by Peter James
She paused at the entrance to Hugh’s workshop and coughed violently on the fumes. Ben stayed back, not liking them at all. The roar of the engine was deafening inside as it echoed around, still speeding up, slowing down, but sounding increasingly uneven. The air was a dense haze of blue smoke. A powerful torch with a metal grill suspended on a long flex shone down into the bonnet of the Triumph, which was opened on one side, the cover in the air above Hugh’s stooped figure. He was examining something in the engine, adjusting something, and seemed to be nodding to himself. A screwdriver was about to fall out of the back pocket of his boiler suit. She walked over to him, but he did not hear her, could not have heard her above the din. Exhaust and steam rose around him and she wondered how he could breathe in this hell-hole of a fug.
‘Hugh!’ she shouted. He did not turn round; he carried on with his head down, listening to his engine, nodding. She stood beside him and peered into the bonnet then pulled back, alarmed at the heat, the searing heat that sent up a shimmer through the fumes and steam.
‘Hugh!’ she shouted, panic in her voice. ‘Hugh!’
She tugged at his arm, but it did not move. Still he kept nodding.
‘Hugh!’
His arm was rigid as if it was set in a plaster cast. She moved further round the wide black wing, trying to see his face, but his head was low, inside the dark searing cauldron of hammering metal and spinning pulleys and shaking wires and black concertina tubing that was vibrating, pulsing.
His tie was sticking straight down into the engine, taut as a hawser, the knot pulled into a tiny ball, his shirt collar bunched and screwed up around his neck. She leaned over further and could see the blade of the tie now, twisted around the fan pulley which was jammed.
Smoke was coming from his face, his hair. She grabbed his tie, but it was like steel. She pulled it upwards as hard as she could, but it would not budge, would not break. She dived for the Triumph’s door, yanked it open and was conscious for a split second of the stale leathery smell, like fresh air against the fumes. She scanned the dash frantically, looking for the key, saw it, turned it off.
Nothing happened.
The engine continued its blattering roar. Through the windscreen she could see the back of his head. He nodded on, as if he was pleased, pleased that the engine was running, silently nodding to himself in approval.
As she ran back to him the engine coughed and missed, and his head jerked sharply. It coughed again, and then died. Smoke curled up, steam hissed and there was a purring rattle, a sweet stench of burning flesh, then a click and the gurgling of water. She looked around for a knife, for something sharp. A large screwdriver with a chipped blade was lying on the ground by her foot. She took it, hacked at the tie with it, and it bounced off. She scraped it across the surface but it barely made a mark and she threw it away, tears streaming from her eyes, from shock, from the smoke and the steam, from the horror.
Christ, there must be a knife in here. She tried to move him, tilt him forward so she could loosen the knot, but he would not move. A vortex of shivers swirled through her, tiny demon fish playing tag through her veins. She saw his blue metal tool box on the floor with several trays opened out, full of nuts, bolts, washers, ring spanners, a hacksaw. She grabbed the hacksaw and tried to pull the blade along the tie. It snagged. A row of threads came away, springy, like wire coils. She pushed the saw forwards then back and the bottom half of the tie fell away.
He slid a few inches only his head turning sideways towards her. His face was a mass of blackened pulp. His eyes were open, bulging, unblinking, almost out of their sockets. As she stared a strip of skin peeled away, curling upwards, like the skin of chicken that has been left too long on a barbecue.
Chapter Thirty-six
Charley ran out of the workshop, and threw up in the yard. Then she went to the front door of Hugh’s house, a low moan of terror reverberating inside her, and turned the handle; it was locked. She went to the back and tried the kitchen door. That was locked too.
She stood for a moment in the stark white light that spilled out of the workshop into the falling darkness. Hugh’s body still leaned over the bonnet of the car. Silence lay around her, pressed in on her. The taste of vomit made her stomach heave. She could hear herself panting. ‘Hugh?’ It came out as a whimper. An animal rustled the leaves of a bush behind her.
She took a step towards the workshop. The smell of roast meat came out strongly. She stared once more at Hugh’s sightless blackened face, then ran back down the lane, Ben chasing along beside her, and burst in through the front door of her house.
