Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  Even Josie sounded indignant when I called her later that day. “You gave the Tabwell rag all the information about that rat, Allington,” she hissed. “They ran the whole story and got their arses kicked by the local council, I bet! So they conveniently decided to forget all about it. Now they’ve found the body, it’s just a sleepy old village full of old cronies who want to drive around in their posh cars and show up at a pretty little postcard church every Sunday and say thanks to God for their fat bank accounts! It’s all very cosy, Rob, but it stinks!”

  I could hear the murmur of conversation and the chime of clinking glasses in the background.

  “I just hope the funeral throws up the truth about why that girl could never rest at the church. Why she’s going to be buried in the grounds of her home!” Josie’s voice rose above the noise behind her. “I know all this happened over a hundred years ago, but it’s still a wrong that has to be put right.”

  I replaced the phone feeling I had just taken a verbal beating. Maybe Sebastian and Jo were expecting me to go running to the media with the whole story. I would have gladly done so but—and Jenny agreed—there was something pleasantly covert in Blakely’s plan to get his activity park up and running before putting Allington’s name in lights and revealing him for the bastard he really was. I also really liked the idea of the park—a place where families could spend time together. If only Hanna had been alive.

  Chapter Forty

  If the days leading up to the funeral had not seemed so long, we might never have discovered what lay in our own loft space. Jenny decided that she wanted to look through the old photos and draw up a family history, scanning the pictures and putting them together on a publishing programme with notes and dates. I pulled out several boxes—the ones I knew contained all the stuff we could have marked with the words ‘sentimental value’—and together, we began to sift through them.

  Jenny laughed and cried a lot. Pictures of Hanna as a baby. Hanna in her frilly sun hat. Elizabeth and Hanna pushing Jenny into the pool in Spain. My daughter looked up at me suddenly, tears staining her cheeks. “How could you, Dad?”

  “How could I what?”

  “Melissa!” she said softly.

  I shook my head, avoiding her questioning eyes. There was no anger in her voice. No reproach, just a genuine question, and that made it all the harder to answer.

  “I was a fool,” I replied. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  She pulled another cardboard box towards her and pulled out a wad of old schoolbooks. Jennifer Adams. Age 8. English Literature.

  Jenny smiled. Melissa wasn’t going to come between us—not today. She opened the book, flicking through its pages, stopping suddenly. “Aww, I remember having a crush on the teacher… Mr. Taylor, I think. I’m sure I asked him to marry me!”

  I killed the sound on the TV.

  “Did he say yes?”

  Jenny grinned. “He used to ask us to write about anything we wanted. Most of the kids wrote about their brothers or sisters, some wrote about their pets. There was this one girl who loved killer whales and had been to Florida loads of times. SeaWorld was like home to her, and she knew everything there was to know about marine life. I kind of thought she was cool.”

  Jenny picked up another book.

  “I wrote lots about animals. I used to pretend I knew what they were thinking. Sometimes I believed I could actually read their minds. Mr. Taylor said I had a good imagination.” There was a sadness in my daughter’s voice, a longing for the way things used to be. She stopped at a page and began to read. “This was something I wrote about a dream I’d had…” she began, but her voice trailed off.

  “Jenny?”

  My daughter’s eyes darkened. “Oh my god!” she whispered. Her eyes closed as if she could no longer bear to look at the pages in front of her.

  “Jen? What’s wrong?”

  She passed me the book. I looked down at the page.

  My Dream by Jennifer Adams

  Last night I had dreamed I was standing in a room. It was not a very nice room. There was no carpet and not much furniture. It was like a room in a poor person’s house because there was just a desk by a little window, and there was a bed in the corner and a wooden chest on the other side of the room. I got a real fright because there was a girl sitting at the desk, and when she looked at me, I saw she had funny eyes. They looked like they were popping out of her head. I have drawn a picture of her.

  I stared at the pencil sketch of Amelia Root—a drawing of the face I had seen in the old black-and-white photograph only a few days ago. Despite her age, Jenny had captured the eyes, the hair and the mouth perfectly. Eight years ago, as a child, Jenny had her first encounter with Amelia. There had been no Ouija board, no séance. Just a young, innocent girl who had stumbled into another world.

