“Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here?” he said incredulously.
“You’re a nasty man,” said the little girl evenly, “You kicked Cookie.”
“What,” stammered Jesse, struggling to get his head around the situation, becoming more and more agitated. What the hell was she doing in his bedroom? With a start, he recognized the girl from news reports. She was the one who had been killed on the motorway a couple of months back, but it couldn’t be, could it?
“You can’t be here you’re dead ,” Jesse muttered shaking his head. “You need to get the fuck out of here right now,” he added with much less conviction than he meant to. The little girl simply tilted her head to one side and continued.
“You’re trash, I’ve heard lots of people say that about you,” She took a step forward.
“Fuck off, I mean it,” yelled Jesse raising the vodka bottle threateningly. Ellie looked at the bottle. And it exploded, showering Jesse, the electric fire and the curtains with spirit. His tracksuit bottoms caught fire immediately, he slapped at them in panic, only succeeding in setting his hoodie on fire. He reached back to steady himself and grabbed the curtains which ignited with a whooshing sound. He cried out and tried to pull his hand away but pulled the curtain rail down, the burning curtains falling on top of him, shrouding him in burning material. He thrashed around wildly, screaming, trying to tear the burning material off. He blundered across the room and hit the wall, falling to the floor. He managed to get back to his feet and panicking ran back towards the window and hit it hard, going right through it. He failed to clear the terrace house’s small front garden and landed on the iron railings, three of the spear like-spikes entering his chest and sticking out of his back. He hung there impaled, burning. Wailing and thrashing his limbs, weaker and weaker as the seconds passed.
“Nasty man,” said Ellie quietly as she looked down from the bedroom window, her face a mixture of shock and excitement.
And then she was gone.
“What the Fuck,” exclaimed Kenny. He had been having a cigarette with Jim, one of his regulars, outside the front doors of the Black Barn when Jesse Whitehill had come crashing through the window of the house opposite. Jim ran across the road to help but had to wait for Kenny, who had popped back inside the pub and picked up a fire extinguisher. By the time Kenny had put out the flames the figure was not moving or making a noise anymore.
“Jesus Christ,” said Jim surveying the charred remains.
“No, I think its Jesse Whitehill,” deadpanned Kenny, “have you got your mobile on you Jim?”
“Yes,” confirmed Jim tearing his eyes away from the body and looking at Kenny who shrugged,
“Better call an ambulance then, but finish your fag first, this prick’s not going anywhere. “
*
Gareth was almost glad to hear his mother yelling up the stairs for him to come down. He was dreading the night ahead and all that it would bring. Something had happened in the street and mother wanted to know what it was. As his bedroom was at the back of the house he had not heard or seen anything. He pulled on his coat and went down the street to where a crowd of twenty or so people were gathered outside the houses opposite the pub. One of the houses had a broken bedroom window and an ambulance was parked outside it, a police car parked just behind it. As he watched, the ambulance’s blue lights were turned off, and one of the policemen brought a large plastic sheet from his car which he handed to one of the paramedics. They went behind the ambulance and Gareth moved to get a better look.
“Don’t go over there Gareth,” said a voice. It was Harold Farnsworth. “It’s not pretty. Its Jesse Whitehill, he’s dead.”
“Wow,” said Gareth “Did he fall out of his own window?”
Harold thought for a second before answering. “He apparently managed to set himself on fire, and then fall out of his window, the silly young sod.” Then to himself, “Waste of a young life.” He smiled sadly at Gareth and headed off home. There wasn’t anything else to see so Gareth duly reported back to mother who took the news with relish, ranting on about the village being overrun with criminal’s, perverts and trendies. He left her boiling away in her own spite and went upstairs to face the inevitable. Several sleepless hours later it started, the stones against the window, the voice in his head.
“Jesse Whitehill was a nasty man and I got him, and I’m going to get you as well Gareth.” He finally couldn’t take any more, sneaking downstairs and putting on his coat again. He quietly left the house, turned left and headed off up the village street walking at first then breaking in to a run, putting as much distance as possible between him and his home.
*
Mike felt utterly helpless. He was just heading up the street to see what the commotion was when he had bumped into Harold Farnsworth, making his way home, who had told him what had happened. He made his way up to the house but there was really nothing he could do, nobody to give comfort to. Nobody was actually upset. Jesse Whitehill elicited that kind of response. He hung around like a spare part for ten minutes before rather sheepishly admitting that nobody needed him and made his way back to the vicarage. He felt bad. The last time he had seen Jesse Whitehill he had basically threatened him. He sat for a long time in the lounge. The TV on in the corner but ignored. Finally he turned off the TV and went upstairs to bed.
Back on the escalator, he tried to tear his eyes away from the images on the screens. A beaming
young mother, finishing breast feeding her baby and then stuffing it into a microwave. A father with his daughter tied naked to a bed, stuffing a funnel tipped hose down her throat and pouring caustic soda down it. And Jesse Whitehill, trussed up like a chicken on the floor as three giggling children doused him in petrol and set him on fire, dancing around his burning body laughing as he screamed. He looked ahead, Ellie turned and beckoned to him. This time she spoke.
