The Evil Within

by S M Hardy

  I sank down onto the bed feeling like the breath had been knocked out of me. Someone had really and truly tried to kill me and that someone was certainly not a ghost.

  Who would do such a thing? Why would anyone do such a thing? Jed possibly had keys to the cottage, but I couldn’t think of a single reason why he would want to kill me unless he was the crazy one. Maybe he didn’t like having competition. Maybe that was how he saw me. He could see the dead and now so could I.

  That’s even crazier.

  Is it? I mulled on it for a bit. Actually, it was. If anything, Jed had tried to encourage me to accept my … gift? Curse? What the fuck was I thinking? Real life people didn’t talk to or see the dead.

  You did last night. You did a couple of days ago. You recognised Peter Davies’s voice on the tape. They recognised his voice on the tape. Face it, why don’t you?

  Something weird was happening to me, whether it was madness or not was debatable.

  You’d prefer you were going insane than believe you could possibly be seeing the dead?

  Not prefer – it was just the more plausible option.

  Right!

  Then something else occurred to me. The second voice on the tape; he’d been practically ranting with rage. The same rage, the same words that had flowed through my head when I’d been chasing after the child through the wood. I’d been full of inexplicable anger and some of the terrible thoughts that had flickered through my head, there but not fully forming, were more than a little disturbing. They were downright sickening and not the thoughts of a normal, rational man. They were not my thoughts. No, never. Never, never, never.

  But if I was going mad …

  Don’t start that again. Look at the evidence.

  What evidence? There was no fucking evidence.

  There’s the tape. There’re four witnesses to something out of the ordinary happening last night. There’s the footprint.

  ‘I need to talk to Emma and Jed,’ I said out loud.

  You need to tell them everything.

  Everything?

  Silence.

  I suppose I did. But where to start? It was something I would think on; after all, I had all night. Unless my would-be murderer tried again.

  We’ll keep you safe. And this time it was like a whisper caressing the inside of my skull. The tension inside me drained away and with it any energy I had and, despite having slept away the day, I flopped back on the bed and was asleep before my eyes had barely closed.

  I must have woken at least once during the night, although I couldn’t remember it, as when I finally opened my eyes to the first inkling of dawn seeping beneath the curtains I was under the duvet.

  The need to pee had me reluctantly leaving the cosy comfort of my bed and by the time I’d done the necessary all that had happened over the previous two nights came flooding back, bringing with it a tsunami of emotions, most of which were unrecognisable even to me. Fear and panic were the biggies. I actually got as far as dragging my suitcase from the wardrobe before I managed to get a grip.

  I sank down on the bed. Was running back to London going to solve anything? There were just as many ghosts there to haunt me. Maybe not the kind that went bump in the night or scratched at door frames; probably a far worse kind – memories.

  She’d been dead for over two years and yet I still saw her everywhere. In the house, on the street. A couple of times I’d even embarrassed myself by accosting total strangers, women who, when they’d turned to face me with startled and slightly alarmed expressions, I’d realised looked nothing like her. Nothing like her at all, and I wondered how I could have even thought they might have been her.

  No, I couldn’t go back. I’d thought I could; I’d thought I must, but I couldn’t keep running away every time the going got tough. Something was happening in Slyford and, like it or not, I’d become embroiled in it. There was also the small matter of someone wanting to see me dead – or at least gone. Had they waited a day they’d have got their wish, I’d have left. Then all at once it became clear to me and I could feel my lips curling into a grim smile.

  I was going to stay. I was going to stay and solve the mystery, if there really was one. I was buggered if I was going to let someone scare me away without at least finding out why.

  Mind made up, I shoved my suitcase back into the bottom of the wardrobe before I had a chance to change my mind, got washed and changed and hurried downstairs.

  The garden outside the kitchen window was shrouded in mist, but the sun was already beginning to break through, making it a whole lot brighter and less like something out of a horror movie. I could even see the trees looming up on the boundary.

  I wondered if it was too early to go and call on Emma. I didn’t actually know where Jed lived, although I did have his card somewhere with his number on it; two cards, the estate agent had sent me his card as well. Where had I put them?

  There was a pinboard on the kitchen wall with various bits of information tacked to it. Maybe I had put it there. Mug in one hand and slice of toast in the other I strolled over to take a look, munching away as I did so.

  It was as I thought. I’d tucked one of the cards down in the corner edge of the board. I stuffed the last piece of toast in my mouth, licked butter from my thumb and forefinger and reached for the card. As I pulled it out from under the strip of wood, I dislodged another card which fluttered to the floor. I bent to retrieve it and there was a loud knock on the door, which had me jerking upright and slopping my coffee over my fingers.

  ‘Shit!’

  There was another knock and, dropping Jed’s card on the table and transferring my coffee to my other hand, I crossed the kitchen to answer the door, rubbing my wet fingers off against my jeans.

  ‘Hang on a mo,’ I called, putting down my mug to fumble with the bolts. I’d forgotten I’d locked the place up like Fort Knox the evening before.

