Charley by Tim O'Rourke

my mind. They were his doubts, not mine. I had to believe in myself.
    Bent against the nagging wind, I pushed on, following the winding roads that snaked across the countryside. As the last of the stars winked out in the early morning sky, I stopped in the quiet country road to get my bearings. It was then I saw it. In the distance and on the crest of a small hill was a chimney pot sticking up from behind some trees. Could that be the rundown building I had seen in my flashes?
    I couldn’t be sure without taking a closer look. It could have been any old farmhouse or outhouse, but my knees felt as if they had turned to rubber. I lurched forward, the ends of my long auburn hair whipping about in the cold wind. If it was the building I had seen, then my flashes were real and so were Kerry and her murderer.
    Taking a deep lungful of freezing air, I headed along the road. I hadn’t gone very far when I came across a dirt road leading off towards the hill. I heard the sound of thunder and glanced up atthe sky. It was dank and overcast, but there were no signs of a storm. I realised it wasn’t thunder but the distant roar of a train. I closed my eyes, the sound of my heart now beating in my ears.
    Had I found the dirt road where the man in my flashes had left his car? Was I standing near to where the girl named Kerry had been dragged, kicking and screaming through the undergrowth? Fighting the urge to drop to my knees, I swayed from left to right as if being blown by the wind. I was about to topple face first into the puddle-ridden track when I felt a hand grip my elbow and steady me.
    ‘Are you all right?’ I heard someone ask.
    With a gasp, I opened my eyes. A guy dressed in a dark suit and tie had appeared from nowhere and was now holding me firmly by the arm.
    ‘Are you okay?’ he asked again, his light blue eyes fixed on mine.
    ‘Sure,’ I said, pulling my arm away. I took a step backwards, nearly losing my footing in the mud.
    The young guy shot his hand out and took hold of my arm again. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘What are you doing out here so early?’
    ‘Who are you?’ I asked, ignoring his question. How could I answer it without lying?
    ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said.
    His eyes were the colour of the sky on a bright summer’s afternoon. His hair was black, and the lower half of his tired face had grown dark where whiskers had started to show through. He looked like he had been awake all night.
    Suspecting I was in the very same place I believed a girl called Kerry had been murdered, and not knowing who this man was, I pulled my arm free from his grip again. The guy was way past just good-looking, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a killer.
    ‘How do I know you’re a cop?’ I asked, taking another step backwards in the mud.
    With his eyes still searching mine, he fished what looked like a silver badge from his trouser pocket and showed it to me. There was a picture of him fixed next to the badge in the little black leather wallet. ‘I’m Police Constable Tom Henson,’ he said.
    ‘Am I in some kind of trouble?’ I asked him.
    ‘Not unless you’ve got something to confess,’ he half-smiled, placing his badge back in his pocket.
    I couldn’t help but notice how his smile made his face kind of look mischievous, like he was trouble somehow. I liked that. Even so, I broke his stare and looked away.
    ‘So do you have something to confess?’ he asked softly.
    ‘No,’ I told him.
    ‘You never answered my question,’ he said.
    ‘And what question was that?’ I said, glancing sideways at him. ‘You’ve asked so many already.’
    ‘What are you doing all the way out here so early?’ Again, his eyes fixed on mine and even though his hair was skew-whiff and the stubble gave him the good looks of a rock star, I had to remind myself that he was a police officer.
    ‘Taking a walk,’ I said.
    He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘What, at just before seven a.m.?’
    ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I