CHAPTER ONE

“Benjamin Grey”

IF you lie still and listen very carefully, in that place between awake and asleep, it is possible to hear seemingly infinite voices that travel the airwaves.

IF you practice long and hard enough, it is possible to tune-in and isolate the voices, to listen-in – at least it is, for Benjamin Grey.

________________________

Ben first heard the voices when he turned nine years old. Despite the chill of an English winter, Ben lay in bed with the window slightly open. His mother always overheating the house to compensate for the biting wind. Wind, like water, possessed that particular ability to enter through the tiniest of places when all other channels were closed. Just half an inch changed the bedroom from being stuffy to cozy.

Ben closed the book he had been reading and let it drop to the floor. He switched off the lamp and lay, staring up at the stars that glowed back at him from his bedroom ceiling. Moments later he started to drift off to sleep. As he approached the precipice, his eyelids heavy, he heard whispers, soft voices, caught in his ears. At first, there were just a few and only occasionally did the voices speak words that he recognised. As the nights passed and Ben continued seeking that place on the edge of sleep, each time more careful not to lose his footing, he would listen intently - the whispers grew in number and became mingled with louder voices, speaking words in varying accents.

At first, the voices were a curiosity, something to be explored, a talent to be practised, and after several months, Ben had learned to refine his skill, and filter out unwanted whispers and voices. He could tune-in and listen to specific voices that had attracted his attention. Most of the voices spoke in English, but some spoke in different tongues that he didn’t recognise, though he somehow knew them to be words. Some voices expressed sorrow, some love, some laughter and others happiness, but many expressed anger, fear, hatred and sorrow. After almost a year, Ben thought he had mastered his skill but had become saddened by the endless violence and bitterness held within most of the voices. Ben’s enthusiasm dwindled, replaced with doubts and many questions.

It was a Saturday afternoon when Ben decided to tell his mother of the voices. Her reaction was not what he had been expecting –

“Don’t’ tell anyone you are hearing voices,” she told him, “especially not your father…and don’t tell any of your friends either.”

“But Mum,” he replied, “why not? I don’t know why I’m hearing them. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about them.”

“You do nothing Benjamin. You block them out. The voices are not real, they are just in your head. It’s that wild imagination of yours playing tricks on you. You are dreaming. You said you only hear them when you fall asleep.”

“I’m not dreaming. I’m hearing people talking. They are not talking to me, they are just talking, sometimes to other voices. How can this be? I can understand them…most of the time.”

The conversation was interrupted when Ben’s father came into the kitchen. He paused briefly to look at them as if to say, ‘what’s going on?’. When neither Ben or his mum responded, he pulled a beer from the fridge and left the kitchen to return to the lounge and the soccer match on the TV.

“How long have you been, I can’t believe I’m saying this, hearing these voices?” his mother asked.

“Since my birthday last year. They were all fuzzy at first and strange, but I’ve learned how to listen properly. I can control it better, but still only when I’m almost asleep.”

“You are asleep Benjamin. Oh, my lord, that’s almost a year. You know how ridiculous it is to suggest you are hearing voices. Please Benjamin, you don’t have to listen to them. From now on, you ignore them and then they will go away. And, I don’t want you to speak of them to anyone…they’ll have you back in hospital or worse.”

Ben knew his mother was probably right. He found he could choose not to listen-in - rather than treading carefully toward the edge of sleep, he would run and jump off into the sweet abyss. From then on, he would only occasionally tune-in, just to see if he still could. His gift remained a secret between him and his mother…until he was seventeen.

*  *  *  *

Ben was seventeen when he had his first real girlfriend. Her name was Dawn, she was petite with straight blond hair that she kept cut above her shoulders. She had blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks. At college, she wasn’t considered attractive, just okay, but Ben had grown to love her.

At seventeen, Ben, stood at five feet eleven. He had black, unkempt shoulder length hair. Traces of dark stubble had started to appear around his mouth. He had brown eyes, was slim and had the shoulders of an accomplished swimmer. Together, Ben and Dawn looked a little awkward, but they were happy and happy being together.

At seventeen, Ben was still living in the same three-bedroom semi-detached house that he had spent his childhood in, but his father no longer lived there – he left one evening after a violent argument with his Mum, when Ben was thirteen. Ben had tried to defend his mother and received a bruise to his lower back as he was pushed backwards and lost his footing. His mother yelled as his father opened and then slammed the front door, cracking a pane of glass. Ben and his mother were left at the foot of the stairs, bruised and crying. Ben hasn’t seen his Dad since.

One night, a month before Ben turned eighteen, his mother declared she would be staying out overnight with a friend. Ben and Dawn seized on the opportunity. That night, they made love, at least that’s what Ben thought it was. It was the first time for both of them, and for Ben, proof that they would spend the rest of their lives together.

A few days later, Ben shared knowledge of his ability with Dawn, but not in the way he had intended. They were at college and Dawn had been a little off all day, denying that anything was wrong. Ben had gone outside in the afternoon, alone, to read. He grew tired and as sleep beckoned, Ben listened. It was the first time Ben tried to listen for a specific voice – for Dawn’s voice. He was about to give up searching when he heard whispers, the timbre and accent familiar, they were Dawn’s whispers. Ben listened…

I don’t know how to tell him…I don’t want to hurt him…we had sex just the other day, how can I tell him now?...He’ll be so upset…but if not now, then when?...If I keep on seeing Stephen, someone is bound to see us together, then Ben is bound to find out. I don’t want Ben to find out that way…he needs to hear it from me…I’ll text him…I’ll tell him tonight…we’ll go somewhere, and I’ll tell him it’s over between us.

