Secrets of the Dead

  Vicki folded her arms. ‘Will this take long?’

  ‘Do you need to be somewhere in a hurry?’ Ingrid spotted a hidden agenda.

  ‘Might go for a walk.’

  ‘In the hope of bumping into our handsome, teenage neighbour?’

  Vicki’s eyes narrowed with anger. ‘Don’t start that again. I’ll see who I want, when I want. I’m sixteen. I’m not your little girl any more.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Ingrid raised her hands. ‘I’m only joking.’

  John attempted to bring his family’s focus back to the object on the table. ‘This will only take a minute.’

  John explained how the printer worked. Oliver’s expression was one of fascination. Vicki, on the other hand, yawned. Ingrid politely listened.

  ‘What I’ve done,’ continued John, ‘is produce a copy of the head of one of the female mummies from the castle.’

  ‘Cool.’ Oliver tried to peep under the cloth.

  John held the cloth in place. He was pleased with the results of his test and wanted this to be a surprise for his family. He told them all about Amber, adding, ‘I’ve used modelling paint for the hair and lip colour.’

  Vicki’s patience evaporated. ‘OK, show us the flipping thing. I want to go outside.’

  Oliver lowered his head so he’d be eye-level with the model. ‘Show us the mummy of doom, Dad.’

  ‘OK, family, I introduce you to Amber.’ He whipped back the cloth with all the flourish of a conjuror, revealing the amazing result of his magic trick.

  Ingrid blinked in surprise. ‘John … really?’

  ‘Wow, Dad.’ Oliver grinned. ‘That’s really cool.’

  Vicki’s eyes locked on to the plastic face that was the colour of butter. The expression on the model’s face was calm, even serene. John had painted black eyebrows and black hair. The lips were red. Eyes were dark brown. The high cheekbones were especially striking. Vicki glanced at her father then back at the plastic reproduction of the dead girl’s face. She clenched her fists. ‘If this is your idea of a joke, Dad, it’s not funny.’

  ‘What joke?’ John shook his head, puzzled. ‘I’m not playing any kind of joke.’

  ‘This!’ Vicki jabbed her finger at the plastic head in fury. ‘You’re sick in the brain, Dad. It’s me! Why did you give that thing my face?’

  Ingrid gave John a very cool and very direct look. ‘Tell me, John, did you deliberately play a trick on our daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s sixteen years old. You scared her.’

  ‘Vicki seemed more angry than scared.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have made the model of the dead girl look like her.’

  ‘I didn’t, I swear.’ John paced the back parlour. The plastic head stood on the table, regarding them with that serene gaze. ‘I simply used the computer generated image of Amber to print this model of the head.’

  ‘Didn’t you look at the face when you painted in the lips and eyes? Didn’t you notice that it resembles Vicki?’

  ‘Resembles?’ He picked up the head. ‘It only resembles our daughter if you apply your own imagination … I mean, does it really look like Vicki?’

  ‘Yes, actually, quite a lot like her.’

  ‘I don’t see it; neither does Oliver.’

  ‘See the shape of the lips, the nose? The model has the same almond-shaped eyes … those high cheekbones are the same. Come on, John, I know you like having fun with us; you can tell me if you tweaked the program to make the Egyptian girl’s face more like Vicki’s.’

  He replaced the head on the table. ‘I wouldn’t do something as cruel as that. What I planned to do was produce models of all the mummies’ heads, the idea being that visitors to the exhibition could see what the family were like when they were alive.’

  ‘A rather morbid “before and after” display.’

  ‘That’s what interests the public. But, no, I would not produce a model of a corpse’s head then make it resemble my own daughter. That would be distasteful, to say the least.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Perhaps what Vicki is identifying is some shared ancestry traits.’

  ‘My grandmother was Indian, John, from the banks of the Ganges, not the Nile.’

  ‘OK.’ Taking a deep breath, he sat down. ‘How do I persuade Vicki that it wasn’t a joke, and that by sheer coincidence she happens to resemble a sixteen year old from ancient Egypt? Because I’m sure that whatever I say will only make her angrier.’

