Nightmares of Caitlin Lockyer (Nightmares Trilogy) (30 page)

He hurried us out, looking like he couldn't be finished fast enough.

Caitlin looked pale as we left the mortuary, but she had her teeth clenched and her expression was fierce. She was remarkably composed for someone who'd just been looking at corpses.

"Are you relieved?" I asked. "They can't hurt you
any more."

"No," she replied curtly. "They'll never touch me again, but that's not all of them."

"Are you sure?" I responded.

"There's one more man who hurt me. One they haven't got yet." She looked straight ahead as she said it, not looking at me.

For the first time, I struggled to keep up with her, as she marched back to the car. "But is he really a risk? The one they haven't got yet?"

She stopped to look up at me, her look incredulous. "He hurt me. He wasn't the worst of them, but he still hurt me. I'm not safe until they have him."

"Excuse me..." I turned to see the lost-looking old man approaching.

There was no one else around, so I answered. "What is it? I'm sorry for your loss, mate, but we're in a hurry here
."

Caitlin had stopped moving. She was a frozen statue at my side, clutching at my arm. I felt a frisson of fear.

He raised his gun and pointed it at us. "You killed my son. Give me the girl."

"I don't know what you're talking about
..." I began.

"I do," Caitlin cut me off. She glared at the old man.

"Give me the girl," he insisted.

All warmth drained from me as she let go of my arm and took a step toward him, lifting her hands to the height of her shoulders.
Another step and another as I watched, helpless to stop her.

"No, don't hurt her
..." I barely recognised the desperate voice as my own.

I watched him lower the gun as she steadily approached. I wished Caitlin would look at me, to let me beg her not to do this. My voice died in my throat, terrified that she'd die before my eyes.

She stood close enough to press her body against his, but he held the gun between them. I couldn't see if it was still pointed at her. I couldn't see her hands or his.

The moment stretched forever.

He broke the silence. "You killed my son."

Caitlin shook her head. I heard the quiet murmur of her voice but not the words.
Would they be her last? Please, no!

She lunged across the narrow space between them. If he'd had his gun pointed at her, it would have dug into her soft flesh.

I heard the shot and was cowardly enough to close my eyes. I couldn't bear to watch Caitlin die. The slither and slump of a body hitting the bitumen.

I could have cried when I heard the most heavenly sound in the world. "Good riddance, Simon." I opened my eyes in time to see her spit on his corpse, the gun still clenched in his hand. She turned to smile at me.
Pure spring sunshine. "Now it's over and I'm safe."

I stumbled toward her, my arms out to hold her, to make sure she was real. She let me hug her before she straightened up and pulled away.

"I have to get to the airport, Nathan," she said.

I looked at the body on the bitumen before my eyes bumped back to her. "But
... you just... he's..."

Her hand slid into my pocket and pulled out my phone. "You have friends to call, to clean this up. That's what they're good at, isn't it? Tell them you have the last one."

I stared at her, speechless. How long had she known?

"I need to get to the airport. May I borrow your car? I'll leave it at my house, with the keys on the table inside the front door. You know where I keep the spare house keys. You can get a lift with your colleagues, right?"

"I'll drive you," I whispered.

Caitlin shook her head. "You have a dead body to deal with. I can drive home and Jo will pick me up from there."

I pulled the keys wordlessly from my pocket and held them out. Alanna wouldn't have hesitated, so neither did I.

She dug into her handbag and pulled out a stack of folded paper, a little crumpled and crushed around the edges. "This is what you wanted.
My memories, as complete as I could make them. If... if you still want to see me when I return, I'll be back in two weeks." She smiled sadly as she traded the papers for my keys. Her lips lingered on my cheek. "See you then."

I waved in stunned wonder as I watched her drive off in Alanna's convertible before I dialled Navid. I had a shitload of explaining to do.

Simon. Safe. It's over. Oh, Caitlin...

When I reached home, five exhausting hours later, I pulled out the crumpled papers and sat with them, my eyes closed. If I read these, I'd know. Know what happened in full, know how much she remembered and how much she'd managed to forget. Every painful moment of violence, abuse and neglect until I managed to help. I'd know what I was responsible for and how much guilt I'd have to live with, for the rest of my life.

I could wait. I had enough to be miserable over.

My angel was winging her away across land and sea, away from me, and it'd be two weeks before I'd see her again. At least I knew she was safe, I told myself. Her nightmares were over. And mine had barely begun.

I placed the papers carefully on my desk before I went to bed. Every time I opened my eyes, I could feel them burning a dark hole in my head, but I didn't touch them.

In the morning, I dug out the keys to the red Mercedes Caitlin hated so much. I drove it to a car dealership and haggled half-heartedly with a used-car dealer until he gave me a cheque in exchange for the keys and some signed forms. I trudged all the way home in a daze. It might have taken three minutes or three hours. I didn't care.

I offered the cheque to Chris, telling her I was keeping Alanna's car and I'd sold mine, so I owed her half the money.

She snorted. "Keep it. You need it more than I do." She chewed her lip, as if she was dying to say something. "Where's Caitlin? Did she finally kick you out?"

I couldn't summon the energy to get angry at her. "No, she's off on a holiday somewhere with a friend. Girls' trip and I wasn't invited. I'm not anatomically equipped for days of clothes shopping and cocktails."

She looked sad. "It's for the best, you know. She's not good for you."

