‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘She could be. Most probably is. I don’t know.’
‘But you saw her, too? That’s the main point.’
‘Most definitely,’ she replied.
I breathed out in relief. ‘I thought I was going mad,’ I said.
‘We might be going mad together, have you thought about that?’ She had a spark of humour in her mischievous eyes.
‘That’s not very encouraging,’ I said. ‘So you see dead people all the time, even without a séance?’
‘Not all the time. That would be very inconvenient. But I see ghosts, spirits, whatever you want to call them, quite regularly. I can recognise them for what they are now, whereas before I failed to spot them. Yours made it very clear by disappearing right in front of us.’
‘So why am I being haunted?’ I asked.
‘That depends what you mean by being haunted.’
‘There you go again, talking in riddles. Either I’m being haunted or not, which is it?’
‘You’re very worked up about all this, I can understand that,’ she said. ‘You’re experiencing things that are beyond your everyday experience, things that make you question everything you ever believed in. I went through the same emotions. But you also have to understand what you are seeing without the cultural blindfold we’ve had over our collectives eyes for centuries.’
‘And that is?’
‘That a ghost is the spirit of a dead person come to haunt us.’
‘You’ve seen dead people. I’m seeing a dead person. What else can it be?’
‘I’ve read all manner of things on the subject, Toby, since discovering my gift, or skill, whatever you want to call it. You have this gift, too, if only in a small way. Many people have been able to tune into spirits, like we tune a radio, and for me that could be the answer. I remember reading of an incident when a group of builders were scared out of their wits by a marching Roman army in the cellar of a house. Marched right on through the cellar, lots of them, one after the other. Except they were buried up to their waists in the concrete floor of the cellar and passed through it like the floor was made of water. The workmen dug down and discovered the remains of a Roman road buried far below the modern concrete base of the cellar floor. As far as the soldiers were concerned they were marching on their road, not through a cellar in modern times. Almost as if a time shift had happened and the workmen, for a brief time, had been witness to something that happened centuries ago. Their minds had tuned into the past and brought it to life. Or rather they were able to see it as it happened.’
‘So they weren’t ghosts?’ I said.
‘Depends what you think ghosts are,’ she said.
‘Do you think ghosts are like echoes of the past, tuned into by people sensitive to them?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Some people say that in the future we will be able to replay all the sounds and all the voices from the stone and brick walls inside a house. As if the walls had absorbed everything that has ever been said, recorded and waiting to be played back. We’ll be able to listen to the conversations made by our ancestors thousands of years ago. The same for ghosts. What if, given that our bodies are made up largely of electronic signals flying around the brain, some people are able to tune into these electronic signals that are somehow preserved in the ether, and bring the people who thought them to life?’
‘Like a TV signal?’
‘I guess so,’ she said.
‘So a ghost is nothing more than a signal? Is that what you’re saying?’ I felt a little cheated.
‘After the battle of Culloden in 1746, where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Highland army was defeated by the Hanoverian army, a number of people testified that they were up on the moor and they saw two armies draw up silently in front of each other. The Highland army charged, again in complete silence, and the people saw the Hanoverian army splinter and run away defeated. This never happened in real life. But so many people saw it that it has to be taken seriously. Mass hallucination? Maybe. The romantic need to reverse the bloody defeat of the Highlanders and turn it into a victory? Perhaps. But the question remains, what is a ghost? For what they saw were the ghosts of two armies drawn up against each other, were they not?’
‘Now you’ve got me all confused again,’ I said, rubbing my temple. ‘So what the hell is a ghost?’
‘A manifestation of something that happened, something that did not happen, something that might happen, something that is happening.’
‘Is that supposed to make this any clearer? Are you toying with me, Mrs Norton?’
‘The fact is you’re seeing something, and it could be all or none of these things. I cannot tell you what ghosts are, because I don’t know what they are myself. But I’ll bet you feel exhausted, right?’
I nodded. ‘It’s like I’m constantly drained of energy.’
‘And especially when you’ve been visited by this woman.’
