The Voice Within

by Roger Penfound

  He'd agreed to meet Winston inside Westminster Magistrates Court at 3.30 pm. Winston had told him that the proceedings would be a formality leading to confirmation of a trial date.

  He had taken the trouble to dress in a dark suit and tie, over which he wore a light brown knee length coat. The changeable weather meant being prepared for all eventualities.

  As he made his way down Marylebone Road towards the court building, he was surprised to see people blocking the pavement ahead. There seemed to be a mobile TV unit and a crowd was building up. He assumed some celebrity was about to arrive. But as he drew nearer, he heard his own name called out.

  "How are you pleading, Mr. Penhallam? Are you guilty?"

  Suddenly, there was a reporter by his side and a camera lens thrust into his face.

  "What did you know about phone hacking at The Nation's Voice, Douglas? Did you sanction it?"

  "No comment."

  "How many phones did your reporters hack into? Were they celebrities?"

  "I said, no comment."

  Other reporters had now arrived. The crowd was jostling and pushing him.

  "Come on, Douglas, admit you knew about it."

  "Do you think you'll do time for this, Penhallam?"

  "Is Halshaw going to support you or are you on your own?" He stumbled forward, tripping over a camera tripod.

  "Get out of my way. Fuck off!"

  Then he felt a strong hand gripping his arm. It was Winston, propelling him through the throng and up the stairs into the court building. Doug felt breathless and weak-kneed. He hadn't for a moment expected this.

  "Sorry, Douglas. A bit of a scrum. I hadn't realised it would be this bad. You OK?"

  "I think so. Bloody journalists!"

  "Let's get a coffee. We're not on till four."

  As they made their way to the cafeteria, he recognised faces – journalists from other papers who had also been arrested on suspicion of phone hacking. Each was surrounded by their legal team.

  In the cafeteria he met his barrister for the first time – Harriet Westing. She was in her late thirties, medium height with bobbed fair hair. She clutched a file under her arm and spoke with a breathless urgency in tones that had been cultivated at a top public school.

  "The point of today, Mr. Penhallam, is for the magistrate to confirm that the case is of sufficient severity for it to be tried by jury at a crown court. The prosecution will have to outline its case so we will have a chance to get a full picture of what they have up their sleeve. You won't have to say anything other than confirm your name and address and plead not guilty. Is that clear, Mr. Penhallam?"

  The committal hearing was almost an hour late starting and for the most part consisted of procedural matters. Doug made his not guilty plea and then the prosecution outlined their case. It was largely circumstantial evidence based on the fact that some of the journalists, who had admitted hacking into celebrities' phones, were nominally working in features under his direction. However, it soon became clear that evidence would be given from 'senior members of the management team', by which Doug assumed James Welland or Halshaw himself. His heart sank.

  He battled his way down the steps of the court house, jostling reporters out of the way, most of whom he knew. Then he jogged down the Marylebone Road, pursued briefly by two people who quickly gave up, overtaken with coughing spasms. When he was sure he wasn't being followed, he ducked into a side street and found a pub in which he could take refuge. Thankful for being able to merge into the dark interior, he downed a scotch and then another one. With his brain fortified by its familiar prop, he was able to think again.

  He checked his mobile. There was a message from Rachel.

  'Just seen you on the evening news – apparently fighting! How's things with Nick? You haven't got back to me.'

  With all that had been going on at Penhallam, he had forgotten to report back to Rachel. He didn't want to alienate her. He couldn't cope with that now – not with all the other things too. He texted back.

  'Hi Rachel. Have seen Nick twice and met Aleena. We need to talk. R U free tonight?'

  Three minutes later:

  'Yes. Seven-thirty. Same place.'

