by Norman Wills
You will pay the price.
I will have my revenge.
Your ever-loving feckless mother!
This one appeared on top of page two.
It looked like it had been printed on top of the financial report, it stood out so clear. It hadn’t of course; it had been printed five days earlier on Lucy’s printer. He wasn’t to know that though, he couldn’t even think straight, let alone try to reason the situation through sensibly.
As far as Keith was concerned everything pointed towards his mother being an avenging spirit; a spirit intent on taking out her death on him, the reason for which he didn’t know. The truth of the situation was that Dawn Waterson would still be alive today were it not for her son, so he had been the cause of her death, that was a fact. He didn’t know that though, how could he? He didn’t even know she was really dead. He’d wished for it on occasions over the past six Months, maybe, but he was truly beginning to believe she was dead now.
‘Take it to the police’, now there was a thought, a thought that barely registered. How could he take this to the police? He felt isolated.
‘I know who caused my death.’ Now then, what exactly do you think ‘your ever-loving feckless mother’ meant by that Mr Waterson? It sounds a bit like murder to me. ‘You will pay the price, I will have my revenge.’ It’s all kind of pointing in your direction isn’t it Mr Waterson? What do you say? The police would say.
Maybe he’d take it to the police, when hell froze over, but certainly not before.
Early the following Monday saw Lucy don her disguise yet again. This time, however, she took her every day car. She had a long journey to make so the van definitely wasn’t her preferred mode of transport. She was going to Manchester, she wanted to pay her respects to her mother, and then she would cut across to Wigan, she was ready. She had never been able to pay a visit to Jayne’s final resting place before now. But now she wanted to explain to Jayne her plan for revenge, on Jayne’s behalf. And somewhere on her return journey she planned to call in at an Internet café, keep in touch with Keith, so to speak, much later that evening.
When it came to visiting her Mother’s grave she couldn’t do it. It wasn’t that she’d been overcome with grief and couldn’t face it. The fact was that she knew that when she’d look at her mother’s name on the headstone her father’s name would be just one above it. That fact alone meant she didn’t even get past the entrance to the cemetery. The thought of even reading his name repulsed her.
When she reached the small cemetery on the outskirts of Wigan however, the story was a very different one. Having been unable to attend Jayne’s funeral because she was in a coma; and having grieved over the fact ever since, she was not to be rushed. The sun was shining and she had a lot to say.
Back in London Keith was having a problem concentrating. His mind was definitely elsewhere; it had been since the previous Thursday. He was just waiting for his mother to contact him again. In his mind it was inevitable. He couldn’t believe it, in the space of a week he had gone from what he thought of as, sensible Joe average, into a jumping at shadows, every-day Joe haunted.
His main problem was that he had nobody he could turn to, nobody with whom he could discuss what was happening to him. In short, Keith Waterson had no friends; he didn’t even have his mother to turn to now, or so it seemed.
Keith wouldn’t be able to play the markets in his state of mind. He thought of it like gambling on horses, if he didn’t concentrate on studying form, and place his bets based on performance he would end up losing his stake. In this frame of mind he might as well use a pin to pick his winners. Keith needed to minimise his risks, to do this he needed to be fully switched on. At that moment he wasn’t but he was willing to try anything.
He went upstairs to his mother’s bedroom. Standing outside he fumbled in his pocket for the key, the new key, to unlock the door. His heart was racing now, he wasn’t sure what he was going to be confronted with when he opened the door, but he was going in. He calmed down when he saw that the room had been left untouched, by anyone or anything, since the locksmith’s visit.
If his mother was going to ‘speak’ to him from beyond the grave he was sure as hell going to have his say too. He picked up the lipstick and went to the dressing table mirror.
I did not kill you.
Leave me alone
Spiteful bitch.
Your never loving son!
He slammed the door on his way out and locked it once again. If his mother was really haunting him she would have no need for a key. If it was somebody other than his mother, somebody playing tricks on him, they would never be able to reply to the message. ‘Come on then Mother’, Keith thought, ‘let’s see what you make of that’.
Lucy’s time in Keith’s house had been spent well; he was unknowingly being sucked in to her game, and his own imagination was Lucy’s strongest ally.
He left the house that afternoon, he needed to get away, drown his sorrows and forget. When a taxi dropped him off later that night his mind was anaesthetised to anything much other than sleep. He took a bottle of scotch to bed and ten minutes later was sleeping like a baby.
He wasn’t to know that an e-mail awaited him when he next logged-on. It was probably better that he slept, for now.
Thirty
Tuesday was a fine day, and Keith woke from his stupor a much happier man. He’d slept well, the best he’d slept in days. Maybe today was going to be a good day; strong markets would be a good start.
After a long shower, more to fully wake him up than clean himself, he felt good. By eight o’clock he was booting up his computer and then logging on to his e-mail address. Whilst he was waiting he decided to look in his mother’s room to convince himself that nothing had happened. When he opened the door and looked in it was relief that he saw everything just as he’d left it. His message hadn’t been replaced by a more sinister one from his mother.
