‘What did I say in my sleep?’ he asked her.
‘You mumbled, but it sounded like: “It can’t – ” no, “ – you can’t be”. You kept saying the same thing over and over again and then you started shouting.’
Although the hour was late, there was no chill in the air; not even a breeze came through the open window.
‘Oh, Amy, Amy, I think I’m beginning to understand,’ he said, and the words were almost a moan.
Her arm went around his body and she rested her head against his shoulder. ‘You frighten me so much,’ she said. ‘Talk to me now, Jon, tell me what you think it is you understand. Please don’t hide anything away from me.’
He caressed her back, absorbing the warmth that was more than physical through sensitive fingertips. He began to talk, speaking in a soft, low voice, hesitant at first, the words as much for himself as for her.
‘When Gabby . . . when she saw . . . when she thought she saw Annabel that night . . . after Annabel had been . . . taken . . . something was revived in me, a thought, a feeling, a memory. Something kept hidden away for a long, long time. It’s complex, and I know I won’t be able to explain it all, but I’ll try, if only for my own sake.’
Amy eased away so that her weight was not on him.
‘I suppose no one really wants to hate their father,’ he went on, ‘and remember, for so many years he was my only parent, so that guilt may have played some small part in my refusal to admit certain facts about myself. I can’t be sure, I’m just searching, Amy, trying to come up with some answers, a rationale, if you like.’
He fell silent, as though searching his own thoughts, attempting to bring some order to them, and Amy tried helping. ‘Your dream, Jon. Perhaps you should start there.’
Childes’ fingers pressed against his closed eyelids. ‘Yes,’ he said after a while, ‘the dream, that’s the key. Only I’m not sure it was just a dream, Amy.’ Reaching for her hand, he held it in his lap and looked towards the window on the far side of the room. ‘I saw myself as a boy – about Gabby’s age, I think – and I seemed to be looking down at him – at myself – as if hovering over his bedroom. The boy was sitting up in bed, afraid, yet somehow I felt there was a kind of happiness about him. Someone else was in the room, Amy, standing in the moonlight, watching the boy as I was. A woman. I know it was my mother.’
Childes breathed in deeply while Amy quietly waited. His face was drawn and the glistening in his eyes indicated both sadness and the subdued excitement of discovery. She tensed when he said, ‘But my mother had been dead for over a week.’
‘Jon—’
‘No, just listen, Amy. Gabby wasn’t dreaming when she saw Annabel that night. Don’t you see? She has my gift, she’s psychic, mediumistic – I don’t know what term you’d use because it’s a subject I’ve evaded most of my life. Gabby and I are the same, she’s inherited the power from me. But my father, God help him, beat such notions out of my head; he refused to acknowledge such a power and wouldn’t let me accept it! In my dream I watched him come into the room and beat the boy – beat me! – until I lost consciousness. And that hadn’t been the first time, and I don’t think it was the last. He made me reject this ability, this extra-sensing, forced me to black the power from my mind.’
‘But why should he—?’
‘I don’t know! I had a feeling from him, though, in the dream. He was confused and angry – and God, yes, he was frightened – but there was guilt also! He may have blamed himself in some way for her death, or . . .’ he squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate, to remember ‘. . . or maybe for the way he couldn’t cope with her last weeks of dying. He was a drunkard, a selfish man who could never face up to his own responsibilities. I don’t think he could take her suffering, he wasn’t able to help her through the pain. He may even have treated her badly and later was ashamed. My father wanted to shut out her memory totally, but my visions, my “sightings”, wouldn’t allow that. I was destroying the barrier he’d erected around his own emotions.’
He paused, to regain his breath, for the words had been an unleashed torrent. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever know the whole truth, Amy; I can only tell you what I’ve sensed. Consciously I’ve spurned anything to do with the supernatural, as any kid who has been constantly taught that something is wrong or unnatural might eventually, yet the power has always stayed locked away inside me. Can you imagine the conflict that must have gone on inside my young mind? I loved and missed my mother, wanted her comfort, yet my father forced me to reject her, and with her, my own special perception. I suppose the conscious side of my mind finally won the battle, but it wasn’t a victory that could be maintained for ever.’
