The Haunting of the King's Head

by Amy Cross

  “Leave me alone!” I snarl, shaking with fury.

  “It'll be the end of you, my dear,” the voice teases in a mocking tone. “You'll be poison in this town. You'll be hated, even more than you are already. The mask will slip and everyone will see the truth about mean and nasty Muriel Hyde.”

  “Leave me alone!” I snap again, getting to my feet and stumbling toward the fireplace. I grab a poker and head back toward the door, where the letterbox is still open.

  “Muriel the murderer,” the voice says. “That has a ring to it, doesn't it? And then -”

  Before he can finish, I stab the poker through the letterbox, filled with the determination to end this conversation. I hear a gasp outside, but then the poker is grabbed by its other end and pulled all the way through, until it slips from my hands.

  “Oh dear,” the voice continues, “that was rather violent, Muriel, wasn't it? Attacking a man with a poker that can easily be traced back to your own pub. Violent and stupid, if you ask me, but we'll have to see what other people think. I suppose a lot depends on where the poker ends up, doesn't it? I'm sure it'll look rather bad, say, on the beach next to the body of a man who'd just been murdered.”

  “Go away,” I sob, clinging to the wall in a desperate attempt to keep from collapsing. It's as if, right now, I am Muriel Hyde. “You killed him. I loved him and you killed him. He was the love of my life, we were going to be together and you killed him.”

  “I don't see any evidence to support that accusation, Muriel.”

  “You killed him!” I scream, lunging at the door and slamming my fists against the window, before dropping once more to my knees as heavy, anguished sobs burst through my body. “You're murderers! You and the whole brewery are nothing but common thieves and murderers!”

  I wait, but a moment later the letterbox shuts and I hear laughter outside. The men are already starting to walk away, no doubt to go back to the beach so they can look at the fruits of their evil work. I want to go out there and fetch Jack's body, to bring him back here so he can at last be laid out decently, but I can't handle the thought of seeing him in such a terrible state. All I can think, as I lean my head against the door, is that my poor Jack is out there on the cold beach, with his blood dribbling into the shingle, and his murderers laughing as they make their way home to count their pay for the night's events.

  All I want is to see Jack again, to tell him I'm sorry, to feel him hold me in his arms. Yet there is only one way that I can possibly make that happen, and that is to hasten my departure into the next life, to follow him to whatever comes after all this misery and hopelessness.

  “I'm coming,” I whisper, before getting to my feet and stumbling around to the other side of the bar.

  I must have a rope somewhere, and surely hanging is the easiest and quickest way to die. After searching for some time, however, I spot a set of knives on a shelf, and I realize that perhaps that would be the best way to go. As I step over to the knives and take the largest of them in my trembling right hand, I already know that this will be extremely painful, but I remind myself that I have not lived a faultless life. Why should I expect death to be free of pain, when I have sinned plenty?

  I place the blade against my left wrist, and I try to summon the courage to cut deep. Yet the courage does not come; indeed, I feel weaker with each passing second, until the knife drops from my hand. Had I found the courage, I would surely have done the deed, yet now it is not courage but anger that fills my heart. If I die tonight, Jack's murderers will go unpunished and the brewery will continue to be seen as a bastion of honor, and The King's Head will most likely be lost.

  The brewery's lies and crimes must be exposed.

  “I will avenge you,” I whisper, as I think once more of Jack's body out there on the beach. “As the Lord is my witness, I will find a way to make them pay for what they did to you.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Charley Lucas

  “I will find a way...”

  My voice trails off as I find myself sitting at a table in the corner of the pub, staring down at an array of papers. Someone has been scrawling notes everywhere, and after a moment I look at my right hand and see that I'm holding some kind of pen. I look at the notes and see that they're written in handwriting that's almost indecipherable, although as I peer closer I'm just about able to make out a few of the words.

  “Bring the brewery to its knees,” I whisper, as I begin to realize that quite some time must have passed since the night when Jack Farnham died. “Show its evil to the world.”

