Glimpse (18 page)

‘What about her?’

‘She died years ago. Which you obviously already know,’ I added, seeing Meg roll her eyes. ‘I know you do mediumship readings, pass on messages from beyond the grave, that sort of thing. I wondered if you could . . . do the same for me with my mum.’

Meg flapped a hand, as though shooing away a fly. ‘Next question. I can already tell you, she won’t have any messages for you.’

I tried not to let my frustration show, but it was impossible. ‘How do you know? I’m going to pay you, can’t you at least try?’

‘I don’t need to try, girl. I know.’

‘Can you at least tell me if she’s still around as a ghost?’

‘That one, you can answer on your own.’

I narrowed my eyes at her. Meg matched my unimpressed look with one of her own. Maybe it had been pointless coming here. She might have let me in the door, but apparently that didn’t mean she was actually going to help me.

‘Next question,’ Meg repeated. ‘I assume you’ve got more?’

I nodded. I wasn’t sure there was much point asking. If she wouldn’t even answer a ‘normal’ psychic question, then I doubted she’d answer my others, but I had to try.

‘I want to know why some people see spirits and others don’t,’ I said. ‘And if a person can see them . . . I want to know how they can make them stop.’

Meg gave a small smile. ‘Now, that’s a better question.’ She settled back in her chair and smoothed her skirt. ‘Seeing spirits is a gift. Some, like myself, are born with it. Others develop it after an event brings them in close contact with the dead. You are one of the latter.’ She smiled, showing off her false teeth. ‘I’ve never seen a girl so touched by death as you, I must say.’

Shivers bristled down my spine. ‘So is there a way to stop it?’

‘Can you stop your eyes seeing? Stop your ears hearing? It’s a sense, girl; you can’t turn it off. Not even in death.’

Disappointment poured through me like cement. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Never been more sure. Especially in your case. Are we done? Time’s ticking.’

I sighed and looked back up at her. ‘I heard that spirits have to stay near their bodies. Is that true?’

She nodded.

‘So how come I saw a spirit from the inn here in your house, someone who was buried in the old churchyard across the village?’

For the first time, Meg looked flustered. ‘All sorts of spirits communicate with me. I’m the strongest psychic in the area.’

‘So spirits can move from their bodies then,’ I said. ‘How? Do your psychic abilities override the pull of their bodies, or something?’

‘No. I didn’t say any of that.’ Meg adjusted her glasses. She looked uncomfortable. ‘There are physical rules to the spirit world just like there are to the living one. Spirits can no more escape their bodies than you and I can escape gravity. If I want to communicate with a spirit, I must go to them, or find a way to bring them to me.’

I frowned at her, confused.

Meg looked around, as though checking we weren’t being overheard, then leaned forwards in her chair. ‘No spirit can move to where their body is not, girl.’ She held my gaze, then flicked her eyes towards the bookcase.

I followed her gaze. A shiver rippled through me as I saw what she was looking at.

The fruit bowl, with its small pieces of bone. I looked with slow horror from the bowl, to Meg, and back again. Meg raised her thin white eyebrows.

‘Are those . . . human?’ I whispered.

‘I’m not answering any more, so don’t ask me.’ She sounded as much nervous as annoyed. ‘I’ve said quite enough. Work it out for yourself.’

I snapped my mouth shut.

Meg’s gaze darted around the room once more. ‘It’s time for you to leave. But I will tell you one more thing before you go.’ She leaned towards me again, and the confidence returned to her voice. ‘I know you ignored my advice. You’ve been carrying on with that boy, haven’t you?’

I sat very still.

‘Zachary.’ Meg looked at my face and nodded. ‘You should look alarmed, girl. I’ll tell you a thing for free, about dealing with the dead. They do not change. How can you trust him, this boy who once attacked the vulnerable in the night, stole from them, left them for dead? Do you think a person with that level of selfishness could ever be good, even in death? Has he told you he murdered his own brother?’ Meg chuckled at my aghast expression. ‘I thought not. Oh, yes. His poor brother, Philip. Zachary was ruthless. Notorious. The dead do not change, they simply learn to manipulate. And you’re valuable to him. If there’s anyone he’d want to manipulate, it would be you, powerful as you are.’

