The Wayward Girls

by Amanda Mason

  Dust drifts down from the ceiling, from the hayloft, settling on her like a fine scattering of snow.

  Lucy looks up. ‘Hello?’ She stands slowly, wiping her grubby hands on her jeans. Above her a floorboard creaks softly. There’s an open trapdoor in the ceiling where they used to prop the ladder; she moves under it, craning her neck, listening.

  ‘Lucy?’ Nina is standing in the doorway, slightly out of breath. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Only we’re not supposed to come in here. It’s one of the conditions we had to agree to. We have to stay away from the barn and any machinery on the premises.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Lucy moves away from the trapdoor, forces out a smile. ‘I was – I thought I might find something to cover over the broken window. To patch it up.’

  ‘OK,’ says Nina, stepping into the gloom, clearly unable to resist the temptation to trespass, just a little. ‘If you put it that way …’

  ‘Well, if we’re quick, then?’ Lucy says. ‘And just watch where you step.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Here,’ Nina says. She’s found it half wedged behind the door, some black plastic sheeting, the kind they use these days for baling hay. ‘What about this?’ They drag it out between the two of them. It looks like discarded offcuts, one piece ragged and mud-stained, but the rest might do. ‘Good enough, do you think?’

  ‘If you can find some gaffer tape.’

  ‘Hal, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Lucy grabs an armful of plastic. ‘Right, then,’ she says.

  Further back, in the gloom, a window rattles. The breeze catches at it and it opens, swinging back and forth. ‘We should probably see to that, don’t you think?’ Nina moves past Lucy without waiting for a reply. It can hardly matter, Lucy wants to point out. Someone has decided to let this place rot; once the roof finally goes that’ll be that, and closing a window now will make no difference at all.

  The window isn’t too high and, neatly avoiding the stacks of roof tiles someone has left piled against the wall, Nina reaches ups and pulls it shut, forcing the rusty latch back down into place. It’s hardly worth it, the grey glass bears a tracery of fine cracks and the next strong wind will push clean through it, but she smiles at Lucy anyway. Pleased.

  ‘There.’

  Old bits of timber lean unsteadily against discarded sacks of gravel, breeze blocks and tiles are stacked in the corner, there’s even a couple of old doors and a blackened sink. A cement sack has split and dust has leaked out onto the floor.

  It takes a moment for them to realise what they’re looking at.

  Footprints.

  Bare feet.

  They don’t move.

  ‘Not me,’ says Lucy, gesturing to her boots, still laced and clumped and clotted with mud.

  ‘Me neither,’ says Nina.

  They could have been there for days, months even, but there is something about the prints, something fresh in the negative image in the dust and in the pale floury trail that disappears into the dark, that gives the overwhelming impression that someone else is there. Just out of sight. Playing a game. The wind gusts and far above them loose tiles on the roof lift and settle, the planks overhead straining and releasing as if someone is walking there.

  ‘Hello?’ says Nina, stepping forward.

  ‘No.’ Lucy grabs her by the hand. There’s something wrong. The more she looks at the prints, the more she’s reminded of – what? Bait. Bait in a trap, bait to pull them in, to make them look the wrong way. The footprints lead to the far corner, inky black there, and as she stands, her fingers wrapped around Nina’s wrist, she’s sure she can hear something scrabbling in the shadows. Something frantic.

  ‘We’re going now,’ she says, loud enough for it to hear. But Nina doesn’t want to leave. Lucy can feel the tension in the young woman’s muscles, the pull towards the dark.

  ‘Hang on …’ Nina fumbles in her pocket and pulls out her phone. ‘We just need to get some pictures.’

  ‘Now,’ says Lucy. ‘Please.’

  Above them the window Nina had closed so carefully snaps open again and the air that swirls through the barn smears the fine-powdered footprints across the floor. But Nina doesn’t stop. Lucy can hear the fake shutter sound these things emit as she carries on taking her pictures. In a far corner, something heavy, metallic – a scythe, perhaps – slides slowly to the floor, scraping the old stone as it falls.

