‘Until the film.’
‘Until the film.’
‘And it doesn’t worry you that you may be stirring up things which would be best left alone?’
Mark shook his head. ‘Look, I appreciate that this worries you, but surely, if there is something there it would be better to find out what,’ he said earnestly. ‘To see what it is doing; why it’s there. Why it isn’t resting in peace.’ He paused, frowning as he tried to marshal his thoughts. ‘From what I’ve read, a lot of ghosts are sort of drifting mindless shadows. I don’t think they are any more than imprints, left in the atmosphere, sort of recorded onto the bricks or the air in some way we don’t yet understand, but which probably has a “filmic”, if you like, explanation which will soon be easily explained by science. But there are others that produce a definite atmosphere; they have a presence and I think they have a mind. They know they are there and they have a reason to be there. Mostly they are harmless; sad. But some have a far more sinister agenda and in my view they need to be dealt with. I think they’re like boils. They need to be brought to a head, lanced, cleansed.’ He glanced up at Mike, who was staring thoughtfully into the fire. ‘In this case it is the shop itself that is the boil. And that is where you come in. You are a professional who deals with this sort of thing. And what is more, I need someone who can with calm conviction talk about what ghosts are.’
Mike shook his head slowly. ‘You are right, of course. But it can’t be me. I’m sorry. I can’t be on both sides. My job is to counsel and pray and help. If I take part in your programme I am, by your own admission, helping to add stimulus to this thing. I want it sorted. I want these souls put to rest. Returned to God. I want peace to come back to our town.’
‘You could say that to camera. All of that.’
‘No. I couldn’t.’ Mike sighed.
‘Mike, you must! I need you.’
‘No!’ Mike stood up and began to pace up and down. ‘No, Mark, I’m sorry. Look, please leave it!’
The flash of irritation surprised them both. Mark shrugged. ‘OK. I give up. But I think it’s a shame. I think it would be helpful. I think it might be just what is needed to bring peace, as you put it, back to the town.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Have you found out any more about Hopkins?’
‘Yes!’ Mike turned to face him. ‘Yes, I am well aware of what we are dealing with.’
‘There is evil here, Mike. Not only a vicious, sadistic man, but women who were real witches. Witches who knew what they were doing. Do you know what started Hopkins on his hunt for the local witches? They had sent a bear to kill him! They started it, Mike. Now, I don’t know if it was a real bear, which had escaped from some sort of bear baiting show, or whether it was a demon bear conjured up from the shadows, but he thought it was real!’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Mike, what is it? What’s wrong?’
Mike was staring at him, his eyes wide with horror, his face white. He turned away and walked over to the window. He didn’t know if it was a real bear or a demon bear either. And he had seen it, smelled its breath, heard the scrape of its claws, seen the blood lust in its eyes. Drawing back the curtains he stood looking out. He could see nothing. The glass merely threw him back his own reflection.
59
The prayer meeting had gone on longer than usual and Judith brought it to a close smoothly with a final prayer. She glanced round at the ladies with a smile. They had prayed for Lyndsey, shocked to hear she was a practising witch, and they had all prayed for Mike. ‘He is a good man,’ Judith had said slowly. ‘A God-fearing man, but life in a new parish can be hard. Lonely. It is easy to be led astray. And easy to leave oneself vulnerable to evil influences.’ In the pause that followed those words ten pairs of eyes flicked open in astonishment, wondering what she meant. Judith’s face was serene, her hands folded over her Bible, her own eyes tightly closed. There was no clue as to what Mike might have done but the implication was clear. Their rector was fallible and needed their prayers.
On the way out, Jane Good, the doctor’s wife, paused and touched Judith’s arm. ‘Mike is lucky to have you there, Judith.’
Judith smiled and nodded. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what he’d do without me,’ she agreed in an undertone. ‘But he does his best.’ She shrugged. ‘Pray for him, Jane.’
She watched the last woman walk towards the road where they had all parked their cars and she closed the door. In half an hour she was on her way for a late supper with Ollie Dent.
The old man had laid out a feast of cold meats and cheeses and some oatcakes and fruit for his guest.
