The Darkness Rising

by David Stuart Davies

  His mind raced wildly for some moments before he made an effort to calm himself down. Surely, he told himself, it wouldn't be too difficult to find out where Kate had been. Wait a minute, what was that play called? 'The Spider Trap' wasn't it? Hadn't he seen a copy of the script in the kitchen this morning? Quickly he went through into the kitchen and within moments he had the script in his hand. He flipped through the pages and a piece of notepaper fell out. It had a BBC heading and the name Julian Myles at the top. A scribbled message below read: 'Kate, do give this serious thought. The part of Irene is ideal for you. Ring me. J.'

  David did not know Julian Myles, but now was the time to get acquainted. He rang the number and a female voice answered, ‘Julian Myles' office, can I help you?’

  ‘I'd like to speak to Mr Myles please.’

  ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘This is David Cole.’

  ‘What do you wish to speak to Mr Myles about?’

  ‘A personal matter.’

  He could hear the secretary draw breath before coming out with some practised polite refusal and so he quickly added: ‘It's about the casting of Kate Barlow in the part of Irene in 'The Spider Trap'. I'm her agent.’

  Another pause and then: ‘Just one moment.’

  There was silence on the line for about a minute then a dark brown voice spoke.

  ‘Julian Myles.’

  ‘It's about Kate.’

  ‘Yes. Who is this exactly?’

  ‘David, David Cole.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do believe I remember Kate mentioning you. Are you acting as her agent now?’

  ‘No, not really. I'd just like you to tell me about last night.’ As soon as he said it, David knew it sounded like a ridiculous challenge of some jealous boyfriend.

  ‘Last night? I'm afraid I'm not with you.’

  David felt a chill of concern. ‘You had dinner with Kate last night to discuss a part in 'The Spider Trap'.’

  ‘You've got it wrong, I'm afraid.’ Julian Myles now sounded irritable. ‘I was busy all last night, shooting. I've not seen Kate in ages. She did ring me yesterday to say she was interested in the part and I said I'd get back to her later in the week; but I didn't see her last night.’

  David was stunned. He managed to mumble some apology and end the call as quickly as he could. What did this mean? Myles' voice had all the irritation and veracity of truth; and anyway, there was no reason for him to lie. Therefore, it was Kate who had lied. In God's name, why? And what was more important: where the hell had she been last night?

  ***

  ‘This is most irregular,’ said Mrs Drabble, peering over her half-rimmed glasses.

  Rob Moore gave his broadest grin. ‘Ah, but television is a most irregular medium,’ he said charmingly, bending towards her.

  She pulled back quickly and stood up. ‘Well, I will inform the headmaster of your request. If you will take a seat.’

  ‘Certainly.’ The teeth flashed again.

  Mrs Drabble scurried out of the room while Rob sat back in a chair. He felt relaxed and at ease. He was enjoying playing the role.

  He was enjoying life.

  He glanced around the tidy but quaint office. The mellowed woodwork, the antiquated typewriter, the faded Stubbs reproduction, hanging slightly askew it was all redolent of the desperate attempt to create an image. The world of a bygone age held together by a shoestring. And with these fading standards came the arrogance and suspicion such as he had met with Mrs Drabble, the headmaster's secretary—such as he felt sure he would meet in Brett, the headmaster. But his smile would win the day. He knew it.

  At length Mrs Drabble returned. ‘The headmaster will see you now.’

  ‘Thank you, dear lady. It was a pleasure to meet you.’ He beamed and gave a little bow. Mrs Drabble was non-plussed.

  Rob tapped lightly at the headmaster's door and entered. A frosty middle-aged man looked up from his desk as he did so.

  ‘Mr Brett, how nice to meet you again.’ Rob thrust forward his hand an expansive greeting.

  ‘I was not aware that we had met before,’ said the head tentatively as his hand was grasped in a hearty shake.

  ‘Oh yes, one of young Timothy's sports days. A splendid occasion. A credit to the school and you in particular.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The frost showed no signs of melting.

