by Amanda Mason
‘Well,’ Hal says, ‘I am not a medium.’ He’ll give it another couple of minutes and then he’ll go. They’ll sort something out about the cameras – maybe he’ll come back tomorrow to pick them up, maybe he’ll meet them at Blue Jacket House when they report back to Cathy; he’d like to see her again, to say goodbye.
‘I’m sorry, Hal. But I need to ask – what was it like? Could you hear her? See her?’
‘It was—’ It’s not that the experience is fading, more that he can’t bear to recall it. ‘I don’t know—’ It makes his head ache. ‘I read the book,’ he says. ‘Some of it. Your dad’s book.’ Has he told her that already? He can’t remember. He blinks. His eyes are sore: even the pale light reflected by the dull grey sky is too much for him as it bounces off the road, the bonnet of the car. He feels sick again. ‘I probably just remembered … you know …’ Tib. ‘I probably just read about her, about them.’ He has the book somewhere, stuffed into a camera bag, he knows he does.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘Can’t you just hang on for a while? There’s some material, stuff my dad left behind – I haven’t even shown Lewis yet. Only I’m – I think I need you to stay on, to help me.’
‘I’m sorry, Nina, I really don’t think I can.’
Nina takes this in for a moment, looking down at the satchel in her lap, then she appears to come to a decision. ‘She wasn’t interested in us, you know. Cathy. Not until she found out about Simon being my dad. I should have told her straightaway about me; it would have saved us a lot of time.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She rubs at her face. ‘It got hard, you know? Telling people he had died. Having to comfort them, pretend to be all right.’ Her bag slips and the files slide out, one falling open, the contact sheets drifting into the footwell of the car. Nina bends down to retrieve them, placing them in order slowly.
‘She’s very keen on going through Issy’s pictures, isn’t she? Cathy, I mean.’ She runs her fingers over the black and white images. She looks up at Hal and smiles sadly. ‘And I think there’s something there. Something to do with Bee. It’s a bit confusing, but as far as I can tell, the pictures of the girls are—’ Then her expression changes. She’s looking beyond him, past the house, at the familiar figure making her way across the dull green field towards the barn.
‘Oh, shit,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘What now?’
24
Then
Bee woke up early, for once. She slipped carefully from the top bunk, landing lightly on her toes next to Loo’s bed. Loo could have pretended to be asleep, but she knew that wouldn’t work.
‘Get dressed,’ said Bee softly, her sour morning breath tickling Loo’s ear. ‘And don’t make a noise.’
The house was still as they sneaked out of their room, closing the door carefully behind them. This was the tricky bit: Cathy might be up early, especially if the baby was grizzling, and the two of them stood motionless on the landing for a moment, straining to hear her moving around.
Silence.
The stairs and hall were carpeted and they were able to get to the back door without being found out.
‘Where are we going?’ Loo asked, following Bee down the garden, past the apple tree.
‘To see Simon,’ said Bee, scrambling over the dry stone wall.
Usually they would creep up to the tent, going round by the road, or crawling up the ditch that ran the length of the field, arriving there as if by magic, giving Simon no time to plan an escape. But today Bee strode up in full view of the world, Loo half a pace behind her. They were wearing new clothes from the dressing-up box, carefully selected the night before: Loo’s clothes were too big, and there had been no time to alter them.They’d had to find safety pins to take the skirt in at the waist and the hem trailed across the long grass, but she quite liked the effect.
The tent was still.
‘We can’t wake him up,’ said Loo.
‘Well, shut up, then.’ Bee dropped to her knees and slowly pulled the flap carefully to one side. ‘Shit!’ The tent was empty.
Loo looked around, half-expecting Simon to pop up out of thin air. ‘Maybe he’s in the barn,’ she said.
Bee gave her one of those you-are-so-stupid looks.
‘He might be,’ said Loo.
‘Fine. You keep an eye out for him then,’ said Bee, ducking inside.
‘You can’t go in there.’
