‘He sounds very kind.’
‘Yes, he is, and very tolerant,’ she laughed again. ‘I am so lucky to have someone like him. I wish you could have someone like William too. It makes you feel wonderful. If you do get someone like William in your life, Cecelia, don’t turn him away. Don’t do a number on him because you will lose him. Just some advice.’
What had happened to Mary Ann? She had changed from bad to good. It was nice to hear, and in a silly way, Cecelia found herself envying her. To have someone who could love her for herself would be something like a miracle.
‘Are you still there, Cecelia? I can hear you thinking.’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘Are you reviewing my character as something approaching likable?’
How did she know?
Laughter again from the receiver.
‘I’m glad you’ve got someone like William. You deserve him and he deserves you.’
‘He said that we are like peas in a pod. We say the same words together all the time, it’s frightening. I looked in the mirror the other day and was shocked to see how alike we looked. Well, not quite. He has dark hair and sometimes a stubble which I definitely have not—it was William who pointed this out to me. But he is older than me by four years which is a nice space between us. You must meet him one day. I know you will like him.’
This was a changed woman. Laughing and happy. William coming into her life was the best thing to happen to Mary Ann.
‘Yes, I would like to meet him. He sounds like a hero,’ smiled Cecelia lightly. He sounded too good to be true.
‘I’m going to go now before you get sick of me. Now I want you to get yourself something to eat because knowing you, you have probably not eaten. Do you have some bread in the house?’
‘No, I’ve got oatmeal.’
‘Oatmeal? Well, that’s different. I can order you a pizza and get it delivered. It will be my treat.’
‘No, I would sooner have oatmeal.’
‘Comfort eater, I understand. But you need to eat to help you feel better, and as someone said on the silver screen, ‘tomorrow is another day.’’
‘Yes,’ said Cecelia, seeing Vivian Leigh’s silhouette across the flaming skyline. ‘Tomorrow is another day.’
‘Wash your face and have a cup of cocoa and get yourself snuggled down in bed. Everything will be a lot better tomorrow. All you have to do is ‘click your heels together three times and say…’
‘There’s no place like home,’ Cecelia found herself laughing.
‘Okay, Dorothy. Now get yourself something to eat and ready for bed…’ there was a pause as though suddenly Mary Ann had lost confidence. ‘I don’t suppose you would like me to ring you tomorrow to find out how you are?’
‘That would be very kind of you.’
‘Oh, Cecelia, does this mean we’re still friends?’
Cecelia smiled and shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. Yes, we are.’
12
Despite everything that had happened, Cecelia slept well and out for the count, it must have been the heavy crying.
To be healthy and enjoy life is not a novelty; it happens to a great number of people. But there is a new type of smart cell phone, PC people, with smart jobs through their newly politically correct degrees who have created their own kind of sensitivity, called indifference. Who plugs into life which has been perfectly constructed for them. The people born at the last moment and now sweeping the old fogies away. To hell with these people, people who haven’t suffered, who don’t plan to either, but still busily making certain they have furbished their own nests. These are the fast, new kind, the continental smart cars which whizz around town showing how clever they are. But their days are numbered, even now.
A couple of months ago, Cecelia had experienced activities from one of these smarties. From out of the blue, a sudden haze had clouded her reality just as if a tempest had past overhead and pulled her crashing down with it. There was no good asking how she got there because she was there and stranded, and if she didn’t do something about it, she would be stuck until the natural duration passed. That could be weeks, months. Literary, she couldn’t afford to wallow in this ghetto, she had to get out and therapy was the help she ran to. She had a house and a life to pay for.
Not trusting herself to drive there, Cecelia took a handy cab. Worry about money was the least of her problems in this instance without her health, she wouldn’t be able to do anything.
The tall woman of about twenty-five was waiting for her. Her eyes flicked over Cecelia, casually, already she was working her number.
Nice dress, registered Cecelia quietly to herself. But shame about the legs. Needs to go on a little diet and workout, a lot.
