The Soul Auction

by Amy Cross

  “I hate you!”

  Eventually Kerry managed to put her back to bed, and I focused on calming Alice down. By the time I was ready to go to bed myself, Kate was back on her side and I decided not to disturb her. Now it's a little after 6am and although I've got Alice up, I decided to leave Kate to sleep for a while longer. I've been telling myself that I simply wanted Kate to get some more rest, but deep down I know the truth. I'm scared that she'll still be mad at me, and that I'll screw things up even more.

  “I hate you!” her voice rings out in my head. “I hate you! I hate you! I -”

  Suddenly I feel the pain again, rippling up from the back of my head and passing in a flash to the left side of my forehead. I let out a faint gasp, and the pain lasts a couple more seconds before fading.

  I'm not ill.

  I can't be ill.

  Reaching down, I take the concealer from the sink and start figuring out how I'm going to use make-up to cover the bruise on my cheek. I've never been particularly good with this stuff, but I figure I'll just have to do my best. I can't walk around with the bruise on display like this. If even one person asks how I got it, I swear I'll burst into tears and never stop crying.

  ***

  This is the first cigarette I've smoked in...

  How long?

  Five years?

  I gave up when I became pregnant for the first time, so it must be about six and a half years since the last time. I swore I was off them forever, but right now I need something to stop my hands shaking. I'm sitting on a bench outside the front of the pub, with Alice next to me but upwind from any risk of smoke, and I know I should go inside and wake Kate up.

  It's 8am and she'll be hungry. She'll be wanting breakfast.

  “I hate you!” she screams in my head.

  “You don't hate me,” I whisper. “Please, you -”

  Before I can finish, I hear footsteps nearby. Turning, I half-expect to see the landlady bringing Kate outside, but instead I feel a sense of dread as soon as I spot that awful Dora Ohme woman coming this way. She's carrying a basked of flowers, and she gives me a dirty look as she passes. I genuinely don't believe that the pub's landlady would have spread gossip about what happened last night, but maybe this Dora can somehow sense that I've had a bad time.

  “What?” I ask as she reaches the corner, still glancing at me.

  “I didn't say anything,” she replies tersely.

  “No, but you were staring at me like I did something awful to you.”

  She stops for a moment.

  “How did you get that bruise?” she asks.

  “Do you need to know?”

  “I walked past the public house last night,” she continues. “I happened to glance inside, and I saw you drinking alcohol at the bar with a gentleman.”

  I feel a shudder pass through my chest. How the hell did I end up giving this harridan any ammunition to use against me? Suddenly noticing the smoke from my cigarette, I place the stub on the ground and crush it with my heel.

  “It was almost eleven o'clock,” she adds with a haughty tone. “I assume your children were asleep upstairs at the time? Alone in their room?”

  “They were being babysat, actually,” I reply, which is a lie.

  “Oh, they were?” She nods thoughtfully, but I can tell that she doesn't entirely believe me. “Well, that's good to know,” she adds finally. “For a moment, I thought you were so irresponsible, you'd left them all alone. How old are they, again? One's five and one's, what, six months?”

  “Don't you have anywhere to be?” I ask.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I have flowers to deliver to the church. Father Redman always appreciates my efforts when it comes to the floral arrangements, and these fuchsias are particularly -”

  “Well off you go, then,” I tell her, not really wanting to hear about her precious flowers. “You don't want to keep the good reverend waiting, do you?”

  She stares at me for a moment, before muttering something under her breath and finally continuing on her way. As soon as she's out of sight, I lean forward and rest my head in my hands for a few seconds. I'm not hungover, but I feel like crap and there's a part of me that just wants to get out of Curridge and take the girls back to London. This attempt at a holiday is not working out, and running away would be so easy.

  But no.

  I'm going to take Kate and Alice to the forest, and we're going to walk all the way to the river. Then we're going to have a picnic for lunch, and maybe play some fun games, and I'm going to remind Kate that we can still have a good time.

  Even though I desperately want another cigarette, I take the freshly-bought pack and toss the whole lot into a bin as I carry Alice back into the pub.

  By the time I get to the top of the stairs, I've already decided that I'm not going to ask Kate about last night. Not initially, at least. I'm sure it'll come up at some point, but I want this day to start on a positive point, so I force a smile as I carry Alice into the bedroom, and I head straight over to the window. After pulling the curtains open, I turn to Kate's bed – still with a smile on my face – and focus on the fact that this is going to be the best day ever.

  “Hey, honey,” I say happily, “how -”

  Stopping suddenly, I see that her bed is empty.

  “Okay,” I mutter, heading out of the room and along to the bathroom, only to find that there's no sign of her there either.

  I hesitate for a moment, before making my way downstairs.

  “Is Kate in here?” I ask the landlady as I reach the bar area, but I immediately see that there's nobody at any of the breakfast tables.

  “I thought you said you left her upstairs to sleep,” the landlady points out. “I haven't seen her all morning.”

