"Put it down," I heard someone shout.
I looked over my other shoulder to see Grayson step out of the shadows. He had a shotgun pressed against his shoulder, the barrel aimed at my father. Jess bounded and leapt about his legs.
"I'm not going to tell you again!" Grayson boomed in that deep voice of his. "Drop that baton or I'll happily blow your brains out."
"You're not going to kill a cop," my father grinned at him.
"If you don't shut your fucking face and drop that baton you'll find out soon enough if I'm prepared to shoot a cop or not," Grayson threatened.
My father stared back at Grayson, a look of not-knowing on his face. I had never seen such a look on my father's face before. He had always been so confident. He looked stripped of that arrogance now. Slowly, my father lowered the baton.
"I ain't gonna tell ya again," Grayson roared. "Drop the baton."
Like a sullen child, my father flung the baton into the nearby trees.
Grayson then edged his way over to the well, where I clung to his son. Not once did he stop pointing the shotgun at my father. Jess stood barking and snarling in the rain. "Take the gun," Grayson snapped at me. "And keep it trained on your father. You can do that, can't you?" He looked me straight in the eye.
"With pleasure," I said, taking the gun from him and training it on my father.
Grayson leant into the well, as Michael gripped the ledge with the last of the strength in his fingertips. With one mighty heave, Grayson dragged his son from the well. Michael wailed in pain again, as Grayson laid him on the ground. Once Michael was safe, Grayson took the gun from me and trained it back on my father.
Staring at me through the rain, Grayson snapped, "Well, you're the police officer around here, ain't ya? Do something, girl."
Silently, I walked over towards my father. Our eyes met. "I always wanted you to be proud of me, dad," I whispered. "I really did want to be a good cop, just to make you proud. But I don't want you to be proud of me anymore. That's not what's important. I want to be proud of myself for once, and I can only do that if I do the right thing. Vincent told me that."
Slipping the handcuffs from my father's utility belt, I placed them securely on his wrists. I looked into his eyes and said, "I'm arresting you for the murder of Vincent Lee, the deaths of Jonathan Smith and his family, and for perverting the course of justice. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you don't mention when questioned something you later rely on in court." Then, fixing him with an icy stare, I added, "Do you understand?"
My father made no reply.
While Grayson called an ambulance for Michael, I led my father silently down the hill to the patrol car he had driven to the farm. I placed him in the back and closed the door. I drove through the night to Police Headquarters. I feared taking my father back to Cliff View Police Station, as I knew Woody and Mac would be there, and I no longer knew who I could trust. My father sat in silence, his eyes locked on me via the rear-view mirror. The only sound during that uncomfortable drive was that of the windscreen wipers fighting against the falling rain.
At Headquarters, I escorted my father inside. I explained the facts to the Chief Inspector while my father looked on sullenly. His detention was authorised and the case was handed over to the Police Professional Standards department to investigate. In the pale light of dawn, I made my way home where I slept peacefully. Neither Jonathan nor Molly Smith paid my dreams a visit. They had gone.
The following day, I returned to Cliff View Police Station to discover that Mac and Woody had both been arrested. I went to the filing room. Placed on top of a cabinet was a stiff brown envelope. Across the front someone had scribbled: For the attention of Police Constable Sydney Hart. I recognised the writing at once. It was the same as that written on the note which floated in the bottle at the bottom of the well. I opened the envelope to find all of the missing paperwork which would help to prove my father's guilt. I placed this in the internal post, redirecting it to the Professional Standards Department at Force Headquarters. Before leaving the station, I went to my father's office. I knew what I was looking for. Fixed to the wall behind his desk, was a framed black-and-white photograph of him and the other officers he studied at police training school with. I searched the rows of young, expectant faces of those officers just about to start out on their new police careers. Tucked away in the back row, and looking as if he were peering over the shoulder of the officer in front of him, was Vincent. I took the picture from the wall, and placing it in my bag, I left the station.
I walked through the overcast morning towards the cemetery. I wanted to see Vincent's grave. I had to. I had to know it was real and that Vincent truly did die in the bottom of that well. I know my father thought I was mad, and so would everyone else if I ever told them about the short time Vincent and I had spent together. But I knew it was real, I knew Vincent had come to me, because the pain I felt in my heart was agony.
With the wind blowing about me, I stood and watched a wave of fallen leaves dance over Vincent's grave. When they had cleared, I read the writing that had been chiselled into his grey headstone.
