Angela’s breath hissed through her teeth as she gasped, and then she was crying. She sat there, face hidden by her hands, and sobbed.
“He didn’t mean you,” Bernard said, trying to console her. “Honest, love. It’s not you.”
Now she looked up. She wiped her eyes, and the hatred on her face made her ugly as she spat out a question. “Then who is it, eh? Answer me that if you can!”
The men around the table exchanged glances, then stared uncomfortably at the floor, or their hands, or anywhere but at their partners. The women, suddenly disgusted, could do nothing but smile at Angela in an attempt to comfort. It didn’t work.
“The nanny,” Bernard whispered, and flinched as Angela slapped him hard across the right cheek. The marks of her fingers raised almost instantly, almost purple against his pallor.
“The fucking nanny? For God’s sake, Bernie! Couldn’t you do better than that?”
He hung his head, shamed, and said nothing more. Angela hit him again, punching his arm, but only said, “Well she’s fucking fired, for a start.”
Ciara fought to smother a smile. Sorry as she was for Angela, that line was funny. But she doubted Angela, or even Bernard, would see the humour in it anytime soon.
“He’s going,” Minerva said, with a vague wave of her hand in Bernard’s direction, “he’s done what he wanted.”
“I’ll bet he bloody has,” Bernard muttered, and flinched once more as the window behind him blew open, tangling him in the voile panels that reached for him and allowing the rain in to soak him thoroughly as he fought to free himself.
Ciara reached across for another note, frowning once more at how far away the Spirit Chair was, already unfolding the paper as she sat back and made herself comfortable once more. “Now then,” she said brightly, trying to divert attention from the mess of Bernard and Angela’s predicament. “Next question: what happened to my brother?” She stared around the table and this time it was easy to work out who’d asked a question of their deceased loved ones. Sarah was trying very hard not to cry.
“I didn’t know you had a brother, Sarah,” she said, and was relieved to find her words didn’t antagonise the woman, who’d clearly been trying not to betray herself.
“That obvious, is it?” Sarah asked, and laughed. “He disappeared a long time ago. We were seven.”
“You’re a twin?” Ciara asked, shocked despite herself.
“Yep, fat lot of good that is, though. I thought we were supposed to have that special link, but I’ve never felt a damn thing.”
Minerva cleared her throat. “Was… was his name Philip?”
Sarah flinched. “Yes,” she whispered. “It was. Is he here?”
Minerva nodded. “He’s beside you, dear. I am sorry. Blond hair, freckles, I feel as if he was always smiling, always joking.”
Sarah nodded. “That’s him. Bloody annoying, sometimes. So he’s dead.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m afraid so. He…” Minerva paused for a moment, frowned, then shook her head.
“What is it?” Sarah asked.
“I’d rather not say, if I’m honest.”
Sarah laughed. “Oh no. You can’t just tell me he’s standing there and then not tell me what he wants. He’s here because I wanted to know what happened to him, isn’t he?”
“He is.”
“Then what happened?”
“He was murdered. I am sorry.”
Sarah was crying again now, but refused to wipe the tears from her eyes. She was angry, and she wanted answers. “Does he know who did it?”
Minerva stared at the empty air beside Sarah as the seconds ticked by, her expression troubled. And then she nodded, just once, and turned back to Sarah. “He does. But he says it’s not important.”
Sarah stared at her, unblinking. “Doesn’t matter? Doesn’t fucking matter? Why not?”
Minerva simply shook her head. “He doesn’t want to say, I’m sorry. He just says he’s waiting, he’ll see you again.” She smiled, and went on, “he’s gone now. I’m sorry he didn’t give you more.”
Sarah stared back at her, her expression mutinous. “It’s all bullshit anyway.”
“As you like, dear.” Minerva turned her attention back to their host. “Another note please, Ciara?”
This time Ciara had to half-stand and lean quite a way in order to reach the remaining notes. She shuffled the bits of paper around on the seat, frowning, casting glances at the spaces around and behind the chair, then took one note and sat back down. She flinched as she opened it, and paused before handing the message to Minerva.
“You don’t want to read it, dear?” the medium asked, hesitant to take the proffered note.
Ciara shook her head and ducked down in her seat, all confidence apparently gone. She stared at the table, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
Minerva took the paper and unfolded it, moving her lips as she read the note to herself first. She frowned. “I see.”
“What now?” Alice asked. She’d been so quiet as to be unnoticeable up to now; Ciara had forgotten she was even there.
“Well,” Minerva said. “I don’t know who asked it, but the next question is: ‘Did I do enough?’”
Everyone stared at her, before glancing around at the other diners in an attempt to spot the guilty party. It wasn’t hard. Ciara was weeping now, tears falling silently down her face as she cried without a sound.
“You?” Alan asked, finally.
Ciara nodded.
The lights flickered. Once, twice, then they went out for a full thirty seconds before coming back on again, although at a reduced power. It lent the room and its occupants a somewhat sickening hue.
The Spirit Chair was now occupied. A flickering figure that seemed almost to be a composite of various separate entities was sitting there, staring back at them, a mocking smile on its face that never wavered, even though the figure’s features changed almost constantly.
