Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  I feel the water drawing me, an opening to a world beyond. My father told me that the water is deep and dark. We would often sit upon the bank and talk, but always I knew that I would have to return to my room. This time, I will be able to gaze at the surface, knowing that soon I would step through it into a better life.

  ***

  “Gay?”

  There were a thousand questions in my head.

  Josie leaned over and took my hand in hers. “Lou came from a family that would never have accepted his sexuality—not in a million years. In fact, his father would probably have beaten him to within an inch of his life.”

  I frowned. “So he married you to what? Please his father?”

  “He tried to live what they considered to be a normal life, and I mean normal in the sense that he would have a wife, two kids and a mortgage with an annual holiday in Spain.”

  “Is that what he wanted?”

  Josie looked close to tears. “Yes. I know you’re told to be gay and proud, but Lou just wanted an uncomplicated life.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “We made love twice, but from the beginning, Lou started to make excuses, often only coming to bed when he knew I was asleep. Then I would find him curled up asleep in front of the TV at two in the morning. He was affectionate, but he began to embrace and kiss my cheek, avoiding my lips.”

  Josie’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought he was having an affair. I was distraught. Of course, he denied it, and for a while, he really made an effort, but he could never get an erection. He even went with me to counselling…” The memories obviously brought back the pain. “It was there that he broke down and told me the truth. He was gay—he had known it since his mid-teens but lived a life of denial. He said he would give me a divorce, and that he would look after me financially, but I didn’t care about money. I was devastated. If it had been another woman… Well, maybe we could have got through it. But if you’re gay then that’s it. You can’t change who you are.”

  I ordered two brandies from a passing waiter, barely interrupting the flow of conversation. “So what happened? I mean, you’re still together.”

  “I loved him too much. That’s all. So when he said he still loved me in his own way, I clung to that, and after weeks in what seemed like a haze, we agreed to stay together as friends—as partners. Over the months—years—we slipped into this comfortable understanding. We divorced last year. No one knew—they still don’t.”

  I could not comprehend such an understanding but then I’d never been in that situation. “So does Lou suspect us?”

  Josie nodded. “I think he knows how I feel about you.”

  I stared at her. “You mean as a kind of platonic thing?”

  The tears trickled down her face. “Robert, I’ve loved you for years—I watched you rear two children with Elizabeth, my best friend, and I sat next to her making small talk with a heart that ached for you. My one enjoyment was sitting on your knee during the club gigs, singing ‘The Man I Love’ while the audience laughed, thinking I was teasing you—but I meant every word.” Now Jo was crying, and other diners were casting furtive glances. “So many of those songs—so many—I was singing to you, choking back the tears.” She looked at me. “And you had no idea, did you?”

  I shook my head. The waiter delivered the brandies and I asked for the bill. “Let’s down these,” I said. “I have an empty house and we have some catching up to do.”

  ***

  It was eight before we finally dressed and poured ourselves a drink. I cranked up the stereo as Frank sang ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ and we danced. It felt good to hold another woman—a woman who truly loved me without condition, knowing that after all this time, I loved her equally. If anyone had told me the degree of strength I would draw from that love, I would never have believed them. We were a team now, and together, somehow, some way, we were going to get Jenny back.

  ***

  I called Josie the following evening after arriving home from the hospital. I needed her now more than ever. Jenny hadn’t stirred, and my insecurities bubbled to the surface.

  “So what will happen now?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Will you tell Lou?”

  I heard a sigh. “I can’t think about that right now. It’s still going to be difficult to walk out. He’s my best friend, Rob. I know it’s kind of weird, but I just want you to hold on to the fact that we love each other, okay?”

  I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see me.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  There was a brief silence. “Look, sweetheart, let’s just get Jenny back on her feet. You’ve got me for life if that’s what you want. Let’s not rush.”

  I felt easier. It really didn’t matter. Josie would always be a phone call away at most. We could share a pizza or a bed anytime we liked. I pulled a can of beer from the back of the fridge and turned on the TV, lost in thought.

  Where are you, Jenny? Where the hell are you?

  ***

  I am hungry and my stomach aches. The sun streams through the trees and I sit in the broken rays looking like one of those angels in the Bible. A fallen angel, maybe, but I’m not evil. I have killed a man of God who chose to serve the Devil, but I am not evil. I know this in my own heart. The sun warms me. Last night I heard voices—through the stillness I heard someone talking. There is a part of me that does not belong here. As if I am visiting this body. They were voices from another world, from which I have been torn. I have decided to wait here until I can wait no longer. Till the hunger makes death appear a blessed release. I will never see that attic room again—I will never wake in my bed with an aching heart, longing to see my child. I will be with my maker, from whom I will pray for forgiveness. I am confused but I have to believe that God is love.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Helen Pace from the Tabwell Herald called to say they would be interested in running my story, asking if I could meet with one of their reporters the following day. I agreed, wondering if the article might bring Blakely out of the shadows.

