Haven: Chapter 1 Extracts

‘No, not the Dalai Lama… Corran Ottaway. You know, debonair, suave, sophisticated–’

‘Oh, I see… Not too sparkling on the customer-relations front this dark and dismal morn–’

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that… Ah, not in the mood for sad, Richard Heads either. Fair enough. Well, at least it’s an improvement on last week–’

‘What do I want? Now there’s a leading question. Well, today I’ll settle for some good news about my order. Tomorrow’s our anniversary. Three months waiting for a hoover motor belt. Quite an achievement!’

‘What d’you mean, which order? Oh, I get it. I bet your junk-heap of a computer won’t work unless you type in my name and address umpteen times. Or maybe I’ll stand a better chance if I spell the words out with an example for each letter – S for stupid, D for dumb–’

‘Okay, I know it’s early. I’ll cut the comedy. The order number is 274/KD17. Does that help?’

‘Never! Don’t make me cry. You’ve got no record! You’re jerking my chain, surely.’

‘Oh, of course. Melissa, mistress of the wind-up strikes again! It arrived last Friday? Great, well in that case, all I have to say is–’

‘Hello, hello… Bugger!’ Once again the irresistible urge to lapse into telephone theatrics with the delectable but totally sadistic Ms Melissa Simmons yielded the inevitable results – two falls and a submission to Melissa and a psychological kick in the groin as a bonus. Well, I should have known better – Monday morning, late for work, raining cats and whatever, and still no milkman. Not exactly favourable conditions for my bi-weekly sparring session with ‘Lightning Electronics’ 24-hour repair service.

Since the deluge showed no signs of abating, I abandoned all hope of my early-morning caffeine jolt and ventured outside, slamming the front door then embarking on my standard OCD – or to grace it with the fancy, medical name bandied about these days, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – ritual, security check. As I repeatedly turned keys and tugged on handles, however, an acute sense of apprehension prompted me to pause. Odd, I thought, finally completing the security SOP, the last time a sensation like this made itself so forcibly felt was just before I got the news that my poor, sweet Lynda had been so viciously snatched away from me. Caught off-guard, I was powerless to prevent myriad bittersweet memories from rushing in on me like a torrent. It had been quite some time since I’d been so overcome. Two years since her death and my GP persisted in saying I was well on the road to recovery. Roads, however, come in different lengths. This I’d attempted to explain to him, but it was clear that he had never experienced the depth of grieving, the heartache that lingers in the void, when a beloved soul-mate is lost. His best advice? Cash in my membership to the legion of the walking wounded. Not in this lifetime!

Flashes of the scene where Lynda’s precious life had been battered from her by two drug-crazed cretins had barely time to focus when a familiar voice coiled me back to the reality of grey, morning light and biting, cold rain.

‘Hey, Corran, what’s up? Two calls but no dice. Lost the batteries for the hearing aid, then?’ There was no mistaking the lilting tone of Roderick McCleland’s anglicised Ayrshire accent. Since Lynda’s tragic passing this wiry Scotsman had been perhaps my only true, if sometimes over-zealous, friend. We’d known each other from my first days working in the QC laboratory at Squire’s Foods, and following its very messy collapse in ’85, Rick, as he preferred to be known, had convinced me to pool our resources and go it alone with a small analytical consulting business. Lynda had always insisted that Rick and I were like twins separated at birth due to an Admin. mix-up in the delivery ward, and true, we did bear a passing resemblance to a couple of six-foot kippers: dark-brown hair slightly on the long side, eye colouring to match, and a gaunt, Celtic look that Rick thought irresistible to women, but if you asked my man, he’d swear blind that any similarities ended with the fact that we each had a head, two arms and two legs.

‘What in God’s name are you doing littering up the doorway like a drowning haggis?’ he continued.

‘Sorry,’ I replied feebly, ‘just a transient attack of senile dementia I expect.’

Rick raised his thin eyebrows. ‘Bad news,’ he continued, obviously deciding it best not to pursue the true reason for my slightly odd behaviour, ‘the bloody exhaust on the Audi’s blown a hole the size of the Grand Canyon. I’ve got to get it fixed this morning, as I’m due in Sheffield at four. You remember – the guys from the Ministry. See you tomorrow in the pub as arranged.’ Abruptly he turned and began lolloping down the street, furiously waving at a mini cab that had only moments before screeched past the top of the road. In true traditional fashion I was left to decipher the nature of the ‘bad news’ based on the disjointed details I’d received, i.e. no lift to the office.

Perfect, I breathed, while hastily reviewing my options. Number one: the bus, if it turns up. Unlikely. Number two: reclaim my right to a separate company car, which I’d recently waived to support the business. Attractive, but not practical. Number three: a taxi. Not with the luck I was having. Number four: walk. Get soaked, yes, but guarantee my arrival within thirty minutes. With freezing cold rain trickling down the back of my neck, my legs decided to pre-empt matters by committing to option four.

