by Peter James
Emily was at the wheel. He, himself, was sitting beside her in the passenger seat.
Not possible. No. Not possible.
Oh God.
The purple car struck the van head-on in an explosion of metal splinters, steam, flying shards of glass as thick as a cloud. The van catapulted backwards and sideways, rolling over and over. He heard the sickening metallic boom. The Penze-Weedells’ car carried on, the bonnet crumpled, careering across the road and head-on into a tractor with a bulldozer bucket that was thundering down the street from the same direction as Emily.
The shovel sheared the roof of the car almost clean off. A few yards on, pushing the crumpled wreck of car in its path, the huge vehicle stopped. Jason saw the driver in the cab, smiling with grim satisfaction. He looked like Albert Fears.
It was Albert Fears.
Jesus, no. No.
Maurice Penze-Weedell’s torso sat behind the wheel of the roofless little car. The headless stump of his spine stuck up through his blood-soaked anorak and woolly scarf.
The car’s horn blared, steadily and unremittingly.
Jason, as if in a trance, stabbed out 999 on his phone, blurted out what had happened, then hurtled downstairs and out into the street, his eyes streaming tears.
74
Thursday 27 December
As he stood, momentarily looking around, trying to take it all in, Jason could see no sign of Emily’s van. It simply wasn’t there.
He ran up to the mangled wreckage of the purple car and stared, beyond, along Lakeview Drive. No van.
Had he imagined it?
He must have. There was no van. Very definitely no van.
He turned and sprinted back towards Claudette Penze-Weedell, who lay, misshapen and motionless, in front of her house. There was a ghastly, bloody imprint of her body, like a shadow, on the brick wall above her. Her midriff was split open, her intestines spilled out onto the paved driveway either side of her, and blood was pooling all around her. A fancy crocodile handbag lay on the ground close by.
The car horn continued blaring.
He stared down at her, numb with shock. Her eyes were open, glazed, her mouth agape, as if she had stopped saying something mid-sentence. Was there anything he could do for her, he wondered, racking his brains, trying to think back to a first-aid course he’d once attended with Emily as part of her qualifications in catering. From the state of her he didn’t think Claudette was still alive. Even so, he knelt and clumsily felt for a pulse, curling his finger and thumb around her wrist, pushing the band of her Rolex watch up her arm a little.
He could feel nothing. A mobile phone began ringing. It was coming from inside her handbag, he realized.
A shadow fell over him. He turned to see Albert Fears standing behind him.
‘He came straight at me,’ Fears said, almost proudly.
‘He did, I saw it,’ Jason responded, numbly, as if he was dreaming this.
Very faintly, in the distance, was the wail of a siren. It was growing closer by the second.
‘Straight at me,’ Fears said.
He did not appear to have noticed the body of Claudette Penze-Weedell.
‘I couldn’t do nothing,’ Fears continued. ‘Stupid bastard. You saw it? You know then, right?’
‘Right,’ Jason said, reluctant to concede anything to the man. And suddenly, unable to help himself, he turned away and vomited.
The siren was growing closer still, approaching fast. It was followed by another, more distant. Then another.
‘Got a weak stomach have you, young man?’ Fears said, snidely.
Jason had to restrain himself from standing up and punching the farmer’s smug face.
Over the next hour, Lakeview Drive, cordoned off with blue and white tape, became totally clogged with emergency service vehicles. Three police cars, a Collision Investigation Unit van, two ambulances, a fire engine, as well as police officers and support staff, several in white protective clothing.
Jason was led away to his house by a female police officer. She asked him to give a witness statement, which she typed into a tablet. When he had finished, he asked the officer if she had attended after the death of the construction site worker the previous week. The officer told him she hadn’t and wasn’t aware of it. ‘Three deaths in a week?’ she queried. ‘A very unfortunate coincidence.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I find that things happen in clusters,’ she said. ‘People often say things happen in threes, don’t they?’
‘They do,’ he agreed bleakly.
‘Well, however sad and tragic it has been, let’s hope that’s it, sir, and you and your wife can enjoy your new home now.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied bleakly.
The officer blushed slightly. ‘I’d just like to say that I’m a very big fan of your work.’
‘You are? Thank you!’
‘My husband and I have a King Charles spaniel. I didn’t realize who you were until just now, so I do apologize.’
‘No need, at all.’
‘I’d actually been thinking about – if I could afford it – commissioning you to do a portrait of our Sally, as a birthday present to my husband.’
‘Well, I’d be delighted to do it, and I’m sure I could give a discount to a police officer!’
‘I couldn’t accept that, sir. But that is immensely kind of you.’
Through the window he saw two people wheeling a trolley with a black bag lying on it. The shape inside the bag was human.
His stomach churned, like a cement mixer. Cold water coursed through his veins. His mind went back to just a short while ago. The Penze-Weedells, happily unloading their Christmas sale bargains.
