Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  He brought a finger to his lips. A shushing gesture. He wanted her quiet. And, indeed, she thought despairingly, who would hear? She could scream her head off and no one would come.

  Her hands were useless. He had tied them together. But she still had her legs free, didn’t she? Come on, Justine! Kick him where it hurts! She drew back her leg and kicked wildly. It didn’t connect. She tried to roll out from underneath him, but he easily restrained her. He said something but he was whispering and in her panicked state her mind refused to make sense of the words.

  ‘Stop it.’

  This time the whispered words were clear. ‘Stop it, Justine.’

  The use of her name made her heart miss a beat.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ Still that creepy, whispery voice, but every word uttered carefully and with emphasis. ‘But I will if you don’t stop fussing. I can easily knock you out again. Would you like that? No? So stop it. I just want to show you something.’

  She ceased struggling, but her body was tight with tension. She wished she could see his face more clearly, without all the black stuff. And the visor was unnerving. If she could see him without the mask she would be able to anticipate his moves more easily. She tried to make out the flattened features behind the goggles. Had she ever seen this man before? He knew her name and maybe the whispering meant she could recognise his voice. But his face—what she could see of it—did not remind her of anyone she had ever met. Or did it?

  He was now sitting spread-eagled over her. The smell of his skin made her nauseous. Her tied hands felt awkward. But the rope was not that tight. Would she be able to work one of her hands free?

  He was reaching behind him. For a moment she thought he had a knife in his hand. But it wasn’t a knife, it was merely a long pen-like object attached to a tube of some kind. The pen had a delicate hook at the top.

  ‘I just need you to look at me. That’s all. Look at this.’

  He slowly brought the thing in his hand close to her face.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  She stared at the object unblinkingly. He was holding it delicately and his hand was trembling. There was something mesmerising about the smooth elegant shape.

  Again he turned around, reaching with one hand for something on the floor next to them. She couldn’t see clearly, it was on the periphery of her vision, but it appeared to be some kind of lit box.

  He coughed—a nervous sound. It snapped her out of her stupor.

  With a massive effort she brought her bound hands from her side, swinging them violently upward, knocking the object from his fist. He shouted something and lunged for it.

  He was scrabbling sideways and his weight on her body eased somewhat. She brought her knee up and caught him squarely in the crotch. There wasn’t much momentum behind the swing, but she had hurt him nevertheless. He made a noise that was at once surprised, pain-filled and angry. She immediately jerked her upper body straight up and head-butted him with all the desperation inside her.

  She connected with the goggles and pain flooded through her head. But, again, he grunted. She was doing damage. Rolling madly to one side, she managed to get her upper body free from his hand. His leg was still pinning her down, but she swung her elbow into his midriff. Even with her hands tied, there was still enough force in the movement to halt him. His body slackened.

  She was free. She could feel him reach for her legs as she crawled away and she screamed again, long and uncontrollably. Fear clotting her brain. No one to hear, but the horror taking over. And then she was running up the staircase; stumbling, righting herself, taking the steps two at a time. Her tied hands made balancing a problem, but she was moving her wrists vigorously and she could feel her right hand starting to work itself free.

  He was following her. She sensed him behind her. Terror ripped through her body. Thoughts no longer coherent ricocheted through her mind like bullets hitting steel. Her mouth was moving and she knew she was constantly repeating the same words. Adam. Adam. Please. Please.

  He was gaining on her. Oh, God. Her limbs felt sluggish, her brain stupid. If only she could get to her room. If only she could get her hands free to lock the door. Get to the phone…

  She would never make it. As she reached the landing, he flung himself at her like a rugby player, and she catapulted forward. No. Get up! Get up! Don’t let him trap you on the floor again. But her hand was finally free. She grasped the railing and managed to pull herself upward. He rammed his body into hers and she felt the edge of the balustrade cut into her back.

  ‘Why? What do you think you’re doing?’ He was no longer whispering. He was shouting at her and his breath was ragged. The eyes behind the goggles were crazed. ‘I’ve been watching you tonight. You and Adam Buchanan.’

  He knows about Adam? She stared at him, shocked. He must have seen the surprise in her eyes because he laughed. ‘Oh yes. I know about the two of you. I’m part of your story, you know. You’ll never know how much.’ The knowing intimacy of his tone made her shiver.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It is not a question of want. It’s a question of what is right. Buchanan killed his brother. Original sin. The Book made flesh. I don’t think he should be rewarded for his crime, do you?’ He cocked an eye at her as though expecting her to answer.

  When she simply stared at him, he continued. ‘No. He should not. No happily ever after with the woman he loves. That would go against the laws of nature and justice. Against the laws of God.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Her voice was hoarse.

  ‘I’ll be letting the police know about Adam Buchanan, you can count on that.’

  Anger flooded through her brain. Lunging at him, she pulled the goggles straight down his face. The strap snagged on one ear but she tugged viciously and it came loose.

  The scream that left his lips was frightful. His mouth stretched wide and she could see his glistening tongue. His eyebrows arched high against his forehead.

  ‘What have you done?’ He lifted his hand and hit her across the face. Pain shot through her jaw with such intensity that her breath exploded from her body in a sob. ‘I didn’t want this. Now you know me. Now you know who I am.’

