Witch

by Tim ORourke

Chapter Thirty-Two

 

  Vincent rolled off me and onto his side. With our arms locked about each other, we looked into each other's eyes. I could feel his breath, warm against my cheek. Fine beads of sweat glistened on his brow, just below the jagged-looking scar, which now seemed to be fading in the dim light. My racing heart was still thumping in my chest and I felt breathless and warm all over. The music still played gently in the background, in some way soothing us now. Part of me half expected Vincent to jump up now, put his clothes back on, and leave. That's what usually happened with the others.

  "Aren't you going to leave now?" I whispered.

  "Why would I want to leave when everything I want is right here in this room?" he whispered back, brushing a stray strand of my hair from my face. It was like he didn't want anything to cover the view that he had of me. He wanted to see me completely.

  "Did you mean what you said?" I asked him.

  "I'm not going to leave you," he smiled.

  "I didn't mean that," I said, looking straight into his eyes, searching them for the truth.

  "What then?" he asked.

  "When you said you loved me?"

  "I love you, Sydney Hart," he whispered, leaning forward and planting a gentle kiss on my forehead.

  "But how is that possible?" I said, just above a whisper. "People don't fall in love just like that, do they?"

  "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "I've never been in love before. "

  "So how, then, do you know its love you feel?" I asked, not really questioning his feelings, but my own.

  "I'm not very good with words," he said. "But the only way I can explain how I feel is that the thought of never seeing you. . . being like this with you again. . . hurts so much. I've never felt like that before and. . . " he trailed off.

  "And?" I pushed gently.

  "You're the first person who hasn't laughed at me. . . treated me like a fool because I can be awkward at times, and I know everything I say doesn't always come out just how I meant it. . . you know that can hurt. . . "

  "Why would I want to laugh at you?" I said.

  "Plenty do," he sighed. "People think I'm the fool guy - they don't take me seriously. It's just like being at work. Straight away I've been relocated to filing instead of patrol, been given the old push-bike. No one thinks I can cut being a copper so they try and hide me away, relegate me to the broom cupboard. It's like that song People are Strange by The Doors. When you're strange. . . no one remembers your name," Vincent quoted.

  To hear him talk reminded me of myself. No one had any faith in me, either. I knew how much that could hurt. I thought Vincent's pain went deeper than just an emotional level.

  Running my fingertips gently over the scars covering his shoulder, I said, "How did you get these scars?"

  "Someone hurt me once," he said, never taking his eyes from mine. "They hurt me real bad. "

  "What did they do?" I breathed. "Who was it?"

  "It doesn't matter now. That life is over," he said, holding me tighter in his arms. "I have a new life now. "

  With my head nestled against his chest, I listened to the sound of his heart beating gently. "Did you mean what you said?" he suddenly whispered.

  I knew what he was talking about. "Yes," I whispered back.

  "So how do you know if it's the real thing?" he asked.

  Lifting my head off his chest, I looked at him and said, "To be honest, Vincent, I don't know. What I do know is, I have never felt anything like this before. "

  "How does it feel?" he asked.

  "Like I'm not alone, if that makes sense?" I said. "With other guys, even though I've been with them, there has still been a part of me that has felt alone. . . empty. Like you, Vincent, I guess I've been searching for someone to love me for who I am - rather than what they think I am or what I think I should be. Am I making any sense?"

  "Perfect sense," he smiled at me. "I knew from the very first moment I met you, I'd found someone who liked me for just being me. "

  "How did you know?" I smiled back at him.

  "Because you didn't tell me to piss off when you saw how badly my dancing was," he laughed.

  "You are a pretty bad dancer," I laughed back. "For a moment I did actually think you were throwing a fit or something. "

  "What else did you think?" he smiled, stroking the side of my face with his thumb.

  "I thought you were probably the craziest guy I'd ever met," I said. "You do the strangest of things at times - but are the most caring and honest man I've ever met. . . "

  "Caring? Honest?" he smiled.

  "What you said earlier about being a cop and making sure always to do the right thing - to try and make a difference," I reminded him. "You really care about people - you really want to help people. You really want to help Molly Smith. Even though she is dead, you want to help get justice for her. That says a lot about a person. That says a lot about you, Vincent. "

  "Do you think?" he asked, sounding unsure.

  "To stand by your convictions, even though there will be plenty of people who wished you hadn't, takes a lot of courage. Only a strong person can do that," I said. Looking away, I added, "That's the difference between people like you and me. I didn't have the strength to stand up to my father. When he suggested the idea of covering for me, I should have told him no. I should have torn up the statement he brought around here. I should have been strong enough to face the truth, whatever that meant for me and my future. "

  "And we will. . . you will," he said.

  "But how?" I said, slipping from his arms and sitting up. "We have no proof about what really happened to Molly Smith. "

  "There must be something we're missing," Vincent said. "It's probably staring us right in the face. "

  I sat looking through the gap in the bedroom door and into my living room. "It is staring me straight in the face," I suddenly whispered, looking at the empty Coke bottle with the note Vincent had left on the coffee table for me.

  "What is it?" Vincent said, sitting up next to me on the bed.

  "I dreamt of a message in a bottle," I breathed, turning to look at him. "In one of my nightmares, when I was standing at the bottom of the well, there was a bottle floating in the dirty rainwater. "

  "So?" Vincent frowned.

  "When I went looking for that well," I started to explain, "I knew I'd found the right one, because just like in my nightmare, there was a bottle with a folded piece of paper sealed inside. "

  "So you think it's connected to what happened to Molly?" he said, staring at me.

  "What are the chances of me dreaming about that bottle, only to discover one floating in the well?" I gasped, clambering from the bed. "Perhaps Molly was trying to show it to me. Perhaps that piece of paper inside is a message from her? Perhaps it has the name of the person who pushed her into that well written on it. "

  "That's a bit farfetched. . . " Vincent said rationally.

  "Hey," I said, pulling my clothes back on. "I thought it was you who said we had ourselves an X-File!"

  "I know, but. . . " Vincent said, starting to put on his uniform again.

  "Just come with me and take a look at the bottle," I said. "If it turns out to be just a piece of litter that's been tossed into the well, I promise I will go and see my father first thing in the morning and tell him I want to withdraw my statement about the crash. "

  "But it's gone one-thirty in the morning," Vincent said, glancing at the bedside clock. "Can't we go and take a look tomorrow?"

  "I can't go up to that farm in daylight," I said. "If old farmer Grayson catches me on his land again, he's gonna have my badge. "

  "That bottle is at the bottom of a well," Vincent said, pulling on his boots. "How are we going to climb down to the bottom and get it? We don't have any rope or. . . "

  "I know where we can find some rope," I smiled at him, heading for the front door.