by Cross, Amy
“How do you know?” Jane replied, getting to her feet and heading to the window.
“How do you know, you mean,” Caitlin continued, keeping her eyes fixed on Jane. “After all, if I'm just an extension of your consciousness, then I'm merely vocalizing a realization that has occurred to you. We agreed that's how it works, didn't we?”
“But I don't know that there's been another murder,” Jane pointed out, using two fingers to part the blinds for a moment as she peered out at the town square. Rain had begun to fall, and there'd been a few rumbles of thunder a few minutes earlier. “Everything seems calm.”
“I told you, the body hasn't been found yet.”
“Then how do you know? I mean, how do I know? I mean...”
“Confusing, isn't it?”
“We've still got time,” Jane continued. “I know we do. If there'd been another murder, we'd know by now.”
“Not if the body's out of sight,” Caitlin replied. “For example, in an old warehouse somewhere, or an abandoned building. There are plenty of places it could be.”
“So why don't you give me a clue?”
“I don't have any clues to give,” Caitlin continued. “Not unless I'm actually a ghost after all, in which case I guess I might know a few things.” She turned to look out at the town square. “But you don't really think that's possible, do you?”
Jane stared at her for a moment. “No,” she said finally, “of course it's not possible. Ghosts don't exist.”
“So I'm just you,” Caitlin added, with a faint smile. “All your subconscious thoughts, all your brain's desperate attempts to make sense of the chaos... It all comes out through me.” She paused. “Your husband noticed earlier, didn't he?”
“Noticed what?”
“The way you keep hiding your body from him.”
“It's nothing.”
“It's something, and he's onto you. He might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but he'd creeping closer, inch by inch. What's wrong, are you suddenly self-conscious about that little scar?”
Jane shook her head.
“What if I am a ghost?” Caitlin continued, staring at her. “What if Caitlin Somers died and came back to haunt this town, why would she choose to appear to some people and not to others?”
“I don't -”
“Play along with me for a moment,” she added, interrupting her. “How would I pick the people I speak to?” She looked at Jane's shoulder for a moment. “It's such a small scar, barely noticeable at all, no wonder Jack hasn't ever spotted it. I guess you never had one of those moments where he idly contemplated your bare flesh, huh? That's good. You don't want him poking too much into your past, do you? Anyway, if he did ask about the scar, would you tell him the truth?”
“There's no need to tell him about that,” Jane replied, swallowing hard.
“Isn't there?”
“No.”
“But is there any need to keep it from him?”
She paused. “He wouldn't understand.”
“So this ghost,” Caitlin continued, as her smile grew, “if that's what I am... Maybe I came back to get justice, and maybe, just maybe, I'm only appearing to the people who feel a degree of guilt over my death.” She paused. “Do you feel guilty, Jane?”
“Why should I feel guilty?” Jane asked, turning to her. “I didn't do anything to you.”
“Do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Your old life. When you were a Border girl.”
Jane flinched. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not really. A decade or so. Blink of an eye, really.”
“I only worked there for six months,” Jane replied, keeping her voice low in case Alex came back suddenly.
“And how many levels down did you go?”
“What do you think?” Alex called out suddenly, emerging from the bathroom.
Turning, Jane saw that he had the new wig balanced on his head. It looked like a Tribble had fallen on him from a great height.
“Obviously it doesn't look quite right at the moment,” he continued, “since it's having to go over my real hair, but if you imagine it fitting snugly, I figure it'll look absolutely natural. More importantly, the aluminum lining will shield my brain from all those internet signals, so I'll be able to focus more effectively. I'll get the clippers out tonight, and tomorrow you'll never be able to tell that anything's changed.” Heading over to his desk, he carefully removed the wig and set it back down in its box. “You should think about getting one of these too,” he told her. “I reckon you could pull it off, no sweat.”
Turning back to Caitlin, Jane saw that the dead girl was gone.
“I might even do it when Ruth's out,” Alex added, “and then see if she notices anything when she gets home. To be honest, I think she might not, it's that good of a wig.”
“Sure,” Jane replied, turning to look back out at the town square. Everything looked so peaceful as the rain fell, but she couldn't shake the feeling that Caitlin had been right, that maybe there was another body out there, waiting to be discovered, in which case she couldn't understand how her subconscious mind had made the realization. What had she seen, and why hadn't it registered properly? “It looks great,” she whispered. “Really great.”
***
“So did you speak to Dad yet?”
“Jesus!” Jack said, turning to see that Ben had appeared as if from nowhere, following him along the sidewalk. “Do you have to sneak up on me like that?”
“Sorry,” Ben replied, “I just saw you walking past and I figured I'd come and see how things are going. I was going to call later and see if you fancy getting a beer, but I've had such a busy morning so far. I had to get some prescriptions filled, pop in to see a few people. Oh, and I murdered another girl.”
Sighing, Jack stopped and turned to face him.
“You wanna hear about it?” Ben asked with a smile. “I cut her heart right out of her chest, just like all the others. Once you've done one, you've done a million, it's as easy as pie.”
