Gunstone exhaled a long, fearful groan before tearing himself away from the window and lumbering out to the stairs. He descended them awkwardly in his heavy rubber boots, but his pace never slackened. At the bottom he turned towards the back of the house, calling his wife’s name again and again as he ran. The door there was open wide and he hurried through, crossing the yard to the gate in the wild hedge. Unable to see his wife anymore, he came to a halt. Although the fire was reaching high into the sky and flushing the mists with its glow, Nell was nowhere in sight.
He lumbered off again, his breathing laboured, his chest tight with the effort. Where was she, where was his Nell? He let out an anguished yell. ‘Yer silly ol’ fool, why’d yer come out here, why’d yer leave yer nice safe bed? It weren’t genuine, this bloody fire. God ’elp us, it’s only a ghost thing, it don’t really exist!’
But if it wasn’t real, why was he beginning to feel its warmth? Why was the skin on his face prickling with its heat, and why were his eyes beginning to hurt just looking into its glare? Why, if the fire didn’t exist?
The exertion was finally becoming too much for him, and he slowed to an exhausted lope. His chest pounded and he could hear his own scratchy gasps. He was a tough, hardworking man, had been all his life, but he was getting on now, his stamina wasn’t what it used to be. The lope had become a sluggish, clumsy hobble.
He saw her then. Nellie was lying in a heap on the ground before the fire. She looked almost like a mound in the earth itself.
‘Oh Nell …’ he said. ‘What have yer done, girl…?’
Sam Gunstone dropped to his knees beside his slumped wife, already aware that she was dead: he could feel her absence. He touched her shoulder and the warmth he felt was not from her but from the conflagration nearby, from the flames of a fire that did not exist.
He roared then. He confronted the ghostly fire and screamed his outrage and pain.
And when finally he turned his wife’s face towards him, perhaps to kiss her one last time and in a way he had not kissed her for many a year, he saw the horror frozen there in her dead eyes.
Ruth Cauldwell stirred the coffee without realizing she had not put sugar in the mug. She stared at the miniature whirlpool she had created with the spoon, her thoughts drawn into the vortex, swilling round and round, moving faster with the descent, becoming confused, jumbled, disappearing into the dark centre, becoming … nothing.
Her slumped head snapped erect and she dropped the spoon onto the kitchen table. The coffee continued to circle, but the whirlpool flattened and was soon gone; it seemed to Ruth that the thoughts that had been drawn from her were returned in an instant and she gave a faint moan as she leaned back in the chair. Her neck arched and for a moment or two she gazed at the ceiling.
The light bulb above the kitchen table was like an eye watching her, studying her every move, every expression, every nuance of speech. It spied on her, as did all the light bulbs in the house, but she never let on she knew. She wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t some dumb bitch who didn’t know what was going on. She’d caught her mother watching her out of the corner of her eyes. Even Sarah, her little sister, had been told to spy on her. They wanted to catch Ruth out, they thought they could discover her secret.
But Ruth wouldn’t turn on the lights, even if the house was growing dark. The light bulbs couldn’t see her then, could they? Not if they had no power. They wouldn’t be able to report back, and nor would the mirrors, because she wouldn’t look into them. She hated seeing her own reflection anyway, because then she could see the secret in herself so plainly, and if it was so obvious to her, it would soon be obvious to everyone else. They would see her sin, her filth, the horrible dirty things she had done with …
She slumped forward again, elbows cracking against the table’s surface, her head over the coffee cup so that rising steam warmed the chill from her face. Bubbles swirled around the mug’s rim like tiny floating eyes and these, too, were watching her, keeping a check on her while her mother was visiting her father in jail. She knew her mother had given the house instructions to mind her daughter while she was gone, see if she got up to her filth again.
It isn’t my fault, Mummy! It’s him, don’t you see? He makes me …
Careful. Almost screamed aloud just then. Mustn’t do that, mustn’t let the house know. Nor Sarah.
