With disbelief, I looked at the cigarette which was dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, he’s my father,” I said, crossing the kitchen and snatching the half-smoked cigarette from between Vincent’s lips. “Do you mind?” I scowled at him, pitching the cigarette out in the sink. “I didn’t say you could smoke in here.”
“Sorry,” Vincent shrugged as if unable to see why it was such a big deal. “I didn’t think having a smoke would get your knickers in a twist.”
“You’re a cocky sod, aren’t you?” I snapped at him.
Ignoring me, he looked at the tea I had just poured and said, “Don’t suppose you’ve got any biscuits to go with that? Jammy Dodgers –
I love Jammy Dodgers.”
“You want Jammy Dodgers, go and freaking buy some,” I said, thrusting the cup of tea into his hands. “There’s a shop just down the road.”
Brushing past him, I went back into the living room. Vincent followed.
“So you’re the officer in the paper,” Vincent said, then made an annoying slurping sound as he drank the tea.
“Yes,” I said.
Vincent reached down and plucked up the newspaper. “You’re much prettier in real life,” he said thoughtfully.
“There’s a picture of me?” I gasped, snatching the paper from him and thumbing through the pages.
“Yeah, it’s not a very good one,” he said, slurping at his tea again. “Makes you look fat.”
I glared at him over the top of the newspaper.
“I’m not saying you’re fat,” he said, as if realising his mistake. “What I meant to say was that they could have chosen a better picture, that’s all...”
“Vincent,” I hissed at him.
“Huh?” he said, looking vacantly at me.
“Do yourself a favour and shut up!” I snapped.
“Sure,” he said, taking a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He saw me glare down at them. Silently, he put them away again. “Sorry, I forgot,” he whispered back at me.
I looked down at the paper, and there on page six was a picture of me. It had been lifted from a group photo of me and the other recruits I had passed through training school with. And I didn’t look fat. Local cop in traffic accident – four dead! The headline read in thick, black letters. The article was short, and described pretty much how my father had spun the facts. In fact, one part of the article read: “...if it hadn’t of been for the quick thinking of Officer Sydney Hart, then she too could have ended up dead. The driver of the horse and cart was only partially sighted and drove him and his family into the path of the officer’s car while she was en route to assist colleagues...” police spokesman Sergeant Richard Hart was reported to have said.
Was this a suicide by cop? The reporter had asked.
I don’t know about that, Sergeant Hart, the police spokesman said, but to have been driving with such poor eyesight, the driver must have had a death wish.
There was little else to the article which I didn’t already know. The fact that the evidence had now been passed to the local coroner’s office, pending an inquest was how the report ended. Just like my father had said, a few lines and it would all be forgotten about. The world would move on.
I closed the paper, folded it, and placed it back on the sofa.
“Are you okay?” Vincent asked, looking at me. “You look really...really tired...worn out.”
“And fat?” I glanced at him. “You really know how to flatter a lady.”
“Sorry,” he said again with a shrug. “It couldn’t have been easy – you know, being caught up in an accident like that.”
Wanting to change the subject, and heeding my father’s warning, I said, “So how are you finding being a cop?”
“Not as exciting as I thought it would be,” Vincent said with a frustrated sigh.
“Well if it’s excitement and action you want, you’ve come to the wrong place,” I said.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Vincent groaned. “This is where force headquarters posted me.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said. “What has my father got you doing?”
“Cleaning out the property store and the filing room,” Vincent said.
“Wow, that is exciting,” I smiled back at him.
“It’s okay, I guess,” Vincent said, placing his empty cup to one side. “Some of those old files are quite interesting.”
“How come?” I asked. “I didn’t think any exciting crimes ever happened in Cliff View.”
“I’ve come across one file which seems pretty interesting,” he said, scratching his chin.
“Oh yeah?” I said, trying to sound interested, but half of me just wanted to be on my own again. I turned to my iPod in its dock and thumbed through the tracks. I selected Set Fire To The Rain by Adele.
