William must have sat there for two hours, and he reminisced how time passed differently when you were dead. Time was almost nonexistent. You didn’t age or die again, and nothing in particular happened if you failed to watch the clock. You didn’t eat, sleep, use the bathroom or get sick, so, again, rituals that marked time were missing in the world of the dead. Time was meaningless.
He watched the Jews. The volume of their chants and the bobbing became more violent, almost like a slashing/crushing movement. He then turned and saw Rachel, the whole reason he was there, hurrying along the street, no doubt returning to her flat.
Jesus be praised; at last. He leapt from his concrete seat and rushed after her. She had seen the Jews, as he saw a frown cross her face, but not him. As she passed them, the men began to bob ever more furiously, their ringlets flashing to and fro, and a word rising from their lips again and again, “Shedim… shedim…”
Ignoring their screeches, he rushed up behind her as she opened her front door; instinctively, he pushed his foot in the closing gap, then looked down as the closed door obscured half his foot, which was presumably in her hallway.
“Rachel… Rachel,” he hissed through the closed letterbox. “It’s me. The doctor from the hospital. I have to speak to you; it’s really important.”
“Go away,” he heard from inside.
“I am afraid I cannot. I must speak to you about your gift, and make you realise how important it is.” He started back as the door opened; she looked exhausted. “Rachel, I am sorry. Please, just give me ten minutes, and afterwards if you want me to go, I will.”
The shouting men had dispersed now. She looked over his shoulder and watched them retreat.
“OK; look, come in. But ten minutes only, and no bullcrap, OK? I have had enough of that today,” she stated.
Dr Maxwell was unsure what ‘bullcrap’ was, but he hoped he wouldn’t say it without realising.
*
Rachel’s flat was tidier than it had been in a while, but it still looked like it needed more attention. William remembered his lodgings in London, before he met his wife, and the chaos that ensued, especially when the gentlemen from the hospital came over with alcohol, so he chose not to judge.
Rachel appeared from the kitchen doorway, clutching a glass of water containing two dissolving effervescent pills. She sat down heavily in the armchair and lay back. William decided that it would be appropriate to sit in the large, lumpy sofa opposite. He made a slow and deliberate, almost theatrical, effort in doing this. When one happens to be dead, sitting or standing made no difference; but his memory of life often led him to sit when in the presence of others, especially ladies.
“Do you want a drink?” Rachel asked absentmindedly.
“Alas when you are dead, you lose the ability to drink,” William mused. “This is especially frustrating if one happens to be haunting an alehouse.”
“Oh, of course.” She sat upright and gulped down a large mouthful of the fizzing liquid. “Yes, I know. I see you,” she continued. “I see ghosts or whatever, but that doesn’t mean anything.” She sipped more of the fizzing drink, then blanched. “I am not a saint, nor a psychic, and I can’t do anything to get you up to heaven or anything, so you must stop asking. What’s your name by the way? I don’t even know…”
“Dr Maxwell, William Maxwell, from London. I died in a fire.”
She frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry about that.”
He opened his hands. “My fate is my own. My dear, I have seen your article in the newspaper, and I really do believe that you are able to help us. You see, many people claim to be able to see the dead and talk to us, but you can actually do it. Whatever anyone says, this is a sign – a bridge between the living world and the dead. I cannot ignore it.”
She held her head. “Look, I think I have another one of my migraines coming on… I have got so many worries right now: my boyfriend left me, I have lost my job, and, to be honest, people are reading the story in the paper and thinking I am nuts. My priority is to keep my head down and try to make enough cash to survive. That is all. I don’t want to get involved in doing anything more than I need to.”
“You have been given a gift; you have to use it.”
“It’s not a gift; it’s a curse, believe me. I get it; if I can help dead people, then of course I will try to, but I cannot promise anything.”
In the silence between them, the chanting of the Jews started up again, outside in the street.
“Will you go now, please?” asked Rachel “I really don’t feel well with my head.”
William stood up; he hadn’t said half of what he had intended to, and he still didn’t believe Rachel had a clue about how important she was; but he knew women, and if he pushed too much, she might not see him again. Retreat, then return is in order here, he thought.
“Very well, but I will return…” He looked out of her window and inclined his head to the street. “You have certainly shaken those fellows up.”
“Wha… the Jews? Why? They are just doing their praying thing. They often do that out there; God knows why.”
He turned to face her. “Their chant – you don’t understand it, do you? The word, ‘shedim’, you don’t know what that means?”
“Of course not… Why would I?” She glared crossly at him.
“Jews argue as to its meaning, but most take it to mean…” he hesitated.
“God or angel… Meaning me; yeah, I get it. They were chanting it at me, at my bloody house, hoping I can help them go to their Jewish heaven as well.”
He looked back out of the window, and then frowned.
“Look, whatever it means, I don’t give a toss.” She lay back in the chair again.
Dr Maxwell went to speak, but then thought better of it.
