by Will Harker
“There’s nothing the police could do,” I said, flashing back to my days in uniform and the standard procedure for investigating things like poison pen letters and threatening messages. “The tent was left open, nothing’s been taken. It might sound strange, but this wouldn’t even constitute harassment because it’s a first event and not part of a pattern of behaviour. There are no fingerprints in the wax so I doubt there would be any DNA, even if the gavvers could justify actioning a forensic analysis. Which they couldn’t. Honestly, there isn’t a crime here anyone could be charged with.”
Big Sam was saying something, bellowing in his empty way, asking what we paid taxes for if not to protect our pensioners. My dad was reassuring Tilda that I’d get to the bottom of it all. Haz was still kneeling beside her, whispering comfort while the old mystic herself didn’t appear to be listening to any of them. Her moist eyes were fixed on mine, a question there I couldn’t read. Unable to meet her gaze, I felt myself drawn to one of the tarot cards adorning the walls.
From his perch, the Devil glowered down at us, bat wings spread wide, his brow emblazoned with a pentagram, a look of sullen mischief on that bestial face. I felt an involuntary shiver.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” I said. “I have to make a call.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Has he moved from the house today?”
The phone crackled and I heard an asthmatic gasp as the man repositioned himself slightly in the driver’s seat. In my mind’s eye, I could picture the private detective, Gary Treadaway, shift a family-sized bag of crisps out of his lap and brush the crumbs from his stomach.
“After you left, he came outside to water them sorry-looking hanging baskets and there hasn’t been a peep out of him since. In fact, lemme see.” Another wheeze and shuffle. “Yep, I can see him right now through me binoculars watching the telly in the front room. He’s been there a good hour or more.”
I nodded. It was at least a fifty-minute drive from Garris’ house to the forest clearing in Aumbry. I had just needed to confirm in my own mind that my old mentor hadn’t set me another of his puzzles.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
I was about disconnect when Treadaway piped up. “Boss says your next payment’s due on Friday, by the way. Just a friendly reminder.”
I cancelled the call. Then, while the murmurs continued in the tent behind me, I stared at the phone in my hand. Directly above ‘GARY, Private Detective’ in my contacts list was ‘GARRIS, Peter.’ My thumb hovered over the name as I battled the almost irresistible urge to hit CALL.
In the days before I had discovered who he was, what he was, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I’d have hurried to share my every thought and theory with him, bouncing my plan for action off that logical, experienced intellect. Despite everything, I knew he could still help me now, if he chose. But this was a trite business, wasn’t it? Hardly worth compromising my morals to consult a serial killer.
Shoving the phone back into the pocket of my trench coat, I re-entered the tent.
Four faces turned to look at me. I felt their expectation like a dead weight.
“Just an idea,” I muttered. “Didn’t pan out.”
My dad nodded. “We’ve been talking about what you said regarding this thing seeming a bit ritualistic, what with the Bible verse and everything. Well, Tommy Radlett happened to notice this religious-type lurking around the forest road yesterday afternoon. He was handing out pamphlets to the chavvies who were playing in the woods. You know how we get nonces hanging around the fair sometimes, looking out for kiddies? Well, Tom told the little ’uns to stop rokkering with the mush and to jel out of it.”
“Stop talking to the man and run away,” I translated for a puzzled-looking Haz.
“Then Tom phoned me and I went down there to have a word. He was a youngish joskin, about your age. Clean-shaved, a bit bug-eyed, looked like he cut his own hair from the state of it. The usual black suit a preacher might wear, but at least a size too small for him. Charity shop number would be my guess. Still, he’d had money once, and whatever converted him to the good Lord, it must have happened in the past couple of years.”
“How do you know that?” Haz asked.
“He was wearing glasses. Designer frames, Cartier, but one of the arms was broken and taped and the lenses had been replaced, probably because his eyesight had got worse since he’d bought them. Thick, Coke-bottle lenses that looked ugly in the frames because he couldn’t afford to have the thinner kind.”
Haz frowned. “Maybe the glasses weren’t originally his? Maybe he found them and had the lenses replaced?”
