He gazed past her shoulder at the window. It was bright out there, even though they were in the shaded part of the building, and street noises drifted up. Something black swept by, a bird so large that Ash thought it must have been a crow. For some reason a tiny shiver ran though him.
‘I guessed someone was behind it,’ he said, ‘and it was easy to find out who was alone on duty the nights - or early mornings, to be more precise - the apparition showed up. I offered the Institute’s services for another few nights as long as they told the staff the investigation was over. Nobody was to know I was still there. I suppose the supervisor thought she’d won and could just carry on as before.’
‘She really imagined she could keep getting away with it?’
‘She’s quite mad, Kate. She’s capable of imagining anything.’
Kate closed the Bonadventure file and put it to one side. ‘Well I’m glad we’re done with it. It didn’t seem likely to me.’
‘How many of these cases do at the beginning?’
It was a remark Ash would never have made a few years ago and Kate was puzzled. Somehow he seemed unhappy, disenchanted even, with the outcome of this particular investigation, and that puzzled her too. Ash, who once had been so cynical about psychic phenomena and the aims of the Psychical Research Institute, had gone through a slow but appreciable change of attitude. He no longer dismissed all paranormal events out of hand, even though, once engaged in an enquiry, he did his utmost to disprove the existence of ghosts or communication from the dead. The majority of cases taken on by the Institute proved either to be hoaxes or caused by freak conditions, and nobody was better than David Ash at exposing fraudsters or discovering odd but real circumstances behind bizarre occurrences. In fact, it was his very scepticism towards all things supernatural that had prompted Kate to offer him a job with the Institute in the first place: their researches needed both balance and a critical eye, and who better than a non-believer to give them that? And he had proved excellent in the task, discounting claims of hauntings, poltergeist activity and spiritualism time and time again with a logical, well-reasoned argument backed up by solid evidence. There were those in the organization who thought he did his job too well and that he was harming the Institute’s reputation with his constant refutation of what they, themselves, endorsed; but Kate had always resisted their arguments by explaining that Ash, because of his impartiality - no, his positive opposition to such beliefs - lent them enormous credibility when circumstances involving the paranormal were proved beyond all doubt.
David Ash had been good for the Institute, and how he had relished - albeit in a quiet, grim way - his successes. That is, until three years ago. After the Mariell affair. That was the case that had shattered his confidence and driven him to nervous collapse.
What was the truth behind it, David? Did your investigation cause the breakdown, or were you already headed that way? How much of what happened there was your own imagination?
Ash was rising to his feet, draining the last of the coffee as he did so. He dropped the empty plastic cup into the bin and said, ‘I need some sleep. I’ll write you a report tonight and get it to you first thing tomorrow. You might give the Penlocks a ring, by the way - I think they could do with a few kind words.’
‘I’ve got another assignment for you,’ she said.
‘I need a break, Kate.’
‘Fine. Take tomorrow off. Sleep the whole day through after you’ve delivered the Bonadventure report.’
‘Your benevolence is awesome. Surely someone else can take care of it.’
‘I thought this one would interest you.’ Besides, I know you hate it when you’re not working, she thought. Time on your hands frightens you, doesn’t it, David? That’s when you start thinking too much, that’s when you start to dream. ‘Have you ever heard of a village called Sleath?’ she asked.
He shook his head without taking time to consider.
‘It’s in the Chilterns. Not too far to travel.’
‘What’s the problem there - a haunting?’
‘No, David,’ she replied. ‘It isn’t just one.’
4
IT WAS GOOD to get away from the city, even though the fine weather had broken and light rain was cooling the air. Occasionally the sun broke through and the landscape sparkled, the greens of the meadows taking on a new lustre, the hills in the distance softening to a shimmer; the beech woods lent darker shades while wild flowers added glitter.
