by Dawson, H A
He scurried out of the room, returning with a knitting needle, a matchbox, and a table tennis ball.
'That doesn't look much like volleyball.'
'No . . . afraid it's cricket. Move everything aside.'
She threw the towels onto the sofa and carried the tray to the table.
'Okay,' he said. 'Kneel down at the side of the matchbox and grab the knitting needle. I'm going to throw the ball and you're going to hit it.'
It looked easy but it wasn't, and she swung and missed. He threw it again. She focused and watched the ball progressing towards her, and when it landed in front of her knees, she swung her arm. She missed by some margin, screeched and dropped her elbows to the floor, laughing hysterically.
'I'll make it a bit easier for you,' he said, 'I'll do it slower and with less spin.'
This time she made sweet contact and threw her arms into the air as the ball landed just beneath the window.
After more hits, he reached for a plastic mug and placed it a short distance in front of him. 'This time you have to hit the ball so that it lands in here.'
'I can't do that!'
'Course you can.'
She concentrated hard. The first time the ball veered off to one side. Ben caught it.
'Again,' she said.
The ball sped towards her. She swung, hitting it with the needle and thrusting the ball straight into his chest. He wobbled backward, held his hands firm onto the spot and puffed out. She was about to apologise when he burst into laughter.
'You're getting too good at this,' he said, 'my turn.'
They changed positions. After a few false starts due to her poor throwing action, he made contact with the ball. It hit the cup before deflecting to one side.
'You've done this before,' she said.
He grinned. 'First time.'
'I don't believe you.'
She threw the ball again. This time it touched the rim of the cup before landing on one side and rolling away.
'You're such a poor liar.'
The third time he was successful. He rose to his feet, flung his arms in the air and bounced around, claiming victory. She was entrenched in happiness, and it warmed her heart.
'Time for the sandcastle competition,' he announced rushing over to the tray.
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
'We have to do it on the floor,' he said, 'there are no tables on the beach.'
He stepped away with the tray.
'There's another one in the cupboard,' she said. 'We can do it at the same time then.'
'You're on.'
She filled another tray with flour, got a mug of water and an eggcup, and set herself up beside Ben, who was crossed-legged on the floor and hovering over his artificial sand.
'We've got five minutes then we stop.'
She nodded.
'Ready . . . go.'
The fine powdery feel of the flour soon disappeared as she added dribbles of water and mixed it with her fingers. The sludge crept under her fingernails and stuck to her hand as she pushed it together before adding it the cup. Having cleared a space on one side of the tray, she turned the eggcup over and patted it free. It maintained its near-perfect shape.
She glanced towards his tray. He had made several, but none was as neat or consistent as hers were; the edges were slipping and the top was sinking. She pushed on, increasing her pace, and made a square defining the castle walls.
'You're a bit slow,' he said, 'time is up'.
She looked up. He had produced a disorderly array of mounds.
'There's no plan in that!'
'No, but at least my king has somewhere to live. It looks like yours is camping.'
'At least it's solid.' She reached for a mug of water and threw it onto his castle. 'Oops, a storm has hit.'
It was a pile of white sludge.
'My queen was indoors,' he reached out his arms, 'I need to save her.'
Megan jumped to her feet and scampered away. 'Your queen is saving her own skin.'
Ben tracked her down, wrapped his arms around her waist, and forced her backward. They flopped onto the sofa, exhausted with laughter.
'Time for lunch,' he said, 'picnic by the sea.'
'But it's raining!'
He looked up to the ceiling. 'No, it's stopped. You have a snooze in the sun while I prepare it. You'll need your energy later on.'
She oozed happiness. The tension in her body had vanished, and the events of the previous day a distant memory. Wanting to remain in her fantasy world, she laid out the towels and sat on the floor, her legs outstretched. A while later Ben returned with lunch.
'For you madam,' he said, offering a plate.
The wholemeal sandwich contained mature cheddar cheese with lettuce and cucumber, and a tad of chutney. The flavour lingered in her mouth.
'Thanks for today,' she said, 'it was just what I needed.'
'It's not over yet, we still have to recreate the evenings we spent in Tenerife.'
'You were mostly drunk.'
'And you were mostly flat on your back, but I'm not complaining.'
Her memories emerged. They had often sloped off, leaving their individual groups of friends and headed to the beach to listen to the gentle rush of waves, broken only by an occasional murmur of distance voices. Sitting on the soft sand, side-by-side, they stared across the ocean, absorbing the beauty of the vast rippling expanse, illuminated by a slither of the moon and the myriad of twinkling stars. Out of her eye corner, she glanced at Ben, absorbing his masculine posture, firm and self-assured, and noting his drifting eyes. Did he wonder if this was anything more than a holiday romance? For her, the fire burned brightly in her heart, only needing a soft word or a gentle touch of his hand to create a surge of flames. It was intense. It was beautiful. Her spirit soared.
However, weeks later she came back to earth with a bump. She learned that Ben was far from being the perfect man she had ever encountered. His refusal to accept the way David treated her was at the core of their downfall, but so were some of his other character traits. Nevertheless, right here, right now, she could not recall any of them. He was considerate, fun to be around, and most of all responsible. She felt safe. Her children would be safe.
