‘Don’t be. It’s natural. You can’t grieve for ever, especially not at your age. So long as you remember him from time to time, it’s okay. No one expects more of you.’
‘I still cry sometimes.’
‘Sure, but not so much any more, right? And that’s good, Loren, it’s part of the healing. But we all have to carry on with our lives, it’s the only thing to do.’
‘Dad . . .’
Gabe felt her eyes on him again.
‘Cam is dead, isn’t he? He must be, mustn’t he? He couldn’t just disappear.’
It was the first time Loren had come straight out with it and he had been dreading such a moment. What to tell her? What did he himself believe? What did he really believe?
‘I don’t know,’ he answered after a few moments. He couldn’t lie to her; yet neither could he affirm what he knew they all thought. There was no other way to say it. ‘Until they find his body we can only assume he’s been taken away by someone.’
Loren was equally frank. ‘If he was alive the police would have found him by now. No one could’ve hidden him all this time.’
This was the reality but, mostly for Eve’s sake, Gabe would not admit it, even to himself.
‘Could someone have stolen him because they didn’t have a little boy of their own? Perhaps they were lonely. They took him from the park because he looked so nice. Cam was always smiley, even with strangers.’
He blessed Loren for her innocence. A kidnapping was what Eve wanted to believe even now. She’d been in denial from the first day Cam had vanished. Something deep within her refused to accept the worst and it was this faulty reasoning that kept her from complete breakdown. And, in truth, maybe the same unrealistic hope lay within himself – why else had he not wept for his own son?
They had reached the town and the main street was busy with people, among them, in groups of three or four, the blue uniforms of Merrybridge Middle School pupils. Loren watched them apprehensively, hoping they wouldn’t treat her as an outsider, praying she wouldn’t make a fool of herself on her first day.
Soon the uniforms – navy-blue trousers or skirts, electric-blue jumpers and blazers over white shirts worn with blue-and-grey-striped ties – began to multiply, then mass, so that it seemed the world’s predominant colour was blue. Gabe hung a right into the wide side street and there it was, Merrybridge Middle School – or Merrymiddle as it was known – a concrete congestion of two-storey plain stone-and-glass buildings so beloved by misguided architects and cost-conscious town-planners in the Sixties. If the town itself still had a modicum of charm left, it was lost on the solid but drab interjoined buildings.
Gabe pulled up behind another 4x4 whose passengers were being disgorged and set the handbrake. Some of the children passing by gawped in the passenger window at Loren as if already sniffing a stranger in their midst, and she studiously ignored them. She reached over to the back seat for her school bag. Perhaps in a few days, when she herself wore the Merrybridge uniform, she would not be so visible.
‘All right,’ Gabe smiled reassuringly: he understood her nervousness. ‘You want me to come in with you?’
‘No, Dad!’ She looked alarmed at the very idea.
‘Sure?’
She nodded her head vigorously.
‘Okay. So just go inside and ask someone where you can find Mr Horkins. He’ll see you right.’
They leaned towards each other and Loren gave her father a peck on the cheek. She grabbed her school bag from the back, then pushed the passenger door open. Gabe saw the apprehension on her face and his heart nearly melted.
‘Bye, Daddy,’ she said, before slamming the door after her.
‘See you tonight.’ He watched her go through the gate following two uniformed girls, and he pressed the switch to lower the passenger side window.
‘Hey, Slim!’ he called, stretching across the seat.
Loren turned and looked back at him.
‘Don’t talk to boys!’ He gave her a broad smile.
She rolled her eyes heavenwards and the two girls in front looked over their shoulders and giggled.
Then Loren was gone and Gabe felt a heel.
20: THE SPINNING TOP
Eve snatched another look out of the kitchen window, checking on Chester who lay forlornly on the grass, roped to the tall oak tree from whose lowest branch the swing hung. His head was down, muzzle resting between his front paws, and he was looking forlornly towards the house.
