“Absolutely. When you go into labour, you need to phone me.”
“I will. My dad thinks I’ve made a big mistake. He doesn't get it. He doesn't get what it's like to have an addiction. I wish he was more understanding, just like you.” She leaned over and laid the side of her head on his hand. “You really know how to take care of me. Thank you, Peter.” She felt his fingers rest on her forehead, caressing slowly. “I hate being a failure to my parents. I'm trying to be a better person.”
“You’re not a failure,” Peter responded. “You’re doing the right thing.”
She thought she saw a photo of a woman with beautiful mahogany skin on his desk. He must have seen her peeking because he snapped the file shut. She didn't think anything of it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Spring 1980
Mary Summers regretted having a night out with the girls. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Her son was at her father’s and her mother was out playing bridge. She called her friends; bottles of strawberry wine were exchanged. Diana Ross and Paul McCartney were played on a loop, then she couldn’t recall the rest of the evening. Now, the aftermath of her decision was kicking in, the groggy head, the aching joints. Hangovers were the worst, especially suffering them at work but she needed a break from her tumultuous home life
Mary remembered how her parents reacted to the news of her divorce. She knew it wasn't the ideal choice they wanted for her but the line of trust had been crossed. Her ex-husband’s attention had dived for the form of a young secretary from his office. She loved to play tennis. She had a perfect hourglass figure with smooth thighs, tight enough to bust an orange. She’d moved into the family home, sleeping in the bed Mary had once shared with Leonard.
It was a rough spike of reality to take and even harder to swallow. However, Mary wasn’t prepared to be second best. She needed to be with someone who loved her properly and not ignore her affections or their parental responsibilities. There was no way she was having that type of hostility and negativity surrounding her son, leaving the relationship was for the best. Even if it meant selling some of her belongings, moving her lifestyle to a small apartment.
She was on the front desk on this particular shift. The waiting area of the Emergency Room was heaving, some patients were having to stand because the chairs had been taken by others. Mary was filing paperwork when she heard it:
“Can you help me?” a voice said.
She looked up from the files. A young dishevelled pregnant woman was staring helplessly at her. The woman seemed exhausted, her skin was clammy and dirty, as if the whole world had been piled on top and it was too much to handle.
Mary rose slowly from her desk. The woman had dark brown hair; her belly bloomed and blood dripped down her leg.
Oh God, miscarriage, she thought.
“Help me,” the woman whispered, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell to the ground.
Mary acted on instinct and called the crash team. She rushed from behind the desk kneeling by her side. She tried her best to keep her conscious, talking to her, pillowing her hands beneath her head, making sure she wasn’t lying on her belly. The woman opened her eyes; they were bright blue like a precious jewel flickering.
“H-Help me,” she whispered again.
“A doctor’s on the way, hunnie,” Mary replied calmly.
The crash team arrived and she told them everything. She hoped and prayed that the woman and her baby would be okay. As they lifted her off the floor and onto the stretcher, the woman reached out touching Mary’s arm. It was the lightest caress; her fingers stroking the edge of her hand. Mary heard the woman whisper something but it was so faint, whatever she’d said was unsalvageable.
Mary watched the team whisk the woman to the surgical ward and she wobbled back to her desk. She considered herself to be a pretty unshockable person. Working in the ER had taught her well enough but this experience left her knocked and she had to gather her thoughts before the next patient arrived.
On her break, she tried to gather more information about the pregnant woman. Why had she arrived at the hospital in a horrendous condition? What had happened to her?
Her heart broke when she heard the news.
“She died while they were doing a caesarean,” one of the nurses said. “It seemed like she just gave up, her body was too exhausted. Her baby’s okay, poor thing. You should see him, he’s gorgeous.”
Mary took a stroll and visited the nursery. It didn’t take very long to find the mystery baby. He was tiny with a crown of dark hair inherited from his mother. Cherie was right, he is a beauty.
Mary whispered a prayer for him and his mother, finishing with the sign of the cross. She was about to head back to her station when she realised she wasn't alone.
A man was staring at the mystery baby. It was everybody’s duty in the hospital to safeguard all patients and her nurse persona took hold. “Can I help you, Sir?”
“I’m looking at my son,” he said briefly, not taking his gaze off the baby.
Is he the father? He’s kinda old. Why the Hell didn’t he take better care of her?
Mary gestured to the nurse on duty who nodded back, giving her the signal that the man wasn’t a threat. She couldn’t do anything.
The man was tall in a pristine black suit. Maybe, he was a businessman or heck, even a doctor. He was handsome, in his own way - with a roman nose, dark gelled blonde hair and green eyes sitting behind a pair of glasses.
“Your son is very beautiful,” Mary said softly.
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “He is. Exactly like his momma.”
I don’t trust you. She couldn't pinpoint her aversion, maybe it was the atmosphere he gave off, but there was something, just something niggling about this man she wasn’t growing accustomed to. His son had lost his mother only an hour or so before and he didn’t seem sad. At all.
Mary had seen plenty of bereaved families when a loved one had passed on. There were normally tears, anxiety tremors, despair filling the room. But not in this man, he kept smiling and grinning with pride.
