Driving Me Mad, page 8
He slipped from the front of my car, and I saw him collapse in front of my bumper, heard the distinct crunch of a body hitting gravel.
No! I couldn’t have killed him, not at that speed. It should’ve barely affected him, not made him slump to the ground.
I covered my mouth to hold back the sobs. I felt the blood drain from my face as I tried to decide what to do. I hadn’t even moved into second gear. The practical side of my mind insisted that someone was trying to get me out of the car, someone who wanted to hurt or rob me or both. That’s what it had to be.
But his face. That face didn’t make me think of a trickster, a robber, a thief. It had been the face of someone who had hurt me and who had been hurt by me.
Turning the engine off, I unclipped my seatbelt and tried to peer out of my windows. I couldn’t see anything, not even a splayed arm peeping out. He must’ve fallen slap bang in front of my car. I considered reversing to take in the scene, but that could hurt him even more, as I didn’t know exactly where he was.
As I reached for the door handle, an image of the man’s face appeared again. Dark brown eyes filled with pain, or surprise. Or was it pain and surprise I saw? I wasn’t so sure now. It could’ve been something else, something a little more in keeping with what had happened. Anger, maybe. I would have been angry too, if some stupid bitch had mowed me over on a driveway.
But back to the eyes. I knew them, fucking knew them.
No. No no no. It wasn’t Freddie Howell. It couldn’t be Freddie Howell. I’d just seen him being driven away in the passenger seat of Clare’s car. Ghosts were dead people, weren’t they?
Decision made, I opened the car door and stepped out, my foot crunching on the gravel. I edged my way around to the front of the vehicle, my stomach clenching in rhythm with my heartbeat.
I didn’t know quite how to feel when the ground in front of the car was empty—no slumped man, nothing but weeds and gravel. It had appeared so real, felt so real. I could visualise the moment clearly—his expression, the impact of a body hitting the bonnet, the sound of weight hitting the ground. But though I could relive it, that didn’t necessarily mean it had actually happened, did it?
I propped my backside on the hood of the car. Was I going mad? I looked about me, taking in my surroundings. It was quiet, deserted. It didn’t look as if anyone had been there for years. My attention focused on the ground in front of me as I stared at the spot where I believed there should have been a man, a man named Freddie Howell.
I cast my mind back two nights to when I had been driving down the deserted roads, completely lost. Finding this place had been like coming upon an oasis. But ever since then, my world had been tipped upside down. Dreams of running, of fear, of trying to escape; dreams of being loved, being wanted; waking to find bruises; hearing voices; seeing fucking dead people everywhere I looked.
I scraped my fingertips down my face, as if the movement would wake me up from this life. That’s when it hit me. Did Clare actually exist! Or was she part of this screwed up world I found myself in?
Jumping from the bonnet, I then rushed to the door and leaned over the seat. There was nothing there—no card, no handwriting, no email or phone numbers. I leaned back out to suck in some much needed air.
Fuck. And fuck. And what the fuck?
I leaned back inside the car and rummaged down the side of the seat, but found nothing. Tears filled my eyes, and I knew I was on the verge of losing it. “It has to be here. It has to be.” A sob broke free. So much had happened, so bloody much, but I couldn’t bear to think that I had imagined Clare Davies.
I stopped my search and slumped down onto the ground. My tears fell unchecked. I didn’t care who saw me. If someone else was here, he or she would probably be in my screwed up imagination.
I must’ve cried for solid ten minutes, quite a short amount of time considering I had just realised I had lost the plot. Sniffling, I wiped my face with my hands, rubbing my cheeks to motivate the blood to move around my body.
It was time to go home, to get back in the car and drive back to Norwich. A shaky laugh slipped from my mouth. “No wonder you lived in Wells.” It was probably because my imagination couldn’t think of anywhere else to locate my dream woman.
