Witch (9 page)

“I had a peek to see what kinda music you liked listening to,” he smiled.

I glared back at him.

“Sorry,” he shrugged with another innocent-looking smile playing on his lips.

Despite feeling a bit put out that he had been nosing through my iPod, I put on the track he had suggested. The music started to play and I turned to discover Vincent had picked up a photograph which was in a frame on top of the TV.

“She’s hot,” he said, looking down at the picture in his hands. 

“Do you mind?” I said, snatching the picture from him and placing it back on top of the TV. “That happens to be my
mother
.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realise.”

“You really are a nosey sod, aren’t you,” I said, hands on my hips.

“Goes with the job, doesn’t it?” he said, dropping down onto the sofa, making himself comfortable.

I stood glaring down at him.

He looked up at me, and guessing that he’d pissed me off, he got up again and said, “I’m sorry. I’ll be on my way.”

I watched him head for the door and I felt a little guilty. He was obviously new to the job and perhaps he was just trying to be friendly. He had brought my iPod back after all.

“Do you want that cup of tea or not?” I said.

“White with two sugars,” he said with a grin stretched across his rugged face. He flopped back down onto the sofa again.

“You just make yourself comfortable,” I sighed and went to the kitchen.

I switched on the kettle and prepared the tea. As I worked, I called out to him and said, “Who told you to bring my iPod over?”

“One of the older guys,” I heard him say from the living room. “I think his name was Mac. Apparently, the skipper asked him to bring it over, but Mac got called out on some job, so he asked me to drop it off here on my way home. He told me not to tell the skipper I’d brought it over.”

I knew at once why Mac hadn’t wanted my father to know he had got the newbie to bring my iPod over, as I wasn’t meant to be having any contact with anyone at work until talk about the accident had died down.

“You won’t say anything to the skipper, will you?” he said from the other room. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble during my first few days on the job.”

Guessing my father would give Mac a hard time, I said, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell my dad that you popped by.”

“Your dad!”
Vincent suddenly gasped. I looked up to see him peering around the frame of the kitchen door at me. “Your dad is the sergeant?”

With disbelief, I looked at the cigarette which was dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, he’s my father,” I said, crossing the kitchen and snatching the half-smoked cigarette from between Vincent’s lips. “Do you mind?” I scowled at him, pitching the cigarette out in the sink. “I didn’t say you could smoke in here.”

“Sorry,” Vincent shrugged as if unable to see why it was such a big deal. “I didn’t think having a smoke would get your knickers in a twist.”

“You’re a cocky sod, aren’t you?” I snapped at him.

Ignoring me, he looked at the tea I had just poured and said, “Don’t suppose you’ve got any biscuits to go with that? Jammy Dodgers –

I love Jammy Dodgers.”

“You want Jammy Dodgers, go and freaking buy some,” I said, thrusting the cup of tea into his hands. “There’s a shop just down the road.”

Brushing past him, I went back into the living room. Vincent followed.

“So you’re the officer in the paper,” Vincent said, then made an annoying slurping sound as he drank the tea.

“Yes,” I said.

Vincent reached down and plucked up the newspaper. “You’re much prettier in real life,” he said thoughtfully.

“There’s a picture of me?” I gasped, snatching the paper from him and thumbing through the pages.

“Yeah, it’s not a very good one,” he said, slurping at his tea again. “Makes you look fat.”

I glared at him over the top of the newspaper.

“I’m not saying you’re fat,” he said, as if realising his mistake. “What I meant to say was that they could have chosen a better picture, that’s all...”

“Vincent,” I hissed at him.

“Huh?” he said, looking vacantly at me.

“Do yourself a favour and shut up!” I snapped.

“Sure,” he said, taking a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He saw me glare down at them. Silently, he put them away again. “Sorry, I forgot,” he whispered back at me.

I looked down at the paper, and there on page six was a picture of me. It had been lifted from a group photo of me and the other recruits I had passed through training school with. And I didn’t look fat.
Local cop in traffic accident – four dead!
The headline read in thick, black letters. The article was short, and described pretty much how my father had spun the facts. In fact, one part of the article read:
“
...
if it hadn’t of been for the quick thinking of Officer Sydney Hart, then she too could have ended up dead. The driver of the horse and cart was only partially sighted and drove him and his family into the path of the officer’s car while she was en route to assist colleagues
...” police spokesman Sergeant Richard Hart was reported to have said.

Was this a suicide by cop?
The reporter had asked.

I don’t know about that
, Sergeant Hart, the police spokesman said,
but to have been driving with such poor eyesight, the driver must have had a death wish.

There was little else to the article which I didn’t already know. The fact that the evidence had now been passed to the local coroner’s office, pending an inquest was how the report ended. Just like my father had said, a few lines and it would all be forgotten about. The world would move on.

I closed the paper, folded it, and placed it back on the sofa.

“Are you okay?” Vincent asked, looking at me. “You look really...really tired...worn out.”

“And fat?” I glanced at him. “You really know how to flatter a lady.”

“Sorry,” he said again with a shrug. “It couldn’t have been easy – you know, being caught up in an accident like that.”

Wanting to change the subject, and heeding my father’s warning, I said, “So how are you finding being a cop?”

“Not as exciting as I thought it would be,” Vincent said with a frustrated sigh.

“Well if it’s excitement and action you want, you’ve come to the wrong place,” I said.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Vincent groaned. “This is where force headquarters posted me.”

“It’s not so bad,” I said. “What has my father got you doing?”

“Cleaning out the property store and the filing room,” Vincent said.

