The Wayward Girls

by Amanda Mason

  The warm feeling she’d get when she saw him walking down the field, the sound of his voice in the kitchen. Simon sitting in the garden, smiling, the tiny reflections from his drink dancing about him.

  It had been terrible though, once Bee had realised how Loo felt. She wouldn’t let her alone, mocking not just her childish, half-formed crush, but the fact that she had any feelings at all. Laughter or tears, it didn’t matter, as far as Bee was concerned; the only important feelings in the world were hers, and everyone else was fair game. Lucy has never understood accounts of sisters who tell each other everything, who are best friends as well as blood relatives; in her experience, sisterhood had been a battle.

  ‘I’ve seen the pictures,’ says Nina, ‘obviously. But it’s not the same as … hearing about it.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ says Lucy. Isobel standing in the doorway, her face in shadow, her camera held loosely in one hand. ‘Did they stay in touch, your father and Isobel?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, a bit, cards at Christmas, the odd phone call. She couldn’t come to the funeral, but she wrote to my mum. She lives in Italy now, with her partner.’

  Lucy had wondered now and then what had become of Isobel. She knew she’d written to Cathy a couple of times once they’d moved away, but gradually, inevitably, she’d vanished from their lives.

  ‘I got in touch with her when I knew we’d be coming here,’ says Nina. ‘She sent me quite a long email, actually.’

  It’s definitely getting colder in the little bedroom. Lucy shifts position slightly, drawing up her legs, resting her chin on her knees. ‘So, she knows you were planning to come back?’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Nina. ‘She wasn’t happy about it, but yes.’

  Hal is really feeling the cold now. His legs and back are starting to ache. Nina had been talking to Lucy, but they seem to have fallen silent.

  He hasn’t asked Nina about the room upstairs, about what happened that first night before the knocking in the walls started up, although he has heard her audio.

  Who’s there? Can you hear that?

  He stands and looks across the hall into the living room. Lewis is still working on his crossword.

  A car passes along the lane outside. He watches Lewis make a note, goes back to the table to do the same himself. It’s so cold in here he can barely use the pen. His fingers cramp and as he leans forward he sees his breath frosting in the air.

  Not again.

  He doesn’t want this.

  Why me? Why not Lewis? You’d make his day.

  He should write this down. This feeling of …

  The overhead light flickers. He thinks it does, and something edges past him, circling the room.

  Something cold, deliberate.

  She’s here, behind him, just out of sight.

  The light flickers again and dies.

  ‘Shit.’ It takes Lewis far too long to find his torch. Switching it on, he scans the room carefully. He checks his watch. ‘The light’s gone out at 5.28 p.m.,’ he says for the benefit of the audio recording, hoping he doesn’t sound unnerved but cool, professional.

  What to do now? Find the fuse box or continue the observations? He sits for a moment or two, uncertain. He can’t hear anyone else moving around.

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s the whole house or just this floor. I’ve got …’ He checks his watch again. ‘… another thirty minutes to go.’ He stands and goes to the open door, laying a tentative hand against the wood, sweeping the pale beam of light across the other room. He can hear Hal moving around clumsily in the dark, catching against a chair and scraping it across the thinning carpet, but he can’t see him.

  ‘Hal? You OK?’

  There’s no reply.

  The fuse box. He needs to find the fuse box. Hal’s the only team member not to have a torch. He gave his to Lucy when they began the observations, but he does have a lighter in his pocket. It doesn’t help much. Shadows swoop and dance around him as he makes his way across the kitchen, trusting that Lewis and the others will follow. He should wait for them, perhaps, but he can’t. The fuse box is on the wall in the corner by the sink. If he can’t fix it he can always get outside. Get away.

  The kitchen is still pitch dark, of course, because the windows are boarded up. A darkness that feels thick and soft and close. The flame from his lighter seems to shrivel a little, to flicker and fade, and Hal realises that he couldn’t possibly stand it if he was to find himself alone here with no light. A wooden cupboard is set high up on the wall and as he fumbles with the handle he’s sure he can hear someone walking into the kitchen behind him. But he won’t look.

  Lewis.

  Not Lewis.

  He will not look.

  The cupboard door opens and he can see that something has indeed tripped the switches. All he has to do is reach up and reset the master switch. But the cupboard is a bodged job, set up that little bit too high, and as he reaches for it again he could swear there’s someone behind him, someone close enough to slip an arm around him. He pulls down on the switch, dropping the lighter and moving quickly away. He can see the lights have come on in the living room, a sickly yellow bleeds into the hallway, but here in the kitchen it’s still dark.

  He can’t see her.

  But she’s there.

  ‘Lucy?’

  The tapping is faint, and despite herself she looks across to the open door, half-expecting to see someone there.

  ‘I heard it.’ Lucy gets to her feet. Nina stands and lets her flashlight play slowly across the room.

  The knocking, louder this time, seems to come from below, three sharp raps shaking the floorboards, then silence.

