Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  'Always. I don't want another woman in my life, or anyone else for that matter. I enjoy my own company.'

  Luke glanced at his notes then turned back to Ron. 'Have you considered the possibility that Megan is Saskia's daughter?'

  Ron's jaw dropped, his surprise gripping his entire body. For a moment, he was speechless, and touched his face and rubbed his hands. Luke watched and waited, as did Imogen, both analysing his response in equal measure.

  'She could be,' he said in a steady voice. 'When Saskia left, she cut all ties. It's not something I never wanted to dwell on.'

  'I would have thought you would have wanted to know the truth.'

  'No, I don't think so.'

  'You surprise me. If I was in your position, I would be straight onto it, especially as you seem to want a reunion with Saskia.'

  His back stiffened. 'Megan doesn't know Saskia.'

  'Do you know that Megan was adopted and that she doesn't know who her birth mother is?'

  Silence.

  'It seems to me that she is her daughter, given the physical resemblance. And from what you have said, she could be yours too.'

  'It's too late to play happy families. If Megan wants it, I'll cooperate, otherwise, I’m not interested.'

  'Your call.' Luke rose to his feet. 'Thanks for your time. You have been most useful.'

  Ron nodded, and then strode towards him and shook his hand. 'I hope you find what you are looking for, although I would prefer it to be Saskia rather than her body.'

  'Understood.'

  Luke followed Ron to the outer door.

  'Oh,' Luke said, 'I almost forgot. Do you have a diary of Saskia's or anything else with her writing on?'

  He pushed aside a moment of suspicion. 'No, I got rid of everything years ago. The memories were too painful.'

  He followed Imogen out of the house. 'Thanks again for your time.'

  Without hesitation, Ron shut the door.

  Megan wiped the skirting board with a cloth before moving to the mantelpiece, lifting each of her possessions, and making quick sweeping motions to remove the dust. The granules were not visible, yet in her mind’s eye it was as though there had been a volcanic eruption, the colours were no longer crisp and clear and the texture was gritty.

  She lifted the small-framed picture of Joshua and wiped the surface using small circular motions. The cleaning spray immediately served its purpose and the smears dissolved, yet her action continued, round and round, on and on. Finally, as her arm began to ache, she placed the can aside and moved to the coffee table. Ben appeared in the doorway.

  His computer magazines were scattered across the surface. She lifted one up and glared. 'I asked you to clear these away!'

  'I'm sorry, I'll do it now.'

  'I'm sick of all the mess you're making.’ She flung it down. ‘Why can't you tidy up after yourself?'

  'I said I'm sorry. It's only a few magazines.'

  Her jaw clenched and her lips pressed tight. There was darkness inside her head, and her thoughts scuttled, causing the discomfort to pound her skull and travel up and down her body. Needing a release, and drawn by the light, she stomped to the dining table.

  One of her neighbours was knelt on the edge of the lawn, tending a patch of weeds. The woman was overweight, wore tight-fitting pants and a skimpy vest top, her hair bunched at the rear, and her make-up was in abundance. She must be in her sixties, yet seemed to think she was younger. Did she have any idea how ridiculous she looked, wearing clothes two sizes too small and with a face painted like a clown?

  Ben appeared behind her.

  'Have you seen that woman? Who the hell does she think she is dressing like that?'

  'She looks okay to me.'

  Her jaw dropped. 'Okay? She's gardening, not going out to the pub.'

  He turned to step away. 'I think you’re being a bit mean.’

  She gawped.

  ‘Each to their own, I say.' He strode away.

  'And make sure you clear away your mess in the corner.'

  'Just relax, will you?' he said.

  'I thought you were going out.'

  'I am.' He paused, analytical. 'This regression therapy session will be okay. There's nothing to worry about.'

  Her eyes drifted to the floor. She could sense a myriad of questions swirling around her head as her fears mingled. None was distinct; none followed a logical path. ‘I’d say there’s a lot to worry about.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t.’ He smiled sympathetically. 'I'm proud of you. It means a lot to me knowing you are doing this.'

