by Dawson, H A
She slid her hand into her pocket, expecting to feel the soft fabric beneath her fingers and found the letter. For a moment, she was unable to comprehend that she had had the courage to steal it. Then a smile slipped to her face. She pulled it free, glanced over her shoulder, and removed the letter. There were two sheets, the first was addressed to Verity; the second was addressed to Saskia.
Chapter 13
Dear Verity.
The men out here are hot! I spend my days watching their muscular, tanned bodies saunter across the golden beach and my evenings in the bars and clubs. What a life! I should have done it ages ago. I give them want they want, and in return, I get free food and drinks. When I've had enough, I move on. Perfect! I never thought I could be this happy, especially after what we did. Some people would say I don't deserve it, but at least I admitted my mistakes. Having said that, they were never as great as yours.
You always were afraid of the truth, and therefore it makes sense to me and everyone else that you should be afraid of me. Console yourself. Think about my separation from Ron.
Saskia.
Megan skimmed Saskia's handwriting. It was slanting forward and had large incomplete loops on the lower end. There was no address on the top of the page and the signature at the bottom was indistinct. It was untidy and spread out, and made extravagant use of the page. Sensing someone at her rear, she shoved it into her pocket.
A heavy built man was gaining ground. He looked like a security guard of some kind, as he had a bulging chest, thick arms, and strong legs. Hastily, she lowered her head and crossed the street, keeping a firm eye on the pavement she had just vacated. He came into view, making sturdy strides and crossing to her side, so she slowed her pace and allowed him to overtake. The man progressed along an alley leading to Ron's house.
Her fear lingered. Did he know where she was going? Had this man followed her before? She peered along the alley and watched as he paused a little distance away and talked to someone via his phone. She jumped back to avoid his gaze, and with her heart thumping and her hot sticky hand pressed over her pocket, she turned around and trotted away.
Her feet made a click-clack sound. She tried to tiptoe, afraid that the sound was broadcasting her departure, but ultimately she decided it was better to move swiftly than be silent and slow.
Having satisfied herself that the man wasn’t following her, Megan relaxed, took a swift left turn and then a right, and paused at a junction. Ahead, and obscured by trees and hedges, were houses, and to her right was the statue in the town centre, the one that had troubled her days before. Unwittingly, she pressed her hand to her stomach and stared at the rooftops. Something told her that she had travelled in a circle and was near to Ron's house.
A vision entered her thoughts. Saskia had been in this spot, dripping blood, and running from her house into town, taking a back passage. But where was it? She scanned the row of townhouses, searching for a gap to Ron's house, but saw nothing. Puzzled, she made tentative steps forward.
An elderly woman stood inside her house and looked through the window, watching her and scrutinising her every step. Had she known Saskia? Had she witnessed a crime she dared not speak of? She lowered her head, averting her gaze.
Nearby, a barking dog caused her body to jar. It was high-pitched and yappy. The culprit, a small terrier, was stretched onto its back legs and leaning against a short wall. It had a wild look in its eyes and saliva dripped from its mouth as it bounced with vicious intent. She stepped aside, nearing the edge of the pavement and continued away.
A gap between two houses caused her pulse to race. Her steps grew longer and faster as she travelled through a patch of wasteland, passing the faded lines of the parking bays, and looked beyond a boarded up industrial building and towards a footpath in the corner. Beside the path was an overhanging hedge, encroaching on the path. She squeezed her body through a gap and stepped over weeds and grasses creeping through the cracks. By her side was a tall fence, and her hand hovered over its rough texture. It was eerily familiar, and sickness rose to her throat and her head started to spin as unwanted visions gained clarity.
Fighting her terror, she reached to her stomach and forced her weakening legs forward, and dipped under a stray branch and forced aside another. Then she stopped, driven by inexplicable memories, and peered over the fence to the top of a house. Although unfamiliar, her instincts told her it was where Ron lived.
She ran her hand across the coarse texture of the painted wood, feeling the fine splinters scratch her skin. It seemed wrong, and she sensed there should be a gap and a path to his house. Troubled, she looked further along, tracking the fence, searching for something different, but there was no end to the tall flat structure and her mind became a muddle of confusion.
Reflecting on her visions, she sensed Saskia had forced her way through a spiky hedge, running, screaming, gasping, and frantically trying to outrun her attacker.
Megan's tremors caused her to stumble. She leaned against the fence, craving a steady breath, but it did not come. Feeling as though she was suffocating, she staggered back to the street and gulped huge breaths of air. Dazed, she crossed the street, clutching her stomach and trod Saskia's final trail. The footpath continued across the other side of the road, passing between the houses before arriving metres from the statue. Her vision was blurring, the pain and fear real. She leaned over, gasping for breath.
A voice spoke: 'Are you okay?'
Startled, she stared at the hefty man - the same person that she had seen only minutes earlier - and backed away. Her legs were heavy, as though her muscles had turned into sludge, and she stumbled and fell. She looked up and released a faint cry.
He leaned over. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help. I'm a paramedic.'
His smile radiated towards her. She accepted his hand and he pulled to her feet.
