Déjà Vu

by Stephen Edger

  Jake pulled the armchair closer to the desk and pulled out his pad. ‘For starters, why does she see you?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious, detective, she feels she needs support and guidance.’

  ‘No, I mean, there must have been something that caused her to rock up here initially?’

  ‘How much do you know about what happened to Megan at the start of the year? I’m referring to the fire that caused the scarring on her hands.’

  Jake shrugged. ‘She said something about her partner dying in the fire.’

  ‘That’s right. One night in early January, she returned from work and prepared a romantic meal for them both, but he didn’t show up when he should have. From what Megan tells me this wasn’t the first time he’d had time-keeping issues. Because the meal was ruined, when he did return, they had a blazing argument, which resulted in him going out; to the pub she assumed. She threw the food away, showered and went to bed. At some point later, he returned to the flat and went to sleep on the sofa. But a faulty phone charger started a fire in the kitchen, and because the smoke alarm wasn’t working, neither knew anything about it until the whole place was ablaze. In bed, Megan was frozen with panic. She literally could not move she was so terrified. Thankfully, one of the neighbours called for the fire brigade and firemen were able to pull both Megan and her partner Rob from the blaze. But he died and she survived, and she has been living with survivor’s guilt ever since.

  ‘She blames herself for the fire starting as it was her phone charger in the wall that malfunctioned, and although she thought she’d turned it off, it appears she didn’t. She blames herself for Rob dying, and she is unwilling to move on with her life.’

  ‘Did she lose use of her legs in the fire?’

  Patel looked confused. ‘Megan isn’t paralysed, detective. Well, I mean, she can’t currently use her legs, but that’s not as a result of any physical injury sustained in the blaze. When she woke in the hospital bed, she couldn’t feel anything below the pelvis. But all manner of tests were run and there is no physical reason for the loss of feeling. Her condition is psychosomatic, meaning her physical symptoms have occurred for psychological reasons.’

  Jake’s inner voice was twitching. ‘It’s all in her head? How is that possible?’

  ‘Psychosomatic illness is a worldwide phenomenon. They are disorders which mask emotional distress. She was frozen to her bed in absolute fear when she woke to see the curtains on fire and the room full of smoke. It is my belief that that moment led to her present condition. That is why I presented her with that Dream Journal. I want to get to the root cause, so I can help her heal herself.’

  ‘So if I stuck a pin into her knee, are you telling me she wouldn’t feel it?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Bear in mind that all messages from our central nervous system are interpreted in the brain. Now, imagine blocking the portals that sent messages from the lower half of the body. No pain, no stimulus, that part of the body essentially becomes redundant.’

  ‘Will she ever walk again?’

  Patel puffed out his chest. ‘It is my hope that she will make a full recovery in time, but we need to break down those blockages one at a time.’

  ‘What about when she’s asleep? Is it possible that when she dreams, the paralysis disappears? What I’m trying to ask is: is it possible that on some level she could be on her feet and moving about without thinking about it?’

  Patel shook his head. ‘I can’t say for certain, but I’ve never come across any cases of someone with psychosomatic paralysis sleepwalking.’

  Jake scribbled some notes in his pad. ‘Has she spoken to you about her dreams?’

  Patel narrowed his eyes. ‘She has a recurring nightmare of being back in that flat, trapped by the fire. It’s not uncommon for victims of extreme trauma to revisit that horror in their sleep. It’s the brain’s way of trying to process events.’

  ‘What about her recent dreams? She showed me a journal with three dreams relating to the deaths of Carlos Xavier, Rita Enfield and a woman who was found murdered this morning. Has she discussed those with you?’

  Patel frowned, concern growing. ‘She spoke to me of a dream where she drowned, but that was on Wednesday morning and I haven’t seen her since.’

  Jake tried to recall the words she’d used to describe the dreams, but his mind was blank. ‘Carlos Xavier left his home on Sunday night, drove twenty minutes down the road, crashed into a park in New Milton and drove his car at speed into a lake there where he subsequently drowned. Megan’s account in the dream is consistent with that.’

