by Michael Kerr
Darren still visited in both sweet dreams and fearsome nightmares. It was as a good or bad acid trip must be like, though she had never indulged in drugs. The memory of having nurtured him inside her body, given birth to him, and loved him with an intensity beyond any comparison that she could ever describe in mere words, spiked her brain with a pain that transcended mere physical discomfort. The strongest emotions defied all adequate description.
Darren had been four-years-old; a healthy, intelligent and happy young boy with everything to live for; the adventure of life still before him.
The sudden fever, vomiting, stiff neck and livid rash were quickly followed by unconsciousness. The pell-mell rush to the hospital, and then the interminable wait was all for nothing. The approach of the tall, solemn man in a white coat, with the message of death in his dark, work-weary eyes, was almost beyond her capacity to bear. It threatened her sanity. There was no memory of the doctor’s actual words, only of the scream that percolated in her throat, trapped, bubbling, and to this day not released.
It had been meningococcal meningitis, as if a name for it mattered. At first, she had believed that it was a divine judgement, for falling pregnant at sixteen, out of wedlock. Maturity, and a loss of the faith she had once harboured, eventually dispelled that conviction. It was all just part of life’s rich tapestry; the rollercoaster of human experience, complete with exhilarating, skyscraper-high peaks and dark, gut-wrenching, hell-deep troughs.
Her heart juddered then raced. She remained still for a long time, until the sweat had cooled and she began to shiver. Sometimes the dreams were more kind, like walking hand in hand with Darren along a sun-kissed beach, with the surf sparkling and the air full of his laughter as the foam tickled his feet, pulling the sand from between small and perfectly-formed pink toes. The scenarios were of endless variety.
Looking back, there had been a choice, get on or get out. Survive and let time dull the edge of the pain, or take an overdose, sit in a bath full of hot water and cut her wrists, to drift away painlessly into oblivion. She had chosen to live and get on. But it had been a close call.
The after-vision of the nightmare gradually faded. She showered, dressed, and was standing at the drainer with her hands on the cool stainless steel, looking out of the kitchen window as dawn broke. Light and day were liberation, away from the realm of the dark that fostered a lowliness of spirit within her, and allowed unwelcome thoughts to ferment unchecked.
Sipping tea, she watched as a three-legged squirrel made its way to the bird table. She had christened it Hoppy, and once more wondered how it had lost the limb and managed to fight off infection. Her heart went out to it. The rodent’s ability to adapt after suffering such a terrible injury, was admirable. She smiled. Mark called it Stumpy, and had said that they should try to catch it and see if a vet could fix it up with a prosthesis. The smile died. She had not told Mark about Darren. There had seemed no need to, and yet it disturbed her on some level that she had consciously made the decision to keep it a secret from him. Perhaps this weekend she would rid herself of what felt a heavy burden; an invisible barrier between them, if only in her mind. He was more open, concealed less, and wore his heart on his sleeve, able to risk it being bruised or broken. Thoughts of their relationship being more, and the fleeting contemplation of not being able to have his child crossed her mind. The sudden music from her phone suspended further exploration in that direction.
“Hi, kiddo. How’s life in foggy London?” Her mother – fifty-nine, going on sixteen – asked.
“Okay, Mum. Are you and dad all right?”
“We’re fine and dandy. I need a hip replacement, but apart from that, everything is just rolling along nicely. Your father keeps griping on about how long it has been since you dropped in to see us, though.”
“Dropped in! You live in the wilds of Cornwall, for Chr... Pete’s sake.”
“You could come for a weekend, soon, and bring that hunky American with you. He’s sexier than Brad Pitt.”
“Behave, Mum. And Mark is at least fifteen years younger than Pitt.”
“Never use age as a yardstick, Amy. And remember, looks are only skin deep. I’ve met young at heart octogenarians, and old teenagers. Its frame of mind that counts, not numbers.”
“And what else did you call for, Mum? I sense you’re holding something back.”
A pause and then, “I saw the picture of Mark in the newspaper the other day. And I recognised you half-hidden behind him. I’ve tried to mind my own business, but it goes against the grain. It worries me. Why are you involved with those terrible murders? Haven’t you been through enough?”
“Mark’s consulting on the case, Mum.”
“You know how your being in the police force gave me ulcers. I―”
“Drink more milk and quit worrying, Mum. Mark is just working up a profile for them. We aren’t out there attempting to catch the killer ourselves.”
“Keep out of the newspapers, will you?” Helen said, more as a command than a request or recommendation. “Whoever is doing these awful things is not right in the head. Seeing your picture could be a red rag to a crazed bull.”
“Okay, Mum,” Amy said, not wanting to spend twenty minutes arguing a moot point. “I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call next week. Tell dad that I love him, and that we’ll drop by soon.”
“Will do, Kiddo. Give that sexy doctor a big hug from me. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mum. Bye,” Amy said and ended the call.
In the west London bungalow, with the sun still lying below the horizon, a nightmare had also jolted Caroline Sellars into wakefulness at almost the same time that Amy had been kicking at her bedclothes in somnolent agitation.
