The Smile of a Ghost mw-7

by Phil Rickman

‘I ran away, of course. Or stumbled away would be more accurate. When I realized I was actually cringing into the stones, like a cornered animal, I… threw out a prayer, like a sort of yelp. Just God help me! Just praying that I could move. And I did move. Like the clappers. And you’re probably smiling.’

  ‘I’m not, honest, boss.’

  ‘I’ll cut it short. There are two ways out of that tower, and I took the wrong one at first and came up against some steps that led nowhere any more, a blank wall, and that was horrifying, as if whichever way I went I’d come up against a wall that hadn’t been there when I went in. Imagination, in these situations, becomes so unbelievably powerful. So I scrambled back down and back into the chamber and… well… that’s when I saw her. I bloody saw her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was— Look at me…’ The Bishop held his hands out under a street light. ‘After all these years… still shaking.’

  ‘You saw Marion?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I don’t know who or what it was, but I remember I did know, with a quite awful certainty, that something was going to happen as soon as I re-entered the chamber. Partly because of the cold — yes, I do know that’s a cliché. But it wasn’t a normal cold, not a healthy cold — not like rushing wind or crackling frost. It was a negativity, an absence, a hollow-ness… an area in which warmth couldn’t exist. Any more than normal prayer.’

  Bernie held the lamp-post, like a drunk, Merrily feeling chilled now. One of those attic moments, when you opened an old chest to expose ancient rotting fabric.

  The Bishop’s tale. She wondered when he’d last told it to anyone. And she wondered why, in all the discussions they’d had about the nature of Deliverance, he’d never even hinted at a personal experience.

  ‘She… it was… as I re-entered the chamber, there was a paleness. I can see it now, but I still can’t properly describe it — only my own reactions to something that seemed to be made of nothing more than the cold air and the damp unfurling from the stone. I wasn’t aware of a face, but I was sensing a horrible smile that was more like an absence of smile. A smile so cold, so bleak, so devoid of hope… only this perpetual, bitter… terminality.’

  Merrily brought the cigarette to her mouth. It had gone out. As she fumbled for her lighter, the Bishop stepped away from the lamp-post, rubbing the warm blood back into his hands.

  And then, as Merrily’s lighter flared, so did bigger lights — flashing white and orange and wild blue, bouncing from pale walls and darkened windows.

  10

  Leave God Out of It

  The road had already been closed below Ludford Bridge, which explained the sparseness of traffic on Broad Street.

  Not so sparse, though, at the bottom of the hill, where there had once been mills and the distinctive Horseshoe Weir sent the River Teme rushing over flat rocks — a beauty spot on the edge of town, now a garish confluence of hysterical light: an ambulance, police cars, blue beacons still revolving, inviting an audience like bleak neon.

  ‘Road accident, looks like,’ Bernie Dunmore said. ‘Funny we didn’t hear it happen. Better turn back, I suppose. Last thing they need is—’

  ‘Andy.’ In the full-beam headlights of a static vehicle, Merrily could see the stocky figure climbing over the lower wall towards the river. ‘Down there, look, by those—’

  Two policemen were going after Mumford, close to the shimmering sheet of the river.

  ‘Poor chap can’t seem to walk away from it, can he?’ the Bishop said.

  But Merrily was already running down the hill, the throbbing voice inside her chest keeping time with her pounding feet, going, No… no… no… no…

  They were bringing him back over the wall, one pushing him to the other who’d leapt over onto the pavement, Andy shouting, ‘Don’t you stupid bastards ever listen?’

  The cops had an arm each. At the side of the road, a third shone his torch on them.

  ‘Andy? Andy Mumford?’

  ‘Get them off me!’

  ‘It’s all right, boys,’ the third cop said. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Small town, Steve.’ Mumford shaking them off, brushing at his arms where they’d gripped him.

  ‘Did you see…?’

  ‘Didn’t get a chance, did I?’ In the torchlight Mumford’s face was smooth and cold, like washed grey stone. ‘These cretins—’ He looked up, saw Merrily. ‘Mrs Watkins.’

  ‘Andy, what’s—?’

