by SJI Holliday
She ignores him and starts the engine. They drive around the perimeter road. It’s not far, and it would be quicker to go across the field. But she can hardly drive across the field. She is slightly concerned that Rose will be coming back from the village in Smeaton’s van, with her stupid plastic boxes. She doesn’t want anyone to see them driving out, doesn’t want anyone to be asking questions later. But there’s not much she can do about it. If Rose passes them, she will come up with a convincing lie. She is getting good at them. Besides, the sun is just beginning to set and they don’t have much time. The first part of this really needs to be done while it’s still at least partly light.
She drives them to the woods. She recognises the spot where she was pushing Angela on the tyre swing the other day.
She pulls off the road, pauses, her hand on the key, thinking. Then, pressing her foot to the pedal she drives them further in to the trees. With the car off the road they are partially obscured. There’s a better chance now that if anyone does drive past on the perimeter road, that they might not see them. It’s a risk, but it’s worth a shot.
She should have dealt with this problem straightaway, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do it herself and Jack was in no fit state. Mumbling and crying and stumbling around like a drunk at an office Christmas party. Pathetic. They get out of the car and she pops open the boot, lifting out the old rug that is kept in there. The one that has been used successfully, many times before. She walks slowly into the woods, making sure there’s no one around. Jack trails behind her, making a snuffling sound, and she turns to see that he is crying.
‘Pull yourself together Jack,’ she snaps. ‘You need to stick with me on this. We’ll deal with your little problem, and then it will be done OK? If we can sort this out properly, then maybe it doesn’t have to happen again. You think you can manage that?’ He sniffs. Then nods. Wipes his eyes. His face is set into an expression of grim determination.
It would be easy to get disorientated in these woods. Lost. So much of it looks the same, with its equally spaced trees, all the same size. Nothing much to distinguish them. Easy to forget where you are … to turn around and walk the wrong way. But somehow, as if a homing beacon is signalling her, she knows where to go. She walks towards the one tree that is different from the others, the old oak with the hollow trunk. The tree that has been here for a very long time, before someone planted all the others. As they get closer, her heart starts to beat faster. A horrible chittering thrill runs through her. What if it’s not there, she thinks. Then what?
But of course it is there.
Still covered partially with leaves … but she can see the heel of a boot poking out from the hollow. Jack makes a small whimpering sound, then he coughs.
‘I’m OK,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
Ali closes her eyes, opens them again. The trainer is still there. The body is still there. The chitter in her chest starts again. She crouches down and starts to pull away the blanket of leaves and twigs that have been used to try and hide her. It had been a temporary measure, until she worked out what to do.
She turns the body over, and sees that the tiny animals of the forest floor have already started to feast. A bubble of nausea pops in her throat. A chattering of voices starts in her head. She swallows, takes in a deep breath through her mouth, trying not to breathe in the stench.
Come on, Ali. You can do this. You are the strong one, remember.
She gives her shoulders a little shake. They need to get rid of it fast. Get it far away from here.
Ali unrolls the rug and lays it on the ground. Jack reaches into the hollow, alert at last. His instincts kicking in. He takes hold of the ankles and drags. Ali gets under the shoulders. For a slight girl she is incredibly heavy; but they always are. Heavier than you think. Dead weight: it’s a real thing. They lift her onto the blanket, crossing her ankles and hands. Rigor mortis has started to wear off, and she’s almost pliable now, ready for them to take her away.
They pause, both of them staring down at Angela’s body. Ali glances at Jack, wonders what he is thinking. But she knows what he’s thinking: nothing. She is thinking that this didn’t have to happen.
Jack crouches down, and begins to slowly roll her up in the blanket.
Dr Henry Baldock’s Journal – 6th June 1955
I am appalled. The police investigation has ruled the events of last week to be nothing more than a tragic accident.
I am also worried.
I did not want to provide them with my private notes, the ones where I accuse some of the staff of mistreating the patients, because if I were to reveal the things noted in this journal before I have time to complete my findings for the board, then my whole investigation will have been in vain.
Oh, the dilemma that faces me! All I can hope is that there are no repercussions to this tragedy. I must ensure that Jessie is looked after with great care – for the effects of what has recently happened as well as her original ailments. As well as the depression she’s had since childbirth – she is now having to face the grief of losing her boy.
There have been many visitors since the accident. It seems that she was a well-known figure in the village. I want to say well-loved, too, but there was a certain suspicion in the manner of some of the visitors that concerned me; it was almost as if they were checking that she was still here. We must do our best for her now, and just pray that she does not blame the hospital for what has happened. Her husband, too, is in a bad way, but thankfully he’s being looked after by his brother’s family on one of the neighbouring farms.
I just can’t help feeling that there is more to this story. Something that as an outsider, I am not privy to. I may need to question Jessie’s nurses again, to see if they can shed some more light on this terrible matter.
