Isabel's Light

by Andy Jarvis

  Reverend John spun around with a glare at Harvey that could have stripped paint.

  “Do you think the story will be of benefit to the community?” Harvey continued. “In terms of financial reward? From tourism?”

  Harvey popped a flash photo of Reverend John with one hand, the other clutched a notebook. A few other reporters took photos.

  “Will you be applying for National Trust status for the church? For the cottage at Fearn Lane? Was Isabel Rankin a witch?”

  In three paces Reverend John was onto Harvey, swiping away the camera with the side of his hand and grasping his lapel with the other. Steam burst into the damp air from Reverend John’s flared nostrils. A fist hovered. In the background Silas mimicked Reverend John’s moves, silently willing him to strike. He wasn’t disappointed. With a loud smack Harvey staggered back, stumbling over a headstone onto his rear and sat panting, rubbing his jaw. Cameras flashed. Silas smacked a fist into the palm of his hand gleefully as Harvey went down.

  Although he made a comical sight, I bet Silas would have been a right handful in his day. As for Reverend John, his movement and uncanny strength were frightening, even astounding for a man of his age. A few of the mourners gasped as he delivered a left hook that looked straight out of a George Foreman textbook (the boxing one that is, not the cookery book; although Harvey did look as though he’d just been walloped with a low fat grill).

  Without a word Reverend John turned and marched up the path to the gate and down the lane in the direction of his home.

  A few of the mourners were getting irate with Harvey. The other reporters left discreetly, probably more than happy with their photos but thinking a small town story wasn’t worth a lynching. Someone helped Harvey to his feet, dusting him off as others shook their fists or cursed his interference and total lack of reverence for the feelings of Reverend John and the Parish.

  “You’d have stayed down if that had been me,” Silas told him bluntly.

  Baz allowed himself a little chuckle and tugged me by the arm: “Come on pal, let’s have a quick look at the white elephant!”

  The light cast upon the grey stone slabs was colourless, picking up none of the bright reds, greens or blues of the Window-without-Adam. Nor were there any shimmering, sun highlighted dust particles from the dull sky on that depressingly grey wet day.

  But there were signs of Isabel. I could sense her presence, although distant, a sensation like someone you love is in contact only not there in person but on the other end of a telephone line somewhere else far away in the universe. The sensation I’d felt the day of her appearance was not entirely gone, but resembled a very faint, pleasing static in the air as I stood in the grey light. There was no real ecstatic buzz, but there was comfort or a sense of well being like you get when you’ve been away from home, missing all your family and mates, and then returning after a long absence. A sort of family gathered around the hearth comfort.

  I walked about in it as Baz stood leaning on one elbow on the end of the front row pew. “Well?” he said after a minute or so of watching me.

  “She’s gone…I guess.”

  Baz breathed a faint sigh. “Are you sure? You don’t feel anything weird like last time?”

  “No. She’s gone. She’s sorted, mate. I think I’m just imagining something being here.”

  I wasn’t convinced at my own words even. Something definitely was here but I was reluctant to say in case Baz got edgy about it again. Maybe Isabel had gone but left something behind to stay, just as a comfort for Reverend John.

  Baz shrugged his shoulders. “I guess the funeral put her poor soul to rest then? Sort of depressing isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. There’s only one cure for that, pal.”

  “It’s a bit early for a pint isn’t it?”

  “I meant work. The pints can wait, then, we’ll drink a toast to her.”

  “Well, let’s have a look at the elephant then,” said Baz, removing his jacket and slipping a blue overall on over his smart black pants.

  “I’m telling you it’s not the spark generator!” insisted Baz.

  “It’s got to be!” I argued. “It can only be one of McBright’s crap parts. Probably something he ordered off the Internet, you know, one of these replica component manufacturers for tight-arses.”

  “But this is the original as supplied, I’ve tested it and there’s nothing up with it, nor with any of the others. Big blue spark, right?”

