Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable belongs to me. It's all just getting mixed up with my overactive imagination. For fun, nothing more.
Title: The Flower
Fandom: Being Human (UK)
Characters: Anthony McNair, Tom McNair, OC
Pairing: Anthony McNair / OC
Rating: M
Time: Background story during season 4, Heather's story taking place before or during season 3
Genre: Drama
Summary: When writer Heather Davies is knocked off her bike by a blue camper van she doesn't have a clue how much her life is going to change. There are countless ways to catch a curse.
Author's note: As a non-native speaker I appreciate every help to improve my English. Don't hold back.
Big thanks go to the best husband in the world: For beta reading and existing.
The Flower
On Mondays the little café on the corner never got exactly crowded. Not that it ever got. But Mondays, especially the afternoons, could drag on forever. Sometimes a whole hour passed without so much as an order for take away coffee. Tom hated working on Mondays. He liked keeping busy. When there was nothing to do, thoughts started creeping into his head. Thoughts that made him angry or sad. Thoughts like using cooking oil to build bombs.
It was neither the oil nor the bombs that depressed him. It was the fact that his father had told him about it and that he could never tell him about anything ever again. It hurt. He still kept thinking of McNair as his father. He missed him. Deep inside he knew this would never change. That's when he started feeling angry.
So he was actually glad when Hal entered the kitchen with a sneer on his face.
"Honestly, I think I have enough." A gloved finger pointed at Tom. "How many of your kind are going to wander in here? Is this some sort of secret assembly hall?"
Tom frowned. "My kind?"
"Yes, your kind. On the table in the corner. Short woman in her mid- thirties, having a baby with her." He reached for the shelf and turned a bottle till the label was exactly up front. Tom had apparently put it down the wrong way.
"Are you sure?" The prospect excited him.
Hal sighed. "My nose is still working, you know. Although sometimes I wish it would take a day off."
Tom ignored him. He headed out into the café absentmindedly wiping his hands on his apron. If Hal was right he had to see her. His kind should stick together. The idea still appealed to him.
He spotted her immediately. She sat with her face in her hands. Everything about her looked tired, exhausted, even hopeless maybe. A baby carrier stood on the bench beside her. A bulky bag was slumped at her feet. He hesitated. Something was wrong.
He had seen this mop of chestnut curls before. They reminded him of roast potatoes and white roses. But something about her was not right. Something about her smell. He straightened up and walked to her table.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
At the sound of his voice she instantly looked up. Her brown eyes widened.
"Tom. Oh my god, Tom, it's really you." Without warning, she burst into tears.
He stood frozen to the spot clenching his fists helplessly. He had been right. It was her. What was she doing here? Since when did she have a baby? Why was she so freaked out to see him? Fingers dug into his arm. Her grip was so strong, he nearly flinched. "You do remember me, Tom, don't you?" Her voice almost broke. Her cheeks were wet.
Tom nodded. Of course he remembered her. How couldn't he? He had given her one of his figurines. Her name was Heather. Heather, the flower, he secretly called her. Though not his flower, obviously…
#
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My name is Heather Davies and this is the story how I became a...no, I won't even think of the word. Not yet. So this is the story how I met…no, I cannot write the name. I'll have to do it later anyway. Okay, so this is the story how my life changed forever. Yes. That sounds about right. Forever…
The most important things usually don't have a real beginning. You cannot point at one event and say "this is exactly where it started." They evolve slowly like the coming of spring or the fading of love. My story is different. It started the moment I got knocked off my bike by a blue camper van last summer.
I always go by bike. Save for the real rainy or freezing days of course. Why? It's cheaper than going by car, plus I need the training. When I stop giving my body a regularly work out I tend to get fat. No, I'm not one of those skinny racks who keep complaining all the time. I've been fighting a battle against being overweight since I can remember. You could call me stocky. But I fiercely object to plump. Not that it's got anything to do with my story.
I was living just outside town. My house was tiny, the rent was low and the woods started right behind the fence. I liked it. Sometimes it could get a bit lonely. That just came in handy. I'm a writer. The less distraction the better. I always worked on some kind of fiction. It didn't make me any money of course. Not enough anyway. Fortunately I've got a PhD in biology, too. I edited, revised, and proofread texts for microbiological publications. It kept my head above the water. Barely. But I'd sooner eat grass than accept any money from my ex-husband.
