by R. H. Dixon
‘Megan?’
Her responsive smile was instant but wistful. ‘You remember me?’
John was almost floored by a rush of emotion, tears blurred his eyes and he thought his knees would give out. He wiped at his cheeks with the heel of his hand and told her, ‘I never ever forgot.’
She started moving towards him but suddenly stopped, fear etching a harrowing piteousness onto her ghostly face. She looked up, as though she’d heard something.
‘What is it?’ John asked, matching her move and stepping closer. She held out her hands to stop him, her eyes wide and fearful, and he saw that she faded around the edges at such proximity. He immediately jolted back, afraid she might disappear altogether.
‘The brooch,’ she said, her voice as delicate as distant memories inside his head.
He took the cameo from his pocket, holding it out, but not taking his eyes off her. ‘What about it? What is it, Megan?’
‘It’s Her link to you. Her link to the children.’
‘Whose link to me? What children?’
Megan lowered her voice and backed away till she was out on the landing. ‘She’s very close. And strong. If She catches me talking to you She’ll punish me. I must go. Now. And so must Seren.’
‘But…’ There was a crackling sound, like dead beetles underfoot, and John watched, horrified, as skeins of mould left the landing ceiling to dangle like vines before wrapping themselves around Megan’s arms and torso. ‘Whose link to me?’ Desperation made his voice frantic and he lurched forward to try and stop her leaving. To break her binds somehow. But instantly she paled to nothing, her sad eyes lingering with him, and he heard her voice in his thoughts: ‘Don’t leave me again, Dad. Please don’t leave me alone with Her.’
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31
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‘I’m going to hang up and then I’m going to phone the police,’ Natasha threatened, her voice a low hiss so as not to attract the attention of her customers.
‘No. Please. Don’t.’ John’s voice was thick with upset. ‘You’re the only person I can turn to. I know I said I’d leave you alone, but…something’s happening, Tash.’
‘I’m the only person you could turn to? Ha! I’m the last person you should turn to.’
‘You’re right. But I need your help making sense of something.’
‘Where were you when I needed to make sense of things?’
‘I know, I know. I have no right to hound you like this and I wouldn’t if it wasn’t so serious.’
Natasha sighed, her initial anger reducing to a wearied frustration. ‘Okay, I’ll humour you one last time. One. Last. Time. What is it?’
‘I take it from your number that you’re not living locally anymore?’
‘If by living locally you mean Horden, then no, of course not.’ After considering what he’d said some more, she asked, ‘You weren’t actually thinking of suggesting we meet up?’
‘Well, yes. If you were in the vicinity at some point it might have been easier to explain this face to face.’
‘Well I’m not.’
‘And there’s no chance I could come to you?’
‘Absolutely none.’
‘Okay, if that’s the way it is.’
‘It is. And you’ll have to be quick, I’m busy.’
John paused for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you remember a cameo brooch at all?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘I don’t know. I found it in a box of my old stuff.’
‘And so you thought it might be mine?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Are you for real?’ The outrage had returned to her voice. ‘You call me up at work sounding like you’ve got some sort of emergency situation going on, but really you just wanted to ask if I’d mislaid a brooch some years ago?’
‘No, it’s not like that. I just needed to know if you remembered it, that’s all. It’s orange with a cream face…’
‘I know what a bloody cameo looks like. Why should I remember it?’
‘Because something’s going on. Strange stuff has been happening and I think it’s all related to the cameo.’
‘Strange stuff like what?’ Now she sounded sceptical.
‘I’d rather not say. It’s not exactly rational.’
‘I’d rather you did say, so that I can know why it is you seem intent on making my life a misery.’
John sighed. ‘Seren seems to think someone’s coming for her. At first I thought she was being difficult, but now I’m starting to believe she might actually be in danger.’
‘And who do you think is coming for her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why don’t you call the police if you’re so concerned?’
‘Because it’s not like that.’
