Double Blind (3 page)

It was still cold this evening though, so I turned the heat on in the flat before opening a bottle of cabernet, one of Josh’s favorites. When I heard the key turning in the lock, I hurried down the hallway to greet him, feeling a familiar tingle down my spine. Pulling the door open, I turned my face up for a kiss. He was eight inches taller than me, except when I wore heels. I pushed a lock of dark, glossy hair back from his face. “I missed you.”

He stepped inside, dumped his briefcase and overnight bag on the floor, and gave me another long, deep kiss. “I missed you too. I always do,” he said.

“I opened some wine. Do you want some?”

“Aye, but first I need to get out of this suit and tie.” His Scottish accent grew a little stronger when he was tired. “And I may need some help with that.” Taking my hand in his, he led me to the bedroom. When he held me, I felt the stress of my recent aura sighting melt away. Focusing only on him, I relaxed, savoring the touch of his skin against mine.

It was late when I went to the kitchen, where I poured two glasses of wine and carried them into the living room. Josh joined me, freshly showered and dressed in a white t-shirt and red tartan PJ pants. His mother gave him Stewart clan clothing for Christmas every year.

“Nearly forgot,” he said, going out into the hallway. He came back with something wrapped in gift paper and tied with green ribbon. “I found a small bookshop tucked away in the Old City and spent a couple of hours rummaging around in there one evening. I thought you’d like this.”

I untied the ribbon. The smell of old books wafted upwards, one of my favorite scents of all, a magical mix of paper, ink and dust. The cover of dark red leather had faded to brown in parts, and the title was tooled in gold across the front.
A Gathering of Flowers
. The pages were of thick creamy paper. Each one held a short description of a plant, accompanied by an illustration drawn in black ink and finished with fine washes of color. Every page was a small work of art.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Just what I need to inspire me for Dad’s book.” I was working on illustrating a gardening book that my father had written. The joint project was an attempt to put our relationship back on an even keel, and it gave us something to talk about that didn’t concern auras or my career.

Josh smiled before his eyes shifted away from my face for a second. Then he squeezed my hand and kept hold of it. “It’s good that you’re working on your photography and illustrating,” he said. “But I think you should come back to work now. We just signed a new client. We need you.”

He hadn’t agreed with my decision to take six months off work. Business had slumped, it was true, but Josh’s view was that I would have been able to contribute to the company’s faster recovery had I stayed. At the time, a temporary leave of absence had seemed like a good idea. I’d almost died in the office car park. Avoiding the office and the memories it held made sense to me then. Now I wasn’t so sure. Even though my attacker was safely behind bars, I sometimes felt vulnerable and nervous, so what was the point of distancing myself from my work, the one thing that provided continuity and stability? And I knew that my career had been set back. Alan had promoted Josh, and promised to make him a partner in a year or two. I was happy for Josh, of course, but sometimes I wondered if I would have got that promotion if I’d been in the office every day, helping Alan put the company back together.

“Kate? What do you think? Why don’t you come back now? There’s no need to wait any longer.”

“I’ll think about it.”

His aquamarine eyes clouded with disappointment. “You seem a little distracted,” he said. “Is there anything wrong?”

“No, nothing.”

“I know you much better than that,” he said. “Out with it.”

So I told him about the auras I had seen over Simon Scott and his colleague. When I’d finished, he held me tightly and kissed the top of my head, a gesture that I always found soothing and protective. He’d worked hard to overcome his skepticism about my ability to see auras. Now he talked about them as easily as other people discussed what to eat for dinner.

“How distinct were they?” he asked.

On the basis of several experiences, I’d learned that there was a connection between the strength of the aura and the amount of time before death occurred. “The air was moving fast,” I said. “I think so anyway. I only got a short glimpse as the men ran past. I should try get another look, don’t you think, so that I have a better idea of how much time they have?”

“It seems to me that there’s nothing much you can do about this.” Josh settled back into the sofa, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Let’s be honest, even if you tried to warn them, no one will believe you.”

“I know. I can’t just stand by, though, and do nothing.”

