The vendor stepped aside and called after Hopwood as he strode away. ‘Everything changes, sir. Nothing stays the same, even for important men like you. Have a nice day.’
TWENTY-NINE
CHRISTA SMILED AT the thin black cat. ‘You look really cool, sweetheart.’
‘Do I, Mum, honestly?’ Bethan looked at her mother through translucent green eyes.
‘Definitely. Original or not, if you don’t win that competition there’s no justice.’
Bethan grinned behind the furry mask. ‘I’ll get done by Aly if I do, after I made her change her outfit.’
Christa shook her head. ‘It would have been wrong of Alison to go as my poor aunt, Bethan.’
‘Great, great aunt,’ corrected Harry.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ snapped his mother, ‘she was my family. Our family. It’s better this way.’
It was five to six. Christa picked up the car keys and moved to the door. Bethan picked up her tail and followed. Harry went up to his room.
Norah Crabtree tore her eyes away from the screen for a second as Alison crossed the room. ‘D’you want a lift, lovey?’
‘No, Mum, it’s all right.’
‘You sure?’ Her mother had already returned to the six o’clock news. ‘Bit chilly out, dressed skimpy like that.’
‘It’s OK.’ Alison paused by the door. ‘Do I look all right?’
‘You look a picture, love,’ said her father, gazing at the newsreader. ‘Don’t talk to strangers, don’t get in anyone’s car. Shut the door on your way out. I’ll collect you at nine o’clock.’
Alison threw a hoodie round her shoulders and set off along Trough Lane. The hem of the old black dress scraped the ground as she walked, and the wind blew cold round her white bony ankles.
* * *
Reginald paused in the hallway, called up the stairs. ‘Right, I’m off then.’
‘Yes, well.’ Felicity’s voice floated faintly from above. ‘Drive carefully, have a lovely time.’
‘Lovely time,’ snarled the councillor, not loudly enough to be heard upstairs. ‘Fat chance of that. Two hours perched on a hard, child-size chair, watching a mob of future asbos cavorting in tatty, home-made costumes to hideous garage music, whatever that is.’ He shrugged into a bulky sheepskin car coat, opened the door. ‘Being expected to eat ghastly toad-shaped cakes made by some sanitarily-challenged mother in God knows what sort of kitchen, washed down with some fizzy red stuff labelled blood.’
The Chair of Governors drove off, still chuntering to himself.
THIRTY
EIGHT O’CLOCK. AT Wilton Primary, the Hallowe’en Hop was in full swing. The children were having the terrific time they’d anticipated, and their Chair of Governors was every bit as miserable as he’d expected to be.
The music was loud, the lighting and decorations awesome, the food gruesome and plentiful. Best of all, there were some truly stunning costumes. Witches and wizards cavorted under spotlights which struck flashes of metallic brilliance from their sequins. Bats, cats, spiders and toads capered among them, ugliness made beautiful by the multicoloured jewels of their eyes. Only one dancer was plain: a thin, white-faced figure all in black who swayed sinuously to a rhythm all her own: who caught Reginald Hopwood’s eye precisely because of her gaunt, haunting plainness.
‘Mr Hopwood?’ The headteacher bent close to Reginald’s ear. ‘I wonder if you’ve spotted the costume you feel is the most original?’ She smiled, watching the children. ‘They certainly haven’t made your task an easy one, have they?’
Hopwood forced a grin, shook his head. ‘No, Miss Gadd, they haven’t.’ He’d just eaten something called a batburger, and its aftertaste was making him suspect it might have been made with an actual bat. ‘However, I have now made my choice.’
‘Splendid!’ smiled Miss Gadd. ‘We’ll let them dance for five more minutes, then I’ll stop the music and you can venture into the throng and lead the winner onto the platform.’
Reginald nodded. ‘Fine.’
‘And in the meantime, please feel free to enjoy another of the Sexton’s batburgers.’
He didn’t know why he felt drawn to the dancer in the long black dress. It wasn’t an attractive costume, and the child had smeared far too much mascara round her eyes. She reminded him of some Goths he’d spotted once at Whitby, there for a Dracula bash. She stands out, he told himself. And she’s original.
The music stopped, prompting groans of protest. Hopwood rose stiffly, scanning the restless crowd. The girl in black had disappeared.
