The Wayward Girls

by Amanda Mason

  ‘Bee, don’t, let’s go back. We’ll go down to the village and get some ice cream.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘We’ll ask Simon. He’ll pay.’

  Bee snorted. ‘Him,’ she said.

  Loo could hear the grown-ups downstairs, her mother’s voice, insistent.

  Do something.

  ‘Bee.’

  ‘I told you, that’s not my name.’ As Bee’s voice rose the ones below paused. They were listening.

  ‘Who are you, then?’ Loo couldn’t help herself; they’d played the game for so long this summer, she didn’t know how to stop. Bee pushed her hair back off her face, and she stood, a jagged figure in her white dress, pressed against the peeling paint of the wooden door.

  ‘I’m Tib,’ she said. ‘Poor dead Tibby.’

  ‘You’re not dead.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Bee and she turned to the doors and began to lift the heavy wooden latch that held them shut.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Loo hoped they could hear her below, she hoped that was the sound of them pulling the ladder upright, banging it back into place. Bee dragged one of the doors open. It moved surprisingly smoothly on its old hinges and somehow the fresh air and light only made the barn seem worse, dark and stifling. Loo backed away from the edge. She didn’t like the way the ground lurched away from the walls, the way the bright light tried to fool you into coming closer.

  ‘Poor Tib. No one loved her,’ Bee said.

  ‘But we made her up.’

  ‘I made her up.’

  ‘She’s not real.’

  ‘She is now,’ said Bee, pulling the second door open.

  Loo wished Dan was here. He always knew when to make fun of Bee, how to make her laugh and bring her back again when she got like this. All doomy.

  ‘Loo? Are you there? Are you all right?’ Simon’s voice carried across the loft, low and serious and kind. He was there, at the top of the ladder.

  Bee’s face darkened.

  Not herself.

  ‘He doesn’t like you, you know,’ she said. ‘He thinks you’re a little girl.’

  ‘Loo?’ said Simon. ‘Are you OK?’

  Bee grabbed hold of her sister, her bony fingers wrapped around both her arms, and the two of them stood face to face, Bee leaning down, her voice soft and vicious.

  ‘This is all your fault.’

  They were close to the edge now, and Bee, taller, stronger, more determined, pulled her sister round, so Loo had her back to the open doors and the dizzying drop beyond. Bee’s nails dug into Loo’s skin.

  Bee shook her, pushing her back a little. It’s not such a long drop, Loo told herself, and anyway she doesn’t mean it. It’s just a game. She remembered another game they used to play, a long time ago, taking it in turns to fall back into each other’s arms, letting go and trusting that the other would always be there. The way Bee would wait until the last moment to catch Loo, the fear and exhilaration that she might not. She doesn’t mean it.

  Simon was closer now. Loo could see him out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t dare turn her head.

  Bee would never let her fall.

  ‘Bee,’ said Loo. ‘Tib.’ She felt her sister’s muscles tense. Bee was very strong, strong enough to lift her, strong enough to—

  ‘Bee!’

  She could hear the panic in Simon’s voice as he ran towards them, only a few paces away now, almost close enough to touch, and for a moment, a second, Bee looked unsure and she let go, and he was reaching out now, and Loo could tell it was all going to be all right.

  Then she fell.

  35

  Now

  Nina starts to tidy away the pictures. She pauses and looks down at her hands as if she can’t control them, as if she doesn’t know what she is doing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and the sheets fall away, tumbling lazily onto the floor. ‘I just have to …’ and she leaves the room.

  She doesn’t know where she’s going. She doesn’t even know if she is going. She gets to the front gate and has to decide, turn left and go back down to the village, right and up to the moor. She’s still trying to decide when Hal catches up with her.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘No.’ She doesn’t go anywhere in the end, she simply leans against his car and crosses her arms, hugging herself as she looks up at the house. ‘Fuck’s sake, Hal. What am I supposed to do with all of this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Nina. I’m sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘It was faked. His whole career – his life – based on … fraud.’

