“Spin the bottle!” a male voice shouts and a group of lads start to snigger and nudge each other.
“I don’t think so,” Jasmine sneers, glancing around the room. “Where’s Ben?”
“Here.” Ben waves. “You called?”
“This place is supposed to be haunted, right?”
He shrugs. “Apparently. There used to be an old tavern or something here before the theatre. The story was that not everyone who checked in would survive the night. . . I think the owner was knocking them off. All very Sweeney Todd.”
“Perfect.” She bares straight, white teeth and presses her lips to the microphone. “Because I think we should do a séance.”
“Yeah, I’m ready to go,” I whisper to Tommy, as the rest of the party erupts into chatter and begins to migrate towards Jasmine. My skin feels as though a thousand six-legged creatures are crawling around on it. “This really isn’t my thing.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Tommy pats his bag. He’s grinning. “I have a trick up my sleeve. Her little séance ideas fits in almost too perfectly.”
Despite my panic, curiosity stirs. “What’s in there?”
“Wait and see.” He stands up, brushing dust from his dark jeans. He fits in down here, all dark and brooding against the chipped black walls, the shadows setting off his strong jaw and making his cheekbones razor sharp. He holds out a hand. “Do you trust me?”
“Now.” Jasmine is seated at the self-appointed head of the circle, her voice low as she extends a delicate, beringed hand to either side. “Take the hand of the person next to you.”
I shuffle uncomfortably, pins and needles already shooting up my legs. The cold of the floor soaks into my bones and my teeth begin to chatter. The girl next to me offers her hand and I’m about to take it when Tommy’s voice echoes around the room.
“I have something better than a séance.” He drags his battered old satchel in front of him and tugs at a rectangular box, its corners snagging on the worn leather. He eventually prises it free and thrusts it into the circle.
Jasmine swigs from a clear glass bottle and gives him a savage grin.
“A board game? Oh, sweetie. We’re not here for Monopoly.”
“Take a closer look.” His voice is calm. I strain my eyes to look at the box. It’s old, that’s for sure, worn brown card, sepia-toned and tattered at the edges. The bottle makes its way around and I get a whiff of something that could probably strip my nail polish, so I push my lips together, pretend to take a swig and pass it on to Tommy. He ignores me, staring intently at Jasmine. A little knot of jealousy forms in my stomach. The skin on my lips burns.
“Fine,” she sighs, leaning forwards to pull the box towards her, all jangling bracelets and sparkling rings, like some kind of trust-fund fortune teller. “Oooooh...” She sits back, fixing her eyes on her enraptured audience. “Now we’re talking.”
She eases the lid from the box and I know she’s aware that every single pair of eyes is on her. She flings it carelessly to the side and I cringe, knowing that if it came from the museum, it’s at least a century old. She lifts out a package and slowly unwraps a small, heart-shaped piece of wood, solid except from a circle bored clear through the middle. A larger cloth-wrapped package follows and she grunts under the unexpected weight. She places it on the floor and the material slides away, exposing a varnished wooden board.
“Oh, hell no,” I hear someone mutter.
“Chicken?” Jasmine challenges. A few people start to leave the circle. “I thought so,” she mocks, encouraging the remaining few to move in closer. Now that I can see what it is, I’m ready to clear out too. Then a hand on mine and a whisper in my ear changes my mind.
“I thought you trusted me?” Tommy says.
“I do.”
“Then watch this.”
I shuffle in closer as Jasmine sits up straight, her legs crossed in some weird pretzel shape, her back rigid. “I can feel the energy,” she whispers.
I want to laugh at her, I really do, but the flickering candles, the basement walls and the seeping cold convince me that it’s not remotely funny.
Not to mention the Ouija board in the centre of the circle.
It is marked with crudely carved letters of the alphabet, the numbers 0-9 and the words “yes” and “no”. The planchette sits in the middle.
“Everybody needs to place one finger on the planchette,” Tommy instructs and I’m surprised when everyone does it without question. There aren’t many of us left in the circle now, just six – no seven, including me. I see Ben and a couple of Jasmine’s cronies. I’m so close to Jasmine that I can see her perfect eyeliner flicks.
I place my finger on the planchette. The little pointer feels charged beneath our hands and almost vibrates on the polished wood.
“Now,” Tommy continues. “We need to have a common goal. The board is here to help with communication from beyond the veil. Who do you want to contact?”
Jasmine fixes me with a look so cruel I know what she’s going to say before it leaves her toxic little mouth.
“Sara Mondrial. The girl who died. I want to talk to her.” She smiles. “Ask her a few questions.”
Tears burn in the back of my throat. My vision starts to blur. No one makes a sound; the group seems to be holding its collective breath. I blink to clear my eyes and see that Tommy is watching me closely. He raises an eyebrow. He said to trust him – what have I got to lose? I give a little nod and he smiles.
“Good,” says Tommy. “We’ll try and speak to Sara. Now, we need to be clear in our questioning, all channeling the same thoughts for this to work. . .”
“I’ve got this.” Jasmine’s eyes snap open as she cuts Tommy off. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, closing her eyes once more. “Spirits,” she croons, her voice low and hypnotic. “If you are with us in this room, make yourself known. Is there anybody here?”
