by LJ Ross
A few minutes later he returned with two steaming mugs, and seated himself on the rug beside her.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked, indicating the old summaries and statements.
“I do this every year,” she said, and shook her head. “I don’t know why I keep torturing myself.”
“Because you loved her, and you haven’t given up on the possibility of avenging her death,” he said quietly.
She nodded, and took a sip of the tea he offered.
“Thanks,” she murmured. “I needed this.”
“That’s what I’m here for—”
“No,” she said, with a bit more force than she’d intended. “No, it isn’t, Jack. You’re not here to wait on me, or make me feel better when I’m low. It should be a two-way street.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked, in genuine confusion. “You’d do the same for me.”
She supposed that was true.
“I’m a bit wound up,” she admitted. “Sorry.”
She looked down at the papers strewn in front of her, and was angry, all of a sudden.
“I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with this,” she muttered, and began shuffling them into a stack. “There isn’t anything new to discover, and it’s not as though I’m about to have some great epiphany. Gemma’s gone, and it’s one of those things, that’s all.”
“Except, it wasn’t ‘one of those things’,” he said. “You don’t need to pretend that it was.”
Mel let out a harsh sob, and rose to her feet, kicking the papers as she went.
“All right, then, she was brutally murdered. Is that what you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you about how they found her, weeks after her death, so she couldn’t even be identified without dental records? Whoever did that to her left her in plastic bags, Jack, as though they were taking out the rubbish.”He said nothing, letting her get it all out.
“It’s been over a decade, and still no DNA match,” she said, dejectedly. “There was only one usable sample they found on her whole body, just a single hair that didn’t belong to her, but was caught on her nail—probably as she tried to fight. For years, I kept thinking I’d get an alert to say a match had been found, and we’d have the bastard after all, but it’s never come.”
“There’s still time,” he said, although he could make her no promises.
“She was my twin,” Mel said, so softly he strained to hear. “She was always just a little brighter, a little more beautiful and a little bit kinder than me. Everyone loved her.”
He wanted to argue that she was all of those things, too, but it was not the time.
“All my life, I’ve compared myself to her, wondering how she’d be, if she was still here,” Mel continued. “I’ve felt guilty that I’m here while she’s gone, and I’ve wondered—wondered if it should have been the other way around—”
Her voice broke, and Jack rose to his feet, moving swiftly to envelop her in his arms.
“Don’t say that,” he said urgently. “Don’t even think it.”
“I think of her every day,” Mel admitted. “Not for long, but often in the morning, or just before bed. I say, ‘good night’ to her, and ‘good morning’. Does that make me crazy, Jack?”
“No, love, it just makes you human.”
And, just like that, Melanie Yates had the epiphany she’d hoped for. There, in the quiet comfort of the home they’d built, she looked at the man beside her—properly looked—and felt her worries melt away.
“I love you, Jack,” she said, with feeling. “I’m sorry if I don’t tell you enough.”
He looked down to find tears in her eyes.
“Hey—no need for that,” he said, and brushed them away. “I don’t need to hear it all the time, to know it.”
She swallowed. “Thank you,” she said huskily.
“For what?”
“For…being patient with me, that’s all.”
Lowerson shook his head, and decided he would never fully understand the strange and mystical mind of a woman, even one he happened to love.
* * *
While the world slept, Lawana lay awake, listening for a change in the tides.
While the hours ticked by, she watched the subtle shift in the colours of the sky, from deepest black to royal navy, as the night slipped into the early hours of a new day. When the sound of the sea became less of a roar at the mouth of the cave, she knew it had receded and it was time for her to move.
She pushed the soil from her body, breaking free of the shell she’d made for herself, and shivered as her skin was exposed to the air once more. Then, using hands that were still tender from their onslaught on the boat, she lowered herself from her perch and onto the rocky floor, which was damp to the touch and covered in hardened shells and lichen.
Her legs came last, thudding onto the floor like dead weights.
Breathing fast and shallow, she dragged herself towards the entrance to the tunnel, commando style. Every movement was an enormous effort, every inch of ground a hard-won victory, until she detected a sound that made her freeze.
She lay on the floor of the cave, shivering, while she waited to hear it come again.
There, she thought. A rustling sound, as though something were sliding along the tunnel towards her.
Terrified that Gaz and the others had returned, she tried to slide backwards, searching frantically for a hiding place but finding none.
The noise came closer and closer, and she watched the entrance to the tunnel, holding her breath.
“Hello?”
A voice echoed down the tunnel, a man’s voice she’d never heard before, and the light of a torch beam broke through the darkness. Soon after, she spotted a bright yellow stretcher appear at the head of the tunnel, sliding along the floor with a whoosh of hardened plastic against rock.
She waited, and then he followed.
Her rescuer.
She watched his head emerge from the tunnel, saw him shine the torch around the cave until it found her. She could not see his face, but she heard the kindness in his voice, even without understanding all the words.
