Two of a Mind (8 page)

“She looks adorable.”

“You're just saying that because you're her doting granddad!” Jade laughed. “But on this occasion, I'll allow it.”

Bethany continued to spin on the spot making her multi-layered skirt flare out almost parallel to the floor. Finally she was too dizzy to stand and collapsed on the floor, giggling uncontrollably.

“Careful.” Jade picked up the breathless child. “You'll make yourself sick and ruin the dress before we even get there.”

“We'd better be making tracks,” Matt said. “Eddie and Trish are meeting us at the church. We'll see you there.” He gave his daughter and grand-daughter a proud hug.

Laura watched from the doorway, enjoying the sight of the three generations in a warm embrace.

“Come on,” she said. “You know how nervous Jonny is. He'll need his godfather to give him a push towards the altar if he gets stage fright.”

“Poor lad, I'd be nervous marrying into the Dévereux family too.”

“Be nice. Little ears hear all,” Laura whispered, nodding towards Bethany who was now hopping from one foot onto the other, still full of energy and excitement.

Luckily the eight-year old was busy admiring the sparkling sandals that her mother was holding. Too eager about the wedding to listen to Gramps. Being a bridesmaid was a very important job – Aunty Ce-Ce had told her so – and she wasn't going to let Aunty Ce-Ce down. She frowned at her knee, recently grazed and now sporting a lovely, knobbly scab. Mummy had been so careful to keep her indoors for weeks ahead of the wedding but the day before yesterday Bethany ran to the gate to collect a parcel from the postman and promptly tripped on the gravel path. Her loud cries were more to divert Mummy's cross response than from any real pain.

“Don't worry Betty-kins,” Jade now soothed, noticing her daughter's sudden change of mood. “Your knee won't be so noticeable under your fancy tights. We just need to be careful we don't scrape off the scab, don't we?”

Jade struggled not to laugh at Bethany's serious nodding then her breath caught as she noticed her child's resemblance to her great-grandmother – still missed after all these years. Jade felt a sudden prod of guilt that she'd been too busy to follow through on her promise to help find out what Julia had been searching for.

“Muuu-mmee!” Bethany's whine brought Jade back to the present.

“Sorry, lovely,” she said and continued to smooth the lacy tights over her child's wriggling legs.

***

Despite the groom's nerves everything followed the meticulous planning of his beautiful bride. Laura felt only a brief stab of jealousy that Jade had chosen not to marry Bethany's father, despite numerous proposals. Laura hadn't had the chance to indulge herself as the mother-of-the-bride, however, being godmother of the groom on this occasion had it's advantages. She and Matt were included in all the family portraits of the day so she could enjoy the involvement without the stress of the organisation.

“Remind me again who that couple are with Jen,” Matt whispered as the toasts came to an end.

“Samuel went to school with Jen and Celeste and that's his girlfriend Elizabeth.”

“Phwar. She's a looker!”

“Matthew Simpson.” Laura playfully slapped her husband's arm. “You're old enough to be her father.”

“Ah so it's only that you consider me too old for her. Not that you're jealous, at all.” Matt smiled as he kissed his wife's pouting lips.

“Behave you two!” Jade interrupted. “Anyone would think it's
your
wedding day.”

“I hope that we'll still be just as loving when we reach our thirtieth anniversary,” said the new Mrs Hanson, approaching the table.

“My dear girl,” Matt said. “I've never seen Jonny happier. He's besotted. Whatever you've been doing together in that office of yours has done the trick.” He gave an exaggerated wink and earned another slap from his wife.

Celeste blushed slightly. “If I told you I'd have to kill you,” she replied with her own sly wink.

Things are getting complicated
.

I couldn't work out what was really happening in my relationship with Seth. We were best friends; always had been and, if I had my way, always would be. But I realised that, for me at least, it was developing into something more. I thought about the way he'd cared for me earlier. Was I imagining that the way he felt about me was changing too?

I stretched to relieve the stiffness in my neck and shoulders. I'd been hunched over the desk in my room trying to tune out the white noise in my head that had returned during dinner. I'd made my excuses and left the table before dessert, coming to my room before Mum got into full flow about me going out when she'd said I shouldn't.

So much for improved mother daughter relations!
I thought.