‘If you would like to go through,’ directed the five feet eight and modern American Asian woman dwarfing Cecelia in volume and weight. ‘My name is Stacey, please take a seat.’
Her well-padded office chair sighed as she took her seat. Cecelia couldn’t help feeling sorry for the chair.
‘And what can I do for you?’ she asked.
A newly passed graduate from a therapy course lasting four months, and she knew it all. She knew how to sort out the world and the people who were complaining, just like Cecelia. Cecelia was whining and complaining. What was the matter with her? She had been spoilt. There was nothing wrong with her. She would sort her out. Cecelia, you can walk, talk, and get yourself something to eat. You can make eye contact. Isn’t that enough for you? There is nothing wrong with you, except that you’re whining. If I figured this one out, so should have you. As long as my wages are being paid by you, look at me; I’m not complaining at all, am I?
Where had the other therapist gone? The kind one who understood. The man who had become crusty with years of experience, who was able to guide her through her knowledge so she could find her own way out.
Cutaway the old views and tackle the world with a new purpose, this new therapist had now made eye contact with Cecelia. She felt good, she was in control not only of her life but had been giving charge of Cecelia’s. Here was her office, and this was her computer, she found herself important. She listened while Cecelia outlined her problem, chin in hand. This didn’t only boost her confidence, but it was fun. Her dark brown eyes were entertained, and she had made it.
So, everyone gets the downs. Didn’t get what they wanted, and this applied to herself. You’ve got to make up your mind about how you want to be.
Cecelia listened to the empty but smug face who had reached nearly twenty-six without experiencing a thing. A therapist was meant to help and not help herself at Cecelia’s expense. Yet Stacey was the proof for what it was to be right. Cecelia couldn’t be like this if she had money. She wouldn’t be sitting here; she would have gone to someone else and got some better treatment. But there again, if she had money, she probably wouldn’t be ill.
And then the twenty- five, twenty-six-year-old yawned, this was the final insult when Cecelia explained that after she had lost her father, she had tried suicide. While that lazy, derisory smile that clung to her lips as wet sheets on a windy day, whose mind hadn’t bothered to consult her mouth spoke.
‘So, why are you still here?’ she asked tapping at her computer making her notes.
‘Yes, why am I still alive?’
A dangerous question to ask a person who had suicidal tendencies.
Of course, Cecelia paid for this session of abuse, she had no choice. But there were some things she could do in life and that was to give Stacey Swayne a good reference.
Today was about getting an interview with Jennifer Sawyer’s parents. She was thought to be the second of the victims. Hands tied behind her back; vermillion red lipstick painted on her lips with the note. She told me she loved me.
Jennifer Sawyer had been left on the banks of the Alandra golf course’s large pool. Naked and raped, and dumped. A used-up body, a comment of the murderer’s indifference. No semen had been found which suggested the Slasher pu
lled out in time.
And like Marcia Davis, Jennifer Sawyer was also a virgin, whose entire life seemed holier than thou. These days an almost impossible state of grace, but the murderer had managed to select only the virgins and not the prostitutes. Murdered young women who had never known carnal knowledge or sexual love. They would take with them the hatred and abuse of a man who had no respect for them. Again, it was a shame.
Being kind to herself was what Cecelia needed. Taking time dressing and making certain she had something to eat. This morning, she would have a bath instead of a shower, and wear a dress, although she would have preferred wearing trousers. But if she were visiting to get an interview with strict religious people, looking boyish and cocky certainly would not go down well.
A morning that started very slowly, Cecelia took more time than necessary to get ready. Now and again, her eyes went to the telephone. Mary Ann said she would ring this morning. What had happened? It was now gone eleven, and if she didn’t leave soon, it would be too late to make the interview.
Another ten minutes had passed, and still no call. It was mystifying. At twenty past eleven, she really must go.