As Ciara looked around the table, she saw Alice slumped in her seat, her face so grey it almost looked blue, her eyes cloudy and dull. A dark line ringed her throat, and it still seeped blood. She leapt to her feet, shocked.
“How?”
“….did you not see she was dead?” The figure laughed, the sound like nails scraping down a board, and everyone flinched. “Because I didn’t wish it.”
Someone was sobbing quietly, and after a moment Ciara realised it was Alan. He was gazing at his wife’s corpse, tears flowing freely.
“Alan,” Ciara said, suspicion dawning now.
Alan turned to face her, struggling to control himself.
“Did you know?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’m… sorry. I thought he might…”
“He?”
Again he nodded. “I thought if we did as he said, he might…” He dissolved into sobs again.
“He might what?” Ciara asked, impatient now.
“Give her back.” Now he’d said it, now he’d confronted what he and his wife had done, he was calm. “He won’t though, will he?”
Ciara shook her head. Something was badly wrong with him, she saw; no one should be that calm after losing their partner. Unless…
“Alan,” she asked. “Did you…did you sacrifice her? When?”
He nodded. “Before we left home. I knew what a Dumb Supper was, so made my own sacrifice to pave the way for my lord, allow it to take her so it could enter this house undetected until it was ready to reveal itself. You’re not the only expert on the old ways, Ciara.”
Ciara thought quickly. “Guising? Is that what this is? You tricked me?”
Alan nodded, staring mutely at his dead wife.
“But all I wanted was to offer sacrifice, to maintain the tradition – receive some kind of comfort from my ancestors that I’ve done the right thing.” Ciara paused, chest heaving as she fought not to cry. “I gave my fucking daughter!” she yelled. She turned to the creature sitting at the head of the table, waiting in silence. “What are
you?”
“You know what night this is,” it answered, “this is the night the veil lifts, and death itself can walk this earth for a time, alongside the departed.”
There was a collective sigh as the creature’s words sank in. Ciara steeled herself to keep questioning, to find the answer that was eluding her.
“You said I did enough.”
It nodded.
“I’ve given my whole family now; I have no one left to give,” she said, and now her voice broke. “What more do you want?”
The creature sighed. “Your offering was generous, and it was accepted, even though – I think – you didn’t realise fully who your sacrifice was for. You are safe. And you will prosper.” It gazed around the table, taking the measure of each of the diners in turn. “Your companion sacrificed his wife to me that I might walk the earth this night, and take revenge on his behalf.”
“Revenge? For what?” Minerva asked, but she shrank back as the creature turned its gaze on her.
“He felt powerless,” the creature said, “no one noticed him and he was sick of being ignored. None will do that now.” Its gaze turned to Bernard, who was staring at Alice. He looked as if he might vomit at any moment. “Bernard will certainly pay more attention, won’t you?”
Bernard jumped as if shot, and turned a panicked glance to the creature, then to Alan. “You knew?”
“That you were fucking my wife? Of course,” Alan spat at him. “Not so hot now, is she, though.” He smiled at Bernard, an expression full of spite. “Or are you into that after all?”
Bernard could only shake his head, horrified.
“Sshh,” the creature said, and the temperature in the room plummeted, vapour streaming from its mouth as it whispered. Silence fell.
Once more, the creature turned to Ciara. “You will prosper,” it said, “you have honoured the old ones greatly, and we will give you your reward.” It turned towards Alan. “You gave up all for me, and for that you too will prosper.”
Alan nodded his thanks and stared at the table, apparently unwilling to partake any further in the night’s events.
The creature stared around the rest of the table’s occupants, and now its smile was gone. “The rest of you,” it said, “have taken this woman’s hospitality for granted, and even laughed at her for her faith in the old ways. You have no faith of your own, to speak of, I can see. Yet look what she sacrificed to you.”
“Ciara,” Bernard asked, “what does it mean, sacrifice? What did you do?”
“The dinner,” Ciara said, and started to cry. “That was my sacrifice. Did you like it?”
There were noncommittal nods from the rest of the guests, and Bernard whispered, “we did, but why…?”
“Was it a sacrifice?” She sighed, a sound that contained the world’s sorrow. “Because it was Ella.”
The others cried out, and someone even retched, but Alan just smiled at her – the saddest expression she’d ever seen, and now she was sobbing again.
“It was a beautiful sacrifice,” he said. “You did her proud, and now she walks with her ancestors until you meet again.” Then he dropped his gaze to the table, ready for what came next.
The creature rose now and – raising its arms – started to recite something they couldn’t understand, some language long lost. The wind outside rose in answer, until the windows were clamouring in their frames and the trees outside threatened to uproot themselves and be borne away, who knew where.
Yet in the room itself all was calm now. The creature smiled down at Ciara, and at Alan, and indicated the other guests, all now lying on the floor, their features ashen, their eyes staring.
“What did you do?” Ciara whispered, scared of what was still to come.
“You and Alan sacrificed that we might walk again,” the old one said. “We are grateful. You have provided us with fine vessels.”
