by Stan Mason
‘I appreciate that,’ returned the bank manager, ‘but the fact remains your not making any profit.’
‘I suppose you want to take my house to get your money back. Never mind about me or my family! As long as the bank can balance its books!’
‘I’m not suggesting that at all,’ retorted Williams hastily. If you ceased trading and found yourself a regular job, I would rearrange the repayment schedule of your loan which would allow you to keep your property. I can’t be fairer than that!’
The driver glowered at him fiercely. ‘What you’re really saying is that if I don’t give up my business, you’ll call in the loan and take my house! And if I do give it up the business, I’d be in debt to the bank for the next ten years. I’d be working for the bank for the rest of my life, wouldn’t I?’
‘Let’s just say it was a venture which didn’t succeed. .It happens in life. Some are successful, others are not. You gave it your best shot but it didn’t work. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself... ..’ he tailed off as he saw a glint of terror in the driver’s eyes as the man looked over the bank manager’s shoulder.
‘My God!’ shouted Purdy with his eyes widening like saucers. ‘She’s here!’ He climbed off the chair and moved to the other side of the room in terror, pressing his hands on the far wall as if to find a door by which to escape. ‘She’s here!’ he repeated in horror. He could see Jennifer quite plainly standing at the back of the room in a blaze of yellow with her hood pushed back. She stared at him sadly and, with her right arm outstretched, pointed her index finger at him to identify him as the accused. Her mouth moved to frame a series of words but nothing emerged from her lips.
Purdy’s actions were contagious for William looked fearfully behind his chair before turning back to his customer. ‘Who’s here?’ he asked, perplexed as he was unable to see anyone.
‘It’s her! In yellow oilskins!’ He put his hands to his face as though to protect himself. ‘I killed her!’
‘Easy, may, easy!’ continued the bank manager with concern. ‘There’s nothing there.’ He went over to the driver, took him by the arm and led him back to the chair. Then he pressed a buzzer on his desk to call for an assistant who came rapidly to the room. ‘Get the brandy from my cupboard,’ he ordered calmly.
The assistant obeyed and poured out a measure of spirit in a glass which the manager handed to the driver. ‘Here, drink this! It’ll make you feel better.’
Purdy sipped the liquid, holding the glass with trembling hands. ‘I killed her!’ he repeated and then clammed up as he realised that there was a third person in the room.
Williams recognised the need for private discussion and ushered his assistant from the room with a wave of his hand. ‘What happened... tell me!’
‘You’ve got to promise you won’t tell a living soul what I have to tell you.’
The bank manager stared at him for a few moment and then sat down in his chair again. ‘Anything you tell me is confidential,’ he added, ‘as if you were talking to a doctor or a priest.’
‘I had an accident. I killed someone. A dog ran into the road and I tried to avoid it. I swerved and knocked someone down on the pavement. But I didn’t stop. I drove off.’
Williams stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Hm!’ he muttered. ‘Have you thought about going to the police?’
Purdy blinked twice and gave a sigh of relief. She’s gone now! Thank God! Police? Damn the police! That’s not the problem. I keep seeing the woman! She’s haunting me. She was standing right behind you just now dressed in yellow oilskins. And she spoke to me this morning. That’s whe I first saw her.’ He drank the rest of the brandy in a single swallow and exhaled heavily.
‘I’ll get someone to take you home,’ forwarded the bank manager sympathetically. ‘We’ll talk again in a few days’ time. Your state of mind is one of exhaustion at the moment. Best get some sleep.’ He pressed the buzzer to call for his assistant again and the man came swiftly. ‘Get Johnson to take Mr. Purdy home, will you. He’s not feeling too well.’ Together they helped the truck driver to his feet and propelled him towards the door.
‘I hope the cost to the brandy isn’t going to be added to my account,’ muttered the driver solemnly.
‘You need rest, Mr. Purdy,’ came the reply. ‘Go home and rest for a day or two. If the problem recurs, go and see your doctor.’
After getting Johnson to take care of the customer, the assistant returned to the bank manager’s office.
‘What was that all about?’ he enquired.
‘Either he’s going out of his mind through worry,’ replied Williams with concern, ‘or he’s playing a clever game to try to fool us. Whichever it is, I don’t like it.’
When his assistant left, the bank manager walked behind his chair and looked around. He moved his hand from side to side as if to determine whether anything was there and then sat on the customer’s side of the desk to gaze for a while longer. He had never been convinced that ghosts of apparitions roamed the Earth but that didn’t mean they weren’t there... even in the parlour of a reputable national bank!
Chapter Three
Tom Cushing arrived at the bungalow at nine-thirty that evening, determined to solve a problem which was really far above and beyond the call of friendship. He intended to do everything in his power to put his colleague’s mind at rest. He also recognised that his designs would encroach on very sensitive feelings, intruding between a man’s torment and his affinity to his dead wife. However he deemed that urgent action was necessary. There was no doubt that he had come fully prepared, carrying a small suitcase which contained the tools of a professional ghost hunter. The ghost of Jennifer Roach, if it existed, would be laid to rest once and for all. Alternatively, the mischievous person responsible for tormenting his friend would be caught. Cushing was totally unqualified and in capable of exorcising her spirit from the bungalow but he firmly believed that someone with an evil nasty mind was playing tricks on an unfortunate vulnerable man. It was his firm intention to teach the culprit a lesson that he would never forget and put an end to this nonsense.
