by Matt Drabble
She knew that the guy’s name was Alan and that he was divorced from someone whose name began with an S: Sara, or Susan … something like that. It was all very amicable and his daughter was called Julie and she loved her father very much because he was going to buy her a puppy at the weekend.
She let go of his hand and his eyes snapped open. His mouth seemed dry as it popped open and closed as he tried to work saliva back into his throat.
Jane walked over to the puppy enclosure and used her keys to open it. As usual, the dogs huddled in the corner away from her and she found herself hoping that the man didn’t think badly of her or that she somehow mistreated the dogs given their response to her presence. She rooted around under the chippings and sawdust until she spotted a brown leather wallet.
“That’s incredible!” the man exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“Nothing too amazing, I’m afraid,” Jane grinned back as she locked the gate behind her. “Every small child that comes in here wants to play with the dogs; we find all sorts of things dropped over the side.”
The man suddenly looked at her puzzled and she knew that she’d made a mistake.
“I never told you that I was here with anyone…” he said slowly.
Jane looked at him and pondered a response. She could try and tell him some story about maybe seeing him on the CCTV cameras earlier, but the man already had the look in his eye that she knew only too well. He looked suddenly nervous as though there was a bad smell in the air, something that touched a primal nerve deep inside.
She didn’t bother trying to explain as he thanked her quickly and took his wallet back. She noticed that he was very careful not to touch her fingers directly as she handed it to him.
CHAPTER TWO
THE DEAD DON’T STAY DEAD
Randall Zerneck yawned widely and tried as best as he could to stretch within the confines of the small rental car. He’d been stiffed at the airport by some officious cow in a freshly pressed uniform and a painted-on smile that didn’t touch her eyes. She’d told him that his car reservation wasn’t in the system, as though it was his fault. They’d lost his bloody name from their computers and he was somehow in the wrong.
He’d tried keeping his temper until the nagging ache in his brain had collapsed due to the hour and the fact that he wasn’t even halfway drunk yet. The airport bar was closed and he’d exhausted his carry on supply of miniature bottles long before the wheels of the plane had touched down.
Eventually he’d snapped and gone to town on the girl, reducing her to tears in a matter of minutes, cutting through her professional façade until he’d felt sick with himself. It was gift of his to be able to spot a person’s greatest insecurity and shine a beacon of light on it. The girl had just been doing her job and he’d bullied her into giving him someone else’s rental car. It was only after he’d been driving away that he started to doubt if he had indeed made the reservation after all.
Much of his life these days seemed to be shrouded in mists of uncertainty. His drinking had always been an integral part of his charm and his career. He’d come into journalism at a time when the office was the pub and a decent reporter was rarely seen without a pen in one hand and a shot glass in the other. The only problem with his lifestyle was that it couldn’t last forever. In a world where it seemed like everyone else was getting younger, he was a dinosaur - the last of a dying breed, the cause of death being chiefly alcohol-related.
He was 52 now and looked immeasurably older. His hair was a thinning, snowy-white covering that he rarely exposed to the elements, choosing mainly to keep it covered under a beaten fawn coloured fedora hat. His face was a roadmap of broken veins, a tale of a life spent in smoky bars with liquid breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. He was tall but lean with it and his clothes tended to hang from his bones these days.
He had lost a lot of weight lately, weight that he could ill afford to lose from his already slender frame. He knew that he should get to his nearest doctor, but he also knew that anything the quack would have to say wouldn’t be good news. In his mind, he had already accepted that there was something terminally wrong with him. He had quit a very heavy smoking habit around a year ago, but it still felt like he coughed up half a lung of sooty crap every morning. He wasn’t going to leave much behind in this world, save for a few awards from his dim and distant past and a fading reputation.
He had an ex-wife and a son that he never saw. He knew that it was too late to salvage his relationship with them, but he could at least leave them something of a more practical nature than happy memories. His bank account ran on a constantly extending overdraft but he had managed to finally snag a fish on the hook that would hopefully wipe out his debts and leave a little for his son.
It seemed like a lifetime since he had been back in Faircliff, but time had stood still as though waiting for his return. He had worked the police beat as a reporter in Faircliff for over 20 years. The vast majority of his time was spent writing up mainly minor crime. They had plenty of burglaries, with a smattering of drug issues and plenty of Friday night pub fights fuelled by kick out time. The Crucifier murders had suddenly shone a light on the town as the national media had descended like vultures once they were sure that it was worthy. Randall had been on the front line when the killings had started and, as such, his local knowledge had placed him in prime position. The salacious nature of the killings involving young girls being abducted and then arranged in crucifixion poses had seemed like it had been torn from the pages of a Hollywood movie script and the country had loved it. Randall had found that there was very little capable of penetrating the desensitised minds of the masses anymore, and the reality of the situation had been pushed aside as gawkers gathered in force.
