Forgive Me

by Kateri Stanley

  Stripe fell back against the covers, the moan still travelling from her throat. She heard the crystal crisp sound of Lorraine Thurman's voice seep through the stereo. Waking up in the real world, she was reminded of every gruesome little detail. At least being asleep has its perks. She roused her daughter for breakfast, cracking eggs over a pan whilst the baby twirled her tiny spoon in her oatmeal.

  “We’re broadcasting live on this cold morning to announce that the father of Anna Crawford is scheduled to make a statement to the press. If you’re just tuning in, Anna was brutally murdered at the start of this week. Authorities have made the association that these awful killings are similar to the murders of the Night Scrawler back in the nineties-”

  “Let’s try something else shall we.” Stripe changed the dial on the radio, to some classical music. She didn't want her daughter listening to poison. Let’s hope it will inspire something. Please nothing morbid or depressing. It’s all I need right now.

  Her heart thundered when Isaac appeared in the kitchen. He was raking a towel through his coal black hair and steam rose from his pale skin, a nine-o’clock-shadow was growing across the lower half of his face. Facial hair suits him.

  “I see you enjoyed the shower,” Stripe said, flipping the egg in the pan.

  A look of a concern flashed on his face, it vanished when he locked eyes with their daughter.

  “What’s the matter?” Stripe asked.

  “Her glare,” Isaac replied. “It reminds me of you.”

  Stripe sniggered, sensing a pit of dormant nerves bristling. God knows what he must think of me. He’ll have so many questions about you, and her. Father and daughter were identical, the dark hair, the ice blue eyes. It was disturbing yet beautiful at the same time. “She’s got stranger fear. All babies have it. Don’t be concerned. She hasn’t seen her daddy up close before.”

  A flame of a smile glowed on his mouth. “I think Sofia suits her.”

  “I'm glad you like it. I wasn’t sure what name to go with at first. Didn’t want something plain or something long and drawn out.” Stripe laid the breakfast on the table and they sat with Sofia in the middle, on her little throne. “Anyway, I'm sorry about last night.”

  Isaac took a bite of his eggs. “Why are you sorry?”

  “I’m never normally… like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well you know, primal. I-I just didn't know what came over me.”

  Isaac smiled warmly. “You don't need to apologise. I think we both enjoyed last night.” He glanced at Sofia, lowering his voice. “Can we not talk about bed stuff in front of her?”

  “We’re babbling. It’s a language she can’t understand yet.”

  “True, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” She stabbed the yoke of her egg and watched it bleed onto the plate. “So, how have you been? You must have a lot of questions…”

  “You could say that,” Isaac muttered, chuckling under his breath. “I’ve been busy. We’ve started to promote our website more now, your article really helped by the way, the app version of Virtisan is coming out soon. Mark Zuckerberg has an interest in buying out the company.”

  “Really? Are you going to take his offer?”

  “I think it’s just a rumour. My colleagues tend to play pranks on me. The website is still relatively quite small compared to his enterprises, why I reckon it’s not true. He has his fingers in enough pies as it is.”

  “Well, what if it was true? What would you do?”

  “I’d tell him to go and get screwed.”

  “Hey, baby present.”

  “It’s just babble as you said, she can’t understand us. I was joking. I’d be in awe if Mr Zuckerberg wanted to work with me.”

  “I thought you were.”

  “You wouldn’t say that about Cameron Storms?”

  “God no. She was a bitc-” She lost her words as Isaac began to laugh. Stripe smiled, remembering herself before returning to her breakfast and took a gulp of unrehearsed coffee. “Sorry, I’m trying to watch my cussing around Sofia.” She looked at her daughter who munched on her breakfast, little flecks of oats were sprinkled on her chin, she was fixated on Isaac. “Did you really like my article? I was just winging it.”

  “You did great winging if that’s what you’re calling it. I was relieved you didn’t mention anything about being cuffed to a bed, visiting a disused military bunker and so much worse.”