I’d been working a lot of hours. I’d been here, there, and everywhere in a short span of time, but it was part and parcel of the job. I knew I’d not been sleeping or eating well, that I’d been closing myself off from friends and family by saying I was too busy to see them. Had that all finally resulted in this?
When I stood, I felt slightly lightheaded, so I steadied myself against the side of my car. I took a couple of deep breaths, and just before I got inside, my mobile sounded, the ring stark and shrill in the desolate setting.
Galvanized, I opened the back door, grabbed my handbag, and rummaged through the junk inside. Thankfully, I got to my phone before the caller hung up.
“Rebecca?”
The voice seemed echoey, as if I was on speaker phone. Instead of speaking, I grunted.
“Sorry to call, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
I heard the sound of a turn indicator and knew the person calling was driving.
“It’s okay,” she said to someone other than me, or so I assumed. “We’re nearly there.”
“Excuse me, who is this?” I knew the voice, but I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
“It’s Clare.”
As in, my imaginary Clare?
“Granddad has had a turn, and I’m taking him to the hospital.”
Hospital?
“I doubt I’ll be able to make it by one.”
Granddad has had a turn? A turn?
“Rebecca, are you still there?”
“Yes. Erm…yes.”
“Can we say later?”
I felt some of the heaviness lift from me. Maybe I wasn’t losing the plot after all. I grimaced as I thought about all that had happened. Or maybe I was still losing the plot, and it had become more digitally advanced.
“Rebecca? Can you still hear me?”
“Yes. Yes. We can meet later. Or…” I had to find out once and for all if I was imagining this. “I could meet you at the hospital instead.” The line went quiet for a moment. Expecting a knock back, I gritted my teeth.
“Have you got a pen?” A grin split my face. “And a piece of paper?”
“Sure. Wait up.” Digging through my pockets for a pen, instead I found a card. A business card. The same business card I had searched the interior of my car for and then broke down in tears because I thought I was going mad. I kissed the card and slipped it back into my pocket. “Just tell me the address. I’ve a good memory.”
Although a slightly fucked up one, by all lights.
Chapter Five
Nearly an hour later, I was parking in the car park at the Royal Derby Hospital. I could have been there sooner if the bloody Sat Nav hadn’t sent me the wrong way, nearly into the centre of town.
As I approached the entrance, I saw a familiar person standing outside. She was even more beautiful than I remembered, although a little pale. I felt my heart kick start all over again, and it wasn’t just because Clare was flesh and blood.
“Hey, Clare. How is he?” I didn’t give a flying fuck about Freddie Howell, but that’s not what one says to the man’s granddaughter, is it?
Her face brightened when she heard my voice. “I thought I’d lost him at one point, but he’s fine now.” Her tears were threatening to spill over, and I placed my arm around her and pulled her close to me. Clare clutched at me and pulled me closer still, a sob slipping from her.
“Come on, he’s a tough one. He’ll be okay.” I was amazed that the words didn’t scald my tongue on their way out.
Clare lifted her head and looked into my eyes. The sheen of tears made hers even more striking than usual, and I leaned forward as if I was being pulled.
This was not the time to kiss her. Not just because I didn’t know her that well, but it would have been taking advantage of the situation—her feeling fragile and vulnerable after what had happened to her granddad. However, a small part of me thought that if I did kiss her, maybe I could verify that this meeting was actually taking place and wasn’t just another chapter in my mental breakdown.
No. That wasn’t the done thing, was it—to kiss someone in part to check your sanity?
Soft lips met mine, and my mind went blank. The only thing that mattered was the feel of her mouth. We were only gently kissing, but I could feel the connection to her in every fibre of my being. If this was what it was like to be going mad, I would willingly lose my mind for her, lose my all for her.
Clare drew back, the redness of her lips stark against the paleness of her skin. “Sorry, I—”
“Shush.” I placed my finger over her mouth, forestalling any apology for what had just happened between us. I smiled up at her, shyness in my admission, “I wanted it too.”
