The Wayward Girls

by Amanda Mason

  ‘Nina? Hal? Problem.’

  Lucy follows Hal and Nina up. Lewis is standing outside the bedroom, which is in total darkness.

  ‘That’s odd,’ says Nina, flicking her torch around the room, making light trails on the walls and ceiling.

  ‘Shine that over for me, would you?’ says Hal, following her inside. ‘Batteries,’ he says, after a brief examination of the small light fitted onto the camera.

  ‘It was fine earlier,’ says Lewis.

  ‘Well, it’s fucked now.’

  ‘Do we have any more?’

  ‘They’re charging.’

  ‘Can we still film up here?’ asks Nina.

  ‘Sure,’ says Hal, making some adjustments to the camera’s settings. ‘The quality of the image might be a bit grainy, but you should be OK. If Lewis can manage with just his torch for company.’

  ‘Great,’ says Lewis. ‘Thanks.’

  Nina takes the chair, which leaves Lucy the sofa, positioned in front of the fireplace, just as it had been all those years before. She sits and for a second she can hear the whir of the tape recorder, she can see Simon sitting by the chair, and her calm deserts her, because this can’t possibly end well and she should tell someone quickly, before—

  ‘Lucy? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ She leans back into the sofa, unwraps the scarf she’s been wearing and places it on the empty seat next to her.

  Bee’s seat.

  ‘Did you bring your book?’ asks Nina.

  Something to distract her, that would help, but she can’t remember where she had it last. The kitchen, perhaps, or maybe upstairs in the bedroom.

  ‘Sorry.’

  It’s disconcerting. A patch of the floral paper Lucy remembers so well has been uncovered on one wall, a great gash of it from ceiling to floor, and the fireplace with its cracked tile has remained untouched, but the furniture in the living room, a sofa, a chair, and an empty bookcase, is unfamiliar. Yet still it’s there, the faintest sensation that she has come home. She could close her eyes, fill the room with her mother’s books, Joe’s work on the walls, Flor’s toys scattered over the carpet.

  The blue-green marble still tucked in her pocket.

  ‘What was it like?’ asked Nina.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She hadn’t been listening.

  ‘When you moved here,’ said Nina. ‘What was it like?’

  Lucy shifts position, trying to get comfortable on the sagging sofa, deciding how much to share. ‘We didn’t much like it,’ she says in the end. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I always thought it sounded idyllic, like something out of a book.’

  The Railway Children. Swallows and Amazons.

  ‘Yes. Well. No one in the village liked us. They thought we were hippies, or gypsies, or both. And Cathy and Joe – they didn’t care, you see. They didn’t care what people thought, so they made no effort to get on. It was just us, too many of us, crammed in here. And we didn’t have a clue about living in the countryside. We didn’t fit in.’

  Nina resists the temptation to fill the silence that follows.

  ‘And we had to share, me and Bee. God, we hated that.’

  ‘Weren’t you close, then?’ asks Nina.

  She doesn’t understand, of course. Only children never do.

  Nina hesitates. ‘Tell me some more about my dad.’

  Lucy doesn’t know where to start. She casts around for something, anything, to fill the silence. ‘He used to sit there,’ she says, nodding towards the fireplace. ‘He would sit cross-legged on the floor, in charge of the tape recorder. Michael used to say he didn’t know how to work it, but I’m sure he did. I think he just liked having Simon around, he liked having an assistant, an apprentice.’

  ‘Did he mind that?’

  ‘Simon? I don’t think so. He thought they were doing important work. I think he really believed that they were going to reveal something amazing to the world, a great truth. I think that’s why he wrote the book, why he carried on after Michael died.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lucy doesn’t have to think about that response. ‘We both did. He was very …’ She teeters on the edge of those feelings again, the breathlessness both girls would feel around him, the blushing shyness, the terrible need to be liked by him.

  Deep in her coat pocket her phone buzzes. A text message. It can’t be an emergency. If there was a problem with her mother, the home would ring, but even so she pulls it out and checks the screen. It’s from Dan.

  What’s happening?

  ‘Is everything OK?’ asks Nina.