The road to town was narrow and bending. In some places the surface had broken revealing the indestructible dandelions. I knew it by heart. That is what turned out to be fatal. You see, I tend to go about dreaming. It's a flaw of writers probably. Part of my mind is constantly making up stories, storing observations for later use or phrasing imaginary conversations. That doesn't boost your attention. Attention that is needed when there are countless farm tracks leading into the road. Even if they are never used. And especially when a camper suddenly emerges out of one of them.
Fortunately I didn't hit the truck full front. There was a rush, a huge blue shadow and suddenly my bike was gone. Knocked straight out from under my bottom. For a moment I flew. Then the ground hit me hard.
I don't think I passed out. Not completely. I just couldn't move. Breathing was suddenly very important. My vision could have been better, too. It was kind of blurred. All I remember is the sound of approaching footsteps and the touch of fingers on my neck checking my pulse.
When I emerged from the haze I was lying on a soft surface of some sort. The world still kept rocking around me. Had they put me in an ambulance? Were ambulances supposed to be that noisy? All kind of stuff was rattling around me. I blinked and found myself lying on a mattress inside an old caravan.
Beside me sat a young man of about 19 or 20 years. He wore his hair cut very short and looked quite worried.
"What happened?" At those moments your brain comes up with the most stupid questions.
His face lit up. "You had an accident, ma'am", he told me. "Fell off your bike. But don't worry. Dad will fix you up alright."
He had a habit of swallowing syllables. I could barely understand him.
"Where are we going?" Shouldn't there be a hospital involved?
He avoided my gaze. "Somewhere safe and quiet. Don't be afraid. You'll be up and about in no time."
That didn't help. The numbness of the shock was wearing off and the more he told me not to be frightened the more I was. He didn't look dangerous, mind you. He reminded me of a puppy with his large dark eyes. I tried to push myself up. A sharp pain in my left leg stopped me. It stung pretty badly. I felt my eyes watering.
"No, please, don't get up. It's not safe. Wait till we've stopped."
There was no point in denying that he was right. The caravan kept rocking about. We still must have been driving down wood tracks.
"What's your name?" When someone almost gets you killed that's not a rude question.
"My name's Tom. Tom McNair", he burst out eagerly. "And that's me dad driving the truck."
I nodded. No. He definitely wasn't the criminal type. He seemed a bit simple. "Heather Davies", I said.
A smile appeared on his face. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Davies." He obviously enjoyed saying it.
I didn't reply. My stomach was a little uneasy. Until we finally stopped we didn't speak another word. Suddenly the engine was cut off. I heard keys clinkering and saw the silhouette of a man climbing from the cab to the back.
Tom leaped up. "She's awake, dad. Her name's Heather Davies."
The man nodded and shoved him aside taking his place on the edge of the mattress. "I'm really sorry about the inconvenience, ma'am. We'll do everything we can to make up for the damage." He indicated a heap of bent metal which once had been my bike. The groceries I had carried in the basket lay in a little heap beside it. It didn't bother me. I just stared at him. Perhaps I had suffered a concussion after all. I blinked. Then I blinked again. I even caught myself holding my breath. He must have thought me quite insane.
Fact is he looked exactly like I imagined one of the main characters in the novel I was currently writing to look. A spitting image as they say. He was in his mid-forties, not very tall, wiry but muscled, clean-shaven. His brown hair was almost cut down to a stubble and he had the very beginnings of a receding hairline. He was wearing an olive coloured A-shirt and military trousers. It was as if he had just slipped out from between the pages, or rather out of my head. I've never experienced anything like it. It stunned me.
"Thank you", I finally managed to say. Even to my own ears it sounded rather odd.
He narrowed his eyes. They were very bright and blue, almost colourless. A perfect fit again. "How is your head?"
"Fine, I guess." I wanted to avert my gaze. I wasn't able to. The situation grew weirder by the second.
"Any nausea or dizziness?"
I started to wish for one of the symptoms. A little hit on the head would have made it so much easier to explain. "No, I'm fine. Really."
He didn't believe me. His frown gave him away. "Tom, fetch me the first-aid kit." Obviously he had decided to ignore my strange behaviour. "These scrapes need cleaning."
I sat up and found that he was right. My left leg not only stung like hell, it looked ugly as well. So much for wearing a skirt and no stockings when biking. The blue cloth was torn and underneath bad abrasions covered my thigh just above the knee. Stone chippings and dirt still clung to them. It was painful even to look at. It brought back a thought.
