Victims Never Sleep

By Peter C Whitaker

Jessica Kemp awakens from a coma to discover that she has survived a brutal attack by a serial killer against all odds. The police inform her that she is his fifth victim, but a man called Proctor, claiming to be a medium, tells her something different. He claims to be able to speak to the dead and the previous victims of the killer have chosen her as the weapon of their revenge. Jessica should indeed be dead, but the Victims saved her life and their price is that she must kill the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Whitaker
• Release date: May 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224596065

Peter C Whitaker

I have been a story teller for as long as I can remember. As a child I wrote and drew my own comics and later in life I tried my hand at writing short stories and poetry. I was telling my wife about how the Saxons defeated the Vikings at Stamford Bridge once when we were making our way home and she suggested that I write a book about it; I think that she was just trying to shut me up but it proved to be the start of my writing career. We are still happily married and living in the beautiful East Riding of Yorkshire.

Book preview

Chapter One

The danger was real; she knows it. The immediacy of the threat is real. The adrenalin rush into her system is real. The heart pumping blood so loud that you could both hear it and feel it tells her the same. Her hands damp with perspiration. Her senses are heightened beyond anything normal. Time is slowing down. Muscles taut, ready to release a powerful burst of energy. A stomach in turmoil due to the growing anxiety. The certainty of violence inspires these responses. Each breath is taken quickly, but too shallow; more oxygen is required. More oxygen is demanded. Fear is beginning to close its hoary grasp upon her mind. She has to assert control. She has to impose her own discipline. She has only a second in which to make a fateful decision.

Fight or flight?

What do you do?

The choice determines the outcome. The outcome is either survival or death.

She screams.

This is not right. Something feels different. Everything is different. The training is not kicking in as she expects it to. And her body is not reacting the way she instinctively presumes it will either. Something is definitely wrong. All of her muscles feel weaker than she knows them to be. Her mind is scattered, unable to concentrate, not looking to make an immediate choice. Her entire being was waiting for intuition guided by training to make a choice, but her instincts are weak and she does not truly trust them. This does not feel like her body. A mixture of panic and despair begins to overwhelm her, smothering her will to survive. She does posses the will to survive, however. She knows that she has the will to survive. There is a terrifying gap between what she wants to do and what she can do; a dislocation between mind and body. The muscle tension is slipping away, leaving only unresponsive limbs. Fight or flight was now an irrelevant question, made redundant by incapacity.

She could do neither.

She could do nothing.

She was going to die.

Everything was dark. The surroundings are indistinct as if blurred by movement; her movement. She had been trying to escape, but she had failed. Gravity possessed her body. The impetus of a fall. Tripped or pushed, it did not matter, the result was the same; she fell. The ground was hard, rough, bare concrete. Hands and knees and chin instantly grazed. The smell of blood. The taste of copper. Cold, damp, unforgiving concrete beneath her. There was no silence. Her heart was pounding so hard and so fast now. Previously, her feet had been pounding a rhythm too, hitting the pavement as she had run. She had chosen flight. She had been screaming. She had fallen and the scream had died in her throat; replaced by a grunt forced from her lungs by the hard and sudden collision with the rough and unyielding ground.

The fall brought with it an immediate awareness; there was another presence here. The presence was the danger. She was running from someone. He was there. A weapon was in his hand. Instinctively, she knew that he was too strong and too fast for her, but worst of all she also knew that he was also too determined. He wanted to kill her. He was going to kill her. That knowledge was the cause of her despair and her panic, and now her growing hysteria. She understood that she was going to die and unconsciously she accepted that fact. She had chosen flight because, intuitively, she had known that he was going to overpower her; flight was the right choice, but she had not been fast enough.

He had come out of the darkness, out of the shadows, quickly and silently. No words spoken; no threats issued. The only chance for survival lay in the fact that he had moved too soon and alerted her to the imminent danger of his presence. The distance between them was too great; at least initially. She had frozen at his sudden appearance. She could not fight him. He was too big. Taller than her, broader than her, and heavier than her. Athletic in build, which suggested that he was more physically powerful than her in every way. His desire to kill her had struck her mind like a physical thing. It could have frozen her to the spot, only she did not want to die. Her life was just too good right now. She ran. Turning, she began to run. Her legs were not restrained by tight jeans. Her feet were wrapped in comfortable deck shoes; not handicapped by fashionable heels. There was a chance of escape.

Only there was not.

