by Dean Cole
I take the card and stare at its contents, the ink crystal clear thanks to the new prescription in my specs. There’s an illustration of a robin redbreast perched on a bench in the bottom corner, and in the middle, verses of Elliot’s poem printed in a calligraphic font.
‘You can keep it,’ says Amy.
I look up at the owlish eyes.
‘He would have wanted you to have something to remember him.’ She smiles again, but it’s tinged with more sadness.
‘Thanks,’ I say, swallowing the dryness in my throat.
We glance over at the mourners again. The vicar is reading a prayer now: ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’
‘Take care of yourself, Quentin. Bye.’ Amy bows her head and slips through the lychgate, her black dress rippling around her ankles as she heads to where a row of awaiting black vehicles are parked.
I look at the card again. ‘I really mean it,’ I say, my voice too quiet for her to hear it. But the gratitude sincere nonetheless …
I opened my eyes, saw the decorative molding of the sitting room’s ceiling. There was no confusion this time, no wondering where time had elapsed. The dream — memory — had been as vivid as the last. But there was no full moon shining beyond the window this time. There was something else. The sound of voices. Raised voices.
I couldn’t discern the words being spoken, but instantly recognised the rhotic cadence of Mrs Brown’s Scottish accent. She sounded flustered. Worse. Angry. Lured by curiosity I brushed Will’s book aside, peeled myself off the sofa and crept over to the window to see what was going on. I concealed myself behind a floral curtain and peered out into the garden.
Stan Crouch and Mrs Brown were ascending the steps that led to the courtyard, Mrs Brown looking fraught with worry as she struggled to stay abreast with the belligerent caretaker.
‘You can’t go around scaring the guests, Stan,’ she was saying. ‘Someone might complain. Mr Blackford would find out.’
‘Mind your own business, woman,’ Stan spat back.
They stopped at the top of the steps and Stan bent down to rub his knee, supporting himself with the rake he was holding.
Mrs Brown looked staggered by the retort. ‘Please, Stan. I’m thinking of you.’
‘Codswallop, woman. You’re thinking of yourself. More concerned with scoring points to impress old Blackford. I should have known you were the sort. A backstabber. Everyone’s the same. That what you’re going to do after you’ve finished bothering me? Report me? Well, go ahead. See if I care.’
‘Of course not!’ Mrs Brown shrieked, so startled by the accusation her voice trembled. She began after Stan as he took off. ‘Stan, please! I’m concerned about you. You’ve not been yourself lately.’
Stan spun around, almost causing his pursuer an injury with the sharp tines of his rake. ‘Of course I’m not myself, you foolish hag. What with that lot in there, interfering where they’re not wanted.’
‘They’re not doing anyone any harm.’
‘Yes they are. They’re messing in that dark stuff,’ Stan growled. ‘Conjuring up spirits. I saw that flame haired one carrying one of them spirit boards inside. Who knows what they’re inviting into the place? Probably thinks she’s a witch, the ginger rat. And I bet she’s a dyke. I bet the the whole lot of ‘em are a bunch of perverts.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ screeched Mrs Brown, shooting a look at the house as if someone might have overheard.
Someone had. I inched behind the curtain, trying to dodge her gaze.
‘What on earth’s gotten into you?’ Mrs Brown was losing her patience now. ‘Is it because it’s the anniversary tomorrow?’
‘What are you bringing that up for again?’ Mr Crouch looked near to suffering a burst aneurysm he was that red, the rake held out to one side like the Grim Reaper’s scythe. ‘Didn’t I already make it clear I wasn’t interested?’
‘Yes, you did. But … but it’s the anniversary, Stan! I mean, it’s everything to you.’
‘Not anymore it’s not. Anniversaries are for sad folk. Folk with nothing better to do than think about the past. I’m done with the past. Hear me? I’m done with it!’
Purpled-faced with anger, Stan did an about-turn and took off again. This time Mrs Brown didn’t go after him. She stood there at the top of the steps, a pitiful figure in her tidy cardigan. After a moment she began a slow, forced walk in the same direction.
