‘D’you mind if I use this recorder?’ he asked, reaching into his pocket and showing her the diminutive machine.
She did not reply; she didn’t even glance at it.
Ash switched on the cassette recorder and left it on the floor between them. ‘I’d like you to tell me exactly what you’ve seen since your son passed on, Mrs Preddle.’ He kept his voice low, afraid she might feel intimidated. ‘Mrs Preddle?’ he repeated when she failed to respond.
‘I told Reverend Lockwood,’ she said after a while.
‘Yes, I know. But now I want you to tell me. I have to hear it in your own words, you see. Simon was buried three weeks ago, wasn’t he?’
Again there was a lengthy pause. Then she said, ‘Was it so long? Three weeks? Yes, it must be, that’s when they buried my poor boy.’
‘And you saw him afterwards?’ His voice was coaxing.
‘Simon was waiting for me when I got back from the funeral. He was sitting in this very chair.’ She touched the arms as if to indicate the place.
‘You actually saw him?’ It was a necessary repetition, for often in such cases a person merely felt a presence, their own emotions making the connection between the experience and the loved one.
She nodded, the movement, as before, slow and deliberate.
‘Was it a clear vision? Could you see all of him?’
This time her reply was forceful. ‘Simon was here. He was in this chair.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
Yet again he had to wait for an answer. ‘He doesn’t have to speak to me. He’s just happy being here.’
The sound of the tap running came from the kitchen, then the clatter of cups and saucers. He nudged the micro-recorder closer to Ellen Preddle with his foot. ‘How many times has Simon visited you?’
For the first time the faintest trace of a smile touched her lips. ‘Oh, Simon was here most of the time. It was like … before … when …’
‘When he was alive?’ he finished for her.
She flinched at that, as though it were a shock, and Ash began to suspect that the woman had deep psychological problems caused by more than just bereavement. Her grief was natural enough, and her refusal to accept her loss was not extraordinary; however, the lengths she had gone to in order to convince herself her son was still alive were far from natural. Grace had already told him her father had learned that after the boy had been buried Ellen Preddle had carried on as though he were still with her, following her around, chatting with her, helping her with the housework. She had tucked him up in bed at night, told him bedtime stories, even cooked his meals (no doubt deluding herself that he had eaten the food as she wiped the plates into the bin). Yet her subconscious had told her that none of this was possible, that Simon really had drowned in the bath and was now buried up there in the cemetery, and this was why she had hardly left the house these past three weeks, for outside lay reality, outside there could be no Simon, people would sympathize with her, even weep, or try to convince her he was gone. Most importantly, they would not see him, and that would mean he didn’t exist. Ellen had shut herself away so that her son could live on.
Ash sighed inwardly, depressed at the conflict that was going on inside this woman. The fact that only moments before she had accepted his use of the term ‘vision’ meant she was becoming more aware of her own self-deception. Eventually, and it could take years, she might even concede that Simon’s ghost was nothing more than her own overwrought imagination. As for Reverend Lockwood’s alleged sighting of the boy in this very house, well, that could be due to collective hysteria, the woman’s strong impressions transferred to the cleric’s own mind, which, in Ash’s opinion, was already somewhat unstable. Then other sightings in Sleath might be part of the same syndrome too, for collective hysteria was not uncommon and, as the term suggested, could easily be spread from one to another. Multiple observations of UFOs, whole groups of people - particularly pubescent girls - fainting for no apparent reason, mass rioting in stadiums or cities: they were different forms of the same phenomenon.
Her voice broke into his thoughts.
‘Can you help my boy?’ She was staring hard at him.
‘Why should he need help, Ellen? If you’re asking me to lay his soul to rest, then I’m afraid I can’t.’ He was humouring her, but not spitefully: if she honestly believed her son had returned from the grave, then she would also believe he could be set at peace again. ‘Reverend Lockwood could do that for you, though. Priests often perform such ceremonies.’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘You don’t understand. I want Simon to be left alone. I want him to leave us be!’
