by Peter James
Then a voice yelled. ‘Charley! Wait! Darling! Don’t jump. Hold on!’
Tom’s voice.
Her fingers were slipping, her arms hurt, the pain, the burning, the choking smoke. Easier to let go, to drop, easier to die. Her grip slackened.
She heard the clatter of a ladder and Tom’s voice again. The sill was burning her fingers. The ladder vibrated from his footsteps. She felt his hand on her leg, guiding it across and down, on to the top rung. Flames burst out of the window above her, leaping into the darkness as if they were searching for her, but she did not notice. She could see nothing except Tom’s face in the flaring light.
Epilogue
Alice Hope Witney was born on February 14th. Charley and Tom decided on the middle name Hope because, in a way, her birth had given them both hope for a fresh start.
Alice splashed in the bathtub and gurgled. Charley lifted her out, dried her, and dressed her in her sleep suit. Then she carried her downstairs into the kitchen.
The kitchen was smart, high-tech. Charley had made it as different as possible from the kitchen she had planned for Elmwood. Everything had gone in the fire, every photograph, item of clothing, piece of furniture, book. It was as if her past had been eradicated. She did not mind. In a way, she was glad.
The insurance payout on the fire had been good and they had sold the land to a property developer. Their new home was a large semi-detached house in a tree-lined avenue in Barnes, close to the river. Neither Charley nor Tom had any hankering to live in the country again.
She switched on the television in the living room, sat on the sofa and gave Alice her bottle. Alice had Tom’s hair and his seriousness; at times too serious as if she were already, at eight months old, trying to work everything out. Charley wondered if Alice would ever one day remember things from the past, the way she herself had.
It was a year now, almost exactly. Some days it seemed a long time ago, just a faded dream; others, it felt like only yesterday. Little things triggered off the memories: the smell of a pipe; a man under the bonnet of a car; the colour of a tie.
She often wondered in quiet moments like now, as night fell outside and the television flickered, what had really happened and how much more there was inside her, locked away, that a hypnotist could get out. But it would have to stay there. Where once she had been so curious to know, now she must try hard to forget.
Some nights she awoke from a nightmare screaming, reliving a part of the horror. Ernest Gibbon might be sitting at the end of the bed, holding Viola Letters’s yellow sou’wester in his hand. Or Hugh, in his sawn-off tie, with an agonised expression on his blackened face. Or Ben padding towards her and, as she reached out, he would plunge through the floorboards into an inferno. Sometimes she saw Nancy Delvine through flames, and as the fire engines roared down the drive, she would clutch Tom and scream, ‘Don’t let them! You mustn’t let them. Leave it; let it burn down!’
The inquests had been the worst part: Viola Letters’s and then Hugh’s. The same coroner both times. Viola Letters’s death he had concluded was an accident. On Hugh’s he had been less positive and recorded an open verdict.
Alice finished her milk and burped, then lay sleepily in her arms. Charley carried her upstairs and tucked her up in her cot. Alice woke up and stretched her hands towards the mobile that hung out of reach above her, plastic bumble bees and butterflies. Charley gave it a twirl and Alice watched the pieces swinging, light glinting off them. She was fascinated by anything that sparkled.
Charley switched on the pink night light and the baby alarm, and went downstairs to make supper. Tom would be home soon. She took some lamb chops out of the fridge and put a knob of butter in the frying pan. There was a crackle of static through the receiver of the baby alarm, a gurgle, then Alice’s breathing, steady, rhythmic. Asleep.
The garden lit up suddenly. Harsh bright light. The intruder sensor. Charley’s eyes scanned the lawn, the neat flower beds, the greenhouse. A startled cat jumped the fence at the bottom, and she smiled in relief. Butter sizzled in the pan and wisps of steam rose. She glanced out at the garden again; the light was still on, and she felt strangely comforted by the ordinariness of their garden. Normality. Elmwood had never felt normal and maybe that was part of it.
She wondered whether she had really seen the ghost of Commander Letters that day, and the ghost of Nancy Delvine in the burning house, or whether they had been trace memories of people her own mother had seen, that had been passed on to her. This had been Hugh Boxer’s theory, and there had been an article in the press Tom had cut out for her, with a programme on television on the same subject. Science, it seemed, was favouring that same argument.
And yet. You never knew in life; you never really knew. She had been to a couple of libraries and read all she could find on reincarnation. But the more you searched, she began to realise, the larger the riddle became.
