Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1)

by Terence Bailey

  The word buffoon rankled, and Sara heard herself shout: ‘You don’t know that! Maybe this guy really can see the future.’ Her voice was embarrassingly shrill. ‘We don’t know everything. Maybe we’re the stupid people, and he really has saved lives!’

  Jamie lay a calming hand on her wrist but Sara shook it off. ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘maybe by trying to stop him, we’re doing incredible damage. What if he could have saved more innocent people, but wasn’t able to, because –’

  She caught herself in time.

  Because what?

  What were you about to say, Sara?

  She let her words die mid-sentence. Ceri studied her with hooded eyes. Jamie took Sara’s hand, and this time she let him.

  After several long moments, Ceri snorted dismissively. ‘Dr Sara Jones,’ she concluded, ‘transformed into a ninny through the occult powers of wine.’

  Sara flushed with relief. Ceri had just offered her a way to save face. ‘Well ... maybe I have had a bit too much,’ she agreed, and then laughed. ‘You should have seen your expression. You looked at me like I’d gone mad.’

  Ceri raised her eyebrows and reached for her cigarettes.

  Jamie stretched. ‘I think I’ll walk Sara home now before she has anything else to drink,’ he chuckled. ‘One more glass, and who knows what kind of monster she’d defend?’

  It was only when Sara was still and quiet that she noticed how the small experiences in her life had changed since she had moved to Wales. Lying naked on her futon, with the duvet pushed to the floor, she could feel the cool late-summer breeze sweep across her body from the open window. She took a deep breath; the quality of the air differed from London’s, the oxygen so thick and rich. The evening light was unique too – sharp white moon-glow replacing the orange streetlamps that had flooded her Pimlico flat.

  And the quiet! In London, she had slept to the sounds of taxis chugging by, over the white noise of thicker traffic drifting down from Victoria Street. Here in Penweddig, there was no sound at all – except, tonight, for Jamie’s rhythmic breathing beside her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he mumbled softly.

  ‘Better now,’ she said. After a moment, she added, ‘I was never really drunk, you know. It’s just that Ceri has a way of putting things sometimes.’

  ‘I know what you mean. She can get you defending ideas you don’t actually believe.’

  Jamie took Sara’s silence as agreement. ‘How long are you planning to stay here, anyway?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In Wales.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Sara sighed. She reached out an arm, and stoked the rigid muscles of his abdomen with her fingertips. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just thinking,’ Jamie replied tentatively. ‘Either Ceri and I will catch this guy, or Dyfed-Powys will send me packing. Either way, I won’t be here forever.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do you think you might want to come back to London?’ he asked.

  ‘And marry you?’ Sara said with unexpected sharpness, but also a small smile playing on her lips.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Jamie said. Seeing her expression in the moonlight, he grinned. ‘We could live together, that’s all.’

  Sara stilled her hand, laying it flat against his warm skin. ‘I’m thinking about it,’ she said seriously.

  Jamie straightened his back against the headboard. ‘Really?’

  She made a small sound of reassurance; she had been thinking of it. When she had resumed her affair with Jamie, it had been in panic and uncertainty, in the wake of sedating Eldon Carson. Later, Carson had surprised her by articulating her own concerns, suggesting that he and Jamie represented opposite values in her life – blind comfort versus stark knowledge. Now she had decided he was wrong. Eldon’s abilities made him wise beyond his years, but he was not infallible. Sara chose to see both aspects of her life functioning independently of one another.

  ‘If I did move back,’ she said pensively, ‘it wouldn’t be right away. I want to spend the rest of the summer here, and maybe the autumn too.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Jamie agreed emphatically. ‘This is a beautiful time of year.’

  Sara cocked her head, as if listening to something just out of range. ‘I suppose it is,’ she agreed, ‘all things considered.’

  Ceri Lloyd stopped by on Friday morning while Sara was still in her dressing gown. It was the first time they had seen each other since Sara’s wine-fuelled near-confession in her garden. As embarrassed as she was by her lack of control that evening, Sara knew that she had also been harbouring a simmering resentment towards her old friend. Ceri had no right to call Eldon Carson a buffoon.

