by Graham West
Josie killed the sound on the TV. The smell of the toasties and coffee drifted along the hallway. “I figured you might be glad of some company,” she said, sitting opposite and revealing an eyeful of shapely leg. She smiled. “You’ve seen it before, hun.”
I blushed, wondering what she would have made of Jenny’s suggestion that we should disappear into the sunset. Maybe it wasn’t the right time.
“So, you’ll finally see Amelia’s room—that’ll be weird.”
I nodded. “Sebastian says I should keep an open mind.”
“And what do you think you’ll find?”
That was the billion-dollar question. I shrugged. “I just want all this to end, Jo. I really do. It’s messing with my head.”
“How are you and Jenny getting on?”
“Slowly,” I replied.
Jo raised her eyebrows. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s not going to be easy. I mean, the whole thing between Elizabeth and Benjamin Pascoe—it’s a bit of a bombshell, to put it mildly. The poor girl suddenly finds out she’s related to Darren!”
Josie rolled her eyes. “Not exactly the brother you’d choose from a catalogue.”
“Jen always thought she was from a stable home. You know—the whole loving family thing—two parents who loved each other unreservedly.”
There was a look of maternal concern on Josie’s face. She stood and patted my shoulder. “I’ll go and get supper.”
I wondered, and not for the first time, what course my life would have taken if I’d never met Melissa. Would we be living a contented suburban life with two-point-four children? I didn’t know, but two things were certain; Darren Pascoe would have never hooked up with Taylor, and Jenny would never have been born.
Josie returned with a tray. Steaming cheese toasties and milky coffee.
“Marry me!” I said, laughing.
Josie smiled wryly. “Don’t be raising my hopes, sunshine!”
***
James Taylor played on the radio as I drove home. Lou hadn’t made an appearance all evening, and part of me felt uncomfortable. Was he waiting for me to go? The other part of me didn’t give a gnat’s arse. I’d wanted to stay, sharing my thoughts well into the night until we’d both fallen asleep in each other’s arms, but when Josie had yawned and glanced at her watch, I thanked her for the supper and left.
When I arrived home there was a message on my answering machine. It was Dr. Grace. “Mr. Adams?” the voice was kind but officious. “Could you call me? Thank you.”
After three minutes on hold, I was put through to the doctor who informed me that they were happy to allow Jenny home at the weekend. I punched the air, turned Frank Sinatra on high, and poured myself a rum and dry ginger with a ladle of ice. Jenny was still Benjamin Pascoe’s daughter. Darren Pascoe was still her half brother. I still missed my wife and child, and if the bathroom mirror was not lying, I still looked like an old man. But at the end of the long dark tunnel, there was light again.
On my next visit, Jenny and I discussed the forthcoming weekend, skirting around the issues that we should have been talking over. We had, it seemed, one thing in common: the desire to find Amelia. But I feared what lay ahead should we succeed. Would Jenny slowly drift away from me, meet a boy, shack up, have children of her own? Would I still be in her life?
“I was thinking,” she said as I was leaving. I turned, one hand on the door. “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t come in again…leave it till the weekend.”
She looked away, unable to look me in the eye. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to scream my protest, but all I could manage was a cursory nod. I’m guessing she didn’t look up until she heard the door close.
I called in on Dr. Grace on the way out, relieved to find her sitting at a cluttered desk. She greeted me with a smile and offered me a seat.
“Jenny doesn’t want to see me till the weekend,” I blurted out before my backside had touched the chair.
She smiled kindly. “It will take time, Mr. Adams. I can assure you that Jenny is trying to work through this. Maybe she just needs some…” Dr. Grace paused. “God, I hate this word, but maybe she needs some space.” She tapped something into her computer and peered at the screen. “Damn! Look, I’m really sorry, but I have to be somewhere.”
She stood, gathering her personal belongings: keys, black clutch bag and a lined notebook. “I can’t get out of this…again, sorry—with a capital S.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. I’ll see you Friday.”
