A Cry From Beyond (18 page)

I had no
cause to worry as it turned out. Her presence was immediately
evident for she slept with the light on, something she often did
due to her natural fear of the dark. She lay beneath the blankets
in a relaxed foetal position, with her hands curled beneath her
chin. She resembled a child. I felt incredibly protective of
her.

Satisfied
she was safe, I quietly closed the door and returned to the master
bedroom, where I dwelled on Kayla and her mother, two people who
had come to....well, haunt me. Was Melinda the name of Kayla’s
mother, I wondered? If so, how on earth did I know that? By now I
was desperate to unravel the mystery surrounding them
both.

Michelle
decided to return to London the following morning. The parting was
cordial, (to a point), though our differences remained unresolved.
Despite this I felt relieved. I didn’t really want her staying at
High Bank. Why I personally felt compelled to remain I couldn’t
say, although the reason would grow much clearer as events
unfolded.

The
following day Gentleshaw visited. He was able to confirm what I
suspected; Melinda, the name I had spoken in my sleep, was also
that of Kayla’s mother. It was a shock, an understatement, but one
I was prepared for. He told me something else, he said that Melinda
had been pregnant with her second child when she decided to leave
Willis and run away with Kayla. He described Melinda as a willowy
blonde beauty who had a penchant for denim. Kayla, he said, was a
carbon copy of her mother. I suddenly felt completely
bereft.

“A family
portrait used to hang in the farm house living room,” he said in
passing, “don’t know whether it’s still there though.”

That
afternoon following lunch, I phoned Michelle hoping to make amends
for the fiasco of the previous night. She again demanded to know
who Melinda was.

“A ghost,
she’s a ruddy ghost!”

I didn’t
say that of course. Instead I hinted that she might be a fan intent
on stalking me. Michelle didn’t buy it. Who could blame her? We
ended up arguing again.

“Don’t
call me, I’ll call you!” she snapped. It was on that sour note that
the conversation ended. I was gutted, but determined to persevere
in the hope she would eventually come round. I’d been a bloody
fool, I realised belatedly. Common sense had more often than not
fallen prey to alcohol and drugs and my own huge ego. Michelle
truly cared for me, that much was now obvious even to me, and she
always had. We could still make each other happy, I was convinced
of it. I just hoped that that particular statement hadn’t already
lapsed into the past tense.

The cops
inevitably paid another visit to the cottage. This time it was to
inform me that they intended making an in depth search of the
property and the surrounding area. I refused them permission to
enter the house, the reason being that Irish continued to supply
and I continued to buy. I couldn’t afford to get busted. The cops
went away, vowing to return with a search warrant. The delay at
least gave me time to get the gear off the premises. I asked Irish
to collect and then store it away until the pressure had lifted. He
obliged readily enough and when the cops returned, having been
granted permission to search by the local judge, they entered a
drug free zone.

Sniffer
dogs were brought in on this occasion as additional support. The
cellar proved to be of great interest to the canines, not that it
was all that surprising. Lennon had long since staked a claim to
that particular room. Then, a few days later I received an
unexpected visit from Mrs Corbett. She informed me that the police
had contacted her in her capacity as owner of the property, to say
that a forensic team would be visiting the place.

“They
think something is wrong with the cellar,” I informed her. “Their
sniffer dogs got quite excited down there. Don’t be surprised if
they decide to do some excavating.”

Visibly
alarmed, she said, “Do you really think it’s a possibility. Mr
O’Shea?”

“
Yes I do. Two people have gone AWOL whilst resident at High
Bank. The cops are under pressure to discover their whereabouts.
The sniffer dogs have presented them with a lead, if you’ll excuse
the pun. When you take into account the fact that a number of women
vanished under similar circumstances a few years ago, and the then
occupant of this house was a suspect, it makes sense that it should
come under scrutiny.”

Mrs
Corbett, looking completely out of her depth, conceded I had a
valid point.

My
attention was suddenly drawn to a powder blue people carrier
travelling along the un-adopted road leading up to the cottage. It
eventually slowed before drawing to a stop at the end of the
driveway.

“Looks
like you have visitors,” Mrs Corbett remarked.

My heart
sank to the point of drowning. The side of the vehicle displayed
the painted logo, Westward Television. Number 1 for
News!

A bloody
news crew! That’s all I needed.

The
driver’s door opened and a man jumped out. He was around my age
with cropped hair and thick Noel Gallagher eyebrows. (Nothing wrong
there, unless of course you need to see)! He was dressed in a
yellow shirt and tie, and green corduroy trousers. He had the word
“jerk” written all over him.

“I think
I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs Corbett announced and turned to
go.

“No,
wait,” I said. “I may need your help.”

She
looked at me curiously, an endearing little frown crinkling her
brow.

“Moral
support,” I explained. “I don’t want them here. I’m the tenant and
I’m aware of my rights, but you’re the owner. It would be helpful
if you were a witness to events.”

Mrs
Corbett nodded in understanding.

The man
with the cropped hair and thick eyebrows approached. He was smiling
in a particularly cheesy fashion. He reminded me of an unscrupulous
door to door salesman.

“
Mr O’Shea?” he asked brightly.

“You’re
on private property,” I told him bluntly. “Please leave or I will
call the police.”

The smile
wavered. “Not exactly welcoming are you.”

“You’re
not getting it,” I said, quickly losing patience. “I didn’t request
your company and I have a right to privacy. Now, please
go.”

“We were
hoping you would make yourself available for an interview,” he said
extending a hand for me to shake.

“I’m not
giving interviews. Now please leave before I lose my
temper.”

