The Shattering Effect

By J. D. Neill

Abandoned on southern England's wintry shores, Leila does not speak and seems to have no memory. Still, despite her many secrets, her rescuer, a professor of Arabic studies, falls deeply in love with the beautiful vulnerable, newly pregnant girl, and when she recovers, they marry. Their future looks promising.

Leila's memories

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lanni LV LLC
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735753010

J. D. Neill

J D Neill hated the cold in England-the country of her birth. After a holiday in the sunshine, she spent two years in Italy and traveled on to teach English in the Middle East. The vibrant lifestyle gave no indication that the country was on the brink of civil war. Held hostage, her sense of normality and sanity came through keeping a diary. The written word would become her future. Fleeing civil war, like many before her, she discovered America, the land of her dreams. And, after a lengthy gestation, in 2019, her first novel Disintegration was born. Chameleon, Unraveling, and Loophole followed in 2020. The Shattering Effect, Downfall, The Captive and Thief of Memories in 2021. The Jailbird's Daughter-A Memoir, will both be released in January 2022.

Book preview

One

A Discovery - November 1997

SHE DOES NOT NOTICE THE waves lapping at her feet. Her saturated shoes are probably ruined, but of more significance, in an hour or two at the most, unless she moves, she will be under the English Channel.

The tide waits for no one, not on a cold English November day. Certainly not for a girl on a rock, too foolish to move, who appears unaware of the danger.

Unseen, not far off, two men and a dog stride toward her. Identical in height and gait, the facial features indicate a close family resemblance, although one is dark and lean, and the other fair and carrying an extra fifteen pounds of pure muscle.

Thank God for weekends. Alec Fleming sucks in the sea air and rubs a hand through his blonde hair. I wonder if the ozone is as beneficial as reputed. He pats his dog, and the German shepherd barks an answer.

You’re the doctor, but it feels great to me, his brother replies. After a week in the city smog, this is perfect. Iain breathes deeply, raps on his chest, and lets out a Tarzan-style yell.

Idiot! Alec laughs. You should come more often.

My exercise is usually at an indoor gym. But you obviously get time to work out. He punches Alec’s solid arms. You didn’t get this fit from tending to patients.

Cricket! I play for the local league, and walking the shore keeps me sane. Trainer, too! Alec indicates his dog, sniffing the air. Trainer ignores them and busily explores the myriad smells and objects strewn across the pebbles and the beach.

The tide is turning but still low, and in this part of the south coast, there is almost half a mile of wet sand.

The shadows are already lengthening, and the afternoon is almost over. Alec glances at his watch: three-thirty. Must have worked later today, he mutters. At this time of year, it’s often dark before I get time away from the residents.

Iain moves closer and drops his voice. Look, a designer-dressed mermaid, he inclines his head.

Ahead, the young woman is perched on a large rock, her legs and feet draped in thick slabs of seaweed recently washed ashore. Trainer stops to examine her.

Dressed in a pale ivory silk suit, she seems unaware of the biting cold. Beside her, on the wet sand, a Vuitton suitcase and small purse look damaged by the salty sea air.

Unlikely November attire, Iain says.

She’ll freeze. Alec’s non-medical diagnosis is unusually dismissive. Who on earth dresses that way in England in November, for God’s sake?

Especially on the beach, Iain adds. What can she be thinking, staring out to sea?

Out of the brothers’ view, not far from the young woman, a Zodiac inflatable boat knocks silently against one of the wooden barriers that divide the beach at regular intervals.

In the gloom, a darkly clad, athletic figure remains out of sight, behind the raft, aware that the men have come from the grand and impressive building across the street. When she landed here she had no plan, no idea what to do next. Getting to England had been their only goal. With the wound in her side, it was an effort to get the girl to the rock while she caught her breath and dealt with the boat and the precious cargo.

Perhaps this is fate, she thinks. One of them must be a wealthy man, with such a palace. She realizes the men could help the girl and decides to wait, watch how things play out. But the young woman does not respond to the dog’s attention. She shows no sign of fear or concern, gives no reaction at all—simply looks toward the horizon.