  ‘Fine,’ says Lucy, dropping the phone onto the sofa. Having it switched on is probably against Lewis’s rules, but what can he do, send her home? ‘Were you close?’ she asks. ‘You and Simon?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. We didn’t always get along, Mum says we’re too – we were too similar for that, but yes. I have lot of happy memories.’

  ‘He used to take us into the village, buy us sweets and ice cream. Cathy was going through a brown rice and carob phase at the time.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘Joe?’ Something changes in Lucy’s expression. She looks sad, resigned.

  I’ve lost her, Nina thinks. I’ve pressed too hard too soon. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m just – he’s barely there, in the book, and I just—’

  ‘We all learned fairly early on to leave him alone to paint,’ says Lucy. ‘That rule never changed. But sometimes he could be – just so much fun, you know? Larger than life, full of energy – the trouble was, you could never tell, or we couldn’t anyway, maybe Cathy could. We never quite knew what sort of a mood he’d be in, so we’d spend all our time testing him, hoping for a smile, any sort of reaction, really.’ She picks up the scarf, wraps it around her fingers, unwraps it and sets it down again. ‘We thought he was wonderful, and everything was different without him,’ she says softly. ‘We just wanted him to come back.’

  The light bulb above them flickers and there’s a sound, a faint hissing. They both hear it, and Nina leans forward in her seat. ‘What’s that?’ she says.

  Then the knocking begins.

  It seems to circle the room, around Nina and Lucy, before leading them upstairs – a quite distinct tapping, guiding the way as the two women follow, step by step, Nina barely able to contain her excitement, Lucy trying not to think about it too much at all.

  This can’t be happening again.

  It stops on the landing, and Lewis comes out of the bedroom.

  ‘Did you hear it?’ Nina asks him, beaming. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. I—’ Lewis glances uncertainly back into the darkened bedroom. He looks half asleep.

  ‘Lew?’

  ‘You heard it too?’ he asks.

  There is wine in the kitchen. A couple of bottles of red among the bottles of water, the discarded disposable coffee cups and sandwich wrappings, the bag of oranges and the packets of cheap biscuits they have brought with them. Lucy made sure to add the wine to their shopping trolley when they stopped off on their way out of town. Lewis had been wise enough not to comment.

  There are no glasses, of course, but this is not a problem.

  Lucy stands by the back door looking out over the garden, car keys in one hand, bottle in the other. She could just go, leave them to get on with it. She can’t decide.

  In her pocket her mobile rings. She puts the bottle by the sink, checks her phone.

  Dan, again.

  Hal would like a cigarette, but that means going outside – Lewis has been very clear on that – and going out means going through the kitchen and he has the feeling Lucy would appreciate some time alone. He can hardly blame her; the knocking in the walls obviously bothers her as much as it does him. Sue’s left them to it, Lewis and Nina, replaying the audio, the knocking. He wonders if Lucy might leave, and if she does whether that would change the atmosphere.

  He sits down on the sofa and closes his eyes. Was it like this the last time?
The sense he has that the house is aware of them, responding to them? He can’t remember.

  He closes his eyes and she’s there by the window. She’s pale and blurred somehow, a grainy black and white still. A girl looking through a rain-streaked window, her face pressed close against the glass, one hand, fingertips splayed, pressing against the pane, searching. Outside or inside? He can’t tell.

  But she wants to get … close.

  ‘Jesus.’ He opens his eyes and he’s alone once more. He gets to his feet and – unwilling to look any more closely at the room, at his solitary reflection – he decides he will have that cigarette after all. He makes sure to shut the door behind him.

  ‘What’s it like?’ Dan asks.

  ‘Weird. The same and not the same,’ says Lucy. ‘Empty.’ She leans against the sink, her back to the boarded-up window, sliding her key ring on and off her finger.

  ‘And the investigation?’

  ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me?’

  ‘It’s nothing – solid. Just – noise. Inside the walls.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Loo.’

  ‘It could be anything, you know that. Air in the water pipes or whatever.’ She hopes she sounds more confident than she feels.

  ‘But they don’t think that.’

