Déjà Vu: A woman who casts two shadows

By Pieter Hamilton

A surprise encounter...

Unexpected love...

A millions to one

chance of coincidence...

Vengeance...

Photographs are taken in a

snowbound park in Paris.

Years later the photographer

returns to Paris and purely by

chance sees a young wo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pieter Nigel Harrowsmith
• Release date: Dec 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781802272741

Book preview

Chapter 1

He’d seen her in the early part of a bitterly cold day, when the winter made everything suffer in its grip. The city had looked almost brittle, stiffly huddling in the low temperature. It was a city where those with no choice but to venture out looked ready to snap at the slightest touch. She’d been in a small, insignificant park, hidden away in the labyrinth of the Parisian suburbs.

Fingers numb with cold, he’d made minor adjustments to the camera’s settings before he focused on the couple in the distance. They’d been the only ones in the park other than himself.

Snow had fallen unabatedly through the night and continued into the early part of the day, bleaching everything of its colour and submerging Paris under a cold, white shroud. It dampened down the sounds of the city, adjusting its acoustics to a softly muted level.

She’d been one of a couple. One of them struggled with a suitcase as they tried to retain their footsteps. The child, a girl, tried desperately to keep pace with the woman, even though her progress was painfully slow.

As they’d drawn closer, he’d been able to hear, though he had no understanding of the language, the obvious complaints of the girl who’d slipped and fallen.

The shutter of the old, dented camera snared frame after frame, each within a 125th of a second, as they’d made their way across the park.

He hadn’t studied them. To him, they’d merely been passing subjects in the silent, white space of a winter’s park, where the snow had drifted and billowed, transforming everything beneath it with its softly flowing presence.

He’d returned the camera to the security of its case and continued to a small cafe where he escaped the cold. After a breakfast of a croissant and coffee, the young photographer completed his journey to the airport and the return flight that was the final component of the prize he’d won at Art School for his outstanding photography.

The snow continued until he arrived at the airport, when it suddenly stopped. Within minutes, the winter sun, set in an empty blue sky, poured brilliant light down over the pristine white landscape.

In the park where the couple had been photographed, the snow completely obscured their footprints. It was as though they’d never passed by or existed, like someone in a long-forgotten grave where the sparse details of their life carved in decaying stone, were lost under layers of crawling ivy. The snow would fall many times over the following 22 winters, its virgin white invasion smothering the landscape of Paris...

But by then, things would be very different.

Late August, 1972

The moon had dropped only a glimmer of illumination into the corner of the boy’s room below the window that followed the angle of the roof. The pale light had painted the top side of the model aeroplanes suspended from the ceiling and forced their indistinct shadows to appear on the wall. Below those shadows, only a gloomy darkness existed.

The young boy in the bed twisted and writhed in a sleep tortured by nightmares. It was only when the nightmare released him from its horrors that he’d jumped from his bed and descended the two flights of stairs to seek the comfort of his parents.

The night when Alex Hanson ran terrified from the bedroom would stay with him forever. It had nothing to do with the terror he ran away from. It was the conscious nightmare he ran into, from which there would never be any waking up.

His feet hardly touched the carpet as he put as much distance as possible between himself and his bedroom. He’d burst into the room where his parents would be. Where his dad would be reading his paper and his mum would be knitting. Tabs, their cat, a coiled pile of ginger fur, would be purring her contentment in front of the fire.

But the room had stood still and almost silent.

The fire blazed and crackled, but no-one sat in front of its golden glow. The clock on the shelf ticked steadily, its hands creeping towards when it would announce the passing of the hour and the arrival of the next. Tabs had been nowhere to be seen; neither had his parents.

Then, the scream had come.

He’d felt as if his blood had turned to ice in his veins. Standing rigid, hardly daring to breathe, he’d become aware of murmuring voices in the cellar.

Then the next scream came.

Why didn’t Mum and Dad do something about the screams?

Why hadn’t they been there?

Moving quietly out of the room, Alex crossed the hall and eased back the panelled door to the cellar. The murmuring became clearer.

Only then did the confused, innocent young boy realise whose voices they were.

