The Pariah (6 page)

‘Why should I mind? We weren’t discussing any State secrets.’

‘You asked Charlie about his son coming back,’ said Mrs Edgar Simons. ‘And the funny thing is, I knew exactly what you meant by coming back. When dear Edgar died - that was six years ago next July 10 - I had the same kind of experience. I used to hear him walking around in the attic, for nights on end. Can you believe that? And sometimes I would hear him coughing. You never met dear Edgar of course, but he had a distinctive little cough, clearing his throat,
ahem.’

 ‘Do you still hear him?’ I asked her.

 ‘I do from time to time. Once or twice a month maybe, sometimes more frequently. And I still have the feeling when I walk into certain rooms in the house that Edgar has only just been there, that only a moment ago he walked out of another door. Once, you know, I even thought that I saw him, not in the house but in Granitehead Square, wearing a peculiar brown coat. I stopped the car and tried to go after him, but he disappeared into the crowds.’

 ‘So - after six years - you still have these feelings? Have you told anybody?’

 ‘I talked to my doctor, of course, but he wasn’t very helpful at all. He gave me pills and told me to stop being hysterical. The funny thing is, the feelings vary in strength, and they also vary in frequency. I don’t know why. Sometimes I can hear Edgar clearly; at other times he sounds so faint it’s like a radio station you can’t quite pick up. And the feelings seem to be
seasonal,
too. I hear less of Edgar in the winter than I do in the summer. Sometimes, on summer nights, when it’s very mild, I can hear him sitting outside on the garden-wall, humming or talking to himself.’

‘Mrs Simons,’ I said, ‘do you really believe that it’s Edgar?’

‘I used not to. I used to try to persuade myself that it was all my silly imagination. Oh - look at that stupid girl, walking in the road with her back to the traffic. She’ll end up dead if she’s not careful.’

I looked up, and glimpsed in the light from our headlamps a brown-haired girl in a long windblown cloak, walking by the side of the highway. We were approaching the bend that took us around the western side of Quaker Hill, and so we passed the girl comparatively slowly; and as we passed I twisted around in my seat to look at her. It was beginning to rain again, and it was very dark, and I suppose I could easily have been mistaken. But in the fractions of a second in which I could see her through the tinted rear window of Mrs Simons’ car, I was sure that I saw a face that I recognized.

White, white as a lantern, with dark eye sockets. A face like the blurry face at the cottage window; a face like the girl who had unexpectedly turned around when I was photographing Jane by the statue of Jonathan Pope. A face like the staring secretary in the Salem sandwich shop.

I felt a prickle of shock, and incomprehension. Could it be her? But if it was, how? And why?

‘No consideration, these pedestrians,’ complained Mrs Simons. ‘They stroll around as if the roads were theirs. And who do they blame if they get struck by a car? Even if they’re almost invisible, it’s the driver who gets the blame.’

I kept on staring back at the girl until she had disappeared from sight around the curve.

Then I turned around in my seat, and said, ‘What? I’m sorry? I didn’t catch what you said.’

‘I’m just grumbling, that’s all,’ said Mrs Edgar Simons. ‘Edgar always said that I was a terrible fussbudget.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Edgar.’

‘Well , that’s the strange thing,’ Mrs Edgar Simons told me, abruptly resuming our conversation about hauntings and visitations. ‘You see, I’ve heard Edgar, and I even believe that I’ve seen him; and now you seem to think that your Jane may be trying to come back to you. Well, you do, don’t you? And yet all
Charlie
could say was that you must be imagining things.’

‘You don’t blame him, do you?’ I asked her. ‘It must be pretty hard for anyone to swallow, anyone who hasn’t actually felt anything like it.’

‘But for
Charlie
to dismiss it, of all people,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked her, frowning.

‘I mean nothing less than that Charlie has had the same feelings about Neil, ever since the poor boy died. He’s been hearing him walking about his bedroom; he’s even heard his motorcycle starting up. And seen him, too, from what I gather. I was quite surprised when he didn’t tell you about it. After all, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. How can it be?’

