Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Hello,’ said Disvan calmly.

  Again there was a long silence before the voice bellowed forth once more in a tirade of foul abuse. Mr Disvan ignored this and again gently said, ‘Hello...’

  A gap of four or five seconds ensued. Then the voice continued in a still angry but more reasonable manner.

  ‘I know all about you!’ it said. ‘I’ve been watching you. We all have.’

  A long pause.

  ‘I want to live. You are all [incomprehensible] long enough! I’m nearly strong enough! Before? Why? I’ll pay you back! When I get... HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA...’

  The line abruptly went dead. The voice’s final laugh echoed around the cold hallway.

  ‘Has this ever happened before?’ asked Mr Disvan.

  The Constantines shook their heads, too shocked to reply in words.

  We all returned to the living room and sat down. A contemplative silence reigned until Dorothy Constantine spoke.

  ‘Come to think of it, though, Mr Disvan, we’ve had a lot of what we thought were wrong numbers lately—that or burglars casing the joint—where there was just silence when we picked up the phone. Do you think..?’

  ‘Probably, Dorothy,’ Disvan replied gravely. ‘Leastways, I shouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  Dorothy and Esther looked at each other in dismay.

  ‘Anyway,’ Disvan continued, ‘I know for sure now what your problem is. The sense of what it was saying on the television was even clearer than last time.’

  He paused and looked wistfully at the Constantine sisters.

  ‘Well..?’ said Esther in an animated voice.

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t something that you want to tell me first?’ said Mr Disvan, ignoring the prompting.

  ‘No,’ said Dorothy.

  Esther shook her head vehemently. ‘No, nothing—get on with it, man!’

  ‘As you wish. It seems that at some point in the past, there was a baby born in this house. It would further appear that the child was deliberately done away with very shortly after and buried somewhere in the structure of the building or perhaps the garden. What I was going to say was that it was laid to rest, but that wouldn’t be correct. The spirit is very far from at rest. It has awoken and grown. It seems to want revenge and, worst of all, ladies, it seems to believe that you are responsible for its death and present plight.’ He stopped to consider what he had said for a moment and then concluded, ‘Yes, that’s a reasonable summary.’

  ‘Us responsible!’ Esther Constantine exploded. ‘Impossible!’

  ‘Neither of us has ever had a baby, Mr Disvan,’ said Dorothy Constantine, more mildly, ‘and we would never dream of hurting one in any case.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re not denying the existence of a spirit. That’s progress anyhow,’ replied Disvan. ‘But as for what you say, why should the creature lie?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s merely mistaken. Perhaps it’s confused us with someone else,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘That could well be,’ I interjected, already forgetful of the derision with which my previous contribution had been received. ‘As a baby at the time of its decease, it would hardly be in a position to identify its killers, would it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Disvan said dubiously. ‘Maybe so. If things in its realm of existence are the same as here—which I doubt they are.’

  ‘Mr Disvan,’ said Esther fiercely, ‘I don’t give a tuppence for your opinion of our reputations but I tell you straight that neither my sister nor I has ever had a baby. In fact, the last babies born in this house were Dorothy and I, and as you can see we’re both alive and well to report as much.’

  ‘Well,’ said Disvan, clearly still unconvinced, ‘I hear what you say but, with your beliefs, I’ve always assumed that you were early proponents of free love and it follows from that...’

  ‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Esther, ‘we’ve never subscribed to the glass of water theory.’

  ‘The what?’ I asked, somewhat bemused.

  Mr Disvan enlightened me. ‘A famous Russian revolutionary called Aleksandra Kollontai said that satisfying the sexual urge should be as simple and casual a thing as having a glass of water when you’re thirsty. The phrase rather caught on.’

  ‘Did the lifestyle that goes with it catch on too?’ I asked, my interest engaged despite our present circumstances.