  He used the time between the committal hearing and the meeting with Rachel to send an email to an old school friend he'd kept in contact with over the years. Harry Jenstone was now Professor of Psychic Research at the University of Southern England, from where he managed a successful media profile by making himself available for interviews about any kind of psychic phenomenon. Doug had met with him a couple of times over the years when his features had strayed unintentionally into the field of paranormal. The experience in Kate's room at Penhallam had been unsettling and he needed to find a rational explanation. He hoped that Harry could set his mind at rest.

  There was a cold breeze gusting round the buildings as he approached the cafe in Russell Square. He chose a seat inside, away from the elements. Rachel arrived soon after, greeting him with a cursory smile.

  "Bit of a shock seeing you on the news. What's going on?"

  "It was the pre-trial hearing. I pleaded not guilty and they're going to set a date for a full hearing – probably in a couple of months."

  "But you'll get off. You didn't do it?"

  "This is 'political', Rachel. I've got Halshaw and some of the other execs lined up against me. The public are braying for blood."

  She turned away from him, trying to draw a curtain over what had been said .When she turned back, her voice was urgent.

  "You've seen Nick and Aleena? What's happened?"

  "Her brother's told their father about Nick and Aleena. She's been summoned home."

  "Oh God! What do we know about the family?"

  Doug explained that Aleena's family were migrants from Kashmir and that they followed a strict interpretation of Islam that forbade marriage outside of their faith. He described Aleena's fear of her father and her dread of being forcibly taken back to India to marry someone she'd never met.

  "But this is twenty first century Britain, Douglas – not sixteenth century India. People can't be kidnapped and forced into marriage. There must be something we can do."

  "There are some things. The Government set up a Forced Marriage Unit last year because there was growing evidence of young girls being taken out of the country to marry against their will."

  "What could they do?"

  "Well, I've been on their website. There's a 'forced marriage protection order' which prevents someone being forced into marriage against their wishes. There's information about refuges for Asian girls in case Aleena wants to leave home and needs support. There's also advice about creating a new identity – if it came to that."

  "Would she go that far?"

  "It'd be difficult. For many Asians, the family is central. To be kicked out is like a sentence of death. They're shunned, spat on in the street, treated as if they weren't here. So breaking away carries with it a great emotional cost."

  "And this talk of suicide. That's just hype?"

  "Aleena strikes me as a rational young woman. I think she sees it as a final solution if all else fails."

  "So what do we do next?"

  "I think Aleena has to tell her family. She owes them that at least."

  "Don't you think she could be in danger – I mean real physical danger?"

  "Someone should be there with her – maybe not in the house but nearby in case things turn nasty. I'm going to speak to Nick tonight and then go and see them both. We'll try to arrange a time when Aleena can go home and Nick and I can be there too."

  Rachel relaxed – visibly relieved.

  "Thank you, Doug. Thank you for taking this seriously."

  She turned away as Doug saw moisture gather round her eyes. He felt a pang of guilt that he hadn't dealt seriously with matters in the past. Then with a sharp intake of breath, she fixed a smile on her face and turned back.

  "Now, tell me about your book. How's that coming on?"

  The next day
he drove round the M25 and then branched off onto the M3 for Winchester. Just over an hour later he was driving down the gravel approach road to the University of Southern England. It was a modest institution that had formerly been a polytechnic. The reception was housed in an old manor house that had gained a reputation in the Second World War as a centre for the development of radar. It had kept its association with communications as a university, offering courses in IT and telecoms. Doug didn't quite understand how Harry's psychic interests fitted in but was looking forward to meeting an old friend.

  "Doug. Good to see you," proclaimed Harry, thrusting his hand enthusiastically forwards. He still retained a full head of carrot-coloured hair, though he had aged since they had last met, five years previously.

  Harry led Doug out of the old building and into a futuristic glass pyramid which housed the main facilities. Near to the entrance was a coffee bar where they sat and ordered a cappuccino each.

  "Saw you on the telly yesterday. Something about phone hacking. Is that what you want to talk about? Sure there must be someone here who can help you. Expect the students do it all the time."

