‘Not even the crystal ball?’
‘Not even that.’
Jean came and sat opposite him and touched his hand. ‘Will it be safe, Arthur? Will you be safe?’
In the firelight he saw his own distorted image reflected in Jean's pebble lens. ‘I don't know. I just don't know...’
***
Just before he left his office for the meeting with Nelson Parker, David rang Mark Salberg, the psychiatrist he had told Rob about and arranged an appointment with him. He then checked his answering machine. There were four messages: two internal calls wanting information; a strange call with thirty seconds of static; and the fourth was a message from Kate.
‘Darling, sorry I didn't catch you but I'm just ringing to tell you that I'll be late home tonight. I've been rereading 'The Spider Trap'—you know that spy thriller that I was offered and turned down. Well I've changed my mind. I've decided you were right and it's time I got back into the swing of things. So I'm going to do it. I'm having dinner with the producer tonight to discuss it. OK? Don't wait up for me. Bye.’
She sounded unnaturally cheerful to David. However, despite not being able to see her that evening, he was pleased she was taking positive action about her career at last. Her meeting that night would be really good for her.
***
Dusk came haunting the quadrangles of St Austell’s.
Timothy Barlow gazed out from the dimly lighted classroom as Kenworthy, the maths master, droned on. He watched the growing gloom with unease. He had thought about his dad a lot today. It was a year since he'd died. He remembered that and it made him sad, like the coming darkness. Not having a dad was no fun. It made you different from the other boys. Of course, there were others in school whose fathers were dead, one or two, but none whose father had... killed himself. He still found it hard to say that. If only he had died naturally, in an accident or something—but to actually kill yourself—well, it's what mad people do.
He thought his mother might have rung or come down today just to give him a bit of comfort. Of course, she didn’t know he hadn’t been well and that he'd had a kind of fainting fit. Best not to worry her was what Matron had said. But he wanted to worry her. He needed her for reassurance. He only had her now. But she had been strange since his dad...
He suddenly got an image of his father in his motorcycle leathers on that day a year ago, the last day he had seen him.
‘I will be back.’ That's what he had said. He hadn’t kept his promise.
Yet.
The quadrangles began to merge into the darkness. He didn’t like the night. It worried him. Especially today. He had been feeling troubled and strange all day; but he didn’t want to mention it—not after his fainting fit. Besides there was no one he could confide in. He knew he had to keep his feelings and secrets to himself. With relief, he returned to his own dormitory. Usually he felt safe here, but this evening was different. His senses were on edge, disturbed, as though something was reaching out of the darkness to touch him.
***
Mist was already shrouding the cottage when Kate set off. She shivered as she fumbled with her car key which somehow refused to fit the slot. It wasn't the October cold that made her shiver: it was nerves. She had been like this ever since Crabtree had left her. One moment she was telling herself that she was ridiculous and stupid agreeing to attend that awful man's seance and the next she was thrilled at the thought of being in contact with Michael again. It would give her the opportunity she had longed for; the chance to ask his forgiveness.
But contact with the dead... that wasn't really possible. Once you were dead you were...
As she started up the car and the yellow fingers of her headlights cut into the darkness, she remembered her experience on Friday night. The mist and the man-shape and Michael's voice. And how had Crabtree known what Michael said to her just before he died.
‘I'll be back.’ She knew the questions but was too frightened to consider the answers.
Kate tried to console herself that at least one way or other this night would lay the ghost of Michael once and for all. That was how she would view this evening’s proceedings: in a positive light. It would also help her to feel less guilty about lying to David where she was going that night. It was with great relief when, on ringing him, she had found that he was out. It was much easier to pour her lie into his answering machine which could not challenge her deceit.
It wasn't long before she was in Brighton, dismal and dead in winter, and then heading for the hinterland of gloomy terraces and crumbling council properties, to the house where she hoped to contact her dead husband.
***
As Arthur Crabtree lay still on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the light from the sodium street light outside threw a shadowed mosaic onto the walls of the darkened room. He breathed shallowly, self-inducing the surface consciousness to leave his body. His mind, however, would not go blank. It retained a nagging image—the face that would not fade.
He had eaten and drunk nothing in preparation for the meeting and now he was feeling tired and weak. He dug deeper into the mind's resources, pushing back the barriers of consciousness.
Gradually the face began to fade; as it did so it grew smaller until eventually it resembled a spot of light in the void of his mind. And then the image of his mother flitted into view. She smiled sweetly at him. It was the same smile she had given him all those years ago when she had appeared to him in the garden when he was nine.
Her smile broadened and twisted. So did the face. It contorted, the flesh rippling and buckling, exploding in pustules. Then his mother's face broke open violently like a mask splitting in two and behind the mask was another. It was that face again – the one that haunted him. And it was grinning.
***
Downstairs in the silence, Jean Wilson prowled, pumping a cushion here, straightening a chair there. She gave the little piano another wipe with the duster, allowing her fingers to run along the keys. Gazing around the gloomy chamber, she gave a satisfied smile. Everything must be just right for tonight.
