by Amy Cross
“Huh,” the landlord mutters, “I guess he's going out the back way.”
“Did he say what he's doing in Curridge?” I ask, even though I know it's none of my business.
“People have their reasons for coming here,” he replies, getting back to work wiping some glasses with a cloth. “Like you, for example. I still haven't quite figured out why you showed up. No offense intended, of course.”
“It's -”
“Complicated, yep. You've said that a few times now.”
Looking down at my chilli and rice, I can't help thinking that I'm doing a spectacularly bad job of keeping my head down. Every time people ask me what I'm doing in Curridge, I struggle to really come up with an answer. Partly that's because I don't want to admit that I more-or-less cyber-stalked Dora Ohme, but partly I think I don't even know the real answer myself. I keep replaying Kate's comments over and over in my mind, and I can't shake the fear that maybe there was a hint of truth in her words. Maybe I'm just hoping this trail will somehow lead to a photo of my mother, which is pretty unlikely to say the least.
Hearing footsteps outside, crunching across the pebbles, I turn and look at the window. I wait for the pub's other guest to walk past, but instead the footsteps get quieter and I realize the person must be heading in a different direction.
Then again, I have no reason to start worrying. I'm sure people just come to this area occasionally for a short break. Not everybody is like me. Not everybody is on some kind of ridiculous, half-baked crusade to solve a mystery that probably isn't even much of a mystery.
***
“I spent the whole day cleaning,” Graham says a short while later, as we sit at a table outside the pub. “I'm not sure I'll ever get the smell of bleach out of my nose.”
Looking past him, I watch the settled waters of the English Channel. The evening is extremely calm, with the sky seeming to darken every few minutes as the sun continues to set. Far off toward the horizon, several distant lights indicate the slow passage of tankers and trawlers making their way between England and France, while a light breeze is blowing in across the beach and rustling several patches of vegetation that have managed to survive between the beach huts.
Checking my phone for the umpteenth time since dinner, I see that there are still no new reviews from Dora Ohme.
Maybe it's over.
Maybe this is one mystery that'll never be solved.
“I've still got some more to do,” Graham adds, getting to his feet.
“It's late,” I point out. “You're already exhausted.”
“I can't leave it.”
“I'll help you.”
“No, there's no need.”
“Please let me,” I continue. “Sorry, my head's spinning and I need a distraction.”
I can tell that he's reluctant, but finally he shrugs.
“The bathroom needs doing,” he mutters. “How are you with grouting?”
“I'm wonderful with grouting,” I tell him. “I just need to go and change, and then I'll meet you at number five.”
As we head our separate ways, I can't help looking out toward the horizon again, watching the distant blinking lights. It's useful to be reminded of a whole world that's getting on with business out there, and to remember that there are bigger problems in the world than the question of who's been reviewing under Dora Ohme's name.
Suddenly, hearing footsteps hurrying across the pebbles, I turn and look over my shoulder. I half-expect to find Graham rushing to catch up, but instead I see no sign of anyone. The footsteps continue, getting closer and closer, until finally I turn again. Convinced that somebody's about to slam straight into me in the darkness, I raise my hands, but at that moment the sound of footsteps starts to recede again, stomping past me and heading toward the pub.
I wait, convinced that a silhouette will appear at any moment, but there's still no-one about.
And yet the footsteps continue, getting further and further away until I hear a distant creaking sound that's instantly recognizable.
The pub's side door.
I hesitate for a moment longer, before setting off again across the pebbles. By the time I reach the front of the pub, I've just about managed to convinced myself that I'm being jumpy, but when I get inside I realize it wouldn't hurt to ask the landlord whether he saw or heard anything.
There are a few customers propping up the bar as I head over, and a fire is roaring nearby in the hearth.
“Did someone just come in through the side door?” I ask.
“Eh?” The landlord turns to me. “Oh, maybe. I dunno, I've been busy.”
I open my mouth to ask again about the pub's other guest, but at that moment I hear a bumping sound coming from the room above. I guess that answers my question about whether or not the other guest is here right now.
“He's a noisy bugger,” the landlord says with a sigh. “Not like you, all quiet like a mouse.”
Before I can reply, I hear more footsteps from above, and it sounds like the other guest is coming back down the stairs. I look toward the far door again, but a moment later I hear him heading out through the pub's side door. I instinctively head to the window and peer out, trying to get a glimpse, but there's no sign of anyone. Still, the sound of footsteps has returned, as if somebody just walked straight past the window and then headed out across the beach. I wait as the footsteps recede into the distance, and then I turn to see that the landlord and a couple of the other customers are eyeing me with a hint of suspicion.
“Just being nosy,” I tell them, forcing a smile.
“Aye,” the landlord replies, “well, they say there's a storm coming in tonight.”
“Wasn't that supposed to hit last night?” I ask. “I thought it had followed me from London.”
He shrugs. “Don't ask me, I'm just the messenger.”