  "No, Harry, it's not about phone hacking. It's about spooky stuff – the paranormal."

  "I didn't think that was your area."

  Doug told him briefly about his experience at Penhallam and how he had seemed to be receptive to sounds and emotions from the past when he was in Kate's room.

  "You're absolutely right, Harry. It's not my area. That's why I need to understand what might be going on. I'm used to scientific explanation – facts."

  Harry shifted in his chair and gave Doug a long hard look.

  "Science is fine, Doug. It tells us 'what' we are but it doesn't tell us 'who' we are. That's why the paranormal exists. It's our way of trying to answer the question 'who am I?', 'where have I come from?' and 'where am I going'? As religious belief declines in the west, we have had to look elsewhere for answers. And sometimes that involves exploring the inner self – what some people would call our soul. That's not a place that sits comfortably with science."

  "I understand that," replied Doug. "But inside that house I had a strong sensation that I was connecting with the past – hearing voices, sensing a presence from another time. Is there any scientific evidence that buildings have memory?"

  "There's been a bit of research in this area. The problem is separating out the intellectual from the crap. Let me put it like this. We know that information can be stored and played back. We see it every day – a recorded TV programme, the hard drive on your computer, and now the cloud. Data is stored in lots of different ways – usually on some sort of silicone device and we've become good at retrieving that material just when we need it. But there's reason to believe that some other materials can also store data. The problem is – how do we get it to play back? If we could do that there'd be a fortune to be made from replaying data from all sorts of historic places. Just think, Doug, if we could somehow replay images stored in the cliffs at Dover, we might be able to see the Romans invading Britain."

  "That's a lovely thought, Harry, but is there any actual hard scientific evidence?"

  "Well, there is some. It seems that at times of high emotion, the incidence of information being recorded is at its greatest. For example, there's well documented evidence of dogs refusing to go onto the sites of civil war battles. They can sense something there that frightens them. So it seems that some kind of memory is retained."

  "I suppose that's similar to Auschwitz, the German concentration camp," added Doug, warming now to the explanation. "I was sent there once on an assignment for the paper. The strange thing is that there are no birds there – even though it's surrounded by forest."

  "Exactly, we know there is memory of a kind. The problem is, how do we play it back? No one has yet invented a machine that can do that. We rely on people like you who have experienced the sensation of voices or forces which appear to come from the past. What we do know, however, is that people who are in some way connected to an event are more receptive to these experiences than others."

  "In what way?"

  "Well, there is evidence that memories can be stored within a family line – much as physical characteristics are stored in DNA. So, someone from the present, confronted with a similar situation to one that occurred in the past, may retain a memory of that event which influences how they act in the present. In that way, you could argue that the past talks to the future."

  "Does that explain why I'm hearing these voices at Penhallam?"

  "You're linked to the family that's been in the house for generations. It could well be that your presence is the trigger that replays these memories – yes."

  "So, these voices. Do they exist or are they just my imagination?"

  "It's to do with the way your subconscious works. Your mind is interacting with the stored data but is making sense of it in terms of a world you're familiar with now – not the world as it was then. Kate is a figment of your imagination – a very real construct – but just imagination. The test is that you couldn't interact with her. You can watch her, much as you watch a movie. But you can't talk to her and she can't register that you're there. If she does – well, let me know. There are a few questions I need to put to her. Me and the rest of the scientific world."

  They laughed as Harry got up to leave.

  "Just one more thing, Doug. When paranormal events do occur, it often seems to be when there's unfinished business. Something that hasn't been completed. It's a bit like a damaged CD. It keeps on repeating until it finally finds a way of getting to the end. Now I must go. I've to prepare seminar on extrasensory perception. You should sit in, you'll get to find out what the mind is capable of. You know, there's a common myth that we only use about ten per cent of our brain capacity."

  "Probably less in my case, Harry."

  "Let me know how it goes."