  ‘Give her a couple of hours to cool off.’ Ingrid smiled. ‘If she enjoys herself in the company of handsome Jason from next door, she’ll probably forget all about looking like someone who’s been dead for thousands of years.’

  ‘Now you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just a little bit. OK, hide Amber in a cupboard before Vicki comes back.’

  Taking a walk to clear his head seemed a good idea to John. It was a little over an hour since he’d revealed the model of the mummy’s head produced by the 3D printer, and he couldn’t forget how Vicki had accused him of playing a cruel trick. John considered himself playful, and not averse to pranking, but he would never produce what was, essentially, a replica of a corpse and manipulate its features in order to make it resemble his daughter.

  He left Ingrid to read her book in the sunshine. The surroundings really were idyllic. Here they were in their own private realm. The castle grounds were off-limits to the public at large (at least for now; when the restoration was completed, visitors would be invited back). This countryside seemed so remote from the outside world. Apart from the castle and the gatehouse, there were just a few cottages, housing employees of the company that now owned the castle, and this stretch of Devonshire landscape.

  He walked up the lane. The Oldfield family occupied the nearest house to the Tolworths. This is where the rumbustious barbecue took place yesterday, along with the water battle between parents and children. John saw the oldest of the Oldfield sons, Jason, pushing Vicki on a rope swing attached to a tree. Every time Vicki swung back, seventeen-year-old Jason whispered in her ear. She laughed out loud – a laugh that was almost delirious with happiness. John couldn’t help but smile. He also felt a huge wave of relief sweep through him. He’d expected to find her sitting by herself on the hillside doing some teenage brooding – seeing the copy of herself in plastic had shocked her. In fact, she’d been furious. However, instead of seething with rage right now she hooted with joy.

  Jason spoke a few words to her before dashing back to his house. At that moment, Vicki spotted her father. She scrambled off the swing, suddenly more like an excited seven year old than a young woman.

  ‘Dad … Dad.’ She was breathless and so happy her eyes sparkled. ‘Jason’s asked if I’ll go to Lynmouth with him. Can I go, Dad? His mother’s taking us in the car. I want to go, Dad. I can, can’t I?’

  He grinned with the sheer pleasure of seeing his daughter so happy. ‘I don’t see why not. I’ll mention it to your mother.’

  ‘Jason’s really nice. He plays in a rock group. He says they’re really good and they’re going to be in a battle of the bands on television.’ Her words came out in a rush. ‘He’s going to download some of their songs on to my phone.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve found a friend here. I was worried you’d be lonely.’

  ‘Oh?’ She looked shyly down at the ground. ‘I like it here.’

  ‘Are you coming back to the house now?’

  ‘Jason’s gone to get some ice cream. I thought I’d just hang around here for a bit.’

  ‘Useful he’s got the rope swing, then? Ideal for hanging around.’

  His dad-style joke bypassed her. His daughter already gazed in the direction of the Oldfield house, waiting for the reappearance of her new friend. Or should that be boyfriend?

  John smiled. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Uh, OK …’

  ‘I’m just going for a walk. Sorry about the model of the head.’

  She
waved at Jason as he stepped from the house, carrying two bowls.

  ‘Sorry about the model looking like you, Vicki. It’s just coincidence. I said to your mother that—’

  ‘Hmm? It doesn’t matter, Dad. Jason’s back.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  ‘Yes. Bye … Wait, Dad. Promise me something.’

  ‘Promise you what?’

  ‘Don’t mention Jason to Lee back home.’

  ‘Is Lee your boyfriend?’

  Vicki shrugged. ‘Yes and no. Sort of. Promise you won’t tell Lee about Jason.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling Lee. We’ll keep Jason a secret.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. Love you.’ Those words were unexpected enough. Vicki had stopped saying ‘Love you’ to her parents since she was twelve. Even more surprising was what came next. She kissed John on the cheek. ‘Bye.’ She walked nonchalantly back to Jason, who’d set the bowls down on a picnic table.

  ‘You’re just like your mother,’ he murmured to himself. ‘You like to be in control.’

  He continued along the lane, where he came to a bridge that crossed a stream. Oliver and the strange boy, Fletcher Brown, were throwing sticks into the water.

