Black Light

by Bedford, K. A.

  “What am I going to do about these notes, Gordon?”

  “You could talk to the police.”

  “For all the good that would do,” I muttered, watching the fire, chewing over and discarding poor ideas, such as trying to watch the postbox out front of the post office building all day. “There’s still the idea of checking public land records, to see which properties could be near that spot where Julia had her turn the other night.”

  “I could do that tomorrow, if you like. It would be easy enough, and I’ve got some errands to run in town anyway.”

  Tomorrow would be Thursday. If the note-sender was keeping to his apparent pattern, there would be another note. God only knew what the next one might contain. I was starting to feel anxious about even the most innocuous elements of my past, wondering if I would soon find out that not only were my father and husband not what they seemed, but that absolutely everything I could remember was false. It was enough to make one want to hold onto the floor, in case it should shift suddenly. It had already occurred to me, in the wake of today’s note, that I could contact my lawyers in England and ask them to arrange to have Antony’s grave exhumed — but to what end? He had been unidentifiable then; he would be even less so now. What about Father’s grave? Was there something about his death that the doctors and coroner missed?

  I held my head. I felt a headache looming, the sort that confines one to bed, longing for sleep, and hoping for relief by morning.

  Gordon started; his eyes snapped open. “Oh! I say!”

  Alarmed, I said, “Gordon?”

  “Fingerprints, Ruth!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Fingerprints. The police, they could examine the notes and the envelopes for fingerprints. We could give them our own fingerprints, so they could eliminate us, but whatever prints remained would be those of our man!”

  “Could we do that?”

  He looked dubious. “I’m not sure, to be quite honest. We are talking about our local constabulary. On the other hand … ”

  “And how would we go about identifying my correspondent from his fingerprints? We would need, presumably, to take samples from everyone in town!” Which, I knew only too well, meant more than one thousand men, women and children. Although I was almost completely certain we could eliminate the children immediately.

  “It would certainly take time, making sure we collected every set. It’s easy enough getting fingerprints from cups, plates, glasses, anything like that. We could set up a collection of files, matching names and print samples.” I could see his mind working on the details.

  “I could invite people for dinner, perhaps,” I said. “Though that would mean, at twelve guests per dinner, divided into over a thousand residents …”

  “Yes, perhaps a hundred dinner parties. I think perhaps that may not be the most efficacious approach. To say nothing of causing a great deal of suspicion in the townsfolk. ‘Why’s that Mrs Black having all these dinner parties, then? For years she’s done bugger-all for us, and now she’s our best friend!’ That kind of thing.”

  He had a point. I lived in this town, but I was not quite of the town. I was not exactly a part of its fabric. This I was inclined to put down to the nature of my work, which required me to spend long hours alone. When I needed contact with people, I knew where to go. The Ladies’ Lounge of the Commercial Hotel was a haven on Friday afternoons, particularly in the warmer months. But it wasn’t as if I saw all the locals every day; my staff, on the other hand, were often in town, shopping for groceries or paying bills or running other errands for me.

  I wondered if I was perhaps too solitary. Which was a peculiar thing to wonder, I thought. It was like wondering if I was too right-handed, or if my hair was too brown.

  Shortly after dinner I telephoned the hospital to ask after Julia’s condition. They told me she was still doing well, and had been moved back into a general ward for further observation. They expected to keep her in for “a few more days, just to make sure”.

  Rutherford drove us up to Rockingham, though I noticed he seemed more cautious, and took the roads with greater care than hitherto. I could not blame him; the weather was starting to hit; a light rain was spitting down. The vehicle’s headlamps lit the road ahead almost like day, and made the looming ghost gums shine with unearthly light.

  Gordon said little, but he looked more relaxed than he had earlier. I was busy with my own troubling thoughts. Chief amongst these was this: there seemed to be only one way to learn the truth about the deaths of my father and husband, and Julia would probably clap her hands in glee when I approached her about it. It seemed to me that I would need to investigate Julia’s “deadworld” just as she had offered me all those years ago, when I had been so affronted that it had damaged our relationship for years afterward. She said everyone who had ever died, and for that matter every animal, too, passed through that strange realm. There were records, of a sort, she had implied, but had never explained, because I had never wanted to know anything about such nonsense. Now, needing to know the truth for my own peace of mind, so that I might begin striking back against the note-sender, I would have to face this other truth, if truth it was. It is said that the truth will set you free. I was more concerned that this truth would destroy my life.

  19

  “Whatever’s the matter, dear?” Julia asked, once we got through all the chaos of greetings and the handing over of boiled sweets and flowers. “You don’t look at all like yourself!” She was sitting up in bed, one of the Perth newspapers spread out across her lap. I noticed she had somehow acquired a fresh bag of grapes. It was easy to imagine Julia befriending other patients’ families during earlier visiting times. I would never impose on someone else’s private time with their family like that, and wondered how she managed it.

  At length, I told Julia about the new note. “But I didn’t bring it along this time. The last thing we need is for you to have another turn,” I said, trying for a light sort of tone.

  Julia smiled, saying, “Ah, but I might have been able to learn a bit more! One never knows!”

