Identity Crisis Read Online Free Page A

nothing to see. The night was pitch-black. She gave a shrug that was as much mental as physical, and turned back to her ingredients. Immediately her back was turned, the face reappeared. Watching: watching and waiting.
    She felt restless and decided to delay preparing her meal until after the programme she wanted to watch on television. She poured herself a glass of red wine, returned to the lounge and settled down to watch her favourite soap. The familiar theme tune was just ending when the phone rang. She muttered something impolite and got up to answer it. She was halfway across the room when the ringing stopped. Whoever had been calling had changed their mind. Either that or it was a wrong number.
    The wind was picking up, getting ever stronger. Now it was collecting small bits of debris, hurling them against the cottage walls, the doors, the windows. That must account for the new sounds she could hear. Mustn’t it? Or was it something else? Something more sinister.
    Stop it, she told herself severely. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. Then she heard it again, a squeaking sound. It came from the back of the house. It could be the sound of ivy against the kitchen window or a hinge creaking. That was it, surely. It couldn’t be anything else. Could it? She ought to go and check, but dare not. Fear was beginning to take over: irrational, but undeniable. It held her in the chair, unwilling to move.
    All her senses were at fever pitch. Her ears strained for any sound that might not be connected to the storm. Was it herimagination, or did it seem a little colder in the room? Had a door been opened letting in the cooler air? There! What was that? A footstep? Something moving outside? Or inside? She became aware she was gripping the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the lounge door as fear escalated. She glanced down; saw the knuckles white with stress. This is ridiculous, she told herself.
    She looked back at the door. Fear turned to terror. The handle was moving. The door opened. As she saw the figure standing in the doorway, her terror multiplied. She screamed. ‘Who are you?’ she screamed and screamed again.

    Nash glanced across at his companion. The boy was small, fair, almost angelically so, with blue eyes. Anyone seeing them together couldn’t doubt their relationship. Many had commented on the fact but Nash himself couldn’t see it. To him, Daniel was so much like his mother, although time was beginning to blur Monique’s memory. When he’d mentioned this to Mironova, he’d been taken aback by her laughter. ‘Nonsense, Mike,’ she’d told him briskly. ‘Daniel is like a miniature version of you. Hair, eyes, shape of face, that’s only part of it. He’s even picking up your mannerisms.’
    ‘Such as?’ Nash was intrigued. Like everyone else, he wasn’t aware he had any.
    ‘Staring off into the distance as if you’re not listening, when in fact you’re picking up every word, is one. Tilting your head slightly when you’re puzzling something out is another.’
    Nash recognized that one. Not from himself, but from his son.
    He looked at the clock. ‘Time to go, Daniel,’ he told him gently.
    The boy looked up from the book he’d been pretending to read. The antics of the mouse and the Gruffalo were fun, but not at the moment. ‘Must we, Papa?’
    ‘You know we must,’ Nash’s voice was quietly firm. ‘I promised tante Mirabelle you could spend this holiday with her. Remember? She’s not well, and she’s old. You wouldn’t want to deny her the chance of seeing you, would you?’
    France, the place of his birth and his home for all his life until his Mama had died, suddenly seemed a long way away, alienalmost. ‘No, Papa, but I don’t want … I mean … it’s a long time.’
    ‘A fortnight will soon pass when you get there. Don’t forget, I’ll be taking you there and coming to bring you home again.’
    Daniel got to his feet and looked round the room. His new home,