  John asked, ‘Doing anything interesting?’ He noticed that Fletcher wore a red cap. Although he couldn’t be certain, he thought it was the same one that his son had bought before they left for Devon.

  Oliver spoke with glee. ‘There’s a dead fish floating in the water.’

  ‘Trout.’ That’s all that Fletcher said.

  John wondered if Fletcher had taken his son’s cap. However, Oliver appeared to be enjoying Fletcher’s company. Oliver threw a stick at the dead fish. It missed.

  The boy laughed. ‘Nearly. I’ll get it next time.’ He turned to look at John. ‘Fletcher’s got a penknife.’

  ‘Swiss Army knife,’ Fletcher uttered in that wooden manner of his. ‘Three blades, five tools. Stainless steel.’

  ‘Can I have a Swiss Army knife, Dad?’

  ‘Ollie, just imagine asking your mother that question. What do you think her answer would be?’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘I let Oliver use the knife, Mr Tolworth.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s not a good idea, Fletcher. Oliver’s only eleven.’

  ‘Did you have a Swiss Army knife when you were eleven, Mr Tolworth?’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there. Knives can be dangerous.’

  ‘Philip Kemmis didn’t cut his hand off with a Swiss Army knife, did he? Something else was responsible for him losing his hand.’

  ‘I don’t know the circumstances of the accident,’ John said. Even as he spoke, a vivid image burned inside his head. It was of Philip all those years ago, just minutes after they crept into the mummy room in the castle tower and the lights went out. The ten-year-old John Tolworth had run downstairs. Philip had joined him a few moments later. Something had happened to Philip …

  The noise the stream made as it poured over rocks vanished. He stopped hearing the birdsong. Shivers ran through his body. A sensation like insects crawling across him hit him so forcefully that he shuddered and stepped back; it felt like he was going to fall.

  ‘Can I have a penknife, Dad? Dad … Dad? Answer me.’ Oliver scowled. ‘It’s not fair that I can’t have a knife. I bet you had one when I was your age.’

  Fletcher’s eyes fixed on him. ‘Mr Tolworth. Struck mute. Horror does that. People witnessing horrific events, or recalling horrific events, can suffer muscle spasms that affect limbs and even vocal chords, meaning that they are mute, meaning they cannot speak. Muscles lock tight and do not function.’ For some reason Fletcher turned the hat round so the peak pointed backwards. ‘Experiencing a horrific incident can even freeze the muscles of the mind. Memory goes into paralysis. It does not function. Someone might see a terrible accident, yet the mind locks the memory away beyond recall. The witness might have blood on their clothes, but they still insist that the accident never happened. The mind protects itself from psychological harm by forgetting.’

  Oliver laughed, as if Fletcher was doing some kind of comical routine.

  John found he’d frozen there on the bridge. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I’m having a brain haemorrhage, he told himself with a sense of dread.

  Fletcher picked up a stick. He and Oliver were laughing; they clearly hadn’t noticed that John’s entire body had seized up. Fletcher turned the red cap around so the peak jutted forwards.

  The world came rushing back, and everything returned to normal in a heartbeat. Taking a deep breath, John checked his hands; they trembled a little, that’s all. Perhaps the summer’s heat had affected him? He said, ‘Have a good time, you two. I’ll see you both later.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Tolworth.’ Fletcher didn’t look at him as he spoke. His focus stayed on the dead fish, caught in the weeds at the side of the stream.

  ‘Bye, Dad. You won’t tell Mum about me using the penknife, will you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Ollie. It will be our secret.’

  John continued along the lane. Already, he rationalized that the strange ‘episode’ was due to the heat, that’s all. What preoccupied him now was the word ‘secret’; it flitted around the inside of his head; a butterfly of a word, alighting on one memory then another in quick succession. He stepped over a line of ants, marching across the road. Secrets. He’d promised his daughter that they’d keep Jason’s existence a secret from her boyfriend back in London. After that, he’d told Oliver that they’d keep the fact he’d been playing with a penknife secret from his mother. Secrets. Everyone has secrets. Isn’t that what Fletcher had told Oliver? Does Ingrid have a secret? Does Samantha Oldfield have a secret? He recalled her sultry manner, those erotic glances. He glanced up at the hilltop. There, standing amongst those strange rocks that resembled soldiers, was a solitary figure. He recognized the figure as Philip Kemmis immediately. What’s your secret, Philip? What happened to send you insane?

