by Dawson, H A
'Who's Jane?' Megan asked.
'Saskia's mother. She hasn't seen her since she left. It must be at least thirty years ago.'
She stepped away. 'Well, it's nothing to do with me.'
She could sense their eyes pressing into her back. Her mind was hazy, her ears alert.
'They have to be related,' one of the women said, 'it proves she wasn't murdered.'
Her body jarred. She spun around. 'Murdered?'
'Oh yes. That's what some people used to say, but there was never any proof.'
'Why would anyone have wanted her dead?'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'Why does anyone kill?'
She turned away, her mouth dry, her pulse racing, and her breath short and fast. Had she had visions of the other woman’s suffering or were their lives to tread a similar path? Driven by a sense of foreboding, she hurried away.
Chapter 3
>Megan placed her shopping bags on the hallway floor, returned her door key to her handbag, and deposited her lightweight purple jacket in the cloakroom under the staircase. Wanting to unload her purchases, she headed to the kitchen.
There were cupboards and drawers along the length incorporating a sink unit, a cooker, and a washing machine, and to her rear was another unit, with a microwave and toaster at one side and a few ceramic jars at the other. She opened the cupboards, one was virtually empty and housed a few cans of vegetables, a second contained glasses and mugs, and a third contained a matching set of porcelain containers each with a different drinks label. In a lower cupboard was a vegetable rack.
Having decided where to place the goods, she unpacked her bags. She had bought the basics - a breakfast cereal, spreads and jams, bread, milk, coffee, sliced meat, and an assortment of vegetables. She would purchase the rest later, and along with a few personal touches, the house would soon feel like home.
She headed into the living area and kicked off her shoes. The carpet was soft beneath her feet and the warmth of the afternoon sunshine caressed her skin. She sat down, her legs at an angle, and pondered the comments made by the two women in the market square. Surely, her appearance was unique.
Uneasy, she headed to the cloakroom under the staircase. On the inside of the door was a small square mirror. She checked her appearance and ran her hand through her strands of butterscotch hair. She had hazel eyes with a tinge of green, a pale, almost white complexion, small tight lips and a straight nose.
If the comments were true, then she felt she must be related to Saskia. There was no other logical alternative. She pressed shut the door, shuffled back to the sofa and wondered if she should search for her birth mother. She had always been adamant that it was unimportant to do such a thing, but now, as she faced inexplicable peculiarities, she was starting to reconsider. Saskia must be her mother, and Megan must have witnessed her murder. But why would she have forgotten about it until now? Would it not have been imprinted on her mind? It may have even gone some way into carving her personality. Needing answers, she reached for her phone.
'Hi Mum,'
'Hello love,' Pamela said, 'everything alright?'
'I've moved to Rodley.'
'Rodley? What's happened?'
'I've left Ben.'
'Why?'
'It wasn't working out, but that's not why I rang. I-'
'I thought you were happy with Ben.'
'Mum, just leave it,' she said, 'I don't want to talk about it. There is something else. I need to know who my birth mother was.'
Pamela hesitated. 'I didn't think you were interested.'
'I'm not, not really. It’s just that I've learned I look like someone who lived here about thirty years ago. Rumour has it that she was murdered.'
'Murdered, why?'
'I don't know.'
'Her surname was Johnson,' Pamela said, 'you already know that. I might be able to find her first name for you. I have it somewhere.'
'Thanks.'
'I'll ring back.'
Megan's excitement mounted as she waited for the call. The knowledge that Saskia was her mother would dismiss her fears and settle her mind, especially if she could prove that she had been killed. She would be able to explain the similarities in their appearances and brush aside moments of déjà vu. She could restart her life, freed of the burden that had so far clouded her path.
She walked to the patio doors and looked into the shared garden. The dappled sunlight created a pattern on the paving and seed heads danced in the breeze. Craning her neck, she looked further along and saw an elderly woman resting on a bench and chatting with a child. The girl was probably her granddaughter.
Verity and Larry sprung into Megan's mind. It made sense to believe that they were her relatives, perhaps an auntie and uncle. Or perhaps Larry was her father. Oh lord, that made sense too. It would explain her instant sense of security and the ease in which the conversation had progressed. She was sure he had felt it too; it was in his eyes.
Her phone rang. Her pulse raced.
'Hi Mum.'
'Your mother’s name was Julie.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes love, I'm sure. Julie Johnson.'
'It doesn't make sense. I was so sure.’
'What did you think it was?'
She chewed her lip. 'It doesn't matter. Could there have been a mistake?'
'It's unlikely.'
'Did she have a middle name?'
'The papers didn't say.'
Silence.
'Megan, why does this murder worry you so much?'
'Do you remember how I used to talk about Rodley? Well, it's so familiar Mum. I must have been here before.'
'And you think Julie was from there.'
'It's the only explanation. She must have been killed.'
'Should I find out how to go about tracing her?'
'No, it's okay.'
'Are you sure? It's no problem.'
'I'm sure.'
Megan was baffled. She was so sure had been right and believed that there could be no other explanation.
