smile slipped to her face. She pulled it free, glanced over her shoulder, and removed the letter. There were two sheets, the first was addressed to Verity; the second was addressed to Saskia.
Dear Verity.
The men out here are hot! I spend my days watching their muscular, tanned bodies saunter across the golden beach and my evenings in the bars and clubs. What a life! I should have done it ages ago. I give them want they want, and in return, I get free food and drinks. When I've had enough, I move on. Perfect! I never thought I could be this happy, especially after what we did. Some people would say I don't deserve it, but at least I admitted my mistakes. Having said that, they were never as great as yours.
You always were afraid of the truth, and therefore it makes sense to me and everyone else that you should be afraid of me. Console yourself. Think about my separation from Ron.
Saskia.
Megan skimmed Saskia's handwriting. It was slanting forward and had large incomplete loops on the lower end. There was no address on the top of the page and the signature at the bottom was indistinct. It was untidy and spread out, and made extravagant use of the page. Sensing someone at her rear, she shoved it into her pocket.
A heavy built man was gaining ground. He looked like a security guard of some kind, as he had a bulging chest, thick arms, and strong legs. Hastily, she lowered her head and crossed the street, keeping a firm eye on the pavement she had just vacated. He came into view, making sturdy strides and crossing to her side, so she slowed her pace and allowed him to overtake. The man progressed along an alley leading to Ron's house.
Her fear lingered. Did he know where she was going? Had this man followed her before? She peered along the alley and watched as he paused a little distance away and talked to someone via his phone. She jumped back to avoid his gaze, and with her heart thumping and her hot sticky hand pressed over her pocket, she turned around and trotted away.
Her feet made a click-clack sound. She tried to tiptoe, afraid that the sound was broadcasting her departure, but ultimately she decided it was better to move swiftly than be silent and slow.
Having satisfied herself that the man wasn’t following her, Megan relaxed, took a swift left turn and then a right, and paused at a junction. Ahead, and obscured by trees and hedges, were houses, and to her right was the statue in the town centre, the one that had troubled her days before. Unwittingly, she pressed her hand to her stomach and stared at the rooftops. Something told her that she had travelled in a circle and was near to Ron's house.
A vision entered her thoughts. Saskia had been in this spot, dripping blood, and running from her house into town, taking a back passage. But where was it? She scanned the row of townhouses, searching for a gap to Ron's house, but saw nothing. Puzzled, she made tentative steps forward.
An elderly woman stood inside her house and looked through the window, watching her and scrutinising her every step. Had she known Saskia? Had she witnessed a crime she dared not speak of? She lowered her head, averting her gaze.
Nearby, a barking dog caused her body to jar. It was high-pitched and yappy. The culprit, a small terrier, was stretched onto its back legs and leaning against a short wall. It had a wild look in its eyes and saliva dripped from its mouth as it bounced with vicious intent. She stepped aside, nearing the edge of the pavement and continued away.
A gap between two houses caused her pulse to race. Her steps grew longer and faster as she travelled through a patch of wasteland, passing the faded lines of the parking bays, and looked beyond a boarded up industrial building and towards a footpath in the corner. Beside the path was an overhanging hedge, encroaching on the path. She squeezed her body through a gap and stepped over weeds and grasses creeping through the cracks. By her side was a tall fence, and her hand hovered over its rough texture. It was eerily familiar, and sickness rose to her throat and her head started to spin as unwanted visions gained clarity.
Fighting her terror, she reached to her stomach and forced her weakening legs forward, and dipped under a stray branch and forced aside another. Then she stopped, driven by inexplicable memories, and peered over the fence to the top of a house. Although unfamiliar, her instincts told her it was where Ron lived.
She ran her hand across the coarse texture of the painted wood, feeling the fine splinters scratch her skin. It seemed wrong, and she sensed there should be a gap and a path to his house. Troubled, she looked further along, tracking the fence, searching for something different, but there was no end to the tall flat structure and her mind became a muddle of confusion.
Reflecting on her visions, she sensed Saskia had forced her way through a spiky hedge, running, screaming, gasping, and frantically trying to outrun her attacker.
Megan's tremors caused her to stumble. She leaned against the fence, craving a steady breath, but it did not come. Feeling as though she was suffocating, she staggered back to the street and gulped huge breaths of air. Dazed, she crossed the street, clutching her stomach and trod Saskia's final trail. The footpath continued across the other side of the road, passing between the houses before arriving metres from the statue. Her vision was blurring, the pain and fear real. She leaned over, gasping for breath.
A voice spoke: 'Are you okay?'
Startled, she stared at the hefty man - the same person that she had seen only minutes earlier - and backed away. Her legs were heavy, as though her muscles had turned into sludge, and she stumbled and fell. She looked up and released a faint cry.
He leaned over. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help. I'm a paramedic.'
His smile radiated towards her. She accepted his hand and he pulled to her feet.
'Are you okay? I can take you home if you like.'
She shook her head and stepped away.
'You dropped this.'
He had her letter. She could not move and froze to the spot. When he extended his arm, she snatched it and ran.
Megan closed the door to her house, still clutching the letter, and slumped onto the carpeted floor. Relief poured from her, tears dampened her eyes, and her body shook.
'Megan! What's happened?'
Ben crowded her. She could not move, nor could she speak, and remained in situ on the floor. Realising her immediate problem, he reached his arms around her back, assisted her to her feet, and guided her into the living area.
He was looking at the letter in her hand. She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, hiding it from view, and slumped onto the sofa.
'What's that?' he asked.
She hid it under her thigh and removed her jacket.
He exhaled a taut breath. 'I've made you a bite to eat. Do you want a coffee with it?'
She nodded weakly, watched him depart, and returned her attention to her letter. A small corner was visible. She peered at the door, removed the top sheet from the envelope, and studied the scrawl.
Saskia and Verity must have committed a crime together, but for whatever reason, Saskia felt as though more of the blame should be with Verity. Verity seemed to disagree, but without knowing of the crime, it was difficult to make a judgement. Nonetheless, her questions remained. Why had they hated each other so much to be on opposing sides? Had Verity been angry enough to kill?
Megan reasoned that there was a very thin line between love and hate, so she believed it was possible that the balance could have toppled. Was that what had happened? Had one betrayed the other so much so that the bond failed to restore? According to Verity, they had remained best friends. But what about Saskia? How did she feel? It was one thing writing a letter; it was another having to discuss the truth in a face-to-face conversation.
One fact remained. Saskia had been pregnant. Megan presumed she was the child, and she believed Saskia had returned home with her in tow, and then the murder occurred, causing her to be a witness. Even so, it was all conjecture; to her annoyance, she still could not remember a damned thing.
Verity could have scurried her away. It was quite possible that no one else knew Saskia had returned, and almost certainly, no one knew about her daughter. Having killed Saskia, Verity could have claimed the child as her own and used a false name for the adoption.
Ben returned to the room. Megan folded the letter and placed it under a cushion.
'Julie Johnson never existed,' she said.
'Who?'
'My mother. Verity used a false name when she put me up for adoption.'
'Verity is your mother?'
'No, Saskia is. Verity killed her, I must have seen what happened, and as no one knew about me, she got rid of me.'
Ben looked sceptical. 'How do you know all this?'
'I have a letter. Verity showed it to me.' Hesitantly, she passed it to Ben.
'There's nothing in this is implicate Verity.'
'Of course there is. Saskia had witnessed Verity doing something – maybe with the herbs. When Saskia returned, Verity was scared her secret would be exposed and so she killed her.’
His scepticism remained. ‘I think you’ve been watching too many movies!’
She jumped to her feet. ‘At least I'm trying to sort out what's going on. I don't see you coming up with anything.'
'Did she give you this letter?'
Anxiety spread across her face and she leapt to her feet. 'I need a glass of water.'
'Megan?'
She scurried out of the room and hovered by the sink.
He appeared in the doorway. 'Where did you get the letter?'
'Okay, so I borrowed it, but she would have given it to me if I had asked.'
He shook his head in dismay and stepped back into the living room. 'I told you that you should never have gone to see her. When she finds out that it's missing, she will be on to you. Why couldn't you just leave it for Luke to investigate?'
'I can't just sit around doing nothing.'
'That's exactly what you should do.' He dropped onto the armchair. 'Don't you understand the implications of what you have done? If you're right and Verity did kill Saskia, she's going to want you out of the way double fast.'
'She might not know I'm Saskia's daughter,' she said weakly.
'Come on! Don't be so naïve. You look just like her.'
She placed her thumb and forefinger onto her ring and stared at the gleaming silver as it passed around her finger. 'Verity won't hurt me.'
'I'm sure Saskia thought that too.'
'She likes me. I know she does. She was open about her relationship with Saskia, at least once she got started.'
'What did she say?'
She munched the cheese salad sandwich, feeling the warm smooth texture of the cheddar cheese mingle with the fluffy seed bread. 'They were best friends, but they drifted apart after Saskia married. Verity didn't think Saskia loved Ron . . . I don't think she liked him very much. She said he was a bit odd.'
'Odd, how?'
'She said he was possessive and a little too perfect. From what I can gather there was a lot of tension between Verity and Saskia, and I have a sense Ron was the cause of it.' She stuffed the letter into the top of her bag. 'Verity even told me that her family had fallen out with her and Saskia.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. She wouldn't say.'
'Whatever they did must have been bad.'
Megan's eyes glazed. 'I wonder if Ron will tell me what happened.'
'Don't even think about it.'
She pressed her lips together and stared. 'He's not going to hurt me. He seems a gentle man.'
'You've spoken to him?'
'Just after I arrived in town. I did go to his house, although not to speak to him. His shed is ordered . . . everything is shipshape. He seems to be a bit obsessed with colour too. He had coloured labels over piles of old newspapers. The colours were in the same order as his plants.'
He puffed out. 'Don't tell me. You crept into his shed when he wasn't looking.'
'What's wrong with that? I didn't steal anything, I just wanted a peek.' She looked up, noticing his disbelieving gaze. 'On the way home I returned to his house. That's where Saskia was hurt. She was running away . . . fled into town.' She started to tremble. 'It was horrible. It was just as though it was happening all over again.'
Blood drained from her face. She clasped her hands tight around the mug seeking warmth and comfort.
'It could have been Ron who killed Saskia.'
She shook her head. 'It wasn't Ron.'
'Why not?'
'I . . . I don't know.'
'So it was Verity?'
She could not answer and craved the memories that she had abandoned during her childhood.
'It is very likely to have been one of them,' he said.
'It could be someone else. I have to find out. I'm going to remain a target until I know what happened. Someone knows something, and I'm not going to let up.'
He frowned. 'I don't want you speaking to anyone else. Please, leave it for Luke to investigate. Or at least contact the police.'
'No!’ She held a determined stare. ‘No way!’
'Why? What have you to lose?'
'I don't want to deal with the police.'
'Okay, so leave it to Luke.'
'I've already told you, I can't sit around and do nothing.'
'So speak to him! Tell him what you have found out about Verity.'
A lump formed in her throat. If what she believed was true, Verity was her auntie, her only true relative. She didn’t want to see her suffer and only wanted the mystery solved. If she told Verity she would keep her secret, it might be enough to persuade her to leave her alone.
'I have to speak to Verity again.'
'Don't be stupid! You could be putting yourself in real danger.'
'I don't think so.'
'She's effectively done it once already . . . and got away with it.'
She passed a questioning stare.
‘Saskia?’
'That may be true, but I don't believe I have any choice. She already knows I have memories about Saskia that I can't explain. If she thinks I know her secret too . . .'
His nostrils flared. 'You told her about your memories! Have you any idea what you are up against? Someone tried to run you over and then lured you into a trap and tied you up. God only knows what they would have done if Luke hadn't appeared.'
She tensed. 'Perhaps I would have been better off finding out! It's no fun waking up every day and not knowing who means you harm and who doesn't.'
'Don't be so bloody ridiculous! You seem to think this is all a game. Someone wants you dead for heaven’s sake!'
'Don't you think I'm aware of that? Why else do you think I wanted you here? It's not for your witty personality and good looks. When I left, I promised myself I would never let you and David near me again. You both treated me like crap. Do you think I enjoy being treated like a useless piece of meat?'
His face reddened. ‘We've never treated you that way.'
'You never wanted to believe me . . . couldn't accept that son of yours was not, oh so perfect!'
'He's more perfect than you'll ever be! You've always had it in for us. Couldn't bear the fact I had David when you had no one.'
She lunged at him. He grabbed her wrists until her hands tingled. His eyes were dark and piercing, a reflection of hers. She wanted him gone. She tussled. She dripped with sweat. She pleaded for her release.
'Apologise,' he said.
She wriggled free. 'Me, apologise? What about you? At every opportunity, you remind me of Joshua's death. Have you any idea how that hurts? Do you even care?'
He stomped away, opened the outer door and slammed it shut.
'That's right, walk out. Like you always do, you bloody coward!'
Her eyes clouded. She reached for the photograph of her beloved son, pressed it to her breast, and remembered his soft, warm body and fine wisps of hair. Then she flopped onto the sofa and her heart contracted more every second. She craved a reunion, and her need burned her soul.
Minutes turned into hours and Megan remained in a trance-like state on the sofa. Too lethargic to move, she curled up in a ball and drifted into a stressful doze, all the while clutching the image of baby Joshua. Her desire to do anything about her stalker had long gone, she cared little about Saskia and the trouble she found herself in, and she considered Ben irrelevant. Only her son remained on her mind, and his absence was like a spear penetrating her body and soul, tearing, ripping, slashing.
The doorbell sounded. She shuffled into a horizontal position, buried her head into a cushion, and closed her eyes. If she feigned sleep, they would have to go away, but her ears remained on alert. The door squeaked as it opened. She tilted her head and listened to David as he spoke in a quiet voice. Satisfied that she was not going to be disturbed, she shut down her senses and drifted into a sleep.
Some time later, she lifted her eyelids and looked across the room, bleary-eyed. David was watching her from the armchair. Uneasy, she placed the photograph onto the coffee table, stretched out her muscles, and raised herself to a sitting position.
'Where's your dad?' she asked.
'Out.'
She gazed awkwardly around the room.
'I don't blame you for getting mad at him,' he continued, 'it's his job to support you.' He stood up. 'Can I get you anything?'
His expression was pleasant, his body language relaxed, and his behaviour appropriate. He was after something.
'A glass of water,' she said.
'Want anything to eat?'
'No, thanks.'
He departed. What was he up to? She glanced towards the living room door and listened to the sounds; the cupboard door opened and closed, there was a rush of water flowing into a glass, and soft thuds of footsteps crossed the floor.
He put the glass in front of her.
'What's all this about?' she asked, cynical.
'What?'
'Why are you being nice to me?'
He avoided looking at her. 'I heard what you said . . . about how we treated you. You were right. We need to do better.'
Her eyes narrowed.
'I think you should go see Verity, if that's what you want. It's the only way of getting answers in my opinion. What's the name of the private investigator you've hired?'
'Luke, but we didn't hire him. He came of his own free will.'
'More reason for you to pursue the case yourself. You're not going to be his top priority if the work is unpaid.'
'I hadn't thought of that.'
'He sounds a bit nuts if you ask me, believing in reincarnation.'
'That's what I thought. Saskia's my mother . . . has to be.'
'And Dad disagrees?'
'If I didn't know better I'd think he was doing it on purpose.'
His expression was staid. 'He can be argumentative. I wouldn't put it past him.'
She reached for the glass of water.
'I think the only explanation is that you're related,' he said. 'How else can you explain the similarities in your appearance? It has to be genetic.'
'So why did I forget about the murder? Wouldn't it be engrained into me?'
'You hadn't forgotten. You knew about it as soon as you returned here. It just needed triggering.'
'But I still don't see why I would even need a trigger.'
David moved his hair away from his eyes, placing it behind his ear. 'I read somewhere that if we suffer a traumatic event when we’re little we have a tendency to forget about it. Why remember something that hurts us?'
She sighed. Sometimes she wished for nothing more than to remove the pain and suffering from her memories of Joshua. Then she would be able to enjoy the happy times, his infectious laughter and playful innocence in their entirety, instead of always feeling the oppressive burden of guilt. Nonetheless, the torment was now part of her, and his death had moulded her character. Without it, she would not be who she was, she would have lacked the strength to pursue this case, and she would have crumbled under the pressure, probably via drink. Nothing could be as traumatic as seeing her baby dead.
Her phone sounded an incoming text message. She squeezed her fingers into her pocket and pulled it out.
'Is it Dad?' David asked.
'No, it's a friend, Larry. He wants to meet me for a drink.'
'You should go.'
She raised an eyebrow.
'It might make Dad take notice. A bit of jealousy would do him good.'
She pondered her options. Larry knew Saskia so he may be able to tell her things. On the other hand, he may have killed her. Maybe she should take heed of Ben and keep a low profile.
'When does he want to meet you?' he asked.
She hesitated. 'Now. Just down the road at the Cow and Calf.'
'Then what are you waiting for? Dad should be back soon. You don't want him asking questions.'
'Maybe it's not a good idea.'
'You're not worried about what Dad thinks are you? I thought you were stronger than that.'
'I'm not sure I should be going out. I don't know what I’m up against.'
'You'll be safe in a public place. And as you said, it's only down the road. You'll be there in a few minutes.'
'Yes, your right. I do need a break.'
She hurried upstairs to freshen up, changed her top into something glitzy, applied a dab of perfume, and went back downstairs.
David remained in the chair. 'Have a good time.’
She reached for her bag. It was open and the letter was resting at the top. Her excitement bubbled; there was still one to read. She rushed out of the door, removed it from the envelope, and scanned the text.
The door to the Cow and Calf Inn swung open causing Megan to stumble backward.
'Wow! Watch what you're doing!'
An acne-scarred man turned his head murmured an apology then continued to participate in the lively banter with his friends, leaving a trail of essence as he swaggered down the street. Smiling softly, remembering a time when she would have been like them and starting an evening of heavy drinking, she stepped inside.
There were small clusters of people on opposite sides of the doorway and two elderly men seated by the bar a few metres apart. Both maintained a fixed gaze, looking straight ahead. They seemed to be strangers, but when she approached them, she could hear the occasional comment.
Someone tapped her on her shoulder. She spun around.
'What can I get you to drink?' Larry asked.
'A white wine please.'
A barman appeared, nattily dressed with a tight hairstyle and soft complexion.
Larry ordered the drinks. 'It's the least I can do . . . after my behaviour last time. I shouldn't have lost it with you. Your relationship with Ben is none of my business.'
'No, it's not. Your remarks disappointed me.'
'I've bought you something as an apology.' He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. 'Here.'
She accepted the envelope and carried it to a table by a wall. Once settled, she peered inside and found two tickets to an art exhibition in the local gallery. ‘These are great, thanks.'
'You said you were into art,' he said.
'Yes. I haven't got started yet, but I will. I just need a bit of inspiration.'
'Then it seems that this is just what you need. There are plenty of great vistas around here to paint. If you need a local guide, just ask.'
'Where do you suggest?'
'One of my favourite places is a couple of miles from here. I used to go there regularly when I was younger. It's a bit of an effort now, an uphill walk, although having said that I drive these days. The view is stunning.'
'You must take me some time.'
'Just say when.'
She reached for her glass. The wine tickled her mouth and kissed her taste buds. It was refreshing, cool and welcome.
'David seems a good kid,' Larry said.
'David?'
'Yes, I came around this afternoon. He said you were sleeping.'
Frowning, she averted her gaze to the deep blue carpet. Why had he not told her? He had had the opportunity. ‘He didn’t say.’
He held a concentrated stare.
'I just can't work him out. He's pleasant one minute, horrible the next.'
'That's teenagers for you.' He went on to tell her of the troubles he’d had with his daughter when she was in her mid-teens. She stayed out too late, drank too much, and wore, what he considered indecent clothing. Now she was a young woman to be proud of.
She listened half-heartedly. Who would Joshua have become? How would he have coped without his father in his life? Her envy was scant, but the more he spoke of his daughter's beauty and intelligence, the more it grew. Determined not to deny him his pleasure, she kept her thoughts to herself and maintained a feigned interested look.
He stopped mid-sentence and stared. 'Oh, I'm sorry. How tactless.'
'It's okay, carry on.'
'No, it's not. You should have said something. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.'
She sipped her wine. 'Your daughter sounds like a wonderful young woman.'
'She is. And I’m sure your son would have been too . . .’
A sad smile formed on her face. She looked to her lap.
‘What's stopping you from making it work with Ben.'
For a few moments, she stared at the empty tables across the room before refocusing her gaze on Larry. 'I do care about him and I know he cares for me, but he's over-protective. Take this afternoon. I went to see Verity Fox to try to find out a bit more about Saskia, and when I returned home we got into an argument.' She shuffled her body and crossed her legs. 'He doesn't want me to see her – or anyone for that matter - until we know who killed Saskia.'
'No one knows for certain that she's dead.'
'You're right, but I'm certain she is. Luke, a private investigator I'm working with, thinks so too.'
'He's spoken to you then?'
'You know him?'
He grinned. 'I called him. You look so similar to Saskia that it worried me.'
Relief swept across her face. 'It was you! You should have said.'
'I didn't know if you'd be in danger. It was just an inkling I had.'
'Your inkling's right. Someone has been following me.' She peered around the room. 'Whoever it is could be here right now. I have no idea who’s doing it at all.'
'I haven't seen anyone acting suspiciously.'
'Me neither,' she said, 'thank the Lord.' She stood up. 'Another drink?'
He nodded. At last, she had someone to confide in. Someone whom she felt would be on her side. It was a warming feeling, and as she waited for the barman to fill the glasses, she passed him a quick glance. His smile was simple and self-assured, and not over-confident or smarmy.
A minute or so later, she returned to the table.
'What did Verity tell you?' he asked.
'She said they were close, best friends in fact. I don't think she liked it when Saskia married Ron. From what I can gather it caused them to fall out.'
'Yes. I remember that.'
'What do you know about them?'
'Not much. I used to see them together a lot. They were always up to something, or it seemed that way . . . always huddled and giggling.'
'Did I mention they used herbs to poison people?'
He nodded impassively.
'Any ideas who the recipients were?' she asked.
'As I said, I didn't know them well enough.'
'It's a pity,’ she said and sipped her drink. ‘I think there's a connection somewhere. I was thinking of asking Ron. I met him briefly, he seems a decent chap.'
'He's not that decent,' he said, 'at least he wasn't when he was younger. He used to brag about the women he picked up, and that was while he was with Saskia. She deserved better.'
'Did he love her?'
'If he did he had a funny way of showing it. I used to see him in bars. He often had a woman on his arm. For some reason he liked redheads.'
'But Saskia was blonde, like me.'
His eyes became glassy. 'Yes, she was.'
'Verity didn't think they married out of love. She’s not the most pleasing woman to be around.'
‘She and Saskia were two of a kind. I once saw them argue. They were kicking and screaming, pulling hair . . . the works.'
The door opened and a rush of cool air brushed across Megan's body. Three women, all in their forties, strutted towards the bar. One flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and gazed salaciously at a man by the pool table. He opened his legs ever so slightly, moved his hands to his crotch, and watched her seductive movements.
'Could Verity have killed Saskia?' she asked.
'I've wondered that myself. It's possible.'
'She gave me a letter, two, in fact, they don't say a lot, but you can tell from the tone that they had problems.'
'What do they say?'
She retrieved them from her bag. 'The first was from Saskia.' She read the letter. 'The second was Verity's reply. It says, "Saskia, you are one annoying bitch. Let me reply. Yes, I made mistakes, and yes, I lost my temper, but you're far from perfect. I know stuff about you too, don't forget that, and I don't run. What we did was wrong, but we agreed . . . both of us. Don't put the blame on me. We were in it together. We shared everything: the positives and the negatives, the wins and the losses. Get rid of your holier than thou attitude. It doesn't suit. You're not the perfect creature you try to make out. Try what you like, try for justice. I'll be waiting. Verity."'
His face lit up. 'Wow! They were having problems. It sounds like she was out for blood. I'm surprised she wanted you to see these.'
Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her head.
'Perhaps you should visit Ron,' he continued. 'He's sure to remember what they had been arguing about. Do you want his address?'
'No. I know where he lives.'
'How come?'
She pressed her finger around the rim of her empty glass. 'I . . . I found it. I can't explain.'
'You've been there before then?'
'Not that I recall, although it did seem familiar.'
'Like déjà vu?'
'Exactly.'
He did not reply.
'Do you think it means anything?' she asked.
'I doubt it. It's interesting, though.'
'I have other memories about Saskia. They come out of nowhere. I can't stop them. Most of the time, something triggers them - a street, a house, or perhaps a person. I thought I knew you when we met.'
He grinned. 'I remember.'
‘I realised later that it was because you knew Saskia.'
'But I didn't know her, not really.'
'No, I realise that, but you did . . . sort of.'
'I suppose.'
'Perhaps Saskia fancied you.'
He gave a wry smile. 'No such luck. She was way out of my league, and even if she wasn't I don't think she would have had an affair, despite how Ron treated her. Not only that, but I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him. We weren't the best of friends . . . never saw eye to eye.'
'I wouldn’t have thought a bit of trouble would bother you.'
'I was never stupid. Yes, I got into fights, but I didn't go looking for them.'
Cool air rushed towards her, followed by the pounding of heavy footsteps. She spun around. It was Ben.
'What are you doing here?' he asked.
'What does it look like?' She paused unsettled. ‘I’m having a drink with a friend.’
'I thought we agreed you should stay at home.'
'I never said I agreed with you. And anyway, what's going to happen to me in a public place?'
Irritation creased his face. 'We'll talk about this later. Let's go.'
'I'm not ready to go.’
Larry stood up, caught her eye. 'Don't worry, I have things to do. I'll see you later Megan.' He exited the building.
'How dare you speak to me like that?' she hissed. 'I'm not your property!'
'I'm just looking out for you.'
'Like hell you are!'
She raised herself to her feet, ready to make a hurried escape when a group of men in the corner caught her attention. One of the men was bending over, picking up his keys from the floor. He was wearing jeans and a heavy cotton shirt. When he stood up, she saw it was Ron.
Their heads turned.
Ben stomped towards the group. 'What's so fascinating?'
'Sorry mate. We don't want trouble,' Ron said.
He grabbed Megan's arm. 'This is Megan. You hear? Megan. Not Saskia. No relative of Saskia. Just plain Megan.'
They turned away. He pulled her towards the exit. 'Let's go.'
With barely a breath of wind in the air and only the sounds of vehicles in the distance, the night was tranquil. They strolled into the artificial light, weaved through the row of cars, and crossed the street. Megan was leading by half a pace, scowling and with her arms folded.
'Can't you see I'm acting this way because I care,' Ben said, desperate to catch her up.
She quickened her steps, maintained a firm stare on the other side, and ignored his comment. Through a window, a Chinese woman was taking an order from a middle-aged man with a beard. Nearby, two women sat on a bench next to a large potted plant, and across the other side, a man was reading a newspaper. Her stomach rumbled. She glanced along the street. There was an Italian restaurant a few doors down and a fish and chip shop on the corner. She opted for the English takeaway.
'Fish and chips please.'
'Make that two,' Ben said.
She frowned at him. He eased her aside, dipped his hand into his pocket for some cash and paid the fee. Not commenting, she grabbed the polystyrene container, enjoying the warmth, and strode outside. Progressing away, she reached for a chip, greasy and soft, and placed it into her mouth. It was quite delicious and had a dash of salt and vinegar to enhance the potato flavour. She reached for another, and another, and it stopped her burning pangs of hunger.
They strolled to the other side of the intersection and walked alongside a wall. There were Trees and grasses down an embankment and a small bridge ahead.
'Shall we take a walk along the river?’ he asked. ‘It's a beautiful evening.'
Without commenting, she followed him down to the track and noticed his sturdy gait, firm buttocks and floating strands of hair. He may have been over-protective, but it was good that he cared. She edged closer to his side in an appreciative gesture.
Meandering in the darkness with only the moon and the trickle of light from the streets to guide them, she scanned the skies, searching the black expanse for familiar twinkling stars. Ben was right; it was a beautiful evening, a perfect summer’s night, and not a night for arguing.
A chink of light at her rear caught her eye corner. She spun around, looking to the bridge. The light vanished and a shadowy figure disappeared from view.
'What is it?' he asked.
Whilst fearful someone was following them, she didn’t want to alert him to her insecurities, and shook her head.
He frowned, looked ahead into the darkness, and then sat on a bench a little distance away. She hovered nearby, searching the small patch of trees at his rear, and continued to eat. It was eerily silent, with neither the birds rustling in the trees nor the wind moving the shadows. She shuddered, involuntarily.
'Did Larry tell you anything useful?' Ben asked.
'I didn't think you were interested.' She relented to his pleading look. 'He's the one who contacted Luke, he was worried about me.'
'So he knew Saskia?'
'He'd see her around, often with Verity. He knew Ron too . . . they used to go to the same pubs. He said he was a bit of a womaniser. In fact, he told me he used to cheat on Saskia.' She placed the empty polystyrene container in the bin and wiped her hands on her jeans. 'I got the impression Ron was aggressive as well, which I thought was little odd. He seemed gentle to me.'
'He could have changed. It was a long time ago.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right.' She glanced to Ben, apprehensive. 'I would like to speak to him, but before you say it I'll go see Luke first. But if he doesn't make quick progress, I'm off.'
He grinned. 'Thank you.'
'It would be useful to speak to some of Saskia’s friends too. Maybe they could tell me a bit more about her.'
'You don't want to make it too obvious you are investigating her murder.'
She frowned. 'How else am I going to find out what happened? I have to do this Ben.'
'But I thought you just agreed to let Luke progress it?'
'Yes . . . I will.'
'Who do you think murdered Saskia?' he asked.
The ripples on the water glistened, licking the bank, and beyond, across the dark expanse was the comforting sight of human presence in the form of illuminated houses.
'I think it was Verity.' She gave him the letter, her reply, and allowed him a moment to read it. 'They had argued, so she had a motive. Larry didn't seem to be involved with her in any way, and Ron just seems . . . well, it seems out of character. Of course, it could be someone else, someone I haven't yet met.'
He handed back the letter. 'I wouldn't be too eager to rule out Larry. You don't know him very well.'
'When I met him, I had a strong sense that I did, in a nice way. I wasn't afraid of him. If he had killed Saskia, I would have sensed it.'
'That must apply to Verity too.'
Uneasy, she fingered the ends of her hair.
'I'm not trying to outwit you,' he said, 'just highlighting the possibilities. I did promise I would be there for you. I'm sorry I came down too hard.'
She reached for his hand. 'You did, but I forgive you. I don’t like arguing.'
'Me neither.'
His warm soft lips lingered upon her mouth, caressing, soothing, stimulating. She wrapped her arm around his body and felt his fingertips upon her neck. She breathed harder. Her body was singing and joyous.
'Perhaps we should head home,' he murmured.
Agreeing, she nestled into him. His wavy hair, thick and aromatic, dropped onto her face, tickling her skin, and his scent lingered.
He pulled away. 'Sorry, but I need a wee first.' He scampered into the darkness.
'Can't you wait? We'll be home in a few minutes.'
'No sorry. I won't be a minute.'
The trickling sound filled her ears as she ambled along the path that led back to the road. With her hands resting in her pocket and her gaze perusing the water under the bridge, she was too preoccupied with visions of love to notice a figure emerge out of the trees and push her. She screamed. She stumbled. She slipped into the water.
Ben ran towards her. She looked at the fleeing, hooded figure. He changed tack and ran after the culprit, away from her and into the darkness. It was too late. Whoever it was had moved too quickly.
Megan was more concerned for herself. Her legs were sodden and stinking, her thigh with the fading bruise throbbed, and a pain extended along the length of her leg and up her back. Hollering profanities, she clambered out of the water.
Neither of them had received a clear view of the person, and it was infuriating. They had missed their chance. Biting her lip, preventing her fury from escaping, she stomped towards home.
Ben had a look of I told you so in his eyes.
'See,' she growled, 'even with you there, I'm still attacked. It doesn't matter what I do!'
He held back his words.
She wanted to believe it was a random attack, but inside she knew it wasn't. She had seen the light on the bridge. Someone had made a deliberate move towards her.
Still muttering, she arrived home. She removed her shoes, leaving them strewn in the hallway, and ascended the stairs to change. Halfway up, she glanced into the living area. David was in a chair. When their eyes locked, he looked at his feet. He had black and yellow trainers on, the same as her attacker, and he displayed a proud expression. She stomped back down the stairs.
'It was you! You pushed me!'
Bewildered, Ben turned towards her and then stared at his son.
Disappointment etched into David's face. 'I told you I was making a fresh start. I thought we both were.'
She flung out her arms. 'I saw your trainers. Admit it!'
Ben turned to his son. 'Well?'
'I'm trying Dad, really I am. Why would I do something like that?'
Displayed a disappointed look, David manoeuvred past them and headed to his bedroom. She followed him upstairs.
'It was you, I know it was,' she hissed. 'Why David? What have I ever done to you?'
He went into his bedroom and dropped onto the bed. Strewn onto the floor was a black hooded sweatshirt, turned inside out. She stomped across and picked it up.
'What more proof do I need?'
'Dad won't believe you. He never does.'
'Don't mess with me David!'
She flung it at him and slammed the door, then retrieved her nightclothes from the bedroom and headed into the bathroom for a soothing shower. The water, hot and foamy, trickled down her body, easing away her physical tension. She scrubbed and scrubbed, removing all trace of the stench and replacing it with a sensuous perfume.
Minutes later, she joined Ben in front of the television. He brushed aside the strands of butterscotch hair from her face and dropped a kiss on her cheek. 'Feeling better?'
'I suppose.' She stared at the television, unblinking, and held back her anger.
David would not intimidate her. She was stronger and wiser. With or without Ben's help, she would beat him at his little game.
The sunlight radiated warmth through the reception area and into the office, creating a passage of light through the doorway and towards Luke's desk. A pale-green blind covered his small window, a necessity needed to keep passers-by from peering through, yet it limited his own needs, especially on a day like today when his motivation was dwindling.
He took a bite out of his Danish pastry, leaned into the back of the padded swivel chair, and reflected on moments of his most perfect weekend. Each time he saw Sarah it was growing more difficult to cross the boundary that separated the two different aspects of his life. Throughout Friday night, his irritation had lingered as he struggled to despatch his passion for the paranormal, but by Saturday, it was as though that part of him hadn’t existed. With Sarah's help, he believed he had found his true path in life. The paranormal was a childish yearning, something he had grown out of, and it was time to dismiss that part of the business.
Sipping coffee, he glanced around the room at the chaos and clutter: the books, the scattered papers, the posters and the photographs of paranormal events. He should redirect his business and take a more serious view of life, and he should make something of himself.
It was what he had discussed with Sarah. He was an intelligent man, wasted on such trivialities as the paranormal. There was no doubt in his mind that she was right, so why, having made a decision, did he lack the inspiration to do anything about it?
Imogen was chatting in the reception area. Her hairstyle had a wild look about it, her purple blouse was so long it could be a dress, and her green, striped skirt seemed as though it would be more suitable as a tablecloth. She was prattling and making jokes and it was unprofessional.
