The Wayward Girls

by Amanda Mason

  He made his way down the carpeted hallway, the noise from the bar muffled now and rather comforting, in its way. He let himself into his room and dropped his briefcase on the bed two lamps, one on the bedside table, one on the small writing desk under the window, gave the room a pale golden glow. The windows were open, of course, and the night air was still.

  It hadn’t taken him long to unpack. He prided himself on that: he wasn’t like so many men, so many widowers – the word unfamiliar, awkward, even after all this time – helpless when it came to domestic matters. The only personal touch he’d added to the room was a photograph set in a simple silver frame – himself, his wife Judith, and their daughter Carol. It was an old picture, nothing more than a blurred snapshot really, but it had always been one of his favourites, taken one sunny afternoon in their garden, a commonplace keepsake. He never travelled without it.

  He picked it up and smiled as he always did, certain that Judith was there beside him somehow, the same warm and steady presence he had known throughout their marriage, guiding him, supporting him.

  She’d be disappointed about the business with Miskin. He could have handled that better, should have handled it better. But he still had hopes that he could persuade Roland to come up to the farm at a later date, in a week or so perhaps, once he’d been able to generate some reliable evidence. Until then Simon could probably be counted on.

  He replaced the photo and settled himself at his desk. This case interested him not so much because of the girls’ situation, dramatic as it was, but because of the research opportunities it might afford. He had to plan accordingly. He’s become aware recently that the rules and regulations of the Society had begun to chafe. What had begun for him as an experiment in radical thought had become safe, over-reliant on procedure and protocols. How, after all, could one begin to classify the unknown? This, he felt, was an opportunity to experiment with a new approach. He wondered if he might not give a lecture on this, once they were back in London, and began to idly plan his rebuttals to the inevitable objections of some of his more conservative colleagues.

  After a while he picked up his notebook and pen and turned his attention to the farm and to the two girls, Bee and Loo: there was work to be done and he needed to be prepared.

  Apart from a courting couple who had taken the shadiest spot, Simon and Isobel found that they had the beer garden to themselves. They chose a table at the far end, as far away from the pub as possible; neither of them really wanted to be overheard. Isobel lit a cigarette and the two sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Have you worked with Michael for long?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I – not long.’

  ‘I looked him up; he’s quite famous in his way, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s very highly regarded, as a researcher. He’s worked on some very important cases.’ Simon wished he could say something that didn’t sound so formal. He looked up at the night sky, blue-black now and filled with stars. Some of the constellations looked familiar, but the more he looked the more he saw, until he felt quite dazzled and his head began to swim.

  ‘Would it be hard to fool him, then?’ Her voice was low; he had to lean forward to hear her.

  ‘People have tried,’ he said, thinking of the crowded shelves in the Society’s archives, yellowing paper clippings with terse notes attached: ‘No further action required.’

  ‘And if it was faked, he’d say so?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And he’ll … watch out for them, will he?’

  The other couple had stopped talking; Simon could see them, just in the corner of his eye, wrapped around each other. ‘I suppose so,’ he said.

  ‘They’re not well liked around here, the Corvinos,’ said Isobel.

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  She drew on her cigarette. ‘Some people think that living in the country will be simpler, healthier – but it isn’t easy. You have to make an effort and … They don’t fit in, you know? And the piece in the Gazette didn’t help. They need someone who’s going to be on their side.’

  ‘What happened there?’ asked Simon. ‘With you at the newspaper?’

  ‘Nothing. I do the pictures, that’s all. They needed to send in someone better qualified, more experienced. I should have known they would.’ She stubbed out the cigarette in the cheap tin ashtray and stood up. Her thin dress was creased and she tried to smooth it down.

  ‘It’s not fair though, is it?’ said Simon. ‘The way they took the story away from you.’

  She looked across the garden towards the pub, its lights blazing, music from the jukebox leaking out into the warm night air. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, it bloody isn’t.’ She turned her gaze onto the couple for a moment or two, regarding them quietly, without embarrassment, as if they were no more than an interesting composition.

  ‘But what if, what if it is, you know – a fraud of some sort?’ asked Simon.

  ‘It’s still a story, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Better for me than you, perhaps. But I’d be … all right, I suppose.’ She picked up her bag, wrapping the leather strap around her fingers, gently testing the weight of it, deciding. ‘I’ll go and see Cathy in the morning, see what she thinks,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if she wants to meet you, if she’s happy for you to interview the girls.’

  ‘And you’ll stick around? This weekend, I mean. Photos would be useful.’

  ‘I suppose so. If she goes for it.’

  ‘OK.’ Simon scrambled to his feet. He thought he might suggest she stay for another drink now that they were allies, but Isobel hoisted the bag onto her shoulder.

  ‘Right. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘At about eleven.’

  ‘OK,’ said Simon. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  But she was already walking back towards the pub and if she heard him she didn’t bother to reply.