My heart pounded. ‘Why should I believe you?’

‘Because I’ve been there. I know.’ Her smile turned wry. ‘You’ll learn, my girl, how the dead try to twist those of us with power to their own purposes.’

I stayed very still. I didn’t know how to respond. A thousand objections filled my mouth, but I didn’t let one of them out, because of the single voice that whispered,
What if she’s right?
It was true that I didn’t know anything about Zachary, not really; only what my instincts and the poem told me. It was true that he had more to gain from our connection than I did.

Meg patted the arm of her chair. ‘I think that’s enough for one afternoon.’

I stood up. My legs were jelly. I fished for my wallet in my satchel.

‘No charge,’ Meg said. ‘Not for what I’ve told you.’

‘Um. Thanks.’

She narrowed her eyes, but for once she looked more contemplative than mean. ‘You’re welcome. Now, don’t come back.’

I headed back down the hallway and out into the front yard. The sky was heavyset and overcast, but even so, stepping outdoors felt like a release. I stood on the weed-cloyed path to compose myself then continued on my way, picking up my pace.

I had to talk to Zachary.

‘Liz, I swear you’ll give me a heart attack.’ Dad leaned over the back of the sofa and looked at me over the top of his glasses. ‘Calm down.’

I pushed the cupboard door to. I’d already reorganized the cutlery drawer, gone through all the food checking best before dates, and loaded the dishwasher. Before that I’d tried flicking through magazines, zoning out on the internet . . . but every time I sat down, all I did was think about Zachary. Whatever I did to pass the time, the clock refused to get any nearer bedtime.

It wasn’t that I believed Meg as such – I’d only spoken to Zachary a handful of times, but I trusted him like I’d known him much longer – it was just that I couldn’t deny what Meg had said about him being a highwayman. When I put the romance of the poem aside, I had to admit he had been a criminal. He had stolen from and maybe even hurt people. Meg said he’d been feared and notorious, once upon a time.

But murdering his own brother . . .? Surely that was something that could never be left in the past. If it was true, Zachary was – or at least, had been – capable of something I’d never have thought possible of him.

And why would Meg lie to me? She had to know I’d ask him. If it was a lie, it was a silly one.

I didn’t know what to think.

‘Liz, do I need to stage an intervention?’ Dad said. ‘Step away from the washing up and sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.’

I sighed, and walked over to the sofa. I’d put on my longest, swishiest skirt after school, and I wrapped its folds around me like a blanket as I sat down next to Dad. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

He assumed his best, attentive-father pose, which I noticed he’d been working on since our argument at the weekend. ‘I thought we made a bargain. I try harder, and you keep me in the loop with what’s happening with you.’

‘It’s not a big deal.’ I paused. Normally, I would have left it at that, but Dad had been trying so hard lately, that I let myself continue. ‘I just heard something today about one of my new friends that I didn’t expect.’

Dad nodded, and frowned with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

‘How do you know if you can trust someone, Dad?’

‘Aha.’ He rubbed his bristly chin. ‘I didn’t realize we were wading into such philosophical waters. Can you give me any details?’

I shook my head.

‘Okay. That’s fine. Trust; it’s a tricky one.’ He considered. ‘Although I did see a great daytime talk show about it the other day.’

I smiled and rolled my eyes. ‘Shame I missed it. I’m sure the advice was stellar.’

‘It wasn’t bad actually. I think the conclusions were to talk to the individual about your worries, and that their actions speak louder than words.’

Zachary’s actions were the problem. Because his words had, so far, been pretty much perfect.

Manipulative
, Meg’s voice whispered through my mind. I squashed it away. I refused to think badly of Zachary until I spoke to him. But the poison of doubt had begun to infect my mind at its roots.

‘Does that help?’ Dad asked.

‘Maybe.’

‘Good.’ He glanced at the TV, which had been chattering to itself this whole time, and turned it off.

I was surprised; the TV never went off while Dad was awake.

‘Now, come with me,’ he said, ‘because I’ve got something to show you.’

Dad heaved himself off the sofa and headed out of the kitchen. I followed, expected him to go upstairs – the only other part of the inn we used – but instead he turned left and opened the door to the inn’s old dining room.