  ‘Not really—although Kollantai practised what she preached, even later on when she was the Soviet ambassador to Sweden.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘This is all irrelevant,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’ve lived our lives according to the precepts of Lenin, not Kollontai—great feminist though she was—and Lenin said, “The absence of self-discipline in sexual life is a bourgeois phenomenon; wild excesses in sexual life are reactionary symptoms.” And that is that as far as we’re concerned. We’ve never practised free love.’

  ‘Except,’ said Esther, ‘that Party summer school in Cambridge, just before the War.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ agreed Dorothy. ‘With the exception of that week we’ve never practised free love.’

  ‘And there were no babies arising from it, either,’ added Esther decisively.

  Disvan pondered—and accepted.

  ‘Ah well, if I was wrong for thinking what I did and for refusing to help you, then I ask your forgiveness.’

  ‘You thought that we...’ said Dorothy, shocked.

  Mr Disvan shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘What else was I to think? The thing was very adamant on the point. Admittedly, Doctor Bani-Sadr said that neither he or his predecessor had any knowledge of you bearing children, but in the time of your youth such things could be hushed up, couldn’t they?’

  Esther Constantine glared at him and ground her teeth in exasperation.

  ‘Mr Disvan,’ she said, ‘you’re an ill-thinking, suspicious old man.’

  ‘Life has made me so,’ he replied. ‘However, to return to more pressing matters, if what you say is true then your only problem is to convince the creature. He seems to be hell-bent, if you’ll pardon the phrase, on revenging himself.’

  ‘And how do we go about that, may I ask?’ said Esther.

  ‘I’ve no idea at present, but I suggest that you start by leaving the television disconnected and not answering the telephone.’

  ‘How about,’ I hazarded, ‘finding the baby’s remains and giving them a proper burial, with a priest and everything, so that the spirit will rest?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Disvan, ‘it’s a thought I suppose, although I think that the significant difference in this case is that the spirit doesn’t want to rest—quite the opposite in fact. We could have a look for any obvious place of concealment tomorrow. As for a priest, well, the Reverend Jagger won’t help—not after that business with Trevor Jones’s car. Do you know of a priest who’d help you, ladies?’

  At that very moment the telephone rang. Esther Constantine looked at the hallway door in terror. Her gaze travelled in turn to Mr Disvan, to the silent television and to the bookcases along the wall. Then, with the profoundest of sighs, she buried her head in her hands.

  * * *

  ‘I’ve no sympathy with you,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘You should have followed my advice, at least for the time being, until we can think of something positive to do.’

  ‘That’s all very well for you to say,’ replied Esther Constantine, ‘but we particularly wanted to see that programme. We’ve watched the series right from the beginning and we couldn’t bear to miss the final episode.’

  ‘And did you get to see it?’ said Disvan, in a manner that signified he knew full well the answer to his question.

  ‘Thanks to that dreadful thing, no.’

  ‘As I thought. So why bother, then?’

  Dorothy Constantine shook her head. ‘It’s been a couple of days since anything happened. We thought that perhaps... Well, hope springs eternal. You know how it is.’

  Mr Disvan’s expression suggested that he di
d not.

  The arrival of the landlord disrupted the tense atmosphere of our little gathering.

  ‘Would the ladies care to partake of liquid refreshment,’ he said, ‘or are they making use of my licensed premises, reckless of the crippling overheads it costs me to run it, as a free meeting house yet again?’

  ‘ “The ladies” will have two pink gins and none of your damn sarcasm, you mental pygmy,’ said Esther Constantine in a machine gun onslaught of words that even bystanders such as myself, out of the line of fire, found intimidating.

  The landlord flinched, faltered for a mere second and then bravely returned to the fray. ‘If that’s the way you feel, why don’t you go and—‘

  ‘Enough!’ said Mr Disvan, waving them to silence with a sweep of his hand. ‘You can continue your old feud, if you so wish, in more normal times. Meanwhile, you two,’ he indicated the sisters, ‘can behave civilly to your host, and you,’ (turning to the landlord), ‘can show a bit of sympathy to people in trouble.’