I gasp out loud as the planchette jars beneath my finger, shooting across the board before stopping on the word “Yes”.
Jasmine clears her throat in an effort to compose herself, but I can see she’s shaken and fear ripples around the circle. Tommy catches my eye and winks. Ohhhhh.
This is his plan. Scare the bejesus out of Jasmine.
I can get on board with that.
“Thank you, spirit.” Her voice is confident, but I remind myself we’re drama students. We’re good at pretending. “Are you the spirit of Sara Mondrial, the tragic, beautiful victim of an untimely murder?”
I know Tommy is controlling the board – that this is all nonsense – but suddenly I can’t breathe. The image of Sara’s lifeless body is engraved into my memory. I close my eyes to hold back the tears that are threatening and feel the planchette moving again.
I peek out beneath my lashes to see it’s now resting on the word “No”. Thank God. At least Tommy isn’t pretending to be Sara. I shoot him a grateful glance, expecting another cheeky wink, but instead his expression is confused, his face pale.
“Can you tell us your name, spirit?” Jasmine is settling into her role nicely; all she’s missing is a headscarf and crystal ball. The pointer jerks again before gliding across the board, as though on oiled tracks. “J.” Jasmine’s voice wobbles slightly as she reads out the letters. “A.” She looks a little green around the gills, now. “N.” I stare at Tommy but his eyes are glued to the little piece of wood beneath our fingers. “E.”
The planchette stops moving.
“Jane?” Jasmine whispers and before the name is even out of her mouth, the planchette has dragged us back to “Yes”.
“Jane Alsop?” I whisper and our fingers are jerked away briefly before returning to “Yes”.
I try to hide a smirk as I realize what Tommy is up to. I glance at him again, prepared to drop him a wink, but he is still staring at the planchette.
“Who’s Jane Alsop?” Jasmine hisses, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “If you’re messing with me. . . I’m warning you, you jumped up,
little. . .” I cut her off with what I hope is a cool stare. She does not like it when it’s not all about her.
“A local girl.” Tommy’s voice is quiet and I’m pretty impressed at his acting skills. I should’ve known he was good after seeing him lead the tours in the museum, really. “She died near here, in 1838.”
“Jesus,” the lad next to me mutters.
“Right.” Jasmine switches back to her mystic persona impressively fast. “Jane,” she whispers. “Why are you here? What have you got to tell us?”
The board vibrates beneath our fingers and a hollow feeling starts to build inside me as I see what the board is spelling out.
N-I-A-M-H.
What the hell is Tommy playing at now? I glare at him and it takes me a second to realize the look of fear on his face is for real. He catches my eye and shakes his head, confusion carved into lines around his eyes.
If he’s not controlling this, then who is?
The planchette carries on, darting around faster and faster, spelling out my name over and over again.
N-I-A-M-H.
N-I-A-M-H.
N-I-A-M-H.
“Stop!” The sound of my own voice makes the circle jump and my finger loses contact with the wood, but not before my whole hand feels as though it is engulfed in flames. “I get it, you hate me, fine.” I spit, pointing at Jasmine. “But this is a really vile thing to do.”
Jasmine opens her mouth to respond, but Ben interrupts. “Er, guys?”
Six pairs of eyes shift from me back down to the board. No one is touching it now. But the planchette is still racing around.
On its own.
I force myself to keep breathing, even though a vice of sheer horror is tightening around my chest. The marker tears around the board, returning to the same letters over and over again, repeating the pattern until it becomes a blur of varnished wood. Black spots gather at the edges of my vision as a word seems to become clear.
R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N
“Tell me everything.”
Jess dumps her bag on the table between us, almost knocking my drink to the floor. We’re in the café at college and by the sounds of it, she was here cleaning up with Ruth most of the night. I fill her in on the horror of the night before to wake her up.
“I was too upset to call you,” I explain. “I legged it straight to the nearest bus stop and I’ve not spoken to Tommy since.”
“Do you think it was him moving the board?” Jess asks. I shake my head slowly.
“At first, yeah. But he seemed as shocked as I did when it started spelling my name out.”
Jess shivers. “You’ve given me goose bumps. That is so freaky. What do you reckon it was, then?”
“I really don’t know.” To be honest, I’ve been trying not to think about it. “Hey, I forgot to tell you! Last night, when I said Jane’s name, Jasmine said she was warning me.”
“Warning you about what?”
“I dunno, she didn’t finish.”
“And she wanted to talk to Sara’s spirit?”
“Yeah.” I chew on my lip. “You don’t think she has something to do with it, do you?”
“I dunno. I mean, she’s tiny but then again, she’s clearly got a screw loose. Look at your cardigan. She’s a complete psycho.”
“Yeah.” I shudder, remembering the snarl distorting her face.
“Still, you went to a party with the lovely Tommy,” Jess says. “That has to be a silver lining.”
“I guess.” I bite my lip but can’t quite help the grin that spreads across my face.
“Wait.” She studies me. “Did something else happen?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It did, didn’t it? Oh my God, tell me everything.”
“There’s not much to tell. I mean, we might have kissed but. . .”
