Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  “Of course I do. But you’re not exactly…”

  “Do you know what it feels like to pray to God, night after night, for him to give you a family? And when he finally gets off his fat ass to give you one, he lets your girlfriend give birth to a stillborn. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To walk into your bedroom, only to find the only woman you truly loved hanging from the ceiling.” He walked up to her. “I deserve this baby.” He pointed at Christina’s lifeless body still tied to the bed. “It was her fault. She let this happen. We did everything she told us to do. Every-fucking-thing! I kept her safe inside for months. Protected her from the outside world. Protected our baby from harm. We trusted her! So why should she get a family and not me?”

  “Listen to yourself. Listen how insane you sound. How could it be her fault? She was just a midwife. She didn’t kill your baby. And she didn’t kill Sophie. No one did. It just happened.”

  Peter began to weep. “I never meant for her to die. I only wanted to take back what was rightfully mine. I was going to let her go once Jake was born. I swear to God.”

  Jake, Richard heard someone say from behind him. That’s not his name. His name is Dean. Dean Long.

  Richard turned to see who had said it. There was no one there.

  “I have to get out of here,” the woman said, making gagging noises. “I can’t take much more of that smell.” She barged past Peter.

  “Where are you going?” Peter shouted, as she stormed out of the bedroom.

  “I have to leave!”

  He followed her, slamming the door behind him. “Wait! Come back!”

  Richard watched from the far corner of the living room as Peter and the woman—who he was now certain was his sister—sat stiffly on the couch. Peter had the baby in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth.

  “What are you going to do?” Peter asked.

  She snapped out of her trance and turned to him, grimacing hard. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, are you going to go to the police?”

  She sighed. “That’s what I should do.”

  “Then what’s stopping you?”

  “What do you think’s stopping me?”

  He smiled tightly and kissed the baby on the forehead. “What are we gonna do, then?”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” she snapped.

  He rubbed his face with his hand. “All right—me then. What am I gonna do?”

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs, her head facing the floor as if she were about to vomit. “You have to leave this house. For good.” She tilted her head up at the ceiling, with a look of deep disgust. “And you have to get rid of the evidence.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “You and the baby will have to drive to St. Clears and stay in Granddad’s old farm.”

  He nodded, clearly relieved. “All right. And what about the body?”

  Closing her eyes, she exhaled loudly in revolt. “You’ll have to take her with you and bury her somewhere. Or use granddad’s old furnace.” She shook her head bitterly. “Do whatever you have to do. But you can’t come back here. Not ever.”

  “What about her car? It’s still parked in the garage.”

  Sitting up straight, she turned to the window. “You’ll have to take it with you. And then find somewhere to dump it.”

  He nodded and then stood. “Thanks.”

  Shaking her head again, she failed to make eye contact. “Don’t thank me. I’ll never forgive you or understand what you’ve done here. But you’re still my brother. And it’s my job to look out for you. But don’t expect me to help you any more. From now on you’re on your own, Pete. This is where my part in this ends. Do you understand me? This is it.”

  He nodded again. “Yes. Let me put Jake to bed and I’ll make a start.”

  She leaned back on the sofa, groaning loudly. “Okay.”

  Richard was looking down at Dean as he slept peacefully in his cot. He had blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair. He was the prettiest baby he had ever seen. So calm and happy—oblivious to the evil that surrounded him. He felt sick.

  No more. Take me home. Please, God…

  Then suddenly Peter reached into the cot, carefully pulled the baby out, and headed downstairs. Richard followed closely, weeping loudly as they reached the backdoor.

  Get back here, you bastard! Richard screamed. They crossed the pitch-black garden, walking toward the garage. He’s not yours! Bring him back! Do you hear me? Bring him back right now!

  But no one was listening.

  As he opened the door, Richard saw Christina’s car parked inside, the passenger door and trunk wide open. He carried the sleeping baby over to the open door and fastened him into a baby seat, shutting the door when he was finished.