Ben’s phone vibrated as a text message had arrived.

Hi, can we meet up tonight? I have yoga. Maybe we can meet up after at the Centre, around seven-thirty? C U L8R.

Ben sat in silence, he didn’t send a reply. He sat and wrote a short note on a scrap piece of paper he pulled from his bag. Eventually he rose from the grass and went to search the college for Dawn. During the ten minutes or so that it took to find her, Ben’s emotions had spiralled, tears flushed his eyes. He found Dawn in a break-out area having a laugh with her friends. The laughter stopped as Ben approached. He threw the note at Dawn. She unravelled the note and read. As her friends watched on, Dawn’s complexion changed, blood ran from her face. Tears welled in her eyes.

“How could you know? I haven’t told anyone, no one knows. Who told you?” She responded.

“No one needed too,” Ben replied. “I heard you, I heard you talking, I can hear everyone talking.”

Ben turned and walked away.

“I don’t understand, how can you know? Ben, I’m sorry…”, but Ben had turned and gone.

When Ben thinks back to that day, he still remembers the pain – he came to understand why people referred to a broken heart. But it was Dawn’s words that had the more lasting impact – ‘I haven’t told anyone’. It was then, Ben learned the difference between the whispers and the voices – the whispers were thoughts.

*  *  *  *

With the realisation that if he tried hard enough, he could tune-in to specific people and the revelation that he could hear a persons very thoughts, as well as anything they might be saying, Ben’s enthusiasm for his gift had been reignited. He signified these developments by shaving his head, much to his mother’s chagrin, and returned more frequently to the edge of sleep. Ben withdrew, preferring to shy away from people, and avoid conversation whenever he could.

Over the next four years, Ben started to record the various conversations and thoughts he had tuned-into. He had compiled several volumes of handwritten notes and quotations, all kept locked away in a chest he kept under his bed. During those years, he rediscovered how vicious, bitter, and hateful the human spirit could be. He learned how even his mother, who he knew loved him, could still have thoughts of anger and violence toward him, how a husband at the arrival of a new born would have only thoughts of his other woman, how a Judge passed sentence on a paedophile while practising paedophilia himself, how Government officials were happy wasting millions in taxes and enhancing their own wealth in preference to the pursuit for which they had been entrusted. Only rarely did Ben stumble across love, charity and real joy.

The latest development in Ben’s ability occurred two years ago, after he had turned twenty-two. An acquaintance at the place where Ben worked, suddenly went off work. She had been kind to Ben, often going for coffee with him and sharing a scone. Ben became increasingly concerned for her when, after three weeks, she had still not returned to work. On several occasions he had attempted to find her in the airwaves, to listen for her and find out if she was okay, but on each attempt, he fell asleep before locating her. He decided to try the traditional way – he drove to the village she had said she was living in, to see if he could track her down. Eventually, he was directed to her home where she lived with her parents. Her parents told him that their daughter was mentally unwell and that she had been transferred to a hospital for treatment. Ben decided to visit. Her name was Shelley.

At the hospital, it was clear Shelley was receiving some strong medications. Their conversation was very limited and confused Ben - it appeared Shelley too, was hearing voices. That night, Ben returned to the hospital grounds. He had decided he was going to try and listen-in to Shelley. Reclining his car seat, Ben closed his eyes, took long deep breaths and started to drift to the edge of sleep. Listening intently, the gradual waves of whispers and voices poured in. Ben started to scan the sounds, quickly filtering out those of no interest. To his surprise he began hearing voices the like of which he had never heard before – deep, gravelled voices full of hate and loathing. As he listened more intently, he thought he heard Shelley calling for help, then a came another Voice. He listened…

‘You are helpless Shelley, no one can help you. You are alone. You have no one. Even those that say they love you, don’t want you anymore. You belong to me. You feel only what I allow you to feel. I have made my home with you Shelley, for you are flesh, and blood flows through this body. We have been denied it, but I shall not be denied it. We shall not be denied it. You belong to me. They may still this body, but it belongs to me and I will rest here.’

‘Why do you torture me? I have done nothing to you. I want you to leave,’ Shelley replied to the Voice.

‘You don’t have the power to make me leave. Your father invited me to your home, he brought me to you. I have been watching you, waiting. You interest me. You are weak, already hating yourself despite being kind to others. I knew I could rest with you, but I had to wait a short while. Wait, wait for the opportunity, until you opened up and let me in.’

Ben suddenly became aware of his heart beating – fast and with a palpable thud in his chest. He awoke with beads of sweat across his brow. Quickly, he reached for the notebook he kept in the car’s glovebox and scribbled down what he could remember of what he had just heard. At the end of what he had written, he added his own notations – Can people possess more than one voice? What does this mean? Ben stopped and looked down at what he had written. His eyes returned to the word possess. To the end of his notes, he added – demons?

