The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

  ‘Well,’ Smeaton says. ‘This has all become a bit serious, hasn’t it?’ He laughs. ‘You have a fascinating personality, Ali. I knew it the first time we spoke. I hope we get to spend plenty of time chatting about your ideas and your beliefs, and I hope that you will give me a chance to talk about mine. But for now, we will celebrate your arrival. I would like you to meet with the others. Have some drinks, have some food…’

  ‘A party?’ Jack says. ‘That sounds good.’

  Ali glares at him, but Smeaton doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Smeaton says, clapping his hands, grinning at them both. ‘Oh…’ he continues, his face becoming serious once more. ‘There was one thing I wanted to mention: people sometimes report having very vivid dreams when they first arrive. I think it’s because of the absolute blackness when night falls, and the process of fully unwinding your mind when you are used to much more stimulation. The subconscious takes over for a while … does that make sense?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ali says. Relieved. She did dream it, then. The bath. As for the footprints in the corridor – a trick of the light. The flickering bulbs and the dinginess would account for that. She forces herself to smile. ‘So, this party. Is there anything you need us to do?’

  ‘Not this time. This time you two are the guests of honour. The others have been working tirelessly to make this party special for you, and all they want from you is a chance to get to know you just a little – not too much. Maybe mention what you might be interested in doing here, and the right people will find you. For example, Jack – you mentioned doing manual things. One of our longest-serving Family members, Ford, has become a skilled craftsman since he came here. I think you’d be very interested to meet him. Ali – I’m not sure what you would like to get from this place, but I do think that starting out with the vegetable gardens and the kitchen, as much as it seems like it’s hard work, is a good way to get a feeling for the day-to-day running of the place. Plus, I just know that you will love Fergus, our chef.’

  Smeaton stands, raises his hands palms upward. They both stand. Ali feels as if they’ve been summoned to something that she doesn’t fully understand. But she doesn’t completely dislike it.

  ‘Come then,’ Smeaton says. ‘Let’s go to this party.’

  Dr Henry Baldock’s Journal – 30th March 1955

  Today I spent several hours with the schizophrenic patients, observing their status. For some time it has been common practice to place the most severe of these patients into an insulin coma for days, sometimes weeks. I have, of course, observed this treatment before, in my last hospital, but after seeing mixed results I have become wary of this method. The specialist unit here seems to be well managed, and I was able to chat to some of the more lucid patients today. They seemed in good spirits, and were pleased with the care they were receiving. The nurses are instructed to keep the patients occupied on their days off from the injections, and today they were collecting wild flowers in the grounds, then sitting together to press them. They seemed docile, for the most part, apart from one: Joe Gleeson. I later discovered that he has only been receiving this treatment for a short while and is perhaps yet to see the benefits. He told me some unsettling stories, before Nurse Claymore calmed him down and gave him an extra dose of his usual sedative.

  The most extreme patients receive ECT as well as insulin shock therapy and the two must be finely balanced in order to keep the patient functioning reasonably. Gleeson tried to grab hold of me as I left the room, muttering again about curious things; I could not discern whether they were truth or the product of his confused mind. I don’t think he knew either. This is the challenge we face with patients with this condition. I am keen to learn more, and plan to attend a conference in Cambridge, on new methods to treat this disease. The problem is that I don’t quite know what to make of Joe’s tales. If I link them with some of the other things I have heard about in here, though, they do make some sort of sense. As a rational man, however, I have to believe that the things he has seen are a result of hallucinations, both visual and aural. This is not uncommon, but I feel as if I must convince myself. Perhaps I need some fresh air. Some time in the gardens to reflect. As I heard the nurses trying to soothe Joe after another of his outbursts – the things he claims to have seen and heard in the corridors – I had to remind myself that there are no such things as ghosts.