  ‘And as I tried to explain to her, the mind can play tricks on us. She’d been in the bath the night before when the smoke alarm had sounded in her flat. She had an anxiety attack, and froze in the bath. It is understandable how this would trigger thoughts of drowning.’

  ‘What about the other dreams. In the second account she claims she went up a tall tower in a lift and threw herself over the edge, the same way Rita Enfield did. According to you they only met for the first time on Wednesday, so how was it possible she could accurately predict what Rita would do?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that, but you have to understand that Megan is...she’s struggling with her grief, and although I have no evidence, I have concerns that she has had suicidal thoughts in the weeks since the fire. Drowning, jumping from a building, they’re both methods of ending life. I’m not seeing anything but alarming coincidence here, detective. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And on Thursday morning she dreamt seeing someone stabbing a former colleague to death, and low and behold, this morning officers were called to this colleague’s house and her slain body was discovered in her car.’

  ‘What are you really asking, detective?’

  Jake took a deep breath, summoning the words. ‘Is Megan Hopkirk capable of stabbing her colleague to death?’

  Patel gasped. ‘You have to be joking!’

  ‘Either Megan witnessed Janice being killed, or she was the perpetrator. Nothing else makes sense.’

  ‘What does she say happened?’

  ‘She says she can’t remember what happened from the moment her friend returned home.’

  ‘And you don’t believe her?’

  It was far too convenient in Jake’s eyes. ‘Let’s just say I’m considering all of the facts.’

  Patel looked at his watch. ‘My next patient is due. In my opinion, having spoken with Megan a number of times over the last few weeks, she is not the killer you’re looking for.’

  ‘What about her dreams and predictions? Is she clairvoyant?’

  ‘I am a man of science, and there is plenty of evidence to dismiss so-called psychic abilities. Megan is a traumatised woman, who needs a lot of care and support. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, detective.’

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Half an hour had passed since the detective had left the flat, but Megan had yet to take her eyes from the door. She’d focused on the memory of the nightmare. She hadn’t seen her pursuer’s face, but she’d seen his outline and DS Knight had projected the same stance. From his shaved black hair, to his fixed shoulders, height and thin frame; she had absolutely no doubt that he had been the one standing over the grave shovelling in the dirt.

  But why would he want her dead?

  She’d re-read her notes, and had replayed the flashes of the nightmare that remained in her short-term memory.

  It’s dark – so dark – and I’m outside in some kind of swamp, the mud so thick around me, like quicksand ... And it’s cold too; I don’t see it, but I’m sure condensation was billowing from my mouth ... And my heart is racing: I’m terrified that he is going to find and kill me ... I try to pull clear of the swamp, but it’s like I’m stuck there, like someone beneath the surface has hold of me and won’t let go ... But I do pull free and I am on my feet running ... Branches and twigs scratch at my arms and legs, and I feel the blood trickling, but I continue onwards ... Still
so dark ... And then I trip and fall, and I’m sure he hears ... I can feel him watching me ... My wrist is hurt; sprained maybe, but I manage to get up and continue ... There is a clap of thunder and the heavens open, but even though I’m getting soaked, my only thought is escape ... I can hear him rampaging through the forest after me ... I don’t know where I am, but then I see the distant lights of a house ... I race towards it, knowing that if I can get inside I’ll be safe ... But he’s suddenly right behind me ... And then I’m tumbling for what feels like forever into a deep, dark hole ... I hit the ground and that’s when I look back up at his outline against the moonlight, and watch as he begins to fill the grave.

  She shuddered at the taste of the mud filling her mouth. Nothing frightened her more than the thought of being buried alive: spending the remaining seconds of life knowing that death was coming for you, and your mind filling with a life full of regrets.

  But there had been something different about this particular nightmare, compared to the others. And, as she continued to stare at the door, waiting for the detective to return and kick it in, a moment of clarity: she hadn’t recognised where she was.

