by Dawson, H A
'Good news?' Imogen asked.
'Sarah wants to meet.'
'Is reconciliation on the cards?'
'No, I doubt it. We meet up every now and again. I usually make her a meal and we drink a couple of bottles of wine.'
'That sounds cosy.'
'It is.'
'You're blushing!'
He shuffled. 'I'm not!'
'You so are!'
'It's not what you think.'
They headed towards the exit. Luke nodded his appreciation to the waitress and they stepped into the cool air.
'Are you sure about that?' Imogen asked.
Silence.
'She's using you. You should forget her and move on. There must be plenty of women out there glad for an opportunity to go out with you.'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'
'I mean it. Forget Sarah. You can do better.'
Disheartened, he climbed into the car. Whilst he hated to admit it, she was right and he should move on. Yet he still hoped that Sarah would change her mind and something within her may ignite. Realistically, what were the chances of that? Their relationship had failed, for whatever reason, and Sarah, being the type of woman who knew her mind, was unlikely to change. She was a strong-minded woman, gritty and resolute. He imagined her scent, delicate and seductive, and he visualised running his hands along her warm silky skin.
'Back to the office?' Imogen asked.
His enthusiasm had waned. He had contemplated visiting Megan, but memories of Sarah's frequent reprimands with his involvement in the paranormal lay heavy. Saskia's reincarnation was probably fantasy. Megan was unlikely to be in any real danger.
'Back to the office,' he said, 'I need you to find Ron Maddison's address . . . and Verity's if you can.'
'Cool. It's exciting isn't it?'
He indicated right, joined the main highway, and found himself in another queue of traffic.
'I can't wait until I talk to my Mark.'
'Oh?'
'I want his views on reincarnation. Just imagine, if you could find out who your soul mate was before you had even met, you would save yourself loads of time by avoiding dating the wrong person.'
He edged the car forward, inching closer to the car up ahead. Even if he’d had the knowledge that his relationship with Sarah was going to fail, he would still have gone ahead with it. How sad was that?
'We should go down that lane,' she said, 'I think it's a short cut.'
'Okay, it's worth a try.'
He thrust the car into gear and turned onto the lane, grateful to be able to pump the gas.
'Wow! That's Megan.' Imogen blurted. 'I am so psychic!'
He removed his foot from the accelerator. 'Where?'
'Back there. She looks like she was heading towards that old house. I think we should go see what she's doing.'
'Okay. I'll turn around.'
Once the road cleared, he spun the car around and headed to the parking area. Imogen was straining her neck, trying to look beyond the bushes.
'Someone's following her,' she said.
He unbuckled his seatbelt. 'I can't see anyone.'
'There, look.'
Someone was dashing between the trees and hedgerows, wearing jeans and a dark plain jacket. It was impossible to see if it was a man or a woman.
'I think they're after Megan.'
He flung open the car door, pressed it shut, and joined Imogen as she climbed the wall and headed towards the old brick building.
Chapter 7
With her thoughts concentrated on the art event, Megan left the house, keen to rekindle her passion. Striding along a footpath adjacent to the main highway out of Rodley, and oblivious to the monotonous drone of engines and car fumes, her expectations were high. There should be demonstrations and goods to purchase, maybe she would be able to meet local artists or find out about local groups. It was an exciting prospect, and wanting a reminder of the details, she retrieved the leaflet from her pocket and absorbed the details.
There was no graphical depiction and it was poorly designed and produced. The text was too small and hard to read, there were no names of business sponsors and it was not centralised on the sheet. It looked homemade. Nonetheless, unwilling to be discouraged, she continued her journey and pondered her artistic inclinations.
Her preference was to draw rather than paint, and she used different thickness of a pencil to create shading and effect. Her hope was that the event would provide her with a few tips, else in the least provide inspiration. It might motivate her to try something different, perhaps oils or acrylics. It was time she moved away from her normal style.
After her adoption, she spent many hours with a sketchpad and a pencil in her hand. Her mother told her she had a natural ability and drew images beyond her years, but she paid little attention, and other than doing an A-level in art, she had no will to make a career of it. However, now that she was making a new start in life, perhaps it was time she did something she loved. She should go freelance and produce images for the local greetings card manufacturer. It was an exciting thought, but her preferred theme would have to change.
In the past, much to her mother's dismay, she had drawn images of the darker side of life, such as brawls outside bars and clubs, drunks, and the homeless. She had argued that happiness was something that many people never experienced and she wanted to speak out for them. Life was not all rosy and people must take notice.
With hindsight, she believed her inclinations were due to a troubled childhood, a consequence of her life with her birth mother. Her memories were hazy yet she knew it had not been an easy time. She recalled a room. There was a bed on one side and a kitchen on the other. There was clutter and disorder. There were few toys. Visitors often appeared, almost daily, but they never tried to form a relationship with her and often argued with her mother. Megan recalled sitting on the bed, invisible and unwanted.
Breathing a replenishing breath, she concluded her life since the adoption had been good, at least once the adjustment period was over, and while the pain of abandonment lingered on occasions, she admitted that Julie Johnson had done Megan a massive favour. Yet still there was a void in her heart; it was irritating knowing nothing of her past.
