Déjà Vu

by Stephen Edger

  DÉJÀ VU

  Stephen Edger

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  THE END

  Coming 31 January 2020 | SNAPSHOT

  A MESSAGE FROM STEPHEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ALSO BY STEPHEN EDGER

  Copyright Notice

  ONE

  The swastika tattoo glistened on the sweaty hand, as the bony finger tensed on the trigger. It was warm – too warm – for the time of year, and with the usual steady breeze absent, everyone was feeling it. Shirts which had been pristine first thing were now soaked through and clinging to the skin. And it didn’t appear that the climate would be softening any time soon, as reports of the year’s first heat wave continued to dominate the headlines.

  The tattooed hand disappeared from the screen, leaving just the splintered panel of wood in view.

  ‘We’ve lost sight of the target,’ one of the officers huddled around the tiny monitor yelled.

  The image on the screen blurred and sharpened as the auto focus kicked in, searching for any sight of the swastika or any of the other tattoos covering the skin and bone frame of the suspect who had barricaded himself inside the small two bedroom mid-terrace. A variety of furniture had been pressed up against the downstairs doors and windows to block the view inside. The camera was currently trained on the main set of windows – the living room by all accounts – where a wooden dining table had been unnaturally balanced. But such was the shoddy job undertaken that a small gap between the long edge of the table and the mould-speckled window frame remained. And it was this gap that was their only confirmation that the hostage was still alive.

  The Armed Response leader stepped away from his position in the huddle and relayed the latest status update to Gold Command –Chief Superintendent Tillman – who was safely tucked away in the comfort of her office back at Headquarters. The gap left in the huddle presented DS Jake Knight with his first glimpse of the window.

  ‘I don’t know why we don’t just kick the door in and apprehend him,’ DC Annie Lockwood uttered to him under her breath.

  ‘Because he isn’t alone, and because he has the barrel of a gun pressed against his hostage’s forehead,’ Jake replied, not that he disagreed with her sentiment.

  ‘But she’s his girlfriend,’ Annie countered. ‘He’s got as much intention of killing her as I have of clocking off early.’

  Jake allowed a thin smile to break out as he considered his protégé: twenty-four, her mousy-brown hair cut short in a bob, and the high cheek bones which hid the pit-bull attitude she frequently displayed; God help the potential boyfriend who got on the wrong side of her temper.

  ‘We’ve been here four hours already,’ she continued, the frustration showing as the skin tightened around her eyes. ‘If we’d gone in straight away he’d be in custody and we could be interviewing him, instead of this...shit.’

  She was right, Jake knew, Logan McGregor had absolutely no intention of killing his girlfriend and business partner, but it wasn’t a risk Gold Command was prepared to take. The last thing Tillman needed was more headlines questioning her failure to better handle the growing drug problem in the city.

  ‘They know what they’re doing,’ Jake said, raising the plastic bottle of mineral water to his lips. ‘If you want to go and get a bite to eat, that’s fine. I’ll call if anything changes here.’

  She didn’t answer, but he already knew she wouldn’t leave her spot at his side for something as uninspired as a sandwich. It was the reason he enjoyed working alongside her: he saw a lot of his own youthful bullheadedness in her. He had once been young and impetuous, but he never would have made it to fifteen years in the force had he not been encouraged to curb such tendencies. And so he felt duty-bound to offer Annie Lockwood the same pastoral guidance he’d received. She’d learn soon enough that the rules were there to protect them as much as the criminals.

  The signed warrant was poking out of the inside pocket of Jake’s jacket, which was crumpled on the seat inside the car they were leaning against. That had been the first item of apparel he had dispensed with, and it wouldn’t be long until his tie joined the jacket. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolled up his sleeves, holding the bottle in his mouth as he did.

  ‘A tenner says he’s still not out by four,’ Annie said.

  Jake glanced down at his watch. ‘It’s only midday; you sure you want to make that bet? Seems like you’ll be throwing away your money.’

  ‘All right, twenty quid says he won’t be out by three.’ She offered him her hand to shake.

  Jake pressed his skin against hers and made the bet, though he had no intention of collecting when McGregor was led from the building in the next hour or so. In his periphery he’d already observed the Armed Response leader ordering his team to check their weapons, a good sign that they were planning to penetrate the building shortly. He could have passed this information on to Annie, but he didn’t want to get her hopes up unnecessarily.

  ‘He’s shouting something,’ the officer closest to the screen called out from the Armed Response van, which was the temporary command post for all at the scene. But parked some thirty feet from the property it was impossible to hear exactly what McGregor was slurring through the tiny gap by the window frame.