  While she explained what she meant to a baffled Gordon, I tried once again to deal with the veritable glee Julia exhibited at the prospect of going forth in the “astral plane” to learn more about demons and other monsters. The glee was understandable: all her life her entire family had discouraged, sometimes with considerable force, these “flights of fancy” of hers, insisting that she live only in the same world which confined the rest of us. To her it was like being told she could not see particular friends because they lowered the tone.

  And I had not yet proposed to her that, once she was discharged from hospital, we might set about letting me explore this deadworld of hers.

  I realised Julia and Gordon were deep in hushed conversation.

  “I seem to recall reading,” Gordon was saying, as he peered vaguely at the ceiling with its slowly rotating fan blades, “something about a particular ritual in which you could physically prise a true name from someone or something, rather as if you had a sort of supernatural crowbar … I’m sure I read about this somewhere, not that long ago, too … ”

  And Julia was saying, “Wouldn’t you need to locate the original summoning and — ?”

  “Hmm, yes, probably you would, hmm. I think so. I’ll have to have a bit of a read. Hmm … ” He looked concerned, and said to me, “I might need to have a look in a particular library up in Perth, actually, Ruth … ”

  I gathered, suddenly, that he was subtly asking if I could provide him with transport should this prove necessary. I said, “Just say the word, Gordon,” smiling a little uncomfortably, caught as I was between the racing river of their conversation and the need, at the moment, to show Gordon I was not still cross with him.

  After a long moment, I had a useful thought about Julia: “Erm, is it at all possible, Julia, that because you’ve done all this ‘travelling’ in the other realm, and spoken to these various entities, that someone from there might follo
w your trail back here? Is that possible?”

  Gordon scratched at his chin, thinking about this; to my surprise, Julia said, “Why ever would they do that, dear?”

  “Is it possible? Could something reach down here and hurt you?”

  “You’re not worried about Mr Nor, are you? Because, I mean to say, I’ve already explained that he’s quite safe in the — ”

  “Actually, no,” I broke in, “I feel quite reassured that Mr Nor is the nicest demon he could possibly be when he’s just chatting with you over cucumber sandwiches — ”

  “Oh, Ruth!”

  “I’m not finished. I’m talking about other things. Things not perhaps quite so particular about the rules of interdimensional etiquette, things that might use you as a convenient conduit into this world. Could it happen?”

  She saw my point, and looked disappointed. “Well, if you put it like that. Of course, there’s … ”

  “Gordon,” I said. “The protection charm you worked for me?”

  “You want one for Miss Templesmith?”

  “Could you?”

  Julia looked between us. “Oh dear … ”

  Gordon fidgeted with some of his hair. “Well, of course I could. It would be no trouble. Of course. If you think it might help.”

  “I should have thought of it earlier,” I said, irritated with myself for being so self-absorbed, thinking little of the price others in my life might have to pay. Already Julia had suffered in the course of all this. I should have acted sooner to protect her.

  Gordon said, “When should I … ?” He was looking around the busy hospital ward. All around, clusters of family sat and stood around other beds, talking softly. Sometimes there was a brief cough of not-quite-relaxed laughter. Nurses patrolled about, seeing to various needs, taking observation readings, carrying away bedpans, finding jars for flowers.

  “I hardly think this is necessary, Ruth. I mean to say, I’ve been visiting the other world all my life, I’ve — ”

  “I’m afraid I must insist. And besides,” I said, feeling a twinge of cold nerves as I worked my way up to my other point of business.

  Julia noticed the odd look I must have worn, and she said, “Oh yes?”

  “I think I may need to call on your expertise regarding the deadworld … ” I felt myself blushing as I said it.

  “Pardon?” Julia stared. “Did you just …?”

  Gordon also stared. “I say, Ruth. Are you sure?”

  “No,” I said, not looking at either of them. “I am not sure. I’m starting to feel unsure about a great many things, and it seemed to me … it just seemed that I might … ”

  “Oh, I say … ” Julia said.

  Gordon said, “How can I help?”

  “Can you do it?” Now I looked at Julia, though it was hard.

  She was about to say something, and it looked like it was coming from a long way down in her mind. Something she’d wanted to say to me for the longest time. However, at that precise moment, the tea lady wheeled her rattling, clattering old trolley up to Julia’s bed. “Fancy another tea, love?”

  Gordon worked his protection charm before we left. I chose not to ask him what he would have to sacrifice in order to complete the “deal”. The charm he provided Julia was different in character from the one he gave me, I saw. He explained, after doing it, that Julia’s needed to be stronger; I did not argue with him, and neither did Julia. She watched him going through the strange motions, steps and mutterings of the charm with ill-disguised happiness; she was placing her faith entirely in Gordon’s abilities. When he was done, at last, I heard her sigh dreamily. “Thank you so much, Mr Duncombe,” she said, her voice slightly thick with feeling, “I feel ever so much safer already.” For his part, Gordon looked surprised and distracted at her gratitude. I suspected he was already wondering what he would have to give up when he returned home tonight, and, from the look of him, it would need to be something more substantial than a lock of his hair.

  We rumbled home through the lamplit raining darkness. Gordon told me he would be going into town tomorrow to see about land and property records.