Saskia had to be a relative or close friend of her mother's. It was too difficult to accept that a spirit could float through the air and land in some random stranger, it was all too weird and not a notion she could accept. Ben was most definitely wrong.
Her footsteps made gentle thuds as she turned onto the lane. There were houses on the right, and trees and fields on the left. She peered up ahead, searching for the venue, but saw nothing. Once again, she glanced at the leaflet. She was definitely on the correct lane, so she put aside her concerns and assumed, as she followed the natural bend in the road, that her destination would soon become obvious.
Pinned to a tree trunk on the edge of woodland was a small square piece of paper informing visitors of the art event. Mesmerised by a sense of familiarity, she stopped at a stile, paused for a moment to take in the scenery, and then climbed the ladder. Stepping onto the weedy path, a strong sense of expectation emerged, excitement mingling with apprehension. Yet it was not for the art; it was for something else, something she could not identify.
Nettles and brambles made passing along the path difficult. She stamped on the spiky branches and flattened the waist-high plants. The nettles were easy to trample, but the brambles, with strong thick vines, less so, and they sprung back. She moved forward with caution, keen to avoid the spikes from scratching her exposed flesh and tearing at her thin jacket. Despite her efforts, they clung to her clothing, gripping with determination. Unable to make a quick release, as there was not sufficient space for her fingers between the thorns, she backed away, freed herself, and looked for an alternate route through the woodland.
Back at the stile, there was another path running adjacent to the wall. She ducked under the branches of a tree, stepped around ferns and hopped ove
r a log. It was tranquil with birds tweeting in the canopy and a dog walker in the distance, but it was not what she had expected.
Where were the other visitors? There must be another entrance and a car park. She scanned the leaflet, confirmed she was in the right place, then scrunched it up and replaced it into her pocket, now able to recite it word for word. She should have been more concerned given the danger she knew she was in, but she could not remove her excitement, feeling as though she was heading to something familiar. Megan knew every bend and slope of the footpath and was not at all surprised when she emerged from the cover of the trees and found herself standing on the edge of a field. She glanced back towards the road and to an empty parking area, before looking towards the dilapidated house.
Her heart pounded, and for a second, the crumbling brickwork, sunken roof, and broken windows faded. Instead, she saw shimmering glass, long floral curtains and a small tidy garden. Peering through the window were two young women. Megan blinked, but when she looked again, they were gone, passing through the mists of time. She sensed she had known them intimately, and believed one of the women to be Saskia.
Megan's sedate steps progressed into a jog, prickles formed on her skin, and her adrenaline surged. Captivated, she looked through the cracked glass at the dusty fireplace and saw more images of the young women chatting, but this time there was an older woman in the background holding something in her hands. She had a mass of mid-brown curly hair and thick-framed large glasses. This was her house. This woman was Saskia's grandmother.
Entranced, Megan walked to the solid oak door with peeling brown paint and tried the handle. It creaked open. She padded the dusty wooden floor, inhaling the stale damp aroma, and progressed to the kitchen at the end of the hallway. The sun’s rays draped across the worktop and the linoleum floor illuminating the chunky radiator on the far wall. Skimming her hand across the cool, gritty surface, she stepped to the other end of the kitchen.
The worktops were free of accessories, except for a few jars and ceramic containers, the sink had a coating of grime and pans rested on the hob. She bent over and opened a cupboard in the corner. Inside there was row upon row of darkened glass bottles, each labelled but some had faded ink. When she picked one up a sense of laughter filled her ears. She drifted through time.
The two young women whispered and giggled as they perused the elderly woman's stock.
'What should we use this time?' The dark-haired woman asked in a low voice.
'We need something to make them ill. I don't want them at the fete at the weekend.'
'So,' she looked at the bottles, 'something that will cause them to puke?'
The woman with butterscotch hair grinned. 'At least.'
'How about this?'
The voices faded. Megan looked at the bottle in her hand and the dried powder within. It was labelled purgative, and beneath, in small block writing were the words, ‘Dog's Mercury’. She placed it onto the surface and reached for another. That one was a carminative and labelled Mint. She crouched down and scanned and rotated the bottles. They were all herbal potions and the two women had misused them.
Megan's stomach churned and her throat tightened. She wrapped her arms around her middle fighting a chill. Something horrendous had happened as a direct result of the two young woman's actions, but no matter how she tried, she could not access her hidden memories. Attempting to force images forward by staring at the bottles was pointless, yet she persisted, craving the elusive answers.
Had Saskia's grandmother been aware of Saskia's actions? Who had she been trying to make ill? Megan covered her mouth with her hand as a clear sense of guilt emerged. Saskia had done untold damage. Had she paid the ultimate price?
In a daze, and drawn by a need to reacquaint herself with what appeared to be a once-familiar house, She walked up the stairs, passing beneath cobwebs and leaving footsteps on the dusty carpet. Fighting an unfathomable guilt, she took a gulp of air, urging her frantic heartbeat to calm, and fought the cries from the past that were persistent in pummelling her conscience. They were Saskia’s mistakes. She had played no part. But it was a futile attempt. The facts, she sensed, were hidden just beneath her conscious mind, and they were moving ever closer to the surface. She wanted them gone, craved silence, but instead listened to a voice from the past. It had been an act of harmless fun. The victims were embarrassing and irresponsible, and deserving of the outcome. Unable to respond, she chewed her lip and cautiously pushed open a door.