  ‘Was that—’

  But whatever Nina was going to say is lost as below them a door slams and someone, Lewis or Hal, cries out.

  By the time they get downstairs, Lewis has switched on the kitchen light and he and Hal are standing by the sink. As Lucy walks in, Hal turns away, runs the tap and washes his hands, his head bowed.

  ‘We tripped a fuse,’ says Lewis.

  ‘Oh,’ says Nina, ‘I see. We heard something upstairs. We’ll need to check the tape.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ asks Lucy.

  ‘I fell over,’ says Hal. ‘Can you see my lighter anywhere?’ The naked bulb doesn’t seem to cast enough light, and the boarded-up window seems to deaden sound.

  Not active, Nina had insisted, when she and Lewis were arguing in lowered voices about the obs and the changes she wanted to make. There was no point in setting anything up in the kitchen, she’d said. It’s really not worth bothering about. Just leave the camera running while we concentrate on the real stuff.

  He should say something, but he can’t. He can feel it again, the pressure building in his head, and Hal wonders if the others feel it too.

  16

  Then

  ‘Do you want to tell me your name?’

  ‘No.’

  Hearing it on tape was definitely worse than hearing it in person. In daylight, in the front room, with the girls sitting on the sofa and the professor in his armchair quietly making conversation with … it, well, that was odd – those hoarse rasping tones issuing from that tiny frame – but not so very bad. But on tape, even in broad daylight on a sunny summer’s day, the voice was, Simon had decided, uncanny. He’d tried listening to it in the tent once, late at night, with only a torch to see by, but had quickly switched the machine off.

  ‘My name’s Michael. Can you say that? Can you say Michael?’

  There was a pause, just the sound of breathing on the tape. His own, he realised; he’d been sitting too close to the microphone.

  ‘Mmm … Mike … ill.’

  ‘Almost. Try again, say Michael.’

  ‘Mike … Mich-ael.’

  ‘Well done.’

  The next pause was longer. Someone, one of the girls, cleared her throat. A door opened and closed.

  ‘Where are you?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Dark.’ Each word forced
out painfully.

  ‘Is Loo with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s Loo?’

  ‘Ask.’

  ‘Ask who?’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Where are you, Loo?’

  ‘Here.’ Her voice was quiet; he had to strain to hear this part. ‘Sitting next to Bee.’

  ‘Where’s the voice coming from, Loo?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you there? Are you?’

  But there was no reply.

  Simon switched off the tape and looked at Isobel. They were sitting in the front garden on an old blanket, the machine on the ground between them.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, that’s a big help.’

  ‘What can I say? If it was Bee,’ Isobel said, ‘if it was Bee, I’d say, no way, she’s definitely pulling your leg. But …’

  ‘It’s Loo.’ Quiet little Lucia.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Simon fiddled with the machine, rewinding the tape.

  Isobel leant back, stretching her legs out in the sun, and yawned. When she wasn’t working for the Gazette, covering village shows and cricket matches, she was at the farm with Simon and Michael, recording everything on film. She’d been working long hours for almost a month now, with no real time off.

  ‘It’s been a textbook case so far, you know,’ Simon said. He lay down with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Sometimes he found it easier to gather his thoughts if he could look away from Issy, shut her out. ‘All quite in keeping with other recorded poltergeist activity.’

  A noisy spirit.

  Unquiet.

  ‘We thought we’d been dealing with a force, an energy, I suppose. But now we’re seeing evidence of – I don’t know, a desire to communicate, a personality.’ He opened his eyes and found that Isobel was leaning over him, her expression serious, hesitant.

  ‘Simon, do you think—’

  She was close; he could reach out and pull her closer, but Bee’s voice broke the spell.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

  Issy drew back, irritation clouding her face. Bee and Loo were standing in the doorway.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Bee.

  Issy scrambled to her feet. ‘How are you this morning, Loo?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Michael wants to talk to the voice again,’ says Bee. ‘He thinks that’s what been making a mess, chucking things around.’

  ‘Nicking stuff,’ said Loo.

  ‘And levitating,’ said Bee. ‘I was the one it levitated.’

  ‘What’s it like, levitation?’ asked Simon.

  ‘I dunno.’ Bee leant back against the door and considered this question. ‘Like swimming,’ she said, ‘swimming in the air.’

  ‘Could it do it again, do you think? If I got a camera and tried to film it? Could it lift you up again?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Does it hurt,’ said Isobel, ‘when you talk in that funny voice?’

  Loo raised a hand to her throat. ‘It …’

  ‘Michael’s waiting,’ Bee said.

  ‘I …’

  ‘You can say, you know,’ said Isobel. Inside the house, a door slammed and the baby started howling.

  ‘It’s not me,’ said Loo. ‘I’m not the one talking.’

