by Amanda Mason
‘You make it sound as if we don’t care about them at all.’
‘That’s not what I meant. But you saw that room. Surely the best thing for the girls now is that we – someone – put a stop to it.’
‘You make it sound as though they’re in danger.’
Issy looked at him. ‘Well, are they?’
‘No, of course not,’ Simon said. ‘And anyway, that’s why Olivia’s here, to help. Issy, come on, you know we’re doing our best here.’
Issy opened a cupboard and took out some plates and placed them on the table. ‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘Tell me more about Olivia.’
‘She was discovered by Michael about twenty years ago,’ said Simon. ‘When she was on the verge of being diagnosed as psychotic, more or less. She’d been hearing voices since she was in her teens and suffering odd waking dreams that meant she knew things, things about other people, that she shouldn’t. She and her family were terrified.’
Issy added the eggs and milk to the pan and began to stir them.
‘Apparently, she read an article in a newspaper that Michael had written, about famous mediums throughout history, and as she read it, she recognised her symptoms, or rather, what she’d been taught to think of as symptoms. She turned up at the Society’s office the next day, begging them to help her.’
‘How?’
‘She still wanted to be cured at that point, just cured by the right people.’
‘But they couldn’t cure her. She’s still a medium, right? She still hears the voices?’
‘Oh yes. But they helped her accept it, her gift.’
‘Did they not test her claims?’
‘You think she’s a fake?’
The defensive note in his voice made Issy smile. ‘No. I just – it’s a lot to take on trust, that’s all, and didn’t they want their proof?’
‘Sorry. Yes, of course they tested her. In fact, her results pretty much set the standard for present-day testing. She’s quite exceptional.’
‘But it’s a bit odd, don’t you think? Using a medium in an investigation like this? I thought you were supposed to be objective.’
‘But if we can communicate properly with Tib, if Olivia’s able to make contact, then we can get more details about Tib, something solid, verifiable,’ Simon said.
Isobel turned to face him, puzzled, not for the first time, by the rules and procedures he took for granted. ‘But is that really how it works? I mean, shouldn’t you be more … well … scientific?’
‘This is science, it’s just … experimental.’
‘But the girls need – shit!’ Issy snatched the saucepan up from the gas and began to stir it frantically. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
They ate at the table, the tiny dormer window above them propped open as wide as they could get it.
‘This is great, thanks,’ said Simon.
‘Apart from the burnt bits.’
‘It’s fine, really.’
Isobel had put some music on: Joni Mitchell played softly in the background, occasionally challenged by the distant call of a seagull.
‘When will you go back to London?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. A week or so, I think. It depends on what happens tomorrow.’ It always did. One week more, just one week more, an endless refrain. Although it was obvious to Isobel that Cathy was losing patience, that she wanted her home back, her husband too.
‘Not long, then.’ Isobel put down her knife and fork, pushed her empty plate away. ‘Why do you think they wanted to get rid of us?’ she asked.
‘They didn’t.’
‘If you say so.’
He almost blushed. ‘They have the case to discuss. Or maybe they’re, well, you know …’ His voice trailed away.
‘I’m having another beer,’ Isobel said. ‘Do you want one?’
They took their drinks into the living room and sat on the sofa. It was a comfortable space, crammed with books, the walls covered with large framed prints. They were mainly portraits, of an older couple, some children captured in a whirl of exuberance on a beach somewhere, and a young woman, her face half obscured by a veil of fine fair hair, her huge eyes reflecting a cloudy sky.
‘That’s good,’ said Simon, pointing to the girl.
‘Thanks.’
‘Really. You’re very good,’ he said, as if he’d not quite realised before. ‘Tell me what you think about Olivia.’
‘You already asked me that.’
‘Michael, then. Me.’ He felt her sigh, felt her shift in her seat. She was always there, Isobel, watching: he’d got used to that, to her. What story would her photos tell if they took all of them, the pictures of the farm, the girls, Dan and Flor, Cathy, him, everyone, and pieced them together? Would that be the truth? Would they find their answers, their proof?
‘I think you mean well.’
The thought tumbled away. ‘Thanks.’
‘But sometimes I wonder if that’s quite enough.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’s all on her own. Cathy. She’s – vulnerable.’
‘She has Joe.’ The silence went on for so long, he wondered if she’d heard him. ‘Issy?’
‘He’s not coming back, Simon.’ She sounded disappointed.
‘Of course he is—’
‘If that was your family, your child, going through this, would you stay away?’ she said. ‘Cathy’s putting a brave face on, for the kids, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be around.’
‘He has commitments, he’s teaching—’
‘In August?’
He turned to face her, surprised by the venom in her tone.
‘Jesus, Simon. Doesn’t it ever occur to you to ask why?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Why has Joe left them all at the farm? Why did the noises start when they did? Why did Cathy let the police in, the press? You? Me? Why did Tib – whatever that might be – turn up?’
‘We’re doing our best—’
‘I know. I know you are. We all are. But why doesn’t anyone – God, I don’t know – why don’t you challenge them? Why do you always just go along with them?’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘And stop being polite. For God’s sake, stop being so bloody polite.’
