The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  She moved the tome to make space, and George proudly opened one of the bags, to reveal a bundle of clothing, shoes and boots. “I hope you like them,” he said. “There’s more in the others. It’s second-hand of course, but everything gets dry-cleaned or laundered before we put it in the shop. This was a fresh batch in, so it hasn’t had a load of people rummaging through it. The boots are brand new, never been worn. You can tell by the soles.”

  Ankerita got a few of the clothes out and inspected them. “Not bad,” she said. “Thank you for that. At least I can be decent around the house, and get my old stuff washed.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t get a bra for you, but the panties are still in their packets, so they should be alright.”

  “Yes, bra,” said Ankerita. “I never wear one. We only had corsets when I was younger. It wouldn’t feel right.”

  “You come from a strange neighbourhood, but as long as you are happy...”

  “Ecstatic. How was the shop today?”

  “Quiet as ever. I don’t know how we keep going, but the receipts always look good at the end of the month, so we must be doing something right.”

  “George, tell me what should I do with these?” Ankerita held out the pile of passports she’d stolen from Tristan’s flat. “I thought I’d find my own amongst them, but they all seem to belong to foreign girls.”

  “Ah.” George thumbed through the documents, looking at the pictures and names. “They all seem fairly new, and some have a contact address inside, next of kin an’ all. Ma guess is that they have been collected by those trafficking friends of yours. We should take them to the polies. They can get some of the poor girls freed perhaps.”

  “No police,” said Ankerita, firmly. “Last time I was with them, they tricked me and lied to me.”

  “No problem, Caileag. Leave the things with me. I’ll put them in an envelope and drop them in the post to the local cop-shop. They’ll find their way to Immigration, somehow. If you let me have that scunner, Tristan’s address I’ll pop that in there too... all anonymously of course,” he added, seeing Ankerita’s expression.

  “Where’s my own passport?” she said, nervously.

  “Ah have no idea,” replied George. “You might be better off without one for the moment, though. No identity means nobody can trace you.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The next night, because of Ankerita being worried about nocturnal visitors, George promised to come home earlier. She locked her bedroom door, and lay awake for a while, staring at the canopy of the four-poster in the dim light of the one remaining streetlamp outside. She had asked George why he thought that particular light was still operational, when all the others had been vandalised, and he opined that it was probably because their house had security cameras the locals couldn’t reach, so they left it alone. The rest of the estate was not so lucky, and therefore in darkness.

  At midnight, Ankerita heard the front door open. She held her breath as footsteps came up the stairs, and relaxed as George whispered through the door. “I’m back, Caileag, if you can hear me. I’ll be in ma room if you get worried again; last on the right.”

  “Thanks George,” she shouted, “for coming back early.”

  “It was a slow night,” said the man. “Not many good shows on at the moment. Try to get some sleep.”

  There was no reply. George smiled and went towards his own room. He glanced in the long mirror at the end of the landing. He looked most convincing as a tramp. “Ah must get some newer old togs,” he muttered. “I’m beginning to get too much into the part.”

  The following morning, George showed Ankerita how to work the kitchen appliances, in particular the cooker. He pointed at fridge and larder and suggested what he would like on the table when he got home that evening.

  “I see,” said the girl.

  “Only if you want to,” he said, quickly. “I’m not keeping you as a slave. I just thought it would be nice to eat together, and anything you cook will be better than I can ever make.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Ankerita failed to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

  George blushed. “Sorry, pet.”

  After breakfast, George again apologised for leaving her alone. “You will be safe,” he said. “Take ma spare phone. This is ma number here. Call me if you are worried.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “See you later.” He almost gave Ankerita a peck on the cheek before he left. Wisely he decided not to; her mind was already elsewhere as she mulled over her options.

  The door slammed and Ankerita went to load the dishwasher. She gazed out at the back garden. It was untidy, and needed attention. Despite the tempting sunshine, she decided that it was best to stay indoors. “Am I a prisoner?” she mused. “What’s his game? Was that him outside my door the other night, in spite of what he said, or is there someone else here?” The thought sent a chill down her back. “If that’s the case, then am I alone here, right now?”

  She listened to the noises of the house. There were creaks and clicks, but nothing she felt was out of the ordinary. “Oh fie, let’s have a look round. If there’s anyone hiding, I’ll give him a nasty surprise. Where’s that armoury?” She took a large kitchen knife out of the rack. “If there are any villains lurking,” she vowed, “I will be ready for you.”

  Nervously, she checked the ground floor. She already knew the lounge, but was surprised to find a large dining room, connected to the kitchen through a hatch, and beyond that, a room full of books. At the far end of the house was a games room, with pool table, dartboard, two games consoles and what looked like a cards table.

  Upstairs on the first floor was a long corridor running up the centre of the house. Ankerita’s room was immediately on the left at the top of the stairs, but there were two more bedrooms on that side, and a bathroom and three more bedrooms on the other. By the untidiness of the last room, she guessed it was George’s, but the others were orderly, beds made and apparently ready for visitors. A vanity stand at the end of the landing sent a tingle down her back. It had two drawers at the bottom, supporting a tall mirror. A large window at the top of the stairs gave enough illumination in daytime, but without the ceiling lights on, reflections in the mirror were in shadow. Ankerita shuddered, without knowing why, and dodged into her bedroom. There was still that nagging in her mind that she should be doing something for her friend, Jo, but what, and how to find her were questions that could not be answered.

