Night After Night (47 page)

S

‘Abuse?’

YES

Cindy says quickly, ‘Do you possess a white coat?’

The planchette quivers.

‘Raincoat?’

Fitfully, the planchette spells out a message that makes none of them laugh.

ON

LY

A

SH

RO

UD

With impeccable timing, a candle sputters in the hoop, its flame reduced to a slender spiral of smoke.

‘Went darker then,’ Marcus says, ‘did you see?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Both of them watching the same picture on TV sets miles apart. This is a little crazy, Grayle’s thinking. Could be that nothing at all will happen bar a few more creepy messages. Equally, it could be that something will happen that won’t be obvious onscreen and maybe not until days afterwards.

‘You remember the brother and sister I talked to, ’bout four years ago? Messing with the ouija board, then both are troubled by persistent poltergeist phenomena in their separate homes.’

‘Yes I do. Proved nothing.’

The camera pulls back, the picture opening to an overview of the company around the table.

‘There, you see,’ Marcus says. ‘At least one candle’s gone out.’

‘What’s that mean? Some absorption of energy? Or someone left a door open.’

Grayle wondering what they might all be seeing if Jess Taylor was shooting through the wall now. Nothing, probably. That wasn’t how it worked.

‘This room,’ Marcus says. ‘Was this where the Ansell woman saw Parr in her coffin?’

‘I don’t know. Cindy thought that was a dream, anyway.’

Though she’s never forgotten the entry in the diary that Cindy showed her. She can close her eyes, recall most of the words.

‘And, anyway, in the dream it was a bed… a truckle.’

‘As she saw it. Perhaps she’d never seen the engraving in the
Annals
of Parr in her lead coffin. Not what we’d think of today as a coffin.’

Grayle watches Roger Herridge standing on a chair applying a match to the dead candle in the hoop.

‘You still think that when KP’s body was missing for a while, it was because Fishe had… borrowed her?’

‘Yes, I do, actually. It fits with what he is.’

Is?
Is?
Abel Fishe is more than two centuries dead.

The phone is damp in Grayle’s hand.

‘You can start to see things that aren’t there, Marcus. We all do that.’ Trying to hold her voice steady. ‘We don’t know anything about him. Nobody does. He’s a bogeyman. Anything you care to say about him goes.’

‘Is there still a cross-country path between Sudeley and Knap Hall?’

‘I don’t know. Never been much of a hiker. Why?’

‘He’d just load the coffin on to his cart, throw some straw over it, wheel it up there.’

His cart. His bier.
No.

‘How was all this hidden, Marcus? Why isn’t Fishe in the history books?’

‘Underhill, he’s not
important
enough. He’s just a sex addict with a particular taste for women beyond his social class. “Abel’s Rent”
–
even has official dispensation for doing what he does. It’s just like… like the BBC employed Savile, and the NHS allowed him into its hospitals and he acquired an executive role at Broadmoor. Arguably the most prolific sex criminal in the country, doing what he does almost in full view of the nation. How was
that
hidden for the duration of the bastard’s lifetime?’

‘Yeah, I know, and dead women, too, allegedly, in the hospital morgues. Necrophilia. I see where you’re going.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Marcus, I can’t take this tonight, OK?’

‘“Entire and uncorrupted” are the words in the
Annals
. After 230 years. Naturally, I’ve been reading up on tales of uncanny preservation. People didn’t have access to scientific theories about delayed putrefaction. They simply thought there was supernatural or religious significance. Think of the body of St Cuthbert carried around the countryside intact and undecayed for years by the monks. Immense sacred power. Now Katherine Parr… a queen of England… survivor of the extraordinary Henry VIII. Lying there, “entire and uncorrupted” and…’

Please God, don’t let him use the word moist.

‘I’ll go no further down that road for the moment.’

‘Thank you,’ Grayle says.

‘But necrophilia may not be the right word.’

‘Oh that we should sully this man’s name…’

‘He has a fascination with death. Perhaps as a rite of passage. And he’s steeped in this countryside. He’s grown up with Belas Knap, a place where bodies were taken, but not a grave as we think of one. Also perhaps a place of rebirth. The so-called false entrance, shaped like a vagina. A very obvious entrance, but not one that a
man
can use.’