Irritated, he pushed his chair away from the table and headed towards the door. The elderly woman she was talking to was a regular visitor, and she wore a flared blue patterned skirt and a thin mauve anorak.
'Hello Mr Adams,' she said, 'nice day.'
'Mrs Horton.' He frowned at Imogen. 'There's work to do.'
Imogen leaned across the counter and whispered to the woman. 'I'd better go. He's a bit grumpy today.'
The woman chuckled. 'I'll pop in later in the week.' She turned to Luke. 'You be good to her now.'
She ambled through the outer door and shuffled away.
'I'm going to make changes this week,' he said to Imogen, 'we need to portray a more professional attitude and tidy this place up. Start by filing any documents scattered about the place. Then, when everything is in the appropriate binders, box everything on the paranormal. I'm doing away with that side of the business.'
She started the task, her face without expression. It surprised him; he had expected some comment, and in the least an utterance of disapproval. He surmised she must agree with him, and although dissatisfied by her reaction, he took it as confirmation that he was heading in the right direction.
Her skirt swayed as she stepped across the room. It made him think of the meal he’d shared with Sarah on Saturday afternoon. The tablecloths were chequered, the café unpretentious, and the food was flavoursome and homemade. He could almost sense the vegetable soup in his mouth, seasoned with ground herbs, and not at all metallic tasting or bland as he had sometimes experienced. Yet it was the company he’d enjoyed the most.
Sarah had chatted non-stop about sailing. It seemed more of an obsession than a hobby, but he didn't mind; he enjoyed seeing her happy. She noticed his efforts and told him he was a warm and caring man deserving of happiness, a compliment he gratefully received. He had hoped that she would add that she wanted a permanent relationship with him. Of course, she never had.
He returned his attention back to his computer and sifted through a document on marketing options. He should widen his scope. Maybe he could advertise in national newspapers, he could sponsor events, and he could print leaflets for door-to-door distribution. He could ask for radio interviews, and maybe even write a short book on consumer rights to use for publicity.
However, he could not channel his enthusiasm and his eyes wandered, settling upon the paranormal books on the shelves. While he told himself to focus on the future away from such trivialities, his innate yearnings bubbled and he reached to his mobile phone and accessed the image of Saskia.
His excitement lifted and his decision to change the business staggered and swayed as an image of Megan appeared inside his head. Their likeness was too huge to ignore. Who was she? Could his intuition of a reincarnation have a foundation? He glanced at Imogen, who was standing on a short stepladder and reaching for a binder on the top shelf. Her arm extended and her face coloured. She pulled it free and then stepped back to the floor, releasing a puff of air.
'Do you think we should give up the paranormal cases?' he asked.
'It's not my decision. I do as I am told.'
His face pleaded. 'I'd like your opinion.'
'You should do what makes you happy.'
He looked at his notes: the interview with Larry, the interview with Megan, and the background checks. He had barely started, and even though it would not make him money, the thrill of finding evidence of reincarnation may bring rewards in the long term. But what about Sarah? If he had any chance of persuading her that he had changed, he had to brush it aside.
'I am worried about Megan,' Imogen said, 'something horrible is going to happen. It might even be too late.'
'What makes you say that?'
She shook her head and stepped away, and continued to sift through the piles of scattered documents. 'I can't explain it.'
'Try.'
'I can't, okay. Even if I could, there's nothing I can do about it. We can't predict the future.'
'But it's troubling you.'
'It will pass.'
'Should we warn her?' he asked.
She jerked her head. 'And say what? You're in danger, but we don't know how or why. She already knows that . . . and anyway, as you said, you're abandoning the case.'
He rotated a pen with his thumb and forefinger. 'I might not abandon Megan's case, just everything else.'
She held him in her gaze.
Was he searching for her approval or was he searching for a reason to keep the paranormal side going? She was looking at him, straight-faced, unreadable, and his awkwardness grew.
He averted his eyes and looked at the papers on his desk, feigning concentration. His mind was at war, on one side was Sarah and on the other side his childhood dream.
'You don't need my approval,' she said. 'You know how I feel but it's not my decision. This case will lose you money.'
'I'm not concerned about that.' He looked at a photo of Sarah on his desk.
'Then what?' she caught his eye. Her face dropped. 'Oh.'
Shame enveloped him. He lowered his head and held his hand to his face, awaiting her castigation, but her words never came. The silence was worse. He imagined his humiliation as she shared his weakness with the world; she would tell prospective customers, make jokes about him at functions, and snigger behind his back.
His arms clamped to his side and he started to sweat, with the heat rising to his collar. He needed air, a diversion, and rushed out of the room and progressed to the bathroom.
Once inside, he hovered over the washbasin and looked into the mirror. His reflection repulsed him, his flaws and his frailties glaring. He turned on the cold-water tap, splashed his face with water, and urged his confidence to project forth. He was good at his job and reminded himself of the many accolades he had received over the years.
Feeling confident and self-assured, he strode back to the office, shoulders back and head high. Imogen was tidying the office.
'I've made a decision. We'll continue with Megan's case,' he said.
'Cool. I so knew you would. You are so transparent. I better not pack these binders away.'
He frowned. 'You can pack everything away except for reincarnation.'
'No way! You couldn't live without this.' She flung her arms out, pointing to the row of books. 'Just like you can’t live without me.'
'In your dreams.'
She smirked at him.
Sadly, she was right.
Megan eased the car to a halt as she approached the queue at the roundabout. On her right was a supermarket, and up ahead, somewhere on the left, was the road that led to Luke's office. She glanced at the time.
'Perhaps we should have called first,' she said.
Ben glared. 'I thought you had.'
A large truck eased across the roundabout. Looking right, she saw a gap and pulled away. Despite being a steady driver, Megan struggled to turn the steering wheel and had to relax her foot. Maybe she was tired. Thinking no more of it, she continued along the dual carriageway.
'I think it's the next turning on the left,' he said.
She slowed her pace and indicated left, and as she pulled on the wheel she glanced at the road nameplate, confirming it was, in fact, the correct road. Cars parked on both sides of the road and pedestrians meandered along the pavement, obscuring the view. There were estate agents, banks, bookshops, and value department stores, with more shops along the adjoining streets.
As she drove, Ben scanned the row of shops, searching for 'Luke Adams: Private Investigator', number one hundred and eighteen,
'How far along?' she asked.
'Quite a way. We're only at number thirty-six.'
She progressed steadily, giving way to allow a car to join the traffic and a cyclist to cross to the other side. The shops were reducing in frequency, and unblemished facades replaced the colourful window displays. It was altogether quieter; there were fewer pedestrians and less moving traffic.
'I think we’re almost there,' he said. 'I believe it’s near to that large stone-fronted building.'
There was a parking space on the left. She eased the car into the spot, giving herself plenty of room to exit, and turned off the engine. There was a light on inside Luke's building, giving her hope that he was there. The last thing she needed was Ben reprimanding her for wasting time.
Seconds later, they stepped inside.
Imogen's face lit up. 'Megan, lovely to see you.'
The reception area was painted pale lilac and white. There was a desk at the rear and three soft fabric chairs against a wall. It was unfussy and unpretentious, with a comfortable, homely feel. Next to a certificate - she didn't look at what it was - was a beautiful watercolour painting of a family having a picnic by a river. An image portrayed contentment did not normally appeal to her, but there was something about it that charmed and fascinated.
'I love the painting,' she said. 'Is it by a local artist?'
'I think it is.'
He wandered into the reception area. 'Have you done any more drawing?'
She wanted to say that she was not relaxed enough to be inspired, but instead she fumbled with her reply. Ben saved her by apologising for not making an appointment, before offering a mundane description of their journey. Luke, unconcerned by their unexpected appearance, led them into a room at the rear of the reception.
It was bright and airy with a light breeze drifting through an open window, and lights on the walls and the ceiling. There was comfortable seating along one side, a table and swivel chairs on the other, and a narrow bed on the third. Yet it was surprisingly spacious with little ornamental to distract the eye.
'Do you mind if Imogen sits in?' Luke asked. 'I'm training her to take on more responsibilities.'
'No, not at all.'
'Please, sit down.'
Megan and Ben sat together on the small blue sofa.
'How can I help you?'
'As you know, I went to see Verity.' She reached into her bag. 'I got these letters.'
She gave them to Luke, who read them and then passed them to Imogen.
'Did she give you these?'
She rotated her crossover ring and averted her gaze. 'Not exactly.'
'Can we keep them for a while?'
'Sure.'
'So, what happened?'
'Verity didn't seem too concerned that I had arrived on her doorstep, but she didn't make any effort to make me feel welcome either. She was abrupt, not like she had been when I spoke to her on the other occasions. Something seemed to bother her . . . it might have been me.'
'Does she know about your connection to Saskia?'
'Yes, I told her once before. A couple of times I've had the impression that she felt as though she was talking to Saskia rather than me.'
Luke was leaning back in his chair, holding a relaxed pose.
'Don't you think that's a bit strange?' she asked.
'You do look alike and have similar mannerisms and character traits . . . or so I hear. I can understand why she would be confused. What did you speak about?'
She changed positions, pressing against the arm of the sofa. 'She told me how close they were . . . best friends in fact. They did everything together. I don't think they had many other friends. But then Saskia married Ron and everything changed. Verity told me that Saskia didn't love him.'
He scribbled into his notepad.
'I think it was for the money. Their family was poor and Ron was wealthy. Verity said she didn't like him . . . said there was a personality clash. She didn't say any more about it, but I sensed that Saskia's relationship with Ron was what had caused them problems.
Ben spoke: 'Verity had lost her sister and best friend to a man she didn't like. It's understandable that she'd feel a little jealous.'
'What makes you say she didn't like him?' Luke asked.
'It's just the way she spoke,' Megan replied. 'I think she said he was possessive. But this is not about Verity and Ron, and I don't see it matters how they felt about each other. They both loved Saskia . . . or at least I think they did.'
'What did Verity say about Saskia leaving?'
She reached for a glass of water and took a sip, before telling him how her departure had been unexpected and that Verity had been devastated.
'And Saskia was pregnant,' she added, 'Verity found out via a letter.'
'Was it Ron's?'
'Verity didn't know. That child has to be me.'
His expression was calm and focused. 'It could explain why she left. Did Verity say if Saskia had had an affair?'
'No, she didn't. She did emphasise, though, that the dates in the letter weren't clear and that she could have got pregnant later. Do you think Verity knows something?'
'Quite possibly. Would you say she was being evasive?'
She nodded. ‘I reckon Verity killed her. Look at the letters . . . they say as much.'
She told them her theory about Saskia's swift return and the hurried adoption, and Luke remained impassive. His lack of comment and emotion was infuriating, and her irritation rose.
'Ron will know what they were arguing about,' she said, 'you have to speak to him.'
'We intend to.'
'But when? This needs to be sorted. It's no fun for me not knowing who’s after me.'
'Just try to be patient.'
'How can I be patient when I don't feel safe going out? I'm trying to make a new life for myself, but I don't know who is safe to talk to and who isn’t. My life is on hold . . . and so is Ben's.'
'I understand that, but you have to try. It's much safer for you if you let us do the investigating.'
Ben placed his hand upon her lap, gave her an encouraging smile, and then looked at Luke. 'Someone followed us on Friday. They pushed Megan into the river.'
'That was . . .' she paused, catching sight of Ben’s disappointment, and withdrew her comment. How could he deny the truth? He knew David had been responsible. If she could recognise the shape of his fading gait, so could he. ‘It was nothing.’
'It doesn't sound like nothing,' Luke said.
'It was a kid playing a prank.'
Accepting her reply, he turned to his notes. Did he believe her? Was he taking this seriously? He was unlikely to investigate the case any better than she was. She, at least, was motivated to avoid her own death.
He looked up. 'Are you sure you won't be regressed?'
'I'm sure.'
'If you change your mind, let me know. It could help your case.'
She rose to her feet. ‘We have to go. We've taken up enough of your time.'
He thanked her, and she headed back into the radiant heat of the reception area with Imogen on her trail.
'Please be vigilant,' she said.
Having said their goodbyes, they headed back to the car, weaving by a group of men in suits then opening the car doors to allow the searing heat to escape into the relative coolness. Even so, as she settled, sweat oozed from her, causing her blouse to stick to her skin and her jeans to feel like an airless blockade, tight and claustrophobic. She turned on the engine, eased out of the parking bay, and continued along the road to the main highway.
The steering continued to be stiff. She brushed aside her concerns, and instead wondered why she had relented to Ben's pressure and visited Luke. His calmness and apparent disinterest in the case was annoying. He only seemed to have one motive, and that was to hypnotise her. It was unprofessional and caused to reconsider investigating Saskia herself.
She had to discover as much as she could from anyone who had known her. She needed to learn about her personality and her likes and dislikes. She also needed to discover who the father of her child was, especially if, as seemed to be the case, that she was that child.
Ron was a likely consideration. It was the first time she had considered him in such a manner and decided it would explain why she believed he was innocent of any crimes. Determined to speak to him soon, she pulled onto the duel carriageway and followed the traffic out of the town centre.
A service station appeared. She indicated left and headed into the car park.
'Where are you going?' Ben asked.
'For a wee.'
'Why didn't you go at Luke's?'
'Because.'
'Because what?'
'Because I didn't want to.'
She eased the car to a standstill and turned off the engine.
He opened the door. 'I might as well go too.'
'Why are you always so difficult?'
'You're the one that's difficult. This would all be over if you agreed to be regressed.
She harrumphed, reached for her handbag, and exited the car. 'Is that what this is about? Just because I won't do what you say, you go all moody.'
He strode away. She trotted after him.
He spun around. 'Can't you see that any difficulties you might see are there because I care? I don't want anything to happen to you.'
Ignoring him, she headed into the toilet block, took a deep breath, and strode into the cubicle. She was tired of all the arguments, the stress, and the strain. Where was the fresh start she had hoped for? She hated to admit it, but she might have been better off in Halifax.
After taking a few minutes to freshen up, she purchased a chocolate bar and strode outside. Ben was storming towards her, his face red and contorted.
'The car's gone!'
Megan was mystified.
'Where are the keys?'
She reached into her bag and then searched her pockets. Bewildered, she shook her head.
They had not been home long when Ben's phone rang. Soon after he answered, Megan could tell it was regarding the car, and kept a low profile, keeping her gaze fixated on the newspaper and her ears tuned into the conversation. It was clear the news was not good and her heart raced. Drawn to the silence, she peered at Ben through strands of her hair, and within moments, he ended the call. With the phone in his hand and his face washed of colour, he gawked, open-mouthed. She raised her head and passed him a questioning gaze.
'The man died,' he said. 'He drove at speed, straight into a wall.'
'Oh Lord!'
'Someone saw him struggle with the steering wheel.' He puffed out and shook his head. 'It could have been suicide but . . .'
She shuddered. Her vision blurred. Her warmth lost.
'Megan . . . was the steering okay?'
Her trembles extended the length of her body. It should have been them; they had been the target, and instead someone else suffered. This could not go on, and instinctively she knew what she must do. Despite her entrenched fear, she had to let Luke regress her.
They snuggled together under a cotton sheet and blanket in silence, both of them unwilling and unable to express emotion, yet Megan's mind raced with a torrent of unanswered questions, and not least she craved a sighting of her faceless pursuer. With her head throbbing with anxiety, she fidgeted and wriggled, and searched for a moment of elusive calmness.
Ben was motionless and staring at a spot high up on the opposite wall, expressionless and calm. Burdened by adrenaline and irritated by his ability to control his once ragged emotions, she freed herself from his grip and turned away, her energy persistent and rampant. She kicked with her legs, she tussled with the sheet, and she bunched up the flattened pillow. Inside, she continued to howl.
If it hadn't been for her forgetfulness and their petty argument, they could both be dead. Her skin turned cold. It was too terrifying to comprehend. How could death come without warning, without reason? It seemed unfair. The good died, the bad lived - just as had been the case with little Joshua.
Now it was time for her punishment.
She had suffered and she had grieved, but had she received punishment? She buried her head under the covers, hiding from the emerging day, and fought for an alternative to explain away what seemed to have been a deliberate attempt on her life.
Maybe the crash was a suicide, or perhaps the car had a pre-existing mechanical fault. She crossed her arms over her chest, raised her knees, and inhaled the stuffy warmth. It was a reasonable assumption to make; there was no proof of tampering . . . yet.
The mattress shifted and a rush of cool air wafted across her body as Ben climbed out of the bed and started to dress. His breathing seemed strained, as was common first thing, yet his movements were sedate. She wondered if his turmoil was as great as hers was. Maybe he was considering returning to Halifax, escaping the madness that besieged her. And who could blame him?
In fact, they both could leave. They could be out by the end of the day, tomorrow at the latest. She shuffled herself up the bed, manoeuvred the pillow to rest against the headboard, and started to consider her chores. There would be the food to pack, the clothes in the washing basket to gather, and the house to clean. She glanced around the bedroom for her personal assets, noting few. There were a couple of photographs, a few pieces of jewellery, deodorant, perfume, and a magazine. It wouldn’t take long. Perhaps she should tell Ben her decision.
However, as soon as the thought entered her mind, she knew she wouldn’t be able to do it. This was her path, and for whatever reason, whether it was because she had witnessed the murder or God forbid, she had Saskia's spirit within, she could not deny that her need to understand what had happened was innate. For her entire life, Rodley had been in her thoughts. She could not walk away.
Could Luke be right? Could the truth be buried deep within her brain?
She reached for her phone and dialed his number.
'Luke Adams speaking, how can I help?'
'It's Megan.' She took a heavy breath. 'Someone tried to kill us.'
'What happened? Are you okay?'
'Yes. After we left your place, we stopped at the service station just up the road from you, and I left the keys in the car. The man who stole it crashed the car at full speed into a wall. He died at the scene.'
Silence.
'It should have been us.' Her voice was breaking. 'Ben has been asked if there was a steering problem. I . . . I think someone tampered with the car.'
More silence.
'I'll be regressed, but you have to promise me you won't delve into my life, at least not after my adoption. There's stuff-'
'You have my word.'
'And there is something else. I wasn't entirely honest with you. I've always felt a connection with Rodley, and when I arrived, I had a strong sense I'd been here before. There were people I felt I knew, thoughts that weren't my own.'
'You had better start at the beginning.'
She made herself comfortable and told him everything.
Ben was waiting for her downstairs next to the breakfast table. He was cheerful, greeting her with a wide smile and sparkling eyes, and offered to make her whatever she wanted. She craved eggs, free-range with a beautiful orange yolk and poached. He told her to sit down and scurried away. Moments later, David appeared.
'Sleep well?' he asked.
She frowned. 'As always.'
'I'm not sure I’d be able to in your position.'
She tightened. 'The car had a mechanical fault. It wasn't a deliberate attack.'
He smirked. 'You know that for sure?'
'Do you know something?'
'What would I know?' he said.
He was hiding something, or was that what he wanted her to believe? Perhaps he knew nothing more than she did.
'You don't trust me, do you?
She straightened her back. 'You've never given me reason to.'
'I've never given you reason not to.'
He reached for a bowl, added the cereal and milk, grabbed a spoon, and started away. 'Then there is no point telling you what I know . . . your loss.'
He dropped onto the sofa. The cereal crunched in his mouth.
'What do you know?'
'No point me telling. I can't be trusted.'
'David! Tell me!'
He glanced at the doorway, looking for Ben, and signaled her to draw closer. She obliged, although under duress.
'You are sexy when you're angry,' he whispered.
She jerked back. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand.
'Leave me alone!' she hissed, tussling free.
'Larry thinks so too. He wants Dad gone . . . sees him as competition.'
'You’re lying. Larry is just a friend.'
'If you don't believe me, ask him.'
Her eyes darkened, her glare intensified. 'Stay away from my friends.'
He grinned. ‘No way! I'm watching your back, as Dad asked me to. And anyhow, you'll never know when you might need me.'
'I need you as much as I need a hole in the heart.'
'One day, you'll regret saying that.'
'Unlikely.'
Disgruntled, Megan returned to the table. David held a self-satisfied, lascivious expression. He was sick in the head, and she struggled to understand why he was always so determined to annoy her. Wilful in her decision to remain nonchalant, she forced her facial muscles to relax and flicked through advertising blurb on the table.
There was nothing of interest within, but it served a purpose and focused her attention until Ben arrived. The food was exquisite, the poached eggs were evenly shaped and the toast soaked in butter. It was tantalising. She shuffled closer to the table and offered him her utmost appreciation, mostly for David's benefit. Annoyingly, he seemed to be absorbed with the television.
'Fancy doing something different today? Ben asked.
'Haven't you got to work?'
'I have time owed to me, so I've arranged to have the day off.'
'What did you want to do?'
A smile swept across his face. 'I want to surprise you.'
'I don't want to go anywhere.'
'Of course not, and anyway, it would be a bit difficult without a car.'
Her enthusiasm drained away and she lowered her head. 'About that-'
'Don't you think I am just a wee bit happy you left the keys in the car?'
'I suppose.'
He cut through the toast with his knife. 'I want today to be stress-free. We should forget about everything that has happened and relax. Today is about you and me.'
She felt more inspired to spend the day wallowing in self-pity, curl up on the sofa, and watch something mundane on television, yet she agreed, persuaded by his obvious buoyancy. However, as he stuffed the remaining food into his mouth, and then started to clear away the table, her regrets mounted.
They had done little but argue since his arrival. Spending more time together when they both felt tense and frazzled was bound to cause more animosity. She was just about to voice her concerns when he started to hum. She recognised the tune; it was a Queen track, from one of his favourite all-time bands. Perhaps she could play along, at least for a while.
A small load lifted when David announced his departure from the house. She flopped onto the sofa, her body stretched and her eyes shut.
'No time for that,' Ben said, appearing from the kitchen. 'We're going to the beach.'
'I thought-.'
He placed his finger to his mouth. 'Just play along.'
He stepped towards the armchair and pushed it against the wall, and then he did the same with the coffee table. The sofa was next.
'You had better change. You might want a swim.'
'I haven't got my swimming costume with me.'
'So put shorts and t-shirt on. You can always go skinny-dipping. I don't mind.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'Okay.'
Moments later, she returned wearing a soft cotton top and canvas shorts. Two large towels were on the floor and by the side was a tray filled with flour.
'What's that?'
He grinned. 'The beach. We're going to make a sandcastle.'
'No way!'
'Yes way. Look,' he reached to the floor for a cup of water, 'we even have the sea.'
'I can't hear the waves.'
He rushed across to his laptop that was resting on the dining table. 'I've thought of that. Now lie on the towel and shut your eyes.'
Megan obliged. In the distance was the sound of the waves, and swooping overhead was the squawking cry of the seagulls. Only heat from the sun and the salty aroma of the sea were lacking. He shuffled into position by her side, lay flat, and reached for her hand.
'Imagine we're back in Tenerife,' he said, 'happy and relaxed. It's hot. We've been drinking all day, and you can barely stand up.'
'That was you. I was sober remember.'
'Not that sober. You dropped your ice cream. It dribbled down your chest.'
'I didn't do that because I was drunk.'
He raised himself onto his elbow. 'Now she tells me . . . you wanted me to lick it off!'
She chuckled.
'You brazen hussy!'
Her body tingled with the memory. 'I don't recall you complaining.'
He leaned towards her, gently removed her hair from her face, and caressed her facial skin with his finger. 'I'd been trying to get you alone all day. Those friends of yours wouldn't leave you alone.'
'When they did you made up for it . . . couldn't keep your hands off me.'
'And you insisted on playing volleyball.' He leaped to his feet. 'Talking of which . . .'
He scurried out of the room, returning with a knitting needle, a matchbox, and a table tennis ball.
'That doesn't look much like volleyball.'
'No . . . afraid it's cricket. Move everything aside.'
She threw the towels onto the sofa and carried the tray to the table.
'Okay,' he said. 'Kneel down at the side of the matchbox and grab the knitting needle. I'm going to throw the ball and you're going to hit it.'
It looked easy but it wasn't, and she swung and missed. He threw it again. She focused and watched the ball progressing towards her, and when it landed in front of her knees, she swung her arm. She missed by some margin, screeched and dropped her elbows to the floor, laughing hysterically.
'I'll make it a bit easier for you,' he said, 'I'll do it slower and with less spin.'
This time she made sweet contact and threw her arms into the air as the ball landed just beneath the window.
After more hits, he reached for a plastic mug and placed it a short distance in front of him. 'This time you have to hit the ball so that it lands in here.'
'I can't do that!'
'Course you can.'
She concentrated hard. The first time the ball veered off to one side. Ben caught it.
'Again,' she said.
The ball sped towards her. She swung, hitting it with the needle and thrusting the ball straight into his chest. He wobbled backward, held his hands firm onto the spot and puffed out. She was about to apologise when he burst into laughter.
'You're getting too good at this,' he said, 'my turn.'
They changed positions. After a few false starts due to her poor throwing action, he made contact with the ball. It hit the cup before deflecting to one side.
'You've done this before,' she said.
He grinned. 'First time.'
'I don't believe you.'
She threw the ball again. This time it touched the rim of the cup before landing on one side and rolling away.
'You're such a poor liar.'
The third time he was successful. He rose to his feet, flung his arms in the air and bounced around, claiming victory. She was entrenched in happiness, and it warmed her heart.
'Time for the sandcastle competition,' he announced rushing over to the tray.
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
'We have to do it on the floor,' he said, 'there are no tables on the beach.'
He stepped away with the tray.
'There's another one in the cupboard,' she said. 'We can do it at the same time then.'
'You're on.'
She filled another tray with flour, got a mug of water and an eggcup, and set herself up beside Ben, who was crossed-legged on the floor and hovering over his artificial sand.
'We've got five minutes then we stop.'
She nodded.
'Ready . . . go.'
The fine powdery feel of the flour soon disappeared as she added dribbles of water and mixed it with her fingers. The sludge crept under her fingernails and stuck to her hand as she pushed it together before adding it the cup. Having cleared a space on one side of the tray, she turned the eggcup over and patted it free. It maintained its near-perfect shape.
She glanced towards his tray. He had made several, but none was as neat or consistent as hers were; the edges were slipping and the top was sinking. She pushed on, increasing her pace, and made a square defining the castle walls.
'You're a bit slow,' he said, 'time is up'.
She looked up. He had produced a disorderly array of mounds.
'There's no plan in that!'
'No, but at least my king has somewhere to live. It looks like yours is camping.'
'At least it's solid.' She reached for a mug of water and threw it onto his castle. 'Oops, a storm has hit.'
It was a pile of white sludge.
'My queen was indoors,' he reached out his arms, 'I need to save her.'
Megan jumped to her feet and scampered away. 'Your queen is saving her own skin.'
Ben tracked her down, wrapped his arms around her waist, and forced her backward. They flopped onto the sofa, exhausted with laughter.
'Time for lunch,' he said, 'picnic by the sea.'
'But it's raining!'
He looked up to the ceiling. 'No, it's stopped. You have a snooze in the sun while I prepare it. You'll need your energy later on.'
She oozed happiness. The tension in her body had vanished, and the events of the previous day a distant memory. Wanting to remain in her fantasy world, she laid out the towels and sat on the floor, her legs outstretched. A while later Ben returned with lunch.
'For you madam,' he said, offering a plate.
The wholemeal sandwich contained mature cheddar cheese with lettuce and cucumber, and a tad of chutney. The flavour lingered in her mouth.
'Thanks for today,' she said, 'it was just what I needed.'
'It's not over yet, we still have to recreate the evenings we spent in Tenerife.'
'You were mostly drunk.'
'And you were mostly flat on your back, but I'm not complaining.'
Her memories emerged. They had often sloped off, leaving their individual groups of friends and headed to the beach to listen to the gentle rush of waves, broken only by an occasional murmur of distance voices. Sitting on the soft sand, side-by-side, they stared across the ocean, absorbing the beauty of the vast rippling expanse, illuminated by a slither of the moon and the myriad of twinkling stars. Out of her eye corner, she glanced at Ben, absorbing his masculine posture, firm and self-assured, and noting his drifting eyes. Did he wonder if this was anything more than a holiday romance? For her, the fire burned brightly in her heart, only needing a soft word or a gentle touch of his hand to create a surge of flames. It was intense. It was beautiful. Her spirit soared.
However, weeks later she came back to earth with a bump. She learned that Ben was far from being the perfect man she had ever encountered. His refusal to accept the way David treated her was at the core of their downfall, but so were some of his other character traits. Nevertheless, right here, right now, she could not recall any of them. He was considerate, fun to be around, and most of all responsible. She felt safe. Her children would be safe.
She swallowed hard. Could she ever be sure of that, after what she had experienced? Could she ever trust anyone to look after her child? She had failed Joshua and she was his mother. What did that say about her child's chances with others?
Months previously, she had had the same thoughts running through her head. She had phoned her closest friend and unburdened herself, but unbeknown to her, someone had been eavesdropping.
Ben drew her back to the moment, leaned towards her and pressed his warm lips to her cheek. 'Perhaps we should go back to Tenerife . . . remind ourselves of the beauty in the world . . . the sunset, the stars . . .'
She turned her head and feigned a smiled. David had heard her most private thoughts, her untold secret. 'It would be good to get away,' she said.
'Then let's do it. I'm sure we could get a last minute booking.'
Unconvinced by the timing, she cast him a solemn stare
He edged closer, pressed his body into hers, and wrapped his arm around her back. 'It's okay. We can do it later, just say when.'
He was showing immense patience. He had not commented on her stupidity for ignoring the steering problem, or for the danger they were in. In addition, he had not told her that she had in effect killed a man. His silence should be praised.
A thought crossed her mind. David was in danger too. Would she have allowed Joshua into Rodley had she been in Ben's position?
Shamefaced, she passed him a sideways glance. His face was aglow and his hair as ragged as ever, yet he projected a wild beauty. There was no way she could share her secret with him, and David wouldn’t desist in making her life hell. So, there was only one option; once her current problems were over, she must cast him aside.
There was no alternative.
'Time for a bit of skinny-dipping,' he murmured, pulling her closer.
Wanting to enjoy the moment, she relented to his passionate display and flopped into his arms.
The car eased to a standstill outside Ron's house and the purring sound of the engine died away. Luke turned his head looking to the impressive stone building, presumably owned at one time by someone with status, a doctor or landowner perhaps. There were tall trees at the rear and there was a commercial building far to the left, but there was nothing in the immediate vicinity. The house, by enlarge, was isolated.
'Don't you think it looks like a haunted house,' Imogen said.
He frowned. 'Not really.'
'It so does. If these street lights weren't here, it would be spooky.' She looked up to the small rectangular window near the roof. 'I can see it now . . . a silhouetted figure in the window with a knife.'
'You've been watching too many horror films.'
‘It’s true! There are no neighbours to hear the screams.'
'It's not that far from civilisation! Haven't you seen the houses just across the road?'
'Even so, the pavement and road are wide . . . and the back is private.'
He followed her gaze along the side of the house. 'Megan seems to think there is a path at the rear, one that Saskia took as she tried to outrun her attacker. It leads to a statue in the centre. We should follow it. Hopefully, when we regress her, we'll find out what happened.'
Her eyes sparkled with energy and enthusiasm. 'This is so cool.'
Her mood was catching, and a smile crept to his mouth.
'Before we go in let’s run through what we already know,' he said.
She faced him. 'Ron has remained married to Saskia. From what I could find out, he has never lived with another woman or had a long-term relationship with anyone. He works as a manager at a printing company, helps out at the community centre, and has not committed any crimes, except for a few car related ones.'
'What family did you say he had?'
'A cousin in Wales. Both of his parents are dead.'
He released his seatbelt. 'Okay, let's go.'
'We're a bit early.'
'I'm sure it'll be fine.'
The street was quiet: no moving cars, no pedestrians, and no one in the nearby gardens. He eased the car door shut and stepped around the car to the pavement. The warm breeze caressed his skin, and the brightness dappled by the rustling leaves relieved the strain in his eyes. He lowered his head, opened the creaky wrought-iron gate, and followed the narrow concrete path to the porch.
He could see that Ron was not in the lounge. It was spacious with a high ceiling, and there was a high-backed three-piece suite and a large display cabinet with drawers and cupboards within. The walls had mahogany patterned wallpaper - he considered it old-fashioned - and there was a picture rail near the ceiling.
He walked to the stone porch, stubbing his toe on a large ceramic pot, and rang the bell. They waited. Ron did not appear.
'Did you hear it ring?' he asked.
She shook her head and knocked on the door.
There was a small window at his side. He stepped towards it and tried to peer into the room, but green floral curtains blocked most of his view, and he could only see part of a row of the cupboard, a worktop, and a set of ceramic containers.
His curiosity was guiding him to look into the kitchen. He tried to squeeze through a gap between the shed and the house so that he could see through the other window, but he couldn't quite get through. Having glimpsed at the porch door to check for any movement, he walked around the rear of the shed and peered across the lawn at the large rectangular window. The kitchen was empty.
Imogen knocked on the door distracting him from his observation of the kitchen. When he turned back, Ron was there, heading out of the kitchen door and progressing into the hallway. He didn’t have time to consider why he hadn’t seen him there the first time, and hurried back to Imogen, arriving as Ron opened the door.
'Sorry, have you been waiting long?' Ron asked. 'I was in the kitchen. I hardly ever hear anyone knock when I'm in there.'
'That's okay. We've only just arrived.'
'I must get the doorbell fixed. Do come in.'
Ron leaned against the wall and gesticulated for them to pass through into the hallway. There were two doors on the left, and another on the right. Making polite chatter, they passed through the one leading to the lounge.
Luke recognised Ron, but no matter how he tried, he could not determine where they had met. Disinclined to share his concerns, yet still curious enough to pose questions, he guided the conversation towards Ron's work, well aware that the company, Burns and Johnson, was not one of the printing companies that he had used for his marketing. He even asked if there had ever been a take-over. The answer was no. The company had remained the same for the past twenty years. It was baffling.
Without time to pursue the matter further, he put his concerns aside and started the interview. 'Can you tell me about Saskia?'
His eyes glazed. 'She wasn't your typical woman . . . not at all weak and feeble. She would stand up for herself, she disliked anything she considered slushy, and she was feisty. She would let you know if she felt you were in the wrong . . . would cut straight to the point.'
'Would you say she had a dominant personality?'
'Absolutely. It's what I loved about her. I wouldn't have wanted a woman who was demanding emotionally. Saskia dealt with her own problems in her own way. She was not the tearful type . . . didn't need my shoulder to cry on.'
'What would you say your relationship with her was like?'
Sorrow met with his eyes. 'I can't put into words how much I loved her. She was everything I wanted and more. I could never marry again. I suppose I still hold out hope that she'll return.'
'Did she love you?'
His answer lacked conviction. 'She said she did.'
'Did you doubt it?'
'Saskia was a strong person. I'm sure she loved me as much as she was able. Even so, there was a time that I wondered if she married me for the money. Her family was poor, mine wasn't. I inherited this house when I was twenty-seven. She was lucky to find someone like me. I was a good catch. I'm easy going, tolerant and have few faults. There's not a lot to dislike.'
'How did she take to married life?'
'She was a bit difficult to tame but I managed it. At first, she spent too much time with her sister, Verity, but I made her realise she had to move on . . . grow up a little.'
