“On your own?” he said.
“Just to the cove,” I replied. “It’s not far. I won’t go up the road. You’re right. I don’t really want to hike up there by myself.”
In all honesty, I didn’t really want to go to the cove by myself, either, but I just… I had to check. I had this funny, eerie feeling that wouldn’t go away. And it was killing me just sitting here. Waiting for nothing.
“It’ll be fine,” I said, because he still didn’t look convinced. “It’s practically within hearing distance. If anything happens, I’ll yell. I’m loud,” I added.
For the first time that day, he cracked a smile.
“I know,” he assured me. “I remember the jellyfish.”
Despite the sunshine that had dominated the weather for weeks, it was another overcast day. Not quite as cold as yesterday, though, so I left my sweater on my chair. I tried to ignore the fluttering in my stomach as I walked quickly up the short hill to the path that wound around the coast. I hadn’t enjoyed my first visit to the cove, and I wasn’t looking forward to going back. But if there was any chance Darren was there… Really, I was assuaging my own guilt. I couldn’t stop wondering if maybe I’d been so busy trying to calm Emma, to get her out of there, that I’d missed him.
The walk wasn’t familiar to me yet so I hesitated when I came to the fork, not entirely sure which way to go. The day before, Emma’s screams had been my guide. Today, there was nothing but the cawing of gulls and the rush of the breeze in my ears. I wondered if the wind ever stopped blowing up here. Somewhat uncomfortably, I set off down the trail and eventually emerged on the pebbly beach.
There were several large rocks and boulders in the cove that could conceal a slumped human figure—one of which I’d found Emma huddled behind. I checked each one, walking all the way around to be sure, then concentrated on scanning the flotsam that had collected along the shoreline and the shallows. I didn’t see anything at a glance that resembled Darren’s wide silhouette, but I made myself look carefully, determined to be thorough. My sneakers crunched against the shifting stones with every step, and the sound seemed to reverberate off the rock walls.
I was halfway to the shoreline when it caught my eye. A smidge of orange. Darker than it should be, but definitely orange. Nothing on this beach should be that color. I sucked in a deep breath through suddenly tight lungs and tried to find it again, that tiny fragment of man-made color.
There, bobbing up and down, in and out of sight. In the water. I started forward, unaware of my feet pounding, arms pumping. My eyes were fixed on the flash of dark umber, convinced I’d lose it if I so much as blinked. I broke the surface of the water without noticing the shocking cold of the Irish Sea. Splashing my way forward, I reached out long before he was within my grasp.
“Darren!” I gasped.
The shape of his body was clearer now, the outline just visible through the murky water. His back and shoulders were lifted a little above the surface, nestled against a jagged rock that, now the tide was out, just broke the waves, his orange T-shirt shouting his presence to the world…to me. His head was twisted to the side, face half in, half out of the water. Part of his mouth was clear. Enough for him to still be breathing? I had to hope as I snatched at his shoulders, hauled him onto his back. His skin was pale, waxy. His eyes were open, but the pupils were hidden, rolled back into his head. My hopes plummeted as his head dropped back, hanging lifelessly over my arm. Was I too late?
“Darren!” I shook him roughly, and his head flopped from side to side. “Darren! Look at me!”
No response. Just the heavy weight of his massive frame, limp in my arms. I dropped my face down to press my cheek against his mouth, praying I would feel the soft flutter of warm breath against my skin. Nothing, just the chill of his lips bumping against the side of my face, unwelcome kisses as the sea lifted him rhythmically with the waves.
Trying to remember it was Darren, trying not to be repulsed by the knowledge that I was probably clinging to a dead body, I ran my hand across his clavicle until I came to his neck. I pressed two fingers firmly against the base of his throat, hunting for a pulse. I couldn’t find one. The skin was stone-cold, hard beneath my touch. My face scrunched up as tears burned my eyeballs. Too late, far too late.
Had he been right here yesterday, still breathing as I left?