  Lying against the wall, wrapped in a white sheet, was Christina’s body. Her face was yellow with dried sores at the sides of her mouth, and her eyes were gray as concrete. Peter secured the bottom half of the body and began to drag her toward the trunk of the car.

  Richard followed her contorted expression as she disappeared into the car.

  Closing the trunk, Peter pushed a button on his key ring and the garage door noisily opened. He climbed into the car and drove out. And was gone.

  Richard suddenly found himself sitting at the foot of the stairs. He scanned the dead silent hallway. This was not his house. It may have looked the same, but was too tainted with sadness and pain to feel like home. And then he cried—harder than he had ever cried before.

  I’ll find you, Dean, Richard heard a voice call out. I’ll never forget you.Not ever.

  He can’t take my memories away…

  Chapter 13

  Day 13: Sunday

  Nicky was standing over him, holding the TV remote control. “Rich?” she asked, a concerned tone in her voice. “What are you doing down here?” Sitting on the couch, Richard snapped out of his trance, completely disoriented. He had never felt so lethargic and strange; like he was slipping in and out of some hallucinogenic state. Was Nicky really there with him in the living room, or was she just a part of Christina’s hold over him?

  He couldn’t be sure.

  Rubbing his eyes and face, he scanned the room, ignoring Nicky’s bafflement, looking for signs of Christina and Peter. There were none. Had he dreamed it all? Or was this the contact Karen had spoken of?

  Taking a few seconds to fully come to, he opened his mouth to tell her of the night he had just experienced, but then held back, wondering whether or not it was such a good idea. The last thing he wanted to do was to scare her or cause another argument, especially after seeing Christina in such a way. So instead he simply said, “I love you, Nic. You know that, don’t you? I love you more than anything.”

  Smiling, she sat beside him, putting the remote control down on the arm of the couch. “Of course I know. And I love you too. What’s brought—” She broke off her sentence when she looked down at his trembling hands. “You’re shaking—what’s wrong?” Then she looked at his face. “And you’re as white as a sheet.”

  He glanced down at his quivering hands. “It’s nothing. Just had a bad dream,” he said, unconvincingly. “Did you sleep okay?”

  Frowning at his blatant attempt to move the focus to her, she grasped his hands. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He forced a painful smile. “Never better.”

  “Are you ill or something? You seem really strange.”

  “Everything’s fine. Just had a lousy night, that’s all.”

  Unconvinced, she placed her palm over his forehead. “Well, you haven’t got a temperature, but…”

  He moved his head away from her hand. “See, I told you I was fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Well, I am worried about you,” she said, firmly. “You’re acting really odd.”

  Holding her hands again, he forced another smile. “Look, I just had a nightmare, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. Honestly.”

 
; Suspiciously scowling, she sat back. “A nightmare about what?”

  “I dreamed that you left me,” he told her perkily, as if getting over his disorientation. “You were shacked up with some other guy. It was horrible.”

  Clearly amused and relieved at the same time, she pulled him closer and kissed his cheek. “Oh, that is horrible. And what did you do in the dream? Did you kick his ass?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t remember now. But it was so real.”

  Gently releasing from his hold, she changed positions on the couch, resting her legs on his lap. “Well, maybe I am leaving you,” she said, jokingly. “And maybe you’re psychic.”

  He grinned, happy in the knowledge that she had bought his story. “I hope not.”

  “Why did you come down here in the first place? Couldn’t sleep?”

  Stroking her legs over her pink pajama bottoms, he nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “There’s no need to come down here. I don’t mind. You know I can sleep through anything.”

  “It’s not just that. Down here I can fall asleep to the TV. I was just tossing and turning for hours up there.”

  “Worried about going back to work?”