THIRTY-ONE
AS THE MUSIC stopped, Alison slipped out to the cloakroom to put the finishing touch to her costume. She’d noticed the Chair of Governors watching her, and was pretty sure he meant to award her the prize. Wait till you see this, she thought, twisting a tap and holding her hand in the flow. Come on water, warm up.
Reginald Hopwood was standing in the middle of the hall, cutting his eyes this way and that, trying to hide his irritation. Alison wound her way through the crowd, leaving a splashy trail till she stood in front of him, drenched from head to toe. A puddle began to form under the hem of the bedraggled dress, mascara scored tear tracks down her cheeks. Children gasped and stared as she stood absolutely still, pointing a long pale finger at the floor.
‘Wh . . . why are you wet?’ croaked Hopwood.
Alison smiled. ‘It’s part of the costume, I’m the ghost of Wilton Water.’
‘There is no—’ The councillor seemed agitated. ‘What’s that to do with Hallowe’en?’ He grabbed the girl’s hand. ‘What’s your name, girl?’
‘Alison, sir. Alison Crabtree. I wanted something spooky – original. Nobody’s ever . . .’
‘N . . . no,’ stammered the Chair of Governors. ‘I mean yes, it is original. Very.’ He began tugging Alison towards the platform. ‘You win, of course you do.’ He half-dragged her across the floor amid a clatter of applause.
As Hopwood thrust the prize at Alison, a camera flashed. The photographer smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Bill from the Echo. Can I get your name, sweetheart?’
‘Yes, it’s Alison Crabtree.’
‘Good. And who’ve you come as, Alison?’
‘The g . . . ghost of Wilton Water.’ She was cold, her teeth were chattering.
‘Has she a name, this ghost?’
‘Well . . .’ Flustered by the occasion and by Hopwood’s odd behaviour, Alison blurted, ‘Hettie Daynes, I suppose . . . she might have been Hettie Daynes when she . . .’
‘No name,’ snapped the Chair of Governors. ‘Just call her the ghost.’ He glared at the photographer. ‘I’m Councillor Hopwood. Stanley Fox is a friend. If I read that name in the paper you’re in big trouble, understand?’
The man shrugged. ‘Sure. It’s all the same to me, Councillor.’ He pocketed the pad, hung his paraphernalia on a shoulder, nodded to the Head and strode away.
‘Come, Alison, you silly girl,’ said Miss Gadd. ‘Let’s get you into some dry clothes.’ She smiled at Hopwood. ‘Thank you so much, Councillor – I do hope you’ve enjoyed the evening.’
Hopwood managed to smile back. ‘Very much, Headteacher.’ Like you’d enjoy having a bolt hammered through your kneecap, he thought but didn’t say.
Alison followed Miss Gadd to the staffroom.
THIRTY-TWO
HER MOTHER SMILED as Bethan slid into the passenger seat. ‘Good time, sweetheart? Did you win?’
Bethan nodded her head, then shook it. ‘Yes I had a good time, no I didn’t win.’ She smiled. ‘Aly did.’
Christa nodded. ‘That’s what you hoped would happen, isn’t it?’
‘Ye-es.’ Bethan looked sidelong at her mother. ‘Didn’t quite go the way you wanted though, Mum.’
‘What d’you mean, love?’ Christa started the engine, eased out of the parking space.
‘Well, there was this guy from the Echo, Mum. Bill. He took Aly’s picture, asked her name and who she’d come as.’
Christa nodded, steerin
g the car through the gateway. ‘Right.’
‘Yes, but when she said the ghost of Wilton Water, Bill asked if the ghost had a name.’ Bethan pulled a face. ‘I guess it took Aly by surprise, because she said it might be Hettie Daynes.’
‘Ah.’ Christa hung a left, accelerated. ‘Exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. Now my poor aunt’s name’ll be plastered all over the Echo, and every superstitious so-and-so for miles round will believe she haunts the reservoir.’
Bethan shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but Aly didn’t do it on purpose. She was wet and freezing, and the question took her by surprise. You’re not too mad at her, are you?’
Christa sighed. ‘I don’t suppose so, love. She didn’t mean to break her promise – she’s a scatterbrain I expect, like her mother.’
‘And anyway it won’t be in the paper.’
‘What d’you mean – why won’t it?’
Bethan shook her head. ‘Councillor Hopwood was really weird about it – told Bill he’d get him done if he put the name in the Echo. He’s to call her the ghost.’