“There was this girl who died about ten years ago,” Vincent said as the music started. “She fell down a well and died.”
The mention of the word well brought a sudden flashback of the nightmare I’d had. I saw myself trapped at the bottom of that well again and screaming for help. I turned to look at Vincent, who was now checking out some of the books on the shelf attached to the living room wall. “Black Hill Farm,” he said thumbing through one of the books. “I’ve not read that one.”
Taking it from him and placing it back onto the shelf, I looked at Vincent and said, “So how did this girl end up in the bottom of a well?”
“Some say she was being chased and she fell in,” he said, fingering another book on the shelf.
I gripped his wrist before he had a chance to remove another one. “Who was chasing her?” I breathed.
“Dunno,” he shrugged. “A lot of the paperwork is missing from the file. I guess that’s why your father has asked me to tidy up. That file room is a right mess, I can tell you.” Then, as if noticing the serious look on my face, Vincent added, “Is there something wrong?”
Letting go of his wrist, I turned away and said, “It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?” he said, coming up behind me.
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Okay.” And I heard his coat crinkle as he shrugged again.
I turned to look at him, wanting to tell him about the nightmare I’d had. He would think I was mad, right?
Looking back at me as I stood before him, Vincent suddenly said, “Do you want to go to bed?”
“What?” I gasped, surprised by what he had said.
With his cheeks flushing scarlet, Vincent mumbled, “Holy shit, that’s not what I meant. Oh no! I wasn’t like...you know...suggesting we went to bed together...nothing like that. I mean we could if you wanted...no I’m just fooling about when I say that...oh, shit I’m just making things worse, aren’t I?”
Feeling kind of embarrassed for him, and trying to mask a smile, I said, “I think I know what you meant.”
“It’s just like I said...you look really tired...” Vincent continued to stammer and fluster. “...so when I said do you want to go to bed...I didn’t mean with me...I wasn’t suggesting that we...you know...had jiggy-jiggy or anything like that...”
“Jiggy-jiggy?” I laughed. Vincent, although a little annoying with his nosy ways, definitely had a way of making me laugh. There was a kind of endearing innocence about him. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“No?” he said with a frown. “You know what I mean...I just meant to say that perhaps you should get some rest...have an early night...”
“If I were you, I’d leave now, Vincent, before you really put your foot in it,” I smiled, guiding him towards the door.
“Okay, you’re probably right,” he said, stumbling backwards into the edge of the sofa. I gripped him by the arm before he spilled onto the carpet. “Thanks,” he said, glowing scarlet again.
“It’s okay,” I said, opening the front door.
He stepped out into the dark. It had started to rain. Zipping up the front of his coat, he said, “It was nice m
eeting you, Sydney.”
“You too,” I smiled, watching him set off towards the street. Before he had gone too far, I called out to him. “Hey, Vincent!”
“Mm?” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at me.
“If you find anymore paperwork from that file, could you bring it over for me to have a look at?” I asked.
Vincent turned to look at me. “I don’t know if that is such a great idea,” he said thoughtfully. “Mac made it quite clear that you were to be left alone – you know, while you get your head around what happened – the accident. I don’t want to start pissing off the skipper – your father.”
“I promise I won’t say anything if you don’t,” I hushed. “It will be our secret.”
Vincent looked down at the ground as if thinking, then back at me. “Okay,” he said. “But the next time I come over, you better have some biscuits in.”
“I promise,” I smiled.
Vincent turned away, and disappeared up the street.
I closed the door, and with my back pressed flat against it, I knew I had gone and created yet another secret.
