The Wayward Girls

by Amanda Mason

  Glancing back into the kitchen she wandered down the hall, hoping to look as though she was absorbed in Joe’s work.

  She got as far as the bottom of the stairs as behind her the baby’s cries grew more insistent, more enraged, and Cathy continued to pace up and down the kitchen.

  ‘Hello?’ She lifted her camera. It was cold here, the skin on her neck and arms puckered into goose bumps. Through the lens the staircase came into focus; at the top of the stairs, on the landing, something in the shadows seemed to move.

  Three quick thuds, inside the walls, or maybe above her head. She stepped back, almost colliding with Cathy who was still holding her fretful child, and with Florian who had evidently abandoned his game in the garden.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Issy. ‘I thought – did you hear that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cathy looked almost apologetic.

  ‘Is that it? Is it like that all the time?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s louder. Sometimes …’ Cathy’s voice drifted away. She smoothed the baby’s hair back from its red and puffy face. ‘It’s hard to describe,’ she said.

  ‘So, if I could speak to the girls, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not today. I’ll need to check with their father. Can you come back tomorrow?’

  ‘Is he not back yet, then? Your husband?’

  ‘No. He can’t get away – I’ll speak with him later.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The question seemed to take Cathy by surprise. ‘Glasgow,’ she said. ‘He was asked to teach – just for a few weeks, in an art college, it was all a bit last-minute. There’s no one who can cover for him.’

  ‘It would be really helpful if—’

  ‘No. Not right now.’ The baby struggled in Cathy’s arms, drew breath for another onslaught. ‘They have their lessons and I want to keep things – normal.’

  ‘OK. Well, tomorrow it is, then.’

  ‘Good. That would be – good.’

  And that’s where they’d left it.

  Isobel drove through the village and up onto the moors road. She was late for work and she desperately needed to pee – after seeing the state of Cathy’s kitchen, she hadn’t wanted to risk the bathroom – but none of that mattered. There was more going on in that house than met the eye, she was sure of it; she had felt it, the chill, the sense of expectation. She got to the top of the moor and turned onto the road towards the coast. It was another glorious day and finally she had her story.

  6

  Then

  ‘Do you mind?’ said Professor Warren, as he leant forward and switched off the radio. ‘I have a headache.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Simon, who did mind. It was his car after all, but Michael Warren was the senior researcher on this trip, and Simon still couldn’t quite escape an upbringing that had demanded polite acquiescence to the wishes of one’s elders and betters at all times. The car filled with silence.

  They’d left the motorway behind an hour or so ago and were edging their way carefully along the valley from one village to the next, each one smaller than the last, each one baking under an endless blue sky. They’d wound down the windows but every time they had to slow for a tractor, or worse, a sturdy and belligerent sheep, the breeze this afforded them vanished. It might have been Simon’s imagination, but these stops seemed to be occurring more and more frequently. He began to worry that the car, second-hand, and a gift from his parents, might not be up to the job.

  ‘Do you know this part of the world?’ asked the professor.

  ‘No, I don’t. Do you?’

  ‘The coast, a little; holidays when I was a boy, that sort of thing, but I don’t know the moors at all.’

  To their right empty fields, pale and sun-bleached green, stretched down to the river. To their left, there was a steep incline, rough and undomesticated, but still marked out as someone’s property by the dark grey dry stone walls that rose and fell and clung to the earth. Up beyond the final boundary lay the black and gold and budding purple of the moors.

  Simon didn’t like it.

  It was too … bare.

  He’d been pressed into service by the Society at the very last minute. There’d been some sort of falling out between Roland Miskin, another senior researcher, and the professor – he wasn’t sure what and he certainly wasn’t in a position to ask – and Simon had suddenly been presented with the chance to take part in his first field investigation. He still couldn’t quite believe his luck and had spent much of the journey north wondering why the professor had decided to single him out. It was a remarkable opportunity for one so inexperienced, and certainly worth the inconvenience of giving up his weekend.