  ‘Better go and make sure, hadn’t you?’ the third cop said.

  Merrily found herself following Mumford over the wall, nobody blocking his way now they knew who he was. It was a longer drop the other side than she’d been expecting, and she stumbled, Mumford catching her arm.

  ‘Couple of neighbours waiting for me outside the house, with Dad. One was walking his dog by the river when he seen these boys come out of the pub by the bridge and go wading into the water.’

  The policeman called Steve came alongside.

  ‘Can’t believe this, Andy.’

  Mumford said nothing. They reached another cop and two paramedics in luminous jackets. There was a stretcher, and two wide-beam lamps were sparing them nothing. Merrily looked once and then turned away, fists tightening, watching the moonlit river washing under Ludford Bridge, hearing the hard questions, the terse replies.

  ‘No mistake, Andy?’

  ‘No.’ Mumford moving round the body. ‘No other injuries?’

  ‘Not that we can see.’

  The swab of froth on Phyllis Mumford’s mouth had made it look as if she’d swallowed soap. Had made it seem, at first, like she was still alive, blowing bubbles. The bandage on her leg had been hanging loose, like a pennant.

  Mumford grunted, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

  ‘Nothing anybody could’ve done,’ Steve said.

  ‘Didn’t go off the bridge, then?’

  ‘Be more damaged, wouldn’t she, Andy? Looks like she got over that wall, same way we just came in, just started wading out from the bank and then slipped on the rocks. Anybody’d fall over in a minute, in the daytime even. No chance at all at night, see.’

  ‘Not at her age.’

  ‘No. What can any of us say? If those boys had got there five minutes earlier… I’m real sorry, mate.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Merrily turned, and Mumford was there. They walked back slowly towards the wall, Mumford clearly coping with it the only way he knew how — like he hadn’t retired and this was someone else’s mother. Someone else’s mother, someone else’s nephew, someone else’s life.

  ‘Cold water,’ he said. ‘They always reckon a heart attack gets them first.’

  ‘I’m sure it… must,’ she said. ‘Andy—’

  ‘A mercy. Under the circumstances.’

  ‘—Why? Why would she come out in the dark, on her own?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘This is just…’ Standing there, stupidly shaking her head. ‘I should’ve…’

  Didn’t know what she should’ve done. This was altogether beyond comprehension.

  ‘My fault, ennit?’ Mumford said. ‘Should’ve noticed the way she was going. Should’ve had her assessed. Couldn’t expect the ole feller to see it, he en’t noticed her for years.’ His arm came back and he smashed his right fist into his left palm. ‘Christ!’

  ‘It’s not…’ She caught his arm on the rebound. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Look, Mrs Watkins, I got a long night…’ He turned away. ‘Long night ahead of me.’

  Sounding like what he was really talking about was the rest of his life.

  Someone helped Merrily back over the wall: the Bishop.

  ‘Saw a chap I knew. Merrily, this is beyond all—’

  ‘Aye,’ Mumford said, calm again, as if that one slam of the fist had been like a pressure valve.

  ‘Andrew. Look… where’s your father?’

  ‘One of the cars, last I seen. With Zoë — policewoman. Dunno which one it is.’


  ‘I’ll find it. I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘Only I’d leave God out of it, if I were you, Bishop,’ Mumford said and turned to Merrily. ‘These accidents will happen, won’t they? Ole women shouldn’t play by the river at night.’

  Merrily thought, Accident?

  As they stepped onto the pavement, several people were trailing past and, as they faded into the lights, she saw that they were wearing old-fashioned evening dress, two women in long black frocks and two men in tailcoats and top hats. She thought of posh restaurants, the new and affluent Ludlow, Phyllis Mumford dying alone, on the edge of all this.

  ‘Need to call the wife.’ Mumford had his mobile out. ‘Pick up the ole feller, take him back to our place.’

  ‘I could—’

  ‘I’ll see to him. You get off home.’

  She wanted to scream, For God’s sake, you’re not a copper now, you’re one of us!

  ‘Come over to the car, Andy,’ Steve the policeman said. ‘We better sit down, sort some things out.’

