STRANGER STILL
Marilyn Messik
Copyright © 2020 Marilyn Messik
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Any references to people or places other than those already in the public domain are purely coincidental.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Satin Publishing
68 West End, Silverstone, Northants NN12 8UY, United Kingdom
Tel: 07803 416159
www.satinpublishing.co.uk
Skype: nicola.fitzmaurice1
ISBN: 9798634927305
for
Dani & Robert
By The Same Author
FICTION
Strange Series
Relatively Strange
Even Stranger
Stranger Still
Witch Series
Witch Dust
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NON-FICTION
The Little Black Business Books series
Getting It Write. Common Sense Copywriting
HANDS ACROSS THE WATER!
I’m lucky enough to have readers on both sides of the Atlantic, but as you will know there are any number of words which have chosen to ‘take sides’ and make life difficult for all of us, reader and writer alike. For example, you may be expecting color and see colour or come across centre when you’re used to seeing center. I know, I know, it’s enough to give you a headache, isn’t it? For that I can only apologise (apologize!) and send out aspirin when necessary. As you’ll see, I’ve gone with UK spelling throughout the book, simply because that’s what I know best, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed it works for everyone.
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What The People say
What a brilliant unique book. I couldn't put it down ~ Off-the-Shelf Book Reviews
A Stephen King-like Dark Tale of Strange Occurrences. ~ Breakaway Reviewers
. . . keeps you both on your toes and at the edge of your seat throughout. A must-read. ~ Elisheva Sokolic. Under Cover
I spent the first few chapters of this brilliant novel wondering if it really was a crime book, since it seemed to be a very funny description of Stella’s mad relatives – then I got swept up in the story, and after I’d finished I couldn’t quite see what else it could be. Imagine a John Wyndham character strayed into a McDermid, Kate Brannigan novel, that might give you an idea of this quirky book. If you want to try something a bit different, I’d really recommend this. ~ Promoting Crime Fiction
I very rarely recommend books personally (lol) on TBC unless I absolutely LOVE them and Marilyn Messik is, in my opinion, a very underrated author who deserves world fame, adoration, adulation and lots of money. You can thank me later. ~ Tracy Fenton. The Book Club
Beautifully written, this book will grab readers on a visceral level. Stella is both heroine, victim and villain, and one of the most compelling characters I have encountered in some time. For the Love of Books
I have three of Marilyn’s books now, each of them is wonderful. Dark, light, unexpected, comic with real laugh out loud moments and beautifully written. I can’t recommend them enough. ~ Sonia Grimes.
Marilyn Messik has done it again, I really did enjoy this, hooked throughout. Enjoy, bookworms! ~ BTP Book Club
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Stay In Touch
Twitter:@marilyn_messik
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WHO’S WHO?
Stella ~ Telepath with attitude.
David ~ Stella’s husband.
Laura & Melvyn ~ In-laws.
Katerina ~ A bolshie Borzoi.
Auntie Kitty ~ Octogenarian office mainstay.
Brenda ~ Official Office Manager.
Ruby, Trudie & Joy ~ Stella’s office staff.
Martin ~ Travel Agency owner & Stella’s landlord.
Hilary ~ Martin’s wife
Rachael & Ruth Peacock ~ Telepathic sisters.
Ed ~ Telepath, adopted by the Peacocks.
Glory ~ Telepath, another Peacock protégée.
Sam ~ Telepath adopted by the Peacocks.
Boris ~ Telepath, long-time associate of the Peacock sisters.
Detective Inspector Cornwall ~ Boris’s reluctant police contact.
Mrs Millsop ~ Matron
* * * *
WHERE’S THE WHALE-SONG?
As the pain began to fade, I heaved a sigh of relief and tried to refocus, although not altogether clear what I should be refocusing on. Having a baby, at the best of times, is a bit of a strain on the nerves, let alone other areas. It didn’t help that the stark white walls of the brightly lit room seemed to be moving in on me, then backing off again, it wasn’t something walls generally did and I can’t say I was thrilled. Had I been drugged or was it simply that recent events had taken more out of me than I’d thought?
One arm was still behind my back, my wrist braceleted by a metal chain looped around the leg of the bed; there was a padlock involved too so I was lying at an uncomfortable sideways angle. I’m not normally a whinger, fully accepting life has its ups and downs, but it was hard not to think of my meticulously packed labour bag back at home, containing such essentials as a natural sponge for cooling my forehead, eau de cologne for my wrists and a whale song cassette, in whose calming qualities David had enormous faith.
I’d realised when the pains started, there was no alternative but to put out another extremely strongly worded mental yell for help, more of a sustained shriek really. I had thought I could cope alone, but had since come to the conclusion that this wasn’t working out well. Once I’d admitted that, the possibility of not being able to reach them was a thought too terrible to contemplate.