‘So how is it?’
‘Oh never mind, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Obviously you think it does, else you wouldn’t have bothered calling me.’
‘I know, I’m sorry for bothering you, I just…’
‘John. Tell me what’s going on.’
Again there was a brief silence, then he said, ‘It’s like whoever’s coming for Seren isn’t real.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘That there’s possibly something supernatural going on.’
‘Are you deliberately trying to mess with my head?’ Natasha could feel her anxiety increasing again.
‘No, not at all. Forget I called. You answered the question, that’s all I wanted to know.’
‘Wait. You can’t just call me up, ask cryptic questions about a brooch and then expect to leave it at that. Why would you think that something supernatural is going on? For once in your damn life be fucking straight with me, Gimmerick.’
‘Alright, alright.’ He paused again then said, ‘I’ve seen her.’
‘You’ve seen who?’
‘Megan. Our daughter.’
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_32
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Father Murray was escorted to the room by Kevin. He looked nice enough, handsome that is, but Sissy Dawson was sure he would prove to be inadequate, much too young and inexperienced to deal with matters such as hers. The men exchanged mumbled words at the door then Kevin left, closing the door behind him.
‘Ah, Mrs Dawson,’ Father Murray said, striding to the bedside with a white-toothed greeting. He removed the black felt fedora from his head, a gesture of considered gentility, she thought, but didn’t bother ruffling his dark brown hair back into place. It lay lank and fine against his head, the weight of the hat having defeated any oomph it might have had. He wore a fitted black shirt, complete with white dog collar at the neck, and skinny black jeans. On his feet a pair of black, ornate cowboy boots. He tossed his hat onto the dresser and took the liberty of dragging an armchair closer to the bed, uninvited, then sat down. His shoulders were broad, squared and sturdy and he sat with his legs wide apart. Obviously a man comfortable in his own skin, confident in his own abilities.
‘Father Murray,’ Sissy said in acknowledgement. She raised an eyebrow at his forwardness, half smiling at his atypical persona – he wasn’t what she’d expected at all. He smelled of cigarettes and aftershave and there was a cheeky, defiant gleam to his eye that wasn’t standard for anyone of the cloth she’d ever met before. There was a silver band on his wedding finger which instantly made her wonder about his wife, what a woman who utilised those broad hands, thinking they were hers alone, would look like.
‘So then,’ he said, clapping those hands onto his thighs. ‘Young Kevin tells me you’ve been fretting. That right?’
Father Murray could only be a couple of years older than Kevin himself, if that, Sissy observed, yet he’d assumed the role of dominant male in the guise of fatherliness. She smiled and said to him, ‘She’d have a field day with you, young man.’
‘She would?’
‘Mmm hmmm.’
‘She being who exactly?’ Father Murray leaned forward.
His eyes were patchy. Green or brown, depending on which angle the light caught them.
‘The nameless, faceless one.’ Sissy saw no point in faffing around with the niceties of proper introductions, preferring to get straight down to business.
Father Murray’s handsome face looked vague for a moment. He swiped a hand through his hair, which made no difference whatsoever to its limp composition. ‘She sounds rather ominous. I’d sooner she didn’t have a field day with me if I’m honest.’
‘Wise words, Father Murray.’
His whole demeanour seemed to smile, an arrogance that shone through as if she’d just validated something he expected was always the case. ‘Indeed.’
‘But, of course, I don’t believe you,’ she added.
This seemed to disconcert the vicar for a snatch of a second. His eyes appeared anxious and his lip twitched, but he recovered himself well enough. Anyone else, apart from Sissy, might not have noticed at all.
‘Now, what’s this all about?’ he asked, coughing into his hand, by way of diversion ‘What is it that’s got you so troubled?’
‘Oh, you know.’ Sissy wafted her hand, the one not in the plaster cast, in the air. ‘This and that.’
‘Let’s start with the this then, shall we?’