She swallowed hard. Could she ever be sure of that, after what she had experienced? Could she ever trust anyone to look after her child? She had failed Joshua and she was his mother. What did that say about her child's chances with others?
Months previously, she had had the same thoughts running through her head. She had phoned her closest friend and unburdened herself, but unbeknown to her, someone had been eavesdropping.
Ben drew her back to the moment, leaned towards her and pressed his warm lips to her cheek. 'Perhaps we should go back to Tenerife . . . remind ourselves of the beauty in the world . . . the sunset, the stars . . .'
She turned her head and feigned a smiled. David had heard her most private thoughts, her untold secret. 'It would be good to get away,' she said.
'Then let's do it. I'm sure we could get a last minute booking.'
Unconvinced by the timing, she cast him a solemn stare
He edged closer, pressed his body into hers, and wrapped his arm around her back. 'It's okay. We can do it later, just say when.'
He was showing immense patience. He had not commented on her stupidity for ignoring the steering problem, or for the danger they were in. In addition, he had not told her that she had in effect killed a man. His silence should be praised.
A thought crossed her mind. David was in danger too. Would she have allowed Joshua into Rodley had she been in Ben's position?
Shamefaced, she passed him a sideways glance. His face was aglow and his hair as ragged as ever, yet he projected a wild beauty. There was no way she could share her secret with him, and David wouldn’t desist in making her life hell. So, there was only one option; once her current problems were over, she must cast him aside.
There was no alternative.
'Time
for a bit of skinny-dipping,' he murmured, pulling her closer.
Wanting to enjoy the moment, she relented to his passionate display and flopped into his arms.
Chapter 17
The car eased to a standstill outside Ron's house and the purring sound of the engine died away. Luke turned his head looking to the impressive stone building, presumably owned at one time by someone with status, a doctor or landowner perhaps. There were tall trees at the rear and there was a commercial building far to the left, but there was nothing in the immediate vicinity. The house, by enlarge, was isolated.
'Don't you think it looks like a haunted house,' Imogen said.
He frowned. 'Not really.'
'It so does. If these street lights weren't here, it would be spooky.' She looked up to the small rectangular window near the roof. 'I can see it now . . . a silhouetted figure in the window with a knife.'
'You've been watching too many horror films.'
‘It’s true! There are no neighbours to hear the screams.'
'It's not that far from civilisation! Haven't you seen the houses just across the road?'
'Even so, the pavement and road are wide . . . and the back is private.'
He followed her gaze along the side of the house. 'Megan seems to think there is a path at the rear, one that Saskia took as she tried to outrun her attacker. It leads to a statue in the centre. We should follow it. Hopefully, when we regress her, we'll find out what happened.'
Her eyes sparkled with energy and enthusiasm. 'This is so cool.'
Her mood was catching, and a smile crept to his mouth.
'Before we go in let’s run through what we already know,' he said.
She faced him. 'Ron has remained married to Saskia. From what I could find out, he has never lived with another woman or had a long-term relationship with anyone. He works as a manager at a printing company, helps out at the community centre, and has not committed any crimes, except for a few car related ones.'
'What family did you say he had?'
'A cousin in Wales. Both of his parents are dead.'
He released his seatbelt. 'Okay, let's go.'
'We're a bit early.'
'I'm sure it'll be fine.'
The street was quiet: no moving cars, no pedestrians, and no one in the nearby gardens. He eased the car door shut and stepped around the car to the pavement. The warm breeze caressed his skin, and the brightness dappled by the rustling leaves relieved the strain in his eyes. He lowered his head, opened the creaky wrought-iron gate, and followed the narrow concrete path to the porch.
He could see that Ron was not in the lounge. It was spacious with a high ceiling, and there was a high-backed three-piece suite and a large display cabinet with drawers and cupboards within. The walls had mahogany patterned wallpaper - he considered it old-fashioned - and there was a picture rail near the ceiling.
He walked to the stone porch, stubbing his toe on a large ceramic pot, and rang the bell. They waited. Ron did not appear.
'Did you hear it ring?' he asked.
She shook her head and knocked on the door.
There was a small window at his side. He stepped towards it and tried to peer into the room, but green floral curtains blocked most of his view, and he could only see part of a row of the cupboard, a worktop, and a set of ceramic containers.
His curiosity was guiding him to look into the kitchen. He tried to squeeze through a gap between the shed and the house so that he could see through the other window, but he couldn't quite get through. Having glimpsed at the porch door to check for any movement, he walked around the rear of the shed and peered across the lawn at the large rectangular window. The kitchen was empty.
Imogen knocked on the door distracting him from his observation of the kitchen. When he turned back, Ron was there, heading out of the kitchen door and progressing into the hallway. He didn’t have time to consider why he hadn’t seen him there the first time, and hurried back to Imogen, arriving as Ron opened the door.
'Sorry, have you been waiting long?' Ron asked. 'I was in the kitchen. I hardly ever hear anyone knock when I'm in there.'
'That's okay. We've only just arrived.'
'I must get the doorbell fixed. Do come in.'