Luke's face tightened. 'How did you do that?'
'It's not what you think. I never laid a finger on her.' His eyes flitted. 'That's not my way. I just persuaded her, verbally that is, to spend more time with me. She knew it was the right thing to do. I must say I was glad when she saw less of Verity.'
'Did you not get on with her?'
'She was a bad influence.'
'Did they argue?'
'All the time, although I never paid much attention. When I did it was always over something petty.'
'Like what?'
He paused. 'Oh, I don't know. Clothes, make-up . . . stuff like that.'
'Nothing more serious?'
'No. I think in the end Saskia had had enough and left. Verity had been pushing her to spend more and more time with her, but she wanted to be with me. Her demands became excessive. I don't think Saskia felt she had a choice.'
'Didn't you find that a little strange?'
'Verity was quite a piece of work. For a while, she came every day . . . telephoned several times.'
He frowned. 'I'm puzzled. You said Saskia was a strong character. I don't understand why she would feel the need to leave. Why didn't she stand up to her? Or you for that matter.'
'Everyone has their limits. Yes, she was strong, but she wasn't tolerant and Verity was persistent. I think Saskia preferred an easy life.'
'How did you feel about that?'
His impassive gaze slipped into irritation. 'How do you think I felt? There was nothing I could do to stop her. She'd made her decision.'
'I'm sorry to have to ask, but did Saskia ever have an affair?'
'No. She didn't.'
'Are you sure?'
'I'm sure.'
'I've heard that she'd had a bit of a reputation.'
His face stiffened. 'Before she married, but never during.'
Luke nodded and then chewed the end of his pen and stared at his notes. Along one side were Ron's answers, and on the other side was a list of Saskia's character traits. He flipped over the sheet and scanned the prompts he’d made earlier.
'Did you ever have any contact with Saskia? After she left that is.'
'I got a letter. She told me she was sorry.'
'Did she say anything else?'
'Not really.'
He rotated his pen with his fingers. 'Do you still have it?'
'No.'
He studied Ron's face, noting the grainy texture of his skin and the roundness of his cheeks. 'I'm sorry if this is difficult, but I have to ask. Did you know she was pregnant?'
He folded his arms. 'I'd heard.'
'From Verity?'
He nodded. 'She took pleasure in telling me.'
'I'm sorry, I can see you loved Saskia very much, but I have to ask. Was it yours?'
Tight-lipped, he refused to answer.
'Is it difficult seeing someone who appears in town and looks just like her?' Luke continued.
'No. It's clear in my mind that they are not the same person.'
'Have you spoken to her?'
'I bumped into her by the statue. She fainted so I bought her a coffee.'
'That's good of you.'
'It was the least I could do. I might not be married but I do understand a woman's needs. Someone had to show a bit of respect and understanding. Everyone else was going to leave her on the ground.' He raised his chin and puffed out his chest. 'I think men can cope better in those circumstances.'
He smiled. 'I'm surprised a man like you has never remarried.'
'Saskia was the only woman for me. From the moment I met her, I never wanted anyone else.' His eyes glazed. 'She was a fantastic woman. I miss her a lot . . . even now.'
'I can see.' He glanced at the photo of Saskia on the mantelpiece. 'Have you always lived alone?'
'Always. I don't want another woman in my life, or anyone else for that matter. I enjoy my own company.'
Luke glanced at his notes then turned back to Ron. 'Have you considered the possibility that Megan is Saskia's daughter?'
Ron's jaw dropped, his surprise gripping his entire body. For a moment, he was speechless, and touched his face and rubbed his hands. Luke watched and waited, as did Imogen, both analysing his response in equal measure.
'She could be,' he said in a steady voice. 'When Saskia left, she cut all ties. It's not something I never wanted to dwell on.'
'I would have thought you would have wanted to know the truth.'
'No, I don't think so.'
'You surprise me. If I was in your position, I would be straight onto it, especially as you seem to want a reunion with Saskia.'
His back stiffened. 'Megan doesn't know Saskia.'
'Do you know that Megan was adopted and that she doesn't know who her birth mother is?'
Silence.
'It seems to me that she is her daughter, given the physical resemblance. And from what you have said, she could be yours too.'
'It's too late to play happy families. If Megan wants it, I'll cooperate, otherwise, I’m not interested.'
'Your call.' Luke rose to his feet. 'Thanks for your time. You have been most useful.'
Ron nodded, and then strode towards him and shook his hand. 'I hope you find what you are looking for, although I would prefer it to be Saskia rather than her body.'
'Understood.'
Luke followed Ron to the outer door.
'Oh,' Luke said, 'I almost forgot. Do you have a diary of Saskia's or anything else with her writing on?'
He pushed aside a moment of suspicion. 'No, I got rid of everything years ago. The memories were too painful.'
He followed Imogen out of the house. 'Thanks again for your time.'
Without hesitation, Ron shut the door.
Megan wiped the skirting board with a cloth before moving to the mantelpiece, lifting each of her possessions, and making quick sweeping motions to remove the dust. The granules were not visible, yet in her mind’s eye it was as though there had been a volcanic eruption, the colours were no longer crisp and clear and the texture was gritty.
She lifted the small-framed picture of Joshua and wiped the surface using small circular motions. The cleaning spray immediately served its purpose and the smears dissolved, yet her action continued, round and round, on and on. Finally, as her arm began to ache, she placed the can aside and moved to the coffee table. Ben appeared in the doorway.
His computer magazines were scattered across the surface. She lifted one up and glared. 'I asked you to clear these away!'
'I'm sorry, I'll do it now.'
'I'm sick of all the mess you're making.’ She flung it down. ‘Why can't you tidy up after yourself?'
'I said I'm sorry. It's only a few magazines.'
Her jaw clenched and her lips pressed tight. There was darkness inside her head, and her thoughts scuttled, causing the discomfort to pound her skull and travel up and down her body. Needing a release, and drawn by the light, she stomped to the dining table.
One of her neighbours was knelt on the edge of the lawn, tending a patch of weeds. The woman was overweight, wore tight-fitting pants and a skimpy vest top, her hair bunched at the rear, and her make-up was in abundance. She must be in her sixties, yet seemed to think she was younger. Did she have any idea how ridiculous she looked, wearing clothes two sizes too small and with a face painted like a clown?
Ben appeared behind her.
'Have you seen that woman? Who the hell does she think she is dressing like that?'
'She looks okay to me.'
Her jaw dropped. 'Okay? She's gardening, not going out to the pub.'
He turned to step away. 'I think you’re being a bit mean.’
She gawped.
‘Each to their own, I say.' He strode away.
'And make sure you clear away your mess in the corner.'
'Just relax, will you?' he said.
'I thought you were going out.'
'I am.' He paused, analytical. 'This regression therapy session will be okay. There's nothing to worry about.'
Her eyes drifted to the floor. She could sense a myriad of questions swirling around her head as her fears mingled. None was distinct; none followed a logical path. ‘I’d say there’s a lot to worry about.’
‘Of course there isn’t.’ He smiled sympathetically. 'I'm proud of you. It means a lot to me knowing you are doing this.'
Considering his comment, she stomped to the kitchen, grabbed stray objects and thrust them into their rightful location. She didn't want him to be proud, she wanted anonymity, and above all, she wanted her anxieties to go away.
Was she right to do this? It wasn’t too late to back out. Maybe she should give Luke a call. She was about to do just that when she remembered the television images of their crashed car. Reconsidering, she turned back to Ben. 'Are you sure David won't be back anytime soon?'
‘I'm sure. He's gone to see his friend, Oliver. He said he'll return this evening.'
'If he turns up unannounced this thing is over. I'm going to tell Luke to bring me out of whatever it is that he puts me into. That goes for you too.'
'That's fair enough.'
Remaining unsettled, she searched for something to do. Given the room was clean with nothing out of place and no surfaces dulled, she sank onto the sofa and listened to cars trundling along the street, an aircraft flying overhead, and a gentle drone of voices coming from passing pedestrians. It did nothing to ease her anxious mind, causing her to leap to her feet and stride to the road, searching for Luke and Imogen’s whereabouts.
‘Right,’ Ben said, ‘I’ll see you later.’
She folded her arms and nodded.
He stepped outside. ‘And try to stay calm. It’ll be fine.’ He shut the door.
She paced the room and glanced at the clock. Within a couple of minutes, a car pulled up outside of the house, quickening her pulse and warming her skin. Upon seeing it was Luke and Imogen, she hurried to the door and welcomed them inside. It didn’t talk long for their bright chatter and smiles to seep into her and help her to relax.
'Now,' Luke said, 'about past life regression.'
Her heart skipped a beat.
'I'll put you into a deep state of relaxation, and with any luck, we'll go back to your past life. What you remember and what you experience varies from client to client. You may have vivid memories or you may feel distant from the scenes. Some people experience odours, hear sounds, or even taste things. It depends on upon the individual, and so, whatever happens, is normal.'
Her reply filled with anxiety.
'I'll ask you questions. Some may seem a little strange, but just try and answer as accurately as possible.'
'What if I see something I don't like?'
'It isn't my aim to traumatise you. Try, as much as you can, to go with it. I will be right by your side for the whole time, and so we'll work our way through it. I can't force you to do anything that you feel uncomfortable with. You will remain in full control for the entire time.'
'What if I don't remember anything?'
'If that happens, then that's fine. We can try again later if we think there's a better chance a second time.'
Megan nodded and looked at the floor. She hoped she would remember something about Saskia, and maybe even discover the reason for her death. Then all this nonsense would be over. However, as she pondered the possibilities, a lump formed in her throat. 'I'm not sure I want to . . . to recall the murder.'
He gave her a sympathetic glance. 'For this session, I hope to take you back to a year or two before Saskia's death, to get a feel for her life and the relationships she had with her family and friends. I don't intend to take you to the stabbing, but if for whatever reason we end up there, try to remain calm and listen to my voice. Nothing can harm you.' His voice was soft, his face trusting. 'You can't remain in that world, and the injuries can't pass to this one.'
They talked around the subject for a little more with her asking further questions about her predicted experiences and Luke offering her information about the procedure. Then he erected a portable bed, drew the curtains, and closed an open window, dulling the street sound.
'Ready?' he asked.
She nodded.
'Any more questions?'
'No.'
He pointed to the bed. 'Make yourself as comfortable as possible.'
She sat down and eased herself down onto the soft mattress, but her body was corpse-like and she struggled to relax.
'Close your eyes,' he said. 'We'll start with a few deep breathing exercises. I would like you to take a deep breath and hold it for as long as you can, and then release as slowly as you can.'
Her instructions continued for an indeterminable amount of time until her mind and body relaxed. She was at peace. She was floating. Her anxieties were no more.
His voice was as distinct as it always had been, but it seemed to be coming from inside her head and not from by her side. She listened, obeying every instruction and answering every question. He led her to a door. She reached for the handle. A familiar scene appeared before her.
Daylight trickled through the flimsy cotton curtains and onto Saskia's bed, pressing onto her eyelids and awakening her mind. Holding a determined pose, she remained on her side and tried to block out the screeching cries of her younger sisters.
There were creaking sounds, a soft whooshing sound, and a dull thump, all familiar noises as the youngest two jumped between their beds, clashing with pillows. Refusing to be drawn, Saskia lowered her head under the blankets craving silence, but it was not to be. There was a heavy thud, a scream, and the wailing sound of tears.
A scowl formed on her forehead as small hands landed on her body, motioning back and forth, urging her to awake.
'Saskia. Phoebe's hurt.'
She opened her eyes and squinted as she met with the artificial light bulb, dangling in the middle and unshaded. Camilla was tugging at her arm and pleading, and across the room, Phoebe's small body rested against a chest of drawers. Wailing pitifully, the little girl clutched her scrawny leg below the frayed hem of her nightdress.
Saskia's eyes narrowed. 'I've told you before not to mess around.'
Her head dropped.
'I'm going back to sleep. Ask Verity to look at her.'
'She's asleep.'
'Verity!' she yelled. 'Your turn.'
She did not flinch.
The crying was getting louder and more grating. Unwilling to help, Saskia reached to her blanket, putting her finger through a familiar hole and pulling it closer to her neck.
'Get back into bed and stop your howling, you little scrag-end.'
Phoebe's face was pink and contorted and her scrawny body curled into a ball. Her hair, fawn and dishevelled, looked as though someone had hacked it with hedge-trimmers rather than styled, and her complexion was gaunt and sallow.
Not relenting to their demands, Saskia buried her head under the covers and immersed herself in visions of a better life.
The door opened and the recognisable footfalls of her mother entered the room.
'What's going on?' Jane asked.
Strained breaths and squeals replaced the crying.
'Saskia?'
'It's Verity's turn. I'm always doing stuff.'
'Don't argue. You're the eldest. If one of the little ones needs help, it's your job.'
'That's so unfair.'
She continued to mutter under her breath, away from her mother's gaze, and looked at the lump under the covers on the next bed. As though drawn, Verity's head appeared, her expression smug. Saskia mouthed an insult. Verity responded with two fingers.
'Help your sister get up,' Jane said, 'and then see if Darren needs you.'
Her mother was overweight, in part due to of all the pregnancies, and had a determined demeanour and a tired grey complexion. She was in her mid to late thirties but seemed much older. She closed the door.
Verity leaned across her bed to Saskia. 'I got laid last night,' she whispered. 'Behind a garage in town.'
'Who with?'
'One of Barry's mates.'
'Not Roger.'
'No.'
'Paul?'
Verity grinned. 'No.'
'Terry?'
'Lord no. I won't want to touch him with my little finger. I'd catch something.'
'I've heard he's on the big side . . . might be worth a go.'
Verity giggled. 'Only with a gas mask. He stinks!'
'So who?'
'Ron Maddison.'
Saskia pulled a face. 'I think everyone in town has had him. He can't keep it in his pants!'
'You haven't.'
'I wouldn't want to, he gives me the creeps.'
Saskia watched Verity's face turn dreamy. How many men was that now? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? She was catching up and resolved to do something about it, but first, she wanted the details.
'What was it like?'
'It was over in about five seconds!'
'Not much good then.'
'I wouldn't say that. He was gentle . . . knew where to touch me. I like him. I'm going to see him again.'
'What!'
'He's nice when you get to know him,' she said, 'and I think he likes me.'
Saskia gawped. 'Are we talking about the same man?'
'He's misunderstood.'
'Misunderstood? Haven't you seen the way he touches himself? Or the way he focuses on your boobs when he talks? He only ever thinks of sex.'
'And we don't? You've had more boys than I have. You've no room to talk.'
'I am a year older.'
Saskia looked at Phoebe’s feeble frame and lost expression as she approached the narrow gap between their beds, clutching a ragged teddy bear.
'Mummy says I have to get dressed.'
'So get dressed,' Saskia said.
'My clothes are dirty.'
'Then keep them clean.'
Forlorn, the little girl trudged back to her side of the room.
'We should get out of here,' Saskia said to Verity, 'I need my own space.'
'How do we afford it?'
'I'll find a rich man.'
Verity smiled, a self-satisfied smile.
'What are you thinking?'
'Nothing.' Verity looked at Phoebe. 'She's waiting.'
Saskia thrust back the bedclothes and stepped towards the other end of the room towards a faint smell of urine. With a staid expression, she flung back the bedclothes and looked at the circular stain in the centre. She pressed her hand to it. It was dry.
'Show me your clothes,' Saskia said.
Phoebe passed her the blue skirt. The fabric bubbled, a seam was torn, and it stretched out of shape. At the rear was a small patch of mud.
'Where are your other outfits?'
'Mummy's washing them.'
'Then you'll have to wear this.'
Saskia reached for the matching top and examined it for dirt. She couldn't see any, but when she held it close to her nose, she could sense a faint smell. Dismissing it, she handed it back.
'This is okay, but after school make sure you take it off and give it to me or Mum to wash.'
Downcast, she accepted the outfit and started to dress. However, it didn’t take long for her to return to her bed. 'I don't feel well. I don't think I can go to school.'
'What's wrong?'
Her hand was flat against her stomach. 'I feel sick.'
'Too bad. Everyone has to go to school.'
'You don't.'
'I did when I was your age.'
Phoebe dragged her feet out of the room. Saskia considered adding that she also played truant to avoid the mockery, but as she had since decided that such behaviour wasn't an answer to their poverty, she kept quiet. Maybe she should try persuading their mother to buy the younger children new clothes instead of always passing them cast-offs. Unfortunately, she already knew of her response.
At the end of the day, Saskia and Verity returned home and entered the lounge. Two of their brothers chased each around the sofa and the two girls sat together reading a magazine. Presumably, their other brother, the oldest of the boys, would be in his bedroom, as was often the case, as he was keen to remove himself from the din.
'Going upstairs?' Saskia asked.
Verity nodded.
Saskia reached to the door handle, set upon the featureless dark green door, and peered at the dirty finger marks on the adjacent flowered wallpaper. She glanced down the frame to the floor where the dust gathered and the dirty-white skirting board lifted from the wall. She pushed it back with her foot, pressing the nails into the plaster, and eased open the door.
'You two will be feeding the kids,’ Jane called out. ‘I'm off out shortly.'
Saskia turned her head. Their mother was standing at the doorway of the kitchen with an apron covering her collared brown dress and with a tea towel in her hand.
'You could have warned us,' Saskia said, 'we've made plans.'
'Too bad. I've made plans too. I need timeout from you lot.'
'But I'm meeting Ron in an hour,' Verity said, her voice whiny, 'we're going on a double-date.'
'Tough luck. It's non-negotiable.'
Saskia glared at her mother who was stepping back into the kitchen, before glancing at Verity and heading up the dingy staircase to their bedroom. She threw herself onto her bed.
'She'll be getting rat-arsed again,' Verity said, 'it's all she ever does.'
'That and smoking. It's no wonder we've no money . . . might as well flush the notes down the bog.'
Verity grinned. 'It's more fun, though.'
'Personally, I'd like to eat first. I'm sure the kids would too.'
Saskia stared at the ceiling, painted white and with cobwebs. There was a crack above her, extending the width of the room. She followed it and wondered if it was a sign that the house was falling apart. She need not look further that the white chipboard wardrobe at the end of the beds to see the state of the place, one hasty move and the door would drop off, for sure.
'You'd better ring Ron, tell him we can't make it,' Saskia said.
'Maybe you could do dinner, and I could go out. We'll tell Alan you're not coming.'
'Or maybe I could go out and you could do dinner.'
'No way.'
She turned her head. 'I'm not covering for you again. You still owe me from last week.'
Verity was leaning over, looking into a mirror that rested on the chest of drawers and touching up her makeup. Then she stood back, straightened her collar and pushed out her breasts.
'They're not going to get any bigger,' Saskia said.
'He tells me a handful is enough.'
'Good job.'
Annoyed, Verity flung the hairbrush at Saskia. It landed on the edge of the adjacent bed, wobbled and dropped to the floor.
'I still can't see what you see in Ron. It can't be his charming personality.'
'He's nice when you get to know him.'
'He's a bit sleazy . . . pays too many compliments, none of which are genuine.'
She stiffened. 'How do you know? You don't know him.'
'Stuff I've heard.'
'Yes, well, you shouldn't believe everything you hear.'
'It seems to me you're in love.'
She turned away. 'Hardly.'
'So what is it, his good looks?'
Verity jolted. 'You're such a jealous bitch.'
'He must have money then.'
There was silence.
Saskia bolted upright. 'I'm right, aren't I?'
The bedroom door thrust open. She held up her hand to Camilla, stopping her mid-babble. 'He has money, doesn't he?'
Verity still did not answer and kept her eyes averted. Saskia smirked and followed Camilla downstairs.
Her head was in a spin. She needed a man, a real man, someone like Ron, someone with a bit of money. He wasn't a bad catch. He liked to spread himself about a bit, but who didn't? How much did he have? Did he have his own place? He was not bad to look at, not bright but not stupid either. It could be worse, far worse.
She entered the kitchen.
Her mother was removing her apron. 'There's a tin of pilchards in the cupboard, and carrots and potatoes in the vegetable rack. Don't use more than half of the potatoes, and a third of the carrots. I'll be eating out with your dad. If you need anything else there's bread in the cupboard.' She weaved past. 'Don't wait up.'
Saskia sighed and opened the door to the vegetable rack. It was no surprise to see that it was nearly empty, and her heart sank. How could she feed seven hungry mouths with this? Darren and Phoebe did not understand their hunger pangs, and the older children complained endlessly. She reached for the potatoes and drifted back to her ponderings.
Was it selfish to want to leave home? She scanned the room and the rickety cupboards and yellowing wallpaper. If she left there would be more for everyone else, she would be doing everyone a good turn, and she would be removing herself from a life of poverty and slavery. Perhaps the slavery was a little extreme, although she did do far more work around the house than Verity did, and come to think of it, often her mother too. How many times had she returned home to find her mother too drunk to cook? Saskia knew it was no wonder that she had no friends. Her life was too embarrassing to share.
Frustrated, she dropped the potatoes into the cold water and started to scrub. Some of the dirt was so engrained it would not budge, and she was tempted to reach for a knife, but her mother's warning rang in her head. 'Don't throw away the peelings. It's still food and it's the most nutritious part.' Her insides tightened. It may be true, but if her mother didn't spend so much money on herself, they could afford to buy another bag.
She took a knife, cut them into small pieces, and dropped them into a small pan.
Darren appeared at the doorway. 'My tummy hurts.'
'Go and play. It'll be a while yet.'
He pressed his arm across his middle. 'I can't, I'm hungry.'
'Quit moaning. It's the same for everyone. Now go.'
She ushered him away and then shut the door, eliminating the screeches and the distractions, and continued to chop the carrots. Moments later, the door opened. She turned and scowled, but this time it was her mother, dressed up and ready to leave the house. Her annoyances pounded her veins. It should be her going out.
'Where's Verity?' Jane asked.
'Isn't she upstairs?'
'No.'
She reached for a pan, slamming it onto the worktop and causing the vibration to pass along her arm. 'The bitch! She'll have gone out.'
'Oh well. So long as one of you is here, I don't mind who it is.'
'It's always me! This is so unfair.'
'Quit moaning. Life sucks. Get used to it.'
One door closed and the other creaked open. Phoebe was before her standing in her underwear and holding her skirt and top. 'This smells.'
She snatched it from her sister, turned down the power on the gas hob, and stomped upstairs to the bathroom. It was a simple white bath set with no embellishments, a filthy linoleum floor, and a grubby towel resting on the rim of the bath. She placed the outfit into the sink and turned on the tap, but the hot water was running cold. She made a vivid exclamation before adding a tiny amount of soap flakes into the mix.
The water was painful on her skin as she pummelled the cloth as rigorously as possible. She turned it over, worked the soap into the fabric, and stretched it, encouraging the dirt to release. Heavy footsteps pounded the stairs.
'When's dinner?' Camilla said.
'Soon. Go. I'm on to it.'
'But when? We're hungry.'
'Go! Now!'
Her skinny form faded.
Saskia's hands were red and puffy as she rinsed out the outfit with fresh water, squeezing away the residue of lingering soap. With the sodden outfit in her hands, she headed downstairs and into the chaotic cries of the children. Almost in unison, they voiced their dismay, each hungry, each impatient. It caused her to consider the meagre ration she was about to present, and even though Verity had done them all favour by going out, she was in no mood to thank her sister. Her thoughts were dark and she wanted revenge.
Later that evening, having fed everyone, cleaned up, and put the youngsters to bed, Saskia flopped onto the sofa and listened to the beautiful sound of silence. However, before long her head rang with the imagined high-pitched screams and woeful cries of hunger, her brothers and sisters ever-present. She needed her own space, she needed someone like Ron to provide for her and take her away from her life of drudgery.
The creaking sound of the outer door opened and a rush of cooling air wafted into her. She turned her head and looked at Verity, who was oozing happiness, her eyes glistening, her skin red, and her mouth curling unashamedly.
'I've had the most fantastic evening,' she said. 'Ron likes me. I think this is it.'
Saskia glared, wide-eyed. 'Aren't you going to say you're sorry? I've been slaving away all evening after those bloody kids.'
'Chill! I'll do it next time.'
'You never do!'
Verity dropped onto the arm of the chair and then slithered down to the cushion. 'Stop your whingeing. I've got news.'
'I've got a right to a life too.'
'You sound like an old married woman.'
She puffed out, folded her arms, and stared at the electric fire. That was exactly how she felt. She was only eighteen and had become a slave to housework. There was no way she would get married and have kids. However, the moment she thought it, she reconsidered. Marriage would be a wise thing to do, at least until she could pay for her own way in life.
Her art folder hidden under her bed, containing some of her best sketches represented her dreams. She preferred to draw scenes of human life, the suffering of the unfortunate, the struggle through old age, and the energy and innocence of the young. One day, her perfectionism would pave the way to a successful future. She just needed a bit of luck.
'Don't you want to know my news?' Verity said.
She passed a blank stare.
'Mum's pregnant again.'
'How do you know?'
'We were snogging beside The Black Swan when Mum and Dad appeared. She was telling him.'
'How far on is she?'
'Not far.' She grinned. 'She was saying she couldn't understand why she kept miscarrying.'
'Did they see you?'
She shook her head and grinned.
'Have we got any herbs left?'
'A bit of periwinkle, but probably not enough. I think we should go see Grandma.'
'We'll do it tomorrow. Do you think she has any ideas what we're doing?' Saskia asked.
'Grandma? I doubt she would care. She doesn't like Mum . . . thinks she's not good enough for Dad.'
A tad of guilt emerged. 'Should we be doing this?'
'We're doing everyone a favour. What she doesn't know won't harm her.'
She rotated her ring. 'It's not really our decision.'
'Who do you think would have to look after the baby? We would. Mum doesn't want another child, she just wants the financial benefits.'
Her sister was right and her doubts faded. She thought of her hungry brothers and sisters and their scrawny bodies, grumbling stomachs, and washed out faces. Surely seven children were enough for anyone, rich or poor.
With Megan’s left arm resting on the dining table and her right hand near her mouth, she stared through the gap in the patio doors and into the garden. She did not see the birds squawking and tussling for space at a feeder, nor the bees and butterflies hovering over flowers. Everything was a blur; she cared little for her surroundings and thought only of the confusion inside her head.
Two lives in one body. The concept was mind-blowing and she clung to the fading hope that the memories were hers and experienced in a childhood she had chosen to forget. But she could not deny the truth. Her recollections, hidden in her subconscious, were of events that had occurred before her birth. How could that be?
Perhaps she had made it up. Luke had said not, and told her that she had been in a deep trance and not in a position to do something that required conscious thought. He had also said that if she’d had scant recollections she would have answered his questions accordingly during the session. Puffing out, she was desperate for a logical answer. Even if Luke had been wrong and she had made it up, she would rather have guided the evidence to proving that she had witnessed the crime rather than experienced it in a past life.
Her nonsensical thoughts swirled. She had gone over every possibility numerous times, searching for something that could explain what had happened, but she only managed to deepen her anxieties further. Her chest rose and fell with increasing frequency, and her body ached. By all accounts, Megan had been Saskia.
It explained her desire to return to Rodley, it explained why she recognized certain people, and it explained her reason for going to Frank Fox's grave.
She rubbed her fingers and tightened her jaw. Someone had murdered Saskia and she had avoided by the narrowest of margins the same ending. What was occurring, and for why? Was Verity her pursuer? Was the fact that Saskia had stolen Ron from her motive enough to kill?
Chills enveloped her. She rubbed her arms and pressed them close to her body, searching for warmth and calm. Instead, she visualised a knife, blood, and death. Had she come face to face with the person who had attempted to kill her? With her head bowed, she stepped to the sofa for her cardigan and walked straight into Ben.
He held her firm in his hands. 'Are you okay?'
She wriggled free. 'Fine.'
His gaze projected oppressive sympathy. She held her breath and clamped shut her mouth.
'I can imagine how you feel,' he said. 'It must be terrifying having memories that belong to someone else, but I doubt you're alone. If reincarnation happens, we will all have had other lives.'
'No one else remembers their other life.'
'Saskia was killed for a reason. She must have come back to get revenge.'
She stiffened. 'Do I look like I am out for revenge?'
'Okay, so maybe not revenge, but something else.'
'Reincarnation is nonsense.'
'I can't believe you are still saying that.'
'What else am I supposed to say? Saskia caused her mother's miscarriages. That's a horrible thing to do. I would never . . .'
'That's not your fault.'
'So tell me Ben, whose fault is it?'
He reached out his hands and rested them on the sides of her arms. 'Now listen. What Saskia did has nothing to do with you.'
Her jaw clenched.
'I don't want to see you beating yourself up over this,' he continued. 'It will be over soon enough.'
He drew closer. His stubble pressed onto her cheek and his arms were firm around her back. She felt safe and secure and her stiffness dissolved. At least she had someone to share this drama with, someone who cared.
'Thanks for being there,' she said. ‘And I’m sorry for being snappy all the time.’
'I will always be there for you, no matter what.'
She looked at him sceptical and thought of Joshua and her secret admission of guilt. Was now the time to share it? Would he be so disgusted that he would flee? Acting in haste, she slipped free, making a weak excuse, and rushed upstairs and flopped onto the bed. When she could cope with his sudden departure, she would tell him everything, and not before.
Her focus drifted to David’s voice in the next room. Since he was alone, she knew he must be speaking on his phone, and she did not know whom to. Regardless, his words were vulgar and her skin crawled.
She tried to blank him out. When he spoke salaciously about a woman with yellow-blonde hair and a trim body, she darted into his room.
He glimpsed at her, ended the call, and lowered the lid of his laptop. He was leering and proud.
Afraid of his actions, she stomped towards him and reached to his computer. He resisted and squeezed her wrist.
'Let me go!' she yelled.
His eyes wandered down the length of her body, resting on her once-bruised thigh. 'Are you sure you want me to do that?'
'Let me go you creep!'
Surprisingly, he did. She was even more amazed when he allowed her to reach open the lid of the laptop.
On the screen was an image of her wearing only her underwear. Horrified, she pressed her hand to her mouth. 'Where did you get this from?' she screeched.
'I have more. Want to see?'
She could see an array of small images on the left of the screen, scantily clad and in suggestive positions, and it caused her stomach to roll. How had she not noticed him taking them? It was a horrifying invasion of privacy. 'W-where did you get these?'
He smirked. ‘Like them?'
'Delete them. Now!'
'No way. I’ll have hours of pleasure looking at these. And I know someone else who will do too.'
She had heard enough and stomped to the door. 'I'm sure Ben would like to know about this.'
He smirked. 'I'm sure he would like to know about Joshua too.'
She rushed into her room, slammed the door and fell onto the bed. Her heart was hammering and she struggled to breathe. She squeezed shut her eyes, but the darkness did nothing to soothe her torment and she craved Ben's understanding.
The first time Megan told Ben of David's antics, he refused to accept it and hid any feelings he may have had by speaking of his disappointment towards her. How he could have treated her as appallingly as he had was beyond comprehension. It was understandable that he may have wanted to protect his son, but not to the extent of calling his lover and so-called life-partner a liar.
With her torment tensing her body, she turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling, and at the rippled white paint and lemon light-shade. Then her eyes dropped down to the wardrobe and units, and onto the curtains and radiator. This should be a new start, away from Ben and David. Why had everything gone wrong?
Out of her eye-corner, she noticed the loving gaze of her son set in a small frame. Was this her punishment? Not only had her carelessness led to Joshua’s death, but also, she was responsible for the death of an innocent man who had only wanted to steal a car. Then, and assuming the reincarnation to be true, she was to blame for Saskia’s mother’s miscarriages. She was evil and her soul tarnished. Releasing a wailing cry, she pummelled the pillow.
'Megan?'
Her eyes ripped open. Ben was leaning over, reaching to her hand and expressing a deep compassion.
She leaped from the bed. 'When this is over, we're finished.'
'Why? What's wrong?'
'It's not what I want. I'm . . . I'm evil.'
She ran down the staircase, banging her weight onto each step.
'Megan . . . what’s brought this on?'
She wanted to run, escape into oblivion, but a piece of card resting on the floor just below the letterbox caught her eye. She reached down and picked it up.
'What's that?' he asked.
It was a suggestion to leave, or rather a plea, a demand, and it left her in no doubt that she was in danger.
'It's nothing,' she replied, hiding it from view.
She kept hold and fled to the privacy of the bathroom. There, she sank to the floor
Desperate for a break from what had become a tormented existence, Megan relented to Larry's suggestion and decided to meet him to use the art exhibition tickets he had given her. She had considered going with Ben, but she associated him with the continuing troubles, regardless of whether he was being supportive or panicking about her safety, and wanted a few hours of freedom from her thoughts. In addition, despite a piercing cry from inside, she sensed that their relationship was nearing its end, a result of the painful secret that David was bound to share. Consequently, she needed to get used to a solitary existence.
Making a place for herself in Ben and David’s lives was always going to be difficult. At the start of their relationship, she had done her best to appease David, but she had been inexperienced in such matters and wondered if she had handled the situation appropriately. Maybe she should have been more willing to share Ben and involve David in conversations or even suggest they go out as a group. In actuality, she had wanted her lover to herself and had pushed him aside. Now she paid the price.
She glanced at the time and concluded it was time to leave. She didn’t want to have to explain to Ben where she was going, since they were bound to argue, and crept down the stairs, careful to avoid making any sound, and tiptoed to the front door. Upon seeing Ben in the living room working, she turned the handle, eased it open, and stepped into the rush of warm air. Having taken one last glimpse back inside, she pressed it shut and headed along the street.
The air brushed her skin and the intense sunlight lifted her spirit. She glanced at the pedestrians and peered into the passing vehicles. No one was watching her, no one cared that she had left the house, and her steps reflected her joyous mood.
A woman with a low-cut top and exposed cleavage climbed out of a nearby car. Megan tensed as David's sordid photographs flashed into her mind. How could she have been unaware of his filming? So much for her powers of observation. Gritting her teeth and willing away thoughts of his perverted behaviour, she continued on the road remaining determined to make the most of her outing with a kind and generous man.
Larry was waiting for her in the market square, and her face broke into a wide smile. She focused on his smooth, rounded face and glistening eyes, she looked at his lips, tight and pale. His presence generated a sense of contentment.
'How are you doing?' he asked.
'Much better for seeing you.'
'Tension at home?'
She sighed. 'Nothing more than usual. I'll be glad when they leave.'
'It's not working out then.'
'No. I had to give it a try, though.'
'When's he leaving?'
Hesitating, she stared into a confectionary shop, observing the collection of chocolates and sweets through the glass front. 'I don't know. Soon I hope.'
'You're making the right decision. If a relationship is hard at the start it's not going to get easier in the long run.'
'We've had our share of problems but we've had our good times too.'
'As it should be.'
They walked in unison along the street, only breaking from their rhythm to allow dawdling pedestrians to pass by and to look through windows.
'You're a good person Megan, you deserve the best.'
'Thanks, you're sweet.'
He smiled.
'What about you, anyone in your life?'
He turned and grinned. 'Is that a proposition?'
'Not likely.'
'I'm not good enough then?'
He noted the sparkle in his eyes. 'I'm done with men!'
