Secrets of the Past

by Estella McQueen

  She started to undo his belt buckle, but something wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t quite seem to get her fingers in the right place. Her left arm was trapped immobile beneath the dense weight of his body.

  ‘You’ll have to move,’ she said. ‘I can’t do it like this -’

  He moved position.

  ‘No really,’ she said, ‘I can’t do it like this. You’re too rough. Pulling me about like a rubber toy in a dog’s mouth!’

  ‘Keep still then. Stop wriggling.’

  She was being particularly objectionable tonight, he thought, unnecessarily awkward and resistant. Anyone could see she wanted him. It’s what she’d been broadcasting to the world for weeks. And any way if she didn’t want this, there were plenty of others who did. He could hear noisy panting in his ear. Not very seductive, more like grunting. ‘Please don’t,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to! Get off me!’

  Charlie raised his head. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Astrid in surprise.

  ‘You said you didn’t want it?’

  ‘Who did?’

  Oh my God! What the hell was happening?

  ‘Charlie, who are you talking about?’

  Her knee was digging sharply into the flesh of his thigh. He was considering what she’d said. ‘Julia! She was here. Just now. With him.’

  ‘Julia?’ Astrid hastily rearranged her clothing and struggled up onto her elbows. She was understandably confused. He was finding it hard to fathom himself. Finally, he recognized defeat. ‘You know what? I think you’re right… I think I’m channeling.’

  He sank back onto the bed, his undone belt buckle clanking.

  ‘I knew it! I said you were!’

  ‘But I wasn’t before at Addleston. Honestly. I wasn’t.’

  She didn’t believe him. ‘How can we have a physical relationship, if you’re channeling the whole time! I mean, who are you actually kissing?’

  The yellow light fitting cast a harsh glow on the surfaces, he must have looked dull eyed and pale, but compared to Astrid he was radiant. Rejected, dejected, embarrassed, she left him on the bed and switched on the room’s kettle and the TV, automatically flicking between channels until she came across The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘a proper film. No CGI transforming-robots, aliens, or comic book super-heroes.’ Her bitter tone wasn’t confined to distaste for modern movies. Charlie knew better; it was meant for him.

  His eyes were drawn to the action on screen. A sadistic, cackling Eli Wallach led a stumbling Clint Eastwood across the desert. ‘Hey Blondie!’ Clint’s dehydrated face was all cracked and burnt. Not unlike Astrid’s ego, he imagined. Not half an hour earlier they’d been happily playing pool in the Blue Bar and Grill.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a very confusing day… first Julia in the cemetery and then seeing her just now in the Bar. Things are getting jumbled up.’

  ‘You can say that again. We’re supposed to be looking for traces of Mary Ellen, not Julia.’

  ‘I told you it was random.’

  ‘It’s all right. I understand. I think.’

  ‘You’re disappointed.’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘This has honestly never happened to me before.’

  She mulled it over. ‘I don’t see how, if every time I touch you, you become someone else, a physical relationship between us can work.’

  ‘It can’t.’ He was suddenly overcome with a heavy slowness. ‘I thought this would be okay. Neutral ground…,’

  There was a very simple explanation for all this, if only he could pluck up the courage to tell her. This was the first time in a long while his emotions had been fully engaged; the first time he’d opened up to a woman, trusted her with his true self, since Melanie.

  He tried the coffee she’d made, decided it was too awful to persevere with and put it down on the table instead.

  ‘Disgusting? Undrinkable?’ she asked.

  ‘All that and more…,’

  They lapsed into an uneasy silence.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Astrid asked. ‘About Mary Ellen? How do we proceed? Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘Not sure. She won’t come to me.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t want her to. You don’t like her. You’re resisting her. And she’s not the only one,’ she added. ‘I’d better go.’ She gave him a swift peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Aggy was in hospital. ‘I can’t stand it,’ she said, slipping sideways off her pillow. ‘There’s no need for it. These past years, I’ve been prodded, poked, sliced up and stitched back together and who knows what else, and I tell you frankly I’ve had enough.’

  He understood her desire to escape but at least she was in a side ward; she had some privacy. He made some idle chit chat about hospital being the safest place, and when she was better, everything would be fine, but she harrumphed and fidgeted and made herself sound as disagreeable as she could. It didn’t work. He was determined to stay.

  ‘You find anything out?’ she asked at last when she’d wearied herself with complaining.

  He shook his head. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. Except for one thing…,’

  She made a weird, teeth-sucking noise. ‘Go on.’

  He plumped up her pillows a little and offered her a drink of water which she declined.

  ‘You were telling me about your daughter, Julia?’ he began.

  ‘Uh huh?’

  ‘How she got into some kind of trouble. With drugs…or whatever…,’

  ‘Whatever,’ she repeated. ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Her boyfriend?’ he prodded.

  Aggy briefly closed her eyes. ‘Not much of a friend.’

  ‘Tell me what happened?’ he said gently. ‘If,’ he added, ‘you don’t mind?’

  Aggy looked past him in the direction of the hospital corridor. ‘God, I’m starving. They feed you at some god-awful early hour in the morning and then they forget about you till sun down!’