‘Charlie’s seen Neil?’ I said, in disbelief.

‘Quite so. Over and over again. That was the principal reason why Mrs Manzi left Granitehead. Charlie always says that it was something to do with her not being able to give him any more children, but the truth was that she couldn’t bear to feel that her dead son was still walking around the home. She hoped that if she moved away, he wouldn’t follow her.’

‘Does Charlie still hear Neil now?’ I asked.

‘As far as I know. He’s been much less forthcoming of late. I think he’s worried that if too many people start taking an interest in Neil’s reappearance, they might frighten him away. He loved Neil, you know, more than his own life.’

I thought about all this for a little while, and then I said, ‘Mrs Simons, I very much hope that this isn’t a joke.’

She peered at me with eyes like freshly-peeled green grapes. I pointed urgently forward, towards the front of the car, to remind her that both of us would be much better off if she looked where she was going, instead of at me.

‘A joke?’ she said, in a voice which started at middle-C and went all the way up to C-sharp, an octave above. She looked at me again, blinking, until I said sharply, ‘The highway, Mrs Simons. Look at the highway.’

'Tiff,’ she said, disdainfully. ‘A joke, indeed. Do you really believe it of me that I could have such low taste as to make a joke about our poor dead loved ones?’

‘Then it’s true? Charlie really told you that?’

‘Charlie did indeed.’

‘Then why didn’t he tell
me!’

 ‘I don’t know. He probably had his reasons. He only discussed it with me because he was so upset about Mrs Manzi leaving him. He hasn’t mentioned it very much since.

Only obliquely.’

 ‘Mrs Simons,’ I said, ‘this is beginning to frighten me. Can I tell you that? I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what’s going on. I’m frightened.’

  Mrs Simons stared at me again, and narrowly missed colliding with the rear end of a parked and unlit truck.

 ‘I wish you’d please keep your eyes on the road,’ I told her.

 ‘Well , you listen,’ she said, ‘you don’t have any cause at all to be frightened, not the way I see it. Why should you be frightened? Jane loved you when she was alive, why shouldn’t she still love you now?’

 ‘But she’s
haunting
me. Just like Edgar is haunting you. And Neil is haunting Charlie.

Mrs Simons, we’re talking about
ghosts.’

 ‘Ghosts? You sound like a penny-dreadful.’

 ‘I don’t mean ghosts in the sense that - ‘

 ‘They’re lingering feelings, that’s all, pervasive memories,’ said Mrs Simons. ‘They’re not phantoms, or anything like that. As far as I can see, they’re nothing more at all than the stored-up joys of our past relationships -echoing, as it were, beyond the passing of the people we loved.’

 We had almost reached the foot of Quaker Lane. I pointed up ahead and said to Mrs Edgar Simons, ‘Do you think you could pull up here? Don’t bother to drive all the way up the lane. It’s too dark, and you’ll probably wreck your shocks.’

 Mrs Edgar Simons smiled, almost beatifically, and drew the Buick into the side of the road. I opened the door, and a gust of wet wind blew in.

 ‘Thanks for the ride,’ I told her. ‘Maybe we should talk some more. You know, about Edgar. And, I don’t know, Jane.’

 Her face was illuminated green in the light from the instruments on her dash. She looked very old and very prophetic: a little old witch.

 The dead wish us nothing but sweetness, you know,’ she told me, and nodded, and smiled. ‘The people we used to love are as benign to us in death as they were in life. I know. And you will find out, too.’

 I hesitated for a moment or two, and then I said, ‘Goodnight, Mrs Simons,’ and closed the door. I lifted my groceries out of the trunk, slammed it shut, and slapped the vinyl roof of the car to tell her that she could go. She drove off silently, her rear lights reflected on the wet tarmac in six wide scarlet tracks.

 The dead wish us nothing but sweetness, I thought. Jesus.

 The wind sighed in the wires. I turned my face towards the darkness of Quaker Lane, where the elm trees thrashed, and began the long uncertain walk uphill.

