Possession

  ‘A few weeks ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He told me he hadn’t been down since before Christmas.’

  David smiled apologetically. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want to offend you, make you – I don’t know – jealous or something.’ He shrugged. ‘He’d been coming down a lot just lately, particularly since Christmas.’

  Alex felt uncomfortable and wasn’t sure why. ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Helping me a bit with the pruning. He really seemed to be getting quite interested in the place. I got the feeling he was thinking of joining me here after Cambridge. Of course it wouldn’t have been practical, not at the moment anyway, because of the money. A couple of years, though, and we could be in profit.’

  ‘Did he come alone?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry – you’re not upset are you?’

  ‘No, no of course not; I’m pleased that you were such good friends; it’s nice.’

  ‘I wish I’d got to know him better, really; he was very deep. I used to watch him sitting out there on the island, fishing for hours on end, and wonder what he was thinking.’

  ‘What do you think about when you’re fishing?’

  He shrugged. ‘You, I suppose.’

  ‘Me?’ she smiled.

  He relit his cigarette. ‘The happy times we had together. When we first met. How I can win you back.’ He turned and looked at her, and for a moment then they stopped walking and stared at each other; then Alex looked down at the ground.

  ‘It’s really turning cold,’ she said, starting to walk on again.

  ‘Do you have to go back to London tonight?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like you to stay and have dinner. Or we could go out. We were going to have a date this week.’

  ‘Haven’t you got some bird turning up?’

  ‘Bird? No, crikey, no.’

  ‘The one that owns these boots?’ She saw him go red.

  ‘I don’t know whose those are,’ he muttered, awkwardly. ‘I think we inherited them with the house.’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t mind, if you – you know –’

  He shook his head. ‘Are you going to stay?’

  ‘I’ll have supper, then I must get back.’

  ‘Stay down tonight, unwind; you look so tensed up – I’ll sleep in the spare room – you can have my room – it’s nice and warm.’

  ‘I’ll see,’ she said.

  They went into the tiny drawing room, and Alex kept her coat on whilst David lit the fire. ‘Only use this room when I have visitors, otherwise I live in the kitchen.’

  ‘I’m happy in the kitchen.’

  ‘No, it’s cosy here once it warms up. You used to like this room.’

  She nodded and stared around at the photographs, at the old battered furniture, and the elderly Bang and Olufsen music centre. She remembered the day they bought it; she had been knocked out by the design of the thing. How large and clumsy it looked now. There was a picture of Fabian on a tricycle, and a very recent black and white close up, face on to the camera, with a penetrating stare that unsettled her, made her turn away. She watched the flames dancing in the grate, and savoured the smell of the smoke.

  ‘Give it a few minutes and it’ll be nice and snug. Put some music on if you like.’ David started to walk out of the room.

  ‘What sort of music do you listen to these days?’

  He shrugged. ‘Mostly Beethoven.’ He looked at her. ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He went through into the kitchen and Alex followed him, smiling again, to herself.

  ‘I just find that amusing, I suppose. I tried to teach you to appreciate classical music and you wouldn’t have it, you said it made you feel too old; you’d never listen to anything but pop.’

  ‘I quite liked jazz,’ he said, defensively.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, how we all change.’

  ‘Have you changed?’ he said, running the tap and washing his hands.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think you have.’

  ‘I used to be frivolous, like you; now I’m serious and so are you.’

  ‘At least we’ve changed together.’

  I wish we had, she thought, sadly.

  They sat at the kitchen table, facing each other across a candle flickering in a saucer, and David ladled out the stew.

  ‘It doesn’t bother you, that it’s your own sheep?’

  ‘No. Probably would have done when I lived in London. The country changes your attitudes.’

  She dipped her fork into her plate, blew on the end then tasted it. ‘Good; very good.’

  He shrugged and looked proud.

  ‘There’s another reason why I want to see the medium again, David.’

  ‘Potatoes?’

  She nodded. ‘I think Fabian may have –’

  ‘Carrots?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘May have what?’

  ‘You know the girl, Carrie, he was going out with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She ditched him after Christmas.’

  ‘Did she? He never mentioned it.’

  ‘He did to me. He told me he’d ditched her – probably just his pride.’

  ‘No one likes admitting they’ve been ditched.’

  ‘No. But I thought she should be told, you know –’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I went to see her mother; the mother hasn’t seen her for a long time; she said she was in the States and showed me some postcards, recent ones, that Carrie had written.’

  David poured some wine.

  ‘When I was going through Fabian’s things, I found some identical postcards, and a letter from Carrie in which she told him she didn’t want to see him again. I thought it rather odd that he should have the same postcards – what did he want with blank postcards – all from Boston?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I’d pinched one of the postcards from Carrie’s mother, and I compared the handwriting with her letter; it didn’t look quite the same, so I took them along to a handwriting expert.’

  ‘A graphologist?’

  ‘Yes. I was trying to remember the word.’ She stared at him. ‘David, the postcard Carrie sent to her mother from Boston, postmarked seven days ago, wasn’t written by Carrie. It was written by Fabian.’