Minutes later both dead.
Was it just a freaky cluster, as the officer had said?
Or something much darker. Had he and Emily moved into some kind of a portal to Hell?
He’d seen her and himself in the van, struck, rolling over.
He was snapped out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. It was Emily.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked, anxiously. ‘The police have sealed off the road and won’t let me through. I’ve got all the prawns and I need to get them into the house and put them out to defrost, urgently.’
‘Thank God you’re OK, you’re safe.’
‘I’m safe, yes, are you OK?’
‘I’ll come and find you.’
75
Thursday 27 December
Jason hurried away, walking quickly past the carnage of the purple car, avoiding looking in. His view was blocked, in any case, by police and fire and rescue officers. He picked his way through all the emergency vehicles, had a quick word with the police officer on guard at the cordon of blue and white tape, then ran up to Emily’s van, which was parked outside the shell of a partly built house. She was standing beside the vehicle, looking ashen.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘The police wouldn’t say anything. They just told me there’d been an incident. I was so worried something had happened to you.’
‘Our neighbours,’ he said, shakily. ‘Claudette and Maurice. Horrible. Their car malfunctioned – something went horribly wrong. They’re both dead.’
‘What?’
‘They’re dead.’
‘No.’
Another wailing siren was approaching.
He held her in his arms. She felt limp, like a rag doll. ‘It was horrible.’
‘Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you are joking?’
‘I saw it, from my studio window.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Let’s get your prawns. They said they’d allow us through. Just don’t look at the car when we walk past it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Honestly Em, don’t.’
Five minutes later they lugged the plastic bags filled with prawns into their house, and Jason slammed shut the front door, against the horror and the h
orn that was still blaring. Inside there was a stink of chemicals from the fumigation. To his surprise, the Go Pest man had gone, but had left instructions.
‘I looked,’ Emily said. ‘I couldn’t help it.’ She fell, sobbing, against him. ‘Dead? They can’t be dead.’
‘I’m afraid so. He was OK, not a bad old stick. I can’t believe we were having drinks with them only yesterday.’
‘I can’t believe it either,’ she said. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’
‘It is true. But it’s OK.’
‘No, it is not OK. Nothing is OK. We are living in a fucking nightmare.’
The horn suddenly stopped.
‘Just tell me we are imagining all of this, Jason. Tell me it’s not happening.’
For some moments he had no answer. He didn’t know any more what was real and what wasn’t. ‘It’s just a terrible accident. Something went wrong with their car – I don’t know what. I – this may sound odd – but I thought . . .’ He fell silent.
‘Thought what?’
‘I thought I saw you coming. That Maurice was driving straight at you. I thought . . .’ He fell silent again.
He didn’t know what else to say.
Mechanically, on autopilot, he helped her put all the bags of prawns into the twin sinks, and began to run cold water over them, before laying them out on defrosting trays.
‘I’ll help you peel them when they’re done,’ he said.
Tears were running down her face. ‘Where’s it going to stop?’
‘It has stopped.’
‘Has it? Or has it just started?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It’s not going to stop until we’re all dead, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Until everyone here is dead.’
‘Come on, Em, we’ve always dealt with any problems in the past by being strong. Let’s be strong now. Get on with your preparations for tomorrow and shout if you need me to help. Meanwhile, I’ll go back up to my studio. Try to ignore – forget – what’s going on outside, OK?’
She nodded. ‘Wait a sec.’ She tore off a sheet of kitchen towel from a roll, wetted it under the tap, then stepped forward and wiped away remnants of vomit from around his mouth. ‘I love you,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.
‘I love you too.’
He climbed the stairs back up to his studio, trying to put out of his mind the horror of what had happened, and for the next five hours he worked hard, blanking out the police activity down below. Finally, he stood back from his easel and studied the painting of The Skiver. He was pleased with it. He felt he had captured the essence of the furtive, lazy man, against the backdrop of the hub of activity going on.
Just one final tweak, he felt, stepping forward and picking up his thinnest brush, and dipping the tip into white paint.
76
Thursday 27 December
With her catering facilities in the garage out of action, Emily had transferred all the items she needed for tomorrow’s party into the house. In the kitchen, she was busy putting all the lettuce she had washed, along with the prepared tomatoes and cucumber, into separate plastic tubs, ready to assemble the prawn cocktails the following day. She paused occasionally to take a sip from the very large glass of white wine she had poured herself.
When she had finished, she mixed up the cocktail sauce, adding her own spin on it: paprika, tabasco and horseradish. She already had several trays of prawns that were almost ready to peel now. Her plan was to finish all the prawns tonight and store them in the fridge, ready to transport tomorrow.
Next, she would put the first of the bowls of lamb tagine, which she had previously prepared, into the double oven, on low heat, to slow cook overnight. Tomorrow, when – hopefully – Louise would be well enough to help her, they would prepare and pre-cook the vegetables, as well as the six salmon en croûtes that had been ordered for pescatarians, and two vegan dishes. The canapés, chosen by their client, were already prepared and at Louise’s.