She could’ve been overthinking it. A bad vibe, pure alarming negativity radiated off him like sunshine, but she couldn’t form her thoughts into viable reasons why she was making judgements about this particular person. It wasn’t the correct method in the healthcare system, she had to treat everyone equally and with respect. Mary had been feeling like it all day, ever since she walked into the nursery on her break.
She stared at the man in the suit standing by the reception desk, he was the source for her inward agony. He was filling out discharge papers, waiting by his feet wrapped up in blankets was her mystery baby. He was tucked up in the carrier, the tuffs of dark hair peeking out from his knitted hat. He was sleeping soundlessly.
Something pulled at Mary’s chest. She wanted to protest, to wipe that sickeningly smug smile off his face as he flirted with her ditzy colleague. He’s not your son. Miranda might think you’re some catch, but I know you’re hiding something.
The man in the suit turned, looking over his shoulder, staring straight at her. Mary’s fists balled up by her side. His mother is lying dead on a morgue slab, the baby’s identical. The pale skin, dark hair and ice blue eyes. There’s nothing of you in him.
He glared at Mary and picked up the mysterious beautiful boy. He knows I don’t trust him. The man walked to the exit; the baby opened his eyes staring at her one last time.
Mary decided to go to the nursery for sentimental reasons. The harmonies of The Flamingos were playing. Probably not the most appropriate but the babies seem to enjoy it. They liked some Aretha Franklin, Billie Holiday and Nina Simone the other day. Mary was cleaning up an empty cot and singing to Pascal, the newest slugger who’d been brought into this world. He was a cutie, staring up at her as he chewed his fingers. Mary’s thoughts shifted as she realised what she was cleaning. The cot had previously belonged to her mystery baby boy. She’d never got to say goodbye and the blanke
t they wrapped him up in had been forgotten about. Mary bundled it to her chest, nobody would care if she didn’t take it to the laundry room. They wouldn’t notice anyway, there were hundreds of other blankets.
Chapter Thirty
Summer 2017
Your fingers splay across the red legs of the strings as you speak. Your gaze is unmoved and strong. I know in this moment why I'm in love with you, why you're my light in this dark horrible world. You explain what you’ve uncovered, and a shiver runs down my spine. I can feel ghosts crowding around the room already.
Our daughter hangs onto you, she reminds me of a baby orangutan clutching onto its mother. Her ice blue eyes, my eyes, waft to you. She is utterly besotted. I can relate to it. With telepathic coincidence, her eyes snap back to me and they harden. I can imagine her voice, whispering to me. She's mine old man, she says. You can’t have her. Back off.
I want to retreat. I find her gaze frightening. I’m trying to make sense of everything; the newspaper cut outs on the walls, the strings lacing out in different pathways. It’s difficult to piece together. I’m trying to understand your collection of secrets.
“My research began with these.” You snatch a picture and a light blue blanket from your desk, handing them to me.
The blanket was small, made for the size of a new born child. The photo is not the one you took from the Kaltheia ruin, back where I showed you what I really was, the one of you and your mother. That’s out on show in the bedroom.
“I think this is where your story started,” you say.
I stare at the photo. A group of people stand. Some are dressed in long white lab jackets and others are in suits. It had been professionally taken as everyone is standing in descending levels. The lab workers consist of the top tiers while the below are in suits, I expect these people are the corporate management team. I can tell. Your father’s face sticks out to me like a saw thumb. He is in the lowest row. The king always sits in the middle. His bright smile makes my blood boil fleetingly. The happiness shining from his face makes me feel sick.
His hand is joined with another man's grasp and I recognise him. Gerald Blair. Then on either side is Sheila, Victoria and Paul. The five monsters who enjoyed torturing me, hurting and maiming a poor defenceless child. They are my ghosts. The victims of the cruel and sadistic Night Scrawler. Something I thought I’d left behind the second my axe came down on your father’s neck.
Chapter Thirty-One
Stripe watched Isaac trying to absorb the stories. He possessed a naturally light complexion, but this time he was paler than usual. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Sofia squirmed in her arms whimpering, she wanted to sleep. Stripe didn’t want to add fuel to the fire but she ignored her instincts and plucked something from the table.
Isaac looked frightened to take them. “What are these?”
“Heather Blair. It was the only picture I could find of her.”
It was a black and white headshot. Her hair hung long and sleek like a sheet. She had a slender porcelain innocent face. Her lips were parted slightly, as if she was about to speak, perhaps she was having a conversation with the photographer. Maybe it was Stripe’s romantic imagination but there was something about the sharpness of her cheekbones and the shape of her mouth, she wondered if Heather possessed a string of Native American heritage. With the lack of colour in the shot, her piercing eyes held the viewer to the spot. Heather was beautiful, intoxicating even, painting herself as an ideal Snow White. Stripe had seen those eyes before; in the face of her daughter and the man standing across from her.
“Who-who is she?” Isaac asked. She’d never seen him so nervous. Not since they first reunited back at his house.
