The Voice Within

by Roger Penfound

  "What happens if she refuses?"

  "She's got to. We can't move on until she's done that. She's made up her mind."

  They paused, both aware that they were entering uncharted waters.

  "Look, Nick, I've talked it over with your mother and we think that when Aleena goes to see her father, there must be someone on hand to help. Someone nearby who can intervene if things take a nasty turn."

  "Well, me, of course," replied Nick. "I'll be there."

  "I think you need someone with you in case things get out of hand. So, I'll be there with you."

  "You! I don't think so. You'll probably end up hitting her father."

  "Of course I won't, Nick. And I don't think you should go into the house with her. It'll only exacerbate matters. We can park close-by. If she leaves her phone on when she's in there, we can hear what's going on and intervene if things go wrong."

  Nick sighed.

  "It's all a bit cloak and dagger."

  "It may be but I don't think we can take chances. It's either that or we involve the police."

  "God, no! That would alienate the whole family."

  "So are you up for it?"

  Nick tapped his foot on the floor nervously as he tried to take in the implications of the plan.

  "OK. When do we do this?"

  "Discuss it with Aleena first – make sure she's comfortable with the idea. There's no easy solution but I think this one is the most honest. However, she must be prepared for the worst."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Her family might reject her. They might throw her out. You must both be prepared for that. But we'll be there for you both."

  Doug felt the challenging stare of Nick's eyes.

  "Do you promise me that?"

  "Yes, son. This time I promise you."

  He left Exeter just after two and took the A30 trunk road towards Bude. After twenty miles the road began to skirt the northern perimeter of Dartmoor, a vast area of moorland which separates Cornwall from the rest of England. He knew from his research into the English Civil War that this sometimes impenetrable tract of land had frequently kept invading armies out of the south-westerly peninsular and had allowed the county to develop its own traditions and language apart from the rest of Britain.

  As he passed by the market town of Okehampton, he began to feel weary and his eyes started to droop. An approaching road sign gave notice of a rest area adjacent to a battlefield site – Sourton Down. He steered the car off the main carriageway and followed a lane to a small parking area overlooking a wide vista of moorland. Getting out of the car, he breathed in the cool air, heavy with the perfume of heather and gorse. Above him, skylarks dipped and soared in the afternoon sun. Beyond the moorland which spread out before him, the land rose up to a distant peak.

  Feeling refreshed, he made his way to an information booth at one end of the car park. It informed him that this was the site of the Battle of Sourton which took place in 1643 at which the Parliamentarians halted a Royalist advance with a small troop of horse. It described how torrential rain had turned the ground to a quagmire and how bolts of lightning had ignited gunpowder stores leaving the Royalists with no ammunition for their guns.

  It was hard now to envisage the battle, looking across the sunlit scene with groups of walkers back-packing along a footpath which wound its way over the moor. Doug felt sympathy for the Parliamentarians. He had always been a rebel himself. He disliked bullies and the arbitrary exercise of power. It was why he had entered journalism as a young man – fired by the desire to right injustice. So he understood the rebel's cause. Why leave an ineffectual and vain monarch to raise taxes and wage wars unchecked? Parliament existed to curb his excesses yet the King had refused to convene it for eleven years.

  His mind turned to the Penhallams – committed Royalists. This battlefield was close to their home. It was highly likely that they had been involved. And John – perhaps he was fighting for the rebels on the other side. It must have been wonderful for him scenting victory as they halted the Royalist advance. Was he longing to get back to Kate? And how would their victory affect his relationship with Kate's father?

  He turned back to the information booth and read on. What he learned sent a shiver down his spine. Three weeks later, on 16th May, a reinforced Royalist force of over five thousand men regrouped and confronted the Parliamentarians near to the town of Stratton. In the late afternoon, the Parliamentarian lines collapsed and the largely untrained soldiers fled, leaving behind over three hundred dead and nearly two thousand taken prisoner. It was the end for the Parliamentarians in the south west and their power base there never recovered.

  By the time he got to Penhallam, dusk was beginning to settle. He felt a nervous anticipation as he parked the Mercedes on the drive and made his way to the front porch. He tugged on the bell pull, hoping that she wouldn't appear dressed in a track suit and pissed.

  "There you are. You're late." She was approaching from across the courtyard, brandishing a fistful of herbs.

  "I'm sorry. Had to go via Exeter and then the traffic was bad. It's good to see you."

  She came up close. He thought she was about to kiss him until he found the bunch of herbs thrust mischievously up to his nose.

  "Herbs. I've got a little garden over there," she said, waving in the general direction of the courtyard. "I'm cooking you supper. Bring your things in."

  She showed him to the same room that he'd stayed in previously and then left him to freshen up. Returning from the bathroom, he couldn't prevent himself from stopping outside the door to Kate's room. It was closed. He tried the handle and the door opened. In the early evening light it lacked the menace of his previous visit but still he felt drawn into it. Something was different though. He couldn't, at first, work out what it was. Then it struck him that, where before there had been a rectangular mark on the wall, there was now a painting. He recognised it as one that he'd seen hanging in the great hall on his first visit. But it was the eyes that caught his attention – steely grey and menacing. They looked out from the painting, accusing and controlling. He shuddered.