  “You can’t remember this?” I asked her.

  Jenny shook her head. “Nothing. It must have just been the one time.”

  I wondered why. Maybe, in her young mind, Jenny had blocked Amelia out. Perhaps the short description in her school book had been therapeutic. The face of the girl was out there for everyone to see and no longer locked away in her mind. Jenny took the book back and studied the sketch.

  “She’s been waiting a long time. Eight years.”

  I spoke to Sebastian that evening, anxious to hear what he had to say about the drawing. The old man didn’t even sound surprised. “Children are more open to the spirit world,” he said. “As we get older, our minds become crowded. Like I said, we need to tune our minds, block out all the other sounds.”

  “A single dream, though? Well, it’s unusual, I must admit. More often than not, a child will experience a similar dream or nightmare more than once, but these are generally dreams about fictitious characters that they encounter during their lives. Amelia Root was real. That’s the difference.”

  I was talking to a man who measured his words and only verbalised the things he really believed. That’s why I trusted him implicitly. That’s why I wanted him there at the funeral, along with Josie and Lou—the people who mattered in my life. But there was someone else who should be there. Someone with as much right as Jenny herself. That night, I picked up the phone and called Ellen Pascoe.

  Chapter Forty-One

  On the day we laid Amelia Root to rest, the whole country was bathed in glorious winter sun. Jenny had slept little and rose at four that morning. She was nervous and pale but resisted using any make up to disguise her complexion, reminding me that it was not a party. “I’m really not arsed what I look like. I just want to see that girl at rest.”

  I didn’t pursue the matter, hoping that Josie opted for the same approach to the day. It would score a few points with my daughter if nothing else.

  On the way to The Keys, I decided to test the water. “Jo’s been a rock,” I began, feeling like a nervous teenager dropping the name of his new love into conversation for the first time. “So has Sebastian,” I added quickly. Jenny didn’t respond. “Josie’s been a good friend…when you were in hospital…”

  Jenny looked up. “Good.” she shot back, giving me one of those knowing glances I hated so much. “Look, I’m glad, but she’s married, and I couldn’t handle any more affairs at the moment. I’ve got a load of shit going on in my head—a brother I don’t want and a so-called father who topped himself.” She turned away, staring out at the road ahead. “Dad, I know you like Josie, but let’s not do this now, okay? Not today.”

  When I glanced over at my daughter, I saw the tears running down her cheeks and felt a heaviness in my chest. Why couldn’t I have left it? Why did my daughter have to tell me these things? Things that would be so obvious to any decent father.

  I pulled into the car park of The Keys, killed the engine, and pulled my daughter towards me. In my arms, she began to cry. I felt her tears on my neck. She was mine—an Adams, not a Pascoe. I told her that I loved her more than anything else in the world and that I’d never, ever hurt her. Up until that
moment, we had muddled through the pain together, both nursing wounds that were wide open and raw. But with that embrace, I really believed the healing had begun.

  ***

  We arrived at the gates of Tabwell’s crematorium just half an hour before the service began. Josie, Lou and Sebastian had chatted happily together thanks to Lou, who, after years behind the bar, had mastered the art of polite conversation. It suited me, because it left Jenny and I free to wallow in our own thoughts. As we walked towards the chapel, my daughter pushed her arm through mine. “Here we go,” she whispered. “This is it!”

  I was nervous. I didn’t want to see another coffin, either.

  The press was there, and a small outside broadcast team huddled together on the lawn doing a piece to camera while a crowd of inquisitive onlookers had gathered, along with several sober-looking ladies. I guessed they were probably regulars from St. Jude’s; in fact, I’d have put money on it. Jenny was thinking the same.

  “Pew polishers,” she whispered with a wry smile.

  I’d have also parted with cash just to know what they thought of the whole Amelia thing, although it hardly mattered. At least Amelia would not be carried to her grave down the aisle of an empty church. She was going home, not to a damp, dark attic, but to the grounds she had loved. We stood in silence, reflecting. Neither of us looked for unnecessary words. But then I heard a voice behind me. “Mr. Adams?”

