Hugh glanced around, his head almost touching the ceiling. Charley looked up at the disc of the meter. It was barely moving, ‘Do you know much about electrics?’ she said.
‘It’s a good system you’ve got here. This is the latest, safest technology. I’ve got it in my own house.’
They went up the stairs and she closed the door. Hugh took her shoulders in his large hands and held them gently; his eyes were smiling; her own smiled back. They kissed. It was strange, wicked; a good feeling. His mouth was softer than she had somehow imagined. They kissed again, longer, much longer, for five minutes, maybe more, until they were interrupted by Ben who came running up to them, barking and jumping, and Hugh laughed and said it looked like Ben had made a pretty good recovery.
They kissed again in the passageway, in the chilly draught from the front door that was still open and she felt Hugh’s hands slide up under her jacket, under her halter top and gently across the bare skin of her back.
As she worked his shirt tail out of his trousers and ran her hands up his warm powerful back, she did not hear the low humming that had started in the cellar.
Hugh lay, breathing heavily, cold sticky sweat drying on his body, sensing vaguely that he was at the wrong end of the bed. The moonlight beamed harshly in on his face, strong enough to tan him, he thought. He could hear Charley’s breathing, deep, rhythmic, could smell her perfume, her sweat, her animal body smells, and he was becoming aroused again.
His mouth tasted vile, of stale garlic and brandy and cigar smoke. He tried to move but something was holding him down, pinioning him down, a weight across his chest. He put his hand out and felt something hard, smooth. One of her legs. Gently he lifted it and slid out from under it, padded across the room to the open window, and stood listening to the night, to the roaring water, the squeak of some creature, the solitary hoot of an owl.
He walked through into the bathroom and fumbled on the wash-basin for the toothpaste. He unscrewed the cap, squeezed some out on to his finger and rubbed it on his teeth. It tasted sharp, fresh, minty. He ran the tap and rinsed his mouth out, and out of the corner of his eye saw a figure coming through the doorway towards him, an indistinct, hazy figure through the darkness.
Charley. He was filled with a sudden energy and burst of lust as he saw a sheen of moonlight bounce on her breasts, saw her long naked legs. He wanted her in here, wanted to sit her up on the washbasin and —
She ran a finger down his back, tracing over his buttocks, down his thigh, then up, slowly up, took hold of his erection and began to rub it with strokes of her slender fingers, long light strokes, so light she was barely touching it. He smiled at her and she smiled back, a strange smile. A freaky smile.
Then he saw a glint of steel.
Saw the shadow as her arm came down and the knife sliced into his erection, sliced with burning agony right through it and blood sprayed like a fountain, agonising dark squirts in the darkness, spattering him in the face, spraying over her, covering her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, spraying over her grinning sick face.
The knife flashed again, seared into his stomach. Streaks of pain shot up inside him, and the knife twisted, tearing a scream of agony from his throat.
‘Stop!’ he bellowed, dropping his hands and grabbing the blade, but she tore it back, slicing open the skin of his hand, and bones of his fingers. The knife plunged again into his stomach, twisted, turned, lifted him upwards with an incredible maniacal strength, then he fell down on the blade and it cut him open like a filleting knife.
‘Stop! Charley! Stop! For God’s —’
He was howling, pummelling with his fists, shaking crazily, trying to back away. He smashed against the wall, except the wall was soft, cushioned him, bounced him gently.
Charley’s face burned white, brilliant white. Moon white.
The moon.
He was staring out of the window at the moon, gulping down air. The room was quiet. Silence. Just as the roaring of the mill race outside and the thumping of his heart. He felt for Charley, but touched only an empty pillow.
There was a strong smell of perfume, a heady, musky perfume. Charley must have put it on, he thought, to freshen herself up. The smell seemed to be getting stronger, as if she were in the room now and coming towards him. But there was no one. He heard the door open and turned and saw Charley walking in, a shadowy figure in the moonlight.