He’d had plenty of drinking buddies on the force and most slipped him the inside scoop to beat out his national competitors. One of his prime informants had been Tom Holland, a man whose drinking habit even rivalled his own. It had been Tom that had first told him about the secret psychic working the case with Detective Inspector Meyers during one all-night bender. The big cop had downed glass after glass of whisky until his eyes became tiny red dots. Holland was choked up with anger about the influence of the woman on the case and saw her as a charlatan who was manipulating Meyers. Randall had been unable to verify the woman’s name or even her existence as Holland suddenly stopped taking his calls. But when Meyers finally brought down the Crucifier, there was a rumour that there had been a woman at the scene despite no mention of her in any official report.
Randall had taken his suspicions to his editor at The Globe, but had not found an ally, only mocking contempt at his proposal to write an exposé about the police using witchcraft to catch a killer. His career had taken a nosedive that day and he had quickly gone from living with a bottle, to living in it.
It had only been after Tom Holland’s funeral three months ago, when the big man had finally succumbed to a struggling heart, that Randall had received a journal in the post. The book had belonged to DI Meyers and apparently Holland had found it shortly after the detective’s death while bringing down the Crucifier. There had been a shaky hand-scrawled note with the journal from Holland that spoke briefly about his desire to expose the woman who’d gotten his partner killed: a woman whose involvement had been swept under the carpet by the powers that be - men in shiny brass-buttoned suits who had threatened Holland with cancelling his pension if he ever talked. Randall knew that Holland had a multitude of medical issues that were being handled privately at the police force’s expense and he didn’t blame the big cop for looking after himself first.
The journal had included many outrageous stories and statements that Randall thought had to be the concoction of a deeply unbalanced mind. It included cases that had been solved by a psychic’s supernatural abilities and condoned by a senior detective. He could easily understand just why the man’s superiors had been keen to hush up the woman’s involvement after the Crucifier case. If word ever got out, the police wo
uld be a laughing stock and every warrant served on the woman’s say so could potentially be overturned leading to several prisoners walking free. All of this was fascinating and Randall could smell a huge story and the undoubtedly bestselling book that would go with it.
Even though he only had the initials JP to go on in the journal, he knew that the psychic was female as Meyers made constant references to “she” and “her”. He had started to poke around the elderly community, as the tongues of the old tended to wag. Eventually, he had found a reputation connected to the surname Parkes. Apparently there had been a Delores Parkes who used to offer her services to the old folks homes up and down the coast giving comfort to the recently bereaved. A check down the Parkes family tree had led him to Jane Parkes: JP.
Having a name and a suspect was only a place to start and the woman had proved to be nothing if not careful. All he had been able to ascertain thus far was rumour and whispers, nothing that he could use to confront a police force determined to keep their dirty laundry hidden.
He had been observing Jane Parkes for the last two weeks now, day and night. The woman lived alone, had no visitors, and worked part-time at a pet shop. There were no midnight séances, no palms crossed with silver and no crystal balls. Whatever the woman was into, she either hid it well, or she no longer practised.
He had been watching that morning when the woman had positively exploded out of her cottage door, white as the proverbial ghost. He was starting to wonder if all of this was going to be a giant waste of time, but something had scared her badly and his gut told him that something was about to happen.
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Jane drove home after her shift with a sense of malaise sitting heavily on her shoulders. For just the briefest flash she had allowed herself a glimpse of a normal life - not marriage and kids, but just perhaps a date with a nice guy. It didn’t seem too much to ask for in this life, especially when she had at least done some good before her self-imposed exile.
Normally she enjoyed the drive home along the coast road. It was picturesque and peaceful, as churning white waves crashed onto sandy beaches. She loved the ocean as it was so vast and seemed to dwarf her problems.
Due to the summer temperature, she had the windows down and the salty air blew a cooling breeze onto her warm skin. The journey home took about 30 minutes but that could be extended to an hour if she took the scenic route, which she normally did. The long, winding road was deserted at this hour; the tourist traffic had long since made their way inland after a day roasting themselves under the hot sun. A smattering of early evening locals were taking advantage of the lull to reclaim their sands, for a short while at least. A few dogs barked and splashed in the surf, retrieving thrown objects by careless masters who kept repeating the error.
Jane pulled off the road into a designated parking area. The ground was rough and rocky but her 4x4 eased over the terrain. The vehicle had been the one luxury that she had allowed herself a couple of years ago. It was an expensive purchase, one that she felt uneasy spending so much money on, but it would probably be the last car that she would ever need to buy. The Land Rover Discovery had set her back a little over £60,000, but the thing was luxury and comfort wrapped in a tank’s shell.
The evening air was still hanging on to the heat of the day and she tied her hooded top around her waist as she exited the car. It was times like this that she wished she could find a dog that could overlook her peculiar scent; the company would certainly have been most welcome on her walks.
She headed down the narrow track towards the coast path which ringed the cliff top above the beach. From there she decided to head down to the sands for once. She took off her shoes as she hit the beach and squeezed her toes into the warm sand. It was a centering process that grounded her in the moment and made clear what was real. After her morning visitor, she needed a little solidity.