'I'm quite a catch. I have money.'
'And you have no dependents!'
'There you go. What is there to lose?'
She could see he wasn't serious, yet her heart still fluttered. Maybe if he was twenty years younger she might have been interested, but right now, right here, she struggled to get beyond his wrinkled, sagging skin. She tried to imagine away his aging complexion and grey balding hair and decided he might have been a catch in his day.
'Has anything else happened with this Saskia case?' Larry asked.
She steadied her breath. 'Nothing worth mentioning.'
'Is Luke Adams still investigating?'
She nodded. 'He has spoken to Ron. I don't think he has discovered much, though.'
'It's unlikely he will.'
'Why? Don't you think Saskia was killed?'
'What I think is irrelevant. Thirty years has passed. If they couldn't find any evidence then, it's not going to happen now.'
'You seem sure.'
'There must have been a cover up. Also, the police are not that bright. You have to think a particular way if you are going to unravel a well thought out murder . . . few people can do that.'
She looked at him, puzzled.
'I've read a lot of crime thrillers.'
Was he right? Were they never going to reach a satisfactory end? Anxious, she wrapped her arm around her body and continued along the street, passing shops, estate agents, and offices.
'I didn't mean to worry you,’ he said. ‘Do you still think someone’s following you?'
'Maybe . . . I don't know. Can we talk about something else?'
'Sure.'
'Now about this exhibition. What should I expect?'
They weaved through the crowds, out of the main exhibition hall, and headed towards the gallery's vast collection of local work. Megan was glad to escape from the heated bodies and the buzzing sound of observations and expectations, and stepped through the corridor, appreciative of the refreshing air and quieter surroundings.
The sign guided them down a wide concrete staircase to the ground floor, passing a middle-aged woman collecting tickets with a wrinkled face and a slumped midriff. To Megan's left was the reception area and exit, and to her right was a sign leading to further works of art, the café, and the toilets. She followed Larry down the corridor and hesitated when he strode into the first room.
'Fancy a drink first?' she asked.
'Good idea.'
They followed the sign and ended up on the far side of the building. The café looked as though it had been a recent addition, and was semi-circular in shape and had windows around the edge. The floor had sandy-coloured tiles with a fine brown stripe along one side, and the table and chairs were a light colour and made of wood. Everything was pristine; the counter sparkled, the floor had no ground-in dirt or scratches, and the blinds were crisp and clean. They followed a couple along the counter to the till and purchased two coffees.
Despite its obvious popularity, there were empty tables, and so they strode to a free table alongside the windows. They hadn’t been there long when Larry’s gaze drifted down her body before resting on her face.
He smiled. 'I'm glad you decided to come.'
'So am I. I'm surprised how popular it is.'
'It's the same every time they have a specialist exhibition. The rest of the art is good too. I hope you’ll have the energy to continue after your coffee.'
‘Definitely. It’s motivated me to start drawing again. It's just what I needed.'
‘That was my intention.’
She reached for her mug and buried her face in the warm vapours. He was a lovely man and seemed to be able to anticipate her desires even before she could. It was also good to be with someone who wasn't concerned for her safety. She could relax and be herself. Her phone sounded.
It would be Ben complaining that she had gone out. She felt like a prisoner on day release and reluctantly looked at the small screen ready to retaliate. However, when she saw the message, she wished she were right. David had sent her one of the images her had taken. Her stomach turned and her lungs tightened.
'Everything all right?' Larry asked.
She managed a weak nod.
'I hope it's not a message from whoever is following you.'
'No, it's nothing like that.'
He looked away, pensive, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere. She felt sure he wanted her to share her distress, but this was definitely something she was going to keep private. David had invaded her personal space and sent her a message as proof. He was a sick individual and wanted her to suffer.
She was wondering if he had sent it to anyone else when Larry's phone sounded. Holding her breath, she watched as he reached into his pocket and pressed his finger onto the screen. A smile crossed his lips. Was it the same text? She started quaking and stared wide-eyed. Even if she had wanted to reach across and snatch his phone, she was unable, weakened by distress.
He caught her gaze. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'
Her mouth opened and shut.
He glanced at his phone. 'It was a message from a colleague - nothing to worry about.'
She wasn’t convinced and believed it was the same message. It was something David would do to upset her, in the same way that he'd told her that Larry fancied her. He was trying to mess with her head and stop her from leading a normal life. Riled, she gripped her coffee mug and stared outside. Once again, David had spoiled her day; once again, he had gained the upper hand.
She was lost in thoughts when a figure slipped behind a bush out of sight. Jerking, she narrowed her eyes, scanning the surrounding space, certain that once again someone was tracking her.
'You seem anxious,’ Larry said in a concerned tone. ‘Are you certain there's nothing you want to talk about? I'm a good listener.'
'I thought I saw someone looking.'
He gazed outside. 'You mustn't get paranoid.'
'You're right, but I also received a warning to leave.'
'When?’
‘Earlier. It didn’t say a lot, just that I should leave Rodley.'
'And it didn't say who it was from?'
She shook her head. 'I think it was Verity. Did you know that she dated Ron before Saskia did?'
'Of course! I'd forgotten about that.'
'I think she was in love with him. It would explain why they fell out.'
'It would have given her motive to kill Saskia too,' he said.
'That's what I thought.'
Her enthusiasm coloured her face. 'Verity said Saskia never loved Ron. His money was the attraction, so she could escape from her family. She had to do most of the housework and tend to her younger siblings. It must have been hard.'
'Meaning Verity would have to do it after she left.'
'Exactly.'
He grinned. 'That wouldn't have impressed her.'
She wrapped her hand around her mug. 'Do you think she's capable of murder?'
'I think we all are. We just never believe it until it happens.'
'Why do you think she's warning me away?'
Larry leaned back into his seat and rested his arms at angles on the table. 'She has quite a temper. Maybe she's worried she won't be able to control herself.'
'Could she be planning something?'
'Could be, although I wouldn't have thought she was the type to premeditate murder.'
'So you think it was an accident?'
He nodded thoughtfully. 'Try not to worry. I doubt you're in danger.'
'I wish I had your confidence. Ben won't let me out of his sight.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'I sneaked out.'
'It sounds to me like you should tell him to leave . . . and the sooner the better.'
Her heart was heavy. Soon she would have to.
'If there's ever anything I can do to help, just ask.'
'Thanks. That means a lot.'
They sat for a few moments in silence. Larry’s attention wandered around the café whilst she peered outside looking for the person she believed had been out there watching her. To her gratitude, she didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously, and decided, as he had suggested, that she was paranoid.
'Shall we go see the rest of the art?' he asked.
She agreed, threw back the dregs of cold coffee and lifted herself from the chair. He raised his arm, encouraging her to take the lead, and followed her out of the café. They meandered into the first room.
'Did you know Saskia was an artist?' he asked.
'Yes, I did.'
'Have you seen her work?'
'No.'
'Then there is something here that might interest you.'
She followed him across the room, passing two men wearing matching attire and holding similar effeminate poses and a student with a clipboard and pencil. At the far side was a painting. When she saw it, her heart leapt and her blood pummelled her insides. The painting was a drunk slumped outside a shop, and it was remarkably similar to one she had drawn during her teens.
Distant memories surged. She had been seated in an uncluttered room with a blank canvas. A window overlooked a vast garden, trees stretched to the sky, and ominous grey cloud loomed overhead. Then, she had started to sketch.
'Saskia did this,' Megan said, stating the obvious.
'Do you remember her other work?'
She looked at the painting and then to Larry. As she did so, she sensed someone by the door watching her. Jerking, she spun around and caught a fleeting glimpse of the person disappearing from view. Determinedly, she started to chase.
Ignoring Larry’s plea to stop, she ran along the corridor and scampered out of the main exit. She scanned the precinct, searched the meandering folks for dark trousers and a white top, and ran to a nearby road.
Someone grabbed her arm, pulling her into the side. She turned and stared.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?' Megan asked, attempting to wriggle free.
Verity stepped around her, keeping her within her grasp, and peered towards the art gallery entrance, looking beyond the lingering throng on the lawns beside the walkway to the prestigious stone building. Her face depicted anxiety and was grey and laden with small lines.
She shuffled from view. You should be staying away from these public functions. It’s not safe for you.'
‘So now you care.’
She hesitated, grabbed her arm and encouraged her away, making short swift steps passing a bus stop and a row of houses. Cars crawled along the road, making little headway through the town and pausing at the traffic lights up ahead. There was a throbbing beat of drums amongst the rumble of engines, and an indecipherable sound of voices, yet there was apparent calm.
Megan tussled free and stopped. ‘Why are you dragging me away?’
‘I’m trying to keep you safe. Have you any idea how much danger you're in?'
'Just a bit. Someone tampered with Ben's car. I would have been dead if-'
'No time. We have to keep moving.'
Verity made a right turn along a street, scampered across the road, and headed past an adventure sports shop and a small office block. Megan blindly kept pace, but not for long, as her uncertainties gained clarity. Aware of her vulnerabilities, she feared the isolation of the empty urban street and wondered if she was walking to her death. She stopped trotting, clasped her hands together, and searched for a plan.
She had no idea what she was doing following a woman, who up until recently had been a stranger. She had been safe with Larry in a public place. Now she was following Verity and they were going to some unexplained destination.
She stopped. ‘I'm not going any further with you.’
'You will if you know what's good for you.'
'Don't threaten me.'
'I'm not threatening you, I'm looking out for you. You're being watched.'
'Yes, I know. By you! Just leave me alone.'
Verity reached to her arm. 'Don't go back to Larry. Don't go through the centre. I'll take you home. I know a few back routes.'
'How do I know I can trust you?'
'You don't, but look.' She reached into her pocket. 'I have my house keys and a phone with me. What harm can I do?'
Relying on intuition, she reasoned that she was not in danger, and so chose to walk with Verity, deciding it would give her opportunity to ask questions. Her body softened and her steps became slower and less mechanical.
'Why are you helping me?'
'Because I like you and because you remind me of Saskia. She wouldn't listen to me either and look where it got her. I'm not going to let this happen twice.'
'You know why she was killed, don't you?'
'No, I don't.'
'Did you do it?'
Verity did not flinch and kept her eyes on the path ahead. 'I was wondering when you would ask me that.'
'So did you?'
'Do you think I would tell you if I did?'
She dropped her gaze. It was a ridiculous question.
'You ask far too many questions. Just because you look like Saskia, it doesn't give you the right to probe into her life.'
'Someone is trying to kill me. What am I supposed to do?'
'You're supposed to leave.'
She blew out. 'It sounds to me like you want me gone because you’re worried I'll find something out.'
Verity jerked to a standstill and stared. 'Don't look into my life Megan, or Saskia's. I mean it.'
'I already know that you were in love with Ron. She stole him from you, didn't she?'
'Who told you that?'
She weaved past and continued walking. 'Do you still love him?'
'It was over years ago, well before that idiot sister of mine married him.'
'It seems to me that you and Ron wanted her dead so you could carry on seeing each other.'
'If that were true we would have got back together after she left. I haven't spoken to him in years.'
A small flock of birds darted across her path and bolted into a privet hedge, pursued by a ginger and white cat. Pausing, she watched it pounce over the low fence and disappear under the canopy of a Californian Lilac bush before she turned her attention back to Verity. ‘It seems motive enough to me.’
'Think what you like, but Ron never loved me. Saskia was the only one for him. Something I accepted decades ago.'
'You must have been angry with her. She didn't love him and you did.'
Her jaw clenched and the muscles tightened around her neck. Was the pain still there? Was that why she remained single?
'Saskia didn't care how I felt,’ she replied. ‘She had a plan and wanted to get out of the family home. We could have talked about it and come up with something together, but no, Saskia had to do something herself. We’d both had enough of our family and we did some stupid things.'
The miscarriages were on the tip of Megan's tongue. When she saw the pain contort Verity's face, she thought better of it.
'Is Ron dangerous?' she asked.
'Dangerous? Seeing you has spooked him, as well as bringing back memories of his loss, but I don't think he would harm anyone. He's a well-liked member of the community. People trust him.'
'I thought you just said you hadn't spoken to him in years.' She paused, studying her questioning face. ‘You said it as though you’d spoken recently.’
Verity scowled. 'I knew him well enough to imagine how he would feel.'
Was she backtracking? Suspicious, Megan wondered if they had remained in contact, or if not, if they had communicated since her arrival. They could both be involved in Saskia's disappearance. It would make sense that they would keep each other informed of any progress with the case.
Alternatively, Perhaps Ron had killed Saskia, and Verity knew about it. She could be protecting him, but for what reason? It wouldn’t be for love, as she had no evidence they were an item. In addition, Verity loved Saskia too, meaning she would have wanted her murderer brought to justice, something that would have been a top priority.
'Why are you spending time with Larry?' Verity asked.
'He's a friend.'
'Stay clear. He has a history.'
'We all have a history.'
Verity reached across to Megan's wrist and gripped it tight. 'He has a record of stalking woman.'
She shook herself free. 'He told me.'
'What?'
'Yes. He said he regretted what he'd done.'
'Did he tell you he followed her everywhere? To the gym, to work, out shopping. His house was plastered with photos.'
She swallowed her unease.
'I thought not,' she continued. 'He's a creep . . . obsessive . . . nothing like he seems.'
'He's not like that with me.'
'Not yet.'
'He's a decent man. He said it all happened a long time ago and that he’d changed.
She harrumphed. 'Boy, you're naïve. Saskia was too . . . didn't have a clue what she was getting into.'
'With Ron?'
'Remember Megan, anyone who knew Saskia is going to protect themselves first. Don't say I haven't warned you. I've done what I can, but I can't be responsible for what happens next. Keep probing and suffer the consequences.'
'I don't like what you're implying.'
'I'm not implying anything.'
'Go home, pack your bags, and get out. Then you may live.'
Bewildered, she remained in position and watched Verity turn a corner and walk along a street that was not in her general direction. Her strides were lanky and her arms swung in a semi-circle motion. She turned into what seemed like someone's garden, but Megan soon realised it was a narrow path set between two houses. With her pulse racing, she trotted after her, her mind swirling with questions.
Verity was walking at quite a pace and glanced at her watch and then reached into her pocket for her phone. With her ear pressed against it, she turned her head. Megan flattened herself against a wall and turned her head to one side. Regretful of her covert actions, her heart thumped and she started to perspire. Verity appeared not to notice and carried on chatting. Had her plan failed? She was sure that Verity had never intended to be sighted, nor had she planned to walk her home. Something had gone wrong, something she now shared. Who was she working with? Was the person she was talking to her associate? Was it Ron?
Longing for the safety of her home, she fled home.
As quietly as possible, Megan closed the door, dropped her belongings and crept to the kitchen, craving normality. Little had changed since she’d left; there were saucers scattered across the worktop, a couple of mugs near the sink, and breadcrumbs next to some spilled milk. Having switched on the kettle, she leaned against the radiator and listened to the gentle thud of steps descending the stairs.
Determined not to let Ben see her anxieties, she tried to force herself into an emotionless state, yet still, her body involuntarily tightened as she prepared herself for an onslaught of questions and reprimands. Surprisingly, however, the moment he realised she had returned his faced slipped into a smile. He welcomed her with an appreciative hug. Stiffly, she returned his kiss.
'Where have you been? I've been worried.'
'Larry gave me a ticket to an art exhibition at the gallery. Didn't I tell you?'
'Oh sorry, I must have forgotten.' He smoothed away strands of hair from her face. 'How was it?'
'It was good. He's a nice man.'
'Do you trust him?'
'Of course I do. I wouldn't have gone out with him otherwise.'
He raised an eyebrow. 'Please be careful.'
Stiffening, she reached for the kettle, poured the bubbling water into the coffee mug, and swirled the liquid around with her spoon.
'I'm not sure I trust him,' he said, 'he is keen to impress you.'
'You're being ridiculous . . . and paranoid.'
Holding an impassive gaze, he followed her to the dining room and sat across the table. He seemed too quiet for her liking and gazed out of the patio doors, his expression pensive. She had expected him to complain about her meeting with Larry and thought he would be screaming and shouting. His behaviour was strange and out of character.
'Verity warned me away from him as well,’ she said. ‘But you’re both wrong. My intuition is good. It's never let me down before.'
'What reason did she give?'
'She could only come up with an incident that happened twenty plus years ago. He stalked a woman.'
'Perhaps you should listen to her.'
Her back stiffened. 'He's the one person supporting me without suffocating me.'
His shoulders slumped and sorrow covered his face. For a moment, she wondered if her words were too forceful, but as she pondered her statement, she decided that she was being fair. Ben had a way of generating panic. To him, everyone and everything was a danger. She could not live like that, terrified of her own shadow. If someone was going to attack her, so be it. She wasn't going to hide away.
The outer door opened and David strode into the living area. He peered across to Ben, gave him a curious glance and a slanted smile, and then turned his attention to Megan. 'Enjoy the gallery?'
'You were spying on me!'
'Course not. I was just passing.'
'And why David? Why would you be passing the art gallery?'
'I am allowed to go out, you know.'
Ben reached across for her hand. 'Megan, please.'
She flung it aside. 'You knew about this?'
Sheepish, he looked away.
'Well?'
'He was heading out anyway.'
'You condone this? Lord, I'm such an idiot. I couldn’t understand why you’d been so calm . . . this explains it!'
'I understand how stressful this is for you, but try to understand I'm just-'
'Don't patronise me Ben. I'll be glad when this is over, and then you'll both be gone. You deserve each other.'
She stomped towards the patio doors, thrust them open, and stepped towards a bench a little distance away. There was no one else around; the other houses seemed to be unoccupied or else the people were not in view. Grateful for the solitude, she folded her arms, crossed her legs, and smoothed away her scorned expression.
Out of her eye corner, she could see Ben at the table in the house. He rested his head on his hand, and with a glazed look in his eyes stared into another part of the garden. Had he any idea how much his actions hurt her? By encouraging David to follow her, he was exacerbating his son's perverted behaviour. Obviously, he continued to ignore her comments, and she wasted her breath. How could they share a future when there was so little trust and understanding between them?
Her disappointment sat heavy in her stomach. Despite everything, she loved him: his shaggy hair, his askew nose, and his confident, masculine demeanour. Their future, or apparent lack of it, burned.
She had believed they would travel through Europe in a camper van, and that they would share many family moments alongside children and grandchildren. She expected them to combine pastimes and social outings. She thought they would have a long fulfilled life, and together they would grow old.
Puffing out, she watched a butterfly meander aimlessly across the herbaceous border before settling on the small blue flower. It rested with its patterned wings extended, feeding and soaking up the dying rays of the sun. It had a short, simple life: eat, feed and reproduce. It seemed a fine choice.
Ben strode towards her, yet she remained in a trance-like state and continued to absorb nature's beauty, pretending not to notice. In the past, she had craved a few tender words after arguments - a confession, an explanation, and a promise to resolve the situation - but she had expected too much. His silence seemed to be the only apology he was able to offer.
He did not speak and sat beside her, and reached for her hand as though craving a spiritual joining. His grip was firm and his hand warm and sticky. He shuffled closer, pressing his leg against her thigh and rubbing shoulders. Inside, she sensed herself stiffen but resolved to accept his silent plea. The alternative, the perpetual arguments resulting in further stress was too difficult to tolerate right now.
Time passed and they remained together, speaking in quiet voices with neither, she sensed, wanting to argue. However, their silent agreement meant that many subjects were off limits, and rather than risking an eruption of fury, they stayed with the inconsequential speaking only of the garden, music, and films. After a while, her mood lightened. It was good to eradicate the mess from her mind and free herself of her anxieties, even if it was a temporary respite.
The shade stealthily crept towards them, shrouding the plants into relative darkness, and causing her skin to cool. She rubbed her hand across her bare arm and felt a ripple of cool air around her neck. It was time to move.
She turned to Ben. 'Shall we go inside? It's getting a bit chilly.'
He nodded and so she led the way, passing into the house and perching on a chair at the dining table. David was slouched on the sofa under the spell of the television and unaffected by their sudden appearance. She frowned at him. His life was carefree.
Ben took her hand, refocusing her attention, and stared into her eyes. 'I do love you, you know that, don't you?'
She looked away, nodding feebly.
'When this is over, I'd like you to come back to Halifax with me.'
He leaned towards her, his warm, stale breath closing in on her face. She wanted to back away, but for some reason felt trapped, her body inflexible and frozen to the chair.
'I've been thinking long and hard about our situation,' he said. 'I am going to sell our house, and we can buy a new place together . . . anywhere you want. We can even buy new furniture. It'll be fantastic Megan. I want you to have a room where you can draw and paint. I know, one day, you'll be a famous artist.'
'I don't have problems with the house.'
His face dropped. 'Wouldn't it help?'
For a reason unbeknown to her, she felt unable to crush his enthusiasm. He was trying hard to appease her, but he had missed the point. Was he that blind, or was he hiding from the issue she had with David? She chewed her lip and played with her ring. Maybe when David started university, a year from now, they could try again.
Reluctantly, she agreed to his comment.
'Fantastic. Where do you fancy looking? In the countryside or one of the towns?'
'I . . . I don't know. I haven't thought about it.'
'How about we try villages on the outskirts of Halifax? There are some very pretty places. Then we would have the best of both worlds.'
'Okay.'
'I'm so proud of you Megan. You're a fantastic woman.'
She gulped. 'Don't say that.'
He shuffled his chair closer to her and cupped her face in his hand. 'It's true. Believe it.'
'I've done some bad things.'
'Haven't we all?' He eased away a floating strand of hair. 'You're a good person and very brave.'
'Not foolish?'
His eyes wandered across her face before resting on her eyes. 'No, definitely brave.'
He loved her. She loved him. So why was it so hard?
'Let’s go out. Grab a takeaway or something.'
'Agreed.'
After a few minutes, they left the house and headed into the town centre, strolling side-by-side and absorbing the tranquil atmosphere and late evening sunshine. The roads had few cars and the streets almost entirely devoid of pedestrians. It was peaceful and stress-free, another pleasant evening.
They wandered by the first section of restaurants and pubs, none which appealed, and continued along the main street, passing a pizzeria and an English takeaway. Both were quiet. It was early and contrasted with the bustling afternoon when queues had formed and vacant seats been scarce.
'Have you anywhere in mind?' he asked.
'There's a café along a side street that looks nice. It specialises in vegetarian cuisine.'
He pulled a face.
They turned a corner, walking along a narrow street. Along one side were shops, and on the other was a high wall. She lifted her head, looking up to the looming trees and the tip of a building. There was no indication what it was, but it looked prestigious. They entered the café.
Gentle music played and there was a wonderful aroma of cooking food. They stepped towards a table at the window and squeezed into the seats. It was cramped, but given that they were only one of three small groups of people there, claustrophobia was not an issue. There was no imagery on the walls and no elaborate or ornamental décor; it was simple and down-to-earth and served a purpose.
Megan studied the menu but struggled to choose between an asparagus and lentil tart and a pancake filled with spinach and ricotta. After much pondering, she decided on the pancake dish and placed her order.
'Nice place. Pity they don't sell meat, though,' he said.
'It'll do you good.'
'I'm willing to do it once in a while, but I must say I do like a bit of flesh.'
'I doubt you could kill your own.'
'Of course I could.'
'I don't believe you. I've seen you struggling to kill mice. You're a big softy inside.'
He placed his fingers to his lips. 'Don't tell everyone. I have an image to uphold.'
He was smiling, beautiful and wide, and his eyes glistened. She reached across to his hands and pressed them into hers. They fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He was kind and funny, and she loved him.
Her head jerked and she stared out of the window. Two people strode along the pavement passing at the other side of the glass pane and deep in conversation. One was Verity, the other Ron.
'I knew it,' she said. 'Verity lied. She told me she hadn't spoken to Ron for years.'
'Perhaps they just bumped into each other.'
'No way! Don't you see how they’re talking? It’s intense and they look concerned. They’re not discussing the weather, Ben.'
'So what are you saying?'
'Something’s going on and I’m going to find out what it is.'
He kissed her hand.
'You're not going to stop me?'
'Would I be able to if I tried?'
'No.'
She leaned back into the chair. Perhaps her future with Ben was worth fighting for, after all.
Luke strode through the reception area, straight into the office, and looked at the reduced amount of clutter and the dust-free surfaces. Binders and books were their rightful places in the cabinets or on shelves, empty boxes that had contained reams of paper had been discarded, and the kitchen area had been scrubbed clean. It smelled lemony, refreshing and stimulating.
He placed his jacket on a peg near the door, ambled to his chair, and his gaze wandered across to the bookcase, focusing on the section on reincarnation. Sensing he was nearing a breakthrough, his pulse quickened and his excitement rose. He could smell it and taste it; it was a breath away. He would write papers showing his achievements, he would receive accolades and he would speak confidently at interviews and at functions. Sarah would be proud of him.
The evidence would speak volumes. It was what she needed and it was what he wanted. There would be no more talk of him abandoning the paranormal side of the business, and no suggestion that his yearnings were ridiculous and immature. He had proof and as the session with Megan replayed in his mind, a smile stretched across his face.
She had described the setting surprisingly unambiguously, from the colours and textures to the emotions displayed by the family. Saskia’s anger towards her mother and Verity was particularly clear, and understandably so. She was a young woman with hopes and dreams, yet with no means of fulfilling them. Therefore, she had looked for an alternative. She had looked at Ron.
Struggling to contain his excitement, he fidgeted and he twitched, and he looked at his notes, impatient to carry out another session. He was certain he would resolve the issue surrounding Saskia's disappearance, and he could barely wait.
The doorbell sounded and Imogen stepped into the office wearing a blue short pleated skirt and a white top underneath a navy blue cotton jacket. Her complexion had a peachy glow and hair rested upon her shoulders, smooth and unadorned. She had an air of sophistication about her.
'Blimey,' he said, 'you look different . . . much more mature.'
'Cool! I always wanted to look like an old woman.'
'I didn't mean-'
'So what did you mean? That I usually look like a little girl.'
'No . . . I think you look good.'
'You're blushing.' She swirled around. 'Do you fancy me dressed like this?'
'No, I . . .' His voice trailed. He couldn't think of what to say.
'So you don't fancy me. You think I look too refined?'
'You look really nice.'
'Nice? Is that the best you can do?'
'I think you look good whatever you wear.'
'But you prefer this outfit.'
Imogen was standing a little distance away with her hands on her hips and her breasts pushed out. Every few seconds, he scanned the curves within her white top, and every few seconds he reprimanded himself. She did look much better . . . very pretty.
'You look less tarty.'
Her jaw dropped.
Ashamed, he looked away, regretful of his comment. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean that.'
'You are so on form today. I think I prefer the old Luke, miserable and self-pitying.'
She dropped onto her chair and switched on her computer. He tried to hide his face and wriggled a little way down his chair, and even though he was almost out of view, he could still feel her eyes pressing into him. Searching for a distraction, he made an effort to concentrate on his work, but his embarrassment would not disperse. He had to do something about it. 'I'm so sorry. I was trying to compliment you.'
'Cool. I like a compliment.'
'You're not angry?'
'I couldn't be angry with you. You're too soft-hearted.'
'I'll make it up to you.'
She grinned. 'No need. I did that research you asked me to do. I'll just pull up what I found. It's quite interesting although I'm not sure it's of any use. I won't be a minute.'
The computer was whirring and her fingers hovered over the keyboard. After the regression, he had asked her to search for other murders or disappearances occurring at the same time and in the same area. It was routine rather than a hunch, but it sounded like she had found something out. He tapped on his desk as she pummelled the keys.
'I looked at murders within fifty miles of Rodley between 1975 and 1985 and I found a few, but all the cases had been resolved. I then did the same for missing persons, during the same period. There were quite a few. A couple of teenage boys, a thirty-four-year-old woman, a sixty-two-year-old man, and a girl aged eight. There were others as well, but the rest were accounted for at a later date.'
'So these people remain missing?'
'Yes.'
'Did any occur around about 1979, when Saskia disappeared?
'The man disappeared in March of 1979. The others were either much earlier or much later.'
'What about the girl?'
'She was reported missing in 1985.'
Not relevant, he thought.
'I widened the area,' she continued, 'and I came up with many more, but the most interesting was a girl aged seven. She was staying with her auntie in Rodley at the time and went to the shops for some bread. She never came back. It seemed as though the ground had swallowed her up. It was the middle of the day, a Wednesday afternoon when it would have been busy. No one saw anything.'
Curious, he leaned back into his chair. 'Is there a description?'
'She had ginger hair with beautiful loose curls. She was a pretty little thing.'
'I remember something about her. When was this?'
'1978.'
He strode around to her desk and looked at the image on the screen, reminding himself of her beautiful innocent face.
'Do you think there is a connection?' she asked.
'I don't know.'
'Her auntie lives a few streets from Megan. Rachel Harrison, the girl, walked from the house, along the main road and to a shop near the market. She wasn't sighted again.'
'Bizarre.'
'It was. Both her parents and her auntie were devastated as you can imagine. Even now, they run campaigns in Rodley to try to find her.'
He shuffled back to his chair and dropped his gaze. 'Losing someone always is upsetting.'
The lights turned off, the alarm set, and the office door closed. Luke turned the key, stepped away from the building, and strode alongside Imogen towards his car a little distance away.
Vehicles congested the road, with drivers and passengers peering through open windows, searching for a reason for the holdup. He looked at the adjoining streets. Every direction was the same, with cars waiting, bumper to bumper.
He disconnected the car alarm and stepped onto the road towards the door. A fat man with coarse black curled hair was sitting inside his car close by, daydreaming given the glazed look in his eyes.
He leaned across and knocked on the passenger window. 'What's going on?'
The window opened. 'There’s been an accident. It'll be a while before it's cleared. I wouldn't bother going west if I were you.'
'Thanks.'
He eased himself into his car. 'I think we should go the other way. It'll be quicker.'
'Through town?'
'Yes. We can go south and then join the dual carriageway further along.'
After a few minutes, they managed to exit the parking spot and crept closer to the end of the road, moving metre by metre. They turned right and headed along another street making slow progress through the town centre. Queues had formed in every direction and his irritation mounted. They waited a little distance away from the red traffic lights.
'Isn't that Sarah?' Imogen asked.
He spun around, following her gaze along a pavement. Even though she was walking away from them, he recognised her slim figure and tight gait. She entered a building.
'Where's she going?' he asked.
'It's a clinic.'
'Clinic? What type of clinic?'
She looked at her lap and examined her fingernails.
'Imogen?'
'It's an abortion clinic.'
Was Sarah pregnant? What was she thinking? She was having his child. She had no right to do such a thing. His pulse raced and his breathing intensified. He had to stop her.
The lights turned green. Panicking, and seeing no gap between the parked cars, he stopped on double-yellow lines. He had no choice; this could not wait. It was worth a fine, or whatever other trouble he may have to endure.
Breathless, he arrived at the clinic and stared at a woman at a reception desk. There was silence and a smell of sterility, but no sign of Sarah.
He thrust his hands onto the desk. 'A woman just came in. I have to see her.'
'Have you an appointment sir?'
'Where is Sarah McKinley?'
She looked at the computer. 'Is she expecting you?'
His voice grew louder and grittier. 'No, she isn't.' He paced the floor. He looked through a glass panel in a door. There was no sign of Sarah. 'She's making a mistake. I have to see her. Where is she?'
'Please sir, calm down.'
He looked up at the overhead signs, but they gave no indication of where she would be. He would have to find out for himself, and scampered to the glass door and reached for the handle.
The receptionist blocked his way. 'Please sit down.'
'I need to see her . . . now!'
'What's your name?'
'Luke Adams.'
A nurse entered the room. The receptionist spoke to her in little more than a whisper and then scurried back through the door. Moments later, Sarah arrived in the reception area. She had an aura about her, maintaining her sophistication, despite facing what should be a difficult decision.
'What are you doing here?' she hissed.
'What am I doing here? What about you? Don't I have a say in this?'
'This has nothing to do with you.'
'It has everything to do with me. It's my child.'
'I'm sorry Luke. This has nothing to do with you. Please go.' She started away.
He grabbed her arm, forcing her back. 'You've no right to do this.'
'I don't want a baby. I have a career. It's wrong for me.'
'What about me? I could look after it.'
She clutched a pendant on her gold chain. 'It's not yours. I'm sorry.'
She turned and walked away. He slumped onto a padded seat, ran his fingers through his fine strands of hair, and released great breaths of bitterness. His world had collapsed. It was not his child. Sarah had been sleeping with someone else.
The receptionist's eyes fell onto him. 'Can I get you anything sir . . . a drink perhaps?'
Now, she was full of sympathy. It was demeaning. He jumped to his feet and stormed out of the clinic and into the warm air and the noisy rumble of car engines. He would be a laughing stock and a worthy one. He was such an idiot. Why had he ever believed it was his child? Why had he ever thought she cared?
Imogen was waiting in the car, occupying herself with her phone. She did not look at him, no doubt embarrassed, and who could blame her? He bit his lip, took a gulp of air, and urged his turbulence to calm.
'We had better get moving,’ he said. ‘Mrs Fox will be expecting us.'
'Cool. I wonder what she'll be able to tell us about Saskia and Verity. Maybe she knows something about Ron too. This is so exciting.'
Her voice sounded dulled and her enthusiasm feigned. Grateful for her discretion, and determined to display professionalism, he focused upon the journey to Rodley. He had to forget Sarah. Megan was relying on him.
The house was a third of the way down a row. They were made of stone, had small rectangular windows and doors of the same design, and were without gardens. Most maintained their privacy from pedestrians with net curtains; others exhibited their wares.
Luke parked his car a couple of doors away and strode alongside Imogen to number sixteen. Her presence was comforting and it alleviated his inner turmoil. He breathed in her perfume, an adorable sweet scent that made him think of summer days in the sun with his friends, and he listened to the musical sounds of her heels tapping the pavement. She was a calming influence, a necessity.
He pressed his finger to the bell and listened to the elongated drilling sound. Within seconds, a rounded woman with grey curled hair and slumped breasts opened the door. She had a natural scowl and a harsh manner, and he felt unwelcome. He apologised for encroaching on her time, and he complimented her on her choice of painting on the wall, but she remained aloof and guided them into the sitting room.
'You won't find anything out,' Jane said. 'You'll be as useless as the rest.'
'I'm sorry you feel that way, but we have new evidence.'
'What's that then?'
'I'm afraid I can't talk about it right now, but I do feel it will give you the answers you need.'
'Now look here. I've waited thirty years to find out what happened to my girl. It ruined my life. It's a bit late to put things right now.'
'I understand it must have been difficult for you.'
'You understand nothing. Have you kids? Have you lost any?'
He swallowed. 'No, I haven't.'
'Then don't give me any bull. I've had a lifetime of crap. I told them years ago she was killed. No one would listen.'
'Who do you think killed her?'
'How would I know? I didn't know even who she hung out with . . . except for her sister.'
'What was their relationship like?'
'They were always together . . . couldn't separate the two of them. They caused me lots of trouble, but it was Verity's doing. Saskia was a good girl. Sweet natured . . . always willing to help around the house. Good job too, I wasn't up to much back then.'
He tilted his head.
'I enjoyed a drink. Still do. I always thought I'd drink myself to an early grave. I even tried to once.'