‘Young Lyndsey brought them up for me in her bicycle basket, bless her!’ He was pouring Judith a small glass of elder flower cordial.
‘Lyndsey?’ She glanced at him. ‘Lyndsey Clark?’
It took several minutes to tell him about Lyndsey; several more to persuade the bewildered old man that he should sack her and never allow her into his house again. His protests were overridden with such determination there was nothing he could say. By the time Judith had finished he was too upset to eat or drink and she left him staring at the table, which was still laid out with the lovely food and pretty napkins Lyndsey had brought for his little supper party.
He had grown very fond of Lyndsey, relied on her totally and looked forward to her visits. He didn’t know what he was going to do without her. Who was going to talk to him now about books and plants and painting, the way Lyndsey talked to him? Who was going to help him in his little garden, and make him laugh, and bring him news from the village?
Staring down at the untouched plate of oatcakes, he found there were tears in his eyes. It was as though the last ray of sunshine in his life had been taken away.
60
Sarah picked up Liza’s old bag and cradled it in her arms, burying her face in the rough weave of the hemp. Inside it, she had found forgotten fragments of dried plants, a small black-handled knife, a piece of red ribbon and several bags of seed. The bag was all she had left of Liza, now that she had been taken away to prison. A tear fell on the rough cord which fastened its neck and angrily she straightened up. Hopkins was not going to kill any more women. Somehow she had to stop him. Somehow she had to make him listen and if he wouldn’t listen to reason then she would have to find some other way of reaching him. And reach him she would. Her eyes blazed suddenly.
In her sleep, Emma threw out her arms and groaned. Seconds later she was awake, her heart thudding, adrenaline pouring through her body as she sat up and stared round the dark room. Somewhere outside a fox screamed in the night. Minutes later the sound was answered by an owl.
Wednesday October 28th
‘You can go in now, Miss Dickson.’ The receptionist beamed at Emma from behind her counter. ‘You haven’t been here before, have you? Doctor’s room is the second on the left. Through there.’
Following her expansively waved directions, Emma found herself shaking hands with a tall red-haired man in his fifties, his infectious smile and warm manner doing nothing to hide the quick acute glance with which he surveyed her as he waved her into a chair.
‘So, Miss Dickson, I’m afraid I don’t have any notes for you yet, so you are an unknown quantity.’ He grinned.
‘I’ve only just moved here, Dr Good.’
‘And you’re suffering from stress, exhaustion, and a strained back?’ He raised an eyebrow humorously.
She laughed. Already she liked this man a lot better than her stressed, abrupt, London physician.
‘I haven’t strained my back yet. But the rest of it is probably right. The trouble is …’ She hesitated. After another night of terrifying dreams and hours of lying in bed with the light on, too scared to close her eyes, Emma had decided to take action and visit Paula’s doctor. She had no intention of telling the doctor what her dreams were about. She didn’t want counselling. What she wanted was sleeping pills.
‘Ah.’ He sat back, his hands flat on the desk after she had made her request. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I don’
t believe in sleeping pills except as a last resort.’
‘This is the last resort.’ She frowned.
‘You can’t sleep, you say. And when you do, you have nightmares. Can you tell me what the nightmares are about?’
Emma shrugged her shoulders. Why not talk about it? Maybe it would help. ‘I don’t know if you know Liza’s? It’s up in Old Mistley.’
He shook his head.
‘I was told after I moved in that it belonged to a witch.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I didn’t think it worried me in any way, if anything it was rather romantic. But I kept dreaming about her. Horrible dreams!’
‘I see.’ He twiddled his pen thoughtfully. ‘You’re living alone up there?’
She nodded.
‘I can see it could be upsetting. A strange place. A frightening story. No one there with you. The dark silence of the country after the noise of London.’
‘It makes me sound pathetic.’ Emma shook her head.
‘Not at all. Perhaps under the circumstances a few pills might allow you to re-establish a peaceful routine.’ He reached for a prescription pad. ‘Take these and see how you get on.’