  7

  Now

  Nina doesn’t really like to sleep late, but at some point, in the early hours of Sunday morning, after two broken nights and a day of reviewing footage and writing up notes, her body had simply given in. She had last taken the readings from all the monitors at about five. Hal had dealt with the cameras and the SD cards, importing the rushes onto his laptop, and she’d decided to take a look at that. She’d carried the computer to the sofa and begun the long and tiresome process of watching the empty rooms.

  She wakes now, covered with one of the sleeping bags and the laptop nowhere in sight.

  ‘Jesus.’ Her back aches and her mouth is dry. Hal is sitting at the table with his back to her.

  ‘Morning,’ he says, without looking round.

  A second sleeping bag lies abandoned on the floor. ‘Where’s Lewis?’

  ‘Bathroom. The pair of you went out like lights.’

  She sits up slowly, stretching out the muscles in her neck. ‘What about you?’ she asks.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ says Hal, ‘so I thought I’d get on.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. It doesn’t seem enough. ‘I really do appreciate you stepping in like this, you know. We both do. It means a lot to us,’ she adds. ‘To me.’

  Hal turns round to look at her, resting his arm along the top of the chair. He looks pale, anxious, but at least he’s smiling. ‘You’re welcome,’ he says. ‘Has it been worth it?’

  ‘Of course it has.’

  The silence that follows is filled by Lewis clattering down the stairs. ‘I’m hungry,’ he says, picking up a rucksack and shaking it experimentally.

  ‘You’re always hungry,’ says Nina. She gets up and opens one of the carrier bags that litter the floor. ‘Here.’ She hands him a bottle of orange juice and an energy bar. ‘Breakfast.’ Lewis doesn’t look pleased, but he takes a seat and begins to tear at the biscuit wrapper.

  ‘We’re up to date on the temperature readings,’ he says, ‘if you want to take a look at the EMF monitors.’

  ‘It’s been brilliant,’ Nina says to Hal as she walks behind his chair. ‘Worth every sleeple
ss minute.’

  ‘Right. Well. If you say so.’

  Nina uses the loo and brushes her teeth. Once she’s done she can’t resist going into the girls’ room one more time. She makes a show of checking the camera as well as the monitors before taking a careful circuit of the room, just in case they’ve missed anything significant. It’s just as it was the last time she checked, of course, and the time before that.

  She can hear the guys in the dining room. Lewis is lecturing Hal on some poltergeist study or other and Hal appears to be tolerating him. They hadn’t managed to duplicate their findings, which has been, yes, a bit disappointing, but still they have it, on audio and video.

  The girls heard it first: the knocking in the walls.

  It’s more than she had dared hope for.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Lewis gestures towards the laptop screen with his cereal bar.

  ‘Fine. I mean, nothing unusual, you know. Just you guys moving around, and the rooms. Just – fine …’

  There has been nothing else since that first extraordinary evening – and if they hadn’t got the film and the audio, Hal might have been able to persuade himself that he’d imagined it all.

  He’s reviewed the rushes a couple of times: Nina is standing motionless in the centre of the room, then he and Lewis both run into shot, rules and protocols abandoned, and the knocking in the walls – whatever it was – suddenly stops.

  All their other evidence is, as far as Hal can tell, entirely subjective. Lewis insists there’s a cold spot on the staircase, although given the lack of heating in the house, how he can isolate just one example is beyond Hal. Nina has been writing in her notebook fairly frequently, referring back to the notes in her folders, but she hasn’t shared her feelings with the team.

  Hal has got through the weekend by concentrating on the cameras and the images on his screen; he hasn’t mentioned the power surge that messed around with the light that first evening, before the knocking in the walls began, although they have all replaced bulbs in various rooms, bulbs that blow with alarming regularity.

  Still, Nina and Lewis are pleased with the way the weekend has gone, which is the important thing, Hal supposes. He still doesn’t like the house, perhaps because it’s cold and dark, perhaps because he can’t quite shake the feeling that there might be something there in the dark. Something watching them.

  Or maybe he’s just seen too many horror films.

  He turns back to the laptop and continues fast-forwarding through the footage from the camera on the upstairs landing. Even at five times normal speed, this is going to take hours. Aware of Lewis sitting by the window, eating his breakfast and not really paying attention, Hal nudges the speed up and up again. The image flickers slightly.

  Thirty times normal, and there it is, on the landing.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Lewis is on his feet and across the room in seconds. ‘What?’

  ‘Hang on, hang on.’ Hal hits stop and goes back, pauses again and presses play. The hallway is empty.

  He’s gone back too far, or not far enough.

  Hal tries again, and presses play. Nothing.

  ‘What?’ says Lewis again, standing over the table. Too close. Too impatient.

  ‘Just wait.’ Hal speeds up the video and by the time Nina comes back, they’ve found it.

  ‘What’s that?’ She leans in close to the screen.

  ‘We’re not sure.’

  It looks like it could be a fault on the screen, a smudge, a smear, a stain, in the corner of the landing, almost but not quite out of frame. A trick of the light, perhaps.

  ‘Play it again.’

  Hal presses play, slows the image down to half normal speed.

  It’s still there.