The bedroom was furnished with a fitted wardrobe, and the carpet smelled of urine. Edging forward, she could see part of her reflection in a full-length mirror, and her anxieties mounted, suddenly aware of her solitude. She listened to the silence, broken only by occasional passing traffic, and she watched the trees sway in the breeze. Her heart pounded and her skin tingled. This was no art event. What the hell was she still doing here?
She reached into her pocket and dialled Ben's number.
'I've been trying to get hold of you,' he said, 'why haven't you returned my calls?'
'I've been busy. Look, I need you to listen. I'm in this house. It should have been an art event but there's no one here.' She ran her fingers through her hair. 'I don't think I should be here.'
'So get out!'
'It's familiar. I think it was Saskia's grandmother’s house. There are potions. Saskia was using them to poison people.'
'Is anyone else there?'
She listened to the creaks and groans of the house, more pronounced now. 'Maybe . . . I'm not sure.'
'Get out, quick. It sounds like a trap.'
She whispered into the phone. 'I think it's too late.' She heard a dull knocking sound coming from downstairs, turned her head and crept towards the landing. Her pulse pounded in her dry throat. 'I have to go.'
She replaced her phone into her pocket and tiptoed towards the staircase. The sounds continued, louder now, yet she could see nothing down below. Hastily, she stepped into the next bedroom. A rush of air enveloped her. The window was open, and just beneath the ledge was the roof of a small building. She decided to try for a quick escape, but then, out of her eye corner, a moving shadow caught her attention. She screamed.
Something hit the back of her knees, her legs buckled, and she hit the ground with a thud. The pain reverberated upwards and a weight on her back forced her to the dusty floorboards. Someone yanked her arms to her rear, forcing her chin into the ground. She turned her head. A curtain of butterscotch hair ruined her view. All she could do was release a piercing exclamation of condemnation as someone tied her arms and legs with rope. It cut into her skin, slowing the blood supply and causing a tingling sensation to develop in her feet and hands.
She cried out a request for freedom.
Miraculously, her assailant fled, leaving by the open window. Comforted, she tried to rotate, wriggling this way and that, keen to catch a sight of whoever was leaving. She saw legs dressed in jean but nothing else. Then footsteps sounded on the staircase and landing, progressing ever closer.
She had to get away, and with her heart thumping and sweat forming on her forehead, she tried to free her hands. The ropes tightened. She tried to turn over, but she was helpless and at the mercy of whoever was approaching.
As soon as Luke and Imogen entered the room and introduced themselves, it became clear that they were there to help her, engendering a rush a relief. Whilst Luke hurried to the window then fled downstairs, Imogen untied the ropes.
'Did you see who attacked you?'
'It happened too fast. All I saw was a pair of legs . . . in jeans.’
'You should get checked out.'
She raised herself to her feet. 'No, I'm fine. I just want to go home.'
'Can we take you there?'
'Thanks. That would be good.'
Her body was shaking and her legs were weak and unwilling. She leaned on Imogen for support and together they progressed down the steps. Luke was standing a short distance away scanning the fields and trees.
>
'Did you bang your head?' Imogen asked.
'No. I just feel a bit dazed. It's probably the shock.'
'Why were you here?'
She reached into her pocket for the scrunched up leaflet. 'Someone in town gave this to me. Clearly, it was a setup. There is no art event.’
‘Can you describe the person?'
'Sorry. I didn't pay any attention.'
'Was it a man or woman?'
'A man I think. What's going on?'
She glanced at Luke and then turned back towards her. 'We don't know, but we'll need to ask you a few questions when you feel able.'
'Is this to do with Saskia?'
'What do you know about her?'
'Nothing. That's just it. But everyone tells me I look like her.'
Imogen did not respond, but guided her along a track to the car and instructed her to get inside. Then, she trotted back to Luke, who was starting towards them, and they shared a conversation. Curious, she watched, rotating her ring.
Seconds later, Luke headed back towards the building and Imogen drove her home. They arrived minutes later. Imogen passed her a business card relating to their private investigative business and told her to keep them informed of any peculiarities.
‘Can you tell me anything about this?’ Megan said.
‘I doubt we know as much as you.’ She paused. ‘I suggest you keep a low profile until we learn more.’
She nodded, reluctant.
‘Are you sure you are going to be okay?' she added.
She opened the door of the car. ‘I am . . . I’m a big girl!’
Having climbed out, she pushed the door to and hurried towards her house a few doors away. Whilst she presented an image of calmness, her senses and nervousness had intensified. An elderly woman, her neighbour, was looking out of the bedroom window, there was a passenger in a vehicle staring at her, and there were pedestrians striding towards her, their expressions worrying and hostile. Even the empty vehicles parked on the roadside seemed to pose a threat, and she scanned the inside of each one.