Ash was taken aback by the strength of her outburst. He leaned forward in the chair, keeping his voice even. ‘Who are you talking about?’
A sudden crash and then a cry from the kitchen caused him to spin round in his seat. Grace appeared in the doorway, one hand holding on to the doorframe to steady herself, the other touching her forehead. As he watched, blood seeped through her fingers and ran down to her wrist.
He rose to go to her, but Ellen Preddle sprang forward from the armchair with surprising agility and grasped his sleeve.
‘Him!’ she hissed up at him, her pale face contorted with a mixture of fear and loathing. ‘Simon’s father! Don’t you understand? He’s come back from the dead to hurt us both!’
13
DANNY MARSH SLUMPED on the scarred wooden bench facing the village green and pond, one arm hanging limp over the back, a bent leg resting along the seat itself. A few yards away stood the stocks and whipping post, unused but still admired by certain members of the community who thought that law and order had irretrievably broken down since flogging and hanging had been abolished. The youth was scowling, paying little attention to the occasional car, or even more occasional bus, that drove by. It was late afternoon and few people were about: it was too hot for strolling and only the odd delivery van stopping outside the shops saved the day from complete tedium. The school bus bringing the village children back from their lessons in the nearby town would arrive shortly, but nobody put out banners for that.
He stretched a hand towards his denim jacket lying over the opposite arm of the bench, worming his fingers into a pocket and pulling out a stick of chewing gum. Last one. He unwrapped it, rolled it into his mouth, and tossed the screwed-up wrapper onto the grass. He chewed, the sweetness immediately neutralizing the stale lingering taste of the cider he’d consumed earlier in the day. Why did something so welcome at the time turn so nasty in your mouth and belly later on? And why did something that made you feel good at the time make you feel so bloody awful afterwards? These were important questions to ponder and he took his time over them, but when no definite conclusions were drawn his thoughts, as ever, returned to Ruth.
Shit, he hadn’t meant to frighten her. There was no need for her to run off like that. He only wanted to show her how much he liked - how much he loved her - that was all. And he really did, he really did love her. Christ, he had spent half his day - half his bloody day! - in the bar of the Black Boar just so he could be near her. Didn’t she appreciate that? He worked all week, Saturday and Sunday mornings, too, and he’d spent his one day off stuck inside a gloomy old pub mooning after her. He’d only wanted to talk to her afterwards. That’s why he’d waited in the lane, knowing she’d be coming along sooner or later. Bloody hell, she’d liked him well enough the week before. She’d gone strange, had Ruthy, gone bloody weird. Like a few others around these parts. Loony, that’s what. He hadn’t meant her no harm, though. Just a kiss, a chat, that’s all he’d wanted. So he’d got the wrong message. When she didn’t pull away he thought she’d wanted him to touch her. Why couldn’t she have just told him she wasn’t interested, why did she have to run off into the woods? He might have gone after her, but not when she was in a mood like that. No bloody fear! Enough was enough. Let someone else do the chasing now. He was through with her and her stuck-up ways. Plenny more fish in the sea and pebbl
es on the beach. Maybe she’d get over it, though. He was sure she liked him. Maybe if he left it for a week or so. Or a coupla days. Maybe he’d call her tomorrow. He’d explain it to her. Buy her some flowers. Get down on his bloody knees and tell her he was sorry, that’s what he’d do. Come on, Ruth, give us a chance.
Preoccupied with such wretched musings, Danny failed to notice the rusty grey pick-up truck that drove past the green. His head jerked up, though, when he heard the sudden screech of brakes. To his astonishment, the truck reversed back along the road at a dangerous speed to a point across the grass opposite to where he sat.
