The Drowning Pool

by Syd Moore

  Doctor Cook interrupted. ‘Sharon Casey?’

  I nodded.

  He cleared his throat and hardened his mouth. ‘Sharon Casey is not the most stable person to advise you around here.’

  ‘But I think I’ve seen this room in my dreams. I know something happened here, Doctor. Something bad.’

  Doctor Cook stared at me, his mouth half open, eyebrows high. Then he coughed, plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. His right hand reached for his notes. ‘Has this been going on a while?’

  I paused, not sure of what to say or do.

  ‘A few weeks.’ Give or take.

  He wrote something down. ‘But you said that it wasn’t her?’

  ‘No,’ I shuddered. ‘That was someone else.’

  Cook’s spectacles had slipped down the bridge of his nose; he pushed them back up and wiped his brow with the hanky again. ‘Are you saying it’s a ghost?’ It was evident from his indulgent tone he now thought I was gaga.

  ‘It could be.’ I was in a doctor’s surgery. I had to be more guarded.

  Cook coughed violently for a moment then took a sip from a glass of water on his desk. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s just in my head.’

  Doctor Cook stopped writing. ‘Do you know this ghost’s name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s bleeding. That’s what killed her – a blow to the head. Maybe this is how they show you what happened – almost like it’s a clue,’ I said, more to myself than him.

  ‘I can’t go through this again!’ The words escaped me before I could stop them. Please God, I thought, don’t tell me I need to find out how she died too?

  Doctor Cook put his notes aside and fixed me with a look of total incomprehension. ‘Have you thought about perhaps having a rest? I know of some very good clinics that you could have a look at …’

  Then it dawned on me this was serious. ‘Are you talking about sectioning?’ He didn’t react. It was all getting a bit much. I needed to regain control of myself and the situation. ‘I’m not mad. At least I don’t feel mad.’ Oh God, that sounded mad.

  With great effort, I moderated my voice into a more reasonable, and hopefully sane, tone. ‘I’ve been getting these impressions and I just, well, I just thought I saw something under the cedar tree.’

  The doctor nodded, affecting his usual calm.

  ‘Do you think this is an illness? Have I got a tumour? It all feels real enough but …’

  I stared back at him, waiting for him to move. He didn’t. I suspect he was considering the pros and cons of carting me off in a straitjacket.

  Outside in the garden a magpie called to its mate.

  It brought Cook back from his reverie. He coughed and picked up what I presumed was Mrs Falwahi’s report. The leaves of typed paper shook in his hand. ‘Well, the results are, well … I’d interpret them as inconclusive. But in the light of what you’ve just told me I will book you in for a scan as a priority.’

  Fair enough. I nodded grimly.

  ‘Consider a rest,’ he added in firmer voice. ‘I will want to see you regularly now and you certainly need some medication in the meantime. No buts. I’d like to prescribe you …’

  An urgent knock stopped him mid-sentence. The receptionist popped her head round the door. Sweaty and breathless she started speaking. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Doctor Cook, but it’s Mr McFarlane. Can you come to reception right away?’

  ‘Goodness! Not now.’ With some reluctance the doctor rose. ‘Apologies, Sarah. Can you wait?’

  I peeked at my watch: 4.35 p.m. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not? This is important.’ Even the receptionist was taken aback by his rough tone. Cook made a hissing noise with his teeth. ‘Tomorrow then.’

  I didn’t want to make a fuss but … ‘Sorry, I’m away until late on Sunday.’

  ‘All right, then. Without delay. Janice, show me where he is.’

  The door slammed shut.

  Did he really mean he wanted me to come by late on Sunday? I ducked out into the waiting room to seek clarification. The majority of the surgery staff were attempting to restrain Jesus, but a younger man, in his late teens, possibly on work experience and clearly out of his depth, hung back by the desk.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I touched his arm to get his attention. ‘I think Doctor Cook has asked to see me on Sunday. Would that be right?’