I cried a little harder, crumpling under the weight of guilt.
Something encircled my arm. Not the gentle, tickling touch of seaweed or jellyfish. This grip was tight, firm. I screamed, jumped, yanking my body backward, ripping both my arms free. Then I saw Darren’s face. His eyes were black, focused. Staring right at me. But only for a second before he slipped beneath the water, disappearing.
He was alive. Darren was alive.
“Shit!” I exploded forward, desperately searching the water. It wasn’t deep here; where was he? I was soaked and frozen, but I didn’t care. I dropped down onto my knees, wincing as jagged stones smashed into my shins. I didn’t stop hunting, though, crashing about, hands scraping over sand, seaweed, rocks. Where was he? He was here, just a second ago. Where was he?
“Darren!” I screamed. My throat was tight; his name came out broken and scratched.
But nobody answered. There was utter silence. Emma was right; it was deathly quiet in this cove. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to realize that the beach was sheltered on all sides by rock walls, keeping out the wind. The sea was calm, whispering gently. The only sound came from my frantic splashing as I beat at the water.
Abruptly, I stopped and stood there, panting. Now that I wasn’t disturbing the surface, I realized it was clear enough for me to just make out the bottom. I could see dark swirls of seaweed, twigs, snapped-off grasses and fronds, pebbles. But not Darren. No body clawing for the surface or lying still. He wasn’t there.
Confused and frightened, I twisted around, gazed about me. He wasn’t on the shore or floating off into the depths. He wasn’t anywhere.
“Darren!” I screamed for him anyway.
Somebody called back, wordless, guttural. It wasn’t Darren.
I knew that voice, though.
“Martin?” I ran out of the water, turning left and right on the beach, dripping water everywhere, not remotely aware of the cold. “Martin?”
He shrieked again, sounding in pain. Hesitantly, I took a step in the direction I thought his voice was coming from, but the sound seemed to surround me, echoing off the walls.
“Martin? Martin, where are you?” The tears were back, and they stole the volume from my voice.
“Heather!” My name came at me from everywhere and nowhere. I was turning so fast I was getting dizzy. “Heather, help!”
Two voices, Martin and Darren. Calling together. Scared, angry, in pain.
Accusing.
Why hadn’t I helped them? Why wasn’t I helping them? I cried harder, running this way and that.
“Where are you?” I yelled.
This time I got nothing back but bawling, screeching, tortured cries.
Where were they? The cove was small. Standing dead in the center, I was able to see everywhere, everything. Panicked, scared as I was, it took a long time for the truth to sink in: I was alone.
So what the hell was making that noise? I clapped my hands over my head, trying to shut it out. Was this what had happened to Emma? Was this what drove her over the edge?
Desperate now to escape, I started to run, palms firmly cupped against the sides of my head. It made me clumsy, unstable. The constant shifting of the stones on the beach beneath my feet was too much for my precarious balance, and I tumbled.
I hit the ground hard, skidding. Instinctively I clawed at the undulating carpet of stones and rough sand, trying to stop myself. My hand folded over something smoother and colder than the rest of the pebbles. I turned my hand over, staring at the thing nestled in my palm.
<
br /> The brooch. How could it possibly be here? Dougie had hurled into the water, back at the camp. The odds against it swirling in the water and being spat out in the cove for me to find were astronomical. But more than that, I was beyond the tide line. I shook my head, disbelieving.
Then another scream rent the air, and all thought vanished. I lurched to my feet and hit the narrow path at full sprint, my eyes fixed on the trail, the tiny copper brooch held fast in my palm as if it were glued there.
Nineteen
Now
I’m thirsty. It’s warm in the room; I blame that for my dry mouth. My discomfort peaks as I watch Dr. Petersen take another sip of his expensive, fizzy water, but I don’t ask him for a drink. I swallow, try to eke some saliva back into my parched mouth. Not that I have any intention of talking.