He jerked upright when the truck door sprang open and Ralph Cauldwell, Ruth’s father, jumped down from the cab. He was holding something down by his side that Danny failed to recognize at first; then, as he drew nearer, the youth realized Ruth’s father was carrying one of his carpentry tools. The man, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, was glaring at Danny and as he advanced, he raised the heavy-looking mallet he held in his right hand and brought it down with a resounding smack into the open palm of his left.
‘Mr Cauldwell …’ Danny began nervously. He half-rose, not caring for the expression on the man’s face.
‘Dirty … bloody … little … swine …’ The words were squeezed out between the carpenter’s gritted teeth. ‘Dirty … little …’
‘Mr Cauldwell?’ The youth had frozen mid-rise, the decision on whether to remain there or run quite irrelevant, for his limbs seemed to be locked solid. His jaw dropped open.
‘Touch my daughter, would you?’
Danny could barely comprehend the man’s words. Touch his … daughter? Ruth?
Cauldwell was almost upon him, the mallet beginning a steady ascent over the carpenter’s head.
‘Filthy … scummy … little …’
Danny noticed there were shiny wet rivulets on the carpenter’s cheeks.
Ralph Cauldwell blinked to clear the tears of rage and frustration so that he could see his intended victim - the dirty little scummy bastard - without hindrance. This lout … this animal … this obscenity! … had laid his stinking hands on Ruth, had tried to … had tried to … Cauldwell would not allow the picture to form in his mind. He, Ruth’s father, had let her down before, had blindly permitted Munce to debase his daughter, not seeing what was going on under his very nose, not realizing, not being there to prevent that perverted beast from touching her, from sticking his vile … his vile thing … into Ruth’s poor innocent little body. He screamed his pain and anger and outrage and despair as he brought the weighty wooden mallet down hard against the youth’s skull.
Danny’s arms were raised to ward off what he knew was coming and the mallet smashed one of his wrists on its way to his skull. The sound when the weapon connected with its true target was not unlike the thwack of leather on willow, the cricket ball against the bat, and so was not incongruous in this very English setting. It resounded across the common, a sharp, almost pleasing noise in the still summer’s afternoon.
Danny did not scream as he collapsed against the bench. He could not scream, for the shell of his skull splintered and broke and pressed in on all kinds of paralysing nerves and tissues. However, his assailant screamed for him.
‘You bastard! You filthy scum!’
Cauldwell brought the mallet down and down again on Danny’s unresisting body, against his arms, his shoulders, his spine, his quivering legs, working up again towards the head, shattering the skull, sending splatters of red mixed with glossy clogs of matter onto the grass all around. A thick river of spittle drooled from the youth’s mouth onto the wooden slats of the bench seat; it began to discolour to pink, and before long it was a deep red flow.
Tradesmen, alerted by the carpenter’s shouts, appeared in shop doorways. Faces peered through open windows.
‘You … you touched my girl … you …’
Cauldwell’s revenge continued relentlessly. Poor Ruth, she’d arrived home in a shocking state, barely able to speak, her clothes dishevelled and torn, her blouse open, her forehead grazed, her arms and legs cut. He’d been in the workshop and she’d collapsed into his arms, babbling about Munce and Danny, her words making no sense, but the connection instant within Cauldwell’s own mind. He had never forgotten nor forgiven the degenerate Munce, just as he had never forgotten nor forgiven himself for his own failings. He had allowed it to happen through his own ignorance and vowed that nobody would ever hurt his child again. But he had failed her yet again.
And now the little bastard - the little bastard who had been sunning himself on the village green as if he hadn’t a care in the world! - had paid the price. Oh, he cared now, all right, lying there on the bench vomiting blood, his body twitching like some disgusting insect stuck on a needle. He saw the error of his ways now. He was one sick bastard who would never do anything like it again, not to anyone. No sir, not to anyone.
Cauldwell tried to control his own shaking. Someone called out from one of the nearby shop doorways. It might even have been his own name that was being called. But the carpenter took no notice. He wasn’t done yet. Not by a long chalk.