As I leaned backwards, Seth's scent wafted up from his jumper, draped over the back of my chair. I'd forgotten to give it back to him when we'd reached my house. I tried to rekindle the relaxed, safe feeling I'd experienced that afternoon when he'd been massaging my face and the noise in my head had diminished. Although the reminder of his smell was comforting it didn't do the trick and the voices continued to chatter incoherently. At least I didn't feel quite so sick this time. Maybe if I concentrated on something else I could ignore the internal racket.

Elizabeth's
Handi
was charging up in the last rays of sunlight on the window ledge.
I'll have another look. See what I can come up with.
When the unit turned on I chose ‘Random Access' – an opportunity to let fate decide where I'd start.

Oh great! Just when I was beginning to think about the romantic possibilities with Seth, Fate chooses to throw this up at me. The Pop-Up quote seemed apt enough, although macabre, but what was that notation at the end about? What did it mean? My mind was full of that bloody noise and I couldn't filter it out to work on the riddle of what DOM stood for. I knew it was something obvious. I could feel it on the tip of my tongue but the more I tried to track it down the louder the murmuring voices became.

With a frustrated sigh, I switched off the
Handi
, put it back into my bag and went to bed hoping that a good night's sleep was all I needed to clear my head permanently.

***

The colour of the buildings, smudged monochrome from the past centuries of smoke and exhaust fumes, mirrors the slate grey winter sky. The temperature steadily drops and a light wind chases the Parisians home early from their work and shopping but we're immune to the chill as we walk along the Champs-Élysées arm-in-arm, chattering excitedly about our plans to marry. Tomas chose the ring weeks ago and it fits me so well that I'm amazed he knew the sizing without actually taking my finger to the jewellers! He was too excited to wait until tomorrow – Valentine's Day. I'm glad he didn't wait. Now we can spend the rest of the weekend celebrating. Tomas has managed to get a table at Café Lenôtre, I hate to think how much all this is costing him. He can tell by my expression that I'm worried.

“Don't fret so, ma petite,” he says. “I have more good news. I've been promoted to Deputy Research Director. They've given me a bonus of 3000 credits for my past year's performance and my salary goes up by 250 credits per month.” He grabs me and spins me around, laughing and kissing me all over my cold face before we enter the welcome warmth of the restaurant.

We eat moules marinières; drink champagne; and share dessert with one spoon. We sit close to each other and kiss at every opportunity. The waiters smile, congratulating us. They can't fail to notice me constantly admiring my ring. As we leave the restaurant we stumble a little – too much champagne! We bump into a man standing by the exit. He's distributing roses to patrons as they leave.

“Excuse me,” he says and hands me a rose.

“No. Excuse us!” we giggle, as we both draw in the sweet, heavy scent of the flower.

We decide to walk home along the Avenue de Marigny. In our euphoria, we remain oblivious to the cold. The wintry weather has kept people indoors and it seems as though we are alone in the city. As we approach the junction with Avenue Gabriél, we lean against the wall and enjoy another long, passionate kiss. My hips are pressed up against Tomas's and his hands are squeezing my buttocks. I sense his arousal and a groan escapes me as I anticipate our lovemaking. My rising passion makes my skin tingle. Now there's a hand on my neck but both Tomas's are still gripping my bum. I try to turn to see who is behind me. I can't move. The hand on my neck is strong, keeping my mouth tight on Tomas's. I open my eyes. Tomas has his open too and I see fear in them. What's happening to us? I remember the man at Café Lenôtre – the rose – and I can smell the scent, not sweet now, but sickly, cloying.

“Don't mind me.” I recognise that man's voice, even though he is now speaking English. Stupidly, I want to tell him I can understand him, but I can't break away from the kiss. This isn't possible. How can one man hold two people so firmly with only his hands?

“The rose was a nice touch, don't you think? I sprayed it with a truly wonderful drug. It breaks down the neurological connections for voluntary movements, only allowing eye activity and, of course, the involuntary mechanisms such as breathing. Naturally I anticipated your immobility and I brought transport along to help move you off the street. We can't have any opportunistic voyeurs watching your passionate antics, now can we?”

He torments us with his snide comment. We're well aware that there are no other people around. No chance of anyone coming to help us. What is he going to do? I'm so scared. Tears spill from my eyes and I can see the anguish in Tomas's.

