Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  'Megan!' a voice called.

  She jolted and looked up, her pulse reverberating in her throat. 'Larry. It's so good to see you. What are you doing here?'

  He closed the vehicle door, set the alarm, and walked towards her. 'I just thought I'd come and see you. How are you getting on?'

  She turned, looked back at Imogen and waved. Imogen was on the telephone, her expression grave. Apprehensively, she waved back.

  'It is so good to see a friendly face,' she said.

  She reached into her bag for the door key, and with trembling hands managed to make contact with the lock. Once inside, she breathed a massive sigh of relief.

  Chapter 8

  Her expression alternated between a smile and a grimace as she considered throwing herself at Larry, grateful for his perfect timing. Since he seemed bemused by her obvious appreciation of his visit, she held back, fearful of looking weak or desperate, and leaned into the worktop and listened to his gentle chatter.

  Focusing was difficult. Her sore wrists and ankles were painful reminders of what had just happened and her body quaked. She had been lucky that Luke and Imogen had arrived when they had; there was no means of knowing what would have happened otherwise.

  Would she have been left there indefinitely? Would she have been bundled off somewhere? Would she have been abused and raped?

  Fighting the horrid imagery, her breathing quickened and she felt nauseous and weak. Even Larry’s soft, caring tones could not draw her, and her voice froze.

  'You don't look good. Is something wrong?' he asked.

  She took a breath, forcing forward her strength, and focused upon his caring demeanour. 'No, I'm fine. Carry on.'

  'I'd finished anyway.'

  They progressed into the living area. She noticed his eyes wander around the room; he looked at the television and the sofa and chairs, he scanned the mantelpiece, he gazed at the dining area and peered through the patio doors. There were few personal touches, except for a photograph of Joshua, one of a few scattered around the house. There were no paintings, no ornaments, and no books or magazines. It gave little away about her personality, or perhaps it said at lot.

  'This little boy is gorgeous,' he said. 'Who is he?'

  She swallowed a lump in her throat and her eyes misted. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She shook her head in dismay.

  'Oh, I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?'

  'No, not really.'

  The silence was awkward. He perched himself on an armchair and looked at her with sympathy. She lowered her head and wrapped her arms around her middle, squashing her hands into her armpits. A vision of her beautiful young son appeared before her. He had grown with her, and was blond, tall, slender and handsome; he protected her and cared for her; he was her rock.

  'I was a mess back then,' she said. 'Andrew, Joshua's father, was an alcoholic. I had no idea how bad he was, or what he had become. I wasn't much better. I was irresponsible. I should never have left Joshua with him.'

  'What happened?'

  She gulped and took a few moments to gather strength. 'Aspirin overdose. He was a bright little boy, destined for good things. He loved counting and was good at it too. I think he would have done something with numbers one day - maybe been an accountant or mathematician. I think about him every day – the things he missed, his school days, and his little friends. My life would have been so different with him around. I was such an idiot.'

  'You shouldn't blame yourself. These things happen.'

  'I was his mother. There's no one else to blame.'

  'If you want to blame someone, blame Andrew. It sounds to me he played a part in what happened.'

  'I never realised that he was in no state to look after a little boy. He's banged up now, where he deserves to be.'

  'Because of Joshua?'

  'No. He got into drugs. I don't have a lot of sympathy for him. He could have dealt with things differently, but instead he wallowed. I, at least, tried to learn from what had happened.'

  'From what you have said, you seem to have come through the other side as a better person, if I may say so.'

  She hesitated. 'I’m stronger for it, but I would give all that back to have my boy in my arms again.'

  'Of course you would. I have had my fair share of problems too.'

  'Oh?'

  He looked towards her, mentally reaching out. 'My wife couldn't accept I wanted to go out with the lads on a weekend and gave me grief. One night I went out in a stinking mood and got myself into an argument with a woman in a bar. I swung at her. God! I felt so bad afterwards. I had never hit a woman in my life, and I haven't since. I tried to make it up to her by . . .' He paused, passing her a sad look and struggling to continue.