Hello, there. It’s chilly this afternoon, Alec calls.

The girl says nothing, offers no acknowledgment, and after a moment or two, Alec shrugs, calls to Trainer, and continues walking.

Allaena, the hidden figure curses softly. But she relaxes when, reluctant to leave her, Iain glances over his shoulder to the girl. The mysterious figure long ago learned sabar, the virtue of patience and endurance, and she sees the dark-haired man is hooked. He has a good face. She will wait.

Maybe we should offer help? Iain says.

What can we do? She obviously doesn’t welcome our attention, and we can’t force her to speak. Alec stoops to pick up a large piece of driftwood and throws it. Trainer, fetch. He strides on briskly, while Trainer chases the wood and returns it to Alec’s feet. Tongue flopping from his mouth, he waits for Iain to re-direct his attention from the woman on her rock.

It just seems odd, Iain says, catching up with his brother.

Alec says nothing, and they continue along the shore, lost in thought.

Picking up a shell or two, Iain occasionally throws the wood for Trainer, until they reach the local pier, at the mouth of the River Arun.

In the fading light, the scene is the perfect subject for a water-color painting, monochromatic, and full of mystery.

At the end of the promontory, near the mini-lighthouse, their collars turned against the breeze, a couple looks toward France. Around them, anticipating nightfall, the street lamps blink into life along the pier, the diffused light casting an eerie glow. The man puts his gloved hands around the girl’s face and bends to kiss her, oblivious to the weather and to the observers.

Iain glances at Alec and smiles. The wonders of young love. Let’s go; we’re intruding. Their intimacy affects him—a fleeting touch of envy.

Alec calls softly to his dog, and the brothers turn toward home.

The wind whips through Iain’s dark wavy hair, as he strides on. He rolls up the neck of his cable-knit sweater and plunges his hands deep into the pockets of the navy duffle coat Alec lent him. I can’t tell you how good this feels.

Shoulders hunched, they move fast, their long, athletic legs eating up the distance remaining.

I’m glad you’re here. Alec’s voice is muffled by the wind. It gets lonely at times. He thinks of the changes in their lives from childhood, running free and wild on the Scottish coast. Who would have imagined all three of us would end up in England, so far from our roots. Any regrets?

Only one, Iain says. Mum says we are perfect offspring: Helen, a lawyer; me a university professor, and you a doctor. But Helen and I miss you. You should join us in London, Alec. Think about what city life could offer.

Strangely enough, although I get lonely, I like it here.

Unusually fast today, the seawater eats up the shoreline in front of them. The sun has set; soon it will be dark, and in a little over two hours, the high tide will have swallowed the slice of beach they now occupy.

They turn from the water’s edge, up the seaweed-strewn sand, seashells crunching beneath their feet.

Iain loves the sound, less so the growl from his stomach, which he can hear above the noise of his footsteps. I wonder what your cook has prepared tonight? I’m starving; I could eat a buffalo. he laughs.

Along this stretch of coast, perpendicular to the water, repeating rows of wooden-grain sea defenses prevent the erosion of the shingle beach and divide it into more manageable sections. Pebbles and shells cluster around their base.

Iain looks up. One section over, the girl is in the spot where Trainer found her earlier.

Out of sight the wounded character sits erect, clutches her side, and watches without movement. Help her, please, she silently prays.

Mist creeps in from the ocean, and as they get closer, Alec notices the girl’s long dark hair clings damply to her head, a few strands fan across her face, but she makes no attempt to brush them aside. It is far from normal behavior.

She appears to be watching, but for what? Iain whispers. Someone? Something out at sea?

Whomever or whatever, in fifteen minutes, it will be completely dark, and she won’t be able to see anything. Alec pulls his hands from his pockets, rubs them together, and watches his breath escape, as he decides how they should approach the solitary figure.

Clasping one hand over the other, he blows hot breath into the fists, wishing he had walked in the other direction today.

She must be bitterly cold in that skimpy summer outfit, and unconcerned about the cold and dark. I don’t think she’s even aware she’s shivering. Iain’s voice is troubled. We should do something. She’s not leaving, but if she doesn’t move soon, she’ll be taken by the incoming water—lost in the darkness.

