The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

  They stand for a moment, listening as the same words are repeated over and over, as a chant. She has a sudden urge to jump back into the car, to tell Jack to drive away from this place, back to where they came from, or to somewhere else. Anywhere else. She turns around at the sound of the car door slamming shut. Jack is leaning against the bonnet, waiting. He almost looks as if he is smiling. She takes a breath. She can do this. They can do this. It’s just music. It’s singing. It’s happy.

  They can be happy. Here. In this place. This place is the answer to all of their problems.

  She’ll make sure of it.

  2

  Ali

  ‘Ah, you’ve been listening to our attempts at something musical…’ A man strides towards them, a wide smile on his face creating an array of crinkles at the sides of his eyes. He pushes a long flop of greying hair away from his face with one hand, and extends the other towards them. Ali and Jack step forwards at the same time, crashing against each other. Ali pulls back, lets Jack shake the man’s hand.

  ‘Smeaton Dunsmore,’ he says. He looks confused for a second, glancing around. ‘Was no one here to greet you? I thought…’ he shakes his head. Smiles again. ‘Never mind.’ His accent is neutral – cultured but impossible to place. From the information he’s sent her, and what she could dig up online, Ali knows he was born in Scotland, but there’s barely a trace of it in his voice. Or his looks, for that matter. He is tall and slim, with a face that is all sharp angles. His eyes are the same shade of grey as his hair, and there’s something vulpine about him that Ali is drawn to immediately.

  ‘Jack Gardiner,’ her husband says in reply. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Dunsmore holds Jack’s hand for just a moment too long. Ali watches him as he locks eyes with Jack, trying to read him. Good luck with that, she thinks. Jack is a master at keeping his thoughts and emotions locked up tightly.

  ‘I’m Ali,’ she says, stepping forwards. She stretches out her hand, but Dunsmore steps in and holds her in an embrace. He smells of wood smoke and sweat. It’s not unpleasant and she lets herself be held until he pulls away.

  He lays his hands on her shoulders and smiles down at her. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you, Ali. I almost said “at last” but it really has been such a short time. It’s very unusual for us to have anyone move in so soon after the first contact, but when you explained your circumstances to me and I discussed it with the others, how were we to refuse? An ex-policeman and an experienced nurse? We couldn’t hope for more worthy additions to our little family.’

  Sure, Ali thinks. The money we offered to bypass all the usual evaluations might’ve helped a bit too, right?

  He winks at her, as if reading her mind.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Let’s go inside. We need cups of tea, lots of cake, and a good chat before we move on to all the logistical bits. Am I right?’ He nods at Jack. ‘Perhaps you can park your car over there beside the low block? We like to keep the front of the building as free a space as we can manage.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Jack walks back to the car. Ali feels cold, suddenly, and hugs herself. Dunsmore disappears inside, just as a trickle of bodies starts to wind its way across from the circular building to the main entrance. There is a chorus of hellos and hi’s and welcomes, but no one stops. They vanish into the building, and Ali feels herself shrinking inside. She’s confident enough when she knows people, but she struggles with pushing herself into new groups. Jack appears by her side and squeezes her hand. She wonders if he realises just how much of a battle this is going to be for her, never mind him. The idea of living in a community where everything is shared and her life is no longer just for her fills her with absolute terror. But the thought of losing Jack is that terror magnified by one thousand. She squeezes her hands into fists then stretches them out and shakes her arms. ‘OK’, she says. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Ali and Jack walk together through the imposing main entrance, then through a small foyer, with built-in seats on either side and an open frame with a cricket bat mounted inside it and bearing a small brass plaque saying ‘Osborne James: 1947’ – an ex-patient, maybe? Or a benefactor? They follow the stragglers of the group at a safe enough distance to see where they are going but not so close as to crowd them. Ali’s slightly surprised at the muttered greetings; she was expecting a bit more fanfare at their arrival. But maybe they aren’t quite as important as she thought they might be. Maybe newcomers aren’t that rare. Or maybe this myth of a friendly community is just that: a myth. Or, more likely, she’s tired from the three-hour drive from London and already regretting the decision to come here.