'I heard that Saskia left the country. Do you-'
Jane scowled. 'She never did that. They had done some stuff, stuff to be ashamed of, but I know my Saskia. No matter what, she would have returned. Deep down, she loved her family, especially the kids.' She stood up. 'Wait there. I need a piss.' She hobbled past him. 'And don't touch anything.'
He raised his eyebrows and caught Imogen's eye. Jane was quite a character. He wondered if she had ever had another man in her life after the death of her husband and scanned the living room for signs. There were no family photos and nothing to indicate a male presence.
The room was old fashioned with a faded-green fabric sofa, two high-backed chairs, and a box television. Floral wallpaper covered the walls, and the floor was a grim brown colour. There was nothing ornamental or personal in the room and there was a distinctive stale odour about the place. In the corner, resting on the floor by the wall was a long-haired tabby cat. It had fawn coloured fur and big eyes and had the same permanent scowl upon its face as Jane had.
Jane trudged back into the room and slumped onto the sofa. 'What else do you want? I haven't much time.'
'I have heard Verity was dating Ron before he dated Saskia. How did Saskia end up with him?'
'Verity was courting him, you're right. It was a messy business. Verity loved him, but somehow Saskia caught his attention. From what I remember of the arguments, she saw him behind her back. Ron, from all accounts, was besotted with her. I don't think he cared much for Verity.'
'Verity must have been angry.'
Jane cackled. 'That's an understatement. All hell broke loose. Eventually, I kicked her out. She was a piece of work back then. I did her a favour.'
'Why did you kick her out?'
'None of your business! It wasn't an easy decision. I wanted her to take over Saskia's chores around the place as punishment, but I just couldn't face her. Frank had just died, see?'
'Frank was your husband.'
'He was, God bless his soul.'
'Would you say Verity had a temper?'
'You're kidding right?'
Silence.
'Course she had. Still does.'
'Did she ever resort to violence?'
Her eyes narrowed. 'If you're thinking she killed Saskia, forget it. She didn't.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'I named her Verity, didn't I? It means truth. People take after their names.'
Strange alibi. He pursed his notes. 'What do you think of Ron?'
'He loved my girl, that's for sure. He was a cad . . . with a different woman every night. But I have to give him his due. He stopped all that for my Saskia.' She cackled. 'Saskia dyed her hair once. She was a sight!'
'What did she change it to?'
'Ron loved redheads.'
His interest rose. 'Ginger?'
'Ginger, red. All the same to me. Anyhow, he wasn't impressed and Saskia was beside herself. She had to wait weeks for the colour to go.' She repositioned herself in her seat. 'I'll never know how he changed. He was a right randy little sod. Everyone expected him to go back to his ways after Saskia died, but he never did. She changed him forever.'
'Mrs Fox,' he said. 'Do you think Ron could have been involved with her murder?'
She shuffled and then scratched between her legs. 'Unlikely. He was a womaniser, but apart from that, he was a decent chap . . . kind and gentle. And don't forget he cherished my girl.'
'Do you know if they had any problems?'
'What kind of problems?'
'Anything . . . arguments? Did she ever move back to your home after she married?'
'No, nothing like that. I hardly saw her, but when I did, they seemed happy and settled.'
'Do you know if Saskia remained faithful?'
'Course she did. I brought her up to know the difference between right and wrong.'
'So there was no talk of her having an affair?'
'No. If she had, she kept it quiet. Back then, it was a small community and I spent a lot of time in the middle of it. I would have heard, for sure.'
He flipped through his notes, scanning the scrawl.
'Are you done then?'
'Almost. Do you think her murderer had a motive?'
'No. Everyone loved my girl. It was random. Absolutely no doubt.'
'So you don't think she had enemies, or that anyone had a hold over her?'
Jane shook her head. 'Everyone loved her . . . never a bad word was said.'
'Okay.' He held a pensive stare. 'I think that's all. Oh, did you find anything with Saskia's handwriting on?'
She levered herself from the chair. 'Funnily enough, I did. I don't remember ever seeing it before. I found it in an old box of Frank's.' She reached into a drawer for a notebook. 'Here. Take care of it. I'll want it back.'
Luke scanned the writing and his heart flip-flopped. 'Are you certain this is Saskia's writing?'
'That it is.'
He snapped it shut and smiled. 'Thanks for your time Mrs Fox.'
She followed them to the door.
Once in the car, he glanced back at the old woman hovering at the doorway of her house and then turned to Imogen. 'This writing is different to the letter.'
Her eyes widened.
'Whoever wrote the letter was forging it. I don't think Saskia ever went to Spain.'
'Cool.'
'I'll have to have it confirmed of course.'
Buzzing with excitement, he watched Mrs Fox close the door. 'We must stay calm. This next regression session could bring us the answers we need. With any luck, Megan will see the murderer.'
'I'm not sure I want this to end.'
'I know exactly what you mean.'
He turned the ignition key.
'I'm sorry about Sarah.'
Sorrow melted his face. 'Thank you.'
Bending over the sink with her hands resting on the edge, Saskia felt washed out, drained of colour, her head was spinning and her stomach cramping. She raised her head and peered into the mirror. Her eyes had red rims and her complexion was ashen. She felt dirty and contaminated and looked dreadful; she was not the beautiful bride that she was supposed to be.
The door opened and an orchestrated mumble of voices drifted in, the chitchat of the emcee mixing with the coordinated laughter and cheers. She should get back and at least try to present herself as the happy bride, even if she preferred a darkened room with a soft warm bed.
The day had not progressed as expected, and even though she knew she would not be floating through dreamy clouds, she had at least hoped for a little happiness. Her first disappointment was her uncle turning up at their house drunk. He stank of beer, oozed sweat, and had made no effort whatsoever with his appearance. His jacket had a small cigarette burn near the side, and his shirt, presumably white, was grey with dark lines along the creases near the collar. He hadn't even bothered to shave, the effort, it seemed, was too great.
Her parents had greeted him with open arms. She grumbled her displeasure at his lack of decorum, only for them to tell her to discard her pomposity. Their poverty should not affect how they presented themselves to others, but it did, and they displayed no self-respect. Her father argued that they had plenty, and he saw nothing wrong with his brother's appearance. Who cared if Ron's family looked down on them? It was their loss; they would never be best friends. To add to her irritation, Verity had rushed straight over, wrapped her arm around her uncle, and told him how pleased she was to see him. She added that he looked fantastic, and there was satisfaction in her sister's eyes.
The second disappointment of the day was at the altar, although this was more of a humiliation. Her abdomen had, without warning, gone into a spasm, and her bowels lurched. She felt a trickle of dampness at her rear and her temperature surged. Everyone stared as she fled to the toilets at the rear of the church; there was a harmonic gasp, hands at mouths, and a united whisper of disbelief. She was adamant that a dark stain had appeared on her white satin dress and felt degraded and mortified. Thankfully, there was no evidence of her dilemma. Of course, Verity being the sister she was, she came to her aid and offered her fresh underwear. She would not have been suspicious if she had not also retrieved an anti-diarrhoea tablet from her bag and presented it with a wide smile.
She did not confront Verity at the time, but listened to the chirpy sound of her voice, obviously loving every minute of her pain. Remaining on guard throughout the day, she watched Verity scamper around the guests, encouraging vulgar comments and rowdy behaviour from members of their family. In comparison, she sunk lower down her chair as Ron's crowd gave them discriminating glances, her shame nearing the end of her tolerance.
She smoothed out her dress, glanced one more time in the mirror, and prepared herself for further embarrassment. A jaunty track was playing, encouraging her back into the room. She took a breath and opened the door.
Her mother and Verity were on the dance floor moving raunchily and swinging their breasts and hips while making crude gestures with their hands. Close by, leaning against a pillar, her father and uncle jeered. It seemed like fun, and for a second, Saskia considered joining in, but when she saw the shame on some faces, she pulled away and headed to the outer door for some fresh air, away from the stench of the smoke and the oppressive atmosphere. Outside the rain was pulsating. She stood in the doorway and enjoyed the refreshing spray.
Ron appeared by her side. 'Enjoying yourself?'
She nodded and smiled.
'Everyone else seems to be. Why don't you join in?'
'Because I feel like crap . . . sorry.'
He wrapped his arm around her back. 'Anything I can do?'
‘No. 'I just need a bit of fresh air.'
'Try not to let it spoil the day. You only get married once you know.'
She shuffled to one side to let three men pass through the door and caught sight of her youngest brother and sister racing around the dance floor. 'I wish my family would tone it down a bit.'
'They're just enjoying themselves . . . no harm in that.'
'I don't think your family agrees. Have you seen the way they're staring?'
'They're just amused. They have led sheltered lives.'
'Hardly, look at the way your aunt's frowning.'
'I think she's wishing she could loosen up a bit.'
Saskia raised an eyebrow.
'It's true, she's envious. They dream of being like us.' He clenched her hand. 'Come on, there must have been times when you wished you could let your hair down a bit more. For instance, I'll bet you've thought about sharing a bed with two men.'
'How do you know I haven't?'
'No. Definitely not. You're far too nice.'
'Have you?'
'Shared a bed with two men?'
She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes.
'Now that would be telling.'
'You have!'
He smirked and then kissed her on the cheek. 'You are a beautiful woman Mrs Maddison. I love you very much.'
'Stop changing the subject.'
He grinned. 'Fancy a dance?'
Saskia stared at Ron, bemused by his desperate attempt at avoidance, and then caught sight of Verity as she scampered across the dance floor and headed towards them.
'Come on you two.' She grabbed their hands. 'Join in.'
Saskia wriggled free. Her bowels were churning and she had no will to move about.
'You go,' she said to Ron.
'You sure?'
She nodded and watched Verity take her new husband to the dance floor. Even though the tempo was fast, she thrust herself into him. Her hands wandered near to his crotch, and then she took one of his hands and pressed it to her breast. They both were laughing, unashamedly exhibiting their lust. The audacity was striking.
Having lifted her dress so as not to trail it upon the floor, Saskia strode to a table that her brothers and sisters occupied. The music blared and the beat echoed through her body. Oblivious to the mutterings that surrounded her, she followed the highs and lows of the track with her mind.
Across the room, there was a loud crash. She spun around just in time to witness her father punch her uncle. A seat overturned and glasses shattered into tiny pieces as her uncle's body stumbled backward. He was quick to stand up and returned the strike. There were shrieks and cries and there were half-hearted attempts to separate them, but her father, who was in a red-hot rage, did not appreciate their efforts and forced them aside causing another collision. Moments later a bouncer intervened, and once he had recovered from a punch to his face, he assisted his colleague in guiding both her father and uncle outside.
Noticing her unease, Ron appeared by Saskia's side, offering his sympathies.
'It doesn't matter about them,' he said, 'today is about us. We love each other, right?'
'Right.'
'I like your folks. I've heard that they have an open marriage.'
She gawked. 'An open marriage? Who told you that?'
'Just something I heard. So it's not true?'
'No. It's not. My parents might be a bit lively, but they are faithful to each other.'
Across the room, a bartender was cleaning the glass from the floor and re-erecting the chairs, and alongside there was the quite murmur of disapproval.
'It wouldn't do any harm, though, would it?' he said, 'so long as you both agreed and knew that the sex with anyone else was meaningless.'
'What are you saying?'
He squeezed her hand. 'Nothing. It's not for me. I never want to sleep with anyone else again. You're adorable.'
He dropped a big sloppy kiss upon her check, waited for her to turn and grimace, and then gazed at the recovering scene. For a couple of seconds, she held her focus and gazed at a birthmark upon his neck and the fine hairs on the back of his head. Was he fishing? Was he still sleeping around? Maybe he still saw Verity. She scanned the room, searching for her sister, and imagined the two of them in bed together. She had hoped that a tad of jealousy would emerge, but it did not, and she felt disappointed.
Preparing a meal was easy when there was the choice of food, and Saskia allowed herself the luxury of using three vegetables, potatoes, and a select joint of meat. She inhaled the tantalising aroma that emerged from the oven and hummed to the music from the radio. The kitchen was different to her family's home, and even now, several months on from her wedding day, she still took the time to appreciate it.
Cabinets and drawers occupied the walls and there was a small rectangular table in the centre. There were accessories everywhere, but what impressed her was the freezer. It was stacked with frozen foods, and even contained items such as raspberries that were out of season. It was such a novelty that she could not help but peer inside.
She stared at the chunks of meat, frozen chips, and ice cream that were near the door. It seemed wrong that she had so much food when her brothers and sisters were always hungry, and to have such luxuries too. Life was unfair, but so what? She had been enterprising.
Smiling to herself, she peeled the potatoes, removed the outer leaves from the cabbage and flung them into the bin. Such waste. Such satisfaction. Then she reached for the broccoli and admired the symmetrical head and tight buds, then imagined her delight as she ate. She would eat until her stomach could expand no further; she would eat until she felt sick.
Her life was good. There were no brawling children to blank out, no laundry to do, no food to painstakingly portion out. She had space, solitude, and most of all money, and she could spend her day drawing and painting rather being a skivvy. However, something was lacking, and her mind wandered to a recent night out.
She had accompanied Ron to the Cow and Calf Inn when a couple joined them at the table. Darren and Susan hadn’t been together long, yet they appeared to be in love. They had sat together, chairs and bodies touching, hands entwined, and pupils dilated. Saskia recalled trying to make conversation, but it was a futile attempt, as neither of them could maintain focus away from each other for more than a couple of seconds. Darren twirled her hair with his fingers; Susan wiped away a droplet of beer from his chin. They cuddled and they kissed.
She felt nauseous with jealousy. Ron was besotted with her as he acted in a similar way, but in return, she felt little, and his unrelenting attention was draining her goodwill. He peered into his eyes, touched her face, groped her breasts and mumbled dirty comments into her ear. Rather than feeling appreciative, she wanted to free herself of his presence, yet at the same time craved the life he provided. Then, a man, a stranger entered the room.
Her heart surged and their eyes locked. He had short hair, small pale lips, and large ear lobes. Her pulse quickened, her adrenaline surged, and her heat rose. She watched his elongated stride as he progressed to the bar, moving in slow motion.
'Everything all right? Ron had asked.
She turned to him and her bubble burst. She was a married woman. She would not lower herself to such a level. Ron was a good man, deserving of her entire attention.
Her memories faded. Saskia left the kitchen and progressed upstairs to her art room, willing herself to forget the stranger. She gazed through the window at the neat lawn, the shrubs, and the trees, and she studied the water residue resting on the spindly branches. Her mind was restless and her mouth dry. She thought about the ice cream, a luxury she never thought she could have, and she took a pencil and held it near the blank canvas.
She could find no inspiration, and her body grew heavy as her disappointment mounted. She craved love and longed for excitement. She even missed Verity, as difficult as it was to admit. After the prank with the laxative, their relationship had reached a new low and they barely spoke. If they did, it was strewn with cutting remarks, the more hurtful the better. She could not stop herself, and neither could Verity.
The wedding day had turned into a disaster, and now another family event was imminent. Against his better judgement, Ron had invited her immediate family to his cousin, Catherine's eighteenth birthday party. He even offered to buy her family small gifts to give to Catherine, if the money was an issue. Not amused by his gesture, she reprimanded him for his comment and told him that they would attend with presents.
Now she regretted it. It would be embarrassing. Verity would do what she could to cause trouble, flaunting her body, starting disputes within the family, and spreading untrue rumours. She might even make her ill again, an act to ease away her jealousy.
A thought struck her. She knew what to do to prevent her family from attending the function, and strode to the window, gazing blindly at the gloomy scene, and considered her plan.
Returning to the family home after weeks of being away was both rewarding and distressing. The house seemed smaller than before - dirtier, more cluttered, and shabbier - and there was a curious stench in the air, possibly smoke combined with dampness. The furniture was stained and the dust coated the mantelpiece. On the positive side, her brothers and sisters screamed out their pleasure, speaking at once and wanting to show her or tell her something. Phoebe clung to her legs, Camilla thrust a picture into her face, and Darren danced around her, pulling her skirt and arms.
It was impossible to hide her pleasure.
'So,' her father said, 'we're good enough for you today.'
His arms stretched across his stomach and he maintained a fixed stare on the television and offered neither a passing glimpse nor a smile.
'It's not my fault that I've landed on my feet.'
He huffed. 'Some of us have to work for a living. That bloody family think they are so much better than us, and I doubt any of them have done a day’s work in their lives.'
'They work hard.'
'Likely story! Had it handed on a plate if you ask me!'
'You should be pleased for me. Didn’t you hope I’d find a good man?'
He pushed his arm into his stomach, held his breath, and contorted his face. 'You've married above yourself. It'll never last.'
'Ron treats me well. He loves me.'
'Feels sorry for you more like. The only reason he wants us there tomorrow is to make himself feel better.'
She clenched her fingers into a fist. 'He thought you'd like to go.'
'Yes, so they can flash their money around and feel sorry for us. I'm not stupid.'
She’d heard enough and stomped to the kitchen. 'If you don't want to go you don't have to.'
She stepped into the small square space, thrust the door shut, and muttered under her breath.
Verity was waiting, her expression smug. 'He has a point. You have married above yourself.'
'You'd have snapped Ron up any day of the week.'
'I loved him.'
'And I don't? I married him didn't I?'
'You married him for the money. One day he'll realise and you'll be out on the street.'
'Good. I'll get some decent money if we divorce.'
Verity thrust her arms into her and flung her against the worktop. A tin wobbled and clattered to the ground. Incandescent with rage, Saskia gripped her sister’s arms, but she was unable to stop her from tugging at her hair and yelped in pain. They tussled, fury gripping their bodies and reddening their faces. Another tin toppled, rolling along the surface before crashing to the ground. It caught Verity's lower leg. She howled in agony.
Saskia pulled away, studied her pained expression, and allowed her anger to dissipate. 'Sorry,' she said. 'I do love Ron.'
There was disbelief in Verity's face. 'Let's get on with this. Then you can go home.'
Verity glanced at the door, reached into her pocket and pulled out a small packet. 'I mixed something else into the Senna, something to make them vomit.'
'What is it?'
'I don't know. Grandma recommended it.'
She gasped. 'You told her what you were doing?'
'Don't be stupid. I pretended I was taking up herbalism.’ She chuckled. 'She believed me, stupid old hag . . . ranted on about how she'd teach me everything she knows.'
'Sucker.'
'Sucker.' Verity replaced the packet into her pocket. 'Now, help me prepare a stew. I'm not taking all the responsibility. You must have your share of the pleasure as well.'
The next day Saskia walked down the staircase and drifted into the kitchen, wearing her nightdress and dressing gown. She listened to the silence and looked through the window to the main road. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was going to be a good day.
She imagined the distress at her family home. They would be fighting for access to the toilet and searching for buckets and bowls to catch vomit. There would be tears and torment, and cries of pain. Then, when they decided to abandon the party, she would have achieved her aim.
Smiling to herself, she switched on the kettle and stepped to the freezer. After looking at the selection of frozen fruit, she decided to have raspberries for breakfast. Disregarding a sense of extravagance, she searched for the tub of ice cream to accompany it. After poking around, with the chilling air wrapping around her, her confusion grew. There had been some left, and Ron wouldn't have had it as he wasn't keen. So where was it? There wasn’t even an empty container in the bin. It was decidedly strange.
A frantic hammering sound on the door alleviated her of her puzzling thoughts. Believing it would be Verity telling her that their plan had succeeded, she ambled to the door.
Verity's face was patchy red and her arms flailed. ‘Dad's dead!'
Saskia staggered back to the wall and gawked.
'We killed him! What are we going to do?' Panic-stricken, she paced the hallway. 'I forgot he was ill . . . he seemed okay.'
'He was ill?'
'He had a heart problem, and he had developed colitis. Mum told me a while ago, but I . . .'
'You stupid, irresponsible bitch! How can you forget something like that?'
Her legs crumpled and she slipped to the floor, holding her face in her hands and quivering. 'It's not my fault.'
'You always have your head in the bloody clouds. I'm not covering for you this time.'
'But if anyone finds out we . . . we could go to prison.'
'You'll go to prison. I don't live there, remember.'
'We are both just as guilty. It's not just my fault.'
'I didn't know about Dad's condition, you did.'
A strong voice sounded from behind. 'No one's going to find out what happened,' Ron said, 'I won't let them.'
'So what are we going to do?' Saskia said.
He wrapped his arm around her waist. 'I don't know, but we'll think of something.'
'Mum knows. She found the powder,' Verity said.
'What?'
'I . . . I forgot about it . . . left it in the kitchen.'
Saskia peeled herself from Ron and headed into the living room. What had they done? She glanced up at a wedding photograph on the wall. At least she had Ron. Verity had no one, and she had to face the family every single day.
Megan looked at her drawing, searching for inspiration. The woman in the image had a sallow complexion and gaunt features and wore a nightgown and scarf. A trail of smoke left her mouth and drifted towards an open door, towards a young man with an amputated leg slumped in a wheelchair. Megan had wanted to depict the lack of value the woman was placing on her health, but the scene did not clarify her thoughts and she turned over the sheet, preparing to start again.
She pondered something new, something she had seen on a television documentary. The man, a soldier, had slipped into a depression after an incident in Afghanistan had left him blind and without a leg. The surgery had given his eyes a chance to repair, but he struggled to remain positive. His life away from the army - his friends, the action, and the pride it engendered - was unbearable. He was twenty-three years old.
Where was the justice? Those who wanted to do something with their lives suffered, and the ones that appeared not to care, did not. She wondered if that was how it had been for Saskia. She had been a talented artist, and if she had lived, she would have made something of herself. Instead, she had found herself at odds with her sister, and had taken part in a malicious act. Had their actions been the start of the end? Had someone wanted revenge?
Whilst it was possible, Megan sensed there was another reason for Saskia’s murder, something that would not come to the forefront of her mind. Earlier, she had sat quietly, breathed deeply, and concentrated on images of Saskia, searching for a trigger to the past. She had focused on Ron's home, her artwork, and even Verity, but nothing happened. Luke had told her he believed that he had found everything there was to find within the depths of Megan's mind and said that the rest of the information was either too hazy to interpret or blocked for a reason.
It was infuriating. She slipped back into the present and started to sketch, and drew an outline of a hospital ward, this time focusing entirely on the soldier. There would be visitors: a pregnant wife, a young son, and his mother. A surgeon would be talking to the two women, while the little boy peered with bewilderment on his face at his father’s broken body. He would find it incomprehensible that his hero, someone he considered immortal, had only just avoided death.
Megan dropped her pencil alongside the others and reached for her glass of orange juice. Taking a sip, she leaned into her chair and looked at Ben, who was tapping on his laptop keyboard at the sofa. Sensing her concentrated stare, their eyes locked.
'The truth behind Frank Fox's death has never come out,' she said.
'Oh?'
'Yes, I rang Luke. He told me that the death was recorded as heart failure and was connected to the other health problems he had.'
'Did anyone suspect anything at the time?'
'No reason to. And even if they had, Jane would have put them off. She wouldn't have wanted Verity and Saskia to go to court.'
Ben closed his laptop and clasping it under his arm strode to the dining table. 'But Verity and Saskia were still ostracized.'
'Yes. Jane had nothing to do with either of them after Frank's death. I have a feeling it affected Saskia deeper than it did Verity.'
'I wonder what she told the other kids.'
She shook her head. 'No idea. I'm surprised that it's stayed secret for this long.'
'The family must have known.'
'I wonder why Ron kept quiet.'
He lifted a pencil and rotated it between his fingers. 'I suppose he wouldn't have wanted Saskia's name tarnished.'
'Do you think he loved her as much as everyone claims?'
'Yes, why not?'
'It just seems a bit strange given that we don’t think Saskia loved him.'
'But she wanted to. Many cultures have arranged marriages, and over time, they learn to love. Saskia may have done so given time. She seemed an admirable person.'
She chuckled. 'Admirable?'
'Yes, I think so. She had done what she could for her family and wanted a bit of something for herself. No harm in that.'
'But it was at the expense of her relationship with her sister.'
'It would have corrected itself in time.'
'I'm surprised that you think that way. I would have thought the fact Saskia married for money would have horrified you.'
'It does a bit, but I can understand why she did it.'
She hesitated. 'Going back to Ron . . . he had a hold over Saskia and Verity. Could he have blackmailed them?'
'How . . . and why?'
'I don't know. I have a strange suspicion . . . something I can't place. He could have treated them as he’d liked and he could have got away with it. The threat of exposing their secret would always be hanging over them.'
'Hmm. I don't think Luke has anything on Ron, although I suppose it could be true. Do you think Saskia's relationship with him was strained?'
'No, that's just it, I don't.' Megan ran her finger around the rim of her glass. 'I don't think that Saskia's guilt got the better of her and that she wanted to admit to what she had done. Although that's what the letters imply.'
'So where does Ron fit in?'
Megan shook her head.
They sat, both pensive, both gazing at nothing in particular. Then the spell broke and his eyes wandered to her sketchbook. Feeling uncomfortable, she moved her arm to cover the drawing. It was work-in-progress and something she liked to keep private.
'Can I see that?'
'It's not finished.'
'It doesn't matter. From what I’ve just seen it looks good.'
'It's not.'
Relenting to his desperation, she passed it across.
He studied the incomplete drawing and then flicked back to the previous page. 'You're a natural. This is excellent.'
'I don't think so.'
'Oh come on. You have a wonderful way of portraying emotion.' He scanned the table. 'Are you working from a photograph?'
'I prefer to work from memory. If I try too hard I don't work from the heart.'
He stared at the hospital scene.
She wanted him to turn away and stop his analysing, but at the same time, she wanted his praise.
'I would like to see Saskia's work. She had a similar style, didn't she?'
She nodded. 'Her drawings are good. At least the one I saw was. They are worth quite a bit too. After her disappearance, Ron handed some of them to the gallery. One sold for a few hundred pounds, and that was years ago.'
'How do you know this?'
'Luke told me.'
'Wow. And to think, that you have Saskia's spirit . . . and talent.'
She crossed her legs and folded her arms. 'Don't say that.'
'Why not? It's true.'
'I'm not Saskia. My memories come from my mother. She must have told me stories.'
'I can understand that you don't want to-'
‘Saskia killed her father. I am not Saskia!'
'She had good points too . . . she was hardworking and caring.'
His words faded into oblivion. Burdened by memories of her wrongdoings, she shuffled to the kitchen with her empty glass. Her head hung low, her mind active, and her guilt present. Was this the way it had been for Saskia? How did she manage to cope with her remorse?
She turned around to return to the living area, and since she was absorbed in her contemplations, she bounced into David’s frame.
He smirked at her then spoke in little more than a whisper. 'If you want to touch me, just ask.'
'Leave it, David.'
He leaned closer. She backed off. His breath was warm on her face.
'I have more pictures. Want to see?'
'Oh grow up!'
She pushed him aside and stepped to the sink. He was looking at her, no doubt imagining her naked body, and he was leering. His tongue slid across his upper lip, and he reached to his crotch. She wanted to shrink away and felt exposed and vulnerable and her skin crawled.
She turned on the tap, and the water plunged into the mug. Determined to appear untroubled, she took a swig of cool refreshing water and stared at the white tiles with flecks of blue.
He pressed himself into her back. 'I've some excellent photos. You'll like them. You might want to frame them.'
'You do that,' she said, tussling free. 'I'm sure Ben would like to see.'
She did not linger, and banged the glass onto the draining board and stomped into the living room. She plonked onto the sofa, and keeping a rigid posture chewed her lip and glared at the carpet. Out of her eye corner, she could tell Ben was looking at her. He seemed anxious and peered at David as he wandered by the doorway and headed upstairs. He must know something had just happened - her voice had been loud enough. He should have reacted. He was a damned coward.
Fighting a desire to complain, she searched for a solution. It was clear that Ben was not going to assist, so she would have to tackle David herself. She could either be more assertive or disinterested. Bullies got bored, apparently. But how long would that take? Whether she squirmed or appeared impassive, David always seemed amused and delighted.
His behaviour was perverted. What kind of upbringing had he received? Was it because he had been without a female influence in his life? Catching sight of Ben, she felt a surge of disappointment mingle with disgust. Ultimately, David’s behaviour was due to his upbringing. Ben should have raised him better.
Drawn to the image of the little boy on the mantelpiece, her heart shuddered and caused her to reconsider her musings. Shutting her eyes, she craved the sensation of Joshua's small, warm body pressing into hers, and craved his small voice crying out her name. She remembered the agony of his persistent tears and screams, and she thought of her failing tolerance. She had reached for another glass of lager, her desire to dull the sounds, but worst of all, for a split-second, she had wished him away.
Perhaps she was in no position to judge Ben after all.
'What's wrong?'
Megan jerked and stared at Ben, who stood by her side. 'Nothing's wrong.'
'Did David upset you?'
'No. He hasn't upset me.'
The instant the words left her mouth she was incensed, and couldn't understand why she was defending him. She was just about to change her mind and tell Ben what had happened when she saw his look of relief. He was muttering something, telling her that he was grateful that she was giving him leeway, but she was too enraged with herself to listen to his empty words. She had missed her opportunity, missed the one and only time that Ben had admitted David could have done wrong. She was such an idiot.
'I've an idea,' he said. ‘How about we visit Frank's grave? You could leave some flowers.'
'That's a wonderful idea.'
'If it’s ok, I'll go with you. I can do a bit of shopping at the supermarket close to the graveyard.'
It was a good idea. It would give her day some purpose and prevent her from wallowing in self-pity. 'Let's do it.'
Arm in arm, Megan and Ben stepped away from the house and headed towards the market square. The cries from the stallholders drew their attention, raising their interest. Deciding to look, they waited for a gap in the traffic, skipped across the road, and joined the gathering crowd.
Ben wandered to the greengrocery stall while Megan proceeded to a flower stall. Having decided to purchase a small spray and something with a good mix of colours, she scanned the roses and carnations amongst others that she could not name, and she looked at the pre-prepared bundles at the rear. There were some bunches that combined the darker buds with whites - these seemed to be more appropriate for a male lover - and others that seemed a little too feminine and combined shades of pink with reds. Disheartened, she stepped along the front of the stall to the other side and was wondering what she should do when she spotted an appropriate mix. It had the right combination of colours and was the right size. She made her purchase and strode back to Ben.
After a few moments, they’d seen all they had wanted to see, and started to the graveyard, passing a row of attractive stone houses with patterned brickwork and clean well-maintained exteriors. Most of the gardens were small with manicured lawns and narrow flower borders. One, though, was larger than the others were and had a trampoline in the garden. The screams of joy from the little girl were explicit. She threw herself into the air and landed on her backside, bursting into laughter.
Megan grinned, 'I quite fancy a go at that myself.'
'You're a big kid at heart?'
'I am. They have all the fun.'
'When we have our own, we'll get a trampoline and you can bounce on it until your heart's content.'
She tensed. 'I didn’t think you wanted any more children?'
'For sure. Don't you?'
'I . . . I'm not sure I can.'
'You never said.'
She passed him a nervous look.
'I thought you were on the pill.'
She thrust her hands into her pockets and advanced ahead.
'Megan?'
Her heart was thumping so loud, she was sure Ben would be able to hear it. She should tell him the truth and let him know she could never be responsible for another human being again. Instead, yet regrets trapped her explanation.
He waited for an answer.
'You have David,' she said.
'Yes, but I always wanted more. I thought you did too.'
'I don't.'
Puzzlement lined his face.
She quickened her steps, unable to voice her explanation aloud, and tried to remove the discomfort from her mind. Yet the words circulated, wild and rampant. She was unfit to be a mother. It could never happen again; she wouldn’t allow it.
He seemed to accept her silence and didn’t question her any further, and they continued their journey without conversation. Nevertheless, her gait stiffened, her breathing tightened, and she was unable to look him in the eye. She knew she should be telling him the truth, but it was too painful and shameful to consider.
Sighting the graveyard was a relief. He kissed her goodbye and said he would return in about half an hour. Freed of her tension, she strode to Frank Fox's gravestone in a calmer state.
As she placed the spray of flowers onto the grave, her guilt deepened. It was an inexplicable emotion; she did not know this man, yet at the same time felt a deep connection and visualised happy childhood memories. She sat on his lap, she ran to greet him, and she felt his warm breath lingering on her young face when he tucked her in bed.
Weighted by sorrow, she crouched to the ground.
'Dad's dead,’ Verity had said.
Sickness rose to her throat. She looked at the inscription on the stone - 'a loving father and husband' – and she listened to the muffled cries of mourning. His death had been an avoidable loss to his family, a heartbreaking occasion.
Footsteps sounded at her rear.
She turned and smiled. 'Hello, Larry. What are you doing here?'
'I should ask you the same! I was walking to a friend's house. I thought it was you.'
'I had to come. Saskia would have wanted me to.'
'Do you know what happened?'
She perched on a bench and gazed over to a hedge across the graveyard. ‘I was told he was ill . . . took an overdose of Senna.'
'Senna? Are you sure?'
'Yes.'
She stared at the gravestone, pondering her scant memories and blanking out the intrusive sound of passing traffic. She felt sure there was more to learn about Saskia’s life, and whilst the thought of her having the memories in the depths of her mind was a terrifying thought, she remained curious.
Larry interrupted her musings. 'Do you believe in reincarnation?
She spun to face him. 'No, that's not it. My mother was from around here. She told me of stories before I was adopted.'
He did not reply.
‘It’s not reincarnation.’
He nodded. 'Remember how you said Verity was with Ron first? Well, I was thinking about that and I remembered that she moved in with Ron and Saskia for a while. I think it was just after Frank's death.'
'Really?'
'Yes. I was in the pub and I heard the lads talking. Verity still fancied Ron and used to walk around the house naked, right under Saskia's nose. I think that got her kicked out in the end.'
'Good Lord! She never knew when to quit, did she?'
'Apparently not.'
'What else do you remember?'
'Nothing . . . that’s all that has come to me.'
‘All they ever seemed to do was argue. Did I tell you that Verity tried to sabotage Saskia's wedding day?'
He shook his head.
'She made Saskia ill – I think to stop the ceremony. But whatever she’d administered affected her too late. She was at the altar when she got the runs.’
'That's awful, although it sounds like something she’d do. I wouldn't put anything past that woman.'
She did not reply.
'I'd keep well out of the way if I were you.'
A thirty-something man and a similarly aged woman strode into the graveyard and progressed to a gravestone a little distance away. They seemed relaxed, chatted easily, and showed no signs of bereavement or sorrow.
'Did you enjoy the gallery?' Larry asked.
'Yes, I did. Sorry for rushing out. Someone was following me. I had to find out who it was.'
'That's okay. Did you catch them?'
'Yes. It was Verity. She was acting strangely . . . insisted on walking me home.'
He stared inquisitively.
'Don't worry. It was nothing.'
'As long as you're sure.'
'I am. I might be in danger, but I'm not going to stop living my life. I have things to do, people to see.'
'I like your attitude. You're not easily intimidated.'
She hesitated, thoughtful. 'I guess not.'
'What did you think about Saskia's painting?'
'It was impressive . . . life like.'
'They have others . . . they rotate them. I'm sure if you asked they would get them out.'
'It's okay. I’m not in any rush and I’m sure I'll get to see them eventually.'