  Doug ordered another coffee and pulled out his iPhone. There was the usual spam, but also an email from Julia.

  'Doug. I've got a lead on the journalist. I've found out where he is – in a psychiatric hospital not far from Bude. Do you want to meet him?'

  He rang back immediately.

  "Julia – hi. Tell me more. How did you track him down?"

  "Quite easy, really. I thought like a journalist."

  "OK – so what did you do – bribe them?"

  "Not exactly. I went into the paper's office in Bude and told them I wanted to place a series of full page ads promoting our antiques."

  "That must have got them eating out of your hand."

  "It did. Then I told them that one of their people had visited Penhallam a couple of years ago and I needed to contact him again. At first, they couldn't seem to place him but as soon as I got up to leave without commissioning the ads, they suddenly remembered. So, I've got a name and an address near a place called Hartland Point. About twenty miles from here."

  "Julia, I'm coming down. Could you put me up?"

  "I thought you might say that," she replied, with a trace of laughter in her voice.

  "How about tomorrow? I can get down about six thirty."

  "That soon?"

  "If you're thinking like a journalist, Julia, you'll know a hot story can't wait."

  He was strangely exhilarated by the prospect of seeing Julia again so soon. He would leave early in the morning and try to catch up with Nick in Exeter. Feeling contented, he reached for a paper that had been left on the adjacent table. He groaned at the unflattering picture on the front page – of him, head down, battling his way through the throng of journalists as he tried to make his way into court. The headline read 'Top journo hacked off by press intrusion '.

  Chapter 12: Penhallam, April 24th 1643

  Kate waited until dusk. Her mother always retired to bed early in the evening and Beth seldom left the scullery unless she had duties to perform.

  As the sun dropped below the ash trees that bordered the house, she lifted the latch on her bedroom door. It w
as locked from the outside as she'd guessed. Taking a length of cord from a pocket, she attached a hook that she'd retrieved from the dairy and, as she'd done a few times before, pushed it into the gap between the top of the door and the lintel above. She then let the hook drop down until the cord was taut. It took several minutes before the hook caught under the wooden catch, but with deft manipulation she soon managed to lift it and slip out into the corridor beyond.

  She made her way slowly to Robert's room, glad that he was away fighting for the King. In one corner of his room was a large oak trunk where she knew he kept his discarded clothes. A few minutes of rummaging through these and she soon had what she needed.

  Back in her own room, she pulled off her gown and slipped on a pair of Robert's breeches. They were coarse against her skin but she felt excited by the sense of freedom they gave her. Next, she selected a tight-fitting vest to hold her chest in and reduce the curves of her body. Over this she slipped on a well-worn leather jacket and a pair of her old boots from the days when she had been permitted to ride. She had been an excellent horsewoman in her early teens and had adored the pony brought for her on her twelfth birthday. But the declining financial situation had caused her father to complain that he could no longer afford feed for the animal and so it was slaughtered not long after her fifteenth birthday. It was an event which drove another intractable wedge between Kate and her father as their relationship deteriorated still further.

  Looking at herself in the mirror, she was satisfied with the image she saw reflected. Her body contours were well disguised and she could easily be mistaken for a boy. Only one feature was left – her hair. She gathered this tightly at the back of her head and fixed it with a wooden comb. Then she took one of Robert's old leather hats with a wide brim and set it on her head. She laughed aloud when she saw the result. How exciting and liberating it would be if she were really the boy she saw in front of her. To be free of the restrictions and conditions that bound her so completely to the will of others. Maybe she should seize her chance and go. But the thought of John waiting to meet her brought a swift return to reality. She placed two bags under the bed cover in case her mother should look in. It was unlikely but not worth taking the risk. Then, as the clock in the hall downstairs chimed a quarter to midnight, she made her way slowly down the stairs. Boards creaked but in a house such as this no one was disturbed by noises. The house had its own voice and you learnt to live with it.