  The day was getting late when she decided to start preparing dinner. She followed the instructions, both from George and on the packets, and got beef and potatoes in the oven to roast. The rest of it could wait until the man was back. She would make him go for a shower and change, whilst she finished off the cooking.

  Ankerita was kicking her heels on the table-leg, waiting for the food to be ready, when she noticed one of the kitchen cupboards looked different to the others. The door appeared to be in two separate parts, but was actually a single tall one. “Is it another larder?” She stood up, stretched and idly went to investigate. “It’s stuck.” She gave it a hard tug. “Or locked? Why?” She gripped the handle and put her foot up against the side for leverage. The door came open with a crack, and the girl fell backwards, narrowly missing hitting her head on the table. “Oh, excrementum,” she said, briefly forgetting her pious upbringing.

  The hinges of the door had broken, and she realised there was a simple catch at the other side. It had only needed pressing to release the door. What was more worrying though, was the flight of steps going downwards into darkness.

  Ankerita picked up her knife again, and listened. There was a faint ticking sound from below. She found a light switch and clicked it on. Cellars: Ankerita was used to these from earlier experiences, and they normally held things she didn’t want to see. In those cases, she had wielded her talisman, the dagger that connected between the worlds of real and supernatural, the dagger that protected her from
entities in both realities. Now, she only had a kitchen knife, and it certainly held no arcane power. The old quote, she had used to comfort people who visited her anchorhold when they thought they were hounded by evil spirits, came to mind:

  “Fear not the Dead; for they cannot harm you. It is the Living you should be concerned with.”

  It gave them comfort, but after her disturbing experiences with the supernatural, she was certainly beginning to doubt this bold statement.

  “Pray that it is only the Dead who are down here,” she muttered as she set her foot on the first step.

  At the bottom was another door. Listening intently, she eased it open. The darkness was dense. She groped for a switch. She found it. The lights in the room came on. The space that spread out before her made her gasp: torture devices, machines, weights, racks and bars. This was like the vision she had seen in the mind of the lorry driver who had tried to rape and murder her, and who had already done so with other unfortunate girls. Ankerita whimpered and bolted up the stairs. She needed to get out of the house before George returned.

  11. Vision

  W

  ithout thinking of collecting her possessions, Ankerita clawed at the front door. It was deadlocked. She tried the windows—security locks were holding those shut, too. She went to the garden door; again, it was fixed. She dashed into the garage. At least the car was still there. It was unlocked, but the keys were gone. She struggled to open the garage door, but it was on a motor and needed the control-box. She became hysterical, and all logic failed her. She ran to her room, locked the door, and hid under the duvet, praying for supernatural help.

  Sometime later, Ankerita heard the front door opening. “This is it,” she thought. “There is nobody left to save me. As soon as he sees the cellar door, I’m lost.”

  She held her breath as footsteps passed her room. A few minutes later, they returned. “Anna?” George’s voice came through the door. “Dinner smells great?”

  “You evil pervert,” Ankerita challenged. “I’ve seen your torture chamber in the cellar. How many other poor girls have you murdered?”

  There was a pause, and then a laugh from outside. “Puir wee bunny. Have you been down to the gym? I wondered why the door was broken. Is that why you’re hiding? I’m not cross; these things happen. I can fix it.”

  “What do you mean? There’s a torture chamber down there, underground.”

  George laughed again. “Silly lass. I can see how you might get confused. Some say that there is little difference. Those aren’t machines of torture, but machines of exercise. When the owners are staying, they like to keep themselves fit. I’ve used the apparatus myself on occasion. Come out and I’ll show you after dinner.”

  Ankerita was beginning to feel very foolish. “You wouldn’t be lying to me would you?”

  “What’s the point, lassie? If I’d meant you any harm, it would have happened by now; last night when you were drunk, for example.”

  “Ah, yes.” She laughed, self-consciously.

  “Are you coming down for dinner? It smells gorgeous.”

  Ankerita nervously unlocked the door. Outside, George wore a wide grin.

  “Sorry,” she faltered, “I’ve had so many bad experiences. Even when people are being nice, I can’t trust them.”

  George took her hand. “Look, little one,” he said. “I haven’t told you this, but when I was young, me and Eileen had a baby girl. We got married to bring her up. She was dark-haired and beautiful like you. Killed by a drunk driver when she was twelve.”

  Ankerita stared at him. She could feel his pain. “I’m so sorry.” She squeezed his hand.

  “We’ve got three other fine bairns,” said George, “but she was special, being the first an’ all. She would be your age, if she was alive. I wonder if you are her, reborn. I would never harm you. You are a daughter to me.”

  “What was her name?” asked Ankerita, sadly, already guessing the answer.

