'I had my doubts on that score the other night,' he said, drawing away. 'I wondered if I were only recalling violence I'd committed myself, certain acts my own mind had blanked out.' He indicated the newspaper. 'This occurred on the mainland on the night I was at your home. At least that fact came as a relief.'
'If only I could have been with you yesterday to knock that silly idea out of your head.'
'No, I needed to be alone. Talking wouldn't have helped.'
'Sharing the problem would have.'
He tapped his forehead. 'The problem's inside here.'
'You're not mad.'
He smiled grimly. 'I know that. But will I stay sane if the visions keep coming at me? You have to know what it's like, Amy, to understand how scary it becomes. I'm left ragged when it's over, as if a portion of my brain has been eaten away.'
'Is that how you felt last time? In England, I mean.'
'Yeah. Maybe it was worse then; it was a totally new experience for me.'
'When they found the man responsible for those killings, what then?'
'Relief. Incredible relief. It was as though a huge black awareness had been released, something like, I'd imagine, when someone suffering from over-sensitive hearing suddenly finds the overload has been blocked out, that their ear-drums have finally managed the correct balance. But strangely, the release came before they tracked the man down; you see, somehow I knew the exact moment he committed suicide, because that was when my mind was set free. His death let me go.'
'Why him; why that particular murderer, and why only him? Have you ever wondered about that?'
'I've wondered, and I've never reached a satisfactory conclusion. I've sensed things before, but nothing startling, nothing you could describe as precognition or ESP, anything like that. They've always been mundane, ordinary stuff that I suppose most people sense: when the phone rings you guess who's at the other end even before you pick it up, or when you're lost, guessing the right turn to make. Simple, everyday matters, nothing dramatic' He shifted in the car seat, eyes watching a swooping gull. 'Psychics say our minds are like radio receivers, tuning into other wavelengths all the time, picking up different frequencies: well, maybe he was transmitting on a particular frequency that only I could receive, the excitement he felt at the kill boosting the output, making it powerful enough to reach me.' The gull was soaring upwards once more, its wings brilliant in the sun's rays.
Childes twisted round to face Amy. 'It's a stupid theory, I know, but I can't think of any other explanation,' he said.
'It isn't stupid at all; it makes a weird kind of sense. Strong emotions, a sudden shock, can induce a strong telepathic connection between certain people, and that's well known. But why now? What's triggered off these psychic messages this time?'
Childes folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the back seat. 'The same as before. I've picked up another frequency.'
'You have to go to the police.'
'You've got to be kidding! That kind of publicity finished off my marriage and sent me scuttling for cover last time. Do you really imagine I'd bring it all down on myself again?'
'There's no alternative.'
'Sure there is. I can keep quiet and pray that it'll go away.'
'It didn't last time.'
'As far as I know, nobody's been murdered yet.'
'As far as you know. What happened the other week, when you saw something that shook you so much you nearly drowned?'
'Just a confused jumble, impossible to tell what was going on.'
'Perhaps it was a killing.'
'I can't ruin everything again by going to the law. What chance would I have at La Roche or the other schools if word got around that there was some kind of psychic freak teaching kids on the island? Victor Platnauer's already gunning for me and I'd hate to gift-wrap more ammunition for him.'
'Platnauer?'
He quickly summarised his meeting with Estelle Piprelly. 'I think Daddy had a hand in this,' she said when he had concluded.
'And did you tell your father about me? I'm sorry, I didn't mean that harshly - there's no reason for you to keep secrets from your family, so I wouldn't blame you if you had.'
'He got the local police to look into your history. I had nothing to do with it.'
Childes sighed. 'I should have known. Anything to break us up, right?'
'No, Jon, he's just concerned about who I get involved with,' she half-lied.
'I can't blame him for getting upset.'
'Acting a wimp doesn't suit you.' She touched his lapel, her fingers running along its edge, a frown hardening her expression. 'I still think you should inform the police. You proved last time you weren't a crank.'