   
SEVEN

I was tempted, as I walked up Quaker Lane, to stop off at George Markham’s house and play a few hands of cards with him and old Keith Reed. I had been neglecting my neighbours ever since Jane was killed, and if I was going to continue to live here, well, I thought I ought to do something about visiting more often.

But even as I approached George’s front fence, I knew that I was only making excuses for myself. Visiting George would be nothing more than a way of deferring my return to Quaker Lane Cottage, and to whatever fears were concealed behind its doors. Visiting George would be cowardice: letting the whispers and the voices and the strange movements scare me away from my own home.

I hesitated, though, and looked in at George’s parlour window, where I could just see the back of Keith Reed’s head as he dealt out the cards, and the lamplit table, and the beer-bottles, and a sudden blue drift of smoke from George’s cigar. I hoisted my sacks of groceries a little higher, and took in a deep breath, and carried on up the hill.

Quaker Lane Cottage was in complete darkness when I approached, even though I was sure that I had left the front porch light on to guide me home. The gale blew around the house and rustled its creepers like hair, and the two shuttered upstairs windows looked like tightly-closed eyes. A house that was keeping its secrets to itself. In the far distance I could hear the endless dejected grumbling of the North Atlantic surf.

I put down my sacks of groceries, took out my keys, and opened the front door. Inside, it was warm, and calm, and I could see the dancing light from the living-room fire reflected on the ceiling. I brought in my bags and closed the door behind me. Perhaps the house wasn’t really haunted after all. Perhaps the creaking of that swing last night had simply put me on edge, and given me a temporary attack of mild hysteria.

Nevertheless, once I had stacked away the groceries and the liquor, and switched on the oven for my lasagne dinner, I went all the way around the house, upstairs and down, looking into every room, opening up every closet, kneeling down and peering under every bed. I just wanted to know when I sat down and ate my meal tonight that there wasn’t anything hiding in the cottage that might come down and catch me unawares.

Ridiculous; but, what would
you
have done?

I watched television for an hour or so, although reception was blurry because of the weather. I watched
Sanford
and
MASH
and even
Trapper John, M.D.
Then I cleared up the remains of my meal, poured myself a large whisky, and went into the library. I wanted to take a look at that painting that Edward Wardwell had made such a fuss about in Salem, and see if perhaps I couldn’t identify the ship in it.

It was strikingly cold in the library. Usually it was one of the warmest rooms in the house. It wasn’t worth laying a fresh log fire; but I switched on the electric fan heater.

After only a few seconds, though, the heater abruptly short-circuited, crackled sparks, whirred, and died. There was a smell of burned plastic and electricity. Outside, creepers tapped against the window; a soft and complicated pattern, like unremembered spirits seeking access.

I picked up the painting, still in its wrapper, and selected one or two books from the shelves that I thought might help me discover what the ship might be. Osborne’s
Salem
Marine;
Walcott’s
Massachusetts Merchant Vessels 1650 - 1850;
and, just out of inspiration,
Great Men of Salem,
by Duglass. I remembered that many of the leading commercial and political figures in Old Salem used to own private ships, and Duglass’ book might contain some clues about the one in the picture.

By the time I was ready to leave the library, it was so cold in there that I could actually see my breath. The barometer must be dropping like a stone, I thought to myself. Yet, in the hallway, it was as warm as it had been before, and the barometer pointed to the optimistic side of Unsettled. I looked back at the library, wondering if there was something wrong with it. Rising damp, perhaps. A freak draught down the chimney. And again I thought I could hear - what was it, breathing? Whispering? I froze where I was, unsure if I ought to go back and face whatever might be in there; or if I ought to carry on with what I was doing with as much apparent unconcern as I could. Maybe if you believed in ghosts, that gave them even more strength to manifest themselves. Maybe if you didn’t believe in them, they’d get weak, and dispirited, and eventually leave you alone.

Whispering. Cold, soft, persistent whispering; like someone relating a very long and very unpleasant story.

