Hidden Mortality

by Maggie Mundy

  “So what was in the photograph?” Jessica probed deeper.

  “She was.”

  “What do you mean?” Jessica stopped writing and leant forward.

  “I saw a woman’s picture today and she had the exact wounds.”

  “Are you sure about what you saw? You may have seen a newspaper article, or a news report, and it just resurfaced in your dreams.”

  “I’m a chef. When I use a knife, I’m particular about each cut or slice. The body in the photograph looked as if it had been dead a while but the slashes were the same.” Cara’s mouth dried up as she spoke. The walls of the room felt as if they closed in on her.

  “Have you considered that the stress of the interview along with everything else may have led you to imagine the picture? You’ve been through so much this past year with your relationship ending, then losing the baby and the surgery.”

  Jessica was right. They could just be bad dreams. Someone didn’t have to have died like that. It might be a shot from an old black and white movie. If that was the case then why was a reporter writing an article about two murders? Cara’s head hurt as she rubbed her temples.

  Jessica’s phone beeped to let her know the next appointment had arrived. Cara was out of the seat and the room as quickly as she could walk. The next person waiting was Mr. Matcher.

  Black hair hung over his face. Cara smiled politely at him. She received a glare for her effort. He would keep. He didn’t look so cool today. In fact, he looked like he was about to throw up as he leaned against the wall.

  “Are you all right?” Cara asked, expecting to be given the finger.

  “Like you could help? You’re not even normal.”

  The response was no different than what she expected, but it still annoyed her. She needed to get out of here and return home to cook. The preparation of food usually took her mind off any problems. She needed to forget interviews, counselors, dreams, photographs, magic and moody young men.

  She took in a deep breath of air outside. It was good to be free of recycled air and emotions. Her mobile rang and Cara cringed as she saw it was her mother.

  “Cara,” Her mother hesitated.

  “Hallo, Mum.” She rarely phoned. Cara shivered with dread at what she was going to say next.

  “I’m sorry, dear. Your grandmother’s dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Matcher sat opposite Jessica. Another tune came to mind and he flicked his fingers as if strumming his guitar. The music that always played in his head was something he liked about himself since the operation. He still wasn’t sure about the new ability to read auras. He reckoned if he ever had a band he would call them Strange Glow just because of it.

  “So you’ve moved into your flat?” Jessica asked.

  “Yeah.” Multiple colors swirled around his counselor aura. Maybe she had some bad shit going on. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to know. In the waiting room he had felt like he was going to throw up but it was easing off now.

  “How are you getting along with your flat-mates?”

  “Great. The guys are cool.” What was he doing here? He hadn’t even told her he could read auras. It was just as well. She might get him locked up if she knew the truth. The hospital thought he was crazy after the operation. He yelled abuse and grabbed people asking where his Mum was. He only had one more session booked with Jessica, so he could cope.

  “How’s your father dealing with the move?”

  “He said to call him if I needed anything.”

  Matcher let his mind wander to the woman he’d seen in the waiting room. Her aura was weird, like nothing he’d seen before. It was normal one minute and then went almost black. Maybe she was an alien. That was it. He’d been given this gift to make great music and save the world from aliens. Jessica waited.

  “Went to an interview last week and I got a job stocking shelves.” She smiled at him and he relaxed. At last, he had said something right. This was easy, he could blab on about his new workmates for a while till the buzzer went, then freedom.

  Jumping in his old car an hour later, he headed for Filton and his dad’s place. He needed his CD’s. If he listened to any more of the guys’ rap he’d go mad. He hoped Dad would let him have Mum’s classical stuff. Julie answered the door. She was making Dad happy but Matcher’s stomach still turned to knots, seeing another woman in this house.

  “Your dad’s at work, but he said you might call. Come on in. The box is out back.”

  “Can I use the loo?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Matcher walked up the stairs. The bathroom was at the top and his old room was off to the right. His stepbrother Josh was a good kid and it was his place now. All the band posters had been replaced with footballers. Dad would be happy as Matcher reckoned he had always wanted a sporty kid and now he had one.

  Back at the flat, he went straight to his room. This place wasn’t much of a home but it was his. He looked around. He had one single bed, one desk, one bookshelf, one wardrobe, one comfy old threadbare chair and two beanbags. Now, he had his collection of CD’s and books, mostly fantasy. It was fun to escape from the real world. He put a CD on. Perhaps he would be able to convince his flat-mates to convert to some heavier stuff.

  Most of the things in the box were odds and ends, except for a photo album. There was also a package wrapped in gift wrap and there was a note on it.

  “She loved them, and I think she hoped you would too someday. Love, Dad.”

  Matcher eyes watered as he stared at the collection of his mother’s classical CD’s.

  His flat-mates Mike and Pete were normal twenty-year- olds with two things on their minds, booze and sex. Matcher laughed to himself. At least, he’d managed to have sex before he lost his left ball to the big C at the tender age of eighteen. He would have something to compare his future capacity to, if he ever had sex again. God, he hoped he would have sex again.