'Saskia had some others that the gallery doesn't have. Do you know where she hid them?'
'Why would I know?'
He leaned towards her, his body stiffening and his eyes darkening. 'You seem to know a lot about her.'
Was he annoyed with her? Did he think she lied?
She spoke in a perplexed tone. 'I don't know anything about any other paintings.'
'I'm sure you do, just think.'
Baffled, her eyes flitted around the graveyard and to the adjacent houses. As she did so, she caught sight of a moving figure and learned it was Ben. Relieved, she announced her departure, ignoring his strained expression, and trotted across to meet him. She flung her arms around his body and gave him a quick kiss.
'What's that for?'
'Because I love you.'
'And I love you too.'
Walking away, she passed Larry a quick glance. He remained in position, glowering and tense.
The persistent sound of the ring tone played in Luke's ear, increasing his irritation and frustration. There was no doubt in his mind that Sarah was avoiding him, as he had rung so many times, both during work hours and at various points during the previous evening that her excuse, the one she had so often in the past regarding working could no longer be true.
He dropped the phone onto the sofa, folded his arms, and scowled. She had just had an abortion, so he surmised that she would be taking it easy. He only wanted to talk and ask how she felt, but she was making him feel like he was pestering. Deep inside he could understand why she would think that, but it was not his fault. If she had answered his calls, the matter would be over.
He stared at the little screen. Even though there had not been any indication of an incoming message, he still hoped that by some miraculous means that he had missed her call, and his disappointment rose. Maybe he should try again; maybe her phone was out of action.
He decided to wait five minutes and looked at the clock to check the time. With the phone flat in his palm, his eyes wandered to the television, seeking out the local news report. The words floated above his head and the pictures drifted past his eyes. He had to talk to Sarah, and in the very least, he had to know that she was okay.
Perhaps she was ill. Could something have gone wrong? He didn't have a clue about the abortion procedure and so couldn't even begin to work out what could have happened. Since his desire for children was strong, he didn’t think it would be something he’d ever need to understand. Sickened by the thought of her distasteful act, he sank into his seat.
Impatience and edgy, he rotated the phone a couple of times between his fingers waiting for the clock to tick. What difference would a minute make? He decided to try again. It rang. He waited. It rang again. He urged her to answer.
'Luke.' Her tone was stern.
'How are you? Why have you not been answering your phone? I've been worried sick.'
'You're persistent, I'll give you that.'
'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine. Just busy.'
'But I've tried at all hours.'
Sarah hesitated. 'What do you want?'
'I'd like to see you. I need to know if you're all right.'
'I've said I'm fine.'
'We need to talk.'
'I'm not sure we do.'
'Please. I have to see you.'
She puffed out. 'You'll have to come here. I've a lot going on.'
'No problem.'
'I haven't got time to make a meal or anything.'
'No matter. I'll be over within the hour.'
He ended the call, leapt from the sofa, and rushed upstairs to wash and change. He had to spruce himself up, put on his smartest casual clothes, a bit of aftershave, and comb his hair. He should buy flowers too, and maybe even chocolates. She loved truffles, and so he decided to stop at the supermarket on the way there. Excited by the prospect of their meeting, he grabbed his keys and wallet and raced from his house.
There was a light emerging from the second floor. He hoped Sarah would peer through the gap in the curtains, excited by his arrival, but she didn't, and it caused him to reprimand himself for his ridiculous notion. He mustn't forget they were just friends and that the baby had not been his, and he must act accordingly. He must give her adequate support and not make demands, and he must show understanding and affection. She had made a mistake, slept with someone else. He would act as though it did not matter.
He breathed in and out a few times, urging calmness, and then walked to the door. His limbs were quivering with a mixture of nerves and excitement, drowning out the clarity in his mind. He pressed the bell. Sarah spoke with clarity and released the lock on the door. He ascended the steps and knocked again. The door opened.
She looked as composed as ever and every bit as gorgeous. Her skin had a wonderful glow and her hair had a beautiful sheen. Her arm was bent, her hand limp, and her fingers, slender with manicured glossy nails, rested upon her abdomen. She took the flowers and chocolates and guided him to the sofa.
The room was unusually messy, papers and binders spread across the coffee table, and books spread across the floor. Across the room, upon a ledge, was a dirty cup and plate.
She followed his scrutiny. 'I did say I was busy.'
'You should see my office.'
'Your office is beyond help.'
'Ah, but you should see it now. We’ve had a clear out and cleaned it up. You wouldn't recognise it.'
'Have you been getting rid of the paranormal junk?'
He looked to his feet. 'Some of it.'
'What are you working on now?'
He averted his gaze. He couldn't lie but he couldn't tell her the truth either. 'A woman disappeared thirty years ago. People believe she left the country, but we think she was murdered. I'm getting closer to solving it.'
She nodded, feigning interest.
'I've accessed a letter she wrote from Spain, but it seems that it was forged.'
'Someone was a bit careless.'
'I agree.'
'The writing should have been checked at the start.'
'It should.'
She shuffled, easing her legs away from under her body. 'Why are you here?'
'I needed to see you were okay.'
'I told you I was.'
'I care about you. I want to help.'
'I didn't need any help.'
'Nobody's that independent.'
'I am.'
Maybe the father of the baby helped her; perhaps they had come to a decision together. Disguising his disappointment, he looked at the carpeted floor. Could they be in love?
She perched on the far side of the sofa. 'I can't put my life on hold for a year. I have a career to consider.'
'And you can live with that?'
'I have to.'
It didn't seem right. What was more precious, more important and fulfilling than having a child?
'Why are you looking at me like that?' she asked.
'Like what?'
'Like I am some kind of monster.'
'I'm not. I’d never think of you that way.'
Her face burst into life. 'I'm sorry you don't agree with me, but as I've said, it's my body, my decision.'
'Your partner should have been involved. Does he know?'
'What?'
'The father.'
Her face creased. She leapt from the chair and headed to the kitchen.
Recognising her guilt, he stomped after her. 'You lied. The baby was mine!'
She would not look at him and turned her head this way and that avoiding eye contact. She was ashamed, and so she should be.
'How could you? I thought we were friends.' He thrust his hands onto the worktop. The pepper pot wobbled then tipped over.
She looked up, her eyes pleading. She opened her mouth to speak, discarded a choice of words, then turned away and fiddled with her fingernails, short with uneven edges.
'Do I mean nothing to you?' he asked.
'I'm sorry.'
'You had no right to have an abortion without speaking to me.'
'I don't want to talk about it. Can't we forget it and move on?'
'How can I? I would have looked after it and you could have still gone to work. I would have been a great dad.'
'I don't doubt it Luke, and if and when I have a child, I want it to be born into a proper family. We'll never be that.'
'We could be if we tried.'
'We have tried. A baby would not be the answer to our problems.'
He slumped onto the sofa and rested his head in his hands. 'That was my baby you killed - my son or daughter.'
'You are being dramatic. It wasn't formed.'
'How can you be okay with this?'
Her voice softened. 'I have to be. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, and I'm sorry I lied at the clinic. I just wanted to avoid a confrontation.'
'You should have consulted me.'
'Maybe I should have, but at the end of the day it was my decision . . . it has to be. I can't keep apologising.'
'Would I have been able to change your mind?'
She looked away, indecision in her face.
'I would have packed up my business . . . done whatever it took.'
'I know you would, but that's not an answer. You enjoy your work as much as I do.'
He could have done it. There was no doubt in his mind.
'I'm sorry you had to find out the way you did.'
'Would you have told me if I hadn't have seen you go to the clinic?'
She stroked his hand with her fingertips. 'Of course I would. I do care about you, Luke. You're one of my best friends. I never wanted to hurt you.'
But she had, and a weight pressed into him, affecting his breathing and digestion. He felt as though he wanted to belch and pressed his hand to his throat.
'I don't want this to affect our friendship,' she said.
'It won't.'
'You sure?'
He nodded.
'So we can still carry on seeing each other?'
'We can.'
He reached for her hand. With or without a child, he needed her in his life. There was no other option. He loved her, regardless of how she treated him. It was a sad fact he must bear.
Megan thrust back the bedcovers, releasing the heat from her body, and felt the copious trickles of perspiration turn cold. Shrouded in darkness, she focused up a ribbon of light passing through the hallway window and relief swept through her. It was a dream. No one had stabbed her in the stomach; she had not died.
Having taken a laboured breath of warm air, she willed away the nightmare from her head and breathed slow deep breaths to ease her galloping heartbeat and trembling body. Despite her efforts, the scene repeated, with some images flashing randomly and in isolation, and others appearing crisp and clear. It was the same scene that she had envisaged many times before, and the one that had frequently haunted her.
She had been running with leaden legs, struggling to propel herself forward, away from the shadowy form of her attacker. The knife plunged. Gasping with pain, she pressed her hand onto the warm gushing liquid and dropped to the ground. Then, drawn to the sound of voices, she looked up and witnessed a figure emerging from under the lamplight. She sensed the person had been someone whom she’d trusted; regrettably, she had seen nothing more than a silhouette.
Flinging herself out of bed, she wrapped her arms around her middle and urged her mind to clear. The shock was slow to dissolve.
A shifting of weight on the mattress along with the shuffling of covers prepared her for Ben's awakening.
He leaned across, placed his warm hand upon her back, and spoke in a quiet voice. 'Are you okay?'
'Yes. Go back to sleep.'
'Bad dream?'
'Yes.'
She walked to the bathroom, had a wee, and then clambered back into bed and snuggled beside him. His body was warm and soft, his breathing was slow and steady, and he oozed serenity. It wasn't fair. Haunted by crisscrossing images, she struggled to grab even a moment of calmness, and turned onto her back and stared at the shadowy ceiling.
Even though she craved a relaxing state, she could do nothing to evacuate the nightmare from her mind. It was as though she watched a film that was set on replay and one she could not escape from; it was as though someone stood over her, forcing her to take note.
Why had she not seen the attacker’s face when she had looked straight at them? She had not even seen if the person was a man or a woman, or if they had long hair or short. It was frustrating that her observations were so limited.
Unhinged, she pored over the images, reliving every moment of Saskia's death. Her chest tightened, her stomach ached, and her torment scrunched her forehead. Repeatedly, she told herself that it was not real, but it made no impact. She felt Saskia's fear as vividly as though it was her own, and her body continued to react to the stress.
She told herself that she was not Saskia and the past could not repeat itself, yet her thoughts had little play in her mind. She had already experienced someone wanting to take her life, and perhaps before the ultimate attack, Saskia had too. It was a terrifying thought.
Trying to calm herself, she glanced at Ben who appeared to have slipped into a peaceful slumber. Yearning for the same, she turned onto her side, and somehow, with the aid of his warm body, she started to gain an element of tranquillity. The images faded and its significance had less impact, and she started to doze.
Suddenly, an image appeared and her eyes ripped open.
In her dream, she had been speaking to Ron, and although the conversation had been calm, she could sense their tension rising. When she looked again, Ron was with a child, a girl.
Her pulse accelerated and her adrenaline surged. She felt as though had remembered something significant and struggled to contain her emotions. She even turned to Ben, desperate to share her find. Since she could hear him snoring softly, she decided against it and repeated the details in her mind.
Whilst she hadn’t any direct evidence, she felt certain Ron had a daughter. Had it been her? Feeling certain it was, she shuffled into a sitting position and urged the morning to arrive. She had to speak with Luke.
Megan tussled free from the covers, washed and dressed, and padded the steps down to the lower floor. She could not believe she had slept after her discovery and longed to get straight onto the telephone. But it was still early. She should at least wait until eight o'clock and give Luke a chance to get to work.
Ben had already prepared the breakfast table and greeted her with a warm smile.
'There's enough coffee in the pot,' he said.
She headed to the table and slipped onto the chair, passing into the warm rays of the sun. It was a beautiful day, and already the butterflies and hoverflies danced over the opened blooms.
'I’m glad you got back to sleep,' he said, 'what happened?'
'I had a dream about the attack, but I also saw Ron with a girl. I think he has a daughter.'
'Really?'
'Yes.' She looked at the clock on the wall above the mantelpiece. 'I must get onto Luke. I think it could be important.'
'I wonder why no one’s mentioned her. Verity must know about her.'
She did not respond.
'I knew you would remember something eventually. The answers had to be within you.'
Her stomach tightened. She poured the coffee into a mug and took a large gulp. 'Maybe I should ask Verity about her.'
'That’s probably not a good idea, especially after your last encounter.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right. She did act strangely. I'll leave it to Luke.'
His nod was appreciative.
'The nightmare shook me up. I was so sure I’d been stabbed. I kept feeling my stomach for blood.'
'Did you see the person's face?'
'No. It could be someone I don't know. Perhaps that's why I can't place them.'
'Maybe.'
She glanced at the clock. It was two minutes past eight. She reached for her mobile phone and dialed Luke's number. He answered immediately.
'Hello Megan. How are you?'
'I'm good, but I had strange dreams last night and I thought you might be interested.'
'Go on.'
'The first was about the attack. It was the same as always, and unfortunately, the person who stabs me, or should I say Saskia, is indistinct, but I saw someone else. There were two people at the scene. They were in it together and talking.'
'Did you see faces?'
'No, but I had a strong sense that I trusted the second person, the person who didn't stab me.'
'Any ideas what they were talking about?'
'No, but I don't think they were arguing.'
'Do you catch any of the words?'
'No.'
Silence.
'Do you think it was Ron and Verity?' she asked.
'It could have been, but we shouldn't be making assumptions.'
She rested her arm on the table, easing away the growing tension. 'It had to be them. Verity is always odd with me. She knows something. I can sense it.'
'You said that was the first dream. Was there something else?'
Her energies rose. 'Yes. I saw Saskia talking with Ron. They weren't arguing, but I could feel the tension rising.'
'Okay.'
'That's not the best bit. I saw a child, a girl. I think he has a daughter. I think they were afraid for her.'
'A daughter? How old was she?'
'About six or seven. Maybe a bit older.'
'Did you see what she looked like?'
'I think she was blonde . . . no, maybe not. She could have had brown hair.'
'Was her hair long or short?'
'Long, I think. Why?'
'Can you remember anything distinctive about her?'
'No, it all happened too fast. The only thing I sensed was their anxiety.’
'Was the girl afraid?'
'Afraid? I don't think so. Why would she be afraid if she was Ron's daughter?'
'What makes you think she was his?'
'Who else's could she have been?'
Silence.
She pondered the images in her mind. There was definitely a connection between Ron and the girl, as well as a familiarity and an understanding.
'Okay,' he said, 'let me have a think about it. If there's anything else you remember, give me a ring. I might be over your way today. If I am, I might drop in.'
'Okay.'
She ended the call, placed her phone onto the table and looked at Ben. He gave her an encouraging smile.
'Oh Lord!' she said. 'I've just had a thought.'
'What?'
'What if that girl was me? That would explain a few things.'
'But if the girl was seven in the year Saskia died, and that would make you about eight or so years older than you are.'
Her explosion of excitement sank like a stone. 'Yes, I suppose you're right.'
She gripped the coffee mug, pensive. It was possible that the girl could have been younger, maybe four years old, and she could be a few of years older than what was on the adoption papers. Mistakes happened. It might be unlikely, but it was possible.
It was an encouraging thought.
Luke leaned back into his chair, outstretched his legs, clasped his hands upon his lap, and looked around the office. He should feel contented. He was progressing with the biggest reincarnation case he had ever encountered, he was still a friend of Sarah's, and she was still single. He may have lost his chance at fatherhood, maybe his only chance, but his position was no different to a few days previous. So why did he feel gloomy?
Sarah's decision to abort their baby was significant. If she had only needed a slight push to reform their union, this was it. Nevertheless, she hadn't, and her decision had been easy. If she had taken weeks to mull it over her, it would have softened the blow. If she had asked him his opinion, it would have meant his views were worth something. Yet, the instant she found out, she made an appointment, and within a week ended the little life. It hurt. It hurt so damned much.
His questions were numerous. Apart from wondering about the sex of the child, he wanted to know what it would have looked like: the structure of its face, the size of its eyes, and the colour of its hair. Would it have been talkative or withdrawn, confident or shy? Would it have been inquisitive, sporty, or learned?
His body slumped as his misery deepened. There would be no other chance to have a child with Sarah. She had made it clear that their lives were following different tracks. There was no doubt in his mind that she would find an intelligent, sophisticated man, and probably a lawyer. Who could resist her? She was smart, worldly, and fun to be with. They would be queuing up, and probably already were.
His own prospects seemed somewhat darker. He was plain looking, had a dull personality, and had a passion for the paranormal that few considered seriously. He would struggle to find love, and he would spend his days alone, shrouded in darkness and misery.
Reprimanding himself for his despondency, he forced himself upright in the chair and searched for solace in his work. Before him was a list of documents relating to Megan's case. Some were interviews and others were observations. He accessed the one that displayed Saskia's letter and he felt a brief surge of excitement. The results of the handwriting comparison should come through the post today. It would be, as near as damn it, evidence of Saskia’s murder. He looked at Imogen.
She raised her head and their eyes locked. 'You okay?'
'Fine.'
'You seem a bit quiet. Have you spoken with Sarah?'
His heart galloped. 'I saw her last night.'
'How is she?'
'Good.'
'Did the abortion go okay?'
He nodded, solemn. 'She said she's not ready for a child and wants to establish her career. I have to respect that.'
'I hope she apologised for not consulting you.'
'She did, although I don't think it would have made any difference if she had. Her mind was set.'
'She seems a determined woman.'
He averted his gaze. 'She is.'
'You're not going to like me saying this, but I think you need someone more permanent in your life.'
'I'm happy this way. I like my own space.'
'Are you sure about that? I wouldn't like seeing someone once every few weeks. I need someone around all the time.'
'I can cope.'
Pity crossed her face causing him to look away. He could cope, but for how long? In addition, the day would come when Sarah found someone else, and then she would discard him like an old toy.
'Luke, you're such a nice guy. You should put yourself on the market again.'
His eyes wandered around the room.
'There's no way, if I was pregnant, that I would make that type of decision on my own. It's wrong not to consult the father.'
'But you're the one carrying it.'
'So? It shows respect. I'm not saying I would follow any suggestions, but we'd definitely talk about it.'
'I'm not sure I'd do the same . . . if I was a woman that is.'
She looked at her fingers and scrutinised her nails. 'I doubt Sarah would have even told you if you hadn't have seen her.'
Clenching his hands, he steadied his breathing.
'You should forget her. I'm sorry to say this, but Sarah's using you until she finds someone else.'
'I don't think she is.'
His words lacked conviction. To make him feel worse, her expression told him she didn't believe him either. He was pathetic, an idiot, and he should forget her. It would be easier now, than later. But what if she changed her mind? Could he forever close that path that led to a shared life with Sarah? Could he do that?
'When I saw her in the clinic, she told me it wasn't my baby.'
'Oh Luke, I'm sorry.'
'You must think I'm such a loser.'
Her face burst into life, projecting warmth and kindness. 'Not at all. You're a wonderful person . . . interesting and funny. If I wasn't with my Mark, I'd be after you.'
He grinned. 'I was starting to believe you too.'
The door opened and the bell sounded. Imogen stepped through to the reception area had a brief chat with the postal worker and returned to the office with a bundle of mail. Luke watched expectantly as her crimson fingernails flicked through the letters.
'This could be it,' she said, passing him a brown envelope.
He slipped his finger into a small gap under the flap and tore it open. Having noted that it was, in fact, relating to the handwriting comparison, he scanned the text.
'I'm right. The writing was different. There was no doubt.'
'So someone forged the letters.'
'Yes.'
'Verity?'
'No, it can't have been her. We've seen her writing, remember?'
She nodded.
'She must know that this letter wasn't Saskia's. They spent a lot of time together and must have been familiar with each other's handwriting.'
'I agree,' she said, 'they would have done their homework together even though they weren't in the same year at school. Did the original investigation check the writing?'
'The letters weren't referenced. There didn't seem to be much of a case at all from what I've seen of the records.'
She reached into her drawer, retrieved a nail file and smoothed the edges of her nails.
'There could have been a cover-up,' he continued, 'certainly if Verity was the one to kill Saskia. Jane had already covered for them when Frank died, so we know she’s capable.' He twirled his pen between his fingers. 'In fact, Jane could have written the letters to persuade the investigative team to dismiss the case.'
'There must have been some evidence of murder.'
'Not necessarily. Hiding weapons is easy, and blood can be cleaned up too.’
'Okay, but Ron would have had something to say.'
'It depends. Maybe Jane persuaded him it was in his best interest.'
'You mean blackmailed him.'
'It's possible.'
He chewed the end of a pencil and thought of the conversation with Megan and the girl. Was she Ron's daughter as she had suggested? It was possible, given his promiscuity. Maybe Jane knew about her, and for whatever reason was able to blackmail him. But how, and why?
'Megan rang earlier,' he said, 'she had a dream and saw Ron with a girl. Megan thinks it was his daughter.'
'Wow, that’s so cool!’
He smirked. 'I'm wondering if this was how Jane blackmailed him. Only thing is, I can't think of a reason why he would want to keep her quiet . . . unless she was conceived out of wedlock and he was ashamed.'
'That sounds unlikely . . . unless he turned over a new leaf, or found religion or something.'
'I agree.’
She stared pensively. ‘What if she was disabled or mentally impaired? He may have thought that it would damage his reputation. Some people are horrible like that.'
His eyes lit up. 'I think we need to make another trip.'
'Cool. Whose house first? Verity is more likely to confirm it than Ron.'
'I want to go to Ron's place.'
'He's not going to tell us anything different, not if Jane was able to blackmail him.'
'I'm not expecting him to. In fact, I hope he's not going to be in. There's something else I've remembered, and I want to have a look around and maybe even speak to friends or neighbours . . . anyone who knew him thirty plus years ago.'
'What am I missing?'
'I'll tell you later. First, let’s pack up and get out of here.'
Passing through the town centre was tiresome. There were road works blocking the southbound dual carriageway, there was a wine exhibition somewhere to the east of the centre, and there had been an accident at the north. Ambulance and police sirens wailed and impatient drivers honked their horns. Remaining relaxed, Luke tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and edged his car closer to the roundabout.
Out of his eye corner, he glimpsed Imogen scrutinising her lips in a hand mirror. There was no doubt that she was pretty, but she was a little too fastidious for him. How much time did she spend getting ready to go out? It rarely took him more than five minutes, and in that time he could have a quick wash, change his clothes, and brush his hair. What else was there to do? He glanced at her a second time, searching for evidence for whatever made it a time-consuming role. This time she fiddled with her hair, scrutinising the ends in the reflection.
Her hairstyle was rarely the same, and today it was crimped. He imagined touching it, running his fingers through her fawn, lush strands, and he breathed in her odour. She smelled delightful, not overpowering and not too subtle. Her skin was soft with pale even tones and her eyes were marine blue. She had a symmetrical appearance, and with the advantage of youth appeared doll-like.
Sarah was beautiful, but in many ways more natural. She didn't use ribbons, clips, or ties in her hair, and although she wore makeup, it was not obvious. If the wind blew her hair out of position, she would eventually put it back. So long as she had an even cut and it was clean, it did not matter to her if it wafted around. Her style reflected her personality, formal and unfussy.
Pushing aside his thoughts, he eased across the roundabout, made a quick left turn, then a right, and then another left. He must forget Sarah. She had treated him badly, yet he still hung onto her every word.
Maybe next time she would tell him, she had made a mistake, maybe next time she would say she loved him.
Damn it. He was such an idiot. He turned the car into Ron's road, slipped into second gear, and turned onto the street opposite his house.
'What are you doing?' Imogen asked.
'I don't want him to see us. I'm going to park along here and watch the house.'
She shifted up the seat. 'Cool.'
He turned the car around, found a suitable spot a little distance away, and turned off the engine.
'What are you looking for?'
'I'm not sure yet. I want to see if any of the neighbours are elderly for a start, as they might know something.'
'This is exciting. When I came for the interview, I never thought we'd be doing stuff like this.'
'When you came for the interview, I never thought I'd be hiring you.'
She spun to face him. 'What?'
'You looked a bit of a dreamer.'
'A dreamer. Why?'
'Well, you were all dolled up, and wearing that outrageous pink skirt with white dots. I thought you were having me on.'
Her voice dropped. 'Oh.'
He turned his head and saw her demoralised expression and sunken posture. He knew he had offended her and tried to retract his comment. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. You just weren't what I expected, that's all.'
'Should I have come in a grey suit?'
'You were fine as you were.'
'I like that skirt,' she said, her voice whiny.
'So do I - for a party.'
She unbuckled her seatbelt and stared through the windscreen. 'I'd love to see what you wear for a party.'
'I would wear the same as I'm wearing now.'
'Yes, that would be right. You need to loosen up a bit. One day I'm going to take you shopping and make you buy the jazziest outfit I can find.'
'I enjoy being plain and boring.'
'You need a new look. A new hairstyle too.'
'What's wrong with my hair?'
'It needs a lift and a bit of colour. I can see why they say the colour is mousy. It does look rather like you have a rodent on your head, and not a healthy one at that!'
'Gee, thanks.'
She grinned. 'You're welcome.'
They remained in comfortable silence, gazing at Ron's house, watching the occasional passers-by, and looking into gardens and through windows. They received a few curious stares from people, and tried to act as natural as possible and not give anyone reason for concern. Ron's house, though, remained still and silent, and there was no evidence of him being around.
'Have you seen Ron yet?' he asked.
'No. He could be in. His car could be in the garage.'
'I've been looking at the window into the lounge, but we are a bit far away. I haven’t seen any movement.'
'Me neither.'
'What we need is for someone to knock on the door.'
She spun to face him. 'Are you suggesting me?'
'No. I wasn't thinking that.'
'I could. I could knock and run away.'
'That's a bit childish.'
'Where's your sense of fun? Oh, I forgot, you don't have any.'
He pressed his lips together, contemplating her words. She was smiling, teasing, But even so, was that what she believed? Was he a bit stiff?
'I can do fun.'
'Go on then, tell me what pranks you've done.'
'I . . . erm . . .'
She grinned. 'I knew it. You haven't done any!'
'Okay smarty pants, what pranks have you pulled?'
'I once bought a car scratch sticker and put it on my Mark's car and told him I'd had an accident. It was so funny. He hit the roof.'
'That's a bit tame.'
'Okay, how about this, I rang up a friend, Josie, claiming to be her boss's new assistant, and fired her. Josie came straight around my house and burst into tears. I don't know how I managed to keep a straight face, but I did, for an entire hour.'
'That's mean.'
'No it's not. If I was mean, I wouldn't have confessed and she wouldn't have gone back into work. Anyway, it was funny. Tears rolled down my cheeks for ages afterwards. I don't ever remember laughing so much.'
'Did she see the funny side?'
She looked at her lap. 'Eventually.'
'I'm surprised she even spoke to you again.'
Sarah wouldn't have appreciated that prank, he thought, and she definitely wouldn't have spoken to him again. But where was the harm? Imogen's friend had not been fired, and it had just been a bit of fun. Perhaps he should lighten up.
Dismissing his thoughts, he focused upon an elderly woman with a terrier dog, who had just left a house opposite Ron's place and was heading towards them on the opposite side of the road. Despite her age - she looked to be in her mid to late seventies - she was sprightly and marched to the park.
'I think we should take a walk to see if that woman knows anything about Ron.'
Imogen peered over her shoulder and then reached for the door handle.
'Just hold back a minute,' he said, 'I don't want her to think we're following her.'
'Maybe we should pretend we are old friends of Ron's trying to track him down.'
'We're a bit too young for that.'
'You’re right. We could say we recently attended a function of one of his relative’s, and claim we want to catch up with him.'
'Could do. It must be believable though.'
She smiled. 'I have an idea.'
'What?'
'You'll see.'
They left the car and headed along the street and through the park entrance. The woman seemed to have disappeared then he spotted her ambling around the perimeter. He decided that they should walk the other way around so that their paths crossed.
Imogen's heels made a rhythmical clicking sound on the concrete path as they strode side by side across the middle of the recreation area. She seemed relaxed, and her eyes wandered, looking across the playing field and to a small pond. In comparison, he felt stiff and awkward, and uncomfortable in her presence and nervous of her plan.
Suddenly, she linked his arm, and his temperature rose and his pulse quickened. Nervously, he looked at her and tried to pull free, but she kept him firm in her grasp. He caught sight of her breasts, bobbing under her white blouse, and he saw her hips sway.
'What are you doing?' he asked.
'We have to make it look real.'
'Can't we just be friends?'
She chuckled. 'Do I scare you?'
The woman turned a bend. Her hair was curly, her skin rosy, and she had a healthy looking figure, not oversized or gaunt. She was wearing a flowery knee-length skirt and a three-quarter length light-blue jacket, and as she walked, she had a contented smile on her face. She seemed as though she would be amiable, a perfect target.
'Lovely little dog you've got there,' Imogen said.
'She's a darling. Wouldn't be without her.'
'What's her name?'
'Flossy. I love her to bits.'
She leaned over and stroked the little dog on her head. 'I can see why. She's a sweetheart.'
'She is. She would lick you to death if you let her . . . loves her cuddles.'
'I'll bet she sits on your lap most of the time.'
'She does,’ the woman said. ‘You're not from around here, are you?'
'No, we're not.'
'I thought not. I'm in here every day, I know most folks.'
'Maybe you can help us,' Imogen said, 'Luke and I are looking for a friend's house, Ronald Maddison. I believe he lives on Bentley Street.'
'He does. There's an exit across there.' She pointed. 'It's a bit hidden. It takes you onto a street. Keep going, and it's the house at the end, across the road. It certainly will be a surprise for him.'
'Oh, why?'
'He rarely gets visitors . . . likes to keep himself to himself.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes, not even his friends visit him. I live opposite see, I know what goes on.'
Imogen leaned over and kissed Luke on the cheek. 'I'm sure it'll be a nice surprise. He introduced us and now we're engaged. We wanted to tell him.'
'Congratulations. You make a lovely couple.'
His skin warmed and his mind turned fuzzy.
'Any ideas why he doesn't have visitors?' Imogen asked.
The woman was uncomfortable and hesitated. She looked across the recreation area and to the path ahead.
They waited, urging her to speak.
'Some say the place is haunted,' the woman said, 'I even heard someone screaming once. It was years ago mind. John, my husband, thought I had rocks in my head.'
'Haunted?'
'Oh yes. Have you heard about his poor wife?'
'Saskia?'
The woman nodded. 'That's the one. She left, although most believe someone murdered her. Folks say she now haunts the place.'
Imogen edged closer to him, and then wiped her finger across his cheek, smoothing away a stray hair. He could barely breathe, let alone focus on the conversation.
'Have you ever seen her ghost?' she asked the woman. ‘Aside from that scream you heard.’
'Now let me see. Yes, I once saw a woman in the downstairs window. She looked upset, even terrified, and I went to help. Of course, there was no one there. Ron even took me around the house. I was quite persistent, see.'
'Did she look like Saskia?'
The woman's eyes glazed. 'I don't know . . . can't remember. It was a long time ago. John told me off . . . told me I was a busybody and to mind my own business.'
'Did you ever see her again?'
'No. I used to walk by the house at night and listen out for sounds, but it was always silent and a bit of a disappointment if I’m honest. I wanted to believe the rumours.'
'I would too.' She pressed her hand onto his middle. 'I'm a bit of a ghost fanatic, aren't I darling?'
His lips moved, but no words came out.
'He's a bit shy . . . gets overwhelmed with strangers.'
The audacity! He had to gain control and assert his dominance, and told himself to breathe and urged his pulse to stabilize. He tried to wriggle free, but she wouldn't let him and pressed her soft curves into his arm. She had a glint in his eye. She knew exactly what she was doing and was enjoying every second.
'Does he ever have female visitors?' he asked.
'Not now. There was a time, about ten maybe fifteen years ago when he had a woman friend, but it didn't last. Other than that, I've never seen anyone. He seemed to give up women when Saskia left.'
'He loved her then?'
'That he did.' She studied them both. 'I can see you too are in love. You remind me of Ron and Saskia.'
'Thank you,' Imogen said, smiling.
'I must get on.' She looked at her dog. 'This little one is getting impatient. Lovely to meet you both.'
'Just one more thing,' he said, 'has he ever had any children?'
'No, definitely not. I would have remembered that.'
'Do you ever recall seeing children at the house?'
'No, never.'
As the woman stepped away, the dog regained a spring in its step and scampered ahead. Luke tried to pull free his arm.
Imogen clung on. 'Not yet. She'll be suspicious.'
'You're enjoying this aren’t you?'
'And why shouldn't I? It's just a bit of fun.'
Fun. It was that word again. He could do fun.
There was a bench ahead. He made the suggestion to sit down, claiming it would give the woman time to leave the area. In reality, it was so he could detach himself from her grip.
Imogen perched by his side. 'What do you think of the ghost story? Cool, don't you think?'
'Intriguing.'
'I think Saskia's spirit is still around. I think we should see if we can get inside . . . check it out.'
He held his hand to her cheek, thoughtful.
'What are you thinking?' she asked.
'Nothing.'
'You must be thinking something.'
'Okay, I'm wondering why you had to pretend we were a couple.'
She chuckled. 'You were petrified.'
'No I wasn't.'
'I could feel you shaking.'
He folded his arms. He wasn't petrified, he had enjoyed it, but he couldn't tell her that. He struggled to admit it to himself, as for some reason it seemed like a betrayal. He looked up, avoiding her line of sight, and gazed at the woman with her dog. She was moving much quicker now and heading to the exit. He waited for a few moments longer, giving Imogen a chance to tap a message into her mobile phone, and then stood up.
'Come on, let's go.'
She placed her phone into her handbag and together they headed back along the street, walking at a sedate pace so as not to reach the elderly woman. As they approached his car, Ron's house came into view. There was still no movement.
'What do you want to do?' Imogen asked.
He was pondering his choice of action when the woman from the park appeared in her garden, motioning wildly. They crossed the street, hurrying between passing cars, and strode to her house.
'You've missed him,' she said. 'I just saw his car leave.'
'Oh dear, thanks.' He turned to Imogen. 'I think we should drop him a note through his letterbox.'
They turned and stepped back to the car. He told Imogen they would wait a few minutes to give the woman a chance to grow bored in case she was watching through the window. Then they would go across.
'What for?' she asked.
'A look around. See if you can see anything to indicate a woman has been around.'
'Why?'
'I’m curious.'
'Shouldn't we looking for ghosts?'
He smiled. 'If you want to you can, but don't go arousing suspicion.'
'What do you think I'm going to do, imitate one?'
He chuckled, and she did too. Then, as they had agreed, they waited for a few more minutes and sauntered towards the house, walking as nonchalantly as possible and stepping into Ron's garden.
'You wander around the back,' he told Imogen. 'I'll check the kitchen.'
Recalling Ron's sudden appearance on their previous visit, he wandered around the shed and stood by the window. There were a few pieces of crockery on the draining board and a pile of tins on the surface, but other than that, it was clean with little out of place. He scanned the walls. There was only one door in the room - the one he knew led into the hallway - and there were no large cupboards. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.