  9

  Angela

  Of course I got into trouble with Fergus for being late. I was due back in the kitchen at three; he said we had a lot to do to prepare for the party. The party that is about to start. I know that Ali and Jack had a meeting with Smeaton this afternoon, but other than that it seems that since we met this morning, they have spent most of the time in their room. Now they are here, looking tired and anxious, not knowing what to expect from our gathering. It’s quite a different type of party from what they’re probably used to, with this hotchpotch of different people, some more eccentric than others. Those being my favourites, of course.

  I know that Fergus isn’t happy that things haven’t been done on time. He is a very organised person, and he has rebuilt his life here. He doesn’t need people like me messing things up for him. Not when he’s put in such a lot of effort.

  He is still constructing some sort of canapés: what I think are miniature oatcakes with some kind of hummus topping, and berries piled on top of that. Blueberries, this time. I think that is his favourite berry. I think he would make us live on blueberries if he could. Blueberries and mooli – the strange white radish that he loves so much. I walk across to him and throw my arms around his waist, gripping him from behind, hugging him. ‘Please forgive me, Fergus. I was on an important mission. You know I’d never let you down.’

  His body shakes gently under my arms and I know he is laughing, although he makes no sound. ‘You know I always forgive you, my little fairy Angela. But today I am tired, and today I have very special guests. Today I feel like I have to impress people.’

  ‘You always impress people, Fergus. Everyone is stunned by what you do with the foods that we get from the garden, the recipes that you come up with. We all love you. The new people will love you too. But I don’t think that they are special. They are just like us. We are all here for the same reason, aren’t we?’

  ‘You know I don’t think that’s true, Angela. I think there is something different about these people. It’s why Smeaton has brought them here.’

  ‘You’re sounding almost as paranoid as me, Fergus.’ I laugh uneasily. Fergus does like to indulge me. I hadn’t realised that he was worried about the new people too. I wonder if any of the others are. Smeaton didn’t really explain things very well, but we know that money was involved, and we also know that this never happens. ‘Fergus, do you think you can ask Smeaton about this? I don’t think I can … We both know he thinks I’m a silly little girl.’

  ‘Angela, you are twenty-eight. You are far from a little girl. And far from silly. Although, you do like to come up with a lot of nonsense. Now, help me put these on plates. Although I am not sure we have any plates left, so we may have to be inventive.’

  ‘How about we cover one of those plastic trays with foil, and then I spread lots of berries around the edges and in between, it will look pretty.’

  ‘Well done, darling, thank you.’ Fergus turns around and I let go. He takes both of my hands squeezes them. I close my eyes. And feel the release. ‘Embrace the light.’ We both say it at the same time. We synchronise so easily.

  Rose bustles into the kitchen, her face red. She has a tea towel over one shoulder. ‘Is there anything else to go out, Fergus?’ she says. ‘Everyone is here now.’ Rose smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I know she thinks I’m a fool – doesn’t buy any of my theories about the afterlife. One day I’ll show her that she’s wrong.

  ‘Let me take out the last tray; the special tray.’ I wink at Fergus. ‘Rose, why don’t you go and get ready, join the party?’ I beam at her, and
she has no choice but to smile back, more genuinely this time.

  She takes off her little hat and her apron, and throws them into a bucket in the corner of the kitchen. Then she goes through to the store cupboard, and I hear the sounds of her pulling her hair out of its elastic, brushing it down. I pull one of the plastic trays out from under the central table and pick up a roll of foil. I cover the tray, fold over the edges, then I start to arrange Fergus’s hummus and blueberry oatcakes.

  The doors open into the dining room, and I can hear chatter. Excited chatter. Glasses clinking. I wonder if Smeaton will be bringing out any of his elderberry wine tonight; I imagine this is the kind of night for it. Although we have these parties fairly regularly, we don’t have wine very often.

  Some people here can’t handle their drink very well.