  Key turned and bolts drawn, I pulled the door open. Jed was standing with his back to me, only turning as he heard the creak of the door. He was carrying a white carrier bag tucked under his right arm, which he transferred to his left hand upon seeing me.

  ‘Still here, then?’

  ‘Still here,’ I said.

  ‘Wasn’t sure you would be.’

  ‘I nearly wasn’t,’ I told him, gesturing that he come in, ‘but not by my own devices. Coffee?’

  He nodded his thanks, and I put on the kettle while he settled himself down at the kitchen table, putting the carrier bag down on the floor beside his chair. I leant back against the sink while I waited for the kettle to boil. He’d picked up his card and was turning it over between his fingers, staring at it, forehead lined. He was nervous, pent-up – angry or anxious, I wasn’t too sure.

  ‘I was going to call you this morning,’ I forced myself to say; his nervousness was catching, ‘I think we need to talk. You, me and Emma.’

  He tapped the corner of the card on the table and then carefully laid it down as though he was giving himself time to think. When he looked up, a worried frown creased his brow and, now I had the opportunity to look at him properly, I could see that although I’d slept for almost twenty-four hours, he had the appearance of not having slept for probably even longer.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ he said, studying my face.

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  He continued to stare at me until I began to feel uncomfortable. It was a relief when the kettle stopped boiling and I had an excuse to busy myself with making him a coffee and refreshing my own mug. When I sat down opposite him he was still watching me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I think perhaps I should wait until we’re with Emma.’

  ‘Someone broke into her house last night.’

  ‘What?’ The smell of gas and the image of the flickering candle instantly coming to mind. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘A bit frightened, is all.’ He cupped the mug within his h
uge hands as though trying to warm himself. ‘She heard a noise downstairs and called me.’

  ‘You live nearby?’

  ‘Just past the Sly. I was there within five minutes.’ His face was solemn. ‘Probably the longest of my life.’

  I’d thought so. If there was nothing going on between the two of them, it wasn’t down to Jed. He was well smitten. ‘Did you catch anyone?’

  He gave a slow shake of his head. ‘As soon as they saw my lights as I pulled into the drive they were probably on their toes.’

  ‘She could have been mistaken. It’s a large, old house. Sometimes they creak and moan.’

  ‘I reckon she knows the sounds of her own house. Anyway, he left a calling card.’

  I again thought of the candle. Perhaps they’d left her a matching one. Then I realised he was studying my expression so hard it was as though he was trying to see right inside my soul.

  ‘OK, Jed, what’s going on?’ I repeated.

  He stared at me for a moment longer, then leant down and picked up the carrier bag and placed it in the centre of the table. ‘I found this lying on the floor just outside her bedroom. It must have got dropped in his hurry to get away. The carpet up there is so damn thick it didn’t break.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, but I had the feeling I wasn’t really going to like the answer.

  He gestured with his head at the bag. ‘Open it.’

  ‘What is it?’ I repeated, not moving.

  ‘I said open it,’ and I saw the first faint flicker of anger in his eyes.

  I lifted my hand and pushed the edge of the bag down with my forefinger. In it was a bottle. I looked across at Jed and frowned. His expression was grim enough that I didn’t ask any more questions. I took the bottle by the neck and pulled it out of the bag. It was an almost empty bottle of Scotch.

  ‘Recognise it?’

  I did. I had a bottle of it in the liquor cabinet – or did I? I looked at Jed and he stared right back at me. Then I got it; he thought it’d been me. The stupid bastard thought it’d been me who had broken into Emma’s.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean “no”?’ he said. ‘You and I sat at this very table supping the stuff together no more than a few nights ago.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I meant it wasn’t me at Emma’s, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ I got to my feet. ‘Come with me.’

  I led the way into the living room and to the cabinet. ‘I slept most of yesterday and didn’t wake up until almost half past eleven,’ I told him. ‘The cottage was full of gas and when I finally came in here, I found that,’ I pointed at the candle, ‘and it was alight.’

  He crossed the room and stooped down to look in the cabinet. ‘And no whisky?’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed, but knowing what I know now, probably not.’

  ‘Emma never thought it was you.’

  ‘But you did,’ I said, and I know I sounded a little bitter.

  He sighed and stroked his beard. ‘I didn’t know what to think. I thought not. I didn’t want to believe it had been you but …’ He gave me an apologetic smile. ‘I hoped not,’ he repeated somewhat lamely.

  I gave a small, unamused laugh. ‘If it’s any consolation, for a few moments I did wonder whether it could have been you who had broken in here. Whoever it was must have had a key.’ He frowned at me, his hand going back to his beard. ‘I couldn’t find how they had broken into Emma’s either.’

  ‘You think they had a key?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘But how? I mean, who would have a key to the cottage and Emma’s?’

  ‘Other than me, you mean?’

