The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

  ‘No chance of that happening,’ Ali says. It’s under her breath, but Smeaton is sure that’s what she’s said.

  Ford balls his hands into fists. ‘What do you mean by that?’ He’s clearly heard too. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Smeaton lays a hand on the other man again, trying to keep him calm. ‘Go and see to Jack, Ali,’ he says, ‘then get some rest. We’ll see you at lunch, and maybe we can decide on the best course of action, OK?’

  Ali nods. Her hand is on the door handle. Smeaton sees the key in her hand.

  He places a hand on Ford’s back, guides him gently away.

  45

  Angela

  I watch Smeaton and Ford as they disappear down the corridor towards the stairs. Ali stands at her door, key in hand. She waits for a moment, then she slips the key back into her pocket and turns back the way she came, hurrying along the corridor, away from her room, away from the men.

  ‘No, no, no!’ I scream, but no one hears me.

  Now I am torn. Do I follow Smeaton, try to find some way to alert them – or follow Ali, to see what she’s up to? Maybe prevent her from doing something terrible … because there is no doubt in my mind now. Ali is up to no good.

  I don’t know if it was Ali or Jack who killed me, but I know now that they were both there. They both took my body away in the car, dumping it in a cold dark place, far away from home. From my friends, from my family. I wonder if I was wrong to stay in the woods when they drove off, maybe I should’ve tried harder to follow them. It seemed impossible at the time, but maybe I could’ve climbed into the boot with my body? But despite losing several of my senses, I knew I wouldn’t be able to cope with the sadness of what they were about to do.

  Why did they have to do this? I was no threat to them. All I know for sure is that whatever they did, they have done it before.

  I’d thought that Jack was the bad one, when I’d found those newspaper clippings. Why did I assume it was him – just because he’s a man? I can see now that I was very wrong about him. If he did anything, it was because his horrible wife made him. I had never thought it was possible for someone to be controlled to the extent that they would commit murder, but thinking about it now, it does makes some kind of sense. I don’t know how she did it, if it was all mind-games or if she drugged him too, but Ali obviously had a hold over Jack that he couldn’t break.

  But where is he now? I don’t believe he’s in the bedroom. I’m certain that he is in danger. Ali is panicking; she seems desperate and I believe that she will do whatever it takes.

  I hurry off in the same direction as Ali. I can hear her footsteps, soft, urgent. I turn the corner and see that she heading off to the staircase at the back of the building. I follow her downstairs and outside, then watch as Ali pulls a key out of her pocket.

  I recognise it. Realise that she had it in her hand upstairs, too. It wasn’t her bedroom key – it’s the key to the north wing.

  Ali opens the door and steps quickly inside. I manage to find a burst of energy to propel myself in behind her before she closes the door in my face. Ali locks the door, then she pauses. Cocks her head as if she is listening for something. She slips the key into her pocket, then rubs her arms, glancing round. She shakes her head, then starts walking again. She is muttering something almost too low for me to hear. I concentrate on moving faster, until I am right behind her. I breathe out a long, slow breath, but I am not sure if there is anything coming out of me. After all, my lungs have no function anymore.

  ‘Stop it,’ she says. To herself? ‘Your mind is playing tricks.’

  I smile. Have I finally managed to do it? Have I caused an energy shift that Ali is picking up? I move faster, passing Ali, then I turn, quickly, and look straight at her.

  Ali stops dead. Her eyes dart from side to side. She whirls round, and then back. ‘Who’s there?’ she asks.

  I let her pass then continue to walk beside her, matching her pace. I want to reach out, to try and touch her but I’m too scared about what will happen. I don’t want to upset the way things are and disappear. Not yet.

  I need to know where Ali is going first. Find out what she’s up to … and then – it’s so obvious now … then I can go back and find Smeaton, and I can disturb the energy around him too. And him and Ford, they’ll find Ali … but no. No, damn it! It won’t work, will it? It is only Ali who has mentioned feeling strange things in the building. Smeaton has never experienced a thing. He refuses to believe it’s possible. Why would he start now? Unless he knows … and unless he’s always known, and he’s been trying to protect us all. Because I know that I’m not the only ghost who’s been trying to make contact with the living residents of Rosalind House.