  Then sounds, almost imperceptible at first. Becoming louder.

  Voices – shouting, arguing, laughing.

  He looked round at the empty walls, half expecting to see speakers. But there was nothing.

  He was being drawn towards the source – away from the present towards some other time.

  He didn't want to go.

  He had to resist.

  Julia was waiting and that's where he wanted to be.

  His legs were lead weights.

  With great effort, he managed to move them as if they were independently attached.

  He forced himself towards the door. As he reached it, the forces that held him seemed to release their grip.

  He was perspiring and his heart was beating fast.

  He retreated to his room and doused his damp body with deodorant. Then he made his way quickly into the kitchen.

  "You look like you've seen a ghost," she said as he entered. They both stopped in their tracks – suddenly aware of what she'd said.

  "I was joking. I didn't mean ... have a drink."

  She thrust a glass of wine into his hand.

  "I just popped my head into Kate's room – you know, just to remind myself."

  "You seem pretty good at poking your nose around my house. You were supposed to come straight down here."

  "Sorry – journalists' curiosity."

  "Yeah, and look where that's got you. I saw the evening news. Bit of a celebrity aren't you?"

  "I don't seem to be making a good impression."

  She didn't reply, busying herself with preparing the meal. Doug gulped a generous measure of wine.

  "I did just happen to notice a painting in there. Isn't that Arthur Penhallam – Kate's father? It used to hang in the great hall."

  "It always used to hang in Kate's room. My husband moved it because he hoped to sell it and wanted it displayed. But no
body wanted to buy it. So, as he's hardly here anymore, I decided to put it back where it belongs. I didn't like it hanging where I could see it. I don't like his eyes. Look, the meal's almost ready. Could you do me a favour? Do you mind if we don't talk about ghosts over dinner?"

  The meal she'd prepared was simple but well cooked. There were plenty of fresh vegetables and a good bottle of Chianti to accompany the food.

  He told her about developments with Nick and about his research into Asian culture, the fear that Aleena might be made to marry a cousin from her father's village in Kashmir and her threat ultimately to take her own life.

  "Don't you think you should tell the police?"

  "Nick doesn't want to inflame the situation. The community doesn't like outside interference. From what I've heard they administer their own justice."

  She opened another bottle of Chianti and produced a cheese board. The mood mellowed and Doug broached the topic of the old journalist.

  "What did the local office tell you about him?"

  "Not a lot. A career photo-journalist. Local man. Bit of a loner. They didn't have his surname."

  "Couldn't they have checked with head office?"

  "I didn't want to press too hard. They were a bit edgy giving me information in the first place."

  "But you know where this home is?"

  "Yes, it's on a remote stretch of the coast about twenty miles north of Bude. It's called St. Anne's Lodge. It's a low security psychiatric hospital – mostly dementia. Some of the wards are closed."

  "Why would he be in a psychiatric hospital?"

  "I've no idea."

  "Then I think we need to go there tomorrow and find out?"

  "We?"

  "Well, you've seen him before. I don't know what he looks like."

  "I seem to be getting more and more mixed up in your life."

  "Do you mind?"

  "I don't know yet."

  They talked for two more hours. Candles lit the room with a mellow ambience and the walls resonated to the sounds of laughter as the wine relaxed them. Doug felt immensely comfortable in Julia's company and began to wonder how he could express his desire for her without ruining their companionship.

  "It's eleven o'clock and I'm tired. We'd better go to bed," she said, brushing a stray hair from her face.

  She led him upstairs and onto the gallery that gave access to the bedrooms. His room was lit by a small bedside lamp which cast an orange glow across the four poster bed.

  "Well, I hope you have a good night's sleep. And no wandering around my house tonight."

  He was standing by the door. As she squeezed past him, he seized her by the waist.

  "Julia, this is mad. You must know that I want you."

  She paused, her body held close.

  "I thought you were here to lay the ghost, not me."

  He leant forward and kissed her hard.

  "The ghost can wait."

  She was looking up into his eyes – her lips smiling but her eyes were questioning.

  "I'm a degenerate alcoholic with a failed marriage and a house full of ghosts. Why would you want me?"

  "You're an intriguing woman with a warm smile who I want to spend my time with."

  "And go to bed with?"

  "Oh, yes – and that."

  She looked away, avoiding his gaze before turning back, her eyes meeting his in an uncompromising challenge.

  "OK. I haven't done it for a while. I might not be very good."

  She led him into her room, a large low-ceilinged chamber with imposing wood beams and windows overlooking the courtyard. A four poster bed with a canopy above dominated the central space.

  She looked suddenly reticent, her eyes drawn towards the bed. He took her in his arms.

  "What's the matter?"

