Free The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2) by Mark Tilbury Page B

did, or just believed they did. The two things seemed intrinsically linked, like the subconscious mind and the conscious mind.   
    Maddie had tried on many occasions to go into the light. Talk to her mother. She’d even bought a book on meditation. Studied the various techniques illustrated to calm the mind, such as controlled breathing and visualisation. But it was hard to empty your mind when it was so full of questions.
    A woman at the church, Josie, a kindly soul in her seventies, had advised Maddie to imagine walking down a series of steps into a beautiful garden. The Garden of Healing. Beautiful flowers and tall oak trees filled the garden, with a clear blue stream running through the middle of it. Josie had called it ‘God’s Stream’. To cleanse and purify the soul. Josie had also told her that the spirits would come and bathe with you in the stream. But you had to be patient. Allow things to happen rather than try to force them. Maddie had managed to follow Josie’s instructions, but as yet, her mother had failed to materialise. Still, it was early days, and the experience had proved both pleasant and uplifting.
    Maddie’s need for spiritual fulfilment wasn’t rooted in enlightenment. She just wanted to talk to her mother. Ask her why she’d stayed behind in that Rwandan village. Why she hadn’t just run for the hills. Her father had told her that it was an act of selflessness. It had allowed some of the others time to escape. Acted as a distraction. But why did she have to be such a martyr? Did God pin a medal to your chest for being a hero? And if so, what use was a medal when your only child cried herself to sleep at night because Chris Smith had called her a lard-arse in the playground?
    A light knock on the door. ‘Madeline?’
    Her father. She hadn’t yet told him of the plan to get close to Crowley. She didn’t know how he’d react after events at Penghilly’s Farm. ‘Come in.’
    Pastor Tom walked into the bedroom and removed his trilby hat. ‘Will you be joining us for lunch?’
    ‘I’m not very hungry. I’ll grab a sandwich later.’
    ‘Rhonda’s made apple crumble for afters.’
    ‘Sounds lovely. Maybe later.’
    ‘Will you be joining us for the service tonight?’
    ‘I can’t. I’m busy.’
    ‘On a Sunday? I hope they’re paying you well.’
    ‘The job’s seven days a week, dad. Like yours.’
    Tom sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It only seems like five minutes ago I used to sit here making up stories until you fell asleep.’
    ‘Bad stories, if I remember.’
    Tom laughed. ‘I have no imagination. I’m more of a facts man.’
    ‘I liked your stories. Especially the one about the little girl who shrank the nasty teacher so as she was smaller than the kids.’
    ‘I’m surprised you remember that .’
    Maddie picked up her mother’s wedding ring. ‘I’ve got a good memory. I can remember right back to when we moved into this house.’
    ‘Really?’
    Maddie nodded.
    ‘But you were only four.’
    ‘I remember the carpet in the front room with the swirly pattern. And how you hung a blanket up at my bedroom window in the summer because we didn’t have any curtains.’
    ‘Wow, that’s some memory.’
    Maddie also remembered her father talking to God a lot. Once or twice she’d heard him sobbing. ‘It must have been hard coming back to England on your own and starting again.’
    ‘It’s what God had in mind for me.’
    ‘You could have stayed in Rwanda. Carried on with the school.’
    ‘God told me to go home. Told me that my work was done in Rwanda.’
    ‘Did He really speak to you?’
    Tom nodded.
    ‘Did you actually see Him?’
    ‘Of sorts. But not in a vision, as you allude. He spoke in my heart. Set my course, so to speak. We are all but drivers, Madeline. God owns the road.’
    ‘Is that from the Bible?’
    Tom smiled. ‘I made it up.’
    ‘Who says you don’t have an imagination?’
    Tom’s smile faded. ‘So what’s so important that you can’t