Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  That night, Jenny had another nightmare. I lay awake, praying that my decision to enlist the help of Sebastian and his sidekick was not a mistake. Josie had cast a shadow of doubt over the whole affair.

  “And if you can’t find this Root woman, what then?” she’d asked, and then smiled and patted my hand. “I’m sorry, Rob, but I think you might be better having a word with a therapist.”

  I hadn’t realised how much I valued Jo’s opinion—how much I longed for her approval. She clearly believed that I was grasping at straws, unable to face the fact that my daughter needed a shrink. I had stormed out of The Keys like a petulant child, refusing to reply to Jo’s calls and messages. My mind was spinning after spending the evening digging for information.

  My knowledge of Elizabeth’s family tree took me back to her great-great-grandparents: they’d had two children and had lived in Ireland in virtual poverty before arriving in England in early 1885. Beyond them, I knew nothing.

  My own great-great-grandparents, Henry and Grace Adams, had lived in Cornwall. Henry, a fisherman lost his life at sea, leaving Grace to bring up her only son, Anthony, alone.

  I had scribbled the details down with a rough tree, along with any details of marriages that I’d managed to glean from the photos and documents, which Elizabeth had filed in three red boxes and stored in the loft.

  I spent the evening wading through the contents while listening for my daughter’s footsteps on the stairs. She’d made herself a coffee, breezing past as if I wasn’t there. I’d held my breath, hardly daring to make a sound. My very existence riled her, and any attempt at a reconciliation would have been pointless.

  I spent a restless night listening to my daughter caught in her dreams. Her breathing was hard and fast as she tossed restlessly on her bed. Amelia was there, I was sure, but there were no screams and no sounds of footsteps on the stairs. There would be no cryptic messages on the fridge door.

  ***

  The following evening, Josie greeted me with an enthusiastic embrace and a kiss that told me yesterday was forgotten. We were friends, and sometimes words were unnecessary, although I wondered if my love for Josie was on the cusp of something deeper. I took my seat, and she smiled, her eyes filled with a compassion that made me want to pull her into my arms.

  Jack Staple stood at the bar-room entrance with an expensive-looking briefcase under his arm. He was a stocky man with a face like a bulldog and a head of hair that was either dyed or purchased. I caught his eye, raising my hand. He smiled broadly, revealing a mouth full of teeth that weren’t his either.

  Jack had a predictably firm handshake that suited his pugilistic demeanour. “Robert Adams, I presume,” he said with a penetrating gaze that suggested he could see the Adams ancestry in my eyes. Josie hovered in the background, wiping tables that gleamed with her repeated attentions.

  “The Adams family,” he said wryly, pulling out a chair. “They should make that into a TV show!”

  I managed a half-hearted laugh and asked the old bulldog what he fancied to drink.

  “Pineapple juice will be fine. I’ve done the drink-driving thing. Had the ban, got the t-shirt.”

  I shrugged. It didn’t matter to me. If he found Amelia Root somewhere in the annals of my history, he could be supping blood with the Devil for all I cared.

  There was a silence as Jack Staple glanced over the documents and other hastily sketched details I’d thought might be useful. He nodded slowly, sipping his pineapple juice.

  “This is good,” he said finally, slipping the papers back into the large, brown envelope with fingers heavily stained with nicotine. I could smell the stale smoke on his hands. “I’ll start on this first thing in the morning.”

  We made small talk for half an hour before he rose from his seat and shook my hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I wished him luck. I meant it. Jack smiled warmly. He was, I guessed, in his late fifties and, in spite of his seeming lack of care for his health, looked like the kind of man who could wrestle a gorilla and win. I liked him only because I wanted to like him, and I trusted him for the same reason.

  ***

  Filled with a renewed hope, I sat down that evening and began to write.

  My Darling.

  I am so sorry. I totally understand your anger, but it is important that you also understand I’m on your side. At the risk of angering you further, I have no alternative but to tell you I have enlisted the help of a genealogist who is tracing the family tree. We need to find out who Amelia Root was and, more importantly, what she wants with you. I pray and hope with all my heart that we can sort this out.