  ‘Please, Nina.’

  ‘Yes. All right,’ Nina says, shoving her camera into her pocket.

  Lucy takes the shortcut, without even thinking about it, across the old flagstone yard, mossy green and overgrown now, averting her eyes, fearful of what she might see if she glances back, leading the way straight down the field to the garden wall, waist-height, grey, damp. They throw the rolls of plastic sheeting over and onto the wet grass.

  ‘We should go back,’ says Nina.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We might have missed something.’

  ‘You said yourself, we’re not supposed to be there. It’s not safe.’ This is to the part of the wall they always used to scramble over, the bit where the top two layers were missing, creating a gap just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Left that way on purpose, she now realises, after all these years – a quick getaway, should anyone need it. She climbs over first and the pair of them are back in the garden, partially hidden from the house by the apple tree, catching their breath.

  ‘But there was something, wasn’t there?’ says Nina. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘No,’ says Lucy. The expression in the younger woman’s eyes, eager, fascinated, reckless, is almost more than she can bear. ‘Let’s go and sort this window out.’

  ‘Does this mean you’re staying?’ asks Hal. He is holding the thin black sheeting in place as Lucy tapes it to the window frame. It’s a bodged job, plastic patched together to make a piece large enough to reach, fixed in place with gaffer tape. Nina has said she’ll ring the letting agents and let them know, although how she’ll explain it away is anyone’s guess.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Lucy says, ‘what about you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. If we both go, then they’re stuck here, aren’t they? Not just them, all the AnSoc gear too.’

  ‘If we both go, they’d have to come with us.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Nina has shared the pictures from the barn, and there has been a heated argument about whether or not they should go back and film there. Hal can’t imagine for one second he’d get either Lewis or Nina to leave now.

  ‘Why did you stay?’ he asks. ‘When you were a kid, I mean. Why didn’t you all just pack up and go?’

  ‘Go where? Cathy and Joe and five kids?’

  ‘But weren’t you scared?’ Hal asks.

  Lucy concentrates on smoothing the tape into place, sealing them in. ‘It wasn’t that bad. Not at first. It was … like playing a game. And I was never on my own, you know? There was Simon, and the others, and Bee, there was always Bee. We thought it was fun. At first. Looking back, it was Cathy who suffered the most.’

  ‘She doesn’t strike me as someone who is easily spooked.’

  ‘Well, it was a long time ago and she was very young.’ Lucy pulls a chair into place, climbs onto it and begins to work at the top of the window. ‘And all she wanted was to protect us. We didn’t really understand that. And then, of course, in the end, she couldn’t.’ She smooths another strip of tape into place.

  ‘Does it happen to you now?’ He pulls the plastic taut, watching her work. ‘The – dreaming – thing? The voices?’

  ‘No. Michael used to talk about people having a gift, people like Olivia. But I didn’t – don’t – pursue it.’

  ‘You can do that? Just shut it out?’ He sounds doubtful.

  She stops and looks down at him. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘of course I can. I grew up, and I moved on. What happened earlier, with you, just because it happened, you don’t have to do anything else, you know, no matter what Nina
or Lewis say. They have no right to – use you.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit harsh?’

  ‘No. It’s self-preservation. Some people get a glimpse of what might be the truth, their truth anyhow, and they think they can find a way into – into something not meant for them. And it never ends well. Never. People lose perspective.’

  ‘But you have to try, surely? If you get the chance.’

  ‘But it never leads anywhere. Questions answered with questions, that’s all they ever got from Tib. That’s all anyone ever gets, as far as I can tell. And maybe it’s best not to know. What good does it do anyone, living or dead—’

  The phone in Lucy’s pocket rings, the sound cutting through the room.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, stepping down from the chair and pulling her phone out. ‘Can you carry on in here? I just need to …’

  ‘Sure,’ says Hal. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Well, who else?’

