The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

  No, I think.

  No.

  Dr Henry Baldock’s Journal – 30th July 1955

  We were visited today by a crowd from the village. Four of them, telling us they were going to the authorities; that what had happened to Jessie was a disgrace.

  Telling us that there’s no way that young George’s drowning was an accident either.

  They say the husband – Thomas – is in a bad way, and who can blame him?

  I was allowed to sit in on the meeting, only because I believe now that Dr Throckmorton and the hospital administrators are worried that they’re about to be found out. Throckmorton questioned me today – asking why I chose this place for my project, asking was I really a ‘spy’ for the board, and trying to laugh it off when I’d looked uncomfortable. I could tell he didn’t believe what the villagers were telling him.

  Mrs Samuel, who runs the village shop, said she was a relative of Jessie’s, and that they’d both descended from Alice Samuel and did we know who that was?

  I had to confess that I didn’t, but Throckmorton and Miss Jaynes, his secretary, went quite pale. He tried to tell me afterwards that this was of no consequence, that Jessie’s long-dead ancestors had no bearing on what had happened to her. But at my insistence, he told me who this Alice Samuel was, and why she’s still known by name locally, despite having been dead for more than four hundred years.

  She was one of the infamous ‘Warboys Witches’, the case that seemingly led to the Witchcraft Act of 1604, which, incredibly, was only properly repealed four years ago. Alice had been the victim of a cruel child and her crueller siblings, who’d conspired against the woman seemingly to attract attention, and this had spiralled into the accusation that she had bewitched and led to the death of Lady Cromwell – the grandmother of Oliver, the Lord Protector of the English Commonwealth. Alice and her family were tried and accused of witchcraft, and eventually, hanged.

  Despite what we all know now – that there were no witches, only misunderstood and ill-treated women – it’s a story that’s remained important in the community, its legend living on, and for some it’s an excuse to meddle in people’s lives, even now.

  Jessie had been taunted for her ancestry, Mrs Samuel said. And Mrs Samuel herself had suffered the very same – although she was stronger than Jessie, she said. Jessie was always a sensitive little soul. And when George had been born they’d said he wasn’t her husband’s but the Devil’s son, because he had a strangely shaped birthmark on his forehead, that they were convinced was the Devil’s Mark. They had bullied poor Jessie and forced her to reject her own son. The poor lad had suffered, too, being bullied and taunted at school, and none of them wanting to be his friend at all.

  Mrs Samuel surmised that the drowning was no accident at all – more that it was those cruel boys, playing a dunking game – testing to see if the young lad was a witch.

  Throckmorton laughed at that, but Miss Jaynes had gone paler than I thought it possible for a woman to turn without passing clean out; and I knew it all to be true.

  That poor woman and her poor, poor boy.

  These small communities might give an impression of being one big happy family, but they can be a danger, too, I can see. Rumours and nonsense and all sorts have gone on, and look where we are now. And yet despite all this making perfect sense to an outsider like me I know that Throckmorton will take it no further and will ensure that the whole thing will be recorded as nothing more than a tragedy.

  He’s a local, an upstanding member of this community. He’ll not want anything to bring his own name into disrepute. I suspect he’ll let the dust settle, then he’ll leave his post here and retire. He’ll get away with this, just as he has got away countless times with all manner of shocking crimes against his patients. None for which, sadly, I have any real proof.

  39

  Ali

  Her clothes reek of smoke and she feels dirty, soiled. She doesn’t know what to do about the car. At first she thought of burning that, too, but it would raise more issues than it would solve. Someone in the house would start asking where it is. There is no need to do anything about it right now. She eyes it, sitting there in the drive. It is filthy from rainwater and muck. She has no need for it now, and it is almost out of petrol. Maybe she can say it’s broken down, get a scrapper to come and collect it. Hope that they take what they need from it and turn it into one of those neat cubes of metal like she’s seen them do on TV. For now, the main thing is that she has got rid of all of Jack’s stupid little souvenirs. But there’s something else she’s forgotten, of course. The rug, from the boot. Damn.