The hand
was withdrawn and the smile faded. “You mean you don’t want to give
your side of the story?”

“There is
no story.”

“I beg to
differ, Mr O’Shea.”

Behind
him another man, tall with ginger hair, appeared from the rear of
the vehicle holding a large flashy looking camcorder with a mini
boom that could be shoulder mounted. At the same time the passenger
door opened and a woman climbed out. She was in her thirties with a
classy demeanour. She wore a smartly tailored beige trouser suit,
complimented by a cream blouse. Her auburn coloured hair was pulled
back in a rather severe bun. She wore tinted specs, (sexy specs I
thought in typical male fashion). She reminded me of Palin. I only
hoped she wasn’t as tenacious. Like her male colleague, she was
smiling as she made her way over to me.

“Marcia
Climes,” she said, introducing herself. “And you must be the famous
Johnny O’Shea?”

“Like I
said to your Mr Smooth, I’m not giving interviews.”

The guy
with the camera had joined us and was happily filming the scene as
it unfolded. I waved a warning hand in his direction. “You can stop
that right now mister or pay the consequences!”

Beside me
Mrs Corbett visibly blanched, sensing trouble was on the
horizon.

“What are
your thoughts on recent events?” Marcia Climes asked, having
somehow managed to produce a digital audio recorder out of thin
air.

“I don’t
have any thoughts: I’m a dumb ass musician,” I said tensely. “Now
for the last time, will you please go away; you’re trespassing.” I
glanced at Mrs Corbett, hoping she would speak up in my defence,
but she appeared to have developed an acute case of stage fright,
staring into camera like a startled rabbit.

“Do you
think the disappearances are connected with those of yesteryear?”
the Palin clone asked, holding the recorder up to my mouth so close
I could’ve kissed it. At that point I made the mistake of pushing
her hand away a little bit more roughly than I intended.

Mr Smooth
stepped forward, frowning deeply and with his chest puffed up, her
knight in shining armour. “No need for that attitude Mr O’Shea.
We’re only doing our job.”

“Go do
your job elsewhere,” I stormed. “I don’t want to talk to you. Now,
do I make myself clear?”

The
cameraman stepped closer, a ginger blur behind the lens, in a
courageous attempt to capture a close up.

“How many
times do I have to tell you,” I said rapidly running out of
patience. “Turn that bloody thing off!”

I half
turned with the intention of retreating to the apparent safety of
the cottage, when all of a sudden Mr Smooth said, “A question Mr
O’Shea: have you finally managed to kick the drug
habit?”

That did
it for me. I turned, grabbed his tie and pulled him so close our
noses almost touched.

“Apologise!” I screamed into his face.

He stared
at me in muted, wide eyed horror.

“Mr
O’Shea! Please!” the Palin clone intervened. “Control yourself;
your behaviour is doing you no favours whatsoever.”

Out of
the corner of my eye I saw the cameraman inch ever closer, while
behind him I caught sight of a police patrol car pulling up in the
driveway, presumably there to mount another search. They had
arrived just in time to witness what they no doubt would describe
as a violent incident.

“Oh,
Jesus Christ,” I groaned, releasing Mr Smooth and pushing him away.
“Not now. Please God, not now.”

Mrs
Corbett gently tugged at my sleeve and suggested I go inside the
cottage, while she talked to the reporters on my behalf.

“I’m
okay,” I told her stubbornly, “I can handle it.”

She
didn’t look convinced.

“Really,
I’m okay.”

As I was
saying that, Mr Smooth decided to return to the people carrier in
which he’d arrived, at which point he was approached by two
uniformed police officers. Meanwhile, the Palin lookalike continued
assaulting my ears with her insistent requests for an
interview.

“For the
last time,” I said, feeling totally exasperated, “Leave me alone
before I do something we’ll both regret!”

It was
then that the uniformed officers ended their conversation with Mr
Smooth and made a beeline for me. I immediately felt my heart sink,
already imagining accusations of assault being levelled at
me.

And that
was precisely what happened.

Down at
the cop shop, which was fast starting to feel like my second home,
I was cautioned and forced to make a statement, before being
released back into a world I now viewed with deep mistrust and
fear.

“They
arrested you!” Mike was disbelieving when I called him with the
news. “How the hell did you manage to get yourself
arrested?”

“I just
told you. I was provoked and I lost it. I’m human Mike, in case you
hadn’t noticed. I have feelings and emotions, and I have buttons
that can be pressed and that’s what happened today.”

“Jesus H
Christ!”

“Yeah, I
know, it’s the pits.”

“You do
realise this is going to make the headlines big time, don’t
you?”

“Can’t
wait,” I said.

“Tell me
something: when you were a kid, did your mother never tell you that
it’s sometimes a good idea to keep your head down?”

“Don’t
sermonise Mike. I’m not in the mood. I came to this damn cottage
with the intention of doing exactly that, but like Lennon said, I
refer of course to the late musician, not my dog, life happens when
you’re busy making other plans.”

“Quite
the little philosopher, aren’t you,” Mike said.

“Love you
too, big fella.”

“Michelle
asked after you by the way, but made me promise not to tell you, so
I haven’t.”

“Haven’t
what?”

“Told
you; you dummy.”

“I messed
up big time there, didn’t I Mike.”

“Well,
you know what they say, where there’s life, there’s
hope.”

“A case
of watch this space,” I said keeping with the clichés.

“Any
further developments at High Bank: other than your
arrest?”

“Not at
the moment. It’s all been a little normal and boring of late. I’ll
keep you informed.”

“Let’s
hope you haven’t tempted fate with that last statement,” Mike said.
I got the impression he wasn’t joking.