She’s not really our concern. I could call the authorities; what else can we do?

You’re a doctor, Alec. We can’t just walk away without trying.

Trainer wags his tail and licks the top of her hand—no reaction.

Excuse me, miss. Could we be of help? Alec approaches her. Silence. This is pointless, he whispers to Iain.

Iain steps closer and bends to speak to her. It will be dark at any moment; you’re going to catch your death of cold, and if you don’t move very soon, the tide will sweep you away.

Her suit is soaked and clings to her slender body, but she gives no response, not a flicker of life, and no reaction to the flash of lightning that streaks through the heavens, illuminating them. Rain follows, and the drops grow heavy. Trainer yelps and opens his mouth to catch the large driblets. Tail swishing, he turns in circles, eager to capture them.

Feeling increasingly foolish standing in front of her with no reaction, Alec looks at Iain, shrugs, and tries once more. I am Dr. Fleming, Alec Fleming. I run a convalescent home just a few yards from here. Why don’t you come and get dry? Have something warm to eat? You could use the ‘phone to call someone.

She ignores him.

I’m sorry, but it’s insanity to stay here in the rain and darkness. Beyond that, if you don’t move, you’re going to die. Alec tries to hide the edge of irritation in his voice. Entirely out of his depth, he is not accustomed to accosting young women, and like Iain, he is hungry.

Bending slowly, he unwraps the seaweed from her legs. Under the weight of the foliage, she has tiny, soaking-wet Gucci pumps on her feet.

Designed for shopping on Bond Street, not tramping on the beach, he thinks.

As he frees her legs from the algae, she crumples, as if somehow the tangled sea plants have kept her a prisoner--tied to the rock.

Iain steps toward her, but she drops to her knees, lifts her head back, palms open, her hands hanging at her sides, she cries at the heavens. A wail without sound. Nothing comes out of her, but the girl’s anguish and despair are evident.

In the shadows, the figure makes a move toward them, grunts in pain, but stops when Iain bends beside the girl.

Embarrassed and angry at himself for wishing they did not have to deal with her, Alec is sure the woman must be in shock.

What are we supposed to do? We can’t just leave her here to freeze, Iain says.

With a deep intake of breath, Alec also squats. He lifts her hands into his—she doesn’t resist. Listen, I don’t know what’s the matter, or why you’re here like this, but we’re going to take you indoors with us to get you dry, ok?

Her hands are chilled, icy cold, and he speaks gently, as he would to one of his patients or a child. Everything’s going to be alright. Alec reaches slowly for her elbows and raises her with him as he stands. She leans heavily against him, but when he bends to grab her bags, her legs give way.

Iain swoops in and catches her. Unbuttoning his coat, he wraps it around her, scoops her into his arms, and holding tight, he strides up the beach to warmth.

Trainer barks, gathers his piece of driftwood, and holding it firmly in his teeth, he follows.

Still hidden, the injured female figure struggles to grab a bag from the Zodiac; it appears to be heavy, and she is in pain. Abandoning her wooden hiding place, she unties the craft from its mooring. After dragging the bag for a while, she stifles a cry, hauls it onto her shoulder, and follows, keeping her distance. The boat floats off on the waves and soon disappears from view.

In the dim streetlight, the figure stops to examine the injury to her side. A large bloodstain has spread across the front of her shirt. It has been a long and arduous journey, and defending the girl has had consequences, but she endures the wound gladly. Her skill with the knife prevailed against those who wished to harm them or steal from them along the way.

She tugs up the zipper on her anorak, hiding the wound from view. No one will rent her a room if they see blood.

She watches as the trio moves awkwardly up the beach and into the massive building across the road, set back from the coast, surrounded by seven acres of gardens.

She smiles. My little one has fallen on her feet, Allah be praised. A few days of rest, and if I can stop the bleeding, I will find her, and I will fulfill the promise.

Two

Who Is She?

AT THE MEWS HALL CONVALESCENT Home, Matron unsuccessfully wills the door to open and frets. It isn’t like the doctor to be so late.