She had fallen because something had struck her. He had closed the distance quickly, but she had been just out of the reach of his grasping fingers. He could not catch hold of her, but something had struck her. It was long and metallic and it had extended his reach. It was cold and sharp. It had cut through her jacket, low down on the left side of her back. It had pierced flesh and muscle. The impact had made her stumble and fall.

She had been stabbed.

The realisation came too fast to have any immediate impact on her conscious mind. Her thoughts were no longer coherent. Everything was moving with too much speed. Images, sounds, memories, smells, movements, emotions, sensations, realisations; everything. It was all mixed up together in a swirling mass of too many things happening too quickly.

She screamed again.

The knife slid into her body. The point penetrated her slowly. She felt the pain and knew what was happening to her, but she did not want to believe it. Her body screamed out of futility now because it already knew that she was dead. The knife came again; this time faster and harder. It increased in tempo, moving around her body. In, then out. In, then out. In, out. In, out. Her body bucked rhythmically to the impaling; in and out. And then came the darkness.

Then she knew nothing.

Then she was dead.

Chapter Two

The darkness was suddenly pierced by light. It was not the first sensation that she was aware of, but it was the only one that she could make understand at this moment in time. When was this moment in time? Was this the beginning or the end? Was it in between those two points? Was it even a real moment or something else; a dream perhaps? There was indeed light, consisting of a collection of blurred shades only, vague and dim, but she was aware of it now. Before, there had been an absolute darkness, a complete void; no sound, no sensation, no awareness.

I think, therefore I am.

There had not been any thoughts before this moment, at least nothing that seemed reasoned, or cognisant; just a slowly growing awareness that drifted in confusion from one second into the next. Now, there was light and the beginnings of an understanding that something was happening. There was sound also, but it was indistinct; she could not understand what she was hearing. Her sight was hazy and she felt a wave of panic building within her. The disorientation continued, but the light was becoming familiar also. A realisation that she was not where she thought she would be, or expected to be, added to her growing turmoil. Slowly, she gained a realisation that there was something wrong with her. The blurred vision corrected itself, the definition of what she could see becoming clearer, and she realised that she was looking up at a ceiling. With that observation came also the knowledge that she was laid down on her back. Something was definitely not right. Her body was unresponsive. Her legs did not move. There was a beeping sound, something machine like. Then there was another sound, cloth moving perhaps. Something pink flashed before her eyes. She became aware that there was an object in her mouth. The pink thing appeared again. It was her hand. She recognised it now. Those were her fingers, but she felt so weak. The hand was flailing, but her muscles were too debilitated to allow her to exert any real control over that limb. It seemed to be foreign to her, not hers at all, because she could not actually feel it and she did not believe that she was moving it herself.

Her panic began to grow very quickly.

Hello! A woman's face came into view. Her skin was an exotic brown, a beautiful warm sheen. Equally warm brown eyes looked down into her own; they were full of empathy. Her voice was soft and sincere; full of reassurance. Hello, Jessica, can you hear me?

She tried to speak, but only a guttural sound came out of her mouth. There was something in it that should not be there she realised. Again, another wave of alarm seized her. Her eyes fastened on those of the person speaking to her; she needed more reassurance. She needed to communicate.

Don't try to speak yet, just move your head, do you understand? Jessica tried to nod. Okay, you're in hospital. You have been injured and we had to sedate you, do you understand? Another nod. I know that you will be confused, and you'll probably have a lot of questions, but please be patient. You have had surgery and there are drugs still in your system. You probably feel weak, that's the muscle relaxants. You can't talk just yet because you were intubated, but we will remove the tube now that you are conscious again.

Jessica made a sound.

Yes, I am a nurse. You are in hospital. We have been taking good care of you. Here's the doctor.

Another woman appeared. She was taller than the nurse. Long brown hair tied back in a pony-tail. Her face looked taut and pale, as if she had not been out in the sun for several months. The doctor was wearing blue scrubs.

Hello Jessica, I am Dr Taylor. I am just going to check a few things first and then we are going to make you more comfortable. Her smile was very professional, the kind given to every patient that she had ever looked after, but there was something in her eyes that Jessica could see and yet could not understand.

