Double Visions Part 1

DOUBLE VISIONS.

MATT DRABBLE.

PROLOGUE.

8 YEARS AGO.

The Darkness closed in as though it was alive and with evil intent. The floorboards seemed to roar monstrously loud beneath her careful footsteps, no matter how lightly she trod. Her heart was pounding hard enough in her ears to drown out the world and her thin blouse stuck firmly to her back with a cold clammy sweat.

The man with her offered small comfort. He was a large and powerful man armed with a black revolver and the righteousness of a badge, but still she felt hopelessly outgunned.

She wore her mother's silver brooch pin and her hand would often wander to it for strength and focus.

Together they descended into the bowels of h.e.l.l, despite all better judgement. The man had called for backup and the wailing sirens and lights would arrive as quickly as possible, but in her gut she knew that it would be too late. There was no choice here if she wanted the nightmare to be finally over and the devil stopped. Against all better judgement, they'd entered the building trying hard to ignore the flagrant sense of doom.

The cop in front of her raised his hand and she stopped instantly. The staircase was narrow and the bare plaster walls smelled old and stale. There was a world above them that went about its business oblivious to the death that lay below.

The old cop started to move again and she followed. When he reached the bas.e.m.e.nt floor he paused while she closed her eyes again and sought guidance. The images rushed at her with blinding speed and she had to fight hard to stop them from swallowing her completely. She knew that if she lost her grip here then she would be lost forever. Eventually, she managed to catch the scent as she bit down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. In the shadowy light of the bas.e.m.e.nt her throat was clogged with the coppery taste and she couldn't tell what was real in her mouth and what existed in the gap between her visions and reality.

She pointed to the left and the cop moved in front of her, his weapon held up in a strong steady grip. The bas.e.m.e.nt level had been renovated to provide long winding corridors with multiple doors hiding G.o.d only knew what. The sense of death and torture here was palpable and she had to find a steely core deep within herself to avoid running screaming from this place. Faces of pain reached out from the dark and threatened to drag her down with clenched clawing fingers. Their features were contorted with furious vengeance as they sought to lash out blindly at any target.

She reached out and grabbed hold of the cop's belt to steady and ground herself again. She had never felt such an overwhelming sense of the other world before, but still she pressed on. This man, this monster, had held the country in a vice-like grip of terror for months now. He had exploded multiple families in fireb.a.l.l.s of grief and she held on to the images of devastation around small graves as she kept on walking.

She was sure now that the stench of death was real as the cop staggered a little and held a hand up to cover his nose and mouth. She had lived for so long under a cloud of the monster's carnage that she knew it all had to end one way or the other.

Her mind was reeling with the projected images from an ocean of death coupled with the real world dangers of their surroundings. The cop stopped as the corridor reached a stop and he looked both ways, his ears craning for sounds to aid him, but the world was silent.

She could only hear the crawling and scuttling of tiny claws across the dirt floor. Rodents scampered into the darkness, dancing beyond the dim light of the cop's torch. She knew that she couldn't trust herself to tell what was real amidst the killing ground and suddenly she felt worse than useless. She wasn't a warrior, she wasn't a cop; she was just a woman with a gift, or a curse depending on your point of view, and now her radar was faltering badly.

She tried once more and closed her eyes, allowing the tidal wave to wash over her. She had been tracking this man for weeks now, delving into his mind and living under his skin. It was a grotesque invasion and one that left her with an indelible stain on her soul that would never wash off. The monster's thoughts were dark and evil, thick with blood and pain, and his fevered sickness would sometimes take hours to leave her after she had left him.

She sank into his mind and saw through his eyes. His world was sepia toned with blazing halos of light around his chosen victims. His thoughts were almost always too muddled to decipher and she still didn't know what drove him. He looked down at the cold steel in his hands and she felt the sharp blade as it cut deeply into his palm as he squeezed his hand around the knife. He suddenly looked up and towards the door, away from his prize which was bound to a bloodstained post, small hands shackled in chains and a reedy chest wracked with sobs.

She felt the cop shake her... once, twice and then a hard stinging slap across her face. She blinked through the tears brought about by the cop's hand and pointed down the corridor towards a door at the end. The cop left her and ran for the door, not caring about his loud approach.