  This seemed to settle things, albeit not amicably, for the time being, and the landlord went off to fetch the requested drinks muttering, just loud enough so that he could be heard, that he’d ‘call his dog what he bloody well wanted’.

  ‘It was ghastly, Mr Disvan,’ said Dorothy, continuing as if the interruption had never happened. ‘This time the thing didn’t say much...’

  ‘Other than to growl and mumble under its breath,’ interposed Esther.

  ‘...other than to growl at us, yes. But the worst bit about it was that the thing’s face seemed to be following our actions—studying us, as it were—when we moved around the room.’

  ‘Oh yes, it could see us all right, even if we can’t see its eyes.’

  ‘And as though that wasn’t enough, the telephone started ringing.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘that you answered it just like I asked you not to.’

  ‘Not at first,’ replied Esther staunchly, ‘but it kept on and on, so in the end we did pick up the receiver.’

  ‘We didn’t think it could be any worse than what was on the television, you see,’ said Esther in defence of their actions.

  ‘Was it the creature on the end of the phone?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it most certainly was, and it said some really dreadful things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ said Dorothy primly.

  ‘Suffice it to say, Mr Oakley,’ said Esther, leaning confidingly towards me, ‘that the voice expressed its hatred of us in no uncertain terms.’

  ‘It’s so unfair,’ wailed Dorothy. ‘We’ve never done anything to it.’

  ‘Well, as you can imagine, by that time we’d had enough,’ said Esther. ‘I strode over to the wall to pull the plug on the damn thing.’

  ‘Your first sensible move of the evening,’ commented Disvan.

  ‘Oh yes? Look what it did to me!’

  Esther held up her right hand for our inspection and we saw that the tips of her fingers were covered in angry, red burns.

  ‘Somehow, that vile thing had made the plug and cable live,’ she continued, ‘and it very nearly did for me.’

  ‘Esther’s hair had blue sparks in it and she had the shakes for hours after,’ said Dorothy solicitously.

  ‘Did you get it unplugged though?’ I enquired.

  ‘Not that time. Dorothy eventually went and got the rubber gloves from the kitchen for insulation and then used my walking stick to hook the plug out. You should have seen the shower of sparks from the wall and heard what the thing said whilst we did it!’

  ‘So what should we do now, Mr Disvan?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Follow my previous instructions,’ he said.

  ‘No, apart from that, I mean.’

  Disvan leaned back in his seat and pondered the matter for a moment in silence. The Constantines’ drinks arrived and were downed in one.

  My attention wandered lightly around the company gathered in the Argyll that evening and I sought, as before, to reconcile the strangeness of what I was hearing with the plain as-it should-be-ness all about. Just as before, I could not. These two streams of Binscombe life seemed to be separate and yet in close parallel. They were interconnected in ways that I could not fathom. There were bridges across the great void between them, but I was not privy to their whereabouts. However, many native Binscomites seemed to take these bridges’ existence for granted and were able to cross them at will. No conflict or puzzlement was caused in the Binscombe world view (apparently bred in the blood) by the natural and supernatural lying down, like lion and lamb, and abiding together. I wondered whether I would one day aspire (or descend, depending on your point of view) to real Binscombe citizenship and share this frame of mind.

  Mr Disvan then disturbed my idle reverie.

  ‘Let’s consider the possibilities,’ he said. ‘Our search of your house didn’t turn up anywhere that might conceal a burial, and we can hardly dig up the entire garden. Consequently, the idea of putting the creature’s remains to proper rest seems to be a non-starter.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Esther.

  Dorothy nodded her head.

  ‘And I presume your objections to having a priest perform an exorcism remain as resolute as ever...’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Quite unthinkable.’

  Once again I must have appeared bewildered by this, for the Constantines thought their stance required expanding upon.