She stopped in the hall, puzzled for a moment. It looked different; felt different. A menacing winged bust glared at her from the hall table.
Phone.
She ran into the drawing room, and stared, disoriented, at the colours, eau de nil and peach, rich and lush in the warm glow of the setting sun. The room was full of fine Art Deco furniture, Lalique lamps.
Phone.
She crossed the floor towards a walnut bureau, tumblers spinning in her brain, trying to hit the right numbers, to unlock the code. The room became dark, suddenly, empty, the floor covered in dust sheets; brushes sat in turps in an empty paint tin. The eau de nil colourings had gone; there was no furniture, no glow from the sun.
No phone.
She gulped deep gasps of air, smelling the dry dust sheets. Regressed. Just regressed. Relief pumped through her confusion. Hugh was fine. She had seen something that had happened a long time ago, someone who looked like Hugh. Freaked out, that was all. Pregnancy causes a lot of hormonal changes. Yes, good one, Dr Ross, sir!
A wall bumped into her, nudging her gently. It did it again, and she moved away, irritated, trying to concentrate, to get the image of Hugh’s face out of her mind. So vivid, it had been so vivid. As vivid as the fetid maggoty heart in the tin. The polished tin.
Imagined that too. The tin was in her dressing table drawer, where she had left it. Sure it was. Pregnant. Everything’s fine. Going to be fine. She climbed the stairs almost jauntily, Ben following her, and went into her bedroom.
The drawer was open. The tin lay on the floor, empty, the lid near it. Both were pitted with rust and caked with mud. No one had polished them.
As she took a step forwards she felt a lump under her foot, heard a crunch and looked down. It was the locket, on the floor. A fine uneven crack ran through the enamelled heart.
She knelt, and something clattered against the chain. Something she was holding in her hand. Oh God, no. She froze, closing her eyes. Opening them again, willing it to go, not to be there.
But it was still there in her hand. The hacksaw with the red and green threads in the teeth. The threads from Hugh’s tie.
She ripped the cordless phone off the hook, dialled 999 and put the receiver to her ear. Nothing happened. She punched the numbers again, three electronic pips, then nothing. Dead. Electrics. She had not put the electrics on. Maybe the cordless phone wouldn’t work without electricity?
There was a vile smell of stale burnt wood. Something moved in the mirror. A shadow in the corridor. Someone coming in the door.
As she turned, the phone fell from her hand, clattering to the floor. She backed away in terror, crashing against the bed, sidled her way around it, trying to get further away, staring in disbelief at the figure, naked apart from an unbuttoned silk blouse, her face blackened, her eyes red, raw, her hair burnt to stubble.
It was Nancy Delvine. Standing motionless, staring in pure hatred.
Charley’s ears popped as if she were going up in an aeroplane. All sounds vanished except for the dull thuds of her own heartbeat.
I believe in ghosts. But I don’t know what they are.
Shivers rippled through Charley. It was getting colder. Vapour poured from her mouth.
I don’t know whether ghosts have any intelligence, any free will — whether they can actually do anything other than keep appearing in the same place, going through the same movements, like a st
rip of video replay. Hugh’s words drummed inside the soundproof box that was her head.
I’m not sure whether a ghost could really harm someone, apart from giving them a fright by manifesting.
The apparition raised one of its arms. Something glinted in its hand. Charley covered her stomach protectively, backed away, tripped, fell and hit her head. She heard splintering glass; shards from the mirror fell around her.
Nancy Delvine’s hand raised further.
Charley fought against her own fear, breathing in short bursts, fought her urge to scream, to turn away and curl up helpless in a ball.
You are just a ghost. A trace memory. You are nothing.
She got back to her feet without looking away. Manifestation. She took a step towards it. You are just a manifestation. The apparition did not move. Its hand stayed in the air. Ben was snarling. Another step.
It was getting colder with each step. She felt her skin creeping, lifting. A band tightened like wire around her skull, and it felt as if a million maggots were crawling over her head, their feet pricking into her scalp. She stared the apparition in the eyes. Nancy Delvine’s livid eyes stared back.