  The Armed Response leader picked up the phone inside the van and tried dialling the landline inside the property, but once again the attempt was in vain as the call went unanswered. ‘We need someone to get closer to the property,’ he indicated, nodding at one Kevlar-clad member, who jumped from the back of the van and made his way, assault rifle primed, towards the barricaded property.

  The approaching officer relayed his position and McGregor’s message through the van’s internal speaker for those in the vicinity to hear. Jake listened, but instinct told him McGregor was just stalling for time.

  Today was supposed to be the culmination of a six month investigation into Logan McGregor’s activities. Months spent interviewing witnesses, undertaking surveillance on McG
regor and his known associates, infiltrating the network, and slowly building their case. It had to be watertight if the charges were to stick, so that the defending barrister McGregor had on retainer wouldn’t be able to pick it to pieces in court.

  But what had started with an arrest warrant being signed off by a local magistrate at the crack of dawn had swiftly gone downhill when McGregor had heard them coming, and fired wildly at the door as Jake and Annie had approached. Diving for cover, they had called it in, and as backup had arrived they had done their best to set up both an internal and outer perimeter, smuggling neighbours to safety. Which left more than a dozen houses on this side of the street and opposite vacant. Many of the residents who had been extracted, were still standing by the outer perimeter, hollering their dissatisfaction at anyone who would listen. The press had arrived shortly after, but even they were now looking bored by the inactivity.

  Jake knew why they were waiting. The objective was to get McGregor and his girlfriend safely from the property, and the key was patience. A trained negotiator was now on scene and had been talking intimately with the AR leader and Gold Command ever since, but progress appeared slow.

  Food and drink was a standard demand from hostage takers in these situations, so McGregor requesting pizza and beer wasn’t surprising, but having personally witnessed McGregor’s girlfriend carry three bags of groceries into the property the previous afternoon, Jake knew they weren’t in need of food.

  Which had to mean McGregor was planning something, but what was beyond Jake’s imagination.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Annie finally sighed, removing a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and offering them towards Jake. ‘You want one?’

  He frowned at the packet. ‘If I wanted to shorten my life expectancy, I can think of far better ways to do it.’

  ‘The reaper will come for us all one day,’ she replied, pushing a cigarette between her lips. ‘I bet it’ll be the stress that gets you.’

  He watched her peel away, marching to the outer perimeter, and ducking beneath the cordon. He could understand her frustration. Having been fast-tracked into CID, she was considered a detective with bags of potential, which was how she’d been drafted into the Major Investigation Team so swiftly. And this had been the first major operation she’d been involved with, and now success was hanging in the balance. She was a hothead, but he could see that she would one day be his boss, so cutting her some slack now would reap its own rewards in due course.

  Jake drained the rest of the water, before crushing the bottle between his thick fingers, and tossing it though the car’s open window. The carcass bounced off the jacket and onto the floor mat. He was about to open the door and retrieve it when a sudden flurry of activity, caused his head to snap round.

  ‘He’s running!’ shouted the AR leader from the back of the van.

  TWO

  It was the toxic smell of plastic melting, and the noticeable increase in the bed’s temperature that had first woken Megan Hopkirk. And as she’d opened her eyes and seen the orange glow reflecting off the usually pastel shades of her bedroom walls, she’d assumed she was having a nightmare. After all, a house fire was just something you saw on the television and at the cinema.

  Right?

  But as she’d pinched handfuls of skin on her legs and arms, the terrifying reality of the situation had hit home. And while most people’s first instinct would be to get out of the burning room and flee to safety, Megan had frozen. She’d been unable to push the duvet back, unable to drag herself from the wildly burning curtains shutting out the night sky.

  Thick plumes of black smoke circled the ceiling overhead, a sign that the fire had been burning for some time, and with no way of knowing whether the burning orange flames were limited to just her room, or had spread through the two storey property, she’d remained where she was, praying that someone would come forward and protect her, or that death’s angel would take her swiftly.

  She’d never been a fighter and didn’t have a competitive bone in her body. So, when faced with a challenge, she tended to back down and cower in the safety of friends and relatives. And when faced with the prospect of suffocating and burning to death or battling through the house, her body had made the choice.

  ‘How does it make you feel?’ the doctor’s warm voice said, bringing her back to the room. ‘Remembering your experience?’

  Megan’s hands were tightly gripping the edge of the sofa cushions she was lying on, and as she opened her eyes and concentrated on the ceiling fan spinning overhead, she slowly released the breath she had been subconsciously holding in, loosening her grip on the cushions. The fan was keeping the room cool, yet her thin top was stuck to her back. She didn’t dare sit up, out of fear of what kind of sweat patch would be revealed on the cushion below. Somewhere in the distance she could hear another session underway.

