The Sister(56)
She’d unfolded them one by one, never imagining her father to be sentimental in any way at all. Reading the letters exchanged between them, she had realised she was wrong. Her father had been a sensitive soul. Sometime later, she’d sorted them into date order from start to finish. Different hands, different inks. Thoughts, dreams, love shared, lying side by side, folded up together like paper ghosts, echoes of lives gone by.
Sealing them back together, her eyes had filled with tears at the things she couldn’t change.
Chapter 41
In the Midlands, a stranger watched the programme in his hotel room. He remembered the events of that night better than anybody else.
Whenever he could, wherever he was, he always tried to catch Crimewatch. He loved to see the clues the stupid criminals left behind. They were as good as caught.
The case Kennedy outlined reminded him of the 'Cornish Girl' as he’d come to call her; she was very much a part of a fantasy he’d played out over the years. What he would do, if he ever came across her again. The thought started in his head and spread to his loins.
He could see only the outline of the sister speaking from the shadows, captured in the contrast between light and darkness, she turned slightly; the shape of her face astounded him. Unmistakably female in profile, her dark bee-stung lips curved out and away as if she pouted especially for him. He whistled softly in appreciation, in anticipation of what she’d be like in the flesh. He decided he would find her. It wouldn’t be difficult; he already had so much information to work with. As his dark fantasies unfolded, he caught a comment made in the background; his condition meant his ears were extra sensitive, more able to analyse speech patterns to perfection. His memory was second to none, with total recall, although he struggled with his own voice; he could replicate those of others with ease. He was born with a stutter and much like those who can sing beautifully with no trace of their impediment, he could do the same, imitating voices, using them instead of his own. His favourite was Clint Eastwood. Rewinding the sound in his head, he deciphered what someone off camera had said: These people are vile.
He growled as he slammed his fist into the wall with a dull thud that shook the partition so hard; it stopped the couple next-door mid-stroke in their lovemaking. He stared at the three bloody flaps of folded back skin on his knuckles.
Who the hell does he think he is, to judge me? You’re going to pay for that Kennedy. You’ve made it personal now.
He sucked the blood from them and cursed him as he lay back on the bed, recalling the nurse as she was then, how he’d looked over at her as he left the stupid Irishman on the floor, how she smiled nervously at him, her dark eyes shining, so pretty in her uniform, dark hair tumbling down; she was so full of life back then.
He remembered how he’d hung around outside in a doorway, following her when she came out, trailing her all the way to the Dire Straits concert. As he tailed her in, he’d grabbed a ticket off a tout and scowling aggressively, had given him a five-pound note. The tout opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it, and pocketed the money.
He spent the rest of the evening, keeping her under close observation from the fringes.
At first, dancing at times with her arms up above her head, she reminded him of a Spanish gipsy girl with castanets. Later, losing herself to the sound, she’d let herself go, swaying and pumping along to the music. She hadn’t known he was there, watching. After the ride home, they'd become acquainted with each other.
He touched himself and found he was hard.
The benefits of a good memory.
When he’d finished, he had the bones of an idea in his head. These people are vile. He’d make Kennedy eat those words. First, he would find the runaway; then he’d get the sister, and after that, he’d put the bite on Kennedy.
Chapter 42
After the Crimewatch interview, Stella felt oddly detached. She’d worried beforehand that she might not get through it without crumbling. She needn’t have concerned herself; she dealt with it as she did everything else, from behind a shield that protected her, hiding her true thoughts and feelings. Nothing can touch me here.
She watched the show that night in the privacy of her own home. With no need for shields, she felt the old pain rising up in her, seeping out through the gaps in the wounds the last few days had re-opened. She tried in vain to seal them back up, but the floodgates had opened too far, she gave up resisting and began to cry so hard she thought she’d never be able to stop.
The release lasted a few minutes; a sense of balance returned to her and with it a vague feeling of disappointment at her lack of control. There was no point to it. Nothing would change. The well of grief would be emptied, but she knew it would just fill up again. Better to keep it in for when she was strong enough, for when she’d be able to grieve properly without having the fear she would never be able to stop.
She sat in the light of the small oriel window on its wide, triangular windowsill, the unread letter in her hand. There was no need to read it, she knew what it would say, and she understood it, in a way. She didn’t need more words to twist into wounds that would never heal.
The belief her parents had clung to, was one day soon their beautiful long-lost daughter would just walk in the door as if nothing had happened, with an explanation that would make everything all right. I got drunk – this much they knew, she was seen by a policeman in the company of a man who'd never come forward. I fell over and banged my head. I couldn’t remember who I was. I met this guy; fell for him, head over heels. We left for Australia the next morning. I was always thinking – I’ll remember who I am tomorrow and then tomorrow turned into next week, next month or next year, and this is your new baby grandson, by the way.