Until Death. Sandy Curtis
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sticking her blouse to her skin.
The faint creak of a gate hinge made her glance back. A dark shape detached itself from a hedge that had overgrown a low fence, and started walking behind her. She quickened her pace slightly, passed under a streetlight and glanced back again. A man, cap shielding his face, wearing black T-shirt and baggy jeans, walked purposefully towards her. Libby resisted the urge to run. He looked as though he could easily catch her. She was petite, and hopeless at running.
To her relief, he walked by her. She let out the breath that had stuck in her lungs, and followed. At each house she passed, her disappointment grew. She began to doubt her memory. So much could have changed in sixteen years. She'd rarely seen the street at night, and wondered if she'd even remembered the name correctly.
Pre-occupied with her thoughts, she didn't notice the man in front slow his pace. It was only when she was a few metres from him that she realised he had stopped and was searching through the front pocket of his jeans. She walked a few more paces, then paused.
If she hadn't been so tired, her reaction would have been quicker. But he moved so fast she just had time to turn before he grabbed her arm with one hand and pulled her bag with the other. She tried to hit him, but her blows fell on arms and shoulders that didn't flinch.
The fist that punched into the side of her face spun her body to the footpath.
Her head smashed onto the concrete gutter.
CHAPTER THREE
Conor knew it wasn't the early streaks of dawn light filtering through the curtains that had woken him.
The thunk from the old brass knocker on his front door echoed down the hallway. He punched numbers into a small keypad on the bedside table, swung out of bed, pulled on his thin towelling robe, and tied the sash as he padded softly along the polished timber floor. The security camera revealed a young woman leaning against the arched column of the portico. Her head was lowered and tilted to one side, her body drooped, and he wondered if she was on drugs. And if she was alone. He flicked the switch to another camera that focussed on the front door and walls. Clear. Reluctantly, he unlocked the door and opened it.
Slowly, the woman looked up. Blood had run from under her short hair and congealed on the left side of her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale. She took a faltering step towards him, her initially puzzled expression changing to entreaty.
'Do you ...' her voice shook, 'Do you know ... who I am?'
Her query surprised him. 'No.'
Disappointment furrowed her forehead, and small flakes of dried blood dusted onto her eyebrow.
'You don't ... know me?'
What game was she playing? Conor's first instinct when he saw she had been injured was to offer help, but her questions were making him wary. 'Should I?'
The question seemed to confuse her. She swayed a little as she straightened and looked around. 'I don't know,' she muttered. 'I'm sorry to disturb you.' She turned to leave.
Conor swore under his breath, damning the need for suspicion when his urge to help this waif-like woman was overwhelming. 'Wait.' The word was out before he could stop it. 'You need a doctor. Come inside.'
She looked at him as though having trouble understanding his words, and he wondered if her injury was more serious than he first thought. 'Can I call someone for you?' he asked.
'I ... I don't think so. I don't know.'
'You need medical attention,' Conor spoke slowly. 'Come inside and I'll call a doctor.'
She started to nod, then winced. But she shuffled past him into the foyer. She looked on the point of collapse, and he realised she would probably be better off lying down. 'There's a spare bedroom this way,' he said, gently touching her arm. 'You can lie down.'
He watched the way she climbed onto the old wooden bed like an obedient child. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she sighed and closed her eyes. Conor hesitated in the doorway. Was she what she appeared to be, the victim of some accident? Or something else? He walked back to his bedroom, picked up the extension phone, and dialled.
The feeling of relief pervading Libby didn't last long. Her head still throbbed, and now that she was lying down, the queasiness in her stomach grew. She didn't want to move, but knew she had to find a bathroom. It was a struggle to reach the door, and she held onto the wall as she stepped into the hall.
A voice was coming from a room opposite. At first she was puzzled, the language wasn't English, but she understood it. Then she realised. It was the voice of the man who had helped her ... and he was speaking Spanish. Not a patois, or the Mexican version that she was used to, but pure, liquid, fiery Spanish. For a second she was caught in the rhythm of it, then her nerves tensed as she translated.
'No, no,' he said. 'She asked me if I knew her. She's very dazed. Do you think she could have amnesia from the head injury?'
There was a brief silence, then he spoke again. 'I don't want you coming here. It's too much of a risk.' A pause. 'An ambulance will attract even more attention.' Another pause. 'All right. I'll wait for you. Oh, it might be wise if you take some blood tests. She could be on drugs.'
Libby heard the receiver drop into the cradle just as the little that remained in her stomach rumbled up into her throat. She clasped one hand across her mouth and lurched up the hall to the bathroom. Hand shaking, she opened the door, and reached the bowl just in time to vomit up a small amount of bile. Her vision swam as she collapsed onto the floor, then strong arms caught her and carried her back to the bed. A moment later someone gently wiped her face with a damp face cloth. She tried to open her eyes, but a terrible weariness settled on her, and she drifted into sleep.
It was like emerging from thick mushroom soup, Libby thought as she gradually woke. A great lethargy had engulfed her, and the sound of voices teased at the perimeter of her mind, until the fact they were speaking Spanish reminded her where she was. She forced herself to be more alert. She didn't open her eyes, just lay still until the voices came closer, then stopped. Someone entered the room.
'I can see why you were worried.' One of the voices, speaking English now, sounded close to her face. Libby opened her eyes. The face matched the voice - kind, as well as dignified. Silver hair, olive complexion, high cheekbones. 'I'm a doctor,' he reassured her. 'I just want to assess your injuries. Do you understand?'
'Yes.'
His hands were firm but gentle as he carried out his examination. She flinched when he touched the abrasion on the side of her head, and glanced towards the other man standing beside the bed. Much younger than the doctor, skin not as swarthy, hair the colour of fresh tar glistening in the sun. And the most intense dark eyes she had ever seen. The man who had let her into his house.
'I want you to look at my finger,' the doctor said, and Libby forced her gaze back to him as he continued his tests. Her mind had cleared now, and she tried desperately to piece together the fragments of her memory. The previous night seemed like a nightmare, but she feared it was all too real. Horribly real. Her mother would have to be dead, the sight of her crushed skull was seared on Libby's mind. But she couldn't have killed her. Surely she would remember something so terrible? And how could it be her mother, she was visiting her friend for a week. Panic rushed through Libby's veins, and she felt the doctor pause as her breathing caught and her pulse quickened. She fought back the urge to jump off the bed and run blindly away. She had nowhere to run. No-one to trust.
And these men, with their talk of risks and attracting attention. Trusting them might not be wise. They could be involved with the man who said she had to die.
Amnesia. The word floated back to her. She would pretend to have amnesia until she could find out exactly what had happened to her mother. If she could find out.
A few minutes later the doctor asked, 'What's your name?'
'I don't know,' she whispered.
'Do you remember what happened to you?'