On the TV, Grayle watches Roger Herridge brushing himself down, taking his seat at the table, his back to the smouldering hearth. The camera lingers on the circlet of small flames, like a halo above the group. Seven candles alight.

‘So, OK, we have a sacred sexual orifice.’ Even after Ersula, Grayle’s happier with the prehistoric stuff. ‘Sealed against men, but open to the gods. Yeah, that makes sense, Marcus.’

‘Good.’

‘And I’m sure an illiterate redneck like Fishe would know all about it from his extensive private collection of antiquarian manuscripts.’

‘Underhill… no one’s saying he was an historian or even a magician. He was
close to the land
. He followed his instincts. Death, Underhill. And sex. That’s what this is about. All he’d understand. Sex and death. Something eternal about that combination, don’t you think?’

‘And Knap Hall?’

‘His place. His temple. Sanctum. Lair. No links with Sudeley. Katherine Parr was never there hosting dinners in a red silk dress. Never here in a bed. Never even there alive.
Now
do you see what Knap Hall is?’

58

Say goodbye

HELEN LETS BOTH
hands fall below the table.

‘Someone’s doing this.’

‘But it’s a spirit, surely.’ Rhys Sebold from out of shot. A camera finds him still over by the fireplace. ‘Perhaps even
Diana
? Anything’s possible in a haunted house, Helen,
you
know that.’

Helen’s long dispensed with the wine glass, no longer looks at all tipsy and, when she turns to Rhys, her voice is cold.

‘Perhaps we should swap places.’

‘I’m enjoying myself too much here.’

‘No, come on…’ Helen pushes back her chair, stands up. ‘You know you want to.’

‘Then you know me better than I know myself, Ms Parrish.’

A blur and a small mic-crunch as Helen steps out, then her face is caught side on, angry, a pearl earring spinning.

‘You’re not giving value for money, Rhys. You’ll be remembered as rather peevish, and the BBC will never give you your radio programme back, and you’ll wind up on the graveyard shift at the jewellery channel. I’m sorry, but you’re going to do this.’

Ashley laughs.

‘Better do it, Rhys. Or, even worse, you’re going to look like a closet born-again Christian.’

Rhys Sebold puts on a grin – remembering he’s live on TV, Cindy thinks, as Rhys drops into the chair next to him.

‘Christians are, of course, entitled to their eccentric faith,’ he says.

‘Tactful of you to remember that, boy. Now let’s hope’ – Cindy’s finger has remained steadfast on the planchette, across from Roger Herridge’s – ‘that our friend has not deserted us.’

He looks across at the fire, and it isn’t there. The inglenook is dead. The walls are pale brown and roughened stone. There’s a lumpen chair and a table and hangings like scraps of rotting clothing on an old skeleton.

He blinks, stays calm as Ashley’s voice comes out of thick air.

‘You ready, Cindy?’

‘I’m sorry… yes.’

Flaking red logs are back on the hearth. All is as it was. He steadies his breathing, waits as Ozzy and Ashley replace their fingers on the triangle, followed, flamboyantly, by Rhys. He thinks,
female
. He thinks of a woman in white, holds her at his centre.

‘Are you angry,’ he’s asking, ‘at the manner of your death?’

YES

So immediate that Ashley’s finger is left behind. And then, quickly, before he can lose her, he asks,

‘What’s your name? Can you tell us that?’

Grayle wonders why he’s taken so long to get around to this. In the live gallery, Leo Defford will be on the edge of his seat, waiting for the planchette to land on the letter T, from Trinity, or at least K, for—

A

Oh.

Helen’s writing it down on a cigarette packet.

A

The planchette returns, and there’s a pause.

N

The planchette returns more slowly. When it starts to move again, it seems to trundle like a miniature version of the woodman’s bier.

G

‘A N G?’ Herridge says, ‘Angela?’

And then it all goes crazy, the table tilting upwards, even Ashley Palk squealing, and then the table rocks back and the camera in the ceiling sees the planchette take off like a small bird as the ouija board goes sliding over the edge, hitting the stone flags with more force than you would imagine, and shocked faces go whipping past on Grayle’s screen.

The planchette clicks on the flags, chairs are pushed back.

