by Peter James
Plang. It stung, as hard as if she had been hit by a tennis ball; she felt the water roll down the side of her head, and again touched it with her fingers. Nothing.
And then suddenly she understood.
She closed her eyes, shivering. She knew what she had to do; but she did not know if she had the courage to do it.
There were two sharp pings from the drawing room clock. She heard a slithering sound, the rustle of fabric, then a sharp intake of air. The window creaked, there was a sharp exhalation, then the sound of the curtains flapping and billowing.
Her heart slowed down; the wind; just the wind and the curtains. That was all. She smiled in relief, and sank back into the soft pillow, felt her feet warming, her skin relaxing, the pain subsiding.
There was a sharp, stabbing pain in her finger and her whole body convulsed. Agonising pins and needles wracked her and she convulsed again. Equally suddenly, the pain subsided and she was left tingling all over, as if she had fallen into a bed of nettles.
Then a violent shock-wave passed through her, flinging her up in the bed, sitting her upright against the headboard. She whimpered. Something was standing in front of her, by the foot of the bed. A shadow, darker than the dark.
‘Today, Mother.’
The voice was clear; so incredibly clear.
‘What do you mean, darling?’
The tingling was going.
‘Darling?’
She put her hand out towards the bedside table, scrabbling for the light switch. The light came on and she blinked, her eyes sore and stinging, blinked at the dark wardrobe at the end of the bed.
The curtain billowed wildly out into the room, as if someone was shaking it in anger, and she heard the hissing of the wind as it gusted. She cupped her hands together and closed her eyes. ‘Oh God, please help me. Please give me the strength to cope. Please protect Fabian’s spirit, and bless him, and let him rest peacefully. Please, dear God, don’t let him…’ she paused.
Someone was looking at her.
She opened her eyes, but there was nothing, nothing but the furniture and the restless curtains and the sounds of the wind in the night.
She was surprised to see David sitting in the kitchen when she came down in the morning.
‘How did you sleep?’
‘O.K.,’ she said. ‘I was kept awake a bit by the wind.’
He looked out of the window. ‘Seems to have blown itself out; going to be a fine day. Are you going to stay down today?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Like some coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
He put the kettle on the hob.
‘I thought you were usually at work by now?’
‘I’m expecting a phone call. Think I may have tied up something really good. This is the only phone that’s working – I dropped the one in the office the other day and the bell doesn’t ring.’
‘I’ll stay in here, and call you.’ She smiled. ‘I can play at being your secretary.’
‘It’s O.K. I have some paperwork to catch up on – I’ll do it in here.’
Damn, she thought.
‘Anyway, it’s not often I’m lucky enough to have your company on a weekday.’
Don’t you understand, she thought, oh, Christ, don’t you understand?
He frowned at her, and she smiled back reassuringly; then she glanced past him to the rusty key on the hook on the wall behind him.
‘I think I’ll go for a walk.’
‘It’s gorgeous at this hour.’ He smiled. ‘One of the compensations. I’ll have the coffee waiting for you. Oh – er could you keep an eye out for any sheep in the vines?’
She nodded and looked at her watch. ‘I’d better call the office when I get back.’
‘I’ll do it for you. I’ll tell them you’re not well, won’t be in for a couple of days.’
‘You always make things sound so simple,’ she said, conscious of the irritated tone of her voice. She smiled at him, trying to compensate. ‘Can you just walk away from your work here, for as long as you like?’
He shook his head.
‘Nor can I.’
‘There are times when you just have to.’
She sighed and went out into the morning air, into the stale stench of the pigs and the fresh sweet scent of wet grass. There was a chill tang in the air and a translucence in the early morning sunlight, something watery, almost ethereal.
She walked up the track, away from the house, and forked off right towards the lake. The concrete island was visible only as a shadow through the shroud of mist which lay just above the water. Medieval pond. She shuddered, her nostrils filled with the stagnant smell. Not even the birds sang near this lake. She stopped and looked at the tiny track overgrown with brambles. She picked one stem up, carefully avoiding prickles, and it came away in her hand.
Someone had snapped it off and replaced it.
She stood still, frozen, and stared at it. She looked, carefully, either side of her, then stared into the undergrowth; she sensed someone behind her, and spun around, her heart racing. No one. Warily, she tested another stem; that too came away.
Whoever it was had done a good job. The path and the dry, rotting oak door, with its concrete surround, had been very carefully camouflaged.
She turned the handle and pushed, but it was locked. Again, she sensed someone behind her, and turned around, trembling. But there was nothing. She stood still for a long time, and listened. The only sounds were the throb of a tractor and the distant bleating of sheep.
She carefully replaced the brambles in front of the door, and across the path, then looked at her watch. 9.15. Too early, much too early. She turned and stared at the lake again, then walked slowly, reluctantly, back to the house.
David was sitting at the kitchen table, a crumpled cigarette in his mouth, surrounded by his paperwork; he appeared entrenched for the morning.
‘Did you get your call?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t expect I’ll hear till later.’
Alex nodded, walked into the drawing room and sat down. It was dark in here, quiet.
