\u201cI killed a woman once, many years ago.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n
Oliver struggled with himself, rehashing scenes over and over. Did he really want to have sex with that woman? She wasn’t particularly attractive though her body, what he could discern beneath her clothing, seemed curvaceous in all the right places. He eyed her breasts, which jutted like twin hills. He desired to knead them, tweak the firm nipples between his fingers, and bring her to such an orgasm that she’d desire him forever.<\/p>\n
Her face,\u00a0framed by coal-black hair, looked haggard and hard, as rugged as craggy cliffs, yet blue eyes twinkled like dark stars peeping from behind storm clouds. He pictured raindrops, tears actually, to accompany the tempest, sliding down her cheeks. A man must have hurt her a long time ago for her to be in that state.
\nOf course, all that was a product of his imagination.\u00a0The stranger wasn’t crying\u00a0nor were her eyes shining like sinister stars, but her face was truly hard, harder than nails. Those nails would never bend; the steel was too thick.<\/p>\n
Oliver rubbed his eyes trying to rid himself of imaginary images. Darkness was falling.\u00a0If he didn’t soon make a move, she’d disappear and he might never find her.<\/p>\n
He glanced down the busy street. The throngs reminded him of people rushing to gain entry to Disneyland. Since California was too far away, was there a circus in town he wasn’t aware of?<\/p>\n
Growing up, Oliver had loved circuses. The magical mystique of performers and exotic animals had never failed to fascinate him. He should have been a performer himself rather than an accountant. What a boring, mundane existence working with figures all day. He much preferred figures of another sort, those with eager, pliable flesh.<\/p>\n
Oh, so much better to see you with, Grandma.<\/i>\u00a0 He seemed destined to rehash fairy tales. Little red riding hood and the three bears came to mind, along with Humpty Dumpy on the great wall. Bang, boom, splat. One less egghead.<\/p>\n
One less grandmother, too, if the wicked witch had her way. He slapped the side of his head. Get out, wicked witch. That should have been wicked fox, the sly fox that enjoyed eating human flesh,\u00a0especially that of the elderly. Who’d miss the old people, or care? Not when they were aged and close to death anyway.<\/p>\n
He shook his head to rid himself of stupid thoughts and looked back to the building.<\/p>\n
The woman was still there. The individual beside her had left.<\/p>\n
He should make his move before some other horny bastard appeared. But did he want to? Who knew with certainty what lay disguised beneath that skirt and blouse. Other nursery rhymes and fairy tales flashed before him. He took a few steps closer to her, surprised to see how tall she was. From a distance, she hadn’t appeared taller than him.<\/p>\n
Just before Oliver glanced way, the woman turned. Her once-blue eyes morphed to piercing steel grey. They bore into his, and he felt powerless to avert his face. The pain hit him, entered his retinas, and strayed behind his eyes. A sensation like hot molten fluid swirled and pushed against the back of his eyeballs, almost as if the heavy liquid would fling out his eyes. He screeched before realizing he\u2019d opened his mouth, but the scream lessened the hurt. In fact, once his mouth clamped shut in embarrassment, the pain magically disappeared.<\/p>\n
She looked away then. Oliver withered a little. She gave the impression, due to his outburst, that he wasn’t worthy of being alive.<\/p>\n
#<\/p>\n
Oliver hadn\u2019t thought of the woman in the street for several days, not until he ran into her at Kempster\u2019s Restaurant, where she sat at a table in the centre of the room. She didn’t seem upset being alone, not like some women who cower in a corner with a magazine or hide behind a column. He watched while she sipped red wine and read. The book, dressed as if a poodle, wore one of those fake book covers,\u00a0so who knew what she was reading. A murder mystery? An X-rated novel? A book to tax her intelligence?<\/p>\n
He was alone, too, but males have an easier time without a companion. At least that was Oliver\u2019s perception,\u00a0as sexist as it sounded. The strange woman never saw him, but even if she had, she wouldn\u2019t remember their prior run-in.<\/p>\n
Oliver had just ordered his second drink when she snatched her handbag and exited. He hadn’t noticed she had paid the bill and chastised himself he hadn\u2019t been more on guard. He flung several bills on the table and hoped she wouldn\u2019t have disappeared before he got outside. He was in luck. She sauntered down the street toward Nottingham Road. Stealthily, he followed.<\/p>\n
She turned right on Robertson Street, left on Maple, and then left on Quarry Avenue. The streets became slummier the longer he tailed her. When she reached an older duplex,\u00a0she sauntered up the walkway. The three-storey building had seen better days\u00a0but would still be worth a fair amount of money in the current housing market. Oblivious to her tail, she rooted through her handbag for her keys and entered the building.<\/p>\n
Oliver watched for a bit, not really knowing why. Soon, the front room lit up and drapes were pulled across the window. Not seeing the point of further spying, he turned to go until a whistle made him pause. It wasn’t a whistle like one thrown to the opposite sex, more of a bird chirp. Despite that, it contained a sexual component.<\/p>\n
He scanned the area but, from what he could see, determined he was alone. In the darkness, someone or something could have been there, but if so, whatever it was blended into the blackness so as to be indiscernible.\u00a0When silence prevailed again, he moved. The commotion began and increased in intensity. Covering his ears was futile; the noise entered his eardrums until he thought they’d burst.<\/p>\n
Oliver raced as fast as he could but still felt shadowed. An object landed on his back. Sharp talons dug into his skin. He heard the rip of his shirt. The weight was heavy, but he managed to arch backward and fall to the ground. His back hit the pavement and whatever it was dislodged itself. He was free. Oliver dashed away for his life.
