by Adams, Guy
‘I can’t,’ the girl said, ‘I can’t …’ and then proceeded to throw up on the carpet, sobbing.
This is not the response of a murderer, John thought.
So what about Alasdair? Could he have done it and then turned on the lights? He certainly had a better opportunity than anyone else at the table. But opportunity or not, what was his motive? Admittedly John knew nothing about the people around him, not really. But even if Alasdair had wished to kill the old man this was hardly the way to do it. Surely better opportunities would exist than a seeming unpredictable moment of darkness in a crowded room. What about the others in the house? He knew they were not alone, he had seen the small boy at the top of the stairs and heard others running in panic after Father Goss screamed – though where they were now was another question. Had they taken a leap over the back fence in order to avoid being caught up in what was to come? Wherever they were, and however complicit they may have been in Aida Golding’s performance, the important thing was that they couldn’t have been involved in the murder. Let them run, he thought.
Then again, if it had been suicide – and it certainly seemed like the only viable option – perhaps they were complicit. What had driven the man to it if not the conviction that someone he feared was still reaching out to him from beyond the grave? If Father Goss had cut his own throat, Aida Golding and her team had passed him the knife and given him due cause.
‘This is down to you,’ he said to the medium, ‘you know that, don’t you?’
Probert was dialling his mobile, pacing up and down, a man of determination once more.
‘I played no part in this,’ she replied, ‘whatever happened it’s as much of a shock to me as the rest of you.’
‘You set the stage,’ John insisted, ‘you created the mood, you gave the excuse … even if it was not your hand on the knife you’re as guilty as hell. What did you think was going to happen, raking all that business up?’
‘I can hardly be held responsible for the spirits that chose to talk through me.’
‘She’s right,’ interrupted Davinia, ‘it’s not like she encouraged the Ripper is it?’
‘The Ripper …’ John was getting more and more angry by the moment, ‘the Ripper wasn’t in this room.’
‘We all heard him!’
‘We heard whatever she wanted us to hear. She’s manipulated the lot of us to line her pockets and couldn’t give a shit about the consequences. Whether these spirits were real or not they can still haunt us! Take a look at that poor—’ he looked at Father Goss, and then at Davinia’s panicked face, and frustration mixed with true misery. All of a sudden the wind was drained from him. He could have just toppled to the floor. Buried himself in the corner of the room and howled.
He looked at Sandy, still shaking, staring at him not in fear or suspicion for once but rather a bizarre kind of relief. It occurred to him that this was one of the few times she would have seen someone stand up to Aida Golding. It was a thought that gave him back a little of his strength.
‘Whatever happens,’ he said, staring straight at the medium, ‘I will do my utmost to ensure you never practise this charade again.’
‘Oh God, don’t say that!’ Davinia cried. ‘You can’t say that! What about Henry? What about my poor Henry? You can’t take Henry away from me!’
By the time the police arrived John found himself on the outside of the group, looking in. Golding, emboldened by Davinia’s response had simply refused to be drawn on his accusations. She had smiled, as if conveying the greatest act of kindness, and commented that they were all bound to be feeling on edge and that she for one wouldn’t take anything to heart that was said in anger and fear. There was no mileage in arguing further, that much was clear, and John had stood on the front doorstep, sheltered by the porch, watching the rain and waiting for the police to arrive.
Inside, Alasdair had ushered everyone into the kitchen where they waited in silence. Lord Probert paced up and down the hallway talking to a succession of people on his mobile. Time and again he laid out to the various people on the receiving end how he expected them to act. He outlined the questions they were to ask and, more importantly, those they were not. He clarified who should be allowed to visit the crime scene and who should not. Finally he called his lawyer and began discussing the fine details of the double injunction he wished to place on the night’s proceedings. Overhearing it all, John despaired of the power money and immorality gave you in life.
‘There,’ said the peer as he muscled his way out onto the front step alongside John in order to wait for the police and smoke a cigar, ‘I’ve got the whole thing sewn up tighter than an NHS budget cut.’
John couldn’t even begin to stomach a reply so decided to go back inside and wait with the others.
‘I wouldn’t, old chap,’ said Probert, holding his arm out to block the door. ‘You’re not man of the hour in there, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Your little speech about Golding set her on the warpath, you know what she’s like. Tenacious little thing, wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her myself.’
‘I haven’t the least interest in what she thinks of me,’ John replied, ‘it can hardly be any less damning than my opinion of her.’
‘Yes, I heard that clearly enough. Might I ask why you bothered coming if you’re such a cynic?’
‘Sceptic, there’s a difference. I would be willing to be proven right, just not by her … Her tricks were too obvious.’
‘Really? She’s rather impressed me. But then it doesn’t matter. That’s not the important thing here, what matters is ensuring you still have a career by the time you go to bed.’
‘That’s not the most important thing to me.’
‘Really? Then you must be a damn sight richer than your supermarket anorak and chain-store jeans make you look. You said you were a teacher, yes?’
‘University lecturer, actually.’
