Bye Bye Baby by Fiona McIntosh Page B

know who he was.’
    ‘Oooh,’ they crowed, revelling in the high colour creeping up from my neck and the catch in my voice. I was such an idiot to let them do this to me with such ease.
    ‘Yeah, well, bastard or not, you’re still fat and ugly,’ Phil said and the others laughed.
    ‘Are you alright?’
    I realised Dr March was staring at me with a worried frown.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said and pulled myself back to the present.

    ‘What happened just then?’ she asked.
    ‘I just tuned out. Something must have triggered a memory. I was remembering my childhood for some reason.’
    ‘Was it the deaths, do you think?’ she prompted.
    ‘Deaths?’ I echoed, startled. Mikey’s and Clive’s death grins were still vivid in my mind.
    ‘You told me, remember? How your father and brother were killed. We’ve never really discussed that time in your life, have we? You’ve never felt strong enough to go there.’
    ‘Oh,’ I replied, trying not to show my relief. ‘Do you mind reminding me what we were talking about before?’ I wanted to move her away from the subject of death.
    Dr March gave a small smile of sympathy. ‘Of course. We were discussing how it feels to be told that you can’t be a parent.’
    ‘That’s right, I do remember.’ I smoothly picked up our previous discussion. ‘Well, James solved that issue, I suppose, although we can’t have any more children.’
    ‘Any more? You wouldn’t consider it at your age, surely?’ Dr March allowed her surprise to break through her normally professional facade. It was quite amusing.
    ‘No, of course not,’ I said, trying not to laugh.
    I didn’t need Dr March any more. Perhaps I’d come back for one more session, so as not to provoke any alarm bells, but right now I wanted to be gone from here and my memories.
    ‘Dr March, I don’t feel at all well. I’ve got the most hideously sore throat and talking is making it worse. I’m so sorry to cut our session short,’ I lied.

    ‘Oh, absolutely,’ she said, closing her notebook with a light slap. ‘We can have a slightly longer talk next time perhaps? Now, when are you back in London?’ She consulted her diary.
    ‘Actually, Dr March, I’m not sure of my movements or when I’ll next be here. How about I call you later this week?’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, frowning at her diary and flicking backwards through the pages. ‘I’m actually rather full this week. Um . . .’ She tapped her pencil against a page. ‘But give Teresa a call — she’s a witch, as you know, and capable of magicking up space for all my clients.’
    I smiled. I was always impressed at how she referred to us as clients rather than patients. ‘That will be fine. Thank you.’
    Dr March had been very kind and earnest in her endeavours to help me through the past couple of years. I wondered how calm she’d remain if she knew Britain’s latest serial killer was sitting opposite her now, thinking about my next victim.

7
    Jack and Kate sat awkwardly in the damp garden at the back of Michael Sheriff's small farmhouse outside Louth. Diane Sheriff had welcomed them warily and was now approaching with a tray holding plunger coffee and a plate of biscuits. Kate didn’t want a custard cream. She’d been pounding away at the gym to get into shape for ‘the dress’, so everything sugary, starchy or even vaguely fatty was best ignored. But she didn’t want to appear rude to a woman who looked as though she was barely holding it together. Just as she had the thought, Diane Sheriff dissolved into tears.
    In an instant, Jack was on his feet and grabbing the tray. ‘We’re deeply sorry to resurrect Michael’s death, Diane,’ he said gently, guiding her to a seat on the bench next to Kate as he balanced the full tray with his free arm. He glanced at Kate and she took up the thread.
    ‘It’s just that we now believe that the attack on your husband wasn’t random as the police first thought.’
    Diane sniffed into a hanky she’d