  I think about Jessie and her son; their sad, sad story that Mary told me – that I had her tell and retell. I wish I could have seen them. I wish I could’ve helped them leave this place. Be in peace. The whole time I lived here, I never felt anything of their presence at all – and then Ali appears and she feels it straightaway. It’s not fair. None of it is fair. And now I am trapped here, not sure what I am meant to be doing – not sure if anyone will ever feel my presence here at all.

  Ali is at the end of the top corridor. Most of the rooms up here are old treatment rooms. Some are too dangerous to enter, with most of the floorboards missing. There was always a horrible feeling in this part of the building, but now it just looks desolate, cold. She pushes open the door and I hurry to make sure I can slip in behind her. But I needn’t have worried. There seems to be something wrong with the automatic door closing mechanism, and it stays open. Good. I can follow her in, and I won’t be trapped in there with her.

  ‘Shh, now,’ she says. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’

  Someone else is in there. If my heart was still beating, I’m sure it would be hammering hard in my chest right now, but as it is, I feel strangely hollow. I go inside. Ali’s back is to me, and I can see that someone is strapped to something like a dentist’s chair – hands and feet bound by restraints. Something on the head … and, oh, I see now.

  Circular pads are attached to Jack’s temples, wires leading out to the machine that stands by the bed. It’s an ECT machine. My eyes follow the leads at the back, to the wall, where it is plugged in. I can’t imagine it will work, after all these years. Maybe she is just trying to scare him? But I don’t know why. I stand closer, trying to see what she is doing. She is standing close to him, saying something to him, whispering it in a low voice and I can’t make it out.

  Jack’s eyes are closed, but I can see tears on his cheeks. I need to stop this, but I don’t know how. I lean forwards, and I touch the bed. Jack’s eyes fly open, and he screams, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

  I jump backwards, and Ali grabs something and stuffs it into his mouth, muffling his screams. She glances around, her face confused, then she turns back. Picks up a strip of fabric from the small table next to the machine, and wraps the blindfold around his head. Jack thrashes his arms and legs, tries to spit out the rubber pad from his mouth, but she holds it firm with one hand, and presses down on his chest with her other.

  ‘You need to calm down, Jack. You’re only making things worse. Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?’

  This is not the help he needs, no matter what it is he has done. I run out of the room, and hurry down the corridor, down the stairs. I panic for a moment, thinking that she has closed and locked the door outside – but it is wide open, a chair holding it open.

  Someone else has been here. Smeaton? Ford? Or perhaps they’ve sent one of the others? I haven’t got time to find out. I run out of the door, across the gravel, into the other building and along the corridor to Smeaton’s office. The door is ajar, and I hear voices inside.

  ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to have Fergus roaming around in the north wing? He’s said before how much he hates that place.’

  ‘We all have to muck in now,’ Smeaton says, ‘until we find out what’s going on. I think you’re ri
ght that Ali was up to something earlier. She was jumpy, not herself. We should go back up there and check on Jack.’

  ‘She knows something about Angela, I’m sure of it,’ Ford says.

  Ford is sitting in the comfortable chair – I’m quite upset that I won’t be able to enjoy that chair again, or my chats with Smeaton. Smeaton is leaning back in his chair, arms behind his head. He’s staring at the wall beside where I am standing, and I move into his line of vision, but he doesn’t react. He doesn’t see me. I turn to see what it is that’s he’s staring at.

  The map.

  There is a map there of the whole hospital. It’s been engraved out of a thin brass plate, and there is a name and a date on the bottom. It was a gift to the hospital from a local businessman whose wife was treated there in the 1940s. He was grateful to the hospital for fixing her, and letting her go home. One of the hospital’s success stories. There’s a circle of light in the middle, from where it is bouncing off from the reflection of the ceiling light. It’s highlighting the kitchen.