  Rose calls her name from somewhere near the herb garden, but Ali pretends not to hear. No time for that right now. Yes, she resolved to be nicer to Rose, and that still stands, but for now she needs to get herself cleaned up before anyone wonders where she’s been and what she’s been doing.

  Jack is in bed. He hasn’t got up since the previous day. She dutifully went down for breakfast, saying he was still sick. Smeaton wasn’t there, but some of the others were concerned; Richard commented that perhaps she was coming down with something too – she knew she wasn’t looking her best. Angela’s absence is making them all a bit skittish, but for the time being it means they’re not overly concerned about what might be wrong with Jack. The part of her that still cares for him recognises the depression in him and knows that he needs help, but the part that despises him doesn’t care. The part that despises him wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake some life back into him. She stares at him. Feels ripples of repulsion crawling over her skin.

  She remembers the night when things changed, when it all shifted up a gear. They’d been coming back from a night in the West End, a show, post-theatre drinks. He’d been fun for a while, then he’d wanted to get the last train back, just as Ali had started to warm up.

  ‘Let’s stay – we can go clubbing … or get a cheap hotel and drink in the bar?’ she said.

  ‘I’m tired, Ali. We can do this another time. I’ll have a look, book us something nice.’

  She stopped walking, stepped back into a shop doorway, letting the people behind them pass. ‘I want to play, Jack.’

  He glanced around, checking that no one had overheard. ‘I’m not sure I can, tonight.’

  ‘Since when do you say no? Come on, Jack … please? I’ve got an idea.’ She took a bottle of water out of her bag, something else out of her pocket, wrapped in a tiny plastic bag. ‘Take one of these. It’ll perk you up.’ She offered him one of the capsules, popped the other one in her mouth and took a big swig of water.

  He frowned. Took the capsule she was offering him and grabbed the water bottle out of her hand.

  She watched his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the medication, then turned away as if she was blowing her nose, depositing the other capsule, which she’d kept hidden in her hand, into a tissue.

  ‘Let’s wait here for a few minutes,’ Ali said, pulling his arm.

  They sat in a doorway, in silence, for nearly ten minutes – until Ali was sure that it was starting to work. Jack wasn’t able to give her any indication, other than a glassy-eyed stare. She’d read up on this drug as much as she could from the previous trials. It was fast-acting in capsule form. It had to be if it was to help treat seizures. The dosage in her trial had most likely been too high, and even at lower concentrations it was known to interact with alcohol. It was dangerous, giving it to him like this – but that was part of the thrill.

  She grabbed his hand, hurried them into the Tube station before the metal folding doors were pulled across. Somehow, it was more fun, knowing there was a chance that they might not be able to do it.

  Ali headed straight for the escalator, but slowed down, waiting as she heard the sound of barriers crashing behind them, and a bunch of last-minute travellers running up behind them.

  It was perfect.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said, under her breath … and then to Jack. ‘Push.’

  He ste
pped onto the escalator in front of her.

  ‘Now,’ she said in his ear.

  Jack leant forwards and pushed. The man in front – one of the last from the group that had just barrelled in, shouted out in shock before he fell, knocking into another one like a skittle, sending him flying down the steps.

  Ali grabbed Jack and ran down the left-hand side, as the guys piled up at the bottom, shouting, screaming at each other.

  They didn’t wait to see if anyone was badly hurt. Ali ran down the tunnel, still holding onto Jack, dragging him close behind. They jumped onto a waiting train, and the doors slid shut behind them.

  They were out of the station, on the way home, before anyone had a chance to work out what had happened; and in the morning, when Jack woke late – thinking he had a hangover worse than the amount of drinks he’d consumed warranted – Ali was pleased to find out that he couldn’t remember a thing.

  After that night, Ali knew she could push her little experiment as far as she chose, and to avoid any reluctance on his part she would make sure to give him the drugs mixed into a drink, or food – and then there was no way that he could object. She was looking forward to publishing her findings, even if she could never put her name to them.