  He waited patiently. She turned her head both ways on the pillow, squishing her wire wool hair until she was comfortable. ‘It was in all the papers at the time,’ she said.

  He knew that. He’d already looked them up in the local library archive. What he wanted was Aggy’s version.

  ‘His name was Dylan Scott.’ Aggy could barely get the words out. ‘Some low life piece of shit, who had all the talk and all the walk. Left her with a baby and a heroin habit. Which was kind of him, wasn’t it? Then one day she comes home and she’s out of her head like we’ve never seen before! The doctor said she was reacting violently. You could say that again!’ She broke off to marshal her words. ‘Of course she’d got it from him.’

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie.

  ‘They took the baby off her,’ Aggy went on. ‘She couldn’t cope. And neither could we, truth be told. But we promised her we’d get him back. And we did, eventually. But because her daddy had a criminal record -’ She leaned towards him confidingly, ‘which wasn’t nothing let me tell you. Some trumped up idiocy that was his boss’s fault all along…’ She lost her thread. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Julia.’

  Aggy took a deep reviving breath. ‘Dylan Scott died in prison,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘So that’s something to be pleased about.’

  ‘But what happened?’

  ‘He killed her,’ Aggy said. ‘Stabbed her with a knife. It was wicked of him,’ she whispered, ‘to do it in the church yard.’

  Charlie nodded slowly.

  ‘My daughter was murdered in the churchyard,’ Aggy repeated. ‘You saw her gravestone, didn’t you? Some people said it was wrong of us to bury her there, but we kind of felt it was where the Lord took her, so we should let her stay there…,’ Aggy tailed off again.

  ‘This Dylan Scott,’ he said carefully, ‘had a criminal record?’

  ‘A long criminal record,’ she asserted.

  ‘For drugs and knife assaults?�
�

  ‘Amongst other things…,’

  In the church yard Julia had staggered away, stumbled to the ground, blood seeping into her blouse. It might have been his weapon that she used, in fact it was highly likely, and maybe he had driven her to it, but Dylan Scott did not kill Julia Seagrave. She wasn’t murdered. She killed herself. Slashed her wrists, and then like an animal, crawled away to die.

  It wouldn’t have been hard for the police to pin him for murder, what with him being a bad man and having a police record… but Charlie could undo the story in a matter of seconds.

  Was that why he had felt Julia’s presence so strongly? Was she looking for someone to use as her conduit? Or was she telling him to leave well alone? Leave Dylan rotting in his cell?

  ‘He deserved it,’ Aggy concluded. ‘I’ve never forgiven him and I feel no pity for him.’

  The man had died in prison. For a crime he did not commit.

  What should he do? Should he tell Aggy the truth? But who would that help? Which was worse, anyway? Murder or suicide?

  He left her alone for just a minute to pop down the corridor to fetch a cup of instant coffee from the vending machine, and find out where Aggy’s lunch had got to. When he got back a nurse was standing by the bed, eyes swimming with tears. Aggy had had a heart attack. All on her own, in the hospital bed, with no one beside her. Charlie stood there for a good five minutes, in complete shock, unable to comprehend that she was gone and he hadn’t even thanked her or said goodbye.

  ‘It was quick,’ said the nurse. ‘She didn’t suffer.’

  Charlie couldn’t speak.

  ‘I loved this old girl,’ the nurse said to him. ‘I was at school with her grandson.’

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Stuart Gilchrist was in his bedroom pulling on a pair of socks. He glanced up at his son’s reflection in the triptych mirror but gave no reaction. The clean bedspread was pulled taut and straight across the mattress, and the pillows were plumped and sharp cornered, just the way Mum had liked it. Some of her old toiletry bottles were still lined up on the glass topped dressing table, and the curtains that she’d chosen were neatly scooped back and secured with their original cord loops. Charlie sat on the bed and messed up its neatness straightaway.

  ‘Did you get what you wanted in Peabody?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Not exactly. Didn’t quite go according to plan.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Let’s just say there was someone in the way.’

  ‘There always will be Charlie,’ said his Dad, ‘so long as you let it happen that way.’

  Charlie watched his father’s lopsided reflection in the mirror, making his teeth seem oddly placed, his lips the wrong way round. He felt deeply moved, as if one of them was dying and this was their final parting. Except of course it wasn’t. Charlie leaned back on the pillows and sighed. ‘Why do we never discuss my condition? I mean – properly?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to encourage it more than is absolutely necessary,’ Stuart said. ‘I hate the effect it has on you. Isn’t it enough that I tolerate it, without heaven forbid, promoting it?’

  ‘If you’d read all of Amelia and Harry’s correspondence, you’d know why I’m so involved with their story. Why I felt I needed to help. Once I started to get to know them I couldn’t turn my back on them. Mary Ellen Seagrave was guilty of a cruel betrayal. Even if she was compelled by her father to follow orders, there’s no reason why she couldn’t have helped Amelia later, when she got out. She could have offered her safe passage, a haven in America.’

  ‘And how was she supposed to do that? It was the nineteenth century, Charlie. She couldn’t just whip out her credit card and book Amelia a plane ticket!’

