by Peter James
‘Take a good look at that.’
There were burn marks on the wall around the switch, and the plastic box had partially melted.
‘It’s the same in all the rooms. The wirin’s melting again. Like last time. I thought it was the lad’s fault before. Got a new lad and I left him to do most of the work. I thought he must have made a bodge-up, but it weren’t him.’
‘I left quite a few lights on over the weekend. I — I was away.’
‘That shouldn’t make no difference, leaving them on.’
He opened the cellar door and she noticed another smell above the coal and damp and mustiness, a faint acrid tang of burnt electricity. He turned on the light and she followed him down on to the damp brick floor and over, past the dark opening in the wall, to the fuse box. Several reels of wire lay beneath it and the large white box had brown scorch marks. There was a low-pitched humming sound.
The electrician gazed around. He went through the dark opening and she waited until he reappeared. The humming sound got louder and echoed around the room.
The electrician tapped the glass on the front of the meter. Inside a flat metal disc was spinning, so fast it was almost a blurr. Above it were several dials like miniature clocks; the hands of one were also rotating fast.
‘See the rate the juice is bein’ used?’ he said. ‘If you had every light and appliance in the house on, and then some, it wouldn’t be using it at a tenth of this rate. And you haven’t got nothing on. Just the fridge, and the timer for your boiler and a clock radio. Going to cost you a fortune on your bill — apart from the danger.’ He reached up and pushed the master switch. There was a click and the cellar was plunged into darkness. He put on a torch. ‘That’s how I left it down ’ere.’
‘Someone switched it on?’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘Are you sure it couldn’t have thrown itself back on?’
The beam of the torch shone on the meter. The disc was slowing down now, the humming turning into a shuffling sound, ‘I dunno what’s goin’ on.’
‘You were going to speak to the Electricity Board. You thought there might be some cables or something, which were affecting —’
‘I been had a look at their grid plans for this area. There ain’t nothing round here.’ He snapped the power on. ‘We need an engineer from the Electricity Board to come down. Beats me. Never come across this before in all the years I been workin’.’
‘What else can it be?’
He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe something to do with water — the lake — but I can’t see what. Don’t make no sense. I think to be safe we oughter switch off the power and leave it off until it’s sorted out.’
‘All the electricity?’
He nodded.
‘I don’t want to do that.’
‘Could go up in flames, this place.’
‘I thought you’d put in modern fuses. Tom said he’d asked you to put in the safest system.’
‘I have. That’s what I put in.’
‘So why’s there a risk of fire?’
‘They’re not tripping. And I dunno why not.’
‘I’ve got to have some power,’
‘You’d be best to stay in a hotel ’till we got it sorted.’
‘I — can’t do that. I need to be here. There must be something you can do.’ She was aware of the desperation in her voice.
‘I dunno what else I can do. I’ve checked everythin’. Rewired it, took it all out, rewired it again.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe you got a ghost.’
The grin dropped away and he looked uneasy, as if he had read something in her face that scared him.
‘I’ll try and get someone down in the next couple of days. Tell ’em it’s an emergency. You’ll have to be vigilant. If you’re goin’ out the house, turn the mains off. Have you got anythin’ in the fridge or freezer what’s going to go off?’
‘Nothing that matters.’
‘I’ll have another try. But I dunno. I really dunno.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. They went up the stairs. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Ta very much.’
She picked up the small pile of post that had been dumped on the table and carried it through to the kitchen. It felt chilly in here. Because the Aga was out, she realised.
A late bluebottle buzzed by her. She filled the kettle and sat down, untied the blue and white scarf from around her neck and pressed the play button on the answering machine.
‘Tom, you old bastard, what’s all this about moving to the country? Got your very smart change-of-address card. Thought I might give you a good hiding at tennis one night this week. Give me a call. It’s Tim — Tim Parker.’
‘Er, good morning. This is Mr West from Fixit DIY, calling Mr Witney. The items you ordered are now in. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let us know when would be convenient to deliver?’
‘Darling, it’s me. Please call me. I’m in Edinburgh. My hotel number is 031-556 7277. I’m in Room 420. You can get me in office hours on the same code, 332 2545. I’ll be here until Wednesday.’
She let the tape play on without bothering to write the numbers down, a slight smile on her face. He was sounding increasingly anxious.
‘Mrs Witney, it’s Dr Ross’s secretary here. Dr Ross would like to see you as soon as possible. Would three o’clock tomorrow afternoon be convenient? That’s Wednesday, three o’clock. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll expert you then. Thank you. It’s now twenty past two, Tues —’ The voice stopped abruptly and the light on the machine went off. The power. The electrician must have turned it off again.
Tony Ross had not wasted any time getting the results of the tests. Was that because he had been more worried than he let on? Epilepsy? Or worse? Had he been lying about a brain tumour?
The bluebottle thudded against the window. The post was mostly bills. She tried to think what materials they had ordered from Fixit. Plans; she felt a wave of sadness as she thought about the plans she and Tom had made for the house. For their new life here.
Darling, it’s me, please call me.
Sod you.