  That petty gripe was wiped away quickly by Ceri’s grim expression. One look, and Sara knew that this was not a social call. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘A body washed ashore near Tanybwlch Beach yesterday,’ Ceri replied.

  A chill passed through Sara. ‘Like the others?’

  Ceri shook her head. ‘This one had been out to sea for a while, then came ashore at high tide and lodged in the rocks.’

  She reached into her pocket. ‘Recognise him?’

  Sara accepted Ceri’s iPhone; the photo had been taken in the morgue. It was of a body from the chest up. Sara felt the shock of recognition, then a flood of pity. ‘That’s the street person who called himself Daffy.’

  ‘Thought so,’ Ceri said, nodding tersely. ‘I saw him once at your Centre. They’re making dental checks now, so we’ll know who he was.’

  ‘You say it wasn’t like the others,’ Sara said. ‘But was it ...?’

  ‘Murder? It’s being treated as such. He had an artery severed by a broken bottle. Then he fell – or was shoved – into the bay.’

  ‘What’s the speculation?’

  ‘There was alcohol in his blood, but not much. We’re guessing he’d only started drinking, with some person or persons. Maybe they were drunker than him, took offence at something he said.’

  ‘Cut him and threw him into the sea.’ Sara sighed and shook her head.

  ‘They’ll want a statement.’

  ‘You’re not on the investigation?’

  ‘Thankfully, no. I just promised to show you the photo.’

  Sara said, ‘I’ll visit the station today.’ She nodded towards the kettle. ‘Cup of tea?’

  Ceri shook her head. ‘Got to go. Suddenly, this place is full of villains.’ Wistfully, she added, ‘There wasn’t a murder in Aberystwyth for years.’

  Sara smiled in sympathy and sadness; guilt rippled through her like waves on the bay. If only her psychic skills were more reliable, she would have been able to read Daffy’s future, to protect him, to find those responsible. And then ...

  And then what?

  As she closed the door on Ceri and watched her panda car negotiate the lane, Sara felt a pulse of hostility, this time directed at Eldon Carson. If only he had taught her more, instead of spending weeks on remote viewing games and pointless theory. Then she might have been more a proficient psychic now –one able to see into people’s pasts and futures.

  It was like torture to think that she might have saved Daffy.

  TWENTY

  On the last Friday in August, Eldon and Sara sat in the kitchen. The room was lit by only three candles, and in the dim light, Eldon busied himself with some sort of craft. He had cut a small disk from a piece of cardboard, torn a section of the Guardian into thin strips, and now was rooting around in Sara’s cupboard.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked, an agitated edge to her voice.

  ‘Found it,’ he said, pulling a bag of flour from a shelf. He poured a quantity of the powder into a mixing bowl and added warm tap water.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, anyway?’

  ‘Making something.’

  ‘You look like a little kid,’ she said, ‘busy with a craft.’

  ‘I’m an artist,’ he said. ‘I’m making you some art.’

 
Eldon dipped a piece of newspaper into the bowl of paste, and wrapped the gummy strip around the cardboard disk. Sara watched him repeat this procedure meticulously, several times, squeezing excess bubbles of paste from his project with his thumb. Eldon had been here for nearly an hour, but had yet even to mention continuing with Sara’s psychic practice.

  Eventually, she said, ‘Eldon?’

  He looked up, holding his mucky, dripping hands over the bowl.

  ‘I want to see the past.’

  She held his gaze firmly and he stared back unblinkingly. The flicker of flames and shadow made his expression change by the second. ‘You mean –’

  ‘My parents’ murder. I want to see it. I want you to show me.’

  He shook his head softly. ‘You’re not ready, Sara. Give it time.’

  He picked up another piece of paper and dipped it in the bowl, but Sara pounced on his words. ‘Eldon, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. These techniques are only useful to me as far as I can use them to understand my past. I’ll never understand anything unless I go back there.’

  He smiled reassuringly. ‘You will. In time.’