***
The week dragged on, feeling more like a month. My head was already in that attic room, and my macabre imagination was fuelled by a bottle of rum and several cans of premium strength beer. Josie reminded me that I hadn’t shaved and then stood over me, while I ran a razor across two days of stubble, before dragging me to a salon in town. She settled in with a magazine while a girl called Rosie cut my hair and trimmed my eyebrows.
“How about putting some colour in those locks? And a facial scrub would do you the world of good,” she told me as we drove back to The Keys. I sighed wearily. “You’re looking older than you are, hun, and if you look old, you’ll feel old.”
“I’m tired,” I told her, “and a bottle of hair dye won’t change that.”
Josie flicked on the indicator and swung the car into The Keys. “Fine. But do you really want to look like an old wreck? You honestly think that will help Jenny?”
By the time Friday came around, I’d been scrubbed, massaged and coloured. My trousers fitted better and although my head was still in a mess, Josie had a point. At least I now looked like a functioning human being.
***
Jenny did a double take when I picked her up at the hospital. “You look well,” she said with an air of suspicion in her voice.
I guessed she thought the makeover was for Josie’s benefit, so I just smiled and changed the subject, telling her that I’d called Farriday that morning and the wall was down. Nothing remarkable had happened. The workmen had taken the money they were owed and left the premises.
“He’s going to meet us at midday, tomorrow,” I said as we drove home. “So I thought maybe we could start out early and grab ourselves a bite to eat.”
Jenny nodded, preoccupied with what lay ahead, almost as if she knew. “Sounds good. I’m starving. Fancy a huge portion of greasy fish and chips?”
I wasn’t hungry. The alcohol had worn the lining from my stomach, but this was the old Jenny and I wanted to keep her. “Sure—and how about some thick white bread with lashings of butter?”
My daughter laughed. My daughter…she would always be just that. “Cool!” she said.
We sat watching an afternoon chick flick on the movie channel with two large colas and a mountain of fries with fish the size of small sharks. We fell asleep, our stomachs full, waking only as the credits rolled. We both had that what do we do now? look in our eyes. Neither of us could even think about food, and the TV was dire.
“Fancy a walk?” I asked. To my surprise, Jenny agreed.
We wrapped up against the brisk, cool breeze and took to the nearest public footpath just a mile away, both silent, our minds preoccupied with our visit to Amelia’s attic. When it began to rain, we huddled together beneath Jenny’s pink umbrella and laughed at our misfortune. After the past year, being caught three miles from home in a light rainfall could hardly be considered as a challenge to our character.
***
Neither of us had bothered catching up on the weather forecast, so we hadn’t been aware we’d walked through the beginning of a storm which was going to sweep across the country over the weekend. That night, the light rain turned into something else. Ninety-mile-an-hour winds whipped the trees and sent bins skimming along the roads like stones across the surface of a pond.
We set off in the morning, ignoring the Met Office’s warning against any unnecessary journeys. The weather had deterred the casual shoppers and weekend drivers, leaving us among the workers and the fo
olhardy for company as we headed through the driving rain with the windscreen wipers thrashing maniacally. When we pulled up at a set of lights, just three miles into the journey, I happened to glance in my rear-view mirror. The car behind me was, as far as I could tell, a black Ford. But behind that, a vehicle I had come to recognise was clearly visible as it attempted to change lanes.
“What are you looking at, Dad?” Jenny quizzed.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just thought I’d spotted someone I knew.”
Jenny returned to the game on her phone. I couldn’t tell her about the red Fiat. Not yet.
By the time we arrived at the rest home, the wind had dropped, but the grey skies seemed heavier than ever—so heavy, in fact, that it was hard to imagine that there was anything beyond them.
“This place looks like something out of a Dracula movie,” Jenny muttered as we pulled up. I killed the engine and waited. The rain was driving hard. We pulled our coats over our heads and made a run for the door without the umbrella.
