Table of Contents
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
RESOURCES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Extract from Ship of Haunts: the other Titanic story – Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Watching Charlotte Brontë Die: and other surreal stories
Shadows of the Lost Child
Ellie Stevenson
Rosegate Publications
First published in 2014 by Rosegate Publications
Copyright © Ellie Stevenson 2014
The right of Ellie Stevenson to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this novel, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9572165-4-9
Cover image © Shutterstock
Cover design by James Allwright
For Cass, Leonie and Amber
Always loved and always remembered
Summary
The Present
Aleph Jones is running away but the house he ends up in turns out to be haunted. Or is it just him? For Aleph has a dark secret that’s changed his life.
Cressida Sewell needs Aleph’s help. Her daughter, Alice refuses to speak and a team of specialists don’t know why. But Cressida has a hidden agenda and Alice knows more than she’s letting on. About Aleph.
Guinevere James is not what she seems. Disguised as Aleph’s business client, she really wants to solve a murder that happened over a century ago.
And what about the children who vanished? Aleph and Alice can hear them scream.
The Past
Miranda and Thomas live in poverty. Miranda wants to protect her mother but when she seeks help from friends Ben and Tom, they set on a path to even more trouble.
Then Tom meets Alice and the past and the present begin to collide with dangerous consequences.
Chapter 1
Now – Aleph
I’ve always lived in the shadow of churches. Now, when I see one, I walk the other way.
It was Thursday morning, the beginning of spring. I walked down Narrowboat Lane to the arch, and under the archway onto the street. I saw the house, it was over to the left; it looked quite something. Then I raised my eyes above the windows and saw what was towering high above it. An enormous church. A single word sprang to my lips. Or maybe two.
‘Hell,’ I said. ‘Hell and damnation.’
Not just a church behind the house, but a great big giant, a monster of a thing, all gables and parapets, much more like a cathedral really. My heart sank, for I knew what it meant, another place I’d have to turn down.
‘Curdizan Abbey,’ said the voice beside me, ‘and don’t say no to the house just yet. It has some truly amazing features.’ I shook my head and looked to the right and there was Gemma, from Cloud House Properties. The word amazing wasn’t strictly accurate. I imagined the house had draughty rooms and uneven floors, and doors that didn’t quite fit properly. But, what did I think the woman would say? She was an estate agent after all. Gemma Pearce held out her hand.
‘Good to meet you, Mr Jones.’
‘Good to meet you,’ I said, smiling, and grasped her hand which was small and neat. She was blonde, beautiful, tall and thin with china doll features and perfect straight hair. I could feel the benefits of the house already.
We moved a bit closer and she jangled her keys, and a flash of the sun caught the edge of the steel. A sharp strip of light fell down from the sky, splitting the steps up ahead in two. There was light and dark and I knew which side of the steps were mine. I raised my head and there was the abbey, all of a shimmer. It almost felt like some kind of welcome.
‘It seems to me it’s yours already,’ said Gemma coyly, as she pushed on the door, which was old and warped. I followed her in.
No, I thought, as we entered the hall, it’s not my house. But it was, really.
Later that day I was standing inside the estate agent’s office. The lovely Gemma had long since gone, leaving me there with somebody different. Exceedingly different. Her eyes were cold and her face disapproving.
‘You’re self-employed?’ she said, frowning. ‘We’ll have to see your accounts, I’m afraid.’
‘But I don’t have any accounts,’ I said. ‘I don’t earn enough to be VAT registered.’ I could feel the palms of my hands sweating. This wasn’t going the way I’d hoped.
‘Well, what about your tax returns? We do need to see you can cover the rent.’
The way she was making me feel right now, I doubted I could. I said nothing.
‘Do you have any other assets? A house, perhaps, or maybe some savings?’ I shook my head. Nothing, I thought, that’s what I’ve got.
Before, I’d lived in my girlfriend’s flat, I hadn’t need
ed any assets, not even things like a washing machine. We’d shared possessions, plates and everything. I thought my life was hers, forever. Now, I needed to rent a place. I knew I could afford it, so what was the problem?
The woman before me was frost dressed up. I knew about that, how people could change, but I still didn’t like it, it made me nervous. I knew I’d never win her over.
‘I have got savings,’ I said stiffly. ‘More than enough for the rent, as it happens.’ I hated baring my soul like this.
