Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller (8 page)

‘It’s true. I swear
it’s true.’

‘I’m going now, Sarah,’
Sam said, his voice unsteady. ‘I’m going to go home and collect my things.’

‘Sam, no! Please, just
listen to-’

‘It’s too late for that
now. Don’t you realise what you’ve done? Four years. FOUR  FUCKING YEARS! Jesus
Christ, how the fuck did you manage to deceive me for so long? And Tom? Oh my
God. How can this be possible? How can this be possible? Jesus Christ…I can’t
believe this.’

‘Sam, please! Don’t go.
I’m begging you. Let’s talk this through properly, work a way around it. I
promise you, it’s over between Tom and me. Forg-’

‘Answer me one
question,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘Imagine the situation was reversed and it
was me who’d been having an affair with one of your friends for four years.
Close your eyes and pretend that the shoe was on the other foot. Okay? Got that
image in your head? Good. Now tell me how you’d be reacting right now. You’ve
just seen me kissing your friend outside some posh hotel, so you know what
we’ve been up to. You’re then told that it’s been going on for four years, and
the only explanation I can give you is because I want your friend – the friend
who’s just fired you – to give you your old job back. And then, to top it all
off, I tell you that the reason I began screwing your friend in the first place
is because you weren’t paying me enough attention. Now if you can look me in
the eye and swear to me that you’d take me back if the shoe was on the other
foot, then I promise you I’ll go home with you right now and talk this over
some more. Well?’

Sarah forced herself to
look up at him, but that was all she could manage. She knew he was right, knew
full well how she’d react if he’d been the one having the affair. She had to
accept that for the time being, whatever Sam decided to do was well and truly
out of her control. She only hoped that once he’d calmed down he’d perhaps give
her another chance to explain herself and convince him how much she cared about
him.

Sam stared back at her,
enjoying neither the shallow victory nor the hurt on his wife’s face. In spite
of everything, part of him wanted to stay and talk some more; wanted to
understand and maybe even forgive. He didn’t want to leave his home, his
family, his life. He wanted everything to return to how it was before…before…

‘Don’t worry about
Max,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Tell him that I’m going away for a while to visit
my mother.’

‘Is that really where
you’re going?’

‘Maybe…I don’t know. I
think so. I need some time.’

‘I understand. I’m so
sorry, Sam. Please don’t leave me.’

Sam began walking away,
leaving her alone on the park bench. As he neared the gates to Regent's Park,
he turned and looked at her one final time. He tried to smile but failed.
Instead he tilted his head to the side and frowned, suddenly unsure as to whom
this woman was; who she
really
was. He felt the tears once more rising
to the surface. Not wanting to share them with her, he turned back around and
walked away.

Sam
barely registered the driver’s voice as he announced that the train would
shortly be arriving at Durham Station. The three hour journey had given him
time to think, resulting in a long list of burning questions that desperately needed
answering. There were the obvious ones:
How serious was Sarah’s relationship
with Tom? Did she love him? Did she want to be with him? Was it really over
between Tom and her, or was that just another lie? How could he possibly be
expected to believe anything she said after four years of deception?
And
then there were the less obvious – but no less important - pride-related
questions, such as
was Tom a better lover? What was so special about him? Was
he hung like a racehorse?
(Sam wasn’t sure he needed the answer to that
last one).

He could phone her, but
what would be the point? She’d only confuse him even more; answers would lead
to further questions, until eventually he would end up losing his temper and
hanging up on her. No, he wasn’t ready yet. He needed more time.

His mother was standing
on the platform waiting for him at the station, her lined face as stern-looking
as ever. She was battling with an umbrella and staring straight ahead,
seemingly oblivious to the torrential rain and bitter wind that swept along the
tracks, whipping up litter and old newspapers. Sam grimaced: London may only
have been three hundred miles south of Durham, but the weather was so much
harsher up north. Janice Railton was used to it, having known nothing else, but
Sam knew that as soon as he stepped off that train he would feel Jack Frost
biting at him and tearing at his flesh like a frenzied madman.

In spite of the hostile
weather, Sam smiled warmly as he stepped down from the train and looked at his
mother. Her face lit up when she saw him and she held out her arms to receive him
as he hurried across the platform. They spoke over the phone at least once a
week, but it had been more than six months since his previous visit, which was
far longer than usual.