  ‘Yes, Mr Oakley,’ said Esther, ‘I know the situation we’re in is hardly one covered by the thoughts of Marx and Engels but even so... I mean, if we’re to go running, cap in hand, to some God-botherer at the first sign of something outside our philosophy, well, I ask you—what does that make of our lifelong convictions?’

  I nodded my understanding.

  ‘In that case,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘there’s only one thing I can think of to do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Reason with it.’

  * * *

  On our way to the Constantine household, we all discussed Mr Disvan’s proposed strategy, and he was able to overcome some of our early objections.

  His simple argument was that there was no practical alternative to what he suggested—a point we found impossible to refute.

  ‘If, as you say, you had nothing to do with his original death,’ Disvan explained, ‘and if, as seems likely, the creature is aware of what we do in this world, then perhaps the truth of the matter can be brought to his attention. Then, and this is introducing yet another “if”, if the spirit or whatever is convinced that its attempts at revenge are misplaced, it may leave you alone.’

  ‘I wish we could think of something better. Something a little less conditional,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Something a bit more harmful to that disgusting entity occupying our house is what’s really required,’ agreed Esther. ‘It goes against the grain to negotiate with an enemy such as that. We should be pressing for unconditional surrender!’

  ‘That’s the next stage if peace negotiations fail,’ said Disvan. ‘However, I strongly suspect that all out war would involve casualties before (and if) victory was achieved. Presumably you want to avoid that. After all, this isn’t the revolution, and ghosts aren’t part of the class enemy.’

  He turned around and saw that his intended jest had fallen just about as flat as any piece of humour could. The Constantine sisters looked at him with expressions entirely free of amusement.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said and continued walking.

  The evening was merely brisk rather than cold, and an absence of cloud cover allowed the moon and stars to illuminate the scene to a considerable extent. Looking ahead we saw that in the side street where the Constantines lived there were a number of vehicles parked: a police car and an ambulance both with their lights revolving, periodically bathing the nearby houses in an unnatural red glow.

  ‘I should imagine it’s old Mr Waddy, fallen down his cellar steps again,’ said Esthe
r, sounding far from certain.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Disvan, peering ahead. ‘I can see movement outside your door.’

  Mr Disvan was right, except on the point of detail that the Constantines’ door no longer existed as such. Torn from its hinges, it lay useless and unregarded on the front lawn. Police and ambulance men milled about in the entrance to the house looking puzzled.

  ‘What have you done to our house, you bastards!’ shouted Esther Constantine as we hurried near.

  Despite this, the long-haired leading ambulance man seemed pleased to see us. ‘Here they are,’ he said. ‘Emergency over, lads.’

  Needless to say, Mr Disvan seemed to know him well and, shielding the man from the outraged Constantines, he asked what was going on.

  ‘We thought something had happened to the ladies,’ he replied, addressing us in general. ‘We had a report of a possible distress signal coming from the house. It was still going when we got here and, failing to get a reply, we had to take the door off to get in. Mighty stubborn door you had there, ladies, nigh two inches of teak—real old fashioned bit of workmanship. Shame it had to go.’

  ‘What sort of a distress signal, Phil?’ asked Disvan.

  ‘Flashing lights. The house lights were being turned on and off in a regular pattern. As chance would have it, the old gent from across the way who reported it to us happened to be an ex-navy man and he said that the lights were spelling something out in Morse code, over and over again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something like “help me” or “get me out”, but you’d need to ask him yourself. It’s a while since I was in the Cubs; I’ve forgotten my Morse. Certainly the lights were flashing away in a very regular fashion when we got here, and they only stopped when we heaved the door off. I think you’d better get your wiring seen to, ladies, tout suite!’

  ‘Crowbait!’ Dorothy called him, by way of thanks.

  ‘I see,’ said Disvan, ‘I see. Much obliged for your efforts anyway. Clearly it’s a false alarm. Sorry for the call out.’