The pallor of her face blossomed into a beautiful blush, and my heart skipped a beat. How on earth had I ever believed she was a figment of my imagination? There was no way I could dream this.
“Good.”
The word was spoken softly, but its intention seeped deep within me.
She stood straighter, seemed to collect herself. “I’ve got to get back to check on Granddad in an hour, but maybe we could grab some lunch?”
I grinned widely. “I’d love to.”
Clare slipped her arm through mine and turned me towards the entrance. After a couple of steps, she stopped and looked down at me. “And over lunch, you can tell me how you knew my great aunt.”
Fuck.
I mumbled a reply, but I couldn’t say exactly what it was.
* * *
I’d been driving for over four and a half hours. Four and a half bloody hours. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t have left a beautiful woman standing in a hospital car park waving me off, but I had. The journey should have taken me all of three and a half hours, but traffic was bad, though for once, I didn’t get lost.
I didn’t want to leave Clare, didn’t want to say goodbye so soon after finding her, but she insisted. Freddie had to stay in hospital overnight for observation, and she wasn’t going to leave until he got the all clear. Trust him to put the brakes on what could be a budding romance.
Funnily enough, that was the reason why he’d ended up in the hospital in the first place.
“Do you know what Granddad said about you?”
Clare’s voice held a hint of humour, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t be seeing the funny side of any comment Freddie Wife Killer might have made. “Hmm. Something along the lines of me being a bit of a catch?”
Clare laughed. “Not quite. He doesn’t even know I’m gay.”
My eyebrows raised in surprise and I noted that Clare blushed slightly.
“It has nothing to do with anyone else who I sleep with.”
“If you say so.”
Clare’s head spun around, her mouth half open and ready to retort, but thankfully she recognised I was only pulling her leg.
“Yes, I do say so. My love life is my business.”
I wanted to add that I was hoping to make it mine, too, but decided to keep my gob shut for a change.
“What he said was more along the lines of you looking like a shifty character and me being wary of you leading me astray.”
I clamped my lips together with such force that the clack of my teeth was audible. Cheeky bastard.
Clare leaned closer, her hand touching my arm. “It has nothing to do with you. I told him in no uncertain terms that my life has nothing at all to do with him.”
I was beginning to see that Clare liked to keep her life at a distance from her granddad’s, and given my growing knowledge of Freddie Howell, I didn’t blame her one whit.
“What did he say to that?” Just saying that sentence hurt, as I had to hold back what I wanted to say, which included him being a lying, murdering bastard who was a hundred times more dangerous than a shifty character. Even if I was one. Which I wasn’t.
Clare’s face scrunched, as if she was trying to work something out. “I’m not too sure what he meant.”
“By?”
“Well, he went quiet and then spluttered something like ‘done it once,’ then promptly passed out again.” Clare turned to me, the frown disappearing behind a wonderful smile. “But let’s not worry about that, yes?”
Though Clare had no idea of what he meant, I certainly did, but I nodded anyway.
Obviously he wanted to stop us from starting. He hadn’t been able to stop the relationship his wife had with his sister, but he had taken care of them as soon as he did find out about it. That was assuming that he knew about the affair between Annabel and Ellen, which I believed he did.
Welcome to Norwich. A Fine City. The sign lit up like a beacon, but instead of feeling happy that I was just about home, for some fucked up reason I wanted to cry.
Fifteen minutes later I was pulling into my driveway. The house looked cold and dark and totally uninviting. Nothing new there.
I got out of the car and stretched, and the muscles groaned back into place. I needed a hot bath and an early night, in that order. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and I still had notes from my meetings to copy.
Immediately after I finished my bath, I was in bed. The last few nights I had gone without much sleep, and I was shattered.
I don’t know how long I had been asleep before the dreams began. Too many images, too many sounds and emotions—too much of everything. Everything mishmashed together and made no sense whatsoever. I wanted to get things in order, to tell those sounds and images to get in line and wait their turn, but it didn’t happen. The dreams turned more frantic.
