Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  He squeezed his eyes closed again and turned his face away from the approach of her blue tinged lips. She pressed an icy, dead kiss on him and he reeled from her foetid breath.

  'Go away…for God's sake…go away,' he sobbed, tears stinging his eyes.

  She put her mouth to his ear and whispered, 'I have something for you, Nathaniel. Look at what I've got for you.' She stood up and put her hand inside a tear in her shroud. Slowly and carefully, she withdrew it, and he could see delicately held between the fingers and thumb of her right hand, a perfectly formed miniature foot. The foot was attached to the body of a tiny baby; an immature foetus, slick with clotting blood, bluish-grey in colour and completely lifeless, the umbilical cord still attached. A small trickle of dark blood leaked from the cut end.

  'This is your son, Nathaniel. Isn't he beautiful?'

  He felt dizzy. The apparition began to swim before him and he thought he might faint. He prayed he would. He wanted oblivion to envelop him so he wouldn't have to see any more.

  The spectre put the dead baby to her breast and held it there as if trying to feed it. Its head flopped and its face turned towards him. Its mouth stood slightly open, but its eyes were fused shut.

  Nat began to shake uncontrollably. Try as he might, he could not close his eyes against the vision.

  'Go away, you're not real!' he babbled in a paroxysm of panic. He could now feel his heart hammering in his chest, hard enough to convince him he was on the brink of a coronary. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyeballs, 'You're not real, you're not!'

  Yet the vision endured, a look of heartrending sadness on her face as she cuddled the baby's corpse. 'We died, Nathaniel. Where were you when we died?' The woman's eyes filled with tears which overflowed down her cheeks. 'We needed you, Nathaniel. We were dying, and you weren't there. Where were you?'

  'I can't take any more...please…go away.'

  The woman put a hand to her head. 'It hurts, Nathaniel. My head hurts so much. Something inside…something's wrong…it's bursting…tearing…'

  He watched mesmerised as her tears began to colour. They changed as they took on the hue of blood. They became blood. Long red streaks coursed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin, soaking into her dirty, once-white shroud. A trickle leaked from each nostril and ran down into her mouth staining her teeth and lips. Droplets oozed from her ears and hung from the lobes like bright rubies.

  'Look what happened, Nathaniel. Look what you did.'

  His eyes were frozen on her. 'It wasn't me…I didn't do it.'

  'You wanted this baby,' she said, holding up the infant's body by its ankle. Its oversized head swung limply on its skinny neck.

  'You wanted it …I did it for you...and look what it did to me! You killed us!'

  'No!'

  'This is your fault, Nathaniel. We're dead…and it's your fault!' Specks of bloody foam formed at the corners of her mouth and spat out as she spoke.

  It was too much for Nat and his wits left him. 'I'm sorry, Joanna…please…I'm sorry…I'm sorry,' he gibbered.

  'It's too late for being sorry, Nathaniel…it's far... too ...late.'

  'It's not my fault…I didn't know…it's not my fault, it's not.' He clamped his hands over his face to block out the images and thought he could hear someone, somewhere, sobbing. He did not realise it was himself.

  'Nat?'

  'It's not my fault, it's not...'

  'Nat? Open your eyes. Look at me.' He didn't want to open them; he didn't want to see any more, his wits couldn't take it. He could feel something holding onto his arm and made a half hearted effort to shake it off.

  'Let go. Don't touch me!'

  His arm was now being gently but firmly shaken. 'Come on, Nat, you need to wake up.' The voice didn't belong to Joanna. It was different; stronger, gentler. He took the chance and forced his eyelids apart, fully expecting to see the Joanna apparition filling his field of view. His eyes felt gritty and heavy and he had trouble focusing. He blinked hard a few times to clear his vision and saw, not the waxen-faced revulsion, but Megan's concerned face, her clear blue eyes just a few inches from his own.

  'That's it. Wake up now.'

  'Joanna!' He sat up quickly, knocking the empty glass off the arm of the chair to bounce harmlessly on the rug. He glanced around the room with frightened eyes.