The sleeve of her blouse had worked loose and she hastily did up the button again, covering the flesh of her wrist. She checked the neck button, reassuring herself that this, too, was secure.
Mustn’t show anything. Mustn’t let Munce see any bare parts. Oh please, don’t let him come again tonight.
Her skin seemed to crawl at the very notion.
Think of something else! Think of poor Daddy. Mummy had said it would help his case if Ruth agreed that Danny Marsh had attacked her out there in the woods. Why was she being such a daft, obstinate girl by denying what had happened? The marks were all over her body, and her clothes had been torn when she had staggered home that day. Just tell the police and Daddy’s lawyer the truth so that Daddy wouldn’t be charged with murder. He might not even be convicted of manslaughter if a jury knew how horribly she’d been attacked. All through the day Ruth’s mother had persisted, never giving her a moment’s peace. And at night, in the quietness of her own bedroom, when Ruth was alone …
She shuddered, the spasm jolting her from tip to toe. She didn’t want to think about that …
Her sister’s voice wafted down the corridor from her room, the song off-key as usual, but Sarah’s enthusiasm undiminished. The sound almost brought a smile to Ruth’s lips. Sarah didn’t understand any of what was going on. She was lost in her own innocent world of dollies and Disney. She was sure the policemen would let Daddy go as soon as Ruth told them about the silly boy who had tried to kiss and cuddle her.
Ruth stole a surreptitious glance at the ceiling light again. You can’t see inside me. No one can. Not you, not Mummy, not Daddy. And you couldn’t see him, either, you couldn’t see Munce. If you could, then you’d let Mummy and Daddy know, and then they’d understand, they’d know the secret, they’d know what he does …
She hunched her shoulders even more and clasped her hands under her nose, thumbs pressing against her lips. A wisp of white steam rose from the coffee. The singing from her sister’s bedroom stopped and the house became very quiet.
How shadowy it was in the kitchen. And how gloomy outside. The windowpanes were no longer clear; they looked as if they had been smeared a dirty grey-yellow colour. She ought to turn on the lights now. They couldn’t really see her, that was only in her own imagination. Honestly, she was aware of that; but it made no difference. She supposed it was like being hypnotized: a person could be conscious of their ridiculous actions, yet unable to change them; in a trance they seemed entirely natural. That’s how she felt. She knew perfectly well that the light bulbs were not spies, but she could not stop her mind from telling her they were and then acting accordingly. It was the same with Joseph Munce. She couldn’t possibly have met him in the woods the other day, because he was dead, and he couldn’t visit her at night to touch her, feel her, do those filthy things …
Ruth laughed, a nervous cackle brought about by both embarrassment and fear. It was only a short laugh.
The coffee was still hot, but she forced herself to take a sip. The pain was good for her. She sipped again, welcoming the burn. That was reality, she told herself. Sharp, unpleasant, but fact. The coffee was hot so it burnt her lips. No dispute, no deception, no mind games. The light bulb was a light bulb, nothing more than that; the mirrors reflected images, they didn’t make x-rays of your secret self.
Munce was dead, he could never come back.
Munce was dead, he could never come back.
Munce was dead, he could never come back.
Then why was he here at this moment?
Why was that familiar coldness shrinking her skin?
What was that shuffling she could hear through the p
artly open kitchen door?
What was that stink if it wasn’t body corruption?
What was that phlegmy murmuring if it wasn’t from a rotted throat?
What were all those things if Munce wasn’t outside in the passage?
Ruth swivelled slowly in the chair so that she could see the gap in the door. The shuffling was coming closer. Although it was dark, something even darker filled the opening. Something was waiting there. Something was watching her.
Ruth opened her mouth to scream even though she was aware that no scream would come. It never did. It always stayed locked inside her chest whenever he came to her. He even challenged her to cry out, but it was never ever any good - her throat was paralysed.
