Кара Хантер - In the Dark

‘Titus Jackson,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than I’ve already told DC Everett. The young woman has definitely given birth but shows no signs of recent sexual violence – no vaginal or other bruising.’

‘Is she still sedated?’

‘No. But she hasn’t yet said anything.’

‘Can I see her?’

He hesitates. ‘Only for a few minutes, and only one at a time, please. She’s in a very fragile state, mentally. She becomes extremely distressed when anyone gets too close, especially men, so please bear that in mind.’

‘I have dealt with rape victims before.’

‘I don’t doubt you have, but this is rather more than just that.’

I nod; I know he’s right. ‘And the child?’

‘My colleagues in Paediatrics carried out another examination as you requested and there’s nothing to suggest sexual abuse. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that some of the things those people do to children don’t leave physical signs.’

‘You’re right. You don’t need to tell me.’

I turn to Alex.

‘It’s fine,’ she says, anticipating me. ‘I’ll wait here.’

‘I can show you the waiting room,’ says Everett. ‘It’s just along the corridor.’

*

When I get to the girl’s room I do what everyone else must have done. I stop at the window and I look at her. And then I feel ashamed. Like a voyeur. And I wonder how she feels about being here. Whether these four walls are just another type of prison – it’s caring, this time, but it’s still confinement. Her eyes are open, but though the room looks out on trees and grass and green things she can’t have seen for God knows how long, she’s staring at the ceiling. At the blank repeating tiles.

I knock on the door and she starts, sitting up quickly in the bed. I open the door slowly and step inside, but I take care not to move any closer. All the while her eyes follow me.

‘I’m a police officer. My name is Adam.’

There’s some sort of reaction to that, but I’m not sure I could define what.

‘I think you saw my colleague. DC Everett. Verity.’

Definitely a reaction now.

‘We’re all really concerned about you. You’ve had a terrible time.’

Her lip trembles and she clutches at the blanket.

I reach into my jacket and pull out a piece of paper.

‘I know you haven’t said anything about it, and perhaps you can’t. That’s OK. I understand. But I was wondering if perhaps you could write it down? Anything you remember – anything that might help us?’

She’s staring at me, but she’s not frightened. At least I don’t think so. I take a pen from my pocket and move slowly towards the bed, ready to retreat if she reacts. But she doesn’t flinch, she just watches.

I place the paper and pen slowly on the bedside table, perhaps a foot from her hand, then back off to the door.

It’s another five minutes before she touches them. Five minutes of silent patience on my part, which is not a talent of mine, but I can do it if the stakes are high enough. And this time, they are.

She puts out a hand and pulls the paper towards her. Then the pen. And then, as if it’s a task she doesn’t do often and has lost the knack for, she takes it in her hand and writes. It’s slow but it can’t be much more than a word. Then she holds out the paper to me, and I can see the strain in her eyes. The tears only just suppressed.

Five letters.

Vicky

When I go back down the corridor, Everett is waiting. I can see her react to the look on my face.

‘Did she say something?’

‘No,’ I reply, showing her the paper. ‘But we have a name.’

‘Is that all – nothing else?’

I’m about to say that it’s still a bloody sight more than she’s managed to get so far. But I stop myself just in time, and then I’m irritated that I’m irritated. It’s hardly Ev’s fault, after all.

‘Afraid not. I asked, but she was starting to get distressed. And then that doctor friend of yours arrived and kicked me out. Nicely, of course.’

I might be mistaken, but I think she’s actually blushing.

‘Look, I’m on my way home, but can you get on to Baxter and ask him to check Missing Persons for girls called Vicky?’ I look around. ‘And do you happen to know where my wife is?’

‘She went downstairs. She wanted to see the little boy.’

*

It’s not just Alex who hates hospitals. I remember bringing Jake here when he fell off a swing in the playground and got a bump on his forehead the size of an egg. He must have been three. Perhaps four. We sat in AE for an hour while every conceivable catastrophic brain-damage scenario spun through my head, and then a brisk, overworked nurse took one look at him, gave him some Calpol and sent us home. The bump went pretty quickly; the memory of the panic didn’t. And later, much later, after he started hurting himself, we came here again. When we had to. Enduring the sideways glances from nurses, and the doctors taking us aside, and the explanations, and the calls to the GP to check that we weren’t lying – that she knew all about it and it was under control. As if something so terrible could ever be ‘under control’. And all the time, Jake’s white face, his anxious eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’

‘It’s OK,’ Alex would whisper, rocking him gently, kissing his hair, ‘it’s OK.’

I think, afterwards, that this explains it. That memory in my head as I push open the door to the children’s ward and round the corner into the room.

The way she’s holding him.

The dark hair.

His body curled into hers.

The tenderness.

I don’t know how long it is I stand there. Long enough for the nurse to join me, in silence, and watch.

‘It’s like a miracle,’ she says softly, after a long moment.

I turn to her. I know it’s not Jake. Of course it isn’t. I know that. But for a moment – just a moment –

‘He just went to her, straight away. With everyone else, he screams and fights like you wouldn’t believe. But with your wife – well, you can see for yourself.’

My eyes meet Alex’s and she smiles, her hand slowly stroking the boy’s long dark curls.

‘It’s OK,’ she whispers, ‘it’s OK.’

And I don’t know if it’s the boy she’s talking to. Or me.

***

The world of wyrd

(from the Anglo-Saxon ‘wyrd’ meaning fate or doom)

A Blog about the spooky, the paranormal and the unexplained

POSTED 03/05/17

Death and the raven – the Wittenham riddle deepens

Many of you will remember the strange case of the disappearance of Hannah Gardiner, back in 2015. If not you can read my original post here. It struck me at the time, because Hannah had broken the news of the discovery of sacrificial remains at Wittenham only a few months before. And then she disappears herself, and her little boy and his stuffed bird (note that) were discovered in the Money Pit, where legend has it that a huge raven guards a mysterious treasure (note that too – I’ll come back to it). For those of you who haven’t been there, Wittenham is an amazing place – criss-crossed by ley lines, and you can almost feel the presence of ancestral voices. So personally I’m not surprised at all that human sacrifice took place there, including women who had been tied up and thrown into the pit, and then had the backs of their skulls beaten in.

The reason to bring all this up again now is that my sources tell me there are some truly spooky similarities between those ancient corpses, and the position Hannah’s own body was found in. Word is that Hannah was tied up too, and died of a head wound to the back of the skull . Creepy, eh? There was even a dead black bird near the corpse . Coincidence? Don’t you believe it. The police aren’t confirming anything, but well, they wouldn’t would they?