\n
\n#<\/p>\n
Days passed before Oliver saw the woman again.\u00a0He wished he knew her name. Calling her \u201cthe woman\u201d made her seem sleazy as if she were a cheating partner, and Oliver was certain she wasn’t. Deep in thought, like she pondered intricacies of life, she sat on a park bench in Linwood Park. She seemed unaware of people and events around her though nothing much was happening to catch anyone’s attention.<\/p>\n
Oliver debated. Should he or shouldn’t he? He stepped toward her, stopped, and then cautiously headed her way. The park bench was long\u00a0enough for four people,\u00a0six if the bodies scrunched together. He had every right to sit beside her, keeping a respectable distance, of course.\u00a0 He couldn’t let on he was interested. Men had to be sly with the opposite sex. They couldn’t appear eager; women scared easily.<\/p>\n
Nonchalantly,\u00a0Oliver sat and watched her out of the corner of his eye, but she seemed oblivious to his presence. Hardly daring to breathe, he remained still for several minutes. He was so close he could smell two scents\u2014a flowery perfume and another aroma that could only be her distinctive woman odour.<\/p>\n
He had to make a motion, something to catch her attention. He coughed, a little too loudly perhaps. A little too fake.\u00a0 She looked his way. Dark hair fell across her face, covering her left eye. He had never seen her that close.\u00a0Since she looked at him, he felt justified in scrutinizing her face. He smiled. She stared.<\/p>\n
\u201cPleasant afternoon,\u201d Oliver said.<\/p>\n
Nothing.<\/p>\n
How rude! Taken aback, Oliver wasn’t sure what to do. Should he look the other way and ignore her? But if he did that,\u00a0he\u2019d defeat the purpose of sitting by her. Should he continue making mundane conversation? Scenarios flashed before him in the space of seconds.\u00a0He chose the latter.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou come here often?\u201d<\/p>\n
Still no response.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’m Oliver.\u00a0You are?\u201d<\/p>\n
She peered at him. He noticed her striking eyes, a darker blue than he had remembered, almost navy. Her thick eyelashes flickered. Was she going to speak? But no, she sighed and looked the opposite way. The sheen of her hair cascading down her back faced him. He longed to reach out to fondle it, to capture several wayward hairs that didn’t mesh with the others, strands so thick he could count each one. He raised his arm, stretched out his hand, and then just as quickly dropped it to his lap. Mustn’t touch.<\/p>\n
\u201cWant to go for a coffee?\u201d His words blurted out, surprising even himself.<\/p>\n
She moved, just a little, enough that he knew she was aware he had spoken. Oliver waited, hardly daring to believe she might say yes.The woman stood.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome with me,\u201d she said. She motioned for him to follow.<\/p>\n
He had never heard her voice and was surprised at the rasping thick timbre. He had expected a mellow tone, one matching her delicate body. Yet when he examined her again, he wondered if she were delicate at all. Looks could be deceiving,\u00a0especially hidden behind flowing garb. Her long skirt ended just at her ankles, but he couldn’t discern anything out of the ordinary. Women with thick legs turned him off, but he was positive hers tapered nicely from her knees to her ankles.<\/p>\n
Not believing his good fortune, he followed her across the gravelled path to Ryder Street, a quiet neighbourhood bordering the east side of the park. Neither said a word. For the first time in his life, Oliver was tongue-tied.\u00a0 Even had he a talkative sort, he wouldn’t have marred the silence with worthless chitter. He wished the woman had spoken more, though, and wished he knew where they were headed. He supposed she might be headed to a coffee shop the next street over.<\/p>\n
But she turned right instead of left.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are we going?\u201d Oliver had to speak, had to know. \u201cAnd you never told me your name yet, either.\u201d
\n\u201cCarmella,\u201d she said. \u201cMy name\u2019s Carmella.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPretty name.\u201d Oliver had never known anyone by that name. He rather liked how it sounded, how the name rolled on his tongue like soft, gooey caramel between fingers on a hot summer\u2019s day.<\/p>\n
\u201cCarmella,\u201d he repeated. He hoped she’d stick to him like the candy he envisioned.<\/p>\n
They continued down Kramer Street after they turned off Devonport. Quarry Avenue would be the next right. He hadn\u2019t realized until then that they headed toward the duplex he had followed her to previously.<\/p>\n
She glanced at him before beckoning him with her little finger. \u201cCome.\u201d<\/p>\n
Oliver followed her up the bricked path.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou own this?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
Carmella ignored his question. She simply opened the door, motioned for him to enter, and then closed the door behind him.<\/p>\n
