Possession

by Peter James

  She got out of the car.

  ‘Ah, good,’ said Allsop, ‘you’ve just arrived. We were worrying that we were late. You know each other of course, don’t you?’

  Alex smiled politely at the older man; he had a suave dry face, the face of a career clergyman, not a pastoral one. In a suit, instead of his cassock, he could have been a high-flying lawyer. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Derek Matthews,’ said the man in a clipped voice, holding out his hand, unsmiling. ‘The Vicar of St Mary’s.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said feeling the firm shake of his hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been a bit remiss in my church-going.’

  ‘Most people are, Mrs Hightower,’ he said humourlessly.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind – that we didn’t ask you to take the funeral service – it was a friend of my husband’s – who knew my son – our son–’ she shrugged. ‘We thought it would be appropriate.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Shall we – ah?’ said Allsop.

  ‘Yes.’ She was unsettled by Matthews. ‘Of course, please come in.’ She looked down at the holdall. It looked as if it might have contained sandwiches for a picnic. ‘It’s a – very pretty church, St Mary’s.’

  ‘Not to the purist,’ said Matthews, tersely. ‘It’s an architectural disaster.’

  She closed the front door behind her. Matthews looked around, dismissively.

  ‘Would anyone like any – er – tea?’

  ‘I think we’ll proceed straight away,’ said Matthews, looking at his watch. ‘I have a meeting I must get to.’

  She looked at Allsop and he tried too late to avoid her eyes. He blushed. ‘I – er – I thought it might be helpful if Derek were present; he has had much more experience in these things than me.’ His right eye twitched furiously.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She looked nervously at Matthews. ‘Which room should we use?’ she said.

  ‘The room in which the manifestation occurred,’ said Matthews, curtly, as if he were addressing a hotel clerk.

  ‘The manifestation has occurred in every room,’ she replied, acidly.

  ‘May I ask if you’ve been dabbling in the occult in here at all, Mrs Hightower?’

  ‘I don’t dabble in anything.’ She was conscious of the anger rising in her voice.

  ‘You’ve held no séance in here, nothing like that?’

  Look, she wanted to say, I’m not at school. But she restrained herself, and nodded. ‘We held a circle here, last week.’ She felt her face redden, and stared apologetically at Allsop, feeling she had let him down.

  ‘Then I think we should go to the room where you held it,’ said Matthews, becoming increasingly impatient.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling foolish and helpless.

  She led the way up the stairs; nothing was going to happen, she knew, nothing at all, and Matthews was going to think she was an even bigger fool.

  Oh, God, she thought as she opened the door, feeling her face go red hot with embarrassment at the sight of the chairs, still arranged in a circle.

  She sensed Matthews’ glare and was unable to face him. She looked up at the portrait of Fabian, then at the curtains, the sticky tape still holding them tightly to the wall.

  ‘These practices are very dangerous, Mrs Hightower,’ said Matthews.

  ‘I know,’ she said lamely, like a schoolgirl, looking at the mortified expression on Allsop’s face.

  Allsop put the holdall on the floor, and something inside made a loud clank. Matthews knelt down and unzipped it. ‘We’ll need a table; and we’ll need some salt.’

  ‘Salt?’ she said.

  ‘Just ordinary salt. Have you a salt-cellar?’

  ‘I’ll get one.’ Alex fetched a salt-cellar from the kitchen, then went up into her bedroom. The room felt chillingly cold, and she was frightened to be separated from the others even for a moment. She grabbed the small table from the end of the bed and hurried back to Fabian’s room.

  ‘Thank you.’ Matthews took the table and the salt-cellar from her as if they were toys he was confiscating from a child.

  They set about their preparations as if they had rehearsed them beforehand. Allsop pushed three of the chairs away, while Matthews began to pull objects out of the holdall and lay them out on the table.

  He carefully arranged two small candles like night-lights in the centre, then a chalice, a bottle of wine, and a silver tray. They worked silently, ignoring her, as if oblivious of her, as if, she thought uncomfortably, she did not count.

  Matthews pulled out a silver stoup, and poured a small amount of water into it from a container, mouthing a silent prayer as he did so. Then he poured some salt in. He picked up the stoup and turned, staring past Alex. ‘Protect us, Oh Lord, we beseech you.’ He pulled a silver aspergillum out of the bag, dipped the head into the water, then stepped past Alex, and flicked it hard at the wall. He turned and solemnly repeated the procedure at each of the other walls. Then he put the stoup and the aspergillum down, pulled a gold Dunhill from his pocket, and lit the candles.

  Allsop carefully poured the remaining water back into the container, and replaced the stoup in the holdall.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ said Matthews.

  Alex sat facing the two clergymen.

  ‘You are confirmed, I take it?’ said Matthews.

  Alex nodded.

  ‘Let us pray,’ he said loudly, sternly, as if addressing a courtroom.

  The curate pressed his hands neatly together and brought them up to his face.

  It felt more like a school class than a religious service. Silently, she copied him, trembling with anger and humiliation.

  ‘Listen to our prayers, Lord, as we humbly beg your mercy.’