‘OK, well that’s better, I suppose, nobody can bear a whiff of scandal when they work with the little kiddies. Still, you think any education authority is going to want to employ a psychology lecturer who visits mediums in his spare time and has the bad luck to front the line as a suspected murderer of a priest?’
‘I thought you said it must be suicide?’
‘Of course it must be suicide, if any of us want to keep our position in life, precisely my point. If it’s murder then we’re looking at scandal so shit-deep we’ll be choking for months. If it’s murder we’re looking at the two people who were sat next to him: the frail girl who can’t stop crying or the shouting psychologist who clearly has issues over the death of his wife.’
‘Don’t,’ said John through gritted teeth, ‘don’t even think of bringing her into this.’
‘I won’t have to, old chap, that’ll be the job of the press. They’ll have her photo – and yours – all over the newspapers before you can so much as say “breakdown”. Especially,’ Probert pointed his cigar at John, ‘now you’ve decided to make an enemy of Aida Golding. She’s no stranger to fighting her corner and if it came down to which of the two of you was most capable of stitching up the other I know where my money’s placed.’
‘This is ridiculous. I won’t be bullied out of doing what’s right.’
‘What’s right? What rubbish! What do you hope to gain? Drag her name through the mud? You haven’t a chance, you’re one ranting voice against a chorus of disciples. You won’t be the first bleating cynic – sorry, sceptic – that she’s had to deal with, I can assure you, and the louder you shout the more the rest will believe.’
John couldn’t deny that. Those that went to see Golding wouldn’t take kindly to his calling her a fake, you only had to look at Davinia’s response. He had no proof, just the conviction of his senses. And, sometimes, lately, even those seemed to be failing him.
‘The important thing,’ continued Probert, ‘is for you to cover your own back. Not that you’ll have to do anything actually as I’ve do
ne it for you. As long as we all stick to the same story then none of us have anything to worry about.’
‘And that story is …’
‘That Father Goss cut his own throat. We take the heavily suspected and make it fact.’
‘And if I refuse to agree to do that?’
‘Then you’ll have one hell of a fight on your hands. What you won’t have, though, and I can guarantee you this, is a job or a house. Because, by the time I’ve finished with you – with the full support of the others in the room – you’ll be a broken man. Not really a choice, is it?’
‘I don’t like being bullied, Probert.’
‘Then stop putting yourself in an unpopular position. Life can be remarkably simple for those with the good sense to choose their battles.’
‘Yes, remarkably simple,’ John smiled, one little streak of rebellion left in him, ‘“Helly”.’
The effect on Probert was immediate. His charm was gone, seemingly chewed away by the snarl that suddenly appeared on his face. ‘Never call me that,’ he said, ‘or I will ruin you, regardless of what happens tonight. Understand?’
‘Oh yes,’ John replied, ‘we’re all frightened of something or someone, I understand that well enough.’
The police arrived quietly. Though whether this was at the insistence of Lord Probert or the acknowledgement that there was little left to do but mop up John couldn’t tell.
The deferential manner of the chief investigating officer was all the proof needed that Probert had matters comfortably sewn up. That wasn’t to say that the night passed quickly or easily – John was still awake four hours later, sat in a plastic bucket seat at the police station awaiting yet another interview – but he had little doubt the results of the investigation would be a foregone conclusion.
By the time he eventually returned home, stumbling past the front door at gone three in the morning, he was dead on his feet.
He dumped the keys on the small table in the hall and shuffled through into the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water before he shed his clothes and fell into bed for a few hours’ sleep.
Toby Dammit gave him a disapproving glare then curled back up on one of the dining chairs and pretended not to have been disturbed by the return of his owner.
Filling a glass straight from the tap, John drained half in one go and then stared at his impoverished reflection in the glass of the kitchen window. He saw nothing to be proud of tonight. Nothing at all.
He was taking another mouthful when a creaking of the floorboards upstairs unnerved him.
Not now, he thought, my night has been too long as it is. Can’t she at least leave me alone for one night?
Slowly, footsteps came down the stairs and John placed the glass on the sideboard. He wanted something more aggressive in his hand, something that might make him feel a bit safer. Not that there was much chance of fighting off a spirit, he admitted, grabbing a kitchen knife not unlike the one that had opened Father Goss’s throat a few hours earlier. You couldn’t kill the dead after all, though he wasn’t sure the same could be said in reverse.
‘What do you want?’ he asked as the footsteps came along the hall.
There was a knock on his front door, startled he dropped the knife and it clattered onto the laminate floor.
He stared into the darkness of the hall, assuring himself that it must be empty.
The knock came again.
He drew a deep breath and walked into the hall, marching up to the front door and opening it.
The first words that came to him were the last he had spoken.
‘What do you want?’
‘Somewhere to hide,’ admitted Sandy Thompson, ‘please …’
Six
The Haunted
SANDY SAT AT the kitchen table while John made them both a drink.
‘I heard you give your address to the duty officer,’ she said, ‘and I honestly didn’t know where else I could go.’
‘Home?’
‘I live with her,’ she didn’t have to say the name, John knew it was Aida Golding she was referring to, ‘and she’s who I’m running away from.’