  “You know,” said George, with a tremor in his voice. “I still miss my little Anna.”

  “Come on.” Ankerita tried to lighten the conversation, and grabbed his sleeve. “I’ve got a lovely dinner for you... if it’s not burnt because of my stupidity,” she added. “Getafyabassa,” she mocked his accent again, “and have a shower. You stink like the clunge of Hell. Dinner will be on the table when you are clean enough to enter my kitchen.”

  George smiled sadly. “You’re a good girlie,” he said.

  “A tribute to my parents,” she observed, kindly.

  After dinner, George took Ankerita around the gym. He showed her each of the machines, and how to use it, and how to operate the big screen to bring up the TV music channels to pass the time. She had a go on each one, and agreed with him that they probably were machines of torture, although hopefully without any permanent damage.

  As George followed Ankerita back up to the kitchen, he said, “I nearly forgot. I thought to bring this along.”

  “You got me a present?”

  “I guess so.” He tried to shut the broken cellar door. “Have a look in my poke.”

  Ankerita gingerly opened George’s sports bag. Inside, there was something small and solid, wrapped in an old rugby shirt. She gasped as she removed the cloth. “Beautiful,” she said, taking out a sphere of glass.

  “That’s the wee ball that I used to track you down, the one that your Jeanette pointed me at. I’ve made you a base for it. That’s in there too.”

  “You said you lost it.”

  “I thought I had. I forgot about it after I used it to track you down to the docks, but when I got back to the shop, it was there, in the display case again. I could have sworn I took it with me.”

  “Strange, but then it is enchanted, from what you say, so I can believe that.” Ankerita found the block of wood in the bag. “This is lovely, thank you.” She placed it on the table and set the ball on it. “Perfect.” She put her arms around him. “You smell so much better in clean clothes,” she said. “Will you shower every day?”

  “I could, but the punters might smell that I’m clean. It would affect my night-time income.”

  “Try staying downwind.” Ankerita laughed, “or keep your old things for going out in.”

  “I might, I suppose, but I’m starting to detest the smell. You always keep clean, don’t you?”

  “I had no opportunity in the anchorhold. You kind of get used to the smell, but I love this aspect of the modern world, being dirt-free for the first time in five-hundred years, being able to slide my fingers through my hair...”

  “There you go again,” said George, “Are you in truth from ancient times?”

  “Aye, a am,” mocked Ankerita.

  “Doesn’t make sense. It could be some sort of past life regression, I suppose.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No idea,” said the man. “I read the headline in the newspaper, but the rest of the story was too boring. What are you going to do with the crystal-ball? It is a crystal-ball?”

  “It’s a wonderful present.” She gazed into the depths of the glass. “A perfect gift.”

  Ankerita waited until George had departed for his night work. The games room seemed the ideal place to try out the crystal. The card table had a velvet cloth that seemed made to set it on, and there were comfortable chairs to relax in. Scrying, as it was known, had to be performed without distractions. The lighting over the table was adjustable, so Ankerita cranked it down until the room was barely lit. On one of the other card chairs, she set the Book of Ghosts, open at a page depicting a crystal-ball, with unintelligible writing around it, in the hope that some inspiration would come. She took a breath and gazed into the glass.

  To begin with, all she could see was the glow of the lights, mirrored in reflective surfaces around the room. “I do proclaim this is a tickle-brained hedge-pig of a conundrum,” she muttered. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “You could talk to m
e, if you like.”

  “What?” Ankerita leapt up. Her chair crashed backwards and the table rocked. There was nobody in the room with her. The voice seemed to have come from inside her head. She dashed to the door and checked the hall outside, again wondering if she was not alone in the house.

  After a few minutes of silence, disturbed only by the beating of her heart, Ankerita stopped trembling. She listened intently. The building was silent. Outside, in the street, there was the faint sound of people shouting. Nervously, she checked all around the house again, her kitchen-knife at the ready. Apart from the usual shock she gave herself, when she caught her image in the upstairs landing mirror, there was nothing stirring. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it thoughtfully as she returned to the games room.

  The ball sat where she’d left it. “Hello?” she called tentatively. It was a woman’s voice she had heard; perhaps there was nothing to fear. There was no answer. She righted her chair and gazed into the crystal again.

  The reflections had disappeared. The glass seemed to contain a thick fog. Meditation was something that Ankerita was well practised in, from her long days in the anchorhold, so she slipped easily into the technique for emptying her mind, to listen for words from the other worlds that were there for all to hear, if they chose to. She tried to gaze deeper into the glass, and slowly became aware that she was looking at a woman’s face. For a moment she thought it was her own reflection, but then the eyes snapped open. The face regarded her for a moment, almost thoughtfully.

  “Hello?” Ankerita faltered.

  “Hello. Is that all you can say? I’ve waited up five centuries for you, you know. Where have you been ‘til now?”

  “Hang on,” protested Ankerita. “If you’re in my imagination, how can you have a go at me?”

  “I’m not in your imagination, you dizzy-eyed flirt-gill, I’m talking to you from across the ages. I’m here to remind you that it’s about time you put your talents to good use.”