Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  Still at home? Waitin’ for me?

  “But afore that, yer leg’ll have to come off,” came Percy’s voice again. Sharp as a ferret if they cud speak. “Ye’ve passed on your disease like the beast ye are.”

  I tried getting’ to me knees, but were stuck where I’d bin thrown, in the hold, taking me back to what? To where?

  *

  No windows, no nothing Not even to drink, and as for sleep, I’d forgotten its meaning so that when me decrepit tormentor said we’d almost reached Harwich, he may as well have said ‘Africa’ or ‘Mauritius,’ so clearly had Angelid Menelos’ black eyes bored into me. That mouth with its monkey’s grin, laughing at me all the way down to Hell.

  “Mr. Stanley Bulling?”

  At first, I didn’t recognise the name, having bin Fred Lisle for so long. I looked up to see two men covered in green, protective clothes. One taller, more thick-set than the other. Blue eyes too, while the other was pale brown.

  Constable Lambert again.

  “We’ve got ten minutes,” he barked. “Let’s go.”

  With the boat suddenly swaying an’ bobbing like a drunk, the bigger man pulled me up from behind by me armpits, while Lambert held open the cage door. Percy smiled even more widely before landing a kick on me arse as I went. Then he ‘owled in pain. I looked back. Serve ‘im right for stubbing his toe on a bolt in the floor. I saw ‘im crawl off, whimpering, and straightaway I felt better.

  “Where’s Fatty Toft?” I asked.

  “Had enough of you,” said the blue-eyed one.

  “Where am I going?” I demanded. “I got me rights.”

  “Just like Rita Myers, Susan Deakins and Angelid Menelos? I see.”

  Of course. Here they was agin. Not giving up. The very ones who’d pulled me out of Mary Bobbett’s caravan.

  “On what evidence am I being accused? Hard evidence?”

  “Your trial’s been fixed for the middle of January at Norwich Crown Court. Until then, you’ll remain in custody under lock and key at Vesper House. The Reverend Henry Beecham has agreed this is in the best interests of public safety. On both counts.”

  Vesper House? A mile from home.

  “A good man,” I lied, remembering his shiny skin. The bulging belly. But me lie seemed to go down well as we left the cold, stinkin’ vessel for a warm police van - a Growler - which, though me eyes was full of pus, seemed like new.

  “Who are ye?” I said to the bigger man who’d not yet had the courtesy to give his name. “Don’t I know ye?”

  A pause.

  “Drummond. Alright with you?”

  “Police Constable,” added Lambert. “Joined us last September. Our numbers were down for the job in hand.” He eyed me through his mirror in such a way I knew that this time, any chance of escape would need all me skill and cunning.

  “And I’m used to rubbish like you,” sneered Drummond. “You’re everywhere.”

  Me fists clenched up. Who did he think he were?

  “Not local then?” I said. Just one word, the way he’d said ‘rubbish’ had told me. Something familiar I cudn’t quite place.

  No reply, ‘cept to shove me further along the seat so he cud squash up against me. All rubber and sweat underneath.

  By then, we was on our way. Lambert driving off past a blur of masts lit up by glowing braziers placed along the quay. The new cop next to me pulled out a notebook and unwound the string which attached ‘is pencil to it. Although the light from the one bulb above us were too faint for me to see his writing and I still cudn’t read, I recognised two sets o’ letters making the name on our gate.

  Wombwell Farm.

  Just seeing them made me insides turn over.

  “Where you’re from, isn’t it?” ‘He sneered. “Never a dull moment far as we’re concerned, what with one thing and another.” He leaned forwards to tap the driver on the shoulder. “Shall we tell him our bit of news?”

  Lambert shook his head.

  No. He’ll find ut soon enough. Knowledge is power, remember?”

  *

  What had Drummond meant by ‘news?’ I wondered, as we rumbled away from the port. With every bump and split in the road makin’ me leg scream and me hollow gut to gurgle, me mind went over all the possiblities.

  Not Rita Myers. I already knew about her. Perhaps The Monkey’s bones or that doctor’s fecking dog. Or summat else entirely?

  Think.