“You can stop shouting,” Rachael’s voice, suddenly in my head; loud and clear, crisp and pepperminty. I wanted to sob with relief, but time was of the essence, there were more pressing matters.
“I’m having the baby,” I said, although I wasn’t even sure whether or not she knew by now there was a baby. As usual she had an opinion.
“Well you can’t have it now.”
“You think?”
“We’re on the way, nearly there. Stay exactly where you are.” I started to reply along the lines of not having much choice and then it struck me, how could they already be near, then another contraction demanded attention.
“How far apart?” Glory in my head this time.
“What?”
“How long between pains?” I snorted a laugh. I knew if David had been around, he’d have had timings down to the last second.
“Close. Don’t know exactly.”
“OK,” she said, “I’m here now.” And she was, suddenly fully in my head with me. She’d never previously taken over quite so completely, although she’d always been able to by-pass my normally strong barriers to find what she wanted to know or to utilise my eyesight: but never previously to this extent. I’d have expected to be horrified instead of which, as I found myself enveloped in the fizzy lemon-sherbet scent of her, I’d never been so relieved in my life.
“Don’t know how much time we’ve got.” Glory murmured.
“Can we move her?” Rachael asked. Glory didn’t answer, she was assessing. Blind since birth she was using my eyes, taking in the surroundings then running her mind swiftly over the chain that was causing me so much discomfort, passing that information back to Ed; he was much defter at that sort of thing than anybody else. I felt the blissful release of the strain on my arm as he snapped the chain and metal links slithered noisily over the bed frame to coil on the floor.
It was Ed who was driving the vehicle heading my way, and I could feel his intense agitation, which put the wind up me more than anything else could have done. Ed generally maintained a complete block on emotions and I didn’t need his panic to fuel mine. Then I stopped thinking as I headed into another contraction. Naturally, David and I had attended NCT classes, and I did have a song ready to belt out as things intensified – apparently it would take my mind off things but,
“Screw the song,” muttered Glory, “I’ve got you.” And sure enough, she had. Turns out, ‘a trouble shared is a trouble halved,’ applies particularly well to labour, who’d have thought? She more or less blocked off what I was feeling, leaving just the residual shadow of sensation. “Got to be able to feel something,” she said, “so you’ll know what’s going on.” I was impressed; she could save the NHS a fortune in epidurals, although right now I was prepared to swear the baby was working its way up rather than down, maybe it shared my lousy sense of direction.
“This isn’t funny,” Glory was a tad snappy; “Only you Stella, could find yourself in a situation like this, I don’t know whether you’re daft or just plain nuts.” I was turning a little grumpy myself and was about to come back in self-defence but Rachael got in first.
“No time to discuss now, we’re not far. Ed?” I heard his silent agreement and sighed with relief. I wasn’t on my own anymore and I had complete faith in the people coming to get me. But with the comfort of knowing they were near and the easing of pain, panic returned fully fledged.
“Listen,” I said urgently, “you need to know…”
Rachael interrupted, “We know.”
“It’s Ruth.”
“I said we know.” Using elbows rather than hand and wrist still painful from the chain, I eased myself farther up the bed and manoeuvred a couple of pillows to cushion my back against the rigid frame.
“Where is he now?” Rachael asked,
“Upstairs.”
“I can’t find him.”
“No, you wouldn’t - he’s out for the count. Glory, I used your blanket.”
“What blanket? Oh right, …” she broke off. She was looking through my eyes at the door which was slowly opening, then sharing my shock and horror at what was heading towards me.
CHAPTER ONE
Not that many people know about me and my peculiarities; and that’s all to the good – I hate making anyone nervous. Children though, before they reach the land of logic often sense something, they’ve no idea what but I’ve caught many a wide-eyed gaze from a thumb-in-mouth toddler not scared, just aware of something different crossing their path, but it’s honestly never been too much of a problem. I’ve just followed the pragmatic route put in place years ago by my beleaguered, albeit determined parents. They were convinced that some cards are best played close to the chest, and whilst a certain amount of judicious juggling between the ordinary and the not so ordinary has been unavoidable, on the whole it’s a policy that’s served us well.
Those who know me from way back will know, flying abilities were sadly never again as fool-proof as when I was younger, smaller and lighter, but by far the trickiest issue has always been the often unwelcome, although sometimes indisputably handy ability to read minds. Naturally, I don’t deliberately delve - well not unless it’s important, but sometimes delving’s unnecessary because strong emotions and intentions blast right out and hit you smack dab in the face. From necessity, my blocking tactics are strong and I’m highly skilled at sealing my mental blinds, shutting off the constant inundation and ensuring I’m not always walking around nursing a hell of a headache.
I tend to use all the other stuff on a needs-must basis and yes, I’ve done a few things in my time which come under the heading of controversial and yes, over the years I have been struck by the odd conscience pang - some sharper than others. I do have some regrets about the range and variety of ridiculously dubious messes I’ve managed to get myself into, but the fact is, once you’re in, you’re in and there’s never much wiggle room for handling things differently.
