Once the team were on their way, she’d put her foot down hard in the opposite direction, passing The Foxhouse Inn before pulling over and vomiting repeatedly, dry-retching until the acid burned her throat. And then wept. For her colleague. For herself. For Hannah. For mankind in all its fragile ignorance. Because her life and how she saw it, would never be the same again. Rather like believing you’re looking at a picture of a princess in a long, flowing dress - only to suddenly see it differently and realise you’re actually looking at the profile of a wicked witch’s long, hooked nose instead.
The turnaround had come after she’s bounded up the stairs on Hannah’s heels, only to find absolutely nothing to account for the almighty, foundation-juddering bang they’d both heard less than a second before. Nothing had fallen over. Nothing had been moved.
Hannah walked into Jack’s room first.
Everything was calm.
He’d been sitting at the window, looking out at the rolling moor land.
The room smelled bad - like stagnant sewage - and damp seeped up the pretty, flock wallpaper leaving tide marks. The pine dresser and wardrobe, along with a chest of drawers and a chair, were all piled up in one corner as if ready for removal day. And Jack’s shoulders were shaking so hard, like he was having the best laugh.
Hannah froze, staying by the door.
Kristy breezed in, affecting a confident, professional approach. “Hello Jack! I thought I’d come visit, cheer you up!”
He turned. Slowly. And Kristy’s heart slammed against her ribcage. Dear God!
Jack’s white hair looked like he’d been pulling at it, so clumps stuck up in patches, leaving parts of the skull exposed and pink. He’d lost at least half his body weight - taking him from being a big man to a gaunt, scarecrow figure with skin that hung from his bones. And his lips, always ready with a gentle smile, were twisted into razor wire. But mostly it had been his eyes, and she wished with all her heart and soul she’d never looked into them. Bulbous, pale, no longer laughing with kindness, but glinting with hateful cruelty. And the pupils had been red. As scarlet as freshly drawn blood.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God!”
A deep, vibrating guffaw erupted from deep inside him. Not one voice, but many - like an evil choir - and she backed away - footstep by footstep - as he turned, his skull creaking round on its stem, to face her.
Feeling for the door handle, Kristy retreated through the doorway after Hannah, just as a wooden chair hurtled on its own accord from the pile of furniture in the corner, and hit the wall beside her head.
She yanked the door shut behind her.
The breath wouldn’t come from her lungs. She forced the oxygen in, gasping painfully. The landing was unlit, the staircase in the far, far distance…such a long way off. She tried to get to it, every limb a dead weight, running but not moving. Nasty laughter reverberating through the house. The staircase still unreachable…lungs heavy…lunging for the banister, pulling herself forwards until from there, like in some kind of underwater nightmare where everything was murky and oh so slow, she’d managed to propel herself down towards the front door, and finally, out into the icy December day.
OhmyGod. OhmyGod. OhmyGod…
How long she’d sat there in the car, stunned, unable to think, she had no idea. Probably only a few minutes. But when a rap came on the window, it made her physically jump. She buzzed it down.
Hannah leaned in. “Now do you see?”
Kristy’s throat dried to crust as she tried to form words. “I’m calling the crisis team. He needs to be taken in because you can’t do this, and frankly, neither can I.”
“I can tell you now there isn’t a psychiatrist in the world who can cure him, Kristy. Surely you can see that? He needs a priest. And one who knows what he’s doing too.”
“I think,” said Kristy, firing up the ignition, “that you may well be right, but I’ll arrange for his care anyway. This can’t go on for another day. You get onto the church. I’ll make sure your priest gets in to see him.”
“Well I guess we don’t have much choice. One more thing though,” said Hannah. “And I’m serious - watch out for odd things on the road - I mean you personally. You’re involved now. I’m talking about things like a car coming straight for you at speed. Don’t swerve, keep your nerve, be vigilant. They will want you dead.”
“Who? Who will? Why?”