“Come on Michael.” The red glow at the bottom drew nearer.
Chapter Seven - Wednesday
Mike yawned and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired but surprisingly didn’t feel too bad. He had even got back to sleep after the appalling dream. He’d already phoned Becks to make sure she knew what had happened. She did, the village bush telegraph was operating at full speed. He walked down the village street to the house. Thankfully the body had been removed. Two men in a fire service car were just driving away leaving a familiar figure stood on the doorstep poring over a report. Prematurely grey, wearing a long white raincoat and glasses on a neck chain.
“Hello Ronnie,” said Mike warmly. D.S Ronnie Wallwork had been a good friend back in the days when Mike had been a policeman. They had promised to stay in touch but circumstances had meant they’d only seen each other a handful of times over the last ten years.
“Well if it isn’t the reverend Cunningham,” smiled Ronnie, “I didn’t know this was your patch.”
“Just got here last week,” said Mike. “It’s been an eventful few days, all things considered.”
“Did you know Mr Whitehill at all?” said Ronnie motioning towards the scorched and bloodstained railings.
“More by reputation than anything else, we had met a couple of times, but he wasn’t a regular churchgoer if you know what I mean,” replied Mike.
“I do,” smiled Ronnie grimly, “I had to take a statement from Mr Bradshaw at the pub. He actually saw him go out the window and put the fire out with an extinguisher. I asked him if he needed counselling and he nearly pissed himself laughing. Said he was so upset he nearly called a happy hour.”
Mike grimaced. “Yes, Jesse Whitehill had that effect on people. I take it this was an accident.”
Ronnie raised an eyebrow. “Well it will probably go down as one, but it is a little strange. There was nobody else in the house at the time. Front door and back door were locked from the inside. Very well locked actually, it took us ten minutes to break in. Anyone would think Mr Whitehill had something to hide. The fire investigators found the remains of
a bottle of Vodka upstairs and an old electric fire that was still switched on. It seems like he wrapped himself in a pair of curtains, doused himself in vodka and stood next to the electric fire until he burst into flames, then chucked himself out the window. That’s pretty stupid even for one of the Whitehill’s.”
Mike shook his head and pushed some thoughts back down beneath the surface. They made small talk for a while until Mike saw Becks on the other side of the road. He said his goodbye’s to Ronnie, both men promising to speak soon, and waving to Becks, crossed the road and walked back to the vicarage with her.
*
“I know I shouldn’t, but I feel bad about Jesse Whitehill,” confided Becks on the way back.
“I know what you mean,” replied Mike, “but I really don’t think we could have done anything for him, he was beyond listening to anyone really. I know we shouldn’t give up on anybody but still...” he didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t mention the dream.
“Do you think he killed himself?” asked Becks suddenly.
Mike stopped and looked at her,
“I assumed he just had an accident whilst drunk or stoned, I really can’t see someone like him taking his own life. The police are putting it down to an accident anyway.”
“Right,” said Becks distractedly. She was looking over towards the porch at the church door. Mike followed her gaze. In the shadows of the porch a figure could be seen sitting on the floor.
“Could be a vagrant, although it’s way too cold to sleep in the porch at nights,” said Mike. They went to investigate.
It was Gareth Worthington, sitting on the cold stone floor, hugging his knees and shivering.
“Gareth, what are you doing here?” asked Becks.
Gareth looked from Mike to Becks. “I thought I would be safe here at the church, I thought she wouldn’t be able to get me here.”
“Who?” said Becks gently.
Gareth rummaged through his pockets, took out his inhaler and took a blast on it before replying.
“You’ll think I’m making it up, you won’t believe me.”
“Who’s going to get you?” prompted Becks again.
Gareth looked at the floor. “Ellie, Ellie Parsons.” Mike and Becks exchanged a look.
“No Gareth, we don’t think you’re making it up, we believe you,” said Mike firmly. “Now let’s get you in to the vicarage and we can have a proper talk.”
They made Gareth tea and toast and sat in the vicarage kitchen which was the warmest room in the house.
“She keeps appearing in our back garden at night, she throws stones at my bedroom window and she talks to me and says awful things. I can’t get her voice out of my head. She killed Jesse Whitehill and she says she’s going to get me as well,” mumbled Gareth through a mouthful of toast.
“Why would she hurt Jesse Whitehill?” asked Mike.
“She said he was a nasty man and he kicked Cookie,” replied Gareth. Becks’ eyes opened impossibly wide and she put her hand to her mouth.
“And why would she want to hurt you?” said Mike carefully.
Gareth stopped chewing toast and stared down at the table hard.
“Because it was my fault she got killed. It was an accident, I didn’t mean it, but I was chasing her.” There was a pause, Mike and Becks looked at each other then back to Gareth.
“Why were you chasing her?” asked Becks.