A thought struck her. Maybe Julie was known by another name. It seemed a possibility, and the more she thought about it, the more she considered it likely. Proving it, though, might not be so easy.
The following morning, Megan wondered how to prove her connection to Saskia, and concluded that she would have to roam the streets in search of clues. It was likely that someone would make a comment and may provide her with the evidence she needed. If she was lucky, she may even see the two women from the market square, or better still, she may meet Saskia's mother, Jane. Her hopes and expectations rose.
For now, she would enjoy breakfast. She set the table, placing out a cereal bowl and a spoon, a box of cornflakes and a carton of milk, a tub of margarine and a knife, and a mug of coffee. Back in the kitchen, she hovered by the toaster and inhaled the sumptuous aroma. Her stomach was churning for food and her mouth was dry.
She enjoyed making an effort at breakfast time and recalled her explanation to Ben. It showed a willingness to start the day with a positive attitude, and whilst she sensed he had disagreed, preferring to have a quick coffee in front of the television, he had often joined her. She appreciated his gesture, but it was not enough to keep them together, and her anger and disappointment swelled.
The toast popped up. She placed it onto a plate and moved to the table. Ben should have supported her more; he should have listened to what she had to say and he should have been more understanding during their disagreements. With a growing irritation, she stared outside, absorbing the warm glow of the sun.
It was a pleasant view, but it did not ease her torment. With hunched shoulders, she gazed at the edge of the paved area, tracing every smudge and every crack, and appealed with her ponderings to subside. Their relationship was over; there was no turning back. Yet no matter how she tried, she could not eliminate Ben from her mind. She knew she loved him and it was infuriating.
Did he wonder about her? Had he taken her claim regarding her premon
ition seriously? She reached into her handbag, extracted her phone, and looked at the little screen. She had missed four calls from Ben and two text messages, and her satisfaction crept to her lips. She was about to open one when a little voice inside her head screamed an objection. He had hurt her. Why had she forgotten?
Disheartened by her inability to forget her pain, she deleted the messages and placed her phone into her bag. Providing she didn’t relent, he would give up. In fact, she was surprised he had taken her fears seriously at all. He had never believed anything she had said in the past. What had changed?
Apprehensive of what she may discover, Megan reached for her thin jacket and bag and stepped towards the outer door. Once outside, she reached for her key, but it slipped from her hand and landed under the window. Nearby was a concrete ornament, a painted fox. She considered it tacky.
Stepping away from the house and mulling over what she hoped to achieve, she chose to take a circuitous to the town centre rather than heading straight to the market square, and took an immediate left and headed along a residential street, absorbing the tidy dwellings with matching designs.
The wooden doors each had a glass arc, the windows were constructed of PVC double-glazing, and many of the gardens had bedding plants that were laden with a colourful display of flowers. The street was devoid of life, except for a woman placing a bag of rubbish in the dustbin and a suited man striding towards his car with a briefcase. Even the cars appeared to be avoiding the area.
She strolled through an alley, turned right onto another street, and joined the main road leading to the other side of the town centre. Amidst the houses was a church spire. She dodged the traffic, took a left turn and then a right, and arrived at the gates of a small cemetery. Magnetised by the eerie silence, she headed straight to a grave.
A deep sadness rose from within. Megan looked at the inscription. Frank Fox. A father and husband, born 21 May 1935, died 8th February 1979. She clasped her hands across her middle and stared. Emanating from a place close to her heart was a heavy sensation, and for a moment, images of a man cuddling and comforting her formed in her mind. Struggling with her burden, she tightened her arms around her body.
Her initial reaction was that the grave belonged to her father, but given that his death occurred two years before her birth, the idea was ridiculous. She glanced at the surrounding graves. None of them triggered any emotion, so why was this one so special? She needed answers.
Sensing someone watching, she spun around and looked at the exit. No one was there. She craned her neck, trying to see beyond a wall. It was a little too high to be certain, but the street appeared empty of pedestrians.
Willing aside her growing paranoia, she continued towards the town centre. She tried to dismiss the weirdness from all around, and decided, as Verity had suggested, that she was suffering from stress. Her escape from Ben had been intense and traumatic, and although it appeared to have been an impulsive decision - a reaction to an accident - she had endured their difficult relationship for much longer. It would take a while to recover.
She turned a corner. She was on the edge of a pedestrian precinct and a short distance away was a monument of a local hero. Overwhelmed by an inexplicable fear, she stepped backward, her skin cold and quivering and her hand pressing to her middle, rising and falling with her laboured breathing. Sensing danger, she looked down to her palm. Blood dripped from her skin and pooled on the floor. She let out a tremendous cry.
A pain ripped through her. She doubled over, looking at the ground. She heard footsteps, heavy and rhythmical. She raised her head and peered through her hair. A man was heading towards her. His eyes bulged and a knife was tight in his hand and coated in blood, her blood. She tried to scream. No words escaped.
She must have fainted because the next she knew she was on the floor. People crowded around, but one face, in particular, caught her attention and their eyes locked and her heart pounded in her throat. When he glanced down her body, she looked at her middle, searching for blood: her clothes were clean and her skin intact.