  Me old bedroom slunk into view. The bed. The drawers. Their souvenirs. That shell with them odd, black letters inside it? No. Surely not. Why wud that be so important?

  Think again.

  Ah. The one thing I’d kept after cuttin’ up the Deakins trollope into bite-sized portions and putting ‘er out for the pigs. Bessie and the others got so fat afterwards, and then on a bright morning when Ma and Pa were out, I’d found it in her shit, winkin’ up at me. I shud ‘ave buried it straight off, but always kept a little something for mesen. If Ma and Pa hadn’t bin so mean, I might ‘ave turned out different. As it were, all me money from the woodyard too were missing from me pockets when they made me empty them. I looked at me clothes. Torn, still damp. Nothing more than a shroud.

  *

  “Fressingham Forest,” announced Lambert. “Let’s hope those army wallahs hiding there have given up. They’ve caused us enough trouble.” He sounded nervous, which made me feel better. At least no-one cud say I were a coward. I’d also heard of a group of local survivors from Flanders who’d camped out in the forest ever since Armistice Day. Weapons an’ all. Some said they was touched in the ‘ead. Others, including Pa, that they still protected the county from invaders. Specially scum like Angelid Menelos…

  Lambert pulled in at a roadside shack selling hot chestnuts. Through the pus inside me eyes, I saw Christmas lights dangling down at either side. Smelled the sweet heat as both me tormentors munched away without offering me any. The one called Drummond dropped the charred skins out of the van. The other wrapped his in a handkerchief and placed it on the empty seat next to ‘im.

  “Are the Parminters still at the farm?” I asked as we set off again.

  “What’s them to you?” said me too-close neighbour. “You’ve infected them all. They’re…”

  “Enough,” barked Lambert, who for a second, lost control of the steering wheel.

  “Remember what we agreed?”

  “Will they be at the Leper House too?” I were like a dog with a bone, but no one answered. Only the rush of The Growler’s wheels on the road, and from the blurry dark beyond me window, I saw Mollie’s eager face. Her pink, wet tongue popping in and out from between her teeth.

  58. SARAH.

  Tuesday 14th December 1920. 4.30 p.m.

  Our short journey back to Wombwell Farm on a frosted road under an ominously purple sky, was fraught with tension. We had a death sentence hanging over us and I couldn’t even contemplate the way ahead and where it might end.

  Dr. Vincent Lovell now knew I was carrying another man’s child. A man I’d said would harm us in another way, when his time was right. I knew that in my bones. What immediately had to be done was for Will and Mollie to accept they could benefit from treatment and with God’s grace, fully recover.

  Oh, that life was so easy.

  I tapped Dr. Lovell on the shoulder as he drove us along the Longstanton Road.

  “Have you ever seen a big, fair-haired man aged about twenty-five years of age, loitering near Wombwell Farm or Hecklers Green? He’s not local, but…”

  “She means Matthew Crane,” wheezed Buck before I could finish, worse than ever I’d heard him. I placed my arm around his firm shoulders, once so skinny. Felt the rise and fell of his young body. “He’s been following us ever since we left the New Forest.”

  “I should respect my patients’ privacy,” replied the doctor, taking us through the farm gate where everything seemed ominously deserted. “But as you’ve enquired, and seem genuinely agitated about him, I can say that he came to me for a nasty cut on his h
and. I believe he works on and off for the farrier and other folk.” He turned to me. “Why follow you?”

  There was no time to explain because as soon as we reached the yard in front of the old brick farmhouse, Mollie and Will appeared. Their faces hard as cut stone. Their black coats representing malevolence, like two of those crows who’d returned to the fields after the drought.

  “Stay in the car,” said our driver. Leave this to me.”

  I unwound my window and felt the late afternoon chill on my skin. Frost already in the air and an odd smell coming from Priest’s Field. The doctor was almost running. A man of steel, I thought, and of principle, unlike my husband wearing the hat I’d bought him for his thirtieth birthday. A relative stranger, protectively clasping the younger stranger’s hand.

  He was shouting, and the few words that reached us were enough to make me shiver again, and for Buck to grip my arms as if he were a rock climber fearful of slipping into an abyss.

