Childes eyed him suspiciously. ‘How?’
The detective placed his glass on the coffee table and reached for his jacket, taking the brown envelope from the inside pocket. ‘I told you we have evidence of a connection between the first two and that there was something almost ritualistic in both.’ He held the envelope up to Childes and said, ‘Inside is an object, identical to another which is still with forensic. Both were taken from the scenes of crime, one from inside the body of the prostitute, the other from inside the boy. It took some doing, but I managed to get permission to bring one to show you.’
Childes stared at the envelope, unwilling to touch it.
‘Take it,’ urged the detective.
Childes’ hand was unsteady as he reached forward. He let the hand drop. ‘I don’t think I want to do this,’ he said.
Overoy rose and carried the package to him. ‘This mental torment only stopped for you last time when we found the killer.’
‘No, when he killed himself. I knew it had ended at that precise moment.’
‘What do you feel now? Did this maniac die in the fire?’
‘I . . . I don’t think so.’
‘Then take the envelope, hold what’s inside.’
Tentatively, Childes took the brown envelope from Overoy.
He flinched as if touched by a low charge of electricity. There was hardly any weight to the object.
He opened the envelope and probed inside with thumb and forefinger. He felt something smooth, round. Something small.
Childes withdrew the clear, oval stone. And as he held it in the palm of his hand, he saw the iridescent flash of blue inside its silvery shape, a blue fire contained within the stone’s own shimmering body.
Childes swayed and Overoy grabbed his shoulder, immediately letting go as if he had received a shock. The detective took a step backwards and saw movement in Childes’ hair, ripples, as if static were running through.
The tingling swept through Childes, clenching his body tight, yet seeming to expand his nerve cells. He felt his body quivering and had no control. A stab of cold lightning touched his mind. He felt surprise, not just his, but from another. Something putrid seemed to crawl inside his head. Eyes watched him, but from within. His hand closed around the stone, fingernails piercing his own skin. He sensed It . . .
It sensed him . . .
‘It was a moonstone,’ Childes told Amy. ‘A tiny moonstone that had been left inside the body of the prostitute. Overoy said their pathologist had discovered another inside the boy’s corpse.’
Amy sat on the floor at Childes’ feet, one arm resting over his knee, her face staring anxiously into his. He rested back on the sofa, a Scotch in his lap. He had continued drinking after the policeman’s departure two hours before, the alcohol having little effect, causing him to wonder if his brain was already too numbed by his experience earlier.
‘But one wasn’t found at the hospital after the fire?’ asked Amy.
‘There was too much damage to find anything so small.’
‘Yet this man Overoy believed you when you told him the same person had done all this.’
‘He learned to trust me before, difficult though it was for him.’ Childes sipped the whisky, the taste bitter in his mouth, but the fiery liquid helping to drive out some of the coldness he felt inside. ‘It’s the image I’ve been catching glimpses of all along, Amy, a shimmering whiteness, like the moon seen through thin clouds. It was even there in a nightmare I had.’
‘You’ve no idea of its meaning?’
‘None at all.’
‘The moonstone caused a strong reaction in you.’
His smile held no humour. ‘I scared the hell out of Overoy. And myself. This creature, whoever, whatever, it is, knows me. It was here, in this room, inside my head, Amy, feeding off my mind like some crawling parasite. I tried to resist, to keep my mind clear, but it was too strong. The same thing happened once before, but not so overwhelmingly.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘What could I say? I thought maybe I was going crazy, and then it eased off for a while, I felt okay, not threatened. Today it came back with a vengeance.’
‘I still don’t understand why you, Jon. You don’t claim to be psychic except on these few occasions, and you’re not even interested in the subject – quite the reverse, in fact. You shun the subject of the paranormal as if it’s taboo.’
‘We’ve discussed what happened to me before.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant in general terms, the occult, the supernatural, the kind of things people like to talk openly about nowadays. You’ve always shied away whenever I’ve happened to mention anything to do with spiritualism or ghosts or vampires.’
‘That’s all kids’ stuff.’
‘There you are, dismissing the subject out of hand. Almost as if you’re scared to talk about it.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘Is it? Jon, why have you never really spoken to me about your parents?’
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘Answer me.’
‘They’re both dead, you know that.’
‘Yes, but why don’t you ever tell me about them?’
‘I hardly remember my mother. She died when I was very young.’
‘When you were seven years old, and she died of cancer. What of your father? Why don’t you ever speak of him?’
Childes’ lips tightened. ‘Amy, I’ve been through enough for one day without an inquisition from you. What are you getting at? You think I’m the seventh son of a seventh son, some kind of mystic? You know how ridiculous that is?’
‘Of course! I’m only trying to make you open up, Jon, to delve a bit deeper into yourself. Ever since I’ve known you I’ve sensed you’ve been holding something back, not just from me, but more importantly, from yourself!’ Amy was angry and it was his blind stubbornness that caused the feeling. And she could tell by his eyes that she had hit a nerve, that there was truth in what she told him.