“And both men had the auras? It wasn’t just one?”

“No, I’m positive there were two. That implies something like a deliberate killing, don’t you think? Like the time when the IRA tried to kill Thatcher by planting a bomb in the hotel in Brighton? Or maybe a shooting, although that’s more of an American thing.”

I stood up and went to the kitchen to start some coffee. Josh had bought me a fancy Italian espresso machine for my birthday. I’d become slightly — make that very — addicted to coffee ever since.

“I think it might be an accident.” Back in the living room, I picked up where I’d left off. “They could both be in the same car. Or a helicopter. Don’t politicians fly to important meetings in helicopters?”

Josh took my hand in his and squeezed it. “Take a breath. Slow down. This isn’t your problem to solve, Kate. I know you want to help, but nothing good can come of your going public about an aura.”

“I don’t have to talk about the aura. I could just try to convince someone that Scott’s in danger.”

“And how can you do that?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I clasped my hands together, watching my knuckles turn white. I knew something I couldn’t share because no one would believe me. Maybe losing a modern-day politician or two wasn’t as earth-shattering as the destruction of Troy, but I felt just like Cassandra, who’d foreseen the war and the subsequent defeat. Her warnings were ignored and her family and friends thought she was insane. Frustrated, I slumped against the back of the sofa.

Josh pulled me into his arms. “I know it’s hard for you,” he said. “But you need to let this one go. I’m sure there’s a slew of people looking after Scott, making sure he’s safe. There’s nothing you can do that they can’t.”

I fidgeted and wriggled out of his arms.

“Okay,” I said. But I wasn’t going to give up that easily.

The following day, Josh left at dawn to drive with Alan Bradley to a meeting in Southampton. Then he had to go back to Bristol for a few days. We’d stayed up late, talking, mostly avoiding the subject of Simon Scott and Kevin Lewis. But now, alone in the empty flat, thoughts of their auras scurried around in my head like mice.

A couple of weeks ago, I had won a freelance contract with a gardening magazine and my assignment was due, so I worked on the illustrations. But my heart wasn’t in it. After an hour or so, I found myself clicking through television channels looking for any news of the election, but only found daytime soaps and a program about obesity.

I made some tea, sat at the coffee table with my laptop, and ran more searches on Simon Scott. I soon found what I was looking for. He was appearing in Kensington that evening, speaking to the public in a grammar school gymnasium. I wasn’t totally sure what I expected to get out of seeing him again, but having a plan made me feel better. I went back to my art assignment.

At six o’ clock, I dressed warmly against the arctic wind that had swept in to replace the rain. The biting cold was a stark warning to those foolish enough to think that spring was anywhere in our future. At the last minute, I grabbed a press pass given to me by Gardener’s Monthly for an event at Kew Gardens. It had my photo on it and hung from a lanyard that I put round my neck.

The gym was packed when I got there, but was barely any warmer than it was outside. People sat on benches and beige foldout chairs, with their coats and scarves still tightly wrapped around them. Standing at the back, I could see that a stage had been set up at the far end, draped with banners and posters bearing the logo of the Labor Party. Spotting a table where several women were handing out cups of tea and slices of cake on paper plates, I pushed my way over. If I had to stand for the evening, I needed some sustenance. It seemed that everyone at the back had the same idea, however, and I queued for some time with little hope of achieving my goal before the speeches began.

A woman walked past me, eyeing my press pass. “You should be at the front, love,” she said. “Press is up there and there are a few empty chairs.”

I hesitated just for a second and then walked up an aisle to the front, taking a seat in the second row. A dark-haired man with glasses glanced over at me when I sat down, but he didn’t speak. He had a notebook and a pencil ready. I retrieved my iPhone from my purse; I didn’t really plan on taking any notes, but I should at least look as though I was. My neighbor eyed the phone before turning to talk to a middle-aged woman who sat on the other side of him.