Amy took her hand from his so that she could touch his face. ‘It could explain so much about you,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Perhaps even why you chose such an ultimately logical career. The only wonder is that you’re not full of neuroses, Jon.’
‘Who says I’m not?’ He shifted in the bed, aware of his own tenseness. ‘But why now, Amy? Why has all this bubbled to the surface, now?’
‘It hasn’t just happened, don’t you see? The process began three years ago.’
‘The murders of those children?’
‘Isn’t that when the extra sense began to surface again? But who knows what else you perceived in this special way that you put down to mere intuition?’
He was thoughtful, then said slowly, ‘Maybe it took another mind to trigger it off.’ He added more quietly, ‘Somebody may have found my code.’
‘What?’
‘Something Fran said to me, equating minds with computers and access codes. The comparison isn’t important, but the principle could be.’ He suddenly raised his knees and leaned forward. ‘Another point I’ve remembered about my dream tonight, if that’s what it can be called. The boy saw me, Amy. He was aware of me.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘He looked up at me from his bed. I looked up at myself, Amy! No, I didn’t dream tonight; it was a memory, a recall. I remember my mother’s spirit coming to me, showing me her love, telling me that death wasn’t final; and I remember a different pair of eyes watching me on that particular night – I swear to you I remember that night from the boy’s point of view – and those eyes belonged to someone who cared, like my mother, someone who was concerned for me. Amy, do you understand now? I had the power then to see my future-self! Am I insane, Amy, or is that the truth of it? I had the power to see my future-self and tonight I had the power to go back and see my past-self!’
He shuddered and she clung to him. ‘It’s strong in me,’ he told her. ‘God, I can feel the power so strong in me. And . . . and . . .’
The glow was before him, a vaporous shimmering, yet he knew the image was inside his head, not there in the room. Small to begin with, gradually growing solid, becoming rounded, taking form.
A moonstone.
But no. Still growing, altering in shape, in texture. Not a moonstone any longer.
Fissures and craters scarred its surface. Mountain ranges shadowed its whiteness.
He saw the moon itself.
And with the image came a dreadful, stomach-wrenching foreboding.
Jeanette sprinted across the circular lawn, heading for the science department and praying that no staff member would catch her trespassing on hallowed ground. She skirted around the statue of the school’s founder, dark hair flailing loosely behind, books for the next lesson tucked tightly beneath one arm. Fortunately, the lesson was Computer Studies and Mr Childes seldom got really cross, although occasionally he could get quite stern if the girls misbehaved too much.
She was relieved to be off the lawn and on the gravel turning circle for visitors’ cars. Taking the stone steps two at a time, Jeanette pushed through the glass entrance doors and pounded up more stairs to the computer room which was on the first floor with the science laboratory, spilling her books near the top so that she had to pound down again to gather them up. Once more sh
e made the ascent.
Outside the computer room she paused in order to compose herself. Three deep breaths, a swift combing of hair with clawed fingers, and she entered.
‘Hello, Jeanette,’ Childes greeted her with a trace of a frown. ‘You’re a little late.’
‘I know, sir, I’m sorry,’ she said, still breathless despite her efforts to steady herself. ‘I left my program sheet in the dormitory this morning and didn’t have the chance to fetch it between lessons.’ She regarded him apprehensively and he smiled.
‘That’s okay,’ he told her. ‘Let’s see, you’ll have to share with Nicola and Isobel, then take your turn with the screen when they’re finished. Hope you worked out a decent program to try.’
‘A spelling test, sir.’
Somebody giggled.
‘Well, that’s a little basic, Jeanette, but it’ll be fine,’ said Childes, then added for the benefit of the rest of the class: ‘Everybody has to find their own way with computers, there are no short cuts to begin with. Takes a while for the sheer logic of it all to sink in, but once it has, you’ll be up and running.’