  Back upstairs, after lunch by the harbour and the slow walk home up the hill, Cathy puts away her coat and bag, and Lucy watches her pace around the room, picking up magazines and stacking them on her desk, pulling out books from the shelves and pushing them back into place. Fussing, fretting, unable to settle down. Lucy knows better than to suggest a nap and she can’t bring herself to mention Nina Marshall or the farm again.

  ‘I think I’ll read for a while; you don’t mind, do you?’ She doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, she simply picks up a book at random, a collection of short stories, and sits in the chair by the window. She doesn’t look up as her mother kicks off her shoes, nor does she acknowledge the tell-tale creak of bedsprings as Cathy sits on the bed, sighing softly as she swings her legs up and leans back on her pillows. It doesn’t take her long to fall asleep.

  Lucy stares at the open book on her lap as she listens to her mother breathing and counts slowly to one hundred. Only then does she risk turning her head. Cathy lies on her side on top of the bed, her knees drawn up to her body, her hands curled over her face. Lucy stands, putting her book to one side. She is on her way to the door when behind her Cathy’s laptop pings softly. She has a new email.

  Lucy doesn’t think twice. She reads the note quickly, conscious of the sleeping figure across the room.

  extraordinary results

  really remarkable footage

  so looking forward to sharing with you

  She glances at her mother and finds herself considering deleting the message, imagining for a moment that with a tap on the mouse pad she can make it all go away. On impulse, she takes a shot of the email on her phone and she’s still bent over the laptop when there’s a discreet knock at the door and it opens. It’s Sarah, a pile of fresh bedding in her arms.

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ She begins to back out of the room and Lucy closes the computer, glad she no longer has to make a decision.

  ‘Hang on,’ she says, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She closes the door softly and walks down the corridor with Sarah, the younger woman still apologetic. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she says. ‘Usually I’d do the beds in the morning, but we’re a bit short-handed today.’

  ‘That’s fine; I think my mother just needs to catch up on her sleep. We’ve been for a walk.’

  Sarah places Cathy’s bedding on a laundry trolley at the end of the corridor, and begins sorting through a pile of sheets. ‘Right. I’ll do her room later, then.’

  Lucy should really go upstairs and check her own emails. She’s sure there’ll be stuff from Eloise to deal with and some calls to make. She can’t just abandon everyone at the gallery, and she needs to think about this girl, Nina, about that last email, about what she should do next. ‘I’ll let you get on,’ she says.

  ‘Actually … Since you’re here – I just wanted to say – she’s all right, you know, your mother.’ Sarah has found what she was looking for and hugs the sheets, snowy white and edged in lace, close to her chest. ‘She’s usually very active, very – I mean she’s not—’

  ‘I know,’ says Lucy. ‘But she did get a bit confused. She thought she saw someone in the garden.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s not completely well, you know – she doesn’t always remember things.’

  ‘But that’s just names and stuff, new words. She’s forgetful now and then but she’s not – I wouldn’t like you to think she was …’ Sarah is starting to look uncomfortable. ‘The thing is, I’ve worked with dementia patients before. We all have. What she said, what she did – that doesn’t fit, you know. That’s not how – well, it’s not how her disease progresses.’

  ‘Sarah, have you finished?’ Jean’s voice floats up the stairwell, uncomfortably close, and Sarah flushes.

  ‘Nearly,’ she says, raising her voice, clutching the sheets so hard she’s creasing them. ‘When I’m done, I’ll take my break, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Yes. That’s fine.’

  The two women stand motionless until they hear a distant door close.

  ‘In the garden,’ Sarah says. ‘I need to finish this, but I usually take my coffee out into the garden.’

  There’s a bench set back against the house just a little way along
from the kitchen door and Lucy finds Sarah sitting there, clutching a mug. It’s not exactly getting dark, but nor is it fully light; the days are growing palpably shorter and the air is cold and damp. Lucy pulls her coat around her and sits down on the bench.

  ‘We don’t get long,’ says Sarah, ‘only quarter of an hour.’ She takes a sip of coffee. ‘But still, it’s a nice place to work, you know? Mrs Wyn Jones wants it all done right, but that’s only because it’s important, caring for people. She always says if you don’t care there’s no place for you here. She’s really mortified about your mother. She’d never forgive herself if—’ She stops, takes another sip of coffee. ‘That’s why we’re short-staffed today. She had to sack Jo Lawrence – because of her not setting the alarms. It wasn’t to get back at her, it was because Mrs Wyn Jones has to trust us, all of us, to look after the residents.’

  ‘I know,’ says Lucy. She can feel the girl’s panic rising: see it in the thin hands gripping fiercely onto the cup.

  ‘And we all get on. We like each other, we have a laugh.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Sarah nods absently. ‘It’s hard sometimes though, especially when a resident,’ her eyes flicker anxiously towards Lucy and then she looks down again, ‘you know, dies.’

  ‘Well, it’s like you said, you care.’

  ‘And it’s an old house,’ says Sarah. ‘It’s a bit … spooky.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘Sometimes, sometimes you can think you might have … seen something.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucy tries to keep her tone even. ‘Has that ever happened to you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The girl’s voice is barely audible. She sounds almost guilty.