  Philip walked along the skyline – he looked like a man with an urgent need to be somewhere else; a man to whom secrets attached themselves like a shadow.

  John paused at the edge of the stream. He gazed down at his own face reflected there. ‘What’s your secret?’ he asked his reflection. A forced smile appeared on his face. ‘But I don’t have any secrets, do I?’

  At that moment, he thought about his first son. He’d never even told his own wife that Ben Darrington existed. A secret son, he thought. Secrets don’t come any bigger than that, do they?

  Night-walking. That’s what Fletcher Brown called it. Fletcher had climbed the tree in the back garden and tapped on the attic window with a stick; Oliver Tolworth had woken to see the boy looking at him. Did all people from Devon climb trees after midnight? Oliver suspected they didn’t. What the nocturnal tree climbing indicated was that Fletcher wasn’t like other boys. Come to think of it, thought Oliver sagely, Fletcher probably isn’t like anyone else in the whole wide world. He’s a strange kid, alright.

  Going outdoors at the dead of night without his parents’ know-ledge or permission was wrong. Oliver, however, didn’t want to appear like a wuss to his older friend. So, within moments of Fletcher doing the rappity-tatt thing with a stick on the window pane, Oliver quickly pulled on jeans, T-shirt and sandals and headed downstairs and out the back door. Everyone else was asleep in the house. Silence ruled the warm summer night. Oliver couldn’t hear a thing.

  Fletcher clambered down the tree to join Oliver on the lawn. ‘Ready to go night-walking with me?’ he asked in a loud voice.

  ‘Shush. You’ll wake everyone up.’

  ‘Frightened?’

  ‘If my mum and dad wake up, they’ll kill me.’

  ‘They’ll be angry because they love you and would be concerned for your safety.’ Fletcher stated this fact in a strangely mature way. ‘My father, on the other hand, doesn’t care a fig whether I’m safe in bed or not.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ev
en though I’m his son, I scare him.’

  ‘Keep your voice down! I don’t want my mum and dad to wake up.’

  ‘They might not wake up … They might not be able to wake up right now.’

  Those words troubled Oliver. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Listen, I’ll tell you a secret.’ Fletcher’s face became strangely skull-like in the starlight; a white oval with two shadows where the eyes should be. The boy wore the red cap that Oliver had given to him. ‘Sometimes people here go into a deeper, special sleep. When people in these houses are in that special sleep, nothing can wake them. You could shout in their ear, or jab a fork into their face, and they wouldn’t feel it. Nor would they wake up.’

  ‘You’re talking weird again, Fletcher.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth. Only I know about the special sleep. When they sleep like that it’s like they’re dead.’

  ‘You’re supposed to turn the cap around when you’re saying weird stuff, so the peak points backwards.’

  Fletcher spoke like he was a trance. ‘The special sleep doesn’t affect me. That’s because my brain’s different to everyone else’s. When the special sleep makes everyone in those cottages unconscious, I, Fletcher Brown, am immune.’

  ‘You’re saying strange stuff again, Fletcher. Are you trying to scare me?’

  ‘I’m warning you what will happen.’

  ‘Will this special sleep affect me?’

  ‘It might. If it does, you’ll fall asleep like that.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Don’t worry, if you pass out tonight I’ll catch you, so you don’t fall and hurt yourself.’

  ‘I’m going back home.’

  ‘We’re night-walking.’

  ‘But you’re doing that thing again – trying to frighten me. That’s bullying.’

  ‘Want to have a go with my Swiss Army knife?’

  To Oliver’s surprise, he realized they’d walked further than he thought. They were in the lane that ran up through the trees to the castle. Oliver felt shivers. Have I been sleepwalking? I don’t even remember walking out of the garden. The starlight was bright enough to make out the dark outline of the castle. The huge building seemed so ominous and menacing as it sat there on the hill. Oliver remembered his mother saying that castles were built with the intention of intimidating local people. A threat in stone. A promise of hurt if the people didn’t obey the lord of the castle.