*
The story is best told from Francis Wells’ perspective from now on.
I was approached by the Reverend Michael Carsey, a vicar of the Church of the Good Shepherd, and parish priest for the area of Hove 4 in the city of Brighton and Hove. He had been contacted by two of his parishioners, Paul and Meg Ryerson, with a story that he found convincing, but was uncertain how to deal with the situation. He suggested I should talk to them myself.
I visited their very pleasant house, and found them to be very down-to-earth people, both from Anglican backgrounds, but lapsed. The wife, Meg, was more of a believer than her husband, Paul – but that’s not to say he was a sceptic; in my view he was more of an agnostic.
I listened to their story, about the apparition of the one-legged woman, and the subsequent verification of her identity from a neighbour. I studied the portrait myself and compared it to photographs I was subsequently able to obtain of the deceased, Alwyn Hughes, and there was little doubt, in my own mind, that the two were the same person.
I decided that, perhaps owing to the manner of her death – suicide – the spirit of Alwyn Hughes was earthbound, which in layman’s terms means that the spirit was unaware the body was gone and was manifesting in familiar territory in an attempt to find it.
Whilst nothing of a specifically malevolent nature was occurring, the sightings of Alwyn Hughes were clearly deeply distressing to both Paul and Meg Ryerson, and affecting their quality of life. After interviewing them in depth I became further convinced that they genuinely believed what they had seen.
Neither of them had suffered any bereavement of a family member or friend within the past two years, and they were both, in my opinion, of sound mind, intelligent and rational people.
The tragic story they told me of the past occupants of their property checked out, with the death of Mrs Alwyn Hughes registered, following the inquest and the Coroner’s verdict, as suicide whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed.
I decided that the appropriate, if exceptional, action to be taken in the first instance should be a requiem mass, held in the room in the home where the sightings of the apparition had taken place.
On 3 June, I attended the Ryersons’ home, accompanied by a young curate, an extremely rational young man who had begun his career as an engineer and who, I knew from many conversations with him, had a problem, as I did myself at that time, with the conventional image of the Biblical God. So, if you like, we were two sceptics turning up to help two equally sceptical, but very scared and confused people. However, I had decided on a highly conventional approach. We were to hold a full requiem mass, essentially a full, high-Anglican funeral service, in an attempt to lay the unrested spirit to rest.
We set out on a table all the requisites for a full communion, and began the service, with Paul and Meg Ryerson standing in front of us. Part of the way through, as I had broken the bread and given them both the host and was about to offer the communion wine, suddenly each of them went sheet white and I saw them staring past me at something.
I turned around, and to my utter astonishment I saw a woman standing on one leg, on crutches, right behind me. She gave me a quizzical smile, as if uncertain what to do.
Totally spontaneously, I said to her, ‘You can go now.’
She smiled at me. Then, as if in a movie, she slowly dissolved, until she had vanished completely. I turned back around to face the Ryersons.
‘Incredible!’ Meg said.
‘That is unbelievable!’ her husband said.
‘What did you both see?’ I asked them.
Each of them, fighting to get it out first, described exactly what I had seen.
I was invited to their home, for a very boozy dinner, a year later. It looked, and felt, like a totally different house. It wasn’t just the complete décor makeover it had had. It was imbued with a positive energy that had been totally lacking, or suppressed, previously.
I often think back to that night I saw the one-legged lady, Alwyn Hughes. Had she been a product of my imagination? I think not. But if not, then what, in this rational world of ours, had I seen? A ghost?
Yes, I truly think so.
TIMING IS EVERYTHING
It was finally Tuesday. Tuesdays were always a special day of the week for Larry Goodman, and this one seemed to have taken an extra-long time to arrive. He was excited, like a big kid, his tummy full of butterflies. Not long now! He shaved more closely than normal, applied an extra amount of his Bulgari cologne that the lady of his life particularly liked, dressed carefully, and ate a quick breakfast.
At 7 a.m. he kissed his wife goodbye. Elaine, who was breastfeeding their baby son, Max. She told him to have a great day at the office. He assured her he would, and left their swanky Staten Island home with a broad smile on his face. It was a beautiful, warm, cloudless morning, which made his mood even better, if that was possible. Oh yes, he would have a great day all right – well, a great morning at any rate!
Forty minutes later he alighted from the ferry onto Manhattan, took the subway up to 57th street, and walked the short distance to the midtown Holiday Inn. His secretary would cover for him, as she did every Tuesday and Friday morning at this same time, telling anyone who was looking for him that he had a breakfast meeting out with a client.
Bang on cue, his cell pinged with a text, just as he entered the foyer.
2130 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He cast a nervous eye around, but all he saw was a cluster of Japanese tourists, a group of elderly ladies, and a young couple standing at the front desk wearing huge backpacks. This was not a place where players from Wall Street hung out, nor high-powered attorneys.
He texted back:
Get naked xxxxxxxx
He rode the elevator up towards the twenty-first floor, feeling horny – and happy – as hell. Another text pinged:
I am. Hurry or I’ll have to start without you xxxxxxxxxxx
He grinned. Marcie had the dirtiest mind he’d ever known. And the most stunning body. And the most beautiful face. And the silkiest long, wavy, flaxen hair. And she smelled amazing.