  In the first nightmare, she had recognised the car as something her father might have once driven, but certainly surroundings she was familiar with. In the second nightmare, even though she’d never been in the Nelson Gate complex, when she’d looked over the edge of the rooftop, she’d recognised the train station and the city’s skyline. And finally, the nightmare about Janice’s massacre had occurred in Megan’s old flat. But this time she’d had no idea where she was. She couldn’t recall ever being in a swamp or in a thick forest late at night. Was that significant? Did it matter?

  Megan jumped as someone banged against the door.

  She remained still, not daring to move and holding her breath. In the dream she’d tried to outrun him, but there was no way she could escape the flat in the wheelchair.

  A sudden sharp intake of breath as the door banged again.

  ‘Megan? Are you home? It’s Wanda, I’ve got some travel brochures for us to look at?’

  Megan’s breath shook, as the shot of adrenaline quickly dissipated. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she moved across to the door and unfastened the security chain, pulling the door open and allowing her sister-in-law to enter.

  Wanda wrinkled her nose, and immediately moved across to the living room window and cracked it open for fresh air, before her eyes fell on the stack of plates and cups by the sink. Although she didn’t say anything, the look of disapproval was evident. But Megan didn’t have the energy to make up excuses or argue as Wanda rolled up her sleeves, found some rubber gloves in the cupboard beneath the counter and filled the sink with water.

  ‘Why don’t you take a look and see if anything takes your fancy?’ Wanda said, nodding at the pile of six glossy brochures she’d left on the table. She turned back to monitor the rising water level. ‘Personally, I fancy somewhere all inclusive with a blue pool and breath-taking view, and where the waiters are only too happy to service our every need.’ She giggled like a naughty schoolgirl.

  Megan looked from Wanda to the brochures and then back to Wanda, and with no warning, her face curled in on itself and she began to sob.

  ‘Good heavens, what is the matter, my darling?’ Wanda asked, turning off the tap, racing over and crouching down next to Megan, wrapping a tender arm around her shoulders.

  But such sincerity only made the urge to cry stronger, and burying her head in Wanda’s shoulder, Megan allowed the flood barriers to open. She wept for their shared loss; for the bitter pain of a Rob-less future. And she wept as the stress of the last week reached its crescendo. Seeing four deaths in her nightmares had taken its toll, and although she couldn’t even begin to express what she was feeling, the release of emotion felt like an enormous weight lifted from her shoulders.

  And Wanda didn’t question or probe, just allowed Megan the time to release the pressure, holding her close, and gently running a hand across her back.

  Wanda’s eyes were wide with panic, as she closed the cover of the yellow exercise book. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Megan shrugged, her tear-stained face now washed, and a warm mug of tea in her hand. ‘Three of the four nightmares have come true. A man called Carlos was found drowned in a lake; Rita Enfield fell to her death from the Nelson Gate complex in town; and...and Janice was stabbed to death at her home last night.’

  Wanda crossed her legs nervously. ‘And you saw their faces each time? You knew it was them?’

  Megan shook her head, cautious as to how much to say. ‘I didn’t see the face of the man in the car, but I was there with him. I didn’t see Rita in the dream, but it was me who leapt from the ledge. But, yes, I definitely saw Janice’s face.’

  ‘Then at the risk of sounding dismissive, is it not possible it is sickeningly coincidental?’ She waved her hands in a pacifying manner. ‘I don’t doubt the intensity of the nightmares – your face alone tells me how harrowing they must have been – but your accounts of what happened are not exactly one hundred per cent the same as what actually happened.’

  Megan scowled. ‘I know what I saw!’

  Wanda’s hands were waving again, her voice calm and confident. ‘But it’s like watching a film. If we went to the cinema and both watched the same film at the same time, and when we came out we wrote down what we’d seen, I can virtually guarantee our interpretations of what we saw would be wildly different. In your dream, you saw a man drive into a lake. But you didn’t see whoever this Carlos is. You said yourself you never met him, nor have you seen his picture. It’s only because that detective told you Carlos drowned in the lake that you’ve made that connection. I know you want to believe that you’re somehow seeing the future, but the dream about the car and the lake happened several days after the actual incident.’