‘Hello stranger,’ she
said, reluctant to release him from her arms. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about
your old mother.’

‘As if,’ Sam replied,
feeling her love as they held each other. And then, like a young child being
cradled by its mother, he began to cry.

‘Come on,’ she said,
taking his arm and leading him towards the car park. ‘Let’s go home.’

Thirty
minutes later they were sat together in the front room on a small sofa that
faced a welcoming gas fire; its blue and orange flames drawing out the chill
and replacing it with tiredness and warmth. He’d hardly said a word in the car,
but now, as he cradled a cup of hot chocolate in his hands and stared at the
fire, he felt ready to tell Janice the full story. He spared none of the details
– their relationship was such that he didn’t need to – and by the time he’d
finished talking she knew everything there was to know.

‘You know,’ Janice said,
‘I honestly didn’t think Sarah was capable of doing something like that to you.
Tom, maybe – I never liked that man – but Sarah? I never saw her as the
cheating type; never in a month of Sundays. So much for mother’s intuition.’

‘You weren’t the only
who didn’t see it coming.’

‘Did you honestly have
no idea? I mean…four years, Sam. How did she manage to hide it from you for so
long?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Surely you must have
sensed that something wasn’t right. I mean, she must have told you that she was
unhappy?’

‘What do you mean,
unhappy?’

‘Come on, Sam. You
don’t cheat on your husband for that long if everything’s rosy in the marriage
garden. Surely there were signs?’

‘Well, if there were, I
didn’t see them. She could be a bit cold sometimes, a bit distant, but she’s
always been like that. She never actually told me she was unhappy, and not once
did she hint that there was something wrong with our marriage. At least I don’t
think she did.’

‘I see,’ Janice said,
shaking her head. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

‘Can I stay with here
with you?’

‘Of course you can, but
I’m afraid that’s only a sticking plaster. You can’t hide away forever.’

‘I know, but I need to
get my head straight.’

‘What about Max? Does
he know?’

‘No. Sarah’s going to
tell him that I’ve had to come up here for a few days to see you. She’ll
probably pretend that you’re unwell or something.’

‘Great! Blame it all on
a sick old woman. Still, probably for the best.’

‘He can’t know the
truth. Not yet, anyway.’

‘You stay here as long
as you want. Think about what you’re going to do. I’m afraid I can’t help you
with that, but what I will say is that she doesn’t deserve you. I know I’m your
mother, but she’s cheated on you for four years. That’s a lot of dishonesty. If
she can do that to you, then what else is she capable of?’

‘Mum…’

‘I’m just saying, okay?
You’re my son, Sam. You deserve better than that, especially after everything
you’ve been through. Everything
we’ve
been through. Now,’ she said,
taking his empty cup from him and rising to her feet. ‘How about a refill? And
something to eat? You must be starving.’

‘What’s that?’ he said,
his thoughts elsewhere.

‘I asked, cloth-ears, if
you would like me to fix you something to eat.’

‘Sorry, I was miles
away. That’d be great, thanks.’

Janice smiled at him
and walked away. It wasn’t until she reached the kitchen that she finally
allowed herself a few tears. She placed his empty cup on the table and covered
her face with her hands, trying to muffle her sobs. She knew how hard this was
going to hit him. Right now he seemed to be dealing with it well enough, but
knowing her son as she did, she knew that it was only a matter of time before it
really hit home. She would need to be there for him; he wasn’t strong enough to
handle this alone. After everything that poor boy had been through, to leave
him alone would be the end of him.

Sam
rose at 5.00am the following morning having barely slept a wink, his head throbbing
as he searched for his slippers. He’d tossed and turned all night, his mind
working overtime to make sense of yesterday’s events. He was a worrier at the
best of times, but this particular problem was driving him insane. He still
couldn’t decide what to do; it was as if there was an invisible line dividing
him into two equal parts. One part desperately wanted to forgive Sarah and
start afresh, the other part ordered him to hold firm and stand his ground…let
the unfaithful bitch squirm for a while. He knew it was too soon to make an informed
choice. Everything was still so raw.

Not wishing to disturb
his mother, he crept down the hallway and descended the stairs to the kitchen,
closing the door behind him and switching on the light. His eyes immediately
found what they were looking for. His mother’s handbag. He began rummaging
around inside, relieved as his fingers found the box of Paracetamol that his
head so desperately craved. Liberating two capsules from their protective
packaging, he walked to the sink and half-filled a cup with water, gulping down
the capsules with the desperation of an addict. He had a feeling today was
going to be tough.

