The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

  ‘Sure,’ Ali says. She doesn’t push any further; Julie’s reluctance is just the same as Ford’s had been. No one wants to talk about this. They’re not gossipy types, it seems. But Ali isn’t sure if it’s gossip that she wants, or if she just wants to know what actually happened. She feels that somehow she must already know the story, must’ve read it somewhere, or been told it long ago. Otherwise how could she keep dreaming about the boy? And why did she react so badly when the lampers called her a witch?

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ she says. ‘It’s a lovely morning.’

  ‘Take a basket, you’ll likely come across some brambles.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit early for them? Thought they come in autumn?’

  ‘Ah yes sorry, not brambles. Elderberries and rosehips, though. Always things to forage around here. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Just go and get yourself some fresh woodland air, stretch your legs. Don’t worry about collecting things, it’s not like we actually need any food. You should explore to your heart’s content, It’s easy to get lost, though, so be careful.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs,’ Ali says, with a grin. She walks off towards the woods, wondering about Julie’s confusion with the brambles. Trying to work out if she meant anything, or if she just got confused for a moment. Maybe her smiling is a way of dealing with the fact that she can’t remember things properly. Like the story about the boy. Or maybe she hasn’t been in the woods for a while. Ali already knows there are no brambles there.

  The woods are dark and decaying, and full of dead things.

  27

  Ali

  Ali is in the kitchen when Smeaton comes flying in. His hair is wild and he looks stressed, or maybe worried; it’s hard to tell. She has been chopping carrots for half an hour, and a large pile of orange discs sits in a box in front of her. Her next job is equally mundane; she could take a break now. The others are busy elsewhere, Fergus has gone out to collect some things from the garden. Rose has gone off to buy some more plastic containers from the shop in town, after a mildly amusing incident where someone placed a few of them too close to an oven.

  ‘I think I’ve seen more of you today then I have the entire time I’ve been here,’ Ali says, smiling. She dries her hands on her apron. Smeaton smiles back, but the odd expression is still on his face. ‘Are you on your own, Ali?’ He says. ‘That’s good actually. I wanted to ask you about something.’

  Ali tries to keep her face neutral, doesn’t want to give anything away. There are lots of things that he could be asking. This is not the time to become paranoid and appear worried. She concentrates hard on keeping her face as natural and relaxed as she can manage, and gives him what she hopes is an inquisitive smile. ‘Oh yes? What can I do for you? Can I get you something to drink? Maybe I can sneak you a brownie, they’re for tonight but who’s going to miss one little piece?’ She uncovers the tray and wafts it towards him. A warm chocolatey smell floats into the air.

  ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll wait. I’ll enjoy one better if I look forward to it. Tea would be lovely though, the raspberry one is my favourite, if you have it.’

  Ali busies herself making the tea, taking the water from the urn that they use for the endless boiled pasta and grains, and the teabag from the couple of boxes that she’s brought in from the lounge – Rose hadn’t been happy when she’d introduced this change, but then clearly Rose wasn’t used to drinking tea as she worked. She keeps her face turned away, still trying to keep the worry out of her expression. Something in his voice concerns her, and she has a spike of worry that Angela has told him something about Jack’s clippings. No matter what he says, she will plead ignorance – if need be, she will spin this to her favour and berate Angela for snooping. She turns back around and offers him the cup.

  He raises it to his face and inhales the scent. This is probably the nicest herbal tea they have here, made from dried raspberry leaves and pulped seeds. There’s another ingredient too, which is Julie’s secret apparently. Ali hopes she passes on the recipe before she forgets it. She has made one for herself, too. She inhales the fragrant steam, and feels it calming her down. He doesn’t know anything, she thinks. You’re being ridiculous.

  ‘I had a call earlier,’ he says. ‘From Mary. You know Mary?’ he scratches his head. ‘Or maybe you don’t. You haven’t been into the village yet, have you?’

  Ali shakes her head. ‘You recommended staying away from the village, until we were settled. It’s been few weeks now, but I haven’t felt any need to go there yet. Neither has Jack, as far as I’m aware.’