'Are you okay? I can take you home if you like.'
She shook her head and stepped away.
'You dropped this.'
He had her letter. She could not move and froze to the spot. When he extended his arm, she snatched it and ran.
Megan closed the door to her house, still clutching the letter, and slumped onto the carpeted floor. Relief poured from her, tears dampened her eyes, and her body shook.
'Megan! What's happened?'
Ben crowded her. She could not move, nor could she speak, and remained in situ on the floor. Realising her immediate problem, he reached his arms around her back, assisted her to her feet, and guided her into the living area.
He was looking at the letter in her hand. She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, hiding it from view, and slumped onto the sofa.
'What's that?' he asked.
She hid it under her thigh and removed her jacket.
He exhaled a taut breath. 'I've made you a bite to eat. Do you want a coffee with it?'
She nodded weakly, watched him depart, and returned her attention to her letter. A small corner was visible. She peered at the door, removed the top sheet from the envelope, and studied the scrawl.
Saskia and Verity must have committed a crime together, but for whatever reason, Saskia felt as though more of the blame should be with Verity. Verity seemed to disagree, but without knowing of the crime, it was difficult to make a judgement. Nonetheless, her questions remained. Why had they hated each other so much to be on opposing sides? Had Verity been angry enough to kill?
Megan reasoned that there was a very thin line between love and hate, so she believed it was possible that the balance could have toppled. Was that what had happened? Had one betrayed the other so much so that the bond failed to restore? According to Verity, they had remained best friends. But what about Saskia? How did she feel? It was one thing writing a letter; it was another having to discuss the truth in a face-to-face conversation.
One fact remained. Saskia had been pregnant. Megan presumed she was the child, and she believed Saskia had returned home with her in tow, and then the murder o
ccurred, causing her to be a witness. Even so, it was all conjecture; to her annoyance, she still could not remember a damned thing.
Verity could have scurried her away. It was quite possible that no one else knew Saskia had returned, and almost certainly, no one knew about her daughter. Having killed Saskia, Verity could have claimed the child as her own and used a false name for the adoption.
Ben returned to the room. Megan folded the letter and placed it under a cushion.
'Julie Johnson never existed,' she said.
'Who?'
'My mother. Verity used a false name when she put me up for adoption.'
'Verity is your mother?'
'No, Saskia is. Verity killed her, I must have seen what happened, and as no one knew about me, she got rid of me.'
Ben looked sceptical. 'How do you know all this?'
'I have a letter. Verity showed it to me.' Hesitantly, she passed it to Ben.
'There's nothing in this is implicate Verity.'
'Of course there is. Saskia had witnessed Verity doing something – maybe with the herbs. When Saskia returned, Verity was scared her secret would be exposed and so she killed her.’
His scepticism remained. ‘I think you’ve been watching too many movies!’
She jumped to her feet. ‘At least I'm trying to sort out what's going on. I don't see you coming up with anything.'
'Did she give you this letter?'
Anxiety spread across her face and she leapt to her feet. 'I need a glass of water.'
'Megan?'
She scurried out of the room and hovered by the sink.
He appeared in the doorway. 'Where did you get the letter?'
'Okay, so I borrowed it, but she would have given it to me if I had asked.'
He shook his head in dismay and stepped back into the living room. 'I told you that you should never have gone to see her. When she finds out that it's missing, she will be on to you. Why couldn't you just leave it for Luke to investigate?'
'I can't just sit around doing nothing.'
'That's exactly what you should do.' He dropped onto the armchair. 'Don't you understand the implications of what you have done? If you're right and Verity did kill Saskia, she's going to want you out of the way double fast.'
'She might not know I'm Saskia's daughter,' she said weakly.
'Come on! Don't be so naïve. You look just like her.'
She placed her thumb and forefinger onto her ring and stared at the gleaming silver as it passed around her finger. 'Verity won't hurt me.'
'I'm sure Saskia thought that too.'
'She likes me. I know she does. She was open about her relationship with Saskia, at least once she got started.'
'What did she say?'
She munched the cheese salad sandwich, feeling the warm smooth texture of the cheddar cheese mingle with the fluffy seed bread. 'They were best friends, but they drifted apart after Saskia married. Verity didn't think Saskia loved Ron . . . I don't think she liked him very much. She said he was a bit odd.'
'Odd, how?'
'She said he was possessive and a little too perfect. From what I can gather there was a lot of tension between Verity and Saskia, and I have a sense Ron was the cause of it.' She stuffed the letter into the top of her bag. 'Verity even told me that her family had fallen out with her and Saskia.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. She wouldn't say.'
'Whatever they did must have been bad.'
Megan's eyes glazed. 'I wonder if Ron will tell me what happened.'
'Don't even think about it.'
She pressed her lips together and stared. 'He's not going to hurt me. He seems a gentle man.'
'You've spoken to him?'
'Just after I arrived in town. I did go to his house, although not to speak to him. His shed is ordered . . . everything is shipshape. He seems to be a bit obsessed with colour too. He had coloured labels over piles of old newspapers. The colours were in the same order as his plants.'