Caroline pushed herself up into a sitting position, back against the headboard, knees raised and arms hugging them. A night demon in the shape of Ellen Garner had chased her from sleep. She, (Caroline), had been running blindly through a moonlit forest, fleeing from the shambling, bulky figure of Ellen, who was stabbing at the night with a sharpened stake. However fast she ran; Caroline was losing ground. The gap between them was inexorably decreasing.
“There’s nowhere to run,” the voice shouted with evil mirth, floating to her on a breath of wind.
As the nearness of her attacker displaced the air, and the heavy odour of fetid breath overtook her and made her stomach heave, she had escaped by waking up with a cry dying on her lips.
Caroline looked at the grey square of window, then searched the room’s shadows, fully expecting one of them to detach itself, take human form and shuffle towards her, knowing that if that happened, she would scream herself into madness. She had never had to look into the face of real fear; never been seriously ill; never suffered an accident of any note; and never been threatened or abused. Her closest encounter with alarm and panic had been when Jason lost his temper on occasion, to shout and sometimes break ornaments or furniture. She was not emotionally prepared to face serious adversity. And what if it wasn’t Ellen? Could it be Jason? Who else had she ever given cause to torment her so much? Would she ever be safe again, or be able to return to her apartment? She thought not. Someone was intent on killing her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Parking alongside the Jeep Cherokee, Amy climbed out and hefted her large holdall from the rear seat.
Mark met her at the door, took the weighty bag, then kissed her gently on the lips as the door sighed back into its frame and self-locked. He smiled and said, “Miss me?”
“Like toothache.”
“That much?”
“More,” she giggled, taking the stairs up to the flat, with Mark close at her heels, admiring her shapely butt as it strained against the tight jeans she wore.
“Like two polecats in a corn sack,” he said.
“What is?”
“Your ass.”
“You know how to flatter a girl.”
“I’ve told you before, it’s a gift.”
“I’d give it back, then.
It’s a crock.”
“As in crock of shit?”
“Exactly.”
“You think my social engineering skills are lacking?”
“Nonexistent.”
“Maybe I’ll do a home study course. Learn how to be a proper gent.”
“Too late. I know you for who you really are, and I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
Mark gave her behind a firm pat. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
The flat was imbued with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee and the heavy fragrance of sandalwood and cedar spice emanating from a lit candle in a jar.
Mark dropped the holdall onto the settee, and as he turned, Amy’s arms encircled his waist.
“I love you, Mark Ross,” she said, feeling a weakness spread through her. She kissed him softly on the mouth, then increased the pressure, also pressing her breasts, stomach and thighs against him, wanting to be a part of the person she now loved above all else.
“You okay?” Mark said when she allowed him to come up for air.
“Yes. I’m just feeling very slushy, and maybe a little wanton.”
“It’s true then?”
“What is?”
“That absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Yes, I’ve decided I want to cramp your style and see more of you.”
“You want I should strip off?”
“Fool. I didn’t mean see more of you in that sense,” she said. “But it’s one of your better ideas.”
“Let’s go to bed, now,” Mark said. “I want to see more of you, too.”
Standing next to the bed, undressing each other, their eager fingers were clumsy, rushing, as though they were inept teenagers, or tots frantically clawing at wrapping paper on Christmas presents.
“This must be about as good as it gets,” Mark said a half hour later.
“Jack Nicholson,” Amy said.
“Huh?”
“He starred in the movie: As good as it gets. It was a romantic comedy.”
“Did it have a happy ending?”
“Yes.”
“Mmmm.”
“Mmmm, what?”
“I always wonder at the end of a movie with a happy ending, what happened next? Did one of them end up with Alzheimer’s down the road? Or did the dame run off with a tennis pro or vacuum cleaner salesman after two years?”
“Cynic.”
“I know. Another of my many questionable traits.”
“The future will take care of itself. There’s no point in trying to outguess it.”
“True. Will you marry me?”
Amy was dumbfounded. She had not expected to ever hear Mark say those words. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out of it.
“Is that a yes, no, or a rain check?” Mark said, his voice relieving the tension and breaking the awkward sound of silence.
“I had a child,” Amy whispered, now giving her mouth free rein to voice thoughts that slipped out uncensored. “His name was Darren.”
“I want to know all about him,” Mark said, seemingly unfazed as he reached out and traced her lips with his finger. “But it doesn’t answer the question. Will you marry me, Amy? I love you, and weekends aren’t enough anymore. I’ve started wishing the days away until I see you again.”
“Yes,” she said, the small word not seeming adequate enough to express such a monumental and life-altering decision.
They held each other again, tenderly, consumed by their own thoughts, both aflame with the concept of being together as a unit, their lives entwined and as near to achieving oneness as possible.
“What will your folks think?” Mark said.
“My dad’s read your book about four times. I’m sure he’d like you to sign it for him, though he would never ask. You’re larger than life in his eyes. He’ll be chuffed.”
“And your mum?”
“She fancies you like mad. You’re up there with Brad Pitt, after dad, that is.”
“I’m on a winner, then?”
“If you think that waking up next to me every morning is a prize, yes.”
