by Tania Carver
39
Phil was dreaming. That was the only answer. Had to be.
He had had dreams like this before. But the familiarity of it wasn’t comforting. Part of his mind knew how it would end. But try as he might, there was no way to change it. Like a runaway train stuck on a track, no way to make it go forwards or backwards or even turn off, just stick with it until it crashes or derails.
He was a boy again. A small, young boy. And he was alone. And scared. There were shadows all around him. Dream logic told him that they were both metaphorical and real. And he was supposed to be doing something. Going somewhere. Or getting ready to go somewhere. Hoping the shadows would disperse and allow him to do so. Let that small boy in darkness emerge into the light.
Boy Phil was putting his clothes on. They felt new, unfamiliar to him. Scratchy in a different way to his old clothes. But soft as well, like his old clothes had never been. And well-fitting. His own. Not someone else’s that had been mended, altered and given to him to make do with. His own.
He saw smiles in the darkness, in the shadows. Comforting smiles. Or they should have been: there was something behind them. A tenseness, worry. Fear. Just call it fear. That would cover everything.
The older he got, the more he revisited the dream. The more he revisited it, the clearer things became. Fear. That was what everything was about. Fear. And love.
There were words to go with the smiling faces. But these had been lost down the decades. Now he just watched the lips move, felt the emotion behind them. Two of them. Always two of them. The same two. The same comforting words. Or supposedly comforting.
But something else this time. Someone else. Standing behind the two comforting faces. Just out of focus. Small. Female.
Mouthing something, saying two words…
His heart shuddered and he begged himself to wake.
He stayed asleep.
This was it, he dream-thought with the familiar dread that this particular nightmare had taught him to expect over the years. This was what happened to his biological parents. And…
The other person. Just out of focus.
He closed his eyes, hoping to wake up, hoping for the dream to change. Willing, begging himself to wake.
Nothing happened.
The two faces kept smiling. That was how he remembered them. In dreams. And only dreams. His real mother and father. Just before they were killed.
Along with his younger sister.
Noise behind them. Their pursuers had found them. Screams. More screams. More noise. And then…
Here it comes…
The screen went red.
And Phil woke up.
Screaming.
‘What was it, love? A nightmare?’
Stroking his face, cradling his head to her bosom. Eileen. No. Not Eileen. But enough like her to actually want to believe it. Wanting comfort. Needing it. Desperately craving someone to chase the nightmares away. Tell him everything was going to be all right.
Phil nodded.
She hugged him all the harder. He let himself be hugged.
He needed someone to. And she was there. He allowed her lies to be truth. Just for a few seconds. That was what he told himself. Just for a few seconds. A few long seconds.
Some comforting shushes. Rocking gently backwards and forwards. Telling him it was all right. Everything was all right.
He believed it. Just a few seconds. Or minutes. What did it matter?
‘So what was it about, your nightmare?’ Hushed voice, asking so she could give answers not because she wanted details. That made him want to talk.
‘The usual.’
‘What’s the usual?’
‘My recurring one. My… mother and father. My real ones. We’d left the commune but they’d tracked us down. The last few seconds before they find us. Their last smiles.’
She stopped rocking him. He noticed. She kept going.
‘Right. Just your… your mother and father?’
Phil didn’t answer straight away.
‘Phil? Was someone else there?’
How did she know? How could she possibly know?
‘No,’ he said. His voice sounded shaky. A house with no foundations ready to topple in a strong breeze.
‘Who?’ She moved around, seemingly excited. ‘Who else was there?’
Phil kept his eyes tightly closed. The dream played behind his eyelids.
She waited for his reply.
‘My… sister…’
He felt her stiffen. Her hands clutch him all the harder. Nails digging into his bare flesh.
‘Oww…’
She realised what she was doing, became all gentleness again.
‘Your sister?’
He nodded.
‘Do you dream of her often?’
He shook his head. ‘Only this… dream. Not often. Only sometimes. Sometimes, most times, it’s just my mother and father. And their smiles. And their fear.’
‘But this time it was different. Wonder why?’
‘Don’t know.’
She held him tighter once more, resumed rocking him.
‘It’s a good sign, Phil. That you dreamed of her. A really good sign. It means your past life is coming through. You’re starting to remember.’
‘It’s never far from me… never forgotten, the nightmare. This time… she was there.’
‘I think it’s more than that. I think you’ve had some kind of mental breakthrough. And that’s wonderful, Phil. It really is.’
‘Why?’ Genuinely confused. Her words like a calm, murmuring brook.
‘Because you can move on to the next level, that’s why. I told you, didn’t I? The darkness inside you. It has to come out. This is it working itself out.’
‘No… guilt… grief… anger… grief… that’s all…’ Tears on his face. Couldn’t wipe them away.
More shushing, more rocking. Then he felt her arms move.
‘Come on. I know what you need.’
Her fingers, hands moved about and the fabric against his cheek, now wet from his tears, disappeared. His face was resting on bare flesh.
