by Ian Skewis
There wasn’t enough room in his office for the hate he felt, so he got up and stormed out, marching quickly down the corridors despite his short legs, narrowly avoiding bumping into the officers and secretaries with their starched collars and their sensible shoes, their bundles of papers and their files, their ringing phones and their constant chatter, and finally into the one place where he could find sanctum:
The mortuary.
He pushed open the heavy double doors and walked inside, past the empty stretchers with their rubber lining and the gleaming surgical equipment, and found himself a corner to retreat to. He sat down heavily with a sigh and the padded chair let out a mutual sigh of air. He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He pictured Jack lying dead on one of the stretchers. If only, he thought.
Colin knew full well that his hatred of Jack was bordering on the pathological and that Jack was somehow always destined to be 10 steps ahead of him. He needed some way of undermining the DCI. He reminded himself how ridiculous it was and that this was to be Jack’s last case anyway, but he wanted to get back at him for all those years of being in his shadow. He wanted to see that long and distinguished career ending in disgrace. He would steal Jack’s glory at the very last hurdle if necessary. It shouldn’t be too difficult, he thought. After all, I’ve worked under the bastard for long enough. I know all about him. One thing in particular. But how? The application must be perfectly timed. He sat there for a while and fidgeted. Then he made his decision.
It would be risky, he concluded. But it would be worth it, if only to see the sanctimonious smile wiped off Jack’s face.
Feeling somewhat refreshed, Colin marched back out of the mortuary with a benign smile concealing his malignant ideas, leaving the doors swinging shut behind him and disappearing amongst the bustling corridors of Hobbs Brae’s finest.
Chapter Four
August 30th
Something the boy said… what was it he said?
Alice could not remember. Yet she recalled everything else about that day: the blazing sunshine; the scent of rosemary in her garden; the way the field of rapeseed undulated in the breeze around the scarecrow in the centre. But she could not for the life of her remember what the little boy had said. She could picture his face, wide-eyed and stark, but it was the distinct tone of his voice, awed and hushed, that haunted her, for he had been frightened, so petrified he could barely speak.
There had been nothing to explain his plight. It was just another day. Another long, hot summer in the village of Hobbs Brae, and she had been in the field – the one that stood below her house, the one that no longer got used so it was overgrown, unkempt, like her garden. She looked around at the abandoned shrubs and the untended bushes – a horticulturist’s nightmare. Her ruined, abstract flowerbeds and the confusion of dense weeds were an echo of her mind’s state, which sometimes made her feel that it was best not to tend to it anymore, for it was like looking into a mirror. Yet she viewed her garden as a medicine of sorts; it helped her to remember. In every nook, in every corner, there were memories – mostly happy, sometimes sad, and in today’s case just plain odd.
What did he say?
Alice could see the boy’s face; already a little weather-beaten perhaps, but still soft, smooth. A child’s face. Yet his stare seemed indicative of a knowledge way beyond his years. Had he seen something? She closed her eyes, tried to picture his lips moving, speaking – but she still could not remember his words.
She blinked her eyes open again and realised with a start that she was in the bathroom. How did I get here? she wondered. Alice clutched protectively at the pearls around her neck and felt her heart thudding under her cardigan. Her breathing was laboured. I must have come up the stairs, she thought to herself, but why? There’s a downstairs bathroom. Perplexed, she tried to focus by training her eyes on the mirror in front of her. The face that looked back seemed old before its time; a face that had suffered, and yet somehow retained a flush of colour in the cheeks, a youthful tightness around the eyes, and a naïvety in the gaze. The lost look that she now beheld made her stomach lurch at the thought that she had just suffered another fugue. As always, this would be followed by the fear of the knowledge that her memory had been hijacked yet again. And then the depression would set in. And then poor Helen would receive the brunt of her subsequent anger and frustration.
Her dream about Alistair had long since disappeared into the deep, uncharted ravines of her mind. But she could picture him back then, on that hot summer’s day in the field, shoulders back and looking much like his father – a thought that brought her considerable pain. Since her husband had left she had been on her own, making do, and succeeding nicely, thank you very much – an independent woman – but her blackouts were becoming more frequent and the reflection that looked back at her from the mirror was an increasingly vulnerable one. The light seemed to pass so quickly into dark and back again. It was difficult to tell one day from the other. Every now and then Alice had a moment of clarity and she remembered things, like the way her husband used to nod his head slightly when he talked, or the sound of the doorbell before it broke – or an ominous message from a little boy. That single note of disquiet resonated inside her.
What. Did. The. Boy. Say?
She tapped her fingers impatiently against the edge of the sink. Why is it so important for me to recall such a minor detail? Alice was exasperated with herself because she already knew the answer to that one. She needed to be able to remember because she had a private point to make: If I can recollect this one tiny component then it’s a sure sign that my mind is still strong, in good working order. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to think back, trying to picture his lips opening and closing, the words coming out. Still nothing. The soundtrack to her recollection was muted, so all she could summon up was a tone that implied fear, as if the boy was party to something that she was not even remotely aware of, something that she had ignored for all these long years, but which had now resurfaced for a reason, though for what reason, she did not know. It was a puzzle that refused to piece itself together, rendered inoperable by a distinct lack of mental prowess on her part.