“You still don’t get it, do you? Look - I had a couple of incidents recently. A black sports car tailing me. When it overtook I couldn’t see a driver. Then I’d turn the bend and it would be facing me in the middle of the road. No driver! I swear. Fortunately my brakes worked and there was no one behind me. Take care, Kristy. Go slow. That‘s all I’m saying - I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t warn you - even if it does make me sound insane.”
Even then, there had still been a tiny percentage of her, which remained sceptical. There were explanations…had to be…anything other than the most frightening one imaginable - that negative energy could possibly live and breathe as an intelligent life force.
Until, accelerating down from the Sheffield moors, she’d turned a corner, and come to point blank range with a dead-eyed child standing in the middle of the road. The reaction to break hard was automatic, and the Audi span round several times, eventually reversing up a grassy bank before grinding to a clunking halt.
She looked back at the road. No child. Walked back to survey the scene. Nothing. Not so much as a foot print on the sleet-covered tarmac.
Now do you believe?
She pulled the blankets up higher, trying to get warm, praying the lights wouldn’t start flickering or the temperature dropping like they had in the cottage kitchen that morning.
Fear. That was all it was. Her own fear. Get a grip.
More important was the question of whether or not she’d done the right thing in admitting Jack to a mental health unit? What about the other patients? And had all of this really come from one hypnosis session with Ruby? How come? And if Ruby’s evil alter had somehow attached itself to Jack, then why hadn’t Ruby been affected in the same way?
It was like she’d been a carrier only…but for how long? Where had she been during her life and why had this demon only been inflicted on Jack?
Questions rained on her mind. Eyes wide, staring at the ceiling into the blinding lights. Every noise screamed in the empty apartment. Every sensation prickled the nerve endings on her skin.
What was there?
Who was here?
***
Chapter 18
Woodsend Village. Aged 11. 1999
The minute I get up, my mother says Nana Cora wants to see me. She lives in a bungalow in the next village to ours - Bridesmoor - which has shops, a church and a school. She’ll want me to go for a reason - usually to buy me something or ask about stuff. I don’t mind going as long as Uncle Rick’s not there.
My stomach’s churning with hunger but I daren’t ask for owt.
Outside, my mother’s pegging out washing in a light, spitting rain. Rooks are cawing in the trees like grumpy old men in black rags, watching her, as she hums with pegs in her mouth, ‘Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie…’
Suddenly she stops pegging, and turns to glare at me.
“You still ’ere? Piss off! Go on - just piss off! Oh and don’t speak to anyone on t’ road o’er, or you know what’ll ’appen!”
I start to run down to the river because it’s always best to run. On past Tommy’s place, always making sure to keep out of sight.
Once down to The Whisper it’s flat, and the tow path leads straight to the bottom of Bridesmoor, coming out at Rookery Mill in Tanners Dell. Just the sound of my own breathing and the rushing river now. Stitch in my side but I keep running.
There’s an old man lives at the mill. It’s falling down round his ears. Sometimes he cooks his food outside in the yard and shakes his fist if he catches sight of you. Mad as a March hare, my mother says. I don’t like hi
m, he gives me a bad feeling. Best to keep a watch out - skirting on the edge of the trees in the shadows in case he’s out shooting rabbits or fishing. He could be anywhere. Sometimes he just steps out into the path. He’s right in front of you and it makes your heart stop. Pale eyes. Pale as glass.
The river’s dark today, swirling and gurgling in a myriad of plug holes. In places it’s really deep and I know because I’ve been in there. Uncle Rick chucked me in after the last time…but I don’t want to think about that. Crawling home with wet clothes stuck to my skin, shivering so hard my teeth chattered and my legs turned blotchy and blue; my mother slapping me round the head for ‘falling in’, and Uncle Rick standing on the doorstep having a laugh with my dad.
It’s Uncle Rick I’ve got to be on guard against now I’m older. Dad takes the stick to me and Marie, but it’s Uncle Rick who watches me, follows me, brings other men with him.
I start to run faster, keeping up speed until the houses where Nana lives come into view.