  After taking several gulps of lukewarm coffee, I made my way to the graveyard. I hadn’t visited Elizabeth and Hanna’s grave for several weeks, so I stopped off and bought a bunch of flowers from the local supermarket, pulling the old strands of decaying stems from the pots and replacing them with the new blooms. If Elizabeth could see my feeble efforts at flower arranging, she would have laughed.

  I felt squirming in my gut—that unease that comes the moment you confront your wife after having climbed out of your mistress’s bed. Josie and I were, in the language of social media users, in a relationship. Suddenly, the friendship that teetered on the edge for so long had plunged headlong into love and all the uncertainty that came with it.

  I had believed that we would be friends for life. We were comfortable together, and if we fell out, forgiveness and reconciliation were never far behind. Would this be the beginning of the end? Would Josie find the man she had loved for so long to be a disappointment? Would I let her down? Would we grow tired and intolerant before finally going our separate ways? The thought appalled me. We could never rekindle our friendship, yet I could never envisage living without her.

  Maybe Elizabeth could read my thoughts. I wondered if she would give us her blessing. If there was life after death, how would the dead feel about their partners finding new love? I mean, really feel? Freed from the mortal body, would you ever want to return the ailments and constraints of life in order to enjoy a physical union once more?

  The questions remained in my mind as I drove home and changed, ready for the hospital. I was going to tell Jenny about Josie. I needed to tell her that everything would work out. She liked Jo. Then I would tell her that I was heading back to Tabwell in the morning, and if things went to plan, we would have her back with us very soon. I wanted to believe it, but life was continuing on its unpredictable course, and Blakely was never far from my mind. Who was the fake reporter? And, more
importantly, what did he want?

  ***

  Thunderclouds rolled over the horizon as I set off down the motorway the following morning, and if the Tabwell Herald wanted some ghostly pictures then they couldn’t have chosen a better day. The sombre light had reduced even the prettiest of village greens to that of a rather unwelcoming, soulless and haunted space, and for a moment I imagined the spirits of the dead seated around its stone memorial.

  I drove past the green and turned left, towards the town, and less than five minutes later, I pulled into the car park at the rear of The Herald’s offices.

  They were nothing more than two properties knocked into one, the entrance on the corner of a narrow side street and the main road through the town. I walked through the doors and into a small well appointed reception, occupied by a young receptionist.

  Suzy greeted me with an engaging smile and invited me to help myself to a drink from the state-of-the-art coffee machine in the corner. She was about five foot in heels, slender as a stick, and instantly likeable, possessing a natural warmth that put me at ease. It wasn’t hard to see why they’d put the girl up front.

  I’m not great with machines. This one was threatening to make a fool out of anyone attempting to extract a liquid refreshment from its bowels, and I managed to press for a coffee minus the sugar. Suzy smiled warmly and peered at her computer screen, contentment oozing from every pore. I waited, as nervous as I’d ever been in the dentist’s waiting room, trying to remind myself that this was going to be painless. The door opened and Helen Pace strode through with her hand outstretched.

  She would have got the part in a movie playing herself, should the opportunity have arisen. A slim brunette with a grey pencil skirt and pristine white blouse, even with her hair tied into a bun, and her eyes shadowed beneath heavy rimmed spectacles, she was quite clearly an efficient and competent woman. I guessed she meant business; any female who went to such lengths to disguise her looks had her sights set far beyond a local rag. She was friendly enough, but I knew that if my tale lacked legs, as they say, she wouldn’t be considering my daughter’s plight for one second.

  “You’ll be seeing Liam Vernon,” she told me. “He’s particularly good with the off-beat stories.”

  I’d just finished my coffee as a rather portly man appeared at the door. He smiled and held out his hand. “Mr. Adams? I’m Liam. I’ll be talking to you about your…erm…experiences.”

  I looked at him, standing in his ill-fitting jacket and baggy trousers. He seemed to be a contented man in his late-thirties, although his thinning hair and lack of fashion sense made it difficult to be sure. I followed him down the corridor into a rather sparse room with plain white walls and fading brown carpet tiles. The only light came from a single window, giving the whole place a rather gloomy feel.

  “We’ll get some photos later. Our man with the lens will be with us as soon as he’s finished at the tennis club.” He glanced at me, lowering himself into the chair and signalling for me to sit opposite. A single wooden table separated us. “They’re having a grand opening of their new indoor court. That’s as big as it gets, around here!” He smiled, glancing at his surroundings. “It’s a bit like a police interview room. I’m sorry.”

  Vernon pulled out a notepad from the desk drawer, along with a tiny recorder. “Okay, just stop me when you fancy another drink.”

  I felt myself tense. He was going to ask me to start at the beginning but I was already there, standing at the lounge window on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Hanna raised her hand and waved. It was the last thing she ever did.

  ***

  I find some berries and wonder if they are edible. Why should I care? I decide to leave them, wishing I’d listened when my father was explaining the shrubs and the trees and the fruit they bore. I wonder what course my life may have taken if I had been born into the family that had imprisoned me. If my mother had been allowed to love me.