Yes, it was true. I’d noticed it. And the longer this went on the weaker I was becoming. ‘Why is that?’ I asked. ‘Is something wrong with me?’
‘To read a signal demands a lot of energy, like a television needs electricity. You’re providing the energy. That’s why I imagine you’re feeling so tired.’
‘But what’s the point? Why me, of all people? Why did she choose me?’
‘That I can’t answer.’
‘I think she’s come to me because she wants me to find out who murdered her…’ I put forward.
‘As good a theory as anything.’
‘So I’m not going mad?’
Gabrielle Norton lifted a piece of cake to her lips. ‘You need a psychologist for that kind of thing,’ she said. ‘But what is madness anyway?’ she continued, and launched into a number of alternate theories.
Here we go again, I thought, chewing on my chocolate cake. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this, will you?’ I asked when she’d finished her little tour of psychological disciplines.
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ she said. ‘Provided you don’t tell anyone about mine.’
‘Deal,’ I said, feeling a whole lot better about things. Though I don’t know why; I was perhaps more confused than when I first walked into her house. But it was nice to know there was someone else who shared my special kind of madness.
11
The Hangdogs
I found the situation increasingly excruciating. But blissfully excruciating.
I loved Madeline. I recognised all the physical and emotional symptoms that people generally relate when in the grip of love. It was all genuinely new to me, and all the more exquisitely painful for that. I felt so happy, floating almost, and at the same time so inexplicably fearful that she’d be taken from me. I couldn’t eat, we all know I couldn’t sleep, I was terribly lonely without her, and almost euphoric when I saw her.
But it can’t go on, I told myself. Sooner or later it all has to end.
And that drove me into such depths of depression, like I was riding high seas, on the crest one moment and plunged into dark, icy troughs the next. I hung back from making any further investigations into her death. Let the police do it, I thought. I did not want to lose Madeline, at least not yet. I needed more time with her.
But it was Madeline who prompted me to pick up the threads of my search. She appeared one day in the shop. Standing unseen by the couple of customers who browsed the many tattered Mills and Boon paperbacks. They complained of the cold, but were totally unaware of a fourth presence in the shop. Madeline floated about the place, passed within a foot or so of the unsuspecting customers at times. She appeared restless. Her eyes forlorn. She was behaving, in fact, like your archetypal ghost.
After the customers had left us alone I spoke to her.
‘You’re looking down,’ I said. ‘Is everything alright?’
I’d noticed lately that her previous light moods, the ones I had fallen in love with, had been replaced by what I can only call a deep melancholy. I was concerned
for her. She hadn’t been appearing as often as she used to, and part of me felt I was in danger of losing her. She already looked transparent at times, I thought. As if a strong wind could tear her apart like wisps of smoke. Or maybe I was imagining that bit.
‘I don’t understand people,’ she said, forever restless, pacing the shop.
‘Me neither,’ I admitted. ‘What don’t you understand?’
‘How someone who appears so kind on the outside can be so horrible on the inside.’ She was clutching her arm, scratching at it as if something irritated her.
‘What’s wrong with your arm?’ I asked.
She stopped her scratching. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Something’s bothering you.’
‘She tied me up!’ she cried suddenly. ‘She stuck needles into me!’
‘Who did?’
She stared at me with wild eyes. ‘Why do you ask these things, Toby? You know who did it!’
I shook my head helplessly. ‘I don’t, Madeline, honestly. Tell me who did those things to you.’
‘I could feel myself losing control, my head spinning, and I tried to scream…’ she said, her eyes becoming tearful again.
‘Did they drug you?’
She began to scratch her arm again. ‘I heard them say they were going to kill me.’
‘Who said that, Madeline? Tell me who.’
Suddenly her anger flared up and her face was a twisted mask of rage, hurt and betrayal. ‘Why do you keep saying that, Toby? It’s painful enough for me to remember those things without you having to keep saying that. You know who said it! You know who wanted to kill me!’
I was helpless. She broke down in tears, collapsing to the floor, her back against a wall of books, her shoulders jerking spasmodically to her huge, heart wrenching sobs.
