All this occurred a few years ago – five years, to be precise. Having accepted a generous disability pension I left the police force almost immediately following the completion of the enquiry, when, everyone was relieved to learn, the police were exonerated from all responsibility. Cold comfort, perhaps, for the parents, but they were finally able to bury their children with the dignity they had awaited for such a long time. As for myself, I politely refused the offer of a bravery medal; I had never felt less brave in my life, and my emotions were still on a roller coaster. In fact, I spent two years as a private patient of Paul Simmons, when he treated me for what he named ‘reactive depression’. Even today, all these years later, I cannot imagine I will ever be whole again, and I still need, from to time to time, to restart a course of anti-depressants.
I saw Jim only occasionally after I left the force, but the chemistry between us had disappeared since that night in the cellar. I believe that both of us were damaged by that awful experience, and things could never quite be the same between us. We remained friends, but more in a perfunctory manner than close. Eventually I heard that he had married, and apparently he now has a young boy. I am glad for him; he is a thoroughly decent man. I believe, also, he has made Superintendent; deservedly so, in my view.
I have now lived at Warwick University for the past three years. After taking my doctorate I was granted a postgraduate position as an associate professor lecturing in criminology. I am currently about to take my finals in forensic psychology. Eventually, I hope to become an expert in criminal profiling, and perhaps, in time, even work for the FBI in the States. It’s a subject I have never lost interest in; it was the hands-on front-line duties, and the personal horrors and suffering associated with them that compelled me to leave the force. That and, of course, the reality that I would never be permitted on active duty again – and I couldn’t ever imagine myself sitting each and every day pushing paper.
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I will be 31 next month, and still single. No boyfriends, no lovers, although I have had my moments. And, no, I am not gay – although, to be truthful, I have never been tested! I manage to lose myself in my work. I decided to write this story in the belief that it might prove to be cathartic: help me to purge old ghosts. Sadly, I was mistaken. I don’t believe the demons will ever let me go, and I have still only partially come to terms with the macabre events I witnessed that night in the cellar.
I will always miss Connie – the Connie I knew and loved and was close to. There isn’t a single night that passes without my thinking of her, sometimes with dry eyes, more often than not blinking back a tear.
I know I will never forget her, and I will always wonder whether her psychic powers might have blossomed even further had she not suffered those terrible traumas. What I do know is that Connie was constantly haunted by her gift, and lived in almost permanent dread of it surfacing. That she was a true psychic I have no doubts whatsoever. I had more than enough evidence that the visions she did experience were indisputably real; they actually did happen. The brutal murders of the children; the discovery of the two burial pits; and, of course, her accurate prediction that Reg, the police artist, was terminally ill. Sadly, Reg died only a matter of months following their meeting at Forest Hills.
It did occur to me, over time, that possibly the mental suppression of her father’s existence, and in particular his sexual abuse of her, was not as powerful as her psychic gift, and that it was he, in fact (out of his desire to find and punish her), who was responsible for its surfacing from her subconscious. It was a thought, but I guess now I’ll never know.
My prayer each night for Connie, my dear, dear friend, is: “May God bless her and for ever watch over her.”
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