  We dropped Gordon at his property. As Rutherford pulled the car back onto the road, I heard the din of his dogs yapping and barking. I did envy Gordon that he had such a warm welcome when he returned home. My staff were always polite and pleasant, sometimes quite demonstrably so — but it was also part of their job to welcome their employer and inquire after her health and so forth. I had not dwelt on this feeling in a long time. Indeed, for a very long time now, since coming out here on that hellish ten-month sea journey, I had been safely cut off from the emotions I had felt in the wake of Father’s and Antony’s deaths. These ominous notes were affecting me more than I had realised. Coming home tonight, I felt myself wish, if only for a moment, that someone like Antony were there awaiting my return, keen to hear about my troubles and adventures. But who could ever replace him? Even if Gordon’s hypothesis proved true (which still seemed preposterous, I kept telling myself ), and Antony was little more than a spy, and even a traitor, he was still the man who had loved me. It was hard to imagine another man accepting the strange catastrophe that was me so easily.

  I went up to bed. Sally or Vicky had left me a hot toddy on my bedside table — it was still steaming.

  Despite the toddy’s effects, I lay awake a long time. Finally, I gave in, got up, wrapped myself in a thick woollen dressing gown, and went to my study, floorboards creaking at each step. Might as well work on the book.

  Thursday broke bleak and cold. Rutherford woke me later than usual, aware no doubt that Ma’am had been working most of the night. I think it had been about half past three when I dragged myself back to the cold bed, and another hour beyond that before sleep came for me. It took that long for my whirring mind to settle for the night, as often happened when the words came easily.

  By the time I came downstairs for a late brunch, the day’s post had already arrived. Vicky had left it stacked tidily on the sideboard.

  Abruptly, my appetite for Murray’s superb eggs, ham and toast was gone. Rutherford said something I did not hear. With cold hands I picked up and sorted through the morning’s post.

  That’s odd, I thought, examining return addresses.

  I sorted it again, and then again. And again. I was aware of breathing very hard, and muttering something. “Where is it? Where is it?”

  There were three letters from readers. Two postcards from relatives, off somewhere exotic on holidays. Another enterprising young author with intense, blocky penmanship had sent me his latest short story, no doubt wanting my guidance on how to get it published. That one I took out and dropped in the bin.

  “Ma’am?” It was Rutherford, next to me. He sounded concerned.

  I sorted through more envelopes, certain that I had missed it somehow.

  Then I found one I had not previously noticed. It wasn’t from the note-sender, as far as I could tell. In fact it was, if anything, even more surprising: a personal letter from Father William. “What on Earth is this?” I said, ripping the end off the envelope.

  Inside, two small sheets of blue-tinted notepaper lay folded.

  Rutherford said, “Is there anything I could … ?”

  I was busy pulling out the note, unfolding, reading his shaky but precise copperplate handwriting.

  It was a reply to my apology note. I’d forgotten that I had sent, let alone written, an apology, though it was only two or three days previously. Rutherford disappeared somewhere. I stood next to the sideboard and read what the bastard had to say.

  20

  My Dear Mrs Black,

  Thank you ever so much indeed for your recent and highly surprising letter.

  I say surprising because I had not thought you were the sort of woman who would try to make amends for such an outrageous breach of decorum, as you did on the occasion of our last, and first, meeting, but I am grateful, and even humbled, to learn that you are not quite the ill-mannered woman I thought yo
u must be.

  Having said that, I must tell you that whilst I do appreciate your apology, I am not quite ready to forgive you. Forgiveness is no trifling thing. It must be earned. I will have you know that the neuralgia I developed in the aftermath of your attack, and which had been quiet for many years, has in recent times flared up once again. My aged flesh never did quite recover. The pain, I can assure you, is debilitating, but I must, of course, soldier on, as I have always soldiered on, lo these many, many years. It is not as if I can ask you to come in and take my place whilst I recover.

  If you should feel the urge to come back to the church, perhaps to apologise in person, I would be very pleased indeed to meet with you. Perhaps we could have afternoon tea, and you could tell me how you have been praying for forgiveness, and that you are contemplating a modest contribution to our efforts to raise funds for necessary structural repairs to the church and grounds. I think that might help a great deal.

  Thank you, again, Mrs Black, for making a tired old man smile.

  Yours in Christ,

  W. F. Dennis (Fr.)

  I needed to sit. I read through Father William’s letter again in a state of mounting dread. Rutherford provided me with a fresh cup of black coffee — so strong, in fact, that the aroma punched through my fresh horror, and I glanced at the coffee, and then up at him. He looked concerned. “Ma’am?”

  “Rutherford? I, erm … ” I waved the letter. “Some disturbing post today.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” He left the dining room.

  “Rutherford?”

  He turned at the kitchen doorway. “Ma’am?”

  “How are you feeling today? Did you sleep well?”

  It was his turn to look surprised. “Thank you for asking, ma’am. I am quite restored.” He worked to suppress a pleased smile from the professional face.

  That swine! Attend in person, equipped with a generous donation for his roof repairs? To beg for forgiveness, with a bribe? I did not think so. His bloody roof could rot.