“This is the blanket you were wrapped in when you were born.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Heather Blair. She’s your mother, Isaac.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The hunter stood outside the offices of Titan News. He walked through the lobby, quietly observing and was pleasantly greeted by the receptionist. She was a pretty woman with long beautiful chestnut hair falling to her chest in soft curls. She had kind sparkling brown eyes. If I was normal, I’d ask her out.
“Hi, can I help you, Sir?” she asked.
No, it’s - I’m sorry, what? He’d never been addressed in that way and he made sure to add a smile, he wasn't used to the facial expression. It pinched at his cheeks. “I’m looking for someone who can help me with my story.”
“Have you read or seen anything from our news outlet before?”
“Yes, I have actually. I read two articles which were really intriguing. It was about Charles Libby and Isaac Payne by Stripe McLachlan. An impressive journalist. It would mean the world to me if she could help me with my story.”
The receptionist smiled, tapping her painted fingernails on her keyboard. Her skin shined, as if it was made of plastic or her skin was suffocating in litres of makeup. “Well, Stripe McLachlan is currently on maternity leave. She's not working on any stories at this time.”
I know that. “Oh, okay. I didn't know she was having a baby. Do you know when she will be back at work or if there’s another way I can contact her? Does she have social media? Twitter perhaps?”
“I’m not allowed to disclose personal information. Our journalists don’t have social media accounts. Clients have to apply to us directly. Sorry, Sir.”
“Understandable. Don’t worry.”
“We do have other journalists available who can help you.” She turned to a box on her desk and pulled out a clipboard. “If you fill these forms out, we can make sure your story gets told the right way, the way you want it.”
Her words sound rehearsed. She’s been trained to say this. Like a robot. For a moment, he could sympathise. He’d experienced the life of working for an organisation where he pushed every effort for the boss’s approval. He didn’t have the time to talk to her about it, he needed to get back to his siblings. The hunter leant towards the receptionist. “I only want Stripe McLachlan to tell my story.”
She froze, the sight of it was pitiful, her attractiveness was slipping. “As you know, she’s not set to return yet.”
He watched her. You don't know anything about true fear. “Don't worry. I'll wait till she's back and I'll get in contact. Thank you so much for your help.”
The receptionist seemed powerless as he stalked through the double doors. Things were finally falling into place the way they were meant to. The hunter headed back to his truck eyeing the figure in the passenger seat. The people ambling past couldn’t see her.
“Stop staring at me,” he said as he slotted into the driver’s side.
“He's hurt,” she whispered, her voice was soft and tender.
The hunter sighed heavily and yanked on the mask from the drop-down drawer.
“Why do you have to wear that thing?” the ghost asked. “It’s frightening.”
You don't know my history. He ignored her, turning to the muffled sounds behind him. The body in the back of the truck was moving, writhing and worming from the restraints. He wasn't sure whether he was a boy or a man. Regardless of his age, he suited the essentials. Tall, dark hair, blue gaze. Just like him. This will send a message.
The body squirmed and screamed, there was blood dripping from his head. His mouth was spluttering from the gag he'd lashed around his mouth. The tears were dripping from his eyes, pleading with him. It was making the hunter angry, he had to stay on task and this was delaying everything. He bashed his gloved knuckles against his temple and the body flopped immediately limp.
“Why did you have to hurt him?” The ghost shrieked. “He wants to be free!”
“He hurt me too!”
“He was defending himself.”
“Anna, you need to be quiet. I need him for my plan. Just like I needed you.” The hunter got up to his feet, taking off his mask, he could breathe again. “I don't want to hurt you, but you need to give me some space. Please.”
<
br /> “Hurt me?” She laughed. “You killed me.”
Stripe waited until the room was quiet. She watched Sofia’s little chest rise and fall and her tiny fingers clenched into her dark hair as she slept. Stripe made sure the baby monitor was working and she walked back to her room.
“Sofia’s asleep,” she said. “Isaac, for the love of God, say something. I’m not used to you being so quiet.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, his pale fingers clenching into his hair when he looked up. “What am I supposed to say? I've just found out my birth mother was a crack whore who gave me up to some fucked up scheme which set out to exploit, abuse and hurt me. What type of person would willingly hand their own flesh and blood over to monsters? What type of grandparent would go along with it?”
“I don’t know. She might’ve been fed the wrong information.” Just like how he lied to me, and to mom.
“This is ridiculous. All of it.”
She’d memorised the tape Isaac had shown her. Every single shudder, every time the tape crackled, the way her father hit Isaac without a flinch of concern. I still can't believe my father was partly responsible for all of this. Stripe sat next to Isaac on the edge of the bed. “I’ve tried to find out more about your father, but there's been very little source. I had to scrape at the seams to discover Heather Blair.”
“I don’t want to know who my father is. I have a father already.”
Stripe frowned. “But you need answers.”
Isaac stood up in a jolt, his eyes wide in insult. “No, you want answers! You want to see where and how far this rabbit hole goes, but I don't. I want to forget about this and move on. I have a successful business, a beautiful home. Grace and Ted Payne, a real mother and father who love me and colleagues who respect me. This whole thing, what I am, Kaltheia is my business and not yours!”
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