‘Well, that’s good news,’ she said, smiling. The smile went nowhere near her eyes. ‘You can pay the rent for the house in advance. The whole six months.’
It was tall and rambling, in the centre of town, three storeys high, and I knew there must be something wrong, for a house this big to be offered this cheap. Well, not that cheap, but cheap enough for me to afford it. Even with all the rent in advance. I guessed it must be a wreck inside.
‘How long has it been on the market?’ I’d asked Gemma.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Gemma vaguely, twirling her hair around her fingers. ‘About three months.’
‘So why did the previous tenant leave?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ she started to say, but stopped abruptly at the look on my face. ‘She died, actually.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Not in the house,’ said Gemma, quickly. ‘She died in hospital, after a stroke. She was eighty-eight and deaf as a post, the poor old thing. She’d lived in the house all the time she was married.’ She glanced ahead.
‘The house is a bit neglected, sadly, and I know there isn’t a washing machine, but at least that means you can choose your own.’
I laughed out loud, I couldn’t help it. The woman was clearly a natural at this, she was already trained in estate agent speak. I thought she was very convincing, I guess I wanted to be convinced. The house had something, was in some ways perfect, tall and old and great for an office, as well as a home. I saw myself in my fantasy world, doing it up and making it smart, clients climbing the wide stone steps, pouring happily through the doors. Turning a shell into a home. And then I remembered.
There was no future. Not for the house, and not for me. Even now, I still forgot.
The sun went in and all of a sudden the day seemed cold and the house run down. Gemma and I were standing in the kitchen. I didn’t like it. Gemma was right, it was basic.
‘There is a fridge-freezer,’ she said tersely, sensing my mood but still valiant, gesturing to an upright object, standing squat, in the middle of the room.
‘What a strange place to put a fridge-freezer,’ I said, indifferent.
‘There’s plenty of room in here,’ said Gemma. ‘I expect Mrs Parks thought to make it homely.’
Homely wasn’t the word I’d have used. The kitchen was huge, with three old windows facing the back. They had very old glazing and strong iron bars. The glass was cracked and warped in the way that only old glass can be. Ignoring the dirt, I could barely see out. The floor was covered in cheap lino and the air of neglect was incredibly strong, I could almost smell it.
‘Why don’t we go upstairs,’ I said.
Chapter 2
Then – Miranda
The pub was busy, she hated it busy, she often longed for the quiet nights when nobody came. After Da had just died. But Da had run a successful pub, the people came back, the old regulars and the strangers, once they knew it was alright to come. Ma didn’t mind, it kept her occupied, a pity hard work wasn’t enough. If only her father hadn’t died.
‘You mustn’t say that word, Miranda,’ her mother would say. ‘I don’t like you saying that dreadful word.’
‘But he is dead, Ma,’ Miranda had said, ‘and he’s not coming back, now, or ever. He’s dead, remember?’
She shuddered to think how cruel she’d been, but at the time she couldn’t have cared, she’d wanted to make her mother cry, so they could find comfort, support in each other. Instead of being split by fear and dread, of poverty, loss and not having enough.
It made Miranda feel she’d died too. And that was the worst feeling of all.
Living in Curdizan Low was hard. There were so many pubs, most of them newer or smarter than theirs. Tom once said he’d counted them all, there were over two hundred in the whole city. Miranda snapped back.
‘If you’ve the time to count all the pubs, you’re far too idle, you should be in here, helping me out. Hurry up Tom and wash these glasses.’ She hadn’t seen Thomas again for days.
And now, tonight, he hadn’t turned up, and her ma was in another of her moods, and had gone off somewhere, not for the first time. Miranda was on her own in the bar, and people were talking about the weather, so much warmer and wasn’t that good? Miranda said nothing, these people were strangers, summer in the Low was as bad as the winter, worse sometimes. There weren’t any floods or the freezing nights, or having to manage on poor coal, but the smells that came with summer were worse, the dung and the flies and the local abattoirs. She swatted an imaginary fly away. Then the woman with the coat came in.
She was young and thin and Miranda’s height, and wearing a hat, which made her look respectable, almost, but no decent girl would visit a pub on a Saturday night, not on her own, and Miranda knew it. The first time she’d seen her, Miranda had thought she was someone official and had called for her mother to help her out. But it turned out the woman was nobody special, for all she was pretty, and now her mother had vanished again, just like the last time. Miranda glowered.
