Dead Tomorrow

46

Roy Grace was gripped with panic. He was running across grass, running at the edge of the cliff, with its sheer drop of a thousand feet, with a howling wind blowing in his face, almost pushing him to a standstill, so that he was just running on the spot.

Meanwhile a man was running towards the edge of the cliff, holding the baby in his arms. His baby.

Grace threw himself forward, grabbing the man’s waist in a rugby tackle, bringing him down. The man broke free and rolled, determinedly, cradling the baby like a ball he was not going to lose, rolling over and over towards the cliff edge.

Grace gripped his ankles, jerking him back. Then suddenly the earth beneath him gave way, with a crack like thunder, a huge chunk of the cliff breaking off like a crumbling piece of stale cake, and he was plunging, plunging with this man and his child, plunging down towards the jagged rocks and the boiling sea.

‘Roy! Darling! Roy! Darling!’

Cleo.

Cleo’s voice.

‘Roy, it’s OK, darling. It’s OK!’

He opened his eyes. Saw the light on. Felt his heart hammering. He was drenched in sweat, as if he was lying in a stream.

‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Falling again?’ Cleo said tenderly, looking at him with concerned eyes.

‘Beachy Head.’

It was a recurring dream he had been having for weeks. But it wasn’t just about an incident he’d been involved with there. It was also about a human monster he’d arrested a few months ago.

A sick monster who had murdered two women in the city, and had tried to kill Cleo as well. The man was behind bars, with bail refused, but even so, Grace felt suddenly nervous. Above the thudding of his heart and the roar of the blood coursing in his ears, he listened to the silence of the city at night.

The clock radio panel showed 3.10 a.m.

Nothing stirred in the house. Rain was falling outside.

Pregnant with his child, Cleo seemed more vulnerable than ever to him now. It had been a while since he had checked on the man, although he had recently dealt with some of the pre-trial paperwork. He made a mental note to make a call to ensure that he was still safely in custody and had not been released by some woolly-minded judge doing his bit to ease the overcrowding in England’s prisons.

Cleo stroked his brow. He felt her warm breath on his face. It smelled sweet, faintly minted, as if she had just brushed her teeth.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper, as if that would be less intrusive.

‘You poor darling. You have so many nightmares, don’t you?’

He lay there, the sheet below him sodden and cold with his perspiration. She was right. A couple of times a week, at least.

‘Why was it you stopped going to therapy?’ she asked him, then kissed each of his eyes, softly, in turn.

‘Because…’ He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t helping me to move on.’ He eased himself up in bed a little, staring around.

He liked this room, which Cleo had decorated mostly in white – with a thick white rug on the bare oak floor, white linen curtains, white walls, and a few pieces of elegant black furniture, including a black lacquered dressing table – still damaged from the attack on her.

‘You’re the only thing that’s helped me to move on. You know that?’

She smiled at him. ‘Time is the best healer,’ she said.

‘No, you are. I love you. I love you so much. I love you in a way I never thought it would be possible to love anyone again.’

She stared at him, smiling, blinking slowly, for some moments.

‘I love you too. Even more than you love me.’

‘Impossible!’

She pulled a face at him. ‘Calling me a liar?’

He kissed her.