by Lucy Banks
“Hey!” Kester shouted, startled. “What did you do that for?” His head felt fuzzy, like someone had jammed a bag of cotton wool into his ears.
“At least you are looking at me now and not her,” Ribero said. He grabbed Kester’s chin, preventing him from turning back again.
“Take your hands off me!” Kester said, squirming, trying to see the painting again. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”
“No, but she was,” Serena glowered, nodding over to the Green Lady. “Get him out of the room. I should have known he’d be a liability. Mind you, Mike isn’t much better. Look at him. He’s like a randy dog who’s fallen for a chair leg.”
“I’m alright, thank you very much,” Mike retorted. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from the painting. “Though I will admit, she’s got a lot of power, that one.”
“What do you think we should do?” Pamela said, looking concerned. “If she isn’t going to respond to me or Jennifer or Serena, we’ve got a bit of a problem.”
“Hey, I can still stuff her into a bottle, regardless of whether she likes me or not,” Serena said. “However, it’s getting her out of the painting in the first place that’s going to be difficult.”
“Could we remove the painting from this room and put it into storage?” Pamela suggested.
“Our broom cupboard isn’t really the most effective place to bang up a problem ghost,” Mike said. “Now, if we were Infinite Enterprises, we’d have a state-of-the-art, ultra-secure storage facility. I suppose we could ask them if we could take it there?”
“No.” Ribero rolled up his shirt sleeves. “We will not be doing that. It only makes us look as though we cannot cope with our own problems. Plus, no amount of storage will get that spirit out of the painting, no? We cannot just leave her in there.”
“You sure?” Mike said. “I could take her up to London with me on the next spirit run, leave her round the back or something, then run off.”
“No, we will not be doing that,” Dr Ribero barked. “That is a silly idea, Mike.”
“Plus, Infinite Enterprises have got security cameras and they’ll see you doing it,” Pamela added.
“Then they’ll think you’re an even bigger moron than they did before,” Serena added.
“Yes, but we were not considering it anyway, okay?” Dr Ribero snapped. “Now, can we please focus on the task at hand? Let us go out of the room. This painting is making my head hurt, and Kester is getting very peculiar over it.”
“I am not,” Kester protested, aware that his voice had risen to a mulish whine. Wrenching away from Ribero’s grip, he stole one last longing look at the painting, before being hauled away like a naughty toddler in a sweetshop.
“I was just about to let you know that tea’s ready,” Isabelle’s mum said, as she saw them emerge into the hallway. “Do you want me to bring it in there?”
“No, we’ll come and join you in the kitchen.” Ribero shoved Kester forward, blocking the path back into the lounge. “Come on,” he ordered, giving him an extra push in the small of his back. “No time to get soppy over a painting, you silly boy. Especially not a possessed one, no?”
“Suppose not.” Kester allowed himself to be pushed down the hallway. Already, he could feel his head beginning to clear. The brightness of the kitchen certainly helped. Daylight washed through the paned windows, bleaching the oak units and ceramic tiles.
“How did you get on?” Isabelle asked. She was slumped at one end of an enormous farmhouse-style table, nursing a mug of tea in her hands. A vase of sunflowers wilted on the dresser beside her. “You weren’t in there very long.”
Ribero pulled out a chair next to her. “No, but in that short time, I think we managed to see the extent of the problem very clearly, Mrs Diderot.”
“Call me Isabelle, please.”
“Very well, Isabelle,” Dr Ribero crooned, edging a little nearer. He gestured at the others to sit, in a regal manner that suggested he owned the house, not Mrs Diderot. “To begin with, do you mind me asking where you found the painting?”
“It wasn’t me who found it.” Isabelle sighed, stroking the rim of the mug. “My husband found it when he was clearing out the attic. As I told you on the phone, it was in shreds, as though someone had ripped right through it with their fingers.”
“That’s interesting,” Ribero replied. He nodded at the others.
“I understand now why someone might have wanted to do that,” Isabelle said with a sniff. “These last six weeks have been torturous. I just want that painting gone. But every time I try to deal with the situation, something stops me. It’s as though I simply cannot bring myself to do it.”
“Do what?” Pamela asked.
“Tear the damned thing to shreds!” Isabelle exclaimed, then started to cry. Dr Ribero gracefully pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, which she seized, patting her eyes. “I do apologise,” she sniffed. “It has been such a terrible time. I didn’t believe in ghosts until I moved here.”
You and me both, Kester thought, staring back at the hallway. Now he was out of the room, the Green Lady’s effect had worn off a little, though he still found himself unable to stop thinking about her attractive features; not to mention her sweet, yet rather sexy expression.
“Izzie was always such a practical little thing,” Mrs Diderot’s mother interjected from her position by the sink. She seemed wholly unperturbed by it all, as pragmatic as a vast ocean liner in a minor sea storm. “But since you moved here, oh the problems you’ve had, eh dear? It’s played havoc on her marriage, I can tell you.”
“Ah, that is another question I wanted to ask you,” Dr Ribero continued, wagging a finger in her direction. “How has your husband acted towards this painting?”