The back streets of Salford are rarely a delight, but on stark, November mornings with the rain ricocheting off cracked paving stones even Mr Smiley could be forgiven a momentary frown. To add insult to injury the fallen autumn foliage, repeatedly sodden and crushed underfoot, had become like an oil slick in places and was equally treacherous. The light was still poor as I turned into an adjacent street, to all intents and purposes identical to the last. I glanced at my watch – seven o’clock. The rain seemed to be falling even harder, and the wisdom of postponing the purchase of a new umbrella to replace the one I’d lost a month earlier clearly merited a rethink. Perhaps the idea of hiking to the office wasn’t so brilliant after all, I concluded. I turned, resolving to return home, dry off, have my sorely missed mug of coffee and take a chance on calling a cab. What the hell! Better late than never.

No sooner had I kicked off on the return journey than the sense of apprehension I experienced earlier re-emerged, and I felt compelled to glance over my shoulder in the direction I’d been travelling. In the near distance, perhaps two hundred yards or so away, stood the old, Victorian railway arches: no longer in use of course, and nowadays strictly off limits to the public due to some structural problem or other. At first I could see very little, my view obscured by the driving rain, but on a second scan I could just make out two figures slowly climbing the access stairs to one side of the bridge. Probably kids messing about, I thought. But no, one of them was definitely a woman – a young woman with a small girl.

Without consciously registering the fact, I began to walk toward the arches, instinctively looking about to see if anyone else was witnessing the scene. No one. Not too unusual, I considered, but what did strike me as odd was the total absence of parked cars. At this time of the morning the streets were usually lined with cars, like rows of multicoloured streamers – but not a single vehicle was in sight.

The figures had reached the top of the bridge and were slowly, but with noticeable resolve, walking towards its centre: the girl in front followed a yard or two behind by the woman, and I was now close enough to see them more clearly. The woman was quite tall – slim with short, dark hair, and since the original brick wall skirting the parapet had been replaced some years earlier by metal railings, I could see she was wearing a long, black coat. As far as I could tell the girl’s features were similar. She was, of course, much smaller, but curiously, given the weather, wore only a flimsy cagoule and lightweight skirt.

‘What in the name of _{* * * * *} are they up to?’ I was rapidly developing a very bad feeling about the situation. Casting aside my easily uprooted non-interference policy, I cried out, ‘Hey, you, what d’you think you’re doing? The bridge isn’t safe.’

I looked about again, anxiety reaching flash point. Still no one. When I looked back, my pounding heart jammed on all the breaks. The couple had stopped above the central arch and the girl was climbing onto the railings.

In an instant the girl, in what seemed a series of uncannily graceful manoeuvres, positioned herself on the outside of the railings. The woman did nothing. I was already running – God knows why.

‘Come on, come on,’ I rasped. My legs just wouldn’t move at the speed I so desperately wanted. Slipping on wet leaves, I repeatedly stumbled, recovered then raced on. Almost at the bridge, I looked up. For an instant I caught the girl’s expression. It held a look so full of sadness it all but stopped me dead in my tracks. Then she let go of the railing… No moment of hovering. No slow-motion descent as in the movies. She fell; I dived.

‘Huh?’ I grunted, just catching the tail end of the woman’s recommendation. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I drifted off there for a bit,’ I confessed. ‘No, I must call the office first then change. There’s a bathroom at the end of the corridor that you’re welcome to use… You’ve been very quiet,’ I said, focusing my attention on the little girl. ‘How d’you feel now?’

Determined to elicit some form of response, I persisted. ‘There’s no need to be shy.’

Before I was able to pursue the issue, both mother and daughter turned and disappeared down the corridor in the direction of the bathroom.

Left alone, I summoned the enthusiasm to call the office, telling the secretary some unconvincing story about being off-colour, then with less difficulty than expected given the way my legs ached I managed to bathe and don a change of clothing: all the time expecting to hear the front door click shut, signalling that my guests had beaten a hasty retreat. I was, therefore, relieved, on coming downstairs, to discover the girl sitting motionless on the settee dressed in one of Lynda’s old dressing gowns while her mother was pouring coffee.

I waved away any need for further apology or explanation. ‘It was kind of you to take the trouble… And by the way, I appreciate your not doing a ‘moonlight’. I tried to give my guests time to sip their coffee in peace, but after a few minutes I could contain my curiosity no longer. ‘If you’re ready,’ I said to the woman.

She nodded. ‘Initially I felt no obligation to reveal our personal circumstances to you, but on reflection I agree you’re entitled to some explanation.’