*  *  *  *

For a short time after his meeting with Shelley, Ben wondered if he had demons. Since that first conversation with his mother, the thought that he might be going mad had always remained close, like his shadow – a companion one moment, only to disappear and reappear the next. Everything else in Ben’s life seemed normal, almost everything…from the age of six, Ben had been unable to hear a single sound.

CHAPTER TWO

 ‘A Plot to Kill’

The River Thames stank despite the crisp easterly wind. They had been told to wear dark clothes and to take great care not to be seen when entering the disused yard. Abdullah and Mustafa had done as instructed, only Abdullah was wishing he had put on more layers. They stood on the northern bank next to the green cross-wired fence that marked where they were to meet. It was cold, even for two a.m. on a November morning. For a time, Abdullah and Mustafa stood quiet, shifting from one foot to the other trying to prevent the chill from taking hold of their toes. Only the constant drone of traffic from the M25 motorway could be heard. Eventually, after checking his watch for a third time, Abdullah spoke.

“Do you think he’s coming?”

“Of course, he’ll be here. He’s The Planner,” replied Mustafa.

“I’m freezing.”

“He’ll be here. We were told to wait. He has to be careful.”

Abdullah took his hands from his coat and cupped them round his mouth. Blowing into his hands, he tried to warm his face from the effects of the biting wind.

Mustafa gave Abdullah a nudge, “Here he comes,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Abdullah looked up the bank and saw the headlights from two cars coming to a halt. After a few moments, they heard car doors shut. This must be him. They had been waiting for this moment for nine months, ever since they had been chosen.

A large heavyset man approached as four others appeared to be forming a perimeter. As he got closer, even in the dim light, they could see he was smiling.

“Praise be to God for your souls. Abdullah, Mustafa, you are indeed the chosen ones. I am the one they call The Planner and together we will strike a mortal blow to our enemy. What they have witnessed so far is but a prick to the wound we will inflict. You are aware that you have been chosen to carry out holy orders, but I will tell you what must be done. Come my friends, come.”

The Planner placed an arm around each of the young men as he invited them to walk along the riverbank, west towards the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge.

“The British continue to be the aggressor. As you know, they have killed and tortured many of our brothers, they rape our women and spoil our children with their ungodly ways. They are blinded by their prejudice and Allah no longer tolerates their actions. They will be brought low, and this people will know their Government, lead them to ruin.”

As they walked, Abdullah tried to imagine what task would be set before them. The bombing of the underground and London transport systems had received plenty of coverage around the world, but the extent to which life had been disrupted had been minimal, except for those few unfortunate enough to have been caught in the blasts. The Planner must have something much bolder in mind for them. They walked on farther, eventually stopping a few hundred metres from the enormous northern stanchion. Large warehouses stood only metres from where they had stopped, but there was no apparent movement or noise.

“Did you know this marvellous piece of engineering cost over eighty-six million pounds back in 1991? As I’m sure you know, all southbound traffic travels over this bridge. It is four hundred and fifty metres long and a vital infrastructural component to the great city of London. The concrete foundations are equivalent in volume to four hundred double-decker buses. At its highest point, the road deck is sixty-five metres above the water. And, as you can see,” The Planner said, now holding out his arms, “No one cares to guard it.”

“What are we to do?” asked Mustafa

Seemingly ignoring the question, The Planner continued, “Below us, are the two tunnels. The first tunnel was opened back in 1963 at a cost of thirteen million English pounds. The second tunnel was added in 1980 at a cost of forty-five million pounds. By the time the second tunnel was opened, it was already obvious the volume of traffic using them was greater than their designed capacity – hence the bridge was built.”

Abdullah and Mustafa looked at each other. Mustafa titled his head and with a slight nod of his head, raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Can you imagine what it would cost now to rebuild these crossings? Can you imagine the disruption, the chaos of the sixty million cars that cross them each year having to seek an alternative route? Over one hundred and fifty thousand vehicles taking alternative roads, every-single-day. Oh, the wonderful chaos!” The Planner turned to face them. “You my friends,” he added, “are going to bring this area into ruin, and with it, this warmongering government.”

Abdullah and Mustafa gazed in wonder at the bridge, contemplating how such a thing might be achieved. Their meeting with The Planner continued for another twenty minutes as he went over what they would be required to do. They knew when they had put themselves forward, that they would become martyrs for the holy cause. After embracing each other, they separated and went their own ways, first The Planner, then Mustafa. Abdullah was the last to leave, taking time to make sure they could not have been seen or overheard. The area was clear and quiet; the plan was perfect in its simplicity. Theirs would be a great reward. Abdullah gave praise to God for the opportunity that had been handed to him and returned to his vehicle, completely unaware that someone had been listening.

*  *  *  *

Ben reached for the notebook next to his bed. He hadn’t noticed the damp bed sheets from where he had been lying or the sweat on his face until drops fell onto the notebook. It didn’t matter. He needed to capture the details of the voices, the conversation he had just heard. Looking at the clock, it was almost three a.m. and Ben’s mind was racing.

After capturing what he had remembered, tiredness began to take hold. He decided on a shower to clear the sweat from his skin. Taking care not to make a noise that might disturb his mother, Ben went downstairs and sat in an armchair to consider his options. Without realising it, he fell asleep.