  Cyril and Ford are playing old folk songs on guitars, Cyril’s voice echoing off the walls: the room is too large for our small group. Julie is hitting a tambourine on her knees at random intervals, grinning when she catches anyone’s eye. Rose is standing in the corner, arms folded, but the smallest of smiles on her face. Fergus is popping his blueberry oatcake creations into his mouth one after the other, with barely time to chew, like a puppy catching treats.

  Ali is sitting in the corner next to Smeaton, who is beaming with pride, and a happiness that is infectious. He’s managed to convince everyone to come to the party – even Lucy, who is the least sociable of everyone here, tending to spend most of her time cleaning the corridors and reading books in her room. She was the newest member of Our Family, until me, a few months after her … and after that came Annie and Lawrence. The shortest-serving members to date.

  But I don’t want to think about them now, their brooding darkness and their unkind ways. I want to focus my energies on the light and the goodness and the happy place that we are in tonight.

  ‘Not bad, this stuff.’ Jack has managed to somehow sidle up to me without my noticing, I was so engrossed with taking in the room. He’s holding a wine glass, and he’s grinning. He blinks a couple of times and sways gently. I hold up my own glass, tipping it towards him.

  ‘I tend to stick to the cordial. Lemon and cucumber, this one. Maybe you should have some? I think that batch of wine has been fermenting longer than usual. We haven’t had a party in a while.’

  ‘I can handle myself, love. You need to lighten up a bit.’

  He sneers at me, and he laughs and I don’t like the way it sounds. I don’t like the look in his eyes. I don’t like being around drunk people, and I’m not entirely surprised that it’s him rather than her who would be the one to show their true colours so soon. Does he think I didn’t notice him staring at me earlier? Does he think I haven’t already noticed Ali’s skittishness, the way she keeps glancing at him as if waiting for him to do something wrong? I could be way off the mark, but if their reason for coming here isn’t something to do with him drinking and womanising, I’ll be surprised. Womanising. What does that even mean? He’s a drunken lech, that’s all. I give him a small smile, and I walk away, catching Ali’s eye as I pass her and head for the food.

  ‘Are you alright, darling?’ Fergus is still shovelling in his canapes. He offers me a plate. ‘You need to eat more. I keep telling you. One day you will fall through a crack in the concrete and we’ll never see you again.’ He laughs his big booming laugh and I jam two oatcakes into my mouth at once, just to shut him up.

  He’s still laughing when I realise my mistake. The oatcakes are too heavy and dry, the topping making them thick and sticky. I can’t chew them like this. My mouth seems to be glued together, and I take a breath, making another mistake. Something lodges in my throat. A blueberry? Or some of the mushed-up oats and hummus? I can’t tell and I don’t care, because I realise very quickly that I am struggling to breathe.

  My hand flies to my throat. I cough and spray out food in front of me, and I panic. I am panicking. And there is still something in my throat. The air around me grows warmer, thicker. My face burns, my throat contracts. I fall to my knees and the music stops, and I can hear Fergus’s voice, coming from far away, muffled and distorted as if he is calling my name from under water … and then there are hands around my waist, small hands, a woman’s hands – and then a pressure on my chest, the pain barely noticeable as my head swims and swirls and my vision darkens…

  And then a rush of air, and I am pulled back to my feet – and I can breathe once more, although my throat feels ragged and my head thumps as if I have been punched hard.

  ‘Angela … talk to me Angela.’ The voice is full of concern. ‘Step back from her. Give her some air. Can someone get a glass of water, please?’

  Ali. It is Ali who has saved me. She is sitting beside me on a chair, holding my hands in hers. I don’t know how I got on this chair. I remember almost falling to the floor, and then I could breathe again, and now I am here. I am alive.

  ‘I’m OK now. Thank you,’ I say, my voice barely a croak.

  Everyone swirls and gathers around me, congratulating Ali, making sure I am OK. Fergus is upset. He panicked too, and didn’t act quickly enough. Thank goodness for Ali, people say.

  I just want to go to bed now, a heavy tiredness has landed on me like a blanket.