  I flopped down onto the couch, my mind working overtime, and then began to smile, but it was nothing to do with me feeling at all happy. ‘He’s one clever bastard.’

  Jed sank onto the armchair opposite me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘An almost depleted bottle of Scotch left at Emma’s; an unusual brand you’d identify as mine. Me possibly blown up so unable to defend myself and, if all else failed, just to confuse the matter, you had keys to both our homes. If one or both of us had died last night I doubt the police would have looked at anyone else.’

  ‘You think whoever was at Emma’s was after killing her?’ Jed asked, his expression bleak.

  ‘Someone sure as hell tried to kill me and planted evidence I’d been to Emma’s for a reason.’

  ‘But why?’

  I didn’t know either, but more than ever I was determined to try and find out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jed persuaded me to go back with him to Emma’s. He hoped between the three of us we might come up with a motive for someone wanting to see me, and possibly Emma, dead. I had an idea he was hoping he could convince one or both of us to report what had happened to the police. I didn’t think this was a good idea. All it would achieve would be to put all three of us on their radar, and if anything else happened they would have already made up their minds it was down to ‘one of the three weirdos’.

  If asked, my last employer swearing I’d left after having a breakdown wouldn’t exactly help matters. That I was beginning to think Sir Peter was probably right wasn’t going to do me any favours either.

  Jed waited out front while I locked up, double-checking the back door and every window. After slamming shut the front door, I got out my keys to deadbolt it and the silver tube hanging from the key ring had me pause for thought.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  I held up the keys so he could see. ‘Recognise these?’

  He took a step towards me, squinting at the three pieces of metal hanging from my fingers and his hand went to his beard. ‘Where did you get those? They’re not the ones the Morgans gave the estate agents.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it’s not the same set of keys they sent me,’ I told him, then explained about having thought I’d lost my keys and finding them in the lining of my jacket.

  ‘They were Krystal’s keys,’ Jed said. ‘She had the whistle to call for Benji, but the damn dog would never come to it. I don’t think it actually worked.’ A half-smile played on his lips. ‘She kept saying “It’s meant to be silent to humans, silly”.’

  We started off down the path together and as we stepped out into the lane, Jed said, ‘Strange how they should turn up just like that.’

  I gave a non-committal grunt in reply. It wasn’t the only strange thing that had happened, but I wasn’t at all sure how much I should admit to. I might think I was going mad, but I didn’t want other people thinking it too.

  Emma looked pale and tired, but her smile when she saw me was genuine enough that I knew she didn’t believe it was me who had paid her a clandestine visit. Sadly, her smile disappeared to be replaced by shocked concern when Jed told her in his gruff, direct way what had happened at the cottage.

  She led us out back into the conservatory, a bright and airy sanctum, where a young woman was already placing a tray on a low wicker table. Emma gestured towards the matching armchairs while she settled on the couch. I sank into the brightly coloured cushions thinking I could happily spend hours sitting in this room, staring out into the garden or engrossed in a good book.

  ‘We won’t be disturbed here,’ she confided as soon as the woman had gone. ‘The girls are setting up for the Sly Committee Autumn Luncheon.’

  ‘That today, is it?’ Jed said with an ill-disguised sneer.

  ‘Don’t be such an old grouch.’

  ‘Bunch of stuffed shirts and blue rinses.’

  ‘Not one of the ladies has a blue rinse.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  She sighed as she handed out the coffee cups. ‘They have good hearts, but yes, I do.’

  ‘Hmm, you think too kindly of people.’

  ‘You’re an old cynic.’

  I listened to their bantering for a few minutes, but I really wasn’t paying much attention. Slyford’s Village Committee sounded as dull
as dishwater. Then Emma said something that made my ears prick up.

  ‘It’s such a shame, Charles and Yvonne Morgan made all the difference. It was just what the committee needed – some fresh, young blood to buck up our ideas.’

  ‘The Morgans were on the committee?’

  She looked at me over her coffee cup as she took a sip.

  ‘Hmm. They’d only been members for a month or two when …’ Her expression became pained. ‘Well, the least said about that the better.’

  ‘They certainly livened things up a bit,’ Jed said, ‘but not everyone thought they were a good addition.’

  ‘You always get some deadwood in committees, who don’t see any change for the better.’

  ‘They certainly put the Garvin sisters’ noses out of joint.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t want to hear about all that nonsense,’ Emma said with a wave of the hand.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ I said, looking her straight in the eyes. ‘Someone tried to kill or at least scare me off last night and the same goes for you. I think I want to know about every single person in this village and the Garvins would probably be as good a place to start as any.’

  Jed gave a snort. ‘Two silly old biddies who have nothing better to do than gossip and jibe about folk.’

  ‘Jed!’

  ‘Well, it’s true and you know it. They never had a good word to say about the Morgans once they were elected onto the committee.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Charles Morgan was all for having events the whole village would enjoy. Pub quizzes, village fetes, fun runs – that sort of thing,’ Emma explained.