“Funny to have two of you around,” one of the old men mutters at the bar, keeping an eye on me. “Visitors, I mean. There aren't many people who come to Curridge, especially not outside the high season.”
“Maybe you wonder what people are up to,” another man says, before keeping an eye on me as he takes a sip of his beer.
“I should get going,” I reply, heading to the door at the far end of the bar. “I just need to change my clothes before I go and help out at the cottage.”
“You wanna be careful with Graham Bayliss,” the first man calls after me. “He's a weird one. Some reckon he's not right in the head.”
I turn to him.
“I don't know the chap myself,” the landlord tells me. “He keeps himself to himself mostly. I can't even remember when -”
Before he can finish, the phone starts ringing.
“Hang on,” he adds, “I'll have to get that.”
“Keeping yourself to yourself isn't necessarily a bad thing,” I point out, before heading through to the hallway and then up the stairs.
Once I've changed, I grab my phone and give Brad a quick call. He answers, although he's clearly busy and I can hear the sound of a rowdy city-center pub in the background. I tell him I'll call him another time, and he seems fine with that until I mention that I'm going to help a guy clean out Dora Ohme's cottage. This seems to worry him, and it takes a few minutes before I'm able to make him see reason.
“Graham's just a nice guy,” I explain with a sigh, while checking my watch and seeing that it's already almost 9pm. “I want to help out, that's all. I might as well be useful. And Graham's perfectly okay. Trust me, he'd never even hurt a fly.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lizzie
Thirty years ago
“What happened, Mummy?” Kate asks again as we hurry along the street. “What was that awful -”
Before she can finish, there's another rumble somewhere along the beach. This time the ground only trembles a little beneath our feet, but it's enough to dislodge a few more tiles from nearby cottages. There are scores of people all around us, as if the entire population of Curridge has come to see w
hat's happening. And everyone is asking the same thing:
“What was that noise?”
“It was along the beach!” someone shouts, pointing toward the cliffs. “It was over there!”
“Was it an earthquake, Mummy?” Kate asks.
“No, I'm sure it wasn't an earthquake,” I tell her, as I hurry past the crowd and head to the pub. As I get closer, I realize I can hear Alice crying, but then the landlady emerges carrying her in her arms.
“She's fine,” she says. “Just spooked. Can't say I blame her, either.”
Setting Kate down, I take Alice from the woman's arm and cradle her as she continues to cry.
“It's okay,” I tell her, kissing her forehead as she bawls. “Mummy's here now. Whatever the scary noise was, it can't hurt you. I promise.”
“People are going that way,” Kate says, looking toward the cliffs in the distance. “What happened, Mummy?”
“I lost half my pint glasses,” the landlady says, still sounding flustered. “I've never known anything like that in my life. It was as if the ground was trying to shake us all loose. I'm gonna have to go down into the basement and make sure there's no structural damage.”
Still muttering to herself, she heads back into the pub, leaving me to cradle Alice as more concerned locals hurry past. Whatever's happening, Kate was right when she said they all seem to be heading south toward the cliffs, although I've got to admit that I'm cautious about following. In the back of my mind, I'm worried that perhaps the sound was caused by something like an old Second World War bomb, or maybe a mine that washed up on the beach. And if it happened once, it could happen again.
“Can we go and see, Mummy?” Kate asks, pulling on my arm. Clearly she's feeling a little braver now. “Can we? Please?”
***
“Stay close to me, Kate!” I say firmly as we make our way past the rocks, heading toward the crowd that has gathered a little further along the beach. “Do not go running off!”
“What happened to the cliff, Mummy?”
“I'm sure nothing happened to the cliff,” I reply, checking that Alice is okay in my arms before looking past the crowd. “I'm sure it's just -”
And then I see it.
A huge section of the cliff-face has collapsed, leaving a deep cut that runs almost all the way down to the beach. There's a massive pile of displaced material that looks to have simply crumbled away, and as we reach the back of the crowd I can't help noticing that the damage looks as if something simply swiped down and gouged a gap into the front of the cliff. I know that can't be what actually happened, of course, but -
Suddenly there's another rumbling sound, and I pull Kate back as I see a few more rocks tumbling down from the broken cliff-face. They land a couple of hundred meters away, but I'm still starting to think that it's not safe for us to be anywhere near this area.
“How could something so awful happen?” a woman asks nearby. “How could it just fall away like this?”
“Nobody was hurt, were they?” another woman asks. “Does anyone know if people were out here this morning?”
“Not that I know of,” a man replies.
“This is a warning from God.”
Turning, I see Dora Ohme standing just a few feet away, staring at the shattered cliff-face. After a moment she spots me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.
“Why would God warn people by knocking down part of a cliff?” Kate asks.
“He wouldn't,” I tell her. “I mean -”
“Something isn't right here,” Dora says firmly. “I've felt it for days now. I felt it earlier at the church, and I feel it right now. Something evil has noticed our little town, and now it walks among us.”
“Don't listen to her,” I tell Kate. “She doesn't know what she's talking about.”