  Simon had first attended a Society lecture at the beginning of the summer, ‘Towards an Understanding of Mediumship’, given by Professor Michael Warren. He’d been nearing the end of his second year studying Psychology and wasn’t really convinced that he was going back for a third. He’d been at a loose end one evening and curious, that was all, slightly amused that anyone might take the study of psychics and fortune tellers seriously. But the lecture – hosted by a student group calling itself the Paranormal Society – and the man who gave it had taken him by surprise. Professor Warren had a far more formal approach to his subject than Simon had expected; he was clearly a thoughtful, disciplined thinker who stood in stark contrast to the lecturers on Simon’s Psychology course – some of whom were barely older than he was, and all of whom insisted on first names and a shambling informality in lectures. The professor’s attitude to the cases under discussion, which might have seemed lurid in other hands, had been rational, calm and above all scientific. Simon had been impressed.

  Unwilling to admit to anyone that he’d been feeling lost, untethered somehow as the long summer vacation stretched out in front of him, Simon had attended several more lectures – a couple more on the campus, then at the Society’s headquarters in Kensington – and had gradually got to know a few members of the group. He’d begun to help out behind the scenes too, taking the minutes at meetings, volunteering in the archives, answering the phone. Unable to explain to anyone, not even himself, what had stirred this sudden interest in the paranormal, he’d kept his involvement hidden from his university friends, most of whom had fled London anyway, the moment term had ended.

  The call, when it had come yesterday evening, had been a complete surprise.

  ‘It’s very good of you, you know,’ said the professor.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘To give up your summer at such short notice.’

  ‘I thought this was just a preliminary visit?’ Just the weekend, he’d been told, over the phone, not by the professor, but by a woman – his secretary, Simon supposed. She’d sounded distant, disapproving and almost disappointed too when he’d confirmed he did have a car and was indeed free this weekend.

  ‘True,’ said Professor Warren, opening the file he’d been studying on and off since they’d got into the car that morning, ‘but there’s something about this case, the location, the circumstances of the family – one gets a feeling for these things, you know.’

  ‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘I see.’

  He’d been given the bare bones of the story over the phone, about the farm and the two little girls who heard bumps in the night, and he’d been trying to play it cool, to prepare himself for a weekend spent hovering in the background as yet another case was proven to be a dead end; he was well aware that generally most field investigations led to the uncovering of minor and very unimaginative hoaxes. That the Society’s most senior researcher, a man who dealt only with the most difficult and demanding phenomena, was already thinking of a long-term investigation, was, however, pretty exciting. He wondered, for a moment, if he might suggest taking a break from driving, swapping seats with the professor, and reading through the file himself.

  ‘So, you think this might be the real thing?’ he asked, hoping to hear more details, to be asked perhaps for his opinion. But Professor Warren was busy reading his n
otes again, and Simon didn’t quite have the nerve to repeat the question.

  They’d booked rooms at the village pub. Simon had been expecting quaint oak timbers and whitewashed walls, but the interior of the eighteenth-century building had turned out to be hastily modernised, no different to the city centre bars at home. Upstairs, the two box rooms available were plain and cramped; he took the smaller one, naturally.

  He opened his bedroom window. The catch, painted over more than once in its lifetime, was stiff but he got it to move in the end, and leant out. The view was of the back of the pub. There were a few trestle tables set up in a scrubby beer garden. The garden wall was covered with a tangle of bushes and brambles and beyond that the land rose steeply, the moor seeming to loom over the pub, too high, too close, almost blocking out the sky; he couldn’t imagine that many tourists would choose to stay for more than one night. He left the window on the latch and went downstairs.

  They were in the bar, the professor and the young woman, chatting by the fireplace. He in his linen trousers and fading checked shirt, a battered briefcase in one hand, looking exactly like one’s idea of a friendly academic, a good sort of chap who likes his beer and cricket. She was pretty enough, Simon thought as he walked towards them, younger than he’d expected, attractive in a pale sort of way.