  “Neither have I,” I reply, as I feel a shudder run through my chest. “Then where the hell is she?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Alice

  Today

  “Hello?” I call out as I push the cottage's front door open, only to be met immediately by a rank small. “Graham?”

  I hear a bumping sound coming from one of the other rooms, and then a moment later Graham appears in one of the doorways.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” I reply, checking my phone but seeing that there are still no new reviews from Dora Ohme. Slipping the phone away, I step into the room. “At least the flies are all gone. Did the police say it's okay for people to be here?”

  “The police say Dora died of natural causes,” he explains, with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “As far as they're concerned, the cottage is of no interest now, so I figured I'd come and start cleaning.”

  “Did Dora really have no family?”

  “No-one. So I guess I'll have to be the one to sort the place out.” He turns and heads back into the next room. “I'm going to call a house clearance guy,” he calls out, “and have him take everything away. Any proceeds can go to the local hospital as a donation.”

  Making my way over to the doorway, I look through and see that Graham already has an impressive set of cleaning equipment arranged on the table. I can't help looking at the spot where we found Dora's body, and then a moment later I spot a black fly crawling across the wall.

  “It's so quiet in here,” I point out.

  “What were you expecting?” Graham asks.

  Heading over to the table, I see that Dora's laptop has been pushed aside.

  “Did the police not even want this?” I ask.

  “Dora was eighty-one years old,” he replies. “I think they were surprised she even had a laptop.”

  Although I feel as if I shouldn't disturb anything, I carefully open the laptop's lid anyway. I hit the power button, but there's no battery, which I guess means it's unlikely that this particular machine was used for posting the Dora Ohme reviews. Still, I can't help taking my phone out and checking yet again in case her account has been active, although I quickly see th
at nothing has been posted since the earlier review of The Death of Elizabeth McGarrett.

  “You knew Dora a little, didn't you?” I ask, turning to see that Graham is opening a packet of cloths.

  “Exactly. I should have checked on her more often.”

  “Did she ever talk to you about seeing a woman die on the beach? It was something that happened a long time ago.”

  “I don't remember her mentioning it.”

  “What about a...”

  I hesitate, worried that I'll sound ridiculous if I even say the words.

  “Did she ever mention something called a soul auction?” I ask finally. “Did you ever hear her say those words?”

  “Soul auction?” He furrows his brow. “No, never. Why? What does it mean?”

  “I have no idea. Google didn't help either.”

  “Dora was into some weird things,” he explains as he starts spraying cleaning fluid on the counter. “By the time I got to know her, she was quite reclusive. Well, maybe that's not the right word. She wasn't afraid of people, or anything like that. She always just seemed too busy to stop and talk.”

  “Busy?”

  “Like she always had somewhere else she had to be. Like her mind was always on something.”

  “But she never said what?”

  “Like I said, I didn't know her that well. We were neighbors, that's all.”

  He stops and stares at the counter for a moment, and then he looks over at the spot where Dora's body was found. I can already see the sadness in his eyes, and it's clear that he's struggling with the knowledge that the body has been here in this cottage for so long, without anybody noticing that something was wrong. In fact, I think he might be on the verge of falling apart, and I don't quite know how to help.

  “Do you want to grab lunch in the pub?” I ask. “There's a lot I'd like to ask you.”

  “Why?”

  “You don't need to be cleaning this place right now.”

  “No, I mean why do you care about Dora?”

  “It's complicated.”

  “You keep saying that, but you're not getting any closer to actually telling me what your deal is.” He pauses, and now he seems a little angry. “Are you family? 'Cause if you are, I'll totally back off and let you take over all the cleaning and everything else.”

  “I'm not family,” I tell him. “I'm just an interested bystander.”

  “But you mentioned reviews earlier.”

  “Dora and I met online,” I add, which I figure is sort of maybe true. A little. “She just said a few things that caught my attention, and I thought I'd come down and try to speak to her in person.”

  “And then this happened?”

  “And then this happened.”

  “Huh.” He stares at me for a moment. “That's a hell of a coincidence.”

  “She's been leaving reviews on my books,” I add, before I even have time to stop myself. “Not just my books, but lots of books. And these aren't normal reviews, they're very strange, very specific reviews that make it sound like...”

  I pause, before realizing that I've already said too much to stop now. Taking my phone from my pocket, I bring up Dora's profile and start scrolling down through all the book reviews she's left.

  “Wait,” Graham says cautiously, “have you basically been stalking her?”

  “It's a long story,” I reply, “and sure, I don't come out looking so great, but that's not what's important right now.”

  The page keeps reloading, bringing up more and more reviews, until finally I get to the very bottom.

  “September 10th last year,” I point out. “That's when she left the first review.”

  “That was six months ago,” he replies. “The police think she'd been dead for about six months.”

  We stand in silence for a moment, each of us staring at the screen.

  “So what are you saying?” Graham adds after a few more seconds. “Are you saying that Dora died, and then her ghost started leaving book reviews? 'Cause I've got to admit, that sounds just a little unlikely.”