'Are you okay?' he asked.
She checked herself again and nodded, her mouth agape. He had black hair with streaks of grey, his skin was coarse, and skin free of stubble. Upon his neck was a birthmark in the shape of a star.
'I hope it wasn't my fault you fainted. You looked at me as though you had seen a ghost.'
'No,' she said, 'I have a habit of fainting . . . low blood pressure.'
He nodded.
He had a quiet manner with a soft caring voice and kindness within his eyes. She wanted to reach to him, hold him, yet at the same time, deep within her was a feeling of terror. Logical in her analysis, Megan told herself that this man could not be responsible for her vision, nor would he be her killer. She rose to her feet.
'Can I buy you a coffee?' he asked. ‘It might help settle you down.’
Whilst suspicious, she was also curious and agreed to his request. Moments later, they were inside the café with coffees and seated at a table near the window. The man introduced himself as Ron.
'You remind me of someone I once knew,' he said, 'a dear friend.'
'Saskia.'
'You knew her?'
She shook her head. ‘Someone told me. I would love to see a picture of her. I can't believe that we look that similar.'
'You do, it's uncanny.'
'Was Saskia her real name?'
He gave a questioning glance.
'I was wondering if she was my mother. It would explain a few things.'
'Like what?'
'I have memories. I think I used to live here.'
'She never had a child,' he said in a certain voice.
'Oh.' She chewed her lip and looked at the street and the shoppers. 'Did any of her family have a child adopted? A sister maybe.'
He shook his head. 'I knew the family well.'
'How so?'
He stared into his coffee, as though drifting to a forgotten time, and then looked up, briefly directing his gaze towards her before his eyes slipped outside through the window. 'It was a much smaller town back then. I lived close by.'
'What was she like?'
'Headstrong, responsible, a bit reckless . . . there is not a lot else I can tell you.'
'Do you think she was murdered?'
'No. She went away. Travelled Europe.'
'I think she was stabbed.'
His expression darkened. 'Why do you say that?'
'Just something I've heard.'
An uncomfortable atmosphere filled the air and an inexplicable sense of unease crept towards her. Her heart started to pound, she clutched her stomach, and she focused on the birthmark on Ron's neck. She wasn’t certain if he’d noticed her looking; regardless, he raised his hand to his neck, disguising the mark.
'I'm sorry to be rude, but I am going to have to make tracks,' he said, 'I am due at the community centre. I help young people sort out their problems.'
'That sounds satisfying.'
'It is, and even though I don't like to boast, I am quite good at it. They open up to me.'
'That's nice.'
'I enjoy the company . . . I live alone.'
He swallowed the rest of his coffee and eased himself away from the chair. 'Nice to meet you, Megan.'
'You too.'
She took her time finishing her drink and pondered their curious meeting. It was a disturbing thought that so many people recognised her, and it was as though she had spent part of her life with amnesia. It was also regrettable that she had missed her opportunity to ask him further questions. His hasty departure had caught her unawares.
Stepping outside, she freed herself of the gentle drone of voices from within the café and looked at the statue. Her panic aroused; her legs quivered, her ankle was sore, and her stomach clenched with pain. She glanced down, but it was all just a memory, a faint hint from the past. Nevertheless, despite telling herself to regain control, she was still unable to walk by the statue and took a divers
ion, travelling along a back street and walked along the main road hoping for another way into the centre.
Something caused her to glance to her rear. A figure rushed into a doorway, hiding from her view and causing her skin to ripple. It could have been her imagination, but she wasn't going to take that chance, and scurried along a side street and quickened her pace. Up ahead was the edge of the shopping precinct. Relieved to be back in company, she entered a clothes shop.
There were summer outfits to her right, shoes to her left, and clothing for men and children at the far end. Everyone had a sense of purpose and paid no attention at all to her sudden appearance. Reassured, she caught her breath and feigned interest in the skimpy tops hanging on a rack close to the door. Yet she was in no mood for shopping, and pondered the bizarre reality of her situation.
There was no doubt in her mind that Saskia’s murder had occurred for a reason, and her instincts told her she carried a secret or had witnessed an atrocity. The intensity of her notion was bewildering. She knew nothing of the woman, yet deep in the pit of her stomach, she sensed she knew too much. Something inside of her was awakening and she was powerless to stop it.
Driven by a yearning to go home, and wanting only to console herself with memories of her son, she followed a woman and child outside the shop and continued past a card shop, a shoe shop and an estate agent. Yet her nervousness remained. Repeatedly, she told herself that everyone was a stranger and that no one cared what she did.
Something inside of her refused to listen.
A man thrust a leaflet into her hand. Striding out, she looked at the detail - an art event at an out of town location - but before she could read all everything, someone crashed into her. She jolted and stepped backward.
'Sorry,' the middle-aged blonde woman said, 'I wasn't watching what I was doing.'
'Do you know where this place is?' she said, presenting the leaflet.
'Yes. Take the road by the station that leads out of town. There is a lane a mile or so on the right. It's along there.'
'Do they have these events regularly?'