They always met here, in this anonymous barn of a hotel where neither of them was likely to bump into anyone they knew. Marcie didn’t have to lie to her husband about where she was; he was so wrapped up in himself these days, she had told Larry, that he rarely bothered to ask her how her day had been, and even less what she had done.
But with Elaine it was different. Elaine quizzed Larry about every detail of every day, and all the more so since she was now home alone with just Max to occupy her. She called him every few hours, asking him where he was, how his meetings were going, telling him about Max – who had recently started to crawl. Luckily, Erin, his secretary, was a rock.
He was paranoid about divorce. He’d already been through one, brought about by his affair with Elaine, four years back, and it had almost wiped him out financially. He needed to be careful with Elaine, who did not suffer fools gladly and was no fool herself. She was a high-powered divorce lawyer, known affectionately by her colleagues as ‘Gripper’, owing to her legendary reputation for never letting go of any of her clients’ husbands until their balls had been squeezed dry.
Elaine was bored witless being home alone. But not for much longer – she was going back to work as soon as possible. He relished that happening, because then the incessant calls from her would stop. That was the one problem with their relationship having started as an affair – she was permanently suspicious of him, and never more so than now she had time on her hands to think, and fret.
The elevator doors opened and he stepped out, taking a moment to orient himself with the direction arrows for the room numbers. He popped the chewing gum out of his mouth, balled it into a tissue and stuck it in his pocket as he strode down the corridor towards room 2130. Then, his heart pounding with excitement, he stopped outside the door and savoured, for an instant, this delicious moment of anticipation. He could hear music pounding on the other side. Marc
ie was big into music; she always brought her iPod and two powerful little portable speakers. ‘Love Is All Around’ by Wet, Wet, Wet was playing, the song which had become his and Marcie’s song – corny but potent for them both.
He knocked.
The door opened almost instantly, and he gasped.
‘You lied!’ he said.
She had.
She wasn’t naked at all. Not totally, anyhow. She was wearing black suspenders. And a silver necklace, which he had given her. But nothing else.
Kicking the door shut behind him, he fell to his knees, wrapped his arms around her bare midriff and buried his face into her stomach, then instantly began to explore her with his tongue.
She gasped. He breathed in her scents, the one she had sprayed on, and the natural scents of her body. ‘Oh my God, Marcie!’
‘Larry!’
She dug her hands so hard into his shoulders he was scared, for an instant, that her nails were going to score his skin. He didn’t want to have to try to explain scratch marks to Elaine, and that was one of Marcie’s dangers – she could be a bit too wild at times.
Then, as he stood, she tore at his clothes like a wild animal, her lips pressed to his, their tongues flailing, her deliciously cold hands slipping inside his boxers.
She pulled her head back a fraction, grinning, her hands moving around inside his pants. ‘Someone’s pleased to see me!’
‘Someone sure is! Someone’s been missing you like crazy all weekend.’
They stumbled across the small room, his trousers around his ankles, and fell, entwined, onto the bed.
‘God, I had such a shit weekend. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been dreaming of this, wanting you so badly,’ she said.
‘I’ve been wanting you so badly too, babe.’
‘Take me from behind.’
He took her from behind. Turned her over and took her again from the front. Then he slid down the bed, down between her slender legs, and pressed his tongue deep inside her. Then she sat on top of him.
Finally, sated, they lay in the soft bed in each other’s arms. ‘You’re amazing,’ she said.
‘You are too.’
Van Morrison was singing ‘Days Like This’, and Larry was thinking, Yes, this is life. Days like this are truly living life!
‘You’re the best lover ever,’ she said.
‘Funny, I was thinking the same about you!’
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ Marcie teased.
‘Nah – just read about it in a magazine.’
She grinned. ‘So how was your weekend?’
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Max vomited over me. Twice.’
‘Sweet.’ She traced a finger across his forehead. ‘But you love him?’
‘I do. It’s an amazing feeling to be a father.’
‘I’m sure you’re a great father.’
‘I want to be,’ he murmured. He glanced at his watch. Time flew when they were together. It had been 8 a.m. only a few moments ago, it seemed. He had a board meeting scheduled for 11.30 a.m. Just a few more minutes, then he’d have to jump in the shower, dress, take the subway back downtown to the reality of his job as a hedge fund manager. And not see Marcie again until Friday.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘Lot of sirens outside.’
But he barely registered what she was saying – he was thinking for a moment about a tricky client meeting he was due to have this afternoon. A major client who was threatening to move a large amount of money to a rival firm.
His meetings with Marcie were affecting his work, he knew. Ordinarily he’d be at his desk by 7.30 a.m., and would begin his day by updating himself on all the overnight changes to the market positions of his clients, then scan the morning’s reports from the analysts. Recently, two days a week, he had been neglecting his work – and that was why he now had one very pissed-off client.