She’s waiting on the doorstep, and turns to lock the door as soon as she sees me.
“Get to the bus stop and flag it down!” she shouts.
Once in town we get off at the market. She buys me pink vests, knickers and socks, and two dresses. We have chips in a steamy café, and I have a milkshake as well. If we see anyone she calls me Marie - my sister’s name - and I’m not to say owt different. The thing is - our Marie goes to school, but because I’m a special child I have to stay at home. If I tell anyone about it I’ll be taken away by The Social, so it’s really important not to. If ever we bump into a friend of Nana Cora’s, she calls me Marie.
After, when we get back, she puts me in the bath and gives me a scrubbing down with a hard brush. “Is he still at you?”
I don’t say anything. Not a word. If I do he said he’d kill Marie. If we say owt about the beatings we’ll get put into care and we’ll get it a lot worse there because we’re bad children. Really bad. Born bad. He said my mother cried for weeks after I was born. She had to go into hospital because of it. So it’s like his job to punish me every day. A cross he has to bear. Our mother didn’t want girls, he said. Especially a backward one like me. A retard. A stupid bitch. When Marie came along, well somehow she didn’t get it as bad. And she won’t get it much at all, he says, if I keep my gob shut.
“Aye, well you’re not too bad. Not as bad as last time, any road,” says Nana Cora.
Mum stayed here with me and Marie a few years ago. There were suitcases in the hall and talk of moving away; but then they had this massive argument and Nana made her go home again. ‘You’ve made your bed and you’ll ’ave to lie on it!’ We had to carry all the bags back again across the common. Me and Marie - we kept asking why we couldn’t stay with Nana, but Mum said our place was at home and Nana was right. Only it wasn’t Mum getting the stick, was it?
Thing is - Social Services is a really bad place to go, and this is what happens - it’s where you’re sent if you don’t do as you’re told. My dad says you live in a poorhouse. You get locked in a room and someone comes to get you in the middle of the night, and they put you in a cellar with no clothes and starve you. Worse - you never, ever see your sister or brothers again. I could never leave my little sister. My sister is my world.
Anyway, it’s not so bad at home now if we avoid him. He’s out long distance lorry driving, but if he comes back when we’re on the sofa watching television he’ll get the stick from over the door and start on us straight away. So we know to watch the time. Make sure we’re gone.
Marie tells me stories about what goes on at school when we’re under the bedclothes at night. If he doesn’t come for me that is, which he doesn’t much anymore. Not like when I was younger. We’d both pretend to be asleep but he only ever took me. She doesn’t know where he took me and I never told her. Never told anyone.
One time, he came for us both and we had to go through the woods to this place - it was a long walk and pitch dark. Marie started to cry out loud - she’s a lot noisier, and although she’s younger she’s bigger than me - and he strapped her right there on the path - and then we were in this caravan and he told her to shut up and stay there until we came back. As we left I could hear her whimpering and trying to control her sobbing. I thought if I let him take me then she would be safe. I said that to her - ‘don’t worry, Marie - just stay here and you’ll be okay. Don’t make a sound. Keep quiet.’
I can’t remember anything else except just this vague thing - going upstairs in a house, into a back room, which had candles lit everywhere, and a purple cloth and there were men there. A loud humming noise - a kind of chant. I can’t remember anything else because I was that scared and I think I fainted or something. Marie remembers the caravan because she was there all night and next day she couldn’t go to school because she had a cold. She said there were screeching noises in the forest and she could see torches but she didn’t dare come out. She crept under the table and curled into a ball until he brought me back. She said I was asleep and he was cursing because he had to carry us both home.
When Nana finishes scrubbing me she rubs lotion into my back and then we have tea. Quickly. Without speaking. Because it’s getting dark and I have to leave before the pit closes and Uncle Rick gets back. Like I said, it’s Uncle Rick I have to worry about now.
