Dead Man's Footsteps

2007
    ‘Am I the love of your life?’ she asked him. ‘Am I, Grace? Am I?’
    ‘You are.’
    Grinning. ‘You’re not lying to me, are you, Grace?’
    They’d had a boozy lunch at La Coupole in St Germain, then ambled along the Seine on that glorious June afternoon before returning to their hotel.
    It seemed that the weather was always fine when they were together. Like it was now. Sandy stood over him, in their pretty bedroom, blocking the sunlight that was streaming in through the shuttered windows. Her blonde tresses swung down on either side of her freckled face, brushing his cheeks. Then she flicked her hair across his face, as if dusting it.
    ‘Hey! I have to read – this CPS report – I—’
    ‘You’re so boring, Grace. You always have to read! We’re in Paris! Having a romantic weekend! Don’t you fancy me any more?’ She kissed his forehead. ‘Read, read, read! Work, work, work!’ She kissed his forehead again. ‘So boring, boring, boring!’
    She danced back, away from his outstretched arms, taunting him. She was wearing a skimpy sundress, her breasts almost falling out of the top. He caught a glimpseof her long, tanned legs as the hem rode up her thighs and suddenly he felt very horny.
    She stood over him, moving closer, taking him in her hand. ‘Is that all for me, Grace? I love it! That’s what I call a real hard !’
    The brilliance of sunlight was suddenly making her face difficult to see. Then all her features were gone completely and he was staring at a blank, black oval that was framed with flowing gold hair, like a moon eclipse of the sun. He felt a stab of panic, unable for a split second even to recall what she looked like.
    Then he could see her clearly again.
    He grinned. ‘I love you more than anything in—’
    Then it felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. The temperature dropped. The colour faded from her face, as if she was sick, dying.
    He threw his arms around her neck, holding her tightly to him. ‘Sandy!’ he said urgently. ‘Sandy, darling!’
    She smelled strange. Her skin was hard, suddenly, not Sandy’s soft skin. She smelled rancid. Of decay and soil and bitter oranges.
    Then the light went completely, as if someone had pulled out a plug.
    Roy heard the echo of his voice in cold, empty air.
    ‘Sandy!’ he shouted, but the sound stayed trapped in his throat.
    Then the light came back on. The stark light of the post-mortem room. He stared into her eyes again. And screamed.
    He was staring into the eyes of a skull. Holding a skeleton in his arms. A skull with perfect teeth that was grinning at him.
    ‘SANDY!’ he screamed. ‘SANDY!’
    Then the light changed. Soft yellow. A bedspring creaked. He heard a voice.
    ‘Roy?’
    Cleo’s voice.
    ‘Roy? You awake?’
    He stared at the ceiling, confused, blinking, in a river of sweat.
    ‘Roy?’
    He was shaking. ‘I – I—’
    ‘You were shouting so loudly.’
    ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’
    Cleo sat up, her long blonde hair tumbling all around her face, which was pale with sleep and shock. Leaning on one arm, she looked at him with a strange expression, as if he had hurt her. He knew what she was going to say even before she spoke again.
    ‘Sandy.’ Her voice full of reproach. ‘Again.’
    He stared up at her. The same hair colouring as Sandy, the same eye colour – perhaps a touch more grey in the blue than Sandy. A touch more steel . He’d read that people who were bereaved or divorced often fell in love with someone who looked like their wife. That thought had never struck him until now. But they didn’t look the same, not at all. Sandy was pretty but softer, not classically beautiful in the way that Cleo was.
    He stared at the white ceiling and white walls of Cleo’s bedroom. Stared at the black lacquered-wood dressing table that was badly cracked. She didn’t like coming to his house, because she felt too much of Sandy’s presence there, preferring them to spend their time together here, in her place.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Just a bad dream. A nightmare.’
    She stroked his cheek tenderly. ‘Maybe you should go back to that shrink you used to see.’
    He just nodded, and eventually fell back into an uneasy, restless sleep, scared that he might dream again.

12
OCTOBER 2007
    The spasms were getting worse – more and more painful, and they were happening at increasingly frequent intervals. Every few minutes now. Maybe this was what giving birth was like.
    Her watch said 3.08 a.m.