Ron could have bobbed down, but he wasn't a small man and it would have been difficult to miss him. Luke's unease lingered. He stepped back, searching the exterior of the house for anything untoward. There was another window further to the rear, and two on the upper floor. There were no differences in brickwork, no alterations, and no extensions.
Imogen's rhythmical steps alerted him. Her excitement stretched across her face, brightening her eyes and reddening her cheeks. She was holding something.
'What's that?'
'Hair. It was in a plastic bag. It can't be Ron's.' It was brown with a hint of red. 'It's too long.' She stretched it out. 'This belongs to a woman.'
He grinned. 'Don't lose it.'
They walked around the shed.
'Do you think it's Saskia's?' Imogen asked.
He did not respond.
'That's what you were thinking earlier, isn't it? You think she's still alive.'
'I suppose she could be.'
'You could sound a bit more enthusiastic. What if she's been living in the house all this time? It would explain why that woman saw someone in the window. This is so cool.'
They headed out of the garden and closed the gate. The elderly woman was standing by her lounge window watching them. Instantaneously, Imogen grabbed his hand, turned to face him, and winked.
'Where to now?' she asked.
His heat was rising, her hand a perfect fit. 'Megan's,' he said huskily.
Lacking enthusiasm, Megan scanned the job adverts in the local paper. There were numerous sales jobs, nursing jobs, and teaching jobs, but nothing matched her skills and experience or her desires. She recalled thinking after she arrived in Rodley that she would accept whatever came her way, but now that the moment was drawing closer, as her savings were diminishing, she could not build any motivation to apply for jobs. She flicked over the flimsy sheet, glanced at the classifieds, and told herself that once this business with Saskia was over, she would make a concerted effort.
She was growing bored, and time seemed to be ticking ever slower by. Ben was out collecting a new car he had purchased and David was upstairs, not that she would ever consider having a conversation with him. They had barely made eye contact since she had discovered the images on his computer. It was just too difficult. Each time she imagined him drooling over the pictures, her stomach turned.
She glanced to the doorway, her heart beating a little faster, and scanned the staircase, hoping that he was not watching her at that moment. There was no sign of movement, no shadows stirring, and no footsteps padding the steps.
The arrival of a text made her jump. She reached for her phone and her tension melted. It was from Larry, and he was asking about her plans for the day. She told him she was bored, so he suggested that he take her to a place that would inspire her to draw beautiful pictures. Smiling, she tapped an enthusiastic reply into the phone and sent the message. It was just what she needed, a break from the monotony of unemployment. She put the phone on the table, closed the newspaper, and glided upstairs.
A sound emanated from David's room. She paused next to the open door, curious as to his activity, and peered through the gap. He was sitting on a chair and looking to his laptop. He seemed a little flushed, and puffed out and mumbled a comment. She couldn't tell what he had said, but she got the sense that he was looking at something pornographic.
Her nerves tightened her body. Was he looking at her? Tentatively, she strained her neck, but it was no use, as she still could not see beyond the rim of the monitor. Holding her breath and with her pulse throbbing in her throat, she tip-toed forward, one step and then the other, careful to avoid the creaks. An image appeared.
Grateful it wasn’t of her, she released a whoosh of air. Together, her shoulders dropped and her muscles slackened, and swiftly, she turned and stepped away.
Footsteps hammered the floor. She spun around. He grabbed her by her arms and flung her against the wall. She released a wailing cry.
'If you want me, just ask.'
'Let me go you creep!'
He drew closer. She turned her head away, keen to avoid his warm breath on her face and tried to tussle free. He was pressing his body into hers and pinning her to the wall. It had the firmness of youth.
Grinning, he let go of her arm, wedging it with his shoulder and shoved his hand up her cotton top. He pushed up her bra and groped her breasts. She screamed. She kicked. She could not make him stop.
In a flash, David had lifted her top and was squeezing and licking her nipples. She tried to fight him off, but it was a pointless attempt. He was overpowering her, and eased back and grinned and leered.
'You want more?' he asked.
She wriggled and kicked. She could not get free. 'Let me go you bastard!'
'You don't mean that. You love it, I can tell.'
'Like fuck I do!’ she said through gritted teeth, fighting him with every bit of energy. ‘You’ll pay for this!'
He raised his head and smirked. 'You think? I'll teach you not to spy on me.'
Her energy was draining and her muscles weakened. She wriggled, pummelling whenever she could, and kicking out with her legs. He wasn't going to do this. She would get free and continued to fight.
The doorbell sounded and her heart leapt. It would be Larry, her escape. There was an element of panic in David's eyes, and she could see he was wondering what he should do. Taking her opportunity, she kneed him in the groin, took a moment of satisfaction as he roared in agony, and raced down the stairs, straightened out her attire and flung open the door.
'I'll tell Dad about Joshua,' David cried.
'You do that. You'll be doing me a favour.'
She slammed the door and her body crumbled. She fell into Larry's arms.
'What's happened?'
She could not speak and shuffled to his car, and with his help climbed inside. Shaking, she wrapped her arms around her body, searching for warmth, and stared through the windscreen. She could not go back, could not risk another moment with David, and searched in a panicked state for an answer.
She sat in silence, quivering and flushed, and looked at the trees, fields and houses as Larry drove them to an unknown destination. Whilst he spoke in a calm and quiet voice, she had been unable to focus on his kind words and gestures and refused to share any sordid details of what had just happened. It was a private matter, and she was too ashamed.
Her thoughts were rampant. What would have happened if he had not arrived? Would David have raped her? She could not match his strength or size and feared that she would have had little chance of escape. Folding her arms across her middle, with visions of their union flashing into her mind, her eyes moistened.
Had David any idea of what he had done, or of the consequences that would follow? In effect, he was her stepson. Where was the respect? He was perverted and lecherous. It was bad enough that he sought out images of her, but to force himself upon her was a criminal act. She should have put an end to it weeks ago, and she should have told Ben what he was like before they arrived in Rodley. She was weak and cowardly.
She breathed deeply and scanned the winding lane as it melded into the desolate landscape. There were few houses, bar an occasional farmhouse, and there was woodland up ahead. It seemed familiar.
'Do you come here a lot?' she asked.
He gave her a sideways glance. 'Used to. It was one of my favourite spots. You'll like it. Pity you didn't bring your sketchbook. I hope you've got a good memory.'
Drawing was the last thing she wanted to do. Exhausted, she wanted to go home. But where was home? She would not return to David. The thought caused her tension to rise and a moan to escape her lips.
There was only one solution. She had to phone Ben and tell him what had happened, and this time she would hold onto her determination to speak the truth. Convinced it was the right way forward, she reached into her pocket for her phone.
It wasn’t there, and neither was her wallet.
'We'll have to go back,' she said, 'I haven't anything with me.'
'It doesn't matter. You don't need anything.'
He swung the car left and jolted to a halt in a lay-by.
‘Then you must let me treat you next time,’ she said and glanced at the woodland and a narrow path progressing into the darkness. 'Where are we going?'
He pointed to the path. ‘The view is something else.’ He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car. ‘Ready?’
Going for a walk was the last thing she wanted to do, and hesitated to move. When Larry strode around the car to her side, and she noticed the hope and expectation in his expression, she complied with his wish and joined him outside.
'Don't worry, it's not far and not much of a climb,' he said. ‘It is worth it, though.’
She started along the path, progressing at his rear. It was steep, shrouded in darkness, and overrun with brambles and nettles. Other than a faint whoosh of the wind in the trees, there was silence, and not even bird sounds to keep her company. It was eerie, and since she was sticky with dried perspiration from David’s attack, she was cold. Craving the comforting warmth of the sun, she strode out, following his steps, and dipped under the branches and stepped over exposed roots. They arrived minutes later.
The view was reasonable, and maybe when she felt less drained she would appreciate it more. In the distance was a town, presumably Rodley, and in the foreground, in a valley, were trees, a small lake, and a meadow with horses.
'Like it?' he asked.
Clutching her stomach, she nodded her head. She wanted to go home, needing a comforting hug and craving Ben’s touch.
'Follow me,' he said, 'there's a rock just a little way down to sit on.'
They weaved past shrubbery and trees, stepped around grass clumps, and followed a track around a large boulder and down a sharp incline. Just below, on the edge, a small cave was a rounded rock.
A vision of a past event flashed into her mind, jolting her to a standstill.
'I won't bite,' he said, 'come sit down.'
She crept towards the rock, unable to remove the images of two lovers making love on the grassy bank; their bodies entwined, their giggles tormented, and their lust embarrassed.
'Do you want to talk about what happened back at your house?' he asked.
'Not really.'
'David sounds as though he is a bit of a handful, but give him a chance. He likes you.'
She stiffened. What conversations had they shared? Dared she ask?
'He's been asking me about the RAF,’ he continued. ‘Did you know he's interested in joining?'
She shook her head.
'Years ago I used to take pictures at a base. You'll have to come over and see for yourself.'
'It's not my thing.'
'Fair enough. I've promised David I'll show him. We've chatted at some length. I like him.'
She raised her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her eyes swam with tears. She wanted to curl up in a dark corner, out of sight, and she wanted to scrub herself clean.
When's Ben leaving?'
'I . . . I don’t know.'
His tone hardened. 'I thought you said it was over.'
'It . . . it's complicated.'
'It's either over or it's not. It doesn't sound complicated to me.'
A memory surged. She had heard those words before, somewhere in the distant past, or rather Saskia had. She had been arguing with someone. Had it been Ron? She had said that their relationship was over and it had resulted in a massive argument. Whoever it was, was displeased and carried a furious look in his eyes. It had preceded the stabbing.
She gulped and tried to piece the bits together, searching for clarity. She felt sure that it had been Ron and believed Saskia had threatened to end their relationship. However, she had a strong sense that he had appeared forlorn rather than angry, and it was confusing.
Something did not make sense. Could she be confusing two separate conversations? Her efforts were futile and no matter how she tried, she could not recall anything more.
Her eyes drifted, searching for answers. Staring at the grassy bank, the vision of the lovers clarified in her mind. Saskia was the female. Who was the man?
She turned her head, catching Larry's gaze, and froze in fear.
'You brought Saskia here.'
He smirked. 'It's taken a while for you to realise. Now you can tell me about the paintings.'
'I don't know anything about any paintings.'
He grabbed her wrist and squeezed. 'I think you do.'
'It's strange that she's not answering her phone,' Luke said, turning onto Rochester Street.
Imogen placed her phone into her handbag and put her bag on the floor 'Maybe she's switched it off for some reason, or has it charging.'
'Maybe.'
He slowed down to allow a car to reverse into a tight spot near Megan's house, and then drove a little way along the street and parked in a larger gap. They climbed out and headed towards the house. Ben was standing on the pavement, scrutinising a vehicle. He turned and smiled.
'Hi you two. Like my new car?'
Luke nodded
‘It’s nice to get something for nothing for a change.’ He stepped towards the house. ‘Are you after Megan?'
'Yes. We just thought we'd pop in for a chat. I hope she's not busy, she's not answering her phone.'
They stepped inside and Ben called out her name. Even David didn’t know where she was and appeared to Luke to be unforthcoming. Undeterred, and agreeing with Ben that she may arrive home within the next half an hour, they accepted his offer of a drink and progressed into the lounge.
As they waited for the kettle to boil, they chatted about the car - the reason for choosing that particular model, the choice of colours, and the engine size. Luke was not a car fanatic but he was able to feign interest. Imogen, though, seemed distracted.
At first, her eyes seemed to glaze, but then her expression changed to one of concern. She seemed to be trying to catch his attention, but since he was otherwise engaged in conversation, he had to ignore her.
Eventually, when Ben left the room to get the drinks, she pointed to Megan’s handbag. 'Something has happened.'
He was about to ask her for her reasoning when Ben appeared with the drinks.
'I assume that’s Megan's bag?' she asked.
He said it was.
'Does she often go out without it?'
'No, I don't think she does.'
'Would you mind looking to see if her house keys or purse are with her?'
He reached down to the bag and poked around. 'They're here.'
'What about her phone?'
'She must have it with her.'
Imogen reached for her phone and dialled her number. A sound played. It came from the table.
He dashed across and picked it up, his face creasing with concern.
Luke frowned. He could understand Megan leaving without her purse, but not her house keys or phone. She must have left in a hurry.
'I keep telling her not to go out alone,' Ben moaned.
'Let's not panic,’ he said. ‘She might have just taken a walk.'
'She does go running occasionally.'
'There you are then.'
He was going to let it rest, but Imogen had a frantic look in her eyes and his gut churned. She didn't believe she was safe, and if he were honest, neither did he. He reached for his coffee, took a sip of the hot liquid to calm his nerves, and watched Ben transfer his weight between his feet.
'She never goes out without her phone,' he said.
His voice was weak, it seemed as though he was speaking more to himself than anyone else, and slipped the phone into her bag, strode into the hallway and called out to his son. There was no response, forcing him to try again, more assertively this time. When David still did not answer, Ben rushed from the room and pounded the staircase
Luke passed Imogen a worried glance.
'Where is she?' Ben asked.
The answer was faint.
'What have you done to her?'
David's voice was inaudible.
'If you've touched her . . .'
Footsteps stomped across the floor and a door slammed.
There was a thumping sound. Ben cursed and then shouted at David, willing him to appear and to take responsibility for his actions.
Luke tensed, and wondered if they should leave. Whatever was occurring was a private matter. It might explain her disappearance, but it would not affect the case.
He turned to Imogen. ‘I think we should leave.’
She was about to reply when her gaze shifted to the door and to Ben’s entrance. He was clearly upset, as his face was pinched and heated with anger.
'She's gone out with Larry,’ he said. ‘We don't need to worry.'
Whilst it was plausible, it didn’t explain why she’d left without her bag, and his concerns remained. Was she even safe with Larry, and if so, where had they gone? Seeking reassurance, he glanced at Imogen
'Could we just ask you one favour before we go?' she asked Ben. ‘Could you check her phone messages to see if there’s any indication of where she's gone?'
'She's not in any trouble.'
'Maybe not, but it won't do any harm checking. We could take her bag and phone to her.'
Complying with her request, he reached for her phone and scanned her messages. For a while, he held a pensive expression, then anger exploded on his face and his body tightened. He bit his lip and his eyes bulged then he stared through the open doorway and up the stairs. He was holding back another flurry of angry words, and his son seemed to be the target.
Waiting in an uncomfortable silence, Luke passed Imogen a quick glance. When he noticed that she seemed equally concerned, he made another suggestion to leave.
Ben did not reply, but charged from the room and stomped up the stairs. Seconds later, he confronted his son.
'Did you take this?' he roared. 'You're no son of mine, a disgrace. What in God’s name are you playing at?'
He continued his outburst, speaking quick and often, and not giving David a chance to reply.
Embarrassed, Luke tried not to listen, but it was difficult to ignore the continuous hollering, so he turned to Imogen and announced his desire to slip away.
‘No way,’ she hissed. ‘I want to hear this.’
He passed her a disagreeing stare.
'And I'm worried for Megan.'
'Ben said she's not in trouble. She’s with Larry.’
'I have a bad feeling. She said in one of the regression sessions that Saskia fancied someone. I think it was Larry.'
'Larry?'
'Yes. That would explain why Megan felt comfortable with him.' She pressed her hand to her stomach. 'Can’t we wait until Ben returns? There might be something in the messages to indicate where he took her.'
Unwilling, as the shouting continued, he agreed to her suggestion. Ben was swearing now, and there was still no response from David. Concerned for the younger man, he strained his ears, hoping to hear a comment. If he replied, it was too faint to hear.
He passed Imogen a quick glance. ‘I’m going to check what’s going on.’
He crept to the doorway and looked up the staircase. He craned his neck, searching the upper floor for movement, and saw Ben stomp to the bathroom and close the door. Then, in amongst the comforting sound of the road traffic was the gentle creak of footsteps sounding from David's room.
Breathing easier, Luke waited for Ben to descend the stairs and appear in the room. When he did, he was calmer and more composed; his skin tone had evened out, the redness around his eyes had lessened, and the tips of his fringe were damp.
'Larry has taken Megan to one of his favourite spots,' Ben said, avoiding eye contact. 'That's all the message says.'
'It doesn't give us a lot to go on.'
'I have to find her. Is there anyone you have spoken to who might know where he likes to go?'
'We haven't found anyone who has had a lot to do with Larry.'
They sat and stared into a void in the middle of the room.
'Verity knew him,' Ben said.
He tilted his head.
'She told Megan that Larry was bad news. She warned her away a few times.'
'Did she?'
'Yes. If she had her reasons, Megan didn't find out what they were, except that he once stalked a woman.'
Luke glimpsed at Imogen. Her inability to discover that fact was a concerning mistake.
'I don't think he was convicted of anything,' he continued, 'but it must have been intense. He had pictures of the woman plastered on his walls.'
'When was this?'
'Years ago. Megan said that he had told her and that he had regretted what he had done. I don't trust him, but she does and so I had to respect that.'
'I think we should go see Verity,' Luke said to Imogen, standing up.
'I'm coming too,' Ben said, 'I'm not losing her a second time.'
He gave him an enquiring glance.
The conversation was minimal during the drive to Verity's house. Even though Ben stared pensively out of the side window, maintaining a fixed frown, Luke felt awkward in his presence. Whatever had happened was between father and son, and was none of their business. He grimaced as his own burden surfaced.
Would he ever have a boy of his own? It would have been a wondrous gift, something to cherish and marvel at, a life created by two people, a loving life. He would have cared for him, played with him, taught him the joys of manhood. He would have been the proud father waiting at the school gates, urging his son to share the day's events. Together, they would have experienced new smells, new sights, and new sounds. He would have clasped the little boy's hand, sensing his elation and forever inscribing it into his heart. Together they would have shared every moment of happiness and distress. Nothing could bring such absolute delight - he glanced into the rearview mirror - and evidently such pain.
Verity's house came into view. He parked the car, turned off the engine, and turned to Ben.
'Do you want to stay here?'
'No way! I have to find Megan. I have to know where she is.'
'Okay, but let us do the talking. Verity can be difficult.'
He passed Imogen a quick sideways glance. As always, she seemed unfazed and carried herself with an air of confidence. It was uplifting and reassuring. Smiling inwardly, he clambered out of the car and stepped down the drive. The sound of harmonic voices and a rocky beat of drums drew his attention.
The doorbell sounded and the music stopped, and a hazy figure, obscured by the frosted glass, stepped towards the door.
'Hello, Ms Verity Fox?'
She nodded, scowling.
'I'm Luke Adams, a private investigator, and this is Imogen Morrison, my assistant. He showed her his card. 'This is Ben, Megan's partner. Can we come in for a chat?'
'What's this about?'
'Megan has disappeared and we're worried. She's gone somewhere with Larry Carr.'
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. 'I've warned her . . . many times. She's as stubborn as that stupid sister of mine was . . . hasn’t listened to a damned word I’ve said, clearly.’
She swung open the door, causing it to rebound against the wall, and strode to a room on the right. He followed on behind and stepped into the living room. It smelled bad and he had to make a concerted effort to stop his nose from curling. There were grit and fluff on the carpet, damp rags on a plastic sheet near the window, and a jar of reddish liquid and a paintbrush on a piece of timber board. It was a curious smell, a mixture of unwanted scents.
'I don't know what you expect me to do,' she said. 'I've already done what I can.'
'What do you know about Larry Carr?'
'Not a lot.'
'Is he dangerous?'
'He used to get in lots of fights . . . had quite a temper.'
'Who with?'
'Anyone and everyone. Not so much now, he seems to have mellowed a bit.'
'Did Saskia know him?'
She hesitated and looked away.
Ben spoke: 'We need to find out where he's taken Megan.'
Luke turned to face him. 'Just hang on a minute,' he said, 'all in good time.'
'I have to get to her.'
'And you said she wasn't in danger.'
Ben dropped his gaze.
'You sure about that?' Verity asked, glimpsing at Ben. ‘You’re certainly trusting.’
'What do you know?' Luke asked.
She flipped off her shoes and raised her feet to a table. 'I don't like him, that's all.'
'What have you got against him?'
'Everything. I don't trust the man.'
Her response sounded rehearsed. She was hiding something; he could almost see it, whatever it was, hovering behind her nonchalant exterior. Then her lips moved, as though she was about to speak, and her eyes searched for courage.
'You know something,' he said, 'I can tell. Can you risk another loss of life?'
'I've already told you what I know.'
'I'm not convinced. You knew Saskia as well as anyone, even during those last few months. You know why she was killed.'
'No, I don't.'
'But you do know that she didn't disappear to Spain.'
'Maybe.'
‘So you know the letters were forged?'
Verity bolted upright. 'Who told you about them?' She paused, her gaze passing between them. ‘Let me guess . . . Megan.’
'That’s hardly the point. You knew Saskia's handwriting better than everyone else. Did you write them or was it your mother?'
'They arrived in the post.'
'And the postmark?'
'Spain.'
Luke puffed out. 'Come on Verity. Help me out here. Who sent them?'
She was silent and maintained a hardened stare.
'Who are you covering for Ms Fox?'
She did not reply.
'We will find out. It's better for you that you tell me now.'
Ben shuffled to the edge of his seat, ready to spring into action. Luke motioned him back.
'I think you should go,' Verity said, rising to her feet and striding to the door.
He held his ground. 'We know what happened to your father, Frank and how you put something into his food.'
'What! How?'
'It doesn't matter. If that's why you're worried about speaking out, you needn't be - nothing will happen. The case is closed.'
She rubbed her upper arm with her hand. 'It . . . it was an accident.'
'Yes, we know.'
'I never meant for him to die.'
'He was ill. He might have died anyway.'
She shrank back into the armchair. 'Saskia blamed me. She didn't know he was ill. Then there was my mother. She found the powder we'd used and forced the truth from me. She cut us off after that . . . wouldn't speak to either of us. Saskia never forgave me, not properly. Mum kicked me out and I had nowhere to go, so Saskia took me in. But I . . . but I took advantage.' She covered her face with her hand. 'I tried to entice Ron away from her. I couldn't bear seeing the two of them together.' She raised her head and looked towards him. 'I loved him.'
'I know.'
'What will happen?'
'Nothing, as I said, the case is closed.’
'I've dreaded this getting out. I was so sure I would go to prison. I couldn't face that.'
'Does anyone else know what you did?’
'Ron does.'
'What about Larry?'
'Maybe.'
'How does he know?'
She scrutinised her fingernails.
'Ms Fox.'
'I think Saskia may have told him.'
'Were they having an affair?'
Verity looked up her expression blank. 'I was furious with her. She had Ron but she didn't love him. I'd have done anything to get him back.' She wiped her hand across her eyes. 'Few people knew about their affair. I just happened to spot them together once.'
'What happened?'
'Nothing. Saskia wasn't speaking to me by then. I . . . I'd done everything I could to cause upset in their marriage, but nothing worked. When I found out about her affair I considered telling Ron, but I decided against it. My main concern was for Saskia. I'd heard rumours that Larry was bad news - violent and manipulative - but she wouldn't listen. She was besotted.'
'Why didn't you tell Ron?'
She shook her head. 'I was only thinking about repairing my relationship with her. If I acted, I knew she would think I was stirring. More than anything I wanted my sister back in my life.'
'Did Ron know?'
'I don't think so. I'm sure he wouldn't have taken it lying down.'
'How long did it last?'
'Until she died. One of them killed her, but I could never prove it. Ron threatened to expose me for what I'd done and forced me to stay quiet. In the end, I was encouraged to show Mum the letters I'd got - even though I knew they weren't from Saskia - just so she would accept the story that she had left.'
'Didn't she recognise the handwriting?'
'No. She never paid any attention to what we did at school. She was often drunk.' She harrumphed. 'I don't know who wrote it. I've seen Ron's and Larry's writing, and it's not either of them. They could, of course, have got someone else to write it.'
He rubbed his fingers across his cheeks.
'All this is fine,' Ben said, 'but I need to find Megan urgently. Can you help me or not?'
‘I don’t know where he would have taken her,’ Verity said.
'Just try to think,’ Luke said. ‘Please. It's important.'
'There is one place Saskia liked. It was one of my favourite places too. Ron used to take me.' Her eyes glazed.
'Go on.'
'There's some woodland and a clearing. It's quite high up, and there's a fantastic view of town.'
'Can you write out directions?'
She said she could and scampered to a drawer in the next room, returning moments later with a sheet of paper and a pencil.
'Did Ron have a daughter? Luke asked.
She stopped mid-stride and stared. 'A daughter? No. No way.'
'Did he ever have any contact with young girls - family members perhaps?'
'No, never.'
'Are you certain?'
‘Of course. Why do you ask?'
'Just something I heard. When you stayed with Ron and Saskia, did you ever hear strange sounds in the house, like crying or screaming?'
Verity was bewildered. 'No, quite the opposite. The house seemed exceptionally quiet . . . and spacious. I'd lived in squalor, so it seemed palatial. Saskia was lucky to be with Ron.’ She paused. ‘She was also a stupid woman.'
'For turning to Larry?'
'Yes, for turning to Larry.'
Megan's anxieties stirred, spreading across her body like creeping tendrils. Everything had changed; he had changed.
His hand was gripping her wrist, squeezing, threatening. He did not seem like the trustworthy friend she believed he was - not kind and caring nor dependable - and her heart pounded, her eyes twitched, and her body trembled. He edged closer, his warm breath tickling her face, his eyes like malevolent pools of oil.
He had been concealing something all along, and luring her in, like a mouse to cheese. Was his true persona edging closer to the surface? He had a sinister past and a mysterious need to fulfil something, and she had grabbed the bait like a fool. She should have listened to Verity's warnings.
Slowly and tentatively, she slithered free her arm. After a moment of apprehension, his face softened and his eyes dropped, and relief hovered in the air.
'I didn't mean to worry you,' he said.
Her mouth was too dry to speak, and her body too rigid. One wrong word, one wrong step, and she sensed he would pounce.
'I know you have Saskia's memories. She promised me one of her paintings.'
Her options swirled. Should she say she didn't know anything about them and risk his fury? What would he do? What was he capable of? He probably wouldn't believe her anyway. It might be easier to lie and give herself time to think.
'Which ones are yours?' she asked.
'Do you have them?'
'I . . . I need reminding.'
His eyes narrowed and his face darkened.
'My memories are triggered by things,' she added quickly, 'tell me about the paintings . . . and Saskia.'
Overcome with recollections of love, his eyes misted and his lips curled. 'We were soul mates . . . had the kind of love that's rare. We laughed until we cried, made love in some fantastic places.' He glanced to the grassy ledge. 'And we talked for hours . . . about life, love, people and our dreams. She was an amazing woman.'
'But she was married.'
He glared. 'Saskia was the kind of woman that you only meet once in your life, and even though . . .'
Unexpectedly, he stopped and stared at her. Something seemed to concern him and she sensed it was to do with the murder. Had he killed Saskia or had he been a witness? The images, the memories, were blocked.
'. . . I was still glad to know her,' he continued. 'When I was with her, the world was such a beautiful place. I felt as though I could do anything - all my ambitions, my dreams, they seemed achievable.'
Nervously, she shuffled, moving a little distance away from Larry. Her palms were flat on the rock face and her feet poised and ready to run. She needed a plan, at least a little more thinking time, and had to keep him talking.
'What was she like?'
'She was warm and caring . . . you could say she had brought up her brothers and sisters. I wanted to give her something back. I had a decent job, could afford a mortgage, and was prepared to make sure she had whatever she wanted. My generosity overwhelmed her, but she was worth it . . . every penny. All I wanted was to see her happy, and she was, with me.'
'I can see how much you loved her.'
He turned, suspicion written into his eyes. 'She loved me too.'
'Of course.'
'She didn't love Ron. He was cruel to her . . . treated her badly. Yes, he gave her money and possessions, but he didn't give her love and attention. He used to put her down, tell her she was from a poor family and that she was lucky to be treated with such kindness. He said she deserved little more than a rat. And if he wasn't criticising her family and upbringing, he was telling her how stupid she was.' He scrutinised her expression. 'Saskia was devastated. Many times she sobbed in my arms.'
She edged forward on the cool rock. His words were confusing, and not in any way representative of her memories. She told herself to play along - he must not doubt her – and forced her calmness and confidence into her voice.
'She was lucky to have you,’ she said. ‘You obviously made her happy.'
'I did. We made plans. We found a house - even put in an offer to buy it - and started looking for furniture. I was prepared to let her choose everything. I was good to her. As I said, our love was unique . . . one in a million.'
He placed his hand on her thigh. She froze, maintaining a fixed stare on the town in the valley below.
'I knew you'd come back to me. We've been given a second chance.'
He reached for her hand, moving in what seemed like slow motion. His skin met with hers and was warm and clammy. She held her breath, fighting with every ounce of her being to stop pulling free.
'You need me,' he said, 'just as I need you. We are two halves of a whole. I love you, Saskia.'
Megan, not Saskia.
'We can start over. I've made plans to sell the house and go abroad. You always said you wanted to travel. Where do you want to go?'
Her mouth was dry, her jaw clamped.
'I always promised I would take you to Austria. We could start there. I've been checking out a few places and found some superb hotels.'
He shuffled closer, wrapped his arm around her back, and stroked her hair away from her face. Could he feel her rigidity? Could he smell her fear? Or was he so besotted that he believed her to be blissfully happy, having returned to this world to give them both another chance?
'Then we can go to Germany, and across to Sweden. Would you like that?'
Bewildered and terrified, she agreed to his suggestion.
'Good. I thought you would.'
He leaned closer, pressing his firm lips upon her cheek. His breath was rancid, his aura repulsive. She stayed stock-still.
'I love you Saskia. We are so right for each other, and this time I'll keep Ron away from you.'
'Ron?'
'Don't you worry about him. I've been watching you. I know you haven't been seeing him. You did as you said you would and ended your relationship. You'll be safe with me.' He turned. He stared. 'I don't like it when you lie.'
It dawned. Saskia had told Larry that she had ended her relationship with Ron when she hadn't. Larry found out. He was furious. But what happened then? Her head ached as she strained her mind, fumbling for the truth. Was that when Larry reached for a knife?
He pressed his fingers upon her chin and turned her head. 'You're quiet darling. Are you happy?'
Her lips quivered.
'Saskia?'
'I'm happy.'
'Good girl.'
Birds squawked and tussled in the hidden canopy below, and then a pigeon fled, racing across the open skies and down the hillside. She started to track it, but then searched for a pathway, a route back to the city and away from Larry. Maybe if she ran downhill she could out-pace him. She could be fleet of foot if she discarded her shoes.
He squeezed her hand and gazed adoringly into her eyes. 'Remember when I took you to the coast? You danced on the beach, barefoot. You ripped off your top and ran into the freezing sea. I wrapped you in a warm towel and you snuggled into me. You told me you would love me forever - love me until the day you died.' His skin tightened, his veins pronounced. 'It was a promise I made you keep.'
'You killed her!'
He jumped to his feet. 'No! No!'
She launched herself away from the rock. She stumbled. She fell to the grassy clearing. He grabbed her legs.
'Let me go!'
'I love you. I would never hurt you.'
'You killed her! I remember. I saw you with a knife.'
He raised his hands to his head. 'I was saving you from Ron. He couldn't bear to see us happy. He killed you. It was him, not me.'
'That's not true.'
She slithered backward. He weighed her legs down with his body. He reached into his pocket. He had a knife, sheathed, safe.
He hesitated. 'I know what you did. You killed your father, killed unborn babies. You deserved to die.'
'I didn't do those things. I'm not Saskia.'
'You should have stayed with me. You would have been happy with me.'
He pulled out the knife. It glimmered in the light.
She pressed her hands to the floor and pulled up her knees. He was stepping towards her, looming overhead, blocking out the sunlight. She kicked him, caught his knee. He groaned. He staggered.
She took her chance and ran. Downwards was quicker, but downwards was more precarious. She stepped around rocks, leaped over grassy tufts and weaved around shrubs. Breathlessly and with her chest straining, and not daring to turn around, she progressed down the valley. Her heel caught and her body jarred.
Larry was upon her. He thrust her forward, pressed her to the ground and into a jagged rock. She tussled. Her arms and legs flailed. He had her pinned, and in a swift motion tied her arms behind her back with a piece of rag. Then he spun her around.
'You're not getting away again, not this time.'
He hoisted her to her feet and dragged her back to the grassy ledge, where, without warning, he let go. She stumbled, falling to her knees and dropping to her face. He hovered over her, staring and smirking. He had his trophy.
'I would have looked after you. Given you the life you deserved. You betrayed me Saskia, you forced my hand.'
'I'm not Saskia! I don't know anything about Saskia.'
'You said you loved me, and then . . . and then . . . you went back to him. I saw you together. I saw you. Have you any idea how that hurt? After everything you promised, after all I'd done.'
He smoothed his fingers across the surface of the knife. It glimmered. She gasped. Her heart pounded. Slowly, as though to make a point, he stroked the sharpened surface and grinned.
Think damn it. Think. 'The paintings! Don't you want the paintings?'
'Where are they?'
'If you kill me, you'll never find out.'
His face hardened and blood rushed through her trembling body. He was questioning if she was toying with him, and so had to remain resolute and couldn't show even a tad of weakness.
'I know where they are. I can take you. Then we can be together,' she said.
'Don't lie to me Saskia, not again.'
Stay calm and don't screech, she thought and took a steadying breath. 'I'm not lying. I did them for you. They're yours.'
He was frowning, disbelieving.
'I came back for you, so we could be together. Don't spoil it. We won't get another chance.'
'What about Ron?'
'He means nothing. I want you, no one else. Please, you have to believe me.'
'Where are the paintings?
'I hid them . . . kept them safe.'
'Take me to them.'
He yanked her to her feet and headed back to the car. Oh Lord. What now? Where should she take him? Somewhere busy. Rodley perhaps.
He threw her into the rear. She crashed into the seat, unable to position herself with the rag pressing into her wrists, and lay along the length of the seat. Her heart was pounding, her breathing hurried. A door slammed shut and another opened and shut. She could see nothing of consequence and couldn't raise herself to window level and see anything below the skyline.
Outside, another car screeched to a standstill. It sounded as though it was going to hit them. Breathless and helpless, she listened as Larry turned the ignition key, pressed hard on the accelerator, and swerved and drove away. She lurched to the left, her head bashed against the door, and she lurched to the right. Brakes squealed. The engine roared. She fell into the well, her body contorted and became trapped, and her arms cramped.
Her stomach swelled and fluid rose to the mouth. They were moving more rapidly now, downhill. Larry was muttering something, swearing. They swerved. They skidded. They bounced over rough ground. Plummeting. Toppling. Faster. Faster. Her insides lurched. Her life flashed before her eyes.
Luke peered through the woodland at the paths and small clearings, absorbing the scenery of the illuminated grasses, ferns, and meandering ivy. Deep shade limited his viewing, with the only light spreading from gaps in the canopy. It was beautiful. It was eerie. It had a mystical quality.
The sunlight created a mosaic effect upon the road as the huge drooping branches swayed in the light breeze. The road was narrow, a twisty single track. He hugged the left-hand side at a tight corner. The sunlight dazzled. He squinted as the car descended a hill, and then peered into the rear view mirror.
Ben leaned forward, anxiety spreading across his face. 'Faster, we're losing them.'