He held her moving fingers. 'Let's give it a bit more time, huh? These… these visions might just amount to nothing, might fade away.'
Amy turned from him and switched on the ignition. 'We have to get back,' she said. Then: 'What if they don't? What if they get worse? Jon, what if someone is murdered?'
He found he had nothing to say.
14
Childes assumed his mock-official voice when he heard Gabby's squeaky 'Hello?'
'To whom am I speaking to?' he asked, for the moment pushing aside troubled thoughts.
'Daddy? she warned lowly, used to the game. 'Guess what happened in school today, Daddy.'
'Let me see.' He pondered. 'You shot the teacher?'
'No!'
'The teacher shot you lot.'
'Be serious!’
He grinned at her frustration, imagining her standing by the phone, receiver pressed to her ear as if glued, her glasses slipped to the end of her nose in their usual fashion.
'Okay, you tell me, Squirt,' he said.
'Well, first we brought our projects in and Miss Hart held mine up to the class and told everyone it was really good.'
'Was that the one on wild flowers?'
'Yes, I told you last week,' she replied indignantly.
'Oh yeah, it slipped my mind. Hey, that's great. She really liked it, eh?'
'Yes. Annabel's was nearly as good, but I think she copied me a little bit. I got a gold star for mine and Annabel got a yellow one, which is very good really.'
He chuckled. 'I think it's marvellous.'
'Then Miss Hart told us we were all going to Friends Park next Tuesday on a big coach where they've got monkeys in cages, and a big lake with boats, and slides and things.'
'They've got monkeys on a coach?'
'No, at Friends Park, silly! Mummy said she'd give me some money to spend and make me up a picnic'
'That sounds lovely. Isn't she going with you?'
'No, it's just school. Do you think the weather will be sunny?'
'I should think so, it's pretty warm now.'
'I hope it will, so does Annabel. Are you coming to see me soon?'
As usual, she threw in the question with innocent abandon, not knowing the tiny stab wound it caused.
'I'll try, darling. Maybe at half-term. Mummy might let you come over here to see me.'
'On a plane? I don't like the boat, it's too long. It makes my tummy feel sick.'
'Yes, on a plane. You could stay with me for a few days until term begins again.'
'Can I bring Miss Puddles? She'd be very lonely without me.' Miss Puddles was Gabby's pet, a black cat bought for her on her third birthday. The cat's development had easily out-paced his daughter's, kittenish behaviour giving way to imperious coolness long before Childes had left the household.
'No, that wouldn't be a good idea. Mummy will need someone to keep her company, won't she?' He hadn't seen his daughter for almost six months and he wondered how tall she'd grown. Gabby seemed to grow in sudden leaps, taking him by surprise each time he saw her.
'I suppose so,' she said. 'Did you want to speak to Mummy?'
'Yes please.'
'She isn't here. Janet's looking after me.'
'Oh. All right, let me have a word with Janet.'
'I'll go and fetch her
. Oh, Daddy, I sprinkled glitterdust all over Miss Puddles yesterday to make her sparkly.'
'I bet she liked that,' he said, shaking his head and grinning.
'She didn't. She got really sulky. Mummy says we'll never get it out and Miss Puddles keeps sneezing.'
'Get Janet to run the vacuum attachment over her. That should shift some of it if you can keep the cat still for long enough.'
Gabby giggled. 'She's going to get cross. I'll tell Janet you want to speak to her, all right?'
'Good girl.'
'Love you, Daddy, 'bye.' As abrupt as that.
'I love you,' he returned, hearing the phone clunk down before he'd completed the sentence. Running footsteps echoed away; her squeaky little voice called in the distance.
More footsteps along the hall, heavier, and the receiver was picked up.
'Mr Childes?'
'How're things, Janet?'
'Okay, I guess. Fran's working late at the office this evening, so I'm staying until she gets home. I brought Gabby home from school as usual.'