  “Well maybe it’s not big enough.”

  For the uninitiated in central heating lore, a spark generator is roughly speaking a device for lighting boilers. You probably guessed that already. Basically it works by generating high voltage as Baz was about to demonstrate by placing the live end in my hand and pressing the ignition button before I could say Jack be Nimble.

  “Ow, you daft idiot!” I yelped as the jolt shot up my arm. “What did you do that for?”

  “To show you it’s not the spark generator! Right? And for all the times you called me a dummy or kicked me under the table.”

  “Alright, alright I concede. What about all the times you call me gay? Evens right? So, got any other bright ideas then?”

  “None. Gremlins, that’s what. What do you think?”

  “I think we’ve failed mate,” I said sadly. “Might as well pack up and go for that pint and come back when Chorley’s ready to bring the other.”

  We gathered up our tools and swept up in silence. Baz gave the boiler one last curse and we left.

  “Don’t worry about it mate,” said Baz, patting me on the shoulder as we stepped out into the chill evening. “Let’s get you home for a decent northern pint. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds great, mate.”

  “Whoops, nearly forgot the brush and shovel,” said Baz turning back inside as I loaded the van.

  Then it happened.

  “Whoaa!” screeched Baz from within the church.

  I fumbled the tool box, losing my balance and stumbled as I tried to catch it sliding from the back of the van. I got up, and leaving tools scattered over the path, dashed inside.

  Baz stood motionless. Mist swirled at his feet, circling around him, then expanding, reaching out across the floor to me, again circling around my feet in a flowing motion like dry ice vapour.

  “Ed! Ed!” Baz stuttered, “I’m scared!”

  I stopped dead and perfectly still, unsure what to do. “Hang on Baz!” I cried. “Don’t move! I don’t think she’s going to hurt us!”

  “It feels weird, Ed. I feel dizzy.”

  Slowly it circled us once more then left in a flow across the church floor like a foaming tide retreating back to the sea, becoming a formless cloud that settled over the burial stone for several seconds. Then it vanished.

  I ran over to Baz. “Are you okay pal?”

  He stood staring, mouth open, wide eyed with hands splayed like a cartoon dog that’s just stuck its finger in an electrical socket.

  “She’s back,” he whispered.

  Only then was I aware that Reverend John was in the church. He stood a few yards from us near the door, then shuffling forwards hands clasped to chest, he dropped to his knees, blessing himself with the sign-of-the-cross and praying.

  14.

  Baz sat shivering on the sofa, wrapped in a heavy woollen blanket. Reverend John sat next to him trying to steady his hand and offering him a large brandy. A good fire crackled under the portrait of Christ, and though I’d already removed my overall and jumper, I was starting to sweat.

  Baz’s lips quivered, and dribbled as he sipped. “I’ve got to admit, she frightened the life out of me. I can’t stop shaking.”

  “It’s alright now son, settle down now,” said Reverend John. “You’re going to be fine. It’s just a chill. We’ll have you warmed back up in no time.”

  Baz grasped the brandy with two hands and took a long gulp. “Thanks Rev,” he chattered, and then laid back, pulling the blanket over himself and sighing.

  “Looks li
ke he’s returning to normal,” I said. “That’s more like the Baz I know already.”

  “You must stay here tonight,” insisted Reverend John. “He’s in no fit state for a long drive, and the Inn is out of the question. We’ve all had a dreadful fright and should rest and gather our faculties.”

  He paused briefly to feel Baz’s forehead and neck checking his pulse, then turning to the table poured two more brandies, handing me one. “Whatever am I going to do?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s obvious Isabel is still hanging around and doesn’t want to go yet. I honestly thought the funeral would be the final curtain, you know – justice done at last.”

  “I know, and so did I. That’s what should have been. Why she should stay I don’t know. Good Lord, have mercy on us.”

  “What does it mean, Reverend? Why would she stay, do you know what it is?”