  Looking around, I find that the pub is gloomy and seemingly shut. There's light outside, as if it's the middle of the day, but there's no sign of activity and I can see dust floating through the air. It's evident that the pub has been closed for a while. I lean back in the chair, and in the process I knock one of the sheets of paper to the floor. I reach down to pick it up, and then I turn to see that there are hundreds more sheets all over the floor behind me.

  Muriel must have been sitting here for a long time, trying to figure out a way to get her revenge on the brewery.

  Turning to look at the front window, I'm shocked to see that some kind of dirt has been daubed on the other side of the glass. I quickly realize that someone has written something across the window, and the middle of the word seems to be the letters R, D, E, R and E. It doesn't take a genius to figure that the word is most likely 'murderer'.

  Getting to my feet, I start walking toward the bar. My right ankle no longer hurts, which is a bonus, but my body feels very stiff and heavy. Reaching the bar, I put my hands on the surface and feel a rich layer of dust. Evidently The King's Head is no longer open, at least not in any general sense. Am I dreaming about what Muriel Hyde's final days were like? Or is this something more?

  Spotting some letters on the mat, I step forward, but then I hear a thudding sound coming from the hallway. I turn just in time to see the back door swing open, and three large, burly men enter the pub carrying axes and mallets.

  “No!” I shout, suddenly filled with panic at the sight of the intrusion. “Who are you? You can't come in here!”

  “I'm afraid we can,” say the man at the back, who steps through and reveals himself to be much better dressed than the others. As I look at him, I swear he looks a lot like Gary Hayes, only older and larger. “You've been ignoring our letters, Muriel. The terms of your tenancy here at The King's Head have been breached and I'm afraid you're going to have to leave. It would seem that few people in Malmeston are keen on frequenting an establishment run by a murderer.”

  “I'm no murderer!” I snap, stepping toward him. “Your brewery killed Jack!”

  “There's no proof of that,” the man says, as his thugs step forward to protect him. “I know you haven't been charged with anything, Muriel, but everyone knows you're guilty. I mean, a poker from this very pub was found right next to the body.” His smile grows. “I'm not an unkind man, however, so I'm willing to offer you a deal. I'm perfectly happy to let you walk away, so long as you tell me where I can find the money.”

  “What money?” I ask.

  “The money that you brought with you, when you came town. We know you had some, and we figure some of it's probably still around. It can be compensation for the trouble Mr. Farnham has caused us. You have it hidden away somewhere, and I think it's only fair that we should take it as our own. After all, Farnham was attempting to muscle in on our territory. He was a smuggler and a common thief.”

  “You're all murderers!” I shout. “Your whole brewery is based on theft and smuggling!”

  “There's no proof of that whatsoever.”

  “Everyone knows it!” I continue. “The whole town lives in fear of Hayes and Storford, no-one's brave enough to stand up to you, but everyone in Malmeston knows the truth! Your business is built on the blood of smuggling, and you won't let anyone else make any money at all!”

  “Jack Farnham is the only one accused by the police of being involved in smuggl
ing.”

  “That's because you have the police in your pocket, Mr. Hayes! You pay them off!”

  “You've got money hidden away, Muriel. Where is it? You really should think about cooperating, you know. Think about your options for a moment. Your decision could have a very big impact when it comes to how the rest of your day goes.”

  I hesitate, before stepping closer to him. His thugs are still blocking my way, but I don't care about that; after all, I know I have no chance of defending myself, but I also know that there's no way I will ever let these bastards have the money. I'd rather die.

  “Fine,” Mr. Hayes replies with a sigh, “I can see the intransigence in your eyes. We'll tear this pub apart and find the money anyway.” He turns to the men. “We'll have to go with the back-up plan, I'm afraid. You know the one.” He glances at me. “The one that will silence this wretched murderess forever.”