  Isobel found a place out of the way, by the living-room door, where neither Bee nor Loo could see her without turning their heads, and sat on the floor with her back against the wall, watching. Since the arrival of the voice, the other phenomena had become sporadic, with events – the familiar knocks and thumps, the upturned furniture – mostly confined to the girls’ room at bedtime. But the voice itself seemed to be getting stronger with every passing day and according to the professor, a distinct personality was emerging. The investigation to all intents and purposes was now focused on this personality.

  ‘We’re close,’ Michael had said, the other evening, as they all sat round the kitchen table, going over the day’s findings. ‘All we need is a name, a place to start.’

  Simon nodded at Michael, who spoke briefly, stating the date and time and the names of those present, before turning to Loo.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Loo?’

  ‘All right.’

  She fidgeted in her seat and looked at Bee and smiled. Bee bit her lip and tried to look serious.

  ‘I thought we could have a little chat before we begin today. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘No. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Where do you think the voice comes from, Loo? The voice we’ve recorded.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does it frighten you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No.’ Again she risked a look at Bee, who looked away.

  ‘Does it tell you what to say?’

  ‘No. I can – it’s like someone’s whispering in my ear. But it’s not me.’

  ‘It’s someone else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  Loo hesitated, and Isobel had the impression she wanted very much to ask Bee for something … support. Permission. Bee leant back on the sofa and crossed her legs and Isobel was struck, for the first time, by the age difference between the girls. Bee and Loo. She hardly ever saw the one without the other. She, Michael, Simon, everyone referred to them as ‘the girls’, as if they were inseparable, twinned.

  Loo looked younger than her age, drowning in her oversized frock, her voice soft and hesitant. Bee, for all her petulance and her posturing, looked older; her dress was more revealing, if it had been through a wash recently it might even look fashionable. In repose, not clamouring for attention, not complaining, one long leg slung over the other, Bee almost looked like a young woman.

  As quietly as she could, Isobel picked up her camera, and after wavering for a moment, focused on Bee. The click of the shutter made her look, of course, and she frowned before turning away and curling up on the sofa. Sulking.

  ‘Is the voice here today, do you think?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Can I speak to it?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Michael leant forward. ‘Are you there?’ he asked.

  They waited.

  ‘Yes.’

  Loo’s head had drooped forward.

  ‘Do you remember my name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Mike. Michael.’

  ‘That’s very good. Where are you?’

  ‘Farm.’

  ‘This is Simon. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Simon.’

  ‘And Isobel over there.’ Michael glanced across the room and smiled encouragingly at her.

  ‘Issy.’

  She was hot and her back was sticking to the wall. She wished he hadn’t made it say her name.

  Simon was sitting cross-legged on the floor by Michael’s chair, reduced again to the status of technician. He tried to concentrate on either the tape or on Loo, uncomfortably aware of Bee’s tanned legs and the way her dress had risen as she’d curled up on the sofa. He didn’t look, even though he could feel her eyes on him.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘What year is it?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you use to live here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  There was no answer and Loo’s head fell further forward, her long dark hair obscuring her face.

  ‘Do you live here now?’

  ‘Don’t …’

  ‘Are you dead?’

  ‘… know.’ Her voice was so low, so forced, Simon had the urge to take her hand, to comfort her.

  ‘Did you die here? Can you tell me? Are you—’

  Loo began to shake her
head slowly as if trying to clear it, as if trying to break free. Across the room Issy leant forward.

  ‘Did you die here?’

  ‘Dark.’

  She clutched at her stomach.

  ‘What’s your name? Tell me your name.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not? Why can’t you tell me?’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘What’s your name? Tell me your name.’

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Dark.’

  ‘Can you see me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you see Loo?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Lucia, can you hear me?’

  ‘Not. Loo.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My – my—’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I – I—’

  ‘Tell me. Who are you?’

  Loo was almost completely doubled up now, on the verge of falling to the floor.

  ‘Tell me your name,’ said Michael. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tib.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m Tib. I’m Tib. I’m—’

  ‘Stop it.’ Bee reached forward and grabbed her sister’s wrist. ‘Stop it. Leave her alone.’

  ‘No.’

  Loo tried to push her sister away.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Bee.

  ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it.’

  ‘Loo.’ Bee pulled her sister close. ‘Loo, stop it.’

  The younger girl arched her back, but Bee was too strong for her and after a brief struggle Loo gave in, collapsing into her sister’s embrace. Tib, whoever she was, had gone. There was only Bee wrapping her arms around Loo and the both of them rocking back and forth, trembling.

  Isobel stood up, lifting her camera as she moved closer. Loo had fallen back, her eyes were closed and her face was wet with tears as she gasped for breath.

  ‘I—’ she began. ‘Let me – I’m—’ She tried to push her sister away, and looked up at Isobel. ‘Issy,’ she said.

  Bee’s arm swung out and knocked the camera out of Issy’s hands.

  ‘Shit!’ It wasn’t broken, but when Isobel picked it up, the back swung loose, exposing the film. The images would be lost.

  Bee held Loo close once again, whispering in her ear.