by Dawson, H A
Then the images faded.
Her pulse throbbed and her head felt light. Needing air, she pressed her hand to her throat urging her queasiness to subside and rested her head on the back of the seat for stability. Her body was rigid and her eyes hazy as perspiration dripped from her red-hot skin.
Larry enquired after her.
'Someone kills me . . . I saw a knife . . . blood . . . my stomach.'
Having mumbled an inaudible comment, he strode towards the carriage door, ready to exit the stationary train. When she didn’t move, he reached for her suitcase and bag, placed it near the exit, and grabbed her hand. Urging herself forward on wobbly legs, she followed his lead and exited the train.
‘Will you be all right now?’ Larry asked.
His question faded into insignificance. Had she just seen her destiny? Was she going to be murdered? Nauseous and light-headed, and experiencing an intense sense of foreboding, she held him in her gaze.
He must have realised her troubled mindset, as moments later, she was inside a cab and waiting for her bags to be loaded into the back.
'Where to?' the driver asked.
Silence.
'Megan,' Larry said, looking through the open window, 'where are you going?'
'21 Rochester Street.'
The car pulled away. With her hand on the window and her stomach churning with dread, she watched his figure fading into the distance.
Chapter 2
Trembling, Megan tottered into the living area, leaving her bags near the outer door in the hallway, and dropped onto the plain blue sofa. She grabbed a cushion, pressed it to her abdomen, and stared with misted eyes at her surroundings.
The room was bright and airy, with comfortable seating at one side and a small oval dining table and chairs at the other. The window at the front of the house had partial net curtains, providing privacy from the street, whereas the patio doors at the rear were free of adornments, and from what she could see led to a shared garden with a lawn, a paved area, and flower borders.
It would suffice, but it wasn't home.
Outside, a car screeched to a halt. Megan jolted and looked at the window. Sprinting into her mind were visions of her death, and with her ears trained on the slightest of sounds, her eyes leapt to the door. Holding her breath, she pressed harder onto the cushion, urging her inner turmoil to subside and yearning for the comfort of her previous house where she knew every creak and groan of the building, the level of sound from passing traffic, and the noisy habits of her neighbours. Here, her ignorance was intimidating and her senses worked tirelessly to still her anxieties.
Unable to evacuate the image of dripping blood from her mind, she thought of Ben. Drawn to their intimate moments of laughter and companionship, she dialed his number.
'Megan. Where are you? I've been worried.'
His deep tones comforted, yet her mouth dried and her voice refused to function. She cradled the phone in her hand, holding onto his every word.
'What's going on?' he asked.
'Someone's going to kill me.'
'What?'
'I saw it at the station. Someone plunges a knife into my stomach.'
'Where are you?'
'Rodley.'
'Where are you staying?'
Hesitating, she thought of the fall and her bruised leg. 'I'm renting a house.'
'Where?'
Her regret mounted, she could not respond.
'Don't go anywhere. I'm coming for you.'
'No!'
'Megan. You're upset. You need me.'
'I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I shouldn't have called. Stay away!'
She ended the call, put the ringtone on silent, and flung the phone onto the sofa. Lord! She was so stupid. Why had she called Ben, of all people? He was the last person she could trust, after everything that had happened.
Exasperated, she ran her hands through her hair and listened to the silence. Beyond the sound of her breath, the noises were faint, but she could just about detect people chattering, footsteps, and a closing door. It was coming from next door, and while she was grateful it wasn't an intruder, it provided her with little comfort. Craving a distraction from her swirling thoughts, she switched on the television and lugged her bags up the stairs.
There were two bedrooms, both furnished, and there was a small bathroom with a shower cubicle, a toilet, and a basin. The first bedroom was decorated cream with a purple border and had a single bed, a wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. The second was larger, with a more extensive wardrobe system, a double bed, and a dressing table. She opted for the second room and dragged her bags inside.
Weighed down by her anxieties, Megan was unable to relish the moment. She had imagined her joy as she made the house into her home; instead, she felt out of place, as though a foreigner in a strange land and craved familiarity. Drawn to the suitcase, she crouched to the floor, her fingers brushing the lush peach coloured carpet, and searched for her photographs.
She laid her clothes on the bed, bathroom accessories on the dressing table, and shoes and sandals in the wardrobe. Then, a glossy image set in an aluminium frame glinted in the artificial light. Clutching it, she stared at the photograph and her eyes welled with tears. It was her son, Joshua, on his third birthday, four months, one week, and two days before his tragic death.
Born into a failing relationship, Joshua had been a breath of fresh air, and her relationship with Andrew improved. However, as fatigue set in and the joys of parenthood became less clear, the drink became a necessary distraction for them both. When facing criticism from her mother, she insisted that the little boy never suffered; he wasn’t neglected and was clean and well fed, and slept soundly. He had been a happy child.
Megan traced the image of his rounded face and blond wisps of hair with her finger, and then shut her eyes. Her stomach tightened as her imaginings flowed. Joshua was against her, his warm, soft body caressing her soul, his hand gripping her finger, and his eyes twinkling in the light. A solitary tear slid down her face. He would have been twelve years old now, closing in on adulthood. He should never have died.