The man slides a rolling mat under our feet – one like the delivery men use for large parcels – and he pushes us through the darkened gateway into the grounds of the Théâtre Marigny. Tomas's hands remain clasped around my buttocks and what started as a funny, sexy gesture now seems grotesque. Five minutes ago I would've given anything to be able to get in here and fulfil the desires Tomas aroused in me. Now I want to run as far away as possible.

Out of the corner of my eye I see that the clouds have cleared, the moon is bright in a star-filled sky. Such beauty amidst this horror. My gaze returns to Tomas's face. His eyes are closed, possibly to shield me from his own terror.

Why is the Englishman doing this to us? He tapes our bodies together in an even tighter embrace than before, pulling our hips so close that I can feel Tomas's pelvic bones grinding into mine. Oh, I'd wanted him so much but this isn't the way it's supposed to be.

As the Englishman pushes us to the ground the cold creeps into my body from the frozen earth – strange that I can sense that when, otherwise, I'm so numb.

“Almost done,” the man says cheerfully. I begin to believe that, despite everything, it's going to be okay after all. Maybe he's just going to leave us here for a sick joke – to teach us that it's not acceptable to make out on street corners. But now he puts a clip on my nose. NO! I scream though no sound emerges. I can't breathe. Please unblock my nose. PLEASE. Tomas suffers the same fate and, eventually, we can't help it – we're trying to breathe through each other's mouth. It won't work. How can it? We have nothing left. I love you, Tomas. I need you to hear me, to read my mind.

Wait – where's Simone? What's happened to our connection? She's only the other side of the river. SIMONE! Phone the police, please. We're … we're … I can't see anything. It's gone dark. My ears buzz. I'm so tired.

***

“Dez. Dez! Wake up, sweetheart. It's only a bad dream. Come on. Deep breath now. That's it.”

Dad was gently shaking me to rouse me. I was fighting his grip trying to get free, panting and sweating as though I'd run a marathon. My head was fuzzy, I had flashes of light blurring my vision and my chest ached with each breath I pulled in. Finally my vision cleared and I realised where I was. I licked my dry lips, tasting a residual drop of champagne.
Don't be daft! It's just your imagination.

“S … Sorry, Dad. Didn't mean to disturb you. What time is it?” I looked at my bedside monitor. Only eleven-thirty. It felt like I'd been out for much longer.

“Do you want a drink or something to eat? You didn't have much at dinner.”

“A drink would be nice, thanks. My mouth tastes like a badger's arse!”
Where did that come from?

Dad looked at me with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. I shrugged and put on my ‘really sorry' face.

“Oops!”

“I wonder at you sometimes, young lady,” he said, shaking his head as he went to get my drink. He still looked puzzled when he returned with a glass of chilled water for me.

“I am sure I have never shared that particular expression of Claude's with you,” he said, referring to his own PT. “I am surprised you have heard it at all. It is not one of the more common phrases for today's young people, is it?” He was using his official voice. I wasn't in big trouble yet but he was concerned.

“I'm sorry. I don't know where it came from. Maybe I'm just going frikkin' psycho.”

“Desirée this is not funny at all and I suggest you moderate your language before you say anything else.”

“I didn't mean to be rude,” I protested, crying with frustration, “but I don't know what's going on. The voices in my head – they keep nagging at me. It's so bloody noisy in there I can't think straight any more.”

“Voices? What voices? When did this start? Was it before your … accident?”

He sounded angry or was it fear? Whatever it was, I couldn't handle it.

“Can we talk in the morning, please? I've got an awful headache and I'm really tired.”

“All right, Desirée. We shall try to get to the bottom of this tomorrow. Good-night.”

And, my normally forgiving, understanding father left my room without even a good-night kiss. He'd never done that before. I could see Mum hovering outside my bedroom door. She sighed and shook her head sadly before turning to follow Dad back to their room. Were we ever going to get back to normal –
and what is normal these days anyway?

I drank the water to try and swill away the choking sensation that lingered in my throat. The noise in my head was subdued but still present – as though it also felt cowed by the seriousness of the situation. That had been more than a dream brought on by reading the news report in Elizabeth's
Handi
. I'd felt every emotion, every sensation. I'd suffocated trying to breathe through the mouth of my lover –
well not technically
my
lover, but that's beside the point
. It was a memory. It was so real. It had to be a memory.

It's fine promising to talk about it. But how do I explain all that?