‘What for?’ Richie asked with a scowl.
‘Resonances. Echoes of the past. What was it Em called them?... Temporo-psychic projections. Otherwise known as ghosts.’
‘I don’t like it.’ Richie took a biscuit from his satchel and bit into it for comfort. ‘These kind of things aren’t meant to be disturbed.’
‘What are we looking for, Anoushka?’ Jess asked, running her hands over the display of books and pamphlets at the back of the Cathedral.
‘Anything unusual,’ purred the cat. ‘Anything which doesn’t fit.’ He sprang off suddenly into the shadows beyond the choir-stalls, disappearing out of sight. ‘You’ll know it. Like an apple in a basket of oranges.’
‘What’s all that about?’ Richie asked, chewing his biscuit. ‘Apples and oranges?’
Jess, hands on hips, was peering up at the carved stonework high on the Cathedral pillars. ‘It’s an analogy, Rich,’ she said.
‘What, like Gabi and cats?’
‘No, you dork, not an allergy. An analogy. Like when you use one thing to illustrate something else. I got what he meant.’
Above the south transept, the stained glass rendition of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight looked disdainfully down on them.
Richie shivered. He was now convinced that he didn’t want to be here at all. He could feel his teeth chattering, so hard that he was sure anyone or anything lurking in the shadows of the transept could have heard them clearly.
He watched as Jess took one of the small candles from the display and lit it from one of those already burning. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of hot wax. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.
Jess smiled nervously as the candle flickered.
‘My mum and dad,’ she said.
And Richie didn’t know if it was his imagination, but he started to feel that the air in the cathedral had turned a couple of degrees colder.
Jessica, in truth, wasn’t that keen to be here either.
She had never felt comfortable with religion, even though Gabi had tried her with it. Little Jess used to sit in the church, swinging her legs, muttering the prayers, thinking longingly of playing outside, of tender chicken and crunchy roast potatoes, of the Sunday-night ritual of the Top 40. And in Sunday school, she would test her teachers’ patience with her continual questions. Why did Jesus raise Lazarus if being dead means you go to heaven? Why does God allow people to be tortured? She got a name for herself as a difficult one, for such questions were not welcome.
Today, the Cathedral managed to make her feel insignificant and guilty.
She stood and watched the small flame burning, and tried to picture their faces. Eternally youthful, caught forever in that snapshot of the time.
Their names were Christina LaForge and Mark Mathieson. In the pictures she had, they were a fashionable young couple: her dad with his flat-top haircut, bleached jeans and biker jacket, and her mum with her bottle-blonde perm, toothy smile, bangles and chunky gold belt. That just made her want to laugh. God, they wore awful clothes back then.
She sniffed, feeling the cold air loosening the mucus in her nose.
‘I suppose you never really knew them?’ Richie asked, as they stared into the heart of the burning flame.
‘Nah. I was just a few months old.’
‘It must be hard,’ said Richie awkwardly. ‘My mum and dad drive me up the wall, but I can’t imagine them... not being there.’
‘Miss Watson at Sunday school once told me not to be angry at God, you know? I’d never have thought of that, if she’d not said it.’ Jessica pulled her jacket closely around her, aware that she was shivering a little. The Cathedral seemed to have become cold, and the shadows between the pillars and pews were growing darker and longer. ‘And now I am,’ she said softly. ‘Angry at God, some days.’
They stood for a few minutes, watching the candles flickering against the dark stone.
‘You always seem to make a joke of stuff,’ said Richie after a while. ‘I know it’s easier that way. I know you don’t talk about them. I’ve never really... felt I could ask.’
Jess nodded, smiled gratefully at him. ‘That’s okay.’
‘Gabi must have told you what they were like?’
‘Yeah... Gabi says my mum was great, you know? Really popular with everyone.’ She blew her nose, sighed, folded her arms and gazed into the meaningless grey vaults above her. ‘Some days I can almost see her in my head.’
Richie glanced at her. Jess looked over at him, angry at the way her eyes were blurring now.