There was little traffic on the minor roads, but Ash kept the Ford to a steady speed, enjoying the twisting lanes and the peacefulness of this Home Counties hinterland. Now and again he checked the map book lying on the passenger seat beside him. Once off the main highways the route had become more complicated and he began to understand why he had never heard of the village of Sleath; it was one of those places made even more isolated by the era of trunk roads and motorways, when such diversions had become rare for most travellers. He drove through combes and over gentle hills whose crests were clothed in beech woods. Occasionally there were signs warning motorists of wild deer crossing roads and once, when he had stopped to consult the road map, he heard a woodpecker drilling away somewhere deep in the woods. He wound down the window and drank in the country-fresh air, relishing the different scents of the trees and plants, all enhanced by the light rain. Birdsongs were clear and individual in the stillness, yet in perfect harmony also; even the distant tapping of the woodpecker was in soft accord. Ash started off again, not quite sure of his own location on the map, but trusting he was headed in the general direction of the village.
Sleath. Odd name. But then the countryside was littered with strange-sounding villages and towns, many of them amusing, a few of them sinister. This one, he mused, was of the latter variety.
He looked at his wristwatch. Should be there soon. Easy to get lost in a maze of roads like this, though, some of them wide enough only to take single-file traffic. Kate had said it was off the beaten track, and she’d been on the button with that. He hadn’t even come upon a signpost with the village name on it yet. Wait a minute - one coming up now.
He stopped the car at the crossroads and peered up at the weather-battered sign, its post grey and cracked with age, the names on the pointing arms chiselled out of the wood and stained a blackish brown. He shook his head in mild frustration: the three arms told him what was to the right and left, and even what was behind him; but it failed to inform him of what lay directly ahead. He examined the map again.
Had to be the road opposite, unless he’d totally lost his sense of direction. He looked up at the signpost again, nothing the villages inscribed on the three outstretched arms, then finding them on his map. ‘Okay,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘dead ahead it is.’ He engaged first gear and glanced right and left.
The car had only moved forward a matter of inches when he stabbed at the foot brake and brought it to a halt once more. A tractor had appeared to his right, its clattering engine preceding the machine itself round a curve in the road. The driver, a man whose ruddy face was in perfect harmony with the red and rust machine he rode upon, gave a cheery wave as he swung into the lane that Ash himself was about to take. The man wore an olive-green anorak with the hood pulled up over his head against the rain, and his grin revealed a sparsity of teeth, each one a dull yellow, given unfortunate importance by the gaps between.
Ash quickly wound down his window and called after him. ‘Is that the way to Sleath?’
The tractor continued its journey down the high-banked lane without so much as a glance back from the driver and Ash could only watch as it disappeared round a bend. Its huge wheels left muddy clogs of earth on the road and the noise of its diesel engine faded to a low chugging. Ash disengaged gear and released himself from his seatbelt so that he could reach into his jacket pocket. He found the cigarettes and lit one, tossing the still flaming match out into the wet road. It was extinguished before it hit the ground, and the tiny curl of smoke that rose from it was quickly dissolved
by the rain. He looked at the half-burnt matchstick for a second or two before resting back in the seat and closing his eyes. He drew deeply on the cigarette and remembered another time, in a different car, and someone taunted by the small flame he held, her face turning towards him in the moonlight …
His eyes snapped open.
Enough. Forget the past. Those kind of memories could lead to insanity.
But it seemed as though it had only happened yesterday.
He buckled the seatbelt, jerked the car into first, and stamped on the accelerator. The rear wheels squealed on the road’s damp surface before gaining grip, and then the car shot across the junction into the lane opposite. Wind and rain gusted through the open window, clearing the cigarette smoke, but not the thoughts that tormented him. The car gathered speed and Ash had to make himself ease up. He soon reached the bend the tractor had disappeared round and he braked hurriedly, that reflex action bringing his thoughts back to the present, for the moment banishing those dark memories, the images that might have been recalled from a dream, a nightmare, rather than from true events. He was even grateful for the further distraction when the front right-hand wing came perilously close to the opposite bank as he steered round the bend.