Leave it alone, her instincts told her; leave it alone, forget it, walk away from it, go back to the curate. Tell him.
‘If there was a leak and one of the sections has filled up, you’d be drowned if you opened the door.’
‘Don’t let hint, Mrs Hightower.’
‘Mother.’
‘Don’t listen to the little bastard.’
‘May 4th.’
May 4th.
Today.
She stood up, restlessly, and walked over to the unlit fireplace. She held up the photograph of Fabian on his tricycle. Tiny little eyes stared innocently from his plump giggling face. You could only see it if you looked closely, so closely. She put it back, slowly, heavily.
May 4th.
Today.
‘Today, Mother.’
‘Don’t let him, Mrs Hightower.’
Carrie.
‘They let me out today, Mother.’
She got up and walked through into the kitchen. David smiled up at her.
For Christ’s sake, go out to your barn, go out somewhere, anywhere. Why do you have to pick this morning? Let me have that key. I must have it.
‘We could go to a pub somewhere and have a nice lunch.’
‘A nice lunch?’ she echoed, blankly.
‘A pub lunch? A real pub lunch? We haven’t done that for years.’
‘We haven’t?’
She was conscious of him staring at her.
‘Alex? Are you O.K.?’
She stared blankly. His words echoed round in her head.
‘O.K.? O.K.? O.K.?’ She felt herself falling and grabbed the wall, but it slipped away from her. She heard the scrape of a chair, then felt the hard grip of his hand.
‘Sit down …down … down …’
She felt the wooden chair creak slightly, saw the walls slip sideways and the ceiling dip suddenly, sharply. Then the whole ro
om tilted on its side and the floor rushed up to her, punched her hard in the shoulder.
David was kneeling over her. She heard his voice, somewhere, a long way away. ‘I’ll call a doctor … doctor … doctor … doctor …’
She shook her head, and the ceiling seemed to spin round, as if it was attached to her head by a piece of string. She felt the hard wooden floorboard against the back of her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. Really, I’ll be fine.’
She looked up at his face, straight into the curled barbs of his beard. ‘I’m fine.’ She stood up, unsteadily, and looked around. The walls stayed where they were. She sat back in the chair. ‘Must be the strain,’ she said.
‘You should have a holiday. We could go together somewhere – separate rooms –’
She smiled sadly. ‘I wish it were that simple.’
The phone pinged, then rang. David watched it, let it ring several times. ‘Don’t want to seem too keen,’ he smiled at her.
Answer it, for God’s sake, answer it; I can’t bear this. Please answer it.
He spoke briefly, curtly, then hung up and looked at her. ‘Not the one I was expecting.’ He looked at his watch.
Please ring soon. You must ring soon. You must.
By lunchtime he was bored with his paperwork. ‘I’d better get over to the winery,’ he said, ‘just check everything’s O.K.’
The barn, with its vats and strange machines and vinous smell. That was his happy hunting ground, she realized. He could not bear to be away from it, even for a few hours.
‘I’ll shout,’ she said.
‘Butler. His name. Geoffrey Butler.’
‘Fine,’ she said. She watched him walk across the courtyard, then went into the hallway and opened the boot cupboard. She reached up to the top shelf and pulled down the large rubber torch. She switched it on, pointed it at her face, and blinked at the brightness of its beam. She switched it off and put it back.
It was two more hours before Geoffrey Butler rang. A quarter past four. Two more hours of staring at the key, at the torch on the shelf beside it, two more hours of waiting, fidgeting the day away. May 4th.
‘Geoffrey Butler’s on the line,’ she shouted, finally, through the winery door, then hurried back across the courtyard, terrified in case Geoffrey Butler might have changed his mind, might have hung up. ‘He’ll be with you in a moment, Mr Butler,’ she said, staring at the key, the key that was so nearly hers.
Oh God, please be quick. But no, he scrabbled among his sheets of paper, made notes, more notes. She could take the key now and go whilst he was concentrating on his call. But if he saw it was missing? Too much of a risk.
‘Calcium carbonate,’ said David. ‘Chalk. Yes,’ he chuckled, ‘yes, common chalk; reduces the acidity. No, that’s right, just ordinary chalk. Anyhow everyone’s into calcium these days – meant to be good for you. Yes, of course, well within the EEC prescribed measures.’
Come on, come on.
Finally, he hung up; then he walked over to her, flung his arms around her neck and kissed both her cheeks with gusto. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got it! It’s going to be mega-huge!’
‘Good.’
‘Geoffrey Butler. He’s going to stock it permanently, put it on his lists.’
‘I’m very pleased.’
‘I tell you something, for him to like it, it must be good. We’re going to go out tonight; celebrate. Fancy that?’
‘Sure.’
‘Would you mind if I just went back to the winery for a bit – just got to try a few things out for him – would you mind terribly?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I wouldn’t mind at all.’
She watched through the window as he walked across the courtyard and into the winery, and was about to lean forward and take the key, when she heard the sound of a car. A customer, or a tourist, she thought. Free tasting any time. Visitors welcome. Go away, she said to herself, go away, whoever the hell you are.