Concentrating his gaze, Luke eased his foot from the brake and clenched the steering wheel, keen to shorten the gap between their two cars. Then, reaching a short patch of straight road, he accelerated and swung the car into the next corner and looked as far ahead as he could. The rear of Larry's car slipped from view.
His heart was in his mouth. They had seen Larry forcing Megan into the rear and noticed the malevolence in his eyes. Ben's anger had exploded and he'd been ready to jump out and confront him, but Larry had been quick and thrust his car into immediate action. They must not lose him; it wasn't an option.
Sweat trickled along his forehead, his body tightened, and droplets trickled into his eyes. Then, from ahead came the screeching sound of grinding brakes and squealing tyres, followed by a repetitive thudding sound. He lifted his foot off the gas, held his breath, and hugged the tight bend. They gasped in unison. Larry's car was tumbling down a hill, across meadowland and towards a wall and a line of trees. He slammed on the brakes.
Ben jumped out, leaving the car door ajar. He bounded across the grass, slipping sideways down the incline and shrieking, ‘Megan, Megan!’
The car was still rolling, gaining speed, bumping and thrashing into the clumps of undergrowth.
Luke stood next to Imogen both mesmerised by the scene. The car crashed into the wall. The impact seemed to freeze his circulation. He shuddered, his skin cold and hypersensitive, his stomach swirling. He gawked, helpless.
'Go!' Imogen yelled, 'I'll ring the services.'
He hesitated. He took off.
Megan must have lost consciousness as the moment she recovered, her adrenaline triggered. She was in agony; pain progressed down her shoulders and arms, and her legs twisted at an awkward angle. She was grazed and bleeding, and her face was sore. She released a tremulous cry.
She wasn’t certain what had happened but knew she had to get out of there. Motivated by the thought of Larry in the front seat, she forced strength to her legs, desperate release herself from the tight gap and get to safety. He would be upon her, soon.
Why hadn't he moved? What had happened to him? His last guttural cries turned her stomach, and she smoothed one hand over her other, soothing herself with knowledge that she was alive.
'Larry?' she said weakly.
There was silence, no gasps for air, no grunts of agony and no shuffling sounds of movement. Was he dead? If he were, she should be grateful.
Alternatively, he might have escaped and be about to creep up on her with a knife in his hand and evil intentions in his mind. She had to get away, but her pain increased with every wriggle. Unable to free herself, she sank back down and moaned.
A voice, faint but familiar, called out her name.
Tears swept into her eyes. 'Ben?' she said, her voice quaking and solitary.
His steps were soft on the grass. He pulled on the door handle. It was jammed. 'Megan. Are you all right?'
'Yes.'
'Hold on.' He rushed around to the other side, flung open the door and crouched down. 'Does anything hurt?'
'Everything.'
'Anything broken?'
'I don't think so.'
'What about your neck, your spine?'
Her voice quaked. 'It's good.'
He clambered onto the back seat, reached down and untied her hands, puffing and groaning. With the release, much of her discomfort evaporated, and blood, beautiful and rich, poured into her tingling hands. She shook her arms, placed her hands on the floor, and tried to lever herself up. Soon, with Ben's assistance, she was out of the car and wrapped in his arms. His soft body, his warmth, and his pleasant aroma moved her to tears.
He kissed her on her forehead. 'Better get you away.'
'What about Larry?'
Ben did not say anything but moved her a little way across the grass. Despite the warm glow of the sun on her body, she was cold and gripped him tighter, seeking warmth. It seemed as though her blood was draining away, and with it, her strength.
Her knees buckled. He eased her to the ground, sat beside her, and encouraged her to nestle into him. She inhaled the wondrous aroma of his lush hair.
The paramedics and police arrived, entering the field from a track at the bottom of the hill. Luke hurried to greet them, and they spoke for a while before he guided them to Megan. The paramedic spoke to her with kind and gentle tones and wrapped a blanket around her frigid body. He was trying to insist she went to the hospital. She held her ground, adamant, bar a few cuts and bruises, that she was fine. He nodded and strode back to the group by the wreckage.
Larry was dead. Nauseous, she willed herself to be grateful, telling herself he had deceived her, treated her like a friend and then tried to kill her. She would never have considered herself gullible, yet she had been. With hindsight, it was obvious that he had been exceptionally affable, rarely choosing to disagree with her, never risking their friendship. And all the time he’d had a plan.
He had known Saskia intimately. He had yearned for her and craved a return to a past he had destroyed. This was his second chance. But had he sought love or revenge? Maybe it was a bit of both.
She had been a fool, an idiot. Why had she never questioned his interest in her? Even Ben sensed something was wrong. Not only had he spoken of his concerns, but also, with every mention of Larry's name, worry had glazed his face. She had been too determined to make a point of independence to listen, and it nearly cost her, her life. Turning to him, searching for his reassurance, she released an exhausted breath.
He squeezed her waist. Ashen and frail, she dropped her head onto his shoulder and closed her eyes, but the darkness revealed flashes of her ordeal, her stumbling on the rocks, the malevolence in Larry's eyes, him bundling her body into the car.
She forced them open, preferring instead to watch her surroundings. Luke and Imogen were talking to an official looking man near the wreckage, a man and a woman were walking to the top of the hill, and a paramedic was heading towards them.
'Are you sure you don't want taking to the hospital?' he asked.
She insisted she was fine.
'If you experience any severe pains, headaches, or loss of consciousness, make sure you do.'
'I will.'
She gave him the blanket.
'Go home, rest, and stay warm.'
He strode away, nodded to his colleague, and they climbed into the ambulance and pulled away.
'Have they taken Larry?' she asked.
'Yes, they did it a while ago.'
'Oh, I don't remember.'
He noticed her shiver, removed his sweatshirt, and handed it to her. 'Here, wear this.'
'Thanks.'
It was pre-warmed with a hint of his odour and somehow reminded her of David. Swamped with memories of their difficult relationship, she pulled away. He frowned and encouraged her back.
She yanked herself free. 'I can't do this.'
Silence.
'David's . . . David's been-'
'I know.' He pulled her to him, clenched her so tight she struggled for breath. He was shaking, his chest rising and falling, his voice quivering. 'I'm so sorry.'
'He has photos.'
'I know. I know.'
Tears dampened his face. His lips wobbled. His mouth opened then shut.
'He . . .' she gulped '. . . he touched me.'
He turned away, his eyes streaked red.
'I can't face him again.'
'He'll apologise. He won't do it again.'
'No. I can't go back . . . I can't.'
There was a frenzied look in his eyes. He wasn't going to let her go, couldn't bear the thought.
'He won't do it again, I promise. I won't let him near you.'
'No!' She leapt to her feet, trembling, pacing, and neither wanting to run nor wanting to stay. She had nothing, no home, no partner, no job, and no friends.
'We'll find a way through this,' he said, 'I'll send him away. We can still be together.’
Her eyes fixed on the ground. She couldn't do it. It was too hard.
Ben stood up, grabbed her by the arms, and stared at her, seemingly strong and determined. 'We can work through this.'
She shook her head, lowered her moist eyes and her bottom lip quivered. How could she ever face David again, after what he had done?
'He has always wanted to split us up,’ she said, ‘from the day we first met. He tried everything. He threatened me, made fun of me, added stuff to the meals I made you so you'd be disappointed in me.'
Her voice trembled. She noticed his expression of deep sorrow.
'Do you remember when I made a chili con carne and it was extremely hot and unpalatable?’ she continued. ‘That was David. I caught him adding it. You never believed me . . . wouldn’t accept what he was capable of.'
He mumbled an apology.
'I thought you loved me, yet . . . yet you said I lied. You never believed me.'
'No. That's not true. I always believed you,' he grabbed her arms and stared deep into her eyes, 'I promise you I did, but David's my son, I didn't know what to do.'
'You should have done something. Have you any idea how it feels knowing he has those images of me on his computer? Lord knows who he has sent them to.'
'Most of them weren't you.'
'What?'
'It doesn't make it any better, that's not what I'm saying.'
'He altered them? Put my head on someone else's body?'
He nodded. 'He's very sorry.'
What use was sorry? David had destroyed their relationship. He had achieved his aim.
'You should have told me about the photos,' he said.
'I tried. I . . . I couldn't.'
'Why not?'
'Ask David.'
She fled, striding up the hill to the car; every step was a huge effort, her lungs felt like tiny balloons, her leg muscles puny and ineffective. Even the sight of tyre tracks on the grass caused her distress, and she tried to keep her mind blank.
At the top, she dropped to the grass, huddled her knees to her chest, and stared at the scene below. A few people had gathered on the edge of the field, staring, hands over mouths, whispering, making assumptions and drawing conclusions. Periodically, they glanced towards her. She was grateful for the distance and believed space offered privacy.
Clouds gathered, obscuring the sunshine that had beamed onto the grass. Birds tweeted in the nearby trees and cars continued to pass down the road. The people within were lucky; their lives were unchanged.
After an indeterminable amount of time, Ben, Luke, and Imogen climbed the hill. Luke and Imogen were smiling and chatting, whereas Ben seemed sullen and held back, walking a few paces behind. He should be fighting for her, pleading with her to stay with him. Perhaps he had realised that the situation was too difficult to overcome.
Luke looked at her, sympathy mixed with kindness. 'The police said they'll need to talk to you. I gave them your address. I hope that's okay.'
'I can't go home.'
He hesitated, looking between her and Ben. 'How about we go for a coffee first?
She frowned, unsure of her reply.
'We passed a mobile unit in a lay-by a short distance away,' Imogen said, 'we could go there.'
Plaintively, Megan followed them to Luke's car, and climbed inside, fastened her seatbelt, and turned her face to the window, maintaining her distance from Ben. He did not talk and his body language indicated that he was distressed. She guessed he too craved an answer to their shared dilemma.
She wished David wasn't in their lives.
They arrived at the mobile unit in a lay-by set on the hillside and overlooking the valley. Birds soared in the misty skies and insects fluttered over the patches of weeds and wildflowers. It looked relaxing and tranquil, a distance sensation compared to her current state.
Ben gave her a sweetened coffee and climbed into the car. His phone sounded. He looked at it apprehensively and hurried away. Megan knew the call came from David. She held the coffee to her face and inhaled the stimulating aroma, too dejected to listen to their conversation and ashamed of herself for allowing David to gain the upper hand. Somehow, she must have caused him to act despicably. Did those moments of happiness shared with Ben extend into those periods when she was in David's company? Had he interpreted her behaviour as flirtatious?
Luke returned to the car, gave Imogen a drink, and turned around. 'I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but did Larry tell you if he’d killed Saskia?'
She was grateful for the distraction. 'Kind of, although at the same time he claimed Ron did it. He was confused . . . thought I was her.'
He nodded.
'He loved her but she broke it off. I think that's why he killed her. They had plans. He said Ron treated her badly.' Her hands were trembling, her voice breaking. 'They were both there when she died. I saw their faces.'
Ben entered the car and shut the door. Her pulse quickened.
'He wanted some paintings. I don’t know what he was talking about but he kept asking me for them.'
'They're worth quite a bit.'
She wrapped her hands around the hot cup and held it close to her face. The warm vapours danced upon her skin and droplets of moisture trickled down her chin. 'Larry knew about Saskia's father,' she said, 'he knew about the miscarriages too. He said she deserved to die.' Tears welled in her eyes. She concentrated. She fought her tremors. 'I trusted him. He was my friend.'
Ben reached for her, grabbed her hand and squeezed. His pain seemed to be as deep as hers was and his eyes pleaded. He shuffled closer. Their bodies touched. Her trembles intensified.
Luke turned to Imogen. 'If Ron was there, why didn't he tell the police? Was Larry such a threat?'
'Larry must have known something, something that would force Ron to keep quiet.'
'It had to be big.'
He stared out of the windscreen for a few minutes, and then turned back to Imogen, his eyes wide and his smile broad. 'I think I know what Larry's got over Ron.'
Imogen gave him an inquisitive look.
'We need to go to Ron's.' He started the engine, moved the gear stick into first gear, and looked into the rear view mirror. 'I can drop you both off, but I could do with your help. At least yours, Ben.'
'I can't go back,' Megan said.
'It's okay,' Ben said, 'I've just spoken to David. He's packed a bag and he's catching a train. He's going to stay with my brother. He says he's sorry.'
Silence.
'I'd like to stay with you. I'll do whatever it takes.'
'He's your son.'
'He was, but I'm not sure he is anymore.'
Megan looked out of the window. At least she had her house back.
Luke had been through the plan with Ben and Imogen several times before they arrived at the house, yet his nerves still danced in his stomach as the adrenaline sped through his body. He had never done anything like this before and hoped that Ron would cooperate. He considered it unlikely.
He rapped on the door and they waited in silence. Ben was at one side, Imogen at the other, and despite his better judgement, Megan hovered at the rear. The door handle turned. His heart galloped.
Ron's eyes narrowed as he peered through the gap.
'Can we come in for a moment?' Luke asked in a cheery tone.
'What's this about?'
'There's been an accident. Larry Carr's been killed.'
He stepped aside, his body sagging. 'What happened?'
'Car crash.'
Megan eased from behind Luke and slipped along the corridor to the kitchen. Ron saw her and jerked forward, his eyes wild and his arms hitting out. With Ben's assistance, Luke restrained him, pressing him against the wall, overpowering him with the advantage of youth. He struggled. He hollered. His eyes flitted between them and the kitchen door.
'Found it!' Megan said.
Silence.
'Oh, my Lord! You were right!'
Saskia pushed the outer door closed, removed her jacket, and plodded into the lounge, her head still ringing after her argument with Larry. She had decided to end their affair, but he wouldn't accept it and his eyes had bulged. He had gripped her by the arm, edged closer to her face, and told her that she would pay. Instinctively, she shoved him backward, wiped away the droplets of saliva from her face, and ran.
Memories of his putrid breath and angular facial features lingered in her mind as she slumped onto the soft fabric sofa, kicked off her shoes, and raised her feet onto a wooden coffee table. The evening news was showing on the television, but it provided her with little distraction and her thoughts continued to spin, uncivilised, untamed.
Her head pounded with his threat. What would Larry do? His behaviour had turned creepy in recent days; he had been watching the house, he had deposited photographs and poetry through her letterbox, he had given her a diary of their lives, as though written in ten years’ time. They would have children, they would travel, and they would be the happiest couple alive.
Larry was not going to accept her decision.
Would he tell Ron? It was quite possible. She prayed her husband would forgive her, and drifted to that moment, a few days previous when she had promised to end her marriage.
Saskia had expected it to be difficult and had decided to tell Ron over dinner when they would both be relaxed and could hold a civilised conversation without interruption. When the moment arrived, she was clutching her knife and fork, and chewed and chewed. After a while, Ron broke the silence and informed her he loved her, his glistening eyes bathing in adoration. It was enough to reach some kind of conclusion: she wanted both men, both fulfilling separate needs.
The following day she had met with Larry. He was in an exuberant mood and told her that they could now tell the world of their unique and powerful love. Her shoulders slumped, her guilt and unease blending as she struggled to tell him of her decision. Rather than speaking out, she made a vague comment and wished the moment away, but Larry was not to be dismissed. He slammed down his drink, causing it to spill, and glared, his eyes darkening with fury. 'It's either over or it's not,' he had said, 'it's not complicated.'
Saskia stretched out her legs and considered her behaviour. She didn't think she had acted inconsiderately, as he had later suggested, nor had she lied. When they had discussed a shared future, she believed it was what she had wanted. The absolute pleasure in his face reflected her own and together they bounced with glee, making travel plans, purchasing a house, and scheduling for children. So why, when it came to ending her marriage, had she felt her heart drop like a stone?
After that, Saskia decided she must end their affair. Whilst the sex had been electrifying, something was missing, that something being Ron. He was a stabling influence, supportive of her artwork and trustworthy, and, as an added bonus and much to her surprise, she believed he was faithful. There were no rumours, no slips of the tongue, and no sideways glances amongst the locals. He definitely loved her. Could it be that she was finally starting to reciprocate those feelings?
A bottle of wine rested on the floor near the fireplace and nearby was a glass. She stepped across, blew away the dust particles, and poured the wine. Then she took a huge gulp. The satisfying tingles of fruitiness hovered in her mouth. She glanced at the time. Ron would be home soon.
The clock ticked rhythmically, soothing her as she reflected on Larry's rage. She relived his grating cries, his fist pumps and globular eyes. He had pounded the fabric in the car, he had chucked a brick at a wall, and he had booted a passing dog. She had not been able to appease him, could not even try, and had to let him come to terms with her decision in his own way.
A creaking sound from the hallway caught her attention. She spun around and stared at the gap and the creeping shadow.
'Ron?'
There was silence.
Her heart leapt, she jumped to her feet and headed out of the room, but no one was there. Cautiously, she tiptoed into the kitchen, flicked the light switch, and scanned the floor space, the units and the worktop. Outside, through the unadorned window was darkness, with a glimmer of light from a nearby streetlight spreading towards her. She shivered and clasped her arms close to her body, and for a moment, she stood, focusing upon a wall and a particular set of units. Her eyes drifted to the floor. She breathed in a sad breath.
She decided Larry must have prompted her nervousness, and returned to the lounge, refilled her glass with wine, and sat back down. Nonetheless, she remained on edge, her ears drawn to the slightest of sounds.
The outer door opened. She jumped. She sensed a rush of cool air pass into the room.
'Ron?'
'Who else would it be?'
She rushed out to greet him, flinging her arms around his body.
'What's brought this on?'
'Do I need a reason?'
'No. Course not.'
'I love you, you know that?'
He smiled, genuine and heartfelt. 'I do now.'
She rested her head on his shoulder and traced his birthmark with her eyes. This was where she wanted to be. Ron was her future.
He pulled away. He had a bag of food in his hand. 'I have to do something first, and then we'll have a nightcap.'
Saskia's face dropped and her emotions tumbled. Ron opened the secret door in the kitchen and disappeared down the cellar steps. He was taking the food to the girl. How could he justify his actions? With heavy legs and a scowl, she returned to the lounge, poured out more wine, and waited for him to return.
The quiet drone of the television was calming, and she drifted into tranquillity, erasing Ron's depraved act from her mind. For now, she had other things to worry about. She couldn’t allow Larry to encourage her into further meetings. It was over and she could do nothing more.
A flurry of words, shouting and hollering, caused her to leap to her feet and dash into the kitchen. Larry and Ron were fighting. A tin crashed to the floor, a ladle skidded across the surface, and bodies thrust against the cupboards, each man equally weighted. She stood helplessly, her heart pounding and her feat intense.
What was he doing here? Where had he come from? Had he seen into the hidden cellar? She held back, unwilling to become involved in the skirmish, and rotated her wedding ring and chewed upon her bottom lip.
After a few moments, Ron threw him out of the house. She stood motionless, waiting for her breathing to regulate and her body to relax.
'I didn't know he was there,' she said weakly.
'He saw her. He saw the girl.'
'What's he going to do?'
Ron shook his head, dropped onto the armchair, and held his head in his hands.
'We'll have to get rid of her,' she said.
'How can we? The police will be straight onto us.'
'Larry's not going to stay quiet.'
'I doubt it.'
She gulped. 'He wants revenge.'
You've ended it then?' Ron asked.
'You knew?'
'Of course I knew.'
'I'm sorry. I love you, I realise that now.'
'You could have picked someone more stable. Larry has a reputation. He's violent. He could do anything.'
'I . . . I didn't know.'
After only a few minutes, Ron's apprehensions eased - there was only a subtle rise and fall of his chest, the creases on his forehead had softened, and the frantic tapping of his fingers had lessened. He reached for the glass on the table, leaned back into the chair, and took a swig.
'No need to worry,' he said, 'he won't do anything. Not while he wants you.'
'What do you mean?'
'He'll try bargaining. He'll keep quiet about the girl if you carry on seeing him.'
'But I don't want to.'
'I don't want you to either, but it'll give us time to come up with an alternative plan.'
Saskia lifted her legs onto the sofa and squeezed her feet under her bottom. Despite the intense nature of the relationship she had shared with Larry, she didn't want to go back to him. There was malevolence in his eyes, something she had never seen before, and there was no sign of the high-spirited man she believed she had fallen in love with.
They had to come up with another plan. Somehow, she had to convince Ron to let the girl free, although it wouldn't be easy. The girl had seen them both, several times now and she would be able to identify them. She should have been more careful, put a paper bag over her head or something. Saskia chuckled under her breath, but her thoughts soon turned dark, and she reprimanded herself for taking such a despicable act so lightly. Even now, after weeks of knowing what Ron had done, she still couldn't understand it. Neither could she understand why she felt she had to support him.
Having experienced a childhood of poverty, and having experienced first-hand what it was like to do without love, food, stimulating experiences, and luxuries, she should have been doing all she could to free the girl, yet she wasn't. Saskia could only conclude that Ron was the reason. She loved him, didn't want to be without him, and didn't want to see him taken away. Or was it that she feared to lose the house and the lifestyle? Suddenly, she was not so sure.
'I went to see her today,' she said, 'gave her some paper and pencils so she could draw.'
'Was she interested?'
'She was when she saw the images in my sketchpad. I left it with her. She wanted to try and copy it.'
'We have another star in the making.'
'Hardly. I've seen what she's done. I did better than her when I was about three.'
Ron smiled. 'Not everyone can have your talents.'
'I suppose not.'
They both gazed at the television.
'Don't worry about Larry, we'll sort it,' he said.
'I don't know how you can be so calm.'
He shrugged, placed the empty glass on the table, and left the room. His footsteps padded the staircase and then the upper floor.
She sauntered to the television to change the channel and stood for a few moments absorbing the swift-moving action.
Someone's hand covered her mouth. Her pulse quickened. She gasped. She spun around. Larry was beside her. He had a knife, and in a swift flowing action, he thrust it towards her. She raised her knee and caught him between the legs.
He yelped and his hand slipped.
The knife scored her skin, releasing blood. She screamed. She ran to the outer door, her hand pressing onto the wound.
It was dark and silent, and there was a slight breeze. She ran. Her head was swirling and her hand coated in the oozing blood. Her stomach burned.
His footsteps grew louder. He was gaining ground.
Faster, she urged herself, faster.
Her heart galloped. Her lungs tightened. She ran, breathless and frantic towards the town centre.
A monument came into view with a late-night restaurant further along. She had to keep moving, had to get to safety.
Larry's breaths were getting louder and his steps becoming more pronounced. Move, damn it, move!
Her legs weakened. She tripped. She fell to the ground, landing awkwardly, and reached to her burning ankle. His features emerged from his silhouette. He had a haunted expression, even white teeth, and a short trim haircut. She held up her hand, motioning him to rethink his actions as she shuffled backward and pleaded with her eyes.
He loomed. He clutched the shimmering knife.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. From under a streetlight, Ron came steaming towards them. He flung himself at the knife. It clattered on the ground.
'Run!'
Breathless and with her pain contorting her body, Saskia lifted herself up and hobbled away. The rasping cries distracted her. She stopped, turned her head, and watched the scuffle from the deep shadows.
Ron had dropped to the ground. His hand gripped his arm. 'Run,' he said again, pleading, urging.
She forced herself on, but the pain in her middle became debilitating.
Larry leapt onto her. His knife slid into her body. Her vision blurred. Her hearing dulled. She crashed to the concrete.
'I love you,' a voice said in the distance.
Then there was nothing.
Megan and Ben sat in the living area, absorbed in the news report on television. An excavation was taking place in an area of woodland and there were numerous television crews, journalists, and police officials alongside a cordon. The latest report told them that there was indeed a body, but it was too soon to tell if it was Saskia's.
After several days of interviewing, Ron claimed his innocence as far as the murder was concerned but admitted to assisting Larry with the burial. The journalist speaking in the report questioned if his involvement in Saskia’s death was greater than what he had admitted to, reasoning he may have killed her in response to her threatening to expose the girl he had held captive.
Hearing such nonsense caused a curious sensation to tumble through Megan, guilt, anger and sorrow combined. She wanted to come to his defence and tell the world that he never harmed his wife, yet it would have been futile. Even if they believed her, his sentencing would be excessive regardless of the part he had played in the murder.
Cameras closing in on the cordon caught her attention. She felt as though Saskia was a dear friend, and for a moment, she hoped that they had all been mistaken and that the body wasn’t hers. Whilst she felt as though she knew her intimately, she would still have enjoyed talking with her, discussing life, loves and sharing experiences. They weren’t distant relatives or connected by friends. Fundamentally, they’d had no relationship. It was a bizarre sensation.
An image of the thirty-eight-year-old woman who had lived in Ron's cellar appeared on the screen. She had ragged long hair, a washed out complexion, and a gaunt body. Then they displayed the beautiful, ginger-haired little girl that went missing in 1978. It was difficult to believe that they were the same person.
'How did Luke make the connection?' Ben asked.
'He remembered seeing Ron buying sanitary towels once. He didn't know who he was, but later on, he remembered seeing the birthmark on his neck - it's quite distinctive, like a star – and he made the connection. They also found some long strands of hair in the bin.'
‘He must have had an idea that there was someone down there.’
‘I guess. He did a thorough job, I’ll give him that.’
‘So he’s gone up in your estimation.’
She grinned. ‘He has. It took a while, but I do like him now . . . a lot.’
He turned his attention back to the woman on the screen. 'I know it goes on, but I still can't believe she’s been in his cellar for all this time.’
‘Me neither.’ She rotated her crossover ring. ‘He seemed quite normal to me, although having said he had obsessive tendencies. Remember me telling you about the ordered newspapers and plants?’
He nodded.
‘I bet that’s the tip of his peculiarities.’
‘You’re likely to be right. Only a particular kind of person would be able to take a child away from her mother and keep her locked up for thirty years. It explains how he was able to keep himself restrained, sexually too. It must have been his way of staying faithful.’
'Oh no!' she said. 'You don't think he abused her as a girl do you?'
'It’s likely.'
She shuddered. 'I can't believe no one heard anything.'
'It was soundproofed. The cellar was designed for band practice.'
'True. Some of the locals are now saying they saw glimpses of her over the years, in the main house. It's weird that she didn't escape.'
'She didn't want to, apparently.'
'No, she was attached to Ron.' She twisted her ring. 'He seemed such a nice guy too. He was good with kids and teenagers . . . liked by many. It's difficult to comprehend.'
'Were the paintings down there?' he asked.
'Yes. Verity has them.'
'They'll be worth a huge amount.'
'I'm sure some sick person will relish the connection.'
'And to think, if you hadn't have come to Rodley, she would still be down there.'
Megan shook her head in bewilderment. 'It's quite bizarre. I can understand why Verity kept warning me away but-’
‘Did she admit to sending you the warnings,’ he interjected.
‘She did. She was afraid of telling me outright in case Larry and Ron learned about it. She didn’t want anyone threatening her with the incident of her father’s poisoning. It was also why she was desperate to get me away from here - in case I remembered it.’
‘Did she meddle with the car to cause the accident?’
‘No. That must have been Larry. He was one sick individual. I don’t know why I never saw through his act.’
‘You liked him. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
She passed him a twisted smile.
‘I wonder why he involved Luke,’ Ben said.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe he wanted confirmation that I was Saskia’s incarnated self.’
‘Or maybe he wanted to throw you off track so you’d trust him.’
‘That’s possible too. He was clearly mental. One minute he believed I was Saskia and wanted to run away with me, the next he was back in the late nineteen seventies and he wanted to kill me for leaving him for Ron.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘I’m just glad you’re safe.’
A chill swept over her. She wouldn’t have been safe if she had been in the front of his car. She was incredibly lucky to have survived. Maybe Saskia had been watching over her.
‘Did Luke track down your birth mother?’ he asked.
She grinned. ‘Julie Johnson was from Rodley and even went to the same school as Saskia.'
'Really?'
'Yes. So Saskia's memories could have come from her, after all.'
He grinned. 'I can't believe you're still saying that.'
'You would if you were in my position. I feel sick every time I think about having Saskia’s soul within me.’ She shuddered and rubbed her arms. ‘At times it’s hard for me to drawn a line between which are my memories and which are hers. They’re very similar . . . hard to differentiate.’
‘They might start to fade now that it’s over.’
‘I hope so. It’s weird, because even though I know I’m not Saskia, I still feel some responsibility towards that poor woman. I feel as though I should apologise.'
'You've given them their freedom back, that's enough.'
'I suppose I have.'
She sank back into the sofa feeling more content than she had been for months. But one issue remained between them. Following his gaze to the television, she pondered the decision she had to make regarding their relationship.
David had crossed the boundary in their relationship, and Ben had been far from innocent, severing a trust and refusing to accept her word as the truth regarding their troubles. Would the scars remain? Would she forever see David's inappropriate behaviour reflected in Ben's eyes?
Over the last few days, Ben had been kind and considerate, not pressing her for any decision and keeping his physical advances to a minimum. It seemed he was willing to do everything to smooth their relationship, and for the moment, he even refused contact with his son. He had apologised repeatedly, forever telling her that he was sorry for not acting, and willingly took the blame for the entire situation. Reluctantly and cautiously, she told him she forgave him. Why had he not believed her when she voiced her concerns weeks previous? Would he do it again?
Apprehensively, she turned to face him. 'Are you sure you're doing the right thing by sending David away.'
'Absolutely. He needs to realise what he did was wrong.'
'How does your brother feel about it?'
'It's not a problem. He's used to dealing with teenagers.'
'I don't want to come between you and David.'
He shuffled closer and peered into her eyes. 'I deserve a life too. I've put my feelings aside for him for years. Anyway, he's decided to join the RAF so he won't be around for long. A bit of discipline will do him good.'
'Did you read the letter he sent to me?'
'Yes. You did say I could.'
'What did you think?'
'I must say, he surprised me. It was a mature account of his feelings. I didn't know he had it in him.'
'He did seem sorry.'
He stroked her hand. 'When I confronted him, after I had worked out what had happened, he wouldn't look at me. He had tears in his eyes. I haven't seen him cry in years.'
'I think he was jealous. It's always just been the two of you.'
'You don't have to be so forgiving,' Ben said. 'What he did was wrong. There are no excuses.'
'I know, but he had his reasons, even though they were misguided. If our relationship is going to work, one way or another, he's going to end up being a part of our lives, even if, for me, it's just at family celebrations. It will make it a whole lot easier if we can all put all this behind us.'
His face glowed with pride and joy.
'It's going to take a while,' she continued. 'What he did to me was horrid, but seeing what happened to that poor woman in Ron's cellar has put it into perspective.'
'It’ll be fantastic if you can forgive him. But it's your decision. I will love you no matter what.'
'No matter what?'
He nodded and his eyes narrowed with curiosity.
'I lied to you about something. Or rather I didn’t reveal the whole truth.' She paused, her hands trembling. 'David knew about something. That’s why he did what he did. He was blackmailing me.' Her mouth dried and blood rushed to her skin. 'Joshua was with me when he took the aspirin, not his father. I was drunk, too drunk to be looking after a child. I saw him reach for the aspirin . . . Oh Lord . . . It was hazy, like a dream. I couldn't move. I told myself they were sweets.'
He pulled her towards him, his firm body providing stability for her heaving chest and wavering form. After a few moments, she had settled her tremors.
'I couldn't face what I'd done,' she continued, 'so I lied. Andrew was upstairs asleep. I screamed at him and he accepted the blame. I think he was too drunk to know otherwise.'
'Oh Megan, it was a mistake.'
'No, it wasn't. It was careless and then I lied. I was unfit to be a mother. I deserved the pain of losing him. But Joshua didn't deserve to die.'
His warm hand lingered on her back.
'I didn't want you to know. I . . . I still struggle to face what I've done.'
'You should have told me.'
'But I killed my son, my baby boy. How could I admit to that?'
'You didn't mean it. It was an accident.'
'It should never have happened.'
'No, it shouldn't, but it did. You have to learn from these things, and I believe you have. I'd trust you with a child of mine.'
'Would you?' Would you really?'
'You've changed. I can promise you, you will never make that same mistake again.'
'I might if I had another child. How would I ever be able to trust myself again?'
'Because Joshua will always be there to remind you.'
She looked at him, thoughtful.
'You're a different person now . . . and you don't drink like that for a start.'
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
He squeezed her hand, leaned back into the sofa, and turned back to the report on the television. He seemed relaxed and self-assured, glowed a healthy pink colour and his eyes glistened. He was optimistic about the future, and not put off by what she did to Joshua. Perhaps she should be too.
'I think I could try and give it ago with you,' she said, 'but it may take time to build up trust.'
His smile extended across his face. 'You sure?'
She nodded.
'I can't promise anything.'
Beaming, he pulled her towards him. Was she making the right decision? Was their love strong enough? Only time would tell.
Luke's butterflies danced in his stomach as he headed into the bar and scanned the room for Sarah, his mind dominated by a vision of her soft features, slim figure, and lush brown hair. The room was light and airy with a few people occupying the round tables and chrome stools, giving it an ambience of tranquillity and providing high-quality contemplation time.
It was not what he needed. He had hoped that she would have already arrived so he could rush in, disguise his nerves in the crowd, make his well-rehearsed speech, and leave. He did not want pleasantries, did not want her seductive eyes and magnetic aura to draw him back.
With his heart pounding in his throat, he wrapped his arms around his body and tried to calm his quivers. Waiting for the bartender, he looked over his shoulder to the door and scanned the street, scrutinising the passers-by. Since there was no sign of Sarah arriving, he ordered a drink.
He stepped to a table a short distance away, and with his glass in hand told himself to breathe deep and slow. All he could manage were small sips of air. His legs were trembling, his body growing ever colder. Needing the assistance from the alcohol, he swigged a large mouthful of cool beer and wiped the froth from his mouth.
The door swung open and Sarah, as calm and composed as ever, strode towards him wearing a black skirt, matching jacket and a cream blouse.
'Great work you've done,' she said, 'I saw you on the news. It was a much better performance than last time. You looked confident, as though you were a pro.'
'Thanks, but I have something to tell you.'
'Hang on, I'll get a drink.'
He wanted to stop her, but it was too late, his brain was working in slow motion, seemingly disconnected from his mind. She returned moments later with a glass of fruit juice in her hand and sat on the opposite stool.
'Do you think Saskia could have been reincarnated?' she asked.
'It seems that way.'
'I'll bet your phone has never stopped ringing. Business is going to be pouring in. Poor Megan . . . she's never going to hear the end of it.'
'It may have its positive side. She's a talented artist, as Saskia was. She'll be able to sell her work now.'
She acknowledged his comment and then her lips caressed the rim of the glass.
'There's something I have to tell you,' he said, blood rushing to his skin.
'Oh?'
'It's not working for us. I can't be friends with you anymore. I . . . I need to move on, break all ties.'
Her face was expressionless, unreadable.
'It's for the best,' he continued.
For a moment, he waited in the uncomfortable silence, but she did not respond, neither showing disappointment nor relief.
'It's goodbye then,' he said, placing his glass on the table. 'I'm sorry if this is a shock.'
He turned and walked away, stepping into the stimulating early evening air.
The door closed.
Sarah watched him leave. 'I'm sorry too,' she said under her breath.
Her hand dropped to her belly. She searched for the little life that she could not abort.