  She stops and holds out a hand so that Jack stops too, whirling round to face her.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t do this. We can’t stay here—’

  ‘Ali…’ Jack gives a tiny shake of his head. He looks at something somewhere over her shoulder, and Ali understands. She feels the heat of Dunsmore standing next to her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘It’s natural to have doubts. Unless you’ve been brought up in this kind of environment, it’s bound to feel strange to you. Weird, even. I’ve heard most of the adjectives that people have come up with to describe us. We used to do open days, when we first started. We had a couple of barbecues, that sort of thing. Thought if the locals knew what we were doing and that we weren’t a bunch of crazy Manson-esque whack-jobs – their words, not mine – that it would make things easier for us. We want to be fully self-sufficient here. That’s the goal. Selling things would’ve helped with that. But you know what people are like. Besides, it’s not only us the locals seem to be wary of, but the place itself. This house and the land it sits on has a very … chequered past. You know what I mean?’

  She senses he’s not expecting her to respond to his final question, so she doesn’t. Although she doesn’t really understand what he’s getting at. What chequered past? It was an asylum, and before that just the site of an old family home. She knows a bit about this landscape: often it’s not possible to use it for much. There are expanses of empty fields, seemingly without purpose, and yet there is something different in the air here. Perhaps it’s just the change from being in the city. She takes a breath and lets herself be guided into the room the others have entered. There are various sofas and armchairs, the décor clean but faded. On a chipped wooden sideboard there is an enormous, ornate brass gong, complete with a fluffy-headed mallet, hanging by a string.

  ‘Javanese,’ Smeaton murmurs. ‘Got it on my travels. Beautiful, isn’t it? We use it for guided meditations, and very occasionally if I need to summon everyone here fast. The sound reverberates quite remarkably, especially if you take the soft part off the mallet.’

  Ali smiles, unsure of how to respond. It’s a beautiful instrument. The singing she’d heard when they arrived was soothing and peaceful. Smeaton is nothing but friendly, so she has no idea why she feels so nervous. It was her idea, after all – as Jack reminded her in the car, several times. Yes, it was her idea. And it’s a good one. At least it will be, once she comes to terms with it.

  Jack seems miraculously unfazed by it all, despite being the one who protested ever since she’d set the plans in motion. She watches as he strolls confidently across the small sitting room to the sideboard on the other side, which contains an urn, cups and saucers and a plate piled high with chocolate-chip cookies. She watches as a young woman hands him a cup, and he smiles as she drops a teabag inside.

  She has to ball her hands into fists to hold back her sudden pique of rage. How dare he be so calm about all this? After everything he’s put them through? How fucking dare he? She’s always been there for him, the dutiful wife, looking after him, doing everything for him, keeping him calm and happy, until … She pushes the thought away. Refuses to think it.

  Ali watches as the young woman moves away from him, takes a seat on one of the worn, overstuffed sofas. Jack doesn’t follow. After pouring milk into his cu
p, he steps back to the far side of the room, blowing gently on the tea. His eyes flicker as he scans the space, the inhabitants, taking it all in.

  She’s about to get her own drink when Dunsmore appears at her side again. He has the uncanny knack of disappearing and reappearing without making a sound. He’s one of those soft-footed, whispering types, who seem to almost float from place to place without anyone noticing where they have been or where they are going. He hands her a cup: something pale yellow with a hint of woodland dirt. Her nose wrinkles.

  ‘Chamomile,’ he says. ‘Good for the nerves, I find. But if you’d prefer coffee?’

  She takes a sip. ‘This is fine. Thank you.’

  They stand in silence for a moment, her sipping at her tea, him radiating heat beside her. Around the room, people are chattering, drinking and munching on cookies. At the back of the room, Jack is still watching the gathered crowd, and Ali is watching him – on whom his eyes fall, the cast of his face. If he has sensed her gaze on him, he doesn’t show it.