"Why didn't you just drop me off at the hospital? Where are we? "
Nobody answered. Tom kept looking at the floor. His father opened a grey box and took out a pair of tweezers and a blue bottle. "I'm afraid this is going to hurt."
I flinched. Suddenly I felt really uneasy. Outside the window there was nothing but trees. And contrary to his son, McNair senior looked far from being harmless. Of course he did. The character in my novel wasn't harmless as well. He was a former soldier working as a bodyguard. You don't lead a life like this without becoming a little dangerous yourself. McNair had the same toughness about him. Suspicion had edged wrinkles around his eyes.
"What are you going to do with me?" Now I actually sounded scared.
"Fix you up. Drive you home if you want to." There was nothing soothing about his words. He only stated the obvious. It was exactly what Sean Cole (my fictional soldier) would have said.
Funnily enough I believed him. You can call it wishful thinking if you like. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe he was like my fictional character. I somehow wanted him to be Sean Cole. Perhaps because I had a rather soft spot for him. I generally like all the characters I'm creating but like every writer I have my favourites. And when you meet someone looking exactly like one of them, you tend to be biased. At least I was.
Cleaning the scrapes hurt quite badly. I clenched my teeth and tried not to make a sound. I failed. But I didn't complain. Why? Because apart from the disinfectant burning in my open wounds I rather enjoyed his touch. Before you declare me completely mental, let me explain.
For the last week I had been writing a rather difficult chapter. Difficult to write for me. It contained a sex scene involving guess whom. Now I don't know about other writers but I tend to become aroused when writing about such things. While I was married, my husband Simon had to bear the consequences. He had never complained to be sure. But for the last two years there had been nobody, just me. So I had been spending the last week imagining, visualizing and writing down erotic stuff. It had left me rather edgy. It was the last thing I thought about before I went to sleep and one of the first things in the morning. No distractions, remember? And here he was. The male protagonist. My fantasy during the last nights or someone who resembled him closely enough. It confused me.
While he worked, I kept sneaking glances at him. I discovered some differences that distinguished him from my imagination. He had a deep scar on the right side of his face just beside the eyebrow. A black cross was tattooed on his right arm. On his left I spotted a pentagram inside a circle. I thought it quite peculiar in combination with the cross. The really freaky tattoos however where the ones on his neck. One looked like a cross the other like a dagger. I couldn't be sure. They were quite small. I liked how his hands looked on my leg, though.
Afterwards I actually was able to get up and climb out of the camper. I instantly recognized the clearing and the little brook nearby. Whenever I get hopelessly stuck during writing I go for a walk. So I knew the woods around my house quite well. A walk of twenty minutes would get me home. Which was exactly what I intended to do.
"Are you sure?" McNair asked when I told them. Not that he seemed concerned too much. Perhaps he just wanted to be sure I wouldn't cause him any more trouble.
I nodded, checking if my shoes were alright, rather than looking at him. He still made me nervous. It was embarrassing.
"What about your bike? I fear it's broken beyond repair."
I shrugged. "Then I won't need it anymore. Keep it if you want to." I felt like running away. Not from him, from myself. Sooner or later I would say something stupid, or worse, do something stupid. I didn't want to take that risk.
At that moment Tom emerged from the van with my basket of groceries. It looked kind of heavy.
"Don't forget these, ma'am. Should I carry them for you?"
I wanted to protest but his father was quicker.
"Tom, leave her alone. I don't think…"
"Oh please, dad, look at her. She shouldn't go on her own. She's had an accident. What if she suddenly can't walk anymore? It's not safe. You always tell me to be respectful to the ladies."
His father gave him a dark look. Tom didn't seem like giving in. "Fine", McNair finally snapped. "But I'm coming with you."
What could I do? Fate clearly was on to me that day. I let them walk me home. It took us half an hour rather than twenty minutes. After five minutes I discovered that I was not feeling as fit as I had assumed. My body started to remember every scratch and every hit it got from the accident. I ground my teeth and kept on walking.
It was a fine summer's evening but we tracked along in uncomfortable silence. Between the leaves I saw the blue sky and once even caught a glimpse of the pale moon almost invisible amongst all the sunshine. It was nearly full. Looking back this explains a lot of what happened later that day. Or should I say later that night?
