“Like what?” I whispered, more to myself than him. “That old guy called me a witch before he died. Perhaps he was cursing me – and now I’m paying for what I did.”
“But you didn’t do anything, did you?” he asked. “It was his fault you drove into him and his family. Wasn’t it?”
I very much wanted to tell Vincent what really had happened. I wanted to tell him what had happened between me and Michael up at that farmhouse, how I’d been drinking and how I’d fled at speed when I’d heard the control room trying to raise me on the radio. I wanted to tell Vincent how I’d been busy searching through the glove compartment for gum to rid my breath of the smell of whiskey when I ploughed into the horse and cart. I just wanted to scream. I wanted to confess it was another of my father’s cover-ups which I had become involved in. But I couldn’t. I didn’t even know Vincent that well. It wasn’t like I was planning on confessing to a priest. This was another copper who would be duty-bound to do the right thing and make sure justice was seen to be done.
“I guess it wasn’t really my fault,” I said, and a part of me felt like it had just died as I continued the lie my father had started out on the road.
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Vincent said. “And Jonathan Smith would have no reason to curse you.”
“Then why call me a witch?” I said, summoning up the nerve to turn and look him in the eye.
“Who knows?” Vincent said with a shrug. “The guy was dying. He could‘ve been trying to say anything.”
“He definitely said witch,” I breathed.
Vincent looked at me, and I could see biscuit crumbs on his work tie. I reached out to brush them off, when Vincent suddenly took hold of my hand in his. His touch was soft – gentle. Part of me wanted to pull my hand away, but I didn’t. He looked at me, and I looked back at him. There was another uncomfortable silence.
“So if what you say is true, and Molly did tell you in a dream she was pushed into that well, then you know what we’ve got ourselves?” Vincent said.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head and looking into his deep near-black eyes.
“We’ve got ourselves an X-File, Scully,” he smiled.
I snatched my hand from his. “I knew it was too good to be true,” I hissed.
“What is?” he said, looking confused again.
“You taking what I had to say seriously,” I snapped at him. “I thought you believed me, when all the while you’ve just been taking the piss!”
“Hey!” Vincent said back, taking my hand again, but this time more forcibly. “Who says I was taking the piss? I was being serious about the whole X-File thing. I believe you, Sydney. Honestly, I do.”
“Why?” I said, trying to pull my hand free.
“Because what you told me about your dreams took courage,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t have said anything for fear of being laughed at. But you trusted me enough to tell me, and that means a lot.”
“I could’ve been making the whole thing up,” I said, still trying to wriggle my fingers free of his grasp.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because I’ve never seen such fear in anyone’s eyes before,” he said, letting go of my hand. “Something has spooked you real bad, and I want to help you if I can.”
“Why do you want to help me?” I asked. “You don’t even know me.”
“Does there have to be a reason?” he said, turning away and heading back towards the sofa.
“Yes,” I said. “You only met me yesterday, so why would you want to get mixed up in something as mad as this?”
“For the same reason I drive you half crazy,” he said, wheeling around to face me.
“And what’s that?”
“Because I can’t help poking my nose into stuff that has nothing to do with me,” he said.
“You certainly have a habit of doing that,” I sighed.
Looking at me, Vincent said, “You look kinda disappointed.”
“About what?” I asked, confused.
“The reason for me wanting to help you,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Now it was my turn to blush. It didn’t happen often.
“You were hoping I only wanted to help you out because I liked you,” he said.
“Well?” I dared to ask.
“Well what?” he shot back.
“Do you like me?”
Vincent looked at me for what seemed like the longest time, then shrugged his shoulders.
“You like me,” I half-smiled at him. “You’ve hinted enough.”
“Hinted?” Vincent said looking surprised.
“You know what I’m talking about,” I said. “All that stuff about going to bed and playing romantic music. Your problem is you just don’t know how to come out and say it.”
“You just keep thinking that,” he smiled, plucking his coat from the back of the armchair and heading for the door. “If that’s what you want to believe.” Vincent opened the front door and tucked the file inside his coat.
“When will I see you again?” I asked. “I thought you said we had a mystery to solve?”
“And we do,” he said, turning to look at me with a smile. “I’m just gonna go back to the filing room and see if I can’t find some more of those missing pieces. I’ll be in touch. Be good.”
Just as he was about to disappear behind the closing door, I called out and said, “Vincent, can you do me a favour?”
“What’s that?” he said, poking his head back around the edge of the door.
“See what you can dig up on a guy named Michael Grayson and his father,” I said.
“The farmer and his son, right?” Vincent said. “Any particular reason?”
“The well is on their land, that’s all,” I lied.
“Okay,” Vincent said, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone in my apartment.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Could Michael have been in some way involved in Molly Smith’s death? I didn’t know, and that’s why I’d asked Vincent to do some research on both Michael and his father. I just couldn’t forget how Michael’s face had paled when I had mentioned the death of Molly to him. There was something else, like an itch that just wouldn’t go away. Michael knew I had killed that old guy and his family out on the road, so why hadn’t he told me about the other member of that family falling into the well on his land? He would have made the connection, right? I mean, no one forgets a thing like that.
