Possession

  No. Don’t let them David. Oh God, don’t let them.

  ‘There is so much power here,’ said Ford. ‘So much power.’

  Don’t let them David.

  ‘Let her stay there,’ said Ford. ‘She’s fine like that. Let her be comfortable.’

  No. Please. No.

  ‘The process of releasing the spirit can sometimes be a little distressing,’ said Ford, gently, looking at David, then Alex. ‘Sometimes the spirit will relive those last few moments of his carnate existence.’

  The light went out.

  ‘Dear God, we pray to you that you will look after our circle and that we shall come to no harm.’

  Don’t you realize what’s going to happen?

  There was a click and she heard Vivaldi, light, airy, sad.

  ‘Feel the grass, soft and springy; it’s good to walk on. You see a white gate ahead of you. Go through the gate and you can see a river.’

  Stop them. Please David. Stop them.

  ‘You can see people on the far side, standing there. Your friends, waiting to greet you. Cross over the bridge now, go to them, greet them, hug them, spend time with them. Don’t be afraid, go, enjoy, be happy with them.’

  She stared across the river, to the far side of the old stone bridge, and saw Ford, standing in his immaculate grey suit, waving at her, beckoning. Behind him were more people, grouped around, chatting as if they were at a cocktail party. Sandy, Orme, Milsom and David.

  I’m here. Over here.

  She put a foot on the bridge, but they all turned away, ignoring her.

  I’m here.

  She tried to step on to the bridge, but a pair of hands gripped her arms, held her back.

  Let me go.

  You’ll drown; it’s a trap; the bridge isn’t safe.

  Who are you?

  There was a click, then silence; complete silence. She opened her eyes and stared, terrified, around the dark room.

  ‘It’s started,’ said Ford. ‘He is impatient. He is not willing to wait for us to finish our meditation.’

  She felt icy air swirling around her.

  A car roared past outside the window, followed by a heavy lorry. The room shook with the vibration. She stared wildly around. Impossible. There was no road. No road, she thought, again. Had David heard it? Had they all heard it?

  ‘Mother!’ A gruff, rasping whisper, scarcely louder than the silence. It was coming from the postman.

  ‘What is your name?’ said Ford, in a plain businesslike tone, as if he was answering a telephone call.

  There was another long silence.

  It’s a con. That’s not his voice. Don’t you realize it’s a con?

  ‘Will you please tell us your name? If not, kindly leave the medium at once.’

  Alex heard breathing, right beside her, halting erratic breathing, deep gulps, then long pauses.

  ‘Are you Fabian Hightower?’

  There was a sharp smell of petrol. She heard others sniffing; they could smell it too.

  ‘Are you Fabian Hightower?’

  The smell increased suddenly and the fumes stung her eyes.

  ‘We’re going to help you, Fabian.’

  She couldn’t breathe.

  ‘To help you go over to the other side.’

  It was as if a mask had been pressed over her face. The harder she tried to breathe, the closer she sucked the mask into her face. The breathing beside her was becoming calmer, more rhythmic, like the breathing of a diver.

  No.

  She was beginning to shake. Give me some, don’t take it all; oh God, don’t take it all. Air. Oh God, give me some air.

  She fought with the vacuum around her face, tried to push it away, to duck under it, to turn away from it. Her chest was aching.

  The fumes; the fumes had taken the air.

  Then she noticed. The breathing beside her. Rhythmic, contented.

  No.

  She rocked violently backwards and forwards, shaking, more and more.

  The fumes. Petrol. It was going to explode.

  Let me breathe, darling. Give me air. Please give me air.

  Something was moving inside her; something cold, bitterly cold. A cold hand brushed her forehead, gently pushed her hair back from her forehead, squeezed her shoulders. She heard the sofa shaking, rattling, clattering in the silence, as she shuddered, fighting for breath. There was something cold inside her ear now, seeping into her head like liquid.

  And then, suddenly, she felt strong. Stronger than she had ever felt before. So strong, she no longer even needed to breathe. No. Please no. Please no.

