Descension

by Shani Struthers

  Leaving the estate, she headed back to the main road. As she did, she squinted to see into the distance. Was that Ness’s car ahead, a Rover? As battered as Ruby’s Ford, but just as loved. There was someone in the passenger seat beside her – Theo? She squinted again and Jed also barked, his tail wagging in excitement. After speeding up, she soon had to slow down, thwarted in her attempt to catch up with the Rover as it made a sudden right turn whilst she had to wait at a junction. When she was eventually able to turn right, the car had disappeared. She shrugged. Perhaps it wasn’t Ness; her make of car wasn’t exactly rare. It could have been anyone.

  The further Ruby drove from the estate, the more her mood lifted and she was able to appreciate fully the success of this morning’s work, the sheer weight of it receding. She had the rest of the weekend to look forward to, but more than that, the freedom to enjoy it, something she always appreciated but which now seemed like such a gift. Within half an hour she was home where Cash was waiting for her at the door. The speed of her pace rivalling Jed’s, she fell straight into his arms.

  “Right, that’s it,” he declared, pulling her inside and shutting the world out, “no more work this weekend. If needs be, I’ll take your phone off you.”

  “Cash, there isn’t any need for that, honest.”

  He reared back slightly. “Ruby, I know what you’re like, if you get a call for help, you won’t be able to resist; you’ll be off like a shot. We’ve talked about this, remember? About the need to switch off, as much as you can anyway.”

  “Cash—”

  “I mean it. I can see just by looking at you how much this morning has taken out of you. For want of a better word, you look haunted. The team have got my number, so’s your mum and your gran. If anyone needs you urgently they can contact you via me. Come on, hand it over and let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

  Breaking away, she dug her phone from her pocket and gazed longingly at it. “What if Peter—”

  Again Cash interrupted her. “Peter can wait ’til Monday too.”

  God, it was a painful separation, but he was right – she needed to take a break, switch off. That woman though, that poor woman, would she be able to get her out of her head? She had to try. Once again, tears threatened. She’d dealt with cases as sad before, as tragic, but this one had turned her into a soggy mess.

  You. Don’t. Know.

  Those words resounded in her head.

  It was true. She’d been low, but never that low. Still in the hallway, still holding Cash, she continued to count her blessings.

  * * *

  Saturday evening was indeed relaxing. Although they’d had an invite to the pub to meet friends, Ruby wasn’t in a particularly social mood. Instead, they bought a decent bottle of red, ordered a Chinese and watched a favourite film – We’re the Millers – on Netflix, a comedy that had her crying again, this time with laughter.

  Sunday morning they got up relatively early and headed to the countryside for a walk on the Downs, revelling in what might be the last of the warm weather. After a late lunch at The Sussex Ox, Cash managing to fit in three courses to Ruby’s one, they returned home. Now Cash was lying on the sofa in the living room, with Jed beside him – not that he was able to see Jed, but he knew he was there, courtesy of Ruby. The pair of them soon fell fast asleep.

  She’d been good – really good – she hadn’t asked for her mobile once. She’d also ignored her laptop on the kitchen table, but finding herself at a loose end, her resistance waned.

  Just a peek – that’s all she wanted – a quick catch-up.

  Firing up the laptop, she drummed her fingers against the dining table, surprised at how impatient she was. It was a sign of the times, she supposed, that need to be continually plugged in. Going straight to her emails, she was disappointed to see nothing new from Peter. The last correspondence had been eight days ago – the email in which he’d expressed a desire to meet Ruby but also to take things slowly. She’d written back, agreeing to that, but hoping the initial meeting would come soon. They’d also exchanged a photograph of each other, but his hadn’t been the best quality; she could discern only the basics from it, not details, like the true colour of his eyes, his height in relation to hers, and how much grey peppered his fair hair. She was so curious to see what he looked like in real life and what characteristics they shared. How would he react when she told him what she did for a living? Should she even tell him? Nerves began to dance in her stomach, despite there being no proposed meeting date on the horizon. When there was, no doubt she’d be a wreck!

  Of the other emails she checked, two were related to work, one concerning a case in the ancient city of York, which was being looked after by two Psychic Surveys associates, and seemed to be on the road to success. The other, she couldn’t quite believe – it was from yet another resident of the Brookbridge estate, one who’d lived happily in her house for the last five years. Now, as with the Watkins, there was something peculiar happening at her address, something ‘far from normal’, and as Psychic Surveys were obviously the “go to” people regarding these matters, she wondered if they could pay her a visit – pronto.

  Ruby barely had time to construct a reply when beep! Another email arrived. Glancing at the door, making sure there was no Cash present, she opened it.

  Hi, I’m a friend of Kelly Watkins, who lives in Willow Walk on the Brookbridge Estate, near Horam. I know Psychic Surveys have been called to the estate a number of times and everyone seems to speak highly of you. The thing is…

  “Ruby, what are you doing?”

  Damn! Cash was awake after all.

  “Oh, Cash, hi. I’m just… well, I’m checking my emails.”