Opening the door just a fraction further, he’d stepped gingerly down the uneven cellar steps. Although only eight years old, Alex knew something was terribly wrong. He moved slowly past his dad’s tools hanging on the wall. Dad’s workshop door stood open. A lamp shone over the workbench and a cluster of tools, but there was no sign of dad. The aroma of the fresh, curled wood shavings he loved to smell and scoop into springy piles wasn’t there.

The light was on in the room where he could now clearly hear voices. The door, slightly ajar, allowed a thin line of yellow light to escape as he crossed the cellar floor.

The third scream happened just as he’d peered through the narrow gap into the room. What he saw in that split second would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Dad hadn’t sounded normal. He’d sounded a bit like the time when he’d been to the pub at Christmas with Uncle Jack. His uncle was even funnier than usual when he’d come back from the pub, but Dad had been really grumpy and didn’t seem like he wanted to talk to anybody. It had been his voice, though - like when the television went wrong, and the sound went strange. Dad’s voice had sounded like that again on that terrible night... and then Alex Hanson saw what no child should ever see.

His dad had grabbed his mum’s hair with one hand and hit her hard in the face with the side of his other clenched fist. He heard his mother scream for the fourth time as her spectacles went flying across the room and bounced on the stone floor.

With that single blow, he understood why Mum often had bruises on her face. Why people on the bus and in the shops used to look at her in a funny way, glancing at her, then looking away quickly. Now he knew why his teacher, the lovely one, Miss Worthing, had asked him the day after parents’ evening if his Mum had fallen recently.

His mum, knelt down on her knees, was crying as she picked up her glasses. Dad was really fierce. He’d been so angry and had been shouting dreadful things and swearing at her.

In total fear, his tender years not capable of fully understanding, Alex had crept away from the door, not daring to make a sound. At the top of the stairs, he eased the door to the cellar closed, as he’d found it.

Alex’s father came out of the room, thinking he’d heard something, and then slipped on the puddle outside the door. It’s that disgusting cat again; I’ll skin the sodding ginger thing when I catch it. It’s pissed on the floor again. I nearly broke my bloody neck.

Upstairs in the bathroom, the terrified Alex did his best to squeeze the urine out from his pyjama bottoms into the toilet. Then he’d pushed them down into the washing basket where he’d hoped they’d dry before Mum did the washing again.

He never saw those pyjama bottoms anymore. Neither did he see his father again. For the first time in his life, he’d felt sick with shock as he’d climbed back into bed. Crushing his favourite woollen toy dog to his face under the sheets, he’d cried himself to sleep in the dark loneliness of his room.

The next morning, Alex heard the back door slam. Soon after, Dad’s motorbike started its rumbling sound in the back garden. The throb of its engine had only just started to drift away in the distance when he heard Mum flush the toilet. That had been strange because she never got out of bed before 7 o’clock. Then he’d heard water running in the bath, which had been even stranger. Mum never had a bath in the morning. The footsteps he heard next indicated that Mum was going downstairs. The ‘ding’ the telephone made when the receiver was picked up came shortly afterwards. Alex had slipped out of bed and gone down to where he’d been able to hear what his mother was saying.

Thanks, Val, you know I don’t like to ask, but I’ve had enough. I can’t take it anymore. You’re sure Jack won’t mind? Thanks again; I’ll see you later on then.

When she’d replaced the receiver and turned to come back to the bathroom, she had seen him standing on the stairs, without his pyjama bottoms.

Mum, I heard you talking to Aunty Val. Is she coming to stay, and Uncle Jack too?

No, Alex, we’re going there. Well, for a while. We’re going today, this morning, so it’s a quick bath for you while I pack. Where are your pyjama bottoms?

Looking down at his half-naked self, he didn’t answer the question but asked, What about school? Is Dad coming with us?

Dad isn’t coming, just you and me. Go on, get your bath, and I’ll make us some breakfast and some nice sandwiches for the journey. We’ll have a chat about school on the way to Aunty Val’s. Go on now; we haven’t got long.

Getting out of the bath, he’d seen his mother pass the doorway with a small suitcase in each hand.

Your breakfast is ready; put your dressing gown on while you eat it. I’ll sort your clothes out in a minute.

