A Cry From Beyond (14 page)

And then,
quite suddenly, they were revealed and laid bare, but I was too
afraid to look. Instead I threw up a mental barrier in order to
block them. And as I resisted, the sense that my mind was being
explored, left me.

I felt
Madam Lee’s hand slowly release mine. With the break in physical
contact, came relief from the pressure and discomfort I’d
experienced during the “psychical” process. My focus returned and I
could again see clearly. Madam Lee sat before me looking pale and
drawn. She was not play acting, I was sure. The past few minutes
had taken its toll on her. She was plainly distressed, although she
tried her best not to show it.

I was
curious to know what it was she thought she’d seen. I expected her
to dream up a dramatic reading of some kind, but instead she
disappointed, refusing to say what she had, or had not discovered
from the process. I glanced over at David and Jenny, who sat by the
tent flap. David shrugged, while Jenny offered a slightly
embarrassed half smile. I decided to give it one more shot by
asking the clairvoyant to elaborate on what she’d said.

“The
spirits refuse to cooperate,” she explained flatly, careful to
avoid my gaze. The comment lacked true conviction. I studied her
face closely and received the distinct impression she was holding
something back. Then she surprised me by returning the money I’d
given her, whilst apologising for her poor showing.

“Perhaps
I am getting too old for this game,” she reasoned. “Forcing my mind
into the mind of others, pushing it into the unknown, eventually
takes its toll. The gift I have can be very demanding. Some see it
as a curse. It destroyed my mother,” she added with apparent
candour, “and it will probably destroy me.”

“Then why
do you do it?” I asked, trying to ignore my natural
scepticism.

“Because
I can; and because it can help people.”

“But if
it harms you, what’s the point?”

“It gives
me satisfaction and, dare I say it, a certain pleasure,” she
explained. “Besides, we are all born to die, so why be afraid.
Death is our destiny, although there are those who fight
it.”

“How, and
in what way?”

“You
really want to know gorgio?”

I nodded
my head, intrigued to learn more, despite myself.

“There
are those who refuse to accept their fate. Others are ignorant of
what has happened to them. As a consequence they are unable to
leave this world and enter the next. For some, life is prolonged
interminably.”

“Ghosts,”
I said. “Are you talking about ghosts?”

“
They say there are two certainties in life,” she said,
avoiding the question, “one being death; the other taxes. But there
is a third.”

“Which
is?”

“That
whatever is written on your forehead when you are born, will come
to pass.”

I frowned
in ignorance. She elaborated for my benefit. “Some are born to be
haunted. It is because they are receptive.”

I
suddenly realised what she was hinting at.

“You saw
something, didn’t you?”

The
terrier awoke and moved to the foot of her seat. The two exchanged
a glance, very much like I imagined a witch and its familiar would
do. An unspoken communication seemed to pass between
them.

“I’m
afraid I must ask you to leave,” said Madam Lee politely but
firmly.

Reluctantly I did as she asked and left the tent, accompanied
by David and Jenny who, it turned out, were as troubled as I by the
readings given.

“I didn’t
enjoy that one little bit,” David said uneasily.

“She
wasn’t being honest with any of us,” I couldn’t help
saying.

Jenny
frowned thoughtfully, but failed to pass comment.

Behind us
Madam Lee emerged from the tent accompanied by her dog and wandered
off before disappearing into the crowd.

“Bloody
poor value for money,” David grumbled as he watched her
go.

“Both she
and Irish referred to me as “gorgio,” I said.

“It means
stranger or non gypsy” Jenny explained.

“Fancy a
go on the Big Wheel anybody?” David asked, changing the
subject.

Jenny
glanced at her wristwatch and suggested we head back for the meal
she had prepared, a spicy chicken casserole.

“Good
idea,” David said.

By now it
was completely dark. The bright neon lights of the fairground shone
with cheap and cheerful brilliance. We headed off. Ten minutes
later we were stepping through the front door of David and Jenny’s
house, which was filled with the pleasing aroma of home
cooking.

“If Madam
Lee is right and I get a better paid job, we’ll be living in a big
detached this time next year,” Jenny said
optimistically.

“And I’ll
swap the Astra for a Porsche,” David said playing along.

Jenny
laughed. “In your dreams, mister,” and bundled him into the living
room, at which point she disappeared into the kitchen.

Following
the meal we sat and talked. Alcohol and conversation flowed freely.
Inevitably we got onto the subject of the disappearances that
dogged High Bank, but were unable to come up with any fresh ideas
to explain the mystery.

“It’s a
creepy business, that’s for sure,” David remarked, to which Jenny,
slipping a McFly CD into the player, voiced disappointment, saying,
“I secretly hoped Madam Lee would throw some light on
events.”

“I still
don’t think she was being entirely straight with us,” I said,
unable to help myself.

David
glanced at me, mildly surprised. “Care to elaborate?”

“Like I
said before, I got the impression she was keeping something
back.”

“And you,
the non-believer,” Jenny observed.

“That’s
irrelevant the way I see it. My point is, Madam Lee undoubtedly
thought she saw something and for reasons best known to her,
decided against sharing the information with us.”

We lapsed
into silence. Jenny went through to the kitchen to refill her
glass. During her absence I mentioned my dream to David, the one in
which I’d visited the old farmhouse. It’d been bugging me. I felt
the need to discuss it with someone who would offer an impartial
point of view.

“Wow,” he
said when I’d finished. “If you want my opinion, I’d go with the
sleepwalking explanation. Jenny on the other hand might opt for the
“walking in the presence of ghosts” scenario.”