Of course she was. She was
amazing and perfect for me – everything I'd ever wanted. Everything I didn't have.
I didn't say it – she wouldn't listen, anyway. I clicked on the TV and took a big bite of my lunch sandwich. Sawdust or salami or spinach – I didn't taste it and I didn't care. It was as dry as dust in my mouth, anyway.

I didn't look at the papers when I went to bed that night.
A white beacon on my desk, waiting to drag me into the darkest depths of despair. I wondered if there was any such thing as a white hole – like a black hole, only camouflaged in colour and light. Or carefully covered by a sheaf of pristine pages, lying in wait.

We ran out of milk so I ate my cornflakes dry. Soft and stale from sitting in the cupboard so long, untouched, I remembered how much Caitlin hated them.
And why. I threw up the gooey orange mess into the sink, washing it away with a hissing stream of water. Wishing I could wash memories away like cornflakes. Like blood.

The pages taunted me day and night.
Sitting in a patch of sunlight through the window, glowing in moonlight much later, hidden by darkness and ever lurking.

I should
've just rung Navid and handed them over. Never reading, never knowing. But I owed it to Caitlin to read what she gave me, to know what she went through. The least I could do.

But not yet.

I watched TV. Light blended into dark and I didn't leave the house. I focussed on nothing but advertising – endless repetition of a dramatic voice, telling me that Caitlin w
ould tell her story. The time, the day and the haunting picture they'd plastered over the papers. Her haunted eyes as she whispered, "End it." Over and over until I tried to reach out and touch her through the LCD screen.

I wanted to steal an old TV from someone's verge, one with a dodgy picture that wasn't so clear and real. I didn't want to feel like I was in among the action. If I couldn't touch her, it was more torture than entertainment. The minutes ticked 'til the Friday when they'd show the complete interview.
Or as much as they chose to.

Friday night
came and Chris was out. I spread out across the couch with a beer and waited.

I tuned out through a story about cyber-bullying. My beer was empty and I went to get another one when the story switched to some con-artist who wouldn't say anything but swearing to the cameramen as they stalked his house.
What else do you say to stalkers who won't leave you alone?

"Up next – miracle girl Caitlin Lockyer tells her story!" A quick flash of her duckling photograph from the newspaper and an ad for cornflakes appeared.
Fucking cornflakes.

I went to get another beer, but we were out. I opened one of the lemon vodka things Caitlin had left here when she stayed over. When we'd
...

"End it," her voice said from the lounge room and I ran back to the couch, only to find that it was an ad. A dancing dishcloth cleaned someone's house to upbeat music as I thought about ringing the TV station to complain about the wait.

I didn't do it. I drank a gulp of vodka, remembering the taste of it on Caitlin's tongue.

I decided
to order a copy of that photo in the morning.

"They hurt me. They came in the dark and
... hurt me. I couldn't understand it – why they'd want to, why they came back again. Only to hurt me..." Her forlorn voice cut deep and I listened.

She never used the words rape, break or cut, though that's what they did. Only hurt. All she ever said was that they hurt her, a word that haunted me more than the precise ones she avoided.

Please don't hurt me...

My heart went out to her, wherever she was, and for the first time I saw the interviewer's tears, too. Yet Caitlin never cried – not a drop. She'd cried herself out in my arms and she had no tears left to shed when she talked of hurt and dark.

I stared at her angry-looking protector, knowing it was me in makeup, as the figure on the screen talked of how amazing she was and how she never gave up.

If I'd known then what I kne
w now – that she could kill a man for what he did to her, no fear left for she'd spent it all long before...

Our kiss had the interviewer clapping and crying at the same time. I didn't remember her making a sound – maybe they taped her response later. My strong suspicion was confirmed when she asked one more question that I know I never heard.

"What were you thinking most, in the pain and the dark?"

Caitlin's whispered response was taken completely out of context. "End it."

And the interview ended.

No, she wasn't thinking that she wanted to end it, I fumed. She was thinking what she said, so many times in her sleep: Keep fighting. Don't let them win.

"Up next, a live performance from meteoric Melbourne band, Chaya, performing their debut single, Necessary Evil, followed by an exclusive interview with their hot lead singer, Jay..."

I clicked the TV off.

You didn't know her. You made her sound like a helpless little innocent, instead of the fierce fighter she was. No matter what kind of hell she'd been through, there was nothing that could stop me from going to meet her again when she came home.

Fuck it. I
was going to read the whole thing in the morning. I owed it to her.

I finished my toast and sat down to read what Caitlin had given me. It was what I both hoped and dreaded – a detailed description of everything she remembered of her kidnapping, captivity and afterwards.

Every memory was preceded by a line of key words across the top in bold, a chilling summary of what was to come.
Names, feelings, sounds and specific injuries.

My heart grew cold as I read, wondering how she'd come to write those lines. As if she'd thought, "I dreamed he broke my fingers and raped me," then searched for those words t
o add to the memory of breaking and brutality... oh God.

There was far more than I thought she'd remembered and my first instinct was to call her, to start asking questions. I hesitated a moment, before I realised I should read it through to the end before I started asking anything else. I couldn't call her – I didn't know if she had her phone or even if there was mobile access, wherever she was. My questions would have to wait.

One page had her handwriting across the top, above the line of bold words:

Not in the police transcript

Of all the pages, this one I kept returning to, as if rereading the words would somehow change the past they described. I ripped the page free of its fellows and read it again:

Beach – Stars – Sand – Shots – Surf – Chris – Nathan – Numb