Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  My ears were trained, though. I longed to hear the creak of a floorboard, the slamming of a door, yet there was no sound from Jen’s room. I knocked on her door at eleven and slowly eased it open to find her sitting up in bed. When she saw me, she began to cry.

  I sat on the bed beside her. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” I said, taking her hand.

  So, now that all this attention was about to stop, hey presto! The ghost is back. Let’s crank up the gears. Let’s get everyone running around after her again.

  They weren’t my thoughts, but I sure as hell knew that’s what other people would be thinking—that my daughter was having some kind of crisis and it had nothing to do with the paranormal.

  “Look, I’ll move back in,” I said.

  Jenny dried her eyes on her sleeve the way she’d always done as a small child. “You sure?”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “Anything, sweetheart. Like I said, we’re in this together!”

  I left her to shower and dress, and then we sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and listening to the morning phone-in on the radio, but I sensed Jenny was uncomfortable outside her zone.

  We visited the graveyard to place flowers that afternoon. Jenny was, at least, prepared to venture over our doorstep, but she remained pensive throughout the trip. Interrupting her thoughts would not have achieved anything, so I decided not to tax her with questions and let her talk when she was ready. We remained together in an easy silence, arm in arm at the graveside, neither of us knowing what the night would bring.

  ***

  “Mind if I read for a while?” Jenny asked as I flopped onto the camp bed in the corner of what was, thankfully, a reasonably large bedroom. It was a rhetorical question, merely informing me that the light would remain on for the best part of the night. I didn’t care too much, happy just to lie staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of rustling pages. I heard Jenny chuckle at something she read—that was the last thing I remembered.

  I woke in complete darkness with an immediate sense of foreboding. I reached for the light only to find the sheets from Jenny’s bed crumpled on the floor. It was two-thirty. I waited, listening for a sound and ignoring the tightening in my chest. I rose and crept towards the top of the stairs.

  I’d hoped to see a shaft of light that might suggest Jenny had simply woken with a thirst and I’d find her by the sink with a glass of water. But the whole place was in complete darkness. I shuddered—not with fear. It was a cold breeze, and after having lived in the house for so long, I knew it meant only one thing.

  I took the stairs three steps at a time and ran out through the open door, stumbling over a pair of old walking boots, sending them flying like skittles across the path. I shouted my daughter’s name over and over again, but there was no reply, just the rustling of a cat in the bushes. I stopped, gathering my thoughts. Where was she? Where was I supposed to look?

  There was a noise behind me. I turned.

  Jenny was standing in the doorway, staring at something over my left shoulder. Her eyes registered nothing. No fear. No recognition. I took a nervous step towards her. She continued to stare beyond me at something that only existed in her subconscious. I reached out to touch her…

  It were as if someone had switched on a light. Something caught my eye, a flash. I looked down and saw the blade in her hand.

  She raised her arm. I tried to step back but it was too late. The knife sliced through my shoulder. The pain felt like a fire in my veins, and I screamed, stumbling backwards, holding my shoulder as the warm sticky substance—my own blood—trickled over my fingers.

  Jenny was staring at me with venom in her eyes. “No more!” she hissed. Then, without another word, she turned and walked back into the house.

  At that point, I thought I was going to pass out. My head was spinning, and I had the sour taste of bile in my mouth. Still clutching my shoulder, I fell against the wall, wincing with the pain.

  What do I do now? What if she’s waiting for me?

  My sleeve was soaked in blood. Please, God, don’t let anyone know about this.

  I lurched forward and got myself into the hallway. The sounds from Jenny’s room told me that I was safe for the moment, but my whole body felt incredibly cold. You’re in shock. Just get to the sink. There’s bandages in the middle drawer on the right-hand side. The voice was there in my head, but it didn’t sound like mine. I pulled off my top and began to bathe the wound with a wet sponge, watching as the water mingled with my blood and swirled into the drain.

