Their conversation ends when Charlotte brings Emily home and the kitchen fills with chatter. Today it's Tony's turn to ask Emily the inevitable question.
“What did you do in school today?”
Emily reels off a list of lessons and activities, making her usual disgusted face at 'sums' then revealing a picture she's painted in art class. It shows a boxy building with EMILY'S HOUSE in wobbly letters above it, a street sign reading HOBB'S LANE, and assorted figures standing around and in front of the building.
“Wow, that is amazing,” says Rachel. “Who are all these people?”
Emily points to three figures and says, “You and Daddy, and Auntie Charlotte.”
“And I guess this must be you and Bradshaw?” asks Rachel, pointing to a small figure and a brown, bear-like blob.
“Yes!” replies Emily. “We had to paint everybody who's in our family, so I had to include Bradshaw and Auntie Charlotte. They're both very important.”
“Thanks!” laughs Charlotte. “I hope I'm slightly less moth-eaten but I'll take the compliment.”
“So who are these people inside the house?” asks Tony, pointing to three faces at one upstairs window.
“They're the Raggedy Men,” says Emily straightforwardly. “They live in my bedroom sometimes. But only when it's dark, but they don't make much noise. Are we having spaghetti for dinner?”
There's a moment's silence, then Charlotte says, “Well, I must be getting along! I've got to visit Maria.”
“Can I come and see Maria one day?” asks Emily.
“Maybe, darling,” replies Tony, taking his daughter by the hand. “Come on, let's say goodbye to Charlotte and thank her for looking after you.”
Rachel is left alone in the kitchen for a few moments, and takes the opportunity to study the painting more closely. The faces at the window of the painted house have grey voids instead of the eyes, nose, and mouth. The other figures all have dots for eyes and smiling faces.
Okay, I can't fool myself any longer, she thinks. The Sentinels are back and this time they're focusing on my daughter. Why? And what can I do to stop them?
Emily rockets into the kitchen ahead of Tony and races up to Rachel, who puts the painting down.
“You didn't answer my question!” she says accusingly.
“What question's that, honey?” asks Rachel.
“Are we having spaghetti for dinner?” demands Emily.
They are, and Emily cheers at the news. While she dishes out the pasta, Rachel rehearses the conversation she will have to have with Tony later.
***
Jack Warner is on the evening shift now, but still on the same Whitechapel patrol. He can't complain, it's a better neighborhood than most in the East End. It makes good sense for a police officer to get to know a particular patch, and in turn becomes known by the inhabitants, law-abiding or otherwise. This particular evening, he's dealing with some lads who are loitering and smoking outside a Chinese laundry, giving a bit of lip to the customers.
“Right,” he says, pointing to each in turn. “I know your dad, your dad, your mum, your grandma. And I know what you'll get if I tell any of them you've been acting like juvenile delinquents. So shove off pronto or I'll take names; make it official. And we don't want that now, do we?”
The lads try a bit of sneering and jeering, but Warner can tell their hearts aren't in it. They move along, trying to look like hard men.
Warner remembers his own younger days, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. Still, I don't envy their youth, he thinks. They'll be called up in a year or two, sent to Malaya or Kenya or God-Knows-Where. It's one sordid little war after another, and all part of one big Cold War. What a world.
Warner's musings are dispelled when he sees a female figure loitering on the street corner about ten yards ahead. For a minute, he doesn't realize why the woman looks familiar. Then he takes in her antiquated costume, the silly-looking hat with a feather plume. He stops, remembering last winter, the woman attacked by the cloaked man. The ghosts.
It's just somebody in fancy dress, that's all, he tells himself. But he doesn't go to check his theory. Just stands, looking at the Victorian woman leaning against the smoke-blackened brickwork. She glances around, seems to look straight through him. Her face it scarred with acne, lank mousy hair hanging down from under her tawdry hat.
“You see them too, officer? I wondered if you would.”
