Dark Confluence (5 page)

As if she too had hit a brick wall, Jen stopped immediately and another shopper cannoned into her. Before the other shopper could say anything, she hastily apologised and then walked over to where the sobbing boy had been to examine the wall and to see if she had missed a door or some other opening. None could be found, and Jen spent a fruitless few moments running her hand along the wall, as if she could somehow find and extricate the boy from it.

As the world tilted about her, she clutched the wall as a shipwrecked sailor would clutch the sodden timbers of wreckage keeping him afloat. Breathing hard, she was able with some effort to steady her pulse as passers-by by gave her a pitying look. She assumed that despite her sober attire they thought her drunk or drugged.

“Are you poorly, luv?”

Jen glanced over her shoulder and nodded at the solicitous old gentleman who out of all the throng in the supermarket had stopped to help.

“Then let me aid you to a chair”

A calloused hand took her arm, and she felt herself gently guided to one of the nearby chairs. She sank down on it in some relief.

“Don’t fret, luv. I’ll be back in a mo’.”

Jen nodded again and waited for the world to stop spinning.

“Here.” The chivalrous, elderly gentleman handed her a plastic cup filled from the water filter in the chemist.

She gasped out her thanks and drank gratefully.

“Flu?” he asked, his age-creased and sun-darkened face showed concern.

She shook her head, “I was in a car accident.”

“Perhaps you need to be going to hospital,” he said. “You look quite pale.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, “Just needed to sit for a bit.”

“You’re from Scotland, then?” he asked.

She nodded, finishing her water, “Yes, a very long time ago. I’ve been in Australia close on thirty years now. Is my accent still strong?”

“Not so much,” he said, but I did pick up a little of the Highlands in your voice.

“I was born in the Highlands, but the family moved to Edinburgh when I was a wee lassie.”

He smiled as if in recollection, “My wife, God rest her soul was a Highlander too. You seem to have a little of her look, as well.” He held out his hand, “I’m Tom Delany.”

“Jen McDonald.”

They solemnly shook hands.

“I run a small farm out on the road to Cromhart – mostly avocados and macadamias.” He fished an old supermarket coupon from out of his pocket and with it the stub of a pencil. He scribbled a number on it and handed it to her.

“My number, in case you need a friend,” his faded, almost cloudy blue eyes stared at her with a sudden, startling directness. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but there’s something not quite right about you, luv. Perhaps, you should ring sometime – my wife Anna, you see, God rest her soul, sometimes had a similar look about her. When I saw that look, I knew to be brewing a strong cuppa tea, to bring the animals in, and to lock and bolt the doors of the farmhouse.”

He stood and shook her hand formally, “I must be off, my grand-daughter Fiona is due to pick me up soon and drive me home.”

He smiled at her, and standing gave her a little bow, and slowly walked away.

*

Chapter 4

Jen sat and fidgeted as she waited in the reception area of the local hospital. After her strange turn at the supermarket, she had completed her weekly shop. Then she had driven home to offload the groceries and immediately afterwards, she rung the hospital to arrange for further tests and scans. The hospital had acted with alacrity, scheduling her for a CAT scan and blood tests the next day. The procedure had not taken long and the hospital advised Jen to return the following morning for the results. After a poor night’s sleep, where Jen spent most of the time nervously tossing and turning, she arrived at the hospital bleary eyed and pulse racing with nervous anxiety. She stared at the television high up in a corner of the room. Her eyes blankly watched the flickering figures of the Sunday morning shows yet her brain did not comprehend, so consumed with worry was she.

“Miss McDonald?”

Jen leapt to her feet as if someone had planted a firecracker under her.

“The Doctor will see you now.”

Clasping her handbag under her arm with suddenly sweaty hands, she followed the nurse through the swinging doors of reception and into the wards area. The nurse stopped outside a door and motioned her in.

“Wait in here, please; the Doctor will be with you momentarily.”

Inside was a small office. Jen sat herself down on the visitor’s chair next to the desk and looked around. Most of the small room was taken up by a large desk, on which sat a computer, keyboard, and monitor as well as various pens and medical folios. A leather chair was positioned at the desk. In addition to the desk and chair, there were two sizeable bookcases full of reference and medical books. Charts and framed photos hung on three walls, and a clean whiteboard dominated the far wall. The office looked very professional.

The door opened and in stepped a middle-aged balding man clad in a white coat over a business suit. He held out his hand and smiled at her.

“Don’t get up, this won’t take long.”

Somewhat reassured by his smile, Jen allowed herself to relax a little.