The doctor disappeared from Jessica's view but the nurse remained. She was adjusting her patient's right arm and hand, rearranging the sheets, glancing at the heart monitor. All the time she smiled. It was not a large grin, but a little smile that lit up her face nevertheless. Jessica felt that the woman was doing something that she loved; taking care of another human being. It was surprisingly reassuring. All of a sudden she found herself remembering her mother doing something similar. Without stopping to think about it she understood that it was a memory of when she had contracted measles as a child. Her mother was making her comfortable in the bed, the love of a parent for her child clear and evident and warm. She needed that experience immediately now. Unexpected emotions swam through her and tears flowed from her eyes. The kind nurse gently dabbed at them without saying a word, the smile growing a little more on her face being the only acknowledgement of what was transpiring between them; the carer and the person being cared for. A moment that joined them, but one that would be kept in confidence forever. The nurse’s presence filled Jessica with a warm sense of being okay; that everything was all right, which was contradictory to the fact that she now knew that everything was most certainly not all right. Her last memory was not of being in hospital. She did not know why she was here, or how she had gotten here, or what had happened to cause her to be admitted for medical attention. For some reason she started to relax. It felt as if she were in safe hands. The bed was warm and comfortable. The presence of the nurse was indeed reassuring. Suddenly, Jessica felt very tired. She surrendered to the sudden onset of weariness, not knowing that the doctor was applying a sedative through the intravenous line that went into the back of her hand. The darkness claimed her again.

Dr Taylor sat at her desk in the small Intensive Care Unit office. Before her, on the computer screen, she had all of the patient's records, but she was no longer looking at them. Jessica Kemp had been successfully recovered from a medically induced coma that had been required due to the amount of trauma that her body had suffered. The physical injuries had been severe, but none of her vital organs had been damaged. It was indeed the loss of blood that had concerned all of the medical staff that had worked on Jessica since she had been found in the street; the victim of a brutal attack. Despite the emergency treatment carried out by the paramedics, Dr Taylor believed that a considerable amount of blood had been lost before they had even begun to stabilise her at the hospital. They had counted eighteen stab wounds to her body, spread over her torso, her arms, and her legs. Even the most optimistic of doctors would have expected her to have died, either during the surgical procedure to repair the wounds or the coma that followed, which had not been seen as a guarantee that the patient would be able to survive, but deemed necessary to improve her chances all the same. However, the human body had proven resilient. The monitors that had measured her life signs continuously for the past three weeks had registered a slow improvement, day after day. The fact that she had responded to the process of being brought out of the coma by successfully recovering consciousness was in itself the kind of medical mystery that fascinated Dr Taylor.

Thank you for ringing!

Her eyes moved slowly from the unseen spot before her, where she had been staring without actually looking for some minutes, lost in thought, and towards the door. She recognised the man in the crumpled suit.

Detective Clayton! Her smile was fleeting.

Just Dave will do. He stepped into the office slowly, as if hesitant to interrupt her reverie. I think I know the answer, but I am going to ask the question anyway; when can I talk to her?

We had to sedate her again.

What! Why?

It made extubation a less uncomfortable experience for her. I think that you'll agree; she's been through enough already?

Yes, but she's been in a coma for three weeks!

Yes, but this is different.

How so?

She's only sleeping now.

You mean she'll wake up soon?

Yes, she will.

When?

When she's ready.

Doctor! He sounded exasperated.

I know. I understand your need to speak to her, but her condition is still critical. She's not out of the woods yet.

You mean that she could still die? He looked surprisingly concerned.

It's a much diminished possibility, but yes, it could still happen. We did everything we could to keep her alive, and bringing her out of the coma is a definite step towards recovery, but you have to understand, what that woman went through, well, in my professional opinion, I am amazed that she is even conscious now!

You said she was sedated! He tried another smile, which only made him look more tired.

Yes, but the drugs will be wearing off now. She does need a considerable amount of rest, however.

I understand, it’s the best medicine, but being awake, that's got to be good for her too?

Yes, it is. She didn't know where she was or what had happened to her when she first came round though.

I suppose that's to be expected. With regards to not knowing what happened to her, well, maybe that's a small comfort as well.

Right now, I would say that it is. My staff followed your instruction not to say anything to her about the attack. They’ll continue to do so until you say otherwise.

Good.

Well, I did think that it was a reasonable request.

Can I make an observation?

Of course, she shrugged.

You don't seem too happy about this situation.

Oh, I am happy for her, yes, very much so. I am always happy when one of our patient’s reaches this point in their recovery. It's nothing like that; it's just more of a professional concern, that's all.

You're worried about her?

Of course, but that's not it either.

Then do you mind telling me what it is? His voice hardened a little and her face responded to the change in tone. Look, Doctor, you know how valuable she is to us. Jessica Kemp is the only person we know of who has survived an attack by this killer!

Yes, I know, and that is kind of what is bothering me. Her voice remained calm and controlled; always the professional.

If you're worried about him coming here, don't be; the police guard will remain for the foreseeable future.