  "He sometimes gets violent."

  He felt her body quivering.

  "Why?"

  "He's changed. He's unpredictable. He used to be so loving. I'm sorry. I'm alright, I promise."

  Doug took her face in his hands and kissed her. He led her to the bed and they lay down. He kissed her again and as they relaxed, their bodies entwined and their passion was ignited. Gently, they got to know one another, exploring each other's bodies and discovering a new intimacy. As urgency built, their inhibitions were abandoned and they hurriedly undressed, depositing clothes in disarray on the bedroom floor. When it was too much to bear, they made love, absorbed completely in the pleasure that each gave to the other.

  Afterwards, they lay on the bed, their bodies locked in a tight embrace.

  "You are a part of my life now – there's no escaping that," he whispered into her ear.

  "But I have a life here – a husband, a house. What about those?"

  "You need to get out of this place. It has too many memories. I want to take you away."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. We'll find somewhere."

  "But I've got all these antiques to look after."

  "Well, at least come with me tomorrow to find that journalist. Say yes."

  She sighed deeply, her body caressing his as she lay encased within the soft folds of the bed linen.

  "Only if we can do that again."

  They lingered in bed the next morning – in comfortable silence, disturbed only by the sounds of their own breathing and the rustling of curtains teased by a light breeze which sneaked through the open window. She turned to him and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  "You must go now. I need to be alone."

  He didn't argue. He knew what it was like living alone. It became a way of life – something that you began to cherish in some irrational way. It would take time to change. He gathered up his clothes – abandoned from the previous night.

  "You don't look bad for a time-ravished news hack," she observed, looking at his naked body.

  He smiled and started to move towards her.

  "No, No. Go now," she screamed with laughter as she pulled the duvet around her. "Go now or you won't get breakfast."

  He managed a final kiss then padded naked down the corridor to his own room.

  Chapter 15: Hartland Point, April 26th 2011

  They departed later that morning. The road north of Bude meandered through countryside peppered with orchards and small meadows. Their progress was slowed as they encountered tourists driving at a leisurely pace – old men sunk low in their car seats and white-haired ladies staring impassively at the passing countryside. After fifteen miles they turned left towards the coast, heading for Hartland Point.

  "So, let's get this straight," suggested Julia. "We know that his first name is Frederick but we don't know his surname. We know that he was a journalist working on the Western Echo but we know nothing more about him. It's not a lot to go on. Don't you think they might just chuck us out?"

  "I've been giving that some thought," Doug replied. "I think we need to be a bit devious.

  I suggest that we say we're from a welfare group – caring for retired journalists – the ANJ."

  "What's that?"

  "The Association of Newspaper Journalists."

  "Is it real?"

  "No. I've just made it up. But they'll never know. We'll say that we've heard there's a retired member here and we are trying to make contact with him."

  "Sounds a pretty thin story to me."

  "You'll be amazed what you can get away with."

  As they headed towards the coast, the fields gave way to heathland and rough pasture. Sheep grazed the hills either side of the winding road. They continued following signs towards Hartland Point, passing through hamlets which grew ever more remote as they approached the coast.

  Rounding a bend in the road, the ocean suddenly opened up before them, glittering and shimmering in the mid-morning sun. They pulled into a layby and got out of the car. From below, the sounds of breakers crashing onto the rocks combined with the cries of gulls screeching in the sky above.

  "Well, this is Harland Point," observed Julia. "So where's St. An
ne's Lodge?"

  "My guess is that it's some Victorian institution – probably an old hospital for tuberculosis sufferers."

  "Look, over there," said Julia, pointing in the direction of a ridge that partly obscured the view. "Those chimneys – they look Victorian to me."

  They got back into the car and drove further up the road that was now not much more than a track. Rounding the ridge, they saw St. Anne's Lodge. It was a three storey brick building with decorative roof turrets at either end. A long lawn stretched out in front, with tables and chairs set out in random disorder. Wheelchairs parked near to the front entrance contained elderly residents entombed in voluminous blankets.

  They parked the car and walked into the reception hall. It had long since given up any pretense of Victorian grandeur. Red plastic chairs lined one wall and travel posters extolling the benefits of skiing in the Pyrenees provided the decoration. A receptionist dressed in a white and blue tunic sat behind a desk.

  "Excuse me," began Doug. "We're looking for someone who might be a resident here."

  "Who you looking for? What's their name?" she said in a heavily accented voice.

  "His name is Frederick," Doug volunteered.

  "So, who are you? How you know him?"

  "We're from The ANJ. That's the Association of Newspaper Journalists – from the welfare division. We heard that there is a retired newspaper reporter staying here and we wanted to contact him to see if we can offer any support?"

  He felt Julia fidget uncomfortably by his side and suck air disapprovingly between her teeth.

  "I don't know Mr. Frederick. I think you have wrong place," she said as she consulted a list of names in front of her.

  The door to the reception swung open as another member of staff came in carrying a tray of crockery.