“Just wait, you’ll see . . . yes! Here it is.” She adjusts her glasses and sits back, reading aloud from the screen. “After Jane’s unfortunate demise blah, blah, blah, her loving family, blah, blah, blah. . .”
“Jess!” I say, shocked.
“Sorry, we know these bits though.” She carries on, unfazed. “The family will make several donations in her name. These are to include a new children’s wing at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, and a viewing gallery at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where Miss Alsop spent many happy hours.”
“No way!” I lean closer and read the article myself. “A viewing gallery – is that a box? They named one in the theatre after her?”
“Yeah, that’s why Mum recognized it. She used to volunteer there before her MS got bad. She said she looked up all the names of the boxes. She loves knowing the history behind stuff like that.”
“Just like you.”
She smiles. “Yeah, I guess so. So, do you think you can use this? For your essay, I mean.”
“Maybe. I might have to visit the theatre to see how to work it in.” I mull it over, trying to link together the connections. “It’s a pretty big coincidence, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“All these links with Jane.” I start to tick them off on my fingers. “First, Geoffrey thinks I look like her. . .”
“You do.”
“Yeah, fine, so first of all, I look like her. Second, we happened to get lost at the hospital and end up outside the unit her family paid for. And third. . .”
“She’s going to help you write an awesome essay and win a scholarship to stay here and study drama?”
A smile creeps across my face. “Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”
This is so cool. Maybe one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.
“I can’t believe your mum got us in here,” I say, looking around in awe. “There’s no way I’d be able to afford to come otherwise. Show tickets are so dear.”
“Yeah, it is pretty amazing. Sorry the tickets are just for the ghost tour, though.” Jess cranes her neck to look at the golden filigree plaster that decorates the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and points to a series of small, curved balconies that jut out over either side the stage. “I think Jane Alsop’s box is one of those.”
I nod, only half listening. I’m imagining walking out on that stage, following in the footsteps of actors spanning back hundreds of years. I can almost feel the weight of their history on my shoulders. Jess nudges me back to reality and I refocus, trailing after the small crowd who are speaking in hushed tones, their feet whispering through the plush carpet of the central aisle.
“There is, of course, a somewhat gory history on this site.” The guide is beginning his tour as we catch up. He’s younger than I expected, probably early twenties, wearing a leather jacket and jeans. He’s well-spoken and, despite his age, reminds me irresistibly of Geoffrey. “The theatre is thought to be one of the most haunted in the world and has many tales to tell.” He pauses and gestures to the stage. “This building dates from 1812, though there were previously two on this site. In 1735, a famous actor named Charles Macklin killed a fellow actor in the Green Room, after an argument over a wig. Macklin himself lived to be over one hundred, but his remorseful ghost is said to walk these boards.”
“What about the Grey Man?” A small, elfin American woman pipes up from in front of us.
“Ah, someone has done their research.” The woman blushes and Jess rolls her eyes at me. “Yes. The Man in Grey, as he is known, is one of the more famous residents of the Theatre Royal. He is said to appear during matinees, wearing a long, grey coat and a tricorn hat.” He lowers his voice and the crowd lean in; again, I’m reminded of Geoffrey and the power of a good storyteller. “During renovations in the 1840s, a skeleton wearing grey rags was discovered, buried beneath the spot where the Man in Grey’s ghost is said to appear.” His voice sinks to a whisper. “A skeleton with a knife through his heart.”
A shudder runs down my spine as excited murmuring breaks out amongst the ghost hunters. “I’m not sure about this,” I whisper to Jess, as the crowd begin following the guide once more.
“You’re right, sorry.” She looks torn. It’s so much her thing it’s ridiculous. “I just wanted to get us in here so you could see the box.”
“I know, and I appreciate it; I’ve just had enough creepy stuff to last a lifetime, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Jess says, looking longingly at the tour group. We’re stood by an almost invisible black door with a subtle little sign. Backstage – No Admittance. “Shall we try and sneak off? See the box and go home?”