  Smeaton nods. ‘Of course. Well, Mary runs the shop, but to be honest I think she wants to run the whole village. She knows everyone and everything … looked after Angela when she first came to the area. She told me there was a bit of an incident the other night, late. With the lampers?’

  Ali breathes in her tea, pushing her face almost entirely into the cup, trying to hide her smile. If that’s all it is, she can handle it. That was an honest mistake.

  ‘I’m not sure what they told you…’

  ‘Well, I think that Mary might have got the wrong end of the stick, but she says that you attacked one of the men with a cricket bat? Osborne James’s cricket bat from the wall in the foyer. He was a patient here at one time. Came in for a brief stint of treatment and went on to become a county legend. Anyway, I was sure that bit couldn’t be true … that the story had grown legs. I’m sure it was all just some silly misunderstanding?’

  Ali sighs. Tell the truth or keep it vague? In this case, it might help her to tell the truth. Might be the best way to keep him from asking questions about anything else. ‘They scared the life out of me, Smeaton. They did try to tell me that you had told them it was fine to come here, and that shining the light into the window to alert us was normal. It was silly really. I got such a fright. And, you know, where I used to live, men turning up late at night on your doorstep was generally not a good thing. The sounds of gunshots startled me initially, but when I heard the truck, the tyres on the gravel. It completely freaked me out. I thought they were coming here to rob us … to attack us. Haven’t you seen Straw Dogs? The original, I mean. It’s a classic movie … horrific, but…’ She shakes her head, letting her sentence tail off. Of course he hasn’t. ‘I didn’t mean to get so angry, but to be honest they were quite cocky. One in particular was trying to lead the others on. I think they thought it would be funny to wind me up, but there was bit of a clash there, I admit. They weren’t expecting my reaction; I didn’t mean to react like that. I hope he’s OK. I don’t think I hit him that hard. It was meant to be a deterrent more than anything else.’

  Smeaton takes a mouthful of tea. Nods. ‘Yes. OK. That does make sense. I suppose it’s my fault really. I should have warned you that they might be around. Thing is, even with my room around the side of the building, it’s so natural for me to hear them that I don’t even think about it anymore. But I must have been in a deeper sleep than usual that night. I’d had some of Rose’s special tea. I daren’t ask her what’s in it, but it does encourage a good night’s sleep … if the occasional alarming dream.’

  Ali puts down her mug harder than she intended, and crosses her arms. She’s not really interested in Smeaton’s nightmares or Rose’s special tea right now. ‘Did Mary call to complain about me? Or was she just letting you know? I’m worried now that I’ve badly upset those men, and her. I don’t want to do that. You know that Jack and I came here for a fresh start, the last thing I want is to have any trouble with the locals. Or you, for that matter.’

  ‘Please,’ he says. He takes another mouthful of tea, lays his cup down. He has almost finished it. He must have an asbestos mouth, because hers is still boiling. ‘Don’t think any more of it, Ali. But please do come to me in future, if you have any concerns. About anything. I mean that. I’m here for you, Ali. Please feel that you can talk to me…’ He pauses, scratches his head again. ‘You know that Angela is a little co
ncerned about you too…’

  Ali keeps her face blank. ‘Concerned about what? I know she was a bit upset with me, when I dismissed some of her stories. Maybe I was a bit harsh. I’ll talk to her…’

  ‘She’s a sensitive little soul, our Angela. But she does have a good heart. I know she’d love to be friends with you. Maybe you could give it another go? I’m sure there’s common ground, one that doesn’t involve talking about fenland folklore and ghosts.’

  He smiles, and Ali smiles back, but she’s gritting her teeth. He’s telling her to toe the line: don’t upset the locals; don’t upset Angela. She clenches her hands into fists. She wants to get annoyed about this, but she knows that it won’t do her any good in the long run. She needs to make an effort. She is here to stay, after all. She silently vows to try harder, to paint on the face that she needs to survive in here – just like the others.

  He squeezes her arm, then turns to go. He takes a few steps, then stops, turns back. ‘Oh, I meant to ask,’ he says. ‘You haven’t seen Angela anywhere, have you? I’ve been around most of the place today, but I can’t seem to find her. I meant to ask Mary but with all the lamper stuff it went clean out of my mind.’