‘This is what you want. This’ll make you feel good…’
Her hands guided his face towards her breast, moved his mouth towards her nipple. Phil made a show of resisting.
More shushing and she stroked his cheek. Her hand stronger this time, holding his head in place. ‘Come on, Phil. This is what you need. I know best. Mother knows best. You’ve had a shock. A bad dream. But you’ve got to get better. And I’m here to help you.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘I mean, if you can’t trust me, who can you trust?’
Phil said nothing. Just moved his mouth over her exposed nipple.
Sucked.
40
Imani found herself once again in the Daisy Cup Flower Café, alone this time.
She needed somewhere to go, to think, to process what she had discovered about Beresford and how to proceed. This place was as good as any. And she still didn’t know her way around Colchester. So she sat at her table, notes spread out in front of her, getting anxious looks from the staff behind the counter. She was the last person there. They wanted to go home.
She had called Anni, no reply. Likewise with Marina. They all seemed to have missed calls from each other, though. But she had no idea where and when they would meet up and swap information. So meanwhile she sat in the café.
Outside, the day slipped into its crepuscular transition into night. Commuters hurried past on their way home, the shops were closing up. Light, real and artificial, fought vainly against dark. The town seemed tired, ready to retreat for a few hours the ways towns and smaller cities do before the evening brings out a different kind of denizen. Or the same ones, just dressed up differently.
Imani studiously avoided eye contact with the staff. It wasn’t just that she wanted to work and be left alone, she had nowhere to go. Apart from an empty rented room in an unfamiliar town.
She wasn’t one for going out by hers
elf either. She had friends back in Birmingham, a few at least, and she sometimes went out with them. Bars and restaurants. Cinemas, occasionally. Birthdays or been-too-long-let’s-catch-up get-togethers. But all her friends were in relationships now, most of them serious, some married with kids. And there she was, still on her own. And because of that, conversation with the rest of them was becoming strained. Not deliberately, not because they wanted to exclude her or because they didn’t all get on, they did. But they were all talking about different things to her. Different things in common. And always referring to themselves as half of a couple. Not ostentatiously, just through habit. Or as mothers. And she felt like the hold-out, the group spinster.
Any effort to ingratiate herself into those types of conversations just felt stilted and awkward. And it worked both ways. She couldn’t talk to them about her day either. While they were telling each other about the latest cute thing Josh or Hildie had done, or the skiing holiday Damien had booked for them both, or some office scandal involving people she neither knew nor cared about, she could say nothing, contribute nothing. And when they did ask her about her life, her work, there was nothing she could say.
What did I do today? Watched my partner get fatally shot while I was abducted, stripped naked, assaulted and tied to a rusty old bedframe while some psychopath waited to kill me. Yeah. That would go down well.
Now when they called about a get-together, she was always busy.
Imani watched people walk by. Noticing, as a lot of single people do, how many couples there seem to be in the world. She could work out which stage they were at in their relationships, just by watching them for a minute or so. A skill the police force had taught her, or so she told herself. That couple there, mid-thirties. He worked at something manual, she worked in retail. Been together for years, no longer needed to hold each other’s hands to know the other was beside them. Off to get something for dinner, off home. And that couple there. Older, or at least he is. Wearing clothes too young for him, but holding hands, laughing and smiling. Him nuzzling her neck. Her giggling. Second-time-arounders or mid-life crisis. One of the two. And them. Young, early twenties. Him with a protective arm around her like he’s frightened to let go of her in case she wanders off or has an independent thought. Behaving how the films have told him to behave. The look on her face: tolerant. She’s having independent thoughts all the time.
She sighed. Looked down at her nearly empty mug. She felt lonely. And it was difficult to admit that to herself.
It wasn’t just looking through the window where she saw couples. It was everywhere. Marina and Phil, for instance. She had barely met a couple more in love. But not just that, totally in sync with each other. A perfect couple, she thought, but not in the schmaltzy way that phrase was usually used. Perfect in the way that they had been though all sorts of shit and found a way to still be together. Because they knew they were meant to be together. That was what made them so perfect.
And even Anni with her lost Mickey. She hadn’t known them well but it had still been a massive shock when he died. And she could see she wasn’t over him yet. Didn’t know if she ever would be.
And then there was herself. She got hit on occasionally, she was an attractive woman. But most of the men who did that were colleagues, usually married ones at that. So she didn’t have a very high opinion of dating other coppers. But DS Ari Patel had been different. Not that anything ever happened between them, but she was sure that something would have done. If he hadn’t been killed. And she still wasn’t over that. She knew how Anni must feel. But she still hadn’t come to terms with just how close to death she herself had been. Even with the therapy she had undergone, she doubted she ever would.
Maybe I’ll get a cat, she thought. Something to come home to. Something to look after. No, she then thought. That way definitely lies spinsterdom. If she got one cat she’d want another. And another. And then, without quite realising it, she’d become the kind of mad, lonely cat lady who would die alone and have the police break down her door after several weeks when the neighbours complained about the smell, to find her lying on the kitchen floor with half her face eaten off by the cats. No, she thought. Not for her.
