(2011) The Gift of Death (29 page)

He looked at one of the monitors. The albino was staring blankly ahead, almost straight into the camera. ‘Well, it’s certainly the end for this fucker. Come on, I’ll see you out.’

37

Kate’s right hand moved down to her stomach. She started to rub her bump in a circular motion, an action that had now become a regular habit. She did it as much for herself, she realised, as for the benefit of the baby inside her. Funny how something so simple could give her so much pleasure.

She smiled to herself as she looked down at her distended stomach. Ten years ago she would have been appalled to walk around LA looking like – what was that funny expression her mother always used? - a pregnant duck, but now she revelled in her new shape. She loved the way her breasts had filled out and the beautiful curve of her belly. She woke up each morning with an ever increasing sense of happiness. At times she felt ecstatic, almost high with joy, even though she endured backache, heartburn, itchy skin, leg cramps and the occasional shortness of breath. She knew, of course, that this newfound sense of ecstasy was probably temporary; her body, after all, was pumping out hormones at an ungodly rate. But it also had something to do with the fact that the man who had been terrorizing her – together with Cassie, Weislander and Hoban – was at last safely locked behind bars. Now nothing - besides the normal and the everyday – could hurt her child.

She scanned the menu as she waited in the West Hollywood diner. She couldn’t decide between the Canadian bacon, with grits, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms and wholegrain toast or the organic granola with mixed wild berries and yoghurt. She checked her cell. Josh had sent her a text. Traffic was bad on the 101. He was going to be fifteen minutes late.

Since the day he had rescued her from Gideon Walsh, just over four months ago, they had developed a more civilized relationship. She had agreed to him having access to the child. He had stopped mentioning Jules in every sentence. At times she kidded herself that Jules did not exist, that they were just taking a break from one another, that there was the possibility that in the future they might get back together. She tried to convince herself that what she felt for him was overwhelming gratefulness at having saved her life. But, deep down, she knew it was something else entirely.

‘
How are you today?’ asked the ridiculously handsome waiter. Tall, blonde, turquoise eyes. She could tell he had a toned, athletic body. Too young for her. Not the right type. Another out of work wannabe actor. Insecure, vain, a narcissist. What was she even thinking? ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘
I’m just waiting for a friend, but I’ll take one of your mixed fruit smoothies,’ she said, looking down at the menu to hide her embarrassment. Her body was playing tricks on her. It was the hormones. Recently, she had felt so –
sensual
– that one day she was scared she might try it on with the overweight Puerto Rican who came to tidy her mother’s garden.

Determined to regain her composure – and calm her thoughts - she took out her agenda from her purse. Tonight she was seeing Cassie. She’d invited her over to have supper with her and her mother. Since Gideon Walsh had been locked up more or less everything had got back to normal. Cassie had returned to her apartment - and her cat - in Venice Beach and she had gone back to work at her charity. As a result they hadn’t seen each other on more than a couple of occasions in a few months. She was looking forward to catching up with her.

Kate turned the pages of her journal, noting that she had a meeting with her gallery tomorrow to discuss her show. Although she had started work again within a few days of her ordeal she was still behind schedule and she still had something like fifteen photographs to take. The first time she had gone back down to the sea she had found that her hands had shaken so badly that it was impossible to take a decent shot. Each time she had lifted up her camera and looked through the viewfinder she would see that blurred image of the child floating in the water. But over time she had trained herself to relax, to breathe deeply, to clear her head. And, if anything, the photographs she had taken were even better than before. It was as if she had invested the waves with something altogether more unsettling.

‘
Hi, there.’ It was Josh.

‘
Hi, sorry I was miles away,’ said Kate, suddenly realising that this was a phrase her mother was using more and more these days. At times, a vagueness seemed to steal over her, and her eyes would cloud over. But then a few minutes later she would be okay again. Maybe she was still missing Saul. Whatever it was she made a note to talk to her about it. She’d try and persuade her to go and see her physician, Dr Harrison, and maybe have some tests.

‘
Have you ordered?’

‘
No, I was waiting for you.’ She passed the menu to him. ‘What you gonna have?’

She watched him as he looked at the menu. If the child was a boy would it look like him?

He was silent.

‘
Are you okay?’ she asked.

He stared down at the menu. ‘Walsh has had some kind of mental collapse.’

‘
What?’

‘
I got a call at five this morning. Apparently, last night he started to whisper to himself and then it got louder and louder until he was shouting, screaming. He kept repeating, “I am Bobby Gleason,” over and over again. Guards said that by the early hours it sounded like an animal being tortured, as if he was being torn apart from inside.’

‘
Oh my God. How is he now?’ She wasn’t so much worried about his welfare as about whether he was fit to stand trial.

‘
By the time I got there he had been sedated.’

‘
And what do the doctors think?’

‘
They said it was some kind of psychotic attack brought on by a matrix of identity issues.’

‘
Yeah, right,’ said Kate. ‘So what happens now?’

‘
He’ll be out for eight hours or so. They’re going to keep him under observation, but the psychiatrist said that there is a possibility that he may never fully come back. That his mind’s too fucked.’

‘
You mean that –‘

‘
Yeah, that he may be declared unfit to stand trial.’

‘
Shit.’

‘
My sentiments exactly.’

‘
When will they know?’

‘
Next couple of days. Later this week. Maybe next. It could be a temporary brain fuck or something more permanent.’

Kate’s hand dropped to her stomach. She felt the blood drain out of her face.

‘
But don’t worry, even if he’s not fit to stand trial, what this guy’s done means he’s going to be locked up for the rest of his life.’

‘
You sure?’