They were back on schedule, she thought, with relief.
As she closed the oven doors, she suddenly sensed someone standing behind her.
She turned.
There was no one.
The whole kitchen was feeling like a fridge.
Her breath came out as vapour.
She shivered. The temperature seemed to have dropped, dramatically. She closed the door to the hall, but the room felt even colder still.
And again, she sensed someone standing behind her.
Then she heard a click, and felt a sudden jolt of static electricity on her shoulder.
She spun round.
And stared straight into an angry, shrivelled face.
77
Thursday 27 December
Finally, completely satisfied now, Jason removed The Skiver from his easel and laid it carefully against the wall. He put a new gesso board on the easel, and removed the photograph of the construction worker. His mind turned to the miserable old couple in the pub – he could see them sitting there, but could he recall their faces enough to paint the detail he wanted? It was a bugger that the photograph had gone.
In his mind the old man had been saying, I should have divorced you twenty years ago but now I’m stuck with you until death truly do us part. And the woman was saying, I don’t like you but you’re better than nothing.
More in hope than anything else, he clicked on his photo album on his phone and, to his amazement and joy, the photograph was back. Had it really ever gone, or had he mistakenly filed it elsewhere?
All had been quiet downstairs for a long while. Outside, in the street below, some bright floodlights had been set up. He glanced out and saw a team of people, in white oversuits, on their hands and knees inside the cordon doing a fingertip search, while another group, identically dressed, was filming or photographing with a large camera.
He was hungry. Maybe he’d grab a bite to eat before he started, make a strong coffee, and work on into the night. He realized he was almost living on coffee and would have to try and cut his caffeine intake after the exhibition, when things quietened down.
The door burst open behind him.
78
Thursday 27 December
Emily stood there, looking terrible and breathless, close to hysterics, her chef’s cap about to fall off.
‘Jason!’ Her voice was close to a scream.
‘What?’
‘There was someone standing behind me in the kitchen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A woman.’ She nodded at him, as if he should know who it was.
‘A woman? What do you mean? Who?’
She started shaking. So much so that for some seconds she struggled to speak, then finally she blurted, ‘Angry. She looked so angry. Hideous. Oh God, so horrible.’
‘What woman do you mean?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘How? Did you open the door to the garage or something? Paul from Go Pest told us under no circumstances should it be opened until he advised us. Don’t you remember?’
‘I. Did. Not. Open. The door,’ she said adamantly.
Her tone was enough to snap him out of denial for a moment.
‘She was standing behind me. She was there and then she wasn’t. I saw her. Then she vanished.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘She was horrible. So horrible. She had on a sort of long, blue dress, like really old-fashioned, with yellow shoes and a really wrinkled – wizened – old-lady face. She spoke to me.’
‘What did she say?’
‘God, her voice was kind of croaky, and vile – really nasty. Evil.’
‘What did she say Em?’
‘She said, No one ever leaves here. Then something like, You’ll be joining me, soon. You and your husband. Everyone here always does. Don’t bother buying him any birthday presents. He won’t need them here.’
He wrapped his arms around her, a
ware of the surgical gloves on his hands. She was shaking uncontrollably.
‘Babes, we’re going to sort this out.’
‘I saw her. I saw her. She touched me. I heard her speak. And, oh yes, she said something else. She said to tell you her name is Matilda.’
‘Matilda? Why does that ring a bell?’
‘Why? I’ll tell you why it rings a bell. That history book you brought home from the library, remember?’
It was on his desk. ‘Yes. The one we googled.’
‘I read the bit out to you last week.’ She marched over, picked the book up and thumbed through it. Then read aloud.
‘Cold Hill House was built to the order of Sir Brangwyn De Glossope, on the site of monastic ruins, during the 1750s. His first wife, Matilda, daughter and heiress from the rich Sussex landowning family, the Warre-Spences, disappeared, childless, a year after they moved into the property. It was her money that had funded the building of the house – De Glossope being near penniless at the time of their marriage. It was rumoured that De Glossope murdered her and disposed of her body, to free him to travel abroad with his mistress, Evelyne Tyler.’
‘Matilda De Glossope is the woman you saw in the garage?’
‘You tell me.’
There was a loud bang above them.
The room was plunged into darkness.
79
Thursday 27 December
With the torch beam from his phone, Jason made his way downstairs, closely followed by Emily, through the kitchen and into the utility room. He found the fuse box, opened the lid and immediately saw the red master switch that had tripped. He flipped it back up and the lights came back on. He closed the lid.
‘It didn’t just trip by itself,’ Emily said.
‘These things are very sensitive. A bulb blowing can trip them.’
‘Or a ghost?’
Just as he smiled, it tripped again with a loud report.
As loud as a pistol shot.
