by Dawson, H A
He dropped the phone onto the sofa, folded his arms, and scowled. She had just had an abortion, so he surmised that she would be taking it easy. He only wanted to talk and ask how she felt, but she was making him feel like he was pestering. Deep inside he could understand why she would think that, but it was not his fault. If she had answered his calls, the matter would be over.
He stared at the little screen. Even though there had not been any indication of an incoming message, he still hoped that by some miraculous means that he had missed her call, and his disappointment rose. Maybe he should try again; maybe her phone was out of action.
He decided to wait five minutes and looked at the clock to check the time. With the phone flat in his palm, his eyes wandered to the television, seeking out the local news report. The words floated above his head and the pictures drifted past his eyes. He had to talk to Sarah, and in the very least, he had to know that she was okay.
Perhaps she was ill. Could something have gone wrong? He didn't have a clue about the abortion procedure and so couldn't even begin to work out what could have happened. Since his desire for children was strong, he didn’t think it would be something he’d ever need to understand. Sickened by the thought of her distasteful act, he sank into his seat.
Impatience and edgy, he rotated the phone a couple of times between his fingers waiting for the clock to tick. What difference would a minute make? He decided to try again. It rang. He waited. It rang again. He urged her to answer.
'Luke.' Her tone was stern.
'How are you? Why have you not been answering your phone? I've been worried sick.'
'You're persistent, I'll give you that.'
'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine. Just busy.'
'But I've tried at all hours.'
Sarah hesitated. 'What do you want?'
'I'd like to see you. I need to know if you're all right.'
'I've said I'm fine.'
'We need to talk.'
'I'm not sure we do.'
'Please. I have to see you.'
She puffed out. 'You'll have to come here. I've a lot going on.'
'No problem.'
'I haven't got time to make a meal or anything.'
'No matter. I'll be over within the hour.'
He ended the call, leapt from the sofa, and rushed upstairs to wash and change. He had to spruce himself up, put on his smartest casual clothes, a bit of aftershave, and comb his hair. He should buy flowers too, and maybe even chocolates. She loved truffles, and so he decided to stop at the supermarket on the way there. Excited by the prospect of their meeting, he grabbed his keys and wallet and raced from his house.
There was a light emerging from the second floor. He hoped Sarah would peer through the gap in the curtains, excited by his arrival, but she didn't, and it caused him to reprimand himself for his ridiculous notion. He mustn't forget they were just friends and that the baby had not been his, and he must act accordingly. He must give her adequate support and not make demands, and he must show understanding and affection. She had made a mistake, slept with someone else. He would act as though it did not matter.
He breathed in and out a few times, urging calmness, and then walked to the door. His limbs were quivering with a mixture of nerves and excitement, drowning out the clarity in his mind. He pressed the bell. Sarah spoke with clarity and released the lock on the door. He ascended the steps and knocked again. The door opened.
She looked as composed as ever and every bit as gorgeous. Her skin had a wonderful glow and her hair had a beautiful sheen. Her arm was bent, her hand limp, and her fingers, slender with manicured glossy nails, rested upon her abdomen. She took the flowers and chocolates and guided him to the sofa.
The room was unusually messy, papers and binders spread across the coffee table, and books spread across the floor. Across the room, upon a ledge, was a dirty cup and plate.
She followed his scrutiny. 'I did say I was busy.'
'You should see my office.'
'Your office is beyond help.'
'Ah, but you should see it now. We’ve had a clear out and cleaned it up. You wouldn't recognise it.'
'Have you been getting rid of the paranormal junk?'
He looked to his feet. 'Some of it.'
'What are you working on now?'
He averted his gaze. He couldn't lie but he couldn't tell her the truth either. 'A woman disappeared thirty years ago. People believe she left the country, but we think she was murdered. I'm getting closer to solving it.'
She nodded, feigning interest.
'I've accessed a letter she wrote from Spain, but it seems that it was forged.'
'Someone was a bit careless.'
'I agree.'
'The writing should have been checked at the start.'
'It should.'
She shuffled, easing her legs away from under her body. 'Why are you here?'
'I needed to see you were okay.'
'I told you I was.'
'I care about you. I want to help.'
'I didn't need any help.'
'Nobody's that independent.'
'I am.'
Maybe the father of the baby helped her; perhaps they had come to a decision together. Disguising his disappointment, he looked at the carpeted floor. Could they be in love?
She perched on the far side of the sofa. 'I can't put my life on hold for a year. I have a career to consider.'
'And you can live with that?'
'I have to.'
It didn't seem right. What was more precious, more important and fulfilling than having a child?
'Why are you looking at me like that?' she asked.
'Like what?'
'Like I am some kind of monster.'
'I'm not. I’d never think of you that way.'
Her face burst into life. 'I'm sorry you don't agree with me, but as I've said, it's my body, my decision.'
'Your partner should have been involved. Does he know?'
'What?'
'The father.'
Her face creased. She leapt from the chair and headed to the kitchen.