  I love you, Jen. Let’s do this together.

  Dad xxxx

  I pushed the note under Jenny’s door and waited in front of the TV for the thunder of footsteps on the stairs. An hour passed. No slamming of doors or drawers. No loud music. Nothing. I waited till midnight before I went to bed. The room was cold as I reached through the darkness for the bedside light, and under the amber glow, I saw a note on my pillow. It read simply: I love you too. Beside it lay a pink notebook.

  My daughter’s diary.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was two days before Jenny and I spoke. She walked past me and asked if I wanted a coffee. I’d not opened the diaries, believing that such restraint might impress her. We would go through them together, maybe with old Seb, if Jenny agreed. We sat, with our mugs, in front of the morning newsreel. She smiled when I thanked her, but said nothing, even though she must have been longing to know who was on the team. I guessed she was still smarting…still afraid…still confused, and still grieving for her mother and Hanna.

  That afternoon, I joined her in the garden as she watched a resident blackbird hopping along the lawn and listening for worms. Jenny didn’t acknowledge my presence at her side, and we stood for a while in silence. When she finally spoke, her words choked me.

  “Dad,” she said softly, staring down at her feet. “I’m sorry, too.”

  I flung my arms around her. “Jenny!” I whispered, “I love you—I love you so much!”

  We held each other the way we had done the day it dawned on me that Elizabeth was never coming back. We spent the evening sitting with our arms around each other, and after watching TV presenters wade through celebrity interviews, makeovers and lifestyle tips, we decided to order a pizza and catch a couple of movies. It was well after midnight when the final titles rolled and Jenny looked at me.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is going to sound really odd—and I wouldn’t ask if…”

  “It’s okay, Jen. Ask away.”

  “It’s not that simple, honestly. It’s going to sound weird but…”

  “What?”

  “Can you stay with me…in my room?” She gave me that old hang-dog look. “There’s a camp bed in the loft.” She sounded apologetic. “I know it’s not that comfortable but, well, you could be there…to wake me if…”

  I nodded. “Tell you what, let’s get that weapon of torture out right now.”

  A huge smile broke across her face. It felt as if the sun had escaped from behind a thundercloud and lit up the sky. Jenny would never understand how much it meant. I would have slept on a bed of nails if she had asked.

  ***

  The camp bed wasn’t quite as bad as a bed of nails, but it came pretty damn close. Each morning, I would rise, leaving Jenny in her bed, thankful that she hadn’t caught me hobbling towards the bathroom and massaging the base of my spine. To her, Amelia Root had become as real as me, although it was still unclear what this apparition really wanted.

  On the Saturday, we took a drive down to the Nature Reserve six miles away, and followed the Lakeside trail through the pine woods. It had been six days since I’d given Jack Staple my family history, leaving him with the task of finding the woman with the bulging eyes. I was growing impatient.

  Jenny and I hadn’t talked about the nightmares or how she had found herself in St. Jude�
�s, defacing the wall behind St. Peter. I kept my silence under strict instructions from Josie, who believed my daughter was waiting for the right time.

  We picked our way over the carpet of pine, our eyes firmly on the ground, avoiding the mammoth roots. Jenny pushed her arm through mine.

  “Are you sleeping all right?” she asked casually.

  “Yeah, sure. Why?”

  “You look beat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, really—you do.”

  “I’m okay, Jen, honestly.”

  “You can move back to your own bed if—”

  I placed my arm around her shoulder and pulled her to me. “Listen, I’ve hated the past few weeks. I’ve hated seeing you so unhappy…so scared…so angry. I’d have slept in hell itself to—”

  “I’m still scared, Dad,” she cut in. “I’m still unhappy, and I’m still angry. I’m angry with myself, for letting Amelia in. I’m angry with those bastards for killing Mum and Hanna…”

  “And you’re angry with me?”