  Did they know any more these two? With their plastic bag and their ornate silverware? Did they know any more than Morgan Ford? Than Philip? Were they just a couple of well-meaning charlatans under a massive flag of convenience? Or did they carry the authority and the clout of the divine power, the power above all else? What power?

  She leaned forward and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, trying to feel the bond with the God she used to talk to when she was a little girl, the God who used to listen to her and protect her, and make everything all right.

  ‘Listen to our prayers, Lord, as we humbly beg your mercy, that the soul of your servant Fabian, whom you have called from this life, may be brought by you to a place of peace and light, and so be enabled to share the life of all your saints. Through Christ our Lord.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Allsop.

  ‘Amen,’ she echoed, quietly, self-conscious about the sound of her voice.

  ‘We pray you, Lord our God, to receive the soul of this your servant Fabian, for whom your blood was shed. Remember, Lord, that we are but dust and that man is like grass and the flower of the field.’

  Put some feeling into it man, she wanted to shout out, put some bloody feeling into it. She opened her eyes, and watched him through her cupped hands, angrily.

  ‘Lord grant him everlasting rest.’ Matthews paused to look at his watch. ‘And let perpetual light shine upon him. Grant to your servant Fabian, Lord, a place of rest and pardon.’

  She looked up at Fabian’s portrait, then closed her eyes and covered them again with her hands. What do you think of all this darling? Do you mind? Do you understand?

  ‘Oh God, it is your nature to have mercy and to spare. You have called to yourself your servant Fabian who believed in you and placed in you his hope.’

  Nothing. She could feel nothing except disbelief that this was all happening. She watched Allsop, hands piously together, eyes tightly closed. The room was feeling stuffy; she could smell the melting candlewax, and felt herself perspiring.

  ‘Oh God, you measure the life and times of all men. While we grieve that your servant Fabian was with us for so short a time, we humbly pray you that he may enjoy eternal youth in the joy of your presence for ever.’

  The candles flickered, throwing their shadows o
ver Matthews’ face, as if they were throwing back the holy water in disgust.

  ‘Our brother was nourished by Christ’s body, the bread of eternal life. May he rise again on the last day. Through Christ our Lord.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Allsop.

  She couldn’t bring herself to say anything.

  There was a long silence.

  The room was getting even hotter.

  ‘Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest.’

  Matthews fixed his eyes on hers.

  ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, And forgive our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us, And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from evil.’

  Matthews paused, then stared up, over her head, as if the words were too important to be addressed solely to her.

  ‘For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.’

  He stood up silently and turned to the table. He picked up the host, and broke a piece into the chalice.

  ‘Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world; have mercy on us.’ He turned, and stared directly at her. ‘May this mingling of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ bring eternal life to us who receive it.’ He beckoned her.

  Slowly she stood up and stepped falteringly forward.

  He signalled her to kneel, then held out a wafer.

  ‘Take, eat,’ he said, staring past her again, as he placed the wafer in her cupped hand.

  She tasted the dry sweetness, then felt the sharp cold rim of the chalice, and the sudden heady wetness of the wine.

  ‘This is the blood of Christ.’

  She walked silently back to her chair, a dull metallic taste in her mouth.

  ‘Lord God, your Son gave us the sacrament of his Body to support us in our last journey. Grant that our brother Fabian may take his seat with Christ at his eternal banquet: who lives and reigns for ever and ever.’

  ‘Amen,’ she whispered.

  Allsop said nothing, and Matthews glared contemptuously at her, a little girl, not concentrating, speaking out of turn. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Almighty God, you have destroyed death for us, through the dying of your son Jesus Christ.’

  The words began to echo in her head, like hammering.

  ‘Through his lying in the tomb, and his glorious resurrection from the dead, you have sanctified the grave.’

  She heard the dripping of water, sharp, fierce drips, like shots. One hit her forehead, like a punch from a fist, then another. They ran down into her eyes, salty and stinging. She put her hand up to her forehead. But there was nothing there, nothing but the slight damp of her perspiration.

  ‘Receive our prayers for those who have died with Christ, and been buried with him, as with heaven-sent hope they await their resurrection. Grant, we pray you, God of the living and the dead, eternal rest for Fabian. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’ He looked at his watch again.

  ‘Amen,’ said Allsop.

  Matthews knelt down and blew out the candles, then began to pack the items away in the bag.

  Allsop opened his eyes, smiled gently at Alex, then stood up and helped him.

  She sat watching them. Is that it, she wanted to say, is that it? But she doubted whether Matthews would have even bothered to reply.

  They went down into the hallway, and she opened the front door for them. Matthews went outside, then turned to her. ‘I hope you’ll consider very carefully before dabbling in the occult again, Mrs Hightower.’

  She nodded, sheepishly.

  He turned away, and walked down the steps. Allsop picked up the bag and smiled at her. ‘I’ll call you in a couple of days, to see how you are getting on.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She closed the door gently and turned around.

  Fabian was standing at the bottom of the staircase.