  Stripe smiled uncomfortably. She remembered writing the first couple of drafts, her vocabulary had been predominantly aggressive and she didn’t restrain from the truth. When she found out she was pregnant, she knew she had to play a different strategy. It’s not just my life anymore. What had happened before wasn’t something to joke about, it was life-altering, discovering a buried revelation. When she drove from Isaac’s house, she hadn’t been the same since. I’ve been fighting with my own sense of morality. Was she corrupt for sleeping with the man who killed her father? Was her mind weakened from a douse of Stockholm syndrome to stick with Isaac’s story? What kind of mother was she for seeking refuge in the arms of a killer?

  “How have you been?” Isaac asked, he licked a drop of egg yolk from his lower lip. “That’s an important question. I didn’t hear from you after you left…”

  Her stomach tightened. I had to leave, to figure things out. Wrestle with demons in the dark. The appeal of her eggs had quickly worn off. “Well, I had a baby.”

  “I’m aware,” Isaac smirked.

  “It’s hard to say. Things haven’t been easy. You could’ve contacted me, if you wanted to.”

  “Well, following the social convention when a woman leaves a man’s house in the middle of the night after they, you know what, it’s normally a sign they want to be left alone...”

  “It is, sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologise, Stripe. I mean, I was puzzled why you left like that but after what I showed you, it was difficult to process. I don’t blame you.”

  “It has. I need to ask you something,”

  “What is it?”

  Stripe reached for something from the work top and laid them on the table. Isaac's eyes froze. “Can you explain these?”

  The fragrance was delectable but the sentiment felt imminently threatening. The gift consisted of two pert red roses, the necks and stems wrapped in shiny black ribbon. “Sofia found them in the garden. Someone planted them here conveniently.”

  “It’s a sweet gesture of nostalgia but I didn't leave those outside. I wouldn't want to bring attention to myself.”

  “Cameron Storms gave me a red rose wrapped in a black ribbon at the prom...”

  “Stripe, it wasn’t me.”

  “Then if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  They stared at each other momentarily; her head growing dizzy. Isaac got up immediately, holding her. Stripe pressed her nose into his chest, smelling his aroma.

  “What’s bothering you?” Isaac whispered, pressing his forehead against hers, adding a loving kiss to her yellow hair. “Talk to me.”

  “I have something to show you,” Stripe said. “Follow me.”

  Isaac look puzzled as she unravelled from his embrace, heaving Sofia out from her high chair. She moved upstairs, feeling his presence behind her. “Don't be scared,” she whispered, taking a key from her pocket.

  She led him to a door. It was based opposite Sofia's room.

  “Why are you showing me a closet?” Isaac asked.

  “Don’t get freaked out, okay?”

  “Um, I’ll decide once you show me.”

  Stripe opened up the door stepping inside. Once the light above blinked on, her secret assignment was unveiled. No backing out now.

  She watched Isaac scour his gaze over the wall. There were pictures and newspapers with red and blue string stretching out from pins. It was like a gigantic cobweb. “What is all of this?” Isaac asked.

  “What do you reckon a journalist does when she has free time?”


  “Editing?”

  “Partially.” Stripe smiled lightly. “I was bored on maternity leave.” Sofia twisted in her arms. “I think I’ve caught something. I can feel it.”

  Isaac reached out towards the board running his fingertips against the pinned-up pictures and newspaper cut outs. “What did you find? What is this?”

  “I think I know where you really came from.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Spring 1979

  Gerald Blair's fingers trembled as he tried to fasten his blazer. He hated formal occasions like this.

  “Oh come on Gerry,” Sheila quipped, she was his colleague and third in command at Kaltheia.

  “I’m not good at posing for pictures,” he replied, flustering at the collar. “They make me uncomfortable. It just doesn't feel natural.”

  “Well, you've got no need to be nervous,” Victoria said, sweeping her red mane over her shoulder.

  Ha. You have no idea. I have plenty, Gerald thought.

