But the time was not yet right.
The light spilled out over the grass and he watched as she emptied her briefcase onto the table and sorted through the papers, selecting the ones she wanted to work on. Her workload seemed heavy, but he did not feel sorry for her because he knew that those with power had to pay a price, and that price was linked strongly to the expectations of those who were even more powerful. She had chosen what she wanted to be, but he knew this was not enough for her and she wanted even more. She wanted to be the one who would exact the price. He could not allow that to happen because then, she would take over everything.
Power! The word buzzed in his brain like a saw. When she did attain the power she desired he would have to stop her, before it became too great and swallowed everything in its path.
She dimmed the lounge light, flicked on a table lamp, pulled a chair over to the table and, resting her chin on her left hand, started to read. A halo of light surrounded her, making her dark-blonde hair glint with the reflected glow. It straggled onto her shoulders where it separated into strands which seemed to have no connection with each other. The fingers of her right hand opened and closed in a restless rhythm and eventually she moved her hand upwards, reaching into her hair to tease the ends round and round her fingers.
He wondered whether she could sense his presence and if so, why she never closed the curtains or put blinds on the windows. But she was arrogant. She probably assumed she could not be overseen here, where she felt so safe. She had probably chosen to live in this house because of its location in the countryside, its high walls and electrically operated gate, which, she foolishly thought, provided her with privacy.
The house reflected the woman. She called it a bungalow, but it was larger with wings and extensions sprawling in all directions. It was ostentatious and smelled of money, just as she did.
And yet, it was vulnerable in its isolation in the same way that she was vulnerable. She was feeling vulnerable now. He could see it in the little girl lost look that only appeared when she thought she was alone. At these times she appeared to be on the verge of crying, but never actually gave in to it. In any case he had come to the conclusion the vulnerability was a façade, another tool she used to wield her power. He had seen her using it, so he knew. There were times when she presented her vulnerable image to others, but when she did so she would wait until she had the other person’s sympathy, then she would stamp on them. Flatten them. Disintegrate them. He was not going to fall into that trap.
It was the power image, the one she presented at work that had marked her out as the one. The voice in his head reminded him of those other women who had encroached on his life – women who had no right to be powerful, just as she had no right to be powerful. He had not known about the vulnerable part of her in the beginning. Although initially this vulnerability had confused him and played games with his mind, it was not long before he realized it was a trick. In some ways it made the plans he had for her even better.
God had given him his gift of being able to identify Satan’s chosen ones. He had also provided the voice to instruct and give him permission to act. But his calling to God’s service weighed heavily on him.
Sometimes he wanted to be like other men, seeking out the beautiful, those with style, those who attracted him. But he knew this was not possible for him because he was not like other men. He had no option but to accept God’s will – and God had chosen this woman and instructed him to watch her.
Light wafted over the trees in the orchard, shimmering over the leaves like some ray from an alien space craft and he knew a car had entered the gates and would appear round the curve in the drive in just a few moments. He merged further into the shadow of the bushes where he would not be seen, although he knew this was not a necessity because he was invisible. Still it was always better to play safe because he never knew when his cloak of invisibility would fail him and, if the husband discovered him, he did not know what would happen.
The car crunched to a halt in front of the door. A spray of loose stones pattered off the ornate tiled entrance with bullet-like precision. The engine had barely stopped before the man unfolded himself from the driving seat unaware of his shadow which expanded upwards and outwards until it was a giant phantom shape, dancing and jumping behind him.
Doors slammed, and from where he crouched he could see the woman collect her papers and stuff them in her briefcase. He could almost hear the pitter-patter of alarm in her breast for she was afraid of her husband. Why, he did not know because she feared no one else.
She was only halfway out of her chair when the door of the lounge thudded open. He could hear the jumbled sound of raised voices, and see the anger in both their faces.
It was good to see her suffer.
He thought for a moment the husband was going to strike her and was disappointed when he did not. Maybe if the husband knew about the other man he would.
After a few moments she slammed out of the room and he imagined her running down the central corridor. He timed it in his mind and knew the exact moment the light would snap on in the kitchen, for the woman and her husband always fought about the same thing, her failure as a housewife and her shortcomings in seeing to his needs.
Often he felt like applauding the husband for his efforts to make her bow down to a higher authority. But she never really relinquished her power to him. Her anger was evidence of that.
His brain hurt with the buzzing of the power word and he pressed both hands against his head. He had to stop the saw rotating and grinding its message into the core of his being, and it would only stop when he had completed his mission. She had to be stopped from increasing her power.
That was why his mission was to stand here in the cold, darkness of the night and continue watching her. She must not increase her power any further or they were all doomed.
CHAPTER TEN
Julie, ignoring the dagger of pain that knifed through her chest every time she breathed, jogged on, punishing her body and legs with each step she took. It helped to quieten that other pain. The pain she felt every time her thoughts turned to Dave. The pain that never seemed to lessen despite the passage of time.