It's old Mr. Lee, the owner of the laundry, staring down the street. The officer nods, not trusting himself to speak.
“Many more than usual,” Lee goes on. “Mostly at night, but now I see them in daylight. Every day.”
“What's causing it?” asks Warner, still staring at the woman who shouldn't be there.
“Nothing good,” replies Lee. “When ghosts rise up and are restless, then bad things are going on. It's always the unhappy ones, the ones who died badly. They are angry, miserable, or maybe they don't even realize they are dead. That one, for instance.”
“You've seen this happening before?” asks Warner.
The old man nods. “Long time ago, back in Hong Kong. Not good. Best to stay at home with your family.” Then he adds, “You should have a partner on this patrol, Jack. Always best to travel with someone else when you don't know who you're going to meet.”
The old man goes back inside his shop while shaking his head.
Warner looks back at the street corner and the woman is gone.
Not seeing things, then, he thinks. Or at least, I'm not the only one.
Somehow, as he resumes his patrol, he doesn't find the thought reassuring.
***
Sir Winston Spencer Churchill is Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, leader of the only surviving empire upon which the sun never sets. He is also asleep with his shoes off in his study at 10 Downing Street. A ginger cat called Chartwell is curled up on his lap, purring gently. A half-full decanter of brandy stands on Churchill's desk, an empty glass beside it.
The cat's ears twitch as a knock sounds at the door of the study. The knock comes again, louder this time, but the sleeper doesn't stir. The door opens and a smartly-dressed middle-aged man enters and closes the door behind him. He sees the prime minister asleep, smiles, tiptoes across to the desk.
He's just laid a buff-colored file down when Churchill opens a rheumy eye and says, “Trying to sneak another few things past me, Henry?”
“Not at all, prime minister,” replies Garmouth. “I just thought I'd best not interrupt your afternoon, ah, siesta!”
“I was asleep, Henry, I'm an old man and I get tired easily. Also, I drink rather a lot, which probably has something to do with it,” says Churchill, tickling the purring cat behind its ears. “I assume that file is full of things I'm expected to sign without reading them properly? Like the last lot?”
“No, no, sir,” protests Garmouth. “It's just that most of it is unimportant, very trivial measures, but all necessary for the smooth workings of government.”
“In my not-inconsiderable experience,” rumbles Churchill, “it's the trivial things that come back to bite you on the arse. Yes, and those smooth workings of government of yours, tend to be the mechanism that produce national disasters. Isn't that right, Chartwell?”
The cat purrs, stretches, leaps down to the floor. Churchill picks up the file, takes out a sheaf of official papers, and begins to leaf through them.
“Well, sit down Henry, this will take some time.”
Garmouth does as he's bid. Chartwell walks up to him, looks speculatively up at a fresh lap. The bureaucrat's mouth twists in distaste.
“Don't like cats, Henry? A disappointing character flaw, that,” says Churchill.
“More of a dog person, prime minister,” replies Garmouth.
“Ah, dogs look up to us, while cats look down on us,” says Churchill. “Pigs, of course, treat us as their equals. Quite rightly, I've always felt.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And
now you're thinking,” Churchill goes on, “when will the drunken old fool get on with it? All right, let's start with the Witchcraft Act. As I've told you before I want it abolished, and I see no provision for that here.”
“With all due respect, Prime Minister,” says Garmouth, “there is considerable opposition in the House of Lords to such a move, especially among the senior clergy. The Archbishops see the Act as a bastion against paganism and such. And this is a Christian country, after all.”
“Spare me the false piety!” exclaims Churchill. “I am tired of seeing mediums, psychics and the like, prosecuted under legislation from the eighteenth century. They may be charlatans, very well, treat them as such, let people sue them to get their money back. But state persecution will not do!”
“I understand your viewpoint, Prime Minister,” says Garmouth, “but think of the adverse publicity it might generate. We could be a laughing stock.”