He puffed out. 'Don't tell me. You crept into his shed when he wasn't looking.'
'What's wrong with that? I didn't steal anything, I just wanted a peek.' She looked up, noticing his disbelieving gaze. 'On the way home I returned to his house. That's where Saskia was hurt. She was running away . . . fled into town.' She started to tremble. 'It was horrible. It was just as though it was happening all over again.'
Blood drained from her face. She clasped her hands tight around the mug seeking warmth and comfort.
'It could have been Ron who killed Saskia.'
She shook her head. 'It wasn't Ron.'
'Why not?'
'I . . . I don't know.'
'So it was Verity?'
She could not answer and craved the memories that she had abandoned during her childhood.
'It is very likely to have been one of them,' he said.
'It could be someone else. I have to find out. I'm going to remain a target until I know what happened. Someone knows something, and I'm not going to let up.'
He frowned. 'I don't want you speaking to anyone else. Please, leave it for Luke to investigate. Or at least contact the police.'
'No!’ She held a determined stare. ‘No way!’
'Why? What have you to lose?'
'I don't want to deal with the police.'
'Okay, so leave it to Luke.'
'I've already told you, I can't sit around and do nothing.'
'So speak to him! Tell him what you have found out about Verity.'
A lump formed in her throat. If what she believed was true, Verity was her auntie, her only true relative. She didn’t want to see her suffer and only wanted the mystery solved. If she told Verity she would keep her secret, it might be enough to persuade her to leave her alone.
'I have to speak to Verity again.'
'Don't be stupid! You could be putting yourself in real danger.'
'I don't think so.'
'She's effectively done it once already . . . and got away with it.'
She passed a questioning stare.
‘Saskia?’
'That may be true, but I don't believe I have any choice. She already knows I have memories about Saskia that I can't explain. If she thinks I know her secret too . . .'
His nostrils flared. 'You told her about your memories! Have you any idea what you are up against? Someone tried to run you over and then lured you into a trap and tied you up. God only knows what they would have done if Luke hadn't appeared.'
She tensed. 'Perhaps I would have been better off finding out! It's no fun waking up every day and not knowing who means you harm and who doesn't.'
'Don't be so bloody ridiculous! You seem to think this is all a game. Someone wants you dead for heaven’s sake!'
'Don't you think I'm aware of that? Why else do you think I wanted you here? It's not for your witty personality and good looks. When I left, I promised myself I would never let you and David near me again. You both treated me like crap. Do you think I enjoy being treated like a useless piece of meat?'
His face reddened. ‘We've never treated you that way.'
'You never wanted to believe me . . . couldn't accept that son of yours was not, oh so perfect!'
'He's more perfect than you'll ever be! You've always had it in for us. Couldn't bear the fact I had David when you had no one.'
She lunged at him. He grabbed her wrists until her hands tingled. His eyes were dark and piercing, a reflection of hers. She wanted him gone. She tussled. She dripped with sweat. She pleaded for her release.
'Apologise,' he said.
She wriggled free. 'Me, apologise? What about you? At every opportunity, you remind me of Joshua's death. Have you any idea how that hurts? Do you even care?'
He stomped away, opened the outer door and slammed it shut.
'That's right, walk out. Like you always do, you bloody coward!'
Her eyes clouded. She reached for the photograph of her beloved son, pressed it to her breast, and remembered his soft, wa
rm body and fine wisps of hair. Then she flopped onto the sofa and her heart contracted more every second. She craved a reunion, and her need burned her soul.
Minutes turned into hours and Megan remained in a trance-like state on the sofa. Too lethargic to move, she curled up in a ball and drifted into a stressful doze, all the while clutching the image of baby Joshua. Her desire to do anything about her stalker had long gone, she cared little about Saskia and the trouble she found herself in, and she considered Ben irrelevant. Only her son remained on her mind, and his absence was like a spear penetrating her body and soul, tearing, ripping, slashing.
The doorbell sounded. She shuffled into a horizontal position, buried her head into a cushion, and closed her eyes. If she feigned sleep, they would have to go away, but her ears remained on alert. The door squeaked as it opened. She tilted her head and listened to David as he spoke in a quiet voice. Satisfied that she was not going to be disturbed, she shut down her senses and drifted into a sleep.
Some time later, she lifted her eyelids and looked across the room, bleary-eyed. David was watching her from the armchair. Uneasy, she placed the photograph onto the coffee table, stretched out her muscles, and raised herself to a sitting position.
'Where's your dad?' she asked.
'Out.'
She gazed awkwardly around the room.
'I don't blame you for getting mad at him,' he continued, 'it's his job to support you.' He stood up. 'Can I get you anything?'
His expression was pleasant, his body language relaxed, and his behaviour appropriate. He was after something.
'A glass of water,' she said.
'Want anything to eat?'
'No, thanks.'
He departed. What was he up to? She glanced towards the living room door and listened to the sounds; the cupboard door opened and closed, there was a rush of water flowing into a glass, and soft thuds of footsteps crossed the floor.