Dad searched inside his pocket and brought out a torn sheet from the front of the preacher’s pamphlet: REJECT SATAN, REJECT SIN, REJECT WORLDLINESS AND AVARICE, ENVY AND GREED. EMBRACE JESUS CHRIST AS YOUR LORD AND SAVIOUR BEFORE THE HELLFIRE CONSUMES…
“A puritanical prick like this doesn’t pick up expensive glasses off the street and keep ’em,” Dad said. “He’d hand them in as lost property to the gavvers. But he might hold onto a pair from his old, sinful life, thinking that to throw them away would be wasteful. From the state of them, I’d guess this big life change happened a year or two back.”
I couldn’t help but smile at Haz’s quietly awed expression. It was how he had often looked at me in the old days when I performed my ‘tricks.’
“I learned from the best,” I murmured to him, and turned my attention back to the scrap of paper. “So you confronted this guy, tried to take one of his pamphlets, and he wrenched it back.”
“Said his message of salvation wasn’t for the likes of me. That he could tell just by looking into my face that I was beyond the grace of God.” Dad chuckled—a sound so rare that we all looked at him. “Anyway, I told him to be on his way and I didn’t think much more about it, until this happened. A fire-and-brimstone mush like that might well think fortune telling was the devil’s work.”
I glanced at Tilda who was quietly shaking her head. As she didn’t speak, I let the gesture pass.
“I gotta go see to the dodgems,” Big Sam said. “The plates are still out of alignment. Tils, why don’t you stay up at our trailer tonight? I’ll get Sandra to make up the spare bed.”
Dad agreed. “And if you want to open tomorrow, I’ll have one of the chaps stand guard outside the tent. I still think this is all a prank, but to be on the safe side we’ll keep a close eye on you. Unless Scott has anything to add?”
I shook my head. At that moment it was difficult to see what else could be done. In a strange way, the oblique threat of the doll reminded me of that uncertain terror harboured by Darrel Everwood. His fear that some dark fate awaited him at Purley Rectory was almost embodied in that gruesome wax poppet. And in their very different ways, weren’t Tilda and Darrel cut from the same psychic cloth? A religious fanatic who saw a simple fortune teller as a witch deserving of biblical punishment would surely view Everwood in similar terms. But it was such a vague connection, and when I asked Tilda if she’d ever met or spoken with Everwood, her denial seemed to make it even more unlikely.
“I’ve seen him on the telly, of course,” she said. “Done very well for himself, that one. But I doubt he has the true gift of a seer. Smoke and mirrors is his game, if I’m any judge.” But not yours? I let the question go unspoken. “Never met him, though. Why would I? They don’t put ugly mugs like mine on the telly.”
She cackled and then hushed us as we all demurred.
“I don’t have to be a mind-reader to know when I’m being flattered.” She shooed her twisted fingers at both Big Sam and my dad. “Now, off with you. The boys here can walk me over to your trailer, Sam. I shan’t open the tent tonight, but tomorrow?” Her lips tucked in with annoyance. “No God-botherer’s going to scare me away from my living.”
After they left, Haz and I helped Tilda out of her chair. Her knobbled knuckles affectionately brushed the side of our faces before she turned back to the needle-pierced poppet. She hesitated a moment and then
gingerly picked it up.
“Feels mulardi, don’t it?” she said, then looked at Haz. “Haunted, I mean. But not by spirits. By a living person’s spite and wickedness. It feels… personal.” Glancing up from the doll, she met my gaze. “Oh, I know you ain’t a believer, Scott Jericho. You never was, but I still see shadows all around you. Around both of you.” Her eyes appeared to lose their focus as she suddenly grasped spasmodically at Harry’s sleeve. “A man with silver hair and a hole in his body where terrible agonies wormed their way inside. Black pain like nothing he believed could ever be real. But he’s smiling now because the hole is empty and the pain’s gone. You took that pain from him, and he thanks you for it. His smile is your smile.”
Haz’s eyes went wide and he pulled away from her.
“I don’t…” He gazed at both of us, a look of someone betrayed. “I can’t.”