  Through the haze of pain the black-smeared features of the face in front of her struck no chord of memory. For a moment she felt like laughing hysterically. All this, and she didn’t even recognise the guy.

  But then it hit her.

  The church. A man who looked like a jolly little bear. A jolly little bear with fangs.

  He drew in his breath with a hissing sound and grabbed her face. His thumb and forefinger cut into the hollow between her cheekbones and her teeth.

  ‘You wanted to look at me. So look at me then. Look at me!’

  She stared at him, eyes watering with pain and fear. His face was so close to hers that it seemed out of proportion. She tried to look away, but his grip was iron. She wasn’t even able to move her head. They stood motionless, staring at each other.

  But then he made an odd moaning sound and brought his hands to his face in a strangely defensive gesture. He stepped back.

  This was her chance. Go for the telephone. Now. Her eyes darted to the passage leading to her room.

  But he saw her move. He stepped forward, blocking her way. She expected him to pull her toward him again but instead he was pushing her. His fist jabbed at her chest. He was pushing her backward toward the stairs. Jab. Jab. She tried to get out of his reach, but his march on her was relentless. Jab. Jab. She was moving backward fast. Her foot rested on the edge of the top step of the staircase.

  He was coming for her again, pushing hard against her. Jab. Jab. He was trying to push her down the stairs. He was succeeding: she felt her foot slip. At the very last moment she grabbed his arm. I go down! You go down! She felt him resist but then she was falling, falling and he was falling with her.

  How many steps? She let go of him, tried to break her fall with her hands but still she went tumbling. Stai
rs. Ceiling. Wall. Rolling over and over. A rag doll. Her head slammed into the marble floor at the bottom of the staircase. He was already there, waiting. He was lying on his stomach, staring at her.

  Her vision was blurring. Flashes at the edges of her consciousness. She struggled to her feet, swaying on rubbery legs. The table lamp on the console table was made of heavy brass. She pulled it down. He was still lying prone, watching her.

  No happily ever after with the woman he loves… I’ll be letting the police know about Adam Buchanan, you can count on that.

  She brought the lamp down on his head with all the strength she had in her body. It smashed into his skull with a moist, mind-shuddering smack.

  Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor. Just before she lost consciousness, she wondered with a strange feeling of detachment why the darkness she was entering was coloured white.

  THIRTY-THREE

  JUSTINE. JUSTINE.

  Someone was calling her. Over and over again. Insistent. Tiring. She wished the voice would stop.

  A faint red glow on the other side of her eyelids. The colour of the sun falling through a coloured glass window. Pretty. She tried to open her eyes to see better, but someone must have glued them together because they wouldn’t open.

  Justine. Open your eyes, Justine.

  Well, she would if she could, wouldn’t she? She tried again. No go. Her eyes were pieces of rock. Dead.

  Fear. It was replacing the irritation in her mind. Why couldn’t she see?

  Justine. Come on, Justine.

  The voice again. Her insistent cheerleader.

  The fear was growing. What if she tried and tried and her eyes never opened? Maybe it would be easier not to try, to simply fall back again into the soft darkness…

  Something she needed to do. Someone she needed to find.

  Try again. So hard. Like struggling to get out of quicksand.

  The red glow growing in strength. Someone she needed to see…

  Adam.

  Her eyes opened into a room bright with sunshine.

  Her mother’s voice. ‘Thank God.’

  • • •

  THE NEXT TWO DAYS brought increasing clarity and coherence.

  She was in hospital. She had sustained a head trauma. Two of her ribs were cracked, her jaw had suffered damage and the cut above her lip had required stitches. But, all in all, the nurse assured her cheerfully, it could have been much worse.

  At that moment, it was difficult to see how. Despite the drugs, every time she moved her head, a steel skewer rotated its way up her neck. It hurt to breathe.

  ‘I was so worried about you.’ Her mother’s voice was the shaky voice of an old woman. ‘When they called me and told me you were in hospital…’

  ‘Who found me?’

  ‘You called 999 yourself. Don’t you remember?’

  She shook her head, winced. Moving her head was not a clever thing to do. ‘A phone call? I don’t remember anything about that. All I remember is passing out.’

  Another memory, this one horribly fresh and stamped with fear. She pushed herself upright. ‘What happened to—’

  ‘It’s all right, darling. He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  Her mother hesitated. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Yes.’ Justine leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. In her mind, the memory of a lamp heavy in her hands. The sickening feel of metal hitting flesh. So this was how easy it was to kill someone. She suddenly felt nauseous.

  ‘He can never hurt you again.’

  He can never hurt Adam.

  ‘He broke his neck.’

  Her eyes flew open. ‘What? It wasn’t the blow to his head?’

  ‘No. When he fell down the stairs—he landed badly. That’s what the police say. Justine… What’s the matter?’

  But she couldn’t speak. She was laughing, laughing even though the tears were running down her cheeks.

  • • •

  THE POLICE CAME later and filled in the rest of the blanks. But they were unable to answer the one question that occupied her mind.

  ‘Why me? I met the guy once. Only once.’