  “I thought we’d agreed, no work this weekend. We’re just gonna chill.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly been relaxing. As you’d dozed off, I thought I’d come in here and have a quick peek—”

  In a few steps, he was by her side, one hand reaching out to close the lid of the laptop. “Okay I dozed off, but I’m awake now and raring to go.”

  Ruby actually winced as the computer shut. She’d been intrigued by those emails from Brookbridge and hadn’t yet read the second one fully. Yes, she’d had a regular supply of work there over the last four years, but three cases in the space of a few days? As far as she could recall, that was a first. She was just about to explain, when Cash grabbed hold of her hands and pulled her to her feet.

  “Wow,” she exclaimed. “You really are raring to go.”

  “I am! To the pub, The Rights of Man, in fact. We weren’t very sociable last night, but tonight I reckon we should ring the changes.”

  His enthusiasm was infectious. “Who are we meeting?”

  “Presley and Corinna are gonna be there plus a few others. Come on, if we leave now, we can get a drink in before everyone arrives.”

  “Fine, on one condition.”

  Cash inclined his head to the right. “What’s that?”

  “You give me back my mobile.”

  “Ruby—”

  “Seriously, Cash! I’m not a kid, just… give it back.”

  “No checking it ’til tomorrow, though.”

  “Cash!”

  “All right, all right,” he relented.

  “God, you’re a control freak at times.”

  “Pot, kettle and black, Ruby.”

  It was a fair point. They were both strong characters.

  Following him out of the kitchen, she asked where he’d hidden it.

  “Bathroom cabinet.”

  “The bathroom cabinet? But I’ve opened that at least twice since yesterday!”

  “Which proves my theory.”

  “What theory?”

  “That you can never see what’s in front of your nose.”

  He expertly dodged the swipe she aimed at him, and was in high spirits all the way to the pub – some quality time spent together having put him in a good mood. As tempted as she was to talk about the emails from Brookbridge, she refrained –
light-hearted chat was on the agenda, a few laughs and some banter. Besides, the tone of the emails hadn’t been desperate and Monday morning wasn’t far away; she could tend to everything then. It was a plan she intended to stick with, but when she woke later that night with a raging thirst, she crept from their bed and returned to the kitchen. A cup of chamomile would see her right, and perhaps a little research.

  She already knew there was a fascination with Cromer online, plenty of people having blogged about their experiences exploring the abandoned buildings. Most of them had posted photos of their explorations and shivers ran down Ruby’s spine as she revisited page after page of what it had been like in the years awaiting demolition. There were windows with cracked panes and thick dusty cobwebs; narrow corridors that ran on and on into the darkness beyond; walls covered in graffiti – Welcome to Hell, a popular slogan, and variations upon it. There were benches and broken chairs randomly placed; a hospital bed frame in a similar dilapidated state; a lone wheelchair in a corridor; the floor covered in debris. Continuing to scroll, she found a black and white picture of a woman. Her age indeterminate, her skin was puckered on her cheeks and her eyes… they were empty, for want of a better word. She was holding up a board with her name, Ruby supposed – Caroline Jennings – scrawled upon it. There was also a date – April 1927 – a birth date or the date that she entered the asylum? Who knew? Ruby raised her hand and touched the screen. The woman could have been anyone – she was anyone – an individual and yet representative of so many. Those eyes… the look in those eyes…

  Withdrawing her hand, she clutched at her tourmaline necklace – an heirloom from her great-grandmother, Rosamund. The stones, known for their protective qualities, were a comfort. An asylum was a hospital; somewhere people went to receive treatment for reasons of ill health – medical treatment. But this photo, this wretched photo, reminded her of a prison mugshot – it was the same, no distinction at all. Yes, there had been and still was, a medium-security unit on the fringe of Brookbridge. It was called Ash Hill, if memory served her – a modern low-rise NHS building that had replaced the original. It was where those with mental difficulties who were also criminally inclined were sent. Perhaps this woman had been one of those criminally inclined, perhaps not. She just looked so very sad, reminding Ruby of the mother grounded at the Watkins’ house. If Caroline Jennings wasn’t in the secure wing, then the picture suggested all inmates were photographed in a similar way. Perhaps it was necessary for record-keeping, but it was also somehow an indignity.

  What they were subjected to at the asylum made Ruby shudder. She remembered a male spirit they’d moved on the year before from the Craggs’ house on the estate. He’d been broken, utterly broken, not only for reasons of madness, but because of the treatment he’d received at Cromer. It had been an arduous case, the team having worked round the clock, dealing with so much emotion, sorrow and anger. He’d left eventually and made his way into the light, but it had been traumatic for all concerned. There’d been a few more cases since, and then it had gone quiet… until now.