  Yes, I think. I think I can do this…

  ‘Let’s have another walk around,’ Ford says. ‘Maybe Jack’s in one of the other rooms. He seemed a bit out of it last time I saw him. Maybe he’s got lost, and Ali’s too embarrassed to say – or she’s worried, given that Angela’s gone too. Doesn’t want to panic anyone?’ He turns and looks at the map, and I seize my chance.

  I try to squeeze everything inside me together. I stare up at the ceiling light, willing it to move. I squeeze tighter, and I keep staring. I close my eyes. Squeeze. Open them again. The light is swinging, ever so slightly. I turn to the map, and I see that the circle of light on the brass is moving, too – only a fraction, but it is definitely moving. I am shuddering with the effort. I ball my hands into fists, and I see my skin become more transparent, as if I am using all the energy within myself. I can’t burn out, not yet. I have to let them know where Jack is.

  The ceiling light swings faster, back and forth, then it starts to circle slowly around. The light on the map moves with it, pulsing and circling, passing over the lounge, the foyer, the entrance to the north wing.

  ‘Jesus, do you see that?’ Ford says.

  Smeaton’s mouth hangs open in shock. He looks up at the ceiling, back at the map.

  I squeeze harder. The tops of my hands disappear, and I can see my fingernails curled beneath. I keep squeezing, and my fingers vanish too. I stare at the ceiling light, back at the map. Both of the men are standing now, eyes wide with shock. And finally, it happens.

  The light shines over the far end of the north wing, right at the spot where Ali and Jack are right now, in the treatment room. I stop squeezing, and the light stays right there on the same spot.

  ‘What the…?’ Ford says.

  The lightbulb explodes, and shards of glass rain down onto Smeaton’s desk.

  ‘The north wing treatment rooms,’ Smeaton says. ‘Let’s go.’

  I follow them out into the corridor, where the lights flicker overhead, and I glance at my hands and see that they have returned, fully formed – just a little bit paler than before.

  46

  Smeaton

  Ali springs away from the chair and backs herself into a corner of the room. Her eyes are darting wildly, and Smeaton takes a few careful steps towards her. He is not sure what to do. Ali is far more unpredictable than he’d realised. Dangerous, too, it seems.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Ford throws himself towards the chair, yanks off the electrodes. Jack’s temples are blackened, the skin of his forehead red and blistered, as if it has been boiled from within. Ford feels for a pulse in Jack’s neck.

  Ali’s face remains blank, impassive. She is muttering something under her breath, and her eyes are darting wildly.

  Ford takes his hand away from Jack’s neck. He turns to Ali. ‘You’ve killed him. You’ve actually killed him, you utter—’

  ‘I’m going to call an ambulance,’ Smeaton says. ‘I think Ali needs our help right now, not our judgement.’

  Ford shakes his head, stares at Smeaton with an expression that says: You’ve lost your mind, too.

  Maybe he has. In all his years, Smeaton has never come across anything so messed up, so utterly terrifying than this. And what was all that with the flashing light in his office – coincidence? Was someone – or something – really trying to alert them to this – to tell them that Ali was here?

  But it was too late for Jack, wasn’t it? Thankfully his eyes are closed, a thin blindfold over them. He has a small rubber plate in between his teeth, too, to stop him from clenching his teeth, grinding them into pieces. Ali has done these things to protect him – and yet she has killed him. A thin line of drool runs down the side of Jack’s cheek.

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ Ali says, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I was trying to fix him … But you’ve got to understand – he was a bad man. He was a very bad man.’ She slides down the wall to the floor, hugs her knees to her chest. She rocks gently; dirty tears smear her cheeks.

  Smeaton crouches down in front of her. ‘Ali … it’s OK. You’re safe. I promise—’

  ‘It’s not her who needs to worry, is it?’ Ford spits out the words, paces back and forth. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

  Smeaton raises a hand, trying to placate him. He’s not sure if he’s shouting at him or Ali now, or who he is more angry with: Ali for doing what she did, or Smeaton for trying to soothe her. But does Ford not realise what he is doing? He has to try and keep her calm. They have no idea what she’s capable of. He wishes he could alert someone else, so that they could call the police and the ambulance while they keep Ali here to try and find out what’s going on – but there is no one coming. No one knows they are here. There was no sign of Fergus on their way in, so clearly he is no longer in this part of the building.