I peeled away from the window and pressed my back against the wall, almost knocking loose a framed picture with the crown of my head. I steadied it with my hand and remained pinned against the wall, my head swimming, anger swirling in my belly.
It’s a grotesque thing to see such ignorance, such immaturity, in your elders. We expect age to refine us, to make us the learned teachers of grace and wisdom. But I guess for some it just means more time to get better at being dreadful.
Just what had got the old man so rattled? And what made him think it was all right to call me and my sort dykes and perverts? Mr Crouch might have been raised in less liberal years. But there was a fine line between ignorant and plain insulting. His prejudice almost made me want to get out a rainbow flag and start waving it around a bit. Almost.
- CHAPTER SEVEN -
Stone, Bones and Forgotten Names
WE RECONVENED IN the lounge at lunchtime for a rundown of the evening’s schedule and more refreshments. Entering later than everyone else, I spotted Will reclining by the fire, brow creased in concentration, journal resting on his crossed legs. There was no show of greeting, no smile, not even a brief nod. I could only presume we were still on speaking terms. Regardless of the aloofness, I got the feeling Will wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.
Kat, too, did not acknowledge my arrival. She was busy chatting with Annie near the upright piano, all professional smiles and feigned attentiveness once more since her unfortunate encounter with the parapsychologist. The act wasn’t fooling me, however. I could see the tenacious reporter beneath the veneer, the one who would later twist and embellish every piece of information given to her. The masquerade dropped the second Norman walked into the room, carrying a camera and looking like he had something important to reveal.
The surveillance footage of the cursed bible was ready for inspection. Everyone — apart from Kat, who kept a guarded distance — gathered around the silver bearded giant, anticipating what he had to show us.
‘Good news is we captured something,’ said Norman. ‘Bad news is it wasn’t a ghost.’
He held out the hi-tech camcorder so we could see the video playing on its rotatable screen. Everyone leaned in for a closer look. In the night vision footage, the bible was sitting on the rocking chair undisturbed. After a few seconds a mass of fluff jumped into the frame. There was a lot of movement as what looked like a wagging tail remained on the screen for a few moments. When it turned around, the tiny Pomeranian it belonged to came into view. Cottonball, having already flipped open the bible’s cover with his snout and began eating its pages, settled into a comfortable position on the rocking chair and proceeded to finish the job.
Ash’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, Cottonball.’
Cottonball, perched in his usual spot on her arm, barked at the footage of himself tearing pieces out of the sacred pages, as if he was very proud of himself. A real ‘good as gold’ boy indeed.
‘Babe, I told you to make sure the door was locked after you took him out for his last walk,’ said Matt.
‘I did!’ said Ash. ‘But he must have got out later, when I had to go to the bathroom. I was scared of the ghosts so I dashed in and out and then jumped straight back into bed.’
Matt was very apologetic, telling Norman he would compensate whatever financial debt the team wanted in return for the loss of the precious artifact. I just hoped the pooch didn’t sprout fangs and develop red glowing eyes after consuming the supposedly jinxed thing. A cursed ball of fluff running around the place was all we needed.
I questioned once again if my stay here w
ould yield the indisputable proof I craved so much. Then I reminded myself we’d been here less than twenty four hours and there was still plenty of time for it to show itself yet.
I peeled away from the subsequent chatter and walked over to the windows that faced out over the front grounds. The crows, which felt like a permanent fixture of the manor by this point, were fighting over something on the front lawn, wings flapping, feathers flying. I watched until a split in the chaos made them break apart and I could finally see what they were squabbling over. It was a baby mouse, limp and bloody. I grimaced and looked away, catching Will rising from the armchair. He cast me a sideways glance on his way to the door, journal clasped in hand, the stride slow and carefree. I debated going after him, but chickened out immediately. I’m as bad at apologies as I am at taking things too personally.
After we snacked, conversed small talk and sat down for a briefing of the evening’s schedule with Carrie, Kat and I went for a walk along the tree canopied lanes with close beech hedgerows her Mini had sped along on the journey up here. It was the perfect setting for a moment of respite, to reflect on the happenings of the weekend thus far.
‘Fresh air,’ said Kat, inhaling deeply before taking a drag on her Marlboro Light.