“Lying to the girl won't help,” Dora replies. “Whatever this is, it arrived...”
Her voice trails off as she continues to stare at me for a moment.
“It arrived around the same time that you came,” she adds finally. “Just a day or so after you came to town with your daughters.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” I ask.
“Something isn't right,” she continues, taking a step back. “I don't know what it'll take to open your eyes, but you're all standing around idly while something awful comes to our town.”
Nearby, a couple of people are struggling to keep from laughing.
“I'm serious!” she shouts, causing more locals to turn her. “Something's here and you can laugh all you want, but I'm right! And whatever it wants, it'll rip Curridge apart to get it!”
She pauses, as if she's waiting for everyone to agree with her, but then finally she turns and hurries away. I can hear her muttering something under her breath, but honestly she looks utterly insane as she stumbles along the beach. I have no doubt that the poor woman believe everything she just said, and I saw the fear in her eyes. At the same time, I think it's pretty clear that she's gone off the deep end.
“Poor Dora,” a woman says nearby. “She's not really on very good terms with reality, is she?”
“What was the shouty woman talking about?” Kate asks, tugging my sleeve.
“Nothing, honey,” I reply. “Don't worry about her.”
“But she seemed upset.”
“Sometimes people get upset for silly reasons,” I point out, although I can't help watching Dora for a moment longer as she disappears into the distance. “People get funny ideas in their heads.”
Looking down, I see that Kate is now looking back at the damaged cliff-face. Following her gaze, I can't help noticing that the vast gap actually seems almost perfectly symmetrical, although I guess that's just an accident. Whatever happened here this morning, it was just a small natural disaster. Only a madwoman like Dora Ohme would ever think that it was caused by something more sinister.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alice
Today
“Who were you, Dora Ohme?” I whisper a while later, as I stand at the bookshelf at the top of her stairs and peer at the titles. “Why were you so interested in occult magic and stuff like that?”
Sliding one of the books out, I see that it's some kind of primer about superstitious nonsense. Flicking through the pages, I find several wood-cut illustrations depicting naked figures dancing around a fire, while some kind of horned god looks to be rising up above them. The whole thing looks completely ridiculous, but Dora has made plenty of pencil-written notes in the margins. I can't make out her spidery handwriting, but page after page is annotated with similar squiggles. It looks like Dora saw this book less as a piece of entertainment and more as a work of non-fiction.
For a committed Christian, she sure had a lot of books on the occult, and I haven't found a single bible anywhere in the cottage.
Just as I'm sliding the book back into its spot, I see a hint of movement out the corner of my eye. I glance over at the window, but now there's nothing outside except darkness. In fact, the only thing I can see now is the reflection of the landing, complete with my own gormless face. Heading over to the window, I cup my hands around my eyes and peer out, and after a moment my eyes adjust enough for me to be able to see several cars parked at the side of the road.
And then, as I'm about to turn away, I see him.
There's a man standing out there in the dark, and he seems to be looking straight up here at the window.
I can't make out any of his features, of course. He's basically just a silhouette, but I swear I can feel him looking straight at me. With the light on here in the room, there's no way he doesn't realize I'm up here, so he must realize that I've noticed him. He's still standing there, however, and I almost feel as if he's daring me to be the one who turns away first.
“Alice?”
Startled, I look over my shoulder and see that Graham is standing in the doorway. I immediately look back out the window and see that the dark figure is still outside.
Still watching me.
&n
bsp; “Hey,” I say cautiously, keeping my eyes on the figure, “can you come and take a look at something for me?”
I hear Graham coming across the room, and a moment later he stops next to me.
“Do you see him?” I ask.
“See who?”
“Down there, just across the street. There's a man, he's looking straight up at us.”
“I don't see anyone.”
“He's right there,” I continue, trying to stay calm. “He's next to that white bollard with the chain, next to the parking sign.”
“Where?”
Turning, I see that Graham is cupping his hands around his eyes and leaning forward.
I look back out the window, and suddenly I realize that the man is gone.
“He was there just a moment ago,” I whisper, before taking a step back. “You locked the front door, didn't you?”
Graham turns to me.
“It locks automatically,” he replies, “but... I don't get it, what are you scared of?”
“Nothing, there was just a man out there, that's all. I thought it was creepy.”
“Well, there's no-one there now,” he says, heading over to the bookshelf. “It was probably just someone out walking their dog late at night. Jim Fibbins has a dog, and so does Tommy Marshall. Whoever it was, I hope they cleaned up whatever their dog did. I hate stepping in poo.”
I watch the street for a moment longer, before turning to see that Graham has taken out another of Dora's books on the occult.
“Did she ever talk to you about that stuff?” I ask.
“What, ghosts and demons?” He flicks through the pages. “No, I never heard her mention it to anyone. To be honest, I'm quite surprised she had all this stuff. From what Mum said, Dora was always a very Christian woman. I didn't think Christians were very into all this weirdness.”
“I think something scared her.”
He glances at me.