‘Very well. God won’t speak to me. I fear I’ve offended Him too much.’
‘Nonsense.’ Father Murray shook his head reprovingly. ‘Now what about the that? We’ll come back to this.’
‘Okay. She’s returned after a long spate of silence and Her ghosts have come to haunt me.’
‘Are you referring to yourself in the past tense, Mrs Dawson?’
‘Of course not, what kind of nutter would I be to do that?’
Father Murray laughed. ‘Then forgive me, Mrs Dawson, but I’m not quite sure I understand. That is, I understand the this but not the that. Can we start from the beginning? Tell me who this mysterious she is.’
‘No. It doesn’t matter, not to you. I’ve already tried fighting Her with all the love for God I’ve ever known, but it’s never been enough. And now She must have found a new host because She’s getting stronger and stronger. Maybe She’s even got a new child or children to prey on. I do hope not.’
‘Ridiculous. God’s always enough when it matters,’ Father Murray scoffed. ‘And we’re all His children, so if any of us should stray I’m sure we’d find our way back to Him in the end.’
‘You mean, that’s what you hope.’
‘It’s what I know.’
‘Are you certain about that, Father?’
‘Of course.’
‘What about those that had no choice?’
‘They’ll find their way eventually.’
‘I’m not so sure. What will happen when the ghost children grow old and He can’t, or won’t, save them? Will they die all over again? And what about me? When I die will I be an unclaimed ghost who is haunted by the ghosts of ghosts? It’s a cycle I fear might never change if I were to get into it, but there’s no alternative that I can see.’
If Father Murray was confused he didn’t show it, he simply nodded his head as though she’d said the most rational thing. ‘I can assure you that God will be waiting to welcome you into His loving arms when the day comes. Fear not, Mrs Dawson.’
‘Oh I fear alright. And perhaps you should too.’
‘What specifically is it that you fear?’ Father Murray asked. ‘Death?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then what?’
‘We are all treading where the saints have trodden before, are we not?’
‘Indeed we are.’
‘But that doesn’t mean we get to join them in their final resting place when we grow tired, for not all of us are saints.’ Sissy fixed him with a hard stare.
Father Murray shifted in his seat and sat back, his expression dubious. ‘But we’re all God’s children nonetheless and He doesn’t expect us all to be saints.’
‘Hmmm, I do hope you’re right. For both of our sakes.’ Sissy turned her head away and closed her eyes. ‘I think you’d better leave now, Father. She draws near and, as I already said, She’d have a field day with you.’
‘Nonsense. I don’t fear this woman, whoever she may be.’
‘Then you’re a wilful fool.’
‘Now that’s not altogether polite, is it, Mrs Dawson?’ Father Murray said, his eyes showing amusement rather than offence.
‘Nor will She be, She doesn’t indulge in subtlety.’
‘Nor do I.’ He laughed. ‘I’m not exactly known for my delicacy or softness, I can assure you.’
‘Yes, and that’s why She’ll eat your cock as soon as look at you if you’re still here when She arrives. And I swear to God She’ll enjoy every inch of it.’
33
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Emily found John sitting at the top of the stairs, his face even paler than usual. He didn’t seem to notice that she was standing in the hallway looking up at him.
‘John?’
When he still didn’t acknowledge her she rushed up the stairs, two at a time. ‘What happened?’
‘I can’t leave,’ he said, adrift in his own thoughts. ‘I have to stay here and work it out.’
‘Work what out?’ She shuffled in next to him on the top stair, so their shoulders were touching.
‘I found this in the box.’ He opened his hand and showed her the brooch. ‘It’s relevant to everything that’s been going on.’
‘Relevant how?’
‘I dunno, that’s what I’ve got to figure out.’ He’d been staring at a section of the wall beneath the window but finally turned to look at her. ‘Listen, if I give you some money will you take Seren away for the night? I dunno if there’s a hotel nearby or…’
Emily clicked her tongue and nudged him hard. ‘Hotel my arse. I’ll take her home with me if you don’t want her here. She can share my bed and hang out with the boys.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am, doofus. A houseful of miscreants might do her good.’ She nudged him with her shoulder again, trying for a smile.