She tried to call after him but her throat was parched dry and she could only squawk. The cop reached the door just as it started to open. She looked on as a pair of eyes emerged from the darkness, eyes that she had looked out through a thousand times but never stared into.

The cop raised his gun as the man emerged but he was too slow and the knife was impaled in his chest before he could fire. The emerging monster c.o.c.ked his head to one side with puzzled interest as he stared at her from no more than 20 feet away. His blade dripped blood onto the dirt floor and she could see over his shoulder into his room where a young girl s.h.i.+vered.

The monster stepped over the cop and started to walk towards her. His face was crinkled, as though he knew her somehow but just couldn't quite place her face. She wanted to tell him that she knew him, that they knew each other, that she had shared his head s.p.a.ce on many occasions. She wanted to tell him that she understood, that she sympathised, that she could help, but she had nothing. Her mind screamed at her to run, to flee from this man, but her feet were rooted to the spot. She wasn't a cop, she wasn't a fighter, she wasn't even armed.

The world narrowed to a pinpoint as the man reached her. He stroked the side of her face with a surprisingly soft hand. His touch was cold and his fingers seemed to leave a trail on her skin. She couldn't move and trembled before him as the dead circled him like wafts of smoke dancing in and out of sight. His other hand raised the knife and the dim light glinted off the silver blade. She felt the sharp edge press into her chest; the tip drew blood as the man started to carve his symbol into her soft flesh.

She closed her eyes and waited for death to take her, praying that it wouldn't hurt too much. Her senses roared in deafening blasts as the dead screamed in frustration that she had failed them. A splash of blood splattered warmly against her face and thankfully there was no pain. It took her a moment to realise that it was not her blood, and when she opened her eyes again the man had slumped to his knees in front of her.

The old cop had somehow clung to life with enough courage for the both of them. He had fired his gun with an aim surely sent from G.o.d. She looked back at the man before her, as he slumped backwards staring up at the ceiling with a large dark stain spreading out across his chest.

She stepped over the monster and ran to her saviour. The old cop was fading fast and he had barely been able to lift his arm up off the ground to fire the gun. His chest sounded wheezy and frail as he struggled to breathe through the blood that was filling his lungs.

She knelt beside him and cradled his head in her lap as tears fell from her face. She had led them both down here and the only man that had trusted her had paid for it with his life. She laid the cop's head gently down onto the ground and stood to try and make the tragedy mean something. She stepped into the room beyond the door and strode quickly to the shackled girl. As she reached the restraints, the girl's eyes grew large with terror and the woman spun around quickly, fearing the worst.

The monster staggered towards her, clutching his chest and inexplicably still breathing. The woman frantically searched around the room for a weapon but could see nothing of use. The monster raised the cop's gun that he had stopped to pick up and the air was suddenly filled with loud blasts. The woman felt every bullet as it tore through fragile flesh and shattered even st.u.r.dy bone.

She fell to the ground just as the monster leapt through the air and landed hard on her chest with the knife held high above his head. The silver blade plunged downwards over and over again as the shadows of the dead leaned in for a closer look.

CHAPTER ONE.

TODAY.

Jane Parkes woke in a cold sweat, as she always did after the nightmare: bolt upright and with her mouth twisted into a silent scream. Her eyes were wide and wild as her mind fought to calm her raging senses. She didn't dare look across to the other side of the bed as she knew the slowly fading face would be staring back at her with dead eyes and a black heart. She had made the mistake of rolling over enough times in the past without checking first; no one should have to face the dead this early in the morning.

She felt his presence drift away like smoke on a soft breeze, a diminis.h.i.+ng apparition that she had brought out of her subconscious mind and one who didn't belong. The walls between her two worlds were often painfully thin and she had to work at maintaining the barrier. But it was when she slept that the dead seemed to sense their opportunity.

The daylight of her bedroom sparkled and danced through the thin net curtains. The birds flittered and sang out in the garden under the early morning summer sun. Slowly, her heart rate settled and ceased threatening to burst through her ribcage. It took a great effort but she resisted starting another day in a foggy cloud of prescription pills.

She swung her legs out of the bed and touched her feet down on the cool wooden floor. "This is my room, this is me talking, and this is the here and now, the real and the firm," she recited as she stood. She had many mantras along with breathing exercises, yoga poses and a drawer full of small plastic bottles.