  It had been another good night down at the pub. Of course, he had no money left and couldn’t eat for a week. He wasn’t drunk, but he was close to it. Maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea to move into a flat near a pub, especially with these two. Collapsing onto the bed, Matcher found something digging into his back. It was the photo album. He fell asleep listening to Mozart and looking at a photo of Mum building a sandcastle with him at Weston Super-Mare.

  His body was soaked with sweat when he sat up. It was happening again. It was like someone tormented him by making him relive the experience over and over. He didn’t need to close his eyes to remember everything clearly.

  There were muffled voices in his dream as always. He couldn’t move but still felt the excruciating pain. It was like a cannon ball hit him in the groin. They were chopping out the cancer. As the scalpel cut through the skin, the pain moved to his chest. He was dying and floating away above his body. Suddenly, the pain disappeared as his mother materialized beside him.

  “Mum, what are you doing here?” Matcher said.

  “Is that the only greeting I get, after all this time?”

  She looked beautiful. Not like at the end when the breast cancer had taken everything, but like in the pictures of when he was a kid. This wasn’t right. He could see through her to the tiled wall beyond. Matcher looked around. There was the big light and he was above it. Down there, on the bed was his body. The staff pulled in a machine and placed things on his chest.

  “Stand clear,” someone shouted.

  The tortuous pain started up again as he turned back to his mother. She moved effortlessly forward and hugged him.

  “I loved you so much. I never wanted to leave. It hurts to see you go through this pain, but you’re not to come yet. I’ll leave you with something to help.”

  “What are you on about? What’s happening?” The agony in his chest swelled again.

&
nbsp; He was back to reality and his room. Damn, he should have drunk more. Then he could slip back into oblivion instead of having the dream again.

  The woman at the counselor’s came to mind. He hadn’t been too nice to her. Mum had given him the ability to read auras. So far, it wasn’t helping him or anyone else. If anything, it just made him feel more separated from everyone.

  He needed to pull his head out of his ass and do something. Maybe he had been given this gift to help the woman at Jessica’s, but how the hell would he find her? Wait a minute. She had been talking to the receptionist about getting tickets to go to some Shakespeare play in Bath on the 18th. It was a long shot, but he had to try.

  Chapter 4

  The hammer smashed the metal again and again. Seth reckoned it would be a beautiful blade. After one hundred and fifty odd years he had perfected his skills. Making the swords and sculptures kept him sane some of the time. The swords were for decoration now, not killing. Killing from afar, not seeing your victim up close was preferable nowadays. Janet hovered by the door to the forge with freshly brewed coffee and homemade cake.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Seth, but Robert Fetter called from London again. He says he’ll be down next week to look at the swords. I suppose he has a buyer. Oh, and the stone company said they’ll be delivering the soapstone block tomorrow. There’s a letter from the solicitor as well. I’m off to the movies with Valerie.”

  Seth nodded and turned back to his work. He grinned and wondered why he kept attracting this kind of housekeeper. They always needed to organize every part of his life, whether he wanted them to or not. He loved each one of them. It always hurt when he outlived them and they died. Janet was as wonderful and eccentric as the rest. Maybe, they were all similar because it took a certain type of person to be willing to accept his longevity.

  He sipped the coffee and then opened the letter from the solicitor. One of Rosie’s descendants called Kathleen had died. He would go online later and book a flight to go to the funeral. It shamed him to admit it wasn’t to honor Kathleen, but on the chance he might see Cara.

  He had watched her for years but knew a relationship was not possible, or that was what he told himself. She wasn’t Rosie and he had to remember his goal. He had to find Rosie’s killer and die so he could be free of this torment. He always protected Rosie’s descendants from a distance. He couldn’t afford to let that change now.

  The countryside blurred beside him as he increased the throttle on his bike. Grey bike, grey rider, he almost blended with the hedgerows as darkness approached. The lights of Bath ahead of him, beckoned as always. However, they never provided an answer of where the murderer lurked. Maybe he could ride into a tree, and fool himself again he could die.

  He’d spend weeks in hospital. The doctors would state it was a miraculous recovery. It was all a lie. He parked the bike and walked the streets. When all else failed, it was reassuring to just plod all night. He could walk alongside others and make believe he was the same. He found himself near The Roman Baths again. It was the last place Rosie had been seen.

  Seth shivered and pulled up the collar of his jacket. The night air caused goose bumps to rise on his neck. He found a bar and sat down in the corner with his beer. People came and went, and as usual, avoided him. His muscular frame intimidated most onlookers. The shaved head and grey eyes caused many people to glance away. A group of woman giggled as two of them pointed towards him. Another couple sat quietly in a corner with eyes only for each other. Seth downed his beer and left.

  Faces, he would observe everyone as they passed by. All these years. All the searching. For what? Once or twice he had come close to discovering the killers, but that was so long ago. After the night Rosie’s apparition appeared, he visited James Rushton who had asked him to repair the dagger. Rushton twitched and wrung his hands but revealed nothing much. A week later James was dead. Rumors flew that the young buck had stabbed himself.