‘I’ll have a jug full, love, if you would,’ the young woman said, adjusting her hat and her lovely hair, tucking the thick curls under the brim.
She doesn’t deserve to have hair like that. She poured out the ale and slopped a little.
‘Your mother not in the pub tonight?’
‘What’s it to you?’ Miranda said. She didn’t see why she had to be nice. They didn’t need people like her in here.
‘I’m only asking, love,’ said the woman. ‘I thought I saw her leave just now, as I walked in. Must have been somebody else I saw.’ Miranda’s eyes narrowed as she watched the intruder.
‘I think she’s gone out looking for Thomas.’ Miranda wished she hadn’t spoken, she shouldn’t have told the cow anything, and both of them knew the words were a lie.
‘I expect you’re right, my love,’ said the woman.
I’m not your love, Miranda thought, gritting her teeth and wiping the jug. You’re hardly only a few years older than me. She didn’t know why she hated Curtis – no, she did, it was what she implied, with her looks and her manner, and the things she suggested, hinted at, even. Go, why don’t you, and don’t come back.
The young woman left.
After she’d gone, Reg came up to the bar to see her. He was kind but dull and both of them knew he was sweet on her ma. He also worked part-time in the pub.
‘You don’t want to mix with types like her.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Miranda. ‘I was serving her ale, like I always do.’ A woman appeared, his sister Cath, she shooed Reg away and stood in his place, her eyes on Miranda.
‘He’s trying to tell you something, love.’ Miranda waited.
‘She’s young, but a woman with men for friends. If you get my drift.’
Miranda nodded, she did get it. She’d known before they opened their mouths, before they started interfering. What she also got, but didn’t say, was that Curtis had implied her mother was too.
Chapter 3
Now – Aleph
I took to the house, in a strange sort of way, it was tall and thin and elegant somehow, with a road at the front, cobbled and quaint and steps leading up to the strong front door. The rooms were vast, with very high ceilings, and although the window panes were small, and barred at the back, light came in and showed up the dust and all the potential. There was plenty of room for an office upstairs.
The third and top floor I kept for myself, including a room with huge sash win
dows, which gave me a view looking onto the street. Maybe the street lights would stop me from sleeping. They didn’t as it happened. I was often awake.
The street was in a good part of town, although Curdizan High had once been rough. Now it was fresh with refurbished streets and tarted up buildings, apart from mine. There were plenty of tourists wandering around. I lay in my bed that very first evening, looked at the sky through curtainless windows, and heard the shouts of drunken youths. I’d never lived in the centre before, was bemused by the noise, although not that troubled. The things that kept me awake were worse. I mourned the past, and along with the past, I mourned myself, my carefree self, who’d long since died.
I must have drifted off at some point, and was woken up by children’s voices. I looked at my watch, it was half past two. Christ! I thought, those kids should be in bed by now.
I dragged myself up and peered outside, but all I could see were the street lights outside, no tourists, nothing, not even an urban fox or a dog. My house was on an old cobbled road called Old School Lane, a shortcut through from Narrowboat Lane, the main shopping street. Just past my house, at the other end, the Lane curved sharply round to the left and joined a street called Scriveners Road. The kids had obviously gone that way. I swore, loudly, thinking my chance for sleep had gone. I was right, it had.
Later that day, I went to the estate agent’s to return the inventory, wondering if I might see Gemma. I walked through the door and as I did, my heart sank, for there at the desk was the woman I’d met the previous time. I read the badge attached to her shirt – Marianne Parks – it made me pause. ‘The previous tenant was a Mrs Parks.’ She knew what I meant.
‘My mother,’ she said. ‘She died recently. And she was the owner. I’ll take that.’
‘There’s not much on it,’ I told Ms Parks, talking about the inventory. ‘There was too much wrong to put it all down.’ Realising then, how tactless that sounded. Marianne Parks didn’t bother to reply.
‘How are you finding the Old Schoolhouse?’ she said, slowly, for once not looking me straight in the eye.
‘Is that what it was?’ I said, interested. A name like that could be good for business. The woman smiled.
‘Thanks for the form, Mr Jones,’ she said. ‘We’ll send you out a copy shortly.’ She turned away, I was being dismissed. I headed for the door, thinking; I decided to pay a visit to the library. As yet no clients had found me in Curdizan.
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