He put his drink to one side and reached for her hands. He’d never seen her like this before, on the verge of tears, raging. ‘Issy.’ He looked into her pale green eyes, then leant close, drew her closer and kissed her. Her lips were soft and her breath was warm and sweet and for a moment it felt like everything was going to be fine. Isobel, his Isobel. Then, very gently, she pushed him away. ‘No, Simon,’ she said.
He’d got it wrong.
‘Oh, God, Issy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m an idiot and—’ He backed away, scrambled to his feet.
‘Shut up.’
He couldn’t read her expression, dismay perhaps, embarrassment. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.
She leant back on the sofa, weary, defeated. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. You don’t have to go anywhere. Can’t we just … it doesn’t matter, Simon, it’s forgotten. Really.’ She picked up her drink, took a swig of beer and tried to smile up at him.
‘You’re sure?’
‘We’re friends, aren’t we? Sit down, Simon, don’t be so daft.’
He wasn’t sure what to do next. When he’d thought about kissing Isobel, and he’d thought about it a lot recently in varying scenarios, it hadn’t occurred to him that she wouldn’t respond. That she just wouldn’t be interested. That he would feel so foolish.
‘I don’t want you to go. I want to talk to you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. It just gets to me, sometimes, the way we’ve complicated it all, the way we’ve—’ She took a breath. ‘Tell me what will happen next. Tell me what a séance is like.’
He hesitated and found he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave. ‘OK, then,’ he said.
Michael and Olivia went for a walk after dinner. Coming out of the pub, then
– in silent agreement – turning right, away from the climb to the farm and following the road down through what passed for the centre of the village, towards the redbrick chapel and the wooden-framed village hall. The houses they passed had their windows open, light bleeding out onto their gardens and the road, the sound of TV audiences, laughing heartily in far distant studios, drifting out into the heavy night air.
They paused at the village hall. The road forked here, leading to the next village or down past the abandoned playing field to the tiny branch line that served the community. From the farm you could hear the trains, but never see them, Loo had told Olivia, and they weren’t supposed to go down to the line, but they did. Sometimes.
‘There’s not much here, is there?’ she said, pausing by the gate and looking into the field which had been set up as a rudimentary cricket pitch. It was an odd landscape, bare, forbidding. She wouldn’t like to live here, so close, trapped underneath the swell of the moor top. And there was something odd about the farm too, something confined, hemmed in.
‘That was the appeal of the place, or so I gather,’ said Michael. ‘Cathy thought it would be best for the children and Joe would have the space to work. Inspiration.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘No. He’s away working and the phenomena didn’t begin until, what, a week or two after he’d gone.’ He caught her expression and smiled. ‘I know how that looks,’ he said.
‘It’s a reasonable assumption. The father – who Loo adores, by the way – takes off and the next thing you know, the furniture’s flying around.’
‘Do you think that’s it? She’s faking? They’re both faking?’
Olivia knows him so well, the forced calm of his voice tells her that it’s a possibility he must have considered.
‘They don’t fit in terribly well, do they? They don’t seem to have any friends,’ she said.
‘Dan works for a local farmer.’
‘Over in the next village.’ Michael looked startled for a moment. ‘Loo told me,’ she said, leaning against the gate and smiling up at him. ‘The poor child is starved of normal conversation. Once she started I thought she’d never stop. Hasn’t it occurred to either of you to talk to her?’
‘We talk every day.’
‘Yes. I’m sure you do.’
Michael shoved his hands in his pockets, wishing he had something to occupy him.
‘I saw Carol a few weeks ago,’ said Olivia.
‘Ah.’
‘She’s looking well. Considering what she might do after her graduation.’
Michael hasn’t seen or spoken to his daughter for close to six months.
‘She was with a young man. I didn’t ask, of course, but he seemed to be quite attached to her.’
Michael placed his hands on the top of the fence. ‘Yes, she mentioned … someone. I’ll get in touch when we get back, once we have this case wrapped up.’
‘Is it going to be that simple?’ Olivia asked.
‘Isn’t it? We have everything recorded and witnessed, it’s quite remarkable.’
Olivia stood back from the gate, regarding him seriously. ‘I’m sure you’ve been very diligent,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’
‘So what do you think?’ he said, taking her by the arm in a courtly, old-fashioned gesture as they turned back towards the village. ‘Is she genuine?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Olivia, without hesitation. ‘I’m afraid she is, the poor little thing.’
They’d finished all the beer and moved on to a bottle of brandy left over from Christmas. Issy had found the latest bundle of contact sheets and now they sat on the floor, side by side, going over them.
Cathy in the kitchen.
Michael in the living room talking to the girls.
Dan standing in the doorway.
Florian’s toys scattered over the kitchen floor.
Simon sitting in front of the tent.