Wide-eyed, Ruth stared at the narrow shadow, one hand gripping the back of the chair, her body shaking, but so imperceptibly that an onlooker might have thought she was perfectly still. She wanted to plead; no sound came. She wanted to flee; she could not move. She wanted to kill; he was already dead.
But there was an answer to all this, there was a way of preventing his vile, putrid hands touching her body. Or at least, there was a way she could prevent herself from feeling his touch. She cast her gaze around the kitchen, looking for a knife. Her wrists first, and then her throat. It would be easy. And this way no one would ever know how she had allowed Munce to touch her so. Or how his touch had aroused her.
No knife was in view, but she knew where they were kept. Her attention went back to the open door.
The shadow was gone.
But she heard the shuffling once more.
He was going away. Munce was leaving her.
Her body sagged. She wanted to weep, she wanted to sink to the floor and thank God for this mercy. She listened, wanting to be certain. She could still hear the movement, but it was definitely receding.
And then it stopped, and she heard a door handle rattle.
A door opened. And she heard Sarah scream.
Ruth understood.
‘Nooooooo!’
Her own scream had finally broken free as her chair tipped over and she lunged towards the kitchen drawer. She yanked it open, pulling it too far, tipping its contents onto the floor. Falling to her knees and ignoring the barbs of pain that stung her flesh, Ruth swept her hands through the cutlery, finding the broad-bladed carving knife. She gripped its wooden handle and staggered to her feet. Her legs felt stiff, uncoordinated, but she forced them to take her to the kitchen door. Sarah’s second scream sent Ruth stumbling through and then she was running down the passage, knife held high over her head, her own scream wilder, more fearful even than her young sister’s.
Ellen Preddle waited. And her dead son waited with her.
Simon sat in the lumpy armchair by the empty fireplace, his frail naked body as pale as alabaster, while his mother had drawn up a chair opposite him. Although directly in his line of vision, Ellen was not sure if her son really saw her, for there was no recognition in his eyes. By facing him this way she could at least pretend he was aware of her. She exhaled a small white cloud each time she breathed and now she pulled the knitted cardigan tighter across her chest to keep out the chill. No such breath-clouds came from Simon’s mouth, and even though he was unclothed, she had not seen him shiver.
Fresh tears seemed unavailable to her, although the handker-chief clasped between her fingers was sodden from those shed earlier. Perhaps she had cried them all; perhaps even grief could wear itself out. The tears would come again when the pain resurfaced.
Simon, her Simon, was gone. She realized that at last. The little figure that sat there was not her son, it was not his flesh and blood: it was his ghost. Simon was dead. She had finally accepted the fact. And nothing would ever bring him back. But if she could just have this - his spirit, his soul, whatever it was that sat opposite her - so that she knew there was something more, that death didn’t mean oblivion, then perhaps she could be satisfied. This was better than being without Simon entirely.
She remembered the moment a few hours ago when she had come down from her bedroom, having wept the afternoon away, and had found him there, hands in his lap, his narrow shoulders hunched forward. Simon had always huddled that way when he was afraid, and there was only one thing he had ever truly feared, and that had been his dad. She had rushed towards him, meaning to take his naked body in her arms and soothe away the dread, but something had held her back; somehow she knew that if she touched him she would discover he was not really there, he was visible only in her mind, and that would mean she’d be alone again, and the truth forever more would demean the dream.
Other truths had come to her as she had taken her place opposite him. Thoughts had plagued her during the night, notions that worried her, tormented her, but were never fully realized. During these last few hours they had taken on more certain form.
Simon was dead, and his father had killed him.
