Third Child

by Kate Mitchell

  ‘Yes, sure.’ And her arm was tugged hard as he led her away.

  Amazing how fear can keep a person alert as danger makes one hang on to find out what’s going to happen next. And now she was shaking, fear had given her that.

  ‘Taxi,’ she heard him call out on her behalf. ‘One has just stopped; I’ll help you to get to the car. A bit of luck for a change. Now, I’m going to walk you across the road. You’ll be okay. I’ll just open the door for you and help you in.’

  She found strong arms taking her and pushing her into the car. He was being kind to her as if he knew what was happening, it was as if he had guessed that she had nearly fainted.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ he repeated reassuringly.

  He was being very kind, but why was she afraid of him? This was another reaction.

  It was good to sit down and give in to the feeling. She was starting to sweat. He must be able to see what was happening to her.

  ‘Where are you going?’ it was a natural question to ask from someone who stayed to assist.

  But it was the quality of his voice and how close he was leaning inside the taxi, so near, so intimate. ‘I’ll tell the cab driver where you’re going?’

  ‘I want to go to…’ and then she stopped. It was something about his voice that whispered he was too eager. Telling him was going to be a big mistake.

  ‘To the Boulevard hotel. I’m to meet a friend for a meal.’

  ‘But the hotel is just up the corner there, it’s only five minutes’ walk. You could walk it, you know. Come on, I’ll walk with you.’

  No, a scream rang out in her head, but this was reduced by its power to sense and explanation. ‘That’s very kind of you. I think I’ll take the cab. I’ll probably be late if I don’t take it.’

  ‘I tell you what, why don’t I get into the cab with you and make sure you get there okay?’

  ‘No—no, please I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done,’ fear was beginning to clear the colors away from her eyes? His face was starting to emerge in front of her pushed away by the lucidity of reason. ‘I’m meeting a girlfriend and if she saw me with a man, she would tell my boyfriend about it. And I don’t want to lose him.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he was moving out of her space. ‘Some friend though, if she would do the dirty on you like that?’

  He was, she could now see about five foot eight or nine, square shoulders and he wore a hat that looked a little like a deerstalker. Underneath his hat, his hair was dark brown, and it was very thick, bushy even though it was flecked with gray. She judged that he must be in his early forties and strong. He walked with purpose to the other side of the cab and gave the address which she had given him.

  As the cab moved off, he was watching her. His eyes which had first appeared to be friendly were thoughtful as if he was making notes on her. And while he watched her as the car sped away, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  5

  It was a coincidence, or was it a coincidence? Be honest with yourself Cecelia. You’re not stupid. Think this one through. Was it just by chance that Angelina told you about the fertility clinic and what it was up to and then three days later, she’s dead? I don’t think so. I think these sorts of things happen and that people don’t choose to believe it, because the whole thing seems too far-fetched.

  People don’t want to believe because it ruins their rose-tinted world and places them in danger if they get involved. It’s hard work to pursue the path of righteousness. But when the world is not okay, injustice forms a scab.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind about the hotel,’ Cecelia leaned forward to the cab driver as they neared the white palace. ‘I’ve texted my friend and told her I want to cancel. Can you take me home instead?’

  The thoughts which sprang so quickly and unhealthily followed on an unsettled keel, flooding her sense of self with its wants.

  There goes my story, forget it. Great. And being rich, what a joke. Angelina would have to be killed now. Just my luck; it always happens to me. This lovely woman who had taken the risk by trusting Cecelia was now dead and gone. Selfish that’s what she was. Why hadn’t she taken care of herself—and for goodness’ sake, what was she doing going to a bus stop when she was the type of person who either had a flash car or rode everywhere in a taxi? Why? There were so many whys.

  Now, the only thing Cecelia could think of was she had lost her chance in this vain seeking and image demanding world. Forgotten and buried was the child’s dismembered and horribly mutilated body whose entire existence for a few seconds was to live as a person outside of the womb. If Cecelia couldn’t write about it, then it wasn’t real.

  Paying for the cab, another expense, which made her angry that she had taken this extravagant way home. The cab driver didn’t receive a tip.

  ‘Hi Cecelia,’ it was one of the other tenants, Mrs. Rudge just leaving the building. ‘You’re a dark horse not telling anyone you had a boyfriend.’

  Coming back to reality with a crash. Cecelia tried not to mind, climbing the steps up to her apartment, hating this community of shared rentals where everyone was interested in you and your life. Whatever you did with yourself behind the door they considered it their right to know, just because you lived in the same building as them. Cecelia didn’t speak to any of her neighbors unless she had to. The occasional hi or nice day was the passing of shadows, but she even resented these mandatory exchanges. Yet these busybodies still managed to find out enough about her without her participation.

