'Because of what happened at dinner?'
He nodded. 'I hardly ingratiated myself with your father.'
'That's not important. I want to know the cause, Jon.' She took his arm.
'It's starting all over again, Amy. I knew it that time on the beach; the feeling was the same, like being somewhere else, watching, seeing an action taking place and having no control over it.'
They had reached his car and she noticed his hands were trembling as he fumbled with the keys. 'It might be a good idea if I did the driving,' she suggested.
He opened the car door and handed Amy the keys without argument. They headed away from the school, taking a nearby winding lane that led to the coast. She occasionally glanced at him while she drove and his tenseness was soon passed on to her. They parked in a clearing overlooking a small bay, the sea below a sparkling blue, hued green in parts, lighter in the shallows. Through the open windows of the car they could hear the surf softly lapping at the shingle beach. In the far distance, a ferry trundled through the calm waters towards the main harbour on the eastern side of the island.
Childes watched its slow progress, his mind elsewhere, and Amy had to reach out and turn his face towards her. 'We're here to talk, remember,' she said. 'Please tell me what was wrong with you on Saturday.' She leaned forward to kiss him and was relieved that his trembling had lessened.
'I can do better than that,' he told her. 'I can show you.' He reached over to the back seat and unfolded the newspaper before her. 'Take a look,' he said, pointing a finger.
' "INFANT'S GRAVE DESECRATED",' she said aloud, but the rest was read silently, disbelievingly. 'Oh, Jon, this is horrible. Who could do such a thing? To dismember a child's corpse, to…' She shuddered and jerked her head away from the open page. 'It's so vile.'
'It's what I saw, Amy.'
She stared incredulously at him, her yellow hair curling softly over one shoulder.
'I was there, at the grave-side. I saw the body being torn open. I was part of it somehow.'
'No, you couldn't have…'
He gripped her arm. 'I saw it all. I touched the mind of the person who did this.'
'How?' The question was left hanging in the air.
'Like before. Just like before. A feeling of being inside the person, seeing everything through their eyes. But I'm not involved, I've got no control. I can't stop what's happening!'
Amy was shocked by his sudden abject terror. She clung to him, speaking soothingly. 'It's all right, Jon, you can't be harmed. You're
not
part of it, what's happened has nothing to do with you.'
'I had my doubts on that score the other night,' he said, drawing away. 'I wondered if I were only recalling violence I'd committed myself, certain acts my own mind had blanked out.' He indicated the newspaper. 'This occurred on the mainland on the night I was at your home. At least that fact came as a relief.'
'If only I could have been with you yesterday to knock that silly idea out of your head.'
'No, I needed to be alone. Talking wouldn't have helped.'
'Sharing the problem would have.'
He tapped his forehead. 'The problem's inside here.'
'You're not mad.'
He smiled grimly. 'I know that. But will I stay sane if the visions keep coming at me? You have to know what it's like, Amy, to understand how scary it becomes. I'm left ragged when it's over, as if a portion of my brain has been eaten away.'
'Is that how you felt last time? In England, I mean.'
'Yeah. Maybe it was worse then; it was a totally new experience for me.'
'When they found the man responsible for those killings, what then?'
'Relief. Incredible relief. It was as though a huge black awareness had been released, something like, I'd imagine, when someone suffering from over-sensitive hearing suddenly finds the overload has been blocked out, that their ear-drums have finally managed the correct balance. But strangely, the release came before they tracked the man down; you see, somehow I knew the exact moment he committed suicide, because that was when my mind was set free. His death let me go.'
'Why him; why that particular murderer, and why only him? Have you ever wondered about that?'
'I've wondered, and I've never reached a satisfactory conclusion. I've sensed things before, but nothing startling, nothing you could describe as precognition or ESP, anything like that. They've always been mundane, ordinary stuff that I suppose most people sense: when the phone rings you guess who's at the other end even before you pick it up, or when you're lost, guessing the right turn to make. Simple, everyday matters, nothing dramatic' He shifted in the car seat, eyes watching a swooping gull. 'Psychics say our minds are like radio receivers, tuning into other wavelengths all the time, picking up different frequencies: well, maybe he was transmitting on a particular frequency that only I could receive, the excitement he felt at the kill boosting the output, making it powerful enough to reach me.' The gull was soaring upwards once more, its wings brilliant in the sun's rays.
Childes twisted round to face Amy. 'It's a stupid theory, I know, but I can't think of any other explanation,' he said.
'It isn't stupid at all; it makes a weird kind of sense. Strong emotions, a sudden shock, can induce a strong telepathic connection between certain people, and that's well known. But why now? What's triggered off these psychic messages this time?'
Childes folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the back seat. 'The same as before. I've picked up another frequency.'
'You have to go to the police.'
'You've got to be kidding! That kind of publicity finished off my marriage and sent me scuttling for cover last time. Do you really imagine I'd bring it all down on myself again?'
'There's no alternative.'
'Sure there is. I can keep quiet and pray that it'll go away.'
'It didn't last time.'
'As far as I know, nobody's been murdered yet.'
'As far as you know. What happened the other week, when you saw something that shook you so much you nearly drowned?'
'Just a confused jumble, impossible to tell what was going on.'
'Perhaps it was a killing.'
'I can't ruin everything again by going to the law. What chance would I have at La Roche or the other schools if word got around that there was some kind of psychic freak teaching kids on the island? Victor Platnauer's already gunning for me and I'd hate to gift-wrap more ammunition for him.'
'Platnauer?'
He quickly summarised his meeting with Estelle Piprelly. 'I think Daddy had a hand in this,' she said when he had concluded.
'And did you tell your father about me? I'm sorry, I didn't mean that harshly - there's no reason for you to keep secrets from your family, so I wouldn't blame you if you had.'
