Seeing Things

by Suzanne Linsey-Mitellas

  Rachel watched them from her window; what did they want? She actually considered asking them, but shied away from it for some reason. They looked very angry and determined, something had clearly annoyed them, and, as they kept looking up towards her flat, she assumed it was probably something she had done that had offended them.

  Her main thought was that they, as most spirits she met, thought that, because she could see them so clearly, she had the answers to how they could get to their heaven and meet their God. But, of course, she hadn’t a clue. She also hated it when Andy put her down as being a psychic, as, in her view, she wasn’t in any way a psychic – she could just see dead people and, occasionally, buildings, areas and events as they had appeared in the past. But she could not tell fortunes, look into people’s minds or even summon spirits; they came if they wanted to but she certainly had no power over them.

  As she was staring out of her window, a taxi pulled up outside, and the familiar figure of Andy got out. The chanting men didn’t even look at him as he paid the driver and hurried up the steps to her door. It looked like he had a new jacket and trainers; he also had a brightly coloured sports bag over his arm. She went to the front door to let him in.

  “Did you get my message?” he said, hurrying through the door.

  “No, I haven’t checked my phone. What’s wrong?” Rachel queried.

  “Nothing is wrong; everything is right!” Andy bustled into the living room and sat down, whilst fumbling in the sports bag. Triumphantly, he removed a small piece of paper with scribble on it.

  “Victor Adeyemi… he called me! Well, texted me… saying he wants us to investigate some problems with spirits at his home.” He looked at her for a reaction.

  “Who is Victor Eye-yemo?”

  “Victor Adeyemi! He’s a premier-league football player with Flintock FC! He was the one who threw the Chinese lucky-cat sculpture at the photographer in Paris… remember?”

  “Er… no.”

  He waved his hand back and forth. “No matter; he wants us, you and me, to come to his massive house in Hertfordshire and get rid of some ghosts.”

  “Get rid of them? Where?”

  He lay back on the sofa with both his arms over the backrest behind him. “Tell ’em to stop haunting him or tell ’em to clear off; I don’t care as long as we get rid of them. Oh yeah, and your mate, Luke Fairfax, the reporter, said he will cover the story in the paper if it’s successful. Victor is up for that; he says it will be a boost to his profile with local people, so he’s happy to have a photo with us and everything. It’s bloody fantastic free advertising if we get in the paper, so I said yes; we’ve got to think about the pennies.”

  Rachel couldn’t think of a situation that had more chance of going badly wrong than a famous premier-league footballer getting a paranormal investigation team into his house to get rid of ghosts, and willingly selling the dubious tale, and photos, to a newspaper. What was he hoping to achieve by it? It could go so horribly pear shaped. “Yes, about that,” she said with a frown, “I think we need to sit down at some point and discuss remuneration – how much I get out of this.”

  Immediately, Andy sat up straight. “Are you unhappy with what I am paying you?”

  “Er… well, I would rather it was put on a more formal footing; for example, I’d like to get a percentage rather than, well, what you think I should get each time.”

  “Charming. It’s me who gets the jobs in and butters up the customers; you just go in and do your stuff. There’s also a lot of preparation work to be done in this business, and a shit load of public relations and media,” Andy complained.

  “Without me, you wouldn’t have the edge though, be honest. What was it… oh yes, ‘The only paranormal investigator to have a real psychic’; I have seen your adverts, you know!”

  “To boast a real psychic; get it right!”

  “Whatever. I would like half of whatever you earn; it’s only fair.” Rachel stated.

  “Fine, but you have to do half the donkey work then.” He debated whether he should mention Howland Hall now. Yeah, why not… “I also got us a job doing regular ghost gigs at a local historical house, Howland Hall, every couple of months… We get a load of paying people turn up; you walk ’em round the hall, and tell ’em when you see ghosts and what they say. We will clean up.”

  Rachel wasn’t sure. Andy still hadn’t got the hang of what this was about. Ghosts didn’t like to be told to clear off; they were also very likely to say quite offensive things, which might be difficult repeating out loud if children were present. Added to that, the idea of walking a load of random people around a large house, presumably in the dark, and jumping when someone farted, didn’t appeal at all. But, as usual, she went along with it. “Fine, but I want half the money.”

  “Fair enough, but more work is coming your way if you want half the cash.”

  Rachel got up and looked out of the window. There were even more Jews now, facing her window and nearer now. One was standing on the bottom step to her flat; all were frowning.

  “Do you know anything about the Jewish Orthodox faith, Andy?” she asked, not looking away.

  Andy narrowed his eyes in concentration. “I don’t think they eat burgers, do they? Or work on a Sunday? I also remember somefing about how they like taking chickens for walks wiv a piece of string. I don’t know much else to be honest.”

  Great, she wouldn’t get any help from him. That much was certain.

  *

  Henry had always known he was something special, right from an early age. The first thing he had noticed was just how huge and luxurious his family home was: the opulently furnished Cotterstokes House. There was nothing he could want for, as his father owned huge swathes of land, and imported fine things from overseas to sell. The Swains were an incredibly wealthy family.