‘Madeline, I’m sorry,’ I said, rushing over to her, and without thinking I reached out to take her in a comforting embrace.
But my arms met only fresh air. She had disappeared.
I sank down into the very spot she’d recently vacated, my head in my hands. She was in such anguish, I thought, that I could not hold onto her forever. I had to help her, and the only way to do this was to help her find the peace she craved. I had held back for far too long. I had to discover who murdered her so that she could pass over. So that she could leave me.
Love means many things. It’s not only about holding onto someone with all your heart. Most painful of all, it means letting go.
I had an excuse to visit Steely Jacobs. I had his walking stick. He’d never come back for it after leaving it in my shop, and I’d been meaning to drop it off at his house one day but never got round to doing it. So I retrieved it from the back of the shop where I’d stored it and tugged on my coat. It hadn’t stopped raining for days, a fine, veil-like drizzle that seems to find its way through any amount of clothing to coat and freeze the skin. I’d much rather sit in front of a warm fire than traipse in this weather to see cantankerous old Steely. But he may be able to help me, put me on the right track at least.
Steely Jacobs had a decent little cottage in the village of Cranley, some eight miles or so inland from Lyme Regis. It was hardly a village, a few houses spread out down leafy lanes with narrow tracks for roads. Some of these places were far too expensive for the locals nowadays, and many of the hamstone-built cottages were owned by Londoners as second homes, or by retirees. No shop, no pub, no real community, a sort of dormitory for the relatively affluent.
Steely Jacobs’ cottage must have stuck out like a sore thumb. It was off the main road – what constitutes a main road in Cranley – down an overgrown track. The cottage was in a rundown state, its wooden windows rotten in places, the old door supported on its tired hinges like an old man barely able to stand up for himself; the garden was overgrown – no picturesque cottage garden here – with bits of rusted machinery and what looked like the remains of a television poking out of a bed of yellowed grass and limp weeds.
A dog barked menacingly from inside the cottage as I knocked on the door. I heard Steely Jacobs reprimanding it, and the sound of a slap or two. The dog went quiet. The door opened and Steely Jacobs’ weathered old face appeared.
‘What do you want?’ he asked brusquely. The dog began to bark again. ‘Shut up!’ Steely hollered, so loud it made my ears ring. The dog fell silent. ‘What do you want?’ he said to me again.
I blinked away the drizzle, held up the walking stick. ‘You left this behind in my shop some time ago. I thought you might need it.’
He regarded the walking stick like he’d never clapped eyes on it before. Then he grabbed it. ‘I don’t need them. I just use them. Habit,’ he said.
We faced each other in awkward silence for a moment or two. ‘It’s not a nice day,’ I said, scratching around for something to say.
‘Best get back home then,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the stick.’
He was about to close the door on me. ‘Did you hear the latest news about the body?’ I blurted.
He froze. ‘What news?’
I had no idea. I was making this up as I went along. ‘The police think they know her name now.’
‘So what’s her name?’ he said.
‘Madeline,’ I said.
Strangely, he appeared relieved. ‘Madeline, you say? Is that what the police call her?’
‘That’s what they say,’ I said.
‘There’s a thing,’ he said. ‘Madeline.’ I swear I saw a glimmer of a smile on his lips. ‘You look cold and wet,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come in for a minute or two?’
His demeanour had changed perceptibly. Something had cheered him up. But they say he could be a bit of a strange guy, blow hot and cold and all the bits in-between, even with people who had known him a long time. Not that he saw many people. He kept himself very much to himself. But I jumped at the opportunity to get inside his cottage. He asked me if I wanted a beer, sliding the walking stick into a rack by the door that contained at least ten others.
‘I’m driving,’ I said.
‘It’s a small bottle,’ he insisted.
He took me into his tiny living room. It resembled a dusty old junk shop. Stuff was piled everywhere, on top of furniture, on the floor; old boxes, a television or two, newspapers, a stuffed owl in a cracked case. But I was drawn immediately to a shelf of books, and I began to read the spines as Steely Jacobs went into the kitchen. I heard the fridge door opening and closing, the sound of beer bottles being popped and the tinny clatter of caps bouncing off a worktop.