No, I am not worried about that. She shook her head to emphasise her conviction. Your officers are visible and diligent. When you first talked to me after Jessica was admitted, you said that she was the fifth victim of this serial killer.

Yes.

And that the other four had died.

Yes. He remained patient with her.

Jessica suffered practically the same injuries as them, I know, I checked the medical records of the other victims, and yet she survived despite suffering a greater number of wounds.

Maybe she's just a tough cookie? He gave a shrug of his own.

There is no scientific reason that I know of that would support an expectation of a person, man or woman, surviving what happened to Jessica; the immediate blood loss alone should have killed her.

But it didn't.

No, it didn't.

And it's not knowing why that's bothering you?

Yes, it is.

I can understand that, Doc!

You can?

Yes. I've seen a lot of strange stuff in this job. I have seen people remain cognisant despite suffering injuries that you'd normally expect to kill them. Yes, they did die later, but it's like they just wouldn't give up until it's inevitable; death I mean.

I know what you're saying is true, I have seen similar things before myself, but this instance just doesn't feel right.

What, you think there might be something else to it?

I don't know! She suddenly looked very tired herself. I like logic, I like reason, I don't like what some people call the unexplainable, and I certainly won't countenance the so called supernatural, but all the same... her voice tailed off.

All the same, strange things happen and we just don't understand them.

Yes, they do and we don’t.

And Jessica Kemp is not only a survivor of this serial killer's attack, but also a miracle too!

I don’t particularly like the word miracle, but yes, it would seem that she is.

Do you want someone else to look after her while she's in the ICU?

No! Dr Taylor was quite emphatic. It's got nothing to do with Jessica herself. In my job, seeing someone leave here alive is what makes doing it worthwhile!

Well, that's a professional response. They both smiled. So, back to my original question; when can I talk to her?

It's not just a question of her physical readiness to talk to you; she probably suffered some mental distress too, and if she didn’t then I expect that she’s going to when the facts of her case are revealed to her.

Yeah, I know, we have a psychiatrist on hand.

A police psychiatrist?

A consultant. He's helped us before.

I would like him to be present.

I wouldn't!

Why not?

When I speak to a witness, I like to keep control of the conversation, when you bring in someone who isn't police, well, let's just say that you begin to lose that control.

Have you ever thought about talking to a psychiatrist as to why you fear losing control? Her smile was natural.

No, I already know. Also, I don't have much faith in psychology!

Really, it is a science you know!

Is it? It seems like it's built on quicksand to me! Theories of psychology seem to change with the wind, or the fashion, whichever is the more popular. I prefer more empirical evidence for the foundation of theories myself!

Why, Detective, I didn't take you for the scientific type!

I am no more than an amateur really.

What discipline?

Palaeontology. He suddenly looked bashful.

Dinosaurs?!

Palaeontology covers much more than dinosaurs, he insisted quickly, but yeah, I like dinosaurs.

So do most children! She grinned at him.

Well, now that I've revealed one of my secrets to you and, no doubt, won your confidence, when can I talk to Jessica?

I know you want it to be sooner rather than later, but I will have to make an assessment of her general condition first, and I can only do that when she's fully awake.

Can you call me as soon as you've done that?

Yes, I can and I will.

Thanks Doc, he turned and began to exit the office, but then stopped. You know that dinosaur thing?

Yes. Her right eyebrow arched quizzically.

Would you..?

For you, yes. It will be our secret as far as the ICU is concerned.

Thanks! He smiled.

Chapter Three

Mr Menghis! Dr Martinez rose from his chair behind the desk, surprised by the sudden appearance of such a renowned local dignitary.

Dr Martinez! He smiled warmly as he entered the consultation room.

The receptionist stood in the open doorway and expressed her apology for both the interruption and the fact that the unexpected visitor had walked straight into her employer’s office without waiting to be admitted; she did this through an almost comedic parade of expressions that crossed her face in rapid succession. Dr Martinez simply nodded to her his acceptance of the situation and she returned to her station in the waiting room outside, closing the door behind her.

I apologise for arriving unannounced, Dr Martinez, but I was in the area. I have just chaired a meeting about the little project that we discussed at the Guildhall a few weeks ago, and I was passing by on my way home; I hope you don’t mind?

It’s always a pleasure to see you, sir!

No patients today?

Not at this time of the afternoon, I reserve this period for writing up my notes and seeing urgent cases only.

Thank you for supplying the data I requested concerning the deplorable lack of provision of mental health care in the city; it came in very useful.

The situation is indeed deplorable, as I intimated to you at the Guildhall, and I am only too happy to assist in improving both the quality and the level of care that we, as a city, can offer to our citizens.