  Megan’s decision to come clean and admit what had been going on had seemed a good idea at the time, but she’d expected Wanda to be more understanding of her predicament; not sceptical like Dr Patel and the detective.

  ‘And what about today’s nightmare? I know it was the detective who was chasing me and standing over my grave! He wants to kill me.’

  Wanda’s face dropped; a pitying look Megan was all too familiar with. ‘But how can you be sure it’s you who dies in the scenario? You didn’t see Rita jump to her death, it was you who leapt from the ledge, remember? In this latest one, it is you being chased through the forest and falling in the grave, but how is that even possible?’ She was gesturing at the wheelchair. ‘You’re running in the dream. I don’t believe it is you that you saw.’

  ‘So who then?’

  Wanda was at a loss for words. ‘I don’t think anybody, sweetie. Think about the pressure you’ve been dealing with this year: first the fire; losing Rob; then becoming confined to that chair; then the stress of moving to a new flat, the loss of possessions, the need to return to work...all I’m saying is you’ve been through the mill. And now after several meetings with different police officers, your subconscious projects a nightmare where you’re being chased by the police. I don’t doubt what you saw, Megan, but I don’t believe it’s equal to a prediction of what will happen in the future.’

  Wanda moved back to the sink and finished the dishes, as a comfortable silence fell between the two women. Despite Wanda’s rationale, Megan would need more convincing that somebody wouldn’t wind up in a grave. But what if Wanda was right about Megan not being the victim of the dark figure? What if it was actually DS Knight whose life was in danger? He’d been investigating Carlos’s death and had now been roped in to assisting with Janice’s murder: what if he was the next to suffer misfortune?

  Behind her, Wanda had finished the dishes and after a glance back at Megan, she opened the washing machine and began to extract the bed sheets. But she paused when she saw the faded patch of crimson on the duvet cover.

  Megan remained oblivious to Wanda’s activities, rolling to th
e bedroom, and pulling the top over her head, as she prepared to change ahead of her appointment with Dr Patel.

  But Wanda burst through the bedroom door, her face a deathly white, her outstretched finger trembling. ‘What happened to your back?’

  Megan stared back at her, no idea what she was talking about.

  Wanda didn’t utter another word, instead racing to the bathroom and returning a moment later with a handheld mirror, angling it so Megan could see the deep and bloody scratches that ran from her neck to her bottom and possibly beyond.

  ‘I – I – I don’t know,’ Megan said her pulse quickening again.

  ‘Did someone attack you last night?’

  ‘No...I mean...I – I – I don’t know. I don’t know what happened last night.’

  If Janice had scratched her during the attack, then Megan’s skin would be under Janice’s fingernails, and she’d watched enough crime dramas to know the police would soon be able to trace the DNA back to her.

  Wanda’s face was as white as the fresh sheet on the bed. ‘Sweetie, I don’t want you to panic, but I want you to do me a favour, okay? I want you to lie face down on the bed for me.’

  Did Wanda suspect that she was the one who’d attacked Janice? There was no way she could know. Megan had left that part of the dream out of the journal.

  ‘Why? What is it?’ Megan asked, trying to sound calm, but failing miserably.

  Wanda swallowed hard. ‘Please, sweetie, just humour me.’

  Megan couldn’t think of any reasonable justification for not obliging. Dragging the wheelchair to the edge of the bed, she shifted her weight onto the mattress, before turning and lying flat.

  ‘I’m just going to lower your trousers, sweetie,’ Wanda said, appearing at her side. ‘I don’t want you to worry, but you need to trust me. Okay?’

  Megan didn’t object, but her heart was racing hard and fast. What if Janice had left some clue of the attack that she’d missed?