But was I putting two and two together and making five, like Michael said I was? Perhaps he just hadn’t wanted to bring up the whole incident again about Molly Smith falling into the well. It had been a long time ago. Michael had been in the Army, his life had moved on. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of his past life for personal reasons known only to him. Besides, I didn’t even really know Michael. We had slept together – had a passionate fling – but did that really mean he had to share his life’s secrets with me? Had I shared mine with him? We all had stuff lurking in the darkness which we would all rather forget.
I took the two empty teacups and Vincent’s half-eaten sandwich into the kitchen. Maybe I had been wrong to ask him to snoop on Michael and his father. Shouldn’t I be focusing my attention on who Molly had gone to meet that night? Who had she been in a relationship with? Michael? But wouldn’t he have come forward if his girlfriend had fallen into the well? But then again, probably not. I remembered how his father had referred to the Smith family as vermin. If Michael’s father disliked them so much, would he have confessed his love for one of them? But the girl had died, and to keep such a secret after that – to let the girl he had loved be remembered as a trespasser on his land – a criminal and thief, what sort of person could do that? Michael didn’t seem a nasty person. He appeared better than that.
I switched out the kitchen light and flopped onto the sofa. Picking up the remote, I turned on the T.V., anything to t
ry and clear my mind of the nagging thoughts which swirled there. It was no good – my mind wouldn’t clear. When I thought I was some way to figuring it all out, another thought would enter my mind and throw everything into confusion again. It couldn’t have been Michael that Molly was going to meet that night. Whoever she had gone to see was important enough for my father, Mac, Woody, and perhaps even Skrimshire to lie for. They had all changed their statements to protect someone – but who?
My father had got his friends to lie for me over the accident because I was his daughter. But who could have meant so much to my father that he would have risked everything for them? But not only would they have had to have meant a great deal to my father, but Mac and Woody, too. They wouldn’t have risked everything for Michael or his father. So who had it been?
I switched off the T.V. and turned to my iPad. Picking it up, I hit the iBook icon and tried to engross myself in the book, Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos, which I was about halfway through. I just couldn’t concentrate on it. Why didn’t I just ask my father who he had risked everything for? Because I would drop Vincent in it. So? I hardly knew him. He was a nice guy and I’d asked him to bring that file to me. I’d promised him I would keep it a secret. Vincent was new at the station and it wouldn’t have been fair to put him at odds with my father, Mac, and Woody so early on in his new career. I knew what the three of them could be like together. And would my father tell me? No. I knew in my heart he wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to reveal a secret like that to his hare-brained daughter who he thought would more than likely tell the world the next time she was pissed out of her skull.
I couldn’t betray Vincent’s trust. I would have to find out who Molly had met that night, but more importantly, who had pushed her into the well. For once in my life, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rely on my father for help. For once, I would have to depend on myself.
Turning off my iPad, I climbed off the sofa and went to bed, secretly praying that my dreams wouldn’t be haunted by Jonathan Smith again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I hadn’t been in bed long, just enough time to find that comfortable place between semi-consciousness and sleep. There was a knocking sound, and, believing at first it was just my imagination, I turned over onto my side. The knocking came again, this time louder. I opened my eyes. The bedside clock read 00:03 hrs. Who could be knocking at this time of night? With my head cocked to one side above the covers, I listened.
Silence.
Sighing, I dropped my head onto the pillow again and closed my eyes. The knocking came again.
Louder.
I sat up.
It came again. This time more persistently.
Reaching down, I snatched my bathrobe from the floor and slipped it on, fastening it tightly about my waist. I went to the living room and the knocking came again. It was clearer now. Somebody was knocking on my front door. Slowly, I crossed the room and went into the hall.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Hello?” I called out, my hand hovering over the lock. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Vincent,” he said.
With the side of my face just an inch from the door, I whispered, “Vincent, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I know it’s late,” he whispered back. “But I need to speak to you.”
“Can’t it wait until the morning?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said from the other side of the door.
After quickly combing my hair with my fingers, I knocked my fringe from my brow and opened the front door. Vincent stood on the other side. He didn’t look as if he’d been home since leaving mine earlier that evening. Beneath his open jacket, I could see he was still wearing his white police shirt, black work trousers, and boots. Vincent looked pale and nervous.
“Are you okay?” I asked, stepping aside.
Vincent came into my apartment and I closed the door behind him.
He appeared anxious as he looked about the living room.
“Are you okay?” I asked him again.
Vincent looked at me and nodded.
“You look kinda on edge,” I said.
“Perhaps I should go,” he whispered, brushing past me, heading towards the door again.
“Hang on,” I groaned, taking his arm. “You can’t just come around here in the middle of the night and wake me up only to disappear again. Tell me whatever it is you’ve come to say.”
Vincent went to speak, then stopped. He took a bottle of Coke from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid, and drank. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he finished off the sticky black contents. He replaced the lid, put the empty bottle onto the coffee table, and took a deep breath.