I could feel hands around my throat, strong hands, capable hands. They were applying pressure, taking pressure away, applying it again. In my dream I was becoming weaker, losing the fight, drifting away from life into something dark and unwelcoming.
“Ellen!”
The voice was female. Female, not male.
“Look at me, Ellen!”
I tried to open my eyes, tried to look at the person who had her hands around my throat.
So very brown and beautiful and deep and dark, her eyes looked into mine, quizzical brown eyes framed by long lashes. They showed confusion, as if what they were seeing wasn’t real. My own eyes fluttered closed, the effort of keeping them open too much for me.
“Please. Don’t. Look at me.” The voice was frantic, almost as if it wasn’t quite sane.
I wanted to tell her to let me go, let me sleep, let me drift away, but I couldn’t. The pressure on my windpipe was killing me. I could feel her tugging, pulling, sobbing, but I couldn’t help her.
Coated in sweat, I sat up in bed, my hands clawing at my throat, a choking cough spluttering from within. It was like I was taking my first breath after being under water. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I wondered if I was having a heart attack.
“Shit!” I rasped. I was shaking, and my body ached as if I’d been beaten.
I struggled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom, my balance all over the show. I was like a pinball, bouncing off the furniture.
I clicked the switch, and bright light illuminated the room around me as I stumbled to the mirror over the sink. A dark mark circled my neck, almost as if a cord or a rope had been tied around it. I tentatively touched my throat, and the pain that comes with a recent injury shot through me.
Images and noises from my dream flooded into my head, and sickness washed over me.
Annabel had been there. I’d seen her, heard her. Annabel had been the one who had her hands around my throat. I felt again those hands applying pressure, then releasing it before increasing the pressure again. The sensation of losing the fight to live, the weakening of my body, the wanting to give in and let the blackness take me seemed real, even now that I was awake. And there was Annabel’s voice demanding that I look at her in a voice that seemed not quite sane.
Had Annabel killed Ellen? No. She loved Ellen. I knew that. She wanted to be with her, move away and live with her, start fresh with her and Bella.
The memory of my dream making love to Annabel popped into my head. “I’m not like him am I? You know, with my anger?” The words echoed in my mind, took on new implications.
No. Annabel wasn’t like her brother. She loved Ellen. She would do anything for Ellen. Ellen knew this, she’d said so. She’d told me in a dream that even though Annabel and Freddie might look alike, that’s where the similarity ended.
As in the aftermath of the dream I’d had in the hotel, I slumped to the floor. It was too much. My brain was hurting, and so was my heart.
My own thoughts from the previous day came back to haunt me. Why would anyone want to hurt another because someone didn’t feel the same way they did? But Ellen did feel the same as Annabel. I knew that. I also knew that emotions could get out of control, that sometimes things were said and done in anger that we all wished we could take back.
Had Ellen died because she’d decided to stay with her husband after all? Had she decided that a life of shame living with another woman in the Fifties was not worth it?
No. Ellen wanted so much to be with Annabel, she would have coped with the stares and disapproval of society, wouldn’t she?
The coldness of the floor was beginning to chill me, either that or the chill was from the thoughts I was having. I wanted to put it all down to a bad dream, but I couldn’t shake it off.
Pulling myself to my feet by grabbing hold of the sink, I turned one last time to look into the mirror. The mark seemed angry, dark and threatening. I leaned closer, looked harder. Faint lines of whiteness were visible among the purple and red splotches, and I lifted my head so the bathroom light could better illuminate them.
I reined in my imagination and tried to concentrate. I had felt hands on my throat. Hands. Fingers and hands. There were no finger marks on my neck, just the signs of a rope or cord. I hadn’t linked it to the other sensation in my dream, maybe because the thought of being strangled had become my sole focus when my life was being sucked out of me.