'Any luck with a job yet?'
'Not yet. I've got a couple of interviews next week so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Neither are really what I wanted, but anything's better than nothing.'
He sympathised. Janet was a bright teenager, although with few qualifications: with fulltime employment so difficult to come by for the young and inexperienced, she had quite a struggle on her hands.
'Did you want to leave a message, Mr Childes?' Janet asked.
'Uh, no, it's okay, I'll probably call again tomorrow. I just wanted to chat with Gabby.'
'I'll tell Fran you rang.'
'Thanks. Good luck for next week.'
'I'll need it. 'Bye for now, Mr Childes.'
The link was severed and he was alone again in his cottage. At such times there was a brutal finality in the replacing of a receiver. His injured hand throbbed dully and there was an unnatural dryness at the back of his throat. He stood by the telephone for some time, his thoughts slowly drifting away from his daughter and settling on the memory of the police detective who had been involved in the child-slaying case years before, someone whom he'd helped to track down the maniac killer. His fingers rested on the still-warm plastic, but he could not make them grip the receiver. Amy was wrong: there was no point in going to the police. What could he tell them? He couldn't identify the person who had dug up the dead boy, could give them no clues as to the desecrator's whereabouts. Until he had seen the morning paper, he'd had no idea even that the offence had taken place in England; he had assumed, if the sighting was a true one and not merely a fantasised image, that it had happened closer, somewhere on the island. There was nothing to say to the police, nothing at all. He took his hand away from the phone.
***
Gabby's birth had been difficult, a breech.
She had come from the womb feet first and a purplish shade of blue, almost causing Childes, who had stayed by Fran's side throughout, to collapse with fear. He had felt that nothing looking like that, so shrivelled and frail, so darkly-coloured, could possibly live. The obstetrician had tilted the baby, drawing mucus from her mouth, having no time to reassure the parents, anxious only for the life of the child. He had cleared the blockage and blown hard against her slippery little chest to encourage breathing. The first cry, no more than a quietly-pitched whimper and hardly heard, sent relief surging through them all, doctor, nurse and parents alike. She had been wrapped and placed on Fran's breast, the umbilical cord deftly cut and Childes, as exhausted mentally as Fran was physically, had viewed them both with a spreading glow which transformed his weariness into a relaxed tiredness.
Fran, her features wan and aged after the ordeal; the baby, still wet and bloodied, her face screwed up and wrinkled like an ancient's; both so peaceful in the struggle's aftermath. He had leaned over them, careful not to crush, yet needing to be as close as possible, the sterile hospital smell mixing with the sweat odour of battle, and had thought then that nothing could ever disrupt their unity, nothing could make them part.
In the ensuing weeks it was as though Gabby was slowly emerging from a deep and terrible trauma, as indeed she was - the transition between mere existence and dawning awareness. He had begun to understand the shock creation brought with it.
Sleep laid claim to most of her life in those early days, releasing her in gentle episodes to absorb and learn, to sustain herself, and the transformation was fascinating to see. Her growing was a marvel to him and he spent hours just observing, watching her develop, become a little girl who toddled on unsteady legs and who had a great affection for her own thumb and a ragged piece of material that had once been her blanket. Her first word had delighted him, even though it hadn't been 'Dadda', and her unbounded reliance on him and Fran and her uncomplicated love had drawn from him a new tenderness that was reflected in other areas of his life. Gabby had made him understand the vulnerability of every living person and creature; a time-consuming career involved in machines and abstractions had tended to blunt that perception.
The newfound compassion had nearly destroyed him when he had mind-witnessed the indecent destruction of the children.
Three years later the thoughts still haunted him and, just lately, their power to do so was greater than ever.
Childes had spent the evening preparing exercises for the next day's lessons, the Tuesday afternoon he had promised to Miss Piprelly and which had already come into practice. Examinations for the girls would soon be upon them and Computer Studies would be one. He was irritated that his thoughts had kept wandering throughout the evening, thinking of Gabby, the years of happiness they had shared as a family, even though Fran had never completely laid to rest the ghost of her PR career. So much had happened to spoil that in such a short time, and the intervening years could not quite dispel the anguish of it all.