He listened some more to Van Morrison, savouring these last moments with Marcie and feeling too relaxed to care. He heard another siren outside. Then another.
Suddenly, his cell rang.
He rolled over and looked at the display. ‘Shit’, he said. It was Elaine. He pressed the decline call button.
Moments later, it rang again.
He declined the call again.
It rang a third time.
He put a finger to his lips. ‘It’s her,’ he said. ‘Third time. I’d better answer in case there’s a problem.’
She rolled over and silenced the music. And now, outside, they could hear a whole cacophony of sirens.
‘Hi darling,’ he said into the phone. ‘Everything OK?’
Elaine sounded panic-stricken. ‘Larry! Oh my God, Larry, are you OK?’
‘Sure! Fine! Never better – why?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the office – just about to go into a board meeting.’
‘In the office?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You’re in the office?’
‘Yeah, I’m in the office, hon.’
There was a long silence. Then she said, her voice almost a shriek, ‘You’re in your office?’
‘Yeah, I am. What’s the problem? What’s going on? Is everything OK? Is Max OK?’
‘You haven’t been hit on the head?’
‘Hit on the head?’
‘You’re in your office?’
‘Yes, shit, I’m in my office!’
‘What can you see?’
‘What can I see?’
‘Tell me what you can see out of your fucking window?’ she demanded.
‘I see beautiful blue sky. The East River. I—’
‘You goddamn liar!’ The phone went dead.
Marcie, rolling over, said, ‘What’s with all the sirens?’ She picked the television remote up from her bedside table, and pressed a button on it. The television came alive. She clicked through to a news channel. A panicky looking female news reporter, holding a microphone in her hand, was standing with her back to the building Larry recognized instantly. It was where he worked. Up on the eighty-seventh floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
The newscaster had not seen, yet, the horror unfolding behind her as the skyscraper collapsed in on itself. Terrified people were running past her, some with blood on their faces, many covered in grey dust.
‘Shit . . . what . . . what the—?’ he said, shooting a glance at his Tag Heuer watch, on which the time and the date were clearly displayed.
It was 9.59 a.m., 11 September 2001.
ART CLASS
This is a true story. It was told to me by a friend whose father was a well-known art dealer in Mayfair, and it took place in 1962. I have changed the names, but little else.
The Denempont Gallery was located on Albermarle Street in Mayfair where, along with neighbouring Cork Street, many of London’s smartest art dealers were housed. The gallery specialized in French Impressionist paintings with impeccable provenance, and it was generally acknowledged that no London dealer knew more about this particular period than its proprietor, James DeVere Denempont.
Sellers would come to him as their first port of call, because of his reputation for either paying the highest prices, or arranging the sale of important works at what were regularly record prices. Potential buyers came to him because they knew they would always get the real deal.
Denempont was a portly, balding, bon viveur of fifty-five, who had a penchant for chalk-striped, double-breasted Savile Row suits, Turnbull and Asser shirts and hand-made shoes from Lobb. He usually wore the salmon pink and cucumber green tie of the Garrick Club, and lunched there without fail every day of the working week. In fact, on this particular Thursday in June, he was just about to leave his stately office on the floor above the gallery, and take a stroll in the fine sunshine over to Garrick Street, a leisurely fifteen minutes away, just past Leicester Square, when his intercom buzzed.
It was his secretary. ‘Mr Denempont, a lady’s just come into
the gallery who is very anxious to speak to you.’
‘Could she come back later, Angela? I’m just on my way to lunch.’
‘I did suggest that, but she says she has to catch a plane to Italy this afternoon.’ Then, in a tone of voice that she used when something was important, she said, ‘I think you should have a word with her.’
‘All right,’ he said, slightly irritated. He was lunching with an old friend and important client, Angus Hobart, a hereditary peer, whom he did not want to keep waiting. ‘Tell her I can only spare five minutes. Shall I come down?’
‘She’d like to see you in private.’
‘Very well, show her up.’
He crushed out the stub of his morning Montecristo in his ashtray, buttoned up his waistcoat, stood up, pulled on his jacket and went around his desk towards the door. Moments later his secretary opened it and a tall, elegant and very classy-looking lady of about fifty entered. She was dressed in that almost impossibly stylish way that only rich Europeans knew how, and she was extremely beautiful. And despite the warmth of the day she was wearing gloves.
‘Mr Denempont?’ she said in an exquisite Italian accent. ‘My name is Contessa Romy Di Valieria Massino.’ She proferred her hand and he shook it, then offered her a seat in front of his desk.
He sat back down behind it, shooting a discreet glance at his Patek Philippe watch. ‘How can I help you, Contessa?’ he asked.
‘I understand you have an engagement,’ she said, ‘so I will not keep you for more than a few minutes. Your name was given to my husband by Marcus Leigh-Hoye as someone we should talk to.’
Leigh-Hoye was a friend and fellow art dealer, who specialized in early Dutch masters, a man who was very definitely not a time-waster. Denempont’s interest was immediately piqued. And it was about to become even more so. ‘Ah, yes, Marcus is a good man,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My husband and I have bought many pictures from him over the years.’