‘Really? Well.’ Christa chuckled. ‘I never thought I’d have reason to be grateful to that pompous windbag.’
THIRTY-THREE
I HOPE YOU’VE enjoyed the evening. Reginald Hopwood slammed home the gearshift and stamped on the pedal. The classic Rover roared down the schoolyard and swung into the road on screeching tyres. I should’ve quoted Groucho Marx – I’ve had a wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.
He scowled through the windscreen. That girl, Alison Crabtree. Where have I heard her name lately – Crabtree?
It came to him as he negotiated a sharp bend, taking it wide. Fox of course, Saturday. Crabtree was the guy who phoned the Echo, said he’d got a snapshot of the ghost. Called back later to say it was all a mistake. I bet Alison’s the guy’s daughter. I bet that’s where she got the idea for her costume.
Can’t actually be a snapshot though, can there? Nobody’s ever photographed a ghost – not even the so-called psychic investigators. Because there’s no such thing as a ghost, that’s why. It’s gross superstition, like vampires and werewolves.
Hopwood sighed, sat back in the soft leather seat, told himself to relax. Of course there was no snapshot – the guy’d said so himself, hadn’t he? All a mistake.
Yes, murmured the voice inside his head. But what about Stan Fox? He’ll see the kid’s name in the paper, spot the coincidence: guy rings up about the ghost, then a kid of the same name comes dressed as the ghost. That damn photographer tells Fox what I said about not mentioning Hettie Daynes in print, and he connects it with me being paranoid about keeping people away from the reservoir.
He sighed again, shook his head. All I can do is keep my head down and hope he won’t follow it up.
The Rover sped through the dark, squashing small furry things all the way.
THIRTY-FOUR
CURIOSITY WAS STAN Fox’s nickname. Curiosity Fox they called him at the Echo, because he loved sticking his nose into things. Sniffing around. Hoping to flush out something interesting. Stan’s curiosity was what made him a good journalist.
The morning after Hallowe’en, Stan’s curiosity was stirred by a coincidence. Stan Fox didn’t believe in coincidence. He believed that when two things come together to form what people call a coincidence, there’s always a reason. It’s often a hidden reason, needing a sharp nose like Stan’s to sniff it out.
It was Bill Rowntree’s piece about the Hallowe’en Hop at Wilton Primary. The Echo published on Thursdays, and next Thursday’s edition would carry a full page of pics and captions about the various Hallowe’en events in the area. The dummy of this page was displayed on Fox’s screen, and he was reading the caption under Rowntree’s photo.
Ten-year-old Alison Crabtree, it read, winner of Wilton Primary School’s most original Hallowe’en costume competition. Alison came as the ghost which some local people claim to have seen at Wilton Water. The competition was judged by Councillor Reginald Hopwood, the school’s Chair of Governors.
Fox frowned. Crabtree. Now where . . . ah, yes. His features cleared. The guy who claimed to have a snapshot of the ghost. His name was Crabtree. I wonder . . .
He walked over to Rowntree’s desk. ‘That kid, Bill – the competition winner at Wilton Prim. We’ll have her home address, won’t we?’
Bill Rowntree nodded. ‘Sure – we put a glossy print in the post for kids. Hang on.’ His fingers pecked at his keyboard. ‘Here y’are – ten Trough Lane, Wilton.’
Fox nodded. ‘As I thought.’
‘What is it, Stan?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Guy phoned from that address a few days back. Claimed to have a snapshot of the ghost.’ He grinned. ‘Probably his daughter in her Hallowe’en get-up.’
Rowntree nodded. ‘Probably.’ He looked at Fox. ‘Funny do with your mate the councillor, by the way.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, I asked the kid if the ghost had a name. She said it might be Hettie Daynes, and Hopwood told me not to print it. Threatened to drop me in it with you if I did.’ He pulled a face. ‘So I haven’t. Weird, though.’
‘Hmmm.’ Fox squeezed the man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it, Bill. Bit strange, old Hopwood. Always was.’
He returned to his own desk and sat, gazing at something only he could see.
THIRTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY LUNCH TIME. Harry and Rob on the school playing field. A chill, misty day with winter on its breath. ‘How’s this for an idea?’ asked Harry.
Rob, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, looked at his friend. ‘What?’