She was relieved to see it wasn’t raining this morning, although the dark clouds looked threatening, otherwise she would be forced to bring him inside, and the thought of dragging him all the way across the lawn while he fretted and resisted was unappealing.
That morning there had been too much frantic bustle to reflect on the events of the previous night because the whole family had overslept. Hasty breakfasts, Chester taken out on his lead to do his stuff, quick kisses goodbye for Gabe and Loren, Eve especially twitchy for Loren, who was starting her first day at the new school, finally waving to them as they crossed the short bridge, and then the panic was over. Peace returned. Eve helped her youngest wash and dress, then came back down for a second cup of coffee at the kitchen table, while Cally played with her toys upstairs until it was time for her reading lesson.
The house seemed different today, not so dispiriting, not so – not so joyless. Perhaps it was because the sun kept breaking through the rainclouds, cheering the air itself as it flooded through the hall’s tall window, brightening even the gloomiest corners, its warmth stirring the air so the dust floated in its beams. Still in her white waffle dressing gown, Eve sipped from the mug, holding it to her lips with both hands, the coffee’s heat reviving her, yet a calmness seeping through her limbs, her back, her neck. It had been a long time – almost a year – since she had felt this level of relaxation, this lessening of tension, and it was good. No, it was wonderful.
But why? she asked herself. Then she remembered, although it had not truly been forgotten, just temporarily laid aside as life around her continued with its flow. Yesterday, in the sitting room, on the couch. The dream. The bad dream. Something – someone – horrible, leering over her. The foul smell; then the other smell underlying it: the stinging scent of harsh soap. And the paralysing fear that had gripped her while she dozed.
Then its easing. She had felt – she knew she had felt – Cam’s presence. She had not seen his face, but then never in her dreams had his features been clearly defined. And with most of those dreams had come a terrible sadness. But not so yesterday. Yesterday there had only been a calmness and a sense of loving. Cam, somehow, had reached out to her.
She had been under threat, she remembered that; threat from something wretched in this house; something horrid; something hidden inside Crickley Hall itself. But then the relief: Cam touching her, unseen fingers soothing her brow and cheek. It hit her then: was it his spirit that had come to her?
No! No, it couldn’t be! If that were true, if it was his spirit, then Cameron must be dead! And that just could not be! She could not allow it to be!
Besides, there was another conclusion, she told herself, almost slyly, for she could not – would not! – accept the death of her little boy.
It wasn’t Cam’s spirit that appeared to her, not his soul. No, it was his mind. There had always been a telepathic link between them, between mother and child, but it had never been anything to wonder at, nothing so strong that it demanded anything more than casual interest. Neither was it particularly odd: many mothers had intuitions about their offspring, knew instinctively when their child was in pain or disturbed in some way when they were in different rooms, or even miles apart. Mothers could understand their baby’s incoherent cry, mothers could sense their child’s moods and ills. But her psychic connection with Cam was stronger than just that. Three out of the five clairvoyants she had interviewed some years ago had virtually convinced her of supernatural power, but she had never followed through, had lost interest once the
feature had been written. Yet afterwards, she could never again deny there was something more than mere physical existence.
Hadn’t she, herself, sensed the strangely sombre ambience of Crickley Hall? She had felt it even before she set foot inside, when she had studied it from across the bridge. Was it haunted, then? No, she couldn’t quite buy that. But it seemed susceptible to paranormal activity. Was that the same as being haunted? Eve had no idea, although she was vaguely aware that paranormal didn’t always mean supernatural. She needed guidance.
Leaning against the counter and putting her mug down, Eve brought her hands to her face and pressed the fingertips against her closed eyelids.
What did it mean? Had Cam subconsciously contacted her from another place? Was it possible? Was it really possible?
She lowered her hands again and turned from the window, intending to finish her half-drunk coffee, when something caught her eye.