In the morning, he was woken by the door slamming as his mother left the house. It was Saturday, and morning was about to hand-over to afternoon. Ben quickly looked down, remembering he had been wearing only a towel around his waist. He exhaled when he saw it remained intact. Then he remembered the voices.

There had been occasions when Ben wondered for what purpose he might apply his ability. He had heard voices threatening murder many times, but he never knew who the voices belonged too or whom was being threatened. He followed in deep sadness, then frustration, news reports of murders he had heard on the airwaves but felt powerless to prevent. His gift had become a tormentor, until he made an oath to himself – that he would do whatever he could – however futile it may prove, to prevent atrocities.

Ben brought up the Metropolitan Police website – Report? No. Tell us about? Maybe. Ben clicked Tell us about and then Possible terrorist activity. Is it an emergency? He didn’t think so – it seemed the plans were well advanced, but nothing suggested to Ben that anything was imminent. There was time. He hit the Report possible terrorist activity button and started to complete the online form. Then he paused.

Ben had considered visiting the local police department, but he knew the conversation would be difficult enough to have in the first instance, and even more challenging to explain in the second. Ben examined the web form. Fortunately, the form didn’t make any personal information mandatory. He completed the Nature of enquiry dialogue and left the remaining boxes empty, before hitting the blue Send Form button. He hoped he had provided sufficient information for the police to act upon.

*  *  *  *

For the next seven days, Ben scanned the airwaves. His ability to remain at the edge of sleep would last no more than a couple of hours, before his body succumbed and sleep won over. Given the thousands of hours he had spent exercising his ability, he likened himself to an accomplished gymnast – and like the most accomplished competing to stay on the balance beam, Ben could also lose his balance and fall into the sleep abyss. But frustration spurred action. Ben explored exhausting his body physically while mentally trying to remain alert. A combination of coffee and jogging seemed to help extend what he had come to refer to as his air-time – though the impact to his body the following day had prompted unwanted enquiries from his mother.

On the seventh day after the initial discovery, Ben had tuned-in and located the would-be terrorists once again. Ben listened-in to the whispers of whom he believed to be Abdullah…

“Praise be to Allah and his prophet Muhammad for He is gracious in all things. Give me strength that I might serve you. Keep your chosen safe until thy holy deeds be done, for the date and the time is set. In accordance with your wisdom so shall it be done, and what more could I have wished, that a message be sent around the world on my, Abdullah Saajid’s, birthday. The world will remember the day and my birthday will be celebrated with the event that brings ruin on this perverse and pagan people. For so it is written, even in their Christian bible, that he will be a wild man; his hand against every man, and every man’s hand against him. Well this wild man has turned his hand, and these people will see its awful power. December the eighteenth will be a day to remember. Praise be to Allah.”

Ben returned to the Met Police website and the counter-terrorism form, this time specifying the date of the planned attack – December eighteenth, next month.

CHAPTER THREE

 “APRIL”

April had completed her math test early and began doodling in a notepad. Even on a go-slow April would complete her tests before anyone else, and she only entered sufficient correct answers to place her just at the top of the class - which meant deliberately making mistakes.

Since her high-profile disappearance more than five years ago, April had been keeping a low profile. After the incident, April had moved away from Vancouver, living with Angelina, the housekeeper that had helped her escape. She knew that detective would not stop looking for her. They fled to Edmonton, Alberta to an area known as Stony Plain. They lived under new identities that had been arranged by Carlo, one of Angelina’s brothers. This, as it turned out, was not the first time Angelina had changed identity. Despite the secrets Angelina kept, Angelina was one of only a few people April liked and had come to trust.

After almost four years in Stony Plain, Angelina and April had moved back to the Vancouver area. Angelina preferred the more temperate climate and April had unfinished business.

From her early childhood April had been treated as a curiosity, a freak, something to be assessed and tested. Her intelligence and problem-solving capacities made her exceptional, but despite all the tests, they still had no idea. She had more, much more. She was sick of others trying to control her, telling her what she can and cannot do, making decisions for her without even discussing them with her, telling her what was and was not acceptable. Fuck you! From now on, she would be the one in control.

April looked down at the sketches she had made on her notepad. She had drawn three stick figure people of increasing height; she was capable of drawing remarkable art if she so desired, but these stick figures served her purpose. Under the smallest she had written, ‘April’. Under the next, she wrote ‘Mom?’ and under the tallest, ‘Dad?’. April knew that as an infant she had been discovered in Richmond Park, lying next to her dead mother. Investigations had uncovered no useful information as to whom her mother was or might have been. No one could tell her anything, no one seemed to know. No one seemed to care. She only knew that her mother had taken her own life and seemed to have lacked the courage to take April with her. April fingered the silver ‘V’ on her necklace, a necklace her mother had been wearing and that later had been passed on to April.

April had no knowledge of her father. Failure to identify her mother had severed any links to discovering who her father might be, let alone grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins. She was a mystery even unto herself. To the word ‘April’, she added a ‘?’.