Something was glinting in her hand.
His skin tightened around him. He pushed himself back, pressed the palms of his hands against the mattress, tensing his muscles, drawing his legs up, blind terror surging through him. He started moving across the bed, slithering across it.
‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’ve brought you a glass of water.’
He stopped, his heart booming, resonating inside him, and stared warily as she moved towards him, as the moonlight glinted off the thing in her hand. He did not relax until the hard glass touched his teeth, the fresh water washed into his mouth, and he drank gratefully, drank like a child. Then she removed the glass and replaced it with her lips.
They kissed, and she pulled back her head playfully, ran her fingers through his hair, and said, ‘You taste nice and fresh. Did you brush your teeth?’
In the morning they made love again. Hugh lay on top of her and she felt his crushing weight, felt the warm strength of his body, the hairs of his beard tickled her face. He took some of his weight on to his elbows and she gazed into the blue-grey eyes that were so close they were blurred.
She felt safe. Safe with him here. Safe and good. A bird outside pipped. There was the clatter of the paper boy’s bicycle and Ben, downstairs, barked, ‘I’m going to have to throw you out in a minute,’ she said.
‘Oh yes?’ He nibbled the end of her nose.
‘The electrician’ll be here soon, and the builders. I don’t think it would be too good an idea if —’
‘Can I see you tonight?’ He rolled over and heaved himself up against the headboard.
She smiled, ‘Yes, please.’
His eyes became serious. ‘Charley, would you mind terribly if I did something?’
The change in the tone of his voice alarmed her. ‘What?’
His face reddened. ‘You know what I was saying last night, about ley lines — intersections?’
She said nothing.
‘I — I don’t know what it is exactly, but there is something very strange in this house — there’s some atmosphere —’ He smiled, but the smile failed to dismiss the worry that had suddenly etched into his face. ‘It’s probably what I think it is — a bit of electromagnetic interference caused by the ley lines — and that’s almost certainly what’s causing your electrical problems.’
‘Why have they only just started causing problems now? Wouldn’t they have done so before?’
‘You don’t know they haven’t. Your predecessor here was mad as a hatter and she might not have been aware of the problems.’
‘Or maybe they drove her mad.’
His eyes probed Charley’s. ‘Surveys don’t reveal leys; not many surveyors believe in or are aware of ley lines. I know someone who is quite into these things, who might —’ His voice tailed away.
‘I thought you were the expert.’
‘I know a bit about leys, but not —’
‘Not what?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘He’s a — what you’d call a sensitive.’
‘What do you mean, a sensitive?’
‘Well, he’s like me, really, only where I tend to take the scientific view he takes a more paranormal view, I suppose.’
She frowned. He was being evasive and it made her feel uneasy. ‘I’m not with you.’
He lifted a strand of hair off her forehead and kissed her. ‘I think someone who knows about these things should have a look. And I don’t think you should stay here on your own.’
‘I have to,’ she said.
‘You can stay at my house. I’m sure I could get him to come round within a day or two.
’
‘Your sensitive?’
‘Yes.’
A feeling of doom slid across like a storm cloud. Tom. Viola. Gibbon. Peregrine, the terrier. Hugh’s semen trickled down her thigh. Betrayal. It had felt good a few minutes ago. So good.
‘What would he do, this sensitive?’
‘He’d be able to tell you.’
She bit at the hard skin below her thumb nail and looked at the dressing table. The dressing table with the heart-shaped locket in the tin at the back of the top right-hand drawer. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Tell you what’s going on in this house,’ he said. ‘Whether you have a presence here.’
Chapter Thirty-four
Charley parked in the pay-and-display below the castle walls, and walked up the High Street. She stopped at a signpost which indicated every municipal building except the one she wanted.
A man in a well-cut suit was striding briskly towards her, swinging his umbrella which was still tightly rolled in spite of the drizzle, and she asked him.