Rather like a concert, there were some warm-up acts before the party leader took the stage, a series of speakers who varied in their delivery from hectoring to droning. I was sure Anita would have been enthralled, but I was perilously close to nodding off. Finally, a good-looking young man with gelled hair and a large red rosette pinned to his chest ran on to the stage and raised his arms to encourage the audience to applaud. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he shouted. “Please welcome your party leader, Simon Scott!”

As the gymnasium erupted into a storm of cheers and clapping, I realized that this was an event for the already-converted. The applause went on for some time, while the young man stood on stage absorbing it all as though it was meant for him. Finally he held up both hands, palms out, until the echoing hall began to fall quiet. “Thank you, thank you,” he said, stepping to one side, throwing one arm out like a vaudeville performer to summon Scott to the stage. Simon Scott walked on to a renewed burst of applause. He waited patiently for silence. From where I sat, his aura was very pronounced, with the air rippling around his head and shoulders fast enough to blur the photograph of himself on the wall behind him.

Something about him reminded me of Josh. He was older, of course, but he had that same boyish look and floppy hair, light-colored eyes and lean figure. The similarity made the fact of his aura even harder to accept. I felt protective of him just as I would be of Josh. He was far too young to die.

Scott talked for some time, but I didn’t listen to what he was saying; I was concentrating on the swirling air. It was only when the man next to me stood up that I realized Scott was taking questions from the press. The young man with the gelled hair assisted by selecting the journalists who would be allowed to ask a question. My neighbor sat down and wrote some notes while Scott responded.

Without thinking, I stuck my hand up. The young man pointed to me. “Yes? Just call out your name and publication, then your question.”

Oh damn.
I put my hand down and hoped he would move on, but he kept looking at me and repeated, “Your question?”

I stood up. My knees trembled and my voice felt as though it had caught in my throat. “Kate Benedict, freelancer.”

The man next to me turned and glanced up at my press pass. “Gardener’s Monthly,” he called out. Those close enough to hear him began laughing. The assistant on stage smiled too and nodded at me.

“I wanted to ask Mr. Scott…” I stopped. My brain had frozen in place and I couldn’t think of anything to ask. Berating myself for not being sufficiently up to date on politics to even know what the questions should be, I felt heat blazing in my cheeks.

“Ask him what he plans to do about funding for school lunches,” my neighbor murmured quietly. I took a deep breath and repeated out loud what he’d said. As I sat down, Scott nodded as though he had expected the question and began talking about the difficulty of meeting nutritional standards with a budget of forty pence per student. I tried to listen, but my heart was still pounding so loudly that I couldn’t concentrate on his words. He had a good speaking voice, which easily filled the gym and when he finished his answer, everyone applauded.

“Thank you,” I whispered to my neighbor.

“No problem. I was a rookie once. Long time ago. Name’s Colin Butler by the way, the
Messenger.”

I passed the rest of the evening in a daze, getting over the shock of my unexpected moment in the spotlight. And I was sitting next to a real journalist from a serious newspaper, and he undoubtedly knew I wasn’t even close to being a reporter. So I was relieved when Scott left the stage to thunderous clapping and cheering from the audience.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly Cicero, but it wasn’t too bad,” Butler said. I assumed he was referring to Scott’s speech. Personally, I’d found it rather boring. Scott’s colleague, Kevin Lewis, hadn’t made an appearance, so I couldn’t check on his aura. I’d learned nothing about Scott that I didn’t already know. The evening felt like a waste of time. I wanted to go home to the warmth of my centrally-heated flat.

“I hope he makes it,” said Butler, watching Scott disappear behind a curtain at the back of the temporary stage.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. “What do you mean, makes it?”

He dropped his notebook and pencils into a beige canvas bag. “I hope his party wins. It’s going to be a close race.”

“I thought they were leading in the polls?” Standing up, we waited for the crowd to empty out through the double doors at the far end of the building.

“It depends which polls you look at. Many voters are going to make a decision based on Scott as the party leader. He can’t afford to lose even a fraction of a percent. Tonight he didn’t say anything of substance. Nothing that would pull an unbeliever into the fold. Still, I’m holding out for a win. Just have to hope nothing crops up to cause any problems.”