‘
Completely.’

The waiter was standing by them. ‘Are you guys ready?’

She looked down at the menu once more. ‘You know what, I think I’ll give it a miss.’

‘
You’ve got to eat for two now, you know,’ said the waiter, suddenly a little too friendly.

She forced a smile, something she always hated to do. ‘I guess the little guy’s just not hungry.’

38

Cassie stroked her cat and listened to it purr. If she could make the same noise she would, she thought; a pure expression of contentment emanating from deep inside. She realised she hadn’t felt this happy since – well, since before Gleason attempted to rob her of her life. Sure, after his arrest and death she had felt a sense of overwhelming relief, and a degree of safety. Maybe, at the back of her mind, she had always believed that there was someone else out there. And now? The albino, while he had confessed to the gruesome array of presents – the dead baby, the tongue, the eyes, and my God, those fingertips – he denied the fact that he had ever worked with Gleason. What did that mean? Could they even trust the word of someone so fucked up? She refused to worry about it. The main thing was that the psycho was locked up. He couldn’t harm her now.

As she lay back on the sofa she ran her hand down the cat’s back. Moisie started to make kneading movements on her leg. Suddenly one his claws dug a little too sharply into her skin. ‘Ouch, that hurts,’ she said, trying to pick him up and move him off her. But then she felt guilty for having left him with her neighbour for so many weeks. And he was having such a good time. So she let him be and endured the occasional scratch of skin.

Suddenly her cell rang. Clutching Moisie with one hand she reached down by her legs for her purse.

‘
Hello?’

‘
Hi, Cassie, it’s Kate.’

‘
Oh, hi. I’m really looking forward to tonight.’

‘
Yeah, that’s why I was ringing. I’ve booked a cab for you for six. Is that okay?’

‘
That’s great.’

‘
So it should be waiting outside. I’ve given him instructions and asked him to help you to the car if –‘

‘
I’m not crippled,’ she said, laughing.

‘
I know, I know. But if you had let me finish. I was about to say, if you need it, that’s all. Also, I told him what a stubborn piece of work you were as well.’

‘
Well, thank you very much. And I could say the same about you as well.’

‘
We’ll call it quits then, shall we?’

‘
Deal.’

There was a pause on the line. The light-hearted conversation had come to an end. Cassie knew her friend was about to tell her something, something not good.

‘
What is it?’

‘
It’s Walsh,’ said Kate. She refused to call him by his new name. ‘He’s had a complete mental breakdown. But it’s nothing to worry about – for us, I mean.’

‘
So he won’t go to trial?’

‘
There is that possibility. But Josh says whatever happens Walsh is going to spend the rest of his life behind bars – either in prison or in a secure hospital.’

The good mood that had enveloped her earlier disappeared in an instant. That familiar shadow of fear that had once cast its spell over her edged its way a little closer. Would she ever be free of Gleason?

‘
Hey, don’t worry,’ said Kate. ‘We’re going to have a good time tonight, no matter what. Okay?’

‘
Okay.’

‘
And be ready at six. The guy’s from Courtesy Cars. They’re reliable. And you can stay overnight if you’d like.’

‘
Thanks. But I think I’d better get back for you know who. He’s become like my stalker recently, you won’t believe it.’ He dug his claws a little deeper into her leg. ‘Hey, Moisie, cut it out!’

‘
Great, that’s all you need. Anyway I’ll let you two enjoy whatever sick game it is you’re playing. See you later.’

After playing with Moisie for another fifteen minutes Cassie caught up with some reports from work, reading them in Braille, and made a few calls. A sponsor was dragging his heels on a potentially lucrative injection of cash into the charity. The rent agreement had still not been finalised. And she was having problems with one of her male employees, a blind man who claimed he had been discriminated against because of his gender in a round of recent staff restructuring. The truth was he just wasn’t very good at his job.

She fixed herself a bite to eat, a light salad of endive leaves, tomatoes, basil and tuna. She listened to some music as she ran herself a bath. She checked the temperature. Perfect. As she slipped into the warm water she felt herself relax. The sensation, she thought, was almost as if she was disappearing, as if she were being erased. She stayed immobile, hardly breathing, until the temperature of the water dropped. Then she quickly soaped herself, washed and rinsed her hair and pulled the plug from the bath. She stood up, reached for the towel on the side of the bath, stepped out and dried herself.

What should she wear? Even though she couldn’t see herself she always tried to be careful about her appearance. She hated to be one of those blind women who wore mismatched items – a pair of red socks with, say, a blue polka-dot blouse and a tan skirt. But years ago she had come to the decision to restrict the colour scheme of her wardrobe. When she went shopping she asked whichever friend she was with to pick out mostly navy blues, greys, blacks, whites, with the occasional – very occasional – splash of colour. Tonight, she might choose a pair of black pants with that new white blouse. There was that amber necklace which would work well with that. Or there was the option of blue jeans with that vintage blouse she had inherited from her mother.

She walked into her bedroom and opened her wardrobe door. She ran her hands along the clothes, enjoying the sensation of fabric brushing against her skin. She came to the vintage blouse – she knew it by the raised seams that ran down both sleeves – and brought it close to her face. Did it still smell like her mother or was she imagining that? As she fastened the pearl buttons – one at each of the cuffs, two at the neckline - she remembered a night from her childhood. How old would she have been? About ten? Her mother, a fashion editor on a magazine, was standing by the door of their house in Connecticut. She was wearing the same blouse. Her blonde hair was tied back and she was wearing red lipstick and a light covering of blusher. She thought her mom looked so pretty that night. It was the same night that she had walked out on her family.