  Rob gazed around the room. ‘This is an excellent place. Believe me, I do not flatter. I was impressed before, but today seeing some of your classes and really drinking in the atmosphere—well, as I say, excellent! I am certainly keen to send my boy here.’

  ‘Oh really. How old?’

  ‘Ah, romper stage yet. But they grow so quickly, don't they?’ Another smooth grin.

  ‘Indeed they do.’ A thaw appeared to be setting in.

  ‘Now then about young Timothy...’ The head's expression changed, the forehead puckering.

  ‘Has your secretary explained the situation?’ continued Rob.

  ‘Not in detail, Mr Moore.’

  ‘Please call me Rob. Well I'm a close friend of Timothy's mother, Kate Barlow—the actress y'know?’

  The head nodded.

  ‘At Paragon Productions we're doing a programme called 'Off-springs’, a sort of sociological documentary where we interview parents whose professional life puts them in the public eye—politicians, sports people, writers, actors and so on. We also interview the children to see how they perceive their parents and how public pressure affects their relationship. It's a very interesting project.’

  The head remained silent, but nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘So I want to borrow Timothy for the day to do the recording.’

  The head pursed his lips. ‘This is most irregular,’ he said echoing the secretary's words as though they were both carrying out some verbal ritual to repel any disturbance to the quiet orderly routine of the school.

  ‘I am aware of that, headmaster, and we've no wish to disrupt Timothy's education more than absolutely necessary. Surely one day cannot make all that difference? And of course it will give Mrs Barlow a chance to see her son. She has been missing him badly since her husband died. It was only her consideration for the continuity of Timothy's schooling that prevented her from moving him to a day school near her home.’ He paused to allow the implication of his words to sink in.

  ‘I don’t wish to be awkward Mr Moore,’ the head replied with no trace of conciliation in his voice, ‘but we do stipulate in our rules that the school requires parents to give us twenty four hours’ notice before they remove their son away—except in emergencies of course.’

  ‘I fully appreciate that, but unfortunately the world of television works on the 'now' principle and we often do not have the luxury of advance notice. If we don't do the recording today, we may have missed the boat. In a sense, I suppose you could say it was an emergency.’ He leaned forward, smiling. ‘And, of course, Mr Brett, you can be assured that St. Austell's will be given full credit in the programme. Quite a nice little plug for the school.’

  The idea of St. Austell's being 'plugged' in a television programme did not appeal to the headmaster at all, but the thought of its possible effect—increased subscription and therefore higher revenue—did. He pondered a moment, basking in the warmth of Rob's smile, before replying.

  ‘I take it that Mrs Barlow is in full agreement with this?’

  ‘Of course. I thought I had made myself clear on that matter.’ The sun quickly set on Rob's demeanour. ‘I have a letter here from her, if you don’t wish to take my word on the matter.’ He fumbled with dramatic irritation in his jacket pocket.

  ‘No, no, Mr Moore, that will not be necessary. I was in no way suggesting that what you have told me is untrue; but you will appreciate that I have to get my facts correct, if I am to release a boy from my care.’

  The smile returned. Of course.’

  ‘Good. Then if you will wait a moment I will have Timothy brought here.’

  ‘That is extremely kind of you.’
r />   ***

  David sat thoughtfully staring out to sea. If Kate had lied to him about where she was going last night, how many other lies had she told him? All that stuff about starting fresh over again. The claim that she loved him. It couldn't all be lies. He knew that, deep down.

  He tried to face the situation rationally. He knew for certain that she had decided to take the part in that thriller as she had told him. That was true; Myles confirmed that. Therefore something must have happened yesterday—something unexpected. Something that compelled her to go somewhere last night—a place she didn't want him to know about so she had made up this story about having dinner with the director. It was a story she thought would never be checked.

  So what had happened yesterday? Surely not another Michael experience. He stiffened as he remembered how he'd found her on Friday night. He clenched his fist. Not that. Please. He could contend with most things but not the ghost of a dead husband.