She was taking advantage of being able to smoke as much as she liked away from the watchful eyes of Mrs Brown. We’d been outside minutes but she was already on her second one. I wafted away the poisonous cloud, edging closer to the hedgerow.
‘You’re quiet,’ she remarked. ‘What’s the matter?’
I gazed at the winding road ahead, mentally replaying the conversation I’d overheard between Stan Crouch and Mrs Brown. ‘Have you noticed anything odd about the caretaker?’ I asked.
Kat frowned. ‘There’s a caretaker?’
‘Ancient man lurking around the manor with his tools.’
‘Haven’t noticed him. Why?’
‘Just concerned about a conversation I overheard earlier.’
She lifted a brow, her interest piqued. ‘Anything juicy?’
‘Juicy?’
Irritably, she replied, ‘You know, captivating, contentious. Like a seedy affair.’ Her eyes lit up with wicked glee. ‘Or a murder confession.’
I shook my head. ‘Just an argument. I couldn’t work out what it was about, though.’
‘Then snoop some more. It could be worth investigating.’
So much for confidentiality. I was beginning to understand why journalists had such a bad reputation. I worried for a moment I might have unintentionally revealed a few skeletons in my own closet over the last week, until remembering, ruefully, that I’d lived a life so boring no one would ever want to write about it. I didn’t bother explaining to Kat that I hadn’t been snooping, nor did I intend to, and that I was genuinely concerned about Mrs Brown after seeing the poor woman’s plight, instead asking, ‘Are you ever not in journalist mode?’
‘Like I told you, this job is everything to me. And I can’t afford to take my eye off the ball at the moment. We’re up to our necks at The Gazette right now.’
‘In what way?’
‘The Gazette’s been struggling for a while. Compared to its competitors, at least. And it’s a small newspaper as it is. We’re overworked and underpaid. Josh has major plans for a revamp, though. He wants us beating our main competitor’s circulation by the middle of next year, doubling our online readership, all while extending our monthly print magazine. And he’s counting on us to help him do all of it. That’s why he’s got us out here in the middle of nowhere looking for Casper and his elusive mates.’ Her eyebrows knitted anxiously. ‘It’s also why it’s important that I get this article right. It’s a great opportunity for me, a chance to show Josh what I can do under pressure. It could even get me promoted to chief reporter, knocking Abigail off her perch.’
Abigail Cresswell. I had met her briefly during my initiation into the workings of the press team. An arresting looking, dark-haired woman with overly tanned skin, bleached teeth and an affected laugh.
‘That doesn’t sound very friendly,’ I said.
‘You don’t know Abigail. She makes me look like Mary Poppins, and I can be a right bitch. She’s a complete covert narcissist, got more faces than Michael Jackson. Pretends to be everyone’s best friend, will do anything for them, but always has another agenda. Once she’s charmed her way into a better position she isn’t qualified for, her true colours begin to show. She’s currently got everyone below her doing all the hard work while she sits there barking orders and taking all the credit. And half of the work is digging ourselves out of the mess she’s got us in. She’s reckless, and a terrible reporter. Josh is too blindsided to see it. Don’t get me wrong, the man’s a brilliant editor, but when it comes to spotting a bitch he hasn’t got the first clue. The fact he’s divorced while still under forty and lodging on company premises while his current girlfriend shacks up in his house with another bloke should tell you that.’
‘Can see why business is booming,’ I said sardonically, picturing my new career disappearing before it had begun.
‘Then we better work our arses off and create something worth reading, hadn’t we?’
We walked some more. Breath misted from my mouth against the crisp rural air. Birds tweeted in the trees. A car drove towards us, forcing us into the mulch that had built up near the road’s edge. When its engine had faded from earshot, Kat asked, ‘Where did you get to earlier, anyway?’
‘I went to see Esther Hill.’
‘Ah, the seer.’ There was a caustic tone in Kat’s voice as she lit her third Marlboro Light, her porcelain nose and cheeks now red with cold. ‘I’ve yet to speak to her myself, but I want to. There are a few things I’d like to ask her. How much she makes off that popular platform she’s created online for one.’