‘All right!’ I said aloud. ‘All right, that’s it!’ and hurtled open the library door. It shuddered on its hinges, and then creaked to rest. The library, of course, was deserted. Only the creepers tapping at the windows. Only the wind, and the occasional spatter of rain. My breath smoked, and I couldn’t help thinking of all those creepy movies like
The Exorcist
where the presence of an evil demon is betrayed by a steep and sudden drop in temperature.

‘Okay,’ I said, trying to sound like a tough guy who’s decided to be generous, and not to pulverize the sarcastic barfly who’s been making comments about his wife. I reached out for the library door handle and firmly closed the room behind me. Back in the hallway, I said to myself, ‘It’s nothing. Nothing whatsoever. No ghosts. No spirits. No demons. Nothing.’

I picked up the watercolour and the books once more, and carried them through to the living-room, where I spread them all out on the rug in front of the fire. I unwrapped the painting, and held it up so that I could examine it closely. The firelight played patterns across it, so that it almost appeared as if the painted sea were moving.

It was strange to think that this same sheet of handmade paper had been pinned to an easel over 290 years ago, only a quarter-mile or so away from here, and that an unknown artist had recreated in paints a day that had really passed; a day when men in frock coats had walked on beside the harbour, and Salem had been alive with horses and carts and people in Puritan clothes. I touched the surface of it with my fingertips. It was a crude painting, in many ways. The perspective and the colouring were strictly amateur. Yet there was some quality about it which seemed to bring it to life, as if it had been painted for a heartfelt
reason.
As if the artist had wanted more than anything to bring that long-lost day to life, and to show the people who were to be his descendants what Salem Bay had actually looked like, in every detail.

I could now understand why the Peabody Museum people were so interested in it.

Every tree had been carefully recorded; it was even possible to make out the winding curve of Quaker Lane, and one or two small cottages there. One cottage could very well have been the forebear of Quaker Lane Cottage; a tiny lopsided dwelling with a tall chimney and weather-boarded sides.

Now I examined the ship on the other side of the bay. It was a three-master, conventionally-rigged, although there was one distinctive feature which I hadn’t noticed when I had looked at the picture earlier in the day. There were
two
large flags flying from the stern-castle, one above the other, one of which appeared to be a red cross on a black background, and the other one of which was obviously meant to be the colours of the ship’s owner. No Stars-and-Stripes, of course, because this was 1691. Some people say that it was a Salem sea-captain, William Driver, who had first dubbed the Union flag ‘Old Glory,’ but that was in 1824.

Pouring myself some more whisky, I looked into Walcott’s book on merchant vessels, and discovered that ‘it was the custom of some Salem dignitaries to fly on their ships two flags; one to denote their ownership and the other to celebrate the voyage on which they were engaged, particularly if it was expected to be especially significant or profitable.’

At the back of the book, I found a chart of owner’s flags, although they were printed in black-and-white, and it was hard to distinguish between the various designs of stripes and crosses and stars. There were two which appeared to be vaguely similar to the owner’s flag on the ship in my picture, and so I cross-referred to Osborne’s
Salem
Marine
to find out something about the fleets of the men they belonged to.

One of them was obviously hopeless: the flag of Joseph Winterton, Esq., who was said to have run one of the first ferries from Salem to Granitehead Neck. But the other belonged to Esau Hasket, a wealthy merchant who had escaped from England in 1670 because of his extreme religious views, and who had quickly established in Salem one of the largest fleets of merchantmen and fishing-vessels on the east coast of the colonies.

The text said, ‘Little is known today about Hasket’s fleet, although it probably numbered four 100-ft merchantmen and numerous smaller vessels. Although tiny by modern standards, a 100-ft ship was the largest that Salem’s harbour could comfortably accommodate, since it had a 9-ft tidal range, and ships which had sailed quite easily into harbour when the tide was high would settle into the mud when the tide ebbed again. The names of only two of Hasket’s vessels have survived to the present day: the
Hosannah
and the
David Dark.
A scrimshaw rendition of the
Hosannah
made in about 1712 by one of her retired crewmen shows her as a three-masted vessel flying a palm-tree flag to indicate that she usually traded in the West Indies. No known illustration of the
David Dark
exists, although it can fairly be assumed that she was a similar vessel.’

