"Promise me you'll go back to the hospital, Mike, the one they took you to before. They know your history, so they can give you the appropriate tests and find out if you really are clear."
"You're talking as if I used to be a regular junkhead, Midge. You know I was never that way."
"You indulged."
"Occasionally, and only soft stuff, for Chrissake. And never since that time."
"All right, Mike. Please don't get angry, I don't want to fight any more.
"Me neither. But don't let things grow out of proportion: doping was never a habit with me. Yeah, I know—they nearly all claim that, but you know it's true in my case. I've seen too many good lives wasted for me to get hooked."
Her fingers dug into my back, but her kiss was soft. "Forgive me for getting mad earlier?"
"I can't blame you—God knows how it must have looked." I returned her kiss, glad the wall was down (partially down, anyway: I was still holding back on vague and sinister notions and, although I wasn't aware of it at the time, so was she). To change the subject, lest I got in too deep, I said, "I tried to call you on my way back this morning and got no reply. Have you been out most of the day?"
"I went for a long walk."
"In the rain?"
"A little rain doesn't bother me. I felt the need to be in the open, among the trees, to feel grass beneath my feet. I'd worked on the painting all day yesterday and some of this morning and I needed to clear my head."
"So you went into the forest?"
"Yes. Believe it or not, I managed to lose my direction and found myself looking down on Croughton Hall again." Her voice had become low once more, as though not keen to continue that particular line of conversation.
Naturally I persisted. "You mean the Synergist Temple—it isn't called Croughton Hall any more. What did you do? Did you go down there?"
"I thought I'd just say hello—you know how kind they were to us at the weekend. I thought they'd like to know how your arm was, too."
"Oh yeah? Who did you see? Kinsella, Gillie?"
"I saw Mycroft."
"Considering he's supposed to be a mystery man, he's been pretty much in evidence as far as you're concerned."
"I've only met him twice now, Mike."
"Twice more than the local vicar."
"Who wouldn't want to avoid him?"
"I don't suppose our Reverend realized he was upsetting you—upsetting us both—with his gruesome little story. He probably imagined it would make Gramarye more interesting to us, y'know, add more character."
"It did that all right, unpleasantly so. I've begun to get nervous when I go down to the kitchen in the morning, wondering what I'll find sitting there at the table."
I didn't mention I'd had the same trepidations. "Put it out of your mind. You don't believe in spooks anyway."
"Not that kind. I don't believe death is the end of everything, though—there has to be something more that gives meaning to all this. We can't exist and then not-exist, otherwise all we do or try to do would be so pointless."
"Well, that's something we'll never know until they close the lid on us, will we? I've gotta admit, I'm not that curious right now."
"Mycroft told me we can know. Or at least, we can glean some idea of our state after death."
"Ahhh, Midge, you're not falling for all that shit, are you? 'Is there anybody there, Uncle George, can you hear me, is there anyone around the table who had a gray-haired grandma who passed over recently, say within the last twenty years or so?' You've gotta be kidding."
"No, not that kind of nonsense, I don't go along with any form of footlights spiritualism. It's no better than certain religions which only make a mockery of people's beliefs." She paused, as though unsure whether or not to go on. Then she said, "Mycroft teaches that when the will is truly attuned to the Divine Spirit, then the mind can achieve a higher perceptual condition than ever before experienced. He believes that our own spiritual force can be united with the perpetual essence of those who once lived."
A small, weary groan from me halted her for a moment.
"No, Mike, not by the simplistic and phony methods used by so-called mediums and their like, but in a truer sense, solely through awareness. Perhaps in a form that's outwardly less substantial than voices or movement of objects, or even visions, but all the more pure and undistorted because of that. No chicanery, no illusions; just a mutual contact between psychical energies, with Mycroft as guide and, if you like, interpreter. Words can't explain it properly— certainly mine can't; you just have to believe."
"I bet you do. I'll bet his whole cult is based on that kind of blind faith. How can you seriously consider what he's been telling you?"
"I never said I did." The tightness was back in her voice. "But his ideologies and concepts are interesting to hear, and if you're open-minded enough they make a lot of sense. You have to listen for yourself, though, Mike—listen to him, not me. You'd soon realize he's a remarkable man."
"No, thanks, I think I'll remain my ignorant, unimpressed self."
"I should have known that's all I could expect from you. Always the cynic, forever wrapped up in your own non-beliefs. You have to step outside that jokey little world of yours sometimes, Mike, you have to try and reach for something more."
"Jesus, he's really got to you."
Midge turned away from me, a wild, disgusted movement, and I immediately regretted my scorn, justified though I thought it was. I laid a hand on her shoulder and felt a sob jerk through her.
"Midge, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you like this. Guess our biorhythms are out of sync today, huh?" Quit the gags, I warned myself, and closed the gap between us so that we spooned together, my front against her back, as snug as yin and yang. I wished our attitudes toward each other at that moment could be as comfortable. "I should Know by now that you're always willing to listen to fresh ideas and philosophies without necessarily accepting them.
