Is card reading just a harmless parlour game? Part 3 Footsteps

When we left my mother’s flat, we kissed her, Goodnight, and I put down her sudden quietness to tiredness, as she had been busy cooking, entertaining and being her usual charming self.

We started to walk back towards West Perth and the house in Churchill Avenue which was in Subiaco; first along Adelaide Terrace and then Saint Georges Terrace, but instead of continuing to its end, we turned left down Barrack Street, with Supreme Court Gardens on the left.

It was a lovely evening and still warm. I could smell the frangipani in the gardens of Government House as we passed. So in that lovely mood, a casual walk along The Esplanade would have added to the gentleness of our mood. However, just as we passed the huge tree on the corner and were turning right, Jenny, who had become pensive and quiet as we walked, stopped and said:

“I think someone’s following us”.

I had been talking about this and that, but now stopped walking and talking, and listened.

Silence.

She took my arm. “I must have been wrong”.

But then, as we continued to walk, I heard it also. It really did sound as if someone was following. Jenny was wearing flat soled soft shoes, and I, as was quite usual with me, was carrying my shoes and walking barefoot. So we were making hardly any noise at all ourselves, but there certainly was the sound of footsteps following.

But the minute we stopped to hear where the footsteps were coming from, their sound ceased. But it definitely sounded as if our follower was behind us.

We started walking again, and once more the sound of the footsteps pursued us, but now they were becoming distinct; so distinct that we realised that it was a woman’s footsteps pursuing us. A woman in high heels. We could hear the slight scrape of high heels on the pavement.

The same thought struck us almost at the same time. Terri. It sounded just like Terri’s high heeled shoes on a hard surface.

“Who’s that?” I called, stopping and turning to peer into the semidarkness behind us.

Jenny called out in a tentative voice, “Terri?”

But of course, as soon as we stopped, the sound ceased also. There was no reply.

When we got to William Street we turned right and, upon reaching Hay Street, continued the longish walk home. There were people around and some activity, so the sound of the footsteps no longer came to us, but still there was the feeling that we were being followed. Several times we would stop, turn, and look around, expecting to see someone behind us; even half expecting to see Terri, playing games. But Terri, Jake, Saleema and Christian were in the country; most probably at Jake’s parents’ home or out having a more exciting time than we were experiencing, walking up Hay Street towards Subiaco.

When we reached Emerald Terrace, there was a sound of a car’s horn behind us and we saw a friend, who offered us a lift back to Churchill Avenue, so with being spared the rest of the walk, and bringing him in for a coffee, the mystery of the following lady somewhat left our minds.

Coffee and chat finished, our driving friend left and we took to our beds. It was now very early on Sunday morning, and it looked as if another quiet Easter Sunday in Perth, West Australia lay before us.

I only seemed to have been asleep for a few minutes when I was woken by someone banging on the window of my bedroom. Banging so hard I thought the glass would break.

The whole house seemed to be full of noise. Someone was hammering on the front door and ringing the doorbell at the same time. There was a sound of shouting and a woman crying and screaming.

By the time I was out of my room, Jenny was standing inside the front door in a black negligee and a tall, oldish man was talking to her animatedly and asking questions in a very serious manner. The person who had been banging on my window, a middle aged woman I didn’t recognise, now appeared at the front door and, pushing past Jenny and the strange man, ran into the house, screaming:

“Where’s my Jake? Where’s my Jake?” She was obviously hysterical, and looked really frightening. I was wearing just a pair of swimming shorts, yet she burst into my room, completely oblivious of me standing there, and continued her crying and calling, “Where’s my Jake? My baby. My baby”.

Jenny came and put her hand into mine. She was shaking noticeably. She held my hand so strongly that it hurt.

Then, as suddenly as it had all started, everything took on a new perspective.

Two policemen appeared at the door, and behind them I could see Saleema, standing just inside the gate. Her face looked like chalk; her eyes as large and as dark as a frightened night animal. Christian was sitting in the passenger seat of the Saleema’s car. The door was open and he was being violently sick on the pavement.

One of the policemen had his arm around the hysterical woman and was speaking to her quietly. The other policeman was explaining something to the older man, who was just repeating the phrase: “It’s all right. Jake’s all right. Royal Perth. Jake’s all right. Royal Perth”.

It occurred to us that the older man and the hysterical woman were Jake’s parents. Within minutes everyone left, but they left Jenny and me with the most horrifying news.

While driving home from a party somewhere near the country town where Jake’s family lived, Jake and Terri in the Sprite, and Saleema and Christian in Saleema’s car, they had been travelling along a road well known for being a “fast” road.

The driver of the Sprite, however, had misjudged a corner, and the car had flipped over, throwing Jake completely out onto the sandy ground beside the road. Terri, however, had remained in the open topped sports car and as the little Sprite continued, upside down, along the hard surface of the road, it sheared off anything above the inverted body of the car. Terri had been killed instantly, and hideously.

Jake had been taken to the Royal Perth Hospital having suffered a broken collar bone and some minor injuries.

This dreadful accident had happened late on that Saturday evening.

I know what Jenny and I thought, when we could face thinking about it.

Had my mother seen something in the cards? Was it just a harmless parlour game? And did Terri follow us home, or who or what was that person who dogged our footsteps?

Looking back, I now realise that my mother was distressed by what she saw in those cards, and hadn’t simply been tired after a Saturday evening of entertaining.

I also know that sometimes, just sometimes, when walking in the street in Perth, West Australia, I thought I would see Terri in the crowd, but when I looked again, she would have disappeared… just like the sound of those high heels following Jenny and me home on that late Saturday night, so many years ago.

This story, or narration of events, (Call it what you will) is in three parts.

Part 1:Is card reading just a harmless parlour game? - Terri

Part 2:Is card reading just a harmless parlour game? - Easter Weekend

Part 3:Is card reading just a harmless parlour game? – Footsteps