Jeanette pulled up a chair behind Nicola and Isobel and looked over their shoulders at the monitor screen they were using. She saw they were playing an anagram game.
Childes went from machine to machine, offering advice and suggestions as to how his pupils could increase the information in their programs and make them more interesting.
He lingered behind Kelly and nodded with pleasure. She was devising sailing times from and into the local marina, assuming she had a yacht or motorboat moored there, having taken the trouble to visit the harbour master for detailed information on traffic flow and regulations. Kelly became aware of his interest and glanced round at him, a smile on her upturned face.
As usual, he thought, you’re just a trifle too smug, Kelly, but there’s no denying you’re my brightest. He said, ‘That’s a good exercise, Kelly. Looking towards the future?’
‘Yes, Mr Childes, the very-near future. But my yacht’s more likely to be in the Bahamas.’
He held back the grin. ‘I don’t doubt it.’
She turned back to the machine and he watched her deft fingers tap decisively at the keyboard. The only blemish on her hand was an ink stain and he wondered, not for the first time, what had caused him to see the limb so horribly burned those few weeks ago. Premonitions were not part of the strange ability he possessed. Yet, as a boy, hadn’t he seen his future-self? He was confused and afraid, but no longer willing to be a compliant victim of this terrible curse, nor of the monster who had taunted him through his own mind. Childes had finally begun to probe himself, a tactic he had agreed with Overoy to try, searching for the perverted psyche of his tormentor. The burning down of the psychiatric hospital had still not officially been attributed to any particular person, but neither he himself, nor Overoy, had any doubt it was the same one who had mutilated and murdered before. He supposed he ought to have been grateful for the detective’s belief in him, and Overoy had certainly worked hard behind the scenes to prevent Childes’ name being linked with Annabel’s disappearance. Overoy was making amends for mishandling the publicity surrounding their past association, yet Childes could not find the willingness to fully trust the man. The last time they had spoken, just three days before, Overoy had told him that he was now the chief liaison officer in charge of investigations into all four crimes, his involvement with Childes being the prime factor in the appointment; unfortunately, there had been no solid leads as yet to follow up. Was there any more information Childes could give him to save him from looking a total jackass? None at all, Childes had replied, then, almost apologetically, he had mentioned the curious vision of the moonstone which had gradually changed into the moon itself. What did it mean? Who the hell knew? And no, there still had not been any contact with the other mind. In fact, after finally accepting he possessed an extra-sensory ability, Childes now wondered if the power had left him, like some spectre that vanished when focused upon.
He wondered: Is it all over? Had the creature, like the child-murderer before, ceased to exist, become its own executioner? Had the terrible visions and the nightmares ended?
‘Sir. Sir!’
Kelly’s voice had broken into his thoughts. He quickly glanced up to find she had twisted towards him once more, this time with a look of consternation on her face.
‘What is it, Kelly?’ he asked, rising from the desk.
‘Something’s gone wrong with my computer.’ She turned back to the screen and stabbed at the keyboard below.
‘Whoa!’ he said, going over. ‘Don’t take it out on the machine. Let’s just go through the thing logically.’
He leaned over her and froze, further words locked in his throat. His hand gripped the back of her chair as a soft pressure nudged at his mind.
‘What made you write this on the display, Kelly?’ he forced himself to say calmly.
‘I didn’t do it,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘It just appeared and everything else went off.’
‘You know that’s impossible.’
‘Honest, sir, I didn’t do anything.’
‘Okay, clear the screen and start again.’
The girl touched the RETURN key. Nothing happened.
Childes, not sure if she were playing stupid games with him, impatiently leaned forward and pressed the same key. It had no effect.
‘Kelly, have you—?’
‘How could I? There’s no way I could make the computer do that.’
‘All right, let me take your seat.’
She stood and Childes eased himself into the chair, watching the monitor warily as if disbelieving his own eyes. His hands hovered nervously over the keyboard. Other girls in the classroom were looking round curiously at them.