  ‘But he didn’t know that, did he? He thought it was the real thing, that it was some sort of breakthrough.’ says Hal. ‘And anyway,’ he goes on, uncertainly, ‘it wasn’t all faked, was it? Not if those pictures are right.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Nina. ‘I just don’t …’

  He pulls her close. ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘It’s OK.’ He can feel the sobs rising inside her and the next thing she says is muffled, indistinct. He releases her a little.

  ‘What did he do?’ she says. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘I’d give them a minute, if I were you,’ says Lucy and Lewis turns away from the window, from the dark figures in the gathering shadows.

  ‘Yes. OK.’ He goes back to the table and begins to gather up the sheets, careful to keep everything in chronological order, stacking the folders to one side, glad of something simple to do.

  ‘I think I need to speak to my mother again,’ says Lucy, and she slips out of the room.

  ‘Lucia? Are you coming back now?’

  Lucy sits on the bottom stair, leans her head against the wall. She could go. She could get into the car and drive to Blue Jacket House now and they could finish this conversation face to face. ‘No. I – in a little while,’ she says. ‘I think there’s something we need to do here first.’ But when she does leave, she is never coming back. ‘There are photos, of the barn – Olivia, us—’

  The séance.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She knows, Mum. They know.’

  Up on the first floor something moves across the landing and pauses, looking down at Lucy, waiting. She forces herself to look up, but there’s no one there.

  ‘What will they do now, do you think?’ asks Cathy.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m trying to get them to pack up, but they seem pretty determined.’ She’s almost certain there’s no one there. ‘But when we’re done, we’ll be able to talk – you know – properly, about Bee.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Lucia?’

  ‘I think they’ll want to go up to the barn, like we did. They’ll want to see for themselves.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cathy’s voice is soft. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Lucy hesitates. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says, ‘but I think I should probably stay here, just to – keep an eye on them.’

  ‘Lucia—’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum. I don’t want you to worry.’

  ‘It never seemed – right,’ Cathy says. ‘That it all ended so quickly – so carelessly, as if she didn’t matter at all. I want you to take care, do you—’ She stops speaking abruptly. Someone must have walked in, and Lucy listens to the distant voices, the routine of her mother’s life playing out.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s … Sarah.’

  ‘Can you put her on? I’d like a quick word.’

  ‘In a minute. But you have to remember, you have to …’ Cathy hesitates. Sarah must be close by.

  ‘I know, Mum.’ She can think of nothing else to say. ‘I’ll be careful. Now put Sarah on. I love you.’

  There’s no response, only dead air, and then Sarah’s voice, young and a little uncertain. ‘Hello? Mrs Frankland?’

  ‘They were looking out for themselves,’ says Nina. ‘That’s all they cared about in the end, not Loo, not Bee.’ She sounds sad, resigned. ‘They kept quiet about the séance, about being in the barn, and they left Cathy Corvino to deal with everything t
hat came after all on her own.’

  ‘Surely not. I mean … didn’t anyone check?’

  ‘Why would they?’ she says. ‘As far as the police and ambulance were concerned it was just Cathy and the kids here that day. My dad even put it in his book. He wrote that they had finished their investigation, that and Michael and Olivia were long gone by the time the girls sneaked into the barn to play, and what happened next was an accident, an afterword. That was the official version of events, and no one ever questioned it.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Yes, until now.’

  They stand in silence for a while, until the drizzle turns to rain.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nina says. ‘Hal, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What for, exactly?’ Hal could get used to this, the way she fits against him, the frantic thudding of her heart. She moves away from him, turns towards the house

  ‘I think I need to ask another favour,’ she says.