Farriday was waiting for us in the hallway. A woman dressed in a navy blue suit stood beside him, only slightly shorter but at least a decade younger, her blonde, streaked hair, tied back from her face.
“That must be Mrs. Farriday,” I whispered to Jenny as we approached.
“She’s pretty,” Jenny said under her breath. “Look at those eyes.”
Farriday held out his hand. Mrs. Farriday smiled warmly. “Good to see you both. This is Laura, my wife.”
Laura nodded. “Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”
We agreed, despite not wanting to delay our visit to the attic a moment longer. I figured that Laura had a few questions for us, and to appear unduly hurried might seem discourteous.
We were ushered into the Farridays’ private quarters, a spacious and modern room with a huge plasma screen TV.
“Please, take a seat.” Mrs. Farriday gestured towards a large leather couch. “Then you can tell me all about that attic.”
Jenny and I looked at each other, rolling our eyes as Laura disappeared before reappearing with our coffee. “I’m afraid my fascination with ghouls irritates my husband, so I don’t really get to watch those ghost hunting programmes on the TV.” She glanced at Jenny, who was pale. “I’m sorry. That sounds rather flippant. This must be tough on both of you. I mean—you must have been desperate to come here and…you know…”
Jenny smiled and nodded.
“Anyway, Brian told me about this woman… Emily?”
“Amelia,” I corrected.
“That’s it, Amelia. She lived in the attic?” Laura sat down, her eyes flitting from Jenny to me and back again. I told her the story—at least, the part I knew would satisfy her curiosity. Laura kept looking at Jenny throughout, as if unable to accept that she had a real life ghost hunter in her home. If she had, for one moment, thought that we were just a couple of crackpots, it didn’t show. There was no trace of disbelief in those eyes.
Finally, I stood. “Is it okay if we take a look?”
Laura blushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Of course.”
Jenny tapped my arm. “Is it okay if we go on our own?”
Laura didn’t look that keen to follow us anyway, but Jenny wanted to be sure. “I’ll take you to the stairs. Just make your way back here when you’re ready.”
She gave us both a slightly doubtful look that questioned if we should be really entering the room without a priest. Jenny read her mind. “It’s cool, honestly. You don’t need to worry. No matter how long this takes, you don’t need to check on us. We’ll be okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Farridays had left the door unlocked. Jenny and I stood for a moment, my hand resting on the handle. My heart thumped hard in my chest. “Why did you say that to Farriday’s wife?” I asked.
Jenny shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I just don’t want her snooping around and disturbing something.” Jenny smiled. “Amelia is a benevolent spirit. She means no harm.”
I wasn’t sure. Jenny had stabbed me, slashed her wrists, and trashed a church. She seemed like a spirit with anger issues to me. This time, there would be no brick wall awaiting us. Only the room. I looked at my daughter. My daughter. She took my hand and squeezed hard. “But I’m still frightened, Dad.”
Dad. The word meant so much more now, and I wanted to draw her into my arms and hold her. I wanted to tell her how much she meant, but it wasn’t the time.
“Me, too,” I whispered.
Jenny smiled as tears welled in her eyes. “Here goes.”
I turned the handle and pushed the door open. It swung majestically in eerie silence. Jenny gasped. This was it.
“I’m in my dream,” she whispered.
There was nothing extraordinary about the attic room. A small window directly opposite was thick with grime, allowing in a little light—just enough to make out the table beneath it. We remained in the doorway while our eyes adjusted and then together we stepped forward.
An old mattress lay on the dusty wooden floor boards in the corner of the room, a tin bath alongside it. On the opposite side of the room, a trunk was pushed right up against the wall. I pulled the torch from my pocket. Jenny was shaking. I placed my arm around her.
“How do you feel?” I asked quietly.
“It doesn’t seem real,” she said. “Amelia sat at that desk. She sat on that chair.”
“Are you up to looking in that trunk?”
Jenny nodded slowly.