‘Don’t be such a baby.’
It was cramped in the tent and, hampered by her long skirt as she crawled around, Bee knocked over a pile of books and papers stacked on the empty sleeping bag.
‘Shit!’
‘What?’
Loo sounded terrified.
‘Nothing. Hang on.’ Bee sat down on the bag – his bed, really – and began to rifle through the papers.
‘What is it?’ Loo stuck her head inside.
‘Nothing. Keep watching.’ Loo did as she was told and Bee was left alone with Simon’s notes. She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for, but she did take a sad sort of pleasure in seeing her name written in his hand. Did he think of her when he wrote it? Did he see her face as he formed the letters? She wished he knew her as Bianca. Bee was a kid’s name.
Bianca Corvino.
Bianca Leigh.
She was so intent on looking for her name, it took a second or two for the sentences she was reading to make sense.
M. W. called a halt to the session as it was obvious that Bee was becoming agitated, jealous, I suppose, of the attention Loo is receiving.
‘Bee—’
‘Shut up.’
After all, it’s Loo we need in order to make contact with Tib.There’s not much point in including—
‘Bee.’ Loo had poked her head inside the tent again.
‘What?’
‘There’s a car.’
I almost feel sorry for her.
‘Bee.’
M. W. is certain that the phenomena have been centred around Loo all along, and we will probably get the best results in the séance with O. F. if we separate the girls—
Bee dropped the sheaf of notes on the sleeping bag. If he noticed they were out of place, they could always blame Tib.
‘Bee.’
But then, she didn’t care if he noticed. She grabbed a handful of notes and began to tear them up, dragging them into long strips and scattering them over the groundsheet and bedding. She tried to pull one of the books apart, but the hardback cover defeated her; she settled instead for the Ordnance Survey map Simon had folded open to the area around the farm.
‘Bee. We have to go.’ Loo was still there, crouched in front of the tent, one hand gripping the sweaty orange fabric. ‘Bee.’ She sounded as though she might cry.
Bee’s hands were shaking. ‘Yes, all right,’ she said. She crawled back out and got to her feet. There it was in the distance, Issy’s car, the stupid blue Beetle.
‘Come on,’ said Bee, grabbing her sister’s hand and dragging her down the field, the two of them running as fast as they could, their white skirts flapping behind them like sails, like wings.
He might not be in the car, she supposed, she might be wrong, but she didn’t think so. He hadn’t spent the night in the tent, and where else could he have gone? Who else did he know? Bee ran down the incline, tilted herself at the stone wall at the bottom, vaguely aware that she was barely in control now, skimming over the ground, her limbs jagged, her head thrown back.
They reached the wall and scrambled back over it, Loo following silently as Bee led the way, crouching as her sister did when they crept across the front lawn, overgrown and neglected, sliding themselves against the cool dark stones of the garden wall. They could hear the car turning at the end of the lane.
‘What are we doing?’ said Loo, trying to get her breath back.
Bee reached out and pinched her, hard, on the soft paler flesh of her inner arm. There was some satisfaction in seeing her sister flinch and in seeing Loo
’s tears, satisfaction too in her silence.
‘Shut up.’
The car stopped and she waited. Her legs were cramping and she was beginning to think that she had been mistaken after all, when she heard Isobel’s voice, shockingly close.
‘Here we are, home sweet home.’
‘Well, it’s not much, but the view is terrific.’
Simon. Almost close enough to touch.
Crouched there with Loo, Bee forced her head against the dry stones and closed her eyes, digging her fingers into the cracks in the wall. Stupid bloody Isobel. She thought about when she’d knocked her camera out of her hands, the expression on Issy’s face as the film spooled out, clouded and ruined. She should have done worse – she should have stamped on the lens until it shattered, she should have given her something to cry about.
The stone smelt rotten, old and dead. Next to her, she felt Loo moving, cautiously raising her head above the edge of the wall, unable to resist the temptation to look at him. She wanted to see too. She had to look. Just to be sure.