‘It’s Bonfire Night, right?’
‘Not much gets past you, sucker. What of it?’
‘Well, we need to get a look at the reservoir now the water’s low. Carl and the cave trolls won’t be there tonight.’
Rob pulled a face. ‘Won’t they?’
‘ ’Course not. Carl’ll be at the bonfire – his dad’s the boss of it. And where Carl is, there’re the cave trolls.’ Harry grinned. ‘We’ll have a clear field, old mate, plus our folks’ll think we’re at the bonfire.’
‘It’ll be flipping dark,’ grumbled Rob.
Harry nodded. ‘Obviously. I don’t mean we go wading knee-deep in mud. I just want to check out the old mill. You in or not?’
‘In, I suppose,’ growled Rob. ‘We can catch the bonfire after.’
As her brother and his friend strolled round the playing field at the big kids’ school in Rawton, Bethan and Alison were doing the same at Wilton Primary. It must be true that great minds think alike, because Bethan was talking about the reservoir too.
‘I’ll tell my mum I’m off to the fire,’ she said. ‘She comes as well, but not till later.’ She smiled. ‘She’ll tell Harry to keep an eye on me, but I bet he’ll want to check out the res. What d’you think?’
‘Hmmm?’ Alison was wired to the Walkman she’d won at the Hallowe’en Hop. Bethan scowled. ‘Turn that thing off for a minute, Aly, and listen.’ She went through the whole thing again. ‘So, what d’you think?’
Alison shrugged. ‘I’ll come.’ She pulled a face. ‘Don’t know why you want to go scaring yourself though. And I’ll only go if Harry does.’
THIRTY-SIX
THE MIDGLEYS’ KITCHEN, six o’clock. Christa looked at Harry. ‘I’m trusting you to keep an eye on your sister, Harry. I’ll be along around eight. Till then I want you to keep Bethan well back from the fire, and away from the numpties who throw bangers. Is that understood?’
Harry nodded. ‘I promise she’ll be well away from the fire, and no bangers’ll come anywhere near us.’ He’d talked with Bethan earlier. They weren’t going straight to the bonfire, so his promise was an easy one to make. All he had to do was make sure they were there by the time their mother arrived.
Bethan giggled as they hurried along under the streetlamps. ‘You’re a lying toad, Bro. She’ll be well away from the fire. Lie for England, you could.’
&n
bsp; ‘I didn’t lie,’ protested Harry. ‘You will be well away – quarter of a mile away.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Rob joined them at the end of the road, and Alison was waiting by the reservoir gateway. It was cold. The four were bundled up in scarves, jeans and hoodies.
Harry looked at Alison. ‘Any sign of life, Aly?’
Alison shook her head. ‘Not if you mean Carl.’ She shrugged. ‘Nobody’s gonna come with the footpath closed, not even dog-walkers.’
Harry nodded. ‘Come on then, we haven’t got all night.’
They approached the fence. Bethan hooked her fingers through the mesh, pressed her nose to it. ‘How do we get through this?’
‘We don’t,’ said Rob. ‘We go round it.’
‘Round it?’ Harry looked at him. ‘I thought we’d decided to tunnel under.’
Rob shook his head. ‘If we do that, somebody’ll notice. They’ll fill it in, and we’ll have to scrape it out afresh every time we come. No.’ He turned and pointed. ‘The fence went to the water’s edge, but the water’s gone right down. If we slide down the bank, we can walk on the mud till we’re past the fence. It’s only a few strides.’
‘Muddy strides,’ said Harry. ‘We should’ve come in wellies.’
‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ mocked Rob. ‘What’s a bit of mud?’
‘A big deal if you’re our mum,’ sighed Bethan. She grinned. ‘I vote we go for it though.’
They sat on their bottoms in the wet grass and lowered themselves till their shoes sank into soft mud. Rob led the way as they squelched through the ooze. Mud sucks, strides weren’t possible. They found they were pulling their feet free at every pace. Alison lost a shoe and had to plunge her hand into the mire to get it back. ‘Pooh!’ she gasped. ‘It pongs a bit, this stuff.’
As they pressed on, a glow appeared in the sky to their right. ‘There goes the bonfire,’ murmured Harry. ‘His majesty Councillor Hopwood has ignited the conflagration.’
The Shade of Hettie Daynes Page 5