‘County Records Office?’ he said, swivelling on his metal-capped heels and pointing helpfully. ‘Up to the top and round to the right, as far as you can go. The Maltings — got a blue door.’
She walked under a flint archway into quietness and climbed up a steep cobbled hill, past several well-preserved Sussex flint and red brick Georgian buildings, with the castle high up above. She was trying to think clearly, to sort out her thoughts, frightened, suddenly. Frightened to go on. In case …
In case she found —?
The drizzle was worsening. Part of her wanted to go back to the car park, forget about the records office. Another part walked on, head bowed against the rain.
Ahead was a low flint malthouse with a high roof and a blue door. A brass sign read ‘East Sussex County Council. Records Office’.
Inside was a small entrance hall that smelled of furniture polish and damp umbrellas. The walls were lined with pockets of leaflets and a cheery-looking girl sat at the reception desk in front of a floor-to-ceiling rack of leather volumes marked ‘Deaths 1745–1803’.
‘Where would I find burial records for All Saint’s Church, Elmwood?’
‘Room C. Straight ahead at the top of the stairs.’
Room C occupied most of the roof space of the building. It was a long attic with small dormer windows and bright flourescent lighting. To her right was a low counter, to the left were metal racks of index files and a row of microfiche booths; the rest of the room was filled with flat tables and metal-framed chairs.
It was only half past nine, and Charley was surprised at the number of people already there. It bustled with an air of quiet urgency. People were scrolling through microfiches, leafing through binders of old newspapers, unfurling yellowing architects’ plans, scribbling notes. At the far end, a group of students were clustered around a woman who was talking intently in a hushed voice.
Charley dug her hands into her raincoat pockets, went up to the counter and waited until one of the clerks looked up from her index cards. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘I want to see the records on someone buried in All Saints’ Church in Elmwood.’
‘The burial register? Have you filled out a form?’ She held a small pad up.
Charley shook her head.
‘You need a seat number.’ She pointed at an empty chair. ‘That one’ll do. Tell me the number on that.’
Charley walked across and came back. ‘Eleven.’
The woman handed her the form. ‘Fill that in, and your name and address. Do you have a registration number?’
‘No. Do I need one?’
‘Are you doing regular research — or is this a one-off?’
‘A one-off.’ Charley took a pen out of her handbag.
‘You’re only allowed to use pencil here,’ the woman said. ‘I can sell you one for twelve pence if you haven’t got one.’
Charley paid for a pencil.
‘Is it a particular year you want to look up?’
‘Nineteen fifty-three.’
‘Write “Elmwood Burial Register, nineteen fifty-three” then go to your place and someone will bring it to you.’
Charley sat at the table opposite a smart businesslike woman in her late twenties who was scanning through a thick leather-bound volume and jotting down notes on a shorthand pad. Next to her a couple in their forties were poring over a set of house plans.
She wondered how long it would take. She needed to leave by twelve fifteen to make sure she caught a train in time for her appointment with Dr Ross.
A woman reached over and placed a cream leather-bound volume on the table in front of her and moved on silently. It had a gold embossed coat of arms, a typed white tag at the bottom and the wording, also in embossed lettering, ‘Register of Burials’.
She stared at it. Forget it, she thought. Take it back. Leave it alone.
She opened it, turned the thick pages carefully, heard them fall with a slight crackling sound. The columns were spread across the width of both pages, the headings printed, the entries beneath neatly handwritten in fountain pen, the style of writing and the colour of ink changing every few pages. There were several church names she recognised, Nutley, Fletching, Danehill, and some she had not heard of. 1951 … 1952 … 1953. She stopped, glanced at the headings. ‘Name’. ‘Date of death’. ‘Place or Parish where death occurred’. ‘Place of burial’. Her eyes ran down the names. And found it.
‘Barbara Jarrett. August 12th. Cuckfield Hospital. All Saints’, Elmwood.’