'He got the local police to look into your history. I had nothing to do with it.'
Childes sighed. 'I should have known. Anything to break us up, right?'
'No, Jon, he's just concerned about who I get involved with,' she half-lied.
'I can't blame him for getting upset.'
'Acting a wimp doesn't suit you.' She touched his lapel, her fingers running along its edge, a frown hardening her expression. 'I still think you should inform the police. You proved last time you weren't a crank.'
He held her moving fingers. 'Let's give it a bit more time, huh? These… these visions might just amount to nothing, might fade away.'
Amy turned from him and switched on the ignition. 'We have to get back,' she said. Then: 'What if they don't? What if they get worse? Jon, what if someone is murdered?'
He found he had nothing to say.
14
Childes assumed his mock-official voice when he heard Gabby's squeaky 'Hello?'
'To whom am I speaking to?' he asked, for the moment pushing aside troubled thoughts.
'Daddy?
she warned lowly, used to the game. 'Guess what happened in school today, Daddy.'
'Let me see.' He pondered. 'You shot the teacher?'
'No!'
'The teacher shot you lot.'
'Be
serious!’
He grinned at her frustration, imagining her standing by the phone, receiver pressed to her ear as if glued, her glasses slipped to the end of her nose in their usual fashion.
'Okay, you tell me, Squirt,' he said.
'Well, first we brought our projects in and Miss Hart held mine up to the class and told everyone it was really good.'
'Was that the one on wild flowers?'
'Yes, I told you last week,' she replied indignantly.
'Oh yeah, it slipped my mind. Hey, that's great. She really liked it, eh?'
'Yes. Annabel's was nearly as good, but I think she copied me a little bit. I got a gold star for mine and Annabel got a yellow one, which is very good really.'
He chuckled. 'I think it's marvellous.'
'Then Miss Hart told us we were all going to Friends Park next Tuesday on a big coach where they've got monkeys in cages, and a big lake with boats, and slides and things.'
'They've got monkeys on a coach?'
'No, at Friends Park, silly! Mummy said she'd give me some money to spend and make me up a picnic'
'That sounds lovely. Isn't she going with you?'
'No, it's just school. Do you think the weather will be sunny?'
'I should think so, it's pretty warm now.'
'I hope it will, so does Annabel. Are you coming to see me soon?'
As usual, she threw in the question with innocent abandon, not knowing the tiny stab wound it caused.
'I'll try, darling. Maybe at half-term. Mummy might let you come over here to see me.'
'On a plane? I don't like the boat, it's too long. It makes my tummy feel sick.'
'Yes, on a plane. You could stay with me for a few days until term begins again.'
'Can I bring Miss Puddles? She'd be very lonely without me.' Miss Puddles was Gabby's pet, a black cat bought for her on her third birthday. The cat's development had easily out-paced his daughter's, kittenish behaviour giving way to imperious coolness long before Childes had left the household.
'No, that wouldn't be a good idea. Mummy will need someone to keep her company, won't she?' He hadn't seen his daughter for almost six months and he wondered how tall she'd grown. Gabby seemed to grow in sudden leaps, taking him by surprise each time he saw her.
'I suppose so,' she said. 'Did you want to speak to Mummy?'
'Yes please.'
'She isn't here. Janet's looking after me.'
'Oh. All right, let me have a word with Janet.'
'I'll go and fetch her. Oh, Daddy, I sprinkled glitterdust all over Miss Puddles yesterday to make her sparkly.'
'I bet she liked that,' he said, shaking his head and grinning.
'She didn't. She got really sulky. Mummy says we'll never get it out and Miss Puddles keeps sneezing.'
'Get Janet to run the vacuum attachment over her. That should shift some of it if you can keep the cat still for long enough.'
Gabby giggled. 'She's going to get cross. I'll tell Janet you want to speak to her, all right?'
'Good girl.'
'Love you, Daddy, 'bye.' As abrupt as that.
'I love you,' he returned, hearing the phone clunk down before he'd completed the sentence. Running footsteps echoed away; her squeaky little voice called in the distance.
More footsteps along the hall, heavier, and the receiver was picked up.
'Mr Childes?'
'How're things, Janet?'
'Okay, I guess. Fran's working late at the office this evening, so I'm staying until she gets home. I brought Gabby home from school as usual.'
'Any luck with a job yet?'
'Not yet. I've got a couple of interviews next week so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Neither are really what I wanted, but anything's better than nothing.'
He sympathised. Janet was a bright teenager, although with few qualifications: with fulltime employment so difficult to come by for the young and inexperienced, she had quite a struggle on her hands.
'Did you want to leave a message, Mr Childes?' Janet asked.
'Uh, no, it's okay, I'll probably call again tomorrow. I just wanted to chat with Gabby.'
'I'll tell Fran you rang.'
'Thanks. Good luck for next week.'
'I'll need it. 'Bye for now, Mr Childes.'
The link was severed and he was alone again in his cottage. At such times there was a brutal finality in the replacing of a receiver. His injured hand throbbed dully and there was an unnatural dryness at the back of his throat. He stood by the telephone for some time, his thoughts slowly drifting away from his daughter and settling on the memory of the police detective who had been involved in the child-slaying case years before, someone whom he'd helped to track down the maniac killer. His fingers rested on the still-warm plastic, but he could not make them grip the receiver. Amy was wrong: there was no point in going to the police. What could he tell them? He couldn't identify the person who had dug up the dead boy, could give them no clues as to the desecrator's whereabouts. Until he had seen the morning paper, he'd had no idea even that the offence had taken place in England; he had assumed, if the sighting was a true one and not merely a fantasised image, that it had happened closer, somewhere on the island. There was nothing to say to the police, nothing at all. He took his hand away from the phone.