"Beryl," the receptionist called. "These people are looking for Mr. Frederick. Do you know him?"
"Not Mr. Frederick," interrupted Doug. "His first name is Frederick."
"Frederick. We don't have a Frederick, replied the new member of staff. "Unless you mean Freddie?"
"Yes, Freddie. That's the name they used at the newspaper office," said Julia with a sudden burst of renewed enthusiasm.
"And who are you exactly?"
After Doug had explained their intention, she seemed persuaded but insisted that only one of them should meet Freddie in the first instance. It was decided that Doug would do that whilst Julia waited in reception.
"Find out what you can about his background," Doug whispered to Julia before setting off.
"I don't know how much you know," began Beryl as they made their way along a featureless corridor. "Freddie hasn't spoken since he came in here – not a word."
"How did he come to be here?" enquired Doug.
"Social Services brought him. His wife had died in mysterious circumstances."
"What sort of mysterious circumstances?"
"It appears she was strangled. The police think Freddie did it as a result of some kind of breakdown. But he remembers nothing about it. That's why he's in here. He can't be charged because of his mental state. We keep him in a secure ward – comfy but secure."
They arrived at the entrance to a large conservatory which looked out onto the ocean beyond.
"Now, Mr – er, I don't know your name."
"Penhallam. Douglas Penhallam."
She looked surprised.
"What's the matter?" enquired Doug.
"That's a local name, Penhallam. It's just that in Freddie's notes it says something about a Penhallam Manor. He had a bad experience there. The psychiatrist thinks it may be linked to the strangulation. You don't know anything about that?"
"No, no."
"Well, I'll take you in and introduce you. Don't expect any recognition. His mind is in some other place. If he gets upset he may have a panic attack and you'll have to leave."
Beryl led him into the conservatory which appeared to be largely empty. Two elderly residents dozed in chairs by the door. Magazines and half-finished cups of tea were spread across occasional tables.
"Freddie always sits in the same place, overlooking the sea," announced Beryl.
"Freddie, you've got a visitor," she said, addressing the back of a red-winged chair.
"Always best to warn him first. Doesn't like surprises," she whispered to Doug.
"Someone's come to see you. His name is Douglas."
They moved around to the front of the chair. There, sitting propped up by cushions was a slight man with a white head of hair. His eyes stared unblinkingly towards the distant horizon.
"He's unlikely to say anything but you can have a go. It's as if he's trapped in some other place. His face changes expression but he won't talk. Sit down and I'll fetch you some tea. Freddie, Douglas is going to have a chat with you."
As Beryl departed, Doug suddenly felt very awkward. He'd given no thought as to how he would actually communicate with this man. Gentle probing and persuasion were not his forte.
"Hello, Freddie. I'm from the ANJ. Don't suppose you've heard of us. Well, no reason you should really."
Freddie's face remained implacable.
"I used to be a journalist – like you, Freddie. I worked on The Nation's Voice. Expect you know it. Bit of a rag some people say. I don't agree. Does some good investigative stuff. That was my job really – exposing hypocrisy, sniffing out lies, exposing double standards. I expect it was the same for you, Freddie."
Doug continued in this vein until Beryl returned with the tea.
"Have you made contact yet?" she enquired, setting the tea out on the table that separated their chairs.
"I don't think Freddie even knows I'm here. I can see what you mean about him being somewhere else."
"You can have ten more minutes then I think you'll have to go. It'll be time for his lunch soon."
She left to attend to another resident who had slipped from her chair. Doug tried telling Freddie about Nick and Aleena, confident that he couldn't understand a word. But it helped to rehearse the ideas that were running through his mind. There was not a glimmer of a response. Doug looked into Freddie's pale translucent eyes. Where was he? What was he thinking? How could he be brought back to the real world? He tried another approach.
"Freddie, I lied. I'm not from the ANJ and I'm not a journalist – not anymore. I was sacked – sacked for phone hacking. Listening into people's phones."
Freddie's eyes flickered but he continued staring resolutely out to sea.
"I'm going to be prosecuted – maybe sent to prison."
Freddie's head moved slightly, tilting towards Doug.
"So, I've got no job and I'm trying to do a bit of writing. I want to write about the Civil War. So, I came down here to do some research. My name's Penhallam – Doug Penhallam."
Freddie's face suddenly turned. His distant look had gone. Now he regarded Doug with a piercing stare. Doug continued, although fearful that the old man might suddenly have an attack.
"So, I thought I'd pay Penhallam Manor a visit. You've been there, Freddie, haven't you – Penhallam Manor?"
The blood appeared to drain from Freddie's face and a nerve twitched on his temple. Doug pressed on, fearful lest Beryl should return too soon.
"Of course, I know a bit about the Civil War. I know there were big rifts in these parts between those who supported the rebels and those who supported the King. I know that Penhallam was a Royalist household. I met the lady who lives there – Julia Masters. She showed me around and I stayed in Kate's room. I heard voices, Freddie – just like you – and I felt an evil presence there too."
Perspiration was breaking out on the surface of Freddie's ashen face. His eyes were anxious.