  He sat down and stared at her through the steam of the stew and the flickering light. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He shook his head. ‘What are you saying?’

  Alex shrugged.

  ‘Are you trying to say that he is still alive?’

  ‘You went to France.’

  He swallowed and went white, nodding slowly. ‘So what’s it all about?’

  ‘That’s why I want to see the medium.’

  He was silent for a long time, while the food cooled in front of him. ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ he said, finally. ‘Probably a very simple one.’

  ‘We have a choice, don’t we. Either a medium, or the police.’

  ‘Or we could do nothing.’

  Alex shook her head. ‘No, we can’t.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  She hoovered Fabian’s room herself, drew the curtains and taped them all the way around against the wall. Then she turned out the light and stood in the pitch dark. She felt a chill like a cold draught down her neck and began to tremble. She fumbled for the light switch and couldn’t find it. She heard the scraping of her hand against the flat wall. The switch had gone. No. She felt the crack of the door, heard the clunk as she rubbed against the handle, saw the faintest glow of light through the curtains, heard her own heavy breathing.

  She found the switch and snapped on the light, sighing with relief, too scared to look at Fabian’s portrait on the wall.

  The room had a strange emptiness without the bed, which Mimsa had helped her to move out in the morning, and she stared at the six empty chairs, wondering how Ford would want th
em arranged. There was so much she should have asked him, she realized, as she unplugged the hoover and carried it downstairs.

  It was six o’clock. She wondered whether to put peanuts out; were they allowed to drink? To smoke? The house had a cheerless, expectant feel. Could she put music on, she wondered?

  The doorbell rang and she went down. David stood there in a sombre suit and dark tie and for a moment she hardly recognized him.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  She blinked. ‘You came!’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. ‘I – I thought you might not. You’re looking very smart.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure what to wear.’

  They went through to the drawing room. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Am I allowed one?’

  She smiled, nervously. ‘I don’t know. I think I need one.’

  He pulled out his tin of tobacco. ‘Is it all right if –?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t think Fabian would mind.’

  ‘Oh sod it, let’s have a drink.’ She poured out two generous whiskys. They clinked glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  She smiled, nervously.

  ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘Sandy.’

  ‘Sandy? That loony.’

  ‘She’s the only person – friend – I could think of who wouldn’t think we were bonkers.’

  They sat down and she watched David roll a cigarette.

  ‘Thanks for Tuesday night.’

  ‘It was nice having you down.’

  ‘It can’t have been very comfy for you; that room was never warm.’

  ‘I was fine. Having you in the house warmed it up. It gets lonely down there at nights.’

  ‘I thought you enjoyed that.’

  He shrugged. ‘We make our beds, we have to lie in them.’

  She smiled again, trying to think of something else to say; it was like making small talk with a stranger. She drank some whisky and felt more confident. She looked up at the wall. ‘You never took that picture of the horse.’

  ‘It looks good where it is, I don’t mind; anyhow, the damned thing never brought me much luck.’ He lit his cigarette and took a long pull on his whisky. ‘Seven o’clock?’

  She nodded.

  He checked his watch. ‘Been doing any more photography?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not since – ’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘What did you do last night?’

  ‘Stayed at the office till about eleven, then brought a pile of work home. I didn’t sleep much – I couldn’t – I was thinking about this evening all the time.’

  ‘Don’t expect too much.’

  She smiled, wearily, then looked up at the ceiling; she heard the beating of her own heart, as loud as war drums, she thought, and wondered if David could hear it too. The doorbell rang, a long positive ring, so long it became almost aggressive. She saw David start to get up. ‘I’ll go,’ she said.

  A tall meek-looking man in his early sixties stood there; he had grey hair cropped to a close stubble and his ears, which were too large, looked as if they had been stuck on as an afterthought. He was far too thin, she thought.

  ‘Oh, er, is Mr Ford here?’ He stooped, as if embarrassed about his height, and spoke in a timid voice that was scarcely louder than a whisper.

  ‘He should be here any minute.’

  ‘Ah. I’ll wait outside then.’

  ‘You’re very welcome to come in.’

  The man smiled. ‘Thank you. I’m here for the circle, you see, tonight.’

  Alex nodded, closed the door behind him, and ushered him into the drawing room. ‘This is my husband, David.’ She looked at the man’s creased brown polyester suit and noticed he had huge feet.

  ‘How do you do,’ said David, standing up. ‘David High-tower.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He raised a hand nervously forward then withdrew it again, before David had had time to shake it. ‘Milsom.’

  ‘Come for the er –?’

  Milsom nodded.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ said Alex.

  The man looked around, hesitantly. ‘A squash, if you have one, please.’

  Alex went out of the room. ‘What do you – do?’ she heard David say. She paused in the hallway.

  ‘I’m with the Post Office.’

  ‘Ah. What do you do for them?’

  ‘I deliver letters.’

  ‘Ah. A postman?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Ah,’ she heard David pause. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a silence. She went into the kitchen and poured out an orange juice. When she returned to the drawing room, they were still standing facing each other, both staring at the ground in silence.