As she shook his hand and turned to leave the room, Emma found herself desperately wanting to confide further, to tell him the whole story, to stay within the safe, reassuring confines of the man’s personality. But how could she? He had a waiting room full of patients. He was just a nice man doing his job. To her horror she found there were tears in her eyes as she closed the door, and clutching her prescription, she retraced her steps.
She did not have far to go, however, to find a sympathetic ear. Walking past Barker’s shop she glanced in and saw Mark standing talking to the assistant behind the counter. She pushed open the door. ‘Hi! Remember me? How’s the filming?’
He had been on his way to bring in the coffee so she helped him carry the cups and box of cakes upstairs, where Joe and Alice were arranging a network of mikes. ‘Colin is joining us on Friday and we’re going to set up some stuff up here to do some filming over Saturday night.’ Mark tore open an envelope of sugar and tipped it into his mug. With four of them in the room, the atmosphere was fine. Convivial. Emma perched on one of the crates, watching them, feeling suddenly as though she were amongst old friends.
‘I spoke to Mike Sinclair last night,’ Mark explained between sips of scalding coffee. ‘I still can’t persuade him to go on camera but I think he’s weakening.’
‘What does he think about your ghost?’ Emma asked.
‘He thinks prayer will sort it. He told me that he and a colleague are going to hold a service up here. Not before Saturday, though.’ He grinned.
‘So, what is it you’re going to do on Saturday night?’ She was strangely apprehensive at his words.
‘Ah, that’s kind of secret.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Let’s say we need all the ghosts in residence and completely unexorcised. And then, if there is going to be a service later, I want to be there with a camera.’
‘Mike would never let you do that.’
‘No.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘He’ll certainly take some persuading. He’s a nice chap, but he sticks to his principles. I like him. I find I can talk to him. He must be good at his job.’
‘Yes.’ Emma stared round the room. ‘Yes, he’s good. His parishioners seem to adore him.’ She paused. ‘He rescued me the other night, marooned without a car. He very kindly drove me home.’ The car, when she had walked down the hill to look at it yesterday afternoon, had started first go. ‘But, I doubt if he’d let you film him exorcising this place.’ She shivered. ‘It does feel weird, doesn’t it.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Sort of tense. Expectant.’ She recalled Lyndsey’s earlier warning. ‘Perhaps your ghost likes being on TV. Perhaps it likes being talked about.’
Mark laughed uncomfortably. ‘I do hope so.’ Without realising it, she had picked up on the one theme that Mike had kept on hammering home to him.
‘Did you hear we’ve got him on film?’ Alice finished coiling some spare cable and came over, helping herself to a doughnut. ‘It’s really cool. Spooky.’
‘Aren’t you scared?’ Emma was feeling more and more uncomfortable in the room, although the others seemed completely at ease.
‘No.’ Alice was licking jam off her fingers. ‘They can’t hurt you. Unlike cigarettes.’ Her father had lit one up as he perched on the window sill.
‘Helps me keep my hand steady on the mike,’ Joe replied good-naturedly. ‘Right, folks, I don’t know about you but I want to do some work. The light’s about right now, then we’ll go out on location and look for your ducking place, Mark, OK? You don’t have to go, love,’ he added as Emma made a move.
‘Thanks, but I must get home.’ Emma suddenly needed to be outside. She felt stifled. Anxious. Every muscle in her body was tight. ‘I’ll see you around if you’re going to be up here a few days.’
Outside she paused, closed her eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to steady herself. When she opened them she saw Mike walking towards her down the High Street. He was wearing his dog collar, the first time she had seen him in uniform, she realised.
He smiled when he saw her. ‘Are you OK? Is the car fixed?’
‘We’re both fine, thanks.’ She was slightly taken aback at how pleased she was to see him. ‘Have you come to see Mark and his film crew?’
He glanced up at the window above their heads. ‘The haunted shop.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I’d look in.’
‘Expect a bit of pressurising, then. They really want you to be in the film.’