  “Vic’s right. You and Peter have done really well. It's a celebration! Perk up!” Paul patted his elbow; it was more of a jovial shove.

  “We’re all in this together,” Sheila uttered, tightening his tie.

  Gerald knew she was right, in a way. He didn’t understand the celebratory atmosphere, there was so much at risk doing the work they were attempting. Yes, they’d been given an opportunity. Peter had managed to push the incentive but if certain information got into the wrong hands, they’d all be out of a job by the end of the day, maybe with a prison sentence to go with it. Gerald wasn’t a splash out sort of person, he was more understated. Not like his boss and colleague. Peter chatted to the photographer, directing him as the rest of the department were getting themselves sorted. His friend caught his sight and scowled.

  “Why aren’t you smiling, Gerry?” Peter asked.

  He tried to smooth on his smile, it made his mouth hurt. “I am smiling. Look. See?”

  Peter's eyebrow rose. “Really?”

  Gerald knew he couldn't keep up the act for long. “There’s so much we're gambling, Pete.” He wiped his forehead, ironically it was sweating. “I don't want to be the burden of bad news but sometimes, this whole thing keeps me up at night.”

  His friend tapped him on the shoulder and moved him into position, so he wasn’t centre on. “You're right, Gerry. Our work is a risk but think about it this way, we’re going to help so many people in the long run. We’ll make our country stronger and more secure. You need to start focusing on the bigger picture.”

  Gerald was trying to but there was something in his gut which wrenched every time. “How did you get the money for this?”

  Peter smirked. “I have my ways, the powers of persuasion at hand. Is there something else going on? You seem upset.”

  Gerald sighed. “I might as well tell you. It's Heather.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “She got thrown out of rehab. Again.”

  “I’m sorry, Gerry.”

  Gerald stared at him with embarrassment. “She got caught smuggling heroin through her clothes, she must have had a friend on the outside helping her. She's ruffled feathers for not paying her debts if you know what I mean. Plus, Candice is leeching me for everything I have with this divorce. I’m running out of steam. I don't know what else I can do for my little girl. She's been sectioned, done prison time, health camp, beauty spas and nothing's worked. My pockets are burned from her habits.”

  “She sounds depressed,” Peter said.

  “I think she is. But she's done therapy and it hasn't made an impact on her. I’m not going to endanger her with any sort of medication, her brain doesn’t need any more drugs. It's all hit and miss as if I’m going round in a hamster wheel. She starts something new - she copes and then it all falls apart.”

  “What made her act this way?”

  “She followed the crowd. A people pleaser. One of her exes got her into the bad habits. I should’ve intervened but I wanted her to live her life.”

  “What about her modelling career?”

  “Please don't get me started, Pete. It's done with.”

  “No acting jobs?”

  “If she can’t get her modelling career off the ground, how is she going to play Ophelia?”

  “I was only asking. Perhaps, Heather could work for us?”

  Gerald laughed. “I don't think Kaltheia is for her. She's not a science brain.”

  “Not in the lab, Gerry.”

  “Then, what? In the offices? She's been an office girl and she couldn't do it.”

  “Not that either.” Peter pinched the top of his nose. “She could support us in the programme.”

  “Right people!” the photographer shouted. “Now, you're all in position. I want you all to face forward, keep your postures up.” He moved behind the camera and squinted into the lens. “When I say action, I want you all to say jiggly breasts and give me a dazzling smile.”

  Some of the people, mainly the lab staff giggled. Gerald did not, his mind was already racing with the proposition. “I don't think it’s a good idea,” he whispered to his friend. “It’s a sweet thought.” It’s not. “But I can’t have Heather involved in our work.”

  “I'm not saying to start right now. Sleep on it. What else is she going to do? As you said, you’ve done all you can. Plus, you don't want a daughter you’re ashamed of now do you?” Peter whispered through his fixed smile.

  How would you know? You don’t have children. Gerald should’ve got annoyed with the remark but the realisation of his family’s disgrace seeped into him. “You're right. I'll-I'll think about it.”

