Olivia was striking, grown-up looking and elegantly beautiful. Marion, even though she was older, was more girly, a sort of pretty beautiful. On the other side of Olivia in the photo, according to the caption, was the director: Richard Sylvester. It was obvious he and Marion were related, probably brother and sister. Although Richard’s blond hair was carefully tamed with shiny gel or oil or something, you could see the curls didn’t want to submit. He had the same delicate, neat features Marion had, but on a very manly, big face with a huge Buzz-Lightyear-type chin. He was good-looking too, in a sort of US-football-jock way. They were all good-looking, even Ted McClean, the man on the end, next to Richard. He was older, with dark hair that was speckled with grey just around his ears, but he was still sort of dashing, a bit George Clooney. I figured he must be the bit-part actor, like David.
I must have been staring at that picture for ages, in a sort of trance, because when I heard the door slam, it made me jump. And I realised how little light there was in the room beyond the glow of the screen. It was almost dark outside.
‘Zoë! Are you there? I’ve just had a call from Steve,’ said Dad, throwing open the study door. You know he’s cross when he doesn’t say hello, he just gets right to the point. ‘He says you ran out of rehearsal, right in the middle, with no explanation – what sort of behaviour is that?’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I was ill. I’ve just been sick.’ I was pretty sure I still looked quite rough from throwing up and I hoped that’d be enough to get me out of trouble. Dad switched on the light and I couldn’t help shrieking as I squeezed my eyes shut against the brightness.
‘You do look pale,’ admitted Dad. ‘But if you’re ill you should be resting, not playing on the computer. Besides, don’t think I don’t know this isn’t the first time you’ve been misbehaving at rehearsals. Steve wouldn’t even give me the specifics of what else you’ve been doing to disrupt things – what’s going on with you?’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I just haven’t been feeling well, that’s all.’ I knew it would sound like a pathetic excuse. Thank goodness Steve hadn’t told Dad everything, or I’d have had to come up with something much better. ‘And I will go and rest in a bit, I promise, I just have to finish a bit of research for Monday . . .’
‘It’s not me you have to apologise to, is it? Even if you’re ill, you have to explain to people – you can’t just run away like a child.’
He really meant it. I could tell he was frustrated with me and I felt guilty about it. But I couldn’t explain the truth, could I?
‘You’ve got ten minutes. Then I want you to call Steve to apologise and go straight upstairs and lie down. I’ll bring you up some soup in a bit.’
As soon as he’d gone I turned back to the computer. I looked through a couple more articles but couldn’t find anything with any more detail. There was nothing about how the real gun got on stage – all the articles were really vague about the inquest, just declaring it an accident, case closed. So I tried entering all their names in new searches and that was more helpful. I found out Thomas and Richard had both died, Richard in a boating accident in 1978 and Thomas after a drinking binge in 1983. The articles I read confirmed Marion and Richard were brother and sister, and that Thomas had developed a difficult relationship with alcohol, whatever that was supposed to mean. I don’t know why they didn’t just say he was an alcoholic.
I found Ted’s name in a few theatre listings, the latest being in Cardiff in 1980, and one listing for Marion, a marriage announcement: Marion Elise Sylvester to Terence James Goldworthy, 15 December, 1966.
So, Marion’s last name would probably be Goldworthy now. That got me thinking. I opened a new tab and brought up a directory listings site, searching for local M Goldworthys. Man. I was good at this detective stuff – there were only three in the local area: a Mark Goldworthy, an M F Goldworthy, who was listed as a company director and one M E Goldworthy. Marion Elise. That was her, it had to be. I’d found her. I tore off a page of Dad’s telephone pad and wrote down the address. When I put the postcode into a map search I saw it was only about half an hour’s walk away, if I took a track that cut across the fields.
‘Your ten minutes are up!’ shouted Dad from the kitchen, so I shut down.
In my room later, I stared at the scribbled address. Could I really go and see this woman? Just turn up on her doorstep? What would I say?
