The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

  In fact, this is the state she has been in since she arrived here.

  She knows that she has to sit down with Jack and have a proper talk about what they do next – how they cope in here. She’s ready for it now. It’s going to be difficult for her to accept Angela’s friendship. A friendship that would never feel natural outside of this house. The problem of coming to a place like this is that you end up spending time with people that you would never choose. It’s the difference between real friends versus people who you meet through work, or the ones you meet through shared interests. Finding friends, choosing friends, is difficult. But not as difficult as being forced into a situation with people with whom you feel uncomfortable, having to modify yourself to fit in. She’d thought she could do it, thought she could adapt easily – but it’s harder than she imagined.

  Because Ali has never been someone willing to modify herself. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ali has made it her goal in life to attempt to modify others – to help them change their ways. Take Jack, for example. He is not the man that she met ten years ago. She saw something in him from the moment they met, something intriguing, and she knew she had to delve further into what made him tick. Does that make her bad? Perhaps it does. But not as bad as him. If she were to tell people in this place what Jack had done, they would cast him out without a second thought. But none of them would question her motives. Of course they wouldn’t. She’s the one who stood by him as he crumbled. What Jack has done was inevitable. It was always in him, bubbling under the surface. If she is guilty of anything at all, it’s of showing him what he’s capable of.

  Maybe Angela isn’t quite right for her, but she does knows that she needs to make some friends in here. Richard, as lovely as he is, is a bit too fatherly for her. Julie, however, seems like someone that she could get along with, and although the woman is quiet, Ali suspects that she has just been waiting for someone to come into this place and wake it up a little. Someone that might just be the kind of person that she could be friends with. Could that be her? She can certainly try.

  Jack has been spending quite a bit of time with Smeaton, doing various things out in the grounds, a bit of shooting, which she understands, even though she doesn’t really agree with it. They’re in the countryside now, and this kind of thing happens. As long as it’s not near the house; as long as Jack doesn’t get any strange ideas about guns. If she was to tell Smeaton about Jack’s past, she’s sure he wouldn’t want him anywhere near the firearms.

  She walks around the side of the building, towards the back of the north wing, a place that she knows she can’t access unless she breaks in, but after how she felt when she was in there with Smeaton last week, it’s not a place she’s really keen to return to, not right now anyway. Although she is still curious about what happened in there. She still has memories from her childhood, from places like this. Both of her parents were in and out of such hospitals, while she was passed between various ‘aunties’ while ‘mummy has a rest’. As much as she tries to push it away, she can’t deny that her strange childhood has made her who she is.

  She noticed the other day that in the space between the dilapidated wing and the newly manicured lawn, that there were several working sheds. At least that’s what they looked like. She heads there now, her feet crunching on the loose gravel. She can hear the sound of what might be circular saw – a band saw. Is that what they’re called? The kind of things you see in horror films where someone accidentally cuts off their hand. She giggles at the thought. The fake blood; the prosthetic hand. This place would certainly be a good setting for a horror film. Maybe it’s already been used for something like that, back when it was completely abandoned. After the trust closed the hospital down. Before Smeaton moved in and tried to bring back its light.

  As she gets closer to the sheds she can see that one of them has its door wide open, and the noise of the saw is louder. Someone is working inside.

  ‘Hello?’ she calls out loudly, not sure if she’ll be heard. The last thing she wants to do is give someone a fright. She thinks again of the horror movie she conjured up, but this time it doesn’t seem so funny. She tries again. ‘Hello? It’s Ali. Hope you don’t mind me coming out here…’

  She is at the door of the shed now, and inside she sees the handsome, rough-featured man that stood up for her at the party, when Jack was acting up. Ford, his name is. She remembers it because it’s unusual, but also because he made quite an impression. He is someone who looks like they know how to make things, build things. Someone who knows how to deal with difficult situations. She watches him as he slides a thin plank of wood along the workbench, woodchips spitting as the teeth of the saw grip and cut. He is clearly a natural. He is wearing ear defenders, and his face is marked with concentration. She’s not sure if he has heard her or not, but eventually he must sense her, and he looks up, confused for a moment. Then he smiles and turns off the saw. Ali is glad when the harsh whine ceases. He takes off the ear defenders and hooks them around his neck.