  'There's no-one here, Nat, only me. You fell asleep.' She stroked his arm. 'You were shouting out. Did you have a nightmare?'

  He swallowed; his throat felt dry and sore. Rubbing his eyes to wipe away the last remnants of sleep, he felt dazed and disorientated. 'Aye.'

  'Are you alright?' Can I get you anything?'

  'No thanks.' He tried, and failed, to give her a smile of reassurance. He swallowed again, trying to lubricate his parched throat. 'I'm okay.'

  She retrieved the dropped glass. 'Does this happen often?'

  He dragged himself out of the chair and arched his back, working out a stiffness gathered from being awkwardly slumped in the chair. 'Now and again, but not usually so...graphic. I was probably over tired and had too much to drink.'

  He couldn't deny the dream had certainly scared him. The adrenaline still coursing through him caused his hands to shake and he thrust them into his pockets so she wouldn't see. He could feel his heart still racing and realised he was breathing too quickly; he made a mental effort to slow it. He didn't want to endure another panic attack.

  'What time is it?' he asked, although he was wearing a wristwatch and the clock stood large on the mantle.

  'It's just gone six.'

  'And you're still here. I'm sorry, it's my fault.'

  'It's your fault!' echoed Joanna's voice back at him.

  'It's not a problem, I have nothing else to do.' Megan smiled reassuringly. 'I can stay a while if you want some company.'

  Could she tell he was fighting the odds to remain calm? 'No, I'm fine now,' he said. 'You go. I'll see you tomorrow.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Aye, go home.' As she stepped through the doorway into the hallway, he called after her. 'Meg?'

  She turned. 'Yes?'

  'Thank you.' This time, he truly meant it.

  'Goodnight, Nat.'

  She was gone and he was alone with the recollection of his nightmare. He shivered with the memory and cast a wary glance at the mantle and the photograph of the smiling, vibrant woman with the dog.

  'It's your fault.'

  That night he slept with the bedroom light on.

  Chapter 10

  Nat hadn't had a full night's sleep for nearly a fortnight. Nightmares still plagued him and some nights he was too afraid to even try to sleep. As a result, he had become even more exhausted, morose and irritable.

  His mood showed no signs of improving, but Megan refused to be goaded by his filthy tempers. They had another falling out which quickly deteriorated into petty bickering. He insulted her by calling her a meddlesome Sassenach witch. She rebuffed him with a tart, 'Get stuffed' and stubbornly defied him to dismiss her again.

  With an outburst of foul language, he stalked off in a huff, slammed the door of his study and she neither saw nor heard anything more of him for two days.

  On the morning of the third day of his internment she had had enough of walking on eggshells. Whether he liked it or not she was going to have it out with him and force him, if necessary, to talk to her. She knocked on the study door. Not expecting, and not receiving, an invitation to enter, she went in.

  Nat was squatting by the bookcase, looking for something on the lower shelves. He didn't look up or even acknowledge her presence. She cleared her throat, demanding attention. He ignored her. She cleared her throat again, louder.

  'What do you want?' he said, his voice loaded with contempt.

  'To talk to you,' she said.

  'Well, I don't want to talk to you. Leave me alone.' He pulled a book from the shelf and examined briefly, before pushing it back into place.

  'I haven't seen you for over two
days. I needed to know if everything was alright.'

  He picked another book. 'Everything's fine. Why shouldn't it be?'

  'I don't know. That's why I'm asking.'

  'Whether it is or not, it's none of your business. You can go now.' He found the book he wanted and stood up. He still didn't look at her. 'Are you still here?'

  'You missed breakfast today…'

  'And that is your concern, how?'

  'I'm just saying. You're going to have to eat sooner or later, or you'll make yourself ill.'

  'I will, when I'm damned well good and ready.'

  'Will you at least come and have some lunch with me now?'

  'No.'

  'Then shall I fetch you something…?'

  'I said no!'

  'It won't be any trouble…what would you like?'

  'I said go away!'

  'Okay, but before I do, I just want to say I think you're spending far too much time cooped up in this room. It's not good for you. You need to go outside.' She attempted to inject a note of breeziness. 'Why don't we go for a walk and get some fresh air? It'll blow the cobwebs away and make you feel a whole heap better.'