The remains of what had been their friends rose then, their movements clumsy and awkward as what lay within sought to become reacquainted with the limitations of flesh. One by one they stood and moved toward the door, pausing to bow to Ciara and Alan and whisper thanks in voices that spoke of dust and dirt, then passing out into the night, to wander again the roads they’d long left behind.
“What are they?” whispered Alan.
The creature whispered behind them, and both Ciara and Alan cried out.
“They,” the thing said, and now it laughed. “They are my companions, my blood. And we have gifts of our own to bring.” It, too, nodded its thanks to them and wandered out into the night. It seemed as if it carried its own darkness, the air dimming around it as it walked, dogs and other people cringing back even though they had no idea what passed in their midst.
Ciara wondered what would happen in this new world now, where the Old Ones walked again. What new demands would be made? And what would be left when they were done?
Suicide Bridge
He had set out to die tonight, only when it came right down to it, he wasn’t sure he could. It was much harder, out here on the ledge.
He shivered violently as the wind rocked him, threatening to knock him off his narrow perch. He drew his jacket tighter and bared his teeth in a fierce grin – the cold was the least of his worries. He leaned over for another look.
Traffic streamed by below him, oblivious to his presence. The wind sucked at him, and he leaned as far back as he could, shaking.
Throwing himself off Suicide Bridge had seemed so poetic. After all, that was how it got its name, wasn’t it? He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. He probably wouldn’t even know much about it.
He dragged himself to his feet and stood shuddering against the parapet of the bridge. He peered over the edge and swallowed hard against the sudden taste of vomit at the back of his throat. Tears tracked icily down his cheeks as he realised he couldn't do it. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s cold tonight.”
“What?” He whipped round, and that simple reflex nearly accomplished what all his resolve so far had failed to do. He flailed his arms wildly, instinctively trying to save himself. Then he managed to recover a little, and hurled himself back once more.
“The wind’s strong tonight.”
Her voice was strangely muffled, as if the wind had whipped it away. She stood a few feet away, leaning back against the bridge. The wind forced her golden hair straight back, exposing every inch of her bloodless face. Even though it was nearly Christmas, a thin summer dress was plastered against her, forcing every curve into sharp relief, yet she didn't appear to feel the cold.
“What’s your name?”
“John. John Smith.”
She giggled, delighted. “Is it really? I didn’t think that there actually were people called that.”
“‘Fraid so.” He’d always told everyone that his parents had called him that as some sort of protest against bureaucracy. He didn’t like to admit, even to himself, that they were just so dull that they couldn’t see the invisibility they were saddling him with. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah. Sarah Ryan.”
Niceties over, silence blanketed them again. He stood; content just to watch the night for now.
“What are you doing up here, John?”
“What does it look like, Sarah?” She took no notice of his sarcasm, just sat on the edge and let her legs dangle over, as if she was sitting on the end of a pier. The wind ripped into him again, and he shuddered.
Gingerly, he inched towards her perch, and manoeuvred himself into a sitting position beside her. He set his gaze firmly on the horizon, the night lights of London. He’d had enough of looking down for now.
“I’m sorry. I…”
“Forget it.” She cut the apology off quickly and smoothly, as if it were irrelevant. “It won’t solve anything, you know.” Taken aback, he struggled for the right words.
“Maybe, maybe not. At least it’ll be over.”
The laugh that came back was brittle and s
urprisingly cynical. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Oh, I get it. Isn’t this where you start your pitch?”
“Pitch?”
“You know, to save my soul.” Now it was his turn to be cynical. “I’ll bet you want to take me somewhere ‘friendly’ for a nice cup of tea and a chat.”
“Oh, please! Do I look like I’ve been born again?”
He shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. What she looked like was a girl with a habit, pale and wasted. It didn’t matter, anyway. All that really mattered was that his pleas, his promises of devotion, had turned to dust when Angie slammed the door behind her.
Game over. No more chances.
“Life isn’t looking too rosy at the moment, Sarah, I have to tell you.” His voice choked as the weight of his tears lodged firmly in his throat. He would not cry. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“Oh, really? Well, from where I sit, it’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative!” She was furious, teeth bared in a snarl. Her face flickered, and then she let the mask slip. John drew back, and started to fall. He grabbed desperately for the ledge, and winced at the pain as his wrist was seized in a grip so cold it burned.
Her face came closer to his and he cringed. He could see her skull. He could even see the flattening on one side, with cracks radiating out from what must have been the point of impact. Her face, eerily transparent, was superimposed over it.
“You want me to let go, John? You still think it’s such an attractive choice?”
“Please, God…”
“You’re praying now? What are you praying for?”
He couldn’t speak. He shook his head, tears streaming down his face, freezing his cheeks. “You want to be saved? Is that it?” He couldn’t answer.
“What do you say? You want to go back to the way it was and forget this ever happened?” He nodded his head, beaten. “I guess I don’t look so good anymore, do I?” In spite of himself, he looked up, surprised by the pain in her voice.
She took his breath away.
Stripped of all artifice, it was ironic that what shone through the death mask before him was a lust for life. She showed a wild, savage beauty that he sensed could be terrible.
Bury Them Deep Page 8