  I turned to see Ellen Pascoe. She took several steps towards us, leaning heavily on her wooden stick.

  “Mrs. Pascoe, it’s good to see you.”

  She smiled warmly from under the brim of a black hat that made her face appear even paler than I’d remembered. “I really didn’t think you’d want me here, all things considered,” she said, looking at Jenny. Her eyes began to flood quite suddenly. “And this must be Jenny.”

  A tear ran down her cheek and, for a moment, I feared she was going to collapse. “Are you okay, Mrs. Pascoe? Do you need to sit down?”

  “No! No!” she replied impatiently, still staring at Jenny. “I can’t believe it. You are even more beautiful than in the photograph.”

  Jenny smiled awkwardly as Ellen reached out and touched my hand. “I’m so sorry. This must be as difficult for you as it is for me.”

  It was difficult, but I wasn’t going to show any weakness. “It’s okay. You have every right.” I looked at Jenny. “After all, she is your granddaughter.”

  Another tear coursed down the old lady’s cheek. “I’ve been longing to meet you, Jenny,” she said, looking into my daughter’s eyes. “But I know you have your own life, and I would never expect to be part of it—not after all this time.”

  Jenny looked up at me and then at her grandmother. “Time doesn’t matter,” she said tearfully. “You’re still my nan—the only one I’ve got.”

  ***

  The room was full as Francis took up his position at the lectern. The hum of conversation stopped and the congregation fell into total silence. The music began—Barber’s Adagio for Strings. Jenny grasped my hand. This was her music. Blakely could not have chosen anything better, and we both felt the same wave of sadness, the same nervous anticipation as six bearers bore the oak casket down the aisle. Jenny’s hand shook, and I felt the beads of perspiration forming on the back of my neck. We could have reached out and touched the coffin of the girl whose spirit had transformed our lives.

  Reverend Francis stood in silence for a moment as the bearers stepped back, and I wondered if he had slept at all last night. Did the death of this girl weigh heavily on his conscience, or had time diminished the importance of her life? He cleared his throat and began.

  “Brothers and sisters, we are here to pay our respects to a young woman we never knew. She had no life to celebrate and lived during a time of much ignorance. It is befitting that her body should find its resting place in the grounds she would walk with her father and her governess. The only people, it seemed, who really loved her…”

  Francis skirted around the details, never mentioning Allington’s name, yet his short address was respectful and warm. Even Sebastian failed to find fault, and as we followed the hearse to the grounds of the home, no one uttered a word. Amelia was not cremated. Blakely had wanted a coffin rather than a pot full of ashes, and when we arrived, Jenny and I crossed the lawns to the grave that had been prepared at the edge of the woods. Only a handful of people had followed on from the crematorium. Francis was waiting, the casket in place.

  As we watched the coffin being lowered into the ground, Jenny placed her hand in mine. This was the end—Amelia’s final resting place.

  “I can’t believe it,” Jenny whispered.

  Blakely glanced over, forcing a smile. There was, if I’m not mistaken, a tear in his eye.

  We threw soil and roses on top of the coffin as Reverend Francis committed the body to God, knowing that within a couple of hours Amelia would lie beneath the earth. Blakely had given the young woman a funeral, and her life, however miserable, had been acknowledged.

  Jenny and I said goodbye to Ellen. Jenny said she would call in to see her soon, but as the others drifted away, we stood silently, neither of us able to find the words to describe how we felt.

  When finally it felt right to leave, the sky was darkening and we pulled the collars of our coats up against the late-afternoon chill. A middle-aged man in an immaculately tailored grey suit was waiting for us by the car. He looked impatient, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. Jenny took my arm. Something told me he wasn’t there to exchange pleasantries. He turned as we approached.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you happy?” he snapped.

  “What?”

  “It’s a simple question. Are you happy with what you’ve done?”

  “I’m sorry? Who are you?”