  When she’s finished speaking to Sarah, Lucy stands and makes her way carefully up the stairs, placing her weight deliberately on each tread. She has retrieved the marble from her pocket and is clutching it, as if it will help, as if it will give her courage. It seems to her that someone is moving around inside the bedroom, pacing quietly back and forth. Waiting. After a long moment she reaches out, pressing her fingertips against the wood, pushing gently. The door swings open: an invitation.

  She could go back downstairs.

  She could walk out of the house, get into her car and leave.

  She steps inside, holding her breath, almost hoping it has been restored and that she’ll see the room the way it was, one last time. But everything has gone now, everything she remembers, anyway, and the room is empty. The window is boarded up and the walls – she runs a finger over the wallpaper – even the walls are different. She turns and looks at the mantelpiece; above it someone has begun to peel back the layers of paper on the chimney breast, revealing ragged ends, stripes below blue, then flowers, and below this, green. She steps closer, pulling at a loose edge. It curls up and away from the wall, revealing a pale scar of paper underneath.

  She lets the scrap of wallpaper fall to the floor. She’s on the verge of speaking aloud when she remembers the camera set up in the corner, and anyway, she can hear the others downstairs now, the kitchen door crashing shut; Lewis and Nina and Hal, voices raised, urgent. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but she thinks she knows what is coming next.

  36

  Now/Then

  It’s getting dark by the time they get to the barn. It only takes one trip; they can carry all the gear they need between them. Lewis drags the door open as wide as he can.

  Lucy watches as Hal sets up the camera and Nina and Lewis place the smaller ones, the GoPros, on the window sills, forming a rough square to work in. They have their torches and the light on the Sony, but that’s all; they move slowly, carefully, trusting that the batteries will last and that their lights won’t fail. The footprints are still there, still smeared, as if someone has tried, and failed, to sweep them away.

  Someone has found a ladder somewhere and dragged it through the barn, placing it against the lip of the loft space, and Lucy places a hand on one rung. It could have been Nina, or one of the boys, any one of them could have wandered off alone at some point and decided to explore. Lucy decides she won’t ask. She’d rather not know.

  There’s a trickle of dust as above something steps lightly over the bare floorboards, carrying the faintest of vibrations through the rotting wood of the ladder.

  ‘Right. Are we all set?’ asks Nina. ‘Hal?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She is standing where she stood all those years ago, her back to the ladder, facing the door which opens out onto the inky darkness. Hal to her left, Lewis to her right and opposite her, Nina. They are holding hands and her fingers are cold.

  Nothing is happening.

  Maybe she’s not enough, even with Hal, even though this time she wants it to work. Maybe they need Olivia, or someone like her.

  It must have been exhausting for Olivia, trying to live up to Michael’s expectations, to the ideals of the Society. So tempting too, to take shortcuts, to do a little research, to learn a few techniques – cold reading, they called it. Lucy remembers Olivia sitting in the field telling her all about herself, telling her things anyone could see if they only bothered to look. Hiding in plain sight.

  It seems to Lucy now that Olivia’s gift had been a fragile thing, delicate, unreliable, human, not enough on its own for Professor Warren and his theories; no wonder she’d worked out ways to give herself the advantage, a bit of an edge. It had taken her years to realise that Olivia at least had tried to help, had been offering a way out, a way to release Loo from her burden. She had understood that Loo had been afraid and tired and had needed for Tib to be taken away. It was too late by then, of course, but at least she’d meant well.

  Maybe Lucy has got it wrong, Simon too, and Tib was only their invention, after all. Maybe there’s nothing to fear.

  A dull thud echoes through the loft.

  From where he stands, Lewis can see the small red light on the GoPro on the window sill and he finds it oddly comforting. Not that he’s afraid. It’s no worse here than the house, he tells himself, just a bit colder, more draughty. He tries to clear his mind, to tune it out, everything he knows about the farm, the house, here. He concentrates instead on Nina. Her hand, smooth and cold, gripping his.