And the girls, over and over again, the sisters with their wild hair and odd dressing-up-box clothes. Something about that still bothered Isobel. They hadn’t always dressed like that, but she wasn’t quite certain when the theatrical element, and it was theatrical, she was sure, had started to creep into the images. She could check, but that would mean going through all the files piled precariously on the little desk underneath the window, setting everything out in chronological order. And she just never had the time, these days.
She rubbed her face. She didn’t really like brandy, and she couldn’t understand why she was drinking it. She felt sticky and hot and vaguely sorry for Simon, who she liked, she really did. She shouldn’t have lost her temper with him. She shouldn’t have kissed him. If only they could be friends.
The first time she’d met the girls they’d come into the kitchen when she was talking with Cathy, trying to get permission to photograph them, on her second or third visit before she’d gone to the paper and they’d taken the story from her, sending Liam Carthy out to do the interviews.
They’d appeared in the doorway, hand in hand.
Barefoot, she’d noticed that, but Loo had been wearing shorts and a T-shirt, Bee a faded blue cotton dress. They had looked normal and a little bit subdued. She’d taken a few shots of them sitting side by side on the sofa. They hadn’t smiled for the camera, which had suited her just fine.
When had they started dressing up, and what was so familiar about the effect?
Simon was looking at a series of pictures she’d taken in the garden, the baby sitting on a quilt under the tree, a podgy fist shoved into her mouth.
‘It’s late,’ he said, dropping the contact sheet onto the pile, stifling a yawn. ‘I should probably make a move.’
‘OK. Yes.’ She hauled herself to her feet, avoiding his eye; there was no point in making things worse for them both, not when they’d managed to create the illusion that nothing had really changed. She saw him to the door, carefully stepping back out of reach as they said their goodbyes.
‘Take care.’
‘Night, Issy.’
She closed the door behind him and stood still for a moment, trying to remember what she’d intended to do with the pictures. It would keep, she decided.
She’d tidied the photos away and was about to turn out the lights when there was a knock at the door. Light. Tentative. She could pretend she hadn’t heard. She doubted he’d make a fuss. She opened the door and there he was, looking positively guilty.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I know this sounds … The car won’t start.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve run out of petrol,’ she said, smiling despite herself.
‘Issy …’
She stood back. He was in no state to drive anyway. ‘Come in, just … come in,’ she said.
By the time she walked back into the living room, clutching a pillow and a spare sheet, he was stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, snoring gently. She put them on the floor where he’d see them if he woke.
She went into the bedroom and closed the door firmly behind her. She couldn’t explain it, the way she felt, or rather, didn’t feel – not to him, not to herself. She didn’t know where to begin.
Bee lay on her side waiting for her sister to fall asleep. She lay very still, she was good at that, and steadied her breathing. She could hear Loo reading, the scratch of a page being turned – she was a fast reader, and Bee could, if she’d chosen, keep count of her progress – and then after a while the scratching slowed, before ceasing altogether.
Loo was supposed to blow the candle out once she was done, that was the deal for being allowed to use it at all, and Bee should do something about that, but she didn’t want to wake her up. She shifted carefully to the edge of the bunk and looked down at the chest of drawers next to the bed. The candle, half gone, burned steadily, casting a soft golden light below her.
She closed her eyes and listened for a few moments more. Loo was definitely asleep.
The river, she decides, the two of them are walking by the
river and this time they are alone, she and Simon. They stop and without speaking, she takes him by the hand and leads the way along the bank, and they find a hidden place underneath a weeping willow. It’s sheltered, shady, private there, the light a soft green and this time when she pulls off her dress, this time he …
The bed shuddered as Loo rolled over and Bee waited for her sister’s breath to steady once more, counting in her head, one minute, two.
Bee kicked back the bed sheet and pushed up her nightdress. She moved her hand across her belly, light fingertips stroking her skin, moving lower, lower. She closed her eyes and this time when she took off her dress Simon didn’t step away.
23
Now
‘I’m sorry,’ says Nina. ‘I didn’t mean for you to get so … involved.’ They’re sitting in Hal’s car.
‘You’ve got enough now, surely?’ He’s in the driver’s seat, his skin a clammy grey; in shock, more than likely. It occurs to Nina that if he actually wants to leave, right now, one of them will have to take him home. There’s no way he can drive himself.
‘We’ve got hours of stuff to go through yet,’ he says. ‘More than enough material, right? And you have Lucy now. Even if she leaves, you can stay in touch, interview her, Cathy too.’
‘I know.’ But they can’t go. She can’t let him go. ‘We have to clean up, though, sort out the living room, the window.’
‘Yeah. Right. It wouldn’t do to leave the place untidy.’
‘And the thing is – me and Lewis have never worked with …’ She’s brought her bag with her, crammed with the folders her father had collated. Her notes scribbled over his, her questions too. She pulls it closer, hugging it. ‘I mean. The original team, they were able to work with a medium.’
‘What, holding hands in a circle and candles flickering and “Is there anybody there?”’
‘Not exactly. But she was able to work with Loo, to help her make contact.’
‘Jesus. I thought they were scientists.’
‘They were. That was one of Michael Warren’s things, the use of mediums in psychic investigation. He sort of pioneered it.’