30
Smeaton
He doesn’t like to use the skeleton key. Doesn’t want people to think that he is invading their privacy in any way. Despite the communal nature of this place, that’s not something he would ever want to do. But he has no choice. He has been all around the house and the grounds today, he’s chatted to everyone doing their work, and not one of them has seen Angela.
Before he gets himself into a state with worrying, or takes any further action, he needs to check her bedroom. It would be unlike her to be sick. He’s rarely known her to be ill the entire time she’s been here, and she’s certainly not one to oversleep. Sometimes he wonders if she ever sleeps at all. She spends far too many nights roaming the corridors, hiding in dark rooms. Waiting for an apparition that is never going to appear.
He’s sceptical, of course, like most people are, but he would not say that he is entirely a ghost atheist. More of an agnostic. He hasn’t told Angela this, but he has looked into parapsychology a little himself. There are always stories, things that are told through the generations. There were plenty of those in his old commune, the one where he grew up. The one that was just like this, until it wasn’t. People change. Things change. Mostly there’s no way to avoid that.
He left it to come here to start something new, vowing that he would keep running as it was always meant to be; as his father had always wanted his own commune to be. Before he became unduly influenced by others. This is not about preaching to people, or trying to convince them of some kind of new power. This is about living happily together, with some shared beliefs. Angela shares his beliefs, as do the others. That’s why they’re here, that’s why they’ve stayed. Everyone is free to leave, of course. Some have come here and found it not to their liking. Some people will always choose dark over light, such as the Palmerstons – but thankfully they had left before they had to be asked to, before they could taint this place with their evil ways. Some of them worry a little about Angela, concerned for her mental health. But he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with her. She’s just one of society’s differents. She’s just someone who wants to fit in, and she’s just someone who wants to believe in something.
Something other
worldly.
And who’s to say she’s not right?
He turns the key, but before he pushes it open, he raps on the door. Two knocks. Calls her name, but there is no answer. He pushes open the door and walks inside. Fairy wings hang over her bed, and he smiles. Remembers her wearing them at some of the parties. He can see straightaway that her bed is neatly made, and her room is tidy and uncluttered. In fact, there is nothing to suggest that she has been here this morning at all. In which case, where is she? From what he’s gathered, no one has seen her since yesterday morning. Smeaton considers himself to be a calm person by nature, he is not someone prone to manic episodes, not someone to overreact. But Angela was very agitated the last time they spoke, and he doesn’t know what to think now.
He checks her bathroom and finds it is also undisturbed. He picks up a towel that is hanging over a wooden rail, and it is bone dry. He frowns, wondering what his next move should be. He knows that sometimes she goes into the north wing, although she often denies it – says the place gives her the creeps. Says she’s seen strange things in there. Orbs, balls of light-energy. Things that apparently appear when spirits are trying to communicate, before they have managed to find a form to show themselves.
He’s not convinced. She’s also mentioned a smell. A charred, blackened smell. How a smell can have a colour; they are her words, not his. Of course, a lot of that wing is still blackened from the fire. Some parts of it were cleaned, various equipment and necessary things salvaged. But a lot of it was left just as it was, as if the staff didn’t want to be tainted by anything that had been in there. He’s never noticed anything in particular, apart from that old musty smell of a place where the windows are never opened, where still air hangs constantly, like a shroud. He knows that she has a key for the north wing, knows that she took a copy of his, and when he tells people not to go there, his reasons are honest. Some of the floors are still unstable, but overall it is just not a pleasant place to be.
Perhaps it’s the obvious place for her to be right now. After all, she has mentioned that there has been more activity lately, readings on her various gadgets. Things happening that she hasn’t seen before. Why now? He wonders. But if he is to believe the physics of it all behind the scenes; the displacement of energy, changes in the atmosphere – then there is something different.
The newcomers.
Two new beings walk within these walls. Surely that is all that it is? New energy, new atoms, new particles whizzing around, disturbing the peace. He doesn’t believe that it’s the undead causing these changes. It must be something to do with the living. Angela might believe there are restless spirits here, awakened by a shift: the family of three hung on the mill common, accused of witchcraft back in 1593; and the family of three who died in tragic circumstances, right here almost four hundred years later. The two families were distant relatives, but they were all innocents accused of the same crimes; accusations borne out of the same basic ignorance. No, what is disturbing things now is far from that. The new energy is intelligent and brave – and most definitely something to be concerned about.
There is a stack of notebooks on the small table next to her bed, next to them is a thermometer, a marble and a row of neatly lined-up pencils. He smiles, realising that this little displays sums up Angela very well. Neat, inquisitive, slightly odd. He picks up the first notebook from the pile and opens it – then he stops himself. Should he be reading her things? It could be a private diary … but then it is just lying beside her bed. Not that anyone is meant to be in here without her knowing. He bites his lip. Puts the book down. Lines it up again. He’s about to walk away, and then he changes his mind. He flips it open, decides he will just read the first page. But he needn’t have worried. It’s nothing personal. Just a list of dates and times, mentions of red or green, temperature measurements. Notes. Thoughts. It’s her ghost-hunting log. There is not a day when she hasn’t recorded something, in her neat, flowing script. Most days, the notes say the same thing. No activity to report. He feels sad for her. Wishes that she could observe some kind of strange phenomena just to give her purpose to all her work.