  Nina keeps glancing up at the ladder and the loft space beyond. She should be concentrating on the circle, on Tib. But she can’t still her thoughts; now they are finally here, she finds she can’t focus, can’t steady the juddering in her heart. It’s almost as if she’s afraid.

  Hal can’t quite believe that they are here, that Lucy has agreed to try to contact Tib again, not after last time, back in the house, not after … He wishes that Nina would be still, he can feel it bouncing off her, the grief, the confusion, the tension. He’s reminded of a phrase her father used in his book, the little he’s read of it.

  ‘The farm was possessed by a volatile spirit.’

  Well, he’d got that right, in the end, by all accounts.

  Maybe Lucy knows something he doesn’t. Maybe this is a way to draw a line under everything, for Cathy and her, for Nina. Because there’s something else going on, something she hasn’t told either Lewis or him yet; he’s sure of that.

  This isn’t helping.

  He closes his eyes.

  Let them be there but not there; stop thinking, stop trying.

  He can feel Lucy’s hand in his.

  Lucy

  Lucia

  Loo

  It’s cold. Lucy watches their breath frosting, curling up into the beams above them.

  Light and shade, but mostly shade.

  Then something – changes. The shadows deepen.

  ‘Hal?’ says Lucy.

  ‘Yes.’

  He feels it too, then.

  The air lifts and falls as something moves around the circle. Looking for a way out, looking for a way in.

  The skin on the back of Lucy’s neck prickles. She remembers standing in the dark in her mother’s room at Blue Jacket House, listening to the soft footfall, back and forth, back and forth.

  It’s behind them now, Nina and Lewis. No. Between them. Blinking in and out, like a faulty light bulb. It’s staying longer each time, fraction building on fraction.

  It.

  She.

  The shadowy folds of her gown, a long pale braid of hair falling loose over her shoulder. The girl in the sketchbook, in the few frames of video.

  Lucy can’t see her face.

  She is barefoot.

  Lewis swears softly under his breath and Hal is clutching Nina’s hand as if he’s afraid she might break free.

  They can see her too, then, all of them.

  The girl flickers into existence inside the circ
le. She’s there for whole seconds at a time now.

  She lifts her head, opens her mouth as if she might speak.

  ‘Shit!’ Hal jerks back, breaking free of the circle, shaking his hand. The sensation, not unlike a sharp surge of static electricity, stings, and Lucy lets go of Lewis too. Something, someone, brushes past her in the shadows.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Nina sounds shockingly young, uncertain. ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lucy can hear the soft rustle of heavy skirts brushing over stone, someone creeping around the edges of the room, a hushed, breathless giggle in the dark.

  They have their torches, she reminds herself, the door is open and the moon has risen, breaking weakly through the cloud. Something brushes against the back of her neck. It’s cold. She flinches as something, someone, nips the skin on the inside of her wrist.

  Hal picks up the camera, releasing it from the tripod, frowning slightly as he lifts it into position. ‘Who’s there?’ says Lucy.

  The answer is a sharp rap, a knocking in the joists above their heads.

  ‘Shit!’ Lewis jumps back, stumbling on the uneven floor.

  ‘Where are you?’ asks Nina.

  Hal sweeps the camera slowly from left to right, as far as he can extend, his eyes fixed on the screen. Lucy thinks she can see him shake his head.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘What do you want?’ says Lewis, his voice surprisingly steady.

  The only response is a thunderous beating at the ceiling above.

  Isobel was the last out of the barn, reluctant to look, to find out how the story ended this time.

  The bright sunlight dazzled her for a moment or two, but then she could see. Olivia had caught hold of Cathy and was pulling her back, even as she struggled against her, lashing out, desperate to reach her girl, her darling. Olivia held on as Cathy’s legs buckled and gave way, as she realised it was too late.

  Michael was on his knees, bending over the figure on the ground, one hand resting lightly on her neck.

  ‘No. No. No.’ Cathy’s voice rose into a wail, cracking, splintering.