Witch

by Tim ORourke

Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "I could ask you the same question," I said, staring at Vincent.

  "I've been searching for you," he said, dismounting from an old-looking push bike.

  "No patrol car?" I asked with a half-smile.

  "They are a bit short of them back at the station," he said. "The one you were driving is still out of action and another has also gone in for some repairs. "

  Vincent pulled the collar of his police coat up about his throat and shivered. "I'm frozen," he groaned.

  "Quit complaining," I said. For the first time in Vincent's presence, I wasn't sure how to act. I hadn't seen him since last night, when he had kissed me, then held me all night in his arms. Did he feel awkward, too? I wondered.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, filled only by the howl of the wind as its cut across the open fields and circled us. "Did you sleep okay?" Vincent finally asked.

  "Great, thanks to you," I said, looking at him.

  "It was nothing. . . "

  "Thanks," I said.

  "No. . . I didn't mean it meant nothing," he started to flounder to find the right words again. "It was nice. . . it was more than nice. . . it was wonderful. . . "

  He did look kinda cute as he shifted from foot to foot in front of me, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

  "I'm just teasing," I said, taking one of his hands in mine. "You are cold," I added. His fingers felt like brittle sticks of ice.

  "Maybe you could warm me up later," he said, then quickly added, "Want I meant to say was, perhaps you could buy me a cup of tea. . . "

  "When are you gonna quit with this act?" I asked. "You and I both know exactly what you meant. Why don't you just say what you mean?"

  "Didn't I do that last night?" he said, staring back at me, the collar of his police coat flapping against the wind.

  "Yes, you did," I smiled. "And was it so bad?"

  "I guess not," he said.

  "You're not like any guy I've met before," I said, trying to figure him out.

  "Is that a good thing?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on mine as if reading my thoughts.

  "I'll let you know," I smiled.

  "How?"

  "If I let you hold me in your arms again tonight, that's how you'll know," I said softly, dragging away my hair which the wind had blown across my face.

  "Did it work?" he asked.

  "Stop the nightmares, you mean?"

  "Yes," he nodded.

  "You kept them away," I told him, squeezing his hand in mine. "Thank you. "

  There was another short silence, which Vincent filled by saying, "So what are you doing all the way out here?"

  "My head felt clear this morning," I started to explain. I told Vincent how I was beginning to remember what really had taken place during the accident. "I don't think it was me who drove the Smiths off the road and killed them. "

  "What do you mean?" he frowned.

  "Take a look at these," I said, kneeling down in the road and pointing out the tyre tracks.

  "What about them?" he said, propping his push bike against the wall and leaning over me.

  "These were caused by someone braking hard, right?" I said, staring up at him.

  "Right," he nodded thoughtfully.

  "I never applied the brake of my patrol car. I wasn't even watching the road, I was searching through the glove compartment," I confessed to him. "I didn't even see the horse and cart and Jon. . . "

  "So what you're saying is that you collided with an accident which had already taken place," Vincent breathed, straightening up.

  "You've got it!" I said, jumping to my feet. "There was another car out on this road that day. It was that car which collided with the. . . "

  "But those tyre marks could have been made at any time. . . " Vincent put in.

  "They're still fresh," I came back at him. "And what are the odds of someone braking hard exactly in the same place where four people lost their lives?"

  "Perhaps whoever left those tyre marks broke hard because of a cow in the road or something," Vincent tried to reason with me.

  "A cow!" I cried in disbelief. "What cow? There are no cows around here. Take a look. There are no cows in any of the nearby fields. "

  "Some other kind of animal, then?" Vincent suggested.

  "There wasn't an animal out on this road," I said, staring at him. "It was a horse and it was pulling a cart which was carrying Jonathan Smith and his family. And it wasn't me who hit them!"

  "Who then?" Vincent asked.

  Turning in the road, I looked back in the direction of the farmhouse. "Farmer Grayson hit them, not me," I breathed.

  "That reminds me," Vincent suddenly said.

  I looked back at him. He was pulling something out of his coat pocket.

  "What's that?" I asked, eyeing the folded sheet of paper he was now holding.

  "You asked me to do some digging on Michael Grayson," Vincent said, unfolding the piece of paper. Handing it to me, Vincent added, "That's a copy of Michael Grayson's criminal record. "

  "Criminal record?" I whispered, staring down at the sheet of paper. It fluttered in the wind and I gripped it in my hands.

  "Michael Grayson has recently been released from prison, where he served ten years of a fifteen-year sentence for Grievous Bodily Harm," Vincent explained.

  "GBH?" I breathed, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. "He couldn't have been in prison. There must be some kind of mistake. Michael has been away in the Army for the last ten years. "

  "Not according to that," Vincent said, pointing at the sheet of paper I held in my now trembling hands. "He got convicted of throwing a guy down a flight of stairs in a night club. Really nasty incident, apparently. The guy broke his back. Lucky to still be alive. That's why Michael got such a lengthy sentence. "

  "It doesn't make sense," I whispered, shaking my head. In my heart I knew it made perfect sense. Michael had lied to me.

  "Michael Grayson was originally charged with attempted murder, the attack was that bad," Vincent continued to explain. "But he eventually cut a deal with the CPS and he pled guilty to the lesser charge of GBH. "

  "But he told me he'd been in the Army," I said, looking up from the sheet of paper and at Vincent.

  "You know him well then?" Vincent asked.

  "No, not really," I said, pushing away images of Michael and me having sex. I suddenly felt sick in the pit of my stomach. How had I been so fucking stupid? How had I been so desperate? I felt cold all over at the thought that I'd been deceived by him. I'd had sex with a man who had been capable of nearly killing someone. I was meant to be a police officer, for Christ's sake. I thought of my father, and my heart ached because I knew everything he had ever said about me was true. I was reckless and stupid. I was a screw-up, and not only had I let him down again, I'd let myself down like never before. Why had I always been so willing to give myself away? But I knew it had always been love I'd been looking for. The love I had never truly felt from my father nor my mother. He had always been so wrapped up in his career and my mother lost to her secret affairs. Where had I ever fit in to any of that? But I'd always had a choice. I could hate my parents for the mistakes they had made - but not for mine. I had to take responsibility for those.

  Shoving the sheet of paper back into Vincent's hands, I turned and headed back down the road toward the farmhouse.

  "Hey, Sydney!" Vincent called after me. "Where are you going?"

  "I'll see you later," I shouted over my shoulder at him. "I've got to go and put right a mistake that I've made. "