“Do you think we can?” I reply.
“Yeah, leave it to me.”
I glance over at the guide, who has been cornered by the American lady, who is gazing up at him and aggressively twirling her hair. “He won’t notice if she has anything to do with it.”
We follow the tour through the black door and wait a couple of seconds for them to disappear around a bend ahead of us. Then we double back through the door.
“I don’t suppose you saw the way up there?” Jess says as we step back into the theatre and follow the aisle back towards the entrance. Is it just my imagination, or are the lights dimmer now?
“No, I was hoping you did.”
“Nope,” she grins. “But that’s half the fun, right?”
I lift my eyebrows and shake my head at her. “How are we friends?”
“I never realized how big this place was.” Jess is following behind me. “Slow down, will you?” she pants. “I’m not really an exercise person.”
I laugh and wait on the landing. The boxes are right at the top of the building. We’ve already climbed two flights of stairs. “Ah, come on, you’re fine.”
She joins me and takes a deep breath. “Not more?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “But we must be nearly there.”
She groans. “No wonder Mum can’t do this any more.”
“Is she really bad?” I ask, as we mount what I hope is the final set of steps.
“Sometimes,” Jess replies quietly. “She gets tired really quick. She couldn’t handle all these steps.”
“That’s rough,” I murmur and Jess shrugs. I take the hint and change the subject. “Look! Is that it?”
The stairs have levelled out on to another landing, but this time there are two signs, one for seats and one for boxes. We follow the latter down a short corridor and I scan the gold-engraved plaques that are fixed to the top of each red velvet curtained doorway.
Jane Alsop.
I reach a hand to the heavy curtains and, for some reason, I hesitate. It feels like we’re a long way up. I’ve been in a theatre box once before, when Mammy got us tickets to see Lord of the Dance in Dublin, and that was fine, but this place is at least twice the size.
“You OK?” Jess whispers in my ear and I jump, lost in my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I whisper back, though I’m not sure why we’re being so quiet. It’s almost as if the building demands it. “How are you with heights?”
Jess grimaces. “Not good.”
For some reason, this makes me slightly braver. I was fine in my first room, this will be fine too. I feel for the edges of the curtains, my fingernails sinking into the deep, burgundy velvet as I drag them apart. They weigh more than curtains should, as if they’re filled with the hushed whispers of the theatre or have soaked up the secrets of decades of visitors. Visitors like Jane.
“Wow,” I breath, as I step inside. The interior is opulent. Gold, brocade fabric lines the rounded walls. The seats have worn, curving arms that reach around, almost as if waiting to embrace their occupants. I edge into the box, staying well behind the seats – the balcony railing is far too flimsy looking for my liking – and gaze down into the stalls below. A twinge radiates from my feet and up my legs; seems it’s a bit different when there’s no wall to stop me from fallin
g to my death.
“Nope, I can’t do it.” Jess hovers by the entrance, her shadow still outside the doorway. “It’s making me dizzy already. I’ll wait out here.” The curtains fall shut, blocking out the light from the corridor and the modern day with it.
I close my eyes, trying to imagine that I’m wearing my museum costume. How many times did Jane visit this theatre? Did she watch performances from this very box, or did she sit somewhere else? Am I looking at the stage from the same perspective she did? I open my eyes slowly, trying to see what she would have seen. I wonder if she longed to act, too. To be on the stage, rather than looking down at it.
A figure in the stalls catches my eye.
It must be the tour group. I drop down behind the chairs so they can’t see me, my breath coming in little gasps.
“Jess,” I hiss. “Jess!” No response. The curtain is too thick, designed to keep the noise from the corridor out. I wait, then slowly unfold myself into a standing position, relying on the heavy shadows of the curtain to hide me. I glance at the seats below and freeze.
It’s not the group, after all. It’s one solitary figure.
One solitary figure, dressed in grey.
“Niamh! Niamh, what’s happened?”
Light pours in through the curtains as Jess rips them apart. I instinctively cover my eyes as it burns into my retinas.