That night in the bas.e.m.e.nt had been 8 years ago and yet it still clung to her like a second skin, creeping out of the darkness at night when her defences were down as she slept. The annoying thing was that the real events had been terrifying enough without the added epilogue.

She and Detective Inspector Karl Meyers had indeed entered the bas.e.m.e.nt lair of the monster, christened somewhat distastefully as the 'Crucifier' due to his predilection for displaying his young female victims in a crucified pose and carving a symbol of a crucifix surrounded by a pentagram. Karl had died by the single stab wound to the chest but had managed to save her, as she'd stood frozen, before his final breath. The detective had found enough strength before he'd died to fire a single bullet and slay the beast.

She had indeed helped to save the Crucifier's final victim, but the monster had not risen from the grave; his body had stayed in the corridor where he had been shot. She had not been attacked and mortally wounded. Only in her dreams had she chosen to resurrect the man and she could not decipher just why. Part of her wondered if there was some significance to the ending of her recurring dream, but if she was honest with herself it was not a scab that she wanted to pick at.

The Crucifier had been unmasked, somewhat anticlimactically, as Arthur Durage, and his was the face that she sometimes found waiting for her on the pillow in the mornings. He wasn't a monster and he wasn't ripped from the pages of a horror novel; he was just a man with mental health issues and, it turned out, a whole lot of luck in getting away with his crimes for so long. The bas.e.m.e.nt had been stocked full of indisputable forensic evidence that tied Durage to the crimes and the case had been eagerly slammed shut.

She had put her gift away that very night and had never opened herself up fully again. It was a road that could only ever lead to further disaster, she had decided, and had she not done her part? She had helped to bring down a killer and save his final victim, but the cost had been too great to live with.

She still lived in her family's cottage in Windhaven. It was a small coastal village on the far eastern coast of the UK. The Crucifier murders had occurred in Faircliff, some 70 miles away. She could have moved after that night, but the one problem with living in the UK was that everywhere was relatively close to everywhere else and she didn't think that anywhere on the planet would be far enough away.

She was an attractive woman, now in her late thirties, but with more lines and wrinkles than a woman of her age should have to suffer. Her hair, which was once such a dark shade of brown that it bordered on black, was now streaked with shards of silver that she refused to dye. She kept it long and it fell in thick waves with a natural curl. Her eyes were a deep emerald green that sparkled into life back in the day. Her figure was still pert enough to attract regular stares of appreciation but her libido had been shut away along with her gift, as though the two were somehow linked.

The Parkes women had handed the gift down through the generations, with it occasionally skipping a daughter; Jane had not been so lucky. The idea of being psychic was fine in the abstract, but in reality it was far from a workable concept. In the beginning, images would fly at her from all angles at all times of the day and night. Blurred lines between reality and what she called the Shadow World became increasingly difficult to separate. She had walked into the middle of the road on more than one occasion chasing after a vision and had once been very embarra.s.singly arrested following her stroll out of a supermarket for not paying while following a small girl who wasn't there.

It had been her mother who had called it a gift but Jane had never quite found the words to sum up her own thoughts. There were times when she felt a great burden to save the world, and others where she felt like nothing more than a television playing out the dearly departed's greatest hits.

Her family had been largely dominated by women. Her father had left when she had just been a young woman in her early teens. But her childhood years had been full of happy memories of her father, and blissfully she remembered little of his leaving. It was as though there was a mental barrier that kept the grief at bay and only provided her with positive thoughts.

She had originally started out on a path to study the law. The rigours and certainty of the legal profession had greatly appealed after a childhood full of her mother's incense sticks, hippy clothing, and lax lifestyle. Her school days had been full of taunts about her mother being a witch. Their home had been a revolving carousel of strange and unusual folks with odd ways and rituals. Jane had been only aware that her mother was slightly eccentric and had never taken her talks about the gift as being serious, but all that had changed when she'd had a long and fruitful talk with her grandmother. It wasn't so much the talk, it was more the fact that it had turned out that her grandmother had actually died on the other side of the country before she'd sat down beside Jane on the garden swing. She'd known then that this was all real. She had always known her own mind and trusted her own eyes. There had been no gap in logic for her to dismiss the vision; it had been clear, and it had been real.