With no appetite, he
decided to take a walk, hoping the fresh air would help clear his head. There
was nothing else to do: the shelves supporting his mother’s Catherine Cookson
novels held little appeal, and he couldn’t risk waking her by turning on the TV
or radio. He pulled on his coat and boots and headed out into the morning air.

The potholed streets of
his hometown were dark and deserted; the Local Authority refusing to switch on
all of the streetlights due to budget constraints. Anyone visiting Cranston for
the first time would have struggled to find their bearings, (not that anyone in
their right mind would actually
choose
to visit Cranston), but Sam knew
the town like the back of his hand. Born in nearby Stepley Hill Hospital, he’d
spent his entire childhood here. He’d moved house only once - after the
incident - to a run-down terrace on the other side of town, where, unlike most
of his childhood friends, he’d somehow managed to do well at school. He left
home shortly after his eighteenth birthday to study English Literature at the
University of Birmingham. However, every time he returned to visit his mother
he felt the old memories coming back to haunt him. He never stayed long. A day
or two at most was the most he could stomach.

Quickening his pace, he
rounded the corner of Pemberton Street and made his way along Alston Road, eventually
reaching the outskirts of town. The long nights and short days of a northern
winter meant there were still a couple of hours until dawn. Sam shivered as he
considered where to go next. Why people chose to live in a God-forsaken dump
like Cranston was beyond him. He could only assume that a lack of travel meant
they knew no better.  Perhaps for them, ignorance was bliss. He almost envied
them for this.

Saint Cuthbert’s Church
was the last building on Alston Road. Beyond that, the road twisted and turned
through three miles of fields and woodland before arriving at the small hamlet
of Bryerdene. Although Sam was enjoying the revivifying morning air, he had no
intention of walking that far. It had taken him twenty minutes to get here;
another twenty minutes back would be sufficient. Besides, his appetite had
returned and he needed some breakfast. As he turned to retrace his steps home,
he glanced across to the gravestones that encircled the church like a makeshift
army. He shook his head in dismay at the long, unkempt grass and the upturned vases
barely hanging onto roses and lilies that had long since died. How long had it
been since he’d last been here? He couldn’t be sure. But what he could be
certain of was that every time he came to this place it seemed to be in a more
woeful condition than the time before. Nobody seemed to care anymore; not even
the vicar, who by all accounts had a keener interest in the communion wine than
his dwindling congregation. Even for a non-believer like Sam it was sad to see
the place in such a state of disrepair, especially as this was where his little
sister had been laid to rest.

As he passed by the
gate he paused and thought about entering. The fact that it was dark and eerie
didn’t daunt him…he had no time for superstition. As far as he was concerned,
there wasn’t some all-powerful entity watching over people. Things didn’t
happen for a reason. They just happened.

He checked his watch:
5.30am. Another half hour and his mother would be up and wondering where he
was. She’d be worried about him, especially given the state he’d been in yesterday
afternoon. He would have to get going, but there was something he needed to do
first.

Opening the gate, he
stepped into the churchyard and followed the crumbled stone path as it wound
its way through the sloping headstones. The grave he was looking for was at the
rear of the church, tucked away behind a gnarled rowan tree. Sam had once read
that in years gone by, rowan trees were planted in graveyards to watch over the
dead and prevent them from rising up and walking the earth. They were also
supposed to guard against malevolent ghosts and witches. Folklore aside, he was
pleased that his little sister was buried next to a rowan tree. It was a pretty
spot, particularly in the springtime when the scented white blossom was in
bloom, and in the summer when the branches were covered in bright red berries
and the birds sang out to each other. He told himself that Lucy would have
liked it here.

He left the firmness of
the path and stepped onto the muddy grass, grimacing as he felt the cold
morning dew soak through his boots. Her grave remained several paces away, but
despite the darkness he could see a bouquet of fresh flowers lying against the immaculately-maintained
headstone. A neighbour once told him that Janice came here every day, sometimes
twice a day, often staying for up to an hour at a time. This didn’t surprise
him. If he still lived here he would probably do the same.

Thirty years had passed
since her death, but every time he read the inscription he was immediately
dragged back to events of that night and the days that followed. No amount of
medication and psychotherapy could eradicate those memories. They say that time
is a great healer, and maybe it is, but even now it was impossible for Sam to
forget…or forgive.