Dr. Fleming’s brother is down for the weekend, and I made a special meal. Cook is also mystified the doctor and his brother have not yet returned. I made roast lamb, his favorite, and it’s beginning to look crispy and dry, more like Peking duck! She wrinkles her nose at the very idea of foreign food. Everyone is hungry, and he knows how the patients look forward to dinner with him in the Big Hall, at least once over the weekend.

Maybe we should start? Matron suggests.

Cook’s snort quickly dismisses the idea. She wipes her hands on her apron. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, now it has started to rain.

Unsuccessfully, Matron attempts to pacify her friend. She points at the wall of windows, where rain already lashes at the long panes of glass. He’s going to be soaked through to his… She shivers as a blast of cold air rushes through the open door.

Iain and Alec stagger in with a pale, half-drowned creature in Iain’s arms. As if choreographed, the two women rush forward to the brothers and the girl.

Alec drops her bags and turns as Trainer vigorously shakes off the accumulated moisture, spraying everyone.

Jesus, Trainer. Iain laughs.

Where did you find the poor wee thing? Matron asks like they have brought home a stray cat. Let’s take her through to the kitchen. Iain follows, holding tight to the girl in his arms. With the help of Cook, they gently carry her into the warmth, where he obediently sets the girl on a chair.

Cook, you go ahead and serve dinner; tell everyone we’ll join them shortly, Matron instructs.

We have her settled here, Iain. You should get yourself warm and dry, too. You’re going to catch your death with no coat on in this weather. What were you thinking? Matron chastises.

I’m a city boy. Little experience of south-coast life, but it seemed to me her need was greater than mine.

Matron strokes his shoulder. Of course, you’re right.

A door opens from the kitchen, and a girl carrying a jug of water almost bumps into them. She stares open-mouthed at the damp stranger and at the decorations now visible across her tiny hands.

Matron speaks sharply to the young girl. Close your mouth; you’ll catch flies, Mary. Go ahead and light a fire in the Blue room. Warm the sheets and draw a bath.

Alec smiles, admiring Matron’s military command of the situation.

She puts an arm around the girl. You’ll be fine here with us, my dear. She, too, has noticed the decorations on the girl’s hands and is none too happy. She does not approve of tattoos. But she recognizes something is unusual about this particular girl, and they do not look like any tattoos she has ever seen.

What a mystery! Cook declares. Not the usual Sussex Saturday. Secretly, she loves the excitement; the usual Sussex Saturdays are often dull and predictable. As an avid Agatha Christie reader, at heart Cook loves the unexplained.

Helpless amid the excitement, Iain grabs a towel from Cook’s outstretched hand, tossing it over the wet dog’s back; he takes him aside.

Everyone is in a rush, filled with a sense of purpose; this will not turn out to be the relaxed weekend he imagined. He is astonished by his overwhelming desire to protect this waif-of-a-girl and captivated by the powerful pull she elicits.

Alec grabs more thick white towels from the airing cupboard in the hallway, and Iain follows. What do you think is going on with the girl? he speaks softly, just a trace of his Scottish accent remains.

Beats me. She’s probably experienced some sort of shock. Something so big she can’t speak a word, Alec says. For now, everything seems under control, though.

He tosses a towel to Iain, who is still soaked from the rain and from wrestling Trainer. Throwing another around his neck, Alec walks back to wrap one around the girl’s shoulders.

Apart from the stains on her hands, everything about her is pale, phantom-like; she looks like she has been diluted.

I’d love to wave a magic wand and make everything better for her, banish her worries, whatever they are, Iain whispers, but Alec is out of earshot, and no one else is listening.

Matron has the visitor in front of a roaring fire in the hearth of the kitchen, settled in a large, high-backed rocking chair—Cook’s chair— across from the flames. Helpers come and go, bustling past them, carrying platters of food to the patients in the dining room, but the girl is oblivious to the commotion.

She offers no resistance as Matron takes off her wet shoes. These will have cost a pretty penny. Ruined by the seawater, I’ll wager.

Obediently holding the mug of hot Ovaltine placed in her small hands, she stares into the flames licking at the logs banked high in the fireplace.