The old-fashioned tin spinning top that Cally had found in the upstairs storeroom last night was standing nearby on the work surface where she had left it. Attractive colours gleamed from the section Gabe had wiped with the palm of his hand; she moved closer.
Those colours were primary and vivid. Curious to see more of the toy’s pattern, Eve reached into a drawer and took out a soft duster. Cally was anxious to play with the top for reasons only a child would understand and that morning Gabe had promised to check out the mechanism when he returned from work. ‘Drop of oil is probably all it needs,’ he had reassured his daughter.
Eve picked up the toy by its plunger and began wiping the metal surface with the duster, soon revealing glorious colours and patterns. She could not help but smile at its gaiety. Running round its bulging circumference were dancing children, their tiny hands joined and their knees bent in frozen motion. Their depiction was simple and quaintly archaic in style, but wonderfully rendered. They played under a bright blue sky, with gentle but radiant green hills on the horizon, a deeper and no less pleasant green beneath their feet.
She blew away dust from her face and continued to clean the toy. There were coloured rings top and bottom, with small stars in the bands of red and yellow. It was a joy to look at and Eve could only wonder why it appeared never to have been used – nor even touched. There were no blemishes or scratches, no dents in the tin, nor any chipped paint. The spiral plunger was not rusted, although it refused to sink into the ball when she pushed at it. Perhaps the turning wheel inside was locked with lack of use.
She was about to call Cally to come down and see it, but had another thought. She put the spinning top back on the work surface and went to the cupboard beneath the sink where Gabe had stored his toolbox. Drawing the scuffed and grimy metal box out and planting it on the floor, she opened up its flaps, then pulled it open wider to reveal all its sections. There was a small can of light machinery oil lying on its side, pointed plastic cap firmly in place.
Taking out the can, Eve returned to the pristine spinning top. She uncapped the oil nozzle and pushed it against the tiny gap where the top’s spiral drive rod entered the tin body. She squeezed drops of oil into the gap, the rod’s spiral shape helping the fluid to sink down into the interior workings of the top itself. For good measure, Eve lubricated the visible part of the spiral rod. Satisfied, she put down the oil can, wrapped her fingers round the handle at the top of the rod, and plunged down.
The ball began to turn and then the plunger rod stalled, became stuck. She drew it up once more, counted to three, and tried again. This time the rod went all the way down and the top began to spin. She pulled it up again, then pushed down, working up a rhythm, the ball spinning faster and faster, the dancers moving swiftly, catching more speed as Eve plunged, lifted, plunged again. The colours began to flow into each other, began to meld, the dancers becoming a blur, Eve holding her breath as she worked, a humming noise now rising from the toy, soaring higher in tone with each spin, the colours beginning to fade, to become white, absent of any design, and Eve, as she pushed and pulled, remembered that the absence of colour was not black but white, white like the spinning top, its whiteness capturing her attention, the humming somehow hypnotic, the gyration mesmerizing, so that she could feel herself sinking into a void . . .
The top spun faster, faster, the humming pitched higher, higher . . .
And then she experienced a blissful peace, a consuming warmth that could only be described as spiritual, its catalyst the spinning toy.
She moaned as in the whirling bleached brightness she saw the dancing children reappear but without colour, only in subtle shades of ghostly grey. Eve’s head felt light and giddy, but her gaze never abandoned the soft spinning images before her. The humming transcended into voices and they belonged to children at play a long distance away. She searched for Cam’s voice among them, but there were too many to distinguish just one.
The spinning top began to lose speed and the voices reverted to the high-pitched humming, which now dropped to a softer thrumming, which then sank into a drone, which sank to a dissonant groan. The colours returned, the patterns reappeared, the painted children continued their dance. The top rocked on its base, then came to a gradual stop.
There was a stillness in the kitchen until Eve blinked and swayed against the counter.
Outside, the sun still shone intermittently through breaks in the scudding clouds.
Inside the house, there was only quietness.
Until a child’s voice called out to her.