‘All right, you’re so eager to hear, I’ll tell you. My father was a rational, pragmatic man who worked for twenty-six years as a wages clerk for the same company and who was a lay preacher in his spare time—’
‘You’ve told me that much.’
‘ – and who died of alcoholism.’
She stopped, taken aback, but anger still rising in her. ‘There’s more, I know there’s more to it.’
‘For God’s sake, Amy, what do you want from me?’
‘Just the truth.’
‘My past has got nothing to do with what’s happening now.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He hated anything to do with mysticism or the supernatural. After my mother died he wouldn’t mention the dead. I couldn’t even visit her grave!’
‘And he was a lay preacher?’ she said disbelievingly.
‘He was a drunkard. He choked on his own vomit when I was seventeen! And d’you know something? I was relieved. I was glad to be rid of him! Now what do you think of me?’
She knelt and her arms went around his shoulders. She felt him stiffen, try to pull away, but she held him there. Gradually the tension seemed to drain from him.
‘You’re spilling my drink,’ he said quietly. Amy squeezed him harder until he said, ‘Hey.’
She eased off and sat beside him, her body at an angle so that she could see his face. ‘Were you so guilt-ridden all this time that you couldn’t tell me? Didn’t you know it wouldn’t have made any difference to us?’
‘Amy, let me tell you something. I don’t feel guilty at all over my father. Saddened, maybe, but not guilty. He killed himself.’
‘He missed your mother.’
‘Yes he did. But he had another obligation, a son to look after. He did that to some degree, but there were other things I could never forgive him for.’
‘Was he cruel?’
‘Not to his way of thinking.’
‘He beat you.’
A s
hadow passed across Childes’ face. ‘He raised me after his own fashion. Let’s drop the subject now, Amy, I don’t have any more energy.’ He noticed her eyes were moist and leaned forward to kiss her. He said, ‘You wanted to help me, but this hasn’t really got us anywhere, has it?’
‘Who can tell? At least I know you a little more.’
‘Some achievement!’
‘It helps me understand.’
‘What?’
‘Some of your reserve. Why you keep certain things to yourself. I think your emotions were repressed after your mother died. You didn’t have a father you could fully love and a moment ago you called him rational, a pragmatist, strange words for the only person you had to turn to.’
‘That’s how he was.’
‘And some of it rubbed off on you.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘You’ve never realized how totally logical you often are, how boringly-down-to-earth? No wonder you were so traumatized by your first psychic experience.’
‘I’ve never disbelieved in the paranormal.’
‘Neither have you embraced such ideas.’
‘Why so hostile, Amy?’
The question shook her. ‘Oh, Jon, I didn’t mean to sound that way. I just want to help, to get you to explore yourself. There must be a link between you and this person, something that’s drawing your mind to his.’
‘Or vice versa.’
‘Whichever. Perhaps it’s a two-way thing.’
The notion sent a shudder through him. ‘It’s not . . . it’s not a person, Amy. It’s a creature, a malevolent, corrupted being.’
She took his hand. ‘After all I’ve said this evening, now I want you to be logical. This killer is human, Jon, someone who is immensely strong according to your detective friend, but a person with a particularly warped mind.’
‘No, I’ve seen into that mind, I’ve witnessed the horror there.’
‘Then why can’t you see who he is?’
‘He . . . it’s . . . too strong, its pressure too overwhelming. I feel as though my own mind has been scoured, ravaged, as if this thing is eating away at my psyche, stealing my thoughts. And I see these gross acts because it allows me to, it wants me to see. This creature is mocking me, Amy.’
She took the glass and placed it on the floor, clasping her hands over his. ‘I want to stay with you tonight,’ she said.
It was his turn to be surprised. ‘Your father . . .’
Despite the seriousness of their mood, Amy could not help but laugh. ‘Good God, Jon, I’m twenty-three years old! I’ll ring Mother and let her know I won’t be home.’ She made as if to rise and he grabbed her arm.
‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.’
‘You don’t have to be. I’m staying.’
His tension eased slightly. ‘I don’t want your father on my doorstep with a loaded shotgun. I don’t think I could handle that tonight.’
‘I’ll tell Mother to hide the cartridges.’ She got to her feet and touched his face for a lingering moment before going into the hallway. Childes listened to her muffled voice, finishing the Scotch in one last gulp. He closed his eyes, resting his neck over the back of the sofa, and wondered if Amy knew how relieved he was that he would not be alone that night.
His murmuring woke her. She lay there beside him in the darkness and listened. He was asleep and the sounds he made were dream-words.
‘. . . you’re not there . . . he says no . . . he says . . . you can’t be . . . he . . .’
Amy did not wake him. She tried to understand the meaning of his words repeated over and over again.
‘. . . you can’t be . . .’
It had searched the man’s mind, puzzled at first but excited by the contact made between them. Who was he? What was his power? And could he be dangerous?
It smiled. It enjoyed the game.
So many images had flowed between them, at times their force and swiftness perturbing, but soon accepted and pleasured in. It had probed, searched, unleashed its own consciousness to find this frightened person, not always successfully; yet the intangible sensory link was becoming stronger. It had sensed and absorbed, and had felt his panic. And even memories had been unable to hide.