  DI Donald Josephs shrugged. He was a tall, almost impossibly handsome man. And she noticed he had expensive taste in clothes. The cut of his suit was impeccable. His tie whispered Hermès. Not at all her idea of a policeman.

  ‘It’s impossible to know why Wyatt fixated on you. It could have been anything. If it’s any consolation, you were not his only victim. We’ve searched his place and he had entire filing cabinets filled with notes on people he stalked.’

  ‘Did he hurt them?’

  Josephs hesitated. ‘One—we think. A woman, three years ago. She drowned in her own bath after sustaining a head injury. From what we managed to glean from his notes on her, we’re pretty sure he was responsible. So, I’d say you can count yourself lucky.’

  ‘He had this…’ she hesitated. How to describe it? ‘…pen-like thing attached to a tube, which he wanted me to look at. Do you know what that was?’

  Josephs threw a look at his partner. DI George Ackroyd fitted her profile of a police officer a whole lot better. Grizzled, beer-belly, weary-looking. He spoke with a voice coated in cigarette tar. ‘He wanted you to look at it?’

  ‘Yes. He said it wouldn’t hurt.’

  Ackroyd sighed. ‘Depends on what you call “hurt”. That thing was a laser. It could have fried your eyeballs.’ He sighed again. ‘Pretty sick.’

  Pretty sick. No joking. She swallowed hard.

  Josephs pulled a photograph out of an envelope. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  She managed to keep her face noncommittal. ‘It looks like Paradine Park.’

  ‘It is. But this looks like a wolf. Have you seen this picture before?’

  ‘No. Where did you get it?’

  ‘In Wyatt’s house. In the folder he kept on you. He made notes about you, your routine… what was inside your cupboards. It was clipped to a photograph of the previous owner of Paradine Park. Adam Buchanan.’

  ‘Disturbing.’

  ‘As you say. So you’ve never seen this photograph before?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You certainly had an eventful night,’ Josephs said as he returned the photograph to the envelope. ‘Knocking out two men in one evening.’

  For a moment she didn’t understand. ‘Two men?’

  ‘Tim March.’

  An icicle of caution slid down her spine. She looked at him warily. ‘Oh… yes. Yes, of course.’

  ‘We still need to talk to you about exactly what happened, Ms Callaway. March gave the police a rather… imaginative… version of events. We’ll need to go through your statement again.’

  He got to his feet. ‘We realise, of course, that you’re not well. There’s no rush. But as soon as you feel up to it, we’ll have a talk.’

  Josephs had shrewd eyes. She had only just noticed. Her breathing felt shallow. Careful. Be careful. She had toyed with the idea of calling Adam from one of the hospital phones, but that was definitely out. Not while this well-dressed shark was circling.

  She wondered if he had sensed the sudden tension within her. Her heart was beating triple-time. But she managed to smile pleasantly. ‘Certainly. Let’s talk later.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE DAY WAS very hot. The spire of Kepler Bay’s only church floated in the haze of heat. As Adam walked into the town he narrowed his eyes against the glare of a wrinkled sky.

  He hadn’t seen this place in almost a month, but it felt as though he had never been away. After his midnight flight from Paradine Park, the rest of the journey back home had been completely uneventful. There were no news flashes on the radio or TV. No uniformed men pulling him from his aeroplane seat at the last minute. He had prepared for the worst and in the end the trip had been almost anti-climactic.

  It was hellishly difficult to stop himself from calling Justine. He ached to hear her voice and to make sure she was OK. H
e supposed she was right, though; at this point self-discipline was what was needed. They would be together soon enough. Until then, extreme caution was the name of the game.

  It was noon and he could see no one on the streets. There was also little sign of life in the tiny houses with their deep verandas. It was difficult to believe that anyone actually lived behind those old-fashioned lace curtains. He passed by a front door that stood open and caught a brief glimpse of a dark, sunless interior. The swing chair on the porch of the neighbouring house was moving slowly back and forth as though someone had just vacated it. But the rest of the town seemed deserted.

  Mark’s house was an old colonial building that had once been used by the Germans as the town’s administrative offices and later as a girls’ boarding school. As he approached the front door, he noticed new scaffolding at the side of the house. Restoring this white elephant of a place was an ongoing project of Mark’s. But out here it was all do-it-yourself and unfortunately Mark was not handy—a clumsiness strange in someone whose hands could wield a surgeon’s knife with breathtaking skill.

  He lowered the knocker to the door and waited. At this time of day he was sure to find Mark at home. He always had lunch with Rita between twelve and one.

  The door opened. It was Rita. He only had time to register her distraught expression before she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing so tight he gasped for breath. ‘Oh, Adam.’ Her voice was a sob. ‘Oh, thank God. Thank God you’re back.’

  • • •

  THE CURTAINS inside the house were drawn against the heat. The passage leading to Mark’s bedroom was gloomy. Against the shadowy walls were photographs of Mark and Rita’s boy, Simon—an entire gallery recording every milestone in Simon’s short life: birth, first steps, first day of school, a photo of Simon in the company of fellow rugby players, all of them looking dishevelled but proudly holding aloft a gleaming trophy.