“What’s
the story behind the farm’s fall from grace?” I asked. “My landlady
said it’s going through a protracted probate, but didn’t really go
into any great detail.”

“Like
High Bank,” David said, “Manor Farm, as the place is commonly
known, has a tragic history. When Frederick Grimshaw’s daughter ran
off taking his granddaughter with her, he lost the will to go on
and the farm gradually went to seed. Grimshaw himself grew
increasingly eccentric. His relatives soon converged and tried to
get him sectioned under the mental health act in order to get their
hands on the estate, but Grimshaw beat them to it by hanging
himself.”

“That’s
awful,” I said. David nodded agreement. “And is it true that no one
ever saw his daughter or granddaughter again?”

“That’s
correct. Rumours abound that Martin Willis might have been behind
their disappearance, but it’s doubtful anything will ever be proved
at this late stage.”

“Sounds
like Willis could have been a serial killer,” I said, recalling
Gentleshaw’s remarks about him being a suspect in the case of the
original “missing three”.

David
frowned in apparent ignorance.

“The
girls that disappeared when you were a kid,” I said, trying to jog
his memory regarding his comments the night Terry disappeared.
“Apparently Willis was right in the frame, but nothing was ever
pinned on him.”

Jenny
re-entered the room. She was carrying a tray containing two bowls
of peanuts and fresh beers for David and I.

“Cheers
m’ dears,” she said, plonking herself down onto the couch, careful
not to spill red wine from her replenished glass.

“What’s
new?” she asked, looking at David and me in turn.

“Not a
lot,” David said glancing my way, offering a kind of “your secret’s
safe with me” look. “We were hoping you’d brighten up the
conversation with your humorous rhetoric.”

“In case
you’d forgotten, I’m a teacher,” she replied. “Teacher’s don’t do
humorous.”

The
conversation moved away from talk of murder and the occult, and for
me it didn’t come a moment too soon.

CHAPTER TEN

The cops
continued to investigate the disappearances of Terry and Mary
Louise with grim and unrelenting determination. As a result, I was
questioned for a third time. On this occasion it was down at the
local nick, where an official statement was taken. I offered up my
original story because it happened to be the truth. Whilst there, I
discovered that Terry and Mary Louise had been officially
registered as missing persons on the police computer
database.

“Rest
assured, we’ll do everything in our power to trace them,” an
investigating detective assured as I prepared to leave.

“That’s
good to know,” I said.

“And
please keep us informed of your whereabouts, should you decide to
leave the area,” he added pointedly. “We may need to speak to you
again.”

“I don’t
see what else I can add.”

“Something might jog your memory. It happens. The mind works
in mysterious ways.” He grinned and tapped the side of his nose
with a forefinger.

I left
the station feeling like a prime suspect.

Norris
proved true to his word, having penned a sensationalist piece that
appeared in the local rag, in which he compared High Bank Cottage
to The Bermuda Triangle and the Marie Celeste. He claimed to have
been granted an exclusive interview, in which I’d openly admitted
that both abductees were taken by the ghost of the suicide victim,
Martin Willis. No doubt he’d talked to Sandy Mercer, who had
recounted his dream, the one in which someone or something had
abducted Mary Louise. For the sake of a good story, the reporter
had stretched it to include Terry.

The
area’s dubious history was given a brief mention in the article, as
were those females who had disappeared during the eighties and
early nineties. Moreover, Norris had strived to create the
impression that I was a reclusive “has been” living in a haunted
house, where the dead had a habit of stealing the living.
Curiously, I must admit to having seen a strange element of truth
in those claims. And that, I guess, was the scariest part. Norris
had openly reported what I’d been thinking, but was too afraid to
say.

Mike
visited again, this time to discuss my future career, which I
thought was a somewhat optimistic stance to take, as I’d had no
career to speak of for quite a while, with only session work to
sustain me. Mike wanted better for me. He thought I had more
potential than any one either inside or outside the music business
believed was possible. He was also under the misguided impression I
was cured of my love of the good life. Who was I to disillusion
him? Besides, I needed all the help I could get.

He
arrived loaded down with an overnight bag, a briefcase, a new
contract, and a heap of good will. Neither of us knew it at the
time but it was to be his second and final visit to High Bank. He’d
seen Norris’s story and quizzed me about it. I told him what I had
told the cops, what else was there to say?

“There
has to be a logical explanation for what’s happened,” I concluded.
“All we have got to do is find it.”

But I
didn’t really believe that. There was nothing logical about what
had been happening. Even then I knew that Norris, with his semi
fictional account of recent events at High Bank, was closer to the
truth than anyone would ever have imagined. Mike passed on
Michelle’s best to me. I thanked him.

“How is
she, Mike?”

“She
misses you more than she lets on.”

“Misses
me like a hole in the head, more like.”

“Less of
the flippant remarks, “Mike cautioned, “Like the song says, “you
don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone”.”

Noticing
Lennon lay out in the hallway by the cellar door, Mike inquired if
the problem in the cellar was cured. The question got me thinking
about the beetles, (“Sexton beetles”, Brian, the pest control man
called them), that had invaded the cottage and whose presence Brian
had seemingly eradicated.

It was
Brian’s professional opinion that the little critters had
originated from beneath the building, with the cellar providing
them with an ideal breeding ground. Consequently, the subterranean
room was sprayed rigorously, which unfortunately made it smell
worse than ever. I let Mike get settled in before suggesting he
listen to a couple of tunes I’d composed since his last visit.
Having heard them, he expressed cautious optimism.