George Preddle, himself, had died as he had lived: miserably. The wretchedness of his own life had been inflicted on those around him, so that she and Simon had suffered years of his abuse. He had hated them both, but for some reason that Ellen had never quite understood, he had hated his son more than his wife. Only on the night before George’s death did she discover why it was so, for it was then that he had taunted her about their bastard boy. How he had come to regard Simon as such she could not fathom, but his jibes were as relentless as they were malicious, and eventually she had understood it was the sickness of his own soul that made him believe in his own words. Probably he couldn’t understand Simon’s goodness, his innocence, his love of all things, especially his mother, and how different he was from George himself. In looks, the son favoured his mother, but Simon was George’s child, for she had never as much as looked at another man since their marriage. No, his insistence that Simon was not his son went much deeper than misguided belief in her infidelity: it was because of his own sexual abuse of Simon that he repudiated any blood-tie, for in his evil, twisted mind that would make his offence against the boy incestuous and that - oh, the sickness of it - that just wasn’t natural.
Sometimes she had suspected what was going on, but because Simon never complained, never even hinted at his father’s attention, she pushed the suspicions away, for to know for sure would have been too painful and the shame too hard to bear. She had remembered Simon’s unaccountable moods, the times he hid away in his room, withdrawn and tearful, particularly after he had been left alone with his drunken father, and now she wondered what threats from George had sealed her son’s lips. Yes, she had suspected and often - especially when Simon had regarded her with those dark, reproachful eyes of his - she had determined to do something about the situation. Indeed, at one time she had.
Ellen had gone to the vicarage and confided her fears to Reverend Lockwood. How shocked her pastor had been by the allegation and how he had assured her she must be wrong, that although George Preddle was a foolish and idle man - yes, yes, a drunkard even - he would never act in the way she suggested towards his own son. She was surely mistaken. Certainly he would talk to her husband, remind him of his duty towards his family and, if she insisted, confront him with her suspicions. Leave it to him, he would sort out old George, but mention her concerns to no one else. Remember, social workers and local authorities were only too eager these days to break up perfectly good homes at the slightest hint of child abuse, and the last thing Ellen would want was for young Simon to be taken into care. Think of what happened to all those poor families in the Orkneys.
The thought of her son being snatched away from her - it seemed that every week you read about that sort of thing in the newspapers - filled her with a worse dread than before. She only suspected what was going on, and Simon had never actually spoken of it. He knew how much his mother loved him, so surely he would have told her, even if he was afraid of his father. Unless, of course, he was not afraid for himself alone, but for his mother too … No, no, she couldn’t let herself think that, it would have been too horrible. Besides t
here were no marks on Simon, no bruises. Reverend Lockwood had promised to speak to George, and George might bluster, he might rant and rage, but he was a craven half-wit outside the home and he would pay heed to the vicar’s words.
One evening shortly after, George had returned to the cottage even more drunk than usual and in a furious temper. He had cursed her, and shook her so badly that she had collapsed to the floor. The vicar had spoken to him all right, her husband had told her sneeringly, oh yes, the high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou Reverend Lockwood had had a few words to say to him, but there was no problem, was there? Y’see, he and the squarson saw eye-to-eye, didn’t they? The reverend understood old George. So don’t you ever forget it, you stupid fat sow.
The leer on his face had been sickening, and when he’d kicked her for good measure as she lay on the floor, he had sniggered and announced that the boy would get what was coming to him before too long and nobody would do anything about it.
Ellen had crawled up the stairs and into Simon’s tiny bedroom and she had cuddled her son while they listened to George vent the rest of his anger on the furniture downstairs. Occasionally they heard him laugh aloud and call out, his words incomprehensible, but he had not come up after her. And he had not touched the boy the next day, or any day since.
But sometimes, when Simon was in the bath and she sat on the stool by the side, telling him stories, helping him wash his hair, George would appear in the open doorway, not always drunk, and just watch the boy with a peculiar expression on his face. Simon would cover himself by curling up, chin against his knees, while she would push her husband from the doorway and along the landing into their bedroom. More than once on those occasions, to appease George, to keep him away from the bathroom door, Ellen had to do things with him that shamed her, dirty, bestial things that no woman should ever be forced to do by another person. If it kept Simon safe, though, if it kept those filthy, leering eyes off her son, then what did it matter?