As April sat there, she considered, as she had a hundred times, what events may have conspired to drive her mother to suicide. April flicked the page on her notepad. On a clean page she wrote the words – Trauma and Mental Health. She drew a line down from Mental Health and wrote Depression. She drew a line down from Trauma and wrote, Abuse. April knew that some form of trauma, probably sexual, or depression, are statistically the most likely causes behind her mother’s suicide. Further down the page, April listed the words – Richmond Nature Park, photos, then the names of her adopted parents, Maggie and Taylor Pritchard. Then she added – Jenny Bateman – the woman from Child Services that handled her adoption. April knew what she going to do – she circled the words, Jenny Bateman. Returning to the stick figures, April underlined her name and closed the notepad.

April glanced around the room, always surprised at how long it took the other students to complete the tests. She looked at the teacher who seemed to have sensed that she was being watched. Her teacher looked up and smiled, before returning to whatever it was that she was reading.

April looked out of the window and she considered how someone could go unidentified. No recorded fingerprints, dentals or DNA. She wondered how her mother’s picture could go unnoticed in every local police station, church, social service office, and social media posts, that had been used to request that anyone who may have any information, to come forward. Who am I? April wondered.

*  *  *  *

Detective Munroe had finished early for the day. He had promised to pick up groceries on the way home, for Dr Elizabeth Hershey, a good friend. Munroe discarded the toothpick from his mouth as he entered the small grocers. The assistant greeted him with a knowing smile. Munroe always smiled back but the tinge of embarrassment, knowing he was not shopping for himself, never seemed to diminish.

“We have just had some great kiwis delivered,” the assistant declared.

“Isn’t everything great?” Munroe responded.

“Yes, sir it is. But if there are degrees of greatness, then these kiwis are toward the top for sure.”

“I guess I’d better grab some of those really great kiwis then,” Munroe confirmed.

Munroe grabbed the kiwi, along with several other fruits and vegetables Elizabeth had requested. Leaving the grocers with two full paper bags, Munroe loaded them onto front seat of his sedan and pulled the seatbelt over the bags. Before driving off, he took a new toothpick from the small container he kept in his jacket pocket.

He first met Elizabeth when she was consulting at Ashford Mental Institute. She lived in the affluent Upper Capilano area of Vancouver, and back then she worked most days and most hours. Munroe admired her drive and her professionalism – she was good at her job and had even helped him in the capture of Edward Walker, the Cannibal Killer. Back then she had spirit, fight, and enthusiasm for what she was doing. Back then. She sold up two years ago and downsized, despite having had the house rebuilt following the blaze. She said she couldn’t continue living in the place where her father had tragically died. The home had become cold with thoughts of what might have been, and the memories of what had occurred. The blaze wasn’t the only fire extinguished that night, Munroe reflected, Elizabeth had lost her desire, she seemed somehow broken and perhaps her dreams shattered. He still loved her, but she was no longer the woman that had been the cause of him falling in love.

The traffic was backing up; trouble ahead. Munroe could just make out two fire crews and at least two police vehicles up ahead. He placed the blue flasher, that he had come to call the wigwag, on the roof of his car. He hit a short burst on his siren and watched as the vehicles in front of him shifted left and right to make way. As he got closer to the scene, he could see that a black Honda civic had driven into a store front. Munroe noted the absence of an ambulance and assumed one had already been and gone. As Munroe pulled up, he was watching what he thought to be discussion between the cops and the fire crew, presumably on how best to remove the vehicle. Munroe lowered his window and then dipped his head to show his face to the traffic cop that had approached his car.

The cop smiled and waving Munroe through said, “Old lady, popped the car into drive instead of reverse. Instead of breaking, she must have panicked and pressed the accelerator even harder. She’ll be fine, no one really hurt. Gonna be a bitch getting the vehicle out though. The crew think it’ll bring the whole wall down and then some.” Waving Munroe through he added, “You have yourself a good day now.”

Munroe returned the smile and tipped his toothpick before continuing his journey – perk of the job, Munroe thought to himself.

That evening Munroe and Elizabeth had dinner in. There used to be a time when they would usually dine out. Now they usually stayed in. They prepared dinner together. They chatted, Elizabeth had long stopped consulting at Ashford, but she had continued with her own private practice. She worked a lot less hours and took no more than four appointments a day – often less, though demand could easily have kept her much busier. Munroe asked the questions when he thought he should, but often his attention would be drawn to how Elizabeth was looking. Her nails that had once been immaculate, white and sculptured, were short and jagged from where she had been biting them – a habit he knew all too well. A slight yellow tinge around her fingers tips was now visible, evidence of the increase in the number of cigarettes she was smoking, a habit that only a few years ago she had despised. The skin around her green eyes had collected wrinkles in advance of her years and somehow seemed set in permanent shadow. She had gained twenty pounds and though she still kept her hair well, it had lost its lustre. He noticed how her head hung slightly to the left, no longer straight and proud, and how she intermittently tapped the little finger on her left hand. Munroe was no stranger to the effects of stress on the body, hell he had chewed through sufficient wooden toothpicks to smoke a pig, but to see its effects on Elizabeth, was a clear reminder to him of how vulnerable even the strongest can be – that stress or depression or whatever it was that was eating away at Elizabeth, was just as real as any chronic disease.