  ‘I want to do it now,’ Sara snapped.

  He looked at her as a father would look at a spoiled child. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I can’t stop you. Take yourself there.’

  He stared at her. Waited.

  Sara started. ‘I can’t do it on my own!’ she said. ‘I’m not ready for that.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Eldon said with finality. ‘You aren’t ready. You’re a promising psychic – but you’re only just beginning.’

  She threw herself back in the wooden chair petulantly. ‘I am tired of describing pieces of fruit and famous monuments,’ she said. ‘I want to put this stuff to practical use.’

  He looked at her, sprawled across the cushions, and spoke dispassionately: ‘You haven’t learned to control your emotions yet.’

  Sara thumped her hand against the love-seat in frustration.

  ‘You need to develop detachment,’ Eldon said.

  ‘How can I learn, if I don’t do it?’ She swung her legs around to the side of the chair and stood. ‘You made a deal with me,’ she said. ‘I learn to do everything you know how to do, and you ...’ Sara drew a slow breath. ‘You get to be with your own kind. I’m keeping my end of the bargain. Now I want you to keep yours.’

  She watched something like hurt flicker through Eldon’s eyes. It was fleeting, but so rare it startled her. ‘You know I have a point,’ she said softly. ‘Eventually you’ll want to see if I can cope with this. What are we waiting for?’

  Twenty minutes passed, during which Eldon cleaned away his mess, washed his hands, and placed the papier mâché disc on the windowsill to dry. Sara had led herself through the relaxation exercises, which had grown almost second-nature to her. Now, she sat across from the American at the kitchen table.

  ‘Seven, seven, three, zero, nine, six, four, two,’ he said.

  Sara wrote the numbers down on her pad of paper, and was instantly struck by a tingle of apprehension. It was as if the room had grown colder. ‘This is wrong,’ she breathed.

  ‘How?’ Carson asked neutrally.

  ‘The atmosphere. It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘I don’t know ...’

  She was starting to breathe erratically. ‘Relax!’ Carson commanded. He held up a calming hand. ‘Just concentrate on the visuals – don’t jump ahead of yourself. Describe what you see.’

  Sara concentrated. What did she see? ‘I see a rectangle, and a smaller rectangle within it. One is grey. The smaller one’s light blue.’ Sara frowned. ‘I’m in the air.’

  She could feel breeze now. ‘This is a bird’s-eye view of a paved surface. A small building. I’d guess some sort of school room.’

  ‘Good,’ Carson said. ‘Now I want you to drift higher, and look away from the school building.’

  ‘Okay ... there’s a river on the other side of the road. A bridge in the distance.’

  ‘Look on your side of the avenue. Can you see the side street to the right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sara said.

  ‘Drift over and tell me what you see.’

  Instantly, Sara felt herself moving swiftly through the air. ‘It’s empty,’ she said. ‘I’m hovering now – next to a large tree.’

  ‘Drift down.’

  Unhampered by a body, Sara floated easily through branches and leaves until suspended six feet above the pavement. She faced a middle-aged man, holding an object wrapped in an overcoat. He glanced about furtively, and Sara sensed his distress. She concentrated on his thoughts.

  Suddenly, her sense of apprehension quickened into a vibration of terror. ‘You bastard!’ she gasped. ‘You’ve brought me to ... to ...’

  ‘Sara, remain professional!’ snapped Eldon. ‘Do not get emotionally involved with what you see. Simply observe and report.’

  ‘No! I can’t.’ She felt herself start to tremble. ‘Eldon, I can’t watch this. I don’t want to see what’s going to happen!’

  She saw the man named Frank Linden Dundas lurch forward, and hurry around the corner onto Quarry Avenue.

  ‘You must watch it, Sara’ Eldon countered sternly. ‘You cannot choose to see only the things you want to see.’

  Sara swallowed hard, and drew a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’m ... I can go on now.’

  ‘Has he seen the Carpenter boy yet?’