We are taking a break. Not my idea, but I am not about to complain. From the look on Dr. Petersen’s face, he’s not happy about it, either. I can only guess that this is some sort of requirement—that after so long I have to be given a chance to recuperate, or reflect. I am not allowed out of the room, however, and there has been no mention of refreshment.
Dr. Petersen glances at a fancy Rolex watch strapped around his wrist, hairs on his arm silvery-gray with age, and I realize my respite is almost up. He goes back to perusing my notes, but he’s no longer reading. Perhaps he’s just counting down the seconds in his head. His eyes stare down at the paper, but they aren’t moving.
At last—and yet, still much too soon—he sighs, pushes away my file, and fixes me with a pleasant smile. I can’t help but wonder if he hates me as much as I hate him, if that smile is a struggle for him, and if what he really wants to do is scowl. No—I am sure he enjoys our little meetings. I’m like a Rubik’s Cube to him, a puzzle he already knows the answer to, but he keeps working away at. Because the challenge is in the solving, in making the little colored blobs bend to his will.
I never managed to solve a Rubik’s Cube. I’d get so far, maybe a row of yellows, or four little reds grouped nicely in a square, then I’d get stuck and no matter how much I twisted, I wouldn’t make any progress. I’d get bored, give up. Unfortunately, Dr. Petersen appears to have more tenacity than me—in this respect at least.
He opens his mouth to speak, and I wonder where we’re going now.
“Are you a religious person, Heather?”
What does that have to do with anything? I blink but keep my face expressionless, waiting for the rest. Dr. Petersen doesn’t speak but continues to watch me, obviously waiting for an answer. If I don’t say anything, how long will this go on?
Possibly quite a long time, I realize a minute later. It’s awkward, sitting here in silence. The escort’s breathing in the background is loud. Irritating, really. Is it on purpose, so I don’t forget he’s there? Now that I’m tuned in to it, it’s even harder to ignore. I want something to cover it—anything, even if it means I have to speak. Besides, it seems an innocuous question. I am not giving much away by telling him this.
“No,” I say quietly.
“Do you believe in God?”
I fail to see how this is different from his first question, but I answer anyway.
“No.”
“What about life after death?”
I squint a little, still trying to puzzle him out. Just when I think I have my ducks all in a row…
“Everyone wants to believe in an afterlife,” I tell him. “They want to think that death is not the end.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know.” I make my voice deliberately short, curt. Because I think I might be starting to see where he’s heading, and I want to cut it off here and now.
“Ah,” he says, as if he hasn’t heard me say this before. Then, “And that’s the problem, isn’t it? The not knowing.”
I pin on my smile. I am right. The smile doesn’t last long, however. This theory that Petersen has tried to convince me of again and again isn’t something I want to talk about. Not that there is much I do want to talk to Dr. Petersen about, except maybe my release, and I’m pretty sure that isn’t a conversation we’ll be having any time soon.
But the escort is still breathing, slowly, loudly. Constantly. “Nobody knows,” I say, striving for disdain, as if this should be obvious.
Petersen smiles.
“Is that what so fascinates you about it? About death?”
“I’m not fascinated by death,” I answer. It’s the truth.
“No, you’re right,” he agrees. I blink in surprise at Petersen’s admission, but he isn’t done. “It’s not death, is it? It’s dying. Those precious moments when you can watch life drain away. Wonder where it goes.”
There is something very wrong with this man.
I clamp my lips shut and attempt to do the same with my ears. Just to cover the sound, wheezing in and out and in and out, I start drumming loudly on my knee with my good hand. Dr. Petersen will think it’s a sign that he’s getting to me, but I will just have to live with that.
“Heather?”
Death, dying. It’s not fascinating; it’s terrifying. Unexplained, uncharted. Unexplored. Nobody knows what the final journey will be like, not until you’re so far down the path you’ll never be able to turn back and tell anyone what you saw.