It made her angry, frustrated, and she was about to slam her fist against the sink when she found that she had a trowel in her hand. She stared at it, as if it had suddenly materialised. Blinking furiously, she heard the sound of seagulls crying in the distance, felt the wind billow around her slight frame, teasing at the corners of her faded white dress.
She was outside.
Her heart thudded, faster now, and she looked around, confused, searching for something tangible, something to cling on to. She ran her fingers through her flaying, wispy white mane in an effort to try and control something, anything, and instead her fingers settled on the small, soft flecks of soil in her hairline. Then she heard something behind her and spun round, the trowel raised as a makeshift weapon. Nothing there. Just the floorboards creaking again.
The floorboards?
With a startled cry it dawned on her that she was indoors again.
‘Helen?’ she cried out, and was alarmed at the way her voice sounded strangled with fear. She edged out onto the landing and stared long and hard for the slightest movement. But there was nothing. Numbly, she returned to the bathroom, dropped the trowel into the sink and gripped the edges for support as she tried to summon her memory back. ‘Think,’ she said out loud. ‘Try to remember.’ What was I doing? She licked her dry lips and gathered herself, dredging up the evidence: I was in the garden. Then I came up here. Then I went into the garden again. Now I’m in the bathroom. Again.
She laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it all and was more than a little relieved that at least she could recall the day’s events, even if she couldn’t actually string them together. Then she caught sight of something on the floor – and her eyes followed a trail out onto the landing. She moved automatically, as if her eyes alone were steering her towards an unknown destination. By the time she was downstai
rs, the trail was more obvious, in large dark spatters and smudges across the varnished floorboards. She stepped outside. The light had changed. Almost sunset, she thought. Where did the rest of the day go? Where is Helen? The trail of dirt led to the flower garden. There was a basket sitting on its side on the broken paving stones.
And a large mound of freshly dug earth.
She frantically scanned the garden for evidence, desperately trying to piece the visual clues together.
Was I in the garden digging? Have I just buried something?
Fearfully, she looked around. The wind moaned through the treetops. She felt a chill up her spine as she recalled the boy’s timid face, his dark brown eyes seeing something that she could not even begin to fathom. She realised now that they were the same, for she too was in the grip of fear. In constant dread of losing her memory and by default her entire mind. Her hold on reality was slipping as fast as the sun was now sinking below the horizon, the lengthening shadows encroaching like predatory fingers around her frightened, widowed heart.
Suddenly she remembered: sunshine; rosemary; the field of rapeseed – and the scarecrow at the centre of it all. It came to her in a flash, took her breath away. It was the very same day we built the scarecrow. How could I have forgotten? She gasped. Those words. He said them. It happened here on this very spot. She could see it now as clearly as if it was yesterday. She had just returned from the field. The sun was setting then as it was now and Alice had taken his hand, but he wrenched it free with such ferocity that she had turned to him and was about to ask what was wrong, when she saw that he looked terrified.
She wondered, aghast, why she hadn’t remembered it before; that frozen look on his little face and those words that haunted her even now. Those three seemingly insignificant words. And the way he’d said them.
‘Something is coming…’
Chapter Five
September 1st
It was a perfect day.
The sun was shining warm and bright, and Caroline was in the passenger seat of a rented Ford Fiesta, being driven by her boyfriend, Alistair. They were heading along the A82, bypassing Dumbarton, and out into the country. She noted that Alistair was unusually talkative, jumping from one subject to another in quick succession. Caroline wasn’t really listening. She smiled and nodded at what she perceived were the right moments, but she was feeling light-headed and couldn’t concentrate. Just then, a wave of nausea seemed to come out of nowhere.
‘Let’s stop at that service station,’ she said quickly.
‘Hungry?’ he asked as he pulled into the car park.
‘A wee bit,’ she lied.
Returning from the toilet, where she managed to suppress the urge to throw up, she sat down in front of him. The smell of greasy food and coffee began to make her stomach churn again.
‘Could we sit at the window?’ she asked innocently.
‘Sure,’ said Alistair with a smile.
She was relieved that he agreed so readily, for she had deliberately chosen the table nearest the door, and the fresh air that wafted in with every customer was a welcome respite. Caroline committed only to small talk, furtive glances and tentative laughter, as if she was on her first date, not her umpteenth. She was waiting to choose her moment, as she had something important to tell him. After only picking at her food, she went to the bathroom to prepare her speech, and noticed that her long blonde hair looked lank, in need of a wash. She fished out a hair band from her handbag and tied it back. Her face was hot and flushed. She placed her hands under the cold water tap and patted her cheeks with her damp palms. When she came back out she took a deep breath, feeling ready to tell Alistair her news – but he was nowhere to be seen. She glanced up and down the café and saw him waiting outside. She sighed, disappointed that he hadn’t stayed put; now the moment was ruined, for she had wanted to be sitting facing him when she conveyed her story. She suggested they go for a walk somewhere.