  Henry was an only child – this was unusual in his circle, as many of his peers had at least four siblings – but he liked it that way, as everything was done for him, and he didn’t have to share with anyone. Though taught by a stern tutor, Henry enjoyed learning, especially science and numeracy. Being the sole heir of John Swain, he knew that, one day when his father passed, he would have sole charge of the house, lands and import business. Although he wished no ill will to his father, he believed he would make a success of this inheritance when he received it.

  His mother referred to him as ‘her kitten’; he was not sure why.

  By the time he was eleven, he was already learning how things were done, the difficulties of running the land and dealing with the farmers who lived there. His eyes had been opened whilst helping his father, especially to the conditions some people lived in, and it had shocked him. Many of the farmers had no proper housing: often their cottages were very small and hard to heat in winter. Water was drawn from a well some distance away, and there appeared to be no obvious place for the householder to relieve themselves. He recalled once asking his father why this was, only to be told that, in this world, some are with and some without; it was the way of things. His father also reminded him that it was because of the generosity of their family that these farmers all lived so well; he only took a percentage of their crop and charged a fair rent for the land, so no one starved under the Swains.

  Henry had always been well attired; both his parents had high regard for the latest fashions at home and abroad, and ensured that they bought the finest clothes. His father being an importer meant they could always get the best cloth or silks at a fraction of the price. This was one of the reasons why Henry was so concerned with his appearance.

  He remembered the day of his death, it was 9th April 1711. Henry had decided to go out riding. He had ridden since he was three and was an accomplished horseman, so this was nothing unusual. Countless times he had mulled the incident over, as many of the dead did. They revisited their deaths again and again in their minds, forever replaying the day of their
departure, to try to determine if they could have done something differently. Why them and why right at that particular time? But, of course, it was a wholly pointless exercise.

  Henry only remembered that his mount was not his usual one; his horse had thrown a shoe and so he had ridden his father’s horse instead, but it was broadly the same size and temperament as his own. He recalled galloping at speed across the fields attached to his home, and how happy he had been on that day; the weather had been fine and everything was good in the world.

  Then it happened. The horse saw a fallen tree trunk in its way and leapt; Henry had been unprepared for the jump and remembered sliding from his saddle and falling heavily. The last thing he remembered in his lifetime was the sickening crack as his head hit a large stone by the roadside. That was it. He guessed he had smashed his skull or broken his neck.

  The next thing he remembered was standing in the same lane, near where he had suffered the accident; just standing there. To him, it was only a second after the accident and so he had assumed at first that he had passed out, the horse had bolted and he simply needed to go home. But he had been wrong, he was dead, and, as he walked along the lane, he began to realise – simply by looking at those who passed him by – that something had changed.

  After walking for some time, he arrived at Cotterstokes House, or, to be more precise, what was in its place. The home he remembered was gone, obliterated; instead, a completely different house stood there, all in stone and more modest. He kept going through it in his mind; was he lost? Had the knock on his head confused him more than he had originally thought? No, surely this was right. He remembered the large oak tree by the paddock; yes, this was indeed where his home had once stood.

  He tried knocking on the door, but became alarmed when his hand passed straight through as if it was mist. He remembered crying and sitting on the ground, closing and opening his eyes, hoping it would go back to how things were, but, of course, it never did.

  A spirit priest found him; it must have been hours later. He said he was from the local church and had died of a fit in 1815. After speaking to Henry, the priest told him what had happened, and worked out, broadly by Henry’s recounting and clothing, that he must have died around the early 1700s. It had been the priest who had taken him to Nanny, and Nanny who had explained what sometimes happened when people died. Ever since then, he had followed her and her ragtag of dead children around, waiting for something or someone to compel him into action. He wasn’t entirely sure what action he desired, but felt in his heart he absolutely needed to do something.

  His interest had been sparked immediately by Dr Maxwell, a man of learning and science, and the doctor’s quest to work out why they were all stuck on earth with, apparently, no way of moving on. This was of particular interest to Henry, as he had been thirteen years old when he had died, and had, somehow, been dead for over a century without being aware of it, before being returned to the earth in a ghostly form. If that wasn’t going to interfere with a gentleman’s train of thought, he didn’t know what would.

  Chapter 28

  The visit to the home of Victor Adeyemi had to be postponed for a week because Rachel had taken ill again with some kind of virus. Andy had stopped asking how she was anymore, as she always appeared to be unwell; instead, he would explain to clients (unbeknownst to Rachel) that being psychic would often make her unstable and prone to eccentricity. He would then often add that it was worth bearing with her unreliability to get a real psychic. So far, most clients had swallowed this cock-and-bull story.

  They were due to arrive at 10am; Rachel had turned up slightly earlier and was standing outside when Andy arrived, again on his old pushbike.

  The house looked very modern; it was an impressively large, red-brick building, surrounded on all sides by a high, brick wall with sliding gates. There was an intercom outside that Andy used to buzz through, and the gates slowly drew open to let them pass.

  As they walked to the front door, they glanced at a large fountain that was set in the main driveway. It was constructed in an ancient Greek style and featured the face of a young African man in the tiling around the side and on the base. Rachel assumed this must be Victor Adeyemi or, at the very least, a stylised version of him.