  Another car hurtled past outside and into the distance. Suddenly there was a slithering sound, a desperate, frightening sound, which seemed to go on for ever. No. She tried to stand up, but an immense force pushed her back on to the sofa. She tried again, and a hand tugged her back, insistent; whose? David’s? Ford’s? She tore it free, and stood up again. Something tried to push her back, some huge force like a falling wall. She pushed against it, with all her new strength, and felt the floor rise up sharply in front of her. She went on to her hands and knees, and slowly inched her way across, tugging at the strands of carpet with her fingers; she reached the door and clung to the handle, which took all her weight, clung to it to prevent herself falling backwards into the dark room.

  Still the slithering sound continued, eerily, a car with locked wheels sliding across a damp road.

  She forced the door open, then tumbled through it, suddenly, rolled over and over across to the kitchen wall and hit the sink with a thump that jarred her.

  Her lungs were bursting. She gulped down air ravenously, long deep breaths, then lay there for a moment, exhausted, staring fearfully at the door to the drawing room, the door she had just come through that had closed behind her. She felt a cold prickling down the back of her neck, climbed unsteadily to her feet and listened. But she could hear nothing. She stared at the key hanging on the nail, and at the cupboard with the torch. Time. Was there time? The key felt cold, rough, heavy. Was there time?

  The key turned easily, too easily. The lock had been oiled. The door was harder to open; warped, and sagging on its hinges, she had to push hard to make a gap big enough to go in, then she closed it behind her.

  She turned to face the darkness, breathing in the dank, lifeless smell, and heard the scrape of her foot echo around her.

  ‘I’m here, darling,’ she said, and heard her voice fall flatly away into the dark. She switched on the torch, and saw the stone steps, a few feet in front of her. Exactly as she remembered.

  She went down them and felt the air getting damper, and colder. At the bottom was a massive watertight steel door, with a huge round wheel on the front of it, like a submarine.

  ‘If there is a leak and one of the sections has filled up, you’d be drowned if you opened the door.’

  She tested the handle and it rotated easily. She gave it six full turns before it stopped. She swallowed, then pushed the door. It swung open with no effort at all and just the merest groan from one of its hinges which echoed along the dark tunnel ahead like the cry of a wounded animal.

  She shone her torch at the concrete floor then up around the curved walls. To her right was a series of valves, dominated by another huge wheel on the wall. ‘Never touch these,’ the estate agent had warned; ‘no one is sure what they do.’ Dimly, at the end of the beam, she could see another door, like the one she had just opened. She shone the torch down at the floor again and a puddle glinted at her. Nervously she pointed the beam up at the ceiling. The plasterwork was mottled with fat brown blotches and flaking away.

  A tiny blob of water launched itself from the centre of the blotches with a faint plop. It smacked into the concrete floor. Plang. The sound echoed around her, and she shuddered, spun around, beamed her torch back where she had come from. She heard breathing, heavy breathing, and stiffened. She held her breath and the sound stopped. She breathed out again with relief, then stepped forward into the tunn
el, deep under the silent black water of the lake, under the mist and the fish that jumped and the reeds like dead men’s fingers.

  There was slime on the floor and patches of mould on the walls. The beam of the torch threw streaks of light and long shadows all around her and the dull echo of her footsteps followed her at first and then overtook her. The door was coming closer, the door to the ballroom. If the ballroom was flooded … If.

  She stopped when she reached it and looked behind her, fearfully.

  Plop. Plang. The noise echoed around like the slamming of a door. Oh Christ, no. She shone the beam back where she had come from, saw the prick of light dance on the roof, then on the floor. The door was still open.

  Plop. Plang.

  She rotated the wheel, and it turned silently, well oiled, six turns, exactly as the previous one.

  Then her torch went out.

  No. She shook it. No. She shook it again. No. She switched it on, off. Nothing; she shook it. Nothing. Please, she whimpered. Please. She shook it again, and she heard the faint tinkling of glass inside the lens. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. There was no difference. She held her breath and listened to the silence. She had never before heard such silence.