  “Something is wrong. Something displeases her, but I don’t know what. Whatever am I to do?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s we Reverend, all of us. We’re all in it together. Remember what Silas said about being haunted? Whatever happens, we’re going to help.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s the answer. It should be up to me alone. This is something to do with Father. He is the cause of this in the end, of that I’m sure. Maybe you should go, as I said before. Perhaps you shouldn’t be here. Perhaps she is telling you to go.”

  Baz began to drift off sinking slowly into the sofa and lightly snoring.

  “Wake up Baz,” I said. “We need to get our heads together on this.”

  “No, let him sleep,” whispered Reverend John. “Whatever it was it’s completely exhausted him. He needs rest.”

  Reverend John dimmed the lights, leaving a remaining table lamp and the glow of the fire to illuminate the room.

  “Maybe Arden can help,” I whispered.

  “Arden? What could he possibly do?”

  “I’m not sure. He did mention something before about spirit activity on his archaeology digs. I just rubbished it at the time, but maybe he can help. He said he knows people. He’s been on about some guy who’s contacted him already, offering to help.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Reverend John. “I don’t like the sound of that. Who is it exactly?”

  “He hasn’t said. He said he was going to run some checks on the man before he went any further. I don’t know if he has, but maybe it’s worth giving him a call.”

  “I really don’t think that’s the answer. Something like that, introducing a third party might only spell trouble. I really think it’s down to me alone to sort this out. We shall talk about this in the morning. We all need to rest now and gather our senses. We’ll sleep on it. Then in the morning I think it best if you leave. You’ve done all you can, you shouldn’t have to be involved with what is my problem.”

  “But it’s okay,” I said. “I’d like to help. We both would.”

  Reverend John left the room and returned with a folding bed. “I trust you’ll both be comfortable in here tonight? I see no sense in moving him, and it’s quite warm now. You should stop with him, just in case he becomes distressed.”

  Baz dozed fitfully on the sofa. I lay next to him on the folding bed watching the dying embers in the fireplace.

  Sleep finally overcame me and I dreamt about dark places, dark shapes. Dark water. In the water the figure of Isabel swam and glowed iridescent like some exotic fish. Excitedly, I slipped into the dark pool to follow and at once felt at peace, as I had that strange day in church when I bathed in her afterglow. Isabel swam deep, fading as she went. I swam hard, deeper, trying to catch, just to feel…to feel…her Light. Two lights, pale and silver as crescent moons shone up from the depths like eyes and I stopped. I was floating in a kind of void, black and airless…and waterless. The eyes turned and sank into the depths and vanished.

  Baz awoke with a start. It was still dark and the fire had died out. “Ed, where are you?” he cried.

  “Alright mate, I’m here. You okay?”

  “Oh man, did I have one stinker of a nightmare!”

  A shaft of light pierced the room and Reverend John entered in his dressing gown. “Is everything alright?” he said, switching on the room lights.

  “Baz had a bad dream,” I said.

  “Sorry Reverend,” panted Baz clutching his head. “It was so vivid I thought it was real.”

  “It’s understandable after what you’ve been through.”

  Reverend John poured us both a brandy and fetched a large book from a drawer.

  “I shall stop with you and pray tonight,” he said, pulling up an arm chair and opening the book.

  In the comfort of Reverend John’s softly spoken reciting Baz started to gently snore and I drifted off into nothingness.

  In the early light I awoke. Reverend John lay on a spare futon, wrapped in a duvet soundly asleep, with a snore that carried some of the same notes as one of his sermons. He was still clutching the prayer book.

  Baz seemed to be back to his normal, cheerful self in the morning when he came around, cracking silly jokes and talking boilers.

  At my suggestion, and some twisting of Reverend John’s arm, Arden was around by noon.

  15.

  Reverend John paced the lounge floor, deep in thought. He paused to look at the familiar scene from his window, and then turned, frowning at us. “What did you say his name was?”