Once he came home early. Nana had been on the phone and he caught us. His face was covered in coal grime and his eyes looked red and sore. The stink of sweat and pee was overpowering. And then he smiled and I knew I was done for. I shot out of the house and got as far as the woods, but he caught me up and…I can’t think about that. That was the worst time. Afterwards, he opened up his zip and peed all over me, in the face. And laughed. Walked away laughing.
One time I was playing at making camps in the woods with my sister and her friends when he cornered me and told the others to shove off; and they did, and I wanted to shout after them not to leave me because I knew what he’d do. They didn’t know any better - it wasn’t their fault.
Now, as I hurry down the road in the fading light, swinging my carrier bags, I can feel his presence. A quick glance over my shoulder. No, no one.
Fear. It’s a tingling sensation starting deep inside my stomach, spreading alarm like a bush fire, to every nerve ending. I pick up speed.
Down at the river the water is chill against my face. Fresh and clear and cold. Washing away all the dirt and sins. It washes away my evil and my filthy blood. All that I deserve. That’s what he said.
Uncle Rick. I can hear him on the forest path. Catching up. Already smell the sour ale on his breath. In my face. Getting my spine rammed hard into the trunk of a tree. Fore-warned. Somehow.
Start running.
Along the towpath now, my own rapid footsteps pounding through my body. Level with the forest. Keep running. Faster. Faster. I can see the white of the caravans up ahead and cut a hard left up the path into the woods. Please, let there be someone walking their dog or something. But as dusk drops and lights snap on inside nearby houses - there is no one. I’m totally alone out here.
My heart thumps like a drum against my chest wall. The carrier bags are slowing me down but they’re mine and my hands grip them tightly. Nails digging into my palms. Breath hurting. He knows I have to run from village to village and I’ve no other way of getting back. If I go across the common someone will see me and Social Services will get me and I’d never see my sister again.
Huge hands lunge for my shoulders, and shove me hard into the thicket.
“Now then, you little tease,” he says, unzipping his trousers. “Tha can’t run faster than me.”
I’m up again, scrambling to my feet, but he swiftly wraps rope round my wrist and ties me to one of the branches in the tree. Slams me hard against the bark so my head cracks against it. Sometimes there is another man who watches and smokes; and sometimes he cuts or gags me. I don’t bother screaming anymore, there’s no point. The other man shoved things into me and then urinated
on me as well. I had to go into the river to get it off or my mother would thrash me for being a ‘dirty little bitch.’ I don’t want to go in the river again or get a beating so I lie still.
For a while he talks about a special girl. A good girl.
And I float away. Looking up at the light through the trees…the fading pinks or purity and watch the broken doll on the forest floor - the stupid, dirty, evil girl - as I float higher and higher into castles of cloud.
***
Chapter 19
Rookery Mill, Tannery Dell, Bridesmoor. Summer 2008
Celeste stood outside Rookery Mill on the overgrown path leading up to the front door, and squinted up at the windows - hollowed-out eye sockets in a wall of solid stone.
After their first meeting, when Ruby had phoned to arrange attendance at one of her spiritual classes, she’d thought the girl was all right. Had been pleased, even. But two days had passed since she failed to show, and there’d been no answer on her mobile phone either. Ruby had meant to come, she was sure of it.
Something was wrong.
Celeste walked around the outside of The Mill. On the far side, fresh water rushed down from the moors to the deep river in the dell. The air was sweet and chill, the whole place lush and sylvan, chattering waterfalls cascading over shiny rocks; wagtails and dippers busying themselves on and around the water.
Eyes on her back.
She swung round.
Facing her, legs apart, hands tucked into the belt of his ripped jeans, was a dark-eyed swarthy man in his late twenties, perhaps early thirties. Rough skinned, hard mouth. “Can I help you?”
His voice wasn’t local. Irish? Was this Jes - Ruby’s gypsy boyfriend?
“I was looking for Ruby. She had an appointment with me but didn’t show up and I was worried about her. She said she lived here.” She held out her hand. “Celeste Frost.”
He shrugged. “I was just packing up the van. She’s stopping, though.” He indicated towards the mill with his head.
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