Something pings inside his head as he lays the book back down. There is no entry for yesterday. He picks it up once more, flicks through again. Yesterday is the only day that has been missed … and today, of course, but perhaps she just hasn’t had time to fill it in yet. Something feels wrong, but he doesn’t want to get himself worked up just yet. He’s sure there’s a perfectly valid reason for the missing entries…
He lays the book down then heads downstairs again, checking a few of the rooms on the way. Nothing. He needs to collect the keys for the north wing from his office; he keeps them separately from the main bunch, because he has no real need to go there regularly.
A thought comes to him, as he reaches his office. Something that makes more sense than Angela being in the north wing, waiting for ghosts. Mary had called him earlier about the lampers. Perhaps Angela has gone to see her – to tell her about Ali and Jack. Maybe she thought he wasn’t listening to her concerns. He picks up the phone and dials the number for the shop. Mary answers after two rings. ‘Smeaton?’
He wonders how she knows it’s him, he doesn’t call very often. But then she probably has a phone with caller ID on it, whereas he has an old Bakelite from the 1950s. It still works perfectly well, and it’s not as if anyone needs to use it very often.
‘Mary, I just wanted to let you know. I spoke to Ali earlier, and she is, of course, very sorry about what happened. She explained that she felt scared and threatened, not because of the boys in particular, but just what she’s used to, you know?’
Mary blows an exasperated sigh down the phone. ‘Yes, well, she’s one of these city types, I suppose. She’s new here, and Robert says it doesn’t hurt too bad. He says he’ll drop it, so long as she doesn’t behave like this again.’
‘Thank you. That is very kind of you. Thank you, Mary. I’ll make sure, of course. Oh … but there is just one more thing.’ He tries to make his voice sound casual. ‘I was wondering if you’d seen Angela today at all?’
‘No. I haven’t seen her for a few days actually. It’s usually a Tuesday or a Thursday she comes in. So, I wouldn’t necessarily be expecting her until tomorrow. Why? Have you lost her?’ Mary laughs, but it sounds a little hollow.
Smeaton pauses before answering.
‘That’s the thing, Mary,’ he says. ‘I think that maybe we have.’
31
Ali
She’s alarmed when she hears the metallic clang of the gong. Smeaton told her on the first day that the sound would travel far, but she hadn’t really believed it until now; until it echoed through the building. Sweat breaks out on the back of her neck, and she rubs at it roughly. Jack is sleeping again now, that half-sleep, half-wake twilight that he has existed in for the last few days. She stares down at him, as he snores quietly. Her chest feels tight. She knows she needs to get him out of the bedroom again, but for now she has more important things to worry about.
She hurries down to the sitting room where she knows that everyone will be gathered. She slows her pace, wanting to rush but not wanting to arrive breathless. Clearly something bad has happened, for them to be summoned like this, but she has to keep her panic in check. She hopes that it won’t seem too strange that Jack is not with her, but all she can do is tell them that he’s sick and hope that no one pries further. She is the last to arrive. Except for Angela, who’s not likely to show up anytime soon.
Because of course, that’s what this is about.
‘Is Jack not with you,’ Smeaton says. He says it kindly but there’s a flash of something in his eyes that worries Ali. Only slightly, but enough.
She shakes her head. ‘He’s been getting these terrible headaches. He keeps taking himself to bed. He used to get medication from the doctor, back home. But we didn’t bring any here. Jack convinced himself that they were stress-related, and that being here in the fresh air would make them magica
lly disappear. Stupid really. Maybe I should go into the village and get him some—’
‘You can do that later if you don’t mind, Ali. As I explained to you when you came here, when I sound the gong, it’s because I need everyone here. Because there is a crisis of some sort.’
He glances slowly around the room, checking them all out. Ali follows his gaze and takes in the sea of nervous faces. She wonders how many of the others have something to hide. All of them, probably. But she doubts that any of them have anything as huge as she and Jack do.
‘What’s going on?’ It’s Rose, of course. The one she always seems to clash with in the kitchen. Her voice is high-pitched, ready to deal with a drama with more relish than is strictly necessary.
‘It may be nothing, but I wouldn’t have called you all here if it wasn’t something sufficiently unusual.’ Smeaton stops wringing his hands and drops them to his side. His voice may be calm, but he’s exuding a panicked air that she has never seen from him before. His usual unflappable demeanour has been well and truly flapped. She puts on an expression of concern, hoping that it fits everyone else’s.
‘It appears that Angela has gone missing,’ Smeaton says.
There is an audible, collective gasp.
Rose chips in first. ‘What do you mean, missing? Maybe she’s just gone to the village. When did you last see her?’ She raises her palms, turns around the room trying to catch everyone’s eye, one by one. ‘Who saw her last?’ Her gaze comes to rest on Ali, and everyone else’s gaze follows.