He obliged.
‘Seriously, though,’ she said, ‘there’ll be plenty of eyes to keep tabs on her.’
‘Thanks, Em.’
‘What about you though? I won’t lie, I’m not happy about you staying here alone.’
‘I won’t be alone. I’ve got the dogs.’
Emily sighed but didn’t bother arguing, she could tell he’d made up his mind. ‘You do nothing but worry me sick, you know that, dickhead?’
He smiled thinly. ‘Sorry, but I need to do this.’
‘Then I’m coming to check up on you first thing in the morning.’
‘Alright, Mam.’
_
…
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John felt strangely calm once he was alone again, just knowing that Seren was out of harm’s way was a huge relief. He had no plan of action, but knew that, whatever happened, he couldn’t leave his mother’s house, not until whatever danger Megan was in had been resolved. Although not hungry, he prepared himself a stir fry and ate in silence, hoping to be receptive to any message Megan should want to convey. Occasionally he even spoke to her. But no answers came.
It was just after eight when the garden gate creaked. Otis and Mindy ran to the kitchen and shortly afterwards there was a knock at the back door.
Oh God.
Pamela Tanner was the last person John wanted to be dealing with. Perhaps she had seen Emily leave with Seren and knew of his vulnerability, the fact that he was home alone. The very idea filled him with dread, but that quickly turned to outrage. He was in no mood for her games. How dare she keep imposing on him, intruding into his life and making things even more complicated than they already were. He stalked through to the kitchen and threw open the back door, ready to face her down, but instead was stunned into silence.
Natasha Graham had aged well. She looked just as surprised as he did, even though she must have anticipa
ted seeing him. Her hair was now caramel blonde and her face more slender than it had been. Fine lines around her eyes and mouth didn’t make her any less attractive, but a large bruise on her forehead was a juxtapositional flaw that wasn’t good at all. She wore a cream chiffon shirt tucked into skinny blue jeans and exuded a more adult sophistication. After recovering from the initial shock of seeing him, she took on an expression that John could only interpret as loathing. She stood there, waiting for him to do something, and he could tell she wasn’t going to make this easy.
‘Tash.’
‘John.’ Her entire countenance was solemn, and there wasn’t an ounce of warmth or welcome to be found in her eyes.
He moved aside and pulled the door open further. Gesturing with his hand, he said, ‘You’d better come in.’
She glanced down the drive for a moment, which made him wonder if she was worried that someone might see her there, or whether someone was waiting for her in a car. But then she nodded and stepped into the kitchen.
‘Thanks for coming.’ John pulled at his shirt, a subconscious effort to straighten it, but really it was his insides that were all twisted up and knotted. ‘It, er, means a lot.’
‘I’m not here for you,’ she said, bending to stroke one of the dogs. ‘I came because I wanted to…I thought that…if you’re telling the truth, I want to…’
‘See her?’
She nodded and straightened up again, allowing their eyes to meet. ‘And I remembered something about the brooch…’
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34
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Natasha’s stomach clenched. John wasn’t the same John. She’d expected he would be, just older. But he wasn’t and seeing him like this stirred all kinds of emotions. She wanted to hate him. Should have been satisfied to see that his mesmeric eyes, still beguiling in their intensity, were now haunted. That his lean physique was now too angular and thin, his complexion marred by the hint of illness. But, strangely, the sight of him ailing didn’t give her any sense of recompense. In fact it surprised her to find that, if anything, it hurt her to look at him. On the drive north from Whitby she’d imagined standing where she was now, yelling. She had plenty she wanted to say to him, she’d even thought she might slap him. But instead she just stood there, saying not much at all, uncertainty quelling eighteen years’ worth of built-up rage.