  Ali sniffs, drops her head into her hands. Ford finds a sheet from a pile of discarded laundry at the back of the room, and drapes one over Jack. Then he folds his arms and leans back against the far wall, away from Ali, and away from Smeaton.

  Smeaton mouths a silent ‘thank you’ – he’s glad that Ford hasn’t left him alone here with her. He starts again. ‘Ali … you’re safe here. Jack can’t hurt you anymore. Now please, you need to tell us what this is all about. Can you do that? Can you tell is what Jack did? He hurt you, am I right?’

  Her head flips up, and her eyes are dark again. ‘Hurt me? As if that pathetic wimp would ever have dared lay a hand on me. He could barely tie his own shoelaces without my help.’ She points at Ford. ‘You must’ve noticed, surely? Did he ever take any initiative when he was out there in the woodshed? Or did you have to tell him how to do everything. Every. Bloody. Thing?’

  Ford drops his arms to his sides, his face is crumpled in confusion. ‘He didn’t know how to do anything. I had to teach him … There’s nothing wrong with that?’ He looks across at Smeaton, and Smeaton shrugs.

  Ali continues, ‘He can’t think for himself, he never could. He watched his mum push his dad around and he just let it happen. He joined the police because they wouldn’t let him into the army – not fit enough. He needed a job where they give you a role – where you know where you fit.’

  ‘I was in the police, too, Ali. I can tell you now, that’s not how it works. You need initiative. You need skill … and balls. He worked in child protection. You can’t tell me he wasn’t brave to do that?’

  ‘He did what he was told. He followed protocols. He was too bloody literal. If he’d shown some initiative – if he’d shown some balls – then he might’ve saved a little boy’s life. You know, he joined that division to try and help families, because he knew what it was like – and there wasn’t all the help, back when he was a kid. But did he help anyone? No.’

  ‘I don’t get it though,’ Smeaton says. ‘He sounds like a good man. What did he do? What changed?’

  Ali snorts. ‘He met me.’

  Smeaton and Ford look at each other. They have no i
dea what she’s talking about.

  Ford crouches down beside her now, ‘Ali—’

  ‘He pushed a man down an escalator. He broke his leg.’

  ‘Perhaps it was an accident,’ Smeaton tries, ‘maybe—’

  Ali sits up straighter. ‘He killed four hitchhikers.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake…’ Ford says. ‘This is ridiculous. You can’t expect us to believe—’.

  Ali cuts him off, ignoring him. ‘He smothered them as they sat in the passenger seat. Then he threw them out, left them hidden in the undergrowth at the side of the road. Discarded them, like they were nothing – dumped them there with the banana peels and drink cans…’

  Smeaton feels a chill run down his spine. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of it, but he knows he has no choice now.

  Ford asks the question that Smeaton dreads. ‘If he smothered them while they were in the passenger seat … who was driving the car?’

  Ali grins, and Smeaton can see now that she’s gone. Her eyes are glazed. Her face seems to have contorted itself into something else, someone he doesn’t recognise at all. She’s hidden this well all along, managed to fool them all about her own mental state, but now she’s completely snapped.

  ‘Who was driving the car, Ali?’ Ford is holding her shoulders now, his face close to hers.

  Ali bursts away from the wall, knocking Ford over. She stands, pushes Smeaton out of the way. Ford has fallen back, but quickly rights himself, and he grabs her before she can get any further. He grabs her by the throat and pins her up against the door.

  ‘Stop it’, Smeaton shouts, grabbing at Ford, trying to pull him off her.

  ‘It was me,’ Ali says, her voice dripping venom. ‘Who the fuck do you think was pulling his strings?’ She laughs, and it echoes around the room, sharp and hollow.

  ‘I don’t understand, Ali. Why? Can’t you at least help me to understand why? I saw you listed on a paper…’