After they got seated, Elizabeth asked, “What’s on your mind, Munroe?” When he seemed unsure how to respond she said, “You took twice as long as you normally do to cut those veg, and you’ve asked half as many questions as you normally do. I know something is on your mind, what is it?”

“I received some news today,” Munroe said, quick to place the food from his fork into his mouth.

Elizabeth stopped eating and looked at him, allowing her wrists to rest on the table. Munroe chewed slowly as he watched Elizabeth consider the possibilities.

“April?” she said.

“Angelina,” Munroe replied. “We received a tip on her whereabouts.” Munroe paused for a moment before continuing. Elizabeth didn’t move. “It seems she no longer goes by the name Angelina Flores. She still uses Angelina but has changed her surname to Ortega. Ortega was not her original name either. She was born Angelina Romero Mendoza.” Munroe paused again.

In the year following the blaze that lead to her father’s death and April’s disappearance, Munroe had come to understand there was little benefit in trying to discuss what had happened, why the things had happened or whether she really wanted him to find April. There was so much he wanted to talk to her about, but every time he broached the subject, they usually quarrelled – and though he recognised finding April was becoming an obsession for him, Elizabeth preferred not to discuss it. Elizabeth remained silent, continuing to look at him. He took that as meaning he was good to proceed.

“We suspect that she got the idea for the name Ortega after leaving your employment. Hale had been doing some home research into his wife’s family tree…she has Spanish parents. Anyway, he told me Ortega means ‘Dweller at the sign of the grouse’. Kind of coincidental given where you lived.”

Images played through Elizabeth’s mind – the interview with Angelina when she and April were searching for a housekeeper, the instant liking they both had toward her. Her warm smile. Her talent for cooking.

“We have her under surveillance,” Munroe continued, “It is Angelina. I intend to pick her up tomorrow.”

“And April? Any sign of April?” Elizabeth asked.

Munroe shook his head. “We haven’t seen her yet. We’re not sure if April’s staying with her or not. I’m concerned the longer we wait the greater the risk of us being spotted. If she runs again, we may never find her, or April. If we pick her up, then we can find out what she knows about April.”

“And what will you do, if you do see April?” Hershey asked, picking up her glass of water.

“We’ll bring her in. She’s a fugitive, Elizabeth. It was your own recommendation that lead to the deaths of Peter Legwinski and Donald McCoy being kept open. She assaulted you. She’s responsible…”

Elizabeth put down her glass, spilling some of water, “Don’t say it Munroe. Yes, she hit me because she was scared. She wanted to leave, and I was stopping her. You had been stalking her and provoking her. She didn’t start the fire. How could she have known? She was eight years old and we failed her. You failed her. I failed her!” Elizabeth picked up the napkin from her lap and began to wipe herself.

“I don’t expect anyone would be willing to bring a prosecution, not you, not the province. But we should still pick her up. She’s what? Fourteen? Still a minor and you’re still her legal guardian.”

Elizabeth got up from the table, “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Munroe was quick to get up from the table and move toward Elizabeth. He reached for her saying, “It doesn’t mean anything other than we need to make sure she’s all right. Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight. I…I probably was to blame. Maybe I could have handled things better, but she admitted to me she was in someway responsible for the death of Donald McCoy. She told me she had used him as some sort of experiment.”

“She was eight years old, being influenced by that student, and you told me, she said she never expected anything she was doing to have any effect.” Elizabeth responded.

“Yes, yes, I don’t think she meant any real harm. But she was doing stuff that had significant consequences. We don’t know what she might be capable of now.” Munroe said, in a conciliatory tone, gently holding Elizabeth’s shoulders.

Elizabeth paused for a moment, looking up into Munroe’s eyes. She sighed gently before pulling herself away, carrying plates over to the sink.

“Do you mean that?” Elizabeth asked, as she turned on the tap to rinse the plates. “Do you really believe she wasn’t intending for anyone to be harmed?”

Munroe shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know. Yes, I think so. Before the…that night, before April left, you remember I went up with her to put her bed. I asked her if she was involved. She confirmed to me it was her, but she was also quick to say she didn’t intend for what happened. But what she did to Donald, the instructions she must have given him, even if she didn’t think they would work, it was terrible thing to even attempt.”

Elizabeth turned the tap off and turned to look at Munroe, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

“Elizabeth, I’m sorry for what happened. For how everything happened. April was experimenting with a power she didn’t understand, hell, we don’t understand. People were dying. I loved you Elizabeth, I was concerned you were in harm’s way. I just wanted to be there for you.”

Elizabeth finished drying her hands and placed the dishcloth on the side. “You were there for me. You saved my life remember, and my Mom’s life.” Elizabeth slowly walked over to Munroe and gently took his hand in hers. “You said, ‘loved’.”

Munroe took hold of Elizabeth’s other hand. “I still love you, but things just haven’t been the same since. I tried to get them both out. I was carrying your mother, your Dad was supposed to stay right behind me. I tried to get back in the house, but it was too late. I’ve played that night a hundred times, I’m sorry for what happened but I can’t shift the feeling you somehow blame me for what happened.”

Elizabeth gave a tight-lipped smile and cupped Munroe’s cheek in her hand. “I’m sorry Munroe, I thought you were out to get April and that if you’d have been…different, dad might still be alive, and April would have still been at home.” She took his right hand and placed a kiss on to the scaring that had formed after the skin had started to melt.