Oliver\u2019s eyes darted about the small front room. The kitchen was at the end of the hallway. The dining room joined the living room, he saw once he walked into the living room. The furnishings surprised him.\u00a0Old, antique even, probably valuable.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought we were going for coffee,\u00a0not that I’m complaining.\u201d<\/p>\n
Carmella glanced at him before sitting down. \u201cI don’t want coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry. I invited you for coffee, you accepted.\u00a0Or so I thought.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy have you been following me is what I want to know.\u201d<\/p>\n
Oliver blushed. When he caught his breath, he said, \u201cFollow you? I’m not following you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe not today, but you were last week, and the week before. Everywhere I turn, you are there. Leering at me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo…not me. I…just…think you’re attractive. Just wanted to meet you.\u201d
\n\u201cI’m not interested in you, not that way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut…\u201d Oliver didn’t know what else to say. \u201cBut….\u201d<\/p>\n
He waited for her to say or do something. The lull unnerved him. Oliver felt he should leave but didn’t know how without appearing rude. But did he care if he was perceived to be rude?
\n
\nThe longer the silence, the more awkward Oliver felt. He smelt something unusual in the air. Fear. His armpits stank.\u00a0Embarrassed, he turned. He had every right to leave. The door was there, ten feet away. He was a big boy. She was just a woman, a mere woman whom, despite her height, he could overpower if he wanted. He didn’t, but he could if the situation got ugly.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’m leaving.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo!\u201d Carmella bellowed in her thick voice so loudly that Oliver shuddered.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is obviously not working,\u201d Oliver put on a good show, not wanting to admit defeat, not wanting her to see him trembling. Perspiration dripped down his face. He longed to reach up to catch the drops before they darkened his pale blue shirt. Before she saw his fear.<\/p>\n
Oliver wanted to get outside to the fresh air, to the leaves turning into vibrant shades of reds and oranges.\u00a0He had always hated the fall season that proclaimed the end of several too-short\u00a0months of warm weather and upcoming cruel months of Canada’s winter, but that moment he longed to see the sight. Icicles and sleet and metres of snow flashed before him, making him colder than he was. He shivered and headed to the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cStop!\u201d she bellowed again. \u201cI’ll tell you when you can go. I invited you here. I’ll tell you when to leave.\u201d
\n\u201cNo, it’s time now. I have an appointment.\u201d Could she see through his lie? \u201cI must go.\u201d<\/p>\n
#<\/p>\n
\u201cI killed a woman once, but it wasn’t Carmella.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n
One day, I told the story of Oliver to my grandson, Royce. Naturally, I couldn’t tell it in the first person because I didn’t want him to know the story was about me. As well, since kids enjoy scary stories, I embellished certain details to make the story more interesting and frightful, such as the bits about the circus and nursery rhymes and weird noises and Oliver running for his life. Other references, like the sexual connotations, I omitted because Royce was too young for a sexually explicit story.<\/p>\n
My name isn’t Oliver, not legally. A long time ago, when I was about four, my parents\u2014my long-dead parents\u2014had nicknamed me Oliver after Oliver Twist. Nothing really to do with Oliver, the lad; more to do with his last name of Twist.<\/p>\n
Back then, I would take my mother’s yarn from her knitting pouch and twist that yarn around and around. The actions drove my mother crazy.\u00a0That\u2019s how I got the name, Oliver. Father thought Mum strange for calling me Oliver. He had never liked the nickname, but it stuck for a while\u2014until I killed someone.<\/p>\n
Yes, I killed a woman, a girl actually, who never had the chance to mature into a fine woman. She was my age, just seven, and lived next door to us. Lydia was small, and I towered over her. She didn’t stand a chance.\u00a0After twisting the yarn tightly around her neck, I grabbed a rock and bashed her head in. You could hardly see the blood because of her dark hair.<\/p>\n
I’m not sure why I did it.<\/p>\n
My family moved after that episode, to the west coast of Canada where the weather is warmer than the east. There, however, the rain pelts down, and I’m still not sure which I hate worse, snow or rain. Rain is moody and chilling, and though snow is cold too, it\u2019s fresh and white, and I like the sensation of the freezing flakes when they land on my tongue.<\/p>\n
#<\/p>\n
Oliver detected a smirk on Carmella\u2019s face when he told her he was leaving. \u201cI’m leaving. You can’t stop me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Carmella snickered; Oliver shivered.<\/p>\n