  Before I can ask what he means, the men grab my arms and start dragging me through to the hallway. I try to fight back, but they're holding me too tight and I'm unable to slip free. As I'm hauled up the stairs, one of the men hurries ahead and produces a rope from under his coat, and then I watch as he throws one end over a wooden beam high up in the stairwell.

  And that's when I remember the story about Muriel Hyde supposedly hanging herself.

  “No,” I whisper, but I'm already at the top of the stairs and I'm unable to turn fast enough. A noose is placed around my neck, and then I'm hoisted up onto the shoulders of the men and turned around.

  Mr. Hayes is staring up at me from the bottom of the stairs.

  “If it's any consolation,” he says as I struggle desperately to get free, “I think your reputation might be enhanced by this final act of sacrifice. People will see it as your way of recognizing all your wrongs. I shall certainly attempt to persuade people that, in the end, you came to some kind of epiphany. Right before your suicide.”

  “I'm not doing this!” I snarl.

  “My dear,” he replies, “you are. I've already spoken to the coroner. In fact, he's already written the death certificate.”

  With that, the men throw me forward. The noose tightens around my neck. I reach up and try to get free, but already the men are grabbing my legs and pulling me down with a series of hard, shocking jerks. I can feel myself struggling to breathe, and after a moment I also feel something snap in my neck. There's blood at the back of my mouth, and dark splotches are starting to fill my vision as my eyes begin to swell. I try to cry out, desperately hoping that even a single scream might be enough to attract help, but finally everything goes black and I'm left with only the sensation of the rope digging into my neck, and the laughter of the brewery's thugs as they pull harder and harder on my legs.

  “No!” I gasp, suddenly falling down and slamming into the banister.

  I twist around and grab the railing, but I still land hard on my right ankle, which was already painful. I cry out as I steady myself, and then I scramble up the stairs and turn to look around.

  I'm alone.

  Whereas a moment ago, daylight was streaming through the windows, now there's only darkness outside. I wait for some sign of the men from the brewery, but then I look over at the nearest window and see my own face reflected in the glass. A moment later I spot a light flashing down in the hallway, which must be the security system, and I realize that that strange, hideous dream must be over.

  Filled with relief, I slide down onto the floor and reach up to touch my neck. I don't feel any cuts or soreness, but I still remember the sensation of the noose crushing my throat. I know the idea is impossible, but it feels as if – for a short time – I fell asleep and somehow lived through some key moments of Muriel Hyde's life. Even though I'm myself again, my heart is thudding hard in my chest and I feel as if I really was just attacked. And I can feel a kind of echo of Muriel's heartbreak, even though I obviously never met or knew Jack Farnham.

  That dream felt more real than some real things I've experienced.

  Once I've got my breath back, I stand and start making my way down the stairs. In the dream, my ankle didn't hurt at all, but now it's really throbbing. I guess I must have somehow sleep-walked while I was dreaming, which is pretty creepy, and then as I get to the hallway I suddenly realize that the bottoms of my socks are wet. I reach down, and that's when I remember being out on the beach. But that was part of the dream, not real life, right?

  Right.

  I think.

  To be honest, I still don't have everything quite straight in my head, but I figure I'm under a lot of stress. I hobble through to the bar and look down into the tunnel, and I feel a flicker of disappointment when I see that the sausages are still in place. Bonnie still hasn't come back, and I'm starting to think that I might need to come up with yet another plan if I'm ever going to see her again.

  I wish I could call Dad.

  I wish I could just hear his voice.

  I'll do that in the morning, though. He wouldn't thank me for calling him in the middle of the night.

  “Get a grip, Charley,” I mutter under my breath. “You're not -”

  Suddenly I hear a floorboard creaking over my shoulder. I spin around, but at that moment something hard and heavy crashes into the side of my head, knocking me out instantly and sending me crumpling down to the floor.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Charley Lucas

  This time I don't dream.

