Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  ‘Oh shit.’ Timmy’s voice had shot up an octave. ‘I won’t tell, man. Don’t kill me. I swear I won’t tell.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Justine walked over to the wardrobe and opened the door. ‘Bring him here.’

  Adam dragged Timmy to his feet.

  She prodded the boy in the shoulder. ‘Turn around.’

  ‘What?’ Timmy was looking at her fearfully.

  ‘I said, turn around.’

  He turned around slowly. One eyelid was twitching, and he was making involuntary sucking noises with his lips.

  Adam watched as Justine picked up the small bronze statuette of the cowboy on horseback from where it rested on the table. She positioned herself behind Timmy. The next moment she had swung the statuette against the boy’s head. With a soft sigh he crumpled to the floor.

  ‘What the hell—’ The suddenness of the whole thing had taken Adam by complete surprise.

  Justine’s face was white. ‘Is he out?’

  Adam sank to his knees and placed his fingers on the boy’s pulse. Then he pulled up his eyelids.

  ‘He’s out all right. Christ, you could have killed him.’

  ‘I didn’t hit him that hard. Put him in the wardrobe and lock the door. Come on, we don’t have much time.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Adam, do it. You have to go. Now! I have to call the police!’

  ‘The police? There’s no way he’s not going to tell them what he saw. We should just let him go.’

  ‘He’s going to tell, anyway. Whether I call the police or not. He’ll brag about it to his friends, his girl, whoever. I know his type. Besides, I remember now. His mother is into unsolved crimes and all that.’ Justine smiled grimly. ‘She’s a big fan of yours. No way he’ll keep it from her. So I’m going to call the police first and tell them I found a burglar in my house and they should come over immediately.’

  ‘And then? When he tells them about me?’

  ‘I’ll say he’s lying his ass off. That I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. They’ll think he’s trying to get himself out of an incriminating situation. Who are they going to believe. Me? Or him? What was he doing in my room to begin with? And with that knife? They’ll believe me. I know they will. And while I’m waiting for them I’ll clean up. Just you make sure to take all your stuff with you. Oh, wait.’ She picked up the knife and wiped it with the corner of her nightdress. ‘Your prints are on this.’ Kneeling beside Timmy, she pressed the boy’s flaccid fingers around the hilt. ‘There.’

  He watched, dazed. ‘If they’re going to dust for prints, they’re going to find my prints, anyway.’

  ‘They won’t dust for prints. Maybe the knife, but that’s all.’

  ‘They’re never going to believe you managed to overpower him all by yourself. They’ll know you had help.’

  ‘No, they won’t. That’s why I hit him over the head. I’ll tell them I tied him up after I got him with the statuette. Lucky blow. Now help me get him into the wardrobe and lock the door. Come on!’

  • • •

  SHE WAS SHAKING. She couldn’t stop shivering.

  He was scribbling on a piece of paper. ‘There’s no mobile phone reception where I live. But this number here—’ he pointed at a second row of digits, ‘is a land line and it belongs to my friend, Mark. He knows about you. When the time is right, call him and he will let me know you’re on your way.’

  She took the paper from him. ‘I’ll wait a month before I come. Just in case the police do decide to watch me. No one is going to think it odd if I move away from this place after a break-in. But I’ll do it properly, take my time so as not to arouse any suspicions. I won’t contact you at all during this time—no calls, no emails, no letters—and you shouldn’t get in touch with me, either.’

  He shook his head emphatically. ‘How will I know you’re all right? That you’re not in trouble with the police?’

  ‘If it comes to that I’ll have my solicitor call you. That way it will remain privileged communication and the police won’t know about it. But if you don’t hear from me, everything is OK. No,’ she said as he started to protest. ‘Four weeks is not that long. We’re so close. Let’s not blow it.’

  Adam’s face was hard and set. He brushed the hair from her forehead, then cupped her face in his palms.

  ‘I love you, Justine.’