  Under no circumstances could she approve of a man using brute force towards a woman, yet due to his visible regret, her appreciation of his situation emerged. Everyone made mistakes; it was an unfortunate human trait.

  'What happened?' she asked.

  'I followed her home, pleading with her to forgive me, but it just seemed to make matters worse. So I sent her a bunch of flowers. Then she accused me of stalking her.'

  'That sounds a bit harsh.'

  'I couldn't see her point of view at the time, but I can now. I hope I have mellowed a bit over the last twenty or so years.'

  'I think you must have. You don't seem that type at all.'

  'I admit, at times,' he said, 'I used to a hot-headed, but I still knew the boundaries. When you’re with a group of men, these things can happen. You give as good as you get. I'm not like that now . . . but I'm not a wilting flower either.'

  'I wouldn't like you if you were.'

  He smiled and looked away.

  She did like him, despite what he had done. He had an air of excitement about him. Perhaps he was a thrill-seeker and liked the adrenaline rush, and it reminded her of her youth when she would hang around on the streets with her friends and look for trouble. Their favourite prank was to ring a doorbell and cause the dogs to charge to the window and bark. It seemed childish now, although it was funny at the time, especially as the owner often screamed at them as they ran off down the street. She recited the story.

  He smiled. 'When I was a lad I used to get stink bombs from joke shops and put them through letterboxes.'

  She pulled a face. 'I don't want to get on the wrong side of you.'

  'I'm harmless . . . a big cuddly teddy bear.'

  'With the teeth and claws to match, I should imagine.'

  He gave her a wry smile.

  She looked at him, slumped in the armchair with his arms resting on the sides and depicting an air of confidence. They seemed to have a connection and understood each other without either of them making rash judgements. It was a comforting sensation and one that she would cherish. He was honest, friendly, and had acceptable imperfections, but he was not Ben.

  Would he be worrying about her strange phone call earlier? She had ended the conversation rather abruptly. Concerned, she reached for her phone and looked at the small screen: she had missed several calls.

  'Have you been to the art gallery yet?' Larry asked.

  Her fear deepened. She should have been at an art event right now. She stood up, reached for the empty mugs and the packet of biscuits, and withdrew from the room, her breathing taut and her pulse quickening. 'No, not yet.'

  He appeared in the doorway. 'Have I said something wrong?'

  'Did you know a woman called Saskia Fox? She used to live in Rodley years ago.'

  He turned and walked back to the living area. 'Why do you ask?'

  His voice had a nervous edge, causing her to feel as though she had said something off limits. She followed him into the room. He was standing by the patio doors, gazing outside.

  'I know that I look like her,' she said.

  He turned and smiled. 'You do. You're just as pretty.'

  'Did you know her to talk to?'

  'Not really.'

  'I think my birth moth
er was from around here and knew Saskia. It would explain why I can remember certain things.'

  'Like what?'

  'I knew her father was called Frank and I've just been to a house.' Her mouth was dry. She forced herself away from the horrors of the attack, drawing on the hidden strength of her son. She had coped with his death. This was nothing in comparison. ‘I think it had belonged to Saskia's grandmother. I felt as though I'd been there before.'

  'How did you find it?'

  Her knuckle was in her mouth, forcing still her anxieties. She looked at him. Her voice wouldn't start.

  He was waiting, expressionless. 'Is it local?'

  She nodded. 'Saskia used herbs to poison people. I saw them at the house . . . kind of.'

  'Really?'

  She nodded. 'I'm certain someone killed her. Those images I felt at the station related to her. I must have seen it happen.'

  'At least it's not a premonition. What are you going to do?'

  She folded her arms and shook her head. She was going to tell him that she didn’t know; instead, she told him she was trying to forget all about her.

  'Wise. You shouldn't get involved.'

