Tedd and Todd's secret (16 page)

"As soon as we get home I'll fix it, sweetheart," Peter White assured his wife while he pushed the wheelchair along the street. He looked at the right wheel as they went, trying to see what was causing the irritating metallic creak that had been driving them both crazy. "If necessary, I'll put the whole chair in a barrel of oil to get rid of this noise."

"Don't worry. It's not bothering me as much as it was," Karen lied.

She was happy to be in the chair so he couldn't see her face. If Peter could see how low she was, he would only worry more. And that was the last thing she wanted at the moment. They'd just received some bad news at the fertility clinic and each had to face up to it as best they could.

"Forget about who we've been talking to?" Peter said. Karen knew her husband was forcing himself to sound positive. It was incredible that he could be so strong in a situation like this without breaking down. She couldn't help feeling that she was a load for him to carry, even allowing for his optimism. He never gave in and never complained. "You can't fool me," Peter repeated. "I know this noise is irritating you."

Not knowing what to say, Karen limited herself to a nod of the head. The street was busy, but the people made way for the wheelchair as it slipped along the pavement. Karen couldn't discern the faces of the pedestrians, they were just passing silhouettes. In the chair she was only at waist height to most of them and it required a great effort to look up. It was easier to look at their shoes.

More than three years had passed since the fatal accident that had caused her to lose the use of her legs. Two weeks before that fateful day she'd received the best news of her life: she was pregnant. And that had been something she and Peter had been trying to make happen for a long time. She had run to his office that day to tell him and would never forget the look on his face when he heard the news. He was the proudest man in the world and she the happiest woman. They hugged and kissed for more than an hour.

Her sister had been as happy for them as they were themselves. She'd known how difficult it had been for them. They deserved every bit of the happiness they were now enjoying. She'd wanted to be a part of that, wanted to buy her sister something to celebrate. A cot? Something for the new baby? They had gone shopping, laughing like they hadn't done for years as they got into the car. But they never did get to do that. Never made it to the shopping centre. Halfway there, a drunken driver sped through a red light and crashed into them. Karen's sister died, and she lost the baby and the use of her legs.

In the year following the accident she passed through a deep depression, adapting as best she could to her new life, her new reality in a wheelchair. She discovered another side to her husband which really only confirmed what she already knew, that he was the best man in the world. He'd made her feel that she was everything to him and gave almost everything up; hobbies, friends, sport, in the name of helping her recovery.

Another year passed before Karen tried to get pregnant again. The doctors had confirmed that it was possible and that she was still capable of having babies. Nevertheless, after passing another year without any success, they'd despaired and gone to another expert in artificial insemination. And the news that they'd just been given was more than discouraging. Having a baby was the only thing that kept Karen going. She felt closer to Peter when she thought of them having a baby together. There was a point to all of this. But now?

"I don't remember parking so far away," Peter said. "We should be there shortly. Then home. We can watch a film and have something special to eat. What do you think? You're not saying much. What's wrong, Karen?"

He stopped pushing the wheelchair in the middle of the pavement, and knelt down beside his wife.

"I'm fine," she told him. "It's just that I don't know if I feel like…"

"If it's really a problem, let's change the plan for now," he said, putting his hand in hers. "I can fill the bathtub and spend a heap on aromatic salts. Would you like that?"

"I don't know. I'd prefer to sleep a bit."

"Karen," he said, firmly but tenderly, "tell me what's happening. If you tell me I can work it out. But I can't do that if I'm kept in the dark." He paused. "It's the pregnancy, isn't it? We'll find a way. Don't worry."

"Yes, that's one thing. But I don't want you to leave your job."

Peter was stunned.

"What are you saying? We've already talked about that. You're the only thing that matters to me. Work and–"

But Karen had made up her mind. "It matters to me. If we move so we can get this treatment, you'll lose your job and I'm not going to let that happen."

"Look, don't worry about the money. I'll find another job. It won't be a problem," he assured her firmly. "I know you want a baby and I'm going to do everything possible to give it to you."

"It isn't the money," she swore. "That doesn't bother me. It's all about you. I don't want you to lose the only thing you've got that doesn't involve looking after me. You need something else, Peter. You can't give everything up because of something that was my fault."

"Your fault. What sort of nonsense is that?" Peter said, raising his voice. "It was hardly your fault that a drunk ran into you. So don't tell me that. We've talked about this a million times. None of that was your fault."

"But I feel like it was," she lamented, a tear running down her cheek. "I want you to have your own goal, your own direction. If not, you'll end up hating me."

"That's the most stupid thing you've ever said," he let her know, wiping the tear from her cheek. "Listen, and listen very carefully. You're my goal, my life. Nothing else matters. I didn't want to tell you before. But I've already resigned."

"What did you say?"

"I told my boss two days ago. I sent the letter this morning by fax."

"But why?"

"Because we're going to have this baby and nothing's going to stand in our way," he said, holding her face in his hands. Karen looked at him in amazement. He'd said that with such conviction that it seemed impossible that it wouldn't come true. "And now, if you don't mind," he said, feigning pain in his knees as he stood up, went round his wife and began pushing the wheelchair towards a zebra crossing, "we'll continue this at home. No more arguments. Mr White has just decided to give Mrs White a hot bath."

The thought came to Karen again that Peter was the best man in the world, and she extended her hand behind her to touch his.