‘Where to?’ asked Alistair.
‘Loch Lomond’s not far from here,’ she said, thinking there were plenty of secluded areas on the surrounding shores. Just the place for an important conversation.
‘Loch Lomond it is then,’ he said with a trusting smile.
They walked along the pebbled banks. Caroline thrust her hands deep inside her coat pockets and playfully nudged Alistair with her shoulder. She knew how well he understood the manoeuvre and she smiled as he dutifully placed an arm around her. The sun was beginning to set, casting their long shadows in front of them like ghosts of the future, stories yet to be told. She felt ready to tell hers and took a deep breath, bracing herself, and turned to him.
She saw a brief flicker of a question on his face as he stared at her. She stared back at him, her eyes following the scar on his pale forehead that emerged from under his dark hairline and ended where his eyebrows met in the middle. It surprised her that she had never noticed until now that one of his pupils was a slightly darker shade of green than the other. Somewhere in the distance she could hear ringing.
‘Is that an alarm going off?’ she asked. Then she blacked out.
She came to inside the car and found that she was in the back seat with Alistair, who was holding her hands and looking intently at her. Caroline struggled to sit up and she smiled sleepily when he helped her, his arms around her waist. She tried to form words but none came.
‘You fainted,’ he explained, and she saw him searching her face for a response. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
His voice seemed to become clearer. The veil lifted and Caroline looked around, trying to remember where she was, what she had been doing.
‘You scared the shit out of me,’ he said. ‘I was thinking all sorts of stuff.’
Caroline forced herself to smile. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied weakly, and then she said without thinking, ‘I’m pregnant.’
She waited nervously for a reaction. Alistair threw her a wary glance and she looked back at him, attempting a smile, but it felt clumsy, lopsided. Alistair suddenly smirked mischievously and said, ‘C’mere you,’ and drew her closer. She hugged him tight and kissed him, long and deep. ‘Alistair,’ she said softly, and took his hand and gently placed it on her belly. His eyes were wide, like a little boy’s. He remained there, staring down at her midriff. She could see the telltale tremble of his top lip.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ he said in a hushed voice.
Caroline smiled broadly. She felt safer now that Alistair had accepted with enthusiasm that he was going to be a dad. She was amused but also touched by how gently he escorted her to the front seat. Then, as they pulled out and were back on the road, she saw that mischievous grin again.
‘I’m taking you to Hobbs Brae to see my mum,’ he said softly, with a sly narrowing of the eyes. ‘Don’t worry, she’s expecting us.’
‘I wondered why you were so intent on me packing my bags,’ replied Caroline. ‘You kept saying it was a surprise. I just assumed we were going away for a romantic weekend. We’re going to your mum’s? Seriously?’
Alistair began fumbling for words and Caroline understood how disappointed she must have sounded. She didn’t want to appear ungrateful, so she rescued the situation and interrupted with, ‘So why all the secrecy if we’re just going to your mum’s?’
Alistair cleared his throat and said mysteriously, ‘Because there’s more to it than that.’
Then it suddenly occurred to her.
‘You knew I was pregnant already, didn’t you?’
She watched, amazed, as he grinned and casually reached out to stroke her hair, his other hand on the wheel.
‘I suspected as much, but I couldn’t be sure. I was waiting for you to tell me.’
Caroline said nervously, ‘Your mother’s going to die when she hears about this. And keep both hands on the wheel, you.’
She frowned with annoyance as Alistair laughed, making a show of obeying her instructions, and said, ‘Don’t be daft. She’ll be thrilled. She’s a grandmother now.’
<
br /> ‘And you’re a dad,’ Caroline replied, and she couldn’t help but smile with delight. Then she noticed a flash of doubt flit across his face. ‘What?’
‘I was thinking about your mum.’
Caroline gave him a measured stare. ‘The last thing I want to talk about today of all days is my bloody mother.’
‘She’s not going to like it.’
‘She’s going to have to lump it,’ Caroline replied, with a bravery that she didn’t really feel. She saw Alistair exhale heavily and roll his eyes, then reach out once more and squeeze her hand.
‘Happy?’ he asked with mock innocence.
‘I’d be happier if you kept both hands on that bloody wheel,’ she replied, then caught that roguish look in his eyes again. ‘Delirious,’ she said eventually, with a smile, then thought back to how dizzy she had been earlier and laughed at her own words.
Chapter Six
August 31st
Jerome was in his favourite armchair, staring soulfully at the fire as it crackled and danced before him. Puffing on a joint, he sighed loudly, trying to relax. Bessie, his border collie, was lying curled up at his feet. Now and then he caught her glancing at him, every regard implying a readiness for obedience, but tonight he thought her gaze was different, troubled. She can pick up on my mood no matter how much I try to hide it, he observed, and patted her head to put her at ease. Bessie wagged her tail a little and settled down.