The Evil Within

by S M Hardy

  I reached behind me with one hand groping for the chair I knew should be there, and to my relief my fingers curled around its wooden arm and I sank down onto it before my legs gave way beneath me.

  I scrunched my eyes shut and took a few seconds, forcing myself to take slow deep breaths. Had I passed out? If I had, surely I would have woken to find myself on the floor? It was stress. I’d blacked out due to stress.

  I tentatively opened my eyes, scared of what I might see. Knowing he was dead, I wasn’t sure I could have any sort of conversation with Peter Davies, not without either pissing myself or having a bout of hysterics. I was scared shitless.

  Fortunately, for my underwear and self-esteem, when I made myself look around the room I was alone. The room was as I had left it the second time I’d paid a visit, more or less.

  The only thing I could immediately see that had changed was that the black leather-bound Bible was now in the centre of the desk, directly in front of me, as though waiting for me to open it.

  I took another deep breath, tried to relax and, I don’t know what made me do it, I reached out and laid my palm on the Bible’s cover.

  And all the anxiety that had been threatening to overwhelm me drained away, leaving me feeling slightly light-headed, but in a nice way, like when you’re just about to drift off to sleep.

  I let myself sit there for a moment, nice and still and calm. Yes, I felt calm. I was no longer in danger of hyperventilating and my heart had slowed to a sure and steady thud. Then I realised I still had my hand resting on the Bible.

  It felt cold and faintly damp to the touch. I was surprised the leather hadn’t gone a little mouldy; in time I supposed it would and that would be a shame. It looked so old. I traced my fingers over the leather and opened the cover. I’m not sure what I was expecting, an inscription perhaps. But no, just a blank, yellowing page. I turned it over, expecting the title and perhaps date of publishing, but again another blank page. Then it was old, so maybe in the days when this was published this had been the way of things, perhaps allowing for pages of inscriptions if it had been bought as a family Bible.

  I turned another page and it all became clear. This wasn’t a Bible at all, I had just assumed from its appearance that it was. Inscribed on the page in copperplate print was the legend Baptisms, Marriages and Burials in the Village of Slyford St James from 1780 to – and that was it.

  At last, something that might actually be useful, and I guess another clue provided by those who had gone before.

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Davies,’ I said out loud and hoped he heard me, though I’d prefer he didn’t appear to accept my thanks. Seeing him at the window had been enough to practically make me go into meltdown.

  I got to my feet. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take this somewhere more comfortable,’ I said, ‘but I promise to bring it back.’

  Again, I was relieved that he chose not to answer.

  I picked the book up and stuck it under my arm. It was heavy, heavy and solid, a physical something of this world, not the next, and maybe that’s why I’d found its touch so comforting. I half-expected the door to the study to slam in my face as I went to leave, but no, and neither did the front door. I closed the gate behind me and glanced back at the window as the curtain dropped down, veiling the shadow of a man standing behind it.

  I raised my hand and waved. I think I saw the shadow wave back.

  And my fear fell away.

  I walked back to the cottage. I could hardly stroll around the village with the purloined, or should I say borrowed, registry beneath my arm.

  I took the book straight to the kitchen and dumped it on the table and then went upstairs to get my laptop, spending a few minutes scrabbling around trying to find a notepad of some description and a pen or pencil so I could jot down any interesting information.

  When I got back to the kitchen, I sat at the table arranging the bits and pieces I’d collected around me and, with a feeling of immense optimism that I might at last be getting somewhere, opened the book. Then it occurred to me that I really had no idea what I was looking for or where to start.

  How about Marie Louise Baker born 1st May 1955 died 4th July 1983?

  She was buried in the cemetery, so even if her baptism wasn’t registered her burial would be, I’d have thought. I opened the book roughly in the middle and still had to flick through a considerable number of pages before I reached the twentieth century. I kept turning the yellowing sheets until I reached May 1955. If Marie Louise Baker had been born in Slyford St James she would probably appear here somewhere during the month of May.

  I ran my finger down each page peering at the handwritten scrawl. The vicar of the time had obviously trained in medicine, his handwriting was damn near illegible. Even so, I found her. Baptism 15th May 1955 of Marie Louise, daughter of Ronald Baker, Royal Air Force, and his wife, Delia Baker, born 1st May 1955.

  So, it looked like poor Marie had never married. I flicked through the pages until I found July 1983. Again, I ran my finger down the page. This reverend had flowery yet legible handwriting, so when I found myself slipping into August – there had been several weddings and births this month and two funerals, but neither of them Marie’s – I was a little perplexed. I ran through the month again, but nothing, so I carried on into August – and there she was, 20th August 1983, well over a month after her death. I frowned down at the page – wasn’t that a bit unusual?

  It had taken almost as long before Kat’s funeral.

  But that was because there had to be an inquest. Then the penny dropped: Marie must have died in unusual circumstances.

  I sat staring at the page. So, what happened to you, Marie? What is your connection to Krystal and why does someone still leave you both flowers?

  Then a horrible thought occurred to me – had Marie also been murdered? Had she been murdered by the man? If she had, it was over thirty years ago, so he must be at least fifty by now – or he’d started his murderous career very early.