Chapter Thirteen
Vincent had been right. I did need to go to bed. I needed some serious sleep. Sleep undisrupted by nightmares of the people I had killed on the road. I went through my apartment, switching out the lights. Picking up my iPod, which Vincent had returned, and a set of small earphones, I went to my bedroom. I peeled off my clothes and climbed into bed. With the light from my iPod casting eerie shadows about the room, I hit the music icon with my thumb, expecting to see the album cover for Adele –21 to appear on the screen, as that had been the track which had been playing before switching it off. I was surprised to see Sting staring back at me. The Police – Greatest Hits the screen read. I frowned, unable to remember ever downloading the album to my iPod – it was too 80’s for me. Perhaps I had in some drunken stupor or perhaps Vincent had downloaded it. Would he have? Vincent admitted to searching through my iPod to see what music I liked; perhaps he had downloaded this album for a joke or something. It was The Police after all. Perhaps one of my colleagues had downloaded it? But why?
I pulled the duvet up under my chin, pressed play on my iPod, and closed my eyes. The song Message in a Bottle started to play...Just a castaway...an island lost at sea...another lonely day...with no one here but me...Sting sang. The words swam through my mind as I lay alone in my bed in the dark. Maybe whoever had downloaded the album to my iPod was trying to send me a message...I’m sending out an S.O.S...I’m sending out an S.O.S...or perhaps they were asking for my help, I wondered as the song went around and around in my head. But who would need help from someone like me? How could I help anyone else when I couldn’t even help myself?
I pictured a bottle floating in water, bobbing and listing from side to side. The water was black, just like the waves which had crashed against the shore earlier that day. The water made a sploshing sound as the bottle came towards me. There was something tucked inside it. A message, perhaps? A cry for help? My feet felt suddenly cold and wet. I looked down to see that I was standing ankle-deep in a pool of dirty, black water. There was music playing in the background from far off, as if coming down a tunnel. I vaguely recognised the song but couldn’t quite place it. I looked left and right expecting to see the sandy shoreline stretching away from me in both directions. I threw my hands to my face in fear. There was no sea, no sand – just thick, slimy, stone grey walls. I looked up, the funnel of the well stretching high above me, its opening looking like a pinprick of white light.
With my heart racing and mouth turning dust dry, I knew I was trapped at the bottom of the well again. Something brushed against my ankle, and I screamed. It was the bottle and there was something inside, a folded piece of paper. I reached for it, then stopped, my fingertips brushing the cold, black water. The music had suddenly grown louder. But it wasn’t music – not quite. It was the sound of somebody humming behind me. Slowly, I straightened, leaving the bottle to bob about my feet. I recognised the song being hummed – Every Breath You Take by The Police. The humming was soft, and it floated around the bottom of the well like a hymn, spiralling upwards and echoing back off the moss-covered walls. My hands were covering my face, and peering through my fingers, I turned around. I wasn’t alone. There was somebody standing, hidden in shadow just a few feet from me.
“Every breath you take...Every move you make...I’ll be watching you...” the figure sang softly.
“Who are you?” I whispered, shaking with fear.
Out of the shadows stepped a young woman. I didn’t recognise her. She looked about eighteen years old. She had a pretty face, which was paper white. Long, straight, black hair hung against the sides of her face like curtains, and onto her shoulders. The girl wore a thin, long black dress, the hem brushing over the surface of the water at the bottom of the well. Her eyes were like dark pools as she stared at me.
“Who are you?” I whispered again.
“Every vow you break...Every smile you fake...Every claim you stake...I’ll be watching you,” she sang as if in answer to my question.
“Watching me,” I breathed, my teeth starting to chatter. Was I that scared or had it grown so suddenly cold? “Why would you be watching me?”
Opening her arms as if to embrace me, the girl took a step forwards and sung just above a whisper, “How my poor heart aches with every step you take...”
I flinched away, her long, white fingers looking skeletal in the darkness of the well.
“I feel so cold and I long for your embrace...” the girl sang softly, her arms still open, as if inviting me to hold her. She stopped singing, her lower lip trembling, tears rolling down her ashen face as she started to sob. Somehow the music continued to echo softly about the well, even though she had stopped singing and humming. And even though my mind was screaming at me to run – climb out of the well and escape – I couldn’t leave her alone. The girl looked too sad. Heartbroken.