‘Thanks for the lift, Issy.’
‘You’re welcome.’ They were leaning against the car, side by side, looking up at the house. Issy was wearing a printed cotton dress and her hair, so vivid, so bright, was hanging loose. She looked happy, smug; Bee could have slapped her.
‘Are we OK?’ said Simon, glancing down at Isobel. ‘You know, after …’
Isobel nudged him gently with her elbow. ‘Of course we are.’
‘Good.’
‘I’d better be off.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll see you this afternoon.’
‘Sure.’
They didn’t notice the girls; they were too wrapped up in each other. Isobel smiled up at him, then got back into the car. Simon watched as she drove away.
He turned and let himself in through the front gate. The girls crouched back down in the shadow of the wall. All he had to do was look down to his left and they would have been discovered, but – his head full of Issy, no doubt – he didn’t look, and vanished around the back of the house.
Bee realised that she’d clamped her hands against her mouth.She could taste her own sweat and the grime and dirt from the wall; her heart was pounding. Slowly, she unclasped her fingers; she felt sick. He thought she was a kid. It wasn’t fair.
Next to her, Loo was silent.
‘See?’ said Bee, leaning in close to her sister, still keeping her voice low. ‘He doesn’t care about you; he doesn’t even like you. You’re a stupid little girl and all this time he’s been shagging Isobel.’
Loo began to cry quietly.
When he got back, tired, hungover and wishing for nothing more than a hot shower and a proper breakfast, Simon found the tent in disarray. He should make a note of it all, he supposed, and get Issy to photograph it, but she’d gone off to work. She wouldn’t be back until the afternoon and he could hardly leave everything in this state until then. Besides, there was something small-scale, something human about the mess.
He decided he wouldn’t mention this incident to anyone.
He began to tidy the books and papers aware he’d need to keep them safe in order to rewrite his notes, and wondering when he would find the time. His thoughts drifted to the inconvenience of his car breaking down as he tried to decide whether Michael or the Society might contribute to the cost of the repairs. It had been sweet of Issy to bring him back though, especially after he’d made such an arse of himself.
When he was done he stretched out on the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. Just a couple more days and they’d be done here. There was the séance to get through, but after that … This time next week he’d be home. A lazy breeze tugged at the tent and he slept.
Olivia and Michael arrived at the farm just after lunch time. They found Cathy sitting in the kitchen, watching a mug of tea cool, dirty laundry piled on the floor by the sink.
Michael rapped gently at the open door. ‘Good afternoon, Cathy.’
She stood, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘Come in,’ she said, looking around the kitchen. ‘Sit down, please. I’ll make some fresh tea.’
‘Please don’t worry,’ said Michael. ‘It’s probably best that we make a start, don’t you think?’
‘If that’s all right with you,’ said Olivia. ‘It’s very important that you feel confident about what we’re going to do this afternoon.’
‘Yes. Right. And what exactly are you going to do?’ Cathy asked, leaning back against the sink and folding her arms.
‘Nothing for the moment. I’d like to spend some time alone in the living room first, preparing myself.’
‘Of course,’ Michael said. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘No. Just to be left alone for a while. An hour or so, shall we say?’ She turned to Cathy. ‘Is Loo close by?’
‘She’s upstairs, with Bee. Is that all right?’
‘Of course it is.’ Olivia smiled at Cathy, her expression kind, confident and reassuring. ‘I’ll let you know when you can bring her in.’
Strictly speaking, the girls weren’t in their room, they were sitting on the top landing, listening. They had spent the morning in the garden, being conspicuously good, reading and drawing but above all listening, trying to find out what a séance – this séance – might actually involve. But they hadn’t got very far.
Now they watched as the woman, Olivia, went into the front room. Just as she got to the door she paused, and stood very still. Loo had a feeling that she knew they were there, that she might turn and look right up at them, but the moment passed and she went into the room instead, closing the door quietly behind her.