Quite. I am sure that you will be pleased to know then that my plans to build a new centre for psychiatric care have now met with tacit approval.

Of course, although a more concrete commitment would of course be preferable.

Even though I have a certain position and influence in this town, Dr Martinez, I have to follow the due process all the same.

Yes, I quite understand.

However, it is an exciting prospect, is it not?

Most certainly it is, Mr Menghis. I was delighted when you first proposed the idea, however, that was at least a year ago and it seems we have to endure a protracted process before you realise your dream, sir.

I am certain that the current administration will prove to be very supportive, not least because, as a public private initiative, they will bear very little of the initial cost. Menghis smiled.

It’s fortunate that you have the resources, sir.

I have a fortune that is true, whether I came by it through fortuitous circumstances is another matter. He laughed amiably to himself. We are about to purchase a site on the edge of town, near Neat Marsh by the way.

That is outside the city limits.

Yes, but the location holds certain advantages, especially with regard to future development.

Public transport links with the area are not the best though.

I am ahead of you there, Dr Martinez; an important part of the proposal includes a subsidised public transport route connecting the facility with the city centre.

I suppose that it’s too early yet to consider candidates for key positions?

Yes, but that time is not too far off, I can assure you.

Then I hope that the authorities do not take too long in considering your proposal and judging it on its obvious merits.

The City Council has to be seen to be doing things by the book also, Dr Martinez. There’s always someone quick to presume wrongdoing when a man like myself enters into a partnership with a public body. I am sure that we will receive the green light to submit a formal proposal in a matter of days now though. My people are working to a tight deadline; they know how important this particular project is to me personally.

Of course, Mr Menghis.

It is a sad fact that most of us only ever realise the shortcomings of society when we experience a personal tragedy. Menghis looked both thoughtful and a little disconsolate. My nephew was a special boy, Dr Martinez. He was gifted with intelligence; perhaps a little too much for him to cope with if I’m honest.

Many genuinely intelligent people do suffer depression, sir. He nodded his understanding.

His suicide shocked me; it genuinely distressed me. There was a brief moment when the face of Sandford Menghis looked all of its seventy-two years. His tan paled a little and the grey at the temples appeared to extend further into his still thick mane of dark hair. I wish that my sister had communicated his illness to me sooner, I might have – no, I would have done something to help avert his untimely death.

Mental health has struggled as a taboo subject for an unacceptably long period of time within the wider society, sir. Many people are uncomfortable discussing it; even more cannot bring themselves to admit that they are dealing with a psychological problem themselves and, therefore, they fail to ask for the help that they need.

Yes, it most certainly has been a taboo subject, but things appear to be changing, and I wish to be a part of that change.

As do I, sir.

And you very much are! He smiled more warmly. Well, I mustn’t keep you from your work any longer, Dr Martinez.

It has been a pleasure to see you again, sir!

That reminds me, I meant to mention it to you earlier; do you remember that young man you sent my way not so long ago?

I think I know the person to whom you are referring, sir.

Yes, you mentioned him to me about a year and a half ago, with a view to me helping his career prospects that had been injured due to the onset of a particular state of mind I seem to remember.

Yes, he appeared to be in a rather toxic work environment that had exacerbated his mental condition resulting in an unfortunate incident.

How’s he getting on with his therapy? Dr Martinez suddenly looked very uncomfortable. Oh, I’m sorry! That was rather crass of me. Of course, you can’t discuss a patient’s treatment with me; please forgive my indelicate inquiry.

Of course, Mr Menghis, I understand. It is encouraging, however, that a man such as yourself should take an interest in someone who was also one of my patients.

Yes, but I should remember not to overstep the boundaries, shouldn’t I?

It would be appreciated, sir.

Well, consider me appropriately chastised. I know that I neither look nor act my age, but sometimes it does show itself I suppose, particularly in asking such questions that are now considered indelicate in this day and age, but in my time they were not. He smiled quite good naturedly. Besides, the person in question is, I am told, responding positively to the mentorship that I put in place for them.

I had wondered if you might have offered him a place in one of your own companies.

Although the mentorship scheme carries my name it is administered separately through my foundation. Ms Williams is the driving force there. She also arranges linking candidates with their mentors. I believe that the person in question has been successful in obtaining a junior executive role as a consequence of enrolling on my foundation's scheme, and appears to be responding very well to the challenges and duties it demands of them, thanks to you, Dr Martinez, in no small part.

Me, Mr Menghis?!