  ‘Sorry. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m—’ Cathy hesitates. ‘Quite alone.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Cathy sighs and Lucy can see her, sitting by the window in her room.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I’m perfectly all right. I’ve been looking through the photographs Nina sent again.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s nothing there. Nothing useful.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you get anxious, or anything, get someone. Get Sarah to sit with you.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  Lucy follows the path around the house into the front garden. She takes a breath, bracing herself. ‘Things have been happening, Mum.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘More noises, like they had on their tape. And a broken window.’

  She can’t bring herself to mention the footprints in the barn.

  ‘Oh, Lucia.’ Her mother’s voice is soft. ‘Is it happening again?’

  She reaches the front gate. She can see that, for some reason, Hal has forgotten to lock the car door. It hangs open, lazy, abandoned. ‘I don’t know,’ she says.

  She bends down, leans in.

  She’s about to close the driver’s door when she notices it. Something pale has slipped down the side of the seat, and despite herself – it’s best not to know, it’s best not to look – she picks it up. It’s one of Issy’s contact sheets, come adrift from one of Simon’s files.

  ‘I want you to take care, Lucia. Do you understand?’

  There they are: two girls silhouetted at the far end of a long room.

  The barn.

  The hayloft.

  The thumbnail images playing out like an old film, the girls shifting position, and there, at the edge of the frame, a shadow.

  ‘Yes. I have to go,’ Lucy says. ‘I’ll call you back later, OK?’

  She finds them in the kitchen. Hal is dealing with one of the cameras, removing the tiny memory card and replacing it with a new one. Nina and Lewis are by the blanked-in window, she with her hands shoved down deep into her pockets, hunched, tense, and he clutching a clipboard. They are talking softly, but they might be arguing.

  ‘How’s Cathy?’ asks Hal.

  ‘Oh.’ Lucy has folded the single sheet carefully and put it in her coat pocket. Maybe Nina won’t notice it’s missing. Maybe she has more. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘When we’re done here,’ says Nina, ‘do you think she’d agree to an interview?’

  ‘Jesus, Nina, take a breath,’ says Hal, turning the camera over in his hands. He opens out the viewfinder; he’s looking like his old self again. Nina manages a half-smile.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Lucy. ‘Possibly, I suppose.’

  ‘Great,’ says Lewis. ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Did you finish in the living room?’ Lucy asks Hal.

  ‘Yeah, all done,’ he says. ‘It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold for a while.’

  ‘And Hal’s definitely staying on. Well, for a bit longer anyway,’ says Nina. ‘We’re hoping you will too.’

  It’s dim in the kitchen with the only natural light seeping in from the open door and the hallway, and Nina’s expression is hard to read, but all Lucy can think of is the two little girls, playing in the barn, the black and white images crumpled up in her coat pocket. ‘I see. Yes,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, you’ll stay?’ Nina sounds surprised.

  ‘Yes. If you like,’ says Lucy.

  ‘Good,’ Nina glances at Lewis, ‘that’s settled then.’

  26

  Then

  Simon was in the garden.

  ‘When will we start?’ he asked as Michael walked out into the blazing sunshine, the heat rising up to meet him.

  ‘As soon as Olivia is ready.’

  ‘And what does she need, exactly?’

  ‘What do you think, Simon? A darkened room? Bell, book and candle?’ The professor was actually making a joke; at least Simon thought it was a joke.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – I don’t really know what to expect,’ he said. ‘This is all new to me.’

  ‘Ah, well, in that case, I apologise; all she really needs is a quiet room, and a supportive atmosphere.’

  ‘Supportive?’

  ‘Calm, open-minded, no one shouting the odds at the wrong moment. There’s room for debate, for healthy scepticism when she’s done, but during a sitting, we follow her rules.’

  ‘Our rules, surely?’

  Michael smiled. ‘We must learn to defer to an expert, where needs be.’

  The thought of Michael, so quietly self-assured, deferring to anyone didn’t quite make sense to Simon. ‘But surely, there are protocols, checks we should set in place,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve worked with Olivia on many occasions, I value her abilities and I trust her. She is not under investigation here.’ The professor’s tone was mild, but Simon still had the sense he’d been rebuked.