  The young man barely registered my touch. Unable to take his eyes off the scene unfolding in front of him, he held the telephone receiver in one hand. The other hovered tentatively over the ‘9’ button, should urgent assistance be required. ‘If he said that, then yes.’

  ‘On a Sunday though?’

  Jesus yelped, ‘You’re going to hell in a handcart.’

  The young man fingered the number nine button. ‘He sees emergency patients at the weekend sometimes.’

  ‘So I’ll just turn up when I’m back?’

  He nodded and held the receiver to his mouth. ‘Police and ambulance please.’

  A number of patients were fleeing out the front door now, so I joined them and legged it down the drive.

  They say God moves in mysterious ways …

  Sharon lived in an old fisherman’s cottage, which stood at the foot of the hill, opposite what used to be the Old Town square but was now a car park. With her hectic single lifestyle I expected her to live in chaos but her home was always immaculate. She had good taste in interior design – the dining room was knocked through into what had been the parlour, and filled with light from the various mirrors positioned at strategic points against a cream and chocolate colour scheme.

  I got there by five, narrowly avoiding a crash – my mind was on the apparition and my health, not on the road.

  Of course Sharon wanted to know all about my appointment. I hesitated at first, then I took her by the arm into the kitchen, away from Alfie, who was playing inside a wigwam made of throws and brooms.

  My face must still have been ashen. ‘I’ve got to have a scan.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Must have been a shock.’

  ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘There was a weird thing too. Thought I saw, I dunno, something in the doctor’s garden. It’s making me think there’s definitely something unbalanced in my head. But then again …’ I looked at her. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sharon?’ I’d broken my silence on the matter with Andrew, with the doctor, and now my thoughts gushed into the real world unchecked.

  Sharon had lit a cigarette, that was now poised in her fingers on her way to her mouth. She let it dangle. ‘What do you mean?’ She eyed me for a moment, then took a heavy drag on the fag.

  ‘You know Sarah Grey?’ I ventured. ‘I think she might have communicated with me. I’ve been dreaming about her since that night at the castle.’

  Her tight, narrowed lips blew out smoke in a long, thin line. ‘Dreams are dreams, Sarah. Not ghosts.’

  ‘But it’s not just been dreams. She’s been leaving me pine cones.’

  ‘No shit. For real?’

  ‘I think it’s for real. It’s hard to tell. I mean it sounds crazy. And what with this brain stuff that’s being checked out, I don’t know if I’m mad or ill or, shit, clairvoyant or something.’

  A change had come over Sharon. Her eyes were fixed on a point beyond me. She wasn’t looking at me any more. ‘Or just seeing ghosts.’ She took another pull on her cigarette. ‘But your eye …’

  ‘I know,’ I said quickly. ‘My dreams have corresponded with what I’ve learnt about Sarah Grey. But I had the dreams before I found out about her life … I thought I’d only seen Sarah.’ I remembered Andrew’s words. I didn’t know it was her. ‘At least I get a strong sense that it’s Sarah Grey. But now, today, at Doctor Cook’s, that wasn’t her.’

  ‘Doctor Cook? He’s your GP?’ Sharon stubbed her cigarette out in the glass ashtray.

  ‘Yes,’ I continued.
‘This apparition was female too but …’

  Now she was watching me with an intensity that made my flesh chill. ‘What was she like?’

  I described what I’d seen, then sensing Sharon’s sudden agitation I added, ‘… but it wasn’t like Sarah. Though there was a feeling of violence there too.’ I sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.’

  ‘Right.’ She glanced down at her feet, her hair obscuring her face. If I’d had my wits about me I would have seen she was hiding her expression. But I didn’t. I was caught up in myself. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ An undulating tremble had crept into her voice.

  I leant back onto the countertop. ‘Not much I can do about it right now. I’m going to Antwerp tomorrow. I guess I’ll see what happens when I get back. I don’t want to turn into some psychic investigator but I get the impression that this one isn’t going away either.’

  ‘You’re not scared though?’ she asked, still looking down.

  ‘It’s unsettling. And yes, I think I’m always scared of it.’