  They stood at the front door, but no one came to open it. Andy frowned and pressed the loudly trilling doorbell till shuffling steps were heard, making their way towards them. The polished, wooden door opened slowly to reveal a heavily overweight, middle-aged African woman, wearing a pinafore with a scarf around her head.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Andy Horton and Rachel Holloway to see Victor, please,” confirmed Andy.

  She looked them up and down slowly then closed the door completely. They heard her shuffling steps vanish within the house.

  “He knows we are coming, doesn’t he?” asked Rachel.

  “Of course he bloody does. He asked us to come today; he probably has a butler or some shit to—” began Andy.

  The front door was instantly torn open to reveal a tall, athletic man, who actually did look like the image on the fountain, dressed in a bright-purple suit. Beaming, he grasped their hands. “Andy, Rachel… cool… Come in…”

  He led them through an opulent hallway, with brightly polished marble floors. The older lady who had answered the door, and was now standing on the steps, made a gentle sucking noise through her teeth as they passed her. Victor either did not notice or did not care, as he walked them through to a huge living area, all decorated in black and white, and again, with a highly polished marble floor.

  He gestured towards a huge, black, leather sofa, and sat down in front of them in an oversized armchair. It had the initials ‘VA’ embossed in what looked like gold leaf on the wings of the headrest.

  “Would you like something to drink? Auntie can bring something.” He pointed to the older lady who now stood in the doorway to the living room.

  Andy responded, “Er, yes; a coffee for me, black no sugar. Rachel?”

  “Some water would be lovely,” Rachel confirmed.

  The lady muttered, then vanished back into the hallway.

  Andy opened up the conversation. “Victor, I cannot tell you how excited I was to get your call the other day.”

  “You are a fan?” asked Victor.

  “Oh, absolutely… And it is a pleasure to serve a local sportsman such as you with this, erm… delicate matter.”

  “Yes, about that—”

  At that point, the lady returned unexpectedly quickly with the refreshments, and everyone sat in silence as cups were placed on coasters in front of them. Rachel noticed that on her coaster was yet another image of the footballer, this time it was a photograph of him doing a thumbs-up. She wondered why anyone would want their own visage emblazoned on items around them.

  Victor began again. “Like I said, I have asked the local paper to cover the story, but I want to make sure it’s handled right; know what I mean? I don’t want anything printed saying Victor Adeyemi is a bit wacko, and sees ghosts and stuff; ya get me?”

  Rachel frowned. “Are you sure you want to involve the press, Mr Adeyemi? Once Luke has the story, you will have very little editorial control over how you, and we, are portrayed.”

  “Call me Victor, girl, and yeah, it’s cool. After that thing with the photographer, when I lost ma cool in Paris – I’m sure Andy has told you – I need some positive PR, know what I mean?” Victor looked at both of them. “Also, I called a priest in last week, to see if he could help and send the ghost on, know what I mean? He waved some incense about and said some stuff from the Bible, but I am still getting grief. I hope you can help me?”

  Andy had been writing notes all the while, and he looked up at this point. “Thanks for that, Victor; will you tell me a little more about the haunting? When and where it happens, and how long it’s been going on for?”

  Victor put hi
s coffee down and looked solemn. “Yeah, cool, sure… I think it’s a dude. He stands by the front window, over there…” He pointed to his bay window. It looked out onto the front driveway, and was ornately decorated with heavy, gold curtains that were tied back on either side. “But I think he also hangs about ma gym room upstairs… Ya get me? Also, I heard footsteps going up and down the stairs; Auntie said she saw a dark figure at the top of the stairs too. Once, she was so scared, she ran down them stairs so fast she nearly tripped.”

  “Did it say anything?”

  “No… I’ve just seen movement, but it’s getting worse. I was watching TV the other night and, out the corner of ma eye, I saw this dark shape, moving a bit by the window. It gave me the creeps.”

  “We will rid you of your ghost,” said Andy. He opened the little suitcase he had brought with him and placed his now-customary crucifix-clad Stetson on his head, and then took out a small, black box, on which he turned a knob; it then began to emit a swooshing radio noise.

  “I am going to check out the window, OK?” Andy got up and walked towards the window, waving the box back and forth. He frowned when it started to emit a screeching noise.

  “I will check out the stairs,” said Rachel. She got up and began to walk towards the hallway.

  Victor jumped up. “I got two stairs; you want the one to the left, where the front door is, OK? Shall I stay here?”

  “Yes, please,” she requested.

  He sat back down. Rachel passed from the living room, back out into the hallway again. In the distance, she heard quiet singing and the banging of pots; assuming this was Auntie, busy doing whatever it was Auntie did, she turned towards the staircase.

  The stairs themselves were covered in a lush, black carpet that was pinned into each stair with a gold rail; the light-coloured wood of the stairs was highly polished. In fact, the whole house was spotless, but Rachel noticed that some mud had trailed in when she and Andy had entered. She began to climb the stairs, looking about, but could see nothing unusual.