I jumped when my phone rang next to me. I’d just finished my awkward conversation with Steve about two minutes before, so it was lying quite close by when it sprang to life. I’d been miles away, staring at that scribbled address, propped up with the bowl of half-eaten soup.
I put a hand to my chest and laughed at my own jumpiness. But it had freaked me out. Number unknown said the screen. I hesitated. I don’t usually answer those calls. But this time I did.
‘Hello?’
‘Zoë?’
‘Jack!’ I didn’t manage any hint of cool – it was like a shot of adrenalin to hear his voice.
He laughed. ‘You seem surprised to hear from me. I said I’d call . . .’
I felt a twang of annoyance. ‘Yeah, but you were pretty much running away from me at the time, so I wasn’t sure if you were just saying that for an easier exit.’
He was quiet for a second. ‘I’m sorry if it seemed that way. It was only that I realised how long we’d been standing there – I didn’t want your friends to find you and take you back in there . . . I’m sorry if I seemed off, honestly.’
It was my turn to be quiet. I had to give him full marks for a sincere apology.
‘Did you get home all right in the end?’ he continued.
‘Mmhmm.’
‘So come on then, tell me what you found out. I know there’s something, I can tell.’
How did he do that? I couldn’t keep quiet, it was so good to be able to talk that I couldn’t waste time being mad. I went into high-speed mode.
‘It’s Olivia Brett. That’s her name, the ghost. She played the same part as me in the same play in 1960, but she died on stage – she was shot. You know the bit when Rebecca gets shot? Well, it was a real gun. The police thought that maybe someone had swapped it. She might have even died right there, on the stage we’ve been walking on every day. It’s no wonder she’s tied to that spot.’ If Jack was about to react, I didn’t give him a chance. ‘And Marion, the other actress who was there, the one that played Diana, I’ve got her address – it’s only about half an hour’s walk away. I could so easily go and see her . . .’
‘Wow, you’ve been busy! You should be a detective – are you sure?’
‘I know!’ It was freaky to say it all out loud, it was such a terrifying story, but I was excited at how much I’d found out. ‘And yes, I’m positive. I saw a picture of the cast, it’s definitely her.’
‘What picture? Who was in it?’
‘The cast. Marion, Thomas, Olivia and Ted. Oh and the director, Marion’s brother.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes, why? It was definitely her, Jack, I’m positive. I couldn’t mistake her face – I can print it out and show it to you . . .’
‘No, no, I believe you. What I meant was, are you sure about going to see the other actress?’
‘I don’t know.’ I sighed. ‘I mean, I know it’s going to be hard to know what to say – it’s not like I can just walk up to her door and say, “Hi – did you used to know Olivia Brett? Because I’m the girl her spirit is haunting, and this is going to sound weird, but she says you know how she died” . . . but I have to think of something.’
‘Zoë, you have to slow down.’ Jack laughed. He sounded serious and soft but like he couldn’t help being amused by my gabbling. I blushed with embarrassment and tingled at the same time, from the sound of his laughter. I lay back on the bed, one hand over my face even though he couldn’t see my blushing from the other end of a phoneline. I sighed again, this time feeling myself relax. He had such power over my mood.
‘I know. Sorry. It’s jus
t so good to be able to talk about this. I thought I was completely alone until you . . .’ I tailed off, not wanting to say anything too much.
‘You’re not alone, now, Zoë, I promise. As long as you need me . . .’ He tailed off too and my heart thumped hard at the thought he might want to say more as well.
‘Thank you, Jack, I don’t know why you’re being so sweet to me.’
‘It’s not difficult,’ he answered gently.
I played with the corner of my pillowcase, just enjoying knowing he was there. It occurred to me I couldn’t picture where he was.
‘Hey,’ I said softly, ‘where are you calling from, by the way? That funny payphone?’
There was a pause and he coughed away from the receiver. ‘Excuse me. Urgh, yes I’m calling from the funny payphone.’ His voice cracked a little and he cleared his throat again. ‘The landlady’s such a miser – I’m sure she’s got it wired up illegally or something – she’s so worried about it costing her money somehow. And it’s ancient – I’m surprised it even works at all. But listen, Zoë, I’m not sure about you going to see this woman.’