That's always been one of your virtues, the ability to absorb new thoughts and consider them." I expected to hear "brown-nose" from her, a usual reaction to nice comments from me, but she really was too upset. "Maybe I've got Mycroft and his groupies all wrong. I'm sure he's completely sincere in his beliefs, but you can't really expect an old die-hard cynic like me to swallow them, can you?"
Snuffles from Midge.
"Let's talk about it," I went on. "You can tell me more, and then maybe I can throw in some other points of view. It's always worked that way for us in the past, hasn't it?"
She spoke, but she didn't turn around. "Mycroft says he can help me reach my parents."
I was too stunned to say anything right away, and probably that was just as well. Eventually, I did say, "Oh, babe . . ." and immediately felt her go rigid.
But I was firm, and pulled her around to face me. This was something we really did have to discuss.
It was dark when I woke up later, although a bright moon somewhere from view did its best to compensate; light from the window made a monochrome quilt of the bedsheet. I turned to Midge and her breathing had the evenness of deep sleep.
I'd made an effort to keep cool earlier, holding back on a lot of things I'd like to have said about Mycroft and his crazy notions. I know I took the coward's way, but I was anxious to repair the silly rift that had developed; trouble was, Midge took my lack of argument as condonation and became more enthused with the idea of reaching her parents through this self-deluded Synergist. I tried to pull on the reins gently, but she'd soon become carried away, Filled with the idea of actually "talking" to her folks again, almost as if she could in some weird fashion lay their spirits to rest. Their deaths hadn't been easy, you see, no slipping smoothly away into eternal sleep, and she had the unhappy thought that somehow the traumatic circumstances in which they'd died wouldn't allow them peace in the afterlife (whatever that was).
I shivered and pulled up the sheet around my neck; the day's rain had left the night chilly. And there was a definite damp mustiness to the bedroo
m now, much stronger than it had been earlier on. The digital clock on the small, round table beside the bed told me it was 22:26 and it took me more seconds to work, out that it was twenty-six minutes past ten. We'd slept through the afternoon and evening.
As I lay there, a shadow flitted past the window, a bat or an owl on its nocturnal jaunt. The flapping of wings sounded hollow in the windless air.
My throat was still hangover dry and I was tempted to rouse Midge so that we could go down to the kitchen together, have coffee or hot milk, a sandwich maybe, and talk some more. I felt our afternoon's conversation might be advanced a little, hopefully with me infusing a modicum of logic into the situation. There was a need to tread warily, though, because I'd never known her quite so gullible about anything like this before, but I was sure patient reasoning would sooner or later win through.
Leaning over, I kissed her exposed shoulder. She stirred and mumbled something unintelligible that probably made sense in whatever dream she was having, then turned onto her stomach, out to the world. I nuzzled the back of her neck, but she was really van-Winkled, not another movement in her. Resting back on my elbows, I stared across the room at the window, the sky there a kind of shiny blue; miserably, I recalled the lovemaking that had preceded our sleep. The physical act that should have been sweetened by lovers' reconciliation hadn't been good. Oh no, it hadn't been good at all. I think the effort of at least achieving a result had contributed considerably to our mutual weariness, because I know I flaked out immediately afterward. Now I mentally apologized to Midge, more for falling asleep so fast than for my poor performance (we were both old and wise enough to know these things happened occasionally even in the best and most sensual relationships).
I tossed back the sheet, half hoping the movement would wake her, but it didn't. Slipping on my robe, I crept over to the door, deciding it really would be unfair to disturb such a deep sleep. My hand touched the wall for guidance as I neared the door and I was surprised when my palm came away wet. I stroked the plaster and my fingers slid through a sheen of moisture. A leak? No, couldn't be—this dampness wasn't running. Condensation, then? In summer? Had to be, though, and it had been raining for most of the day.
It made me wonder what winter was going to bring! Obviously there was more work to be done on this place, but we wouldn't know what until the weather changed for the worse.
I went through to the hallway at the top of the stairs. I flicked on the lightswitch, but the stairs still looked shadowy where they curved around the bend. To be honest, I didn't much fancy going down into the kitchen and I guess you know why, but I convinced myself I was grown-up and an unbeliever at that. I began the descent and stopped halfway, the black hole at the bottom that was the kitchen itself looking particularly uninviting. The "hallucination" with the picture had obviously unnerved me a lot more than I'd thought.
Gritting my teeth in the best hero tradition, I continued down, my hand scrabbling ahead of me for the lightswitch that was just inside the open doorway. The image—the feeling— of unseen, cold and bony fingers curling around my wrist was unbearably strong in my mind, almost strong enough to send me scurrying back upstairs, in fact, but I stalwartly (well, stubbornly might be more apt) resisted the impulse.
The light came on and it was a relief to find the room unoccupied. I padded past the table into the kitchen proper, going straight to the fridge (the same switch operated the lights in both sections of the kitchen) and taking out a milk carton. A tall glass had been left to dry on the drainer and I filled it to the brim with milk, drinking half standing there at the sink, then filling it again. Delving back into the fridge, I found some ham, and it was as I was spreading butter on a slice of bread that I got the curious prickling feeling of not being quite alone. I looked up and around: the window over the sink only showed me a pale reflection of myself. From where I stood at the working surface I couldn't see the table and chairs next door. But my mind could see someone sitting there.