  The chamomile tea was doing the trick. Her eyelids were beginning to droop but by now she was too involved to return to bed. Striking a bargain with herself, she decided she would spend a few more minutes perusing the ’net and then head back to her bedroom to join Cash and Jed, who had no such trouble sleeping. Focusing on facts and figures rather than photos, she learnt there were just over two thousand patients at Cromer at its peak – a figure that took her breath away. Two thousand? That was a revelation. Little wonder the site had kept them so busy. The building, the one that still stood, enclosed by green fencing, had been known as a ‘rear ward block’ – a layout based upon a maze of corridors. On the second floor there’d been private rooms, wards and a nursery, the latter causing Ruby’s jaw to drop. On the lower floor there’d been a gym, a dayroom, and another thing she’d previously missed, concerning this particular building anyway – a ballroom, an actual ballroom. Added to that, there was a kitchen and dining room, a doctor’s office, and an operating theatre. Being to the east of the estate, and the fact that it had a nursery, Ruby presumed it had been home to female patients only, although a ballroom suggested mixed integration. The place was due for demolition, she learnt, at some point this year, but she could find no definite date. The developers had expounded their intention of developing ‘a village style community’, right now, however, there was nothing quite so cosy uniting the residents of Brookbridge.

  The laptop’s tile bar showed 4.05 – the dead of night, Ruby mused. She’d look at one more site – Forbidden Places. Clicking on the page, there, in all its dubious glory, was Cromer Asylum, nearing the top of the list.

  It was much the same information she’d read before, although it was glitzed up a little with a liberal sprinkling of words such as ‘abandoned’, ‘decayed’ and ‘rotting’ – emotive words, words designed to get a response – and they had. At the bottom of the page was a lengthy discussion thread containing comments from people who’d actually worked at the hospital during its closing years. These actually helped to dispel some of the drama the page had tried to build up, as they pointed out that the vast majority worked for the good of their patients, and that in some respects it was a ‘wonderful’ place to be, and ‘therapeutic’. They described the wards as warm and airy, and the grounds beautiful. There was a greenhouse apparently, where plants and vegetables were grown, a favourite meeting place for patients and staff alike. Another ex-staff member insisted she’d never felt spooked there, despite the long, dark corridors she’d had to tread whilst on night duty. One person, who’d been treated at Cromer in the early 70s for depression, couldn’t praise the staff enough, whilst another, who’d had a breakdown in the mid 80s, described the atmosphere as calm rather than hectic. Others, however, told a different story – not patients, not staff, but those who’d explored the buildings afterwards; who’d sensed horror within its walls, heard screams, and seen dark figures lurking. Ordinarily, Ruby would attribute all this to imagination and wishful thinking, but she couldn’t, because she knew from her experience of previous Brookbridge cases that some of it was true; that alongside those who were helped were those who were stamped on.

  As she was about to stop reading, a last comment caught her eye, this time from someone called ‘Eclipse’ – rather an impassioned comment as it turned out, insisting there were still spirits in the remaining building, so many of them, and warning what a terrible thing it would be to destroy it whilst those spirits were still there, as this would serve to confuse and terrify them further. Eclipse claimed to have visited the building several times, becoming distressed by the activity sensed there. Ruby wondered if Eclipse was psychic, but there was no mention of that. Something had to be done about it, Eclipse continued to insist; the spirits had to be moved on.

  There was something about Eclipse’s language style that resonated with Ruby – the use of the term ‘spirits’ rather than ghosts, and the insistence that they needed to be ‘moved on’, instead of hunted or banished. Eclipse’s concern leapt off the page: ‘I feel so helpless! If only I knew what to do about this situation and how to help them. Because the building’s due to be torn down, it’s a race against time. We need to act quickly! God, I wish I had the answer. Haven’t these souls suffered enough?’

  Was that the ‘royal we’ in use, or were there more like Eclipse, who wanted to help the grounded? Again, it was easy to dismiss it as the ranting of a crackpot, but once more, Ruby knew better. The likelihood that several spirits were trapped inside the building was high – very high, and if they remained, one thing was certain: Psychic Surveys would be called out in the future to deal with them as they re-surfaced within a new set of walls. Or, she could deal with the situation right now. Well… not this minute, but soon, very soon. It looked as if she was heading back to Brookbridge in a few hours’ time, so even if she couldn’t gain entrance, she could at least encircle the building and get a feel for it. She’d never really given
it a thought before, but perhaps the time had come to rectify that. Security was lax at Brookbridge, the signs stating CCTV was in operation a blatant lie; in fact the signs were almost as dilapidated as the building itself. No one cared about it. Well, almost no one. She did. Eclipse did.

  There was an option to reply to Eclipse, all she had to do was click on an arrow.

  Ruby hesitated, but only for a second.

  Haven’t these souls suffered enough?

  The memory of the woman in Carly’s bedroom, of Jennings and her hollow eyes, caused her own to tear again.

  Eclipse was right; they’d suffered more than enough.

  With that in mind, she began to type.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Cash had already left for an appointment when Ruby received a phone call. Here we go, she thought, rushing to answer it. More work.

  There was certainly no shortage of it at the moment, not in her local area or indeed, in areas far flung, for which she’d assembled an ever-growing group of national freelance psychics willing to investigate for a fee that could only be described as nominal. As much as she’d love to attend each and every case, she couldn’t. For one thing, there was the cost of travel; for another, someone had to cover the south, and that was the original team: Corinna, Ness, Theo and herself.