  Her phone sounded. She glanced at the screen. 'Just a minute, I have to take this.' She accepted the call. 'Hi Ben.'

  His voice was gruff. 'I've been going nuts with worry. Why can't you pick up?'

  'I've been busy.'

  'God! I've been pacing the room. Couldn't you ring straight back?'

  'I'm sorry.'

  He puffed out. 'Are you okay?'

  'Yes. Look, I can't talk now. Can we do this later?'

  'No! I've been trying to get hold of you for days. I'm coming down . . . staying with you for a while. I've made arrangements to work from down there.'

  'That's not a good idea.'

  His irritation was clear. 'I'm no use to you at the end of a phone. I can't cope with getting your calls and then not being able to do anything to help. We can find out about Saskia together, and then when it's over I'll go . . . if that is what you want.'

  'Promise?'

  'That's what I said!'

  'So just friends.'

  'Just friends.'

  She hesitated. Maybe it would give them an opportunity to sort through things without the distraction of his son. 'Okay. When will you be down?'

  'First thing tomorrow.'

  'See you then.'

  'Bye.'

  When she hung up, Larry was staring disapprovingly.

  'I thought you were making a fresh start,' he said.

  'We're friends, that's all.'

  He stood up. His face had flushed, his eyes were dark and piercing, and lines crossed his brow. 'You said it was over . . . you were terrified of him on the train.'

  'No . . . I wasn't.'

  'You weren't happy.'

  She followed him out of the room. 'Anyway, what has it got to do with you?'

  He huffed. 'He's not good for you. You can do better.'

  'You don't even know Ben. You're in no position to judge him.'

  He stomped to the door. 'The pain in your face was enough to tell me of his type. You'll stay clear of him if you know what's good for you. I don't want to see you hurt.'

  'You hardly know me.'

  He opened the door and a gust of air rushed towards them. She folded her arms and watched him step outside, bewildered by his unsubstantiated anger.

  'Send him back home Megan.' His voice was assertive and coarse. 'I'm not sure I can be friends with you otherwise.'

  Baffled, she closed the door. The audacity of the man! How dare he dictate who she could and could not have as friends?

  Chapter 9

  The night seemed as though it would never end. Megan turned onto her left side, hoping that this time she would find a comfortable position, but instantly her arm and shoulder muscles screamed out, tight and trapped. She turned over, thrashing wildly. The sheet had knotted, around her legs, and the duvet was slipping to the floor. She craved calmness and most of all sleep, but the attack the previous day replayed in her mind. She was thrust to the floor and tied; the dust tickled her nostrils, her eyes were gritty and moist, and her flesh was squeezed. She pleaded with the tortuous images to stop. They repeated on and on, each time more draining, more vivid.

  Curling into a tight ball with her ears pricked and her hand in a fist, she searched for a distraction. The leaves tussled in the breeze and the house breathed, creaking and groaning, but other than that, it was quiet; there were no cars on the road and no voices emanating from the street. There was darkness and solitude. It provided no comfort.

  A knocking sound emerged from the street below. Jolting, she tightened her grip on the sheet and peered towards the window. The lights from the streets filtered through the lightweight curtains, and in the shadow was the silhouette of a swaying branch. Craving obscurity, she buried her head under the covers. Her trauma replayed.

  She knew that she should have never approached the ramshackle building, well aware, as she emerged from the woodland, that the art event was bait. But the house had charm and allure and held a mystifying significance. Unable to resist a glimpse into the past, she had fallen into her assailant's trap.

  She needed answers, yet at the same time feared them. Murderers were often close to their victims, so whoever had killed Saskia and was now after her, must have been a close friend or relative. She knew nothing about the stranger’s life, let alone who her family were, and her ignorance was terrifying.