Charles was angry to learn that his colleague had visited him. He had made it quite clear he wanted to be left alone believing there was a tacit agreement between them on that point. The prescribed tablets given to him by his doctor were designed to make him feel drowsy and then send him into a deep sleep. It was essential, therefore, for him to retire early. Admittedly his state of mind was so muddled that the tablets failed to work effectively, but it would be embarrassing to sit down with a colleague and doze off now and again. After Jennifer had communicated with him on the computer, he had focussed his attention on the work brought home from the office. It prevented him from churning thoughts about his late wife over and over again redundantly. Work appeared to be the great panacea. Until Cushing arrived, he went back to his office and waded through some more cases, keeping himself occupied. His state of mind teetered on the brink of misery and he became even more disturbed to consider that he might be driving himself to lunacy by dwelling on his imagination following her sudden and violent death. Every now and agin her words seeped out from his sub-conscious mind but he refused to succumb and continued to concentrate on his work. If he didn’t fight the constant stream of sadness and the waterfall of thoughts which cascaded through his head, tumbling like torrents in the vortex of his brain, he would indeed go insane. When he heard the sound of the doorbell, he hoped that the caller might be a neighbour checking on his welfare so that he confirm that he was all right and carry on with his work. Before he could answer the call, however, he heard the gentle murmur of Jennifer’s voice in brain.
‘Tom Cushing, Charlie!’ it echoed. ‘He wants to see you!’ Her laughter could be heard to follow rippling through his head, although he could see no reason for the amusement.
He opened the door to stare at his colleague who held a suitcase i
n his hand, reluctant to allow him inside. #I thought we agreed to give this evening a miss,’ he reproached. ‘I’ve got heaps of work to keep me occupied. I don’t need you here.’
Cushing pushed past him and lowered the suitcase in the hall. Then he placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder in a father-like fashion. ‘I know you did, old man, but what I have to say’s important. Can we sit down and talk about it... please?’
Charles toyed with the idea of being rude but conceded and they entered the lounge sitting down to face each other. Cushing lifted the suitcase on to his lap and tapped the lid. ‘What I have here could be the answer to all your problems,’ he began enthusiastically. ‘I was worried when you told me you saw Jennifer and that she spoke to you. I don’t believe in ghosts so it had to be one of two things. Either you’re going out of your mind with grief or someone’s playing a trick on you. Someone with a sick mind. I’ve come here this evening to sort it out.’
The widower shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ he countered. ‘Who would want to play tricks on me. Jennifer never had any enemies... nor have I?’
‘No enemies, eh? Well let me draw your attention to Dennis Phillips, the manger in the Chief Inspector’s Office at work. I recall you had quite a battle with him over a period of time. And there’s that Harry Thomson in International Division. A very mean sort of enemy. You crossed swords with him on more than one occasion. They would love to have the chance to get back at you. After all, you reported both to senior management which didn’t go down too well with them, probably holding them back on the promotion ladder if the truth was known. Ambition or failure to achieve it sometimes goes beyond the bounds of human reason and I wouldn’t put it past them to try to get back at you. Jennifer’s death gives them an ideal opportunity to twist the knife.’
‘You’re way off beam,’ retorted Roach shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe that Phillips or Thomson would be so malicious as to seek their revenge on me at this time. They’re not evil like that.’
‘Are you telling me you’re going crazy then? Is that what you’re saying?’
Charles started to bridle at the comments and revealed the latest development to marshal his defence. ‘Jennifer communicated with me this afternoon on the telephone answering machine and also on my computer.’
Cushing screwed up his face and shook his head in disbelief. ‘On the telephone answering machine and your computer.,’ he repeated slowly. How can a dead person use a telephone answering machine... how can they type on a computer? You’ve got to be kidding! Only a mortal being can do that. It’s logic!’
The widower rose and went to the cocktail cabinet to pour out two glasses of whisky handing one of them to his guest ‘There are issues here which are very important to me, Tom,’ he said before starting to sip his drink. ‘If Jennifer’s spirit’s in this bungalow, I want to preserve it for as long as I can. It’s comforting to know that she’s still with me here. I know you’re going to say something like ‘it’s unnatural’ or ‘you can’t go on living with a memory’ but you have to respect that it’s my choice. In any case, I know she won’t be here for very long. She’s told me so herself.’
‘She told you?’ Cushing’s face indicated that he didn’t really want to hear how she had done it but his curiosity got the better of him.
‘Let me tell you about a maiden aunt of mine who lived with my parents for many years. When she was sixty-four, she contracted a terminal disease and one night she passed away. As far as we were concerned, that was that. But it wasn’t! You see, during the next few weeks we could all feel her presence in the house. If we entered the room where she slept, there were noticeably strange odours which never existed previously. We kept finding that the doors to her bedroom was locked. There was no one inside the room. It just kept locking and unlocking itself at will... or by some supernatural force. And there were other minor incidents. In some way, she was still there. Then, after a couple of months, everything settled down. She’d gone! She simply faded away.’