  “Leave us alone, you interfering quack. In fact, go and boil your head. And you,” Will glared at me. “Have you gone mad?”

  But the doctor stood his ground.

  “You should know that it’s a crime to wilfully infect a fellow human being with a transmissable, fatal disease. However, in this instance, there is the possibility of a cure, if caught early enough. Do you understand, Mr. Parminter? And Mollie?”

  Neither replied and was only when Walter and Ann Bullimg appeared from behind them, that their fixed stares wavered.

  “And you, Mr. and Mrs. Bulling, could both be accused of deliberately harbouring those who pose a health threat to the wider community. Is that what you want after all your years of toil?”

  “These two is good workers,” growled the old farmer. “Best we’ve ‘ad for years, specially now Stanley’s buggered off. Put yersen in our shoes, doctor. Will it be you puttin’ bread on our table and feed in the pigs’ troughs?”

  Doctor Lovell ignored him and addressed the workers.

  “I can take you both now. Please. You need to be thoroughly checked as a matter of urgency. This is nothing to do with your mother, Mollie. Or your wife, Mr. Parminter, although she naturally has your best interests at heart. But a matter of the law. That swollen third finger on your left hand is getting worse, Mollie. As is your father’s tuberculoid chest.”

  “You’re a liar!” She shrieked. “There’s nothing wrong with me or Dad!”

  Powerless, I watched her try to drag away the man I once called my husband. A look of pure devilment in her eyes. Meanwhile, the doctor hadn’t given up.

  “I’ll give you each half an hour to get your things together before taking you over to Vesper House…”

  “He means The Leper House,” Buck piped up and received a stern glance in return. I knew the doctor deliberately avoided using that name.

  Mollie laughed, but was ignored.

  “Only last week, after continued pressure from myself, the Church has pledged a considerable sum to maintain their important hospital during this emergency. And beyond, if necessary. In a nutshell, Mr. Parminter, it’s your only chance. You are obliged to take it.”

  All at once, the foursome turned on their heels and without another word or a single glance our way, disappeared around the side of the farmhouse. Four crows, not two, without conscience.

  Although Dr. Lovell pursued them, soon came the echoes of his fists on wood, more shouts and yells which made the pigs in the barn add their own strange din.

  Then silence.

  Buck looked at me and I realised then that in that split second, our world as we knew it, had ended.

  *

  “Your husband says he’s served his country in the Great War, and he’s a free man. His daughter too.” The doctor pulled open his driver’s door and plunged himself on to his seat. Despair slackening his otherwise fine-boned face. Only then did I notice a darkness covering his left eye, already turning purple. I wanted to touch it. To apologise for what I knew must have happened.

  “Who hit you?” said Buck. “My Dad?”

  A nod as he re-started the car’s engine and the whiff of petrol replaced that horrible smell of human waste and bad land that still hung in the air. “And he spat on me, They both did, which of course won’t make any difference.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, fixed on the patch of yard where the rest of my family had been. Snapped away like a winter branch in a gale. “And how dare they!”

  “I’m already a carrier. Stanley Bulling made sure of that, as with everyone else.”

  “What can I say, except…”

  “Don’t, please.” He fiddled with the gear stick and we began to reverse, to face the road.

  “She’s not his daughter, you know,” I said. “I meant to tell you while you were examining me in Myrtle Villa, but you had enough to do.”

  “Mum?” Buck moved further along the rear seat so he could better stare me in the face with his puffy, runny eyes. “How can you say that?”

  “He didn’t help make her. Someone else did, and I’ll go to my grave regretting it. Do you know what’s meant by ‘bad blood?’”

  “I don’t care.”

  Meanwhile, Doctor Lovell also fixed on me through his mirror, as if I should change the subject. But he hadn’t given birth to a devious bully’s troublesome offspring and tried to love it. Nor was he pregnant with another mistake.

  I turned to Buck.

  “Can’t you see how much thicker, fairer her hair is? And those cold blue eyes? How happy she seemed to see us go?”

  “Mrs. Parminter,” came the doctor’s stern voice as he turned the car left out of the farm gate into a flat, deserted canvas so opposite to my own birthplace. “May I remind you that children aren’t yet adults. Your son is still only ten.”