  It was on her lips to say she didn’t have a boyfriend when Cecelia stopped and instead of denouncing this gossip thought it was important enough to take an interest.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Quite nice,’ Mrs. Rudge recalled the image of the stranger, the one who appeared out of nowhere and was found stalking in Cecelia’s life. ‘I caught him outside your flat. I think I might have spooked him, I was wearing my house slippers, they’re kinder to my feet. Anyway, I took him by surprise.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘No, he just said that he was your boyfriend and asked when you would be home?’

  ‘Did he say my name?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think so, yes, he did, I’m sure he did. He said, “do you know when Cecelia will be home?” or something like that.’

  ‘Just Cecelia, nothing more? He didn’t say my last name by any chance?’

  ‘No,’ now Mrs. Rudge was confused, stunned. ‘Why would he call you by your last name when he’s your boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, it’s the type of joke we play on one another. We both like to pretend we’re hard to get. He pretends that he might be going out with someone else next week, but I refuse to play his silly games.’

  ‘Oh,’ frowned Mrs. Rudge. ‘If that’s the sort of thing you two like to do.’

  ‘Tell me, just for fun, what was he wearing?’

  ‘A gray jacket and blue colored pair of pants, or were they brown?’

  ‘Oh, Tony never wears blue pants. It’s probably one of his friends. He’s probably in on the gag.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Mrs. Rudge was frowning, she was beginning to walk off.

  ‘Thanks for telling me,’ Cecelia placed the key into the lock fumbling to get in.

  With the door to her back, Cecelia leaned up against it, feeling the heat of fear running hot through her body and breathing heavily.

  Yes, she huffed, this was just another of these coincidences, she gets a boyfriend straight after Angelina’s death. Now her breath was coming quick and heavy and not easy to catch. Damn it, was she going to have a panic attack? No, it was not going to happen. But the floor was moving away from her and the walls were running in towards her. Her world had been impinged with ungovernable laws forbidding her to live.

  Deep breaths, breathing in and then out, she had to take control of herself through her mind. Think about walking through a field in summer with tall golden wheat, blistering heavy with seeds full of fertility and about
to burst and give out. In the background, birds sang while humming and the winged butterflies stop to land their gorgeous colors blush.

  Now gradually she was calming down.

  Angelina’s death happened because of righteous betrayal, they must have known about Angelina, which means they could know about me. This horrifying thought gained ground when Cecelia realized that by listening to Angelina’s story, she also was now implicated. Just by listening–or was it just by listening and then by recording she was going to suffer the same fate?

  Yet, who would believe this story? There was a tolerance level where such information like this would shock people into denial. Would she believe a story where there was no evidence but only hearsay if someone fed her with this information? It depended on who the source was.

  But she could write a story—a fictional story for the reader to judge for themselves. Often real stories are woven into fantasy, it’s one way of passing across information. Facts thrown in one’s face can also be thrown away. It’s not real, it couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be true, this person must have an axe to grind, fake news.

  It’s the norm to have an abortion when it is unwanted—already there are too many people populating the world for the earth to sustain them, everyone with open mouths waiting to be fed. One day, this beautiful small world will give out. We are already looking for other planets to populate. Religious values are not about being the best person you can be, but the God-given right to continue procreating.

  And then for good timing, the phone rang. The voice of reality had demanded the right to enter.

  ‘Hello,’ after ten seconds, Cecelia, against her will had picked up the receiver.

  ‘Is that you Joan?’ it was a man’s voice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You aren’t Joan?’

  ‘No, you have the wrong number.’

  ‘Are you certain about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I rang double seven, three, two, one, eight, eight.’

  It was her number.

  ‘You have the wrong number,’ she repeated slowly emphasizing each word deliberately.

  ‘I do? Who are you?’

  ‘I’m…’ she was just about to give her name when she stopped. This was not a wrong caller. This was someone who knew who she was and where she lived and now knew that she was at home. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. I hope you find the person you are looking for. And now I’ve got to go, my husband has just come home.’ She hung up.

  Is it wise to panic believing that someone is after you with the intent of disposing of you? If they are then it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks about the way you look or behave while making your escape. If you are proven wrong and what is happening to you is all in your head, then what harm has been done? You are still alive. But if you are proven right, and people have laughed at you for acting like the fool they always thought you were, it still doesn’t matter. To act and stay alive was Cecelia’s thought as she frantically packed her cases.

  Get out of here. Packing everything she could, it didn’t matter if she had to leave what she couldn’t take.

  Never did she find her life to be more precious than it was now. Every day since she could remember, she had mocked her life and existence and the pointless reason she was still living. What did it matter to others if she was alive or not? It didn’t matter to them, but it certainly mattered to her. And what a shock it was to find this out. She almost laughed at this while she was packing. She wanted to carry on living.

  Carry on living, yes, but where was she to go? Suddenly, this was such a stupid question. Cecelia always planned her life writing down every step she would take. Nothing could be left to chance; this was not her style. If she was to start planning this next step on how to get away, she would still be here when the murderer arrived. That’s if there was someone out there wanting to kill her. If this was a coincidence… chances are…

  Running away with a suitcase in each hand, and a bag over her shoulder, Cecelia flew out of the apartment building as if she was on fire. Running, running along the pavement, her hair flying behind her, her throat husky with laughter, it was like she was running away from herself and everything that stood as her life.