  She didn’t trust herself to speak. She closed her eyes and forced back the tears.

  ‘Don’t be sad.’ He kissed her eyelids, his lips barely brushing her skin.

  She nodded, tried to smile. She clasped her hands to her arms to try and stop the shivering, which was now gripping her entire body.

  ‘You’re cold.’ He pulled her into his arms and draped the sides of his coat around her so that she was cocooned in his warmth. She stood without moving, trying to breathe in his essence. The scent of his skin. The sound of his beating heart.

  He stepped back. ‘I should go. Are you sure you’ll be all right with that guy upstairs? He’s probably awake by now.’

  She tried to keep her voice light. ‘He’d better behave if he doesn’t want to be hit over the head again.’

  He gave her a strange little half-smile. ‘You’re some woman, Justine Callaway.’ He touched his hand to his head in an abbreviated salute. The next moment he had turned around and was running swiftly down the stairs.

  She stood in the open doorway, watching him as he hurried down the avenue of trees. There was a break in the clouds and a moon peeped through the ragged edges. She could see his shadow following his hasty footsteps. But as he moved farther and farther away from her, she had the strangest sensation. It was as if she could not see the dark shape of his figure any more, only his moon shadow.

  THIRTY-TWO

  SERGEANT PAUL GOODWIN lowered his notebook and placed his pen in his pocket. With difficulty he stifled a yawn. He was tired. His new baby was not yet in a routine and he and Lucy were getting precious little sleep. He had just drifted off again when the phone had rung. It was the station telling him to get over to Paradine Park and to make it snappy. There had been a break-in and the intruder was still on the premises. PC Evans was on his way over there already, but they needed him to take charge. Robeson should have handled it, but he had been called out to take care of a domestic disturbance: Mr Potter knocking his wife about again.

  He yawned again and looked across to where the girl was sitting. She certainly looked knackered as well, poor thing. She had her robe clutched around her so tightly her knuckles showed white, and even from where he was sitting he could see she was shaking. Well, no wonder. If it had been Lucy, she’d have been in hysterics good and proper.

  ‘Miss Callaway…’

  She didn’t answer. She was looking into space. ‘Miss Callaway,’ he said again, loudly, and with a start she transferred her gaze to his face.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘We’ll put him in lock-up tonight. Do you think you could stop by at the station tomorrow? To formalise your statement.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She bit her lip and her face was suddenly so white, he wondered if she was going to pass out.

  ‘Can I call someone for you? Family, a friend?’

  She seemed to consider. Then she said, ‘Maybe I’ll call my mother. She’s in London.’

  He looked around him. They were sitting in the library, it looked like. He glanced at the florid murals and moved his shoulders uncomfortably. What a spooky place. He wouldn’t be happy staying here on his own and that was the truth.

  He looked back at her. ‘We discovered how he got in. He broke a window in the kitchen.’

  ‘I didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Well, it is a big house.’

  ‘Thirty-one rooms.’ She nodded.

  ‘A lot of places to hide.’

  ‘I suppose so. I’ve never thought of it that way before, but after this I don’t think I’ll be staying on. I’ll probably give in my notice tom
orrow.’

  ‘I’m sure I can’t blame you.’

  He looked down at his notebook again. Her statement had been straightforward, but he hadn’t managed to get much sense out of Tim March. The little creep was babbling about Adam Buchanan returning to the house, which was certainly the biggest load of rubbish he had ever heard.

  The murder at Paradine Park was before his time, but he knew about it. The present chief constable had worked the case and still talked about it every now and then. But March was simply trying to get off a sticky wicket by fabricating such a feeble lie. He had probably got the idea from all the newspaper clippings lying around. Miss Callaway had already explained that she was a photojournalist and was thinking about doing an article on the house and its history. That was one of the reasons she had taken the job, she said.