  She doesn’t look him in the eye.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen her at all.’

  28

  Angela

  I wake up … and at first I am confused because I have no bedcovers, no pillow. I’m on my side and underneath me and around me are piles of packed leaves, twigs. Dirt. I sniff, and I’m more confused. Because I can’t smell anything. I don’t think there’s ever been a time in my entire life where I could smell absolutely nothing, even when I’ve had a cold. My strangely acute sense of smell seemed to become enhanced as I grew older, but I don’t remember a time ever when it wasn’t there. I curl over further to the side and sniff at the mulchy ground, imagining the smell that I know should be there. Earthy, mouldy. Damp. Cold.

  But there is nothing.

  I sit up, brushing leaves and debris from my boots. I glance around. For a moment I can’t remember why I’m here. I’m curled into the hollow of the old oak. Was I sheltering from the rain? Did I lie down for a nap, and lose track of time?

  Then I remember.

  The note.

  I was heading to the tyre swing, wasn’t I? I shuffle around, remembering the car. There was definitely a car, but it’s gone now. I try to piece it all together. The figure walking towards me, the crunch of footsteps… I pull myself up into a standing position, still brushing dirt off myself. I lean back against the oak, and I inspect my hands; under the nails there is dirt, on my palms there is dirt. I turn my hands over and notice how pale they are. Have I got hypothermia? It’s not cold enough for that, is it? I don’t understand. I rub my hands together, a simple automatic action. Trying to get some heat, some colour back into them.

  But then I notice something else.

  I’m not cold.

  I walk towards where I think the car was parked. I don’t know when it was parked there. I don’t know how long I have been here. Why would I be sleeping under the tree? It makes no sense. A vague memory swims to me. A figure coming closer … but then what happened? Did I fall? Did I hit my head? I close my eyes, tightly. Ball my hands into fists, try to push the nails into my palms, but I can’t feel them. I can’t feel anything.

  Perhaps I’m in shock. Things are coming back to me now. Someone hit me over the head. I just don’t know who. Or even if I’m right. Maybe I dreamt it all. Maybe I tripped and fell.

  I think about the note. Was there even a note? I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans looking for the small piece of folded paper that I know I put in there yesterday … At least I think it was yesterday. I’ve lost track of time. I have no idea now how long I’ve been here. And the note is not in my pocket. I sigh. Why is no one looking for me? Will they believe me? Will anyone believe that I had the note, that I came out here to meet someone, that someone hit me over the head and I’ve been sleeping here ever since? I must’ve been out cold. Maybe that’s why I am numb. I must have a head injury. I need to get help. I need to be seen by a doctor. I lift my hands to my head feeling for injury, scratches. Bumps. But I feel nothing.

  There is something very wrong with me. You hear about this sort of thing, after a head injury. I no longer feel like me. It’s definitely shock. I need to get back. I will go to see Julie, and I know she’ll listen to my story. She’ll make me hot sweet tea; she’ll feed me homemade lemon biscuits. She will believe me.

  She will help me.

  I take a few more steps towards where I think the car was, but there is no evidence there that I can see. If it was parked in the road, as I think it was, there will be nothing for me to find anyway. It’s a waste of time. I turn back around and start to head back towards the house … and then I see something lying on the ground. Right next to where I was lying. I hadn’t seen it, because I had turned the other way, looking for the car. Looking for the figure. Searching for the note.

  So I didn’t see the small broken thing lying bundled like a pile of rags on the forest floor.

  I walk slowly towards it. But I am not scared, because I understand now.

  I crouch over the figure, the small broken figure. Her eyes are closed. And there is a nasty gash on the back of her head, where she has been hit with something hard. I throw my hand to my mouth and stagger backwards, unsure of what to do next.