She left the key where it was; he would come running in here in a moment, for a corkscrew, or a couple of glasses, or some damn thing.
Angrily, she went through into the drawing room, sat down on the sofa and stared at the little boy on the tricycle, the plump little chap, with the dark brooding eyes.
There was a commotion outside and then she heard David shouting, furious. ‘Alex? Alex? Where are you? What the hell’s all this? Did you arrange this? These bloody loonies again?’
She looked up at the mantelpiece and Fabian grinned back at her from his tricycle.
‘David,’ she called, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper, and heard his voice, heated, in the distance.
‘Can’t you see – she’s come here to get away from it. All you’re going to do is bring it down here – whatever the hell it is. Why can’t you just leave her alone? She’ll be all right, she’ll get over it; a few days of country air is what she needs.’
‘It’s not that simple, Mr Hightower. I wish it was.’ She recognized the sing song voice of Morgan Ford instantly.
‘David.’
There was a long silence.
May 4th.
She shuddered.
‘David.’
She heard Ford’s voice, gentle, but firm. ‘I think we should start now.’
‘No,’ said David. ‘She doesn’t want to.’
‘For both your sakes,’ said Ford.
No, she tried to say. No. But nothing came out.
‘Your son’s spirit is disturbed, Mr Hightower. You cannot leave him like this. Until we have helped his spirit over, your wife will have no peace.’
Don’t let him, David, please don’t let him.
‘Couldn’t you do this some other time? When she is stronger?’
‘She won’t get stronger whilst he is around. He’s using her power all the time, draining her energy.’
No. You’ve got it wrong. Can’t you see? Oh God, can’t you see?
‘She’s acting like a battery to him; he’s taking, all the time. We must put something back in – or free them from each other.’
‘What do you mean, a battery?’
‘Spirits have no energy of their own, Mr Hightower. They draw their energy from carnate beings.’
‘And you say he’s drawing his energy from Alex?’
‘Earthbound spirits live in a world of darkness, Mr Hightower. Just as humans in darkness head towards any light they can see, spirits make for sources of energy. Grief is a strong source of energy. Your wife’s grief is acting like a beacon to him.’
There was a silence. ‘And that’s your theory?’
‘No, Mr Hightower, it is not my theory. It is what I know.’
‘And if we do nothing, what will happen?’
‘There is a danger that he could end up possessing her completely.’
‘I’d like to have a word with my wife in private.’
‘Yes, of course. There is an important consideration. You see, she must understand that she may be responsible.’
She heard David’s voice rise. ‘Responsible?’
‘We believe your son’s spirit is still on the earth plane,’ said Ford, very matter of fact. ‘But we do not know whether that is because he did not depart from it, or whether he has been brought back. You see, Mrs Hightower may have disturbed his spirit by coming to see me in the first place. Often spirits do not want to return – they are summoned unwillingly, like Samuel when Saul consulted a medium. And sometimes it is the power of the grief of a bereaved one that pulls the spirit back.’
There was another silence.
‘I just wanted to make that point, Mr Hightower. It is important.’
‘So it’s all my wife’s fault is it?’
‘Not necessarily, Mr Hightower. Not necessarily at all. But it is a possibility.’
There was a long silence. Then she heard David shouting. ‘Alex? Alex!’
She looked around.
‘Where the hell is she?’
She heard footsteps, then
his voice again.
‘Here you are! Have you gone deaf – I’ve been looking all over the place for you?’
She said nothing.
She heard the door close.
‘Your damned medium friend is here – and that bloody loony Sandy – and the rest of them. Why the hell did you ask them down?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So who the hell did then?’
‘Fabian,’ she said simply.
She heard the click of his tobacco tin, the rustling of paper, and then silence again.
‘What do you mean?’
She stared at the child on the tricycle; her child, that she had brought into the world. Her infant crying in the night. Her infant crying for the light. She shuddered. The smiling child on the tricycle was out there in the darkness, confused and frightened.
‘Help me, Mother.’
How?
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Help me, Mother.’
She heard a click, saw a brief flash of light, then smelt the sweet smoke of his cigarette.
‘Morgan Ford upset you last time.’
‘Help me, Mother.’
‘It’s my fault,’ she said, trembling. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘Of course it’s not.’
May 4th.
The door opened.
‘Shall we begin?’ said Ford.
Alex turned around. A young man with a gold earring carried a wooden chair into the room, bashing the doorway with it in the process. He looked down at her and nodded. The slicked back hair; the creepy face. Orme, she remembered. Orme.
A tall meek man in a brown suit followed him in, also carrying a chair. He held it off the ground, and looked around apologetically, as if waiting for someone to tell him he could put it down. The postman.
David stood, silently, frowning, uncertain, his anger abated.
Morgan Ford was standing over her. Grey suit, grey shirt, grey tie, grey hair, all perfectly colour-coordinated. He gave her a firm, assured smile. She saw the glint of the rhinestone ring and looked up at his face, at the black haystack of Sandy’s hair, at Orme’s gold ring, at Milsom’s brown polyester suit; at the reluctant nod of David’s head and the strange look of anxiety in his eyes.