The lid lifted easily. I flashed the torch across the contents of Amelia’s life. Dresses, nightwear, a few old books from which she had been privately taught. I felt a heaviness in my spirit that I couldn’t explain. Life had passed this girl by. This was all she had ever known. I was drawn towards the window and peered out through the grime.
How much the landscape had changed over years, I didn’t know. The lawn stretched out below, lined by trees and overgrown shrubs. Amelia’s father had once tended those borders, walked the lawn and maybe stolen a kiss from the lady of the house in the shade of the oak. I shuddered. Jenny stood, challenged by her surroundings. She was standing in her nightmare.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said in a hushed voice. “Why am I here?”
I peered back through the gloom. Even in the half light, Jenny looked an almost deathly white.
“If you want to go…”
The door slammed shut with a crashing thud as the attic window shattered. Shards of glass blew across the room, and I turned to see my daughter thrown backwards. In the blast of icy air, the stench of decay flooded my senses. I found myself kneeling over my daughter, my whole body shaking with cold and fear. “Jenny!” I whispered. “Jenny!” I cradled her head in my arms.
She opened her eyes. “I’m cold,” she said. “I’m so cold.”
It felt as if the blood in my veins had turned to ice. I was looking at my daughter’s face but the voice was not hers. Nor the eyes. I touched her cheek. No one could be that cold to the touch and still possess a beating heart. “Who are you?” I said. “What do you want?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “You’re here now,” she said, her voice barely audible. Her breathing quickened. I heard the death rattle. Amelia was going to take Jenny with her back to the grave.
“Where’s my daughter?” I demanded frantically. “What have you done with her? Is that what you brought her here for? To take her? Why? Why?”
The faintest smile crossed her face. “It is over,” she said. “You will know what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
I could no longer see Jenny in the face I was staring down at. “What do you smell?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. “It smells like…”
I knew the smell. Please…what is it…what is it?
The girl looked at me; her lips moved silently. “Water… It’s water.”
That was it! Water. Stagnant water.
“What does it mean? What?”
The girl—Amelia—was fading fast.
“It is where I am,” she said. “It is where you will find me.”
The girl I held closed her eyes. I felt the breath leave her body. Her heart slowed like a tired old clock, and she was gone.
I screamed, pulling Jenny up like a rag doll. “Oh, God, no! Jesus, no! Why? Why?”
I’m not sure how long I remained, kneeling on the attic floor, but my aching arms could no longer support the body. I lowered her back to the floor and stood, the blood draining from my head. The room began to spin, and I closed my eyes, bowing my head and taking several deep breaths. I had to remain conscious. I had to get my daughter’s body out of this hole.
This had been the place Jenny had visited in her nightmares. Now it was my nightmare, but I would never wake up to find myself beneath a scented duvet. I had lost everything. It’s over…you will know what to do… But I didn’t. I didn’t know what to do. Sebastian had never warned me. The dead can’t hurt you. How often had I heard that?
Jenny lay, her skin clammy and cold. Now I could barely see her face through the gloom of the early evening. I screamed for help, crouched over my girl, unable to leave her side for a moment, lest she be taken from me, paralysed by my fear of returning to find the room empty, with no trace of Jenny—a girl, like Amelia, with no resting place.
“Mr. Adams? What the hell…” It was Brian Farriday.
My heart thumped so hard I could barely form a simple word. The door creaked open. Light flooded the room. I looked up to see two people silhouetted in the doorframe. Farriday had brought his wife. “Jesus… What’s going on? What’s—”
“She’s dead!” I sobbed. “Dead!”
“Ambulance!” Farriday barked. “Quickly!”
I heard Laura’s footsteps on the stairs.
“It’s too late.” I sobbed as Farriday knelt beside me, placing a hand gently across Jenny’s forehead.
“What happened? What did you do?”
I realised there and then that I was going to be hearing that question over and over. The police wouldn’t buy the story of Amelia Root. I was the only person there when my daughter died.
“She just collapsed,” I said as Farriday withdrew his hand.