“Niamh!” She crouches next to me and wraps her fingers around my wrists, prying my own hands from my face. They’re wet with tears. I look up at her, confused, and it takes me a second to realize I’ve screamed.
“There . . . there was a. . .” Sobs clog my throat and I can’t get the words out. I point over the chair and Jess turns, uneasy. “I saw something. Or someone.”
She pulls me gently to my feet. “This is all my fault, I’m sorry.”
“Wh . . . what do y . . . you mean?” I stop and take a deep, shaking breath, leaning on the box wall, eyes firmly shut.
“I mean, I shouldn’t have brought you on a stupid ghost tour! What was I thinking?”
“It’s fine.” I concentrate on sucking air deep into my lungs. “Is he still there?”
“What?”
“The grey man. Is he still there?”
“What are you talking about? Niamh, open your eyes.”
I part my wet eyelashes just enough to see into the stalls of the theatre.
Empty. The theatre is empty.
MegaMegs2004: A PROPER ghost?
It’s_pronounced_NEVE: YEP
MegaMegs2004: Are u sure??!
It’s_pronounced_NEVE: . . . . . . . . .
MegaMegs2004: Are you losing it?
It’s_pronounced_NEVE: No!
It’s_pronounced_NEVE: I don’t think so. . .
MegaMegs2004: You wanna Facetime?
It’s_pronounced_NEVE: No. I look like a dog’s dinner.
MegaMegs2004: Call, then? Need to talk to you.
It’s_pronounced_NEVE: ???
It’s_pronounced_NEVE: Sure, gimme 5 xx
MegaMegs2004: xx
I unplug my phone from the charger and shut down my laptop, moving myself from the desk to a comfier position on the bed. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired – unsurprisingly, I’m still finding it hard to sleep. The phone begins to vibrate – Meghan is calling.
“Hi.” The sound of her voice usually raises my spirits, but she sounds oddly flat.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Mammy wanted to call you but she’s busy so I said I’d do it.”
“Okaaay. . .”
“She said to tell you not to worry.”
“About what? Why would I worry?”
“Granny’s in hospital.”
“Oh.” Not again.
“Yeah.”
“Is it the cancer?”
“They’re not sure.” A faint crackle on the line is the only sound for a few seconds until Meghan clears her throat. “Mammy went around this morning and found her at the bottom of the stairs. She’d fallen. She’s broken her arm,” her voice catches, thick with sobs, “and her face is all bruised. I heard Mammy telling Daddy that there was loads of blood from where she’d hit her head.”
“Poor Granny! How is she feeling?”
Meghan mumbles.
“Say that again? I can’t hear you.”
“She hasn’t woken up yet.”
I don’t stay on the phone for long after that. I can hear how upset Megs is. She didn’t exactly tell me to come home, but I know she wants me there.
I get into bed and stare at the ceiling in the dark. Pull my sheets up so just my face is visible, burrowing down into the duvet. I can’t go home now. Knowing Granny, she would never forgive me if I went back and she was OK. She’s a stubborn old bird and the one who encouraged me to follow a dream she never got the chance to.
On the other hand, she’s not well and she’s my granny.
I wish I could sleep on it.
Hours pass. Eventually, I flick my phone on to see that it’s almost three in the morning. There’s no way I’m going to sleep feeling like this, so I do what Granny would tell me to do: not lie here fretting but go and make something warm to drink, so I climb out of bed to venture to the kitchen.
The air has a bite to it as I close the door gently behind me and start to pad down the hall, grateful for my thick dressing gown and bed socks. Hardly glamorous, but I’m way past caring. I wrap my hand around the little pot of drinking chocolate burrowed deep into my wide pockets and pray that no one has nicked my milk again.
I remember the last time I walked the corridor in the middle of the night and feel a shiver of unease, but the lift is quiet and the lights are on. I’m on the first floor now, directly above reception, and I’m insanely grateful for that.