“I’m Dr Anthony and I’ve been reviewing your files and also the most recent tests.” He flipped open one of the manila folders he had carried in and perused the documents. “The blood tests have shown nothing to indicate any latent issues or problems. In fact, your cholesterol levels are superb for your age. Your iron and calcium need a little improving. However, the levels fall within normal range. If you ensure you eat more red meat and more calcium rich foods you’ll find an improvement in your energy levels and bone density.” He closed the first folder and opened the second.

“As for the CAT and other scans, again, they show nothing out of the ordinary. The bruising from the accident has gone down and the brain seems normal and healthy. There doesn’t seem to be long term damage to your spinal vertebrae from the whiplash.” He looked up at her, “In short, aside from the iron and calcium, you seem as healthy as an ox, Miss McDonald, and as I said before, change your dietary habits slightly and you’ll see even more improvement.”

Jen sat back deflated, “So the visions?”

“Are probably just your imagination playing tricks upon you,” said the Doctor. “You did suffer emotional as well as physical trauma and the brain is probably just dealing with that emotional trauma in its own way. Give yourself time, plenty of sleep and rest, and you’ll find that everything will be back to normal soon enough.”

“So physically, I’m fine?”

He nodded, “Now, I must go. However, I’ve booked you in for a check-up in six months’ time. The nurse will mail you a reminder closer to the date.” He stared again at her pale face, “If you wish, I can get the nurses to book an appointment with the resident psychologist?”

Jen gulped and shook her head abruptly, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

He stood and opened the door for her, “Very well, now don’t be worrying, Ms McDonald, there is nothing to fret about. Just let nature take its course.”

As Jen left the hospital, she felt unsure if she should be relieved or not by the Doctor’s cheerful prognosis. Although, she was grateful that there seemed to be no physical cause for her visions, her worry worm remained fed with thoughts of mental illness or insanity. She stopped suddenly, mentally berating herself. She refused to allow herself to sink into hypochondria, vowing that all future visions should be chalked down to simply an overactive imagination.

A day or two later, while taking a break from her proofreading, Jen sat out on the verandah with a cup of tea by her side. The book was going well, only three more chapters to go, and then she could send the completed proofing back to the client. The mundane wrestling with words seemed to calm her and she was able to put the last unsettling week to the back of her mind. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. It seemed to have stopped. She shook it and the hands refused to move. She sighed, yet another thing to deal with. However not today, she closed her eyes and let the balm of the late afternoon summer sun gently warm her bare legs and arms.

“Mind the sun, would burn one as fair as you”

Jen’s eyes fluttered reluctantly open. In front of her, stood a young man aged about nineteen, who regarded her appraisingly with direct leaf-green eyes.

She glanced out to the yard beyond him. There was no car, nor had she heard the local and infrequent bus.

“Can I help you?”

He introduced himself, “I am Fionn.”

“Jen,” they shook hands, his touch was cool and unsettling to her skin.

“Mind if I sit?”

She shook her head. He sat on the top step near her feet. She studied him; he was slender and wore a non-descript pair of faded grey jeans, and a loose fitting collared black shirt. His hair, which was the colour of sun-bleached linen, fell straight about his shoulders. If she had been thirty years younger, she might have felt shy of this pale, handsome youth. As it was, he seemed young enough to be her son.

“You have an interesting name, Fionn. Are you Irish?”

He smiled tightly and her heart gave an odd lurch, “More or less.”

“Then you’ve wandered a long way to end up on my doorstep,” she replied. “What would a young man like you be doing here?”

He smiled at her again, this time the smile reached his eyes, “I’m older than I look.”

“Very likely and direct off the flight from Dublin, going by that fair skin of yours,” she observed. “You shouldn’t be the one to lecture me on the perils of the southern sun. Still, you didn’t answer my question.”

He stared at her with a smile hovering about his sensual lips. “You are not yet ready for my answer. So I would ask you a question instead.”

Jen nodded,
humouring
him, “Ask away, young Fionn.”

“If you could be given anything your heart desires, what would it be?”

Jen narrowed her eyes, taking in the perfect face of the young man who called himself Fionn. She thought to herself, ‘My heart’s desire? I have home, hearth, am reasonably financially independent, what more could I want?’ An answer insinuated itself into her mind yet she flicked it away. Thirty years of loveless life could not be reclaimed. It was something that had to be accepted.

“What would I want, out of all the things in the world?”

He nodded, staring intently at her.

“A measure of happiness, I guess. It is all that anyone ever wants.”