21: DANCING DUST
It was neither excited nor urgent; just a small voice calling from a distance.
‘Mummy.’
At first, Eve had to dissociate it from the other voices she had heard while entranced by the bright whirling toy. It was a little cry, but at the top of its range and it entered the kitchen from across the cavernous hall.
‘Mummy,’ it came again and Eve, still lost in her imaginings, languidly stirred. Instinctively she moved towards the sound, a mother’s natural response to the call of her child. Dazed, expectant, she hoped beyond all realistic hope that it was her son’s voice she heard. Her heart beat faster; her breath was caught in her throat.
She stopped in the kitchen’s open doorway and stared across the broad expanse of flagstones at her daughter, who stood at the turn of the stairway opposite. Sunlight flooded through the tall window behind her, transforming a drab mausoleum into a room of antiquated charm. Dark wood panelling blazed intricate grains of brown and honey, the stone slabs of the floor had mellowed to a soft yellow, and old pieces of furniture were given fresh grandeur.
‘Look, Mummy.’ Cally, with her pink teddy bear tucked under her arm, pointed at the middle ground between them.
Eve looked, but all she could see was thousands – millions – of golden dust motes drifting in the air as if disturbed by the warm rays from outside mingling with the cold draughts of the hall itself to generate lively breezes that carried glittering particles which wheeled and turned and dazzled like a galaxy of minute, shifting stars.
Eve gasped at the splendour, but she did not yet see as her daughter saw. She remembered the dust storm in the attic dormitory yesterday, how it had risen and whirled in the glare of their torches, but it had been nothing like this, nowhere near as thick and fast moving. These radiant particles seemed to be forming definite patterns.
Cally giggled. ‘See them, Mummy, you see them dancing?’
And that was when Eve began to discern shapes among the tiny purling dust motes. It was like staring into one of those illusory picture puzzles where hidden in repetitious patterns were individual objects, persons or animals; unfocused eyes had to be used until, usually quite suddenly, the main image appeared in 3-dimensional effect. The same kind of thing seemed to be happening to Eve right now. The figures inside and also made of swirling dust became clear in a rush. They were still part of the great mass filling the sunlight in the hall, but they suddenly took on individuality, images emerging from the whole while still remaining part of it. The closes
t of the children had their backs to her as they danced past, holding hands, moving from right to left in a circle so that she could now make out the children facing her on the other side. The spinning top! They were like the children on the spinning top! Dancing in a ring, holding hands, their legs bending and straightening as they skipped along, as if they were real children, not just colourful illustrations. And now she heard their happy chants, distant as before, but nevertheless voices raised in happy union.
The same warmth as before came back to her – that spiritual warmth – and she wanted to weep because there was a sadness mixed with the joy, a longing, a yearning, for something that could not yet be.
She became lost in the vision. Fantasy or revelation, what was it meant to be? Cally saw them too; she jumped up and down on the small square landing at the turn of the stairs and she pointed at the dancing children, crying out at the fun of it. Because of that, Eve knew that it was real, it was no hallucination: she shared the sight with her daughter.
She could not see their faces clearly, but she could at least make out their attire, the boys in short trousers and braces, the girls in frocks and some with plaits in their hair. Shoes were not visible, but Eve could see socks on the boys, most rumpled down round ankles. She tried desperately to distinguish their features, but it was like watching a moving stippled painting, the dust motes representing the stippling. But she could count them as they passed by. There were nine of them. Nine children. Nine little headstones down at the church graveyard. Nine out of the eleven child victims that had been taken by the flood more than half a century ago.
Why were their ghosts still here?
What could be here for them at Crickley Hall?
It was as though the questions had broken the vision.
For everything changed.
The sunlight disappeared, the sun obscured by an immense roiling raincloud, and the great hall was once more thrown into gloom and shadow. Rain pattered on the tall window and Cally’s figure on the landing was suddenly shaded.
The Secret of Crickley Hall Page 13