Tonight was special.
Tonight she was to see her beloved perform a true contact with the other world. There would be no gimmicks, no trickery. This time it was to be the real thing.
***
Kate sat in her car and stared at the front door of Crabtree's terraced house. It looked ordinary, unremarkable, in a row of similar houses. True, it was a depressing street with obvious signs of decay and neglect but nonetheless, it was normal. Was it here that she would really be able to speak to Michael again?
Suddenly she felt very stupid. What would David say if he saw her here, now, playing some farcical spook game with Crabtree who was either some kind of charlatan or crank. He would most likely have her certified. He certainly would drop her like a hot brick. And who could blame him? Who would want to stay around a woman who was trying to pass a message on to her dead husband? This was ridiculous; she must leave before the farce actually began.
Kate put the car into first gear and turned the engine on. Nothing happened; there was no reaction at all. It was lifeless. In some strange way this did not surprise her. She tried again, her mind telling her body to go through the motions, while at the same time knowing that it was useless. The engine did not even turn over.
She glanced at Crabtree's door: number 69. Its green paint was flaking—a nonentity of a door—yet it beckoned. Instinctively she felt drawn to it. Somehow, she knew that she had to enter. It was Fate and who was she to deny Fate?
Suddenly she noticed a dark figure in front of the car. She could see nothing of its features as it stood against the light of the street lamp. With slow deliberation it moved around the side of the car. She heard the passenger door handle turning. She looked across. It was unlocked. She leaned over quickly to press the lock down. But she was too late. The door swung open and chill air swept into the car. The silhouetted figure leaned forward towards Kate, the gaunt features illuminated by the lights from
the dashboard.
‘Anything wrong?’ said a polite, serious voice.
Kate felt a wave of relief. She managed to produce a smile for the policeman. ‘Er no. I'm just calling on a friend. Mr Crabtree at number 69.’
‘I see. Engine all right? I thought you seemed to be having some trouble.’
‘No, no. Everything’s fine.’ She was lying again and she began to feel nervous.
The policeman’s immobile features, ghoulish in the green light of the dashboard, stared back at her in disbelief. She turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred gently.
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Sorry to have bothered you then.’ The figure withdrew.
‘Thank you anyway.’ she called after him.
‘That's all right,’ he called back as he closed the passenger door.
She watched as he walked down the street. On reaching the street lamp he turned and glanced back at her. Kate felt guilty of some unknown crime. No, it wasn't unknown. She had lied. She had... Oh, she didn't know what. The whole business was ransacking her mind.
With sharp urgent movements, she left the car, locked it and glancing briefly at the still watching policeman, and made for that green door with the peeling paint.
***
It was dark when Rob Moore left the offices of L.T.V. He had spent most of the afternoon staring at a blank notepad, willing ideas to come to him, trying to block out other thoughts—thoughts that threatened his sanity.
He had failed.
As he made his way to his car, he realised that he couldn't face the prospect of spending an evening at home with Fiona nagging at him. Even the indifferent Fiona had been showing some concern over his behaviour in the last couple of days. The thought of her remorseless interrogation made him shudder.
Some miles from home, he pulled off the road into the car park of the Shoulder of Mutton. He'd spend a few hours here before braving the domestic front. Perhaps a good dose of Dr Johnnie Walker's medicine would cure all his ills.
***
The door was opened by a thin, unhealthy-looking woman in thick glasses who introduced herself as Mr. Crabtree's 'helper'. She offered to take Kate's coat, but Kate resisted. She felt vulnerable as it was and keeping her coat on somehow gave her the feeling of being a little more secure as though, if necessary, she could make a speedy exit without hindrance.
On entering the hall, the stale stench of the house assailed her, and she felt as if she would choke. All self-control seemed to be leaving her as though she had surrendered to some hidden force that had led her into this mad excursion. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, the sharp pain helping her to keep in touch with reality.
Crabtree's 'helper' showed her into the darkened parlour.
‘Please sit yourself at the table. I'll let Mr. Crabtree know you've arrived. He is upstairs at present, preparing himself for tonight's contact.’ After these words, the strange-looking woman glided from the room as if she herself was a wraith, from a dark region.
Kate did as she was bidden and sat on the edge of a chair at the round dining table. There was a dusty shade suspended above it casting down a gloomy circle of light on to the surface of the table. This and the meagre fire in the grate were the only forms of illumination in the room. For a fleeting moment, Kate had the illusion that she was on some studio set. The whole thing wasn't real. And neither was she. She was playing a character in some weird melodrama.
Any moment now the props man would appear to sprinkle a little more dust around and stir up the fire into more life.
But he didn’t come.
She heard sounds from upstairs. God, what was she doing here? Could she leave now before Crabtree came down? She half-rose from her chair and then the face of Michael flashed into her mind. No, she must stay, stay and settle this once and for all. It had to be faced.