  He looked up from the book, his eyes flint hard. She had said the wrong thing in the wrong way and it became immediately obvious in the way his shoulders stiffened. He slammed the book closed. 'I won't tell you again. If you know what's good for you, you'll leave now.'

  'Do you want me to make you up a tray...for lunch?'

  'GET OUT!' he bellowed, and simply wanting her to go, he took a step forward and raised his arm, pointing at the door.

  Megan saw something quite different - an enraged man advancing on her with his hand raised. In her mind, it could only mean one thing.

  Instinctively, she closed her eyes and threw up her arms in a protective shield around her head. A small whimper escaped her as she turned and ducked and steeled herself for the blow.

  The implication of what she imagined he was going to do brought Nat to a dead halt mid-stride and filled him with horror. His bad humour, shocked out of him, evaporated. He reached out to reassure her he intended no malice.

  'Oh Jesus, Meg! No…no…no, I would never...!'

  Instantly she backed away, her face ashen and contorted with fear. He stepped away, giving her safety in space and leaned back against his desk, his face in his hands. He was deeply shaken. It sickened him that she could ever have thought him capable of hurting her in that way. He had never struck a woman in his life.

  'I'm so sorry, Meg,' he offered in quiet apology.

  In a few short seconds, she recovered herself. She had misread the signals and he had not meant to harm her at all. Her response had been automatic and possibly more dramatic than it needed to be.

  'It's alright,' she said, softly. 'It was my fault. I should have left when you told me to. I just don't listen. I'm the one who should be sorry.'

  Nat folded his arms close to his body to assure her he was in full control of them. 'I'd never hurt you, Meg, never.'

  'I know that,' she said. 'I already said it was my fault. You didn't do anything wrong. It was me, I…misunderstood.'

  'Please believe me, I wouldn't…' He stepped towards her again. She raised her hands, palms out in a defensive posture, clearly telling him not to come any closer. He got the message and backed off. At that moment, of the two of them, she considered he might be the most upset.

  'It's okay,' she said, offering a crumb of consolation. 'There's no harm done. Please…just forget it.' She reached the door and turned the handle. 'I'll leave you alone. I shouldn't have bothered you.'

  She slipped out through the door, closing it quietly behind her. Nat watched her go. There was nothing else he could say. Their relationship could be permanently damaged, destroyed even, and it was his fault.

  It was a full two hours before he went to find Megan. She was in the laundry, busy with ironing, and he loitered in the doorway until she acknowledged his presence, which she did with her usual welcoming smile.

  'Hello,' she said, brightly.

  He leaned against the door jamb. 'Can I talk to you?'

  'Of course you can, always. You know that.'

  'I thought you might not want to. After what I did…' He stuffed his hands into his pockets. 'I'm so sorry, Meg.'

  'You didn't do anything,' she said, folding a T-shirt. 'I said it was my fault. I should have left you alone as you wanted. Forget about it, I already have.'

  'I'd like to, but I don't think I can. You looked so terrified.'

  'It was a momentary impulse, I assure you. I'm fine, really.'

  He sighed and looked at the floor. 'Why is it I always feel I have to be apologising to you for some stupid, thoughtless thing I've said or done?'

  'You don't.'

  'You know I'd never intentionally hurt you, Meg. Your friendship means everything to me. I don't want to do anything to jeopardise it.'

  His uncharacteristic confession took her by surprise, but she hid it well, spreading a shirt on the ironing board and smoothing it out with her hand. 'We can be friends, Nat, provided you remember two things,' she said.

  'What…anything…'

  'Firstly, talk to me. Don't yell at me, and don't swear. I don't like it.'

  'I can't seem to help myself, but I'll try not to. What else?'

  'Try not to do or say anything impulsive and silly, that will embarrass us both, and that you'll regret later.'

  'Not a problem. I can do that. At least I'll give it my best shot. You have my word.'

  It took no more than a week before he broke that particular promise.

  Nat had known Phil McNeil for more years than he cared to remember and when McNeil called him up out of the blue and invited him to have a drink with him, he gratefully accepted.