She ambled toward him, a sneer plastered on her face. When she faced him, so close that they could stick out their tongues and lick the other\u2019s face, she laughed. She then shook her head. Strands swatted Oliver in the face. He smelt the apple shampoo and his stomach growled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think this was all an accident. That YOU pursued me? No, I pursued you and you fell for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Oliver stared. He quaked even more.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, you are so stupid. Oliver. And what a farce of a name.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow…how do you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do I?\u00a0 I’ll tell you how. I have a good memory. Do you?\u201d Her hands went behind her head, where she scooped up her long hair and turned backward. Her fingers parted her hair. \u201cSee what you did? Look.\u201d<\/p>\n
Oliver stared. \u201cI don’t understand….\u201d Slowly, though, dawning sunk into his thick skull. He couldn’t remember the little girl\u2019s name but remembered her coal black hair.<\/p>\n
\u201cLydia. My name is Lydia.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut….\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou thought I was dead, right? Wrong. Yeah, your parents didn’t tell you I survived, did they? Perhaps they wanted to teach you a lesson, let you suffer for the rest of your days thinking you were a murderer. My parents stuck with me, ensured I survived, breathed life into me. And what did your parents do? Run off, snuck away in the dark of night. None of you Phillips could face the situation. You lucked out my parents didn’t charge you \u2018cause they would have found you, had they wanted to. Just as I found you. It wasn’t hard actually, even tracing you from Halifax to Vancouver. No one can hide, you know. No one.\u201d
\n
\nShe paused and then moved closer. She glared down at him. Oliver noted how the few once-inconsequential inches ominously hulked over him. He remembered how he had towered over her so many years previously.<\/p>\n
\u201cI could take you out now if I wanted. Smack you dead like you tried to do to me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI…sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing back then. I swear I didn\u2019t. I\u2019m sorry. And…I’m glad you’re alive.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat, your conscience eased now? Is that it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, I suppose it is,\u201d he mumbled. If Oliver were honest, he’d have to admit he had rarely thought of her and his previous actions.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou better watch your back. I’m going to follow you for the rest of your days. And you watch your kids, and grandkids, too, if you ever have them. I have a horrid temper now, thanks to you.\u00a0Your head-bashing did something to me. Made me lose a little bit of my common sense,\u00a0sets me in rages when I least expect it. Sometimes I know not what I do,\u201d Carmella\/Lydia laughed.<\/p>\n
Oliver stammered, \u201cWhat are you saying?\u201d A lump lodged in his throat, one that had sucked his mouth dry before descending downward. He tried to swallow, but it was futile.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, I haven’t any sense sometimes,\u201d she repeated. \u201cI prey on people, catch little boys and girls in my clutches, and carry them away to a never-never land. They’ll disappear there, never to be found again.\u201d She peered at him. \u201cYou do have children, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAh, no\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, you do. You have a son. Five years old, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. He’s yours even though he lives with your ex. Mark my words, if I don’t come after him, I’ll come after his kids. You can run, but they can’t.\u00a0And you can’t tell anyone this without owning up to being a wanna-be murderer.\u201d<\/p>\n
Oliver quivered. \u201cI have to go.\u201d He didn’t know what else to say except to add, \u201cAnd leave my family alone. I can come after you as easy as you can come after me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI told you I’m not interested in you. It’ll hurt you more if you have to worry about your family for the rest of your days. And you won\u2019t do anything to me. You\u2019re too scared. Look at you, you wimp!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease. Leave them alone. Leave me alone.\u201d
\n
\n#<\/p>\n
Because of Carmella\u2019s threats, I kidnapped my son from his mother, and we boarded a plane for the Caribbean,\u00a0where we managed to live undetected until Jamieson grew up and became too inquisitive. It was unfathomable to me that Lydia relocated to Vancouver for the sole purpose of finding me.<\/p>\n
In retrospect, of course, I should have killed Lydia that day she threatened me instead of bolting with Jamieson, but I panicked and felt I had to get my son as far away from her and Canada as I could.<\/p>\n
Years later, when Jamieson discovered I had snatched him from his mother, he bolted as fast from me as I had from Lydia. I never saw him again until after he married and had his first child, Royce. By that time, he had forgiven me. His mother, my ex, had died of cancer after Jamieson returned to Canada. Thankfully, mother and son had those few years together before she passed away. Thankfully, too, she died; otherwise I would have been up on kidnapping charges.<\/p>\n