What do you do when two complete strangers guide you home, one of them looking kind of menacing at times? Yes, you say "Thank you", lock the door, call a friend or a neighbour and ask them to check on you regularly. Be cautious. Be even paranoid. That would be the sensible thing to do. These would be the sensible words to say. The words that came out of my mouth were "Why don't you stay for dinner?"
I was as surprised as anyone else. Perhaps I had been hit on the head after all. Perhaps I just didn't want to be alone after the shock. Perhaps I still thought about my fictional character. It doesn't matter anymore. They accepted.
I could tell that Tom was rather thrilled when his father didn't turn down the invitation. His big puppy eyes sparkled. I opened the door.
"Do come in."
McNair frowned. "Don't ever say that. If a stranger rings at your door you can open it. You can also step aside. But never invite him in verbally. Just a friendly advice."
It was a good thing I was confused already. Otherwise I would have considered it even odder. When passing me he cast a quick glance in the direction of the phone. It was standing right behind me. All of a sudden I got an idea why he came in. He wanted to keep an eye on me. He wanted to make sure I wasn't going to call the police or something. Was he hiding from the law? From someone else? Not that I wasn't nervous enough already.
I put on the kettle and went upstairs to change. My clothes were not only torn but dirty as well. I avoided looking in the mirror. My reflection would have asked me what the hell I was doing. Inviting dubious people into my home only because they looked like somebody out of my story. Only because the notion of a stranger touching me again made me shiver. It was probably the most foolish thing I had ever done.
Back down again I made tea and put out some biscuits before clearing away my shopping and deciding what to prepare for dinner. All the time I was quite aware of McNair sipping his tea, watching me. It made the hair on my arms stand up.
Tom shyly asked if I needed any help, so I sent him out in the garden to pick some apples and tomatoes. This time of the year the small garden was my favourite place to be. I had a wooden bench with a small table for writing outside and a tarp for sheltering it from the rain. Apart from that there was a tiny vegetable patch, an old apple tree and loads of flowers. When Tom reappeared he brought some of them with him.
He put them down in front of me. "I thought you'd like them." He talked very fast keeping his eyes on the blossoms. "Flowers I mean. You're one yourself. At least you should be. You're really kind. You should be someone's flower."
"Tom!" The sharp bark from his father made him jump. He literally shrank some inches and fled outside again like a beaten dog.
I frowned. "Don't tell him off. He was just trying to be nice." He actually had succeeded in being rather cute.
McNair didn't reply. The way he looked me over made me blush. I couldn't help gazing at his hands around the mug, imagining things for them to do, spots to touch. "You're not aware of what you're doing, are you?" he asked quietly.
I shrugged and busied myself with the flowers. Had I turned on the stove already? It was a little hot in here. To distract myself I fetched the potatoes, the olive oil and some herbs. I avoided glancing in his direction. It didn't help though. My fingers were clumsier than I wanted them to be.
"You live here all by yourself?" A casual question that implied so much.
I didn't see a point in lying. "Yes, it's just me. And don't worry, I won't phone the police." My voice sounded more confident than I felt.
He not even pretended to be surprised. "I'm just protecting him, you know."
A nervous laugh bubbled up inside of me. "But he surely doesn't need protection here. I'm not exactly dangerous, am I?"
McNair remained silent. Once again he eyed me up then put his empty mug on the table. "You know, I think he's right. You really might be a flower." With these cryptic words he got up and followed his son outside.
It took me two minutes to calm down before I trusted myself with peeling the potatoes. Right now I needed no additional injuries. Soon the smell of baking potatoes drifted through the house.
The following hours will stay in my memory forever as one of the weirdest evenings I've ever experienced. I usually don't have a problem keeping up a conversation. Not today. I had the choice between staying silent and mindless babbling. Most of the time I stuck to the first. McNair wasn't any help. He obviously hadn't any intention to make the situation less awkward. Whenever he glanced in my direction I pretended to be busy with my glass or something on my plate. Nevertheless I couldn't avoid peeking at the glimpse of hair in the neckline of his shirt and wondering what it would be like to put my hand down there.
Tom saved the day. He had gotten rid of his shyness and asked me countless questions. About the house, about the garden, about the woods and the animals in them. I even told him about my writing. He seemed fascinated about it. All the while I was feeling for the gaps in the floorboards with my toes and pondered whether I might get up the courage to intentionally touch McNair's leg with my bare foot under the table. Of course I didn't. But the possibility alone excited me. It felt almost like being a schoolgirl again or being inside a strange dream.