It hung in her mind as she sat in the cab what had happened to the promise Mary Ann had made. Repeatedly, Cecelia wondered if she was okay, or was she going through another one of those suicidal episodes. But Mary Ann had William. She must not worry about her; she would be all right; it was herself she should be worried about.
The Sawyer family had now moved out of Alandra to the border between Roseland and Alandra. Perhaps best described as being right off the beaten track. A lonely place where no one could get to them. They had three other girls who needed their protection. A place where dust balls passed on their way to their own heaven.
It was not the best-looking house along the road, the less flashy the better, this family didn’t want to attract attention.
Someone was sitting on the porch watching the cab as it came bouncing up the long driveway. The woman was peeling carrots and dropping them into a large silver bucket. Putting her hand up to her eyes, she shielded them while watching. Two young girls played with a dog, they too looked up and upon seeing the car began running back to their mother. They looked terrified.
Coming across to her fledglings, the mother ushered them into the house. Apron on and frowning, the mother crossed her arms enlarging her determination that visitors were not wanted. We have made our home on the outskirts of yours, so please don’t enter. To reiterate, visitors are not wanted.
Any moment now, Cecelia expected the father to come out with a rifle in his arms and waving it with the purposeful intention of aiming. But this didn’t happen, there was nothing except the chirping and buzzing of insects.
Once out and paid, the cab had already turned around and was now driving along the driveway heading back to town. A thoughtful man during the trip, the driver armored in silence returned. Now and again, she had caught his eye glancing at her from his mirror. He too wasn’t sure where they were going.
Interviews with the parents of murdered children were not going to be easy, Cecelia found a nervous smile for the frowning woman and put her own concerns on the back boiler.
‘Hello,’ she continued smiling, stretching out her hand this time in greetings. ‘My name is Cecelia Clark, I’ve come a long way to see you all,’ she carried on smiling. The woman stood still on the porch and continued frowning. ‘I take it you are Mrs. Sawyer.’ Each step taking her closer to the mother. She had now reached the porch and was staring up at the unattractive scowl.
‘You have it right.’ A strained voice as if it had been taxed by smoking instead of the weariness and tears of life. Stay away these eyes were saying, the porch was her territory, and she was guarding it.
‘I am an investigative journalist, freelance,’ Cecelia added quickly. ‘So, I’m my own boss.’
‘You should have kept in your cab; it’s going to be a long walk back for you.’
‘Francine,’ a man had stepped out of the house, wiping his hands on an old cloth. ‘Give the woman a chance. Let’s hear what’s she has come here to say.’ He nodded to his wife before turning to Cecelia. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I’m Cecelia Clark,’ she tried to carry on smiling but her lips were starting to loosen.
‘Well, Miss Clark, what can I do for you? We might be in the middle of nowhere, but we still believe in good manners. Get the young lady a drink, Francine.’
‘You don’t need to,’ hurried in Cecelia. ‘I’ve bought my own bottle of water.’
‘No, we’ll get you a drink. Be well-mannered like I said and listen to what you’ve got to say. We shall also make sure that you get yourself a cab for your return. Francine, go and make some coffee.’
‘You don’t have to. I don’t want anyone putting themselves out for me.’ She liked the man but wasn’t certain of his wife.
‘Are you going to tell us why you’re here then?’
‘As I said before, I am a journalist and I’m doing a story on the Alandra Slasher. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Sawyer about his daughter, I thought I would talk to you about your loss and how it has affected you.’
The fast whistle of breath taken through his nose made Cecelia grasp the difficulty of her suggestion.
‘I think you might find it therapeutic in that you will have an input in catching the killer...’ her voice was drowning, her eyes darting rapidly here and there, she was making no sense. How could she? What they had been through was the worse trial any parents could go through. These moments were leading up to his answer with eyes that couldn’t believe what she was asking.
‘You want me to tell you what happened to my daughter?’ at last his thoughts were out. ‘Read the newspapers for yourself.’
