by Tim O'Rourke
Grayson turned his wide back on me and stomped away, leaving Michael and me alone.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said.
Looking at him, all I could see was sadness in his eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Michael,” I said.
Turning my back on him, I walked slowly away. I didn’t look back once. I couldn’t. Feeling foolish and ashamed, I headed back down the road towards town. How could I have been so stupid? I guess I’d been so desperate to pass the blame.
You never face up to your responsibilities, I heard my father whisper in my ear. You need to start taking responsibility for your actions. You’re not a little girl anymore.
Feeling sick, I lowered my head in shame. As I reached the spot where the accident had taken place –where I had killed those people – I looked up to see Vincent standing next to his bike, propped against the wall. He was smoking a cigarette. It was almost dark now, and Vincent stood in the cold, blowing out jets of smoke from his nose.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping away from the wall and pushing the bike towards me.
“No,” I whispered, not stopping but walking straight past him.
“Where are you going, Sydney?” he called after me.
“To see my mum,” I snapped.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, catching up.
“What, all the way to Spain?” I said, walking into the darkness which lay ahead.
Chapter Thirty
“Spain?” Vincent said, following me into my apartment.
We had walked in silence on the way back from the farm, both of us lost to our thoughts. I felt stupid for daring to go up to the Grayson farm and accuse both Michael and his father of being killers. I must have lost my freaking mind. Then again, what else is new? Hadn’t I spent the last few days or more dreaming of dead people? Chasing ghosts! Maybe that was the curse Jonathan Smith had cast upon me when he had called me a witch? Maybe Grayson was right – the Smiths had been nothing more than a family of witches? I’d been cursed to go out of my tiny little mind. To spend the rest of my life dreaming about them until I went insane?
I pulled off my coat and dropped it onto the sofa. I heard Vincent close the front door and come into the living room. He looked at me.
“Spain?” he said again, obviously still mulling over what I had said out on the road. “You can’t go to Spain.”
“Why not?” I said, looking back at him.
“Because I’ll miss you,” he said half-jokingly.
“You’ll be the only one who will,” I said, bursting into tears.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Vincent hushed, crossing the room and taking me in his arms. “Why are you so upset?”
“Because I’m losing my freaking mind, that’s why,” I sobbed against him. “I wish I had never gone back to the farm that day, I wish I’d never been anywhere near that road. I wish I’d never killed those people.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t?” he whispered, holding me tight.
“That was just me wishful thinking...”
“But what about those tyre marks and...” Vincent tried to comfort me.
“Like you said,” I whispered, easing myself out of his arms, “they could have been left by anyone at any time. The mystery cow...” I tried to joke, but it was no good, and the tears started to flow again.
“Don’t upset yourself, Sydney,” Vincent said, wrapping his arm about my shoulder and easing me down to sit on the edge of the sofa.
“I’m such a mess,” I cried.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he whispered, softly brushing the hair from my face with his fingertips.
“I wasn’t talking about my hair,” I sniffed. “I was talking about how I feel inside. I always do the wrong thing. However hard I try, I screw up. I just want someone to be proud of me.”
“Your father, you mean?” Vincent said, as if being able to see right inside me – understand me.
I slowly nodded my head, tears flowing freely down my face now.
“If he can’t see what an amazing daughter he has, then it’s your father’s loss,” he said, pulling me close so my head came to rest against his shoulder. “We all make mistakes, no one is perfect.”
“How do you know I’m amazing?” I said, trying to control the flood of tears. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re a kind person,” Vincent whispered. “I know you care about things.”
“How?” I asked him.
“Because I can see how tormented you are about those people who died,” he said, taking my face gently in his hands and looking at me. “Most people couldn’t give a damn about them. They were just nobodies. To you – even though you didn’t know them – you’re suffering because of what happened. And I don’t think it’s just guilt. You know that a wrong has been done and you know it has to be put right.”
“I’d been drinking,” I suddenly said. “The day I killed those people I’d been up at the farmhouse with Michael. We fooled about a bit and I had some whiskey. The control room was trying to raise me on the radio and I knew my father would be out looking for me. I panicked. I ran from that house, I was speeding and not concentrating on the road as I was too busy looking for gum to mask the smell of whiskey on my breath. It was then...it was then.... oh, God I’m so sorry for what I’ve done...” I bent forward, racked with uncontrollable sobs.
Vincent eased me up into his arms again. “Shhh...” he whispered.
“I have to tell you this,” I cried. “I can’t lie anymore. I can’t bear it. My father, Mac, and Woody covered for me. They lied just like they lied about Molly and what really happened that night. My father believed he was helping me, but it’s killing me inside. I’m dreaming of dead people, running around the place pointing the finger at innocent people. I just wanted to be a good cop...I just wanted my father to be proud of me for once...”
Holding me in his arms, Vincent looked into my eyes and said softly, “Being a good copper isn’t just about turning up for work on time, wearing a clean shirt, walking around in the shiniest of boots, and demanding people’s respect. It’s about doing the right thing by the people we serve – despite what they look like, who they are, and where they come from and how they choose to live their lives. Deep down, you know that, Sydney. That’s why you’re struggling now. You know it was wrong to lie about the Smith family and how they really died. That’s why you’re searching for the truth – because you know that’s what counts. All that matters at the end of the day is the truth. Without the truth, the Smith family will never have justice they deserve.”