“Help has arrived,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Hel’?” she whispered, and began to cry.
“There now,” he murmured, and bent over to make his way across to where she lay sprawled on the floor.
With a pair of strong, gloved hands, he dragged her across the ground to the waiting stretcher and spent precious minutes strapping her onto the back of it, making sure she was securely tied.
“Time to go,” he said, cheerfully.
The man led the way back out of the tunnel, dragging her behind him by way of a rope he’d attached to the base of the stretcher, and the journey out of the cave was long and uncomfortable, for which he apologised profusely.
“Not far now,” he said, in the same cheerful, unthreatening voice.
Lawana could barely describe the feeling of relief and exhilaration at having been found. This man was all her prayers answered, and she would have complied with anything, if he’d only take her away from that dreadful place.
There was a short pause while he dropped onto the sand and checked the beach in both directions, before reaching back inside to drag her the remaining distance with swift, strong movements.
When her feet appeared at the tunnel’s entrance, he abandoned the rope and grabbed her legs, tugging her out onto the wet sand and into his waiting arms.
“This is what we call the Fireman’s Lift,” he said, and hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Keeping a secure hand banded over her legs and another on the rope attached to the yellow stretcher, he walked purposefully along the beach towards the grotto, keeping to the edge of the cliff. He stopped briefly beside one of the coastguard huts, where he nudged open the door he’d forced earlier and returned the stretcher, having been careful to drag it through the shallows as they made their way along.
After disposing
of it, he turned his attention to the steep set of stairs beside the grotto, and let out a long sigh.
“I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” he said, and began making his way up the hill, gripping the bannister rail for support as he made the arduous journey to the top of the cliff.
Lawana closed her eyes tightly against the sight of the beach directly below, which grew further and further away as they ascended. It was another relief when they finally reached the summit, and she opened her eyes again to seek out his emergency vehicle. In Thailand, rescues were usually made in pairs or teams, rather than sending a single coastguard or policeman, but she didn’t know anything about how things worked in England. Perhaps this was how things were done.
But, there was no police car or ambulance in sight.
In fact, the street was deserted, except for a small van parked on the other side of the road. To her surprise, he began walking towards it, whistling beneath his breath.
A delayed sense of self-preservation began to creep in, snaking its way through her body until it rang like a siren in her mind. She tried to move her legs, but they would not respond to the signals from her brain. She moved her head from side to side, seeking out any sign of life, but saw only a series of streetlights shining along the cliff road.
Quick as a flash, he crossed the road, pleased to have left the back door to his van unlocked and ready. Before she could utter more than a small cry, he shifted her in his arms, reaching for the rag he kept in his back pocket, for emergencies such as these. Sometimes, he managed a very wholesome conversation for at least part of the journey to their new home, but it seemed that was not to be, with this one.
“Open wide,” he said, and stuffed the rag into her mouth before depositing her in the back of the van.
Taking one last look around, he joined her in there, battling his own rising excitement to make sure her hands and legs were securely tied for the remainder of the journey.
Soon after, the van moved off into the night, disappearing into the foggy morning as though it had never existed.
CHAPTER 17
Sunday 14th February
Anna awakened to the scent of roses.
Vases and jugs of all shapes and sizes had been stuffed to the brim and arranged around the bedroom. Surprised, and a little overwhelmed, she sat up and turned to find a card propped on her bedside table.
She opened it to find the ‘artwork’ courtesy of Emma Taylor-Ryan, but the message had been written by her father:
Anna,
You know I don’t believe in Hallmark calendar dates—I love you every day of our lives, not only today. But I want to say how much you are appreciated. Thank you for every time you have supported and encouraged me to be a better man. Thank you for believing in me, when I forget to believe in myself. Thank you for being my best friend, my lover, the mother of my child and the best person I have ever known. I am the luckiest man in the world to have you walking by my side as we navigate this thing called Life.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
With all my love, now and always,
Ryan x
Beneath which, there was a small painted handprint, and a translation which read:
Dear Mummy,
Thank you for all the cuddles, kisses and tickles.
Lots of love,
Emma x
Anna sat there for a minute or two clutching the card to her chest, and thought that, no, she didn’t need to hear the words very often, but, when she did, they meant so very much.
“Knock, knock,” Ryan said, and appeared in the doorway with Emma in one arm and a small tray balanced in the other.
Find yourself a man who can multi-task, she thought, with a smile.
“Good morning,” she said, with a blinding smile. “Did you rob a florist’s shop, for all these?”
She lifted her arms to encompass the roses.
“I might have made a few calls,” he said, with a wink. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He deposited the tray on the bed beside his wife, and then perched on the end with Emma, who immediately made a grab for the toast and eyed the small pot of jam beside it with intent.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, but relented by breaking off a finger of buttered toast. “Gnaw on this.”