  Dunsmore claps his hands. He’s standing next to the sofas now. Ali has barely registered that he has moved. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I think our new guests are suitably traumatised by our incredibly bizarre singing and tea drinking habits…’ He pauses, allowing a tinkle of laughter to spread around the room. ‘So to make things a bit easier on them, how about we all say a little bit about ourselves: where we’ve come from, what we’re doing here…’ He pauses again, glancing around the room. ‘I know we’re not all here, but I think this is a decent enough welcoming committee, no? Don’t want to scare them off.’ Another ripple of laughter. Dunsmore beams at Ali, then turns to face Jack. He lifts his hands out, palms upward. ‘Come then, Ali and Jack, sit; make yourselves comfortable. Enjoy the show.’

  The girl who handed Jack his cup stands up. ‘I’m Fairy Angela,’ she says.

  Ali sucks in a breath and blinks slowly. When her eyes open, the young woman is grinning at her.

  ‘You’re shocked, and I’m not even wearing my wings.’

  Everyone smiles.

  Ali wants to run out of the room and jump into the car. Get away from this place and its cheerful hippy inhabitants. She looks across at Jack, but he doesn’t look back at her. He’s looking at Angela. Gazing at her. Ali’s irritation dissipates into a flickering anxiety, as if someone is pricking her repeatedly with a pin.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ali says. ‘I just wasn’t expecting you to say that.’

  Angela smiles wider. ‘No, I’m sorry. I did it to provoke a reaction. It’s not often I get a new audience. My name’s Angela Fairley. My nickname started at school – you know, when they say your surname first … anyway, it kind of stuck, and to be honest, I quite like it—’

  ‘And she does have wings, actually,’ says a voice from the corner of the room. A middle-aged man who looks like her old maths teacher: brown trousers, diamond-patterned jumper; wild hair like he’s been standing in a force-ten gale.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Angela says. ‘I do have wings … but I only wear them on special occasions.’

  Ali senses a swirl of energy from this odd young woman and she can’t help but smile. Her earlier negative thoughts slide away as she realises that she likes the look of Angela. She can imagine what it might have been like for Angela at school. How she might have been treated. A girl like her often struggles. Pretty, but fragile. Naïve; too trusting. Too nice. All this from a few words? Ali thinks to herself. Well, yes. That’s what it’s all about – reading people, analysing people. Trying to work out the best way to deal with others while making sure to protect herself. It’s what she’s been doing since she was a child. It’s what she’s best at.

  ‘I worked in a shop before I came here,’ Angela continues. ‘But I used to fantasise about being a pole dancer in one of those dark, smoky bars…’ She smiles shyly and lets her sentence trail off. ‘Here, I like to grow herbs and look after Alice and Agnes.’ She pauses then releases a small girlish giggle, then her expression changes slightly. ‘They’re the eldest of our chickens. And, of course, I…’ Her words drift off again. She looks down at the floor, and when she lifts her head again it’s as if a cloud has drifted across her, distorting her features. She’s travelled from flippant to fear in one glance. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. Ali opens her mouth to speak, but Angela dismisses her with a small wave. ‘I was supposed to be outside to meet you, but something came up.’ She glances at Smeaton and he gives her a tiny shake of his head.

  Ali feels a prickling under her skin.

  Angela sits down and drops her hands into her lap.

  Ali turns to Jack. His gaze is fixed on Angela.

  Ali swallows down a lump in her throat. She doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her. Doesn’t like it one little bit.

  3

  Angela

  I fold my legs beneath me, and shuffle back into the depths of the sofa. I remove a cushion from behind my back and bring it around to hug against my chest. It smells mildly unfresh and I make a mental note to remove the cover and add it to the wash basket later. I look down at the floor, glad that my few moments in the spotlight are over. For now.

  I can feel his gaze on me. I wonder what he makes of me. I should be unnerved by his stare, but I don’t find it threatening. Curious, maybe, that’s all. I lift my head just enough to see that the woman is staring at her husband with an expression that could be … fear? No, not fear. Perhaps wariness. They have no need to be wary of me.

  It’s the house they need to worry about. What it was built on. The memories that lie here, hidden deep in the foundations…

  I smile to myself and close my eyes. What has he done? I wonder. Why are they here? It’s been a while since anyone new has moved to Rosalind House, and although I know the process, understand why Smeaton does it this way, it doesn’t dispel my curiosity. Patience, Angela, I whisper to myself. All will be revealed soon enough.