Deep, deep down, it’s why we’re all really afraid of the dark. Because there’s nothing worse than not knowing what’s out there. But I’m not going to try to explain that to Dr. Petersen. I don’t care how long he waits, how loud that damned guard breathes. I clamp down on my tongue with my teeth, squeezing so hard it hurts.
Perhaps Petersen sees the determination in my face, because he quickly moves along to the next question on his little list. “Do you believe in spirits, Heather? Demons, creatures from another world?”
I bite down harder. I must have drawn blood because my mouth is suddenly filled with a metallic taste that’s both alien and familiar.
This is what Dr. Petersen brings up when he really wants to elicit a response from me. If I were thinking straight, I would be surprised he’s waited so long in this session to spring this one on me. But I’m not. I’m not thinking at all. I’m concentrating all of my efforts on staying right here. Right in this room, right now. It should be funny, because that’s something I’ve never wanted before, but I’m not laughing.
Because I do believe. I believe in spirits, demons, whatever you want to call them. Creatures that shouldn’t exist in this world but do, beings that don’t have to live by the same rules as the rest of us. Things that you can’t fight, can’t kill. I do believe in those.
The druids, who made their horrific sacrifices to appease the beasts, they knew what they were doing. They knew what would happen if the demon’s hunger went unfulfilled.
So do I.
Twenty
Then
“Dougie!” I hit the beach at full tilt, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Forgetting that he was ill, forgetting his injured ankle, I threw myself at him, collapsing, still half sobbing, into his arms.
“What? What is it? Heather, what’s wrong?”
“It’s…it’s…” But I didn’t know how to describe what had happened at the cove. Instead I just gripped him harder, locking my hands around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. Though the beach was quiet, I could still hear their screams echoing in my head. The terror I’d felt refused to lessen, and I was shaking violently. My pulse thumped around my system, and even with my soaking-wet clothes, I was overheating.
Warm as I was, Dougie was hotter. His skin seemed to radiate heat, reminding me that he was sick. He was in no shape to be holding me up. Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I pulled back, put the space of a footstep between us.
Now though, he could see my face. I worked hard to mold it back into its ordinary shape, but my chin was trembling and my eyes were screwed into slits
as I tried to hold back the tears. I sniffed deeply, trying to get a grip on myself.
“You should sit down,” I quavered.
Dougie ignored my advice. Closing the distance I’d put between us, he gripped my arm.
“Heather, what happened? Did you go to the cove?”
Not really capable of talking, I made do with a couple of jerky nods.
“Did…you find anything?”
“I don’t know.” My voice came out oddly distorted, choked with emotion. “It was…” I broke off again, breathing hard. Just thinking about it was bringing the fear back, tight around my chest like a steel band. “There was something there.”
Dougie caught the strange emphasis in my words.
“What do you mean, something?” he asked, his face intense.
“I… I’m not sure.” I shrugged in apology. I was beginning to calm down, to regain my senses. What had happened seemed…impossible. I was no longer sure about what I’d seen, heard. Had I imagined it?
But then…
“Dougie, I found—” I presented him with my left hand.
Dougie’s eyes narrowed, then widened as he saw what I had. Slowly, he pried my fingers loose and pulled the brooch from my grasp.
“Where the hell did you get this?” he asked.
“It was on the beach. At the cove.”
“Washed up?” He looked dubious. “I guess it could happen.”
But I was shaking my head. “No, it was up above the tide line. It was buried beneath some pebbles.”
“That’s not possible,” he murmured.
I took a deep, steadying breath. “I know.”
Two blue eyes stared deep into mine. “Heather, what happened?”
I told him. Told him about the body that disappeared, the screams that came from nowhere. How I’d accidentally come across the brooch, fallen right on top of it. I didn’t look at him as I spoke, afraid I’d see the same thing in his face that Emma must have seen in mine: disbelief.
When I finished, there was a long moment of silence. I managed to wait all of ten seconds before I had to look.
The Last Witness Page 15