  ‘Well, hello,’ he says. Is that a smirk on his face, or just his usual smile? She can’t tell, and she is trying not to be paranoid. She’s worried about what he might’ve thought about her at the party, wondering if he thought her weak. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because she won’t be drinking any of that homemade wine again in a hurry and Jack most definitely won’t.

  Ford picks up a cloth from a workbench behind him and rubs at his hands. ‘Good timing. I was just about to have a cup of tea.’ He gestures behind him, where he has a kettle and a random selection of mugs. ‘Care to join me?’

  ‘Love to,’ Ali says. ‘But only if I’m not interrupting.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Ford,’ he says, holds a hand out towards her. He is definitely smirking now. But she takes it as it’s intended. Just a little joke, right? She shakes his hand; it is firm and dry. A strong handshake. Her hand feels so tiny in his. She imagines that he might crush it like the head of the flower, if he was so inclined. He turns away from her, flicks on the kettle and drops teabags into two mugs. ‘Just normal tea in here; hope that’s OK. I know you think that we’re all a bunch of hippies, but we actually aren’t. I can just about take their almost completely veggie diet, but I’m not giving up my breakfast blend for a bunch of boiled flowers that smell like something that’s been lying at the bottom of an unflushed toilet.’ He laughs.

  Ali immediately feels at ease. She was right to do this. Not everyone is as strange and quirky as Angela. Misfits like Angela are everywhere. They’re everywhere because they don’t fit anywhere.

  Maybe she can find some kindred spirits here after all. If things don’t get back on track with Jack, who says there won’t be a possibility for something else – someone else – in the future? She hasn’t asked Smeaton about such things. She knows that the couples here already came in together, but have any others formed here? In the past? Surely there are no rules against that? She thinks about Jack, thinks about the feel of his body as he tried to hug her in bed that first day, how she flinched from his touch. But now she has an urge to be with him, wants to be close to him. She tries to imagine herself with Ford. Just watching him as he stirs the tea, she can tell that he is a different kind of man to Jack. She shakes her head as if trying to dislodge her thoughts. Her disloyal thoughts. After everything they’ve been through, the least that she can do is try to see Jack as her husband again, not just someone she has to look after, trying to mop up his mess and stop him from making more mistakes.

  Ford walks around the other side of the saw, mugs in hands. She takes hers; its warmth is comforting, and the smell of the normal tea relaxes her more than any of the herbal ones she’s had in here so far.

  ‘So how are you settling in?’ Ford asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He wanders out of the shed into the grounds and she follows. He takes them over the grass to the pond. ‘Looking good, don’t you think? We’ve only just managed to keep it filled; the water kept draining back out into the earth, ended up havin
g to brick most of it, and then cover it all with lots of plastic sheeting and waterproof tape. Kind of a makeshift tarp. Just hoping now that the pressure of the water keeps it in. I never imagined it would be so difficult to refill a pond.’

  ‘You mean it was empty before? Why? I didn’t think a pond would just dry up completely. Wasn’t it deep? Or is it because there is no fresh water to flow into it?’

  ‘Amazing what you have to teach yourself. What you have to do with these things when there’s no one to do them for you or help you,’ he says. ‘It was deep, alright. The pond was part of the garden for years, but they drained it back in the fifties. Someone drowned. They decided it was too dangerous after that.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awful. A patient, you mean? At the hospital?’

  ‘You’d need to ask Smeaton about that; he doesn’t really like us talking about it.’

