by Gill Mather
The others had drifted off to the table bearing the food and drink and were peering into the tournament room.
“That’s very touching. And very perceptive. As far as I’m concerned, we most definitely were.”
Amelia looked kindly upon Roz. Motherly almost. It prompted Roz to ask:
“Did….er….Mary live here at one time?”
“Oh yes. She was one of the Sisters. I knew her before she lived here. In fact she came here as a result of her son asking her to join him. He was just in his late teens then. I and a few others came with her. We found it entirely fitted in with our philosophy, our ideology. And we stayed.”
“So is Mary still alive?” ventured Roz.
“Yes. Sadly, she’s in a nursing home near Ipswich.” The bin of dementia presumably.
Roz surprised herself by having, without thinking, placed any credence at all in the ethereal voice hovering over the assembly that afternoon.
“Do you go and visit her?”
“Occasionally. Less so now. But we don't have to. She comes to us as you witnessed. When she’s feeling up to it. She was a very dear friend. We spent time together at Greenham, the Newbury bypass protest. Those tunnels were something.” Amelia chuckled, and continued in her rather deep upper class voice. “We attended countless protest marches together. I do miss her.”
“She mentioned her child. Do you know who she was talking about? What do you think she meant about not repenting?”
“People have difficult lives Roz. I’m sure you know that. Sisters support one another. You’ve found your ideal partner. You are blessed. Not everyone, not me for one, is so lucky.”
Amelia took another long pull at her goblet of mead.
Roz could smell the honey from a few feet away. She decided to change the subject.
“Everyone here seems to revere Jack. Follow all his suggestions. I thought in communes, everyone was equal.”
“Jack’s a spectacular organiser. A place like this needs someone like him.”
“Has Jack been here as long as you then?”
At that moment, a roar went up from the tournament room.
“Oh dear,” said Amelia. “I fear the worst. A defeat of one of the favourites.”
“I wonder how Guy’s faring. He thought he’d be bound to get knocked out early.”
“I’ve heard tell that he’s thought to be a likely winner in fact.”
“Oh!”
“It’ll almost certainly be Jack. You mark my runes. Jack isn't the player he thinks he is.”
Amelia plunged her hand into her jacket pocket and Roz heard the sounds of quite heavy if small objects being rattled about.
“Goodness,” said Roz.
TRY AS SHE MIGHT, Roz found it difficult to follow the chess games. Guy, completely absorbed, paid no attention to her. There was no telling when any break might take place. Jack was prowling around looking glum, rather surly actually. By and by, Roz escaped to the library.
Trawling the shelves, she chanced upon on a small section on a bottom shelf devoted to the advertising literature employed over the years by the Hall to attract holiday-makers. Pulling a heap of the lever arch files into her arms, she humped them over to a seating area. Brushing the dust and cobwebs from them, she spent some time poring over samples, amateurish and faded to begin with, but increasingly glossy and sophisticated through the decades. Though the most recent, being generated on a PC for promulgation over the internet, were less professional-looking in their printed form.
Roz found the library soothing after the crush, quiet and empty apart from herself. She was able to relax on the soft cushions strewn over an Arab style divan, her head swimming rather from the wine.
The leaflets, pamphlets and printed material were in chronological order going back to the nineteen seventies. Roz had ignored another volume dedicated to the sixties. Too early probably.
Out of habit, she started at the back of the most recent file; something to do with being left-handed she’d been told. She recognised the website content she’d read herself just two months ago that had attracted her to this place. People she had met were prominently featured; Jack and Sarah beaming from behind a desk with a caption that they were two of the trustees; Fairymead fashioning something out of macramé on a table outside the kitchen to a group of on-lookers; Harry/William grinning and waving from the cab of a tractor. Many others with whom she’d had little contact smiled out of the pages engaged in various activities.