She ripped open the next envelope. It was another form from the General Register Office. Details of her adoptive birth certificate were required. Where was it? In an envelope with her passport, vaccination certificates and other bits and pieces. She had packed it somewhere safe when they moved. Shit. Her mind could not focus. In one of the large cardboard boxes. Which one? She thought for a moment. The attic.
Barbara Jarrett. D. Aug 12th 1953.
Who were you? Who were you, Barbara Jarrett?
Dear Rock, I love him. Please bring him back. Barbara.
You?
The kettle was silent; no power, of course, and the Aga was out. She went to the top of the cellar steps.
‘Sorry, I can’t make tea with the power off,’ she called down.
‘Be about ten minutes,’ he shouted.
She climbed the stairs and pushed open the attic door. Just enough light to see by came in from a small window down at the far right end. To the left it became increasingly dark and shadowy. She could make out the water cistern. The holes in the roof had gone, and the light that had leaked in before was now sealed out. Dust tickled her nose and she stifled a sneeze. The ceiling was lower than she remembered and the walls narrower; the room seemed large and at the same time claustrophobic. She was acutely aware of the silence.
The wooden packing cases and large cardboard boxes had been dumped untidily by the removals men near the window, and it took several minutes of heavy work moving them before she found the one she was looking for. ‘PERSONAL BELONGINGS’ was written in marker pen across two sides.
She trod on something soft which made a crunching sound, and looked down. It was a dead mouse, its face partially decomposed. Her stomach churned, and she pushed it with her foot behind the packing cases so Ben would not get it.
The window shook in its frame in a gust, and something rolled down the roof. She rip
ped the tape off the lid of the box and opened it. The top half was full of old clothes, strange old clothes that carried with them in their plastic bags the smells of the past. They were neatly pressed, folded, with cleaning tickets attached with safety pins, clothes she had not worn in years put away for — a rainy day? Fancy dress parties? Put away because they were her roots?
She found flared jeans, a miniskirt, a small wooden box full of beads and hippy bells, long white plastic boots, a corduroy cap, a plastic bag full of badges: CND, IMPEACH NIXON! LEGALISE POT! I AM GROOVY!
There was a sound like the scrape of a foot and she stared into the shadows at the far end of the attic, the dark end, with the silhouette of the water tank; but she could not see anything.
She rummaged deeper in the box and found another polythene bag, bound several times with an elastic band which was dried out and broke as she unwound it. She turned the package over, the polythene getting longer, until she could see inside. Letters and cards. One card was bigger than the rest, a valentine with a glum little man on the front holding up an enormous red heart. Inside, in Tom’s handwriting, it said: ‘To my eternal Sweetheart.’
The tears slid down her cheeks and she closed the card and slipped it back into the bag.
Something caught her eye in the shadows. A movement. She stepped back. Something was moving in the shadows.
Then she realised it was herself; she was standing in the light from the window, throwing the shadow.
It happened fast, without warning. A crack like a whip and her right leg plunged through the floor. She fell forwards, smacking her chin on to the hardboard. The floor sagged beneath her as she landed. Her right leg had gone through up to the knee.
She lay still, startled, trying to work out what had happened. She pressed her hands down on the floor and it sagged further; there was another splintering crack. She was breathing fast, panicking now. She yanked her leg out then without trying to stand up, she slithered across the hardboard towards the door where the floor felt solid, and clambered to her feet. She rubbed her grazed leg; her tights were shredded.
She noticed the smell of perfume, suddenly. The attic reeked of it. Strong, pungent, musky perfume. A cold draught dusted her skin. Downstairs the electrician called out, ‘Mrs Witney? I’m going to put the power back on now.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
A candle burned in a glass holder on the table. They sat by a large unlit inglenook with a grey marble surround like a tombstone. The small restaurant was quiet. Only two other tables were occupied, both by couples who talked in murmured voices.
Charley raised her menu to hide a yawn; tiredness came in waves. Hugh looked less world-weary, less beat-up than usual. He seemed to have made a special effort with his appearance tonight: his hair was brushed, his nails were clean and scrubbed, and his clothes were pressed.
She had dithered for half an hour deciding what to wear, putting things on and taking them off, wanting to look good. She felt better after she’d had a long bath and washed her hair, made up her face and put on a black halter top, trousers, a white satin jacket, patent shoes and a large chain-link necklace. She felt better, too, after another mouthful of gin and tonic.
‘You’re very quiet tonight,’ Hugh said. ‘You must be shaken finding your hypnotist dead like that — pretty horrific.’
‘It was. And Mrs Letters’s funeral.’
‘Are you still blaming yourself?’
She nodded.
‘I shall miss the old girl. I really liked her.’ He picked up his glass and rattled the ice cubes. ‘But it was an accident. Nothing more.’
She wished she could believe him.
‘Where are records about graves kept?’ she asked. ‘If you see a name on a gravestone, and you want to try to find out about that person, where would you look?’
‘On a recent grave?’
‘Early fifties.’
‘I should think the County Records Office in Lewes would be the place.’ He looked down at his drink then up at her. ‘Is it the grave you were looking at after the funeral?’
‘Yes.’