  It all makes sense now. Why I can’t smell. Why I can’t feel. Why I am not retching in disgust at what I have found. I place my hand on my chest, hoping for a heartbeat. Hoping, just hoping, that I am wrong. That I am hallucinating. That maybe, just maybe, I am not even here. That I’m still in bed, wrapped in my warm blankets. That I didn’t find a note under the door, I didn’t disappear into the woods without telling anyone. That I’m dreaming it all. Of course I am. I want to cry, but no tears fall.

  This is not how it looks.

  That’s not my body on the ground.

  I’m not dead.

  Am I?

  29

  Ali

  Ali is supposed to be in the kitchen for the rest of the day, helping prepare dinner, but she can’t stay now. She leaves the box of carrots, shoves everything else under the countertop. Scribbles a quick note saying she had to leave because she had a headache. Then she throws her apron and hat into the wash bin and hurries upstairs. She throws open the door and marches into the bedroom, hoping to find Jack gone. Hoping that he is up and about, doing something useful. But there he is, still in bed. Still asleep. Can he really still be asleep?

  ‘Have you been here all day? Do you know what time it is?’ She yanks the blankets off him.

  He stirs, opens his eyes. ‘I’ve been up … I was out in the woodshed earlier, just doing some stuff. But then I just felt so weak, I thought it was dangerous to be around those tools. I’m so tired now, Ali. I’m getting worried. Maybe I’m just getting a cold or something like that, but it feels a bit like before … you know?’

  Ali swallows. This is the last thing she needs. She needs his help now, more than ever. They can’t leave things as they are. ‘Jack, come on. They’re starting to get suspicious. I think Angela has said something to Smeaton about us. He came and asked me questions. Said it was about those stupid bloody lampers, but I think he was sounding me out. Told me to make more of an effort with people. As if I’m going to do that. We need to go now. We need to finish this thing.’

  Jack shrinks back, pulls the covers up to his neck. ‘I don’t think I can do it, Ali. Not again. It scares me. It scares me, because I keep having these dreams. I don’t know if they’re real. I think I can remember what I did, and then you tell me what I did … and I should be disgusted with myself, knowing the truth. But I don’t feel that. I feel numb. I feel nothing. But I want to sleep forever and I don’t want these dreams. Sometimes I think the people from my dreams are here with me, in this room … and I’m groggy. I thought doing some work today would help, but I felt
things around me starting to swim and I knew I had to stop. Ford is away, and I was scared I might cut my hands off. Or worse.’ He pauses, looks away. ‘I was scared that I would hurt myself, and that it wouldn’t be an accident.’

  Ali wants to scream, but she knows it won’t do any good. As Jack was speaking, all she could think was that she feels that same; she’s been having bad dreams; she’s plagued by visions, by hauntings, by things her senses tell her are true but her rational mind – on which she’s always relied – tell her can’t be. Why can’t she retreat into herself like Jack is doing? Because this is how it has always been. She’s the one who has to take charge.

  She sits on the bed, pulls out one of his hands from under the covers. Squeezes it. ‘You have to get a grip, Jack. I need you to help me. I can’t clean up this mess by myself. You know I can’t. Please. Throw on some clothes and come with me.’ He looks as if he’s about to protest but she stares at him, keeps squeezing his hand. Refuses to look away. She’s not doing this on her own. She physically can’t. No way.

  Eventually, after it seems like time has completely stopped, he gets dressed and they leave the house. Luckily, everyone else seems to be busy. There’s always plenty for people to do here, which is a good thing. Especially now. Ali climbs into the driving seat and turns the key in the ignition. Hopes that they still have enough fuel to finish this. Jack gets into the passenger seat, slams his door. He slumps into the chair, drops his head into his hands. ‘I’m sorry Ali, I’m just so tired.’

  She closes her eyes, grips the steering wheel. He was good at this, in the beginning. A memory slides behind her eyelids. A young man’s terrified eyes as he slips off the platform just as the train thunders into the station, Jack grabbing his arm, pulling him back. The young man crying, thanking Jack for saving his life. Oblivious to what had gone before … Jack moving close to the young man, waiting until just the right time, before bumping his hip into the back of him. Hard. Reaching out and grabbing him back. Screams, confusion. Jack’s confused face as he looked into her eyes, ‘What happened, Ali?’