Matron and Cook exchange glances, then turn to Alec, who has stopped toweling his hair and also watches the girl.

He feels their eyes on him. This is how we found her, he speaks softly, just gazing into the distance by the ocean. If we hadn’t brought her in, I think she’d have stayed there all night until the waves took her. The tide had turned, and she would have drowned.

Cook issues more instructions to two helpers and leans across to lift the cup of Ovaltine for the young woman, who has been clinging to it without drinking. Now, as the rim reaches her lips, she sips the liquid. The older woman raises her eyebrows and her shoulders, manifesting the confusion they all share.

Let’s get her warm, dry, and rested, and maybe tomorrow, we’ll see what we can find out, Alec instructs. In the meantime, I’ll call Inspector Sharpe and let the police know, in case anyone is looking for her. He grabs the telephone by the kitchen door. Can you take care of her, Matron, give her a sedative, something to help her sleep? I’ll come up in a while and check on her.

Of course, Doctor, don’t you worry, but when you finish with the inspector, you and your brother should think about getting out of those wet clothes yourselves.

Yes, Matron. He turns to the phone. Excuse me.

Hello, Mark, how are you? It’s Alec Fleming. He pauses for a moment. Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday evening, but I thought your people should know… They chat for a few minutes, and when Alec turns, only Iain is around.

In the hallway, Iain has noticed the now battered but undeniably expensive luggage, and sees the name tag, L. al M. With his background in Arabic studies, he suspects he may be more useful to the situation than anyone yet realizes.

Sorry about this, Alec joins him. Go and get dry, give me a couple of minutes to change, and let’s get some food. Taking the stairs two at a time, Alec heads to his room, quickly gets out of his wet clothes, slides into corduroy pants and grabs a thick Aran fisherman’s sweater. Warmer now, and more comfortable, he remembers how hungry he is. For the moment, he forgets the recent events and heads down to fill his stomach. Conversations waft up, growing louder as he descends.

The Big Hall is festive. November is not quite over, but already they have begun to hang holly and paper lanterns. A fire crackles in a hearth that could comfortably garage a small car, and draped from the crown moldings, wide velvet ribbons hold more holly. The beams overhead hold sprigs of mistletoe, adding to the Christmassy feel.

A variety of people dine at six tables, set with white damask linen. Until recently, they were strangers brought together from around the country for a few weeks of sea air and rest, but in this seaside retreat, they find renewed health and friendship.

As Alec walks in, the room falls silent; all eyes are upon him. Word has spread fast, and each face reflects the same question. But of course, he has no answers.

Good evening, he greets patients as he passes, but he remains distracted. Something about the mystery woman still tugs at him, not only her fragile beauty and vulnerability but also the look in her eyes. Was it fear? Pain? Or, as he had suggested to Mark Sharpe earlier, was she in shock, and if so, from what?

Well, that’ll have to wait, Alec decides.

He spots Iain, engaged in a serious conversation with one of the patients. Grateful for his brother’s flexibility, and the ease he has with everyone, he pulls his chair up and helps himself to some of Cook’s succulent roast lamb.

For an hour, Alec and Iain succumb to the warmth of the room, the flavor of the meat, mint sauce, golden roasted potatoes, and vegetables, followed by large helpings of rhubarb and apple crumble.

Reminds me of the dinners Mum used to make, when we were kids, Iain says. I’m stuffed. He sighs, and leans back, wondering how the weekend will play out, now the police have been notified. Any initial thoughts?

Your guess is as good as mine, Alec answers.

I meant medically.

I suspect something awful happened to her, or it’s possible she wandered over from Graylingwell.

Graylingwell?

A psychiatric hospital some miles along the coast.

She’s rather well-dressed for a hospital patient, don’t you think? Gucci shoes and a designer outfit. And why would she be wearing such flimsy clothes in the middle of winter? He sips the last of his coffee. No, Alec, she came from far away, somewhere warm. Did you see the henna markings on her hands? It’s a wedding tradition in the Middle East. I think she was recently married, or about to be. And I suspect she arrived by boat.

After coffee on weekends, it has been Alec’s habit to spend the early evening hours