  Elizabeth ran what could only be described as a small pharmacy in the kitchen drawer: pads, bandages, slings, plasters of every conceivable size with clearly marked antiseptic creams and lotions, plus a packet of ultra-strong painkillers. I dressed the wound the best I knew how and downed a double dose of the little capsules with a glass of water. There was a clean shirt hanging over the chair. I struggled into it, shivering so violently that I didn’t even bother with the buttons.

  The process of drinking became a greater effort than it was worth. I took deep breaths and tried to steady my heartbeat. It proved useless but, at least, after twenty minutes the pain in my shoulder became a dull ache. I took two more painkillers, went upstairs—to my own room—and passed out on top of the duvet. When the morning came, the physical discomfort would be the least of my problems.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The blood was beginning to seep through the dressing. What story would I concoct? Had I accidentally stabbed myself or wandered absentmindedly into the path of a knife thrower at the local fairground?

  Jenny was sleeping peacefully when I looked in on her at nine that morning. I left a note by her bed. Jen. I’ve pulled my shoulder out. Fell awkwardly and it’s really painful. I’m taking myself to A and E. You know what those places are like. See you later. Dad xxxx

  The nurse at the station didn’t believe me. “You say your daughter did this?”

  I nodded. “It was my fault. I was late back and forgot my key. I didn’t want to wake her so I climbed over the fence and got through the window at the back of the house.”

  “And your daughter thought you were a burglar?”

  “Yes.”

  The nurse frowned. “But didn’t she recognise you?”

  “It was dark.”

  Somehow, as feasible as my story sounded, I wasn’t convincing the staff at the hospital.

  “Well you’re a lucky man,” she said. “If your daughter had swung twelve inches lower she would have stabbed you through the heart!”

  The thought chilled me. I’d never given a moment’s thought to the possibility that I could have died. I felt the blood draining from my face and the room began to spin.

  “Mr. Adams? Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I replied, telling her that I’d just felt lightheaded. I should have been glad to be alive—but I wasn’t. My blood pressure was high according to the nurse. She advised at least one full day of rest and relaxation and I wondered if a day in bed with a book and a few painkillers might not be such a bad idea.

  Jenny looked up at me as I walked through the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You look like a ghost!”

  “Jenny. We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Last night. What did you dream?”

  Jenny looked puzzled. “Why?”

  I pulled back my shirt, revealing the bandage.

  “Wow! Did you cut yourself as well?”

  I sat down opposite her. “What happened in your dream last night?”

  Jenny stared at me. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

  “I lied, sweetheart. I didn’t fall. This is a stab wound.”

  I felt as if I’d just punched my daughter in the stomach. “No! Who? Who?”

  I saw the pain in her eyes and wondered if somewhere, in the dark recesses of her troubled mind, she knew.

  “You were sleepwalking last night,” I replied. “I approached you and—�
�

  Before I could finish, Jenny let out a howl of anguish, burying her head in her hands. I watched helplessly as she rocked backwards and forwards. “No! Jesus Christ! No! no! no!”

  Leave her!

  I waited until the tears had stopped. Until she found the courage to look at me, the tears still running down her cheeks. Then I asked her. “So—are you going to tell me?”

  Jenny nodded slowly, wiping her eyes. “I was in the room,” she began. “Amelia wasn’t there but when I looked down—I realised.” Jenny hesitated. “I was dressed in a white gown—I was Amelia!”

  “And how did you feel?”

  “Angry. The door was open. For the first time. I was walking through it and he was there.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t know but I feared and hated him.”

  “And you stabbed him?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did he die?”

  “I don’t know—he fell backwards. I walked back into my room and I can’t remember any more.”

  Jenny looked up at me, angst-ridden. “I’m going crazy, aren’t I, Dad!”

  I felt as if someone had reached into my chest and wrenched my heart from behind its cage of flesh and bone. Jenny needed my reassurance but any inner strength that remained had evaporated.