  He shrugged again. “No—well, maybe a little. Just hope that my body clock goes back to the way it was. I hate this. I hate not sleeping properly.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she said, reaching for the remote control behind her, and switching the TV back on. “Not long now. You’ll be back in on Tuesday. Just take it easy for the next two days. Enjoy them while you can.”

  Relieved that her attention was now on some cooking show, he thought of Christina again. Did everything I see really happen? he wondered. Or am I losing it?

  But he knew that there was a way to prove it once and for all. He had to find out if Peter Young’s girlfriend was actually called Sophie, and whether or not their baby did die at birth. And if there really was a farmhouse owned by the Young family in St. Clears.

  Where the hell is St. Clears? he asked himself. I’ve never even heard of it. He turned to Nicky. “Do you know where St. Clears is?”

  She nodded, not looking at him, too engrossed in her show. “It’s in Wales. Near Carmarthen. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason—just saw a show yesterday about it.” She didn’t delve any deeper.

  He wondered where he could find a list of farms in the Carmarthen area. The Yellow Pages, he thought, excitedly. His excitement quickly deflated when he realized that his copy would never include Wales.

  The library. They’re bound to have stacks of regional Yellow Pages. But it was Sunday, and the library would surely be closed.

  The Internet!

  But for that he knew he had to make a stand—so he asked, “Babe, can I have my laptop back?”

  She turned to him, grinning. “Well, I’m not really sure you’re ready for it yet,” she said, playfully. “But seeing as there’s only two days left, I suppose it’s all right.”

  Smiling eagerly, he lifted her legs off his lap and got up from the couch. “Thanks, babe. Where’d you hide it? Please tell me it’s in the house.”

  She nodded, teasingly, delaying revealing its whereabouts. “I bet you’ve already searched the house for it, haven’t you?”

  “Of course I have. But it’s nowhere. I’ve looked.”

  “You can’t have looked that hard then.”

  “Come on, tell me where it is.”

  She hesitated, clearly wanting to savor his desperation. “It’s in my clothes drawer.”

  Grimacing in disbelief, he took a step back. “Are you serious?”

  Nodding, she said, “Yep. Under my jeans.”

  He sighed loudly. “I can’t believe it. I looked everywhere.”

  “Well, you can’t have looked everywhere, otherwise you would have found it, wouldn’t you?”

  Shaking his head in amazement, he left the living room, leaving Nicky smirking on the couch.

  After pulling out the laptop and modem from Nicky’s drawer, Richard set it back up in the office. A sudden feeling of control filled his entire body when the Internet powered up. He was no longer a stranger to the rest of the world. His world of computers and communication had returned. Two weeks had seemed like a lifetime to him.

  Using a search engine, he entered the names ‘Peter Young’ and ‘Sophie’, followed by the words ‘Bristol, still born and suicide’.

  Nothing came up.

  Frustrated, he tried again, using various different combinations.

  Still nothing came up, prompting him to doubt whether his experience was real at all.

  It was real, he reassured himself. And so he tried again.

  Unsuccessful, he decided to focus on the farmhouse. He entered ‘St. Clears’, followed by ‘Young’. A list of farms popped up on the screen. Scrolling down, he saw that there was in fact one farm owned by an S. Young. He couldn’t quite believe it. But was it simply an amazing coincidence? Or was it the real thing? Had Christina Long given him all the information he needed to find her baby? He shook his head in astonishment.

  Sitting back on his chair, he stared at the phone number attached to the farmhouse. Maybe I should call just to see who answers, he thought. But what if Peter answers? What then? He sighed loudly. I’ll just hang up. No, I can’t do that—what if it rattles him and he makes a run for it? No, he won’t—it’s been nearly a year. He’s probably calmed down by now.

  Nervously, he picked up the phone from the computer desk. Sighing again, he entered the phone number. His heart raced as his finger hovered over the green ‘call’ button. He could feel a bead of sweat run down the side of his face. What’s wrong with me? he thought. It’s only a phone call.