My milk is in the fridge, safe and sound, and I ease open cupboard doors in search of a small saucepan. I find one, a dull silver thing that needs a good wash, and start to run the hot tap.
My thoughts are miles away as I scrub the pan – back at home, with Granny. I dry it on a questionable tea towel and turn on the electric hob, which is splattered with what I hope is bolognaise sauce. The familiar ritual sooths me: pouring the milk, letting it bubble up into foam and adding three hefty scoops of powdered chocolate, before whisking it all together with a clean fork. I let it boil a few seconds longer and then take it off the heat, giving it a little time to cool down.
I wander over to the large cork board and stare blankly at old notices advertising tutors and term time university nights out. There are long windows in the kitchen and the streetlights outside are bright. Bright enough that I didn’t have to turn the light on when I came in.
Which means I see the figure outside before he sees me.
Will.
My breath hitches painfully as I drop to the floor for the second time that day. I pull my phone from my pocket and inch up carefully, snapping a few pictures, even though I know they’ll be too grainy and dark to show anything. It’s definitely him, though, watching the building. Watching me? The curve of his nose is unmistakable and I can see his long hair from here. I’d swear he’s wearing a grey jacket, too. Was it Will I saw at the theatre? Has he been following me, like he followed Tasha? I glance down at my phone and hesitate. It’s gone three in the morning. I’ll wake Detective Moran if I ring him now.
Well, it’s that or go back to bed and wait to be murdered.
I dial the emergency number.
“Hullo?” A male voice, thick with sleep, answers on the third ring. “Detective Moran speaking.”
“Hi,” I whisper urgently, my voice low even though I know Will can’t hear me through the window. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you. . .”
“Miss Hughes?”
“Yeah, erm. He’s here.”
“What?” Detective Moran’s voice sharpens and I can hear rustling. I imagine him sitting up in bed.
“Will. He’s here. At my halls of residence. Well, not here, but he’s outside.” The other end o
f the line is quiet apart.
“OK,” he replies. “Listen carefully. I’m on my way. Is he still outside?”
I risk a quick look. “Yeah.”
“Right. I want you to go back to your room and lock the door. I’m going to stay on the phone till you’re in your room, and radio for a police car to be there as soon as possible. Keep your lights off and, whatever you do, do not open the door until you hear it’s me. OK?”
“OK.” I barely hear my response over the blood rushing in my ears. Adrenaline kicks into overdrive as I crawl to the door and run back down the corridor and into my room. I try to shut the door carefully, quietly, and turn the lock before leaning against it. I’ve never realized how flimsy it is.
“Miss Hughes?” Moran’s tinny voice rattles from the speaker and I raise the handset to my ear. “Are you back in your room?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good. Help is on the way. I’m not far but the team will probably arrive before I do. I still want you to stay put until I get there, no matter what you hear, do you understand?”
“Yes,” I repeat, my voice small.
“Now, barricade the door if you can and stay away from it.” I push myself off the wood as though it has burned me. “I’m going to hang up the phone and I want you to keep the line clear until I call again. Can you do that for me?”
I nod, even though I’m fully aware he can’t see me.
“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes, Niamh. Sit tight for me.”
The line goes dead.
I need to barricade the door. I look wildly around the room. The desk is fixed to the floor and the wardrobe to the wall – there’s no way I’m budging either of those. The bed is bolted down, too. My desk chair is the only thing I can move and I grab it, racing back to the door to wedge it under the doorknob, like I’ve seen in a hundred horror films. I always wondered what it would do and the answer suddenly becomes painfully clear.
Nothing. It will do nothing.
I curl up on my bed, wrapping myself into a tight little ball, as far from the door as I can get. I’m starting to wish I’d brought the pan from the kitchen; a pathetic weapon would surely be better than no weapon at all. There’s a plastic coat hanger on the carpet, so I reach out and pick it up, brandishing it in front of me. I watch as the minutes crawl by on my phone screen. Three . . . four . . .
Last One To Die Page 13