‘You should listen to some of the things she has to say about the metaphysical,’ I said, feeling annoyed at Kat for being more concerned with monetary matters than Esther’s supernatural abilities. ‘It’s really interesting.’
‘You believe that psychic hogwash?’
‘I don’t think it’s smart to dismiss something just because others have ridiculed it, especially if you’re not willing to hear what someone has to say about it.’
‘That’s what they all say, the gullible.’ Kat shook her head. ‘The bereaved are willing to give anyone the benefit of the doubt if it’ll give them closure for their pain. We covered a story last year about a medium exposed as a complete fraud by a local documentary team. Half the people he duped had been booking him for personal readings for years. They never once questioned how he knew so much about them.’
‘That doesn’t mean everyone who claims to be psychic is a fraud.’
‘No. But as long as people like that exist, I’m keeping my bullshit detector turned to high. You learn to do that when you’re a journalist. I’ve had too many people try to outwit me in this game. When people are aware everything they say is going to be interpreted by a lot of people, it’s amazing how articulate they suddenly become, how carefully they consider every word they say. It’s easy for the truth to get lost. And, despite my flair for embellishment, I actually care about delivering honest journalism, believe it or not.’
‘You weren’t calling bullshit last night when you hightailed it out of the manor after hearing those knocks on the walls.’
‘I don’t know what I believe after last night. But I know this world is full of frauds and liars. And I’m easily spooked. I got pranked walking home from singing lessons by a gang of mean girls when I was younger, four of them jumped out of an alley, the ringleader wearing a Ghostface mask. My nerves have never been the same since. You know, the negative effect of fear isn’t taken seriously enough. It can cause psychological damage for the rest of a person’s life. It’s why I’ve never been able to watch scary films, I’m a heart attack waiting to happen. I’m dreading what the Freaky Foursome have got planned for us tonight. Wouldn’t be surprised if they took us out gra
vedigging or something equally ghoulish.’ Kat shuddered, then considered me with a sideways glance. ‘Maybe we will make a good team, me and you. Me and my bullshit detector, you and your trusting nature. Usually I have to play dumb to get people to reveal their true intentions. With you I won’t have to bother.’
My request for courtesy had clearly gone unheeded. I ignored the jibe and carried on walking, feeling frustrated by Kat’s obstinacy. I believed in Esther Hill. A feeling in my gut told me she was the real deal. But I also knew it wasn’t my job to convince others that unexplainable things were genuine, especially when I took so much convincing they were real myself.
The hedgerow gave way to wide fields bordered by spiny trees reaching up into the dark, louring sky. A sky that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Hitchcock film. A familiar bird’s squawk echoed in the distance. A church bell pealed. Kat lit her fourth Marlboro Light. We continued to walk.
‘So, do you have a boyfriend?’ Kat asked out of the blue.
I didn’t need a mirror to know my cheeks had flushed like a red cardinal. ‘I do not.’
‘Didn’t think so.’
My voice shot up a register. ‘Why?’
‘You’re the most awkward person I’ve ever met. I can’t even begin to imagine the sort of guy who would put up with that. It isn’t the looks, though, if you’d sort out your dress sense. You’re cute, in a virginal kind of way.’
Both flattered and offended, I replied, ‘There was someone. But, well, he died.’
Kat’s crimson lips wilted sympathetically. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ And yet still so very present.
‘That why you’re single?’ she asked.
I frowned.
‘Because you’re scared of losing someone again?’
Scared of losing someone again. I absorbed this thoughtfully. I wasn’t only currently single, I had been single every year since Elliot’s death. Instead of focusing on relationships, I devoted my time to books, studying, photography and various jobs. Virginal didn’t come close to describing my love life: it was my love life. I didn’t need a psychologist to tell me what I was running away from, that I spent so much time with my head in a book because if I stopped and thought for one second, I was right there again on that cold lake, in that never ending nightmare. But I hadn’t expected the time to go so fast. It was as if I lifted my head out of a book one day and noticed a decade had passed. I wasn’t a teenager anymore, I was a fully grown adult. And still very alone. Had the fear of losing someone again stolen those years away?