  ‘Mary Ellen wouldn’t come to me,’ Charlie went on. ‘When I was in the cemetery, I saw something else, something I really didn’t want to see, but the scene forced its way in. It was pretty disturbing.’

  Stuart shot him a look. ‘Now you see why I can’t ever celebrate this thing you can do; why I don’t want you to let it take over your life. I know you’re sensible, sane, well-balanced – or as well-balanced as we could make you. But if you could try and pretend it doesn’t exist,’ he pleaded. ‘Try and keep it hidden.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Charlie. ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Well then,’ Stuart said, ‘you’re going to need a really thick skin. Retrocognition is an unnatural state. No one knows what it is, why it’s happening, what it means. You’re a freak, you’re deranged, abnormal. Take your pick.’

  ‘I’ve managed so far.’

  ‘This is a difficult world to live when you’re out of the ordinary. Be careful, and mind you don’t get exploited.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as altruism. There’ll always be someone who wants to use you for their own purposes. ‘Come and pay to see the freaky man do his freaky act! You’ve got to live your own life, make your own decisions.’

  Charlie had spent his whole life trying to fit in, trying to act like everyone else. Wasn’t it time to celebrate his difference? Shouldn’t he reach out to people who were sympathetic to the concept? ‘Andy thinks that’s exactly what I should do. Exploit it.’

  Stuart wrinkled his nose. ‘Andy would.’

  ‘If only I knew where it came from, this gift of mine. Is it inherited? Is there anyone else in the family who can do it? You’ve never said.’

  ‘I can assure you that it certainly doesn’t come from my side of the family.’

  ‘What about Mum? Did she ever say anything?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’ His father shrugged. ‘But that means nothing.’

  Chapter Twenty Five

  It was cold that February morning. Fog hung in the air like a dripping blanket.

  ‘Military stuff?’ said Melanie stamping her feet.

  ‘Military stuff,’ said Charlie. ‘Old fashioned, archaic, anachronistic…,’

  Melanie looked across the green expanse of Hyde Park towards Bayswater Road in the distance. ‘What, a bunch of soldiers in dress uniform, riding horses, re-enacting a cavalry charge from two hundred years ago? No, I can absolutely see the relevance.’

  ‘I’m meeting Dad here, later. He’s over the other side somewhere. He loves all this: marching bands, cannon fire.’

  ‘I would have got in touch sooner,’ said Melanie. ‘But I’ve had a lot on.’

  It really didn’t bother him. He was happy enough just to see her. Although it would have been great if she’d brought Adam along, too. Maybe today they could start to smooth things over, come to some sort of an agreement. At least that was the idea. In practice it was hard being a grown up.

  Charlie gestured towards the area where the military display was about to take place. ‘This isn’t about war mongering and violence. It’s about nostalgia for the lost spirit of adventure and heroism. I mean, a modern day squaddie doesn’t have quite the glamour, does he?’

  His voice was drowned out by a thundering of hooves and jingling of harnesses, as the horses and soldiers from Kings Troop Royal Horse artillery galloped past from the direction of the barracks on the edge of Hyde Park. Transporting a succession of small cannon, once they’d deposited the guns in neat formation, the horses wheeled about and ferried the limbers away, clods of brown earth flying in their wake. Soldiers in black and red uniform placed boxes of ammunition next to each cannon: six guns in a row, ready to let rip at eleven am. A crowd of middle aged men armed with zoom-lensed cameras, and a little further back, their wives, huddled together in thick coats.

  Charlie braced himself. The deafening report from each cannon – twenty one shots, fired in sequence, a relentless chain of explosions - sent tremors from the soles of his boots right through to his ankle bones, vibrating every nerve. ‘Exhilarating, isn’t it?’

  Melanie removed her hands from her ears. ‘Who needs eardrums anyway?’

  Afterwards, when the soldiers had limbered up and ridden back to barracks, they found them
selves following the grey coats of the accompanying military band as it marched down the path towards Apsley House and a coach that was parked up waiting.

  ‘Doesn’t look very military, does it?’ said Charlie. ‘More like they’re boarding a bus for the seaside.’ They’d become trapped amidst phone wielding tourists, none of who seemed to notice or care that they were impeding the musicians’ progress. ‘Bizarre piece of nonsense when you think about it,’ he said. ‘Can’t resist it, though. Want to buy me a coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with a theatrical shiver. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

  They bought hot drinks and cakes in the café and sat by the window overlooking the Serpentine. Charlie rubbed his hands and cradled the warm cup. ‘Okay, I’m ready. What’s your news?’

  ‘What news? I have none.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘Ok, I haven’t got long… I’m meeting up with my boyfriend later.’

  She said it with such lightness; it took him a second or two to register the significance of the words.

  ‘When did that happen?’

  She looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Recently. It is allowed.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What about Adam, has he met him?’

  ‘He’s with him now. That’s where I’m going.’

  Charlie started to bend his plastic tea stirrer, forcing it to go as far as it could without actually snapping. Melanie couldn’t fail to notice how quiet he’d gone, but she’d never have been able to unravel his jumbled thoughts.