  ‘Here he is,’ said the professor. ‘Simon Leigh, this is Isobel Bradshaw. She’s very kindly agreed to help us out for a few days.’

  ‘I’ve agreed to think about it,’ said the girl. She shook his hand firmly, looked him full in the face. Her smile was welcoming, but Simon had the distinct feeling that he was being sized up.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.

  They took their drinks into the beer garden. The moor cast its long shadow over them as the midges circled their table. The professor pulled a manila folder from his briefcase and produced some newspaper cuttings. The first, from the Whitby Gazette, had a picture of two girls, more or less the same age, staring solemn and wide-eyed at the camera as they sat on the edge of a sofa, holding hands. The headline read Unexplained Events at Local Farm.

  The second article was from a national paper. It carried the same photo but above the headline screamed IS THIS HOUSE HAUNTED? HORROR AT IRON SIKE FARM.

  ‘You’re familiar with these, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Isobel picked up the first piece of paper. ‘I went up to the farm on my own at first, but once I’d got the beginnings of the story the paper sent Liam Carthy, one of the reporters. I wanted to follow things up myself, but I was – overruled.’

  ‘It’s your photo, though,’ says Simon. Her name ran beneath the image in small black letters.

  ‘Yes. They decided they could trust me with that.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘Cathy and I get on all right, you see. Though I did have to explain to her that I don’t get to write the headlines, particularly in the nationals.’

  ‘Have there been further incidents since you became involved?’ asked the professor.

  ‘Apparently.’ Isobel put the news cutting on the table, smoothing it with her fingertips. ‘Usually at night and usually in the girls’ room. Unexplained knocking, furniture being tipped over, toys, marbles, Lego bricks flying through the air. The usual sort of thing,’ she said.

  ‘Usual?’

  Issy took a sip of her orange juice. ‘I read up on a couple of cases,’ she said. ‘Research.’

  ‘And the girls?’ asked the professor. ‘What do you think of them? How are they coping?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’re – quite clever, I think. Lively. The sort of children who don’t fear adults.’

  The professor looked confused. ‘Fear them?’

  ‘You know – they use your first name, they ask questions, contradict you. They’re not – biddable.’

  ‘Do you like them?’ asked Simon.

  ‘I suppose so. I feel … sorry for them, more than anything else.’

  ‘Because of the phenomena?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes. Cathy is doing her best, but she’s out of her depth.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘Joe? Apparently he won’t be able to get away from work for another week or so. It’s just Cathy and the kids for now.’

  ‘He’s been gone how long?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A few weeks, I think.’

  Professor Warren picked up the second paper. ‘And did you witness the events in this account? The taps turning themselves on, the cold spots in the house, the girls being pinched and bruised by unseen hands?’

  ‘I didn’t witness any events. I mean – not the things they’re talking about.’

  ‘But something?’

  She hesitated. ‘Not really. Nothing I’d swear to in court. I heard – I thought I heard something upstairs – someone knocking. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was – odd.’

  ‘And you were the one who contacted the papers?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her tone hardened, as if she’d had this argument before and was weary of it.

  ‘And they ran your photographs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are others?’

  ‘Contact sheets, yes.’

  ‘May we see them?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And the local paper, the Gazette, is it continuing to follow events?’

  ‘No, they think … well, they’ve printed the one story, they think that’s enough.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Isobel put her glass down. ‘I think there’s more to it,’ she said. ‘As far as I can tell, things are as bad as ever up there.’

  ‘And that might be good for you,’ said Michael, ‘professionally speaking.’

  ‘You too,’ said Issy.

  Michael consulted his notes again. ‘The name of the farm, Iron Sike, is that significant?’

  ‘I doubt it; sike is just another name for a beck, a stream. There must be one on the land somewhere.’