‘We’ll try RESET,’ Childes murmured, keeping his voice steady, disguising the panic bubbling inside. He could not hide the beads of perspiration that had rapidly formed on his forehead, though.
He fingered the key.
The screen went blank and he sighed with relief.
The single word appeared again.
‘Why’s the computer doing that, sir?’ Kelly asked close to his shoulder, both astonished and fascinated by the phenomenon.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘It shouldn’t happen, it should be impossible for it to happen. Could be an outsider’s somehow tapped into your circuit.’ Extremely unlikely, he thought and then remembered Fran’s computermind analogy. Nonsense, that had nothing to do with this! He pressed RESET again.
The word disappeared. Then reappeared.
‘I don’t want to lose your program,’ Childes told Kelly, his voice more even than the turmoil inside his head should have allowed, ‘but I’m afraid I’ll have to.’
This time he tapped HOME.
The screen went blank, became a dark void. He rested back in the chair.
And sat rigid when the word shone from the blackness yet again.
He stared transfixed at the screen, his eyes wide, the
green glowing word reflected in his contact lenses. The small, computer-typed word said:
MOON
Some of the other girls had gathered round, but sudden cries came from those who had remained at their machines. Childes pushed his chair back and went to each one. The same single word was impossibly displayed on every monitor.
In a desperation that alarmed the girls, he reached underneath the benches and yanked out all the plugs, cutting off the power supply to each computer so that the screens blinked to a lifeless grey. He waited in the centre of the classroom, his chest heaving, the girls beginning to huddle together as if he were mad.
Cautiously he approached the computer which Kelly had been operating. He knelt, picking up the power plug once again, and slid it into the socket.
The computer screen came to life, but now the word that had frightened him so much was missing.
He found Amy after the lesson had finished, having barely managed t
o show his pupils a calm face throughout the rest of the period, explaining that what had occurred was due to some peculiar malfunction or the intrusion of another computer. The explanation was hardly feasible, but the girls appeared to accept his word.
Childes drove Amy away from the school, grateful that the lesson had preceded the lunch break, giving them the opportunity to be alone. He did not stop until they had found a remote point on the clifftops.
He switched off the engine and looked out at the sea. Only after a few more moments when his breathing had steadied did he turn to her and say: ‘It’s here, Amy. It’s here on the island.’
The day was perfect. Only a few small clouds clung to the sky like glued cotton-wool buds, seemingly stuck fast to a vividly blue board, unable to drift, with no breeze even in the upper reaches. The sun, a brilliant fireball, gloried in its dominance. A faint low mist spread over the sea, and other islands were merely hazy smudges in the distance.
Scores of small motor-powered boats left short white plumes in their wakes, while yachts searched in vain for the slightest wind that would allow use of canvas. Further in, closer to the shore, windsurfers drifted astride their boards, colourful sails resting flatly beside them in the water. Sandy beaches were full, only the less accessible coves and inlets still quiet and uncrowded, refuges for those who valued their peace enough to undertake arduous climbs.
On the clifftop overlooking one such secluded bay, stood La Roche Ladies College, its white main structure a dazzling beacon lit by the sun.
A perfect Saturday for Open Day, when staff and girls and classrooms preened themselves under inspection. An important day for the school: prize-giving, awards and certificates for excellence (or even plain usefulness), and general school or house achievements throughout the year; speeches by the principal, Miss Estelle Piprelly, and a member of the governing board, Conseiller Victor Platnauer; a recitation by La Roche’s head girl of the year’s events within the school related in obligatory (by tradition) rhyming verse, a test of nerve and ingenuity (and often of perseverance by the assembled guests); the luring of more fee-paying parents. A fun day for the school: various raffles, a lottery, games, a second-hand uniform sale; a strawberry-and-cream stall, a jam, sweets and cake stall, a hot-dog stall and barbecue, a wine and orange-squash stall, a gymnastic display, light choral singing, country dancing; and all to be enjoyed on the lawns.
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