  There's nothing. Just an endless void that I'm not even aware of until it ends. As I slowly start blinking, I find that I'm face-down on a floor, and then my other senses come back one by one. Touch: the floor is cold, some kind of hard lino. Hearing: I can hear a strong gale blowing somewhere, battering a door or maybe a window. Taste: there's a lingering hint of blood in my mouth. Smell: I can smell salt, the way you do near the sea on a blustery day. Finally, there's pain: the side of my head is throbbing, and so is my right ankle, and I feel stiff and awkward as I slowly start to sit up and look around.

  My vision's still a little off, but I find that I'm in a fairly small, white-walled room. There are empty shelves along one wall, but other than that the room is completely bare. There's a window behind me, so I get up and look outside, and I immediately see drops of rain running down the other side of the glass. The pane is shaking in the wind, but I can just about make out grass outside, stretching toward the horizon. I can hear the sea now, crashing against the shore not too far away, but I still have no idea where I am.

  Something hit me when I was in the pub, during the night. Is this another dream? Am I experiencing another snippet of Muriel Hyde's life? I pinch myself, and it still hurts, and then I feel another twist of pain in my ankle. It was my ankle that was the giveaway last time, when it failed to hurt in the dream, so I guess that means I'm awake. Plus, I don't feel as if someone else's mind is invading my thoughts this time. I'm me, I'm Charley Lucas, and there's no trace of Muriel Hyde in my thoughts. Not that there was before, of course, because that would be crazy, but... I feel 100% myself.

  A moment later I hear a key in the lock, and I turn just as the door swings open. I step forward, only to see Gary Hayes standing in the doorway, and there are two men right behind him.

  “Ah, good, you are awake,” Hayes says. “We thought we heard movement. How's your head, Ms. Lucas? I hope there isn't too much of a bump.”

  “Where am I?” I ask, trying not to panic. “Why am I here?”

  “You're at one of the brewery's properties on the outskirts of town,” he replies calmly, “and as for why you're here... I'd have thought that you might have some idea of that by now. After all, you were eavesdropping on a private conversation yesterday, were you not?”

  “I don't want to be here,” I say firmly. “You have to let me go right now!”

  “Do we?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “That's news to me.”

  “You can't kidnap me!” I say, hurrying toward him, only for the other two men to step in the way.

  I try to force my way
past. They simply block me at first, but finally one of them trips me and sends me clattering back down against the floor.

  Looking up at the men, I realize that this feels a lot like the moment in my dream when Muriel Hyde faced those thugs in The King's Head.

  “This isn't my fault, Ms. Lucas,” Hayes continues. “The plan was always to simply drive you and your father away. Then we'd be able to say that we gave the pub another shot, but that it's simply not destined to succeed. We'd have knocked the place down and built some nice new flats, and no-one would have suffered. Even when your father proved smarter than he looked, and the pub began to take off, we had a way around that. We might even have offered the pair of you another property, one that we actually wanted to see succeed. But then I saw something in your face the other day, Ms. Lucas, that made me realize the need for sterner measures.”

  “You can't do this!” I snap. “It's illegal!”

  “We've long known that Muriel Hyde never truly left The King's Head,” he replies. “Some people dismiss such ideas, but it's been clear for a while. Call her a ghost, or a spirit, or whatever, but some essence of her remained. That was why we wanted to just knock the place down and get on with things, but those interfering busybodies from the Restoration Society insisted that we should try to keep the pub going. I was hoping that Muriel's ghost would help us out by causing trouble, but then the other day I met you in the garden behind The Golden Bow and I realized what had happened.” He pauses for a moment. “She's trying to use you as a means of leaving that place,” he adds finally.

  “What?” I stammer. “I don't have a clue what you're talking about!”

  “She hitched a ride in you,” he explains. “When you got angry, I saw her, just for a second. And I'm afraid that can't be allowed to happen. Muriel Hyde was a threat that the brewery dealt with a long time ago. We intend to make sure that the past remains buried.”