Manifestation. You cannot harm me.
Everything blurred, frosted. Her pace seemed to be slowing down; each step took an age, as if she was pushing through a great weight, like a diver walking on the floor of the ocean. It was cold, so cold. Terror swirled inside her, wind blew her hair, her face, blew inside her clothes, inside her skin.
Must not scream, she knew, must not show fear. Most not stop.
Then suddenly she was out on the landing. The pressure had gone. She kept on walking, faster, down the stairs, across the hall, out of the front door. It was dark. Cold air blew on her back. Her skin was still crawling.
God help me. She cradled her stomach. OK, she mouthed silently to her baby. It’s OK.
It was just the bedroom phone that was dead. Dead because it was cordless, needed electricity; the kitchen phone would be all right. She stared into the blackness of the house, listened, then went down the passageway to the kitchen. The table was nearer than she realised and a chair slithered across the floor as she bashed into it, its legs screeching. She grabbed the phone, held it to her ear.
The line was dead.
She tapped the rest, looking at the doorway, fearful that at any moment the apparition might come through. The light on the answering machine was off. Electricity. Did phones use electricity? She ran into the hall and picked up the torch from under the table. Then she opened the cellar door, shivers pulsing through her, and clambered down.
There was a low steady hum. She raked the darkness with the beam, then shone it on the fuse box. The master switch was in the OFF position, but the disc was spinning in the meter. It should not be turning. She pulled the switch down with a click which echoed around the cellar. The humming grew louder. She tried to turn it off, but it would not budge.
Something on the wall hissed at her, there was a ripple of sharp bangs and the wiring erupted into blinding flashes, vivid as a lightning storm. Acrid smoke filled her nostrils. Something hit her hand that felt like a wasp sting; a tiny piece of burning plastic. She shook it off, coughing on the smoke. Then the crackling and flashes stopped as instantly as they had started.
She shone the beam back to the master switch. ON. There was a fizzle and a weak flicker as the ceiling light came on, a dull yellow glimmer like a candle in a draught. Again she tried to push the master switch off, but it was too hot to touch. She folded her handkerchief over it and tried again. It would not move. The humming was getting louder.
She staggered up the steps and into the kitchen. The answering machine light was winking. She grabbed the telephone receiver.
It was still dead.
She tapped the rest up and down. There was a hiss behind her, and a curl of blue smoke rose from the light switch; a brown blister spread outwards along the wall around it as she watched.
She ran into the passageway. Dense smoke was billowing out of the cellar, so dense she could not breathe. She smacked into a wall, blinded by it, flapping it wildly away with her hands, coughing, choking, trying to think.
Up the lane to Zoe, use her phone? Too long. Got to stop the fire first. Must stop it. Must get it under control. Water. Must get water. She raced into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and took out the pail from under the sink. The wall around the switch was burning fiercely. Water dribbled into the bucket. She looked frantically for something she could use. Got to get things out of the house. Possessions, save things, documents, valuables —
Ben.
‘Ben!’ she screamed, her throat in agony, running into the hall. ‘Ben!’ She flung herself up the stairs, down the landing, into the bedroom.
He was cowering behind the bed.
‘Come on, boy! Have to get out.’ She tried to pull him. He would not move. ‘Come on.’ She patted him gently, then tugged his collar. He looked up at her, whimpering.
The floor jolted as if someone had thumped it from below, and wisps of smoke rose through the floorboards. She yanked his collar, but he sat resolutely, frozen in fear. She pulled harder and his paws skidded across the bare boards. ‘Come on!’ she screamed.
A sheet of flame shot up the wall and blackened the window. The glass exploded. Ben broke free of her grip and bolted into the landing. She ran after him then stopped in horror.
Flames were leaping up the stairwell.
Ben turned in panic, snarled at the flames, at Charley. The sound of the fire was deafening, the heat scorching her face. The bedroom erupted into flame behind her and Ben fled up the attic stairs.
‘Ben! No! No! Down, we have to go down!’