  Considering his comment, she stomped to the kitchen, grabbed stray objects and thrust them into their rightful location. She didn't want him to be proud, she wanted anonymity, and above all, she wanted her anxieties to go away.

  Was she right to do this? It wasn’t too late to back out. Maybe she should give Luke a call. She was about to do just that when she remembered the television images of their crashed car. Reconsidering, she turned back to Ben. 'Are you sure David won't be back anytime soon?'

  ‘I'm sure. He's gone to see his friend, Oliver. He said he'll return this evening.'

  'If he turns up unannounced this thing is over. I'm going to tell Luke to bring me out of whatever it is that he puts me into. That goes for you too.'

  'That's fair enough.'

  Remaining unsettled, she searched for something to do. Given the room was clean with nothing out of place and no surfaces dulled, she sank onto the sofa and listened to cars trundling along the street, an aircraft flying overhead, and a gentle drone of voices coming from passing pedestrians. It did nothing to ease her anxious mind, causing her to leap to her feet and stride to the road, searching for Luke and Imogen’s whereabouts.

  ‘Right,’ Ben said, ‘I’ll see you later.’

  She folded her arms and nodded.

  He stepped outside. ‘And try to stay calm. It’ll be fine.’ He shut the door.

  She paced the room and glanced at the clock. Within a couple of minutes, a car pulled up outside of the house, quickening her pulse and warming her skin. Upon seeing it was Luke and Imogen, she hurried to the door and welcomed them inside. It didn’t talk long for their bright chatter and smiles to seep into her and help her to relax.

  'Now,' Luke said, 'about past life regression.'

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  'I'll put you into a deep state of relaxation, and with any luck, we'll go back to your past life. What you remember and what you experience varies from client to client. You may have vivid memories or you may feel distant from the scenes. Some people experience odours, hear sounds, or even taste things. It depends on upon the individual, and so, whatever happens, is normal.'

  Her reply filled with anxiety.

  'I'll ask you questions. Some may seem a little strange, but just try and answer as accurately as possible.'

  'What if I see something I don't like?'

  'It isn't my aim to traumatise you. Try, as much as you can, to go with it. I will be right by your side for the whole time, and so we'll work our way through it. I can't force you to do anything that you feel uncomfortable with. You will remain in full control for the entire time.'

  'What if I don't remember anything?'

  'If that happens, then that's fine. We can try again later if we think there's a better chance a second time.'

  Megan nodded and looked at the floor. She hoped she would remember something about Saskia, and maybe even discover the reason for her death. Then all this nonsense would be over. However, as she pondered the possibilities, a lump formed in her throat. 'I'm not sure I want to . . . to recall the murder.'

  He gave her a sympathetic glance. 'For this session, I hope to take you back to a year or two before Saskia's death, to get a feel for her life and the relationships she had with her family and friends. I don't intend to take you to the stabbing, but if for whatever reason we end up there, try to remain calm and listen to my voice. Nothing can harm you.' His voice was soft, his face tr
usting. 'You can't remain in that world, and the injuries can't pass to this one.'

  They talked around the subject for a little more with her asking further questions about her predicted experiences and Luke offering her information about the procedure. Then he erected a portable bed, drew the curtains, and closed an open window, dulling the street sound.

  'Ready?' he asked.

  She nodded.

  'Any more questions?'

  'No.'

  He pointed to the bed. 'Make yourself as comfortable as possible.'

  She sat down and eased herself down onto the soft mattress, but her body was corpse-like and she struggled to relax.

  'Close your eyes,' he said. 'We'll start with a few deep breathing exercises. I would like you to take a deep breath and hold it for as long as you can, and then release as slowly as you can.'

  Her instructions continued for an indeterminable amount of time until her mind and body relaxed. She was at peace. She was floating. Her anxieties were no more.

  His voice was as distinct as it always had been, but it seemed to be coming from inside her head and not from by her side. She listened, obeying every instruction and answering every question. He led her to a door. She reached for the handle. A familiar scene appeared before her.