  Plop. Plang.

  And then silence again.

  She pushed open the door. Light. There was light; so bright it startled her. She stared in wonder up at the domed roof, its thick panels of glass, coated in slime and limp strands of weed, exactly as she had remembered. The panels were so bright, almost as if they had lights behind them; it felt as if you could reach through them and touch the sky.

  For a moment she was dazzled by the brightness, too dazzled to see anything in the green light that filtered down and around the room.

  Then the stench hit her. A horrendous pungent stench, that flooded through her nostrils, down her throat, deep into her stomach, unlike anything she had ever smelt before.

  She pinched her nostrils together tightly with her fingers, felt her stomach heave, and then gagged. Something banged into her shoulder, and she shrieked, then felt stupid. It was the wall, which she had backed into.

  The stench hit her again; she cupped her hands over her nose and took a deep breath through her mouth.

  And then she saw the person on the floor on the far side of the room, watching her.

  She froze.

  Slowly, she felt her legs buckling. She tried to back out of the room, felt the jarring thump of the hard slimy wall. She pressed her hands against it, feeling her way, inching along. Where was the passage? Where was it? Where was it?

  Someone had closed the door.

  ‘No. No.’ She spun around and saw the wall right behind her. The door was still open, through to the blackness of the passageway, just a couple of feet to her right.

  She looked over her shoulder. The person was laughing at her, laughing silently, motionless. The stench filled her nostrils again and she gagged.

  ‘They let me out today.’

  ‘Don’t let him, Mrs Hightower.’

  ‘Don’t listen to the little bastard.’

  I want to get out. Please, God, I want to get out. She turned and looked down the tunnel, then back over her shoulder. Who are you? What do you want?

  Plop. Plang.

  Are you going to come for me here? Or in the dark of the tunnel? She gripped the torch, tightly. But she knew who it was. And she knew that she wouldn’t be after her; not after her, nor anyone.

  She heard a cry; a single tiny whimper. Her own. It echoed around the room, came back at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She left the safety of the wall and began to walk across the room. A shadow flitted past her and she spun around. Nothing. The shadow flitted again; she looked up, and saw the dark silhouette of a fish nibbling at the weed on the outside of the glass.

  She took another step forward, then another.

  Move. Please move. Please say something.

  The stench was getting worse.

  There was a sharp crack, right underneath her. She screamed, wildly, then again, and again. Then her scream subsided into a whimper, as she looked down and saw a plate, split in half by her foot.

  She took another step forward and then she was close enough. She stared, shivering in horror, at the girl’s face, shrivelled, like dried leather, at the eyes, staring hopelessly ahead at the door she had opened far too late and the twist of her mouth, like a hideous laugh.

  ‘No,’ Alex whimpered. ‘No,’ as she stared at the chain around the girl’s neck that trailed off to an anchorage somewhere beyond in the gloom. ‘No.’

  ‘He’d been coming down a lot, just lately.’ David’s voice echoed through her head. ‘Since around about Christmas. Really seemed to be taking an interest in the place. I used to watch him, sitting out there on the island, fishing, for hours on end. I used to wonder what he was thinking.’

  ‘No.’

  She backed away, slowly, desperately slowly, inching her way as if she was pushing against a huge force. She tried to look away, at the walls, at the ceiling, but she was drawn back, like a magnet, to the face: ‘Hi Mum. This is a really friendly place, lots of things happening, met some great people. Will write again soon.’

  I’m sorry. She mouthed the words, but nothing came out. I’m sorry; I’m so desperately …

  There was a noise right behind her.

  She froze, felt the terror surging. She looked down at the ground, unable to turn around, then back again at the face like leather.

  A shadow moved, the shadow of the person who was standing behind her.

  She shook her head. Please no.

  The scrape of a foot.

  Please no.

  The rustle of a coat.

  No.

  She spun round.

  Nothing.

  Nothing, but the black entrance of the tunnel.