Now he felt good, he locked his mother’s bedroom and went to work, second door on the left, past the bathroom. When he sat down at his desk he could see the message ‘you have mail’ flashing. He went directly to his inbox and what he saw ruined his day. Ten minutes past eight in the morning and he already knew his day had flipped over. He was sure it was going to be his mind next.
He had seventeen e-mails that morning, nothing too unusual in that. Most of them were spam. He had e-mail from his brokers. He worked with three different brokers, two of them nearly every day. E-mail was a good method of communicating business. The name Dawn Waterson in the ‘from’ column, however, meant his life was getting stranger by the minute.
There was an un-nerving inevitability to the manner in which he accepted an e-mail from his dead mother. ‘Why not’, he thought ‘the old bitch is just going to keep on wearing me down, just open it and look at what it says’.
He double clicked on the e-mail.
Keith,
You might not have killed me but now I am dead.
I would still have every reason to live but for you.
I would still be living today but for you.
You have never loved anybody but yourself.
You are an empty vessel Keith, a shell.
You have nothing now, and you never will have.
We need to talk; you need to know the truth.
When I am at rest you will also be able to rest.
Allow me to rest, if not for me do it for yourself.
Please.
The fourth line of text jumped off the page and smacked him in the face.
‘You have never loved anybody but yourself’.
He printed the e-mail off and ran to his mother’s bedroom. He fumbled with the key needing two attempts to locate it he was shaking so much. When he did manage to unlock the door he looked at the message he had written the night before. Again the fourth line jumped off the mirror and slapped him in the face.
You have never loved anybody but yourself
And what he’d written on the mirror
Your never loving son!
He couldn’t believe it; he’d written it on the mirror to provoke a response. Well that wasn’t true, he’d written it so he could dismiss the whole episode when no response was forthcoming. But here it was in his hands. Proof, somebody or something was fucking with his brain.
He was struggling to breathe now; he had to get out of the house. He picked up his car keys and his jacket and practically flew out of the front door, barely turning round to make sure the door was locked behind him. He jumped into his car and drove. He wasn’t bothered where to, he just wanted to get away from that house.
Keith didn’t notice the dark blue transit van parked opposite his mother’s house. Why would he? Lucy was fairly sure though from what she’d seen that Keith had opened up his e-mail that morning. Judging by the look on his face It was either that or he had something more sinister happening in his life than being haunted by his dead mother. She doubted that, not even he could be so unlucky.
She waited a minute, jumped out of the van and made her way down the drive of 14 Smethwick Road. She wasn’t going in today though, she just posted an envelope through the letterbox and left. An hour later the postman posted his mail through the same letterbox. There was no sign of the Land Cruiser parked in the driveway, like there was on every other day he delivered the mail to Keith, and there was no sign of a dark blue Transit van on the road. Lucy was back home by then, her new mobile phone switched on and waiting.
Of course, the new phone wasn’t in Lucy’s name. She had bought a pay-as-you-go phone for cash and registered it in the name of Pippa D Manning. This was the name of one of her old classmates from Manchester. When she had registered the phone she gave the address three houses down from where she had lived in Aldershot. Mr and Mrs Jordan, who now lived at that address, would receive the letter welcoming Pippa D Manning as a new customer to the Orange network, they would think that the sender had mistaken the road name and place it back in the post-box marked ‘addressee not known at this address’. The letter would disappear into the black hole that is the mail system; only to be given the same priority a dog gives to local government policy regarding fouling of public areas.
When Keith returned home later that day he was once again the worse for drink. That didn’t stop him driving home though; he was one of those who believed lightning never struck twice. He had already had his fair share of bad luck in a car, and at this particular time he couldn’t give a shit what happened to him anyway.
Picking up the mail on his way in, he carried it through to the lounge where he sat down and promptly fell asleep. Sticking to the speed limits and concentrating on his driving had obviously taken its toll on him, that and the seven pints of lager currently dimming all his senses.
It was twenty past three when he woke, his neck stiff from the position he’d been sleeping in for the past three hours. He still had the mail on his lap when he stood up to go to the bathroom. It was soon on the floor and he was stumbling to find the light switch before he wet himself. When he reached the downstairs toilet he relieved himself quickly, the ecstasy of this simple act bringing a smile to his face for the first time since the previous morning.
He’d forgotten exactly why he’d gone out until then. Why he’d spent the day in London’s seediest districts trying to distract his mind with something more pleasurable. Why he’d then spent time in the pubs around Chelsea Football Club, his old stomping ground. Now he remembered exactly why.
Just at that moment in time he would have loved to feel the softness of his bed and the comfort of being wrapped up in his duvet. He found the thought of climbing the stairs to his bedroom too much though. He would see his mother’s bedroom; even with the door locked it was now a fear-provoking place. He also knew that his mother was contacting him through his computer, an essential tool for him to track his investments, now also a fearsome part of his everyday life. He needed to get a grip, and soon, before he lost it completely.