  ‘Mr Milsom’s a postman,’ said David, brightly.

  ‘Really?’ She handed Milsom his drink. ‘You’re a friend of Morgan Ford?’

  Milsom went red. ‘Well, colleague, really; I help out sometimes.’ He went even redder, and tapped his throat. ‘Sometimes the spirits speak through me, you see.’ He gave a nervous embarrassed laugh.

  Alex caught David’s eye and saw him fight the smirk off his face.

  ‘Ah,’ said David.

  The doorbell rang again and Alex escaped, relieved, to answer it. Morgan Ford, Sandy, and a young man she had never seen before were standing there.

  ‘Darling!’ said Sandy, her jet black haystack of hair wilder than ever, a purple cloak billowing around her. ‘You never told me it was Morgan Ford – we just met here on the doorstep! This is the finest medium in the country. Why didn’t you tell me? How did you persuade him to come?’

  Ford stood quietly like a man standing in his own shadow, holding an enormous tape recorder. He looked even smaller out of his own environment, Alex thought.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Hightower,’ he smiled politely, and she shook his tiny hand, feeling the sharp edges of the rhinestone ring. ‘May I introduce Steven Orme.’

  ‘How do you do.’ She held out her hand, and shook his; it felt cold and bony and had no energy in it, as if it was completely detached from him. Orme was in his early twenties, with slicked back hair and a large gold earring in one ear. He had an elongated deadpan face and cold half-closed eyes. A creep, she thought, and wondered if he was Ford’s boyfriend.

  ‘Please, come in.’

  ‘There’s one other who should be arriving.’

  ‘I think he’s already here.’

  Ford nodded.

  They went through into the drawing room. ‘I wasn’t sure,’ she said to Ford, ‘whether we are allowed to drink or smoke?’

  ‘It’s best to avoid anything, if you can.’ He stared at David. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘This must be your husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex.

  ‘Excellent; perfect.’

  ‘Why?’ said Alex, curiously.

  ‘He’s exactly what I imagined; not psychic. It’s important to have an earth, you see, like the earth wire in an electric plug, there should be one person in the circle who is not receptive; it helps a great deal in protecting the circle.’

  ‘So clever of you, darling, you couldn’t have a better person,’ said Sandy, shedding her cloak and allowing a gossamer purple gown to unfurl around her.

  Ford smiled modestly, or at least made a good pretence of modesty, thought Alex.

  ‘Perhaps I could see the room, Mrs Hightower?’

  She led Ford upstairs. He was immaculately dressed in grey, as before. Everything about him looked freshly pressed; even his grey socks.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, laying down the cassette player. He looked up at the portrait. ‘Yes, exactly as I imagined him. It’s good, to have that. Yes, this is a good room, I can feel him here, he’s comfortable here, he knows this room.’

  He walked around the room, looking at the posters on the wall, the telescope and examined the curtains. ‘Is ther
e a socket?’

  She showed him.

  ‘Saves the batteries,’ he smiled, uncoiling a wire from the player. ‘He’s here already, you know, just waiting for us.’ He turned and smiled again, and Alex had a sudden urge to throw him and the rest of them out, now. He was annoying her, kneeling on the floor, fiddling with his cassette, too mean to use his own batteries.

  She looked at the portrait on the wall and Fabian stared back, coldly, arrogantly; she thought of his charred corpse, and shuddered, and wondered.

  ‘Are we doing the right thing?’ she said, suddenly.

  ‘It’s entirely up to you, Mrs Hightower. If you don’t want to go ahead, just say so, please. There’s no point in proceeding unless you want to communicate with your son, no point at all.’ He pushed a switch on the player and she saw a green light come on. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like me to fetch them?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She went down the stairs slowly, heard the stilted murmur of uncertain conversation, and stopped, feeling a sense of dread. It wasn’t right. Nothing was right. Iris Tremayne might have been loopy; Philip Main was eccentric, yes, but not loopy. Something had frightened him, frightened a man she had thought was beyond fear; something in this house. Was she going to be destroyed tonight? Made mad? She felt a cold draught again, down her neck. It wasn’t too late, she thought, she could stop it now.

  Sandy came out into the hall. ‘Must just nip to the loo, darling.’

  ‘Under the stairs,’ said Alex.

  ‘Won’t be a sec.’

  ‘Sandy,’ she said, walking down the rest of the stairs. ‘Have you seen Iris Tremayne recently?’

  Sandy looked at her oddly. ‘No darling.’

  She was lying.

  Alex walked into the drawing room trembling. Why had Sandy lied? She picked up a pack of cigarettes and shook one out; her hands were shaking so much, she couldn’t open her lighter. David suddenly stood in front of her holding a match. She inhaled the smoke and then took another deep drag. ‘I think we’re ready,’ she said. ‘Would you all like to come upstairs?’

  She stubbed out the cigarette, reluctantly, and led them into the hallway. There was a dreadful scream, the sound of the lavatory flushing, and Sandy burst out of the door, her face white. Everyone stared at her. She looked around, wildly, and patted her chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘the wallpaper – some of it fell on to me.’