  “I didn’t,” replied Arden. “In fact, I don’t know much about him at all.”

  “Then why on earth is he coming here? Why did you invite a total stranger into this?”

  “That’s just it, I didn’t. He invited himself.”

  “How? How did he even know about this? I don’t understand.”

  “Apparently he got the information from the Trust’s website. Then just decided he’d come and have a look for himself.”

  Reverend John shook his head in disbelief. “Let me get this straight: You’ve gone and posted all about us on an international advertising space? So that all and sundry might know about us? What are you trying to do, overrun the village with all manner of ghoulish sightseers?”

  “With respect, Reverend,” said Arden, “the Trust publishes a monthly newsletter, and we publicise any new findings of interest there. I haven’t included anything that hasn’t been in the national press except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Except for the mist phenomena. Forgive me, but the Trust is at a loss for answers on that one. I decided to ask if there had been any similar occurrences elsewhere. That’s where this chap became very interested. He e-mailed me straight away saying that this may be the very thing he has been searching for. He said something about having lost something a very long time ago. I asked him what he meant, but he said he couldn’t explain it any further than that at this time.”

  Reverend John began to pace again. “So he’s just popping around to gape at us all then?”

  “No, there’s more than that,” said Arden. “You see he has credentials, very good ones at that, otherwise I would have deterred him as just another crank. He comes highly recommended by the Global Paranormal Society. I checked up on him, and he’s held in very high esteem indeed. I think we should at least take a look at him, Reverend.”

  Reverend John sat down in a chair by the window and quietly sighed. Me and Baz sat on the sofa, nervously twiddling our thumbs. There was an uncomfortably long silence.

  “So what exactly does he claim to be then?” said Reverend John. “Is he some sort of ghost hunter? Perhaps he’s going to set up a load of ridiculous electronic equipment in the church to display his so-called credentials. Or is he going to go around splashing holy water and chanting everywhere? I mean what is he, for heaven’s sake? Don’t tell me he’s a Catholic priest, oh no, I couldn’t stand for that!”

  “No, I doubt if he’s anything of that sort,” replied Arden. “But I must admit the Paranormal Society always try to look at these cases
objectively. Other than that, I can’t tell you much.”

  “He’s a clairvoyant,” I cut in.

  Arden and Reverend John both eyed me curiously. “How would you know that?” said Arden.

  “Can’t you see what’s happening here?” I said. “It’s obvious. You advertise on the net, and some guy we don’t know from Adam just turns up offering his services, no doubt for a fee. That’s how these types make their living, by preying on the vulnerable. They reckon to give answers where there are none. You must know the type; they scour the obituaries looking for work. I can see the fakes lining up already.”

  “What’s a clairvoyant?” asked Baz.

  “I went to see one once,” I said. “My Auntie May dragged me along. They ask a load of obvious questions to an audience, and throw in a few names at random and hey presto, the gullible folk end up telling him or her more than he’s telling them. Then they all come away convinced that their dearly departed ones are living happily ever after in never-never land. Plus they’re short a few quid each, of course.”

  Reverend John nodded and smiled at me. “For once I agree with the lads,” he said.

  “I’m not so certain he’s a fake as such,” said Arden. “Normally I would agree but for the recommendation of the Society. His references carry some weight amongst psychic investigators.”

  “Perhaps so, but the lad has made a good point,” said Reverend John. “We don’t know this man, yet we still invite him into our midst. It’s very risky; for all I know he might even be hired by that blasted reporter to snoop.”

  “Well if you’re not interested I can always turn him away. I’m sure you’ll want to get advice from your superiors. I mean, they must have some idea how to deal with a haunting, don’t they?”

  “Wait, I didn’t say I wasn’t interested, just wary,” said Reverend John. “You see, there’s a good reason I haven’t contacted others within the diocese on this.”

  “And why is that?” said Arden.