‘I’ve never asked you,’ he said. ‘How...?’
She smiled sadly. ‘I’m not going to tell you unless you ask me properly.’
‘How did it... well... what happened?’
‘Richie, it’s okay. You can say it.’
There was a long, cold silence in the Cathedral. Jess thought she heard something - pigeons, bats? - fluttering high up above them, but it could have been her imagination.
‘How did they die?’ Richie asked softly.
‘That’s better.’ She blew a long breath. ‘They were rock-climbers. Mad about it, they were. It’s how they met. Chrissie, my mum, she hadn’t been able to climb for nearly a year, while she was pregnant with me, of course. It was their big day, her first time back at Pendle Rocks. Gabi and my Grandma were looking after little baby me for the day.’
Richie nodded. He knew when he had to listen, and not speak.
‘Anyway, Chrissie, she... she’d lost an earring, yeah? Aunt Gabi laughed at her, told her she didn’t need earrings to go climbing. But she was fussing around, scrabbling behind the chairs and rummaging through bowls of pot-pourri, with one gold earring dangling from her ear. She was so desperate to find the other one, but in the end she had to go without it. So Gabi waved them off in their car. She was holding me. It was an old Renault they had. Bit of a scrap-heap. I’ve seen the photos. Gab was sure they’d have an accident in it, one day.’ Jess paused, breathed hard through chattering teeth.
Richie’s eyes widened. He nodded.
She shook her head. ‘But no, the car was fine. It always had been.’ Jess was staring up into the darkness of the vaulted ceiling, hugging herself.
‘What happened?’ Richie asked gently.
‘They were late getting to the rock-face that day. All their friends had already arrived... I think some people were joking about them always being late.’ She bit her lip, aware of the pain as the incisor marked the soft flesh. ‘They just didn’t check the line before they started to abseil. Someone else was meant to check, but they didn’t. It was a moment, just a moment, when things came together like... like they shouldn’t have done.’
The ghost-light above the altar was swinging gently in a current of air. The blue flame bent, almost imperceptibly.
‘And the line gave.’ Jess closed her eyes tightly. ‘The line gave,’ she repeated in a small, distant voice.
‘That’s terrible... I’m so sorry.’
She opened her eyes, let out a deep breath. When she spoke again, she heard her own words as if on a tape, as if spoken by someone else. Her voice was low, cracking with emotion.
‘They... said afterwards that it would have been pretty instant, yeah? They both fell a hundred metres. They’d not have felt...’ She shook her head again, stared at the floor, unable to find the words. ‘It was quick,’ she said.
Beside them, the flames of the two dozen or so candles were bending in the cold draught now.
Jess gave Richie a weak smile and shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Didn’t bring you out to hear my family history.’ She exhaled deeply.
‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Really.’
‘After it had happened - weeks after - Gabi was cleaning the house and found her earring. It had got knocked under the sofa. She thought she’
d looked there, but obviously she hadn’t.’ Jess gave a brief, sad smile. ‘That’s why Gabi wears it. The one earring. It used to be Mum’s. That way, we can remember them every day.’
‘I didn’t want to ask about that,’ he said.
‘Nah, well. Some people do. Gab just tells them it’s personal.’
‘I thought it meant she was gay.’
‘Oh, Richie.’
‘Well, I’m sorry! It does for some people!’ Richie protested. Jess gave him a mock-serious scowl, and he shrugged. ‘Do you get sad?’ he asked. ‘I mean, about not having a mum and dad?’
‘No, not really. That’s just it, you see, it’s not like I haven’t got them. They still exist.’ Jess tapped her forehead. ‘In here.’ She narrowed her eyes and gazed into the darkness. ‘And out there. Somewhere. In places we can’t see. I’ve always thought there was someone watching over me.’
‘Right.’ Richie sounded unsure. ‘Do you... see them?’ he asked.
She laughed. It sounded clear, open, incongruous in the cold and dim space. ‘Oh, no.’ She paused. ‘Well, not really.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Rich, you’re a good mate. I don’t want to freak you out.’