  “I could have killed you—I could have killed my own father and I’d be like one of those weirdo serial killers who hears voices…” My daughter was sobbing and all I could manage was a supporting arm around her trembling shoulders.

  ***

  I left Jenny sleeping on the couch and called in at The Keys looking pale enough to arouse Josie’s concern. “You could make a fortune on Halloween!” she joked.

  I found it difficult to raise a polite smile. “It’s not funny, Jo. Have you got a minute?”

  The bar was too busy for any private conversations so Josie led me through the back, up a flight of narrow stairs and along a corridor strewn with cardboard boxes until we reached the lounge which looked more like a storeroom with a few leather chairs thrown in.

  “You look awful, hun,” she said, sitting down.

  “Jo, I don’t know what to do.”

  “We’re talking about Jenny, I presume.”

  I nodded. “I’ve got to tell someone…”

  Josie sat, perched on the edge of her easy chair and listened as I trawled through the events of the previous night. I saw the tears forming in her eyes and finally escaping, leaving tiny trails of black mascara down her cheeks. Was she crying for me or was she crying for Jen? I didn’t know.

  “Jenny thinks she is going crazy,” I told her. “And I really don’t know which way to turn.”

  Josie dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I know this is hard, hun,” she said, composing herself. “Look, hun, I’m just new to all this psychotherapy stuff, but Jenny really does need help. She’s displaying all the signs—”

  “Signs?”

  Josie nodded, soaking up another tear as it coursed down her cheek. “You’ve not found any trace of this spirit woman in your ancestry, have you?” she asked.

  “Not yet.” I hesitated. “But you said signs. What signs?”

  Josie looked at me. I thought the woman was going to break. “Psychosis,” she whispered. “Or possibly a case of borderline personality disorder.” She studied me as if the very word might carry a curse with its utterance. “That kid is like a daughter to me, and I’m telling you, Rob, this is serious shit!”

  ***

  That afternoon, I cleared the kitchen of any sharp implements, wrapped them in old newspaper and hid them under the bed. Jenny had woken while I was away and was sobbing uncontrollably when I walked through the door.

  I didn’t bother to ask her what was wrong. I just held her.

  “I had another dream,” she said, eventually managing to stem the tears. “And I saw another message on the fridge.”

  I knew that was an invitation to go and look for myself. The innocent plastic letters spelled out an ominous message.

  T H E S A I N T B U R N S I N H E L L

  “Do you know what this means?” I asked.

  Jenny shook her head. “I was standing at the fridge…in some kind of dream. I wasn’t in my own clothes and…and I was hurting…”

  “Where?”

  Jenny looked embarrassed. “You know…down there. In between my legs.”

  “You don’t remember moving the letters?”

  “No. I wasn’t thinking. I just felt rage—and pain.”

  She looked at me, her eyes heavy. “I’m so tired. I sleep but when I wake…”

  Her voice faded, but I knew. She looked weary and confused.

  ***

  We made an effort over the following couple of days, determined to mingle in a world of which neither of us felt a part. We had breakfast at a local farm shop and dined at an Italian overlooking the fountain in the centre of town. It was difficult to find any common ground beyond the grief and loss we shared, beyond our desire to break free and escape from under the clouds that hung over our lives. We tried. We eat late at a country inn and headed home beneath a cloudless sky and a full moon.

  Jenny slept, untroubled by any dreams for the following two nights, and foolishly, I slipped into a state of apathy and left a pair of scissors in the bathroom.

  Jenny was taking a bath while I watched a documentary on the life and loves of common garden insects. I’d assumed that Jenny had taken to her bed after a long soak, but when I looked in, the room was empty. I felt my chest tighten—a sudden pain exploded behind my ribs, and I stopped for a moment, leaning against the wall. This is not the time! Not now—not a heart attack!

  I looked up as the pain subsided. The bathroom door was closed. I knocked hard and called her name. No answer. I’d seen this on the TV so many times. I almost knew what I was going to find as shouldered the door, bursting the lock and splitting the frame.