  Sharon straightened her shoulders and brought her face up to mine, smiling once more, but there was a distance in her eyes. ‘Well, I know you’ve got to hurry. Can we talk about this when you’re back? Come over and have a glass of wine.’

  Time was getting on. ‘Sure. Sorry I’ve got to love, scare and leave you. Thanks so much for having Alfie.’

  She was the old Sharon again. ‘No problemo.’ She pecked my cheek.

  I went through to the living room and gathered up Alfie.

  At the door Sharon waved us goodbye. ‘It really would be good to see you when you get back, OK? We need a chat. Let me know if you find out anything about Sarah. I’m in it too, remember? I want to be the first to know.’

  I promised her I’d be sure to do that.

  Then I legged it to Mum’s.

  I was going to write that it was the last time I would ever see her. But of course it wasn’t. The last time was far worse. Seared into my brain now, I know I’ll take our last meeting with me to my own grave.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I got home I was knackered but there was something I needed to do before I could get going on the packing.

  Marie’s face had a craggy look to it when she came on screen but she seemed pleased to see me. ‘My friend,’ she croaked. ‘How goes it with you and your ghost?’

  ‘Try using the plural,’ I said, and filled her in on the developments with Sarah Grey. To my irritation she seemed quite thrilled by my latest episode in the good doctor’s garden. ‘Please don’t tell me I have to find out who she is too.’

  Marie, for all intents and purposes, looked like she was impressed. ‘Jeez. Do you think there’s a connection?’

  I wasn’t sure and told her that. ‘Logically, you’d think so wouldn’t you? But does logic have anything to do with this kind of stuff?’

  She nodded. ‘I think so. There is usually some design behind it. Although it may not be obvious to mere mortals.’

  ‘Everything else has been linked. I think. To be honest, I do hope there is some kind of connection.’

  Marie cocked her head and looked at me. ‘I wonder if you’ve switched something on somehow? Maybe you’ve become some kind of beacon for lost souls. How amazing would that be!’

  ‘Not very. I still find this whole thing unnerving. And perhaps it is some side effect of a malignant growth. My results are inconclusive by the way.’

  Marie grimaced. ‘Sorry to hear that, chick. But I think you need to view this as some amazing skill that’s been given to you.’

  ‘It could be madness.’

  ‘Could be, true. But wouldn’t it be nice to feel good about it? You can’t necessarily control what you’re seeing or experiencing. Not yet. But you can control the way you feel about it. Wouldn’t it be better to be more positive about it than negative? It is, after all, your choice.’

  I thought on this some more. It was a very American, New Age opinion. And yet Marie was right. If it continued to happen and I felt the same way about it all, then it would surely become a curse. There were those out there who were desperate for insights like this. Didn’t people call it a ‘gift’? Could it be a blessing?

  ‘I’ll make enquiries,’ Marie continued. ‘What is it about this new sighting that has disturbed you?’

  ‘That it’s a new problem.’

  ‘Is it? It could be a sub-haunting like before. A one-off like the burning girl.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Seriously, I think if you talk to someone who might be more skilled than me – I can only tell you what I know and, honey, your situation is going way out of my league – then you might feel better. You need to learn how to control it.’

  ‘If it’s not a tumour.’

  ‘If it’s not a tumour or madness or stress-related.’

  ‘Not right now, though,’ I said, holding my hand up. ‘I’m off to Antwerp tomorrow morning. There’s a link there. A descendant of someone who might have played a part in Sarah’s death.’

  ‘Wow. Things are moving quickly then?’ she said. ‘You never know, if you get to the bottom of it then it might all disappear.’

  ‘I’m hoping more along the lines of “will disappear” than “‘might”,’ I said, and sighed.