  ‘Quite the fucking heroine, aren’t you my dear?’ Jack’s face is puce. He is swaying more obviously now, the wine having a much greater effect since I first noticed.

  ‘Jack…’ Ali’s voice is low, a warning.

  ‘Don’t fucking Jack, me,’ Jack says. And he throws his glass at the wall.

  Pale liquid runs down and disappears into the gap where the skirtings should be.

  Silence.

  I take a breath, and it hurts.

  Jack’s breathing is loud in the still air. Ali squeezes my hands then lets go, stands up and faces her husband. Her back is straight, her head held high. She looks defiant, and I can tell she has dealt with this before.

  ‘We should go to bed,’ she says. ‘We’ve had a long day.’ She lays a hand on Jack’s arm, and he throws it off.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ he spits.

  ‘Jack…’ she says again.

  ‘Everything OK here?’ Ford has been observing for a while and has clearly decided he needs to intervene.

  ‘Just that wine, I think … and we’re so tired,’ Ali says. Making excuses for him.

  I feel sorry for her. Everyone feels sorry for her. Jack and Ford stare at each other, and then something changes. Jack’s face crumples, and he seems to deflate. He looks around, as if unsure of where he is, and of what he’s done.

  ‘Ali?’ he says, his voice is slurred but the confusion is unmistakeable.

  Ali takes him by the elbow and this time he doesn’t object. We all watch as she guides him out of the room, and I take in a long, slow breath through my nose, noticing the subtle change in scent as the door closes behind them. Smoke and fire, to smouldering ashes.

  10

  Ali

  Ali splashes her face with cold water. There is no mirror above the sink in the bathroom, and she is glad. The cold water has refreshed her, brought the evening’s events into sharp focus. She and Jack must present a united front in this place. She doesn’t want anyone’s pity.

  What the hell was in that wine? She only had a couple of glasses, but it was enough to make her a bit giddy – although the feeling passed quickly enough when she saw Angela in distress. She didn’t hesitate, and she was glad she’d been able to dislodge the food. It doesn’t always happen so simply. She’s treated people with brain injuries that were the result of choking-related hypoxia.

  Jack. Bloody Jack. He never has been good with wine, and clearly homemade stuff is even worse for him. She can’t remember the last time she’s seen him like that, but she can’t let it happen again. If they’re here to stay, she can’t let anyone know what brought them. What Jack has done can never be shared with the others.

  No one can help her with this, and she must find a way to deal with it better
. This isn’t the start she hoped for. She splashes her face again then uses a flannel to scrub off the remains of her make-up. She fills a glass with water from the cold tap, and drinks it fast. Her head screams. She refills the glass and takes it through to the bedroom with her. She lies down, hoping that once the water starts to rehydrate her, she will feel better and that she will manage to sleep, although right now it seems unlikely. Jack is already in bed, lying on his side, facing away from her, towards the wardrobe. She feels another stab of resentment. She refuses to accept responsibility for this. For them being forced to come and live in a place like this.

  Jack is the one who screwed everything up. Jack is the one who made the wrong choices, and yet he is somehow coping with it better than she is. She’s always been the one who’s looked after him, kept him on an even keel, but she has slipped up, letting him drink. It won’t happen again. She lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and then switches off the bedside lamp. The room is dark, so dark that she can’t even see her own hand in front of her face. This is something that she will have to get used to in the fenlands. How thickly dark the place is, with no ambient light from any nearby towns or cities. Nothing to break up the endlessly flat, lightless landscape. The complete opposite of London, the place that literally never sleeps. She tries to train her ears to the sounds of the countryside, but the place is in silence.

  She tries to sleep, but it won’t come.

  A dream, or something she has conjured up? A woman’s face, swimming into her vision. She closes her eyes tighter. And then she hears the scratching again, and she pulls the pillow out from underneath her and puts it over her head. Eventually, sleep takes her.