The Diary Of Pamela D. by greg monks Page A

deeper
state of unreality. But still she heard voices, that of Theo and
someone she didn’t know.
     
    THEO-- ‘Have your people from CID tracked
down Albert yet?’
     
    ?-- ‘No. He escaped into the moor. We’ve got
trackers out looking for him.’
     
    THEO-- ‘Damn it to hell! I should have got
the others to help me restrain him.’
     
    ?-- ‘Don’t be a fool! The man’s a ruthless
killer- one or more of you might have got seriously hurt or worse.
You heard what my detectives said.’
     
    THEO-- (sighs) ‘I can’t believe it. He had
all of us completely fooled.’
     
    ?-- ‘Yes, well, he’s very good at that. The
last girl he murdered was in Sheffield, two
    years ago. They were living together for
almost a year before he killed her-’
     
    THEO-- ‘Good God , that was him ? How many others has
he-’
     
    ?-- ‘We’re not sure. There’s the six that we
know of, but we suspect there are more. As
    to the other matter: are you sure keeping her
here is wise? He may try again-’
     
    THEO-- ‘I’m sure. He’s slipped through CID’s
fingers once too often for my comfort. Not that
    I’m blaming CID, mind you. It’s just that . .
. ’
     
    ?-- (kindly) ‘There’s no need to explain.
Well, with any luck the moor will take care of
    Mr. Albert Askrigg, and that
will be the end of it. Pity, though. I’d rather we had him. I’d think nothing
of roasting him alive over hot coals just to find out what
he knows , so that
the families of those poor girls he killed can get some sense of
closure.’
     
    Pamela woke to a sunny day, and Mrs.
Dewhurst, who was sitting in a chair by the window. Hearing the
girl stir, she left her chair, came and sat on the edge of the bed,
felt the girl’s forehead with her wrist, then took her hands. Her
manner was grave, concern erasing all the habitual humour from her
mien.
    ‘That’s quite a shiner you’ve got. Does your
lip still hurt? Doctor Morris put a stitch in it last night. Do you
remember?’
    Pamela shook her head, reluctant to speak for
fear of tearing her lip, but grateful for Mrs. Dewhurst’s
presence.
    Looking at once more serious than Pamela
could ever remember seeing her, Mrs. Dewhurst said gently, ‘Do you
remember anything beyond getting away from that animal?’
    At once there was a small flood of memory, of
new uniforms and broken eggs, of herself laying on the bed being
tended by Ellie, but no more. She shook her head.
    ‘Well,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said quietly, ‘it’s
just as well, I guess.’ At last she smiled, though it did nothing
to conceal her sadness. ‘Your timing’s not as good as it used to
be. Look, your breakfast is still sitting here, and . . . what do
you know! It’s still warm. D’you think you could manage a bite?
It’s poached eggs on toast- the perfect food for an invalid.’
    Pamela smiled, and winced at the pain in her
lip. And then-
    Her own eyes wet, Mrs. Dewhurst said, ‘Oh, my
dear . . . isn’t there anything that doesn’t make you cry?’ She
caressed the girl’s face fondly, and for a long moment the two
shared a look as intimate as that of mother and daughter, saying
nothing: no words were needed. ‘All right, now,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said
at last, ‘sit up and eat your breakfast before it gets any
colder.’
    As soon as Pamela had eaten as much as her
stomach would allow, Mrs. Dewhurst said firmly, ‘Here, you lay back
down on your tummy and let me rub your back for a bit. You look
like you’re ready to drop off again.’
    As Pamela drifted downwards into slumber once
more, her guts began churning with anxiety, her thoughts tormented
by half-remembered memories or impressions of violence and pain,
and incongruously- water. But Mrs. Dewhurst’s quiet voice and
gentle touch smoothed out her pain until at last it became
transformed from red agony and the terror of nightmares to the
warm, calming, irrhythmic sparkles of tropical sunlight on a
languid sea.
    As she slept, a new dream came unbidden: she
was walking on