“Stop.”
“She was pretty, too. Shame about that. It's always the pretty ones who get my engine revving.”
“Ben, just stop.”
“Why? Don't you wanna hear about my day?”
“Do you think this is funny?”
“Winding you up?” Ben laughed. “Yeah, brother, I do. I think winding you up is hilarious. I've been doing it all my life, on and off, and I just like pushing your buttons.”
“It's not a laughing matter,” Jack continued. “It's less than a week since Mel Armitage died, and you're making goddamn jokes about it? Seriously? Check yourself, man!”
“No,” Ben replied, “I'm not making jokes about the dead girl, I'm making jokes about you and your ridiculous suspicions. There's a difference.”
“Not from where I'm standing.”
“Really? I'd have thought a newspaper man would be more alert to the nuances of language, but -”
“What do you want, Ben?” Jack asked, interrupting him. “I know how this works. You roll up, you make crappy jokes, and then finally you get around to whatever reason you're actually bugging me, so let's just cut to the chase. In case you didn't realize, some of us are actually busy. We have jobs, we don't spend all our time in other people's spare rooms!”
“Brother -”
“What do you want?”
Ben sighed. “I want to make peace. With you, I mean. I went and saw Dad and it went really badly, as you might expect, and I realized that I can only handle one war at a time.” He paused, waiting for Jack to say something. “So I was thinking, do you want to just get a beer and talk? You're right, I make jokes too often, it's dumb, I'm dumb sometimes. I'm fully aware that I'm the main cause of the problems between us, so why don't we try to sort things out? I've been having a good time with Beth lately, and I feel maybe you and I could be the same if we just straighten the facts out and set them on the table.”
“You want us to ta
lk about facts?” Jack replied incredulously.
“I do. I really do.”
“And you start that conversation by joking about murdering someone?”
“How do you know it was a joke?” Ben asked, his tone filled with seriousness for a moment, before finally he broke into a faint smile. “Sorry, there I go again, it's like a nervous tic, I really need to learn to just answer questions honestly.” He paused for a moment. “So how about it? Just you and me, a few beers, down at the Monument at, say, eight tonight? No jokes, I promise. From either of us. We'll just get to know one another again, the way it's supposed to be between brothers.” He waited for an answer. “Please, Jack.”
“Ben...”
“Plus, we need to talk about Beth. She's cracking up.”
“Beth? Beth's fine.”
Ben shook his head.
“She's fine,” Jack said firmly.
“She's not fine. Christ, are you paying attention at all? Something's wrong, something deep down, but it's gonna come to the surface eventually. I'm worried about our sister.”
“Beth's the most okay out of all of us.”
“That's not saying much,” Ben replied. “It's not true, either. I'm telling you, something bad is coming with her, I can feel it.”
Jack stared at him for a few seconds, as if he genuinely couldn't decide how to answer.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “The Monument at eight. I can't promise, I've got a lot on at work and I'm supposed to be looking after the kids, but I'll try to meet you.”
“Looking forward to it, brother,” Ben replied, taking a step back. “I think this is going to be the start of a whole new chapter. Honestly, I think we're going to start putting everything back together. And I get that you might not believe I'm sincere, but all I ask is for a chance to prove myself. Just a chance, nothing more.”
“Sure,” Jack muttered, watching as Ben turned and headed away. For a moment, he stood and watched his brother, before finally checking his phone and then walking back across the town square, making his way to the office.
“Nice chat?” Mac asked as soon as Jack walked through the door.
“Uh, yeah,” Jack replied, heading to his desk. “It was nothing.”
“I don't like him,” Mac continued.
Jack turned to him.
“Your brother, I mean. Ben. I don't like him, there's just... I can't put my finger on it, but he's the kind of guy who's clearly up to no good. I know I might be out of place, Jack, but tell me you don't feel the same way.”
Jack paused for a moment. “I feel the same way,” he said finally. “You're right, Ben's... off, somehow. I've always known it. Everyone in my family has always known it.”
“So how did it go at the Hermitage?”
“Ben was there last week.”
“It's all starting to make sense, isn't it?” Mac continued. “What's wrong, Jack? Is brotherly loyalty clouding your judgment?”
“I'm not loyal to Ben. I don't even -” He stopped himself just in time.
“You don't even what?” Mac asked. “You don't even like him?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.” Leaning on his cane, Mac made his way over to one of the desks. “The loathing is palpable, you're terrible at disguising your true feelings. Anyway, I figured I'd stick around for the rest of the day. Maybe I'm out of line, but I feel like maybe you could use a little help around the old place, and I've got nothing better to do. Besides...” Wincing with pain, he lowered himself into a chair. “I've missed this. I've missed following leads and getting to the heart of a story.”
Jack forced a smile, despite the sense of nausea that was creeping through his belly.
“I know you've suspected your brother for a long time,” Mac continued, watching him cautiously, “but it's one thing to have suspicions, it's another to realize that you were right. Are you going to be able to deal with that when the moment comes?”