  He wasn’t exactly surprised to find Tim March in a situation like this. He had been caught shoplifting once, and there was also the joyriding incident. Also, he always had his suspicions about the mugging of that architect who rented from Mrs McEvoy—a nice enough chap but no denying there was a limp wrist there. He was sure it was a hate crime and that March had been involved. They could never find any evidence to pin it on him, more’s the pity. Vicious little bugger. Miss Callaway was bloody lucky she had managed to hit him over the head, otherwise who knows what might have happened. Especially with her being so tiny.

  He got to his feet. ‘Well, that’s it for now. I’ll be seeing you at the station tomorrow, then.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He took the hand she held out to him. It was small and cold.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, miss?’

  She gave him a tired smile. ‘No, I’m not. Not just this minute. But don’t worry about me.’ She paused. ‘I know I’ll be fine.’

  • • •

  SHE SHUT the front door firmly behind the two police officers. For a moment she leaned against it, listening to the car outside revving up, the wheels crunching on the gravel and then the noise of the engine dying away.

  The two police officers had seemed to believe her story, but if Tim March stuck to his version of events with enough conviction, who knows? They might start to investigate more thoroughly. She had only the haziest idea of what such an investigation might entail: phone taps, opening her mail? It was a good thing she had made Adam promise not to get in touch with her until she arrived in Namibia herself. He needed to get away clean.

  It was then that it really hit her.

  He was gone.

  The realisation took the very breath from her body. For a moment she actually placed her hands against her stomach.

  Feeling like an old woman, she walked slowly across the hall. Earlier tonight, she and Adam had danced here, lost in each other. It felt like a million years ago. Now there was no music. And everything seemed over-bright. She reached for the light switch and the hall sank back into shadow.

  As she placed her hand on the banister of the staircase she paused. A slit of yellow showed underneath the swing door leading to the kitchen. The light was still on in there. She’d better go and turn it off.

  She walked over and placed her hand on the door. Before she could put her weight against it, the door opened into her face with the force of a train. Her head snapped back on her shoulders and the world went black.

  • • •

  YOU WILL BE looking at me with your night eyes.

  The similarities between a camera and the human eye are remarkable. Both are designed to catch and manipulate light. The Watcher wondered if Justine had ever given a thought as to how much the two mechanisms resembled each other.

  He tentatively touched her face. There was no response. She was out cold. Legs sprawling. Head tilted to the side. Her eyes were closed, the lashes black spikes against the soft skin of her lower lid.

  You will be looking at me with your night eyes.

  The retina is the camera film of the eye. Covering the back of the eye, it consists of millions of photoreceptor cells, which convert light into electrical signals that are channelled through the optic nerve and into the brain. Just like a camera, the retina needs light. It cannot function without it. Light is life.

  But too much light is darkness.

  The Watcher knew the time had come to act decisively. During his enforced absence he had given a great deal of thought as to what his next course of action should be. He was now clear in his mind about what had to be done.

  His emotions had always been second-hand emotions. Every sensation filtered. He would experience feelings about a feeling rather than the feeling itself. His fantasies and sensations were the fantasies and sensations of the other players in the game. Justine had changed all that. What he felt for her was immediate and intense.

  But if the game were to continue indefinitely, there were two problems he needed to solve. One: Adam Buchanan. Two: his own weakness.

  Was it at all a surprise to find that Buchanan had made his way over here? For a moment he recalled the shock—the sickening lurch of his heart—as he looked through the window, his breath a bloom of white in the chilly night air. Unaware of the cold. His mind stunned by the beauty of the scene he was watching.

  They were dancing. The man and the woman were gliding together to the music of a silent melody, the woman smiling with delight, the man touching her face with such tenderness it had made the Watcher’s heart ache. He had recognised the inevitability of the moment. It was destined that Justine and Adam would meet. He had always known that underneath the placid rivers of ordinary reality lurked secrets touched by magic. Miracles. The Bible was full of them.