“I know,” I whispered through my tears.
“And as for your father not being proud of you,” Vincent said, “he should be ashamed of himself. Not only is he your father, but your sergeant, too. He should never have put you in this situation. I bet he’s lying awake at night, his dreams haunted by the Smith family. As your sergeant and father, he should have set an example...”
“He was just trying to help me...” I started.
“He was just trying to help himself,” Vincent said.
“I know you’re right.” I looked up at him. “He was more interested in saving himself from being embarrassed by me. And knowing that hurts more than anything. To know that he is so ashamed of me, he would risk his career and...”
“He wasn’t ashamed of you ten years ago,” Vincent cut in. “You weren’t there that night your father, Mac, and Woody changed their statements to make Molly Smith look like she was out committing burglaries when, really, she was upset, desperate, and in search of the man she loved. They were police officers, if they couldn’t have protected her in life, the least they could have done is protect her memory. Instead, they lied about that poor girl – made her look like a thief to protect whoever she had gone to meet that night. That isn’t being a good copper. What they did isn’t something to be proud of.”
“You’re really angry about that, aren’t you?” I said, looking into Vincent’s a
lmost jet-black eyes. It wasn’t just his eyes, his face had lost that boyish look and he suddenly looked older and drawn somehow. He looked how I felt, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“I’m angry for you,” he said, looking away and standing up. “I feel angry for all those good coppers who go into work every day wanting to make a difference. It’s people like your father who ruin it for cops like us. How will the public ever have trust in us, if we don’t even trust ourselves to do the right thing?”
“But what can I do?” I said, knowing in my heart what Vincent said was true.
“If you want those nightmares to go away, if you want to stop seeing dead people every time you close your eyes, you have to tell the truth,” Vincent said.
“But how do I prove it?” I said. “The statements have been submitted. The road has been cleared. The autopsies have been carried out.”
“What about the incident from ten years ago?” Vincent said thoughtfully.
“No one is seriously going to believe that a dead girl came to me in my sleep and told me she was pushed into that well,” I said. “They would lock me up, all right, but not in prison – more like the madhouse. We have no proof.”
“We have those altered statements,” Vincent said.
“We need more than that,” I sighed. “As we already know, statements have a nasty habit of going missing or being rewritten. If only we could find out who it was Molly Smith was going to meet that night.”
“Have any ideas?” Vincent asked.
“I thought I did,” wiping the last of the tears from my face with the backs of my hands. “But that was a mistake.”
“Perhaps we should sleep on it,” Vincent
said thoughtfully.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I said.
Lost deep in thought, and scratching his chin, Vincent headed towards the front door.
“Where are you going?” I asked softly.
“To get some sleep,” he said, stopping short of the front door and looking back at me.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I whispered. “I don’t want those nightmares to come. Don’t go just yet. Stay for a while. I could cook you some supper. I’ve still got half a packet of Jammie Dodgers left.”
“Now you are twisting my arm,” he smiled at me.
“We could listen to some music,” I suggested.
“Like what?” he said, stepping away from the door and coming back into the living room.
“I don’t know,” I said, taking my iPod from the dock. “Let me have a look.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I selected a track and placed the iPod back into the dock. There was a moment of silence before the track started.
In that silence, Vincent said, “What song did you choose?”
“Shhh,” I hushed softly, placing a finger against Vincent’s lips.
Slowly, the song I Want To Know What Love Is by Mariah Carey filled the room. It was my turn to take Vincent in my arms. I pulled his coat from over his shoulders and held him close.
“I thought we were going to eat Jammie Dodgers?” he whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my cheek.
I held him closer. Just like we had the night before, we swayed in each other’s arms as the music swept around us. Again, those feelings of being needed washed over me. I felt safe in Vincent’s arms and I realised I had never felt so much for someone so quickly before. Sure, I had felt an instant attraction to men in the past, but this was more than just mere attraction. I still didn’t know what it was I liked – or felt for Vincent. But there was something and it felt new, like something I hadn’t experienced before. Were these the first feelings of love I was feeling for him? That was impossible, right? No one fell in love that quickly – that stuff only ever happened in movies and books.
Vincent slowly ran his fingers through my hair. It wasn’t a desperate grab or fumble, but slow, as if he were relishing the feel of each strand passing between his fingers. I looked up into his dark eyes. Vincent wasn’t handsome, not like one of the pretty boys. He didn’t have studs hanging out of his face, and wasn’t hiding behind a skin of tattoos, like so many of the guys I’d been with before. However strange Vincent could be – I got the feeling he was just being himself. Maybe that’s what I liked about him. Perhaps there was a secret confidence – belief in himself – hidden deep within, which I found attractive. Vincent hadn’t pretended to be something that he wasn’t – he had always been true to himself, however clumsy and shy he came across at times. There was no pretence – macho bullshit with Vincent. If he could be true to himself, wouldn’t he then always be true to me?