“Why?” demands Churchill. “I know enough about occult matters to be sure that targeting a few random individuals doesn't work. The real villains will always be above the law if their powers are real, that is. Won't they, Henry?”
Garmouth looks down, perhaps deferentially. Churchill gives a grunt.
“We don't own slaves anymore, we don't try to cast demons out of the insane, so we shouldn't hunt witches. See to it. Action this day!”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” replies Garmouth.
“Now,” Churchill goes on, holding up another document. “This anti-smog plan. Has anyone actually tested these masks you're proposing to distribute? And if so, where are the findings? I learned, to my cost, in two world wars to check the details whenever civil servant tells you something will work!”
“My fault, prime minister,” replies Garmouth, “of course the masks have undergone extensive testing at the Porton Down chemical warfare unit. They've been found entirely fit for purpose, I'm glad to say.”
“And that purpose is,” says Churchill, scrutinizing the official report, “preventing choking, suffocation, or other respiratory problems, especially in the elderly, infirm, and very young. All right, that seems clear enough. Have the masks sent to schools, hospitals, police stations and other distribution centers as soon as possible. And make sure all emergency services personnel get them first.”
He picks up a fountain pen and signs the paper, leans back in his chair.
“It's a disgrace that a nation as great as ours can't even guarantee the citizens of its capital clean air to breathe, Henry. A disgrace.”
“I quite agree, prime minister,” replies Garmouth. “But a combination of winter fog, coal smoke from power stations, and traffic pollution always generates smog around this time. I understand it's due to air currents in the Thames valley.”
Chartwell jumps back onto the prime minister's lap now that he's relaxed again.
“Hundreds of people died last winter,” mutters Churchill. “Good people who look to us, their government, for protection, not excuses or negligence! I don't want that cruel fiasco repeated, Henry. We can't work miracles, I know, but smog deaths must not happen on such a scale this winter!”
Garmouth gets to his feet, gathers up the papers and gives a respectful nod.
“No, prime minister, they certainly must not.”
***
“She's finally down,” says Tony, coming back into the kitchen. “After much negotiation and a story about a frog that bakes a cake for her tadpoles. She rather liked it, Bradshaw was more critical. I'm beginning to wonder whose side that bear is on!”
“You're so much better at all that than I am, honey,” says Rachel, getting up to kiss him.
“I had the advantage of a mother who told me stories,” he says simply. “I'm just passing them on, down the generations.”
Rachel takes a deep breath. “Do you remember what I told you about the Sentinels, Tony?”
He looks puzzled, nods.
“Three ghosts of ancient warriors, very dangerous, guarding a sacred crown. I was there at the time, darling. Still got the bullet hole to prove it.”
“Well,” says Rachel, “one thing that seemed trivial at the time is that a little girl back in Duncaster called those ghosts the Raggedy Men.”
“You never mentioned that,” he comments.
“Well, it never seemed important, what with all the other things happening. But it can't be a coincidence that Emily sees them now. They've gotten into her head, somehow.”
“Not to mention her bedroom,” adds Tony, looking worried. “And you think it's her link to you that's somehow drawn them here?”
“I can't think of anything else, can you?” she asks. After he shakes his head, she goes on, “And I'll have to talk to them somehow, like I did last time. Communicate, find out what they want, persuade them to go.”
“You make it sound easy,” says Tony. “Do you think it's linked to the ghost you could actually touch? I mean, the Sentinels kill, they are substantial, too.”
“You're right, it can't be a coincidence,” she muses. “Something big is going on, like you said, but the pieces of the puzzle are all scattered. We don't know enough. I'll have to…”
Before she can finish her sentence, the telephone bell startles them both. Rachel jumps up, as she's most likely to be bothered by a call from work. She picks up the phone.
“Rachel? This is Tom Kneale from the BBC. I'm so sorry I had to rush off at lunchtime, it was very rude of me. I hope it hasn't biased you against my writing the adaptation of your book?”
“Not at all, Tom, I quite understand,” Rachel says. “I'm sorry I couldn't prepare you for what happened.”