"She told me about the killings," continued Doug. "And she told me about the ghosts re-enacting the fight. I wonder, Freddie, did you see that? Did you go back and witness something? What happened, Freddie? What did you see?"
Freddie's eyes were bulging. His hand had moved up to his throat. Saliva was dribbling from his mouth. He was emitting a soft choking noise.
"What's wrong with Freddie? What have you done to him?"
It was Beryl. She banged a tray of cups angrily onto the table and gently wiped Freddie's mouth then rearranged his pillows.
"I must fetch his tablets. Then you must go. Watch him until I come back."
Freddie's head was laid back on a pillow, his eyes focused on the ceiling. Doug moved closer so that he could whisper into his ear. He could smell the perspiration.
"What happened in that courtyard, Freddie? What made you kill your wife?"
Freddie's mouth moved in silent turmoil.
Beryl returned with the tablets.
"I don't know what you've done but you've really upset him. Come on, Freddie, my love. Get these down you."
She gently eased some tablets into Freddie's mouth then helped him wash them down with water.
"I'll take you to reception now, Mr. Penhallam. It's time you left."
Doug lifted himself from the chair opposite Freddie, disappointed that he hadn't been able to establish contact.
"Bye, Freddie. We'll stay in touch," he said for Beryl's benefit.
He started to follow Beryl out of the conservatory.
"Listen to the voices."
They stopped in their tracks, unaware at first where the strained voice had come from.
"Freddie, did you say that?" asked Beryl softly as she leant down by his chair.
Freddie's body was contorted as he struggled to turn and speak.
"The future lies in the past," he whispered, almost inaudibly.
"What do you mean, Freddie? Whose future?" asked Doug urgently.
But Freddie's eyes had closed and his chest rose heavily with the onset of sleep.
"It's the pills. Th
ey're sedatives. He'll be out for a couple of hours. But how amazing! Those are his first words since he came here. Do they mean anything to you?"
Doug paused.
"No – not really. Not yet."
They joined Julia, who was waiting in reception. Doug hastily made up contact details for the ANJ welfare unit which he left with Beryl and then they both departed, making their way down the drive towards the coast path. Sun was breaking through the cloud causing the grey sea to glisten as light reflected off its surface.
"What did he say then?" asked Julia.
"Not a lot."
"He must have said something. You were in there for half an hour."
"Right at the end he said something – just as I was leaving."
"Go on then."
"He said, 'Listen to the voices. The future lies in the past'."
"What do you think he meant?"
"I don't know. It doesn't make sense."
They sat on a bench overlooking the ocean. Behind them the windows of St. Anne's Lodge looked out imperiously on the world from which its elderly inhabitants were now little more than mere memories.
"I discovered something about Freddie whilst you were in there," added Julia.
"What was that?"
"I found his surname."
"How did you manage that?"
"After you left, the receptionist dug out Freddie's notes to check we had the right person. Then she was called away so I grabbed a sneaky look at them."
"You're good. You should be a journalist."
"His name is Trebarfoot – Freddie Trebarfoot. He was admitted on May 22nd, 2009."
"Trebarfoot – I've heard that name before."
"You heard it from me. The first day you came to Penhallam and I showed you around. Remember, I was telling you about Kate and how she wanted to elope with her lover. That was his name – John Trebarfoot."
"That could explain a lot."
"How do you mean?"
"Harry Jenstone told me that when a memory is embedded into the fabric of a building by intense emotional activity – then only someone linked by ancestry is able to decode that memory. So perhaps Freddie and I are both triggers."
"Then isn't it strange that you've both been drawn back to Penhallam? I know why you're here but what drew Freddie back?"
"I found out from the nurse why Freddie's here. He killed his wife."
"My God, that's awful! How?"
"Strangled her. Doesn't remember a thing about it. They couldn't charge him because of his mental state. So he's here under supervision."
"Do you think that Freddie's visit to Penhallam and his wife's death are linked?"
"Possibly."
"But the dates don't make sense," argued Julia. "He visited Penhallam in mid-April but wasn't admitted here until late May."
"My hunch is that he came back to Penhallam to witness the re-enactment."
"But that's not until May 27th. He was admitted here on the 22nd."
"I think there's an explanation. You remember that old article I read in the News Chronicle?"
"You mentioned it – yes."
"It gave the date of the re-enactment as May 17th. I thought they'd just made an error. So I checked it out and found that in the seventeenth century people used a different calendar – the Julian calendar. They changed to the Gregorian calendar in the early eighteenth century. It was all to do with aligning the calendar with planetary cycles. Anyhow, the result was that ten days were added onto the new calendar so what had been May 17th became May 27th."
"So all these other journalists and ghost hunters had the wrong date?"
"It explains why nobody saw anything. But Freddie knew. He'd done his research. I think he came back to Penhallam on the correct date and experienced something so terrible that it caused him to strangle his wife."
"That's very far-fetched, Doug. You're a hardened journalist and you're letting your emotions run away with you. If this was any other feature you'd be far more sceptical. Look for simple explanations or you'll miss the obvious."