Yes, of course you, Dr Martinez. He smiled effusively. I should imagine that it is your care that has helped this young person to assert a better control of themselves in stressful situations. Certainly, they don’t appear to have participated in any more of the kind of episodes that nearly ended their career prematurely. The best that can be said regarding such incidents is that it led them to your therapy sessions and that is very much a positive outcome.

I have done my best for them, sir.

I’m sure that you always do. That is the kind of professional care that I envision for our new facility, Dr Martinez.

Perhaps then, I can tell you that the person in question has completed their therapy successfully, seeing as, technically at least, they are no longer my patient.

They did? Well, that is good news; another feather in your cap, eh, Dr Martinez?

I am always happy to return a troubled mind back to good mental health, sir.

And soon, we will be able to achieve that result on a much broader scale, and with a good many more unfortunate people, before they take any regrettable actions that only damage themselves and the people who love them. Well, good day to you!

Chapter Four

The door opened and only darkness lay beyond, but that was not true. The door did open, but she felt a moment of trepidation. She hesitated on the entrance to her home. Instinct warned her of something that she could neither see nor recognise. Reason defeated animal instinct. Reason told her to enter, that she was being silly. Stepping across the threshold a soft laugh of self-deprecation escaped her lips. She was indeed being silly. There was nothing to be scared of. This was her home. The door had been locked when she had approached it; just as she had expected it to be. There was nothing to be afraid of here. A finger pressed the switch and a warm reassuring light filled the hallway. The door closed behind her and she locked it again, finding that the very act itself was also reassuring. Yes, she was being silly to be afraid of entering her own home, but, nevertheless, she could not deny that both the light and the sound of the lock turning again, the very act of fastening the door shut, was indeed comforting, as if the light and the door both would keep her safe and the bad things at bay outside the building. A warm bath, a bite to eat, a small glass of wine, well, maybe a bigger one, and some television, that is what she needed to end her day.

Her world shuddered, shaken as if there had been an earthquake tremor, but she had never been in an earthquake, and they did not happen here. The impact of her head against the wall shattered her vision so that it was momentarily incoherent. She could still see, but she could not understand the images that her sight captured. Then the pain made its presence felt. She gasped. Her balance upset she clung to the wall. Her head was pulled sharply back, a brutal hand ensnaring its fingers in the long hair and using it to both hurt her and prepare her for what was to come next. The gasp that began was never completed. Something inedible was thrust into her mouth. Something was fastened over her face to hold it in place. He let go of her hair and pulled off her coat. She tried to turn and face him. He was there, in front of her, but her eyes were full of tears and she could not see him clearly. She did not see the punch to her stomach, but she felt it. The air in her lungs tried to escape through her mouth, but there was no exit to be had there any more; it came violently out of her nose.

He beat her with his hands; one punch after another. They came so fast that there was no point at which one instance of pain ended and another began; it was all the same pain. Her legs failed her and she slid to the floor. The fists turned into talons and they lifted her up, dragged her into the adjoining room, and then hit her again. She fell onto the carpet. Numbness had overtaken her. She knew that she was in pain, but now there was too much of it for her to actually feel any more. His fists hit her torso, her arms, her thighs, and her face. Her mind, however, was removed from the impact of the blows now. She knew that they were happening, that they had robbed her of her strength, but she could no longer really feel them. Her body shuddered to the blows and her consciousness retreated. The darkness seemed welcoming. Only, he would not let her retreat by her own volition. The pummelling ceased. Roughly, he turned her onto her back. For a moment he stood over her, looking down. His face came closer. It was not complete. She could not see all of him. Her vision was disjointed. His blue eyes burned with hate and she knew what was coming, she just did not know how. The knife glinted. A large knife that looked clean and cold. He was showing it too her. She knew what it was and what it meant, but she was so far removed now from the situation. Her body no longer responded to her mind, and yet a part of her was crying out for life. It wanted to survive. She did not want to die like this. He dragged the blade across her throat, but she felt neither the cut nor the warmth of her blood as it pumped out onto her punished skin. Only a very small part of her cried out at the encroaching darkness, the rest was lost to absolute fear. A single tear escaped from her eye.