  “So, who is her Dad? Buck pressed. “Let me guess.”

  “Later,” I snapped, aware yet again of that same nauseating smell. “We’ve important things to do before it’s too late.” And as we passed the closed-up farrier’s shack on the right, noticed the doctor had me in his sights again. This time with greater intensity.

  “Remember that liberty bodice button you gave me earlier? Well, I telephoned Mrs. Deakins of Byre Cottage and when I’d described it, she swore it matched the others her daughter wore that last day she was seen alive.”

  He slowed the car down and turned left into a narrow, hedge-lined lane. Buck and I were too busy watching his lips to notice any signs for Vesper House.

  “And?” I croaked.

  “She’ll need to see it, of course, then, if it really does belong to Susan. it’ll be taken to the police laboratory in Norwich. Perhaps then, the poor woman can know some peace.”

  “Did you say I’d found it?”

  “Yes. In Stanley Bulling’s bedroom.”

  Tears pricked my eyes. Not only for her and her missing daughter, but mine. Whatever she was and whatever she’d done, I prayed Stanley Bulling would soon be caught and hanged badly like the beast he was.

  Buck held my hand almost as if he knew what was going through my mind. I cleared my throat, but it made little difference. “There’s one thing troubling me,” I said. “Supposing I’m at Vesper House with Buck, and Stanley Bulling evades capture and returns home? How can I protect Mollie? You’ve seen how she likes him.”

  Without warning, the doctor stopped the car, causing myself and Buck to hit the front seats. Before us, the bleak, unlit form of a large, square house.

  “You don’t know me very well,” he said, in a way I’d not heard before. “How could you? We’re doctor and patient. But hear this.” He turned his face my way. “If I get so much as a sniff of that murdering deviant,” I’ll kill him with my own bare hands.”

  59. JOHN.

  Wednesday 16th November 1988. 12.30 a.m.

  “Whoever’s still behind us,” warned Catherine from her passenger seat, “can’t you put your foot down a bit more and lose him?”

  “Him?”

  “Or her. Whatever.
”

  Her tone was frosty. Nervous.

  “I’ll keep him there, till I’m ready.” I said, deliberately repeating the ‘him’ word, all too aware how she’d woven more secrets and lies around herself than a black widow spider. And how come this night-coloured 4X4 twice the size of my car, had suddenly appeared from behind a group of trees at the end of Spinney Close? Missing the arriving chequered patrol car by seconds?

  A Pajero? Hard to tell…

  “Ready for what?” She turned to me. Concern suddenly writ large in her extraordinary eyes. “Whoever it is, might be armed.”

  Obviously, she’d not seen me put the handy crow-bar in the boot.

  “Look, John,” her voice softened. Something dodgy witnesses did all the time. “You’ve just begun a new life in Colchester. You should be enjoying it. This is really nothing to do with you. It’s a crazy game of one upmanship between ambitious academics, and it’s possible poor Greg got in the way. Stephen should never have trusted him.”

  Game?

  “Are you accusing your husband of murder?”

  “He assaulted you, didn’t he?”

  “Nul points.”

  Her profile could have been carved from marble. Not even a blink, and I

  wished the bastard tailing us would dip his industrial strength headlights. I wished too that I’d not spent the past twenty-four hours being the kind of person I despised the most. A bottler. And as if that wasn’t enough, for the first time since being in Stephen’s study, that same, suppurating smell reached my nose through my personal air vent, while the photographic image of that bleached-out face, those pleading eyes deep in my pocket, seemed to grow and melt in front of me.

  “Careful!” Shouted Catherine as my car veered from left to right. “What’s going on? And why all this sniffing? I can’t smell anything.”

  “Where’s that black box file?”

  “Under my legs. Why?”

  “Push it beneath your seat as far back as you can. When we’re through all this, I’ll show you what’s inside.”

  “If it’s anything like Stephen’s green folder, I already know. Which is why Nicholas had to realise what the contents meant before it all unravelled. Remember, the supposedly devout, hard-working Reverend Henry Beecham was my grandfather too. That stubborn fool could have ruined my career.”