  ‘God, no. They’re delighted.’

  So pleased with themselves, just like Michael and Simon before them.

  ‘And it’s not – you know – them?’

  She takes a deep breath, then another, uncomfortably aware of the pressure building in her chest, the ache. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘I suggested spending the night at the Lion, but they won’t have it.’

  ‘Are you OK? You sound a bit – freaked out.’

  ‘I didn’t think – I wasn’t really expecting it to be like this.’

  To be so insistent, just like before.

  ‘Ah, Loo.’ Dan’s voice softens. ‘You don’t have to stay, you know, no matter what Cathy says. Leave them to it, see how far they get then.’

  ‘I know,’ Lucy says, pushing her car keys back into her pocket. ‘Only – I think she’s hoping for some answers, about Bee, if nothing else.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Hal appears in the doorway. ‘I didn’t mean to—’ He gestures at her phone.

  ‘That’s OK.’

  He looks pale, off-colour, shaken.

  ‘I’ll just—’ He crosses the room and goes out into the garden.

  ‘Loo?’

  ‘Yes. I’m here.’ She turns her attention back to her brother. ‘Anyway I just – I’m not sure that I can. Go, I mean. What if something happened to them?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But what if it did?’

  ‘They’re not kids.’

  ‘But they are, Dan, they are.’

  18

  Then

  Olivia Farrell wasn’t what Isobel had been expecting. When Simon had passed on the news that Michael was bringing in a medium to help, the first thought she’d had was of a dotty old lady, swathed in scarves and beads, speaking in hushed tones of the dear departed. The second had been of a younger model, a hippy given to talk of auras and levels of consciousness, a more carefree version of Cathy, perhaps. But Olivia was neither of these.

  She was, Issy decided, businesslike. If you didn’t know better, you might think she was a teacher, or an academic of some sort. She wore a simple linen dress and sandals, and her hair, dark but streaked with grey, was swept back in a ponytail. She had only one piece of luggage, a somewhat battered suitcase, which she carried out of Whitby’s railway station to Simon’s car herself, despite his protests, her leather handbag bouncing against her hip as she walked. Calm and friendly, not dotty at all.

  Olivia chatted politely as Simon drove them out of town, up onto the moors and out towards Longdale. She’d never been to this part of the world before, she’d been quite impressed with their findings so far, she was glad of the opportunity to meet the girls, well, Loo really, she supposed. All this interspersed with the odd question about Simon’s studies and did he intend going back, about Issy’s career, what were her ambitions; little nuggets of information gleaned casually as they rode along past the dry stone walls and the pale green fields and the moors, always the moors, purple and red now and dry as tinder.

  ‘Is it much further?’ asked Olivia after a while.

  ‘Fifteen minutes or so,’ said Simon.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was so far. I’ve inconvenienced you, both of you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Simon. ‘We’re grateful you’re able to help.’

  ‘Well, I hope I can, but what I do isn’t an exact science.’

  ‘And what do you do, exactly?’ asked Isobel.

  ‘I’m a medium,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Yes. I know. I just meant – well, why are you here?’

  ‘Michael asked me to come and take a look at the little girl, Loo, to give him my opinion.’

  ‘He doesn’t think Loo is – I don’t know – at risk, somehow? Possessed?’

  Olivia’s laughter was unexpected. ‘Good lord, no. Wherever did you get that? He thinks the little girl is a medium too.’ Simon slowed the car to allow a couple of sheep to amble across the road. ‘A remarkably powerful physical medium, were his actual words, which isn’t really my thing at all, but he sounded so excited on the phone …’

  ‘I’m sorry. What is your thing?’ asked Isobel.

  ‘I’m a mental medium.’ Olivia turned to look at Issy properly, taking her in. ‘Sorry, it sounds silly, I suppose, to be so specific, but broadly speaking there are two categories of medium. People like me who are … sensitive – who can hear spirits, or receive impressions, and who can pass them on, give a sort of running commentary. And then there are people who can produce phenomena – raps, knocks, even moving objects, in some cases.’

  ‘Physical mediums.’