I was impressed with his books. There was an eclectic mix of literature and genre fiction, and best of all I discovered some of the books were first editions. One or two of them being reasonably valuable. Ever on the lookout for new stock, I considered offering to buy them from him. He came in and handed me my beer.
‘You like my books?’ he said.
‘There’s a few I wouldn’t mind taking off your hands if you ever wanted to sell them,’ I replied.
He shook his head. ‘Only friends I’ve got,’ he said. Something I never expected to hear from Steely Jacobs. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered. I did as I was told, the musty smell of damp dust rising up to tickle my nose as I sat in a moth-eaten armchair. ‘Madeline, they say?’ he pursued.
‘That’s what I heard,’ I said.
‘Madeline what?’
I shrugged. ‘Sorry, can’t help you there.’
Again his lips seemed to spread out in a thin but almost insubstantial smile. ‘You came all this way to bring me back my walking stick?’ he asked.
I smiled. ‘Partly. I wanted to ask you about the Belle Vue hotel.’
His thin smile thinned out altogether and disappeared. ‘What about it?’ His tone was cold.
‘Someone told me you used to live in a caravan in one of the fields adjacent to it.’
‘So what if I did? A man has to live somewhere. Nothing wrong with a caravan.’
‘I didn’t say there was, Mr Jacobs.’
�
�I was skint in those days. There wasn’t much money in music.’
‘I also hear you were one mean guitar player.’
He appeared pleased with the comment and the coldness faded from his eyes. ‘I was good, I admit that.’
‘Rhythm or lead?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ he returned proudly. ‘My band was called The Hangdogs. We got together in 1967, me and Chester.’
‘Chester?’
‘Chester Lee Holberg. Yeah, fancy name, I know. He came from a well-to-do-family, played the bass in a shit band. Met him in Bristol. We became pals and decided to form a group of our own, like kids do. Took a while before we eventually formed The Hangdogs. We originally played a mix of blues, jazz and bluegrass. I preferred jazz. Moved to rock an’ roll in order to make more money. We cut a record or two.’
‘Really?’
‘Small-time stuff. Demos mainly. We were always sending them out, looking for a recording contract, our big break. Sure we got plenty of gigs as a support act, but that record deal sort of slipped us by. We went the way of all groups, a big bust up over artistic differences, money and lack of progress.’
Judging by his expression it had been a painful episode. ‘Like a marriage hitting the rocks, eh?’
‘Kid, you don’t know the half of it. When those kinds of things go wrong they go badly wrong. And yeah, it’s like a marriage. We’d been together years, over a decade. Constantly on the road, crappy digs and gigs, struggling to make ends meet. It was a damn bloodbath in the end. And Chester took to drugs, ‘cause he thought it made him look cool. He thought that’s what rock an’ roll bands did.’ He smirked. ‘Most of them did back then. Drugs were hip, man!’ His laugh lacked warmth. ‘I tried them. They weren’t for me. The music was too important. It was always the music for me.’
‘When did the band fold?’
‘February 1980. Thirteen years. Unlucky thirteen.’
‘A long time to be together. Wasn’t there ever another band for you?’
His head swung slowly. ‘Nah, I’d had enough. Burnout and all that.’ There was an air of regret about the way he said it, though. ‘You have all these plans as a kid, the world just stretching out in front of you like a big playing field waiting to be played on. But you never know where life’s gonna take you, do you?’ He sipped his beer noisily. ‘I’ve still got my old steel guitar,’ he said brightly. ‘I bought it second-hand as a kid. Damn thing made my fingers bleed with practicing it every day. Used to drive my parents mad, going over and over the same stuff day after day, hour after hour.’ He gave a little chuckle as some fond recollection or other lapped onto the shores of his memory. Then his face dropped serious again. ‘Nothing wrong with owning a caravan. A man has to live somewhere,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve got a nice house now,’ he said, indicating the room with his large paw of a hand. ‘A man’s house is his castle.’
The D.M. Mitchell Supernatural Double bill Page 29
