Part 33 (1/2)
When she was a child Mak was rarely alone, least of all on this day of the year.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
Mak was doing her best to find the upside to what had happened in September. She was a survivor, and most importantly, she had ended Daniel Blake's bizarre reign of terror. But she could not forget Daniel's face-the look of homicidal rage and agony as he lay on the floor with the knife protruding from his body, and his final cry as the bullet tore into him, sending him swiftly into death to join his twin-a violent end to a tortured and violent life.
Makedde felt sad for Roy. He had been naive and made some very poor decisions, but he seemed to have a good heart. In order to protect his brother he had taken him out of the hands of the people who might have helped him. He didn't understand what his brother, in his illness, was capable of. Not even Ann could have guessed, until it was too late.
Ann believed that their father had abused Daniel, mentally and most probably s.e.xually as well. For whatever reason, he decided to pick on the one child. Their mother had found out. That was why she left. No one had been able to track her down since, and probably no one ever would. And their father, the prize hunter, whether he abused them or not, was now a senile old man in an inst.i.tution.
It seemed unlikely that anyone would ever know the whole truth.
Mak slipped her sweater on and her mother's earrings, and walked in her thick winter socks from the bedroom into the family living room. From the big front window she could see up and down the whole block. The window was adorned with the Halloween decorations her father still pasted there every year; they were at least fifteen years old, depicting a smiling green witch riding her broom across a big orange moon. There would be Santa Claus and his reindeer in that spot at Christmastime and the Easter Bunny in April. Mak smiled at the sight of the old decorations, and wandered over to the side wall to plug in a plastic pumpkin. It glowed brightly as it hung in the window nearest the front entrance, smiling with its single tooth, complementing the Halloween ensemble. Finally she flipped the light switch on for the front porch-a signal that this house had candy to offer the Trick or Treaters.
Happy Halloween.
As she reached the base of the stairs, the phone rang. She turned and leapt up the steps two by two and skidded across the linoleum in the kitchen.
”h.e.l.lo?”
”Wakey, wakey, rise and s.h.i.+ne,” came the familiar voice.
”Dad!” Her heart lifted.
”How's my girl?”
”I'm fine, Dad. How are you? How is Ann doing?”
Her father had spent much of the past month with Ann Morgan, who was recovering well. They clearly had something good there, and Mak was pretty comfortable with it. She wanted her father to be happy and she liked Ann a lot, but that didn't stop it from feeling a little weird at times. After all, Ann Morgan was turning out to be her father's first real ”girlfriend” since he was widowed. As if that dynamic needed to be more awkward, Ann knew all about Makedde's darkest fears and worst experiences and Mak had witnessed Ann fighting for her life with a fireplace poker. Not exactly a conventional start to their relations.h.i.+p.
”Hang on...”
”Hi, Makedde,” came a woman's voice. ”Happy Halloween.” It was Ann.
”Oh,” Makedde exclaimed, taken off guard. ”Happy Halloween to you, too. How are you?”
”I'm very well. I'm hoping we can catch up again next weekend. I'll be much better company soon, and much more mobile.”
”You take it easy, okay? Promise me.”
”Deal.”
Her father got back on the line. ”By the way, the press haven't laid off yet. They don't know where you are, so I'm copping all the flak.”
”That's what fathers are for.”
”Yup. They're offering five figures just for a photo of you.”
”Mmm. My agent would like that,” she said. ”If they do anything like that behind my back I'll slaughter them.”
”And Professor Gosper has been skulking around again. He wants to talk to you.”
Makedde let out an irritated sigh. ”I know, I know, so he can write my story. How thoughtful of him. Tell him to get stuffed, Dad. If I want my story written, I'll write it myself.”
A pause. ”Oh dear. I didn't tell him to get stuffed.”
Oh no. ”You didn't? What did you do? You didn't promise I would speak to him, did you?”
How could he do that?
”No. I told him to get f.u.c.ked.”
”Dad!” she squealed. ”You said that? Such language.” She couldn't remember the last time she had heard her father swear.
”You alone?” he asked.
”Presently, yes.”
She knew what he meant.
”Call him.”
”Yes, Dad, well, have a good night,” she blurted, changing the subject.
”You too.”
”And thanks for calling,” she said. ”I love you, Dad.”
”I love you too.”
Smiling to herself, she settled into the couch behind the witch and her broom. She laid her arms along the back of the seat and rested her chin, looking out the window at the children dressed up in their costumes and wandering around under the streetlights. There was an alien here, a Dracula there, one of them was a fairy, a Frankenstein, a Dalmatian.
I will give him a call, she thought.
Andy had come across from Vancouver to visit her now that Dr Harris was back at Quantico. They both agreed that it was a little too intimate to have him staying in the Vanderwall guestroom, so Andy had splurged on a nearby B&B-the cheapest accommodation possible. For the past two days he had been renting an undersized bed in the maid suite in the house of a rather frightening old woman with some strange opinions and too many cats.
He planned to leave for Australia in about a week, but she figured he wouldn't last another day in that place. She'd have to save him. If he was good, that is.
He had dropped a few not-so-subtle hints about getting back together, but she wasn't so sure. You are not over the shock yet, she told herself. Don't go running into his arms hoping he'll save you from the memories of what has happened here. But she did want to see him, and she didn't want to be alone on her favourite night of the year.
Perhaps she could make him wear face paint and answer the door in a big cape or something? That'd be amusing.
The number of his B&B was tacked to the bulletin board next to the phone. She dialled.
”h.e.l.lo?” An older lady's voice.
”Hi, I'm calling for your guest, Andy Flynn.”
”Oh, hang on. He's just here watching TV,” she said.