Vincent Lee
Son, Friend and Police Officer
Who sadly fell on duty trying to save the life of another
1983-2003
In Loving Memory
Wrapping my arms about me, I stood and let the wind cool the tears which ran down my face.
"Oh, stop crying, Sydney Hart, and have a Jammie Dodger," I heard someone say in my ear. With my eyes closed, I stood and pretended that Vincent was with me again. I didn't want to open my eyes, as I knew that as soon as I did, the spell would break and Vincent would fade away. I wanted to stand in that spot all day with my eyes closed, imagining he was with me again.
"No, seriously, have a Jammie Dodger," I heard him say again, followed by the sound of a biscuit wrapper crinkling before me.
With my heart racing in my chest, I slowly opened my eyes. I could see that red coloured biscuit wrapper and a hand. I looked right to see Vincent standing beside me, offering me one of his Jammie Dodgers.
"Are you for freaking real?" I snapped.
"You tell me," he smiled.
"What I mean is, you show up in my life, do all this weird X-Files shit on me by leaving messages in bottles, and then get me to fall in love with you, only for me to find out that you're dead already," I breathed in disbelief at his casual attitude. "That is your grave right there, isn't it?"
"Yeah, that's the one," he said, squinting down at the writing. "It looks quite nice. Expensive one, by the looks of it. I didn't think they cared."
"Who didn't?" I said, shaking my head in bewilderment.
"Your father and the others," he said thoughtfully. "They all had a collection. That's what paid for it."
"I don't know how you can stand there and be..."
"Be what?" he asked, glancing sideways at me.
"So happy about it all," I gasped. "You're dead."
"But I am happy," he shrugged just like he always did.
"How can you be?" I asked him, fighting the urge to just throw my arms around him.
"Because I got to meet you, Sydney Hart," he smiled. "I've watched you for years as you've grown up. I've watched from afar as your father bullied and belittled you, and I saw the mistakes you made because of that. As you got older, I just couldn't help but fall in love with you."
"So you've been...what...watching me all these years?" I asked.
"Not you as such," he said sadly. "Your father. I just couldn't pass over, not properly, until I knew justice had been done for what he did to me and Molly Smith. I'm fussy about things like that. Then there was that car crash, which your father was so happy for you to take the blame for. I watched you that night, consumed with grief and guilt for something you hadn't done. And that hurt to see, Sydney. So, I decided it was time...time to get justice."
"So you came into my life," I said, looking at him. "You left all those little pointers to lead me to the truth. Why didn't you just tell me? Wouldn't it have been easier?"
"Would you have believed me?" Vincent asked. "A complete stranger appears and tells you that your father was responsible for a murder ten years ago, that he was responsible for the deaths of the Smith family and not you. No, you wouldn't have believed me. You would have only believed it if you discovered the truth for yourself."
There was a pause, as my mind tried to rationalise everything I had discovered, not only about my father, but Vincent, too. After some time, I looked at Vincent and said, "So what happens now?"
"Your father goes to prison," he smiled.
"I didn't mean that," I said. "What happens to us? You are dead, Vincent. I guess that is my curse. Perhaps Jonathan Smith did curse me after all."
"A curse?" Vincent frowned.
"For the first time in my life, I've met a man, a good man who I've fallen in love with, and he's dead already," I said bitterly. Turning to face him, I brushed the tips of my fingers over that scar hidden just beneath his hairline. "I'm the only one who can see you, touch you, and hold you, Vincent."
"I don't need anyone else to see me or hold me," Vincent whispered. "All I want is you."
"But haven't you got to go..." I said, fumbling for the right words and looking back at the grave.
"Not just yet...not for a while at least," Vincent said.
"So what do we do now?" I asked him, wondering what the future could possibly hold for us.
"Take your clothes off for starters," he said back.
"Sorry?" I half-smiled.
"Oh, God...no...what I meant to say was..." Vincent started to mumble, looking embarrassed. "What I meant to say was...is that...your clothes look soaked through with rain...you'll catch...a cold..."
"Give me a break," I sighed. "We both know what you meant to say." I took his hand in mine as we strolled away from his grave. "It hasn't even been raining today," I added, looking up at the sky.
And although I was holding the hand of a ghost, Vincent's touch felt more real than anything I had ever felt before.
The End