  Now she turns on the bath taps, tips in some of the lavender salts. She realises that she has not had a proper bath since the night they moved in – preferring to wash with water and soap in the sink, or occasionally using one of the showers in the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor. But she longs to soak. She remembers the weird feeling from before, when she thought someone was trying to drown her. Idiot, she thinks, then lets the thoughts slide away, along with all the other odd things that have been going on lately. She recognises the symptoms of her own ailing mental health. Knows that she is hallucinating, imagining, becoming paranoid: the boy … the pond … the woman in the grey dress. Stress – too much stress. She will deal with it soon – once she’s sorted out Jack, and maybe got rid of that damn car. All this stuff with Angela is adding to it all, of course. But all she can do is hope that Smeaton continues to swallow the story that she has gone off travelling.

  She dips a toe into the bath, pulls it out fast. Too hot. Another flash of paranoia hits her. What if Smeaton knows what really happened? What if he’s just biding his time, gathering information before he goes to the police?

  She turns off the hot tap, leaves the cold running. She pops her head around the door, checking on Jack. Maybe they should just grab their stuff, jump in the car and disappear? She’s sure they could make it to Felixstowe and onto a ferry before Smeaton realises they’ve gone. And if he’s not actually suspicious – he wouldn’t call the police anyway, would he? He’s said it himself – this place isn’t for everyone. People can come and go as they please. Didn’t Angela say that a couple of occultists left after two weeks?

  She sits on the edge of the bath, turns off the cold tap. It must be ready now. She sticks her finger in to test the water again, pulls it back quickly. She turns on the cold tap, but all it does is emit a high-pitched squeal, and no water comes out.

  Damn it.

  She sighs, closing her eyes, and runs the tips of her fingers back and forth across the surface of the water. Then she feels a slight tugging, as if something is trying to grab hold of her fingers, pulling them in. It’s too hot, and she panics. She opens her eyes and pulls her hand out of the water. It’s cloudy from the bath salts, but she’s sure she sees the tips of dirty fingers, just as they vanish back under the surface.

  Breathe, just breathe, she tells herself. Clearly this was a mistake, and anyway, there’s no way she can get into that bath, even if she wanted to. She’d be boiled alive.

  She goes back through to check on Jack once again. He is semicoherent, turning himself this way and that, pushing off the covers.

  ‘Too hot,’ he says. ‘I’m so hot … help me, Ali. They’re coming for me now…’

  She pulls the covers off him. He is wet with sweat. He smells worse than she does, despite having washed earlier. There are toxins leaching out of his skin. Are the drugs poisoning him? Is this why they were recalled by the manufacturer? She tries not to breathe too deeply. She forgets about the bath. ‘Who is, Jack? Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Them! You know them, Ali. You know!’ he shouts the last word and she has to lay a hand over his mouth, trying to quiet him. Oh, how easy it would be to grab that pillow from her side and smother him to death right now.

  ‘Jack, no one is coming for you.’ She wants to believe this, she really does. ‘You just need to sleep a bit longer. You’re ill, I think. You have a fever.’ She lays a hand on his forehead, as if to confirm this. He is clammy, warm. But it’s not a fever. He’s ill, but not like that.

  She goes into her bedside cabinet and takes out the carrier bag from the back of the drawer. She opens it. Takes a deep breath. There are still a few capsules left.

  She could give him too many … no one would know what he’s taken. No one knows that these drugs exist. But no. Not now. Not like this.

  ‘I killed them,’ he says, his voice is a coarse whisper. It makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. ‘I killed them, Ali. I killed them and no one knows … no one knows it was me.’

  She takes out two of the capsules, hands them to him. He takes them with a shaking hand, swallows them dry. He doesn’t question her. He never questions her, because he trusts her.

  I know, she thinks. I know what you did. And it’s me who’s had to clear up the mess behind you.