  “I'm saying that someone has been leaving these reviews, and they've been doing it under her name.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “They didn't seem too interested.”

  “Dora was a big reader,” he explains. “Go through to the living room and you'll see stacks of books, and she had more up in the attic. Once she even had to ask me to come and carry loads of boxes up there, and they were full of books she couldn't bear to throw away. But unless I'm very much mistaken, she wasn't big on technology. To be honest, I'm surprised she even owned a laptop.”

  “One of her reviews mentions a woman dying on the beach,” I reply. “I think that woman was my mother.”

  “For real?”

  “So now do you understand why I just want to know a little more about what's been happening? Because it almost feels like there must have been a reason for Dora leaving reviews on my books.”

  “You think she knew there was a connection?”

  “I think I honestly don't know.”

  He pauses for a moment, before heading back over to the counter and starting to clean again.

  “Like I told you,” he says with a sigh, “I didn't know Dora that well. But have you spoken to Father Redman?”

  “Who's Father Redman?” I ask.

  “He's at the church along the road. Maybe you've seen the spire? Anyway, he and Dora go way back.”

  “They were friends?”

  “I didn't say that. I said they go way back. They knew each other.” He grabs another cloth from the packet. “If anyone knew Dora, and if she confided in anyone, I'm sure it'd be him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lizzie

  Thirty years ago

  “Don't panic!” Kerry says as we hurry along the row of cottages. “She can't have gone far!”

  “Kate!” I shout, desperately hoping that I'll spot her sulking somewhere nearby. “Kate, where are you?”

  “Are you sure you can't think of anywhere else she might have gone?” Kerry asks. “Somewhere with sentimental value, maybe?”

  “I already checked the stones,” I reply, stopping at the top of the road and looking around. All I see is the forest, although after a moment I spot the spire of the church poking out through the tree-tops. “I thought maybe she'd gone to rescue that goddamn bear herself, but there was no sign of her.”

  “She wouldn't run away, Lizzie, I'm sure of it!”

  “After what happened last night?” I ask, turning to her. “You heard her! She hates me! She damn near knocked me out!”

  “She's just a little girl,” Kerry replies. “Listen, we're going to stay calm and take a quick look around. We'll split up so we can cover more ground. And then, if there's still no sign of her after one hour, we'll call the police.”

  “This can't be happening,” I continue, as I feel tears welling in my eyes. “Please God, bring her back to me. I'll do anything you want, but bring my little girl back!”

  ***

  “Kate?” I shout as I push the heavy wooden door open and hurry into the church. “Kate, are -”

  Stopping suddenly, I feel a rush of relief as I see that Kate is at the far end of the aisle. She's on her knees in front of the altar, with her back to me, and she doesn't react as I take a step forward.

  “She asked me if she could have a word with God,” a voice says suddenly.

  Turning, I find that there's a priest standing nearby with a faint smile on his face.

  “Father Cole,” he explains, reaching out and shaking my hand. “I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that this fine young lady is your daughter.”

  “How long has she been here?” I stammer.

  “About an hour.” He furrows his brow. “I was surprised that she showed up alone. It was only luck that I happened to have unlocked the door so early, so that I could get on with some work. She told me that she had your permission to come here, but I'm starting to think
that maybe she was telling porkies.”

  “Kate!” I call out, hurrying alone the aisle and finally stopping right behind her.

  She's still looking toward the altar, and as I take a step around her I finally see her eyes.

  “Kate, what are you doing here?” I ask. “Why did -”

  “Sshh!” she hisses, still not looking at me.

  “Kate, listen -”

  “Be quiet, Mummy,” she continues, as she stares at the altar. “You're not supposed to yell in church.”

  I open my mouth to ask if she's serious, but I guess she means every word. I honestly don't think I've ever taken Kate into a church before, and she's never even asked me any awkward questions about God or Jesus. Right now, however, she's on her knees in front of an altar, and she seems to be genuinely in awe. My first instinct is to lead her away and tell her not to believe in all this stuff, but then I realize that maybe I should let her make up her own mind. A moment later, hearing calm footsteps approaching, I turn to see that Father Cole is coming over to join us.

  “Kate told me that she wants to know whether God is real,” he explains, “and I told her that she'd have to determine that for herself. So she asked if she could ask him if he's real, and I told her to give it a shot.”

  “Is that what you're doing?” I stammer, looking back down at Kate. “Honey, you never -”

  “Please be quiet, Mummy,” she says, interrupting me but finally at least bothering to look up at me for a moment. “I'm trying to listen.”

  “To what?”

  “I don't know. I haven't heard it yet.” She stares at me for a moment longer, before turning back to look at the altar.

  “It's natural for a child to have a sense of wonder,” Father Cole tells me, keeping his voice low. “Especially, perhaps, if she has questions that haven't ever been answered.”

  “I've never talked to her about this kind of thing,” I reply, as I take a step back from the spot where Kate is still on her knees.