He pulled the steering wheel to the left and trod harder on the brake pedal, hoping the car wouldn’t skid on the mud left on the road by the tractor. Vegetation growing on the steep bank swayed in the breeze as the car skimmed past.
Ash brought the Ford back into the centre of the lane and slowed down even more when he saw the red tractor up ahead. He came up behind the machine, its driver, resembling some mediaeval monk in his hooded anorak, still completely oblivious to him. There was no room to overtake and Ash had to brake again to avoid collision. Frustrated, and tempted to give a blast of his horn, he followed the clattering farm vehicle at a slow, almost leisurely, pace. The sound of the diesel engine was even worse in the confines of the bank-sided lane, the decibels only slightly lower than those from a pneumatic drill. So much for the peace and quiet of the countryside, thought Ash as he wound up the window. And the black fumes that occasionally spewed from underneath the machine did little for the sweet country air and the freshness of the rain.
Ash became aware that his hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles were showing white. He flexed each of his fingers in turn, loosening the tendons, willing himself to relax. He rested his elbow on the window’s edge and took the cigarette from his mouth. He blew smoke over his shoulder in a steady stream. His fingers soon began to drum impatiently on the steering wheel.
A minute went by and he decided a friendly toot on the horn wouldn’t do any harm. The driver in front neither looked round nor pulled over and Ash wasn’t sure if the man was playing games or really hadn’t heard. Either way, there was nothing he could do: a cat could barely squeeze past the tractor, so narrow was the gap on both sides.
‘Come on,’ he said aloud as they approached a passing-place cut into the bank. The man in front drove relentlessly on.
They went by a gate whose muddy entrance would easily have allowed the tractor to pull in to let him through, but the other man ignored it. A little irritated by now, Ash pressed the horn button again, this time holding his thumb there for several seconds. Still he was ignored. He wound the window back down and poked his head out, ready to call after the farm-worker, but saw that the bank dipped just ahead and a grass verge ran alongside the lane for quite some way.
He flicked the cigarette out of the window and readied himself to step on the accelerator. There would be just enough room and enough time to overtake the lumbering tractor if he drove partly on the verge.
Ash waited for the right moment, then pushed his foot down, swinging the car to the right so that the wheels on that side mounted the verge. He increased speed, the front bumper almost grazing one of the tractor’s great rear wheels as it passed by. The Ford lurched and rocked, but he held the steering wheel firmly, keeping it steady.
He drew level with the muddy tyre and glanced anxiously at it. He kept as far away from it as he could, but there was a ditch or deep rut on the other side of the verge that restricted his options for manoeuvre. Incredibly, the hooded man still hadn’t noticed him - or at least, was pretending he hadn’t. Ash thumped the horn, anger behind the blow.
But the tractor appeared to be matching his speed, the big wheels keeping him at bay. It even seemed deliberately to be moving over towards him.
With dismay, Ash realized that he was running out of space: the grass verge ended abruptly thirty yards or so ahead and the bank, tree roots entwined in its earth, reared up again.
He slammed on the brakes and the nearside wheels began to slide over the wet grass, causing the car to veer inwards.
Ash shouted something, probably a curse, as the Ford bucked and skidded and the bank loomed larger in the windscreen. He was going to hit it.
He pumped the brakes to release the lock and held the car straight, afraid of pulling over into the tractor and just as afraid of crashing into the bank. He froze -
- and the tractor suddenly swung away from him, sweeping through a gate into a field on the left of the lane.
Ash yanked the wheel round and the car shot off the grass, the right-hand tyres now gripping.
He kept his foot away from the brake pedal, allowing the car to coast, relief instantly dismissing the fear - although not the stress. But now he saw there was a narrow, hump-backed bridge ahead and there was no time to stop. He could only pray there was nothing approaching on the other side.