“This isn’t easy for me,” he started nervously.
“It’s okay,” I said, looking at him with a frown etched across my brow.
“It’s just that...oh, God where do I start...” he stammered as he fought to find the right words. “Okay...I’ll be totally honest with you...I’ve been lying to you...”
“What?” I said, confused. “What does that mean? What, you’ve been lying about my father and what happened to Molly Smi–”
“No,” Vincent cut in. “I haven’t been lying about that.”
“What then?” I snapped, starting to feel cheated in some way.
“Oh, God...” Vincent sighed, nervously wringing his hands together. “How do I say this...it’s funny because I’ve been walking around and around the town since leaving here...going over and over in my mind how I was going to tell you the truth...and now I’ve completely forgotten...”
“Just spit it out,” I snapped, placing my hands on my hips.
“Okay...mmm...let me think...” Vincent mumbled. Glancing around the living room, he added, “Where’s your iPod?”
“Over there,” I hissed, pointing at the dock on the other side of the room.
“Just wait right here,” Vincent said, heading across the room.
I stood and glared at his back as Vincent fumbled about, trying to switch on the iPod.
“Oh, Christ, you’re not gonna start dancing again, are you?”
Vincent didn’t answer. Instead, the song I won’t let you go by James Morrison started to play.
“Vincent...” I started, beginning to get annoyed by his games.
With the music playing softly in the background, Vincent came back across the room. He gently took hold of me by placing his trembling hands on my hips.
“Vincent, what the fu...” I started.
“Shhh,” he hushed, “or I’ll never say what it is I need to tell you.”
“The truth, you mean?” I said sarcastically.
“Yes,” he nodded and closed his eyes. Swallowing hard, he said, “Here goes nothing.” Opening his dark black eyes, he looked at me as he gently swayed me from side to side in time with the music. “Mac never asked me to bring your iPod over here. I lied about that.”
“Is that it?” I asked, not knowing whether I should feel relieved or not.
“I heard your father ask Mac to bring it over to you,” he said, taking another deep breath. “I could tell Mac was busy, so I offered to bring it here.”
“Why?” I asked over the music.
“I saw that picture of you in the newspaper,” Vincent said, as if preparing to confess some great sin.
“The picture where I look fat, you mean?” I shot back.
“Yes...no!” he said. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that the other night. I saw that picture of you and thought you looked...” he trailed off.
“You thought what?” I pushed.
“I thought...I thought...oh, God,” he sighed, closing his eyes. “I thought you looked beautiful... and I wanted to meet you to see if you could really look as beautiful in real life as you looked in the picture...and on the way over here...I checked out your iPod because I didn’t know what to say...so I thought if I knew what sort of music you liked...then we would have something to talk about...because I’m
not very good at talking to girls...I always end up making myself look stupid and I was looking for something romantic that I could play...and I saw the song Every Breath You Take so I downloaded it...then I thought that perhaps that song with the words ‘every breath you take I’ll be watching you’ would sound kinda creepy...and you would think I was a pervert...and...” Vincent finally ran out of breath.
I felt stunned by his sudden confession. “Slow down,” I said, looking at him as he continued to sway me gently to the music.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed deeply. “I shouldn’t have said anything...I’ve gone and made a fool of myself...and embarrassed you...”
“You haven’t made a fool of yourself,” I said. “And you haven’t embarrassed me. I’m a little shocked, but...”
“You want me to go...I can understand that...” he said, taking his hands from my hips. “I should’ve never come back...It was a mistake...I shouldn’t have said anything...You must think I’m a right...”
“Shhh,” I said, placing a finger against his lips. “I’m kinda used to men coming on strong...but nothing like this.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I smiled. “You have no idea how nice it is to have someone do what you’ve just done.”
“What have I just done?” he said, a confused look on his face.
“The most romantic thing any guy has ever done for me,” I said, as James Morrison continued to sing in the background. “Most guys just grab my arse, stare at my tits, and do whatever they can to get me into bed on the very first date. No guy has ever wanted to dance with me...not like this.”
Vincent placed his hands on my hips again and pulled me close. With our bodies pressed gently together, we stood in my living room and danced.
“If there’s love just feel it...and if there’s life we’ll see it...” Vincent sung softly against my cheek. “This is no time to be alone...I won’t let you go...” he continued to sing just above a whisper to the music.
Was this for real? I wondered. Vincent was a little odd – unconventional in his own way. But did this man really just want to dance with me? Just hold me in his arms? Had a man come into my life who wanted more from me than just sex? To be with him like this made me wonder if I had finally met someone who liked me enough to fumble their words, make a fool of themselves, come back in the middle of the night not to fuck me, but hold me – dance with me – tell me how much they really liked me. To be with Vincent like this made me realise what it was I’d really been searching for. Deep in my heart, I knew I was tired of those shallow relationships which never went further than the bedroom. With tears beginning to stand in my eyes, I wanted to tell Vincent how wonderful it had been to hear him say I was beautiful – and not just a good fuck.
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