  Nine years ago he had let Adam Buchanan go, and it had been his choice to do so. This time, his choice would be different.

  Buchanan had become an obstacle. He would have to remove this obstacle. The Watcher was reminded of an old Persian proverb: When its time has come, the prey goes to the hunter.

  The time had come.

  Fortunately, Buchanan was now on the run again. The whole episode with Tim March was a bonus. And come morning the Watcher would see to it that the police were fully informed about where Adam Buchanan was hiding. An anonymous tip should do it.

  First problem taken care of. The second problem was more intractable.

  He had to face facts. It was only a matter of time before he would give in to temptation and force Justine to look at him, really look at him. His compulsion to have her look him in the face was growing. But if he gave in, the game would be over. He didn’t want that. So he had come up with a plan that would protect him against his own weakness and still allow the game to continue. He had spent a lot of time putting the plan together. It had required a good deal of research.

  The Watcher touched his face. He was wearing a pair of goggles. The goggles were very large and covered his face all the way past his cheekbones.

  After making sure the goggles fit to his satisfaction, he opened his bag and extracted a piece of equipment that had the appearance of a very large laptop computer with its keyboard missing. Attached to the box was a long thin tube, which ended in a pen-shaped object. He plugged the box into the power outlet in the wall and the screen lit up.

  It was amazing how easy it had been to obtain this surgical diode laser. He hadn’t even had to buy it. The number of websites renting out laser systems was quite astonishing. What had attracted him to this particular model was the fact that it was compact, lightweight and portable. Even more important, it was able to operate from a standard electrical outlet.

  Although only suitable for soft tissue work, this little laser packed a big punch. It came in a 20-watt configuration with 810-nanometre diodes equipped with a flexible fibre delivery system. Once he beamed the light into her eyes, the focusing effect of the cornea and lens would increase the irradiance on the retina by up to 100,000 times. The light absorbed by the retinal tissue would be converted to heat by the melanin granules in the pigmented epithelium or by photochemical action to the photoreceptor
s. The light entering her eye would be such a concentrated force, it would burn right through the retinal cells and destroy them without any hope of repair.

  She probably wouldn’t even blink. The aversion reflex was absent in the presence of light of 700 to 144 nanometres; near infrared intensity.

  Of course, he was no surgeon. And in order to perform true precision work a split lamp was needed, which would be completely impractical in this situation. So he was taking a calculated risk. But even if complete blindness did not result, he was betting that the macula would be severely damaged. She would be unable to view fine details. She would not be able to read. Or type. Or work a camera.

  Or recognise faces.

  For a moment the enormity of what he was about to do made him pause. But what else was there to do? At least there would be no pain. He wasn’t a madman. No hacking at her eyes with a sharp object or splattering her face with acid. Just the purest light.

  And he was not planning on abandoning her in her disabled state. He would be there for her, a hero on a white horse coming to her aid in her darkest hour. Just like Rock Hudson with Jane Wyman. It would be a big step for him. From Watcher to participant…

  She was starting to come to. Her mouth moved and her lips made a light smacking sound. Her eyes rolled restlessly underneath the smooth lids. He should do this now before she regained full consciousness.

  Leaning forward, he placed the palm of his hand across her eyes. But then, within the embrace of his fingers, he felt her eyelashes open and close like a butterfly’s wings.

  • • •

  PAIN. One side of her cheek hurt fiercely.

  She opened her eyes, but there seemed to be something resting on her face. A hand. Not her own.

  The realisation shocked her into full consciousness. She tried to heave herself into a sitting position, but a strong arm kept her down. At the same time the hand moved away from her eyes.

  She screamed. She couldn’t help herself; the grotesque goggled head was so unexpected that for a moment she didn’t know what she was looking at. The effect of some kind of monstrous, alien creature was heightened by the fact that he had rubbed his face and neck with black pigment. Coal? He was sweating and the drops of sweat streaked palely through the dirt.