She seemed to have been running forever and had not noticed when the dusk turned into darkness, or when the moon decided to look down on her with an enigmatic gaze that was less visible tonight because of the shimmering haze surrounding it. Once she had thought the face of the moon was friendly, that it smiled down on her, but that was in the past and now she was thankful for the haze so she could not see its baleful frown.
In her present mood she was glad the streets were dark and empty and, apart from the distant hum of traffic, silent except for the thud of her feet. She concentrated on that tiny pocket of noise, measuring each thud to the beat of her heart, the only spark of life in the deadness of her soul.
Julie’s feet faltered in their stride when she reached the gate leading to Balgay Park and the observatory and, although she often ran there during the daytime, at night the shadows were deep, appearing to shift and change shape.
She had shadows of her own with which to cope: terrible shadows that had changed her life out of all recognition. They had become part of her life when the blackness gripped her heart, threatening to overwhelm her. It was a seductive blackness, which beckoned to her, tempting her to tread paths she was reluctant to follow.
Her breathing slowed, although the pulse beat vibrating inside her ears and resounding through her head did not quite silence the whispered invitation of the trees for her to join them. The sharp aroma of wood and leaves tantalized her nostrils, inviting her into their dark embrace. Afraid she would succumb to the temptation, afraid she would be swallowed up by the darkness, she turned her back on the park gates and started to run.
She was not ready to face the dark alone. She needed street lights in the same way she needed her bedroom lamp when she was sleeping. It was silly, she knew, but she had a feeling that if she let the dark swallow he
r she would be finished.
The street sloped gradually upwards. Icicles of air invaded her mouth, chilling her teeth and freezing her throat. Each breath jabbed icy needles into her lungs before exiting in painful gasps which echoed through her head like a drumbeat. But she could not stop running, pushing herself past her limits until she was no longer conscious of the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. She ran in a semi-conscious state, neither seeing nor feeling, until she came to the roundabout and saw the sprawl of Ninewells Hospital below her.
The large, modern complex, glowed, rather like an over-illuminated Christmas tree, a parody of the pain it contained. This was where they might have taken Dave if they had found him in time. But they had not, and she blamed Nicole for that.
Julie shook her head, refusing to allow the tears to gather. Instead, she thought of Nicole. Pain rose in her chest like a clenched fist, rising to her throat until she gagged. The hate resurfaced. An overwhelming, all-consuming hate, for Nicole, the woman who had taken him from her and whom Julie held responsible for his death.
Turning her back on the hospital complex, she forced her feet to run back down Glamis Road and on into Arran Road.
A car cruised by, slowing as its headlights washed over her, but she did not look up and it picked up speed again until its red tail-lights disappeared round the next bend in the road, leaving only the smell of its fumes in Julie’s nostrils.
On she ran, from one street light to the next, with only the sound of her pounding feet for company. The short gasps of her breath rasped in time with the strange singing noise in her ears, as once again she pushed herself to her limits.
She was concentrating now on putting one foot in front of the other, like a child learning to walk, and still she ran. It was the only thing to do to muffle her inner pain.
Her thighs and body ached each time her Reebok-shod feet slapped off the flagstones in a rhythmic pattern that resounded in the quiet evening air. If she stopped now she might not have the energy to start again, but the lights at the Loons Road junction were in her favour and she jogged across. Lochee High Street had its usual complement of late night revellers and kids, bunching in groups, trying to outdo each other with a show of bravado.
Julie, however, was so turned into her inner thoughts and pain that she was deaf to their catcalls and jeers.
Knowing she was almost home, if the flat she rented could be called home, she slowed her pace until she came to a stop. Leaning over, she placed her palms on her quivering knees. Greedily she gulped in knife sharp air which seared its way into her lungs, while her whole body trembled, forcing her to lean against the wall.
The cold grabbed her neck and breasts. Her clothes clung damply to her skin in a chilling embrace while her cap of brown hair sculpted itself wetly to her head. Sweat trickled down her forehead. She blinked it away from her eyes for fear it would initiate the tears she was trying so hard to prevent.
Gradually her breathing became more even and the pain lessened.
Shivering, she turned into the doorway leading to her flat.
The outside door swung shut and the darkness of the lobby and stairwell swallowed her. Icy fingers of panic clutched at her, grabbing her chest and squeezing. In her mind’s eye Dave swung slowly in the stairwell waiting for a rescue that never came.
She stood, unable to move, reluctant to push herself forward, but not wanting to go back outside. And, although she knew it was only the stair light bulb which must have popped again, and that Dave was not really there, it did not help the irrational burst of fear engulfing her.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she muttered to herself, more to hear her own voice than anything else. ‘There are other people living in the building. They would hear if anything untoward happened,’ although she had no idea what this nameless happening might be, and they had not heard Dave when he needed their help. Stretching out her hand, she slowly felt her way along the hall until she reached the stairs and then, grasping the banisters, pulled herself upwards to safety.