  Ali is confused. ‘But why? What’s the big secret? It must be on public record…’

  Ford shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, Ali. What you’ve got to realise is that there are many strange things in and around this house. It’s better just to leave things be. Same with the village. I saw you chatting to Angela, earlier. I’m sure she’s been filling your head with stories. You probably think that she’s making them up. But she’s not, you know.’

  He pauses, sensing Ali’s alarm.

  ‘You’ve no need to worry. She’s completely harmless, she just wants to fit in. She’s just fascinated by the history of this place. She knows more about it than anyone.

  ‘Is she from around here?’ Ali kicks a pebble and it bounces twice before plopping into the pond.

  ‘No, but she lived in the village for nearly a year before she came to the house. She’s well in with the locals, especially Mary – she’s the one who owns the shop. I’m sure you’ll be there soon enough, browsing all the things that you’ve no need for but still want to buy. Anyway, don’t worry. Angela’s a good kid.’ He downs the rest of his tea and holds out a hand to take her mug. Then he heads back towards the shed. ‘I need to get this finished today. You’re welcome to stay and watch. But there’s probably not much you can do to help today, not with this stuff. I don’t want you cutting your fingers off before we’ve got to know each other properly.’

  She smiles. ‘No problem, I just wanted to pop round and say hello. It was nice to meet you properly. Thanks for the tea, and thanks for … you know. The other night.’

  He shrugs. ‘Nothing to thank me for. Jack’s alright, you know. He’s just a bit lost. I’ve been chatting to him a bit. He’s going to start helping me out here. It’ll be good for him. The two of you’ll be fine. It’s a big adjustment coming here. Just give it time.’

  He’s right, of course, and she’s glad he’s taken Jack under his wing. As long as Jack doesn’t confide in Ford too much, everything will be fine.

  She walks back past the lawn, past the pond. She pauses briefly at the side, trying to imagine how it all would have looked back in its heyday, imagining people drinking tea and eating dainty cakes, children running around, laughing. She closes her eyes. A gentle breeze drifts past, blowing her hair into her face. She feels at peace.

  Then she hears a noise: a gentle splash. Another sound. Faint. Someone crying out?

  She opens her eyes and stares at the pond, but the surface is like glass. There is no breeze. A trickle of sweat runs down her spine, and she thinks again about the boy in the kitchen. And suddenly she feels cold, so cold. Scared.

  She turns away from the pond. Wants to get away from there, back to the other side of the building. As she hurries past the back of the kitchen, she stumbles. Someone is standing there, watching her. Rose.

  ‘You want to be a bit careful, Ali,’ she says. ‘Don’t listen to all that stuff Angela says. Ford neither. Best you keep your head down. Try to get used to the place a bit before you start trying to disrupt things, eh? This house has been here a long time, and there were things going on here long before even that. Best to leave it be, I think.’

  Ali stares at her, taken aback. Doesn’t know what to think, what to say. What has she done, other than be curious about the house? What has she done to make an enemy of Rose so quickly? She’s still cold, still scared. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say a word, the other woman walks back into the kitchen and closes the door firmly behind her.

  17

  Angela

  They’ve been here almost a month now, but I don’t think Ali is going to be my friend. That’s a shame. I thought that maybe when I tried to explain to her about the ghosts, about what I’m trying to do here, she might have understood. I wanted to hear about her time as a nurse, I’m sure she must have dealt with death plenty of times. And with grieving families, scared patients. Surely she doesn’t just tell them, Death is death. That’s the end. She must have some way of explaining it to them gently, giving them hope; she can’t be heartless. I think she’s scared here and I don’t know why … yet. I know that she has experienced something that she can’t explain. I can sense it, even if she won’t admit it to me. As a nurse, I suppose she has a scientific mind; she deals in facts. Unexplained feelings might be entirely out of her comfort zone.

  But what I want to know is why it is happening.