  Someone claps their hands and I am back in the room.

  I recognise the sound. I can tell everyone in the room’s individual claps, coughs and mutterings even with my eyes closed. We spend a lot of time with our eyes closed when we get together as a group. It’s the best way to hone the other senses, Smeaton says. Sight is not the only way to learn what you need to about something. Not only can I recognise people by the sounds they make, I can identify them by their scents, too. Smeaton is wood smoke and something earthy, deep below. The new woman is sharp sweat and faded rose. Her husband … I take a breath, sucking warm air from the room. Her husband is something hot, metallic: burnished copper and smouldering ashes.

  Something flutters deep in my chest. I smile, but keep my eyes closed.

  Smeaton claps once more. ‘Thank you, Angela,’ he says. ‘Now. Who’s next?’

  Someone clears their throat, a gentle gurgling sound accompanied by a waft of menthol in the air.

  ‘My name is Richard Latham. I’ve been living here for seven years. I came here with my wife, Julie, after we lost our home in a flood. Everything we owned was ruined by the mud that filled the rooms of our riverside bungalow. We thought we’d lost it all, and our insurance was invalidated because we’d missed a couple of payments.’ He pauses and I open my eyes. I glance across at Richard, who is squeezing Julie’s hand. I catch a hint of rosemary and sage on the air, and then it disappears.

  ‘It was clear that our families didn’t want to put us up. Not for any length of time. Our children…’ He pauses again and swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs above his open-necked plaid shirt. ‘Our children are more interested in material things … We didn’t want to burden them, so we came here. With nothing but our love for each other and our openness to experience this new way of life. We are very grateful to Smeaton for letting us stay. We look after the vegetable patches – managing ours and helping others to make their own patches thrive. Julie…’ He pauses again, and Julie squeezes his hands and beams at him. ‘Julie has become very attuned to the lives of the plants. She has a magic inside that she never knew she poss
essed, until this place opened our eyes and our minds.’

  Julie dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her cotton dress. ‘We’re grateful to be here,’ she says. ‘Here in the light.’

  A series of murmurs spreads across the room.

  ‘Embrace the light,’ I say. Almost a whisper. I hold my hands up, steepling my fingers and pressing the tips together, and then let them spring apart, as if releasing an invisible balloon into the air. I look upwards. Blink. Everyone does the same, except for Ali and Jack, of course, who are standing side-by-side now, looking mildly alarmed.

  Smeaton claps once more, then he laughs.

  ‘Ali. Jack. I’m so sorry. This must all seem very strange to you. Our little rituals. I’m afraid that sometimes they just happen spontaneously, when people want to give thanks: to embrace their lives here and what we have achieved. Of course we’ll run through all this later on. For now, the objective is for everyone to tell you a little about themselves.’ He glances around the room. ‘Thank you, Richard and Julie. Now … perhaps, for the others, we could keep this a bit shorter. Just the basics. I’m sure our new guests are desperate to see their new home, have some quiet time to reflect before our welcoming ceremony later on…’

  I look straight at Ali and see the terror flashing in her eyes. I smile, holding Ali’s gaze until, eventually, she smiles back. I wonder if I might be able to confide in her, soon. About what I do here. About the cameras and the EMF meters. About all the tests I have to conduct on a regular basis, to make sure that we are all safe.

  But more than that, I wonder if she might confide in me.

  Dr Henry Baldock’s Journal – 2nd March 1955

  While initially pleased about the way the hospital has been run prior to me taking up my engagement here, it has becoming increasingly apparent that there are a few nagging concerns that cannot be dispelled. Although this is not an official document, and certainly not something that will be filed with my patient notes and findings, I feel compelled to record these concerns in some way, even if their only purpose is to convince myself that the issues are entirely in my own head. I am fully aware of the irony of this statement, as a psychiatrist within a mental hospital, but I am a strong believer in the power writing diaries and journals – they gather one’s thoughts into some semblance of sense.