With the water lapping against my ankles, I stepped forward and took her in my arms. I held her and she hugged me back gently. No, she didn’t hug me – she clung to me. Her hair felt soft against my face, her body frail and delicate in my arms.
“Why are you crying?” I whispered in her ear, my heart suddenly aching as if I could feel her sadness. It was more than sadness – it felt like utter despair.
The girl sobbed against me, like a younger sister needing comfort.
“How did you end up in this well?” I whispered.
“I was pushed,” she cried against me.
“Who pushed you?” I asked.
“Witch...” she said.
But it didn’t sound like the girl anymore...her voice had changed. It had grown hoarse, rough, as if she were gargling on a throat full of broken glass. I pulled away from her and screamed. It wasn’t the girl I was holding in my arms, but the old man who had died on the road. Tiny bubbles of blood popped around his flaky lips. He jerked and twitched as he came towards me, his milky white eyes rolled back in their sunken sockets.
“Witch,” he croaked.
“I’m not a witch!” I screamed at him, my heart racing. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill you.”
“No accident...” the old man gargled. “Witch!”
“Leave me alone!” I screamed, covering my ears with my hands, and screwing my eyes shut. “I don’t want to see you no more! Please just leave me alone.”
Then, in time with the music, and just like the girl had, the old man started to hum, then sing that song. “Every move you make...I’ll be watching you...”
“Please,” I cried, turning and beginning to claw my way up the walls of the well. My fingernails dug and scratched at the stone surface, but I couldn’t get a hold. The walls were damp, covered in hundreds of years’ worth of moss and mildew. I glanced back over my shoulder. The old man was standing in the water, humming that song. The flap of skin which had been torn free during the car crash hung against the side of his face, m
aking a wet, slapping sound.
“Please stop,” I cried, my heart beating so fast I thought it might just break.
Despite my pleas, the old man continued to sing. That same line going around and around in my head... I’ll be watching you... I’ll be watching you... I’ll be watching you...
...I’ll be watching you! I pulled the earphones out, just wanting that song to stop, and sat up in my bed. Sweat dripped from my brow, plastering my hair to the sides of my face. A splinter of grey dawn light cut through a gap in the curtains and gave my room a dim, smoky-like quality. I looked down at my iPod; that song by The Police was stuck on repeat. With a set of trembling fingers, I turned it off.
Chapter Fourteen
I threw on my bathrobe and padded to the bathroom. Feeling sick and with my heart still racing, I started to run a bath. While it filled with water, I sat on the toilet and had a pee. Why had I dreamt about that girl in the well? My mind raced. Had the girl in the well been hiding away in my subconscious because Vincent had mentioned her? How had she ended up in that well? The girl in my nightmare had told me she’d been pushed. By accident or on purpose?
I turned off the taps, slipped out of my robe, and climbed into the bath. The warm water lapped over me and I leant my head back. Staring up at the white ceiling, I thought of how the girl had been humming and singing. To picture her standing at the bottom of the well, her dark eyes staring at me, made me shiver and I sunk deeper beneath the warm bath water. Why had she been singing that song – why did she say that she would be watching me? Because you fell asleep listening to that song, dummy, my mind tried to reason. That’s all it was. You were listening to that Police track and the words and music filtered through your subconscious and into your dream. I splashed some of the bath water onto my face in an attempt to clear my mind.
Vincent had said that a girl had died by falling into a well ten years ago. What if it is the same girl – the same well – I had seen in my nightmare? And if it was, why? The old man was still haunting my sleep. He had been in the well, too. Was there a connection between him and the girl? Had he been involved in the girl’s death in some way? Michael had told me he hadn’t really known the old man, other than he was odd and spoke kinda strange. He definitely did that – calling me witch. But he only kept making a guest appearance in my dreams because of what happened out on the road, I reasoned. The old guy was my guilty conscience, come alive to haunt me. That’s why he wanted to talk to me. Would he ever be silenced unless I told the truth? I feared he would always be there – lurking in the shadows of my dreams – whispering the word Witch.
Witch Page 7