  She shook her head. “I was, but to be truthful, I don’t have the energy and…”

  Jenny paused, stepping over a trailing root. She rested her head on my shoulder. “I was wanting Mum back. I wanted to wake in the middle of the night and find her standing at the bottom of my bed. Then I got angry with you because I couldn’t talk it out, and in some weird way…I dunno. It kind of made it all your fault.”

  I thought about that for a moment. I had to ask. “Maybe it was. If I hadn’t gone ape-shit the moment you mentioned a medium—but you mentioned Kelly in your letters to Mum—what was the thing you did?”

  I could almost feel the tension. I had invaded her space, and the hurt came flooding back.

  “I can’t tell you,” she hissed. “I know you were just protecting me…I know why you did what you did—”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied quickly, desperate to avoid another argument.

  “I’m sorry, too, but I just can’t tell you.”

  As much as I longed to know, the consequences of pressing my daughter for an answer terrified me. The girl who walked beside me with an arm through mine was living on the edge of something no one understood. An unknown world we referred to as the paranormal—or was it mental instability? Either way, treading carefully was my only option.

  Jenny kicked a clump of wood, watching it fly several feet into the air. “You haven’t asked me about the church thing,” she said. “I thought that would be messing with your head big time!”

  “Oh, I’ve plenty of questions.” I laughed. “But I’m not sure you have the answers.”

  She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe not. I still don’t remember how I got to that church. I was just following something. As if there was a device inside me. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming the whole thing cos when I got on the train…I wasn’t sure why. I just knew it was the right thing to do. Does that sound weird?”

  “It sounds scary,” I countered.

  “And when I got off and caught a bus—well, it felt like the right bus…”

  Jenny stopped, as if her recollection of the event was becoming clearer.

  “The bus,” she said slowly. “It stopped outside the church, and something inside me said, ‘Here!’ It wasn’t a voice—just a feeling—but I remember running down the aisle and feeling a can in one pocket and a knife in the other and something was screaming, ‘Hypocrite! Hypocrite!’ in my ear. I stood in front of the statue and it spoke to me.”

  “What did it say?”

  Jenny sighed. “I can’t remember. I’ve tried so hard, but it won’t come back to me.”

  “This whole thing,” I replied, “the church thing—did you remember anything about it after I picked you up?”

  Jenny shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like I woke up there.”

  “Then it’s slowly coming back to you, isn’t it?”

  Jenny nodded. “But what if it happens again, Dad? And what if the next time…what if I use the knife?”

  I didn’t tell my daughter that she wasn’t the first to ask that question. I shuddered at the thought. From her lips, the words had chilled me, but I tried to lighten the whole subject. “Maybe we need to find out who this hypocrite really is. They sound like the one to be worried!”

  ***

  When we arrived home, the red alert on the answering machine was flashing. Instinctively, we both reached to press the button, our hands colliding. We stopped cold as Jack Staple’s voice filled the room.

  Hello, Robert. Jack here. Could you call me back? Thanks.

  I flipped the card that lay by the phone and dialled his number. Jenny looked on anxiously.

  “Jack? It’s Robert Adams. Got the message—how did you get on?”

  Jack smoked heavily, and his voice was as thick as treacle. He cleared his throat. “You have an interesting ancestry, Robert, but I haven’t been able to trace anyone by the name of Amelia Root anywhere—either on your side or your wife’s.”

  “I see.” My heart felt like a stone in my chest.

  Jenny saw my face and turned away, flopping into the armchair.

  “But I’m not giving up,” Staple continued. “It doesn’t mean that the woman never existed.”

  “So…what next?”

  “Maybe we could meet again. I’ve had your family trees printed up—you might like them, anyway—but Sebastian and I would like to talk with Jenny, if that’s possible.”

  “Sure. When?”

  “How about The Keys? Tomorrow lunch?”