‘What are we going to do?’ said Loo. She’d been trying not to think about it too much. ‘Bee?’
Bee yawned. ‘The same as we always do. They’ll ask their questions and Tib will turn up and answer them,’ she said. She stood up. ‘I’m going to get something to eat. I’m starving.’ She thumped her way down the stairs, smacking her hand across the wooden spindles as she went, leaving her little sister behind.
Loo edged herself to the top step. She was hungry too, but she didn’t want to follow Bee. She wanted to see Simon; he wouldn’t be around for much longer, she knew that, and she’d like to talk to him, but she couldn’t think what she might say. Besides, he would have seen the mess in the tent by now, and there was a bit of her that was worried he might have guessed who’d done it, that he might be cross with them. So she stayed where she was, trying to imagine that Tib was there too, Tib who would know what to say, what to do. About Simon. About the séance. About Bee.
She leant back against the wall, closed her eyes and tried to picture her, sitting on the landing next to her.
Tib was pretty in the pale blonde way people seemed to like so much, tall and thin, older than Loo, older than Bee. Her dress was made of some dark, coarse material, and her fine golden hair was pulled back in a single plait. Her hands were red and rough. Loo had found that as the days passed, she could picture Tib more clearly, more easily, although she could never quite look at her directly. She’d never seen her face, and that bothered her, but she could always tell how Tib was feeling. Usually she was hungry, sometimes she was in a temper, and often she wanted to make fun of people – Michael, for example. She could have answered his questions if she’d wanted to, but she never did. It was more fun to watch him creep around her, afraid that he might scare her away – as if she was scared of anything.
25
Now
They need something to patch up the window. That’s what Lucy tells herself as she slips out of the back door, across the garden and up into the field. There’ll be something they can use in the barn. She’ll just take a quick look around and be back before they’ve realised she’s gone.
Better to do this on her own, she thinks.
The door hangs open, the rusting bolt dragged back.
‘Hello?’ There won’t be anyone there, there have been no passers-by, no one calling at t
he house to check up on them, but she calls out anyway. Lucy wonders if anyone in the village realises they are there and, if they do, whether anyone cares.
She steps inside, lets her eyes adjust to the gloom, and looks around. The air is damp, chilly. She finds herself unwilling to stray too far inside, away from fresh air and daylight, and considers briefly pulling the second door open too, just to be sure.
She can still hear Cathy’s voice. You’re not to go bothering your father.
And her father’s too, distant now, harder to conjure, to get the tone right. You’ll feel the back of my hand.
But they’re not here. No one is here.
She steps inside. It’s not too dark – the shutters on the ground floor have been replaced at some point with small windows; the panes are grimy and the light is greenish and dull, but she can see well enough.
The barn has become a dumping ground for unwanted tools and scraps of wood, tiles and bags of cement, left over from work on the house over the years, she supposes, and the floor is a patchwork of worn stone, broken slates and rusting wire. She glances up at the hayloft. The joists and planks look secure enough but even if there was a ladder she doubts she’d risk the climb. Woodworm and dry rot, she thinks, remembering her father’s warnings. The scary stories her brother Dan would tell.
Such a baby.
If she turned around she might catch her, Bee, laughing at her; Bee was never afraid of anything.
Larger shapes lurk at the back of the building, collapsing hunks of machinery, cannibalised and forgotten, some covered with dusty tarpaulins, some layered with rust. There had been some old-fashioned tools too, she recalled, a sickle and a scythe, long blades curving like claws. Her father must have liked them.
She begins to pick through the junk. She moves some sacking and old garden tools, and uncovers some plastic pipes and bags of gravel. She makes an effort to concentrate, to shut out anything that might be lurking, looking for a way in.
Gradually she’s able to focus on the task she’s set herself. There are some offcuts of hardboard, but they are too small and anyway she doubts she could find the tools to fix them in place. What they really need is something flexible – sheeting of some kind. They need to show willing, at least, and not leave the place exposed to the elements.