The wind gusted and Doug found himself instinctively putting an arm round Julia. She didn't resist but wriggled closer to the warmth of his body.
"I don't want this business to get between what's happening to you and me," he whispered.
"So what is happening to you and me?"
"I'm not sure yet but I think we should continue finding out."
She laughed and pulled his coat around her. They sat in silence watching a cormorant hovering, motionless, over the sea. Then, like a spear, it sliced into the water, emerging seconds later with its writhing prize clutched in its powerful beak.
"What was Freddie trying to tell me – 'the future lies in the past'? It doesn't make sense."
"Doug, don't let this take you over. There are some things we can't understand – some things we don't need to understand."
"But I've always made it my business to understand – that's what journalists do."
"This is our time now, Doug. Let's be a part of the present – not the past."
Chapter 16: Exeter, April 27th 2011
Aleena slipped out of bed and shivered as the cool morning air embraced her body. A muffled sound came from underneath the warm duvet.
"What time is it?"
"Six."
"So why not stay? It's almost morning." Nick pulled the duvet tight over his head.
"I must go. It's best not to tempt fate."
Nick emerged from the cocoon, blinking in the dawn light.
"I'll come with you. You can't walk alone."
"It's only five minutes to my place. There'll be nobody about. I'll be alright."
Aleena finished getting dressed while Nick covered himself with an oversized jumper. They negotiated the obstacles on the stairs and made their way to the front door. They kissed in a lingering embrace.
"I'll see you later, after your lecture – at twelve," said Nick, tugging at the reluctant front door. They kissed once more – briefly – then Aleena made her way onto the pavement. A light drizzle descended from an overcast sky. She pulled the collar of her jacket tight around her neck and began walking. The road was empty and silent.
Passing a parked car, she thought she saw movement inside. She quickened her pace. An engine started. She turned. The car pulled out and made its way towards her. She began to run – spray from puddles splashing her legs. The car accelerated and drew parallel with her. A voice she knew called out.
"Stop – you slag! I want to talk to you."
His voice was cold and brutal. She continued running, pulling her mobile from her jacket pocket. The car cruised beside her.
"Did you hear me? I know what you've been up to – bringing shame on our family with that white shit."
She speed dialed Nick. The phone rang but then cut into the voice mail.
'Nick. They're after me. Help me!'
The engine revved and the car pulled onto the pavement in front of her. Two men jumped from the back. One grabbed her arms and the other grabbed her hair, pulling her head down towards the ground. She screamed.
"Shut up, bitch. If you make a noise I'll hit you." It was her brother's voice – high pitched and excited.
"Let me go! Someone will call the police."
She felt the searing pain of a fist making contact with her face. Blood oozed from her nose and formed a bright pool on the pavement.
"You made me do that. Now, shut up. Shut up!"
She could hear both fear and bravado in his voice. Her legs felt weak.
"You do what I tell you. See – you got no choice!"
They bundled her into the car and sped away towards the centre of Exeter.
Sun streamed in through the bedroom window. They sat together in Julia's bed finishing the remains of the breakfast that Doug had cooked to impress her. He felt more relaxed and at peace than he had done in a long time.
"Not bad for a self-confessed kitchen-phobe," she ventured.
"Boiled egg with soldiers
is close to my limit, so don't expect a lot more."
A shrill ring tone.
"What the hell is that?"
"I'm sorry – it's my phone. A text."
Doug heaved himself out of the bed and retrieved the phone. Stumbling back again, he threw himself onto the duvet and read the text silently to himself.
'They've kidnapped Aleena. Will go to Derby to find her. Don't have an address. Can you help? You must have contacts.'
"Shit!"
What is it? It'd better be important," grumbled Julia, struggling to keep herself covered with the duvet.
"lt's from Nick. They've got Aleena."
"Who's they?"
"The family, I guess – or someone acting for them."
"Where have they taken her?"
"Nick thinks they've gone back to Derby. He's going there to look for her. I need to go too. He could be in danger if he's by himself."
"So will you be if you go with him."
"I gave him my word. Can't let him down this time."
"You always seem to be going somewhere."
"I'm sorry – really I am. I'd much rather stay here with you."
Julia pulled the duvet over her head in a fit of petulance whilst Doug sent a text.
'Stay where you are. Don't do anything hasty. I'll be with you this afternoon. We'll plan something. Don't worry. It'll be alright.'
He left at midday and headed back to Exeter. On the way, he called Raff from the car.
"Raff, mate. I need your help."
"Are you in trouble?" whispered Raff, eager not to be heard talking to him by the rest of the newsroom.
"It's not me. It's Nick, my son. You remember I told you he was in a relationship with a Muslim girl?"
"I remember. My advice was to get out."
"She's been kidnapped."
"What?"
"Taken by the family."
"Are you certain it's the family?"
"I can't see who else it would be."
Doug heard a low whistle issuing from Raff's lips.
"This is urgent, Raff. We’ve got to get her back before she gets hurt. The problem is we don't know where she lives. We just know it's in Derby somewhere."
"What's her name?"
"Aleena."
"Aleena what?"
The Voice Within Page 12