  ***

  Tint and Staple were waiting at the corner table when we arrived. The two men were deep in conversation and well into their drinks. A brandy suited Tint with his sophisticated air while the shorter, more robust genealogist was clearly more at home with his pineapple juice. Both men looked as if they should have a cigar hanging from their lips.

  Sebastian spotted us first and immediately rose from his seat to greet the young lady he knew to be my daughter. Jenny had seen enough period dramas to know that this was how gentlemen used to behave.

  The old man bowed his head. “And you must be Jenny.” He reached out and took her hand briefly.

  Jack Staple rose, too—with less grace, but with a gentle smile that put Jenny at ease.

  “Good to meet you, Jenny,” Staple said gruffly, shaking her hand.

  The moment we sat, Josie was there like a genie appearing from a bottle.

  “Yes—and what would you like, kind sir?” she asked mischievously.

  I ordered a pint of beer. Jenny opted for a cola.

  Staple dug out his briefcase and presented me with a large brown envelope. “That will tell you everything about your bloodline, going back as far as 1745.”

  “Bloody hell! Really?”

  “Sure. When I say everything—I mean births, deaths and, in most cases, occupations. Obviously, I don’t know what they ate for breakfast.”

  “That’s great. Thank you.”

  Tint took a sip of his brandy. He was wearing glasses today and studying Jenny over the top of them. “You must be a little disappointed,” he said, addressing her with a sympathetic smile.

  Jenny nodded and smiled ruefully.

  Jack Staple pulled a pen from his briefcase, along with a cheap writing pad—the kind you get from the supermarkets in a bumper-pack deal. “Like I said, this does not mean that Amelia Root never existed…” He paused, looking directly at Jenny “It’s a little difficult. You say that she called you her flesh and blood?”

  “They’re the words she used,” Jenny confirmed.

  “And that is the only clue you have to her identity?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be absolutely honest with you, Jenny. I neither believe nor disbelieve in the spirit world. I don’t know what to think about your dreams. This woman could be in your head. A complete figment trumped up in your subconscious.”

  I looked at Jenny, her face showed no emotion.

  “That is what makes
this whole thing so fascinating. I want to believe in the supernatural. I want to find this woman’s name somewhere in your ancestry. I want to prove you’re right!” Staple glanced at the envelope I was holding. “But the details are sketchy. We don’t really know what century she is from. We don’t know where she lived. Sometimes people slip through the record books, but if we are to do any digging, we need to narrow the whole thing down—times and places.”

  Josie arrived with the drinks. Jack Staple handed her a note. “Keep the change,” he said with a cursory nod.

  Jenny was thinking hard. “The room is empty—just floorboards, I think. And a small window with a table by it.”

  “Can you recall what the table looks like?” Tint asked. “It could give us a clue as to the era.”

  Jenny frowned. “I can’t—it’s just a table. It was the diary I noticed.”

  “Could it be possible that the diary belonged to someone else?”

  “No. No—she was the only one in the room—I know that it was hers.”

  Jenny’s emphatic reply satisfied Tint, who nodded thoughtfully. “Do you remember what she was wearing?”

  “A white gown.”

  Jack Staple shrugged. “That would cover several centuries.”

  “Do you have anything else?” Tint asked.

  Jenny placed her shoulder bag on the table, pulled out her notebook and handed it to the old man. “That’s everything—up to three days ago. There’s a sketch of the room and a couple of Amelia. I drew them almost as soon as I woke up.”

  Tint took them with the kind of reverence with which one might handle an ancient document.

  Jenny smiled and looked at Jack. “You can keep hold of them for a while. My number is on the front if you have any questions.”

  Tint opened the book as Josie sidled up to the table. “Any food, gents and beautiful lady?” The picture on the open page caught her eye. She hummed. “They are enormous eyes.”

  Tint looked up. “Apart from that, she’s quite a pretty girl, though.”

  “That’s the other thing,” Jenny added. “She sometimes…shakes really badly.”

  “A bad case of hyperthyroidism, I’d say,” Josie said.