  Laid in bed, she listened to the click-clack of heels as someone walked by the house. The sun was rising, the day beginning. There were voices of friends sharing a happy moment as they travelled to work, and there was a drone of the engine and the sound of a car horn. A door slammed shut. She imagined a kiss, a cheery wave, and a hasty clamber into a vehicle. She imagined a monotonous day at work, free from worry.

  Megan had worked as a receptionist at the local hospital dealing with appointments and admissions. Her colleagues were friendly and the workload was neither excessive nor slight, and she enjoyed the routine, which commenced at eight-thirty in the morning and finished at four-thirty in the afternoon. Working full-time had its advantages, aside from the obvious financial ones, as it had taken her mind from her relationship problems. Now, she had too much thinking time.

  With memories of her troubles in Halifax prominent in her mind, she considered ringing Ben to urge him to stay away. She should not have agreed to accommodate him and reprimanded herself for her moment of weakness. What had she been thinking? Their relationship was over. All she was doing was prolonging the agony . . . for them both.

  Her eyes closed. She shifted into her favourite position, flat on her stomach, and urged peace to favour her.

  Megan awoke with a start, bolting upright at the sound of the doorbell and glanced at the clock. It was not yet ten o'clock; surely, it was too soon for Ben’s arrival. Hastily, she clambered out of bed, peered behind the curtains, and looked at the street below. He had arrived and stood in the small front garden looking at something further down. His mass of dark-brown wavy hair fluttered in the gentle breeze. He brushed it aside.

  She pulled on a pair of socks, and still wearing her blue and white pyjamas, rushed downstairs and unlocked the door. Ben grinned and leaned towards her, his lips pursed.

  She scowled and backed away. 'Just friends, remember.'

  'Can't I offer my friend a kiss?'

  'No . . . we agreed.'

  His face dropped. Unwilling to be drawn, she strode into the kitchen, switched on the kettle, and placed some bread into the toaster.

  'We are going to have to set some ground rules,' she said, glimpsing at him. 'This is a temporary arrangement and then you go.'

  'I am not going to stop trying to win you over.'

  She frowned. 'You should forget about me. Move on.'

  He leaned against the worktop, arms folded, head back, and his expression smug. ‘In the same way that you've moved on from me?'


  'Exactly.'

  He was observing her and her body tensed and her movements became jerky. Wanting a moment away from him, she told him she was going to dress.

  ‘Then I'll do breakfast,’ he said. ‘What else do you want? Eggs or cereal?'

  'One egg please.'

  She slipped away, had a quick wash and dressed, and returned a few minutes later to find the dining table set, and the coffee and toast ready. Moments later, he brought in two plates, plonked himself down, and leaned into the chair. He was wearing fitted jeans, a white collared top, and brown shoes, and he looked sensational. Her eyes wandered across his broad shoulders, and to his neck and face. He had well-defined cheekbones, a prominent chin, and an askew nose. He caught her looking: she looked away.

  'I have brought a few more of your things down. Clothes, music, art folder . . . stuff like that.'

  She should have been happy yet her disappointment lingered.

  'I thought it would please you,' Ben said.

  'I am pleased. I like it here.'

  'So what's wrong?'

  'Nothing's wrong. I'm just surprised.'

  'It might take a while to sort out this Saskia business, so I've brought quite a bit of my stuff too. I'll unload the car after we've eaten.'

  She nibbled at her toast. It was crisp, cold and lacked flavour, and it reminded her the day she departed from Halifax. She had risen early, before Ben and David had awoken, and having dressed she grabbed her bags and descended the stairs, tiptoeing to avoid the creaks. With her ears alert, she had a quick drink, rushed her breakfast, and then scribbled a note, leaving it on the kitchen surface. Her thigh throbbed and her heartbroken, but her mind was clear. She had plans and nothing could change them. Yet still, she had gazed wistfully at the house as she had departed. She reasoned it was more due to the way the relationship had ended than for any other reason. She did not believe in life-long love. Joshua had taught her that.

  'While you are here, I am going to do as I please,' she said.