“When he found it, he was very excited,” Isabelle said. “Looking back on it now, his excitement was quite unnatural, I suppose. He insisted we take it to a restorer. At the time I didn’t mind. I hadn’t linked the strangeness of the house with the painting, so it seemed like a harmless enough idea.”
“Were things strange even before you fixed the painting then?” Miss Wellbeloved asked.
“Oh, yes,” Isabelle replied, nodding. She cupped her tea as though desperate to hold on to something solid. Kester noticed that her hands were trembling.
“In what way?”
“The first time we viewed the house, I thought it was strange. It was too quiet. I don’t know, I suppose it was like someone had sucked all the air out. I didn’t like it at all. But it was on the market at a ridiculously low price. The estate agent told us that it had been for sale for over a year, but nobody wanted it. I can now see why that was.”
“Yes, that does make sense,” Ribero said, stroking his chin. “What made you buy the house then?”
“I didn’t want to,” Isabelle said. “But François can get very enthusiastic about things. He quite convinced me that it was the perfect house for us, and I suppose I got swept up in it all. But from the first day we moved in, I regretted it.”
“Yes, you phoned me that very evening, didn’t you love?” Isabelle’s mother chimed in. “Said that she thought the house was strange and that eyes were watching her. I’ll admit, I told her not to be so silly. I thought she was just tired after all the effort of moving in.”
“So your husband, he has been very enthusiastic about this painting?” Ribero asked, casting a meaningful look in Miss Wellbeloved’s direction.
“Oh yes,” Isabelle said. “It’s awful. It’s like he’s in love with it or something. I know, that must sound strange.”
“Not at all,” said Serena with a snide glance at Kester. “Men are a bit like that. Powerless at the sight of an attractive woman.”
“Well, that’s what was so strange,” Isabelle replied. “François was an amazing man. I met him in Paris. We’ve always had a wonderful marriage, in spite o
f . . . well, in spite of various things. But ever since he laid eyes on that painting, he’s been different. It was far worse after the painting was restored. It’s as though he’s besotted with it. I catch him in there all the time, talking to it.” Without warning, she burst into fresh tears. “I feel like I’ve lost him! I feel like he’s having an affair or something, and that whatever it is in that painting wants me dead!”
Kester gasped. It was so similar to the story he had read in the diary that it sent a shiver right through his body. “Just like Emmeline,” he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.
“Yes, just like Emmeline, poor woman,” Pamela agreed. Isabelle blew her nose into Ribero’s handkerchief, sounding a little like a trumpeting elephant.
“Well, we’ve got ourselves a right sod here, haven’t we?” Serena said, folding her arms across the table. “A ghost with a bit of a taste for tormenting women. I’ll enjoy giving this one the heave-ho back into the spirit world.” She stuck her chin out, as though daring anyone else around the table to contradict her.
“Well, we’ll try resolving this amicably first,” Miss Wellbeloved corrected.
“So when are you going to get started?” Isabelle asked. She wiped down her face, handing back the sodden, mascara-smeared handkerchief to Dr Ribero. “When can you get rid of it? When can I start leading a normal life again?”
Dr Ribero eased back into his chair, puffing out his cheeks. “My dear lady,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “There are a few things which stand in our path here, and I will lay them out for you thoroughly, so you understand exactly what is going on, yes?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Firstly,” he continued. “We suspect we cannot get this spirit out of the painting by conventional means. Normally, my colleagues here would coax out the spirit, then trap it within a special storage unit, ready for disposal.”
Mike coughed, in a way which sounded distinctly like “water bottle”. Dr Ribero ignored him.
“However,” Ribero paused for dramatic effect, sweeping the room with a dark stare, “in this instance, I suspect the spirit will not come. She does not like women, that is clear. Also, she is an old spirit. She has entrenched herself deep into that painting. She will not come out without a fight. So we cannot do this the simple way, sadly.”
“I see,” said Isabelle. “But you can get rid of it, can’t you?”
“I need to think this through,” Ribero answered. “We do not want to cause this spirit distress or make it angry. Older spirits are more powerful. If this one is upset, we do not know how she will react. Plus, if she decides to flee from the painting, we are not sure where she will next attach herself. In the worst case scenario, she could choose to attach herself to a person. And that would be very bad, yes?”
“You mean like a possession?” Isabelle said, open-mouthed.
“Gawd, like that famous horror film,” her mother exclaimed, slapping the sink in excitement. “I didn’t know that could happen in real life. Blimey, now there’s a thing.”
“Plus, there are the legal logistics of it all,” Ribero continued.
“Legal logistics?” Isabelle echoed. “What legal logistics?”
“The painting, it is an object, an asset that you and your husband own,” Ribero explained. “Without your permission, we cannot destroy it, otherwise you could legally accuse us of criminal damages.”
“Yeah, and an expensive lawsuit is the last thing we need,” Mike interrupted, swigging the last of his hot chocolate.
“But I own it, and I give you permission!” said Isabelle. A note of hysteria edged into her voice as she slammed the mug down on the table. “I don’t see that it should be a problem.”