‘But you never saw her after her death, did you? She didn’t come to you as a vision or spoke to anyone after she had died.’
‘No one ever admitted to seeing her after she had gone.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, old man. Don’t you see? You think you know all the people on the estate but I’m telling you that someone with a sick mind’s playing tricks on you.’
Charles played with the glass in his hand before taking another sip of the spirit. ‘Do you want to hear the message on the telephone answering machine?’
‘You be I do!’
‘And then you’ll have all the proof you need.’
Cushing stood up. ‘Let’s see!’
He followed his friend into the office where Roach moved ahead of him to turn on the instrument. Just before he got there, he tripped on the carpet knocking the machine to the floor. As he tried to regain his balance, he trod on the plastic frame which housed the tape, smashing it to pieces, crushing the tape underfoot.
‘Damn!’ he swore angrily, picking up the damaged machine, which was beyond repair, to examine it.
‘That wasn’t very bright, old man,’ uttered Cushing accusingly. ‘I reckon you did that on purpose. Her voice wasn’t on that tape at all, was it?’
‘It was on there!’ insisted his friend adamantly. ‘I swear it was on there!’
‘Smashing that machine was too convenient. It was all in your imagination. Look... I know how you felt about her. Your relationship was exceptional. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to let go of her either. In my honest opinion, you destroyed that machine deliberately. Deep down, your sub-conscious mind made you do it.’
Charles stared at him ruefully, distraught at not being able to prove that his dead wife spoke to him on the machine. He was furious with himself for smashing it albeit it occurred by accident. ‘What about the message on the computer?’ he blurted out. ‘I was looking at the monitor and suddenly the words appeared.’
‘Look, old man,’ continued Cushing, denigrating everything his friend believed to be true. ‘Words don’t suddenly appear on a computer screen unless someone taps out the keys. You wrote them yourself. Either that or a hack got through and I don’t believe that for one moment.’
‘I know it’s your theory, Tom, but it doesn’t fit in with my views. I know what I saw and heard. Jennifer’s still here. She’s communicating with me!’
His friend gave a sigh of frustration. ‘Someone who’s passed on can’t communicate,’ he went on sombrely. ‘There’s no medium who can claim they’re able to do that. I’ve got to make you understand what’s happening here as a result of your grief.’
‘You say it’s all in my mind. Locked away somewhere in my sub-conscious. You think I’m creating it because of grief. That I’m refusing to let Jennifer go.’
‘You said it, old friend. It came from your lips. At least give me the chance to eliminate the possibility of anything you say is happening.’
‘What do you want to do?’
They walked back to the lounge where Roach went to the cocktail cabinet again to pour out some more drinks before sitting in his armchair.
Cushing tapped the suitcase that he had brought with him again. ‘I’ve got some equipment here to resolve the problem.’ He undid the locks and lifted the lid before removing the contents which he placed on the coffee-table. ‘I took the liberty of contacting a person who’s a professional ghost-hunter.’
‘A ghost-hunter! You must be joking!’
‘No... I’m perfectly serious. He’s a psychic researcher who’s had a great deal of success with his investigations. He’s only just returned form one case where four people reported strange events which made them believe that the house they lived in was haunted. He discovered a sewer passing under the house near a tidal wave. When there was a high tide, the river fo
rced water up the sewer which seeped into the soil under the house. The strange movements in the house which they thought were paranormal activities were simply the foundations of the house settling after the tide had weakened the foundations.’
Charles stared at him gloomily. ‘We don’t live near a tidal river,’ he returned acidly.
‘This equipment I’m going to use in the bedroom,’ continued his friend, ignoring the comment of the other man, ‘includes a recording thermometer to check the temperature of the air which is said to drop noticeably when ghosts arrive. A tape measure will determine the position of objects in the room to check if anything is moved. A camera loaded with infra-red film, which can take photographs in the dark, might catch a ghost in its activity. A reel of thin black cotton tied around the room will make certain an imposter... someone pretending to be a ghost... sets off the camera. A reel of tape will make sure that the door and windows are sealed shut. A draught-measuring device and a heat-sensitive switch linked to the camera will set it off if the temperature changes. I’ve included a hearing-aid so that the click of the camera will sound like a small explosion on the amplifier. It’ll wake me up if I’m asleep. And there’s also a tape-recorder to capture any sounds, with a cable release to allow me to turn it on without moving. Finally, there’s a pencil and pad to record the events.’
‘I think you’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for no reason at all.’
‘Perhaps and then perhaps not,’ philosophised Cushing, determine to put an end to the matter. ‘One thing for sure, if a human-being tries to enter the room to play tricks, he or she will get a reception they never expected.’
‘Just one question before you start this rigmarole. Are you sure you want to put this thing in the bedroom?
‘Of course, where else? Where you and Jennifer used to sleep. If it’s going to happen, it’ll be there. For a couple of nights, you can sleep in your guest room.’