‘But it’s what Olivia wants,’ I argued, urgency creeping back in. ‘You were the one who said we should do what she wants. I didn’t tell you, she wrote on my mirror the other night, the night she came home with me, or maybe I wrote it in my sleep but I’m sure it came from her: Marion knows. In big letters on my mirror.’
‘I said we needed to find out what she wants, not necessarily that we should do it. I think there could be more to this than what’s in the papers, that’s all – there’s some stuff you can’t print without proof.’
‘Wow, that’s cryptic.’ I was starting to get frustrated.
‘Sorry,’ he conceded. ‘It’s just you said the gun might have been deliberately swapped – if it was, that’s murder. You could be in dangerous territory . . .’
‘But the police investigated it and they decided it was an accident.’
‘That doesn’t mean they didn’t still have suspicions, it just means they didn’t have the evidence to prove them. Who did they question, did the paper say?’
‘Thomas. And Marion,’ I said sheepishly.
‘So she was even a suspect! And you were happily planning a visit to her house?’
‘Jack, just because she was questioned, it doesn’t mean she was a suspect.’ I was arguing but I was starting to feel that maybe he had a point. ‘She was just there at the scene – that’s like standard procedure or something, right? What motive would she have to kill Olivia?’
‘That’s what I mean – all we know is what was in the paper. She could easily have had a motive we don’t know about. Maybe it was a crime of passion. Did you find out anything about their love lives?’
I got a crawling feeling in my stomach.
‘Olivia was engaged to Thomas. The male lead.’
‘Ha!’ said Jack.
I couldn’t help smiling at his glee, even though he was clearly winning the argument now.
‘So, maybe Marion wanted Thomas. Or, they were questioned together you said? So maybe she already had him. Maybe they were having an affair and they wanted Olivia out of the way.’
‘That’s a lot of maybes but, wow, if it was true, it would certainly explain why Olivia’s so peed off. That’d be nasty. But why would they kill her? Why couldn’t Thomas just dump her and go out with Marion?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe Olivia just found out about the affair and went a bit psycho. Maybe she threatened to kill Marion – or Thomas – or both. And so they killed her in self-defence – or, at least, in advance of having to do it in self-defence.’
‘Erm, OK. So what you’re saying is I’m not only being haunted, I’m being haunted by a psycho nutter? Great.’
‘All I’m saying is be sure, before you go to see Marion, that it’s what you want to do . . .’
‘Jack, she’s the only lead we have. She’s the only person I can think of who can really give us any answers beyond what we’ve been able to find out on our own.’
‘But, Zoë, think about it. The reason she might be the only person left who knows what happened is because she might be the one who killed her. She could be a murderer. If you stir this up you could be putting yourself in danger.’
I shivered. He was right, but I didn’t know what to say. I still had a strong feeling that this was what I had to do.
‘The thing is, I think I’m sort of in danger anyway, aren’t I?’ I felt weirdly calm as I tried to explain. ‘If not of death, then of losing everything I care about. I can’t think what else to do.’
‘Please don’t go. At least give me a chance to think of a way to keep you safe first, OK? And I’ll meet you on Monday, before your rehearsal. Will you promise?’
‘OK,’ I sighed.
‘I don’t like hearing you sound so sad,’ Jack whispered.
I hadn’t realised it was so obvious but he always seemed to be able to read me easily. I swallowed hard against the feeling of wanting to cry.
‘I wish I had an answer for you. I wish there was something I could do to help.’
‘You already are,’ I told him. ‘Honestly. If it weren’t for you, Olivia could be sitting here right now instead of me – I wouldn’t have got away from her.’ I closed my eyes. ‘And just being able to hear your voice. You have no idea how much that helps.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said. I turned to look at the space next to me and reached out to touch the empty duvet. What used to just be air was now so wrong, an aching absence of what – who – should be there.
‘I wish you could be here,’ I whispered, holding my breath, dreading as the words came out that I’d said too much.