Mike smiled. ‘Not a chance.’ He hesitated. ‘Emma, I feel maybe I didn’t help you as much as I could have done on Monday night. You were worried about something …’
‘No.’ She spoke too quickly. ‘No, I haven’t been sleeping too well to be honest and it’s making me jumpy. I keep seeing things in the shadows.’ Things like Matthew Hopkins, who looks sometimes out of your eyes? ‘I think it’s the stress of the move and everything. I’ve just got some sleeping pills. That’ll sort me out.’
Mike looked at her steadily and their eyes met. ‘I’ve had trouble sleeping too,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps it’s infectious.’
Emma looked away. ‘Dr Good is the man you want, then.’
He laughed. The moment had passed. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. See you soon, Emma.’
She watched him step inside the shop out of sight, and once again she found she was shivering.
61
Wednesday afternoon
Lyndsey had walked over to the Gordon-Smiths’ to collect the children after school. In the new, even more complicated collection timetable Rosalie Gordon-Smith brought the children back from Colchester every Wednesday afternoon. Today she had taken them as well. Alex’s car was being serviced, so he had dropped Paula at the station at seven a. m., then driven home in hers. This evening he would fetch her when she rang.
The children danced round Lyndsey, full of excitement about something that had happened that day. ‘The fire alarm went and we all had to go out into the playground.’
‘And was it a real fire?’ Lyndsey took each child by the hand as they waited to cross the road. They loved coming back to her cottage to wait for Alex or Paula to collect them. It was the highlight of the week.
‘Sort of.’ Sophie looked up at her eagerly. ‘Someone set fire to a wastepaper basket in the staff room. My friend Becky said one of the teachers must have put a cigarette in there.’
‘My goodness.’ Lyndsey led them down the steep road. ‘I should think that teacher will be in big trouble!’ She pushed open the front door.
‘What’s in your shopping bag, Lyn? Is there something to eat?’ James pounced as Lyndsey put the bag down on the sofa.
‘Don’t touch!’ Her shout was too late. The little boy had dived into it, tipping various packets onto the floor.
‘Ow!’ His eyes filled with tears as he held up a bleeding hand. �
��Lyn, there’s a knife in there!’
‘I know, James. That’s why I told you not to touch. Damn, now it’s no use!’ She grabbed the boy’s wrist. ‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll wash it. I wish you kids would mind your own business!’
‘I’m sorry, Lyn,’ James was taken aback. Neither of them had seen her so cross before. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No, I know you didn’t.’
‘Can I have some of your magic ointment?’
‘Yes, of course you can.’ She cleaned the wound, applied the salve and slapped on a large sticking plaster. ‘There you are. Good as new.’
‘Lyn.’ Sophie had been collecting all the parcels. ‘He didn’t break it.’ She held out the knife which had cut its way through its paper wrapping. ‘Look. It will still work. It’s a very pretty knife.’
Lyndsey took it from her. She had found the small ebony-handled knife in the antique shop in Manningtree that afternoon. It was to replace her athame, her witch’s knife, the one that Mike had taken. ‘Yes, sweetheart, I know it will still work.’ Would it? Even cleansed, the blood energy would still be on it. She put it out of reach on top of the cupboard. ‘OK, kids. There are some teacakes in there somewhere. Shall we toast them on a long fork in front of the fire? Your dad will be here soon, so we’d better get going.’
Alex arrived just before six and found two contented buttery children sitting with Lyndsey by the fire as she read to them from Harry Potter. It always astonished him that they were prepared to stay for a single second in a house without a television, never mind for a couple of hours or so, but without fail Lyndsey seemed to be able to keep them busy. And happy. He did not know, nor did anyone, that the children were allowed upstairs into Lyndsey’s studio. She had knocked the cottage’s two bedrooms into one glorious bright living space where her easel stood by the north-facing window overlooking the estuary; a large table was covered in paints and coloured pastels and the plants she drew; and one whole wall was lined with bookshelves. Her bed was a single divan, in the corner, covered in a bright patchwork quilt. In this room there was no dust; no shadow. This was Lyndsey’s kingdom and her life. And no one but James and Sophie, who each had their own sketchbook and paint box, was allowed there.
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