Chapter Five

She felt ridiculously nervous and unexpectedly shy. The back of the hospital bed had been raised and she was made comfortable with a sufficient number of pillows against which she could rest her weakened torso and head. The sheets had been arranged by her nurse, Sky, so that the catheter was not obvious. Her left arm was attached to an IV drip and lay palm down in front of her. Her entire body felt weak still, but it had only been two days since they had brought her out of the coma. She had not yet seen herself in a mirror yet, but she believed that she looked a mess. Her hair was greasy, however she had been bathed and that had helped to improve how she felt, at least physically, even if it was only a little. Unfortunately, her stomach did not help at all. It churned relentlessly. Her level of discomfort was only added to by the fact that she was also constipated. Sky had informed her that this was a result of the pain medication that she had been given, and that a laxative would be considered in the very near future, but not until after her first interview with the police. Jessica wondered if the anxiety that the prospect of the police interview appeared to be inspiring might not do the job all on its own, without requiring any medical intervention whatsoever.

I am Detective David Clayton, you can call me Dave if you wish, or just Detective Clayton. He smiled warmly. She judged him to be in either his late thirties or early forties. His manner was comfortably professional and obviously crafted by many years of experience. This is Dr Martinez; he's a consultant psychiatrist working with the police. I have asked him to join us because of his professional experience.

Dr Martinez smiled on cue, but it was a shallow, almost cold expression. He wore a three-piece suit that clearly cost more than Detective Clayton's attire. His appearance suggested meticulous attention to detail, including the coloured handkerchief in his jacket pocket that matched the dominant colour of the tie he wore.

May we sit down? Clayton asked.

Of course. Her voice sounded dry and unsure.

The detective settled into a comfortable pose, leaning back into the chair, and with his hands gripping each other, but only loosely. Dr Martinez sat with his legs crossed, left over right, and his back straight. His eyes seemed disinterested.

May I? The psychiatrist raised a recording device for her to see. I prefer to take notes after the consultation; it allows me to retain my focus on what is being said at the time and that, in its turn, allows me to employ my powers of observation throughout the interview without being distracted.

Jessica nodded her assent as she did not want to talk again. She reached for the plastic cup on the table next to her bed that Sky had thoughtfully filled with cool water. Her mouth was dry and it seemed to want to make her sound scared and helpless, which she disliked intently. As she took a sip, Jessica glanced at the detective. He was watching her carefully, but his face expressed only a commendable amount of patience.

When you're ready, Jessica, Detective Clayton encouraged her, you don’t mind if I call you Jessica do you?

No, I don’t, she tried to assert more confidence into her tone. However, my friends call me Cempa, which I am more used to.

Kempa, is that a nickname? Clayton maintained eye contact with her and smiled gently.

Yes, it’s Cempa with a ‘C’ by the way. An instructor I had in basic training gave it to me.

When you were in the army?

Yes. He was interested in the Anglo-Saxons, their history and culture, and he knew something about the language they spoke; Old English I think it’s called.

Yes it is, Dr Martinez confirmed.

"He said that cempa means warrior, soldier, something like that. He said I had a warrior’s spirit."

Do you? Clayton asked.

I think I did.

Was it meant respectfully? The nickname I mean. He continued to engage with her on the subject, looking to win her confidence.

She smiled without realising that her initial nervousness had now completely dissipated. Yes, it was. I mean, some of the others in my squad received nicknames that sounded less flattering than mine, but mostly it was just for fun. I kind of liked being called Cempa though and it’s stuck with me.

Probably because it is sounds so close to your actual surname, Martinez suggested.

Yes.

How long were you in the army for, Cempa? The detective asked.

Nine years.

Good times?

Yes, they were.

And now you work in a warehouse.

Yes, I do.

Do you get on well with your colleagues?

I do, yes.

No one there who might cause you any problems?

She shook her head. No. There’s a couple of guys that I get on well with, and a few that I am not so close to, but mostly, we just get the job done.

Do you like your job?

It pays the bills; that’s all. I don’t see myself doing it for the rest of my life, but right now it gives me what I want.

Very well. Obviously, we are here to talk to you about what happened on the night that you were admitted to the hospital, do you feel up to talking about it?

Yes. I don't remember much about what happened though. Her voice sounded a little croaky again. Nurse Sky had told her that she might suffer a sore throat after extubation, but that this would pass quickly. It was difficult to tell whether that was the reason for the sudden onset of vocal difficulty, however, or whether it was the nervousness returning again. I still don’t understand what I am doing here or how I got these injuries.

I asked Dr Taylor and her staff not to tell you anything with regards to the details of what happened to you, Clayton said, we find that the power of suggestion from other sources can colour a witness's recollection.

Am I a witness?

Yes, and a victim too.

What happened to me?

He took a breath and composed himself. You were attacked by a man near to your home. He stabbed you several times and left you for dead.

I see. Her head dropped and her tone was quiet.

According to your employer you had worked a late shift.

Yes, we do that in the warehouse routinely.