  The bar McNeil suggested, a well known but rather seedy establishment tucked away down a ginnel off the High Street in town, proved to be surprisingly busy for a weeknight. McNeil had commandeered a booth and was already well established when Nat arrived. They greeted each other like long lost brothers.

  'Long time no see, my man!' McNeil effused, clapping Nat on the back and shaking his hand vigorously. 'How have you been?'

  Nat felt genuinely happy to see his old friend. 'I'm fine, just fine. It's good to see you.'

  'How's business?'

  'Good. It's going good.'

  'Fantastic!' gushed McNeil, 'Let's get some drinks in.'

  In short order, they downed several scotch-on-the-rocks swiftly followed by pints of beer, and soon an impressive collection of empty glasses began to gather on the table between them. Their conversation, dominated by the typically male-orientated subjects of sports and politics, cars and women, was frequently coarse and interspersed with bouts of raucous laughter.

  Nat was having a good time and McNeil was just about to order another round when two women approached their table; one a blonde the other a brunette. Neither was particularly young, but they were still attractive in their tight fitting dresses and high heels. The brunette sported an impressive cleavage, barely restrained by the neckline of her dress.

  'Ladies! You made it.' McNeil sprang to his feet. He greeted each of them with a kiss to the cheek and led them over to the table. 'Nat, I want you to meet some lovely friends of mine.'

  Nat stood politely as McNeil introduced the pneumatic brunette. 'This is Elaine.' They nodded their acquaintance. 'And this is Irana.' She was the blonde.

  'Nice to meet you,' said Nat, and lightly shook her hand. She gave him a sweet smile with even, white teeth.

  'Come on ladies, sit yourselves down. I'll get your drinks…the usual?'

  The women squeezed themselves into the booth, Elaine on McNeil's side of the table and Irana sliding in beside Nat, forcing him to shift further into the corner. McNeil headed towards the bar, leaving Nat alone with the two strangers. He returned a few moments later with a tray laden with glasses and accompanied by the bottle boy. He waited for the lad to clear away the empties before distri
buting the new drinks respectively.

  'Cheers,' he said, holding up his glass. Each of them touched their glass to his with a light clink.

  'Cheers,' they all said in unison.

  The foursome then exchanged genial small-talk and banter until the two women excused themselves to go to the powder room. When they were out of earshot, McNeil turned to Nat.

  'So?' he asked, his eyebrows raised.

  Nat swallowed a mouthful of beer. 'So what?'

  'What do you think?'

  'About what?'

  'Jesus man! The girls!'

  'Oh,' Nat said. 'Very nice. Why are they here?'

  'Because I thought we both deserved a little female company, my friend. I don't know about you, but it's been a while for me and I'm about ready to give the little man a bit of exercise, if you know what I mean.' McNeil drained his glass. By now his copious intake was beginning to have an effect. 'So how long has it been since you last dipped your wick, Nat,' he asked. 'I'm guessing at about a year?'

  His sex life was not a subject Nat was keen to discuss, particularly in an insalubrious dive like this. 'Something like that. But that's not why I'm here. I thought it would just be us, catching up.'

  'It was, but now it's more. Come on, relax a little. When did you get to be so uptight? Even a monk is allowed to enjoy himself once in a while. They're great ladies, you'll love 'em. Yours is the blonde by the way - unless you already have one at home you're not telling me about.' McNeil exaggerated a wink.

  'Nope,' said Nat.

  'What about that flighty housekeeper of yours, what's her name….'

  Nat almost said 'Megan' but corrected himself in time. 'Rebecca,' he said.

  'What about her, given her one yet?'

  'Not a chance.'

  'Why the hell not, she's there for the taking.'

  'Because she's not my type. And if I did make a move on her she'd cut off my bollocks with a rusty blade!'

  Rebecca would, but what about Megan; what would she do? Probably hold her coat while she did it.

  'Whoo-hoo…feisty!' McNeil guffawed his amusement. 'So, what about it? What have you got to lose?'

  Nat, considered the proposition. He was a man, the woman was available and it had been a long time.