Recounting the moment of his death was a bad habit, and its cycle never-ending. It was a story she had told countless times; at the same time, it was not something she wanted to remember.
She had been out shopping and left Joshua with Andrew. It was a misjudgement, and something that would haunt her forever. She hadn’t realised how severe Andrew’s drunken state had been as beer almost constantly coated his breath. Had she been more astute, she would have prevented the accident. It was a crushing reality.
With images of the empty aspirin bottle lingering in her thoughts, she placed the photograph on a unit by the side of her bed and yearned for a reunion. She even considered her premonition and decided her death would be a blessing and a chance for them to be together once more. However, almost instantly, she succumbed to a primordial instinct, a will to survive, and it horrified her.
The instinct of motherhood should be greater. There had been a time when she could have taken her life, but nine years had passed and she had started to enjoy life again. Did that make her a bad person? She surmised that if she had a choice to be with her son or continue a lonely existence, she knew which option she would take. It was a no-brainer. However, she reasoned that there was no after-world, whether it was Heaven and Hell or something else, and that there were no guarantees she would ever meet her son again.
Exhausted from the perpetual distress, she slumped onto the bed, her head resting on the pillow. Like it or not, this was now her home. She may not have any friends close by, and she may not have Ben or Joshua in her life, but she was in a better position than yesterday. Her escape had been a sensible move.
Nonetheless, her motivating thoughts lacked strength and a vision of her death flashed into her mind. Determined to stay strong, she told herself it had occurred because of an over-active imagination. For the sake of her sanity, her future, she must eradicate her fears,
and she must not contact Ben again.
The following day, with no food in the house except for a few basic essentials left in the fridge, Megan's first task was to go shopping. Her house was conveniently located on the edge of the town centre, in the middle of a small row, so it would be little effort to acquire goods. She grabbed her handbag, locked the door, and strode away from the house, her flat shoes leaving no sound of her journey.
The intensity of the sun bleached the ground and infiltrated her skin, and a light wind cooled. Leaves shimmered on their branches, sodden by a heavy overnight rainfall, and the paving stones, two-tone in colour, dried in the warmth. Revitalised after a good night of sleep, and having willed aside her loneliness and worries, she strode towards the hollering stallholders in the market square, feeling relaxed and comfortable with her surroundings. Holding onto a deep sense of solace, she scanned the meandering folks. This was her home; this was where she belonged. She smiled at the prospects.
Drifting along, passing through the market square and along the main street, she had no destination in mind, and wandered aimlessly, her first desire being to explore. However, it was as though she had planned her journey, as she took a direct route, passing alongside streets and through a narrow alleyway, before arriving at a small, enclosed recreation area hidden behind the houses and shops. Somehow, she knew it was there, a jewel amongst the humdrum of city life, and it was chilling.
Questioning why she seemed to know the town intimately, she concluded that she must have visited as a child. Perhaps her birth mother, and not the woman she knew as her mother, had lived there, although there had never been an indication of such. Yet, it made sense and explained her intense desire to live there.
She stood and gazed at a flower border. Pinks, yellows, and blues mingled, drifting in swathes. The petals extended outwards in the sunlight, and the leaves were robust with bold colours. It was a pretty sight, a work of art.
'It is quite beautiful, isn't it?'
She jerked. Behind her was a woman of about fifty years old with shoulder length hair and with a face so recognizable that it caused her skin to tingle and her heart to beat ever faster.
'I'm Verity.'
'Megan.'
Their eyes locked.
'Are you new to the area?' she asked.
Her mouth was agape and she felt unable to speak, only managing a weak nod. She sensed she was depicting an image of a gormless fool, yet for some reason, it did not seem to matter.
'It's a pretty town. I've lived here all my life. You have good taste.'
She scanned their surroundings, noting the trees and shrubs, the playing area and the benches. Even the traffic noise was less, making it difficult to believe that they were in the centre of a busy town.
'I'm surprised that this place is not better used,' Megan said.
'There are times when it is. Kids spend more time indoors these days, not like we did in our day. There's a pretty pond over there. Have you seen it?'
She said she hadn't and followed her companion to its location; yet, she knew where to go and could almost describe it in her mind. She could visualise herself as a girl paddling in the water and reaching down to look in her fishing net. There were other children close by, a girl and two or three boys, and the boys were fighting.
Bewildered by the emerging and nonsensical memories, she averted her gaze.
Moments later, they turned a corner, passing around a hedge, and saw a moorhen scooting across the glistening water, searching for cover. The pond was small but beautiful, and there were reeds near the edge and lilies on the surface.
'I spent most of my summers here with my brothers and sisters,' Verity said. 'I didn't live too far away, just a few blocks in that direction.' She pointed. 'My sister and I used to come to catch frogs. Instead, we spent most of our time breaking up our brothers’ fights.'
Her colour drained. Surely, it was a coincidence.