  I made myself a sandwich while I thought on the Marie/Krystal connection for a bit. Then I tried Google, but news that was over thirty years old, from a small village in the middle of nowhere, was hardly likely to have made it onto the worldwide web. Eventually I ended up staring at the entry in the register, tapping the end of the pencil against my bottom lip and wondering where to go from here.

  I knocked back the last of my coffee and grimaced. It was cold and when I looked back at the clock I could see why; it was now coming up to three.

  I mulled on all that I’d learnt, which wasn’t much and a lot less than I’d hoped, and I realised it was no good. I needed Jed and Emma’s help. Had I been clutching at straws, I wouldn’t even have considered it, but there was a reason Krystal kept leading me to the cemetery and Peter Davies had beckoned me into the rectory. There was a connection between Krystal and Marie – I was sure of it.

  I switched off my laptop, got to my feet, stretched, rotated my shoulders and decided to give Jed a ring. He might be able to throw some light on the mystery of Marie, even though she’d been dead over thirty years. Jed had told me he’d been born in Slyford, and I wasn’t sure how old he was now, but if there’d been some kind of scandal, he might have been old enough to remember it or the gossip afterwards.

  He answered on the fourth ring and our conversation was short though not particularly sweet.

  ‘Hi, it’s Jim.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Can I see you? There’s something you might be able to help me with.’

  ‘I’m guessing you’re not talking about cutting the grass or fitting some more locks.’

  ‘Nah, the other stuff.’

  I heard him sigh. ‘I’m at Emms’.’ I heard muffled voices, then, ‘Emms says to come over now and you can join us for afternoon tea. We’ll be round the back.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll come right over.’

  He gave a grunt. ‘You do that,’ and the line went dead. It occurred to me that he didn’t really soun
d very happy about it, which made me pause for thought. I hoped I hadn’t interrupted anything.

  I shoved the register under my arm, grabbed my keys from the hall table and as an afterthought took my jacket off the banister and slung it over my shoulder. It was warm out now, but it could be another thing by the time I left Emma’s.

  Emma was pouring tea as I climbed the steps to the patio. She smiled in my direction and gestured with her head that I should take the empty seat. Jed nodded hello and his expression was welcoming enough, so I guessed his earlier brusqueness might be down to just not liking talking on the phone.

  ‘Goodness,’ Emma said, seeing the book under my arm. ‘What have you got there?’

  I put it on the spare seat beside me as I hung my jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We’ve time,’ Jed said.

  So I told them. I told them everything. I hadn’t meant to. I didn’t want them to think I was going crazy, but once I’d started it all sort of started to tumble out.

  Once or twice I saw them exchange glances, but they didn’t interrupt, which must have taken some doing. Had I been listening to my tirade I think I wouldn’t have been able to help myself.

  Mysterious figures in the cemetery, roving carnations, silver ribbon, long-dead priests, even I thought I sounded bonkers, especially when I explained how I thought Krystal was trying to give me clues.

  Did I mention her reflection in Emma’s or the shop’s windows? No, I kept those occasions to myself. They were a couple of pieces of strangeness too far.

  ‘So you think this person, this woman, left the flowers on both graves?’ Emma asked when I finally stuttered into silence.

  I took a sip of my now stone-cold tea and grimaced. ‘I think so. I saw the fresh flowers on Krystal’s grave the first time I went to the cemetery and hadn’t given it too much thought other than to who might have left them. Then I wondered why Krystal would have led me there in the first place if not to see the flowers and perhaps meet Peter Davies.’

  Jed and Emma exchanged another look.

  ‘I know it sounds mad, but I had this urge to go back to the churchyard and when I did, I saw the woman and the fresh flowers.’

  ‘Then a carnation from the bouquet appeared on your pillow?’ Emma asked and the gentleness of her voice wasn’t lost on me.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but yes.’

  ‘And it moved?’

  ‘It didn’t exactly move – more like relocated. And that’s when I decided she must be trying to tell me something. So I went back and found the other bouquet tied with the same ribbon.’

  ‘So from this you’re surmising the mystery woman left both bouquets?’ Jed said.

  ‘It would be logical, I suppose. Not many of the other graves are so well-cared for or receive regular flowers,’ and I know I sounded a little terse.

  If Jed noticed he didn’t show it.

  ‘And you say this Marie was buried after some delay?’

  I folded my arms. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It could be she had to be transported back from somewhere?’ Emma said. ‘In the seventies loads of young people went travelling.’

  ‘She was hardly a youngster, Emms.’

  ‘In those days young people didn’t always grow up. Some went travelling and ended up in communes in India or Morocco and became ageing hippies. You can still find them in some places like Goa.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Jed growled, his brow creased in thought – or was it disbelief? It could have been either.

  ‘More tea?’

  I shook my head, still watching Jed, then, realising I was bordering on being rude, dragged my eyes away from him to give Emma a half-smile. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Jed?’ He glanced Emma’s way and she gestured at his cup. ‘Tea?’

  He gave her a distracted nod and continued to frown into space.

  ‘Jed – what is it? What are you thinking on?’ she asked him.