“Yes, quite.”
He sounds confused, she thinks. I wonder how much he actually remembers.
“What did you think was going on?” she asks, choosing her words carefully.
“Well,” he begins, then pauses before saying, “I really don't know what happened, except that it was terribly upsetting. You had some kind of tiff with a waitress, who had something wrong with her face. You know, this is absurd, but it's all a bit of a blur.”
So that's it, she thinks. People, or at least most of the people just don't remember manifestations clearly.
“Yes, just one of those silly arguments in a tea shop you British are famous for,” she says brightly. “So no need to apologize. Next time, though, you're buying!”
“Quite! Well, I'm glad no harm's done, and I hope you'll still take up my invitation to visit the Broadcasting House soon?”
“Of course, I'd love to! And will I really get to meet Herbert James?”
“Indeed you will,” says Kneale. “In fact, I'd better get down to Studio Five, as he's about to start broadcasting. I never miss one of his tales, a writer can learn so much from the old masters. Can I call you at work tomorrow to arrange another meeting?”
“Of course, Tom,” she says. “You've got my number.”
***
Camden Hill Hospital for the Mentally Ill is still called the Nut Hutch by a lot of locals. As Charlotte enters the well-lit, modern building that replaced the old Victorian asylum, she reflects, not for the first time, on how prejudice so often clashes with reality.
“How is she?” she asks the duty nurse as she signs in. They know each other by now, as Charlotte has been a regular visitor for over five years.
“Quiet, sleeping quite well,” replies the male charge nurse, “and looking forward to seeing you, of course, miss.”
They walk along corridors painted in a color that Charlotte thinks of as institution green. There's a smell of disinfectant in the air and distant shouts echo. She's been here dozens of times down the years, but today Charlotte feels that things are slightly off kilter.
Maybe it's just the time of year, this miserable winter weather, she thinks. Visiting a mental hospital under bleak skies probably isn't good for your own mental equilibrium.
They arrive at a set of double doors below a sign, ‘Day Room.’ They enter and the nurse leads Charlotte thro
ugh a large, well-lit room where patients in uniform pajamas sit drawing, doing puzzles, weaving baskets, or simply staring at nothing. There are no newspapers or books. Curtains are drawn across the French windows that stand open in summer. They arrive at a corner table where a plump, dark-haired woman is hunched intently over a small table. She is coloring in a picture with crayons.
“You've got a visitor, Maria!” says the nurse, his tone professionally upbeat.
Maria Castanos looks up, smiling vaguely, her eyes not quite focused on Charlotte.
“I am always happy to see living people,” she says, with a slight trace of the grandiose style that she adopted when she was a fashionable medium during the war.
“That's good to know,” says the nurse, with a wink at Charlotte. “I'll just be over there if you need me.”
Charlotte takes a seat, reaches over to grip Maria's hand. She's lost even more weight, she thinks, there's not much left of the formidable medium we knew.
“Rachel and Tony send their best wishes,” she tells Maria.
“They are kind. You are kind,” adds Maria, squeezing Charlotte's hand. “I am fortunate in my English friends. An exile in a foreign land is often subject to terrible turns of fate. I am most fortunate, yes.”
“Yes, but you're safe now, with all these good people to look after you,” Charlotte says emphatically. She tries not to think about the reason for Maria's admission to Camden Hill, the violence and darkness that so nearly overwhelmed them all. She finds that she unconsciously raises her hand to the side of her head. Charlotte's skull still bears a dent from a vicious blow delivered by a man she had been in love with, or thought she had.
“Is the little one happy?” asks Maria. “The child of the gentle lord and lady?”
Happy to change the subject Charlotte opens her purse and takes out a small black and white photograph of Emily on a swing being pushed by Rachel and Tony.
“Here, this one is quite recent! Doesn't she look sweet? They're a lovely family.”
The Smog (The Sentinels Series Book 3) Page 3