  Merrily was left alone. The party in evening dress had stopped, gazing down to where a knot of police and paramedics were concealing the body. They were not what she’d thought, these decadent revellers. A ruby glistened like a bubble of blood in the cleft of the chin of one of the women and one of the men in top hats wore eye make-up and his hat had ribbons hanging behind, like an old-fashioned undertaker.

  ‘Come on…’ A policewoman came over, arms spread wide. ‘Don’t hang around, please.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ one of the girls said, like she was asking about the time of the last bus.

  ‘You can read about it tomorrow. Come on.’

  ‘I won’t be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Good,’ the policewoman said.

  ‘Was it suicide?’

  This was an older, quieter voice. Merrily saw that there was a fifth person in the group, this woman wrapped in a grey cape so long that it was touching the pavement.

  The policewoman said, ‘Do you have anything to tell us about this incident, madam?’

  The woman smiled faintly, with a shake of the head, as the blue beacon light passed over her face, brushing like a strobe effect over an eagle nose and causing a glistening like hoar frost in hair that was like strands of tarnished tinsel. And Merrily recognized her. Partly from Mumford’s description, but mainly…

  Pale arms outstretched, fingers clawed, sleeves of a black robe slipping back. A copper bangle like a snake…

  Merrily froze, hands clasped, catching a long-ago devilish reflection of herself in a mirror: white lipstick and a black velvet hat and mascara caked on like chocolate. Heard her own mother, appalled: You’re not walking out of this house looking like that…

  ‘No, I thought not,’ the policewoman said. ‘So would you mind not blocking the footpath, please?’

  She’s quite distinctive, Mr Osman had said, with the varying colours of her hair and the way she dresses.

  And then Andy Mumford in the car: If her name turns out to be Marion, what we gonner be looking at then?

  From what Merrily could remember, her name had never been Marion.

  She saw Mumford getting into the back of a police car with his friend Steve, heard the church clock strike almost softly. Ten o’clock and all so very far from well.

  She stood in the middle of the road, the dog collar under the zipped-up fleece tight to her throat like a stiff admonishment. Furious at herself for failing to foresee something like this and, to a lesser extent, at Saltash whose flip diagnosis had probably been right, although it could be no more proven now than the existence of ghosts.

  11

  Nightshades

  Merrily didn’t feel any better in the morning, Sunday. She awoke with the light and lay watching the red dawn surfing the ceiling, where the oak beams were like beach barriers. Wondering what difference it would make to a suicidal world if she just didn’t bother to get up.

  Unless anyone specifically asked, she hadn’t been in Ludlow last night, and neither had Bernie Dunmore. They’d agreed this as she dropped him, around one a.m., at the Bishop’s palace in Hereford.

  Bernie had told her about his time with Reg Mumford. He’d taken Reg to the Angel, in Broad Street. ‘As a damn bishop, you get out of it,’ Bernie said. ‘Out of real people. You’ve forgotten the conclusions you once came to about what this job’s about — not preaching, just pure, concentrated listening.’

  In the bar, he said, Reg had been remembering his wife as she used to be and a lot of other people Bernie didn’t know. Memories dripping into the beer, most of them from a long time ago.

  Reg hadn’t mentioned his wife’s death — as if that was something he wasn’t yet ready to process, Bernie said.

  As for Robbie, Reg didn’t understand how the boy had come to get himself killed, didn’t see any use dwelling on it. Kids did daft things, and sometimes they ran out of luck, and that boy… face it, he wasn’t entirely normal. Reg never knew how to talk to him, never had since he was little. Phyllis, however…

  Reg had been trying to lose himself in daytime telly. Looking up every so often and seeing Phyllis gazing into the mirror, where she’d found a new channel of her own: the Robbie Channel. Robbie still sitting scrunched up over the table, drawing his black and white buildings, hands all black with charcoal — holding up his hands, Phyllis said, and grinning at her through the mirror. Phyllis weeping through her mad world, which had reflections of Robbie everywhere. Sometimes trailing aimlessly around the shops — Reg embarrassed, striding ahead, then looking back and seeing Phyllis staring in some window. Look, there he is again… do you see him? Reg buying her bits of things in the shops — it was only money — but when they got home the packages were never opened.