And with that, he pulled the tent flaps aside and vanished into the night. I was about to call out to him when Tilda grabbed my wrist.
“And you,” she said, her voice smoother, somehow less of a toadish croak. “The ghosts of those little Polish kiddies are gone. They’ve been avenged, and so have stepped beyond the light and out of this world. But you have others, don’t you? New and terrible shades. They look to you for justice, Scott Jericho. They scream like starving juks for the soul that took them before their time. They cling to you with the cold and certain grasp of the grave. The dog-faced man, the electric lady, the fat woman who eats her own flesh, the balloon-headed horror, and him. Him most of all. The killer, broken and remade.”
It was a shadow on the wall of the tent that caught my attention. A lone punter in the passing crowd, his darkness distorted by strobing lights and the windblown canvas. That was all. And if the shape paused and turned its misshapen head towards us, as if listening in through the shivering doorway? Well, people will stop to read Madam Tilda’s sign, won’t they? ENTER NOW AND MEET THE FUTURE! But I didn’t want him to enter. Didn’t want that twisted arm to reach out and pull the flap aside. Didn’t want the bloated corpse of Lenny Kerrigan to drag itself over the threshold. Didn’t want that still-bleeding face, red and slick as a freshly-dipped toffee apple, to turn and grin and plead, as it had back in Bradbury End:
Juh-i-co. Huh-elp. Muh-ee.
And of course it didn’t. Because there are no ghosts.
When I turned to Tilda again she was smiling her gentle smile, as if nothing had happened.
“Shall we go?” she asked. “It’s cold in here and I feel a chill in my bones.”
CHAPTER NINE
I was relieved to find one of my dad’s chaps waiting outside. Together we tied and padlocked the flaps, ensuring Tilda’s tent was secure for the night. Part of me had wanted to take the wax doll so that I could examine it again later, but on reflection, I didn’t think I’d get much more out of it. Anyway, I was desperate to find Haz. That look he’d given us before running off? It had made my blood run cold.
“Take her to Big Sam’s trailer,” I said to the chap. “His wife Sandra should be there. Don’t leave until she’s safely inside.” I then bent down to give Tilda a quick kiss on the cheek. “It’s only foolishness, I’m sure.”
She looked at me, her expression distant again. “Whatever happens, it’s nobody’s fault. I want you to remember that. Now, go find that handsome boy of yours.”
The ground was heaving. Punters surging and dawdling, tumbling dizzily off rides, lovers feeding each other wisps of candy floss. I moved between them with the born ease of a showman, making for the side ground and our carousel, where I prayed I’d find Haz. At one point I thought I saw Nick Holloway, a glint of flaming red among the bobbing heads, and then another familiar face I couldn’t quite place. A small, drawn-looking man dragging at the arm of a harassed woman in an olive-green anorak. The crowd swallowed them again and I dismissed the nagging recognition.
Stretching onto my toes, I finally made out the carousel. Sal was collecting money from parents while Haz went around checking their kids were safely mounted upon winged unicorns and magic carpets. My nerves were singing by the time I reached them. Jodie was busy nattering away to a distracted Haz who, on glimpsing me, appeared to fumble with a wailing child’s seatbelt.
“How’s Aunt Tils?” Sal asked, stepping in front of me.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Hasn’t said a word since he came back.”
“She’s fine,” I said. “Just a nasty practical joke. I’ll fill you in later.”
Sal levelled her eyes with mine. “You take him back to the trailer right now. He looks like he’s had a bad shock.” When I started to protest she cut me short. “Me and Jodes can mind the ride. Just sort things out, for Christ’s sake.”
“I will.” I touched her elbow. “Thanks.”
Sal then called her daughter over, receiving an almost adolescent pout from the seven-year-old. Haz was definitely Jodie’s favourite person and she hated being parted from him. Looking at my boyfriend’s sad, sweet face, it was a sentiment with which I could only sympathise. Haz pretended to be busy with his cash pocket until I unclipped it from his belt and handed it to Sal.
“Come on,” I said.
“No,” he answered, trying to snatch it back. “We have to—”
I took his hand. “Come on.”