‘Good Evening, Mrs Barlow. I'm so glad you have come to the meeting.’ Crabtree came across and took her hand in his clammy grasp. ‘It is a meeting of the two sides: the living and the spirit world. There will be no others present except ourselves and Miss Wilson who will be assisting.’ He smiled an oily smile. ‘Are you ready, my dear? You know your friend on the other side is most anxious to speak with you. Your friend, Michael.’
‘My husband.’
‘Quite so. Are you quite prepared?’
How can I answer such a question sensibly? Kate thought. Am I ready to speak to my dead husband? How can anybody be ready for such a thing?
‘You will not disappoint him?’ asked Crabtree with a trace of concern in his voice.
‘No, no,’ Kate replied quickly. ‘Please... go ahead.’
Let’s get it over with, her mind screamed.
‘Excellent. That is brave of you, my dear. I realise how stressful all this is, but be reassured you will not regret your decision to take part in tonight’s… activity. Now before I commence, there are just a few preliminaries. During the meeting we must hold hands across the table. I am the channel, you see, through which your friend can reach you. Once I have moved into my trance in order to get in touch with the Other Side, you must not at any time let go of my hand. Not only will it break the contact, but it could be very dangerous for us both.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘By breaking contact suddenly, the spirit might be left in limbo and therefore it would have to seek refuge, a host, which would be either myself the transmitter as it were, or yourself, the receiver.’ He smiled his oily smile again. ‘Such a shock could kill.’
Kate flinched at the word. ‘I had no idea this would be so dangerous.’
‘Fear not, Mrs Barlow. As long as we keep contact, there is no risk whatsoever. I have been doing this for many years and I'm still here. Now then are we ready?’
Reluctantly, Kate gave a stiff little nod.
‘Very good, my dear. Now I must ask you to make your mind a complete blank. Wipe from it all other thoughts and images. Think of it as a sheet of pure white paper. When you have done that, I want you to gradually build up a picture in your mind of the person you wish to contact... and hold it there. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
Crabtree sat opposite Kate across the table and held his hands out for hers. Trying not to show her revulsion, she placed her hands in his sweaty palms. He clasped them in a firm grip.
‘Right, Jean, I think we may begin,'’ Crabtree said softly.
Jean went across to the small upright piano in the corner of the room and began playing quietly. It was a strange discordant piece with no discernible melody. To Kate it seemed as though the music filled the room, the notes resounding in her own head like tidal spray.
Crabtree closed his eyes, muttered a few unintelligible words to himself and then began breathing heavily, his plump shoulders rising and falling in a vigorous rhythm.
The music flooded Kates's senses, the odd chords and harsh melodies creating an image of a sharply defined landscape of black and white hills in her mind. Try as she might she was unable to wipe this vision away to create the pure-white blankness she needed to build up a picture of Michael. Ragged angular rocks imposed themselves against a searing white sky. The rocks glistened with wetness, thrusting hard against the black horizon. Gradually the music seemed to change, growing sweeter, more melodic. The pattern of the rocks changed too: they became smoother, rounder. And then in odd crevices grass and strange plants began to flourish.
The music began to raise her spirits. She felt happy. Joyful. Warm pleasure flooded her body. The music swelled in glorious rhapsody, sweeping her with delight. There were green sprouts everywhere. Lush verdant pastures replaced the rocks which flourished under skies of vibrant blue.
As the music softened, she became conscious of Crabtree’s harsh breathing. It grew louder and more regular.
And then suddenly it stopped. A brief aching silence was followed by gagging sounds and fierce cries and then a series of violent exclamations in voices and sometimes languages not his own.
These reached a climax in a high unintelligible shout as his body twisted in pain before falling backwards in his chair, jerking Kate forward across the table as he did so.
Beyond the rim of the light, his face appeared featureless like a mannequin in a shop window. Crabtree’s voice came to her, harsh and guttural, but his lips did not move.
‘Call him. Call him,’ it said.
She opened her mouth but no sound came forth. Her throat was dry and cracked. She hadn't spoken for a thousand years.
‘Call him!’ The plea was urgent.
‘Michael,’ she croaked. And then more loudly: ‘Michael.’
There was silence. A sharp fierce silence like sudden deafness. Although she couldn't see her, Kate was aware that the woman was still playing the piano—but no sound of it could be heard.
The silence pressed against her ears until it hurt.
She called his name again; and heard her own voice echo faintly in the hush. And then...
‘Kate’
Ice filled her veins.
‘Kate.’ It came again. His voice. There could be no mistake. It was no trick, no impersonation; it was Michael.
‘My darling Kate.’
She was alone in a dark void. Crabtree had gone, the weird woman playing the piano had gone, the parlour had gone. As she glared into the blackness, she became aware of a pinpoint of light in the far distance. It was moving towards her, growing in size and intensity, burning up the dark. As it grew larger, it began to take shape, a recognisable shape, a man shape.
Michael.
The shape held out its arms to her, the hands squirming, reaching to touch but Kate instinctively held back. She knew it would be wrong to respond to it physically. Words reverberated in her head, her own unspoken thoughts asking forgiveness—a plea to be left in peace.
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