The last thing his mother did in the house was put a sealed envelope by the telephone.

Bill, his Dad’s name, was written on it in large black letters.

As the years passed, he’d never told anyone what he’d seen that night in the cellar. It remained a dark secret hidden away inside him. While that secret was buried away, it gradually developed into something else. What Alex had seen caused a visceral loathing of the mistreatment of women to grow within him. Normally an even-tempered, calm man, he would snap instantly if he saw a woman suffering because of someone else’s actions. The nightmare he’d witnessed as a child would always remain. It had scarred him so deeply inside - as if it had been agonisingly burnt in with a searing iron...

Chapter 2

Adam Stringer would never know that he was the first element in a sequence of events that would ultimately change the new boy’s life beyond recognition.

Stringer was an unpleasant, scheming boy, not cared for by his stepfather and, more often than not, neglected by his mother. Obnoxious and cruel, he was the most unpopular boy in the school, certainly as far as the teaching staff were concerned.

Stringer’s gaze settled on Alex as he entered the classroom for the first time. ‘New boy’ to the twisted Stringer spelt one thing. He wouldn’t have any friends to support him. He’d decided on his victim for the day before leaning forward to tap on the shoulder of Terry Brown.

Brown was as equally undesirable as Stringer. He shared Stringer’s malicious streak but fell far short in terms of intelligence. Though he’d never realised it, Brown could be easily manipulated. As long as Stringer said they’d get away with it, Terry Brown unquestioningly accepted it with blind faith as the truth.

Three intense shafts of light sliced across the room, highlighting the nomadic dust that wandered through the structure of the old school. Stringer made sure he wasn’t illuminated by the bright chevrons of daylight. He leaned backwards on his chair and basked in the shadows, weighing up Alex while he was introduced to the class by Miss Hollins.

Alex is from the north of England.

Had Stringer needed confirmation for the necessity of his intended course of action, he’d just heard it. Alex was different. Not one of us. Not a local. So he had to be ‘seen to’ and shown who was boss.

And I want you to help him to settle in and show him how to find his way around the school.

As Stringer and Brown decided on the new boy’s initiation, the first line in a complex image of someone’s life picture was drawn.

The second line joined the study when Alex took his seat, and someone said, Hi, I’m Paul Naylor; when did you move down here?

Miss Hollins tapped harshly on her desk and began taking the class register. "Brown,

Terence Brown."

Brown was turned away from the front at that moment, busy plotting with Stringer. Stringer heard Brown’s name called but hadn’t told his ‘friend,’ thinking it would be far more amusing to watch him suffer the consequences.

Miss Hollins was an outstanding teacher. She could pass on knowledge into the heads of all but the most remarkably stupid. And to her, Terence Brown fell firmly into that category.

Having placed her pen on the register, she’d slipped off her shoes and walked slowly down the aisle. She stopped directly behind Terence Brown. Stringer had seen her coming, but said nothing. Brown was going to get it. It would be a great start to the day. The room had fallen silent, but Brown still hadn’t noticed. The voice of Elizabeth Hollins had suddenly boomed in his ear.

Brown, you imbecile, are you here or not?

The unfortunate Terence Brown spun around, bewildered at how she’d appeared almost like an apparition behind him.

Er, what, Miss? I didn’t hear you.

I said, Brown, are you here, or were you in another of your mindless daydreams? And you, Stringer, wipe that smirk off your face and stop sniggering. You’ll be kept inside at lunchtime as well as Brown if you’re not careful.

Stringer nodded his compliance with an expression of artificial sincerity. So Brown, where are you?... Answer!

I’m, er, er, sat in the classroom, Miss.

Good, now we’ve established that perhaps you could simply say, ‘Yes, Miss,’ when I call your name for the register - or have you forgotten we have registration?

Yes, Miss, I mean no, Miss.

Watch yourself, Brown. Don’t think you’ll carry on getting away with your tricks with me. And why do you think your ‘friend’ Stringer was laughing? He wasn’t laughing with you, Brown, but at you.

Brown’s answering expression had said nothing but a bemused ‘what?’