The sun set during this most peculiar dinner. With the darkness came the rain. Fate even seemed to be in command of the weather. I pushed back the curtains revealing nothing but night outside. This day got more dreamlike by the minute.
"I can't let you go out in this", I stated. "You won't find your way back through the woods. Not without a torch."
Tom opened his mouth to protest but his father cut him off.
"She's right, Tom. No point in getting wet. We should stay." He arched an eyebrow at me but I quickly turned away busying myself with cleaning up and finding some blankets.
Two hours later I was sitting on the windowsill in my bedroom feeling really, really stupid. I had made a fool of myself today for sure. Had it been the shock of the accident? Had I lived on my own for too long? Had I lost the ability to tell imagination from reality? Was I beginning to see things that weren't there? Finding meaning in meaningless words?
It had stopped raining. The clouds were dissolving revealing the almost full moon. My feet were cold. I should just go to bed. I shouldn't wait any longer. I had been silly doing it in the first place. Pathetic.
I snorted. Tomorrow the McNairs would be gone. Probably alongside the few valuable things I owned. How sad can the story of a lonely woman get?
A gentle knock on the door startled me. Suddenly I was wide awake again. Awake and on the edge. I hadn't heard any footsteps coming up the stairs. Nevertheless I opened the door. It was McNair. Who else?
"Yes? What is it?" I tried to say it casually. I failed.
He gave me a glance that made the heat rush to my face. It indicated that he had read every thought that was going through my head this evening. That he knew exactly why my heart was beating as fast as it was. Why my hands kept getting sweaty. Knowing what I know now – knowing what he was – I'm sure he must have smelled it. My arousal I mean. To him I must have smelled like a fruit ripe for the picking - and not only that. I must have had the scent of a fruit that especially wanted to be picked by him. It had been in his nose for hours. Retrospectively I'm surprised he resisted as long as he did. Especially if you keep in mind that the full moon was less than 24 hours away.
"I'm here because you want me to." He kept his voice down to a whisper. It made me shiver. All the excitement came back in a rush. It didn't matter that he looked quite intimidating standing there. Like a predator watching his prey. He raised his hand, hooked a finger under the strap of my top and pulled it down. I took a step backwards.
"How can you be so sure?" The remaining part of my dignity made me ask it. It wouldn't stand a fighting chance. It was tiny.
The slim shadow of a smile appeared on his face. The first I had ever seen. It didn't reach his eyes. "You opened the door."
There was no point in arguing. He was right. So I stayed where I was and didn't back away when he locked the door behind him and closed his fingers around my wrist.
I would like to write that after that moment everything became blurred. But that wouldn't be true. Fact is, I remember everything. All the details, like him pushing me down on the bed or me almost scratching him when tearing off his shirt. I am just too ashamed to tell you. It's ridiculous, I know. I am a grown woman of 35. In my youth I had my share of boyfriends and I was married for six years. Talking about it should not make me blush. But it does. Strange thing, isn't it?
All I can say is that it was far from being gentle or romantic. We didn't "sleep together", we certainly didn't "make love". Every word describing it correctly is not fit to be put on paper. At times, he even hurt me. It didn't matter. Not then. I actually liked it. I was so hungry for his touch. But no matter how starved I was after two years without touching a man and writing the sex scene, his hunger was even greater. Looking back it should have scared me. It didn't.
It was like something out of a book. You imagine it a hundred times and when it becomes real it feels unreal. Almost like a dream. Like something that doesn't belong to your life. That you would never do. Not for real. But then you do it. And suddenly it becomes all that matters and you don't feel ashamed. Not until later.
I must have moaned quite a bit because at some point he put a hand over my mouth and told me to keep it down. It was not hard to guess why. He didn't want his son to hear us. The thought sobered me, though not enough. I just wanted him to go on. So I kept quiet. At least I tried. When I looked in the mirror the next morning my bottom lip was swollen from biting down too hard.
Afterwards I was exhausted. My whole body was aching and sore but not in a bad way. I was still catching my breath when he sat up and got out of the bed.
"Wait." I called, barely stopping the "please" from leaving the tip of my tongue. "You don't have to go. Stay here tonight." It shouldn't have sounded like pleading. I am afraid it did.