That was all. She leafed on through a few more pages, but they were the same.
She read it again, disappointment seeping through her, then went back to the counter. The clerk looked up. ‘Was that helpful?’
Charley nodded, not wanting to offend her. ‘Thank you. I really want to find out a bit more about someone who is buried in Elmwood. She’s in the register, but it doesn’t say much.’
‘What is it you want to know, exactly?’
‘I — I — want to know who she was, see if I can find out a bit about her.’
‘Do you know her date of birth?’
‘No.’
‘It’s not on the gravestone?’
‘No.’
‘If you had that, you could go through the baptisms register, which would give you the names of her mother and father and when she was born. And you could go on from there and look up the electoral register and get their address.’
‘I’ve no idea when she was born.’
‘None at all?’
‘All I know is the date of death.’
‘There’s probably someone in the village who might be able to help you, someone who might remember her. Have you tried that? Pubs are often a good source. Or some of the old shopkeepers.’
Viola Letters’s face burned in her mind. The old man in the pub, Arthur Morrison, closing his front door.
‘Of course, the announcements in the local paper might give you something,’ the clerk said. ‘You could check the deaths column. Do you know how she died?’
‘No.’
‘If it was in some sort of accident, it might well have been reported — that might give you her address and family.’
The woman’s words resonated in her head. Some sort of accident. Her last regression. The burning stable, the fight. The ambulance. The room spun. Charley steadied herself against the counter; she felt a pounding in her chest. The entry on the burial register: Place or Parish where death occurred.
Cuckfield Hospital.
Hospital.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ she heard the clerk saying.
‘Sorry,’ Charley whispered. Hospital. Calm down. Nothing. Millions of people die in hospital.
‘The Sussex Express,’ said the woman. ‘That was the local paper deaths would have been reported in then.’
Charley returned to her chair and waited, tried to relax, but her adrenalin was pumping now. The businesslike woman opposite gave her an irritated
look; Charley wondered if the thump of her heartbeat was distracting her. It was loud. Like drums.
‘There we are. It’s heavy.’ The clerk laid a massive volume down in front of her on top of the burials register.
Charley lifted the leather binder. A smell of old dried paper rose up from the yellowing newspapers inside.
‘SUSSEX EXPRESS & COUNTY HERALD. Friday 2 January 1953.’
An ad in the top right corner read, ‘Bobby’s Plastic Macs — With Attached Hoods’ and beneath were the headlines, ‘KNIGHTHOOD FOR LEWES MAN!’
There were several columns full of the New Year honours list, then the rest of the news on the front page was local: a car accident. The success of a charity New Year’s Eve ball. She glanced through, fascinated for a moment; the newspaper was so old-fashioned, its layout messy, its advertisements bland, its stories almost all local; there was something cosy about it. She turned several chunks of pages at a time, working through the months. It was a weekly paper. Local news always made the major headline, national or international had smaller prominence.
‘CUCKFIELD WAR HERO WEDS.’
‘Stalin Dead!’
‘COUNTY COUNCIL DECISION ON BYPASS!’
‘Rebel Fidel Castro Jailed!’
Friday 7 August.
‘FIVE DEAD IN BOLNEY SMASH.’
She turned through the pages of news, advertisements, sports.
‘Bobby’s Beach Towels In Gay Colours!’
Then Friday 14 August.
The headlines said: ‘NEWLYWED DEAD IN BLAZE HORROR.’
It took a moment for it to sink in. For her to realise she was not imagining it. She tried to read it again, but the print had blurred. She squeezed her eyes, but that made it worse. Then she realised it was blurred because she was holding it in her shaking hands, and she put it down on the table.
Beneath the headline was a black and white photograph of an unrecognisable burned-out building. The caption read: ‘Remains of the stables.’
Inset beside was a smaller photograph of Elmwood Mill, taken from the side, showing the house and the watermill, with the caption, ‘The historic mill house property.’