He went back into the lounge and lay on the settee. He’d decided that getting a grip could wait another day at least. Besides which, he was still woozy from the alcohol in his system, he knew he couldn’t guarantee any of his actions in the state he was in.
He woke the next morning just before seven, his head banging out a steady rhythm he just couldn’t quite place. He was just about to go for a shower when he decided it could wait; the shower was upstairs and he wasn’t ready for that yet. He decided on a cup of tea instead. He would come round fully then take on the world, and its mother.
He took the mail from the previous day with him into the kitchen, determined to keep his mind from wandering too far so early in the day. Two companies offering loans, both addressed to his mother, one asking the addressee to sign up to their pay per view network, a gas bill, and a letter addressed to him. If he had taken the time to look he would have noticed there was no postmark on the stamp. This was because Lucy wanted to guarantee delivery the day after sending the e-mail.
He quickly disposed of the junk mail, put the bill to one side and opened the letter. It was a handwritten note with a business card attached. The business card was in the name Pippa D Manning. The card had on it the name, a telephone number and the single word ‘Medium’ printed in gothic script. Lucy thought the gothic script added just the right touch of mystery. That along with the high quality of the card, she hoped, would be enough to convince him that this was no hoax. His mind was so revved up at that particular moment though that she probably could have written it in crayon, on the back of a cigarette packet, and he would still have been in a mind to believe. The note attached was simple enough.
Dear Mr Waterson
Please forgive me for writing to you in this manner. I can assure you that it is not something I would consider doing under normal circumstances. These circumstances though, are far from normal.
As you can see from my card, I am a medium by profession. This means I can contact the spirits of people who have passed away, usually for the comfort of a grieving friend or relative. Under normal circumstances the contact would happen at my behest. As I wrote earlier though, these are not normal circumstances.
I understand the prejudices that people have against things they don’t yet understand. Please read on Mr Waterson, don’t condemn this to your rubbish bin just yet, for your own sake.
I have recently had a spirit contact me, asking for my help. I believe this spirit to be the spirit of your recently passed mother. She desperately wants to talk to you. She told me your name and the address I could contact you at. Obviously I felt in the circumstances that the best means for me to contact you initially would be by mail. Some people need a while to take these things in, alone, rather than being confronted face to face.
Your mother is not yet at peace and says that she needs your help to find it. She has set out on a journey that we all must make eventually. Some spirits need to resolve some issues they had in their previous life before they can move on. This is nothing to be afraid of.
As you can see this is not the type of letter I am in the habit of writing every day. I apologise if I have upset you in any way but I do believe your mother needs you at this point in time. Please contact me Mr Waterson, I feel it will be to your benefit to do so; a restless spirit is a difficult thing to have to live with.
On your Mother’s behalf,
Pippa D Manning.
Keith read through the letter three times in disbelief. He reread the card, one name, one telephone number and one other word, ‘medium’. The telephone number was a mobile number but that didn’t seem unreasonable, surely mediums have to be mobile in business too, Keith thought.
The last line was one he could sympathise with, ‘a restless spirit is a difficult thing to have to live with’. No shit, thought Keith. Nothing to lose was the next thought that came to him. He was clutching at straws but until now his only friend in all this had been a pint of lager or a bottle of whiskey. The only spirit he wanted at the moment with which to n
umb his senses.
At eight o’clock, with two strong cups of coffee inside him, he picked up the telephone and called Pippa D Manning.
“Hello, you’ve reached the answer phone of Pippa D Manning. I’m currently in communication elsewhere. Please leave your message after the tone and I’ll get back to you.”
Keith just put the phone down, he needed to speak to her direct, not leave a message. This was hard enough without talking to a machine. The next time Lucy switched on her mobile phone though, on the hour every hour, she’d know she had him. Three missed calls– Keith Waterson. From then on she would leave her phone switched on constantly. She knew he’d ring back; he had every reason to.
Hook, line and sinker, what a sucker.
We’re not there yet Sally-Anne, but I think we’re very close. Let’s see how keen he is.
Keith Wateson proved to be very keen indeed. The second call came ten minutes after switching on the phone. She answered it on the fourth ring.
“Hello, this is Pippa Manning.” said Lucy cheerfully.
“Thank God, I was beginning to think you’d never answer.” replied Keith. “I’m Keith, Keith Waterson, you sent me a letter.”
“Oh yes, she’s your mother, Dawn, Dawn Waterson. I know who you are. From the fact that you’ve called I take it you’re willing to help your mother?”
“Will she leave me alone, if I help?”
“You mean she’s been trying to contact you too?”
“In a manner.” said Keith, “Yes she has. You have to help me.”
“It’s your mother that needs my help just now,” replied Lucy, “that’s why she’s been channelling through me. As for helping you, well I think that you’re the only person who can do that. But I can put you in touch with your mother, only after that has happened can you both feel peace.”