Recognising her guilt, he stomped after her. 'You lied. The baby was mine!'
She would not look at him and turned her head this way and that avoiding eye contact. She was ashamed, and so she should be.
'How could you? I thought we were friends.' He thrust his hands onto the worktop. The pepper pot wobbled then tipped over.
She looked up, her eyes pleading. She opened her mouth to speak, discarded a choice of words, then turned away and fiddled with her fingernails, short with uneven edges.
'Do I mean nothing to you?' he asked.
'I'm sorry.'
'You had no right to have an abortion without speaking to me.'
'I don't want to talk about it. Can't we forget it and move on?'
'How can I? I would have looked after it and you could have still gone to work. I would have been a great dad.'
'I don't doubt it Luke, and if and when I have a child, I want it to be born into a proper family. We'll never be that.'
'We could be if we tried.'
'We have tried. A baby would not be the answer to our problems.'
He slumped onto the sofa and rested his head in his hands. 'That was my baby you killed - my son or daughter.'
'You are being dramatic. It wasn't formed.'
'How can you be okay with this?'
Her voice softened. 'I have to be. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, and I'm sorry I lied at the clinic. I just wanted to avoid a confrontation.'
'You should have consulted me.'
'Maybe I should have, but at the end of the day it was my decision . . . it has to be. I can't keep apologising.'
'Would I have been able to change your mind?'
She looked away, indecision in her face.
'I would have packed up my business . . . done whatever it took.'
'I know you would, but that's not an answer. You enjoy your work as much as I do.'
He could have done it. There was no doubt in his mind.
'I'm sorry you had to find out the way you did.'
'Would you have told me if I hadn't have seen you go to the clinic?'
She stroked his hand with her fingertips. 'Of course I would. I do care about you, Luke. You're one of my best friends. I never wanted to hurt you.'
But she had, and a weight pressed into him, affecting his breathing and digestion. He felt as though he wanted to belch and pressed his hand to his throat.
'I don't want this to affect our friendship,' she said.
'It won't.'
'You sure?'
He nodded.
'So we can still carry on seeing each other?'
'We can.'
He reached for her hand. With or without a child, he needed her in his life. There was no other option. He loved her, regardless of how she treated him. It was a sad fact he must bear.
Chapter 25
Megan thrust back the bedcovers, releasing the heat from her body, and felt the copious trickles of perspiration turn cold. Shrouded in darkness, she focused up a ribbon of light passing through the hallway window and relief swept through her. It was a dream. No one had stabbed her in the stomach; she had not died.
Having taken a laboured breath of warm air, she willed away the nightmare from her head and breathed slow deep breaths to ease her galloping heartbeat and trembling body. Despite her efforts, the scene repeated, with some images flashing randomly and in isolation, and others appearing crisp and clear. It was the same scene that she had envisaged many times before, and the one that had frequently haunted her.
She had been running with leaden legs, struggling to propel herself forward, away from the shadowy form of her attacker. The knife plunged. Gasping with pain, she pressed her hand onto the warm gushing liquid and dropped to the ground. Then, drawn to the sound of voices, she looked up and witnessed a figure emerging from under the lamplight. She sensed the person had been someone whom she’d trusted; regrettably, she had seen nothing more than a silhouette.
Flinging herself out of bed, she wrapped her arms around her middle and urged her mind to clear. The shock was slow to dissolve.
A shifting of weight on the mattress along with the shuffling of covers prepared her for Ben's awakening.
He leaned across, placed his warm hand upon her back, and spoke in a quiet voice. 'Are you okay?'
'Yes. Go back to sleep.'
'Bad dream?'
'Yes.'
She walked to the bathroom, had a wee, and then clambered back into bed and snuggled beside him. His body was warm and soft, his breathing was slow and steady, and he oozed serenity. It wasn't fair. Haunted by crisscrossing images, she struggled to grab even a moment of calmness, and turned onto her back and stared at the shadowy ceiling.
Even though she craved a relaxing state, she could do nothing to evacuate the nightmare from her mind. It was as though she watched a film that was set on replay and one she could not escape from; it was as though someone stood over her, forcing her to take note.
Why had she not seen the attacker’s face when she had looked straight at them? She had not even seen if the person was a man or a woman, or if they had long hair or short. It was frustrating that her observations were so limited.
Unhinged, she pored over the images, reliving every moment of Saskia's death. Her chest tightened, her stomach ached, and her torment scrunched her forehead. Repeatedly, she told herself that it was not real, but it made no impact. She felt Saskia's fear as vividly as though it was her own, and her body continued to react to the stress.
She told herself that she was not Saskia and the past could not repeat itself, yet her thoughts had little play in her mind. She had already experienced someone wanting to take her life, and perhaps before the ultimate attack, Saskia had too. It was a terrifying thought.
Trying to calm herself, she glanced at Ben who appeared to have slipped into a peaceful slumber. Yearning for the same, she turned onto her side, and somehow, with the aid of his warm body, she started to gain an element of tranquillity. The images faded and its significance had less impact, and she started to doze.