The car hit the rise of the old stone bridge at speed and Ash’s head almost bumped the roof as he was thrown upwards at the crest. He fell back, controlling the car as best he could, his stomach still riding high in his chest.
He was over and the verges were broader on this side, leading down to the small river he had just crossed.
But a figure was standing in the middle of the lane.
Ash cried out as he swung the wheel again.
Oh, God, I’m going to hit him!
The thought screamed inside his head as the car slewed across the hard surface of the lane, its rear end swinging round, tyres squealing in concert with the screaming inside his mind. The world outside the windscreen - the trees, the foliage, the figure itself - spun to the right as the Ford mounted the grass with a violent lurch that nearly wrenched the steering wheel from his grip.
His body was rocked as the wheels hit bumps and ruts, but his foot remained pressed hard against the brake pedal as the ignored all expert advice on how to control a skid. His back pushed into the seat for added leverage, and his wrists locked rigid.
Time-expanded moments went by as trees in front grew threateningly and rapidly large. The vehicle rocked to a halt and Ash was thrown forward, then jerked back into the seat by the seatbelt.
He remained motionless while he struggled to subdue his jangling nerves and fast-beating heart. But then the image of the figure standing in the centre of the lane - frozen there, not even trying to escape, mesmerized like a rabbit under the gaze of a fox - burst through the shock. With a speed that had much to do with coursing adrenaline, he released the seatbelt, pushed open the door, and was stumbling across the grass to the road-way, his eyes frantically searching for a fallen body. Rain pattered against his head and shoulders, and once he slipped, but regained his balance without going down. He was sure the car had hit him - he must have, he was standing right in his path - yet he couldn’t remember hearing or feeling a blow. He stopped when he reached the lane’s hard surface, and he whirled around, searching for the body, running to the other side and back again, his head turning this way and that.
There was no one in the road.
He hurriedly scanned the verges, but no one lay prone in the grass, no figure stood, or was slumped, by the trees. Perhaps he had staggered away somewhere, traumatized by the accident, whether he had been struck or not. Perhaps he had crawled down the riverbank.
Ash
ran to the edge of the bridge and peered into the water. The river was really a fast-flowing stream, so clear and shallow he could see the rocks and sand of its bed. Dense bunches of willow moss clung to the larger stones and blue forget-me-nots sprung from shadier spots along its edges; but there was no one floating down there. Relieved but perplexed, he hurried to the other side, the idea that a body might be swept downstream never a serious consideration - the water wasn’t deep enough - but reason telling him the person he’d hit or almost hit had to be somewhere close by. His breaths coming in short gasps, he looked along the riverbank. Leafy branches hung over its length, creating a shadowed tunnel, and here and there undergrowith crept down to the very edge of the water. Nevertheless, the stream ran fairly straight, affording him a good view for some distance. Still he could find nothing that remotely resembled a body.
He looked around again, forcing himself to take his time, studying the terrain with panic-suppressed care, scrutinizing the foliage and between the trees for a glimpse of material or an outstretched limb, anything that would indicate an injured person. And still he found nothing.
Mystified, his dread growing rather than diminishing, he ran to the brow of the short, humped bridge. He stood there, staring back down the empty lane he had just driven along; in the distance he could hear the faint clatter of the tractor he had followed.
He was taking longer and deeper breaths by now, but a sudden notion took him so violently that for a moment he stopped breathing altogether. Ash raced down the incline and made for the car.
Almost there, he fell to his knees and slid on the wet grass. One hand slammed against the Ford’s metalwork and he ducked low, peering into the darkness underneath.
A sigh that contained a muted groan escaped him when he saw there was no one lying there in the shadows, and he twisted around and rested his back against the door panelling, one leg outstretched, the other bent with his wrist resting across the knee. He lifted his face up to the sky and the light rain pecked at his closed eyelids. ‘Thank God,’ he said in a low whisper.
The Ghosts of Sleath Page 3