Tears streamed from her eyes as she went up after him. ‘Come back, you idiot dog!’ she bellowed. He was at the far end of the attic, barking at the small window. Smoke rose up through the hole she had made when she had put her foot through the floor. ‘Ben!’ she shouted. Then the whole house seemed to move, to twist, and the landing floor below fell away into flames.
She slammed the attic door shut, ran over to Ben and pressed the latch of the window, but it was rusted. She put more pressure on it and the lever snapped off. She rammed the glass with her shoulder and it exploded outwards, the rotted frame snapping with it, and she nearly fell. She grabbed the sill, steadying herself, feeling a draught, the air cooling her face. She gulped the fresh air greedily, then coughed; it was thick with smoke. She looked down but the smoke and the darkness and the tears in her eyes made it impossible to see anything.
Ben had his paws up beside her, whining, scratching. She leaned out, cupped her hands over her mouth and screamed: ‘Help! Help! Fire! Help!’ Her voice petered into a hoarse croak drowned by the crackling and splitting roar of the flames below.
The floor lurched and she was thrown off her feet to the boards. They were hot. Plaster and rotted wood rained down from the ceiling.
Out. Got to get out. She scrambled across the slanting floor to the packing cases, dug inside the one she had opened. A pair of jeans, another. She knotted the legs together, tested them. It was getting hotter. She rummaged for something else, something strong, her old combat jacket, pulled that out, found an arm and tied it to a leg of the jeans.
Ben ran to the doorway, barking. Someone was standing there, just a silhouette through the smoke. It was help. Fire Brigade. She was OK, they were both OK. Relief flooded through her. ‘Over here!’ she shouted. ‘Coming ov —’ The smoke choked her voice, swallowed up the figure.
She dropped the clothes and ran to the door. Then she stopped in stark terror as the smoke cleared enough for her to see that it was a woman standing there, smart, elegant, in riding gear, hatless, her black hair hanging carelessly across her face.
Nancy Delvine.
Smart, elegant, Nancy Delvine.
Ben whined, pawing at the ground as if he was trying to back away but could not. Smoke jetted up around him. As she moved towards him, she felt the floor sagging. ‘Ben!’
she yelled.
There was a loud crack, then the sound of splintering wood. Ben looked at Charley for a brief instant.
‘Ben!’
He lurched, drunkenly, one step towards Charley, then plunged through the floor into a volcano of flame.
Charley threw herself forward. ‘No! Ben!’ The floor dropped several inches. Flames leapt into the rafters, raced along the beams and streaked over her head, showering hot sparks on to her.
The floor rocked, sagged more, as if it were suspended on slender threads. Nancy Delvine was gliding towards her, the flames eating up the floor behind.
Charley yelled out in fury and in agony. ‘My dog. Get my dog, you bitch!’ She pushed herself on her hands and knees away from the flames and thumped into the wall. She scrabbled to her feet, crouched in terror, staring up into Nancy Delvine’s eyes, hard, venomous. Even over the smoke and flames she could smell the sweet musky perfume.
Manifestation. Apparition. You are nothing. Nothing.
Nancy Delvine smiled, came closer.
‘What do you want?’ Charley said.
Closer.
Nancy Delvine spoke. It was the same cold arrogant voice she had heard before, in the doorway of Elmwood, in her regression. ‘You killed my dog.’
Closer.
‘And my husband.’
Closer.
‘You destroyed my life.’
Pins and needles surged over Charley in agonising ripples, worse than the heat, much worse. She gritted her teeth against the pain. ‘It wasn’t me. It was my mother.’
Nancy Delvine came closer. ‘You are your mother.’ She smiled again. Then the flames swallowed her, and she was gone.
The floor tilted, tipping Charley forwards. Frantically she grabbed the window sill, hung from it. Flames stung her flesh like whiplashes.
She heaved herself on to the sill, her eyes bulging in terror at the ground, now lit by the glow of the flames through the smoky darkness. It was a long way down. Her clothes were smouldering. Gripping the sill with her hands, she began lowering herself down the outside, trying to shorten the fall. Her feet dangled, scrabbled, trying to find a hold on the rough walls, but there was nothing. The sill was hot, crumbling; she closed her eyes. Any moment she would have to do it.