Chapter 21
Two weeks passed. Word was getting around town about how Andy’s business had now received the instant boost of a real psychic who could see ghosts, and he was receiving more calls than ever from people wanting help and advice, including a local church, of all places. Someone had put a post on a social media site for local businesses that went on at length about the so-called powers of Andy’s new sidekick. Some of the comments dismissed it as a hoax, but, interestingly, he had received five calls on the back of this post alone, all from paying customers wanting his services.
He had decided to sign off from the benefits and take a risk that he could now support himself, as he certainly didn’t have time to stack shelves now. In one day, last week, he had made an astonishing £850. This was split between two jobs: one was a silly one (the bumping sound heard was a local tom cat, trying to get through a window to mate with the female cat that was owned by the lady who called him), but one was a real spook. It was a stable boy, who was trapped in a house conversion that was once a stable yard. As usual, Rachel had spoken to him, and the ghost had decided not to haunt the outbuildings anymore. Whatever Rachel was saying to these spirits was working; they never bothered the people who lived in the house again.
He hadn’t admitted to Rachel that he had charged for the tom-cat case (he always sent her out of the room before taking the cash), as he still wasn’t sure what she would make of him charging people who didn’t actually have a real ghost; but needs must, and he was skint. He would sound her out about that later.
The only fly in the ointment was that he was worried about an odd call he had received that morning from Mr Easton, the ‘floating sailor’ man; it sounded quite desperate, and said he had to see both Andy and Rachel as soon as possible, but down at the police station. Shit. What was that all about? Surely Mr Easton wouldn’t lay some criminal charge at his door for what happened in his house? Andy had ripped a curtain slightly whilst hitting them, but surely this wasn’t a police matter? As well as that, Mr Easton’s ghost had been a real one, not a rip off. If Andy had pretended a knocking pipe was a spook, then, fair en
ough, he guessed that was earning money under false pretences. But this had been real.
Mr Easton had asked them to come today at 3pm, so Andy text messaged Rachel, who had just said, “OK” and not asked what it was about or anything. Thank goodness he was the one in charge of this outfit; she would never be a very good psychic investigator alone.
*
At 3pm, as asked, Rachel and Andy arrived at the police station. Rachel looked, as usual, slightly out of it; she claimed her medication made her sleepy at times. Andy just wanted to find out what the hell Mr Easton and the cops wanted with him, and then get out.
On arrival, they had been ushered from the bland station counter to what looked like an even blander interview room down a corridor. There was a recording system on the edge of the table, some hard plastic chairs and a poster stuck to the wall, simply saying, “Not a crime? Don’t call 999” with a cartoon policeman shaking his finger. Andy noticed there were bars at the window. All sorts of things rushed through his mind, like maybe something had gone missing after they left the house and Mr Easton thought they were thieves. He suddenly felt very claustrophobic.
Rachel looked up at the woman standing in the corner of the room. She was holding a large book, and was dressed in an apron, an ankle-length brown dress and with a white coif on her head. Rachel guessed she must have been about 25 years old; or would have been if she was alive, of course. She wasn’t. It was another ghost. She looked sad. She didn’t look at Rachel, but just stared at the floor. Rachel looked away. She was getting used to seeing them everywhere now, so much so that she didn’t even tell Andy anymore when they were nearby. She used to point them out, but did not bother anymore, as there were too many of them.
“Why do the police want to see us, did you ever find out?” Rachel asked, breaking the silence.
“Er, no… Mr Easton just said he had an important matter he wanted to discuss, and it would be easier to do it here,” clarified Andy.
She turned to him “And you didn’t ask why? Maybe we are in trouble?”
“Why would we be in trouble?”
“I don’t know; it might be that we have upset him in some way?”
The door opened abruptly and a middle-aged man walked in, wearing an ID badge and carrying some papers, closely followed by the familiar figure of Ronald Easton. The first man didn’t look very happy or at all comfortable about being there. They sat down opposite Rachel and Andy.
“Are we in some kind of trouble?” Rachel asked.
“Trouble? I hope not, unless you know something we don’t?” the policeman said grumpily. “I am Detective Inspector Derek Johnson, and this is, as you probably know, a colleague of ours, Ronald Easton. It was his idea to bring you both here.” He frowned.
“Colleague?” asked Andy nervously; he didn’t like dealing with the police at all if it could be avoided.
Ronald spoke up in a jovial tone, “I work with the police, on their lay committee, helping to make sure that officers deal fairly with suspects. It’s a volunteer role, but one I am proud of…” He looked fleetingly at Johnson sitting next to him before continuing. “Anyway, after the experience at my house, I spoke to Derek here about a case he is working on at the moment. I think you might be able to help him, especially you, Rachel.”
She jolted upright. “Me?”
“You said you can see… the undead?” queried Mr Easton.
“The dead, yes, sometimes… I know it sounds mad.” (She always added that at the end.)
“Good.” Mr Easton appeared completely unfazed. “Derek, show Rachel your information, please.”
The policeman, still looking annoyed, opened up a buff-coloured file and took out a colour photo of a pretty, young girl, whom Rachel suspected was pouting at a camera phone; the girl wore a lot of make-up and had some cleavage on show. Andy stared at it, transfixed.