Ashley Palk separates herself from the others, goes to stand by the Gothic door to the dining room, breathes hard for a few moments, tucks disarranged fair hair behind an ear.

Ashley says, ‘Thank you, Austin, but let’s leave it at that, shall we? You’ve done enough. Show’s over.’

You can almost see the anger like a dust storm in the room, but none of it’s coming from Ashley Palk. Ashley’s standing in a capsule of calm at its core.

Grayle points at the screen.

‘Look at her. She couldn’t be more happy.’

Grayle’s been summoned to the live gallery. The programme has just over a half-hour to run. Or more if they want it. Might turn out to be the last thing they do want but if Leo Defford knows for sure then Grayle figures he’s a major loss to TV drama.

He’s on his feet, the monitors around him like a map of the landscape of insanity.

‘Why?’ he says.

‘Because… I guess she came here with a purpose. Amply fulfilled, it looks like.’

‘Asked me if we could make a ouija board available,’ Defford says. ‘Said someone was playing games. Claimed she didn’t know who.’

‘Oh, she knew.’

‘Then why didn’t
we
?’ His fist smashes down on a curving desk. By
we
he means Grayle. ‘You’re giving me all this shit about the wrong ghost, while Palk’s stealing the fucking programme from under us?’

It’s true. He’s so wrong about everything, but this is still true. Grayle watches Roger Herridge coming into shot, addressing Palk.

‘Go back to the beginning, I think.’

This is a very different Herridge, hard-voiced, focused. Quizzing Ashley Palk like she’s been hauled up before some Parliamentary select committee he’s serving on.

‘I’m quite happy to do that,’ Ashley says. ‘Let’s start with the perfume. Ozzy’s had a bad night. Keeps thinking there’s a woman in his room. He identifies her perfume because it’s the one worn by his ex-wife when they first started going out together. Well, obviously it can’t be her. She’s very much alive and wouldn’t be seen – if you’ll excuse the term – dead in Ozzy’s room. And he’s given no indication of pining for her – certainly not in the divorce court.’

Defford turns to a director.

‘Ozzy… tight shot.’

Here he is, on his own by the chess table, the ouija board at his feet. No clear reaction on his face, but Grayle has the feeling that the habitual crooked little half-smile is no more than a twitch away.

‘Not fazed,’ Jo Shepherd says. ‘Not fazed at all.’

‘But more to the point,’ Ashley says, ‘when that first date was happening, Gucci’s Guilty wouldn’t be launched for another ten years at least.’

Jo says, ‘Bloody hell.’

‘I know that for a fact…’ Ashley’s sweating, very slightly. A glow. ‘Because a friend of mine had an early sample pack and I bought some for my wee sister’s birthday, the year before she got married. So Ozzy was either hallucinating or lying. I started to watch him very closely. I’m a trained, practical psychologist. This is what I do. Behavioural science.’

‘Whose idea was it to get Ashley into the house?’ Grayle asks.

Defford’s expressionless.

‘Mine. She took a while to agree.’

It’s like a lecture in there now.

‘… began to notice the discreet ways Ozzy would let his own experiences filter into other people’s stories – his hijacking of Helen’s Diana stuff is a prime example. All very clever. Giving the impression of a man secretly grappling with the worst personal crisis he’s ever faced. He’s convincing us this is the very last thing he wants to talk about. He’s shocked and embarrassed and deeply unhappy – an unbeliever, the very
idea
of something paranormal happening to him, of all people. And gradually he gets us all –
and
the viewers
and
the media – on his hook, believers and sceptics alike. He persuades us to
prise
the details out of him, clearly against his will. His friend Rhys thinking we’re bullying him.’

‘What’s the
matter
with him?’ Jo shaking her fists. ‘Ahmed. Why doesn’t he
say
something?’

‘If you’d asked me a few minutes ago,’ Defford says, ‘I’d have said they were in it together. Ashley, Ozzy and possibly Sebold, too. Wonderful publicity for
The Disbeliever
. A new direction for Ahmed’s genius. But the way he’s behaving now makes you wonder.’

He’s right, Grayle thinks. If Ozzy’s just done the greatest performance of his career, why’s he letting Ashley take all the credit?