After what seemed an eternity, she fumbled her key into the lock and stepped into the austere security of her flat. The harsh light from the bare electric bulb in the middle of the room bounced off a table, two cheap moquette armchairs and a two-seater sofa. The sink and a baby Belling cooker sat in an alcove which should have been covered by the curtain which hung limply to the side, but was not, because Julie had not bothered to pull it shut. A tiny bedroom held a tumbled, unmade bed and two suitcases containing her clothes, which she had never fully unpacked during the three months she had been living here.
She loosened the laces of her Reeboks, prised them off, stepped up onto the bed, and bouncing over it in two steps jumped to the floor and into the tiny toilet and shower room. Tearing her clothes off, she slung them onto the bed stepped into the shower and turned on the taps. The ice-cold water needled her skin, shocking it into another kind of pain. A physical pain, reminding Julie she was still alive even though Dave was dead.
She pressed her head to the wet tiles while the water gradually heated. Dry sobs overtook her. Her body, racked with painful spasms, shuddered uncontrollably.
Gradually she brought herself under control, but the emptiness of the shower with no Dave to press in beside her, rub her back and make glorious soapy love, reflected the emptiness in her heart. There was nothing but her own wet body and the memory he had loved someone else, and that love had led him to eternity. An eternity where there was no room for Julie.
Julie turned her face into the flowing water, letting it run down and over her, and repeating the vow she had made over and over again. ‘Vengeance shall be mine.’ Julie was not sure where the quotation came from, but it seemed apt and she recited it again, ‘Vengeance shall be mine.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nicole, fighting the tears pricking behind her eyelids, ran blindly down the corridor.
The bastard was always doing it, making her feel guilty about not looking after him properly. He wanted a skivvy, a doormat who would jump to his bidding, not the independent woman that Nicole had become.
‘But why should I?’ she muttered, throwing open the kitchen door. Giving vent to her pent up anger, she slammed it shut behind her. It made her feel slightly better, although she knew Scott would complain later. ‘I don’t bloody well care,’ she screamed, knowing he could not hear her.
She clattered the wok onto the hob of the cooker and splashed some oil into it, leaving it to get hot while she hurriedly selected a bottle of wine and rummaged in the fridge. Thank God for instant food. She threw the ingredients into the pan, shaking it, so they merged and mixed into an attractive concoction.
The gas flame licked round the bottom of the pan until the oil began to smoke, making the mixture sizzle and spark. Nicole adjusted the flame, stirring, shaking the pan, and muttering over the brew, like a witch casting a spell that would make Scott a more understanding man. And it would, because after he had eaten he would mellow and be his usual charming self, and then maybe, just maybe, they would make love in the massive bed she’d had specially made for them. And the lovemaking would be all the better because of the fight they’d had. There was something about a good fight and a dominant man that made her as horny as hell, although she would never tell him that.
She shook the wok for the last time, then lowered the gas beneath it even further so she could leave it long enough to rummage in the kitchen drawer for the silver cutlery. Grabbing a pair of linen napkins, she ran through to the dining room and started to set the table wishing, not for the first time, that Scott would at least share some of the chores. But the wish was a non-starter because he never would. It was not in his nature. She was out of breath by the time she had stopped rushing between the dining room and kitchen and had time to inspect the table, dim the lights and put a match to the candles. The wine glasses glinted in the candlelight, the crystal throwing facets of the glow upwards and outwards. Surely Scott would have nothing to complain about this time? Surely i
t was as near perfection as he could expect?
Resentment flared, burning in her chest like the flame from the candle, as she thought of how critical he could be even when everything was perfect. Not for him a cold or reheated meal prepared by the daily maid and left in the fridge, a TV dinner on his knee in front of the television, or a casual meal at the kitchen table. It had to be something special prepared by his wife’s own hands and served on the dining room table with good wine, the best silver and candles flickering in the antique candelabra. But, Nicole had to admit, now the table was ready it had a certain feel of class and it helped her forget her more earthy roots.
It was those roots which made her vulnerable to Scott’s criticism and exposed the lack of self-esteem she successfully hid from everyone else. Scott knew only too well how to undermine her tough exterior, and he delighted in seeing her revert to the insecurities of her childhood, but tonight she was damned if she was going to give him that pleasure.
Scott was where she expected him to be, sprawled on the lounge sofa with his shoe-clad feet resting on a cream, silk cushion. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ she murmured, walking to him and leaning over to kiss his forehead.
He reached up and grasped one of her wrists. Tightening his grip, he twisted until she was forced to her knees.
‘Not before time,’ he grunted. ‘One of these days I’ll come home and it’ll be on the table waiting.’ Releasing her arm he swung his feet to the ground and stretched to his full height, making her crane her neck to see his face. He smiled at her, the tenderness in his expression transforming him into the Scott she loved. ‘Come on then,’ he said, ‘what are you waiting for? Now it’s ready we’d better eat it.’
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