  The man squared up, hands still in his pockets. “I’m Mr. Driscoll, a deacon at St. Jude’s.”

  “So what exactly do you want?” I asked, realising that I wasn’t going to get a handshake.

  “I saw the article in the Herald—the one where you claimed to have been guided by the spirit of this Emily woman.”

  “It’s Amelia,” Jenny spat.

  “I don’t care what her name is, young lady!” Driscoll retorted. “I care about St. Jude’s!”

  I stared at him. “Good! I’m glad. So what can we do for you?”

  “Do for me? Haven’t you done enough?”

  “Meaning?”

  “The Reverend Allington founded a school that has educated children in this parish for over a hundred years. Children who had no shoes—no food! He fed them and, in many cases, clothed them. He worked tirelessly for this community, and his legacy is still here for everyone to see—”

  “He raped a young woman—over and over again!” Jenny said, interrupting Driscoll mid-flow.

  “How do you know this?” Driscoll replied, his face crimson with anger. “Because some spirit told you? Don’t you realise that all spirits are of the Devil—masquerading as the souls of the dead? Don’t you read your Bible?” I saw the undisguised hatred in his eyes. “No! I bet you don’t even have one—yet you have the gall to come here, complete strangers, and destroy the reputation of a good man! And for what? A bit of cheap publicity?”

  Knocking out a lowlife in a fast food car park was one thing—knocking out a church deacon in front of my daughter was something else, so I tried reasoning.

  “Look, we have a written account from her governess, and Amelia’s own diaries. It is proof, Mr. Driscoll. I’m sorry if the memory of your saint has been tainted, but it’s the truth!”

  Driscoll glared at us. “The woman was obviously crazy. She told lies. And how do you know that the letter from this governess woman was genuine? Truth is, you don’t! Why have you done this? The Reverend Allington was a good man!”

  Driscoll turned suddenly to see Reverend Francis approaching. The minister smiled, greeting us warmly.

  “Hell
o, Mr. Adams, Jenny.”

  Driscoll said nothing.

  “What’s going on here?” Francis said, sensing the atmosphere immediately.

  Jenny piped up. “Apparently, we have been doing the Devil’s work.”

  Francis stared at his deacon. “Mr. Driscoll,” he said firmly, “we have had this discussion before, and I’ve told you in no uncertain term that you do not—not ever—approach Mr. Adams or his daughter. Especially his daughter!”

  Driscoll opened his mouth, about to protest, but Francis held up his hand.

  “I don’t want to hear another word. Mr. Adams and his daughter have been through hell these past few months, and to suggest that they have been working in collusion with the Devil to bring down a minister who lived over a hundred years ago is, quite frankly, ridiculous.”

  He stared at Driscoll. “You are a fool,” he spat. “And you are making a fool of the church and all those who worship there, and that is something I am not prepared to tolerate.”

  Francis turned to us. “You, my friends, are welcome at St. Jude’s anytime.”

  He kissed Jenny on the cheek and shook my hand. We pushed past a shell-shocked deacon and climbed into the car, waving at the minister as I fired up the engine.

  Jenny turned, buckling up her seat belt and grinned mischievously. “Well, that told him!” she said.

  We ate at the Lakeside Hotel before travelling home. It felt right to stay in Tabwell for a while longer, out of respect for Amelia. Jenny looked worn out, but throughout the course of the late afternoon, she caught my eye and smiled. It was a smile that told me she had found peace, maybe for the first time since Elizabeth and Hanna’s death. But more than that, there was a warmth between us that filled me with a new hope for the future. A future I could believe in, and an end to the hell we had lived through.

  ***

  We spent Christmas with Josie, Lou and Sebastian, dining at The Keys. New Year, however, proved as difficult a time as ever without my wife and little girl, but somehow we waded through the sadness and found comfort in our relationship, which grew stronger day by day. Jenny and Kelly revived their friendship but stayed clear of the Ouija board, while Josie and I placed our relationship on hold. Naturally, I kept in touch with Sebastian, and Ricky the pup soon evolved into Ricky the rather large, excitable dog.