We didn’t return to the trailer. Instead, I led us to my father’s old Colchester and the kennel that stood at the bottom of the trailer steps. Hearing our approach, a weary head poked its way out of the wooden box. Haz knelt and immediately started making a fuss of the old boxer dog while I grabbed Webster’s lead from the hook outside my dad’s door. The juk gave a great, full-bodied yawn, and lead attached, plodded along loyally beside us.
We barely exchanged a word as we left the main gate and followed the boundary of the wood. Not a hint of movement among those trees. I guessed that whatever night creatures called this place their home had been frightened away by the glare and bellow of the fair. Breathing deeply, I caught the autumnal scent of bonfires on the air, and perhaps prompted by this, the image of a burning pyre ignited in my head—a figure lashed to a stake, screaming, writhing, caged in fire…
“I’m sorry, what?”
I realised Haz had been speaking.
“Nothing,” he murmured, slipping his hand out of mine. “Doesn’t matter.”
I was about to say something when Webster bristled at my side. I glanced down to find his hackles raised, his teeth bared. His attention was fixed on the blank façade of the house in front of us. Purley Rectory seemed to have loomed out of the clearing without me being aware that we’d even approached it. I told Webster to hush and followed Haz to the low iron railing that ran around the front garden, a stretch of grassless, flowerless scrub so desolate that even weeds appeared to shun it.
The house itself was a big, square, redbrick building in the style of the Gothic Revival. All sharp angles, decorative dripstones, and overly ornate flourishes. Planted into the steep, sloping roof, a regiment of towering chimneys stood like guardians on a battlement. It was a house of contrasts. Features leaped out and caught the eye: one window larger and misaligned with the rest, an eave hanging out of balance, a small, pagan face randomly etched into a cornerstone. The overall effect was one of clutter and disorder, as if the architect had been unable to bear contemplating any single part of his design for too long.
Above the overhang of the porch, a light shone at a first-floor window. With the rest of the house in darkness, that single bright chink gave the place a watchful air. I wondered if Miss Rowell was still busy inside, trying to comply with the production team’s request to make Purley more ‘old-timey.’ Just to the right of the rectory stood those expensive trailers, each with a ‘Ghost Seekers’ decal slapped onto the side.
Suddenly Haz turned to me, his eyes bright. “Did you tell her?”
Webster glanced between us and whined.
“Haz.” I sighed. “I’d never—”
“Th
en how’d she know? About what happened?” He crossed his arms, cupped his elbows with his hands. “About my dad.”
“Harry.” I tried to reach for him but he pulled back. “Think about it. You’re thirty-two years old. Like most people your age, you’ve probably lost an older relative at some point in your life, and what are the odds that person had grey hair and a smile a bit like yours? Tilda didn’t say who it was—it might have been your grandfather.”
“She said he had a hole in his body full of pain.”
“OK,” I agreed. “But did she say what kind of pain or where it was located? It might have been cancer or heart trouble, anything at all. I mean, who doesn’t have an elderly relative with aches and pains?”
“She said I took his pain away,” Haz said.
“She said you, ‘took his pain from him,’” I corrected gently. “A kind word or a joke can take someone’s mind off their pain. Do you see? This is how dukkerin—” He shot me a questioning glance. “Fortune telling, mediumship, call it what you like, this is how it works. The ‘psychic’ makes general statements that sound specific and you fill in the blanks.”
“So why did she say those things?” he asked. “To be cruel?”
I shook my head. “She might have thought it would bring you comfort. She’s been playing this role all her life, remember. I don’t even think she knows she’s making it up.”
Making it up? Then how did she know about Garris’ victims and about Lenny Kerrigan? Because those too had been generalities, I reasoned, and in the moment I had mistakenly interpreted them as specific knowledge. As a Traveller, Tilda was well aware of the legend of the Jericho freaks, a story refreshed in her mind by the recent anniversary in Bradbury End. Again, it was all coincidence, all illusion—the human mind seeking patterns in things that weren’t there.
“So none of it’s real,” Haz said. “Not Aunt Tilda’s dukkerin, not even the ghosts of this ugly old house?”