In one photograph, a young man leaned against one of a number of old railway freight wagons on a dull autumn day with a spiel regarding their intended conversion into holiday accommodation. Peering more closely, she realised that it was Adam.
Back she trolled through the years. Faces that had become familiar with less wrinkles, hair not yet white, midriffs not yet filled out; the late seventies clothing being still faintly “hippie” in style and appearance; early seventies garb being at turns Carnaby Street on the one hand and “peace and love”, Hare Krishna on the other.
Deeming this to be too early, Roz leafed forward. A woman who could well have been Amelia in her mid-thirties stood between some rocks with a number of others mostly decked out in colourful robes. The piles of rubble might have been derived from the breaking up of a dry stone wall. Roz recalled Jack’s dismissal of Amelia’s stone circle. Perhaps one of the women was Mary. There was only one man in the group. He wore a hooded white cassock, over which his long brown hair and beard flowed, and open sandals on his feet. His face was arresting, the blue eyes piercing, the nose aquiline.
Another image had the group dancing around the stone heaps. Yet another showed them standing in a ring, arms raised, the robed man holding a shiny object poised above his head. It might have been a dagger.
Roz moved onto the next previous leaflet from the same period encased and protected as they all were in a plastic sleeve, though these older ones were dotted with black spots of mould. One of the women from the stone circle group stood alone with a man, her arm loosely around the man’s neck, his arm and hand clasping the woman’s waist. The woman wore bell-bottom jeans, a baggy blouse belted at the hips and around her head a bandanna fashioned from an ethnic scarf, the loose ends dangling a foot or so to the side.
The man had jet black hair, not quite shoulder length, a bandito moustache like the Dalai Lama of the dream, and white teeth which he flashed at the camera. He wore flared trousers and elasticated shoes with Cuban heels. His upper body and arms were covered in a Hawaiian shirt, livid, bright colours which today would be deemed tasteless. It was open to the waist and from his neck hung a sturdy gold medallion. His demeanour was possessive. Hers submissive. Or was this Roz’s imagination?
Roz felt sick. It must be the case that some of the people here recognised the clothing of the corpse, knew who the woman was and who her son was. If, of course, the séance was to be believed.
She tried to consider who might have been involved in the death of the man. Jack for example was about their age, her own and Guy’s. In their mid-fifties. In the seventies therefore he would have been…what…ten to twenty? Amelia had said that Mary’s son was in his teens at the time of their arrival. Could Jack be Mary’s son? The man in the picture Jack’s deceased father perhaps? Might Jack be the murderer?
Roz searched for a date on the leaflet. But there was none. The effort of all this conjecture and the literature before her blurred her thoughts and her vision and she drifted into light, fitful sleep upon the divan.
The cheer that went up from the tournament room awoke her at some point. She glanced at the wrist watch she’d brought with her to this holiday destination, usually not an essential accoutrement these days but having proved vital since the loss of all other outside communications. It was getting on for ten o’ clock, the time by which Guy had predicted the final would be taking place. A coffee wouldn't go amiss to keep sleep at bay for longer, but no caffeine was ever available in this shrine to wholesome eating. That is if you didn't count the booze. Roz
forced herself to rise from the divan and took herself off to the tournament room.
Two pairs players were still battling it out. Guy was one of them. Another along the table might have been Harry/William but she couldn't be sure in the ill-focused light from the candles above the table. The crowd had thinned. There were few people too in the bower next door. Perhaps Jack’s defeat had caused people to lose interest. Guy after all was an outsider and would be gone soon. Roz wanted to approach Guy and tell him that she was tired and meant to go to their room. But the players were intensely engaged. She couldn't break his concentration.
Therefore she went first to the bower room and ill-advisedly took another goblet of wine which she carried off to their first floor bedroom. The lamps having run out of oil, she lit the candle in the holder on the table next her side of the bed.