Lucy
Anne Railton

Born
3
^rd
April 1978, Died 19
^th
November 1984

Sleep
Well My Little Angel – We Will Soon Be Together Again In Heaven.

He kissed the palm of
his hand and placed it gently on top of the headstone.

‘Hello, sis,’ he said,
closing his eyes. ‘I was just passing so I thought I’d call by.’ He always spoke
aloud to her. He liked to imagine the two of them as they once were; an eight
year old boy and a six year old girl who laughed and played and fought together
like brothers and sisters the world over. ‘I see mummy has brought you some
nice flowers. I’m afraid I haven’t got you anything, but before I leave I
promise I will, okay?’ Sometimes he managed to trick himself into thinking that
Lucy was there with him, that the two of them were having a real conversation.
There were even times when he pictured her standing there in front of him
beside the headstone, smiling at him and talking as if she wasn’t dead and
buried but a real person. He knew she wasn’t there, of course, but what harm
was there in pretending, even though the well-meaning counsellors advised
against it.

‘Things haven’t been
all that great recently,’ he said, trying to hold back the tears. ‘But I won’t
burden you with my problems. I bet you’ve got enough on your plate up in heaven
watching over all those poor people with
real
problems.’ He pulled out a
tissue and wiped his eyes. Even though he had no religious convictions of any
kind, this was the one place where he pretended otherwise. He knew it was daft,
but for some reason it felt like the right thing to do.

‘I can’t stay long,’ he
continued, forcing a smile. ‘Mummy will be wondering where I’ve got to. You
know how silly she gets when she worries.’ He smiled at the image he had of his
sister giggling at his words. He opened his eyes and looked around the
churchyard, taking in the serene ambiance of a tranquil, misty morning. ‘You
know, I don’t think I’ve ever visited you at this time of day,’ he said, trying
to sound cheerful. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Quiet and peaceful. Nobody around to
disturb us.’

He frowned, unable to conceal
his sadness. His head dropped to his chest and his voice softened. ‘I wish I
could be with you, Lucy. I don’t really want to be here anymore. If it wasn’t
for Max…well…if it wasn’t for Max.’

A car drove by, the
first of the day, shaking Sam from his thoughts. ‘Enough of me blathering on.
I’m supposed to cheer you up, aren’t I? I’m afraid I’ve done a pretty poor job
of that! I tell you what: why don’t I come back later and we can chat some
more, eh? Only happy stuff, mind, and certainly no more tears. Deal? Good. I’ll
see you later. I promise.’

And then, as he turned
to walk away: ‘I love you, sis.’ He didn’t wait for a reply. In his mind she’d
already said it back to him.

His feet, by now
drenched and freezing cold, soon found their way back onto the path and he
carefully began retracing his footsteps around the church to the main entrance.
As he did so he paused and looked across to the far corner of the churchyard,
his eyes resting on a small, broken headstone; the type that the Local
Authority was required under law to provide for those who had no means of
purchasing their own.
A pauper’s grave
, Sam thought, disgusted that the authorities
had decided to bury
him
in the same graveyard as Lucy. There’d been
furious objections from all manner of folk at the time, but it hadn’t made any
difference. They’d buried him here because nowhere else would have him.

As Sam stared at the
grave he felt a bitter chill pass through him, and for a moment he thought he
saw the dark outline of a man standing by the headstone. He instinctively took a
step backwards, banging his heel against the edge of a paving stone. Regaining
his balance, he looked again. There
was
someone there…he was almost certain
of it. From where he was standing it looked like a man. A tall, thin man
wearing a hat.

Just a trick of the light
,
he thought, straining his eyes to see more clearly.
A shadow of a grave or a
tree
. But this was no shadow…its shape was too distinct.

‘Hello?’ Sam said. ‘Is
there somebody there?’ There was no reply, but Sam was sure the figure took a
step towards him. And then another. And another.

A second car drove by, diverting
Sam’s attention. The driver didn’t notice him, her attention fixed on the road
ahead. When Sam looked back the figure had gone, as if it had never been there
at all. Instead, all that he could see before him was the rundown headstone beside
which the figure had stood. The broken, untouched headstone that nobody ever
tended to.

The headstone of
William ‘Billy’ Railton.