Gareth gulped down toast and looked up from the table, tears streaming down his face. Words started to pour out of him in a torrent.
“Mum said it was wrong, a boy as old as Robert Owen playing with a girl as young as Ellie. She said I should keep an eye on them in case they were up to something they shouldn’t be. I was coming back from the bus stop from college and I saw Ellie in the woods and decided to follow her. She wasn’t even with Robert as it turned out, but she saw me following her and shouted at me. She said I was a pervert for following her and she was going to tell her parents about me. I chased after her, I was only trying to stop her and explain, I didn’t want to scare her, but my asthma meant I could only just keep up with her. She ran towards the bridge over the motorway. She climbed up on to the railings and said she would jump. I tried to calm her down but the next minute she fell.” Gareth’s voice trailed off and he went back to looking at the table top. Becks looked distraught. Nobody said anything for several seconds.
“Gareth, look at me,” said Mike eventually, “Did you tell your mother about this?”
Gareth nodded. “She said it was an accident, I should keep quiet about it.”
Mike leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He could feel the anger rising in him. He glanced at Becks who had a nerve twitching at the side of her jaw, she obviously felt the same.
“Well Gareth, we need to have a talk with your mother.”
They drove the couple of hundred yards up the village to Mrs Worthington’s. Gareth had gone very quiet which Mike was thankful for. They let Gareth open the door with his key which was on a piece of string round his neck.
“I lost my key once, so I have to keep it round my neck now,” mumbled Gareth. Mike said nothing but went in first followed by Gareth and Becks.
“Where have you been?” screeched Mrs Worthington from the living room. Mike went through.
“Oh it’s you, what the hell are you doing here?” spat Mrs Worthington.
“We have brought Gareth home and need to talk,” said Mike coldly.
“Come in why don’t you?” she said sarcastically.
“Thanks we already have,” replied Mike in kind. “Gareth, sit there,” he directed Gareth to a chair which he scuttled over to and sat down, eyes on the floor. “Gareth came to the church this morning and we had a little chat about a few things, like how Ellie Parsons died.” Joan Worthington fixed Gareth with a stare that could curdle milk, wasted on him as he kept his eyes on the floor, finally turning back to face Mike.
“It was an accident, it was no one’s fault,” she said defiantly.
“Oh I disagree Mrs Worthington, I think it was someone’s fault, I think it was your fault.” She glared at him but said nothing. “And it will have to be put right.”
“What do you mean put right?” she sneered. Mike continued, “Well the Owens need to know that their Ellie died as the result of ‘an accident’ rather than carry on worrying if they contributed to it, and Gareth here will have to make a statement to the police.”
“The police,” she said incredulously, “You can’t bring the police in to this, you’re a vicar, what Gareth told you was confidential.”
“Well that’s a matter of opinion,” stated Mike simply. “But the Owens will have to be told what happened and Gareth will have to face up to what he has done before he can move on.” He looked at Gareth.” Maybe I can help him with that.” Gareth finally looked up directly at Mike and nodded. Mike went out of the house to phone Ronnie Wallwork on his mobile with one last look of contempt at Joan Worthington. She looked at the floor, the ceiling, the bookcase, in fact anywhere but the pair of eyes that were boring into her. Finally she looked at Becks.
“What,” she said defensively.
“All this time you knew what had happened, and all this time you have tried to imply that it was Robert who had something to do with it,” said Becks through gritted teeth. Joan Worthington opened her mouth to reply but couldn’t find the words. “Just shut up,” hissed Becks, “Just for once shut your mouth.” There was a long difficult silence until Mike came back in.
“You are to go to Horwich police station,” he said briskly, “Do you know where that is?” Gareth nodded dumbly. “You are to ask for DS Ronnie Wallwork, who will arrange for statements to be taken. It is unlikely that any charges will be pressed but it will have to be done to set the record straight. You will do that today, as soon as we leave. Once that has been done we can speak to the Owens. We’ll see ourselves out.”
Mike and Becks left
the room, leaving Gareth and Joan not looking at each other. They left the house without even glancing back. They got in the car and set off back to the vicarage.
“I really could do with a cigarette,” admitted Mike.
“So could I,” agreed Becks.
*
Becks made coffee when they got back to the vicarage, but Mike had disappeared when she came to give him his cup. She looked through the kitchen window at the church next door. Yes, the door was open. He was in there. She carried the cups next door and found Mike sitting alone in the pews.
“I brought your coffee,” said Becks, breaking into Mike’s reverie. He patted the pew next to him,
“Sit down and have a jammy dodger.” He offered her his biscuits. For a while they sat in the quiet, drinking coffee and eating biscuits. Finally Mike asked “Do you think I was right to involve the police?”
“Yes,” said Becks firmly, “I think the record needs to be set straight, we’ll have to go and see the Owens as well, that will be difficult.”
“Most of this job is difficult,” said Mike, “At least in the police we only got puked on and stabbed.” Becks smiled
“I actually thought you might be praying when I came in here.”
The Haunting of Winter Hill Page 6
