‘I can’t argue with you, David; I don’t know enough to. Let me tell you of another incident, though.’
Suddenly he wanted to reach out and touch her hand to reassure her. For some reason she seemed vulnerable sitting there, so anxious - and so close. He wanted to explain that he was there to help, that it was part of his job to be pragmatic, sceptical even, and it didn’t mean he doubted her or anybody else’s story. He wanted to tell her why such a great part of his life had been directed towards proving the non-existence of ghosts, exposing the myths, unmasking the cheats, rationalizing the phenomena. And he wanted to tell her how wrong he had been all that time.
But this wasn’t the moment. He let her continue.
‘My father told you how Ellen Preddle’s husband had died.’
‘The burning haystack.’
‘Yes. He visited the Gunstone farm just a few days ago - Mrs Gunstone, who helps with St Giles’, has been unwell for some time. Her husband, Sam, was agitated and waited for my father to step outside the house again to speak to him. He didn’t want his wife to hear, you see, he didn’t want her to be upset anymore in her condition. Sam Gunstone had always been a sound, practical man, certainly not prone to flights of fancy, so the story he told my father was all the more surprising - and convincing.’
Ash heard the tape switch itself off with a tiny click. ‘Wait,’ he said, and quickly turned the cassette over. He switched on the machine and nodded to her to continue.
‘Although it was early morning there was a heat mist over the fields. Sam was walking with his dog, carrying a shotgun and on the lookout for rabbits, when he saw a peculiar orange glow in the mist not too far from his farmhouse. He went towards it and noticed it seemed to flicker - or perhaps waver might be a better word - in the mist, and when he drew near he knew exactly what it was.’
Grace’s head was bowed as she related the story. Now she raised it and looked into the middle distance as though she could see the mysterious glow for herself.
‘He realized his dog had stopped behind him and no matter what he said, it refused to move. It stood there rigid, just staring at the light, making small whimpering noises. Sam went on without it and he soon understood what was causing the glow, although there was no sound and no smoke.’
‘It was a fire?’
She nodded. ‘A haystack was burning. But it was too early in the season for haystacks. There were none in his fields.’
Ash had already grasped the implication. ‘It was where George Preddle burned to death.’
‘Yes. And although there was no sound of fire and no smoke, Sam swore to my father that he could feel the heat and could smell the burning. Impossible, I know, but as I said the farmer swore that was the truth of it.’
Impossible? thought Ash. No, it wasn’t impossible at all. The heat, the acrid smell. The flames. But no fire, no real fire.
Grace saw the disquiet in Ash’s eyes. ‘David, are you all right?’
He stiffened, as before, seeming to regain his composure. ‘Something that happened a long time ago. What happened to your farmer reminded me of it.’
‘Care to tell me?’
‘It’s not important. What’s happening now in Sleath is all that matters.’
‘Do you believe what I’ve told you?’
‘That’s not the point. These people, including your father, believe what they saw and you accept it. It’s my job to gather the evidence and do some tests, then give a reasonably qualified opinion.’
‘Will you be able to tell us why this is happening?’
‘If Sleath really is being haunted, then there might be a reason for it. It’s possible we’ll learn what it is.’
‘And will you be able to bring it to an end?’
He did not answer, but there was a bitterness to his smile.
11
RUTH CAULDWELL CALLED goodbye to Tom Ginty behind the bar and walked out into the afternoon sun. Her bare arms warmed instantly after the relative coolness of the Black Boar Inn’s shaded interior and she set off along the High Street at a brisk pace. It was a good fifteen minutes’ walk to her parents’ home where she lived and, had it been winter, she would probably have made the journey in her little red Mini; in spring or summer, however, she always made the trip on foot, not just because she relished the exercise and the sun on her face after the dinginess of her workplace, but because it was necessary to her, a test of her own will, an assertion over the darkness in her life.
Ruth was a pretty girl - she would have been even prettier that day had not the last few disturbed nights taken their toll - of just eighteen years of age, who dressed modestly but attractively and who was liked by both staff and customers of the Black Boar Inn. Even though her ambition was eventually to become a children’s nanny, a profession that required training and a training that required financing, she worked diligently and usually cheerfully behind the bar in the knowledge that it was merely a means to an end. Once she had the money saved, she would leave the insulated haven that was Sleath and acquaint herself with the real world. Not that she craved excitement, far from it: Ruth was merely planning escape. Nothing dramatic, no sudden upheaval that would upset her parents and mystify her friends; a gentle drifting away was what she had in mind, a protracted and genial break from what she still held dear, but which would in the end only succeed in stifling her. Daddy would never understand if she tried to explain her feelings - he would only protest that his thoughts were for her alone. And so they were. But that was the problem.
If the incident was to be forgotten, then her life could not be governed by its memory.
Even now, after so many years, she knew that if her journey home took longer than twenty-five minutes, Daddy would be on the way to the village in his pick-up in search of her. He was the one who could not forget and because of that, nor could she. And, she firmly believed, nor could Munce’s spirit.
She turned off the High Street, taking a lane that led between two houses and across a field at the back of the village. Shallow puddles caused by that morning’s rain had to be avoided and she skipped over ruts caused by tractor tyres and hollows pressed by the hooves of horses. Soon she was in open country.