  ‘I’ll be thinking of you,’ she said, and sent me a wink. ‘Tune in when you get back. Good luck.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The view over the town square was awe inspiring. Andrew had done well to book one of the city’s newest and most modern hotels. He’d gallantly offered me the larger of the two rooms, though there wasn’t much in it. Exquisitely decorated in creams and whites, adorned with fur rugs and funky plastic chairs, the room had its own bar, CD player with a small selection of discs: mostly jazz, a couple of classical and some rock compilations. The plasma TV on the wall opposite displayed a screen-saver of an open fire. A nice touch, even in summer.

  I hit the play button on the CD remote. The gentle chords of a blues guitar tinkled out of the speakers. I surveyed the bed, then launched myself at it and kicked off my shoes.

  Tired, I wasn’t; the journey had been pretty effortless. We’d managed to fly from City Airport, which was a boon. The plane had been on time. Customs had been obligingly dismissive of the influx of British tourists, so within half an hour we’d jumped into a taxi and whizzed through Antwerp to our central hotel.

  All very easy.

  I had a bit of a panic on the plane when I realized that this would be the longest I’d ever been away from Alfie. After I’d gone through the whole ‘I-hope-I-don’t-die’ anxiety at take-off, and blocked the tumour business out of my mind, I gave myself permission to enjoy the adult nature of the trip.

  The room helped: no small extra bed, no scattering of toys. It was grown up and chic, and ever so slightly sexy.

  Andrew came knocking after half an hour. I was still gazing at the ceiling. The door was unlocked. I yelled for him to come in.

  This led to an ever so slightly awkward moment as he clocked me on the bed, froze, fetched the chair by the balcony and brought it alongside me. It was an incongruous scene and we both knew it.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Um, I’ve spoken to Tobias’ son, Laurens, the younger Mr Fitch, although he sounds like he’s in his late sixties/early seventies. I’m afraid Tobias is tired today.’

  Bugger. I pushed myself upright. ‘What does that mean? We can’t see him?’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘No, not today. Laurens suggested we give him a call tomorrow morning to see how he is. He’s quite keen to see you in fact. Apparently he’s at his best after lunch.’

  ‘Have you got an address?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in one of the nearer districts.’

  ‘Can I have it?’

  ‘I can’t remember it off hand. It’s in my notebook.’

  I propped my back against the pillows and brought my knees up. ‘Let’s see it then?’

  He cussed. ‘
Damn. I’ve left it upstairs.’

  I said, ‘Oh well. Is it easy to get to?’

  ‘Looks pretty straightforward on the map. He lives in an inner suburb to the south-east of the city. Shouldn’t be a problem to find it.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have a dry run today?’

  Andrew laughed and raised his eyebrows. ‘Never thought you’d be this cautious.’

  ‘I just want to see him, that’s all. We’re here now. I feel like we’re about to nail it.’

  ‘If Tobias can wait one day, so must we.’ He grinned. ‘But that doesn’t mean we need to sit around. We’re in Antwerp, we should go explore.’

  ‘That’d be great. Let me change into a dress. It’s hotter here than at home.’

  He pushed back the chair and stood to go. ‘Sure. I’ll go back to my room, you can pick me up.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. An undertone of flirtation had crept into my voice – we both noticed it. I blushed. ‘I mean – I’ll get changed in the bathroom. Here,’ I got to my feet and chucked him the remote. ‘Check out the music.’

  Antwerp was at the seasonal peak for tourism and the main square, the Grote Markt, was crammed with folks equipped with videos and cameras. In the afternoon sun the gothic roofs of gabled guildhouses reflected a beautiful airy light onto the cathedral’s spire.

  We sat by the Brabo fountain in the centre and agreed our visit would not be worth mentioning if we didn’t go to visit the Reubens museum.

  But we never got there.

  The streets that led off the square were far more fascinating than I’d given Antwerp credit for: winding and cobbled, full of tucked away gems and statues. We wandered past bars and mussel restaurants, tourist shops and boutiques, charmed by the sights and relaxing into the carefree holiday vibe that others around us emanated as they dawdled by.

  When the evening sun’s rays dropped over the Scheldt River, we stopped at a bar and had a drink. It was a warm evening, coloured by the tangerine glow of sunset. In the end we stayed for three.