The policeman began, “This is Kayleigh Lovall.” He gestured to the photo. “After a night out with friends two weeks ago, she went missing in Darkfoot Wood; do you know of it?”
“I have heard of it, but I’ve not been there.” She kept looking at the photo.
“We found a shoe and her bag in the woods, and, worryingly, blood that matches Kayleigh’s, but nothing else. We believe…” DI Johnson paused. “That… er… due to…” He stopped again. “Look, we think that, due to the amount of her blood that we found, she has been murdered.”
“What has this got to do with me?” questioned Rachel.
“Our normal investigations are not casting any new light on this case. She was well liked, a respected student with good grades, and never in trouble, but we are drawing blanks here as to who is her killer or where her body might be. We, of course, will be carrying on with our own official investigation into what happened that night, but Mr Easton…” DI Johnson looked across at him with distain, “believes you might be able to help us in an unofficial capacity, as a psychic.”
“I am not psychic. I cannot tell fortunes or what’s going to happen to anyone; I just see dead people… Sometimes, I also see buildings as they were in the past, but that’s it.”
Andy coughed. “Is there any money in this if we find the body?”
Rachel turned to him angrily.
The policeman crumpled his nose slightly. “There has been a reward put up by her parents of £10,000, so, in theory, if your evidence leads us to the killer, who is then convicted successfully, then yes, you would be rewarded. Please also remember that during this investigation you cannot speak to anyone outside of this room, including the media, about what you are doing.”
“Sweet! When do we start?” enquired Andy.
“Wait, I don’t know about this,” intervened Rachel. “I see spirits around me, but they just happen to be where they are, like in the street or in this room…” She was aware of the lady in the smock, walking backwards and forwards, still clinging on to her beloved book. “But I cannot conjure them up, like people on those psychic stage shows, who say, ‘Is there anyone there?’ I don’t know if I could find this girl.”
“Will you try? Her parents are desperate for news,” said Mr Easton.
Rachel looked at the buff folder, which was now on the table; a photo had half slid out and all she could see was what looked like grass covered in red. “Look, give me some info on where she was last seen and a photo. I will give it a go, but I promise absolutely nothing.”
The policeman, after pushing the red photo back into the folder hastily, pulled out two sheets and passed them over to Rachel, and, lastly, gave her a copy of the original pouting photo.
He declared, “I will be honest, Miss Holloway. I don’t believe in all this psychic business, seeing ghosts, but Mr Easton has been… most insistent… that we try you, seeing as everything else is bringing no results. The only people who even know about us asking you are me, my immediate boss and Mr Easton.” He paused, as if considering whether to say the next sentence or not. “I don’t think I am the only one to say I don’t believe in ghosts, and that’s that.”
“You’re not alone,” she said, looking at the photo again, with the young girl pouting back at her. “Some ghosts don’t believe in ghosts; what about that? It’s fine being alive and not thinking ghosts exist, but imagine being dead, being a ghost, and then still saying to yourself they don’t exist, which is sometimes the case with religious people and scientists. It can get people into a bit of a spin.”
The policeman looked back, unimpressed; Mr Easton was, inappropriately, beaming. Andy was just sitting there, thinking of the £10,000.
Chapter 22
Rachel had spent the weekend reading the notes about the short life of Kayleigh Lovall; she could only read it in small bursts of about an hour, due to her tiredness. The policeman had been right: Kayleigh had done well at school and was now at college; she had never been in trouble with the police; according to notes from her parents, there ha
d never been any issues with her behaviour, and she had no boyfriend. Regarding her last evening alive, it was confirmed that she was at a friend’s party; she had left at 11pm, and her friend, who was too drunk to notice, had not even seen she had gone. Apparently, Kayleigh was last seen on CCTV, heading into Darkfoot Wood, which looked like she was taking a shortcut to her home. If she had used the quickest route, she would have passed Shore Moat; the blood, shoe and bag (with nothing missing from it) had been found half a mile past the moat. That was it; that’s all they knew.
Rachel had turned over in her mind what she was supposed to do. She had debated trying to ask the girl to appear to her, to try and conjure her up, so to speak, but that wasn’t how it worked – she just saw spirits going about their daily business. So, in the end, she decided to go to Darkfoot Wood. She would have a look around there, especially down the route that the girl took through the area (the policeman had drawn a map for her), and if that wasn’t fruitful, she would possibly visit Kayleigh’s home, as she might be there.
Rachel had recently discovered, through speaking to spirits, that those grounded on the earth – the dead people she saw – usually had their own special reason for hanging around (or haunting) in the area they did. After death, some of them tried to make it back to their homes, but seeing their families in mourning often upset them too much; some went to workplaces they had known well, and others went to favourite areas in the locality. A spirit she had seen once explained that most of them could not just pop off to anywhere they wished – for example, to spend a week in Miami; many were ‘grounded’, usually within about ten miles of the spot where they died, although a small minority of them were able to travel longer distances. But then those who died far from home were sometimes able to haunt not only the area they died in but their home town as well; for example, those who died abroad. Most chose to come home. It was all somewhat random.
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