  Chapter 18

  1977

  Daylight trickled through the flimsy cotton curtains and onto Saskia's bed, pressing onto her eyelids and awakening her mind. Holding a determined pose, she remained on her side and tried to block out the screeching cries of her younger sisters.

  There were creaking sounds, a soft whooshing sound, and a dull thump, all familiar noises as the youngest two jumped between their beds, clashing with pillows. Refusing to be drawn, Saskia lowered her head under the blankets craving silence, but it was not to be. There was a heavy thud, a scream, and the wailing sound of tears.

  A scowl formed on her forehead as small hands landed on her body, motioning back and forth, urging her to awake.

  'Saskia. Phoebe's hurt.'

  She opened her eyes and squinted as she met with the artificial light bulb, dangling in the middle and unshaded. Camilla was tugging at her arm and pleading, and across the room, Phoebe's small body rested against a chest of drawers. Wailing pitifully, the little girl clutched her scrawny leg below the frayed hem of her nightdress.

  Saskia's eyes narrowed. 'I've told you before not to mess around.'

  Her head dropped.

  'I'm going back to sleep. Ask Verity to look at her.'

  'She's asleep.'

  'Verity!' she yelled. 'Your turn.'

  She did not flinch.

  The crying was getting louder and more grating. Unwilling to help, Saskia reached to her blanket, putting her finger through a familiar hole and pulling it closer to her neck.

  'Get back into bed and stop your howling, you little scrag-end.'

  Phoebe's face was pink and contorted and her scrawny body curled into a ball. Her hair, fawn and dishevelled, looked as though someone had hacked it with hedge-trimmers rather than styled, and her complexion was gaunt and sallow.

  Not relenting to their demands, Saskia buried her head under the covers and immersed herself in visions of a better life.

  The door opened and the recognisable footfalls of her mother entered the room.

  'What's going on?' Jane asked.

  Strained breaths and squeals replaced the crying.

  'Saskia?'

  'It's Verity's turn. I'm always doing stuff.'

  'Don't argue. You're the eldest. If one of the little ones needs help, it's your job.'

  'That's so unfair.'

  She continued to mutter under her breath, away from her mother's gaze, and looked at the lump under the covers on the next bed. As though drawn, Verity's head appeared, her expression smug. Saskia mouthed an insult. Verity responded with two fingers.

  'Help your sister get up,' Jane said, 'and then see if Darren needs you.'

  Her mother was overweight, in part due to of all the pregnancies, and had a determined demeanour and a tired grey complexion. She was in her mid to late thirties but seemed much older. She closed the door.

  Verity leaned across her bed to Saskia. 'I got laid last night,' she whispered. 'Behind a garage in town.'

  'Who with?'

  'One of Barry's mates.'

  'Not Roger.'

  'No.'

  'Paul?'

  Verity grinned. 'No.'

  'Terry?'

  'Lord no. I won't want to touch him with my little finger. I'd catch something.'

  'I've heard he's on the big side . . . might be worth a go.'

  Verity giggled. 'Only with a gas mask. He stinks!'

  'So who?'

  'Ron Maddison.'

  Saskia pulled a face. 'I think everyone in town has had him. He can't keep it in his pants!'

  'You haven't.'

  'I wouldn't want to, he gives me the creeps.'

  Saskia watched Verity's face turn dreamy. How many men was that now? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? She was catching up and resolved to do something about it, but first, she wanted the details.

  'What was it like?'

  'It was over in about five seconds!'

  'Not much good then.'

  'I wouldn't say that. He was gentle . . . knew where to touch me. I like him. I'm going to see him again.'

  'What!'

  'He's nice when you get to know him,' she said, 'and I think he likes me.'

  Saskia gawped. 'Are we talking about the same man?'

  'He's misunderstood.'

  'Misunderstood? Haven't you seen the way he touches himself? Or the way he focuses on your boobs when he talks? He only ever thinks of sex.'