Ruth had once loved this picturesque route between her home and the village, cherishing the bluebells scattered around the edges of the woods, the sight of rabbits frisking through the long grass, the sudden sightings of a deer in the distance. She remembered when she was little and Daddy brought her this way to nursery school, taking time off his work to do so, carrying her over the rougher patches, the smell of wood on his hands, the light, sandy dust caught in the creases of his shirt making her sneeze and Daddy laugh. She had felt so secure then, so safe and happy in his arms. She was sure he would always be there, to love and protect her, keep away the bad things, guide her when she was uncertain. But he hadn’t been there when … Stop! It wasn’t Daddy’s fault. It was nobody’s fault. Except Munce’s. And her own …
She pushed the dirty, intrusive thoughts away. It had been so long ago and the memory wasn’t clear anymore. It’d never really been dear. Even his face … Munce’s face … hardly formed in her mind these days. It was a featureless - a featureless snivelling - blur. Yet when she was a child she had known him so well. She’d watched him as he helped Daddy in the workshop, and sometimes he would look up and wink at her. That had made her giggle, because then there had been no harm in it. She had watched when Daddy and Munce had pulled the long ropes of the church bells, the deep and clanging sounds forcing her to clap her small hands to her ears so that the two men laughed and yanked the bell-pulls even harder, and Munce had grinned at her the special way he did, that silly, half-idiot, lop-sided grin that she hadn’t understood because she was too little and Daddy hadn’t understood because men didn’t seem to understand that kind of thing, didn’t know the signs, weren’t aware of the intent, and even if she was a child and didn’t understand … didn’t quite understand … a quiet little voice inside her head told her there w
as something funny in Munce’s globby eyes and shiny wet grin …
Stop! she commanded herself again. But still the thoughts persisted.
Munce had always seemed to be there, working with Daddy, eating meals with them at the kitchen table, and sometimes, when Daddy was out collecting or delivering a job and Mummy couldn’t manage it, Munce would even walk her to school … He was almost a member of the family, a sort of uncle, and nobody realized what was going on inside his dirty head, with his crooked grin and his moony eyes and his thick soppy lips, not even Mummy and certainly not Daddy. Although she was only small, Ruth had suspected something was not quite right, but hadn’t known what. But then how could she know the perversions inside a grown-up’s mind, how could she really, truly, know of the filth that lurked there, hidden away, festering and boiling and waiting for the right moment to crawl out and corrupt? How could she know that?
But she had liked the games they played together.
Games when there was no one else around, when they walked along the edge of the woods to school, or in the workshop when Daddy was out. Only seven years old when it had started, but she had enjoyed that funny feeling deep down in her tummy, deep, deep, down, because it made her feel all tingly and sort of itchy and a little bit sticky. She had liked it - no, she hadn’t, it was horrible and nasty and she’d been too young to comprehend - even though it had made her feel horrid afterwards, afraid to tell Mummy, afraid she would tell Daddy, because, after all, she was Daddy’s girl and she loved him more than all the sweets and dollies and mummies and sisters in all the world, and Daddy wouldn’t have liked it if he’d known she played games with Munce, secret games, dirty games -
Ruth stumbled over a rut in the lane and took several quick steps forward to keep her balance. Her knees bent and one hand almost touched the ground before she righted herself. Slightly shaken, she slid the strap of her open straw bag back up to her shoulder, then drew in a breath to steady herself. The unexpected jolt had knocked all those silly notions from her head. She had been a child, an innocent eight-year-old when Munce had … when Munce had … say it, Ruth, do as the kind lady in the big place in London had told her those many years ago, the one who had given her the lovely dolly with no clothes and asked her to show the places on the dolly where the nasty man had touched her, say it and don’t keep it trapped inside your pretty little head, say it as much as you want, because it wasn’t your fault, it was the man’s fault, the horrible man who could never harm you again because they had put him away where he couldn’t do those things to anyone ever again …
As she checked that nothing had fallen from the bag her eyes became moist.
Oh no, Munce couldn’t harm her again, he couldn’t harm anyone anymore, because in the place they had sent him to they didn’t like people who hurt little girls or boys and the word had soon got around that he was a child molester.
She took a tissue from the bag and dabbed her eyes with it, absorbing the wetness in them before tears could form.
It was years later that she had learned what had happened to Munce inside prison. Daddy had told her because he thought it would help her get over what had happened, she would know the bad man had been truly punished and would never lay his filthy hands on another little person again. The pervert had been tormented mercilessly by the other prisoners - and by the wardens, if truth be told - and he had been beaten and mocked and reviled. So much so, in fact, that eventually he had done something horrible to himself to escape from it all. Escape to hell, Daddy had said with a funny and angry kind of laugh. Munce had died a sickening death, Daddy had told her, but would say no more than that. The point is, Ruthy, he won’t be botherin no tiny innocents like you ever again. And she had smiled at Daddy when he said that, because she had been an innocent and this sick, repulsive creature had corrupted that innocence, had made the child aware of vile, despicable things and left her in mental torment for years afterwards, not just because she had been violated, but because when Daddy had found them in the woods together she … she had … been … enjoying … those … terrible … secret … things … they were … doing …
No! How could a child enjoy anything like that? She had been too young to understand, too pure …
Ruth began walking again, rapidly, her back stiff, her steps long.