She walked down through the sand dunes and towards the breaking waves, feeling the cool water lapping around her ankles as she reached the water’s edge. She looked up and down the beach in both directions and found herself deserted. Normally she found the isolation pleasant and reassuring, but now she suddenly felt a small kernel of disquiet begin to swell. A shiver ran up her spine and she started to hurry back the way she’d come.
She was halfway back up the beach when she felt eyes watching her from somewhere close by. She whipped her head around, frantically searching for the culprit, but there was no one in sight. The green leaves atop the dunes blew in the wind, giving off an almost reptilian rustle, unnerving her further. From where she stood, anyone could be secreted amongst the large mounds of sand, observing her with dubious intent. She had worked hard to assure herself that she was no longer a victim. Hours spent in the gym, pushing her body beyond its endurance levels and sparring until her fists and face ached, had left her with the confidence that, on any normal day, she could handle anything and anyone, but this wasn’t a normal day.
She quickened her pace, ignoring the urge to sprint back to her car. Her feet sank into the soft dunes as she fought for purchase but she pushed harder. Suddenly, she realised that the sands were not just holding her up, they were sucking her down. The ground inexplicably started to soften further beneath her feet and the dry sand became liquid. Soon she was struggling to free herself from the quicksand that threatened to swallow her. Her feet disappeared swiftly, followed by her legs. The wet sand gripped her around the waist and she started to yell for help as she flapped her arms, desperately seeking to free herself. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered hearing that the best thing to do in quicksand was to relax and simply swim to the side, but her panicked mind wouldn’t obey. The deeper she sank, the harder she fought as though she could free herself by sheer will power alone, but soon the watery grave had risen above her head and the world turned black.
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Randall Zerneck watched the Parkes woman through the binoculars that he’d retrieved from his car for the occasion. He stared with open wonder as the woman writhed and rolled on the flat dry sand as though she was drowning. Eventually she went rigidly still and the small part of him that was still a decent human being wondered if he should help, but the other 99% of him just watched on with interest. He was very glad that he still had his gut, which had told him to not give up on Jane Parkes just yet; things were definitely on the move.
He put aside the binoculars and snatched up his digital camera. Even when he’d still been on the full-time staff at The Globe, it had been a long time since the paper had bothered to assign him a photographer and he’d had to get proficient in taking his own snaps. Now that he was freelance, he had to be both interviewer and photographer.
He snapped off a few shots and cursed himself for waiting until Parkes had lain still. He needed to have captured her in the throes of whatever fit she had been pitching. Now she looked like she might be asleep or passed out. He took the opportunity to move a little closer. He had no idea what he might see and for the first time he wondered if she had spotted him. Maybe he was conned; maybe she knew that he was following her and was putting on a show. He felt a cold stab of anger at her deception and for taking him for a fool. He didn’t know how, or even if, she had caught wind of him, but he was sure that he was watching the sort of performance that had fooled DI Meyers back in the day.
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Jane could see all of the familiar signs of a vision, and yet it all felt alien to her. The pendulum scythe swung through the air until her world was gone and only the Shadow World existed again. She tried to close her mind and resurrect the barricades against the invasion, but the odd thing was that she was sure they were still firmly in place.
The sepia tones that had swallowed her were identical to every vision she had ever had, and yet they were different. She started to examine her surroundings more carefully when it suddenly dawned on her that she wasn’t looking with her own eyes. It was a dizzying realisation and it took her a few moments to accept. She was a passenger
here - she wasn’t the one driving.
The first thing that she tried to establish was the timeframe here. Was it the past or present, or even the future? Her ability had primarily been to see the past, but she knew that she really had no comprehension of her limits. There were no text books here, no “Psychics for Dummies”.
She could see what was happening as someone who felt inherently masculine walked forwards with a nervous excitement pounding hard in their veins. He moved like a jungle cat, stealth and power coupled with grace and agility; he was a predator. His hands felt sweaty to her and his chest panted with shallow controlled breaths. The most alien feeling was that of his erection that became hers. It was a giddying cascade of maleness, an intoxicating musk that was almost overwhelming.
Together they stalked their prey and tracked her scent through the long tall grass. His head was firmly fixed forwards and all she could do was to try and peer out of the corners of his eyes for some sense of geography. From her fixed vantage point she couldn’t see any recognisable landmarks, only a thicket of trees and undergrowth. She was self-trained, and during her work with DI Meyers she had become accustomed to identifying her surroundings, looking for telltale signs of where she was and who the perpetrator was. Once, she had helped to catch a rapist by seeing a prescription label on a victims’ bottle of pills. But then she had been the one in control. It had been her eyes and her world; now, she was only along for the ride.
The man - she was sure that it was a man now - suddenly quickened his pace and Jane felt his excitement grow in his head and in his pants. Up ahead, someone was walking alone and vulnerable - someone female and juicily young. There was a heavenly glow surrounding the woman, like the glow of a halo. Radiant light beamed forward, blinding them and scorching the earth around them.
Jane’s own mind rebelled at the sick thoughts that she was sharing, but she felt his stimulation and pleasure which overwhelmed her own disgust.