  ‘Yes.’ Olivia’s smile was warm, reassuring.

  ‘Like Loo,’ said Simon.

  ‘Well. That’s what I’m here to assess,’ said Olivia, keeping her gaze on Issy. She wore no makeup, Isobel noticed. Her skin was lightly tanned and a faint scar ran across one eyebrow, puckering the skin a little.

  ‘And you’ve done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘I work with Michael fairly frequently, and I’ve met one or two physical mediums before. We’ve agreed that I’ll observe the little girl, Lucia, when you interview her, just to – well, offer a second opinion on her, I suppose.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ asked Simon as he took the turn for Longdale. ‘Being – sensitive?’

  ‘Mostly it’s just background noise,’ said Olivia, turning to look at the road ahead.

  ‘Isn’t that, I don’t know, a little distracting?’

  ‘I’ve learned to tune it out, as if it was a radio playing in another room. I’d go mad otherwise. Usually it’s just a jumble of odd impressions that don’t make sense. But sometimes, sometimes I get a very clear image, or a voice, a voice just a little way behind me speaks and—’

  The car rattled as Simon hit a pothole too quickly. ‘Sorry. Still getting used to country roads,’ he said. ‘This is Longdale now. We’ll pick the professor up at the pub and go straight on to the farm if that’s OK with you.’

  Olivia leant back in her seat, resting an elbow on the open window. ‘Just as you like,’ she said.

  They had made themselves a nest from old blankets and the bedspread and some cushions from the living room. The sun beat into the dusty fabric and it was too hot to move, even though they could hear people walking around the side of the house.

  ‘Hello,’ said Michael, as he approached them. ‘How are you both today?’

  Bee wrinkled her nose. ‘Bored,’ she said, throwing her sketchpad to one side.

  ‘Hello,’ said Loo, sitting up and blinking in the bright sunshine.

  ‘This is Miss Farrell. She’s come to help us.’

  The woman standing behind M
ichael looked old, older than Issy and Cathy, but then she smiled and she didn’t look old at all. ‘My name’s Olivia,’ she said, looking directly at Loo. ‘You must be Lucia.’

  ‘Loo,’ said Bee. ‘She’s Loo and I’m Bee.’

  ‘I see,’ said Olivia. ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you both.’

  ‘Have you been drawing again, Bee? Can I see?’ said Simon. He sat down on the bed spread and reached for the pad. When Michael and Isobel went into the kitchen in search of Cathy, Olivia stayed where she was, smiling down at Loo.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’ she said, and Loo stood up, ready to show her the way. ‘Or,’ said Olivia, as if the idea had only just occurred to her, ‘would you rather go for a walk? You could show me the farm.’

  Loo glanced at Bee; this wasn’t what they’d expected at all. But Bee wasn’t looking at her, she was looking at Simon, as he went through her sketches.

  ‘I’m sure your mother won’t mind,’ said the woman.

  ‘All right,’ said Loo, being careful to not to speak too loudly, not wanting to catch Bee’s attention. ‘If you like.’

  ‘It’s not really our farm,’ she said, once they were out in the lane. ‘We just live in the house.’

  ‘I see,’ said Olivia, looking back at the small, slightly crooked house, its date of construction, 1885, baked into a brick set over the front door. ‘Do you like it here?’

  Loo didn’t answer straightaway. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, eventually.

  The late afternoon sun bounced off the overheated tarmac as Olivia turned and walked up the hill and Loo fell into step next to her.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ asked Olivia.

  ‘Do you want to see the barn?’

  ‘Yes. If you like.’

  ‘Oh.’ Loo stopped, looking back at the house, blinking in the bright sunshine. ‘We’re not really allowed. I forgot. We could go up into the field, instead.’

  ‘That might be nice.’

  ‘You can look out over the valley. I’ll show you Simon’s tent too, if you want.’

  They walked in silence for a while, Loo leading the way. ‘Here.’ A lopsided gate gave access through the dry stone wall into the rough and uneven field beyond. It took the two of them to lift and push it far enough to slip through and then to push it back into place. ‘Sorry, usually we just climb over the wall.’