“Kissed?!” Jess’s shriek draws amused glances from the others in the café.
“Yeah.” I smile coyly. “Not much to tell, though. . .”
“Fine.” She flops back in the chair opposite me and shrugs. “I’m not interested, anyway. I mean, I go around snogging ridiculously hot people all the time, no biggie.”
“He is ridiculously hot.” God, my cheek muscles hurt from grinning.
Jess squeals and pulls out her phone, tracing her finger across the screen to unlock it. “I need to see this for myself. What’s his surname, again?”
“There’s no point googling him. He’s a social media ghost.”
“He’s really not on anything? At all?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Weird. Does he even have a phone?”
“Of course he has a phone.” As I say it, I realize I’ve never seen Tommy use one. But then, we’re usually dressed up as Victorians, so maybe that’s why. “At least, I think he does.”
“Weeeeeeird. Who doesn’t have a phone? He gave you his landline number though, right?”
“Err. . .”
“Niamh! Have you even spoken to him outside of the museum?”
“Of course I have! I saw him at the Globe that night, remember?”
“Where you arranged to meet him?”
“No, but . . . oh, stop it. You’re kind of ruining this for me.”
She folds her arms and gives me a serious look. “I’m just looking out for you. The last thing you need right now is to fall for some hot but dodgy guy who probably has a girlfriend.”
My heart slides into my shoes. “You think he has a girlfriend?”
“Sorry,” she shrugs. “But why else does he avoid social media? And why hasn’t he given you his number? There are just a lot of red flags. Think of it this way – what would you say to your sister if she was telling you all this?”
“To be careful.” I admit. I sip at my Coke. I flick my bare nails on the tab of the can, a hollow, metallic sound filling the silence. “That he probably has a girlfriend.”
“Go to your workshop and forget about it. I’ll see you at the library after, right?” She studies my expression. “Ah, I’m sorry Niamh.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I give her a watery smile, all of my excitement evaporated. “It’s hardly your fault, is it? It’s just. . .” I heave a sigh.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, go on.”
I sigh again. “He’s just so flaming pretty.”
The library is, as usual, empty and smells of damp and air freshener. Jess texted me to say she has an awesome idea for my scholarship essay, which is good news. I’m trying as hard as I can to think of something to write about, but I’m too exhausted and worried to think straight.
Despite what we now refer to as the “incident” last week, the library is fast becoming my safe space. There’s something about Ruth’s presence that’s so calm and welcoming that it overshadows the bad memory.
It helps that Will isn’t here any longer, there’s no air of unease that followed him around. The thought of him sends a little ripple of gooseflesh across my shoulders and I fight back a shudder. As much as I try not to think about him or the last few weeks, I know I won’t settle properly until he’s been found.
Jess is waiting at the door to a little room I haven’t been into yet. “Mum gave me the idea. Come on.”
It’s a stark, bare space with a couple of computers on a long desk that takes up the back wall, some other machines dotted around them. A small, narrow window high up on the wall lets in a beam of dusty light that illuminates a bank of silver filing cabinets.
“What are we doing?”
“This is where we keep the microfilm,” Jess replies. She stops in front of one of the drawers. I move closer to see that all of the labels have date ran
ges on them, each meticulously printed by hand. There’s a slight squeal of metal as she pulls one open. “1835–1840, Tray one.”
Inside there are neat rows of cardboard boxes. These are labelled, too, and Jess traces a finger across the writing on each one.
“Nope,” she mumbles, closing the drawer and pulling open the one underneath. She repeats the process and this time she smiles. “Here it is.”
She eases the box from its resting place and replaces it with a little blue block that fits into the space perfectly. “Mum’s tip. So you know exactly where to put it back.”
“Clever.”
She hands me the box and heads over to a computer, loading up programmes. I drag a chair over and sit next to her. “What’s in here, then?”
“Have a look,” she instructs.
I ease the lid off. Inside sit little spools of film, like I imagine old-fashioned movie or newsreels to look.
“Microfilm,” Jess repeats. “Photographs of newspapers and stuff. There are loads of old news articles on here. I was talking to Mum about your job at the museum and she recognized the name of the girl you dress up as, can you believe that?”
“Really?” I watch as Jess takes the reel from the box and starts to load it with a practised hand. “Where from?”
“I’ll show you.” She starts to click the mouse and the computer screen fills with old newsprint.
She carries on clicking, newspaper pages whizzing by on the screen, before finally stopping. “Here we go. August 1838.”
“That was the year Jane died.”
“Yep. Mum said it was in the papers, ’cos she was from a wealthy family. Let’s see. . .” Jess’s brows knit behind her glasses and she scrolls through the pages. “Keep your eye out for her name.”
I sigh and peer at the screen. “Jess, as interesting as this is – in a really morbid, creepy way—”
“You know me,” she grins, eyes still focussed on the screen. “Morbid and creepy are my jam.”
“Yeah, I do know.” I still haven’t forgotten the hair jewellery. “Anyway, interesting as this is, how’s it supposed to help me write this flipping essay on ‘London’s theatrical history’? It’s due in less than a week and I still don’t know where to start.”
Last One To Die Page 12