‘Rrright. Jess, in the last couple of weeks we’ve heard people singing inside exploding computers. We’ve seen a bloke vanish into thin air in the middle of a thunderstorm. We’ve made friends with a girl who lives in an invisible house and met a talking cat who walks through solid objects. Trust me, the goalposts have been well and truly moved.’
She nodded, smiled. ‘There have been times,’ she said. ‘About a year ago, yeah?... I was looking in the window of HMV in town. Bright summer’s day, it was. Clear blue, not a cloud. I was trying to see when the new BigSky album was out. I could see the people rushing by, reflected in the window.’ She paused, never quite sure how much of this she properly recalled. ‘And then I... well, there was a gap in the crowd, just for a second, and I thought... I thought I saw the reflection of this woman across the street. She’d have been leaning against the window of WHSmith’s. She looked about Gabi’s age. And she looked a bit like Gabi, only her hair was different. Longer, fuller, more kind of frizzy. She was wearing a leopardskin coat and a long black skirt, and she was smoking. I saw, as clear as anything, the jet of smoke leave her mouth and fly into the air, and...’
Jess looked at Richie to check he was listening. He was wide-eyed, hanging on every word.
‘You thought it was your mum?’ he said cautiously.
‘Well... of course it wasn’t, was it? I mean, how could she be there? The age she’d be if she... if she was still alive? It was probably... I dunno, someone who looked a bit like her.’
‘Did you turn round?’ he asked.
‘I turned round,’ she said. ‘Looked across the High Street. And she was gone.’
‘What... just like that?’
‘Yeah. There was nobody leaning against the window. Just the people rushing by, and the bright sunlight, and the street like it always was. Mums and toddlers, old couples, tourists with backpacks, the guy on the corner flogging his Big Issue. Whoever I’d seen - they’d gone. She frowned, looked up suddenly. ‘And is it me, or is it getting a bit nippy in here?’
Richie moved to stand beside her, and they looked at one another, sharing a growing sense of unease.
It seemed to have grown dimmer within the Cathedral - indeed it was so dark now that Jess could not make out the south transept or the big stained-glass window above the doorway.
‘Well, it’s an old building,’ Richie said slowly, trying to sound convinced. ‘Missing tiles, all kinds of gaps all over the place. The wind gets in all the time, so they say.’
There was a sudden gust of wind inside the Cathedral, and it knifed right through them with a winter chill. As one, the candles beside them guttered and were snuffed out.
All around, lighted candles were being extinguished, as if invisible hands were pinching the wicks one by one.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Out they went, eaten by invisible darkness, disappearing like bubbles on the wind. The last to be extinguished was the ghost-light above the altar.
Jess grabbed hold of Richie’s sleeve. ‘Okay. Now I’m not happy,’ she muttered.
The Gothic arches and pilasters in the highest reaches of the Cathedral began to darken. The sound, now, was less like a wind and more like a low susurration, as if many voices were whispering urgently to one another.
And then, in the echoing space, the singing began again.
Mr Courtney chewed thoughtfully on a ballpoint pen as he stood and watched the sky darkening behind Scratchcombe Edge. He hadn’t listened to any Verdi for a while, and the withdrawal symptoms were making him edgy.
‘This worries me, lad,’ Mr Courtney muttered. ‘Does it worry you?’
Mr Odell nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The portly technician, Strickland, scurried past the guards and out of the circle. He was puffing, panting and holding a clipboard.
‘Well?’ Mr Courtney snapped.
‘I don’t quite understand it, sir,’ Strickland murmured, nervously polishing his glasses as he looked up at Mr Courtney. ‘The spectrographic range from the skeleton should be diminishing, but instead it’s growing steadily stronger!’
Mr Courtney snatched the clipboard from him. ‘Let me see that!’ He studied the figures for a fee seconds, then exclaimed, ‘Pah!’ and thrust the clipboard back in the face of the jittery technician.