Munroe moved his mouth towards Elizabeth’s, but she withdrew, let go of his hand and went to sit back down at the kitchen table.

“So, what do we know?” Elizabeth asked.

Munroe returned to his seat. “Arrangements have been made to pick Angelina up tomorrow. She has a part-time job at a local retail store. We plan to pick her up as she heads into work. We have enough for an arrest if needed, fake identities, tax evasion, and potentially child abduction. But the intention is just to bring her in voluntarily and take it from there.”

“Fake IDs and tax evasion?”

“She’s had several identities over the years. It’s not clear why, but people don’t change their identity unless they’re trying to hide something.”

“Or from somebody,” Elizabeth added. “And if April is there?”

“I think it might be a good idea for you to be with us. Like I say, we haven’t seen her so we’re not expecting April to be there, but if she is, I think it’d be good for you to be there.”

More images played through Elizabeth’s mind, of when she had first met April at the institute, the lunches they had together, holding hands, the hug April gave her when Elizabeth told her she was cleared to leave the institute and live with Elizabeth. The images of happiness were suddenly interrupted, a dark shadow spread like an oil spill in otherwise perfect waters, as an image of Alexander Jones forced its way in – his smug grin and smarmy charm. Elizabeth quickly shut her eyes and then opened them again to look at Munroe.

“Let me clear my schedule.” Elizabeth said.

Munroe nodded. “Are you okay?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It was nothing,” Elizabeth replied.

Munroe looked out of the window. It was dark outside with a breeze in the air. He checked his watch. “I should probably get going,” he said, before noticing Elizabeth’s cheek was damp.

“Munroe, I’m sorry. I think I was blaming you for what happened. But it’s not your fault, I’m sorry. I may still need some time to adjust but…please, you don’t have to go.”

Munroe rose from his seat and reached across to kiss Elizabeth. This time their mouths touched, soft at first, then harder as their passion heightened.

*  *  *  *

The following morning light rain pattered as it landed on the roof of the car. Munroe and Hale had been sitting in their unmarked vehicle across from Dollarama, between No. 4 road and Bridgeport. Elizabeth was in the backseat.

“Thought there would have been more cars parked here. It’s pretty dead.” Hale said, biting into a doughnut he had just bought from the Tim Horton’s around the corner.

Munroe continued to roll the toothpick between his teeth, his eyes fixed on the turn from No.4 road.

“Why’d she come back to Vancouver?” Hale asked.

“She’s hardly a hardened criminal,” Elizabeth responded.

“The RCMP have been sniffing around her son. Just some low-level stuff. They think he’s a small player in a larger organisation illegally shipping imported goods from China. The goods have a high chance of evading inspection because there’s no official paperwork. Likely sold on in cash deals and then may be even through otherwise legitimate businesses. Everybody wins.” Munroe said, almost as a mutter.

“Except the taxpayer,” Hale added.

“And that would include you and me,” Munroe responded.

Munroe checked his watch. Anytime now. His eyes returned to the turn in as two, then three cars, slowed. Munroe felt himself sit up as Hale continued talking, somehow, he’d got on to the cost of housing around Vancouver. Munroe watched as the first car entered the mall parkade. Negative. The second, negative. Munroe continued to watch as the remaining car made its turn in – a silver Corolla.

“That’s her,” Munroe said.

They had parked a good distance away from where Angelina worked. They assumed she would park close and felt it unlikely she would notice them. Nevertheless, Munroe was ready to start the car if it became necessary.

They watched as the car parked just a few bays from the shop entrance. After a moment, Angelina emerged from the vehicle. She had aged, Munroe thought. She locked the car and appeared to walk with a slight limp. Angelina entered the store.

“Okay, nice an easy,” Munroe said. “Elizabeth, you okay to remain here?”

“Sure,” she replied.

Hale and Munroe exited their car and walked casually toward the store. The chill in the air surprised Munroe. He buttoned his jacket as they made their way across the car park. As they approached the store entrance, Munroe put his face close to the window to peer in. He couldn’t see Angelina. Hale pushed on the door.

As they went inside, Munroe quickly scanned the store…empty, good, he thought. An assistant stood at a counter, grooming her nails. She smiled as they came closer.

“Hi, a lady just came in here,” Munroe said.

“Angelina?” the assistant replied.

“Yes. Is she here?”

“Sure, she just went in the back. I’m sure she’ll be out in a moment. Can I help?”

Munroe showed is badge. “I’m Detective Munroe and this is Detective Hale. We’d just like to talk to Angelina if we may.”

“Is she in any trouble?”

“No, nothing like that. Perhaps you could let her know we’re here?” Munroe asked.

As the woman left the counter, Angelina appeared at a door at the back of the store. She smiled at the assistant and then noticed Munroe at the counter. Munroe saw her hesitation.

“Hi Angelina. There are two policemen here who would like to talk to you.”

Concern replaced the smile on Angelina’s face. She looked again from the assistant to Munroe, and then she noticed Hale a few paces from where she was standing. Munroe smiled.

“Are okay Angelina?” the assistant asked. “They just want to talk to you. You’re not in any trouble.” Angelina was visibly shaking, her hand went to the left side of her jaw. “Are you?” the assistant added.