The coffee was gone now. She had to make a move.
All her dad’s fault. That’s what she often told herself. Work hard, yes. Got it. Don’t take shit from anyone. Yep. Done that. Get a good job, take pride in it. Tick, tick. Her job. If she didn’t have that, then she really would have nothing in her life. Make him proud, he had said. And she had done. Or hoped she had. But it makes me lonely, she wanted to say.
She looked up. Saw the waitress’s expression. She had said it. Aloud.
She gathered her papers together, stood up.
And her phone rang.
She didn’t recognise the number but that meant nothing. ‘Detective Sergeant Oliver.’
‘Hello?’ A hesitant voice, but a recently familiar one. She couldn’t yet place it.
‘Yes, how can I help?’
‘It’s Roger Prentice here. From the garage?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Prentice. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s… well it’s…’
She waited, let him get to it. She felt a shudder. The tone of his voice told her this would be important.
‘Yes?’ she said, spurring him on.
‘I need you to come to the garage. Now. Tonight.’ Blurted out.
‘Why, Mr Prentice?’
‘Because I…’ He paused. She thought she had lost him but he returned. ‘I’ve… found something out. About Dave Beresford. And his car. Discovered something.’
‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘No, I can’t. You won’t believe what I’ve discovered.’
She stifled a smile. Sure he didn’t know he was talking like a cheap clickbait website. ‘Straight away?’
‘Yes. Please. Now.’
He hung up.
She quickly phoned Matthews, to ask him to accompany her. No reply. She pocketed the phone and made for the door.
That shudder she had felt was getting bigger.
41
Marina pulled the car up at the same spot she had previously. Looked round, nervous. There was the alleyway. It seemed to have lost a bulb or two in illumination since her last visit, the shadows deeper, wider. Or it was just her imagination?
She closed her eyes, opened them again. Tried to see things in perspective. View the alleyway itself as something no more foreboding than the person she was going to call on. After all, there wouldn’t be someone waiting for her again. Would there?
She looked round, tried to make out another route to Michael Prosser’s flat. Couldn’t see one. No. It would have to be the alleyway.
But this time she would be armed. She checked her bag. Rape alarm. Pepper spray. Would it work a second time? It would have to. And something else. She felt under the seat. Found what she was looking for. A black heavy metal American police torch. Phil had told her to carry one. It couldn’t be regarded as a weapon – not legally, anyway, since it had a practical purpose – but it was heavy enough to do some real damage.
She got out of the car, locked it. Turned towards the alley. Torch in one hand and pepper spray in the other, she set off.
Slowly, cautiously. She made her way down it towards the flat, eyes ever vigilant, alert to the slightest noise.
She made it through unscathed. Let out a breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding. Made her way to Michael Prosser’s flat.
It didn’t look any better the second time. The same walk up, the same filth and graffiti greeting her arrival. Pocketing the pepper spray and putting the torch in her handbag, she knocked on the door.
And waited. Eventually she heard movement from the other side.
‘Who’s it?’
‘Marina Esposito. You called me.’
A hesitation then the door was opened.
‘Come in.’
She did so. Walked do
wn the hall, straight into the living room. She looked round. It was, if anything, even filthier than her last appearance. The air was filled with a sour human odour and the ashtray looked like he had been having a smoking contest against himself and he had won.
‘Sit down,’ he said, entering behind her and closing the door.
Closing the door, she thought. Was that a bad sign?
She sat on the sofa, perching on the edge. He stayed standing. Right in front of the door. His one eye roved the room, settled on anything but her. He looked anxious, like he was building himself up to something.
Something wasn’t right with him, Marina thought. She felt a shudder of dread run through her. Wondered if she could make it to the door before he did.
‘Right, Michael, I’m here.’ Her voice calm, as neutral as she could make it. Let him do the talking. Make the offer.
No reply. He just rocked on his feet, backwards and forwards, humming slightly to himself.
‘Michael? I’m here. What would you like to talk about?’
‘Respect…’ His voice barely above a whisper. A hard, cracked, dry whisper.
‘Respect. OK, then. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot last time. I apologised for that. Let’s put it past us and move on.’
A snort. It could have been a laugh or a cough. ‘Put it past us, move on…’
Rocking more violently now, fists clenching and unclenching.
‘You talk like a… like a… social worker. Probation officer.’
‘Or a psychologist, Michael,’ she said, engaging him, standing her ground, but not doing anything that might enrage him. He seemed volatile enough. ‘And you should know what a social worker talks like. You used to be one.’
Her words prompted him to look at her. His one eye red and angry, staring like an enraged Cyclops. ‘Yeah… look where that got me…’
Don’t antagonise him further, she thought. ‘Michael, please. You called me, asked me to come here. Told me you had some information for me, for a price. That the respect you want costs. Well, I’m here to pay. So let’s start talking or I’ll just have to conclude that you’ve got no information and leave.’