Mr Odell frowned. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ said Mr Courtney, clearing his throat, ‘it, harrumph, means that... Well, you see, what it means is...’ He poked Strickland in the ribs, making him jump. ‘Come on, man! Tell him what it means!’
‘It’s not decaying,’ said Strickland nervously. ‘It seems to have been... renewing itself.’
Mr Odell looked worried. ‘No sign of radioactivity, Strickland?’
‘Above normal background radiation, sir, but only slightly. Not in the danger level.’
Mr Courtney stroked his moustache. ‘But that... thing... was buried by the Vikings...’
‘We presume by the Vikings,’ said Mr Odell.
‘Inside the stone circle to keep it at bay...’
‘These days, sir,’ said Mr Odell, ‘we should maybe rely on better methods of protection.’
Mr Courtney looked up sharply. ‘What did you have in mind, Mr Odell?’
‘A barrier of lead sheeting, sir. If that thing is emitting any dangerous energy, we need to keep it contained.’
Mr Courtney nodded. ‘Good idea. See to it, Strickland. And monitor it closely. Let me know if there are any sudden surges in the readings.’
Strickland nodded and hurried back to the van.
‘Could I make a suggestion, sir?’ said Mr Odell tentatively.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Those other strange energy readings they picked up earlier - at all those different locations. We should investigate their sources.’
Mr Courtney nodded. ‘Good thinking, lad. Let’s get on to it. Which one first?’
Mr Odell unfolded his copy of the Ordnance Survey Map. ‘This one,’ he said, consulting a piece of paper. ‘Grid reference... 156787.’
‘Which puts it...’
The two men followed the grid-lines on the map, Mr Odell tracing the vertical and Mr Courtney the horizontal. Their fingers met in the centre of the brownish blob that represented Meresbury - right over the symbol of the cross.
They looked up.
Mr Courtney gave a grim smile and nodded. ‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘The Cathedral!’
‘Time to get out of here,’ suggested Richie.
The dark voices of an invisible choir were echoing in the
nave, curling like mist around the darkening pillars. Richie tried to move his legs, to break into a run, but for some reason his body would not obey his mind.
‘Come on, come on!’
He looked in despair at Jess, who seemed equally rooted to the spot.
‘Block it out, Richie. Block it out!’
She clamped her hands over her ears and he did the same, muffling the sounds of the singing. Finally, his right foot peeled itself from the floor of the cathedral, unsticking as if held there by glue. He dragged it along, feeling its leaden weight.
It was like a dream.
Like one of those dreams where you were running and couldn’t get away.
Concentrate.
Anoushka suddenly seemed to leap from nowhere, landing on the floor between them. The cat arched his back, and began to hiss, his fur rising in sharp black spines.
Richie felt life return to his right leg, and then his left. He glanced at Jess, who also seemed to have picked up speed, and now they had grabbed each other’s hands and were running full-tilt for the door. Or where they thought the door ought to be.
The singing voices seemed to pursue them, gathering momentum like a vast tidal wave of sound sweeping through the hollow nave.
Halfway down, they skidded to a halt.
Their way was blocked. In the nave, something had appeared. At first it seemed like another pillar; part of the architecture, but a part which was not properly tuned in.
Half-visible. Half-formed.
A shimmering column of greyish light, flickering in the darkness, like a giant, ghostly image of a candle.
Jess stumbled, almost falling over. ‘What is it?’ she murmured.
‘Technically, it isn’t anything,’ murmured Anoushka. ‘It doesn’t have form. It’s what you’d call a spirit, a spectre.’
‘Oh, great.’ Richie realised he was shivering. ‘That’s all I need. Today of all days, I’ve got to start believing in ghosts.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Waaaait a minute...’ He pulled the satchel from his shoulder, undid it and started scrabbling inside.
‘Let’s... just try and be friendly about this.’ Jess extended her hands in front of her in a calming motion. ‘Ghosts don’t hurt people, right?’
Emerald Greene and the Witch Stones Page 11