  Come on, come on, he told himself. Let's be more positive. He began pacing the floor, his mind searching for Kate's subterfuge. Perhaps she was planning some surprise for him?

  Maybe she went to see Timothy. A sudden urge to see her son? That was understandable. She'd never been completely happy with him at St. Austell's and after Michael's death she had been tempted to remove him. It was the thought of disrupting his education that had prevented her; that, and the awareness of her own mental instability. Now perhaps she had decided to bring him home to be part of her new start in life. Maybe that was it.

  As much as he tried to accept this theory, David was not convinced. She would hardly have felt that need to lie to me over that. He turned and faced the room and then his eyes lit upon the black plastic bag the hospital had given him containing Kate's belongings. Perhaps there was a solution to the mystery in there.

  ***

  ‘Hello, Tim, old chap.’ Rob Moore held out his hand.

  Timothy Barlow took it automatically, surprised by the coldness. The faint trace of bewilderment in his eyes did not go unnoticed by the headmaster.

  ‘You know who this gentleman is, don't you, Timothy?’

  The boy nodded. ‘A friend of my mother's—Mr Moore.’

  ‘Rob. You can call me Rob.’ The teeth blazed.

  Inside the shell of Rob Moore, the entity that was Michael Barlow pulsated with emotion. It longed to take the boy in his arms, his son, envelop him—to keep him for his own. But the controlling mind kept all these emotions in check. The dark waters swirled, but all was calm on the surface.

  The control was perfect. After all, the mind thought, the boy was only a pawn after all, only a pawn.

  ***

  David rummaged through Kate's belongings. There was nothing here. Just elements of Kate. He fingered her delicate underwear, not for any erotic thrill but for the sensation of gentleness and nearness.

  He left her handbag until last.

  He opened it and picked his way through the contents. Nothing unusual; all very predictable. Then he noticed the card. Bent in two at the bottom of the bag was a dog-eared white card: a visiting card by the look of it. David pulled it out and examined it.

  On the back there was a roughly drawn map, an address, a date - yesterday's - and the time 8.30. scribbled in pencil. On the front in italicised print, David read:

  Arthur Crabtree

  Medium & Clairvoyant

  Reasonable Rates

  NINE

  Mrs Hardwicke was late. Unusually late. She was cross with herself because of it. She prided herself on her reliability and being punctual was the main aspect of this. She hated being late and it wasn't just because Mrs Moore wasn't as easy going as some of her clients; it was a personal thing with her.

  However, as she struggled down the driveway with her bag, she was surprised to see that the downstairs curtains were still drawn. She'd never known that before. Perhaps she wasn't the only one who was behind with themselves this morning. She gave the bell her usual three rings and entered.

  The door was unlocked. Not even Mr M, drunk as he had been at times, had ever left the door unlocked before going to bed. Still, Mrs Hardwicke mused, there was always a first time.

  It was gloomy and dark in the hall—and still. Very still. Instinctively she felt there was something not quite right and her skin began to ripple with goose pimples.

  ‘Hello,’ she called out. ‘Mrs M?’

  Her voice was swallowed up in the unnatural silence. Surely she can't still be in bed? Hubby was always out of the house by this time—off to his job at that TV place. She hardly ever saw him. She was glad of that. She liked Mrs M—but really didn’t care for her hubby. She couldn’t quite say why—it was just a feeling rather than a reason.

  Mrs Hardwicke felt no inclination to take her coat off and get on with the job of cleaning—not until she knew what was going on. She wandered into the kitchen. It was tidy and clean. No breakfast had been prepared in here today. Maybe she was still in bed then. She glanced at the clock on the wall, coming up to eleven. Surely not at this time?

  With little enthusiasm and less volume than before, she called out again. There was no reply. Nothing.

  She moved from the kitchen, back into the hall and into the sitting room. Something made her shudder as she crossed the threshold; the skin tingled at the back of her neck.

  And then she saw it: the head of her employer—pale, rigid and ghastly, staring at her from the carpet. It was some moments before Mrs Hardwicke came to realise what she was seeing. And when she did, she was too terrified to scream.