  “That’s my boy!” Peter said.

  “Okay people, now. One, two, three and action!” the photographer shouted.

  Gerald saw the burst of light explode from the camera but he couldn't hear anything. They were meant to be celebrating a successful promotion, but instead he had the overwhelming urge to flee and disappear.

  Gerald knew the meeting wasn't going to be easy. With a risqué career, a drug addicted daughter and a soon-to-be scornful and vengeful ex-wife, he'd regretfully ran out of alternatives. As they used to say, desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Heather’s head was docked, in a bow the entire time they spoke. Her long dark hair dangled over her face; her shoulders were hunched as if she was trying to fade into the brown leather chair she was sitting on. She didn't pay any attention to Peter's office. He had obscure scientific ornaments on show, they constantly drew attention or struck up a conversation. His Rorschach ink plot painting was a favourite topic starter, it resembled a bird or a butterfly opening its wings for flight. Heather kept fumbling with her buttons on her jacket and then she started to itch at her arms. He placed a warm hand on her skin. Please stop, my darling.

  “So Heather, what do you think of the project?” Peter asked.

  Her fingers stopped scratching. Peter’s bold beckoning voice had gotten her to seize.

  “I'm happy to help,” she replied. “It’s kinda...weird though.”

  Peter folded his hands together like he was dealing a pack of cards. Gerald had seen this before when he was in salesman mode. “I completely understand why you feel the way you do, but you're going to be a part of something special, a major change in history. You'll be helping the country and when it is over, you can finally do something for yourself.”

  “It’s a bizarre job,” she whispered. “Kinda scary too.”

  “We'll look after you, Heather. I promise. You're in safe hands. Think of it as starting over. A new beginning.”

  Gerald wanted to cry as he saw the glimmer of her smile, last time he’d seen real joy was when she’d made a perfect standing sand castle when she was ten. “A new beginning...” she whispered. “I like it.”

  Peter slid a wad of paper across the table. “We can get you started as soon as you are ready.”

  Scarlet flushed her pale skin. “What do you think, Dad?”

  I wish you could do
something else. “It’s up to you, sweetheart,” he found himself saying.

  Gerald felt his heart cracking in his chest as she reached forward to sign her inevitable death sentence. There was no thought, or hesitation when she signed on the dotted line. I’ve failed you, Heather. I’m sorry.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Summer 1979

  Laurence Harrison, otherwise known to his friends and family as Laurie, was busy testing samples and rinsing beakers on a late night at Kaltheia. He was one of the few out of his team who actually enjoyed the graveyard shifts. In fact, he loved it. The laboratory wasn't hyperactive, the phones weren’t rattling every five seconds, plus he got full control over the radio. Laurie grinned to himself as he heard Fleetwood Mac’s Albatross play.

  The only thing that sucked about working lates was shifts in the summer period, especially when nature decided to transform the outside into a chaotic monsoon. Working in the lab was the equivalent of being in a sauna.

  Laurie hummed to the song as he worked on the next batch of samples. He injected the blood into the vial carefully. The sight of the red runny liquid didn’t make him nauseous, he hated how characters on TV would faint at the sight of blood.

  It’s what’s keeping you alive, he thought. What substance pumps through your heart? How do you reckon your brain and veins function? People are fucking dumb.

  After he finished the tray, he gathered them together and moved to the gas analyser. He slid them into the slots and pressed the button. He stood watching the little black screen twitch with numbers. In a while, the machine would be spitting out paper from the top with the results.

  Laurie pulled off his gloves and washed his hands as it was time for his break. He placed his white coat on the hook, locking up the lab. He slumped on the couch in the staff room, lighting his cigarette. Ah sweet heavenly nicotine. Tiredness had begun to kick in, pulsing at his temples. He breathed in the sweet smoke, holding it in his mouth before blowing it out through his nose. Normally, this room was a hot spot for chatter and the occasional Chinese whisper. Not tonight. He savoured the serenity; he wasn’t going to abuse the opportunity of professional freedom.