It was in the past, many, many years in the past, and she was an adult now, a woman in all senses. For God’s sake, she couldn’t even remember what the man had looked like.
But if she couldn’t remember what he had looked like, why was she so sure that it was Munce who had stood at the end of her bed in the darkest part of the night now that she was eighteen?
It wasn’t him! It couldn’t be him! Ruth shook her head from side to side as she walked. Munce was dead and buried and no dead person could come back from the grave! Reverend Lockwood had assured her of that when she went to see him. She had told the vicar of her dread - that Munce had returned to continue those foul, horrible things he had done with … to, he had done to … her when she was a child, and Reverend Lockwood had comforted her, told her it was nonsense, that it was only dreams and memories that were haunting her. Munce was gone forever.
Leaves suddenly rustled in the hedgerow beside the lane and Ruth briskly stepped aside as if expecting someone to leap out. Her heart hammered even though she immediately realized there was nothing there - nothing but a startled bird or tiny animal, that is. There were no ghosts in daylight, she told herself. There were no ghosts at any time. Reverend Lockwood had repeated that to her over and over again. But how could she believe him when she could tell he didn’t believe it himself? He could reassure her, but his eyes, his furtive eyes, spoke otherwise. And there were whisperings in the village. Nobody was saying it outright, nobody was standing in the bar of the Black Boar proclaiming they’d seen a ghost for themselves - nobody would be fool enough to - but there was talk, careful and discreet talk that was murmured from one to another and never in a crowd. Odd things were happening in Sleath and no one wanted to admit it.
She caught sight of something moving among the trees up ahead and her steps slowed.
She began to regret not having driven into the village, but then scolded herself. It was a beautiful day and she always walked in spring and summer unless it was wet. Even then she might don a raincoat and pull the hood up, glad of the air’s freshness, pleased to be out in the open when most of the day was spent closeted indoors. She had used this route all her life, accompanied or unaccompanied, and very little discouraged her from walking. There had been the time after Munce had first been locked away, of course, when she was reluctant to take that way on foot even with Mummy or Daddy, but as the months went by, her fear had evaporated and the walk no longer held any terrors for her. And when she was a few years older, she was perfectly happy to make the journey alone. Although she never strayed into the woods, she never went into those shadowy parts where Munce had liked to take her. She preferred to stay out here in the open, even though there were shortcuts through the trees.
She kept walking, her eyes watching the place up ahead where she thought she had detected movement. Surely she’d been mistaken. There was nothing there now. She’d been jittery for days, ever since the first … dream? Yes, call it a dream, much better that way. No, there was no one lurking there. A breeze had stirred branches, a cloud cast a shadow.
But there was no breeze, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky.
All right, then. Someone was on a stroll through the woods, and why not? It wasn’t private land. Someone had passed by and her own imagination had spooked her. No one was hiding there, no one was waiting for -
She gave a little shriek when the figure stepped out in front of her.
‘Danny!’ It was a strangulated sound, a gasp rather than a greeting. Ruth’s hands went to her face as she tried to catch her breath.
‘Didn’t mean to scare you, Ruthy,’ the youth said with a foolish smile. His body swayed slightly and Ruth wondered how much he had drunk
back there at the Black Boar. She had served him herself, but her mind had been too involved with other things to make a count of his pints of cider.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded to know, annoyance quickly taking her from the momentary panic ‘You left the pub ages ago.’
‘I was waitin for you.’
‘You could be doing better things on your day off.’
Danny Marsh came towards her, one hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, the other brushing his shock of red tousled hair away from his forehead. He was a gangly youth with large brown eyes and a chip-toothed grin, who worked the till at the garage a mile or so outside the village. He lived in one of Sleath’s smaller terraced houses tucked away behind the High Street, sharing with his divorced mother and semi-senile grandfather.
‘I couldn’t talk to you in the bar,’ he said, offering it as a kind of excuse.
‘I don’t see why not; I wasn’t that busy.’
‘It’s awkward there. Everybody listens.’
‘Oh, come off it, Danny. It couldn’t have been that important.’ Ruth was still trembling inwardly, but she refused to let him see how nervous she was.
‘We haven’t had a chance to talk since las’ week. We had a good time then, didn’t we? I thought … I thought we got along well.’
She tried to move past him, but he stood in her way. She didn’t like that.
‘What’s happened since, Ruth?’ he persisted, his deep brown eyes gazing solemnly into hers.
‘Nothing’s happened. Now let me pass.’
He held her arm. ‘Jus’ tell me. I thought you liked me.’
‘I did … I do. I have to get home, Danny, Mum’s expecting me.’ Her mother was in town with Sarah: dentist, then optician, then new shoes. If her younger sister had to take time off school their mother made sure it was worthwhile; in the Cauldwell household there was no such thing as a single appointment if it meant a trip into town.
The Ghosts of Sleath Page 9