Ron leaned against the wall and gesticulated for them to pass through into the hallway. There were two doors on the left, and another on the right. Making polite chatter, they passed through the one leading to the lounge.
Luke recognised Ron, but no matter how he tried, he could not determine where they had met. Disinclined to share his concerns, yet still curious enough to pose questions, he guided the conversation towards Ron's work, well aware that the company, Burns and Johnson, was not one of the printing companies that he had used for his marketing. He even asked if there had ever been a take-over. The answer was no. The company had remained the same for the past twenty years. It was baffling.
Without time to pursue the matter further, he put his concerns aside and started the interview. 'Can you tell me about Saskia?'
His eyes glazed. 'She wasn't your typical woman . . . not at all weak and feeble. She would stand up for herself, she disliked anything she considered slushy, and she was feisty. She would let you know if she felt you were in the wrong . . . would cut straight to the point.'
'Would you say she had a dominant personality?'
'Absolutely. It's what I loved about her. I wouldn't have wanted a woman who was demanding emotionally. Saskia dealt with her own problems in her own way. She was not the tearful type . . . didn't need my shoulder to cry on.'
'What would you say your relationship with her was like?'
Sorrow met with his eyes. 'I can't put into words how much I loved her. She was everything I wanted and more. I could never marry again. I suppose I still hold out hope that she'll return.'
'Did she love you?'
His answer lacked conviction. 'She said she did.'
'Did you doubt it?'
'Saskia was a strong person. I'm sure she loved me as much as she was able. Even so, there was a time that I wondered if she married me for the money. Her family was poor, mine wasn't. I inherited this house when I was twenty-seven. She was lucky to find someone like me. I was a good catch. I'm easy going, tolerant and have few faults. There's not a lot to dislike.'
'How did she take to married life?'
'She was a bit difficult to tame but I managed it. At first, she spent too much time with her sister, Verity, but I made her realise she had to move on . . . grow up a little.'
Luke's face tightened. 'How did you do that?'
'It's not what you think. I never laid a finger on her.' His eyes flitted. 'That's not my way. I just persuaded her, verbally that is, to spend more time with me. She knew it was the right thing to do. I must say I was glad when she saw less of Verity.'
'Did you not get on with her?'
'She was a bad influence.'
'Did they argue?'
'All the time, although I never paid much attention. When I did it was always over something petty.'
'Like what?'
He paused. 'Oh, I don't know. Clothes, make-up . . . stuff like that.'
'Nothing more serious?'
'No. I think in the end Saskia had had enough and left. Verity had been pushing her to spend more and more time with her, but she wanted to be with me. Her demands became excessive. I don't think Saskia felt she had a choice.'
'Didn't you find that a little strange?'
'Verity was quite a piece of work. For a while, she came every day . . . telephoned several times.'
He frowned. 'I'm puzzled. You said Saskia was a strong character. I don't understand why she would feel the need to leave. Why didn't she stand up to her? Or you for that matter.'
'Everyone has their limits. Yes, she was strong, but she wasn't tolerant and Verity was persistent. I think Saskia preferred an easy life.'
'How did you feel about that?'
His impassive gaze slipped into irritation. 'How do you thin
k I felt? There was nothing I could do to stop her. She'd made her decision.'
'I'm sorry to have to ask, but did Saskia ever have an affair?'
'No. She didn't.'
'Are you sure?'
'I'm sure.'
'I've heard that she'd had a bit of a reputation.'
His face stiffened. 'Before she married, but never during.'
Luke nodded and then chewed the end of his pen and stared at his notes. Along one side were Ron's answers, and on the other side was a list of Saskia's character traits. He flipped over the sheet and scanned the prompts he’d made earlier.
'Did you ever have any contact with Saskia? After she left that is.'
'I got a letter. She told me she was sorry.'
'Did she say anything else?'
'Not really.'
He rotated his pen with his fingers. 'Do you still have it?'
'No.'
He studied Ron's face, noting the grainy texture of his skin and the roundness of his cheeks. 'I'm sorry if this is difficult, but I have to ask. Did you know she was pregnant?'
He folded his arms. 'I'd heard.'
'From Verity?'
He nodded. 'She took pleasure in telling me.'
'I'm sorry, I can see you loved Saskia very much, but I have to ask. Was it yours?'
Tight-lipped, he refused to answer.
'Is it difficult seeing someone who appears in town and looks just like her?' Luke continued.
'No. It's clear in my mind that they are not the same person.'
'Have you spoken to her?'
'I bumped into her by the statue. She fainted so I bought her a coffee.'
'That's good of you.'
'It was the least I could do. I might not be married but I do understand a woman's needs. Someone had to show a bit of respect and understanding. Everyone else was going to leave her on the ground.' He raised his chin and puffed out his chest. 'I think men can cope better in those circumstances.'
He smiled. 'I'm surprised a man like you has never remarried.'
'Saskia was the only woman for me. From the moment I met her, I never wanted anyone else.' His eyes glazed. 'She was a fantastic woman. I miss her a lot . . . even now.'
'I can see.' He glanced at the photo of Saskia on the mantelpiece. 'Have you always lived alone?'