  This hasn’t happened to anyone else since I’ve been here. Most people who come here feel peaceful in this house, but she appears to be feeling the opposite. Her presence is definitely causing some sort of disruption here … Or is it Jack’s? What happened at the party was worrying and although we’ve tried not to gossip, there has been talk. All of my equipment, which usually barely registers a thing, has started to play up. I’m not stupid, I know that most of the incidents my devices register are probably just due the atmosphere, new energies in the air. But isn’t that exactly what I’m trying to prove? That there are energies, that there are things happening that we can’t necessarily explain.

  I’m disappointed.

  But I’m also intrigued. Did she think that I wouldn’t be interested in her experiences? Doesn’t she realise that most of the time we are living here amongst ourselves? Smeaton discourages people from spending much time in the village, but because I lived there before, he lets me maintain those links. After all, I’m not even trying to deny that I’m different from the others. I will never be like them. But one thing I also know is that I love this place. And I don’t want anything bad to happen to it or to any of the people here. This has become a place of love and hope. People who have been in very dark places have come here and found light. But there has been a shift now, and whatever the cause, some darkness has definitely crept in.

  I need to identify it, and I need to find a way to stop it before it goes too far – before it tangles itself in our lives and makes something bad happen here. I take a deep breath in through my nose, letting the aromas in the air mingle and take shape. There’s still that hint of something dark and smoky, like the aftermath of a fire. It’s starting to cancel out all the other smells that I’m used to here, and I don’t like it at all.

  I knock on Smeaton’s door, then walk in before he calls me. He’s always happy to talk to me about my findings, few as they might be. Perhaps it’s indulgence on his part, but we do have some fascinating conversations. He’s had such an interesting life.

  He’s sitting at his desk, reading a heavy book with a faded cover – gold lettering that has flaked off, no dust jacket. It’s impossible to tell the name of the book from how it looks, but I know that he is reading a first-edition copy of Great Expectations, because it’s his favourite book and I know that he rereads it at least once a year. He smiles and lays the book on the table.

  ‘Angela, how are you today? Anything exciting happening that I should know about?’ He smiles and his eyes twinkle. He asks me the same question every single day, and every single day I tell him the same thing.

  ‘Not yet, but there’s always later. And there’s always tomorrow.’ I grin, and feel myself blush.

  He leans
forwards to stare at me. ‘I feel like you’ve come here to tell me something proper this time,’ he says. ‘Am I right?’

  I sit down in the leather chair opposite his desk. I love sitting in this chair, the leather is smooth and the padding beneath is still firm, so you only just sink into it. So you keep your back straight. It is the perfect chair for a visitor, as it gives the person sitting in it the immediate belief that they are important, and that they will be able to tell the story – whatever that story might be. I blurt mine out.

  ‘It’s about Ali and Jack,’ I say. ‘I think Ali’s scared about something, I haven’t had much of a chance to speak to Jack yet. He’s been quiet since the party. Subdued. Do you think they’re OK? I’ve tried to get Ali to open up, but she seems reluctant. Maybe you’ve had more luck with Jack?’

  ‘Well, that’s a shame about Ali. I felt that I had got to know her a little before she came here – from our email exchanges, setting everything up. I felt that she was quite open with me, but since she arrived, I agree with you, she seems closed, wary. I’m not doubting my decision to let them come here, but I do think that there is something that needs to be explored. As you know, this place is not for everyone.’

  He is referring to the last couple who came here, Annie and Lawrence Palmerston. They left after two weeks. Not what they expected, Smeaton said – that was the official line. But I saw the old black book in her suitcase, with the strange symbols on the front. They were occultists, Mary reckons. She says the whole village knew about them. Wherever they are now, I’m sure they’re not doing anything kind. I have to commend Smeaton for getting rid of them so quickly, but it’s a worry that they seemed to be so nice and normal on all their assessment visits. I guess people like that are skilled manipulators. They know how to present themselves. They know how to infiltrate. They know how to pick on the vulnerable.