  ***

  The words on the tatty little card resounded in David's head: Medium and Clairvoyant. They meant only one thing: contact with the dead. Not that the dead could be contacted, only in some theatrical sideshow with disembodied heads, spirit voices and similar jiggery-pokery. It was the world of glass diamonds and pinchbeck gold watches. And Kate had been to visit one of these charlatans. For what reason. The answer was obvious. To contact Michael, of course. To contact her dead husband.

  The whole thing would be laughable if it weren't so bloody tragic. Fucking tragic. He gained some mild sense of comfort from the obscenity.

  Why had she been so stupid? Was her need to contact Michael so great that it squeezed all logic out of her? Despite all she had said to him about putting the past behind her, it must have been that her guilt, her conscience—call it what you will—had over-ridden all other considerations. So she had lied to him and gone seeking her dead husband to say she was sorry.

  Jesus Christ!

  David's hand gripped the steering wheel as the anger swelled up inside him. He glanced at the speedometer and saw that the little white arm was sweeping past the accepted speed limit for the road. Slowly he eased off the accelerator. There was nothing to be gained by behaving stupidly. Whatever Kate did—she had done it. Nothing he did could change that fact. All he could do now was to find out what actually happened at this Arthur Crabtree's place last night. What tricks had been played on her. What farcical messages from the grave had been elicited to comfort the grieving widow? David roared with anger at the thought. It was quite obvious to him that whatever had occurred at this blasted medium’s house it had caused Kate some emotional upset that had caused her to drive erratically and crash.

  David felt his anger increase. His face muscles stiffened and his teeth clenched. Even in death, Michael was still hurting them. Of course there had been no real message from Michael—probably just a pre-recorded tape sufficiently distorted to sound ethereal and characterless. If not that some equally devious fraudulent device which had manufactured the spirit voice. It was Kate's susceptibility and her feelings of guilt that had graced it with reality. Reality. Hah! That was a choice word. A very choice word.

  He ran through the scenario in his mind: the voice of Michael, ‘Darling, I'll always love you’—Kate receiving no reply to her pleas for forgiveness, absolution, release—just the repeated message, ‘Darling, I love you.’ He could see her hurrying out i
nto the night, crying, upset, wretched, still carrying her burden of guilt. She would drive away emotionally high, tears blinding her eyes, her mind in turmoil. Failing to see the road clearly, she swerves, skids... and crashes.

  And now she lies in Intensive Care, on the brink of death. All because of bloody Michael. And this Arthur Crabtree.

  David pulled over to the side of the road and jumped out. As though he were choking, he gulped in the sweet cold air, his whole body shaking with emotion. Leaning on the roof of the car he laid his head on his arms. It was as though over the years he had built a solid wall—a dam wall—to protect his life from tears, pain and involvement and now the dam had burst flooding him with all these unfamiliar painful sensations. Some small thought grew in his mind. Really, he was the one to blame for this. For all this. If only he had been more supportive, more open, more willing to express his emotions, his love for Kate, maybe she would not have needed to allow Michael to dominate her life, even after he had died.

  He breathed deeply. I will never let her down again, he vowed. Just let her live.

  He stayed like immobile for some minutes allowing these thoughts to settle in his mind and then got back into the car. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. God, that was good. He felt his inner rhythm settling and a calmer mood evolving. He leaned back, his eyes closed, enjoying the smoke, letting his mind go blank. Finally, he stubbed the cigarette out and picked up the card from the dashboard. He examined the crudely drawn map, fixing the directions in his mind once more. Right, let's see what this Arthur Crabtree has to say for himself.

  ***

  Tim sat quietly in the passenger seat as the barren hedgerows flashed by in a dark blur. He had spoken but a few words to Rob Moore since they had left the headmaster's study. He was pleased to be leaving St. Austell's even if it was only for a day and delighted at the prospect of seeing his mother again, but he felt uneasy with this man. There was something about him that Tim sensed was not quite right. In one way he seemed very familiar and yet there was something cold and alien about him.