He stopped gathering his clothes. For a moment he just stood there gazing at me. In the moonlight the pentagram on his left arm looked black like ink against his skin. Then he dumped his trousers on the floor and climbed into the bed again. He even put his arm around me. That surprised me more than anything.
There was nothing to talk about. I had no intention to. I just closed my eyes and took in his scent. It's embarrassing but you can come to miss the smell of a sated man beside you. That masculine mixture of fresh sweat and whatever it is that makes it stand out. He smelled like something strong and wild. Like a creature that could be dangerous - though not to me. It guided me safely into sleep.
I remember doing it a second time that night. In the small hours his hands woke me up. They grabbed my hips while his mouth left a trail on my neck. Not kissing, not biting but something in between. It would have taken far less to convince me. I actually couldn't wait for him to reach between my legs. Truth is I finally put his hand there. This time we took it a little slower but that doesn't exactly mean slow or soft. There was still enough hunger to leave bruises on my thighs and perhaps some scratches on his back. It sounds like a cliché, I know.
At that point he even let me kiss him, to which he had rejected some hours ago. Perhaps he considered it a safe method to keep me silent. I couldn't care less. It was all part of the dreamlike state my mind was in. He actually kissed me back, suppressing the groan from deep inside his throat when he came. I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder. It felt right.
When I woke up late the next morning they were gone. Someone had even folded the blankets in the living room. Atop Tom's pile I found three white roses from the bush outside and a wooden figurine. He had carved it himself no doubt. I traced its rough edges and smiled. I was kind of glad they didn't linger, especially McNair. I couldn't have looked him in the face. One part of me was ashamed of what I had done. The other part was still excited. My body definitely needed a rest. I'm not only talking about the bruises on my thighs or the scrapes from the accident. For the next two days I kept walking a little funny.
Alas, for better or worse, they had disappeared. I didn't allow myself to think too much about it. I just stored it inside my box of secret memories and thought this would be the end of it.
It wasn't.
Three weeks later I held a pregnancy test in my shaking hands. It was positive. I had to sit down. The bathroom floor felt cold under my bare legs. I didn't cry. I laughed. Bitter and full of desperation, but a laugh nonetheless. This couldn't be true. Things like that just didn't happen.
Some of my friends kept trying for years before finally having a baby. They even went to doctors, had hormone therapy and all that stuff. I had learned that getting pregnant is not as easy as it seems. I've seen relationships going down because of it. Of course I wasn't on birth control. Why should I be? I had been single for two years and it hadn't looked like changing soon. Actually I hadn't given it a second thought. I knew I had been reckless. I knew I had done something very stupid. I was just hoping I would get away with it. Just consider the odds.
Yet here I was. Pregnant from a total stranger, due to the most thoughtless thing I've ever done. It felt like a bad joke. A really bad one. And it got even worse.
I decided to keep the baby. I've always wanted children. It was one of the facts that caused the breakup between Simon and me. At 31 I had wanted a baby – soon – and he didn't. Here it was. You have to take the chances you get. Yes, I was single. Yes, bringing up the baby on my own would be very tough. But I was mostly working from home anyway and I was going to be 35 in two months. I wouldn't get another chance.
The pregnancy turned out to be an utter nightmare. I'm not exaggerating. I won't even mention the nausea. It only bothered me during the first three months. I'm talking about the other problems. Cramps. Bleeding. Not all the time but regularly. Bad enough for the doctor to keep me in bed for weeks at a time. They kept coming back, that's why. It didn't take me long to work out the schedule. You get a lot of thinking time when lying on your back for days. The pain and the blood reoccurred every four weeks. No, that's not right. Not exactly. They came back every full moon. That's when I began to feel uneasy.
Despite the troubles the baby kept growing. On the scans it looked just fine. The doctor said it was going to be a boy. My father went bonkers about it. I had to tell my parents and after a sceptic start they couldn't await the birth of their first and probably only grandchild.
I'm a person of science. I favour facts over myths. And still…While the months went by I worried more and more. All pregnant women experience strange food cravings. I'm well aware of that. But raw meat, preferably bloody? Honestly? And only during the painful days? It was disturbing. It was ridiculous. I felt like the poor girl in "Rosemary's Baby".