The air was stale of course, but I could tell Dad had been in here before he turned on the lights. The spider-webbed chandeliers illuminated a freshly hoovered carpet. And right in the middle of the room stood the inn’s piano – shiny and clean and with a piano stool ready at the keyboard.

Dad looked at me with an almost shy smile, then walked right up to the piano, sat down at the stool, and flipped up the lid.

For a long moment, I was dumbstruck. Dad’s hands skated across the keys, filling the room with a perfect, bittersweet melody. In seven long years, I had never once heard Dad play. It was like watching one of the old photos come alive.

I drifted over to his side. With the old, dusty tables and empty chairs around us, it felt like the evening had morphed into a dream.

‘I had the piano brought out of the drawing room today and tuned.’ Dad smiled up at me. ‘I didn’t think I’d remember how to play, but it’s all stored up here somewhere.’ He paused to tap his head.

‘Your playing—’ I sought for the right words ‘—it’s amazing.’

‘This is nothing.’ He hit a wrong note, weaved it into the melody, and kept going. ‘If only you could remember the way I played before.’

Dad bent over the keys, and I closed my eyes, feeling the music vibrate through me, unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time. I didn’t know if I was remembering, exactly; all I knew was that this felt right. Music filling this empty dining room, Dad happy and more at ease than I had seen him in forever.

‘And the best part,’ he said, ‘is that I rang a few of the local music studios this afternoon, and it turns out the one in the next town has a vacancy for a sound engineer. So I have an interview on Saturday.’

He brought the music to a dramatic, over-the-top crescendo, and I laughed and clapped enough for a whole inn-full of hotel guests.

I didn’t bother trying to sleep. I didn’t even get changed out of my clothes. I just sat up against my pillows, examining the painting of Bess by the light of my bedside lamp, looking at the picture of my mother in my locket, thinking about Dad and Meg and Zachary.

And all the while, Dad’s playing echoed round my head, bittersweet, like the promise of a new start tinged with regret at something lost.

After the piano had fallen silent downstairs and Dad had creaked his way to bed, I waited another hour, all my thoughts now on Zachary. There would be no running around in the dark tonight. I needed to know that I could trust him before I got in any deeper.

As before, Zachary stepped out of the shadows under the tree the moment I moved to my window.

‘Come up,’ I whispered. I didn’t stay to watch him climb. I retreated to my bed and sat back against the pillows, running my locket over my lips as I waited for him.

He thudded softly into my bedroom, with his usual panther-like grace. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked immediately.

I looked up at him. Was I that easy to read? I’d been trying to look neutral. I didn’t want him to think I’d already judged him when I asked what I had to.

‘I need to talk to you,’ I said. ‘Sit down.’ I flicked my gaze towards the end of the bed.

Zachary looked at the bed and hesitated. Then he folded to the floor instead, leaning against the wall. He tipped his head back to look at me, his red-gold hair spilling across his brow, which was creased with concern. ‘Has something happened?’

I didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked at him. I tried to imagine him as a highwayman. It was all too easy. With his slim, muscled body, his clothes the perfect colour for hiding in the dark, his practical boots and gloves, he was built for the outdoors, made for the night. He’d look good on a horse.

He’d look good in a fight.

He was tough enough to be a highway robber – that was for sure. But could he hurt people? Would he kill?

‘Elizabeth. Speak to me.’

I sighed. Then I got off the bed and joined him on the floor, pressing my back against the wall beside him, bunching my skirt around me. He smelled like a boy-sized piece of night; he made me think of darkness, of trees and earth and stars.

‘Zachary, I have a question.’ I held his gaze and paused – there was no easy way to ask this. ‘I’ve been thinking about you being a highwayman. Were you good at it?’

He looked at me, not blinking. ‘I was.’

‘Were you notorious?’

‘I . . . had a reputation.’

‘Did you kill people?’

He started, the sole of one of his boots scraping sharply on the floor. But he didn’t break eye contact. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because that’s what highwaymen did, wasn’t it?’ I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. ‘And because I spoke to a psychic who came to the inn a long time ago, and she told me you’d murdered your brother.’

‘It was not murder.’

‘But . . . you did kill him?’

He squeezed his eyes shut as though in pain. ‘Who was this person? What did she tell you?’