  ‘I see.’ Simon looked up at the house. ‘But we can still record the séance, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’ Michael smiled again, and then took himself off to investigate the little apple tree by the wall, his hands clasped behind his back, every inch the affable academic, relaxed, confident, in control.

  Olivia could hear the yelling from the front room. Bee and Cathy, in the kitchen. The tone was clear enough even though the words were muffled. She wasn’t surprised. Volatile spirits frequently attached themselves to volatile situations, and between the three of them, she was sure Bee and Loo and Cathy could generate enough energy for a dozen poltergeists. She was more or less done, anyway, and far too experienced to let a teenage girl knock her off balance.

  She turned her attention back to the mantelpiece and picked up a framed snapshot of Joe and Cathy. They looked terribly young, smiling bravely up at the camera. The background looked familiar, a swarm of tourists in front of an elaborate church, pale marble columns and bronze horses …

  ‘What are you doing?’ Isobel was standing in the doorway.

  Olivia hadn’t heard her come in. She probably had Bee to thank for that, what with the racket she was making.

  ‘Trying to get to know everyone,’ she said. ‘I find it helps.’ She put the picture back in place, and gathered up the letters she’d found, bills mainly, wedging them neatly behind the clock. She smiled at Isobel and crossed over to the window.

  ‘I see.’ Issy was unable to drag her eyes away from the bundle of letters. Olivia could see her trying to make sense of the scene, noting where the letters had been placed, taking in the other keepsakes on the mantelpiece, the little clues the family had left scattered there.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Does Michael know …?’ The younger woman caught her breath, started again. ‘I’m sorry. Do you know where Simon is?’

  That was not what she’d intended to say, Olivia was almost certain.

  ‘In the kitchen, perhaps.’

  Remain in con
trol.

  Olivia placed her hand against the wall, wondering if she might sense Tib, hovering close by, but all she could feel was Bee, raging.

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  It seemed to Olivia that Issy might say something else, might step into the room and close the door quietly, but the moment, if it was there at all, passed. She concentrated on stilling the trembling in her fingers, counting her heartbeat, until Issy shut the door and left her alone.

  Isobel sat in the garden underneath the apple tree watching Simon and Michael moving about in the kitchen. She wished she’d asked Simon more about Olivia Farrell, how long she’d known Michael, the other cases she’d worked on. How close they might be. He was a widower, after all, and the age gap wasn’t so very much, and she was attractive. Beautiful.

  The trouble was, she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure what she’d seen. She leant her head back against the tree trunk and went through it all again. Olivia had been standing by the mantelpiece with the bundle of letters in her hand.

  She closed her eyes, tried again. Olivia was curious about the family, that was all, and it wasn’t as if she’d actually caught her reading the letters. Brown envelopes, bills and circulars and a bundle of postcards. How long had she been there? Picking through the family’s past? Issy pushed the thought away and replayed their conversation – not the words, but the expression in the medium’s eyes, the curve of her mouth. The heat of the summer’s day washed through her limbs and she could barely move. She should go inside, into the cool of the house, but that didn’t appeal. She’d rather stay here and think a little more about Olivia, imagine what she might say to her, the next time they were alone.

  Bee slammed the kitchen door behind her and dragged herself slowly upstairs. It wasn’t fair.

  They didn’t want her to be in the séance.

  Well, she was going to fix that. She’d wait for Loo and make sure she knew what to say.

  Back in the bedroom she picked up a paperback, one of Loo’s, and climbed up onto her bunk. She’d left the door open and she lay there, listening. At first, she didn’t even bother with the book, but when she heard footsteps on the stairs, she opened it and held it up in front of her. The footsteps turned out to be her mother; Bee could feel her standing there at the top of the landing, looking at her, but she didn’t say anything. After a while, a long while, her mother had moved on to the bathroom, and when she was done, she’d walked back downstairs without hesitating.