  ‘It still haunts my dreams,’ she finally replied, still staring at the ceiling fan, and welcoming the cool wave of air it was producing.

  ‘How often do you dream about that night?’ Dr Patel asked.

  She could hear the rattling sound again, a sign that he was casually bashing the ballpoint pen between his teeth. He was concentrating.

  ‘It feels like every night,’ she finally said.

  The pen’s nib scratched the paper in the pad on his lap as he made yet more notes. God only knew what he was writing this time. It seemed like he never stopped writing notes about the time they spent together. She was tempted to ask him if she could read what he was writing, but she was certain he would say no, and she wasn’t prepared for a confrontation. He was probably writing about how disturbed she was; how he probably thought she was faking the trauma they’d been discussing every Tuesday afternoon for the last ten weeks.

  ‘And is it every night?’ he suddenly asked.

  In truth, she had no idea how many times she’d had the dream since she’d first seen that thick black smoke billowing. It could have been every night, and sometimes several times in the night, but all the days merged into one. She couldn’t even say for certain whether she’d dreamt it last night, or whether she was actually remembering the night before.

  She decided not to answer his question, focusing on her breathing, and trying to reduce the thundering of her heart.

  ‘I previously suggested you keep a journal by the side of your bed so you could write down your dreams as soon as you wake. Do you remember?’

  It had seemed like such a silly idea. What was the point in writing down the same dream every day? It never changed. She always woke with the curtains blazing in deep orange and crimson hues, contrasting with the charcoal-coloured smoke above her head. And she always pinched herself, only doing it in the dreams caused her to wake. But the terror and panic of being trapped in the bed was always there. Even when she woke and realised it had just been the same nightmare again, she still made a point of checking the other rooms in her now ground floor studio apartment. And once those rooms had been inspected, she would return to the safety of bed, desperately trying to stay awake until sunrise, but always dropping back to sleep before the alarm sounded.

  ‘Megan? Did you buy the dream journal?’

  She didn’t want to disappoint him. She knew he was trying his best to help her through the trauma, and although it felt like they’d made no progress, he told her every week that they’d made headroom. She was sure he would know if she lied; he seemed to have a sixth sense about things like that. The first session they’d had he’d asked what was troubling her and she’d told him she was fine, but he’d seen through the thin veil of deceit and had insisted she come back.

  She wouldn’t want to admit it, but referring her to Dr Patel had been the best thing her GP had ever done. She hadn’t wanted to see a shrink, but the GP had said she needed expert support.

  ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ Dr Patel had told her at that first appointment. ‘Nobody will judge you for seeking counselling, especially after what you’ve been t
hrough.’

  She grunted at the memory. What she’d been through; he’d made it sound like she’d survived the holocaust or something. When in truth, she’d woken in a panic and had had to be dragged free by a kindly fireman whose face she couldn’t remember as she’d only been semi-conscious.

  She’d woken in a hospital to the sound of beeping machines, and with a hard tube down her throat, attached to a pump breathing for her. She’d been unconscious for five days and nights, but it hadn’t felt like it. In her memory there was the terror of the burning room and then there was the hospital room. As she replayed those events, it was like a poorly edited movie: no smooth fade from one memory to the next, just a harsh cut and then the new scene started.

  ‘Here,’ Dr Patel said, when she still hadn’t responded, ‘take this.’

  Megan turned to face him. He was leaning forward from the tall leather swivel chair he always sat in, the cream leather making his skin look browner somehow. In his outstretched hand she saw a yellow exercise book, like the kind she had used in junior school.

  ‘I know it doesn’t look much,’ he said, waggling the book until she reached out and took it, ‘but it will serve the purpose of the activity.’

  She turned it over in her hands, her eyes drawn to the pale pink scarred skin that stretched from her wrist, over her thumb and index finger: a permanent reminder of that night. As the cream leather exaggerated the doctor’s skin tone, so the scarring exaggerated her own black skin.

  She opened the book and thumbed through the blank lined pages. ‘And I just write down what I see?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be War and Peace,’ he said calmly. ‘And you’ll probably find that after the first couple of times you do it, it’ll get easier. It just has to be anything you remember of the dream.’

  ‘But I don’t understand how it will help.’

  Dr Patel closed his notebook and shuffled until his seat was next to the sofa where she lay. ‘Surviving a house fire is a hugely traumatic experience, and in your case one that your subconscious mind won’t allow you to let go of. It is my belief that you are not ready to let go of that trauma yet, and I’m hoping that by recording what you’re experiencing when you’re asleep will be the key to identifying why you can’t let go of it. If we can understand what it is your subconscious wants you to see or understand, we will be a step closer to processing it and moving on.’