“Let’s go and celebrate with coffee and a Danish.”
“Where?”
“In the kitchen. I don’t want to share you with anyone else for a while.”
It was after another bout of lovemaking that, wearing robes, they padded through the flat to the kitchen.
“What’s with the mug shots?” Amy said, seeing the faxes on the tabletop.
“Barney faxed them. The guy is Jason Tyler, and the broad is Ellen Garner,” Mark said, staring at them as though a ring of colour might miraculously appear around their heads.
“Any help to you?”
“Do you want to hear a strange tale?”
“Yes. Is it a true one?”
Mark nodded. Poured the coffee, put the pastries on hold and went over to the table. Amy sat down opposite him.
“Once upon a time,” he started, forcing a grin. “There was a young man committed to life in a secure hospital for the criminally insane.”
“This sounds better than Snow White and the seven lecherous old dwarfs,” Amy said.
“It will sound no less improbable. But like I said, this story is fact not fiction,” Mark said as an unbidden picture formed in his mind of Snow White, asleep and lying semi-nude on an oak bed in a room that contained six other handmade beds, their headboards carved with rabbits, oak leaves and other cutesy fare. Gathered around the slumbering brunette with the Cupid’s bow lips were a bunch of vertically challenged old diamond miners contemplating a gang-bang. He cleared his mind of the lurid scene before it became pornographic. “The patient’s name is Billy,” he continued, pushing back the image of Grumpy unbuckling his belt. “He has a special talent, I think. He purports to be able to see an aura around people, and the colour of it denotes their inclinations, emotions, and even their fate, to a degree.”
“What is he serving life for?” Amy said.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do. I’m unshockable. I want background.”
“All right. An apparently mild-mannered and studious young man went bananas one night and split his parents’ and then his sister’s heads open with an axe, before...disposing of their brains.”
“How?”
“He cooked them, and...” Mark pulled a face.
“Jesus, why?”
“He believed they were inhabited by aliens, and maintains that a black owl that he calls the Visitor told him to do it.”
“Let me get this right, Mark,” Amy said, unable to suppress a cheek-dimpling smile. “You have a lunatic murderer who has an imaginary non-human pal, who we’ll call Olly Owl. Olly tells Bozo Billy to wipe out his family because little green men from another galaxy or dimension have relocated in their brains. He also sees colours around people, that he attributes meaning to. How am I doing so far?”
“Right on the money, honey.”
“And you showed wonder boy the pics?”
“Correct.”
“Mark, I really think that you’re―”
“No, Amy. I’m not losing it. I’ll explore any avenue open to me, if it might help find the killer.”
“But this is off the wall, Mark. You sound like Mulder used to in the X-Files: ‘The truth is out there’.”
“He was right, it is. Do you read your horoscope in the papers or on the Internet?”
“I glance at it, occasionally. But that doesn’t mean I believe what it says.”
“What if instead of vague generalisations, one of these astrologists wrote something on the lines of: Scorpio: The sun, moon and the planet Zog are aligned in what can only be interpreted as a portent of doom. If you are a Scorpio, then be warned. Do not get out of bed tomorrow, or at very least, stay home. The chances of you being hit by a car, dying in a rail disaster, or even being driven into the pavement by a frozen slab of effluent from a high-flying 747 are all real possibilities. Be very afraid tomorrow, and extremely wary and carefu
l.”
“They don’t write stuff like that.”
“No, they’re more responsible. There are so many people who do believe what they write, that they have to use constraint. Think how many thousands of work days would be lost if what I just said was printed, and all superstitious Scorpios’ stayed home.”
“I see the analogy to Billy. I’m a non-believer in the occult influence of stars and planets on human affairs, but if a well-known astrologer came up with that, then I would consider taking the day off. Better to be safe than hit by frozen shit being the best policy.”
Mark told her of the bird being taken by the hawk, and of the colours that Billy saw around himself, Amy, and the pictures of the only two suspects that they had.
“You believe it, then?”
Mark shrugged. “I’m happy to add it to the mix. I think he has an ability. It’s not something that I would admit to any of my colleagues, though. I don’t fancy ending up in a rubber room.”
“Have you got any further with the profile?”
“I’ve just developed a gut feeling that we’re off base with Tyler and Garner. I don’t think Tyler is killer material. And although the woman has the propensity to commit these offences, I’m almost positive that if she had held a grudge against Caroline, then she would have reacted at the time or soon after, not waited for so many years. It doesn’t fit.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Who else could a woman bug to that extreme, other than an ex-lover or slighted work mate?”
“Hell, she could have picked up a psycho stalker, in the way a sheep collects ticks, without even knowing it. It seems to be an ever more popular pastime for nonentities with seriously fucked-up wiring. Look at what happened to Lennon and Jill Dando.”
“Caroline isn’t a high-profile celebrity, so I’ll stick with the idea that the perp is more than likely someone that she knows.”
“Then it has to be someone at the BBC. Maybe a deranged DJ, a crazed cameraman, or a canteen lady that Caroline upset by telling her there were lumps in the mashed potato. Take your pick, Mark, the list is endless.”