I turned to
Great Men of Salem
and read all that I could about Esau Hasket. A vigorous and firebreathing forerunner to Elias Derby, Hasket had obviously been feared and respected as much for his Puritanical religious fervour as he was for his sea-trading.

Derby had made Salem into one of the busiest and wealthiest seaports on the eastern seaboard, and earned himself the distinction of being America’s first-ever millionaire, but Hasket had apparently shaken the community’s souls as well as their pockets. One contemporary account said that ‘Mr Haskette firmlie believes in the existence on Earth bothe of Angelles & daemones, and is forthright in so sayinge; for if a manne is to believe in the Lord & His hostes, sayes Haskette, so must he believe with equalle certaintie in Satan and his miniones.’

I was about to put the books away, satisfied at least that I could now sell the painting either to the Peabody or to one of our regular customers with the catch-all caption,

‘thought to be a rare depiction of one of the merchant ships of Esau Hasket’, when it occurred to me to look up the name of David Dark. It was a curious name, but there was something about it which rang very distant bells. Maybe it was something that Jane had once said, or one of our customers. I thumbed through
Great Men of Salem
again until I found it.

The entry was tantalizingly short. Twelve lines altogether.

David Ittai Dark,
1610 (?) - 1691. Fundamentalist preacher of Mill Pond, Salem, who enjoyed brief local celebrity in 1682 when he claimed to have had several face-to-face conversations with Satan, who had provided him with a list of all those souls in the Salem district who were surely damned, and to whose ‘inevitable incineration’ Satan was looking forward with ‘relishe’. David Dark was a protégé and adviser to the wealthy Salem merchant
Esau Hasket
(ibid.) and for some years was engaged with Hasket in trying to establish extreme fundamentalist principles in Salem’s religious community. He died in mysterious circumstances in the spring of 1691, some say by the phenomenon of ‘spontaneous explosion.’ In Dark’s honour, Hasket named his finest merchant-vessel the
David Dark,
although it is interesting to note that all contemporary records of this ship were excised from every logbook, chart, account-ledger and broadsheet of the period, supposedly on Hasket’s instruction.’

It was then that I found what I had been looking for. I traced the words with my finger as I read them, and when I had read them silently I read them again out loud. I felt that heady surge of excitement that every antique dealer experiences when he discovers for certain that the goods he has bought are unique and valuable.

‘David Dark’s insignia was that of a red cross on a black field, to indicate the triumph of the Lord over the powers of darkness. Contrarily, however, this insignia was adopted intermittently for several decades after his death by secret covens of ‘witches’ and practitioners in the black arts. The insignia was declared illegal in 1731 by Deputy Governor William Clark, presiding officer of the Court of Oyer and Terminer.’

I laid the book flat on the floor, and picked up the painting again. So this ship was the
David Dark,
a ship which had been named for a man who had claimed to have conversations with the Devil, and whose name had been expunged from every possible local record.

Damn it, no wonder Edward Wardwell had been so desperate to acquire the painting for the Peabody. This could, quite simply, be the only pictorial record ever made of the
David Dark.
Or at least the only pictorial record which had survived through 290 years and a purge against anyone ever knowing what she had looked like or where she had sailed.

The
David Dark,
with her forbidden banner of black and red, sailing out of Salem Harbour. I examined her closely, and realized that the artist had painted her in quite considerable detail, especially for a vessel that was so far away, and especially since dozens of ships must have sailed in and out of Salem every day.

Perhaps the artist had never intended to paint a straightforward landscape of the Granitehead shoreline at all. Perhaps he had meant to paint nothing less than an historical record of the
David Dark
sailing away on a voyage of great importance. But where was she going? And why?