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By the time we were easing out of the 1970’s, I was in my mid-twenties and somewhat to my astonishment, had just got married. As chance and luck would have it, I’d happened across someone who, whilst not exactly having the patience of a saint, nevertheless displayed an amazingly high degree of forbearance. When I’d told him the facts I thought he ought to know, he’d have been well within his rights to head shrieking over the horizon and no-one, least of all me, would have blamed him in the slightest. However, displaying stoicism above and beyond, he’d stuck around.
As an added bonus, this newly acquired husband, David, was one of the minority of people I call the blissfully quiet, thoughts neatly compartmentalised, labelled and, unlike a lot of other people’s, not ricocheting round his head like over-excited marbles in a pinball machine. I could read him if I really wanted to, but a certain amount of privacy in a marriage is, I think, not a bad thing. Anyway, all of this allowed me to relax and was, as I often told him, just one of the many things about him I appreciated.
Married life hadn’t started off as smoothly as I might have wished, although the wedding itself had gone as well as could be expected, albeit with quantities of soggy tissues in evidence. My mother and her sister, Aunt Edna, were sobbing fit to bust because they’d feared they’d never see me walk down the aisle; Laura Gold, my new mother-in-law, was equally emotional because she’d feared she might. She had rather more than the usual number of mother-in-law reservations, and had made it clear to David she felt he could do better, a lot better – and of course, she didn’t know the half of it!
There were the usual ups and downs on the big day, and whilst I didn’t think I was nervous, my stomach was giving me grief with some uncomfortable twisting. Initially, I put it down to a natural concern that should I at any point turn round too quickly, my rigidly set helmet of hair could knock out a passing relative. It had been so firmly Ellnetted by an over-enthusiastic hairdresser that I suspected it might never move again, at least not in the foreseeable future. Or maybe it wasn’t just the hair, maybe unease had snuck in during the fraught period when it was touch and go as to whether we’d get my wedding dress up and over my bottom. Mercifully, my Mother and Aunt were women who rose manfully to a challenge and, with a combination of pushing and clenching they eventually got me in and zipped up, to the relief of all. The dress did, even if I say so myself, give me a pleasing hour-glass figure, the downside being I was only able to breathe in extremely short pants.
Progress down the aisle proved more stilted than stately. My Father, contrary to instruction, had neglected to try on his hired dress suit trousers, so it hadn’t come to light until far too late that they were far too long. To avoid tripping and breaking his neck, he had to incorporate a sharp flicking movement of each leg into every step, to get excess material out of the way. I couldn’t worry overmuch; I had my own concerns. My breathing, restricted for zip safety’s sake, was further complicated by each inhalation pulling in an increasingly soggy section of veil which then had to be unobtrusively blown out again, to avoid death by choking. From under the chuppah - the flower-decorated marriage canopy - my Mother, along with Melvyn and Laura my nearly-in-laws, David and the Rabbi watched our progress with varying degrees of apprehension, and there was an audible if restrained sigh of relief when we finally made it.
Aside from the oxygen deprivation and the knotting of my stomach, I was extremely happy, and David and I grinned at each other as he lifted the soggy veil
from my face and my mother bustled forward to re-arrange it back over my headdress, although it might have been helpful if she’d wrung it out first.
I am a woman who knows her own mind; always have done, always will and I had no last-minute doubts. Whatever was discombobulating me, it wasn’t wedding nerves, at least not mine and I certainly hoped not his. I opened my mental blinds slightly, to see if I could pinpoint anything overtly amiss, but the blast from over 120 people emoting and anticipating - who doesn’t love a wedding? - rocked me hard back on my heels and I hastily shut them again. But I’d had enough time to know there didn’t seem to be anything untoward occurring and turned my attention back to what we’d actually pitched up to do.
* * * *
The ceremony; the tea dance; the speeches, the cake-cutting and the long-drawn out family farewells all passed in a bit of a whirl and a blur, although throughout, there were concerns about our photographer. Having imbibed more than was probably wise during the reception, he’d started swaying at an early stage. Confidence was further eroded when David pointed out the photos might come out clearer if the lens cap was removed. I’m not overly sentimental myself, so not fixated on photos but I knew how upset my mother would be if she didn’t have the requisite album, quite apart from which, he was a tall chap and not on the slim side; keeling over from a sway too far would not only disrupt proceedings but there was every chance we’d never get him up again. I nipped into his head briefly, gave him the equivalent of a hard slap and saw it register as he snapped back to startled attention. Meanwhile Auntie Edna - as always practicality on legs - had organised strong black coffee. Our combined offensive seemed to do the trick and he reverted to the job in hand with a worried expression but less swaying.
Stranger Still Page 1