The past killings, the murders of the infants, locked away in the deeper recesses of the man’s mind, had been uncovered and viewed with surprise and soon with sadistic pleasure. More than observed, for visual manifestation did not apply in the literal sense, they were perceived – experienced. Revelled in. And it understood this man’s association with these murders.
There were many other sensory evocations in this person to contemplate, for there was enjoyment for it here, a new torment to be exploited He could be discovered, for his past was still present in his thoughts, much of it acutely so, and though his physical image could not be perceived, those he knew could be tenuously glimpsed. The moonstone, mysterious though it was that the gem should be in his possession, had been the catalyst to their minds’ congress, the breakthrough sudden and almost overwhelming where before it had been tentative and probing. When the infant-killings had been unveiled, the connection with the stone and the police had been established and the man’s gift of psychometry comprehended. Those previous murders held the key.
Records of them were easy to find, for the newspapers at the time had gloried in the atrocities and their bizarre conclusion; library microfilm provided the answers it needed.
A week had passed and now it dialled the next number on the list, all the others bearing the same area code, those above already crossed through with a felt-tip pen.
It grinned when the receiver at the other end was lifted and a small voice said, ‘Hello?’
The sun reclaimed them like returning prodigals as they stepped from the air-conditioned coolness of the Rothschild building, the warmth wrapping itself around their bodies in welcoming embrace. The girls, twelve of them in all, dressed in La Roche’s summer blue, chattered incessantly, enjoying every free moment from the college. They gathered on the pavement outside the modern office block while Childes counted heads, making sure no pupil in his charge had gone astray. He felt the visit to the financial company’s large computer room had been well worthwhile, even if most of his pupils had been baffled by the operator’s highly technical explanation of his machines and their facilities (Childes had smiled to himself as the inevitable glazed looks had come into the girls’ eyes). Nevertheless, they now had a glimmering of how computers helped such international corporates to function.
All present and correct, no heads lost, no bodies missing.
It had been a good morning. Childes consulted his wrist-watch: 11.47.
From where they stood, the wide thoroughfare swept down and around to the harbour, the congregated yacht masts stirring lazily as if gently beckoning.
‘We’ve a while before we have to get back for lunch,’ he told the girls, ‘so why don’t we take a break down by the harbour?’
They squealed delight and quickly fell into an orderly double-line. Childes led them away after suggesting they keep the gabble down to a minimum. For the first time that week he felt some kind of mental equilibrium returning, the bright sunshine, the girls’ chatter, the normality of their surroundings having their effect. Not only had the experience with the moonstone left him with a peculiar sense of futility, but his conversation with Amy afterwards had dredged up memories that were better left dormant. During the days that followed, the darker strictures of his upbringing had returned to haunt him, although he realized he no longer hated his father; he had long since learned to repress such emotions along with certain others. And oddly, it was his father who had forced such self-subjugation upon him. That was how he was coping now, with resilience born of his own intrinsic suppression; both the recent macabre events and his own disquieting retrospection could be resisted when sunshine and normality lent their support. Only the dark night hours were allies to dread.
Childes spotted an empty bench overlooking on
e of the marinas and six of the girls quickly laid claim when he pointed it out to them, squeezing themselves into the limited space with much giggling and groaning. The others leaned against the rail opposite.
The harbour was bustling with tourists and residents alike, cars and white buses making slow progress around its perimeter, the wharves themselves tight with parked vehicles. The two marinas, enclosed by granite arms, were filled with yachts and motorboats of all sizes and descriptions, the island’s fishing boats having separate berthing in a quieter section further along the port. A lighthouse rose up at the end of one curved pier while a fort stood watch on its twin, ancient guide and guard. Shops and bistros faced the sea, bright façades, old and new, edging the concrete haven with postcard colours. Here and there steps cut through the terraces in steeply rising alleyways, the gloomy passages invitingly cool and mysterious, their destination the narrow upper reaches of the town itself.
‘Two of you are about to do your day’s good deed for the elderly,’ Childes told the seated girls as he belatedly approached. They looked up curiously and he jerked a thumb. ‘Let teacher have a seat.’
‘Does Isobel count as two, sir?’ Kelly asked with a cheeky grin, pointing at her plump schoolmate on the other end of the bench, instigating more laughter and one loud protest.
‘I think I’ll take your place, Kelly,’ he said, ‘while you perform yet another good deed.’
She rose, no malice in her smirk, but her eyes, as ever, challenging. ‘Whatever you say, sir.’
He reached for his wallet. ‘You girls have a choice: vanilla or strawberry. No Tutti-Fruities, no Super-Dupe Chocolate with Almonds, no Three-layer Mango, Tangerine and Passion Fruit Delights – nothing to complicate life, okay? And two more volunteers to go get ’em with Kelly.’
Eyes gleaming and with indecent haste, Isobel rose while the others were still exclaiming their pleasure. ‘I’ll help, sir,’ she offered brightly.
‘Oh no,’ someone moaned. ‘There’ll be none left by the time she gets back.’ More laughter from the others and a miffed glare from the plump girl.
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