Apprehensive, she followed in Verity's trail, striding around the perimeter of the pond and headed to a clearing, to picnic benches and a community notice board. As they chatted, a comforting familiarity replaced her unease. It was so strong that it seemed extraordinary, and it caused her a moment of tension. Not wanting to accept it as anything detrimental, she told herself that Verity was a friendly woman and that their blossoming relationship was another good omen.
'About thirty or so years ago, this area was quite an eyesore,' Verity said. 'The pond was full of rubbish and any flowers that blossomed soon disappeared. It wasn't a safe place to be - a few people were attacked.'
'That doesn't surprise me, it is hidden from view.'
'Eventually, the community took control of it. They have a rota to watch out for troublemakers. I must confess, when I was in my teens, I was one of the ruffians.'
'I've done my fair share of bad things too,' Megan said, 'I was into graffiti. I turned my interest around and started drawing on paper.'
She passed a blank stare.
'I was a bit of a wild child,' she continued, 'I was adopted when I was six years old having been in foster care for a while. It took ages for my new parents to calm me down. I used to play truant from school and I would bully other kids. I've grown up a bit since then.'
'I've done lots of stuff far worse than graffiti. I think many of us did as kids. I was from a big family, not that that is an excuse, but we were quite poor so stealing became commonplace.' She peered at Megan. 'Never big things, just sweets, bread, fruit . . . things like that.'
A vision sprung into her mind. She saw herself reach for a bar of chocolate in a shop and place it into her pocket before dashing away. The details were crisp and clear and seemed real. However, when she thought about it some more, she realised that she had never stolen and so it could not have been a memory.
'Have you met your birth family?' Verity asked.
'No. I've had no desire to. I know most people would be curious, but it just doesn't interest me. I may share the same genes as my real parents, but I can't see that there would be any other connection.'
Verity was silent.
'Having said that, this town has sparked my curiosity. I’ve never been to Rodley before, but so much of what I have seen is familiar. It has made me wonder if I spent my first few years here.'
'Maybe you should find out.'
She hesitated. 'Maybe.'
'What brought you here?'
'You know, it's strange. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been drawn to the place, and I have no idea why. I was told I used to talk about it all the time, even described certain things.'
'Like what?'
'I can't remember the details. Mum said I would talk about a house and people.'
'People?'
'Don't ask me to clarify, I can't. I must have made it up.'
They drifted towards a picnic table and paused alongside. 'When I arrived in town, I had a premonition,' she said cautiously. 'I thought I saw my death.'
'What exactly did you see?'
She pressed her arms to her middle and took a deep breath, steadying her voice. 'A knife went into my stomach. I saw blood, lots of it.'
There was silence and a sense of awkwardness. She looked at her companion, craving sympathy or an intelligent comment, but the woman was quiet and stared into the distance, not even acknowledging she had heard. Rotating her ring, she waited for her to speak.
Verity stared at Megan’s hands then lifted her gaze. When their eyes locked, she appeared to be about to speak. She did not.
'It was probably nothing . . .’ Megan continued, ‘an overactive imagination or stress. I keep telling myself the future hasn't yet happened.'
She nodded uneasily. ‘You’re probably right.’
'Having said that, I might do a bit of investigating to see if I can find out what caused it. It was very intense, very real.'
'I'd be interested to know what you discover.'
'Stop by my place some time, I live near the market. 21 Rochester Street.'
She nodded. 'I'll do that, but I must go. Work calls.'
They exchanged details and parted company. Striding away, Megan pondered the pleasant conversation that they had just shared, and feelings of an emerging and strong friendship enveloped her. Grateful for the friendship, she looked back along the street to Verity walking with confidence with a short gait, despite her long legs, and with her bag swinging at her side. Content, Megan strode to the market square and mingled with the peaceful crowds.
The market stalls sold a variety of produce, from household items to food. She stopped and perused the groceries. The prices were competitive and the quality was exceptional, the cabbages were crisp, the broccolis with tight heads, and the apples were firm and unblemished. She made her selection and wandered to the next stall.
Someone was shouting. She stopped and turned around, and looked at a man calling to someone a short distance away. She dismissed the incident and was just about to return her attention to her own tasks when two women caught her attention.
They were in their seventies, and stood and stared at her while making the occasional comment and pointing fingers. Uneasy, she looked over her shoulder. There was no one of significance at her rear. Irritated, she glared at the women. One had jet-black curly hair and was heavy-set, and the other had grey-blonde hair and was slender.
The heavier woman strode towards her. 'Are you Saskia's daughter?'
Her heart pounded. 'Who?'
She glimpsed at her companion. 'Just someone we knew . . . you look just like her.'
'Oh?'
'It's the hair,' she said.
'And the face,' her companion added, then turned to face her friend. 'She has the same angular jaw bone and chin as well.'
'And the same body shape.'
'Do you mind?' she said. 'I am standing here!'
The heavy-set woman turned to face her, her expression deadpan. 'I could have sworn you were related. Are you sure you don't know her?'
'I've never heard of anyone with that name.'
She turned back to her companion. 'Jane will have a heart attack if she sees her.'