  She smelt petrol suddenly; the whole hallway seemed to be filled with fumes. Then Fabian began to move towards her, gliding silently, without moving his legs, until all she could see were his eyes, someone else’s eyes, not her son’s, cold malevolent eyes glaring hatred.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, closing her eyes, turning to the door, scrabbling blindly with the catch. She wrenched it open and stumbled out into the street. ‘Help me!’

  But no words were coming out.

  ‘Help me!’

  Nothing.

  ‘Oh God, stop, come back, please come back!’

  She stared after them, helplessly. ‘Please help me,’ she whimpered. But the two clergymen were almost at the end of the street, bobbing along in their cassocks with the bag strung out between them, like a pair of Humpty-Dumptys off to a picnic.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  She drove too fast through the gates, and hit the water-logged cart track with a thump that bottomed the suspension and jarred through the whole car. Muddy blobs of water spattered the windscreen, and she switched on the wipers, swerving to avoid a deep rut; the nose of the Mercedes dipped sharply, rose in the air, then crashed down again with a bang that deflected it sideways, almost pushing the car into the fencing.

  The wipers clawed at the windscreen, screeching like angry birds. She smelt the stench of pigs and saw a small dark object scurrying out of the dull beam of the headlights. The Mercedes bounced again and crashed down. Still she kept the accelerator hard on the floor.

  Ahead, down to the left, through the muddy streaks and the rubber talons of the wipers, she could see the lake covered in a thin canopy of mist, like a shroud, she thought, and shuddered. It always looked its most sinister at twilight.

  She saw David’s Land Rover parked outside the house and pulled up beside it. She switched off the engine, closed her eyes and almost wept with relief. The engine made several loud ticking sounds, then pinged, registering its protest, the smell of hot oil overlaying the stench of pigs. It ticked again, pinged again. Somewhere in the falling dark beyond her a sheep bleated.

  She climbed out of the car and stood still, her legs trembling. There was another bleat, then the distant splash of a fish rising carried across the still air. She took a few faltering steps towards the house, then stopped, swaying, and nearly fell. She felt the crunch of mud beneath her feet, moved forward again, heard a plop and a squelching sound and felt her right shoe suddenly become very cold.

  ‘Blast,’ she said, pulling her foot out carefully, trying not to leave her shoe behind in the puddle. The house was in darkness, but she saw a light shining behind the barn door and walked across the courtyard towards it.

  David was standing with his back to her, staring up at the gantry he had rigged from the beam. The block and tackle hung down, swinging gently just above the large new vat, which was still in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, without turning round. ‘Have a good day?’

  ‘No,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘This is a bugger this; a real bugger.’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  He still didn’t turn around. ‘The car. Can always recognize your car – although you were driving a bit faster than usual. It’s a real bugger – what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m wondering if I might leave it where it is – do you think it looks odd?’

  Alex stared at the rope. ‘It looks like gallows.’

  ‘Gallows?’ He turned around, then leaned forward, to look closer at her. ‘Christ, you look terrible.’

  She lowered her head and felt the tears welling; she sniffed.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, gently putting an arm around her. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’

  They sat down in the kitchen.

  ‘I think that’s nice,’ he said. ‘Your own personal service.’ He smiled. ‘Shows the Church is having to get competitive. If the congregation won’t come to the Church, send the Church out to t
he congregation. Go do battle with the pizzas and curries and the visiting masseuses. Dial-A-Service, eh? Communion delivered to your own home – and there’s no collection box to worry about. I assume there wasn’t a collection?’

  ‘No, there wasn’t a collection.’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past the buggers.’

  ‘David,’ she said sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He picked his glass up by the stem and swirled the wine around. ‘Getting better by the day this, you know.’

  Alex smiled and sipped her whisky. ‘Good.’

  ‘So does this mean you’ll be going back now?’

  She detected the note of sadness in his voice and held her glass tightly in her hands.

  ‘I thought – you know…’ he said, blushing, ‘we seem to be getting on pretty well. I thought – maybe – perhaps…’

  She closed her eyes tightly, felt the tears welling again, and sat, clenched up, shaking, rocking the chair backwards and forwards. She sipped her whisky again and could taste the salt from her tears. She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘It’s not over yet, David.’ A single violent convulsion rippled through her body, jerking her so hard it hurt. ‘It’s only just beginning.’

  She felt his firm strong arm around her shoulder, his rough fingers caressing her face.

  ‘You’re safe here, darling,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you, don’t worry. Don’t go back to London for a while – not until you – everything – has settled down.’

  She nodded; a huge single tear rolled down her cheek, just as far as his finger which stopped it, like a dam.

  She was woken by the sound of water dripping, sharp, fierce drips, like shots from an airgun. One hit her forehead, like a punch from a fist, then another. Plop. Plang. The sound echoed around the room, as if she were in a cave.

  Her feet felt like ice. There was a bitter cold draught blowing on her face. Plang, she heard. She put her hand up to wipe away the water.

  But her face was completely dry.

  She frowned, felt her heart thumping, and thought again of Fabian’s pitiful cry in the circle. ‘Help me, Mother.’

  And then the snarling voice: ‘Don’t listen to the little bastard.’

  What’s happening to you, darling? Please tell me. Please.