‘That’s exactly what I have done,’ Cecelia said, fighting from her own corner. ‘But I am sure that your daughter is more than just a statistic.’
‘You come out here with your fancy words and think I will be impressed because I’m not. You think being clever makes you feel more while us simple people won’t have missed losing one of our kin because we’ve got others?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ It was a shock how he could misinterpret her offer. She had come here to give him help. To put across to those other people who had not been touched by grief that, once upon a time, they had a daughter called Jennifer who had a life which was uniquely hers. No one could take that little time away.
‘You want to make some money out of my daughter’s life? Everyone wants a piece of it. Even after she’s dead. Well, I tell you what, why don’t you help yourself to a piece of our loss? Take some sadness back with you and share it with others. What do we do? We can’t get her back.’
‘Your right. I’m sorry,’ for it was true, she was using their loss to make money, and why not? Everyone was doing it these days, living off the death of others even their own loved ones because it was profitable.
‘No one knows what our Jennifer was like.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ Cecelia’s steady eyes concentrated on Mr. Sawyer’s face, looking to see where she could repair the damage. She was now so very sorry.
‘One of the sweetest girls you will ever come across. But of course, I know this is what everyone says about their daughters. But it’s not the same. It’s never the same, is it? She was our daughter—we loved her, and she loved us. I held her as a baby in my arms, you know it’s the sweetest feeling to hold your very own child. Something so young and vulnerable. She was our first child, and there is nothing like holding your firstborn in your arms. It’s true you can feel for others and their love and loss, but it’s never the same is it? It can never be the same…’
‘I can do that for you. I can use my fancy words to write about Jennifer. I can put fresh light into her memory and make her live again. You haven’t lost her; you will never lose her once I have dressed her in clothes of love.’
His face, gaunt with pain and suffering as the circle
of loss was still going on. But here was a promise, a chance to renew her life, resurrect his Jennifer into eternal beauty. Something he could hold on to.
‘I will do my best to bring her back for you in the only way I can, by words.’
‘Francine,’ said Mr. Sawyer grabbing hold of Cecelia’s hand to bring her into the house. ‘This is Cecelia Clark, our visitor.’
‘I know that,’ said Mrs. Sawyer standing by the kitchen table.
A large table for a large family and not too dissimilar from the Davises’ table which struck Cecelia with a weird sensation that she had been here before, and yet nothing was recognizable. As if this was a replay of something which was going to be entirely different. Had she been here in some other time? Or was there a divine being pulling on her strings.
‘I can guess what she wants,’ Mrs. Sawyer’s eyes were hard on Cecelia, the eyes of the relentless. ‘She is another one of those bone pickers, turn the carcass over to see if there is any flesh for her breakfast.’
‘Bring us out two cups of coffee,’ said Mr. Sawyer exchanging looks which perhaps once had said love, but now hate. ‘We will be sitting on the porch. Come on Miss Clark. We’ll sit out there.’ He pointed to the door for Cecelia to follow him.
The once white fleeting clouds had disappeared to leave a bright-eyed sun heating this heavenly earth. A bee buzzed passed looking for blossoms.
‘Take a seat, Miss Clark. We can have our discussion on our own. You’ll have to forgive my wife; our loss took away her heart. It’s easier for you to forgive her than for her to forgive herself.’
The door swung open, and Mrs. Sawyer looking about the porch found a spare chair to put the tray of coffee cups on it. Without saying anything, she returned to the house leaving a solid wall of distrust and hate. She hated everything.
The purr of the insect life was comforting, but not so the green parrots for there were at least six waiting in the trees. She remembered seeing these birds waiting about the Sawyer’s home. They came like spooky omen as green birds of disaster. Several stories traveled with these birds that they had migrated from Mexico where they are surprisingly endangered. The other story which accompanies them is that they escaped in 1969 from an East Colorado Boulevard pet shop when it was on fire. Attractive birds but they were also noisy.
Sixth Victim Page 14