She threw a small log or two onto the flagging fire and struggled from her clothes, leaving them on the floor. She fell onto the soft bed and took a few gulps of wine. She had the forethought to make sure her watch, a spare candle in a holder and a box of matches were on the table. Within minutes, she descended into a deep, dreamless slumber.
AS IS THE WAY with alcohol-induced sleep, Roz drifted into consciousness again once the effect had worn off. She stretched out her hand expecting Guy to be beside her but he wasn’t. The room was cold, the logs having burned themselves out. The dark was thick and impenetrable, the silence almost overwhelming. The depths of this night had a tomb-like quality. Fear rose like bile, cutting off the air supply, causing Roz to breathe in shallow pants.
I have, thought Roz, to pull myself together.
Roz’s watch wasn’t of the backlit digital variety and she had no idea what the time was. She felt for the fresh candle and the matches, heaved herself into a sitting position, struck a match and applied it to the wick.
Roz’s old-fashioned but invaluable timepiece told her that it was one thirty in the morning. And Guy wasn’t here. It must be the case that he was one if the finalists and that the tournament had continued into the night, into the small hours. It must be. Should she venture down and provide belated support? Should she wait until morning when he would presumably be here to tell her what had happened? Whether he had won? She truly didn’t want to get up, get dressed again and drag herself downstairs, all alone in the middle of the night. But this was a special occasion and perhaps she should.
Therefore she did.
The Hall was quiet as the grave as Roz crept out onto the landing. She reminded herself that this was the effect of thick walls and separate wings. There could be every kind of revelry going on in one wing, but it would be totally inaudible from another.
Nevertheless the silence was unnerving, ominous. If someone had won the tournament, then surely there would be some sounds of celebration.
Quelling her doubts, Roz hurried down the nearest staircase to the ante-room. It was laid out as before but was empty. The bower lay in darkness and had been similarly abandoned. Returning to the ante-room, she looked at the seat she’d last seen Guy occupy as though it might shed some light on his whereabouts. Nothing presented itself.
Mary Celeste-style, there were still a couple of goblets on the table one half filled with liquid, the other empty. The last board on the table still held chess-men, quite a lot of them. No doubt someone with a reasonable knowledge of the game would have been able to tell whether the match had finished. What the outcome had been. But to Roz, the black and ivory objects might just as well have been dark and white chocolates.
Roz gulped. To panic so soon wouldn't help, would indeed be premature. Wouldn't it? But where was he? In someone’s flat toasting the winner? Or being toasted? With Jack? She didn’t think Guy would have gone somewhere without telling her. He might at least have stolen into their room and left a note. She hadn’t noticed anything.
Maybe at midnight or one o’ clock, the game had been abandoned to re-start in the morning. She pictured marshals taking photographs of the board to make sure it couldn't be tampered with overnight, that is if they had any battery left on their smartphones. They could have taken notes instead.
But this was doing no good. She should return to their room and have faith that Guy could look after himself and hadn't done anything foolish. Just in case there was some sign of life however in another part of the house, she took a different route back, not climbing the central staircase at one end of the bar of the H, but walking to the end of the leg where there would be another set of stairs. There were eight staircases in total, all rising from the ground floor to the third floor.
This wing was unfamiliar to Roz. Most of the activities seemed to be concentrated on the other side of the Hall or in the chambers either side of the bar of the H. This corridor had some air about it of sanctity, pureness. Something peaceful she couldn't quite grasp let alone put into words. Nevertheless she hurried as fast as her flickering candle would allow along the dark boards of the floor. And her temporary calm changed to alarm when she heard a dull chanting emanating from behind one of the thick oak doors.
Roz stopped although her every instinct was to move on past as quickly as possible. She couldn't hear the words, only imagine the scene within. Every kind of debauchery, devilment ran through her head. A raised dagger, a virgin gagged and bound, helpless on an altar, the whites of her eyes the only means of expressing her terror. As the image took hold, the obvious argument against this also hit home in an almost comic fashion. That there were of course no virgins to be had these days. You could probably scour most of East Anglia and never find one. But this situation wasn't funny. Not to Roz. A black cockerel then? A kid or a lamb?