Munroe’s smile soon dropped when he saw Angelina’s distress. Her knees buckled. Hale and the assistant reached her at the same time, just in time to cushion her fall.

Munroe dashed over. Hale was cradling her head in his hands and the assistant was now standing over Angelina, with both hands cupped to her mouth.

“Please excuse me,” Munroe said, not waiting for a reply from the assistant but rather moving her to the side. Munroe crouched down and noticed beads of sweat appearing on Angelina’s forehead.

“She seizing?” Hale asked.

“No, I think it’s a heart attack,” Munroe replied, laying her flat. He bent over to see if she was breathing.

Hale called for medical assistance.

“Is she going to be okay?” the assistant asked.

“She’s not breathing,” Munroe said. He quickly removed his jacket, cursing at the button he had just done up, and started CPR.

“Oh my god,” Munroe heard the assistant say.

Munroe counted thirty compressions and then stopped to give mouth to mouth. Angelina’s chest rose and fell as Munroe issued the breaths. Still nothing. Munroe returned to giving the compressions.

Munroe could tell the assistant had started to cry. As Hale completed the call, he escorted the assistant away.

Another thirty compressions, and Munroe gave further mouth to mouth. Still nothing, come on. Munroe started the compressions again.

Elizabeth remained in the back seat of the car. She watched as more cars entered the plaza’s car park. She looked across at the store wondering if she was going to see Munroe and Hale exit the store with Angelina. She checked her messages and email on her phone. In the distance she could hear sirens. A fire truck then pulled into the lot, eventually coming to a stop outside the store. What the hell was going on? she thought. Not sure what to do, she waited a moment longer. From the fire crew’s reaction, she could tell they weren’t there because of a fire. Elizabeth got out the car and started walking toward the store. More sirens. Before she reached the store, an ambulance had pulled up alongside the fire truck. The paramedics jumped out and rushed passed her, into the store. Elizabeth reached the door just as it was closing.

Slowly she pushed on the door and took a step in, just in time to see both paramedics duck from view at the back of the store. A moment later and Munroe appeared at the same spot the medics had disappeared. Elizabeth saw Munroe wipe his forehead. He had his back to her, and his jacket was missing.

“Elizabeth,” Hale said. He was standing next to a young woman who looked like she was struggling to control her tears. Hale said something to the woman then started to walk toward Elizabeth. As he reached her, Hale said, “It’s Angelina, I think she’s had a heart attack.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Elizabeth asked. “Is Munroe okay?”

“He was providing CPR. We didn’t even get a chance to talk to her.”

Elizabeth walked over to Munroe. The paramedics were using a defibrillator. They both watched as the medics worked on the lifeless body. Angelina didn’t appear to be responding. More sirens could be heard, and another ambulance crew entered the store. Two cops then entered the store. Munroe showed his badge as he went over to talk to them.

Elizabeth went and stood outside, the cool air was fresh, and she started to wonder where April might be. Was she staying with Angelina? If Angelina doesn’t make it, then what? A balding, short and slightly overweight man with glasses, brushed passed Elizabeth and into the store. Shortly after that Munroe exited the store.

“Is she okay?” Elizabeth asked.

Munroe’s lips tightened as he shook his head. He then sighed. “They called it, just now. She’s not responding, and it’s been over ten minutes. They’re going to be bringing out shortly. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. What happened, did she try and run or something?” Elizabeth asked.

“We just went in. Didn’t see her at first as she was in the back office. As she came out, she saw me, I smiled and told her we’d like to talk to her. She didn’t try to run or make any attempt to move, she…collapsed. I started CPR and continued until the medics arrived.”

Elizabeth continued to look at Munroe. “We still don’t know where April is and now she’s without Angelina,” she said.

“I’ll have someone sent to the house. We’ll need to inform the son. We can try and find out from him if Aprils’ been staying with Angelina. I never got the chance to ask Angelina.”

Elizabeth knocked each foot against the pavement and blew into her hands.

“I’m going to need to stay here for a while longer. Sorry. The manager wants to keep the store open. Can I get someone to run you back?”

“No, it’s okay, thanks. Let me call a taxi.”

Munroe kissed Elizabeth on the cheek. “I’ll see you later,” she said.

Munroe nodded and opened the door just as the medics came out with Angelina’s covered body on a gurney. Elizabeth reached for her phone as Munroe re-entered the store.

*  *  *  *

That afternoon Katie and April walked into the electrical department of London Drugs. A bank of TVs along one wall were showing various channels. Three of the televisions were showing the local news. April watched the silent screens as images of the store where Angelina worked were being shown. April continued watching, reading the subtitles as they come up. A picture of Angelina was soon being displayed in the corner of the screen.

“What is it?” Katie asked, “Isn’t that your grandma?”

“Yes, it is. I think she’s dead.”

The subtitles explained how Angelina Ortega, a sixty-two year old employee, had suffered a heart attack after being approached by police. This incident followed two other recent deaths, one of an elderly man tasered while resisting arrest at Vancouver International airport, and another of teenage man who died while in police custody.

“I don’t understand. What would the police want with your grandma? I’m so sorry, April. Come on, let’s get out of here.” Katie said.