After her acceptance of her ability, it soon became impossible to comprehend a career that would require every ounce of her concentration. Even her studies soon proved to be too much and she'd had to drop out. She worked a succession of menial jobs, ones that cared little if she didn't turn up for work and where she was simply fired in the post. There had been a great-great grandfather who had made some money in textiles back down the line and her family had been frugal with the inheritance. Jane herself had the family cottage handed down after her mother's pa.s.sing and she had little in the way of material interests. The interest on her nest egg paid for her meagre existence and she took jobs more for the company than the wages.

There was never any warning to a vision and they varied greatly in strength and duration. It was a difficult experience to explain to anyone outside of her family and those similarly affected, not least because she didn't want a one way ticket to the funny farm. She thought of the visions like a slas.h.i.+ng scythe that cut through her mind with pendulum swings of reflected bright sunlight. Time slowed as the swinging blade grew blurry and the world turned into sepia tones around her. Sometimes she would see a person standing before her; their faces were usually contorted into either masks of confusion or worse, screaming rage. It was the latter that had pa.s.sed by after being ripped from life at the hands of another; it was these faces that she dreaded. Usually she had the choice as to whether or not to engage, but sometimes, when the dead were insistent, she had no option but to follow.

The Shadow World was cold and dark, and time flowed slowly and in reverse as she would watch on helplessly as a poor soul was brutally butchered before her eyes. All she could do was to steel her stomach and watch carefully for any identifying characteristics of the killer. The problem then was just who to tell. She had learned quickly that, despite her obviously sincere appearance, her offers of help were constantly refused, sometimes politely and sometimes forcibly. It had been an immensely frustrating time as sometimes she had valuable tips to give the police but they wouldn't listen. She had made several anonymous tips, but soon she'd found that the public phones she'd used in order to avoid using her own line had started to be watched as her insights had led to several arrests.

Eventually she had met Detective Inspector Karl Meyers. He'd shown up at her door one late autumn afternoon as the sun was dying and the red leaves in her garden were fading and falling. He'd been a big man but somehow stooped as though carrying a heavy invisible weight on his broad shoulders. He'd explained to her that despite her best efforts there was a reputation floating around about her uncanny ability to find things that were lost. Her first instinct had been to flat out refuse his request for help tracing a little girl who had been missing for the past month or so. But he had been so sad and so beaten down by the fruitless search that eventually she had relented.

Josie Dawn Jacobs had been attending her own 4th birthday party when, amidst the cake and balloons, she had disappeared out of her back garden. The story resonated with the media because she was as cute as a b.u.t.ton with missing teeth in her wide smile and the country was soon gripped by her plight.

Jane had let Karl take her to the Jacobs' home and had made him swear that he would never reveal her involvement. She was convinced that the world was not ready for a real psychic given their treatment of the charlatans.

She'd stood in the back garden, half hoping that she would be able to help and half hoping that she wouldn't. She had stood that way for almost an hour before little Josie had suddenly rushed out of the darkness and gripped her arms fiercely. It had been the first time that anything from the Shadow World had physically touched her and it had been a truly frightening experience to realise that these weren't just pictures in a book. Slowly, Josie's face had retreated back into the shadows and lost its twisted fury. The scythe had started its pendulum swing, cutting through reality and leading her backwards through the last moments of Josie's life.

When she'd been shaken back to reality by Karl's worried rough hands, she'd felt her cheeks sticky with dried tears. Little Josie had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from the party by one of the guests who'd wandered into the back garden and mingled with the other parents. The man had lived a couple of houses down and was well known and well liked by his neighbours; he'd even organised the first search for Josie, all the while knowing that she lay dead in his bas.e.m.e.nt. Jane had witnessed the poor little thing's debas.e.m.e.nt before being she had been wrapped in polythene sheets and hidden behind a wall in the man's cellar which had been built for just that purpose.

Karl had watched her carefully as she'd told him what she'd seen and eventually he'd taken her home, remaining pa.s.sively thoughtful on the ride. He'd returned to her cottage two days later and told her that they had found Josie just where she'd said. At first, she had been afraid that Karl's mind would be full of suspicion, but even his checks on her alibi seemed half-hearted, as though he was just going through the motions. From then on, he would come to her whenever he was stuck. Sometimes she helped, but more often than not there was nothing for her to see.

The Crucifier case had been their final collaboration and had ended with such tragedy that it had forced her into retirement on the spot. The arriving officers had viewed her with naked suspicion at first, but after her innocence had been a.s.sured by the girl that she had saved, their att.i.tudes had changed to open hostility. Apparently, Karl had kept a journal of their exploits and had trusted his partner with a few details.