  Sara drifted around the corner; Dundas was about halfway down the street, trotting awkwardly. He dropped his overcoat to the pavement, and fumbled with his rifle until the stock snapped to full-size. ‘Yes, he’s running.’

  ‘Follow him. Tell me what he’s thinking.’

  Sara quieted her mind, reached out. ‘He’s not thinking,’ she replied. ‘He’s panicking.’

  She directed all her attention to the area around the man’s head, and concentrated, searching for thoughts and impressions. ‘He has no intention of killing all those people! He wants to shoot ... I’m not sure. Someone else.’

  ‘How does it change? Why will he do what he’s about to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘All right,’ Eldon said, ‘I want you to speed ahead in time, to the moment before he fires his first shot.’

  Before Sara could object, she found herself in a new place, on a street lined with shops. Dundas was frozen in an ungainly trot, raising his shotgun towards a woman. She gripped her son’s hand, and was still in mid-scream. Sara reached out with her mind to feel the woman’s emotions. Fear, yes, but not dread. She screamed a warning, to alert other shoppers to the man with the gun.

  In the second or two since she had opened her mouth, however, the situation had changed, and Dundas was about to kill her.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Eldon asked.

  ‘Everything’s frozen,’ Sara replied. ‘You said go to the moment before he fires the first shot. That’s where I am.’

  ‘I see,’ said Eldon approvingly. ‘Now let the scene play out.’

  Without Sara’s conscious involvement, the scene became animated once more. Sara watched as Dundas discharged his shotgun shell full into the woman’s chest, and felt her own chest constrict with horror. She screamed as the woman screamed. She felt her arms flail out, as if they were trying to shove Dundas off his murderous course. Her hand struck a ceramic vase filled with lilies, spilling tepid water across the table like blood. The young boy spun around, propelled by his mother’s fall, and was caught between the shoulder blades by the next, close-range shot. Sara felt the violent concussion of his sudden death. She wailed.

  ‘Freeze it there!’ Eldon shouted, and Sara clenched her muscles taut.

  ‘Go to the park now,’ Eldon said, more quietly. ‘Freeze at the moment right after he’s killed the old lady.’

  Sara found herself suspended above Quarry Park, over a frozen scene of carnage. The elderly woman lay bleeding on the grass, her dog staring at Dundas with terrified eyes. Dundas w
as in mid-turn, raising the barrel of his gun ...

  Raising it towards a young mother, and the baby in the carriage.

  The baby.

  ‘No!’ Sara screamed, and stood, knocking her chair backwards.

  ‘Sara,’ Eldon warned steadily.

  ‘Shut up!’ she shrieked. ‘I won’t watch any more. I want it to go away!’

  She grabbed at the envelope on the table, now soggy with vase-water, and tore at it, grinding the newspaper photo inside into small, gummy pieces. As Eldon moved around the table to comfort her, she collapsed into wracking sobs.

  He took her into his muscular arms. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that.’

  ‘Why?’ she sputtered, ‘Why did I need to –’

  ‘Shhh,’ Eldon said. ‘It was necessary. You don’t have to see any more.’

  When she had calmed down, Eldon looked at her sternly, the way her father had once done when she had learned an important lesson. ‘Do you understand why you’re not ready to face your past?’

  ‘I guess so,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Do you think we might do it my way from now on?’

  She hung her head, and quietly agreed.

  Sara focused on the kitchen clock. It was just after midnight. Eldon Carson was in the living room, fetching his jacket, preparing to leave. She needed to go to bed; all her energy had been flushed away. Waves of chill wafted through her body, and goose bumps had formed on her flesh. When she touched her skin, it felt hot and tender. Sara recognised the symptoms of a mild nervous breakdown.

  In the past, she had seen the aftermath of numerous grisly horrors, but never an actual murder. Now, she had done far more than see; the remote viewing state was more visceral than passive witness. Sara had participated in every emotion, felt every pain, heard every thought. Eldon had been right; she had not been ready. She was grateful that he had shielded her from her parents’ deaths. He entered the room. ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked, as he drew on his jacket.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. She drew in a trembling breath. ‘I’m sorry.’