Suddenly, something caught her attention and that of the people near her. She looked to the right, following the sound of a shrill whistle and saw something flying fast through the air. It was silver and moved strangely. Karen had the idea that it was revolving around itself as it sped through the sky. She felt suddenly afraid as she watched it deviate in their direction. It closed in on them with surprising speed and crashed into the car next to them, producing a rain of glass on impact. A V-shaped object was buried in the bonnet of the car.

Karen ignored the chaos around her and turned to look at her husband. She was stuck dumb when she saw Peter wearing an elegant white suit that she'd never seen before. The expression on his face had changed from a few minutes before and everybody was getting out of his way. When she saw the crowd's reaction she noticed the long sword in his hand. The white suit was one thing, but the sword? Where had he got that from?

She didn't get a chance to ask him as a new shrill whistle, the same as the first, hushed the crowd. A second boomerang was coming their way, coming her way. She was frozen with fear, but watched it zoom past, just missing her head. Who was throwing these strange metal bars?

A terrifying scream, the sensation of something hot and liquid on her back. She turned around as far as she could and saw her shoulders were covered with blood. Her heart stopped and terror raced through her as she watched her husband's head roll along the pavement.

Shrill trumpets rang in her ears, as the voices around her seemed suddenly distant. She was dizzy. Her senses spun wildly out of control, and all semblance of sanity disappeared as her mind plunged into a vortex of madness.

The last thing she saw with any clarity was a man dressed in an elegant black suit, appearing out of nowhere, retrieving the silver boomerang and then disappearing without saying a word.

CHAPTER 11

There had already been enough problems for one day and he was perfectly conscious of the fact that the last thing he needed now was in his right hand. Nevertheless, Aidan Zack continued to admire the bottle of whisky.

He could taste the smooth spirit in his throat; a few sips and he'd sink slowly into a world where nothing would matter much. It was selfish and pathetic, but he was tired and perhaps it was better to get drunk alone and keep away from everyone else. The memory of the clash with Dylan Blair didn't make him feel any better. Dylan was full of himself and didn't deserve any respect, but that still didn't justify him snapping like he had. He couldn't hold it in, it had just all come pouring out, and the punches hadn't missed their mark. Where it all would have ended without Lance was anybody's guess. But even so, hours later, there was still some pleasure in reliving the beating he'd given the millionaire.

He wasn't too proud of having Lance pull him off Dylan either. He knew his partner was worried about him. No doubt, rightly so. He could have thanked him afterwards. But he didn't. Just like he could've said something nice to Carol before he'd walked off alone.

The cold of the night hugged him as he stared at a window thirty yards away. A familiar silhouette appeared every few minutes and every time it did he looked back at the bottle.

Letting Jane, his sister-in-law, down again hadn't been too smart. She had no doubt hoped that he would show up at the cemetery. Maybe everyone else knew he wouldn't, and he doubted his father-in-law had missed him. But she would have done. And he owed her a lot. He had felt how important he was to her during their brief meeting at the hospital. He should have gone with her to the cemetery. It was the first thing he should have done this morning, standing beside those who loved him, instead of involving himself in this Black and White hell.

He felt like some sort of social garbage and, as weird as it was, he could live with that dim opinion of himself. In part, because he knew it was true, but more because it steered him away from facing the emptiness that he'd felt since his wife's death. He'd never been able to fill that empty space and every day and every night the effort to rise above it had become more difficult. It was better thinking he was worthless than thinking he was someone living in a vacuum. He took the top off the whisky bottle and lifted it ready to pour into the paper cup in his hand, but stopped. Someone else had appeared at the window.

He put the bottle down and watched Jane hug one of her sons. How long had it been since he'd seen her children? He couldn't remember. They'd visited him practically every day after he'd come out of the coma. And later they'd helped him with his rehabilitation when everyone else thought he'd never walk again. They had always been at his side, urging him on, pushing him to do a little more, and never letting him down. He would probably still be in a wheelchair if it hadn't been for them.

Going over all that again, he threw the whisky bottle through the car window, as hard as he could, and got out and kicked the broken bottle into the gutter as he walked towards Jane's house. He had no idea how he was going to excuse his non-attendance at the cemetery, but at least he had to try.

Deep in thought, he didn't notice the figure coming towards him, but the voice snapped him out of his own world.

"DI Aidan Zack?"

He'd just made one of his biggest decisions in the last few years and didn't need someone talking about work. "Who are you?"

"My boss wants to see you," the stranger said, coldly. "He's a very–"

"I couldn't care less who he is," Aidan said, shifting his weight towards the man and slamming a left into his stomach. Before the stranger had time to recover Aidan had him in an armlock. "Very well, clown," he hissed into the stranger's ear, "I want to know who you are. I don't feel very patient tonight."

"My name isn't important," the man said, showing no trace of fear. "It's my boss who–"

"You're right, you idiot. I don't want your first name, I just want your surname."

For a second, Aidan thought he was imagining what was going on. He wasn't at the station or at home. So the man must have been following him. But what unnerved him more than that was that the stranger showed no emotion. No fear. He was in the grip of a large and angry man and he was talking as if nothing had happened. That was strange, really strange. And there were too many things happening without an explanation. It was no good time to take risks.

"My name isn't Black or White, if that's what you want to know."

The answer took Aidan by surprise and underlined the fact that the man didn't have black or blond hair. It was red. What did that mean? There was a new group called Red? But there was no red suit. He was wearing jeans and a jacket.