Jane knew that it was her fault that Karl had died. She had become so caught up in the case that she had started to act like a detective and had tracked the killer down to his lair. She had been staking the place out when Karl had arrived to chastise her for her foolishness. They had argued in her car when the killer had arrived home, carrying a suspiciously large sack over his shoulder. There had been no time to wait for backup and they had rushed in. Karl had ordered her to stay outside but she knew that the little girl in the sack was not long for this world; it wasn't a psychic flash, it was just common sense.

The aftermath had allowed her to fade away into the background, as the police were desperate to avoid any public knowledge of her involvement for fear of ridicule or even a ruling of an unlawful search of the building, despite the girl being saved. Jane had been warned in no uncertain terms that any mention on her part would lead to dire consequences. It had never entered her mind to seek publicity for either her involvement or her ability, but Karl's partner Tom Holland had put the fear of G.o.d into her.

Tom Holland was a bear of a man, all belly and chest with thick powerful limbs and a well honed knack of using his physical size for intimidation purposes. Tom had thrown her into the back of his car on that night and driven her to a secluded spot where he a.s.sured her that no one would hear her scream; she'd believed him. If she'd ever had any inclination about getting back in touch with her gift, it only took one flash of Tom's red sweaty face, straining like a hungry Rottweiler at the leash for fresh meat, for her to step down hard on such thoughts.

It had been 8 years since she had set foot in the Crucifier's bas.e.m.e.nt of horror and she had no desire to open up that life again. There were flashes from time to time but she had developed a resistance to the intrusions. She had built a wall around her mind that was constructed from steel and concrete and had almost been impenetrable. She could feel her mother's disapproval from the other side, but she also knew that she had to live her life and she had saved enough people, given enough blood, and caused enough damage.

She walked across the bedroom floor and entered the bathroom. Soon, the small en-suite was filled with hot steam from the shower and fragrant raspberry body scrub.

Jane looked down at the half completed symbol that was still scarred onto her chest. The Crucifier had started to place his symbol on her chest with the tip of his blade before Karl had shot him. The gnarled crude symbol had faded over time but her body was flush with the shower and the scar always stood out larger when it was red. She had thought many times about having a little cosmetic surgery to hide the mark, but something had always stopped her, as though it would be like denying Karl's bravery to erase the mark.

She walked to the sink with a towel wrapped around her still enviable figure, hiked up a little higher to hide the mark. She opened the bathroom cabinet and withdrew a jar of moisturiser. As she closed the mirrored cabinet, she was suddenly dumbstruck by what she saw in the steam on the gla.s.s. The Crucifier's symbol had been drawn with a single finger through the clinging droplets. A pentagram with a crucifix in the middle was staring back at her and a hand flew to her mouth to stop herself from screaming aloud. There had been a few isolated occasions when something from the Shadow World had pierced her carefully constructed barricade, but never anything that had caught her unaware. She could normally feel their fingers scratching around the corners of her mind, rapping nails demanding attention and begging for help. But this time she hadn't felt anything trying to reach her; she could only see a symbol that had appeared out of nowhere. She knew that it had to have been her hand that had drawn on the mirror, even though she couldn't remember doing it; she just didn't know what it meant.

Her thoughts were interrupted as someone rang the front doorbell and she felt a stab of terror in her gut that, no matter how carefully she had hidden, some things just wouldn't be denied.

The young woman at the door looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. She was short and skinny, but not unattractive, with collar length blonde hair tucked behind her ears. She had delicate features with warm blue eyes and a friendly smile.

Jane had dressed quickly after wiping away the symbol drawn on her bathroom mirror. She wore jeans and a hooded top, adorned with a pet shop logo, and her thick hair was swept into a simple ponytail. As usual, her mother's silver brooch was in her pocket when it couldn't be worn.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely, as she held the door open a crack.

"I certainly hope so," the woman replied. "My name is Lana Genovese and I was led to understand that you are able to..., well..., to help people in my position," she said shyly.

Jane stared at the woman, wondering if this was the day that she was exposed. Perhaps she was a reporter, or an author, or maybe she worked for the police. "Well, I work part-time at a pet store, Miss Genovese; were you perhaps looking for an animal of some sort?"