‘You live with her? Why?’
‘Because I have nowhere else to go and, believe me, however bad you think she is she’s much worse. Aida Golding is a woman you don’t refuse.’
This was the second time that had been said, John realised.
‘What hold does she have over you?’
Sandy stared at him for a moment, clearly uncertain whether to answer.
‘Look, Sandy,’ insisted John, ‘you can’t just turn up on my doorstep asking for help and then not be willing to talk. Sorry, but it’s all or nothing. I’ll help you if I can but you need to be straight with me first.’
‘My name’s not Sandy.’
‘You don’t surprise me.’
‘It’s Anna.’
‘Anna what?’
‘Anna Golding.’
‘Oh …’
‘She adopted me when I was four. There have been years of joy ever since.’
For John it answered a lot of questions: the control Golding had over the girl, the resentment she in turn felt for Golding. But surely she was old enough to simply leave home?
‘I’ve run away a few times, always she’s brought me back one way or another. She can be very persuasive. But after tonight, with what happened … I just can’t stay in that house any longer.’
‘You think Aida Golding had something to do with the Father’s death?’
‘Only in the sense that you meant when you accused her. She plays with people then drops them. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen … the people she’s cut loose because they get too much to handle.’
‘The first night I saw her,’ said John, ‘there was a man who panicked and stormed out of the hall. You probably don’t remember …’
‘There are so many, some of them even turn up at the house. Threatening to kill her, or more usually themselves, unless she passes on a message for them. It’s horrible. So much desperation, so many broken people.’
‘It’s not an attractive business.’
‘I used to believe in her, like so many do. Even when she had me do my bit as Sandy Thompson, the grieving mother … she spun it so many ways. She told me that it helped offer more hope to the people in the room; that it made them more positive, which made her connection stronger; that it allowed her a little time to recharge after a particularly difficult reading …’
‘She would pretend that it drained her more than it obviously did.’
‘Yeah. “If they only knew how hard it was, girl,” she’d say, “sometimes I just need a short break, just to catch my breath …”’
‘She was an excellent liar.’
‘The very best.’
‘When was it you realised that she was a fake?’
‘I don’t know … honestly, I find it hard even now to say I disbelieve it totally. It’s so ingrained in me. My belief in the world of spirits, that the dead surround us. Maybe I still do believe that. Maybe I just don’t think she can hear them. I don’t know … I just had to get out of there. Get of my life, escape into something better …’
‘Has she ever hurt you? Physically, I mean, because if there’s been a clear sign of abuse …’
‘Forget it,’ Anna shook her head, ‘I don’t want to go to anyone about that. I just want to be free of her.’
‘But what about the others? Who else lives there? I saw a young boy …’
‘Oh, he’s all right, that’s Alasdair’s boy, James. She’d never hurt him, she adores him.’
‘And Alasdair … is he family?’
Anna laughed at that. ‘No! He’s her partner.’
‘Really?’ John tried not to appear as shocked as he so obviously was. ‘I just thought, what with the age difference …’
‘I know, but she’s not quite as old as she makes out to be. Still, she’s twice his age, you’re right.’
‘Not that it matters.’ J
ohn was trying to brush the matter off, feeling absurdly uncomfortable discussing it in front of her. ‘So the boy’s a son from a previous relationship.’
‘Yeah, though she treats him like her own. Certainly gives him more attention than she ever did me.’
Was this about jealousy? John wondered. Could it be as simple as that?
‘Who else is in the house?’ he asked. ‘I heard people running upstairs.’
‘Alasdair’s brother, Glen, a vicious little shit. Half the brains of anyone else in the household but he makes up for it in attitude and not caring a toss for others’ opinions. The man’s plain nasty but Aida doesn’t mind that, in fact, she’s often had cause to find it useful.’
‘I can imagine, who else?’
‘Glen’s girlfriend, Sacha, she’s not around much. Aida doesn’t like her and Aida’s opinion is the only one that counts.’
‘And they help sometimes?’ John asked. ‘With the voices?’
Sandy hesitated for a moment. ‘Are you going to help me? Or are you just wanting to use me to get at her?’
‘We’re using each other as far as I can tell,’ admitted John. He thought about it for a moment, but couldn’t find the way to say no. ‘I’ll put you up for a few nights. Only a few, mind …’
Sandy smiled. ‘That’s great, thank you so much …’ She drained her tea. ‘Do you think we could talk more tomorrow? I’ve had enough of today. I just want to … I want to switch off, you know?’
John thought about it for a moment, suddenly uncomfortable that he had given in so easily. Was he such a pushover? Yes, he supposed he probably was. But there had been a selfish reason for letting her stay, hadn’t there? ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you up.’
He gave her the main bedroom. It was clean and empty of everything but his fears. He no longer thought of it as his room any more.
‘There are clean towels in the airing cupboard, help yourself to whatever toiletries you need. You can always pick up some more things tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She looked at him and her face took on that same, soft look of relief she had shown earlier when he had turned his anger towards her stepmother. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re really very kind.’ She stepped forward and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.