‘To begin with, then, my name is Vanessa Swift, and this is my daughter, Coral. We actually live near Bristol, but are visiting friends in this area.’ As she finished her introduction she looked towards the window, her pause giving me the opportunity to take in her fine features: she was without question a remarkably attractive woman.

Vanessa, I mused. Yes, that would certainly fit. Her intense, black hair, cut in a style similar to that of Purdy in The New Avengers TV series, was only surpassed in beauty by the same captivating silvery-green eyes possessed by the little girl. She wore little make-up, but that present had clearly been applied with skill. If anything, her skin was abnormally pale, almost doll-like, but in conjunction with her other colouring the effect was akin to many classical portrait paintings of the nineteenth century.

‘As I explained, Coral is unable to speak,’ she continued. ‘A few years ago we were vacationing in Switzerland when my husband was killed in a freak accident. Our cable car was ripped open, and he and two others fell through the gap. He was the only one quick enough to clutch hold of a mangled piece of the carriage structure.’

‘Not only that,’ Vanessa continued, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘but Coral and I were the only other passengers. We tried frantically to pull him up, but he was too heavy and it was too cold to sustain a grip.’

‘It’s all right, you needn’t go on,’ I said gently, concerned how Coral might be effected by being reminded of the tragedy.

Vanessa seemed to read my mind. ‘Don’t worry, Coral has blocked out the whole episode. She hears but somehow manages to filter out anything she doesn’t want to recall.’ I offered Vanessa my handkerchief, but she refused. ‘The trauma effected Coral’s ability to speak. The doctors feel that it’s not a permanent disability, but no one can predict when or how her voice will be restored.’

‘My God, that’s horrendous!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry I put you through all that. I didn’t–’

‘Please don’t be concerned,’ Vanessa interrupted. ‘It’s healthy to talk about it now and again. Anyway, you still need to hear about the bridge.’

Good grief, I thought, I’d almost forgotten about that. I held up my hands, gesturing her to stop. ‘There’s no hurry. You can tell me later. How about more coffee?’

‘Thank you for the offer, but later may not be possible,’ she countered. ‘I will, however, accept a little more to drink.’ As I refreshed her cup, Vanessa went on with her dramatic tale. ‘About six months after the accident, I found Coral clinging to the outside of our sixth-floor flat window. She seemed perfectly calm and in no danger. In fact, on reflection, she was in more danger from my attempts to drag her back inside than anything else. Nevertheless, I did manage to coax her onto an adjacent balcony. But then two days later the same thing happened. Her psychologist is convinced that this behaviour is some form of complex related to her inability to prevent her father from falling. After a series of deep hypnosis sessions failed to help, I decided to allow her to act out these bizarre incidents in the hope it might lead to a natural cure. Fortunately we’ve made some progress, as the frequency of the attacks has lessened.’

‘You must be constantly out of your mind with worry, ‘I hissed. ‘Aren’t you afraid she’ll slip or… Or jump?’ My intentional blunder wasn’t missed by Vanessa, and I suspected she’d been wondering how long it would take me to get round to the topic. She gently stroked Coral’s shoulder.

‘Please understand that during an attack Coral enters a kind of dream-state. In such a condition she’s like a bat or other creature that sleeps safely in precarious locations. If, however, she were to be abruptly awakened, then who can say what would happen.’

I sat back in my chair and regarded Vanessa quizzically. I felt like an interviewer trying to interrogate a politician – ask direct questions and receive evasive answers. It was difficult to know how to proceed, but I had to give it a shot.

‘I’m very grateful you’ve explained Coral’s condition, but with the greatest respect I still don’t understand what happened at the bridge. Why were you there, and so early? What possessed you to climb up there? And what was all that, “Do you really want to try again?” stuff?’

Vanessa suddenly jerked forward on the settee and glared at the window. She rose gingerly and strode over to one side of the curtain.

Well that, at least, seemed the first clearly honest reply I’d received to-date. I too left my seat, intending to join her by the window, but the instant I moved Coral began to moan. In a flash Vanessa moved back to the settee and, in a frenzy of activity, placed Coral flat on her back with cushions beneath her head and legs. Moments later the girl began to shake then convulse in a way I’d never seen before.

‘No need for alarm.’ Vanessa’s staring eyes riveted me to the spot. ‘Quickly, hold her legs. Don’t let her kick out.’

I obediently responded to my orders, but Coral’s limbs seemed charged with superhuman strength, and although the seizure could only have lasted seconds, it seemed like minutes. Then, as abruptly as the attack had surfaced, it subsided, her contorted face relaxed and she opened her eyes. Coral’s head lolled a little back and forth as Vanessa helped her into a sitting position and made an effort to straighten her ruffled hair, then suddenly she sat still, stretched out her hand and touched my face as she had done at the bridge.

That was about all I could take: a suicide attempt, a tragic story, a fit, and now speech, albeit gibberish, from an apparently mute girl.

The author has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work