The woman looked down at her shoes, blus.h.i.+ng furiously, and Jane relaxed a little. She wasn't giving off any sort of dangerous vibe and seemed pleasant enough, but she was still an uninvited visitor.

"Please, Miss Parkes, I just need a moment of your time. I'm sorry for just turning up out of the blue but I had to see you. You might be my only hope," she pleaded.

"Obi-Wan," Jane joked back, but only to a look of total confusion. Lana's face was desperately unhappy and, in spite of her better judgement, she felt a stab of pity for the young woman. She had a puppy dog look that Jane often saw in the store where she worked - small furry faces pressed up against gla.s.s, desperate for love. "I can give you five minutes," she eventually relented, and opened the door fully for Lana to enter.

Ever since her experience in Arthur Durage's bas.e.m.e.nt she had worked hard at changing herself from the frightened frozen rabbit that had almost died. She worked out rigorously and had spent the last 8 years studying various self-defence techniques at regular cla.s.ses. She knew that she could physically handle herself against most opponents and this woman was several inches shorter than her and some way lighter. She still wore a small combat knife in an ankle holster and had done so ever since her retirement, determined to never be caught unarmed again.

"You have a lovely place here, Miss Parkes," Lana said, looking around appreciatively.

"If you don't mind, Miss Genovese, perhaps you'd get to the point," she said bluntly.

"Certainly. I need your help."

"What sort of help?"

"The special kind," Lana said quietly, not meeting her gaze.

She stared at her for a few moments, weighing her up. "I don't know what you've been told or what you've heard, Miss Genovese, but I can a.s.sure you that you've been misinformed."

"I don't think so," Lana said in an even quieter voice.

"What exactly is it that you think I can do for you?"

"I need answers, Miss Parkes. Answers."

Jane suddenly started to get an odd feeling about the woman before her. She still didn't offer any sort of physical threat, but she radiated a cold aura that chilled her. "Are you a reporter? Or are you with the police perhaps?"

"I just need your help," she pleaded, her voice rising in pitch and volume.

"I don't do that anymore," Jane found herself saying.

"HELP ME!" Lana suddenly shrieked and Jane backed away as she started to realise what was in front of her. "WHY WON'T YOU HELP ME? IT'S COLD HERE! SO COLD!"

Jane stood and staggered backwards as the pleasant young woman in front of her started to decompose before her eyes. The flesh sagged and crumbled from Lana's bones as b.l.o.o.d.y wounds shredded her body, tearing the clothes and exposing her pale skin. The young woman screamed as her eyes bulged in their sockets and her head shook violently from side to side, becoming a blur of motion. Lana's hands reached for her and, in spite of her now grotesque appearance, she reached for her as Lana became wracked with torturous pain and torment. And then Jane was clasping at thin air. Lana Genovese was no longer there and had never been. Jane slumped into an armchair, unable to comprehend just how someone from the Shadow World had rung her doorbell and walked into her home, and also why the young woman had seemed oddly familiar.

"Best 4 Pets" was a small family-owned pet shop as the name suggested. Jane had been working there part-time for the past 5 months or so. It was an easy job that required little in the way of concentration and took up only a few hours of her time. She had come to discover that, as much as she might appreciate the company of an animal at home, her now only occasional psychic bursts were still too much for a dog to take. It was as though the animal world could sense that she was different and that a whole other realm was dangerously close by. The next best thing had been to work in a pet shop, giving her access to the store's inventory without freaking them out.

She turned up for her s.h.i.+ft on time as always, but the sense of disquiet had not left her as she pulled into the staff car park. There had been precious few incidents over the past 8 years and even on the rare occasion that one broke through her defences, she had always been able to stay in control and shut it down quickly. The young woman that had appeared at her door had not seemed anything other than an ordinary visitor and Jane was deeply concerned at the fact that someone from the Shadow World had stepped effortlessly into her home. It was a unique occurrence and it was at times like this that she wished there was some kind of helpline for those few genuine mediums like her.

"Hey, Jane," a voice greeted her as she stepped through the automatic doors.

She turned and saw Marty Kline, a young man in his twenties who had developed a crush on her in recent weeks. "Hi Marty; I thought that you were on this morning?"

"I switched s.h.i.+fts," he grinned, with a touch of red blus.h.i.+ng his cheeks.