“Ah,” said Dr Ribero, rubbing his thumbs together. “But would your husband give us permission? We always have to be most careful in these situations, yes?”
“I suppose the house is in his name, so the painting must be in his name as well,” Isabelle said, closing her eyes as though in pain. “So it’s not as though you can simply throw it on a bonfire and have done with it. Damn it.”
“Neither can we take it from the house,” Ribero explained. “As this could be seen as theft.”
“Not that we think either of those things will be able to get rid of the spirit for good,” Serena said.
Ribero nodded. “I presume your husband does not know we are here?”
She shook her head, pursing her lips. He sighed, smoothing down his moustache like a troubled animal in need of soothing. “As I thought. His lack of cooperation may cause us some problems; you see? To act without his knowledge, it would be, how do you say it? Unethical. We must keep to the law at all times, I am afraid.”
“I understand,” Isabelle sighed. “So, in the meantime, while you think of the best way to resolve the situation, what am I to do? I can’t stay here with it much longer. It’s unbearable.”
“Why don’t we find ourselves a nice room in a hotel for a while,” her mother suggested helpfully. “Somewhere in Exeter, then we can just pop over and let these lot into the house whenever they need to come?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Isabelle said, massaging her temples. She looked at Dr Ribero. “How long do you think it will take?”
He shrugged. “It’s difficult to tell. But rest assured madam, we want this thing out of your house as much as you do. We charge a fixed price, remember, not by the hour. So it does not benefit us to take a long time on it. You understand?”
She nodded, then fell back against the chair, exhausted.
“Let’s do that then,” she said finally. “Lord knows I can’t cope with this anymore.”
“I’d be happy to take the painting from you,” Kester piped up. All eyes swung round to look at him, and he felt his cheeks redden. “I mean, if you wanted to sell it to me or anything?”
Isabelle frowned, confused. Dr Ribero gave Kester a ferocious look.
“Ah, he is just joking,” he explained, tweaking his shirt collar. “Aren’t you, Kester?”
“Well . . .” Kester said, suddenly feeling foolish. What was it about that painting that had had such a profound effect on him? He’d made the offer to buy it almost without thinking. Perhaps it is monstrous after all, he thought. It’s certainly made me behave oddly.
“He’s not joking, he’s just been a pillock and fallen in love with the painting too,” Serena said with disgust. “Ignore him. He’s new. He’s just here to learn the ropes. He doesn’t have a clue.”
Dr Ribero went red in the face and directed his venomous stare from Kester on to Serena.
“That is quite enough,” he muttered. “You will excuse my team,” he said, addressing Isabelle. “This boy here is new, and this lady here has too big a mouth. But rest assured, they are both very good at their jobs.” He shot them both another furious glare, eyebrows bobbing in a threatening manner, like tangoing toilet-brushes. Kester blushed. Serena looked mutinous, and threw Kester a particularly hostile glare.
The rest of the meeting passed without incident, though Kester found himself feeling increasingly angry towards Serena. What is her problem? he wondered, watching her pick at her nails as Dr Ribero concluded the conversation with Mrs Diderot. Why does she have to attack me at every available opportunity? Serena met his eyes and scowled. He looked away.
Outside, as the front door shut quietly behind them, Dr Ribero exploded into action. “What is the matter with you?” he hissed, poking a finger in Serena’s direction like an attacking cobra. “What a way to behave in front of a client!”
“Hang on a minute,” Serena snarled, folding her arms. “It was him that made the stupid comment, not me.” She pointed at Kester, looking at him as though he was something a farmhand had cleared out of a particularly smelly stable.
“Ah, but he is silly and new and does not know better!” Dr Ribero exclaimed, stalki
ng towards the van. “You, on the other hand, have worked with me for many years now—”
“Five, to be precise.”
“Five, yes. Five. And you should know how to behave yourself! It is outrageous! Who do you think you are?”
“I know, she’s got a bloody mouth on her, hasn’t she,” Mike added, grinning merrily at Serena’s discomfort. “Can’t take her anywhere.”
“Oh, shut up, Mike,” she snapped. “At least when I open my mouth, intelligent things come out.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“No, on this occasion, that was not an intelligent thing that popped out of your mouth, no!” Dr Ribero continued. He threw open the door of the van as though it had personally insulted him. It screamed on its hinges.
“Hang on, I’m not silly,” Kester said, suddenly realising what his father had said. In truth, he’d been thinking about the painting again and hadn’t really been paying much attention to the conversation.
“Oh yes, you bloody are,” Serena said. “What made you offer to take the painting? Of all the idiotic things to say! You made us all look like morons.”
“Well, I don’t really know why I said that,” Kester bumbled, moving out of the way to let her climb into the back seat. “I really don’t. It was rather foolish.”
“Damn right, it was foolish!” Serena squawked.
“I’m sorry,” Kester said, clambering in and shutting the door. “I really am. The painting did something strange to me, and I apologise.”
The frankness of his apology took the fire out of the argument, dampening the atmosphere to a morose preponderance. Kester shuffled in the seat as the van took off down the road, feeling like a schoolboy after a particularly harsh telling-off from the headmaster.