  ‘I see.’ If he was embarrassed, he hid it well. ‘Is he reliable, this policeman friend of yours, the one who came to you with the story in the first place?’

  ‘I think so. He seemed … unnerved by what had happened.’

  ‘Will he talk to us, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it; he’s barely talking to me now. Coppers who see spooks don’t get taken very seriously, you see, and I’d promised not to tell.’

  ‘Really?’ The professor managed to hide his disapproval, most of it, and Issy took a sip of her drink, flushing a little. ‘It seemed the right thing to do, at the time,’ she said.

  They ate inside, the only customers in the tiny and poorly lit dining room.

  ‘Do you believe them?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Sorry?’ Isobel hadn’t eaten much, he noticed, and he couldn’t blame her: the salad leaves on her plate looked warm and wilted. His food, gammon and chips, might best be described as filling.

  ‘You didn’t say whether or not you believe them.’

  ‘That’s not really relevant, is it? Martin – PC Thorpe – passed on a story, I took some pictures, you saw the papers and here we are.’ She ran her fork around her plate, scraping a path through her food; she had short nails, practical hands.

  ‘Are you a sceptic, my dear?’ asked the professor.

  ‘I have an open mind,’ said Isobel.

  ‘And you’re ambitious.’

  Isobel smiled. ‘Well, you have to admit it makes a change from Lifeboat Day and golden wedding celebrations.’

  She was his age, more or less, Simon thought, maybe a bit older, which he didn’t mind. He wondered what she’d look like with her hair, a pale coppery gold, let loose. He wondered if she had a boyfriend.

  ‘What about you?’ Isobel asked, turning her attention to Simon. ‘Do you believe what you’ve read?’

  ‘I – I haven’t had a chance to look at all the case notes yet.’

  No one at the Society had thought to send him any copies.

  ‘Well, generally speaking, then. You’re a paranormal in
vestigator, so that means you’re predisposed to believe these girls, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It means I’m interested in the possibility of … something else. Something beyond our knowledge.’

  ‘Our current knowledge,’ said the professor.

  ‘So, what do you want, exactly?’ asked Isobel, pushing her plate away and leaning back in her chair.

  ‘To evaluate the evidence, to record the girls’ accounts, to consider alternative explanations for the phenomena experienced so far.’ The professor could have been quoting from a Society monograph. He probably was.

  ‘Such as fraud?’

  ‘Sometimes people can become … caught up in the atmosphere of a place, shall we say. A significant proportion of supernatural occurrences can be explained as perfectly natural activity, poorly observed. A smaller but no less significant proportion is – yes, you’re quite correct, fraudulent.’

  ‘You seem to be in a disappointing line of work, Professor.’ Her smile took a little of the sting out of her words.

  ‘Ah, but you see, Isobel, there is a fraction, a tiny fraction, of unexplained phenomena that remains exactly that – unexplained. And there, there is where our true calling lies.’

  ‘Do you believe them?’ Isobel asked. ‘Do you think there’s something here worth investigating?’

  The professor hesitated for a moment, weighing his answer.

  ‘I should like to see for myself,’ he said, ‘I should like to find … proof.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with Cathy?’

  ‘Not yet. I wondered if you would arrange an introduction, an interview, perhaps.’

  ‘If I agree to get involved with your project.’

  ‘You’re already involved, surely? And it would be helpful, I think, to have a reliable witness, someone willing to document the investigation.’

  Isobel picked up her drink and smiled. ‘Like I said, I’ll think about it.’

  Michael left Simon and Isobel downstairs in the public bar and made his way up to his room. He wasn’t tired, far from it. But he wanted to go over the notes he’d made once more before turning in and anyway, he assumed the two of them, the two young people, would rather get to know each other without him there, playing gooseberry. He was fairly certain Isobel was going to agree to speak to Cathy Corvino, that she might even be persuaded to photograph the investigation, to become part of the team, despite her evident scepticism.