Suddenly, an image appeared and her eyes ripped open.
In her dream, she had been speaking to Ron, and although the conversation had been calm, she could sense their tension rising. When she looked again, Ron was with a child, a girl.
Her pulse accelerated and her adrenaline surged. She felt as though had remembered something significant and struggled to contain her emotions. She even turned to Ben, desperate to share her find. Since she could hear him snoring softly, she decided against it and repeated the details in her mind.
Whilst she hadn’t any direct evidence, she felt certain Ron had a daughter. Had it been her? Feeling certain it was, she shuffled into a sitting position and urged the morning to arrive. She had to speak with Luke.
Megan tussled free from the covers, washed and dressed, and padded the steps down to the lower floor. She could not believe she had slept after her discovery and longed to get straight onto the telephone. But it was still early. She should at least wait until eight o'clock and give Luke a chance to get to work.
Ben had already prepared the breakfast table and greeted her with a warm smile.
'There's enough coffee in the pot,' he said.
She headed to the table and slipped onto the chair, passing into the warm rays of the sun. It was a beautiful day, and already the butterflies and hoverflies danced over the opened blooms.
'I’m glad you got back to sleep,' he said, 'what happened?'
'I had a dream about the attack, but I also saw Ron with a girl. I think he has a daughter.'
'Really?'
'Yes.' She looked at the clock on the wall above the mantelpiece. 'I must get onto Luke. I think it could be important.'
'I wonder why no one’s mentioned her. Verity must know about her.'
She did not respond.
'I knew you would remember something eventually. The answers had to be within you.'
Her stomach tightened. She poured the coffee into a mug and took a large gulp. 'Maybe I should ask Verity about her.'
'That’s probably not a good idea, especially after your last encounter.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right. She did act strangely. I'll leave it to Luke.'
His nod was appreciative.
'The nightmare shook me up. I was so sure I’d been stabbed. I kept feeling my stomach for blood.'
'Did you see the person's face?'
'No. It could be someone I don't know. Perhaps that's why I can't place them.'
'Maybe.'
She glanced at the clock. It was two minutes past eight. She reached for her mobile phone and dialed Luke's number. He answered immediately.
'Hello Megan. How are you?'
'I'm good, but I had strange dreams last night and I thought you might be interested.'
'Go on.'
'The first was about the attack. It was the same as always, and unfortunately, the person who stabs me, or should I say Saskia, is indistinct, but I saw someone else. There were two people at the scene. They were in it together and talking.'
'Did you see faces?'
'No, but I had a strong sense that I trusted the second person, the person who didn't stab me.'
'Any ideas what they were talking about?'
'No, but I don't think they were arguing.'
'Do you catch any of the words?'
'No.'
Silence.
'Do you think it was Ron and Verity?' she asked.
'It could have been, but we shouldn't be making assumptions.'
She rested her arm on the table, easing away the growing tension. 'It had to be them. Verity is always odd with me. She knows something. I can sense it.'
'You said that was the first dream. Was there something else?'
Her energies rose. 'Yes. I saw Saskia talking with Ron. They weren't arguing, but I could feel the tension rising.
'
'Okay.'
'That's not the best bit. I saw a child, a girl. I think he has a daughter. I think they were afraid for her.'
'A daughter? How old was she?'
'About six or seven. Maybe a bit older.'
'Did you see what she looked like?'
'I think she was blonde . . . no, maybe not. She could have had brown hair.'
'Was her hair long or short?'
'Long, I think. Why?'
'Can you remember anything distinctive about her?'
'No, it all happened too fast. The only thing I sensed was their anxiety.’
'Was the girl afraid?'
'Afraid? I don't think so. Why would she be afraid if she was Ron's daughter?'
'What makes you think she was his?'
'Who else's could she have been?'
Silence.
She pondered the images in her mind. There was definitely a connection between Ron and the girl, as well as a familiarity and an understanding.
'Okay,' he said, 'let me have a think about it. If there's anything else you remember, give me a ring. I might be over your way today. If I am, I might drop in.'
'Okay.'
She ended the call, placed her phone onto the table and looked at Ben. He gave her an encouraging smile.
'Oh Lord!' she said. 'I've just had a thought.'
'What?'
'What if that girl was me? That would explain a few things.'
'But if the girl was seven in the year Saskia died, and that would make you about eight or so years older than you are.'
Her explosion of excitement sank like a stone. 'Yes, I suppose you're right.'
She gripped the coffee mug, pensive. It was possible that the girl could have been younger, maybe four years old, and she could be a few of years older than what was on the adoption papers. Mistakes happened. It might be unlikely, but it was possible.
It was an encouraging thought.
Chapter 26
Luke leaned back into his chair, outstretched his legs, clasped his hands upon his lap, and looked around the office. He should feel contented. He was progressing with the biggest reincarnation case he had ever encountered, he was still a friend of Sarah's, and she was still single. He may have lost his chance at fatherhood, maybe his only chance, but his position was no different to a few days previous. So why did he feel gloomy?