  Sarah always plaited my hair and told me I was beautiful, but God has not bestowed me with beauty, so why should I concern myself with my hair. Sarah scolded me for pulling out the plaits but I have no interest in my appearance. My hair hangs long and loose. As plain and as uninteresting as my face. I’m sure there are those who believe that God did not actually have a plan for my life. That we are not all his children. They would preach that those born out of wedlock are destined for the fires of hell. Are we an enigma to a righteous God? Are we rejected by Him while still in our mothers’ wombs? I could not bear the thought that God would never hear my prayers or forgive my sins. Oh my God, please look upon me with mercy!

  I suddenly feel His wrath—not in my heart, but in my mind. Is this His hand, driving me into the forest to take my own life? Have I been worshipping a merciless God who cared only for those in His fold? I feel a weight in my heart and begin to vomit. I know that the end is near.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  By the time I was done telling Liam Vernon my story, the sun had managed to poke its way through the rolling clouds and we made our way to Mosswood with our lens man in pursuit. I felt my blood run cold. Was this really Amelia’s grave? Shafts of light broke between the gnarled branches of the trees as they clung to the last vestiges of their leaves, turning from shades of green to flaming red and primrose yellow, illuminating a carpet of soft brown decaying foliage.

  We worked our way through the wood, following the pathways worn by the public over the years. Children had hung a rope from a large overhanging branch and Liam told me that the council had planned an activity area for the local kids with a few picnic benches. I was more concerned with the pond.

  Danger signs alerted us to the water ahead.

  NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT

  Barbed wire, surrounded the mossy bank sloping down to the black grimy surface of the water which was, I reckoned about forty metres across.

  “It’s unbelievably deep,” Vernon told me. “Almost like a mine shaft.”

  We stood alongside the fence, staring out across the lake. “Is there any chance of finding a body in there?” I asked, feeling suddenly pessimistic.

  Vernon shrugged and smiled. “It all depends on how much you want it.”

  “And how much it costs,” added the photographer, who had said little since joining us.

  Vernon smiled again and turned to his colleague. “Shall we get some shots, then?”

  Finally, the photographer held out his hand. “The name’s Phil,” he said.

  Phil took about ten shots with me looking pensive and a couple of others looking out over the water and smiling directly into the lens for the final picture. It all took no more than a few minutes before we made our way back, shook hands and parted. Vernon told me that the story would make the following week’s edition and arranged to send me a copy.

  ***

  Sebastian had left a message on my answering machine, which flashed ominously in the darkened room as I walked through the front door. I called him back, apologising for not having kept him up to date. I’d been too busy with Josie, although I decided not to add that to the list of excuses. He listened as I took him through the events of the past few days but offered no advice or opinion when I’d finished.

  I dropped in on him the following morning. I could smell the coffee. “I’ve been thinking,” the old man mused as I followed him into his lounge. “This Blakely character?” He turned as I nodded. “You might want to put some effort into finding out what he wants.”

  “Meaning?”

  Sebastian’s brow furrowed. “Who could have possibly told him about the body?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment. “Only the minister—or Farriday.”

  “So, news either travels fast or this Blakely is somehow involved in the church or maybe the manor.”

  “You think Farriday or the minister might know who he was?”

  Sebastian nodded slowly “If you can describe him accurately enough, it might be worth a try.”

  ***

  I punched the number
for St. Jude’s into my mobile and waited. The clock on the mantelpiece sounded heavy like the ageing heart of an old man. Sebastian watched me like a wise old owl as the reverend answered, sounding tired and rather distant. The sound of my voice did nothing to lift his spirits.

  “I’ve talked to the elders,” he told me wearily, “but to be honest, they sound as if they might opt to ignore the whole thing.”

  My heart sank. “What about the hierarchy? Surely they will not want the name of the parish besmirched?”

  There was a pause. “You’ve been to the papers, I know. I’ve had a visit from our local reporter. I think they might wish to ride this out. We would, of cause, distance ourselves from his actions, pray for forgiveness on his behalf—”

  “And what about the girl he raped? Will you pray for her? Couldn’t you at least give her a decent burial?”

  I could sense the tension in the minister’s voice. “If it were down to me, Mr. Adams…”

  I sighed loudly, making sure he could hear my frustration. “I know, but that doesn’t bring my daughter back, does it?” I threw the phone down without having bothered to enquire about the mysterious Blakely. How many other men walked the path of righteousness with evil in their hearts? Allington was dead, yet his name lived on—a local saint. It was at times like this that I really wanted to believe in eternal damnation. A pit of fire where the likes of Allington would burn while their victims smiled down at them from behind the pearly gates. But Amelia was a tormented spirit, unable to rest until she found justice.

  ***

  I arrived home just as the house phone rang. It was Kelly Dawson’s mother. She tried to sound upbeat, asking after Jenny and suggesting that my daughter might like to spend some time with Kelly. I hadn’t the energy to go into the whole spirit thing, deciding to keep to the medical facts. Jenny had collapsed inexplicably and was in a coma; her condition was stable.