“Sure,” Jack replied, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as he opened his laptop and saw a reflection of his own face in the dark screen. “I just wish I'd been able to prove it years ago. To get him the help he needs.”
IV
“Wake up.”
In the dream, Joe was back out on the dark moor, staring at Caitlin's body in the nook of the tree.
“Joe, wake up.”
Stepping closer, he watched as blood dripped from the dead girl's hand. He made his way around the side of the tree until he could see the hole in her chest where her heart had been removed. This wasn't the first time he'd seen her in a dream, of course, but this time he felt compelled to go closer, and finally he reached out until his fingertips were just millimeters from the edge of the wound, where Caitlin's skin had been torn aside and was now covered in spots of dew that glistened and trembled in the moonlit breeze.
“Joe, please... Wake up.”
Letting his fingers brush against the wound, he realized her flesh was ice cold.
“He's here,” a voice whispered suddenly.
Looking at Caitlin's dead face, he realized that her eyes were staring straight at him.
“He's here,” she said again. “Joe, don't turn around. Please, whatever you do, don't turn around. Don't look at him. If you look at him, that's when he gets you.”
He opened his mouth to reply, before realizing he could hear footsteps crunching over the grass, getting closer.
“Don't turn around,” Caitlin said again, her voice trembling with fear. “Joe, he's right behind you.”
“I have to see him,” he whispered.
Slowly, he turned and watched as the tall, dark figure stepped closer, looming out of the thick mist that surrounded the tree. On top of the figure's head, there were several large shapes protruding, like broken antlers.
“It's the stag-headed man,” Caitlin said. “Joe, wake up before -”
Suddenly a doorbell rang.
***
Sitting up suddenly on the sofa, Joe realized someone was at the door. He froze for a moment, still half awake and half in the dream, before turning and seeing that Caitlin was standing next to him.
“You had a nightmare,” she said with a calm smile, reaching down and putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I tried to wake you gently, but you were really far gone for a while. You must be so tired. You were talking, too, kind of mumbling in your sleep.” She paused. “It was about me, wasn't it?”
“He was there,” he replied cautiously.
“I know.” She took a seat next to him, and the sofa even creaked slightly as she put a hand on his knee. “You've been through so much, Joe, and with no-one to really look after you. The stag-headed man -”
She stopped suddenly.
Waiting.
Watching his expression.
“You flinch when I mention him,” she continued finally. “You get this nervous twitch on the side of your face, and your eye squeezes shut for a second. He still haunts you, doesn't he? More than you let on and -”
The doorbell rang again.
“Ignore it,” she told him. “It's just someone trying to sell you something.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
They sat in silence for a moment, until footsteps finally headed away from the house.
“No-one believed me,” he whispered.
“I believe you.”
“You were there,” he stammered. “You saw him. That's not about believing me, that's about knowing what you saw with your own two eyes. He killed you and...” He paused, staring at her for a moment. “He killed you.”
“That's right. He did.”
“You're dead.”
“Uh-huh. But that doesn't mean I don't still love you. Quite the reverse, actually.” She turned and looked around the dark, filthy room, as if for a moment she was contemplating the dirty plates and takeaway boxes, and the beer cans that had been left everywhere, and the funnels and bowls left over from his attempt to extract pure codeine
from his prescription tablets. “I would have married you, you know,” she continued. “A girl knows these things real early when she meets a guy, earlier than he'd ever expect.” She turned back to him with a faint, sad smile. “That night, the night I died, I could already tell that you were a good man, the kind of man who'd make the perfect husband. I was teasing you, of course, and playing with your emotions, but I'd decided I'd be your bride. If you'd have taken me, that is.”
He nodded.
“What's that?” she asked. “You would have taken me?”
“Of course,” he replied, his voice tense with the effort of holding back tears.
“Imagine us together,” she continued, resting her head on his shoulder. “We'd have had a really nice, smart house. Well-decorated, well-maintained, maybe even this place, but obviously very different. I'd have made you keep things tidy, Joseph Baldwin.”
“I know,” he whispered, as the first tear rolled down his cheek.
“And we'd have had children,” she added.
He nodded, too upset to speak.
“Three, at least,” she continued. “One by one, you'd have planted those seeds in my belly, and we'd have had three wonderful, beautiful, healthy children. Two boys and a girl, I think.” She smiled as they both stared across the dark, filthy room. “Megan,” she whispered. “The girl would have been named Megan, I'd have insisted on that. The boys, you could have chosen their names, but the girl would have been Megan. Megan Baldwin. She'd have been my little princess, and she'd have gone to ballet classes and...”
Her voice trailed off, and a moment later a little girl appeared in the doorway, dressed in a pink and white dress. She was smiling, as if she was waiting to be told how pretty she looked.
“The ghost of the child we never had,” Caitlin said after a few seconds. “One of them, anyway. Can you see her?”
He nodded.
“It's like she's real,” Caitlin whispered. “I think that's really what she would have looked like.”
“I wanted that,” Joe sobbed.
“We'd have lived long, happy lives,” she continued, “and we'd have grown old together, and our children would have become strong, good people. It would have been perfect, but -”