“Wow, that is exciting,” I smiled back at him.

“It’s okay, I guess,” Vincent said, placing his empty cup to one side. “Some of those old files are quite interesting.”

“How come?” I asked. “I didn’t think any exciting crimes ever happened in Cliff View.”

“I’ve come across one file which seems pretty interesting,” he said, scratching his chin.

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying to sound interested, but half of me just wanted to be on my own again. I turned to my iPod in its dock and thumbed through the tracks.  I selected
Set Fire To The Rain
by
Adele.

“There was this girl who died about ten years ago,” Vincent said as the music started. “She fell down a well and died.”

The mention of the word
well
brought a sudden flashback of the nightmare I’d had. I saw myself trapped at the bottom of that well again and screaming for help. I turned to look at Vincent, who was now checking out some of the books on the shelf attached to the living room wall. “Black Hill Farm,” he said thumbing through one of the books. “I’ve not read that one.”

Taking it from him and placing it back onto the
shelf, I looked at Vincent and said, “So how did this girl end up in the bottom of a well?”

“Some say she was being chased and she fell in,” he said, fingering another book on the shelf.

I gripped his wrist before he had a chance to remove another one. “Who was chasing her?” I breathed.

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “A lot of the paperwork is missing from the file. I guess that’s why your father has asked me to tidy up. That file room is a right mess, I can tell you.” Then, as if noticing the serious look on my face, Vincent added, “Is there something wrong?”

Letting go of his wrist, I turned away and said, “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” he said, coming up behind me.

“I’m sure,” I said.

“Okay.” And I heard his coat crinkle as he shrugged again.

I turned to look at him, wanting to tell him about the nightmare I’d had. He would think I was mad, right?

Looking back at me as I stood before him, Vincent suddenly said, “Do you want to go to bed?”

“What?”
I gasped, surprised by what he had said.

With his cheeks flushing scarlet, Vincent mumbled, “Holy shit, that’s not what I meant. Oh no! I wasn’t like...you know...suggesting we went to bed together...nothing like that. I mean we could if you wanted...no I’m just fooling about when I say that...oh, shit I’m just making things worse, aren’t I?”

Feeling kind of embarrassed for him, and trying to mask a smile, I said, “I think I know what you meant.”

“It’s just like I said...you look really tired...” Vincent continued to stammer and fluster. “...so when I said do you want to go to bed...I didn’t mean with me...I wasn’t suggesting that we...you know...had jiggy-jiggy or anything like that...”

“Jiggy-jiggy?” I laughed. Vincent, although a little annoying with his nosy ways, definitely had a way of making me laugh. There was a kind of endearing innocence about him. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”

“No?” he said with a frown. “You know what I mean...I just meant to say that perhaps you should get some rest...have an early night...”

“If I were you, I’d leave now, Vincent, before you really put your foot in it,” I smiled, guiding him towards the door.

“Okay, you’re probably right,” he said, stumbling backwards into the edge of the sofa. I gripped him by the arm before he spilled onto the carpet. “Thanks,” he said, glowing scarlet again.

“It’s okay,” I said, opening the front door.

He stepped out into the dark. It had started to rain. Zipping up the front of his coat, he said, “It was nice meeting you, Sydney.”

“You too,” I smiled, watching him set off towards the street. Before he had gone too far, I called out to him. “Hey, Vincent!”

“Mm?” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at me.

“If you find anymore paperwork from that file, could you bring it over for me to have a look at?” I asked.

Vincent turned to look at me. “I don’t know if that is such a great idea,” he said thoughtfully. “Mac made it quite clear that you were to be left alone – you know, while you get your head around what happened – the accident. I don’t want to start pissing off the skipper – your father.”

“I promise I won’t say anything if you don’t,” I hushed. “It will be our secret.”

Vincent looked down at the ground as if thinking, then back at me. “Okay,” he said. “But the next time I come over, you better have some biscuits in.”

“I promise,” I smiled.

Vincent turned away, and disappeared up the street.

I closed the door, and with my back pressed flat against it, I knew I had gone and created yet another secret.

Vincent had been right. I did need to go to bed. I needed some serious sleep. Sleep undisrupted by nightmares of the people I had killed on the road. I went through my apartment, switching out the lights. Picking up my iPod, which Vincent had returned, and a set of small earphones, I went to my bedroom. I peeled off my clothes and climbed
into bed. With the light from my iPod casting eerie shadows about the room, I hit the music icon with my thumb, expecting to see the album cover for
Adele –21
to appear on the screen, as that had been the track which had been playing before switching it off. I was surprised to see Sting staring back at me.
The Police – Greatest Hits
the screen read. I frowned, unable to remember ever downloading the album to my iPod – it was too 80’s for me. Perhaps I had in some drunken stupor or perhaps Vincent had downloaded it. Would he have? Vincent admitted to searching through my iPod to see what music I liked; perhaps he had downloaded this album for a joke or something. It was
The Police
after all. Perhaps one of my colleagues had downloaded it? But why?

I pulled the duvet up under my chin, pressed
play
on my iPod, and closed my eyes. The song
Message in a Bottle
started to play...
Just a castaway...an island lost at sea...another lonely day...with no one here but me
...Sting sang. The words swam through my mind as I lay alone in my bed in the dark. Maybe whoever had downloaded the album to my iPod was trying to send me a message...
I’m sending out an S.O.S...I’m sending out an S.O.S...
or perhaps they were asking for my help, I wondered as the song went around and around in my head. But who would need help from someone like me? How could I help anyone else when I couldn’t even help myself?