  Then she heard a noise behind her, from the girl.

  Oh no. Oh Christ, no.

  She turned around, slowly, fearfully.

  The girl was grinning. Grinning at her, grinning at her fear.

  No. Please don’t do that. Please don’t.

  ‘Admiring your son’s handiwork, Mrs Hightower?’

  The voice ripped through her like an electric shock; she lost her balance, and nearly fell on to the girl. She blinked, felt a surge of nausea, lost focus for a moment. Otto. She mouthed the word but nothing came out. Otto.

  He was standing in the doorway, coat slung over his shoulders.

  She began to shiver violently. Something in his expression; something terrible. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. She put her hand in front of her mouth, staring at the eyes, the two different mocking eyes. And then she realized. The eyes; the same expression in the eyes. Fabian on his tricycle. The portrait on the wall. Bosley. Otto.

  She stepped back, trod on something which crunched under her foot, and jumped in fear. She spun around, saw the girl staring at her, stepped back, stared up at the ceiling, around at the walls and then back at Otto in the only doorway.

  She tried to speak but still nothing would come out. She spun around again, stared at the girl, the girl seemed to move. She tried to scream. Nothing. Oh God help me. She turned back. Move, oh Christ, move! Say something. She was shivering wildly; it was freezing in here now; as she breathed, her lungs hurt, and her breath hung in front of her, like a cloud.

  ‘What do you want?’ she mouthed the words, her voice tight, cracking, faint, as if it were a long way away.

  He smiled.

  Say something; for God’s sake, say something.

  Otto continued to smile.

  The air was going, it was getting harder to breathe; she started gulping, looking around wildly; panic seized her.

  ‘I – want – to – go – now … ’ she said, and began walking towards Otto, walking against a huge force that was pushing her back.

  ‘He’ll be here in a minute, Mrs Hightower, aren’t you going to wait for
him?’

  ‘Will you let me by, please Otto.’ Her voice was calm, suddenly, firm, normal.

  Still smiling, Otto stepped out of the way. It took her what seemed like an eternity to reach the doorway. She stood there, staring fearfully at him, waiting for his move, waiting for him to grab her, but he just smiled, his expression unchanging.

  ‘He’ll be so disappointed to have missed you.’

  She turned away and ran, stumbling, down the tunnel.

  Plang. The droplet of water hit her like a fist, knocked her sideways.

  ‘No!’

  She stumbled forward.

  Another drop hit her on the forehead, like a hammer. She reeled, crashed into the wall, fell on her face into the slime. Another drop hit her on the back of her neck, like a kick. She picked herself up, stumbled forward. Which way was she going? The wrong way. No. She could see the light. The ballroom. ‘Oh God help me.’

  Another droplet smashed on to the bridge of her nose; her eyes watered. The ballroom disappeared, she stumbled forward into the wall. A droplet smacked her scalp and stung like acid. She turned and staggered towards the dark; the dark that seemed to go on for ever. ‘Help me, God, please help me.’

  A beam of light shone in her face, dazzling her.

  Her scream echoed down the tunnel and came back at her from every direction at once.

  Then she stood for a moment, frozen like an animal.

  Two arms closed around her.

  She felt the rough denim of David’s jacket, hugged it tight.

  ‘Oh God.’ The emotion welled up inside her and burst over and she began to sob. She ran her hands up and down the jacket, up into the soft curly hair at the back of his neck. ‘Thank God, thank God.’ She felt his neck and the thick tangle of beard and sobbed uncontrollably. Then she heard his voice.

  ‘It’s all right, Mother, it’s all right.’

  The shiver ran through her.

  ‘It’s going to be all right.’

  ‘No.’

  She felt the grip on her arm like a pincer of iron.

  Chained her up in a cellar.

  ‘David?’

  And left her?

  ‘David, please let me go.’

  The voice was gentle, soothing. ‘Don’t worry, Mother.’

  She screamed, pulled herself away, tripped, fell over into the slime, rolled hysterically.