Those years I remained in the Bahamas after Jamieson left, I lived in constant fear\u2014fear of retaliation by Jamieson and his mother, fear of retaliation by Lydia. The safety of my son and grandson weighted me down. I felt old before my time. When Royce was born, I had come full circle. I debated whether to nab Royce and run off with him as I had my son. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn\u2019t live that way again.<\/p>\n
After returning to British Columbia, I checked Lydia\u2019s previous home, that old duplex, but was told she had moved out many years previously. I hoped Lydia had passed on or had given up on her threat. Or, better still, had returned to Nova Scotia.<\/p>\n
Still worried about the situation, I decided I had no choice and told Jamieson all that had transpired\u2014most of it, anyway. He laughed it off, those threats of Lydia\u2019s. \u201cDad, you stupid, silly man,\u201d he said, or some such words. Several months after that conversation, Jamieson, at the age of thirty-two, was killed in a motorcycle accident. Royce was six.<\/p>\n
#<\/p>\n
With Jamieson gone, Oliver worried more and more about Royce\u2019s safety. What if Lydia meant what she had said? He decided he\u2019d better search her out, get rid of her once and for all, so he could live the rest of his days in peace. At sixty, one couldn\u2019t take life for granted.<\/p>\n
With the help of Lawson\u2019s Detective Agency, Oliver found her. She still resided in Vancouver. He was told she frequented Linwood Park often, so he waited there for her.<\/p>\n
Oliver had worried about Lydia\u2019s height and whether she\u2019d be able to overpower him, but even from a distance, he saw Lydia had shrunk, bad bones likely the culprit.<\/p>\n
As a result, he towered over her as he had when they were young. Grasped in his fingers was twisted yarn. He held it out so she could see her fate. He had scanned the area, but the park was deserted. At his feet lay a rock, one bigger than he had used those many years previously. He wasn’t taking any chances.<\/p>\n
Resigned to her fate, the woman never flinched. Unknown to Oliver,\u00a0she lived a death sentence with cancer. Bashed over the head a second time would be a quicker way to go, with less suffering if Oliver performed the deed correctly. She had endured horrible pain with her first injury and had been correct when she had told Oliver her mind was gone,\u00a0or part of it at any rate. And she’d been fooling with him when she talked of revenge against his family. She simply needed him to suffer as she had.
\n#<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, Royce, that’s the story of Oliver.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGramps, was Carmella a real person?\u201d<\/p>\n
I ruffled his blond hair. \u201cNo, it’s all make believe. Just a pretend story. You know how I like to tell stories.\u201d I wondered if, at twelve, Royce was too young to hear sordid details, but he didn’t seem upset. At almost seventy, I felt it was time to relieve myself of weighty matters. Besides, I enjoyed telling tales.<\/p>\n
He kept harping about Carmella though. Or was it Lydia?\u00a0 No matter, the two women were one and the same.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut, Gramps, she reminds me of someone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho does?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCarmella. Well, Lydia, I guess. She used to come to our house to visit Daddy. She said her name was Lydia and that she was an old school friend of yours.\u201d<\/p>\n
My stomach lurched. \u201cWhat are you saying?\u201d Perspiration splashed over my face as it had long ago. With my arms frozen by my side, I couldn’t budge to wipe my face.<\/p>\n
\u201cLydia, Gramps. Like I told you. I remember her cause her hair was long and black, like a witch, and she was tall. Way taller than Daddy. She had a deep voice, too. Scratchy. Just as you\u2019ve described her. I remember how she talked to Daddy for a while. Then they took off, him on his motorcycle, she in her car. That was the last time I saw Daddy. What do you think, Gramps? Was it the same Lydia?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Oliver\u2019s Story \u201cI killed a woman once, many years ago.\u201d Oliver struggled with himself, rehashing scenes over and over. Did he really want to have sex with that woman? She wasn’t particularly attractive though her body, what he could discern beneath her clothing, seemed curvaceous in all the right places. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2572,"parent":148,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1827","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1827","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1827"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1827\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2675,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1827\/revisions\/2675"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/148"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2572"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1827"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}