  Jenny was lying in a bath of blood-red water, her eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep. I heard myself screaming her name, carrying her naked body to the bedroom. She opened her eyes—I knew she was alive. I must have called an ambulance but remember little. Her eyes remained open—open and lifeless. She tried to speak but no sound escaped her lips.

  I watched helplessly as the paramedics wheeled my daughter down the path under a flashing blue light. I was shivering violently despite the coat that someone had draped over my shoulders.

  “Jenny appears to have cut her wrists with a pair of nail scissors,” the ginger-haired girl in the green uniform told me. “But she hasn’t severed the artery—I don’t think it’s an attempt.” She continued with one eye on the ambulance. “She has a very weak pulse.” She patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry—she’s in good hands.”

  I knew that the questions would begin as soon as Jenny was stable. I could almost see them gathering with their white coats and serious expressions. Jenny would make several professional friends over the next few weeks. Friends with faces filled with concern, who talked in soft tones. They would want to win her trust—to climb inside her head and do a little rewiring.

  ***

  I called Josie from the hospital the moment the doctors had told me that Jenny was stable and sleeping peacefully. My news was greeted with a stunned silence. “She’s okay,” I added quickly. “The doctors say she’ll be fine.”

  “Why? Why did she do it—I thought she was…” Josie’s voice broke. I heard a door slam; the rumble of conversation and clinking glasses died. “I’m coming over, Rob,” she said tearfully. “Meet me by the door.”

  The phone went dead before I had time to reply, but sure enough, Josie was there within the hour. We greeted, embracing like lovers, and held each other, sobbing like children as the world turned without us. For a brief moment, and to my shame, I wanted her. It was a stronger feeling than the surge of affection that had taken me by surprise in The Keys. I wanted to feel her flesh next to mine. I wanted the comfort of intimacy to numb the
pain.

  Then Josie pulled back, almost as if we were both feeling the same passion.

  “I’ll buy you a coffee,” I said.

  Jo smiled and leaned forward, kissing me gently on the cheek. “You keep your money, hun—this one’s on me.”

  The hospital’s snack bar felt like an oasis in a desert of pain and death. We sat and talked about the good times, the nights when Lou, Elizabeth and I had sat in dark smoky clubs as Jo had belted out her Tina Turner numbers. She would shimmy by the tables, winking at the guys and shoving the mic in front of their faces as they sang a line, hopelessly off key. Occasionally, she would throw in a line: “Honey, I bet you talk out of tune!”

  Josie always ended up sitting on my knee, stroking my hair as my wife looked on with unbridled glee at my embarrassment. We would stumble home with our Chinese takeaway in a plastic bag and swill it down with a bottle of white wine. Elizabeth and I rarely got to bed before three the following morning.

  Josie smiled, her eyes met mine. “I’m thinking of taking up the act again.”

  “What? Singing? The clubs?”

  “Sure. Billy Kinsella called me the other day. Wanted to know if I was interested in a residency at a club he’s opening.”

  “Kinsella? Isn’t he dodgy?”

  “Well, he’s kind of known to the police, but I’m not marrying him, hun—just singing at his pit!”

  I laughed. Josie grinned but then leaned in and patted my hand. “If it happens, I could get Jenny in. You could come together. Kinsella wants it to be classy—good food and champagne, smart dress and pug-nosed bouncers!”

  She shrugged. “I know my act isn’t going to blow Jenny’s problems away, but I just think it might be a distraction…”

  “I know—thank you. It’ll be good.”

  I paused, remembering how carefree we had been. “They were good days…who could have guessed what was coming?” I stared down at a rather unappealing drink in a Styrofoam cup.

  Josie squeezed my hand, her eyes brimming with tears. “You deserve a break, Rob,” she said. “And if this God of ours is all he’s cracked up to be, then there must be some good times ahead.”