Of course I didn't believe for a single moment that I got knocked up by the devil. The devil doesn't exist. Besides McNair being the devil and attracted to me? Give me a break. What kind of antichrist would wear the sign of the cross tattooed on his arm and on his neck anyway? What's more, I've never heard of the devil being affected by the moon. But I had read about creatures that were. Thinking about it frightened me. Because it mustn't be true. Perhaps it was just the start of prenatal psychosis. I had lived on my own for too long. I was exhausted by a difficult pregnancy. I was carried away by my overactive imagination which as a writer I've always possessed in abundance. If only…
My son was born on a fine spring day. I'll remember it for the rest of my life. Although I had gone into labour four weeks early, he was not small for a new born child and healthy as anything. He was the cutest baby you've ever seen though that's just the hormones speaking I guess. As a mother you don't get the chance to be objective. I had decided to call him Jamie.
Everything was fine. My mother helped us settling in during the first three weeks. I felt tired almost all the time. Tired but happy. Jamie didn't cry too much and his grandmother constantly fuzzed about him. We were quite a little family. Then one night, twenty two days after he was born, one day after his grandmother had left us, he started screaming.
It was the most terrible sound I had ever heard. It pierced through the darkness right into my heart. This was not a baby crying. This was a human being screaming in agony. In a second I was beside his cot. My hands froze in mid-air. He was gasping for breath. It hurt me more than anything. He was such a tiny thing and obviously in pain.
I took him up to comfort him. To do whatever I could. It didn't work. He arched his back, something he had never done before. I almost dropped him. How could he be that strong? Then he screamed again. Tears welled up in my eyes. This was bad, very bad. What should I do? How long would it take the doctor to get here if I phoned her right now? I struggled to keep Jamie in my arms. He kept thrashing about. Something he shouldn't be able to do. Not at his age. Did he experience some kind of seizure?
And then it happened. Despite being a writer I still lack the words to describe it properly. Jamie changed. One moment he was there the next I heard the sound of tearing cloth. I wasn't holding my baby boy any more. In his stead there was a vicious thing with claws and teeth. Sharp teeth that wanted to hurt me.
I shrieked, dropped him, and ran out of the room. I slammed the door behind me before sinking to the floor. Through the wood came a yelp. The whimper of a puppy searching for its mother. It broke my heart. But I couldn't go in there. Not for my very life. I was trembling badly. Getting up was out of the question. Something dripped to the floor. Something red. My forearms were covered in scratches deep enough to draw blood. I stared at them without comprehension. They didn't even hurt. Not yet. This had to be a horrible dream. The worst nightmare I've ever had. Why didn't I wake up?
Hours passed. The horror stayed. I cowered with my back to the door trying to ignore the sounds behind it. Through the window the full moon cast its silver light upon me. It scared me more than anything.
At dawn the noises in the nursery died down. It took me till sunrise to gather the courage to look inside. I found Jamie, my baby boy, my life, lying sleeping in his cot. Some dirty rags clung to his naked body. Rags that once had been his rompers. I broke down crying. So this was how madness started.
The next day I put Jamie in his carrier, packed up the car and left. I didn't know where to go. All I knew was that I was looking for a blue camper. I had to find Jamie's father. I had to find the McNairs. I had to find some answers. Soon.
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Her tears had dried while she told her story. Tom stared at her in disbelieve. He had been doing it for the last ten minutes at least. She looked older than he remembered. Worn out. As if she couldn't hold it together any longer. She had lost weight despite the baby.
"You must think I'm crazy", she finally said. "But I'm not joking." She rolled back her sleeves showing him her arms. Red scratches stained her white skin. Most of them had already begun to scar. It looked like she had been playing with a rather fierce cub or a big kitten.
Tom frowned and glanced at the baby. It lay sleeping in its carrier, looking soft and innocent. "So he is…"
Heather nodded. "He is your brother."
"And he did this?" He pointed at her wounds. "During the last full moon?"
"Yes." A sob escaped her lips. "He did. And now I'm scared, Tom. I'm just so scared."
Tom couldn't help himself. He placed a hand on her shaking shoulder. She looked so alone, so frightened. Heather took a deep breath and straightened her back. For the first time he saw something like suspicion on her face. She glanced around the café taking in its shabby interior, his apron. A frown appeared on her brow. "Where is your father?"
Tom didn't answer. He felt her pleading look, almost begging. Lying was not something he was good at. In fact he had never told a halfway decent lie in his whole life. He just couldn't. Looking at Heather's lips, clenched tight, not trembling, he suddenly wished he could.