He straightened, looking down at the still-twitching body as he did so. He turned and walked stiffly back to the truck whose engine was still idling. He tossed the bloodied mallet onto the passenger seat and reached across into the metal tool box he always carried in the vehicle with him. He rummaged for a particular tool that lay at the bottom of the long box and when his trembling hand found its sturdy handle he lifted it out and marched determinedly back to the bench. Surprisingly the youth was still conscious - after a fashion - and was burbling incessantly. The sounds he uttered made little sense. Perhaps he was pleading for his life.
Several of the villagers were warily, and certainly reluctantly, crossing the road, aware that they must do something, they must intervene before the lad was killed - if he wasn’t dead already, that is. But they had recognized Ralph Cauldwell and were apprehensive of his strength and his temper - hadn’t he half-killed that wretched pervert Munce all those years ago?
‘Ralph,’ the owner of the hardware store where Cauldwell purchased a lot of his materials as well as many of his tools called out cautiously. ‘Calm down now, Ralph lad.’
But Cauldwell had more work to do.
He dragged the body off the bench and knelt beside it.
Danny Marsh lay on his back and stared up into the wonderfully blue sky. Whether or not he appreciated that blueness was impossible to tell, but one eye did move, flicking from left to right, right to left, as if keen to take in the whole vista. Even his lips moved, although the small sounds he made became quieter and quieter until they were almost impossible to hear.
Ruth’s father lifted the new heavier tool he had brought from the truck. He had chosen it on impulse, for he had used this particular instrument many times on Munce, although only in his imagination. In fact in his mind he had used it on the deviate every time lengths of wood had to be shaved and smoothed down. He’d continued to imagine using it on Munce even when the child molester had cut off his own genitalia late one night in his cell and had bled to death by the next morning.
He poised the metal jack plane over the youth’s face. ‘I’ll see you never want to talk to another poor innocent girl again, boy.’ He lowered the tool until the cutting blade rested on the youth’s cheek. ‘I’ll show you, boy.’ There were sobs between the words. Sobs, but no pity. ‘I’ll … show … you …’
The school bus drew up at the stop just across the road from where Ralph Cauldwell’s truck was so badly parked. Small, interested faces pressed against the glass as the carpenter began to plane away the skin and bone from Danny Marsh’s face.
14
‘KATE, IT’S DAVID.’
He took a swift nip of vodka from the hip flask as she answered.
‘Too soon to tell,’ he replied to her question.
‘On the surface it’s just another one of those idyllic little vil
lages the tourists dream about. Funny thing, though, there are no tourists. It’s a pretty tight community.’
‘Have you managed to find suitable lodgings?’ Kate asked.
‘Yeah, the Black Boar Inn.’
‘It’s an inn?’
He grinned at her reproving tone. ‘Well, it’s a hotel, too. The only one here.’
‘Then you take it easy.’
‘Never drink on the job, boss.’
‘Why don’t I believe you? Seriously, David -’
‘Okay, Kate.’ His interruption was brusque. ‘I’ve never let you down on a case yet.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve picked a beautiful few days to spend in the country.’
‘Yeah, glorious. Look, things have occurred here that suggest - suggest strongly - paranormal activity. Sleath’s vicar has even witnessed one of the manifestations.’ Ash, who was sprawled on the bed in his room at the Black Boar Inn, reached towards his pack of cigarettes on the bedside cabinet. His suitcase lay open beside him.
The clergy generally make reliable witnesses,’ Kate McCar-rick said as he drew out a cigarette with his lips. ‘Did he mention why his daughter contacted the Institute directly rather than go through the normal channels of his own church elders?’
‘Embarrassment, I think. They wanted an expert opinion before they took it further. There’s a strange atmosphere about this place, incidentally. I’ve got to admit, it makes me uncomfortable.’ He wedged the receiver between chin and shoulder as he lit the cigarette.