  His shoulders sagged slightly and when he turned to face her his expression was haunted. ‘I know I said I never would, but maybe the time has come for me to break my promise to myself.’

  She leant forward and rested a hand on his forearm. ‘What promise?’

  ‘When Krystal died, I promised I’d never try to call her back. A little one like her should be able to rest in peace.’

  ‘But she’s not,’ I told him.

  His expression grew grim. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I think maybe it’s time we listened to what she has to say.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  We finished our tea in silence, then Emma led the way inside and through to her sitting room. It was here where I’d first heard Krystal speak, albeit via a tape recorder. The same one Emma now placed on the coffee table as we sat. Jed took an armchair, Emma and I perched on the sofa. I’d expected us to have gathered around a table in the semi-dark and to link hands. That’s what they always do in films, but then this wasn’t some melodrama or ghost story – or was it? I was beginning to feel like I’d somehow been sucked into some low budget, made-for-television movie destined to be shown either late at night or on bleak, winter weekday afternoons.

  Jed settled in his seat, leaning back against the floral upholstery. I shifted on the couch trying to get comfortable. I had a feeling we could be in for a long afternoon. Jed’s eyes flickered shut almost as though he’d dozed off and Emma leant forward slightly, hands gripped together on her lap. She was far from relaxed, she was almost vibrating with tension, which fuelled my own.

  I tried to calm myself and fight back the anxiety gnawing at my gut. This was ridiculous. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, bathing us all in its glow and making the room as far removed from the fictional darkened parlours where these sort of activities were carried out as it could possibly be. There was no need for me to be afraid. This is what I told myself, but a deep primal fear of the unknown was causing my heart to pound and a steel corset to wrap itself around my chest, making it hard to take in anything more than the shallowest of breaths.

  Seconds stretched into minutes and I began to wonder whether Jed really had fallen asleep. I glanced at Emma and she was staring at him with an intensity that made me shiver. This was getting all too extreme for me. I was about to get up and say I had to go. As much as I wanted to solve the mystery, I wasn’t sure this was the way to do it. There was something about this that was setting off all sorts of alarm bells in my head. There was a wrongness to this. My anxiety was turning to dread. Something terrible was about to happen, I could feel it.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but it was as though I’d been struck dumb as I couldn’t form the words, I couldn’t speak. I tried to get to my feet, but I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t move. It was as though all my joints had suddenly locked solid.

  I heard Emma suck in breath, and she reached out to turn on the tape machine.

  ‘Do you really want to be inside my head?’ Jed said, but it wasn’t Jed really. His lips moved but the words that came out weren’t his, nor was the voice. It dripped with malevolence and sly glee. ‘If you want to see inside my head, then come on. Come on in, if you dare.’ Jed’s eyes snapped open and he was looking directly at me. But it wasn’t him. Just as the words weren’t his nor were the eyes burning into mine, sucking me in, dragging me inside his head and into the asylum that was his mind.

  Through white, blurred corridors echoing with screams and manic laughter we raced, his mind clinging onto mine. At the end of the corridor a door loomed ahead and we were heading straight for it at speed then, at the last moment, it swung open and I saw a window and to one side of it a bed and on the bed lay a man. I could see his eyes moving in erratic spasms beneath closed lids and white drool running from the corner of his smiling mouth as I was propelled towards him.

  I tried to hold back. I tried to wrench away from him, and he began to laugh as I was sucked through flesh and bone and brain, and then all I could see were blurred images of his memories as I flew through
one and into another. Children playing, a chained dog barking and snarling, a baby crying, a procession of people dressed in black. And behind all this a cacophony of wind and wailing voices and music – yes, there was music, but the discordant notes were whipped away by the wind.

  The images in his head flew past me, or more accurately I flew through them, so fast I could hardly register one before another was crowding in on me. I was glad it was so fast. I was glad I couldn’t see more clearly as some of the half-viewed technicoloured pictures he showed me hinted at a vileness I didn’t think I could bear to have floating around inside my head.

  Then we started to slow. These images he really wanted me to see, he wanted me to know of what he’d been capable, of what he’d done. A girl’s tear-stained face, her eyes wide and terrified, a silver band of duct tape sealing her mouth, bright-red beads of blood running down porcelain skin. A woman at the top of a staircase, her lips pinched, her cheeks flushed with anger. Small hands shoving her in the back, a tumbling body somersaulting down carpeted stairs to finally come to rest, eyes open and neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

  Stop, I wanted it to stop.

  A chubby-faced young woman, vaguely familiar, kneeling on all fours, skirt hitched up around her waist, knickers pooled at her knees. The man, I somehow knew it was him, pumping, pumping, pumping. I could hear him laughing in my head as I fought to break free of him.

  Then children in a schoolyard. White shirts and socks, red cardigans and grey skirts and shorts. The school at Chalfont. I think I glimpsed Krystal amongst them. Then the front of the cottage, my cottage. The face of a woman smiling pleasantly. Krystal and Benji hopping from rock to rock on the beach. Krystal and Benji running, their backs disappearing into the mist.

  Come back, you little bitch. Think you can make a fool of me.