  She thinks of Angela, lying there in the hollow of a rotting tree. She thinks of her now, hidden away, but not for long. Someone will find her, soon. Her broken and rotting corpse, lying in a ditch. Dirty water and debris covering her like a blanket.

  Just like all the others.

  A wave of repulsion hits her again.

  He is so weak. So unquestioning. So compliant.

  She wants to shake him until he breaks open, and all of his weak little bones snap into pieces. She wants him to yell at her, to protest – to say, I didn’t do it – it wasn’t me!

  But it was you, Jack, wasn’t it? If only you had said no…

  She walks back through to the bathroom and peels off her stinking clothes. She puts her hand into the water, but it is still too hot. She sits there, naked, on the edge, breathing in the steam. At least no one can try to drown her tonight. Not if she can’t get in the bloody bath. She’s tired. She aches. She can’t keep doing everything to keep them both safe.

  The game is no fun anymore.

  40

  Angela

  I wonder how far I can stray from where I was killed. Perhaps I can visit places where I was happy? I know where I would like to be … The sun is shimmering over the fields, and I feel no resistance – it seems to take me no time at all to get to the village.

  Despite all that’s happened recently, nothing looks different here. It looks just as I imagine it did hundreds of years ago. The pond is still there, looking pretty with its border of neatly planted pansies and wellkept grass; the small section under the arched bridge, with its blue and white wildflowers and the little plaque in memory of the women who were accused of witchcraft and cruelly mistreated many years ago. Now officially pardoned by the government, of course, not that that’s much comfort to them now.

  Across the road, the village square is devoid of people apart from an old man whose name I’ve never known. He sits on a bench, feeding pigeons from a bag full of bread scraps, and doesn’t see me. Doesn’t sense me.

  So far no one has.

  I think there’s only one person that might. Mary might style herself as a cynic, but I think she’s got more psychic ability than I could ever have hoped for, and it’s time for me to put that to the test. I think the day must be warm as people further up the street are walking around without cardigans or jackets, and the door to the shop is standing wide open.

  Mary doesn’t like to leave the door open, she likes to be alerted when
someone comes in. But it gets hotter than a furnace in there, and all the fans in the world don’t help. Sometimes she has no choice but to let the fresh air in, and keep her beady eyes on the open door for those who like to take advantage. I hesitate outside, feeling strangely worried about going in. I can see her behind the counter. She is serving someone, chattering away as usual. I can’t hear her clearly, but what she is saying sounds serious. It’s not like her to sound so downbeat. I can’t quite see the person she’s chatting to. One arm is resting on the counter, and a carrier bag looped over the other. I can see a bit of trouser leg, and I’m pretty sure it’s a man, but that’s about all I can tell from here. I need to go inside.

  I’m about to step inside when an old woman I recognise turns the corner and comes walking down the street towards me. She’s staring straight ahead, on a mission. I’ve been in the shop when she’s been in there before. She’s not a chatterer. She likes to come in with her list, get what she needs, and go. I step back a little so that I’m not obstructing the entrance to the shop, and when she arrives at the step she pauses for a moment, and her expression changes from determined to confused. She glances behind her then back towards me. She is looking straight at me. I smile, and quietly say, ‘Hello.’

  She frowns, and then rubs at her arms, as if she’s suddenly felt a trickle of a breeze.

  My eyes scan the square, across the young trees lining the boundary. Their leaves are not moving at all. If there was a breeze, it wasn’t widespread, and it didn’t last for long. I remember how it feels on your skin when you’re excited, and I wish I could feel that prickling now. The waves of goose pimples running up each arm. I don’t feel it and yet somehow I do. A phantom feeling. A memory of what it should be, like amputees who still think they can feel their missing limbs. Did I cause the breeze? Am I exuding some sort of electrical field that has somehow reached this old woman? She glances around once more then hurries into the shop. A moment afterwards, the man who was at the counter comes thudding down the step, and he turns the opposite way from me, not sensing me at all. He’s whistling a tune, something from one of those old war films whose name I can never remember. He disappears around the other corner and he’s gone. My brief feeling of elation sinks.