  Would have destroyed Reg, too, if he’d given in to it. But Reg had seen too much death in his time, and he’d lost all patience with her — only so much a man could take. It was Reg who, in a fury, had turned the mirror to the wall before the Bishop came, because he hadn’t wanted the Bishop to see Phyllis going insane. Only it hadn’t been the Bishop at all, it had been Andy and some strangers and Reg didn’t want to meet any more strangers. This bloody smiley feller coming up to him in the street, all chatty, then asking who his doctor was — what right did they have, treating you like a kid?

  Merrily got out of bed and knelt under the window, with its view over the village towards wooded Cole Hill, under a shiny salmon sky, and prayed for Reg and whatever remained of Phyllis and Robbie. When she stood up, her eyes were wet, and she found herself thinking, irrationally, of Lol and had this image of herself running down the drive and across the cobbles in her nightdress and banging on the cottage door, screaming, Let me in! for all the village to hear.

  At breakfast, Jane said, ‘Mum, you look like sh—’

  ‘I know, all right?’

  ‘You turn up for Communion looking like that, they’ll all lose their faith.’

  ‘Oh hell, what time is it? And what are you doing up so early?’

  ‘Just curious about why you were out so late. On the other hand’ — Jane put a pensive forefinger to her chin — ‘if you were to turn up at the altar in your dressing gown, a soupçon dés-habillé, it might bring in more blokes, and— You’re not in the mood, are you? What’s happened?’

  ‘The elderly lady.’ Merrily brought her mug of tea and sat down opposite Jane, morning sunlight piercing the top window, over the sink. ‘The woman Saltash and I were supposed to be helping? She drowned herself last night in the River Teme.’

  Jane blinked. ‘Mumford’s mother?’

  ‘Must have happened while we were no more than half a mile away, talking to a bloke who saw Robbie Walsh fall. Her lying in the water, us theorizing about some bloody stupid old ghost story and wondering—’

  ‘What old ghost—?’

  ‘Not important. No more important than me going on to the Bishop about Saltash and Callaghan-Clarke and feeling sorry for myself.’

  ‘Oh God, Mu
m…’

  ‘Deliverance — the fourth emergency service. Have to laugh, don’t you, flower?’

  ‘I’m not laughing. Was she, you know… confused?’

  ‘We always assume that, don’t we? That’s what everybody would have assumed last Christmas if Lol hadn’t got to Alice Meek before the cold did. But even if Mumford’s mum was on the slide, there might have been a part of her I could have got through to, with perseverance. And I didn’t really try.’

  ‘But you did try. You pressured the Bishop into going back with you because he was an old mate of the Mumfords.’

  ‘Putting the responsibility on someone else.’ Merrily’s head felt congested; she found a tissue in her dressing-gown pocket, blew her nose. ‘Should have tried harder, instead of half-thinking, Yeah, Saltash could be right, this is probably more his show than mine. I don’t know, maybe I just—’

  ‘Mum, don’t keep doing this to yourself. You did what you thought was best at the time. You always do. So just, like, finish your tea, have a wash, brush your hair, get your kit and… off to work.’

  Merrily looked at the kid, who was no longer a kid, and dug out a smile from somewhere.

  ‘There you go,’ Jane said. ‘Why, there could be as many as, like, four people in that church, just gasping for Holy Communion. Get down there and give ’em… wine.’

  So she got through it. No big state of eucharistic grace, no all-enveloping peace, but she got through Holy Communion and Morning Worship — doing the sermon about listening to old people, the real meaning of honouring your father and mother. Not very convincing, really, and she was having problems staying focused. When she closed her eyes, she saw Phyllis Mumford’s drowned face and heard her wispy, untethered voice: Now then… I know who you are… I know who you are now, my dear.

  Back in the scullery, she rang Lol, explaining about last night. About the two women who had faded into the picture, one dead, one on the streets of Ludlow in a full-length cape, accompanied by younger people in decadent goth costumes. The shock of recognition.

  ‘Belladonna?’ Lol said. ‘Are you sure?’