‘Me too. You have no idea.’ He echoed my words. He didn’t sound as if I’d freaked him out, he sounded like he felt the same way. But I was sure it was too much to hope for – someone like him, and someone like me, an average girl with stupid freckles and a haystack for hair. I put my hand up to it and sure enough it was already forming into bedhead clumps . . .
‘If I could reach over and touch that hair, and your face, just once . . .’
I felt faint as his soft whisper reached me. It felt like the phone wasn’t there, like he’d whispered in my ear from just a fraction of a millimetre away.
‘ . . . I could go to sleep happy,’ he finished. I couldn’t move or breathe or feel my toes.
We were both silent for a moment. And then he said just what I was hoping he wouldn’t.
‘I have to go.’
I exhaled shakily.
‘I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to. But I’ll see you on Monday, OK? In the auditorium, at five?’
‘Yes,’ I murmured. I didn’t know how I was going to wait so long to see him.
‘Goodnight, beautiful Zoë.’
‘Goodnight . . .’ I could barely get the word out. After another second the line went dead.
I couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t mean the things he’d said, he couldn’t really feel the same . . . could he?
Chapter 14
I opened my eyes and the wooden planks of the stage stretched out in front of me. Rows and rows of empty seats seemed to stare at me. I couldn’t move.
A syrupy, dark red liquid began to ooze out in front of me. Suddenly there were faces in the auditorium. They were all laughing at me. Jade and Jenni, then Gemma and Anton. As the mocking cast grew larger, David and Steve appeared, then Katy and Katie . . . Dad . . .
I couldn’t understand. Everyone hated me. Everything hurt. Then I was being lifted effortlessly. I heard Jack’s voice, so soft in my ear.
‘I don’t like seeing you so sad.’ A thrill ran through me as I felt his mouth brush lightly against my ear and then against my neck. I closed my eyes. ‘You’re not alone now, Zoë.’
I felt a breeze against my face and when I opened my eyes I saw Jack staring back at me, smiling his beautiful, curly smile with the dimples, his eyes twinkling at me even in the shadows. All around us were le
aves, glowing green as the moonlight shone through them. In the spaces between, I could stare into inky patches of night sky, deep as forever and punctured with stars.
Where were we? I felt around me, my fingers finding rough bark. I could smell the woody, leafy smell and the summer sweetness in the night air – it wasn’t like a dream at all. But then I looked around us again and saw the roof of the theatre. I gasped. We were sitting in a tree. I turned sharply back to face Jack. His smile broadened into that breathtaking grin.
‘It’s OK, Zoë, you’re safe.’ And it was true, the branch beneath us was sturdy, and there were more all around and below us to steady against. I felt soothed and totally secure. Then my stomach churned suddenly, as I remembered the blood – I looked down at myself, expecting to see red . . . but I was fine.
Embarrassment quickly replaced my relief and I blushed a burning red, suddenly very aware of being in my pyjama bottoms and vest top, my hair was probably one big tangle. He reached up towards my face and I inhaled sharply again, my pulse thudding as the tips of his fingers touched my forehead. We were close enough that I thought I heard his breath quicken too. He gently pushed my hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ear. Then he reached up again to the top of my head, smoothing his hand downwards, his touch still gentle but stronger this time. I could feel the strength and size of his hand against me as it stroked down over my hair into the crook of my neck. That grin flashed across his face again and he chuckled quietly.
‘I love your crazy hair,’ Jack said, giving up trying to smooth it down.
I flinched with embarrassment but couldn’t help laughing too – his was so infectious. As we laughed together, warmth soothed my electric nerves. He put his hand down on the branch so his little finger just brushed against mine. His shoulders squared up as he shifted his weight a little to face me. As he relaxed again, my eyes followed the muscular line of his shoulder, along the curve of his neck and his jaw. I couldn’t resist the longing in the pit of my stomach. I reached out and put my hand on his face, feeling the contrast between the stubble-shadowed skin of his face and the smoother skin of his neck. I stretched towards his mouth with my thumb to touch his lips.
The Last Act Page 9