Emma did just that, happily gumming the bread while her parents enjoyed a quiet moment.
“Thank you for the card,” Anna said, softly. “It’s beautiful.”
“I have something else for you,” Ryan said, and walked across to a chest of drawers to retrieve a small gift-wrapped package.
“You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble!” she protested. “I don’t need gifts—”
“Who said anything about need?” Ryan smiled, and handed her a small square box.
Inside, she found a pair of amethyst earrings, which was her favourite stone.
“Oh, they’re beautiful,” she murmured. “Thank you!”
Ryan retrieved the remains of a slice of gummed toast from the floor where Emma had dropped it, and then smiled.
“Just a token,” he said.
“Actually, I got something for you, too,” she said, and felt shy, all of a sudden. She knew it was ridiculous to feel shy around her own husband, but he was a man who could elicit that kind of emotion.
Anna slipped from the bed and opened her wardrobe door, where she fished around for a few seconds before presenting him with a rectangular package in the shape of a book.
“Let me guess,” Ryan said. “Is it a book?”
“Booo” Emma repeated.
“It might be,” Anna said, lifting her chin. “Just open it.”
Ryan tore open the packaging to reveal an old and, if he wasn’t mistaken, first edition copy of A Study in Scarlet, which was his favourite of the Sherlock Holmes detective stories.
“Anna, you shouldn’t have,” he said, but felt like a little boy at Christmas.
“You never spend anything on yourself,” she said. “We don’t go in for flashy things, most of the time, but I know how much you love this book.”
“I do,” he said, reverently, running his fingers over the delicate binding. “This is wonderful, thank you.”
“Well, don’t get used to it,” she chuckled. “Next year, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
He grinned, and placed the book carefully out of the reach of small, sticky hands.
“I have to go back into the office today,” he said, with regret. “But I’ve booked a babysitter for this evening because, tonight, Doctor Taylor-Ryan, we’re going out.”
Anna flushed happily. Due to one thing or another, it had been a while since she’d been able to put on some pretty clothes and enjoy an adult night out.
“You’ve got yourself a date,” she said. “What time should I be ready?”
“Sitter’s coming at six-thirty, and the table’s booked for seven, in Bamburgh.”
The little village where they’d been married, she thought.
“You’re stacking up the Brownie points, aren’t you?” she teased him. “What are you after?”
Ryan turned, braced a hand on either side of the bed where she lay, and gave her a slow smile as he moved closer.
“That all depends on what you’re offering,” he whispered, before capturing her lips.
When Emma let out a protesting cry for attention, and banged her little hands on the mattress beside them, they both laughed.
“Get used to it, kid,” Ryan told her. “There’ll be plenty more PDAs to embarrass you, over the years.”
With that, he ruffled her soft hair and padded through to the bathroom, soaking up every moment of happiness to sustain him through the long hours of the day, until they were reunited.
* * *
Jack Lowerson had big plans to surprise Mel with breakfast in bed, and a morning of indulgence before they needed to return to the office. However, when he awakened, it was to find that she’d had the same idea, herself.
“Spanish omelette, coffee an
d freshly squeezed orange juice,” she said, as he padded through to the kitchen-diner. “I was going to bring this through to you, on a tray. Go back to bed!”
He smiled and shook his head, lowering it to nuzzle at her neck.
“I’d rather share it with you, here,” he said, gesturing to the table. “You’ve beaten me to it.”
Mel smiled, and thought it was definitely her turn to show some appreciation.
“Well, I know we haven’t got long, but I wanted to say thank you for listening to me, last night.”
“Any time,” he said, and lifted his knife and fork. “Mel?”
“Mm hmm?” she said, while she added milk to their cups of coffee.
“Will you—”
Just then, his mobile phone began to jingle, and he swore, knowing it would be the office.
“Hold that thought,” he said, and made a grab for it.
“Lowerson.”
Mel paused to listen to the conversation, watching the shifting contours of his face.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, once he’d ended the call.
“That was a call handler I know from Control,” Jack said. “We used to have a drink every now and then, when I lived over in Heaton. Anyway, he was on shift last night, and took a call he thought was a bit unusual.”
“Why didn’t he just write it up?” she asked. “Why call you about it?”
“Robbie says he’s written it up, but his supervisor’s labelled it a prank. He doesn’t agree.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“He says a young man, he can’t be sure of the age, called around nine-forty-five last night asking for the police. When he came through to Robbie, he reported that he’d found a woman who was injured and trapped, but he didn’t say where. Didn’t give any personal details, either. All he did say, was that we should head towards ‘Spottee’s’.”
“Spottee’s?” she queried.
“Spottee’s is a cave on Roker seafront,” he told her. “It takes its name from a foreign sailor who was stranded in the area and could speak no English, so he couldn’t talk to the locals—they thought he was some kind of lunatic. Apparently, he wore a spotted shirt, which is what earned him the nickname.”