I turned slowly so that I faced the opening. I didn't want to look, not really. As a matter of fact, I wanted to bang on the ceiling with the broom handle and get Midge down there fast, just for company, you understand. Naturally I couldn't do that, and naturally I had to poke my head through the doorway, unless I was prepared to wait there till morning. I moved cautiously and steadily toward the doorway, like a Hitchcock camera performing one of those lamous tracking maneuvers, the angle beyond the opening changing as I approached, revealing more and more the closer I got. The corner of the table, a shopping-list notepad lying there, a pepper shaker, the edge of a chair . . .
My own slow, deliberate movement was giving me the creeps, but the feeling that someone was sitting there waiting for me to peer around the corner of the doorway, waiting there and grinning, moldy tea untouched, was just about overwhelining.
So I took the last couple of feet at a rush.
She wasn't there. Old Flora was lying up at the village cemetery, not sitting at the kitchen table in Gramarye. Thank God.
I leaned against the side of the doorway and steadied my breathing. She wasn't there, but oh, there was an atmosphere in that room. Maybe my imagination was running loose again, but I was sure I could sense a presence, something in the air that was almost tangible. There was an old person's smell about the room, you know the kind I mean? Sort of sweet and musty and ancient at the same time. I once read somewhere that certain parapsychologists claim ghosts are nothing more than the lingering dregs of a dead person's aura, and now I thought that theory could easily apply here inside the cottage, Flora Chaldean's psychic residue permeating the surroundings, her seeping vitality impregnating the furniture, the walls themselves. And that's what it felt like: she was gone, but a part of her personality remained locked inside Gramarye, perhaps in lime to fade to nothing.
I shuddered at the idea, but at least it precluded any romantic notions of ghosts and hauntings.
I went back to the worktop and swiftly finished making the sandwich, then took it and the glass of milk through to the stairway, unable to stop myself from glancing at the table as I passed. I felt I could reach out and touch her, so strong was the eidetic image. It took some effort to switch off the light down there.
I went up the stairs faster than I'd come down, leaving on the hall light when I went into the round room. Despite my nervousness, though, I didn't turn on the light in there, and there was a simple reason for that: so as not to disturb my sleeping partner, I was going to eat my snack outside the bedroom, but I didn't want to look at that picture again, not in full light, just in case those vibrant colors worked their peculiar tricks again. Light from the hallway and moonlight flooding through the windows was good enough for me to see comfortably by, yet subdued enough not to make things too clear. I slumped onto the sofa and filled my mouth with ham and bread, my naked knees projecting whitely before me like the tops of two thin skulls, the milk glass held on one covered thigh.
Sitting there I contemplated Mycroft's assurance that he could help Midge contact her dead parents and the fact that she was falling for it, really believing this creep was some kind of mystic, able to converse with souls of the since-departed (while I might have gone along with the possibility of life after death, I just couldn't fall for the crazy notion of having a direct line to this other stratum—that was taking "long distance" a bit too far). Yet my heart bled for Midge, because part of her still grieved so much for her parents. In a way, I think she was searching for her own peace of mind. Let's face it, for most of us the tragedy of death is its utter finality—"now you see me, now you don't"—and that hardship, of course, is with those left to mourn. One moment Midge had a family, the next she was quite alone. Certainly there was a little time between losing both, but not enough to break up the trauma.
Her mother, then in her midfifties, had suffered from Parkinson's Disease for a number of years, Midge and her father having caringly nursed her through each degenerative stage. Drugs such as levodopa unfortunately had severe side effec
ts for her, so much so that they could barely be tolerated; according to Midge, her mother's distress had been intense over long periods at a time. Yet the mother worried constantly about the well-being of her husband and daughter, deeply concerned that she was proving such a burden to them both, spoiling—or impeding—their lives, particularly that of her young daughter who was prevented from spending more time fully developing her own remarkable artistic talent. But Midge and her father were prepared to make any sacrifice to keep her as comfortable as possible, and between them they coped pretty well.
Until Midge's father was fatally injured in a car crash.
His skull had been cracked wide open, yet it took five torturous days for him to die. And in his very few coherent moments during that time, his concern had been only for Midge and her mother.
His death, it seemed, had broken down his wife's remaining reserves of strength, and with them the spirit that had helped her resist the worst of the disease. So rapid was her deterioration over the next couple of days that she was unable to attend the funeral. When Midge returned alone to the house after the ceremony, she had found her mother out of her sickbed and slumped, fully clothed, in an armchair, a framed photograph of her late husband cradled in her lap. An empty pill bottle lay at her feet together with a spilled glass of water. A transparent plastic bag, tightened around her neck by a thick rubberband, covered her head.
She'd left a note, begging her daughter's forgiveness and pleading for her to understand. Life had finally become too hard to suffer any longer, the loss of her dear husband, Midge's father, compounding the physical and mental torment; and by remaining alive she merely served to mar her daughter's young life, keeping her tied, stealing her freedom. Her regret was that neither parent would now witness the artistic success their beloved daughter was bound to tind, but at least she, herself, would not hinder that talent.
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