  No one was going to catch her as long as she kept on running.

  People in the late afternoon laden with shopping and chatting to each other had become barriers in Cecelia’s path. They had become a great human obstacle course as Cecelia frantically weaved between them. Freedom, she was running to freedom and for the future ahead of her.

  But her limbs were heavy, she couldn’t run forever. Where was her energy? What had happened to her power? While the organs which were keeping her alive, heart and lung were pounding for her to stop. Her arms had become heavy as if they had been tricked and twisted and had fallen off. What happened to the fear which had always kept her alive?

  Again, she called attention to herself by stopping and dropping her baggage. Legs were trying to avoid walking into her. Annoyance and frustration that she had left her presence in front of their lives.

  ‘Are you okay dear?’ another woman had thought her kindness was to stop and help. ‘Are you pregnant?’

  Such a strange thing to ask.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ snapped Cecelia insulted that anyone should suppose that.

  ‘Shall I help you carry one of your cases to where you’re going? Where are you going?’

  It was none of her business. Her compassion had become an attack. Even kindness had become a threat. Grabbing her cases, Cecelia stood up turning her back on the face of decency and with a temper brought to her outrage struggled off.

  This had become a world that was out to get her.

  And then she stopped, her heart causing her to panic. Money, did she remember to bring her purse? Did she take it out from under her pillow where she slept with it? It was everything she had. Searching her memory for those conscious efforts of retrieving it from under her pillow produced nothing.

  Oh, peace now. Trust, trust yourself that you have taken it. Don’t go on that root again into questioning the self with unrelenting doubt. Believe you have collected it. Believe and go ahead with your life.

  Her purse, she remembered now was in her pocket. She saw her hand retrieving it to put it into her case, but then she hesitated, from the case to her pocket to keep it close by her side where it would be safer. A quick nod of irony and then the smile. She was safe.

  ‘Do you know where there is a good hotel around her, one that is not too expensive, but clean,’ Cecelia had seen the local library, they were the station of information.

  Thank goodness for the Internet, the finder of information when you needed something. There was a bed-and-breakfast place called the Regent. Forty dollars a night with breakfast included and of course, Wi-Fi and the obligatory shower.

  In a printout, the librarian assistant gave Cecelia the directions.

  Strange to be somewhere else, to find you have another bed and that there were people about who don’t know you, who don’t care what you do or where you come from just as long as you pay. But the one most important fact which stood up amongst all others and that was, she was safe. No one knew where she was and couldn’t get at her. But what was she going to do now? Would she have to stay in hiding forever? No, there was no way she could do that. They would find her as soon as she ran out of money. But, at least for now, she was safe.

  At the reception, Cecelia requested an evening meal. At ten dollars, it was relatively cheap. And now that she had showered and unpacked only what was necessary, she went downstairs for something to eat.

  There was a surprisingly nice atmosphere here. Most of the people who bed-and-breakfasted here had gone home for the weekend. The weekend crowd had settled in for their vacation, planning what they were going to do, go to the theater and perhaps see the sites. There was money rolling around to have that good time.

  Good manners get you noticed which was the reason why Cecelia didn�
��t speak but kept to herself and observed the rules of everyone else. There were six small tables dressed with white tablecloths adjoined with four seats around them. The guests took their places at each table as if they had known each other for years. With glasses in their hands, they carried on with their small talk. The dining room was bathed in humming and cooing noises, the sound which says that everyone is getting on.

  And now that they were all seated, it was time for Cecelia to take her place amongst them. There was a table which was still empty, this was the one she was heading for. This weekend the bed-and-breakfast hosted twenty-one guests including herself.

  What a relief to have a table to herself now wondering what the meal would be. Whatever it was, she was going to eat it, money couldn’t be thrown away. Whatever the food was Cecelia hoped that it wouldn’t be pasta, she hated it. But chances are it would be considering it was an inexpensive ingredient which tidied away the hunger.

  But no, it was a roast chicken dinner. It had been a while since she had this. Quite a bit of food on the plate as well. A generous helping of chicken, roast and boiled potatoes, carrots, peas, and Brussel sprouts and there was a gravy boat left on the table to help oneself.

  Cecelia overheard that there was going to be apple pie and custard for the pudding. This was a treat that poured balm on the pocket, she always resented paying out too much on herself.

  ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ a man overshadowed her. ‘I’ve just booked in here, I thought I would be too late for dinner. Do you mind?’

  Looking beside her to see where he could sit or if she had a good reason to say that he couldn’t be her neighbor, she turned her attention to the friendly-faced man looking down at her.

  ‘Just tell me that you are staying here incognito and I’ll take the hint.’