He stared unseeingly at the papers spread before him, the shielded desk-lamp casting deep shadows around the small living room. Was Gabby asleep by now, glasses folded next to her pillow for security? He glanced at his watch: nearly half-past nine. She had better be. Did Fran still read her a bedtime story, or was she too busy nowadays, too exhausted when she got home? Childes shuffled the papers together, dismayed that some of the girls he had tested today with quick-fire questions still did not know the difference between analog and digital computers, or that they could be combined in a hybrid. Simple, basic stuff that shouldn't have been a problem. He dreaded the exam results, hoping practice would prove more fruitful than theory.
He ran a hand across weary eyes, his contact lenses feeling like soft grit against his pupils. Food, he thought. Ought to eat, they say it's good for you. So tired, though. Maybe a sandwich, a glass of milk. A stiff drink might be more beneficial.
He was about to rise when something cold, numbing, stabbed at his mind.
Childes put both hands to his temples, confused by the unexpected sensation. Blinking his eyes, he tried to rid himself of the coldness. It persisted.
Outside he could hear the night breeze stirring the trees. A floorboard cracked somewhere inside the house, a timber settling after the warmth of the day.
The numbness faded and he shook his head as if dizzy. Too much paperwork, he told himself, too much concentration far into the night. Concentration disturbed by thoughts of Gabby. And other things.
That drink might relax him. He rose, pressing down on the desk top to heave himself up. The icicle touched nerves once more and he swayed, hands gripping the sides of the desk to steady himself.
His thoughts were jumbled, tumbling over each other in his head, the iciness now like probing fingers pushing through those thoughts, taking them and somehow… somehow… feeding upon them. His shoulders hunched and his head bowed. His lips drew back as though he were in pain, yet there was no hurt, just the spreading numbness and the mental chaos. A groan escaped him.
And then his mind began to clear. He remained standing, leaning over the desk, breathing heavily, allowing the sen
sation to subside. It seemed to take a long while, but Childes knew it was no more than seconds. He waited until his quivering nerves had settled before crossing the room and pouring himself a drink. Strangely, the whisky was almost tasteless.
He choked on the next swallow as the burning flavour came back at him at full strength. Spluttering, he wiped the back of his arm against his lips. What the hell was happening to him? He tasted the drink again, this time more carefully, sipping slowly. He was warmed.
Childes looked around the room uneasily, not sure of what he was searching for, merely feeling another presence. Foolish. Apart from him, the room was empty, nobody had crept in while he had been hunched over paperwork.
The shadows thrown by the metal desk-lamp made him uncomfortable and he went to the switch by the door, bandaged hand outstretched to turn on the overhead light. He stopped before touching the switch and stared at his fingers, surprised by the sudden tingling in them, as if they had received a mild electric shock. They had not touched the light-switch. He glanced down when the peculiar tingling began in the hand clutching the whisky glass and it seemed as though the glass itself was vibrating.
The unseen, insidious fingers probed again.
His body sagged and he quickly sank onto the nearby sofa, pushing into its softness as if trying to evade a pressing weight. The glass fell to the floor, the rug soaking up its spilled contents. Childes' eyes closed as the sense of intrusion became intense. Images whirled inside his head, computer matrixes, faces, the room he was in now, numbers, symbols, floating in and out, something white, shimmering, past events, his own face, his own self, his fears, dreams long-forgotten recalled and pried into.
He moaned, pushing away the delving ice tentacles, forcing a calmness in his mind, willing the confusion to stop.
Childes' muscles relaxed a little when the cold probing faded once again, his chest rising and falling in exaggerated motion. He stared blankly at the shadows cast against the opposite wall. Something was attempting to reach him, something - somebody - was trying to know him.
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