When the bell rang for morning break on Alex’s first day, Elizabeth Hollins called Paul Naylor to her desk. She needed to establish when he could start orchestra practice in preparation for the Christmas concert.

As the other children bunched around the door to leave the room, Paul hadn’t seen Stringer and Brown home in on the new boy. Neither had Elizabeth Hollins.

They’d lured Alex to a distant part of the playground using the flimsy excuse of showing him where three railings were missing from the school fence. It was where you could get out of the playground without being seen by the teachers. Three others from Stringer’s brigade had joined the trip. Between them, they made light work of Alex. It was a quick and horribly violent initiation to his new school.

When Alex re-entered the classroom, Elizabeth Hollins made certain everyone was sitting down and working. Then she’d called Alex out and taken him into the corridor. Brown had turned to look at Stringer and only received, shut it and keep it shut in response.

In the corridor, Alex insisted he’d fallen - like he’d been told to say. It was no-one’s fault but his own. He’d answered a definite no when asked if Stringer or Brown had done it. Elizabeth Hollins had been forced to shelve another opportunity to see particularly Stringer, as well as any of his cohorts, hauled over the coals.

Back in the classroom, Paul Naylor asked Alex, Did Stringer do it? Sorry, I should have warned you.

He’d replied, No, I fell.

Paul answered quietly, Yes, I fell too, on my first day here, when we’d moved up from Essex.

Walking between the desks, Elizabeth paused behind Stringer. She hadn’t said anything, just stood and waited. Stringer could only see her at the extremity of his vision. He didn’t turn; his nerve held control, which was more than could be said for Brown. Brown couldn’t see her but knew she was hovering behind. He’d held out for as long as he could but lacking Stringer’s mettle, he’d turned and looked at her.

Yes, Brown, is something wrong?

Brown’s composure fell to pieces. We... I... none of us touched him, Miss. He fell; I saw him.

Did I question that fact, Brown? She’d been standing next to him by then. Well, answer.

Brown’s face blushed to scarlet as he frantically tried to save himself. No, Miss, I just thought...

Hmmm, that will make a pleasant change, won’t it, Stringer? Her look pinned on Stringer’s face. Brown has actually been thinking about something; isn’t that remarkable?

Yes, Miss.

Elizabeth’s face was by that time close to Stringers. Her voice had reduced to a whisper. You wait, Stringer. You wait, because it’ll be Brown who’s your downfall and don’t you worry, I’ll be ready. You’re not going to get away with it forever, do you understand?

Yes, Miss. Stringer’s head had been down, facing his desk.

Look at me, Stringer, when you speak to me.

Raising his head, he’d repeated, Yes, Miss."

The defiance, she’d been able to see clearly, was there, just beneath the surface, like a predator lurking under shallow water.

As Elizabeth Hollins returned to her desk, Louise Sherwood, another pupil who sat on the front row, fainted and fell sideways into the aisle.

In the moment’s commotion that followed, Stringer saw his chance. His clenched fist had smashed into Brown’s left ear from behind. Brown hadn’t turned around to ask why or to complain; he’d just waited for it to be repeated, but a following blow never came.

Stringer felt he’d made his point.

Uncle Jack had worked out the truth straight away but had said nothing. Years before, he’d helped out a friend who’d been the caretaker at Grange School, where Alex was now a pupil, to repair the boiler. He’d wandered around the building when the job was completed, purely out of curiosity.

Jack Single had spent four years in the Army. He remembered the regular falling down the stairs excuse being used when someone had taken a beating. What told him the truth about Alex was it’s particularly difficult to fall down the stairs in a single-storey school. The Grange had one step leading into the building.

Alex had received care and attention from his mother and Aunty Val. His uncle ruffled his head and told him he’d live. Jack had known better than to suggest anything to Alex, but that night he’d spoken to his mother about the issue of bullying at the school. She’d asked if he’d thought that was the source of Alex’s injuries. Jack skilfully avoided the question.

That night, Alex’s mother went to sleep, hoping Jack’s idea was a good one. She knew it had been suggested with the best of intentions. Jack thought the world of the lad.

Harrison Street runs parallel to the Headrow, which hosts many of the shops