  Seth’s jaw clenched in frustration that he had missed his chance. He had been a fool back then. If he had known what the future held, he would have beaten Rushton until he got answers to his questions. Seth stopped outside one of the bookshops. A sign proclaimed, MAN’S YEARNING FOR IMMORTALITY. Is it MAGIC? SCIENCE? MYTH?

  The window was full of books by assorted authors. They were surrounded by crystal balls, test tubes, a skeleton, and a large plastic looking red stone with a sign underneath stating it was the Philosopher’s Stone. Every book, article, and Internet site he had studied did nothing to help him discover more about the dagger.

  Perhaps one of these books might have another mention of the cult in Eastern Europe that seemed to be connected to the dagger. He had read one book that talked about taking lives to extend your own, but he hadn’t taken Rosie’s life. Yet he was still alive. What if he never found her killer? What if he went mad? He was close enough now. That was another reason to keep his distance from Cara, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. He was a fool who had lived too long. Now, he was in love with someone who didn’t know he existed.

  He walked on past Bath Abbey towards Pulteney Bridge. Leaning on the railing he glanced at the water below where he had tried to drown himself on more than one occasion. His last attempt was fifty years ago and he had lain beneath the water for an hour. It did no good.

  A scream broke into his thoughts. It came from the other side of the river. He squinted at the grassy area that was illuminated by only one working lamp. It was a place where people would sit and relax in the daytime. It wasn’t exactly the location to visit at night so he knew he was walking into trouble.

  Seth had been there before. He remembered steps leading down to a raised walkway that skirted behind the trees. The canopy at the back of the grassy area provided darkness where perpetrators could hide. He should walk away. It was none of his business. Then again, what if someone had been there for Rosie? Another scream. A woman yelled but he couldn’t make out the words.

  He made his way down the steps two at a time. He hurried along the walkway until he was just above the disturbance. Two men stood over a woman sprawled on the ground. Anger bubbled up inside Seth as he clenched his fists.

  The larger of the two men grabbed his friend’s jacket. “What the bloody hell did you do that for? I just said keep your hand over her mouth, not hit her.”

  “She bit me, the cow.”

  “Well now, you’ve knocked her out. She won’t be biting anyone. Shit, half the fun is when they fight.”

  “She’ll wake up in a minute. It wasn’t like I hit her hard.”

  The larger guy knelt down and ripped the girl’s blouse open.

  “Come to me, my lovely.” He started to undo her jeans.

  Seth jumped from the raised walkway onto the smaller man. He flattened him to the ground. Before the man had a chance to react and get up again Seth thumped him hard on the chin. He would be out for a while.

  “Who the hell are you?” The larger guy shouted.

  “No one you know. I’ve a problem with a man who doesn’t treat a lady as he should though.”

  “She ain’t no lady.”

  Standing up, the man lunged at Seth. The idiot forgot his pants rested around his ankles. Seth smirked as he watched him fall flat on his face. He pulled the man’s head up and thumped him across the cheek. There was a satisfying crack as the bone broke beneath his knuckles.

  “Bit clumsy, aren’t we? Perhaps you should both lie there and rest.”

  The smell of cheap perfume mixed with cigarettes and alcohol wafted up from the young woman. As he pulled her blouse together and zipped up her pants, his action was rewarded by a slap across his face. He only just managed to move out of the way before her knee came up to connect with his groin. To be long-lived was one thing. He still didn’t relish his nether regions being attacked.

  “Piss off, you bastard.” The young woman
screeched so loud his ears hurt. She tried to slap him again.

  “I suggest you look around. I thought you needed help.” Seth stood back out of reach.

  “Where’s me purse?”

  Seth found the small shoulder bag a few feet away. “Is there someone you can call?”

  “None a yer business.” She rifled through the contents of her purse, obviously checking to see if anything was missing. Then, she hustled away.

  As she passed the two prostrate forms, she kicked each man in the groin. Seth cringed but stayed close behind her as she strode to the stairs. On the fourth step, she lost her footing falling forward and nearly hitting her head. He grabbed her arm and held her up so she didn’t make contact with the concrete. She tensed at his touch but didn’t push him away.

  By the time they came out on the street above she was leaning heavily against him. She was probably concussed plus a little drunk or high. He recalled a taxi rank back near The Abby. All he needed to do now was get there without attracting the attention of any passing police car.

  “The Royal United Hospital.” Seth told the driver, as they settled in the back seat.

  “What the hell? All right, I’m not asking questions. She up-chucks in the back, you’re paying for it being cleaned.”

  When they got out of the cab she managed to stay upright until they entered the Accident and Emergency Department where her legs finally gave out. One of the nurses came over as Seth scooped the young woman up in his arms. Looking at the girl in the light, he thought she couldn’t have been much more than sixteen.

  “Bring her this way.” The nurse pulled back a curtain to a cubicle where a trolley waited. Seth placed the girl on the mattress. She gave a little groan.

  The Triage nurse eyed him suspiciously. “What happened?”