Roz steeled herself and slowly turned the door knob. It was surprisingly free-moving and the door swung slowly open without creaking. The group within were seated in a circle. Roz wasn't big on religion or indeed spiritualism but the words they were uttering quietly together were more than reassuring.
“…And lead us not into temptation.
For thine is the Kingdom, the power and the glory,
Forever and ever.
Amen.”
The obviously presiding head of the group beamed around at them and then at Roz.
“Come in my dear. We’ve just ended our evening together as we always do with the Lord’s Prayer. Had I realised you were interested, I would have invited you to our showing of ‘The Life of Jesus Christ’ tonight which we enjoyed as an alternative to the chess tournament. The dialogue used is direct from the Bible. But….er….as your young man was a contestant, I didn't imagine you’d be interested.”
To hear Guy described as her “young man” would have been amusing at any other time.
“Thank you.” Roz faltered. This man’s attitude was so upbeat, his demeanour so optimistic.
How could she tell him and this beaming group of worshippers of her deepest fears. The man was undoubtedly the robed character with the piercing eyes and aquiline nose from the photograph forty odd years ago. The nose was still aquiline, the hair still long, both the hair and the beard now white, but the eyes were kindly. His features had changed very little. He was easily recognisable. And still striking, distinguished. Roz wondered why she hadn’t noticed him before.
“Our small chapel is cut off at the moment,” he was saying, “and it’s impossible to get to the village church. Therefore we offer what worship we can in a group together inside.” He smiled at Roz. “But….it’s Roz isn't it?….you look troubled. What ails you? We’ll help if we can.”
And it all came spilling out. The warning from Harry/William, the fear that Jack was somehow involved in the murder of the corpse found in the fireplace, the unearthly message about a son and a lack of repentance on the part of an elderly woman.
“And now Guy has disappeared. Unexplained. Without leaving me any indication of his whereabouts. I….I really do fear the worst.”
“I’m sorry. I didn't introduce myself. I’m Mark.” Mark turned to the others then back to Roz. “Where do you think Guy i
s most likely to be Roz?”
“I don't know. With Jack maybe?”
“Even though you doubt Jack?”
“Well yes. They get on well together.”
“So. Have you been to his apartment to see if Guy is there?”
“No. I don't know where it is.”
“All right. I’ll take you.”
Roz sniffed, on the point of tears. “I don't want to inconvenience you.”
“You’re not. We’ve finished here. It’s well past our bedtime.” He chuckled and so, apparently automatically, did the rest of them. Despite his pleasant reassuring manner, the notion arose that this man was another of those powerful characters, as was Jack, whom others followed without question.
But she hadn't to distrust everyone. It would do no good. She stood on the sidelines, as everyone kissed and hugged and said their goodnights.
The walk up to the second floor was a quiet affair. Several people tagged along but there was no chat. Everywhere they went was devoid of any sound, though it was less claustrophobic now she wasn’t alone. Perhaps these people generally drank themselves into stupors most nights and didn't come round until the morning. Jack’s flat turned out to be just around a corner from where she’d left him that afternoon. The nameplate, of all things, read ‘Longacres’.
Chapter 6 Old Sins
“WELL, THIS IS UNEXPECTED.”
Guy continued to follow the man along this unfamiliar corridor, the old brick-faced walls hung with cobwebs and what could have been moss or algae. He wasn't sure what floor they were on having been led through a maze of passages and up and down stairs, via a series of doors, some of which Guy hadn’t noticed until they swung open of a sudden at the lightest of touches.
The passage was just about high enough that neither of them had to stoop. The ceiling was arched and there were brick piers at intervals. In places, a little water dropped from the ceiling onto the cobbled floor.
“Yes I have a back way in. Useful at times,” said the man now known to Guy as Henry.