  “Are you going to be long on the phone?” Nicky asked from the doorway, causing him to drop the phone in fright.

  “Bloody hell, Nic,” he yelled. “You scared the life out of me.”

  Sniggering, she reached down and picked the phone up from the floor. “You’re such a wimp, Rich.”

  “What do you want?” he said, abruptly.

  “Don’t be like that. I only asked you a question.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap—I just had a fright, that’s all.” He took the phone from her. “Can you give me five minutes? I won’t be long.”

  She nodded and then left, clearly a little disgruntled.

  Shoving the door shut with his foot, he unwillingly pushed the ‘call’ button and held it to his ear. The wait for the call to go through was excruciating. But then, to his relief, the phone gave off a dead-tone, indicating that the phone number had been disconnected. “Thank God for that,” he said under his breath. He then opened the door and called out to Nicky, “You can use the phone now, I’m finished!”

  “Thanks!” she shouted up from downstairs.

  Back to the drawing board, he thought as he ran a hand through his hair.

  Pulling out a pen from a drawer, he proceeded to jot down the address of the farmhouse on a Post-it note. He slipped the note into his pocket and left the office.

  Richard was sitting on the couch, deep in thought. Nicky had her legs over his lap again, still chatting on the phone with one of her friends.

  The idea of driving to St. Clears constantly popped up in his conscience. How could he ignore this? Christina had clearly revealed what she wanted of him, what she longed for. And now he, Richard Gardener, had both the power and knowledge to help her. He had to at least go to the police and tell them what he knew, tell them about the missing baby. But how could he? How on earth could he explain to them how he came across the information without implicating himself, or seeming psychotic?

  Stroking Nicky’s leg, he glanced at her. He smiled tightly to see her so happy, so carefree. A million miles away from the torment Christina had endured—still endured. He had to at least visit the farmhouse, just to see for himself. No heroics. No contact. Simply to gather enough information to be able to go the police with something solid, something believable. If
the baby and Peter were there, at the house, then there would no longer be any doubt of Richard’s sanity, no coincidences. He would be certain. And if he were able to somehow help take back the baby, then Christina Long would surely leave his house for good.

  The prospect made him beam.

  Nodding, as if convinced, he gently pushed Nicky’s legs off his lap and stood.

  “Hang on for a sec, Deb,” she said into the phone, then moved it away from her ear, redirecting her attention to Richard. “If you’re going to the kitchen, will you get me a cranberry juice?”

  “Yeah, no prob. Do you mind if I pop out for a few hours?”

  Giving him a look of confusion, she asked, “To where?”

  “Just over to Neil’s house in town. He’s back from Oz. Haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “Okay. But don’t be too long, I thought we could do something tonight.”

  “I won’t.” He started for the door. “Just a few hours.”

  In the kitchen, he prepared the cranberry juice, all the while trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming at him to stay here with Nicky, to avoid St. Clears. But he had to. And looking at the dreaded chair, he had to do it now if he was ever going to take back his house.

  He re-entered the living room with the drink. Nicky was still chatting with her friend, so he just quietly handed it to her, kissed her forehead, and gave a subtle wave goodbye. She returned the wave and went back to her phone call, unaware of what her husband was really planning to do.

  After slipping on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, he stepped outside the house. He could feel the hot sun against his face, blinding him, forcing him to shelter his eyes with his palm. Climbing into his car, he quickly felt the heat that had radiated through the windows, so pushed the button for the air conditioning.

  Taking out the Post-it note from his pocket, he entered the address into his GPS and set off down the street—at the same time wondering what the hell he was doing.

  It had taken him almost three hours to get to St. Clears, which meant he would be gone for at least six to seven hours in total. Nicky’s going to kill me, he warned himself. He thought about calling her, letting her know that he was all right—but how could he? He would have to lie again, make up some story about why he was so delayed. And he was sick of lying to her, sick of acting like an asshole. He had to just finish this and get home.