You drove home from work and parked reasonably close to the building you live in.

Normally, I cycle to work, at least if the weather's okay, but I drive on nights. I don't like to invite trouble and the neighbourhood I live in is not the safest, I suppose. Although I've never had any problems before; I don't go looking for trouble.

Cycling keeps you fit as well.

Yes, I like to stay fit. I can't remember the last time I felt this unfit though! She gave him a weak smile.

Is this something from your army days?

I was into physical fitness before I joined up, I was good at sports at school; it proved to be an advantage though, in getting through basic training at least.

Dr Taylor tells me that a person's level of fitness can also improve not only their chances of recovery, but the speed of it too. Cempa only nodded. We think that the attack occurred between you locking your car and before you reached the door to your building; do you remember anything about it?

So there it was; the inevitable question. It took no great intellect to anticipate the query, but now that it had been asked of her she realised that it was the possible source of her immediate anxiety. Her answer only confirmed her belief in that proposition. The dreams were possibly connected to what had happened to her as well.

I remember something, but I can't make sense of it. Her nervousness increased again, only this time she realised that it was the subject of discussion and not the police officer that was the cause.

Okay, just tell me what you do remember, he encouraged her. Clayton leant forward in his seat expectantly; Dr Martinez continued his distant observation of her.

I don't know! She shook her head.

Cempa, even the slightest detail that you can give us could prove important, and very useful, in helping us catch this man. His tone was positive, but there was a hunger in his eyes now.

You don't understand. I have images in my head, memories I think, but they don't make any sense to me! She complained.

Are they from your attack?

Yes. No. I don't know. They are like something from a dream, no, from more than one dream. I remember different things in each of them. Every time he has a knife, I know that, and each time he stabs me repeatedly, but in one of them he cuts my throat!

Cuts your throat?

And in another, he's sat on top of me, looking into my eyes as he pushes the point of his knife into my heart.

Okay. He did not know what else to say.

But I have the strangest feeling, the strongest instinctive feeling, that it's not me!

What do you mean?

I don't know! It's just a feeling, one that I have while I am dreaming these things. I just know that the person in the dream is not me!

Are you watching these events as if you were present as a spectator? Dr Martinez asked.

Cempa shook her head. No, the perspective, the way I see the dream, is always the same; always from that of being the victim. It's like I am looking through their eyes, as if I am inside their body. I kind of feel the knife when it cuts or stabs, but it's not as sharp as it probably was in real life; like when he did it to me.

At any point do you see his face? Clayton asked.

No, not really, if I do it’s never clearly. He's always like a shadow, indistinct; always in darkness. I think he wears a scarf around his lower face also.

Is there anything that you can tell us about how he seems to you?

Yes, he's average height for a man, about five foot ten, athletic in build; at least he seems fit, and he’s quite strong. He's also fast; very fast. In my last dream, I did see his eyes; he has blue eyes! He's not been trained to use the knife though.

What do you mean?

I don't think he's ex-services.

Okay.

Did they train you how to use a knife in combat? Dr Martinez asked.

I was a driver in the army, but I've been around Special Forces soldiers, I've seen what they can do when it comes to that sort of thing.

Are the dreams recurring? Martinez continued.

Yes.

When did they start?

I don't know. I think I remember them before I became conscious again, from the coma I mean.

Interesting. Are they always the same?

No, well, yes, in the sense that in all of them I experience being attacked by a man with a knife, but the way he inflicts the wounds, well, they seem to be different in some dreams to others.

Can you tell what kind of knife he uses? Clayton asked.

Yes, it's always a hunting knife.

Hunting, not combat?

Yes, a hunting knife.

Does he have any tattoos or distinguishing facial features?

I'm sorry, no, not in my dreams. Apart from the blue eyes, I just never see the rest of him that clearly.

A pity! He gave her a smile of resignation.

He's always dressed the same though.

In what way?

Loose fitting dark clothing, and comfortable boots, or athletic shoes maybe. He knows not to wear tight clothing as that would restrict his freedom of movement. Maybe he’s had some martial arts training as well.

That's useful!

It is?

Yes, Jessica. We were wondering if he was an opportunist, someone who just goes out and attacks women when he feels like it, and when the situation presents itself to him, from your description this sounds like someone who does some planning first.

I think he was waiting for me!

Probably was, which supports the theory of him preferring to prepare his attacks. He may have watched the area in which you live for several days before he attacked you.

So he’d know my comings and goings?

Yes, if he kept an eye on you for long enough.

I should have been more aware. I was a good observer in the army.

But you’re a civilian now. Clayton told her in softer