Forget it, Tom had said, and that was the right advice. Maybe nature was helping her in its own way. Life had been good the past year. The balance; always a balance. Positive and negative. Yin and Yang. The good seemed to have followed the bad. Tom was doing well in the partnership. Their marriage had survived, although Hugh had been right when he said that a broken marriage was like a broken glass: you could stick the pieces back together, but you would forever see the cracks.
Laura was getting married again. Their friendship had never recovered. They had exchanged Christmas cards with Julian and Zoe and Zoe had scribbled a note inside saying she would give them a call in the New Year and invite them down for dinner. She never did. Charley was quietly relieved to have had the last link with Elmwood severed.
There was another crackle of static through the alarm, then a sharp clatter, as if someone had given the mobile a push. Except that it was out of Alice’s reach; safely out of reach.
There was a splintering crack. Alice cried.
Charley sprinted out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into Alice’s room, snapping on the main light. The mobile had broken and was dangling down into the cot. Alice was screaming, panicky, windmilling her arms which were tangled in the cotton threads and tiny opaque shapes.
As Charley leaned over the cot saying, ‘OK! It’s OK, Mummy’s here,’ Alice’s right arm jerked straight up in the air. Charley felt a searing pain in her face and pressed her hand to her cheek, startled. She took it away and saw that her fingertips were smeared with blood.
Alice was motionless in her cot, staring at her. For one fleeting moment Charley saw something in those eyes that terrified her. It was in the blackness of the tiny pupils. As if they carried in them an evil that had come down generations, that had travelled through all time and had brought with it a cunning and a hatred and a sense of victory.
The room went cold as if the baby had drawn all the heat into herself. Claws spiked Charley’s skin; someone stood behind her, pushing her forwards, to the cot. To the thing that was inside it.
‘No. Let me go!’ she screamed, turning.
There was no one. Just the wall. Perspiration fell from her skin as if from slabs of melting ice. Alice’s eyes closed and her head lolled to one side; her tiny balled fist opened and a shard of splintered plastic fell on to the sheet, marking it with blood.
Fear held Charley’s throat and she stood for a moment before she was able to move, to reach down and touch her baby. Then she took Alice’s hand, terrified it might reach out and grab her like a claw. She examined it carefully, but it was unmarked. She picked up the shard, disentangled the remains of the mobile and pulled it free. Alice was sleeping again as if nothing had happened, her breathing settling back into a steady rhythm.
Charley went through to the bathroom and dumped the bits in the waste bin. In the mirror she saw a ribbon of blood trailing down her face. And she saw the fear that was in her own eyes. The disbelief.
She had imagined it.
Tony Ross had said the shock would go on, would manifest itself in odd ways, and strange symptoms, for years to come.
Imagined it.
She pressed a towel against her cheek and went back into the bedroom. Alice was sleeping, her lips curled into a Contented smile. There was a calmness and serenity about her. As Charley watched, her expression altered, then again, her eyes blinking busily, her tiny mouth changing from a smile to a frown to a question, her face like an ever-revolving kaleidoscope, as if she was reacting to things going on deep inside her mind.
Trace memories in her genes. That was all.
Charley hoped.
available from
THE ORION PUBLISHING GROUP
Dreamer £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-7678-8
Alchemist £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-1729-3
Host £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-3745-1
Faith £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-3711-6
Sweet Heart £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-7677-1
Twilight £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-7679-5
Denial £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-2688-2
Prophecy £6.99
PETER JAMES
978-0-7528-1737-8
All Orion/Phoenix titles are available at your local bookshop or from the following address:
Mail Order Department
Littlehampton Book Services
FREEPOST BR535
Worthing, West Sussex, BN13 3BR
telephone 01903 828503, facsimile 01903 828802
e-mail [email protected]
(Please ensure that you include full postal address details)
Payment can be made either by credit/debit card (Visa, Mastercard, Access and Switch accepted) or by sending a £ Sterling cheque or postal order made payable to Littlehampton Book Services.
DO NOT SEND CASH OR CURRENCY
Please add the following to cover postage and packing
UK and BFPO:
£1.50 for the first book, and 50p for each additional book to a maximum of £3.50
Overseas and Eire:
£2.50 for the first book plus £1.00 for the second book and 50p for each additional book ordered