The music continued to envelop us as we held onto each other. I thought of how he had held me last night. He had been true to his word. He had stayed with me all night long and kept the nightmares away. He hadn’t taken the opportunity to take it any further. He had been happy just to hold me in his arms all night long. I remembered what it was he had said, just before I’d fallen asleep.
In his arms, and as we danced slowly to the music, I looked at him and said, “What did you mean last night?”
“What was that?” he looked at me.
“When you said, you knew what it feels like to be scared and alone?” I said.
“Let me ask you a question?” he said, ignoring mine.
“Okay,” I said.
“Why did you choose this song?”
Pressing my cheek against his so I didn’t have to look in his eyes, I sang softly along to the words of the song. “I want to know what love is. I want you to show me.”
I felt my feet slowly lift off the floor as Vincent swept me up into his arms. With the song playing all around us, Vincent carried me into the bedroom and laid me gently on the bed. I pulled my sweater off and eased my jeans and panties over my hips and down my legs. I lay naked on the bed and watched him in the dim light that spilt into the room from behind the door. With his back to me, I watched Vincent take off his clothes. Although his body was lean, it was well-toned and muscular. His skin was pale. It was then I saw a crisscross of white scars over his shoulders and down his back. Although healed, I could see that at some point in his life, they must have caused him great pain.
“Come here,” I whispered, holding out my hand towards him.
Vincent turned, and naked, he came towards me. Taking his hand in mine, I gently eased him down onto the edge of the bed so he was sitting with his back to me. Slowly, I ran my fingers gently over the maze of raised scars that covered his back. I leant forward, and brushing my lips lightly over his skin, I kissed the scars. I wanted to take away the pain they must have caused him. Vincent sat in silence, his back straight, as the music bled in from the other room.
...In my life there has been heartache and pain...I don’t know if I can face it again...the song continued.
“What happened to you?” I whispered, as I brushed my lips over his back.
Vincent reached round and took my hand in his. Looking at me in the semi-darkness, he said, “It doesn’t matter now,” and laid me gently back onto the bed. Vincent leant over me, our noses almost touching, and it was then I noticed a jagged-looking scar running along the right side of his forehead, just beneath the hairline. I reached out, gently running my fingertips along the length of it. Vincent took my hand away, brought it up to his lips, and kissed my fingers. He slowly kissed each one, his eyes closed. He gradually worked his lips over the back of my hand, down the inside of my wrist, and along my forearm to the crook of my elbow. Each kiss felt like my skin was being caressed with a feather. He seemed to be taking his time, enjoying every moment. There was no rushing here. No frantic groping, pushing and pulling, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel as if I had to take control of the situation. Vincent, in his own passive way, was very much in control. I closed my eyes and relished the touch of his lips as they slowly brushed over my breasts. I was enjoying Vincent taking his time, and I didn’t want it to end.
&nbs
p; I felt the tip of his tongue trail over the flat of my stomach, then he paused to breathe over that little wet trail he had left behind. My skin tingled, my stomach muscles tightened. With his hands, Vincent started to trace tiny circles on the tops of my thighs as he worked the tip of his tongue over my tiny patch of hair. I eased my legs slightly apart, just enough. Vincent sensed this, and with his fingertips still making skin-tingling circles now on the insides of my thighs, I felt the tip of his tongue roll gently down between my legs.
I sighed, and arching my back, I opened my legs just a little more. Vincent took advantage of this, and I felt the tip of his tongue enter me. I gripped the bed sheets with my fists. He moved his tongue slowly, almost deliberately, as if not wanting to rush, to savour and enjoy every moment. Not wanting it to end. Letting go of the sheets, I ran my fingers through his short, black hair.
Vincent slowly withdrew his tongue and I groaned out loud. He brushed the tip of it over the inside of my right thigh, down the inside of my leg, my calf muscle, and then over the top of my foot. It was as if he didn’t want to leave one part of my body untouched by him. No man had ever spent this much time caressing my body before. Gently, he rolled me onto my front, my hair spilling down my back. I felt Vincent’s mouth again as he worked his way back up the length of my body, his tongue leaving a cool damp trail behind him. My flesh prickled with rising excitement as he covered my arse in kisses. Slowly, he slipped his fingers between my buttocks and between my legs. The tips of his fingers gently stroking the place where, minutes before, his tongue had been exploring. I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle my sighs of pleasure, as I felt his fingers slide slowly inside of me. He eased them in and out, the crown of his thumb making circular motions against my clit. He worked his thumb slowly, as if understanding how sensitive that part of my body was. Vincent knew how much pleasure he could bring me by touching me there. While he massaged me with his fingers, he leaned over and covered my back, shoulder, and neck with kisses. I turned my face against the pillow so I could see him. His face was just inches from mine. Not wanting to break the growing sensation he was building with his hand between my legs, I twisted my shoulders slightly, so my face was fully turned towards his. We kissed. His lips were firm but somehow still soft against mine. Vincent ran his tongue over my mouth, then slipped it gently between my lips. I could taste myself on him, and it excited me. With a gradual but ever-growing speed, Vincent continued to move his thumb in that circular motion as his fingers slid faster and faster inside of me.