His eyes watched her carefully, but she saw behind their studiousness something else, a warmth, an interest. For the first time since she had met him she sensed he was looking at her for another reason than merely to try to probe into her mind. She blushed and he grinned and raised his glass and touched her own with a light clink, and she drank some more and began to feel good, began to feel safe, to feel that maybe it was going to be possible, one day, to be normal again.
‘Did you ever try to patch your marriage up?’ she said.
He rattled the ice cubes again. ‘Someone once said that marriage is like a glass. Once it’s broken you can stick the pieces back together, but you forever see the cracks.’
‘Are you ready to order yet?’ The waitress was smiling; she looked informal, like a college student.
‘A few more minutes,’ Hugh said, returning the smile, flirting with her, and Charley felt a pang of jealousy. He studied his menu for a few moments. ‘Will you and Tom get back together?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t think I have any confidence in anything any more.’ His large hand slid across the table and his fingers lightly touched the tops of hers. Then he gripped them gently but firmly.
‘You have lots to be confident about.’
Strange emotions heaved inside her. ‘Being adopted is an odd thing. You don’t feel secure. You’ve been given away, for whatever reason, even if your parents have been killed, you have the knowledge that someone had to find you a home, give you away. It makes you feel all your life that everyone else in the world is going to give you away too. I think I fooled myself into believing that our marriage would be forever. Nothing’s forever.’
He squeezed her fingers. ‘That depends what you call forever.’
‘Do you think that people meet again, in future lives?’
‘Some believe that’s what attracts people to one another. You know, you walk into a crowded party and you are immediately drawn to one person because it’s someone you knew from another life.’
‘But we’re not aware of it?’
‘Some people are. Not many.’
‘And you believe it’s possible?’
‘Yes.’
She fiddled with her napkin. ‘My doctor thinks I might be epileptic.’
‘Doctors are good at thinking that sort of thing.’
Their eyes met and they both smiled.
‘Did you find out who used to own the Triumph?’
‘I haven’t heard yet. I’m hoping to get her started tomorrow. I’m just waiting for some gaskets to arrive in the post. I’ll take you for a spin.’
‘That would feel very strange.’
‘You know, somewhere like Edinburgh University might be interested in doing a study on you. They have a faculty of parapsychology.’
‘No thanks,’ she said shortly. She glanced down the menu. She wasn’t hungry and did not care what she ate. She searched for a new topic of conversation, one that would interest him.
‘Tell me about ley lines,’ she said. ‘What exactly are they?’
‘Narrow magnetic fields that run in straight lines. No one fully understands what they are. Ancient man used them as lines of alignment for sacred places. The Romans are credited with building straight roads, but they only built them along ancient leys. The electromagnetic fields seem to come from mineral deposits, ore seams and underground streams.’
‘Can they affect electricity?’ she asked, her pulse quickening.
‘The strongest force fields are on junctions between leys. You sometimes get electro-magnetic disturbances on those.’
‘What sort?’
‘The Alexandra Palace in London is built over a junction of two leys. It’s burned down three times.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. The most common thing over these junctions is ghost or poltergeist activity. There seems to be some evidence that spirits get energy from the
se things. Ancient man built all his ancient places of worship — burial grounds, barrows, sacred stones — along leys. The most important ones are on intersections. Stonehenge is on an intersection.’
She frowned.
He looked at her in a strange probing way that reminded her of the first time they had met. ‘So is Elmwood Mill.’
A full moon burned brightly above them as they climbed out of the Jaguar, and the water fell steadily over the weir. Charley listened for Ben’s barking, but could hear nothing.
Hugh stood still for a moment. ‘Do you know what I see when I look at the moon?’ he said.
‘What do you see?’
‘Three bags of American urine.’
‘Urine?’ She picked up the large rubber torch she had left on the back seat of the Jaguar, and they walked towards the steps.
‘That’s what they left up there — the first men, when they landed. Three bags of urine.’ He put his arm round her.
‘Why?’ her voice had a falsetto tremble.
‘The official reason was to see what would happen to it. I often wonder if it was something different: like dogs and cats pissing over new places to mark out territory.’
She laughed. His arm was snug, comforting. ‘So man’s technology still can’t nullify our base instincts?’
‘Something like that.’
The roar of water seemed deafeningly loud against the silence of the house. She put the key in the lock, twisted it and opened the door. The sharp white light of the torch shot across the hallway, bouncing up and down the stairs, great shadows dancing with it as if they were clipped to the beam. No sound from Ben.
She swung the torch in a wide arc and saw his eyes glowing red out of the darkness of the passageway. ‘Boy! Hallo, boy!’ He did not move.
She hurried to him, knelt and stroked him. He was sagging on his haunches, cold and shaking; his hair felt almost prickly, ‘I’m sorry, boy. Didn’t you like the dark?’ She hugged him, ‘Come on, boy, come outside!’
He slunk to the front door, then seemed to perk up as he ran down the steps and across the grass. Charley unlocked the cellar door, felt the cold draught brush her face, and went down, glad that Hugh was with her. The mains switch moved with a loud snap and the overhead light came on.