  'And we don't? You've had more boys than I have. You've no room to talk.'

  'I am a year older.'

  Saskia looked at Phoebe’s feeble frame and lost expression as she approached the narrow gap between their beds, clutching a ragged teddy bear.

  'Mummy says I have to get dressed.'

  'So get dressed,' Saskia said.

  'My clothes are dirty.'

  'Then keep them clean.'

  Forlorn, the little girl trudged back to her side of the room.

  'We should get out of here,' Saskia said to Verity, 'I need my own space.'

  'How do we afford it?'

  'I'll find a rich man.'

  Verity smiled, a self-satisfied smile.

  'What are you thinking?'

  'Nothing.' Verity looked at Phoebe. 'She's waiting.'

  Saskia thrust back the bedclothes and stepped towards the other end of the room towards a faint smell of urine. With a staid expression, she flung back the bedclothes and looked at the circular stain in the centre. She pressed her hand to it. It was dry.

  'Show me your clothes,' Saskia said.

  Phoebe passed her the blue skirt. The fabric bubbled, a seam was torn, and it stretched out of shape. At the rear was a small patch of mud.

  'Where are your other outfits?'

  'Mummy's washing them.'

  'Then you'll have to wear this.'

  Saskia reached for the matching top and examined it for dirt. She couldn't see any, but when she held it close to her nose, she could sense a faint smell. Dismissing it, she handed it back.

  'This is okay, but after school make sure you take it off and give it to me or Mum to wash.'

  Downcast, she accepted the outfit and started to dress. However, it didn’t take long for her to return to her bed. 'I don't feel well. I don't think I can go to school.'

  'What's wrong?'

  Her hand was flat against her stomach. 'I feel sick.'

  'Too bad. Everyone has to go to school.'

  'You don't.'

  'I did when I was your age.'

  Phoebe dragged her feet out of the room. Saskia considered adding that she also played truant to avoid the mockery, but as she had since decided that such behaviour wasn't an answer to their poverty, she kept quiet. Maybe she should try persuading their mother to b
uy the younger children new clothes instead of always passing them cast-offs. Unfortunately, she already knew of her response.

  At the end of the day, Saskia and Verity returned home and entered the lounge. Two of their brothers chased each around the sofa and the two girls sat together reading a magazine. Presumably, their other brother, the oldest of the boys, would be in his bedroom, as was often the case, as he was keen to remove himself from the din.

  'Going upstairs?' Saskia asked.

  Verity nodded.

  Saskia reached to the door handle, set upon the featureless dark green door, and peered at the dirty finger marks on the adjacent flowered wallpaper. She glanced down the frame to the floor where the dust gathered and the dirty-white skirting board lifted from the wall. She pushed it back with her foot, pressing the nails into the plaster, and eased open the door.

  'You two will be feeding the kids,’ Jane called out. ‘I'm off out shortly.'

  Saskia turned her head. Their mother was standing at the doorway of the kitchen with an apron covering her collared brown dress and with a tea towel in her hand.

  'You could have warned us,' Saskia said, 'we've made plans.'

  'Too bad. I've made plans too. I need timeout from you lot.'

  'But I'm meeting Ron in an hour,' Verity said, her voice whiny, 'we're going on a double-date.'

  'Tough luck. It's non-negotiable.'

  Saskia glared at her mother who was stepping back into the kitchen, before glancing at Verity and heading up the dingy staircase to their bedroom. She threw herself onto her bed.

  'She'll be getting rat-arsed again,' Verity said, 'it's all she ever does.'

  'That and smoking. It's no wonder we've no money . . . might as well flush the notes down the bog.'

  Verity grinned. 'It's more fun, though.'

  'Personally, I'd like to eat first. I'm sure the kids would too.'

  Saskia stared at the ceiling, painted white and with cobwebs. There was a crack above her, extending the width of the room. She followed it and wondered if it was a sign that the house was falling apart. She need not look further that the white chipboard wardrobe at the end of the beds to see the state of the place, one hasty move and the door would drop off, for sure.