The Unquiet Dead

by Gay Longworth

  Niaz and Jessie exchanged looks. ‘That he’d given Jonny the drugs?’

  Mr Romano nodded.

  ‘But what if he didn’t give your son the drugs?’

  ‘But he did!’ he shouted.

  ‘Okay, Mr Romano, let’s concentrate on your wife.’

  ‘Ex-wife.’ Tears sprang to his eyes. ‘She left us a fridge full of food and a note. Everything I’ve eaten since has tasted bad … except my tomatoes. They remind me of her.’

  ‘Us? Who’s “us”?’

  ‘Me and Jonny – I know he’s dead, but sometimes I can feel him right here, sitting next to me. How could I leave here, how could I leave him here alone?’

  ‘Why did she walk out on you?’

  ‘She said she wanted to escape the memories. But you can’t escape the memories, can you?’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’d have her back. I still love her. There hasn’t been anyone else. No room for anyone else.’ He put his hand to his heart.

  ‘Do you ever hear from your ex-wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you still got her note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s never been back?’

  Pause. ‘No.’ He was sobbing now. ‘I try to think of her in Spain,’ said Mr Romano, his shoulders heaving. ‘She always liked Spain. She liked to feel the sun on her bones. She liked tomatoes, too.’

  Jessie moved away. It was never easy to see a grown man cry. Burrows went to comfort him, but Jessie had her doubts.

  ‘One last question, Mr Romano. You said your wife wanted to kill Doyle. Is it possible she did?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Romano.

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  He tapped his chest. ‘Because he’s still alive. I can feel it.’

  13

  The following morning Burrows drove Jessie and Niaz down the cobbled road towards the rectory for the second time. Sister Beatrice opened the door and welcomed them before they’d had a chance to ring the bell.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled, ‘the dog’s in the back. And the kettle’s on.’

  Tentatively Jessie pushed open the door to Father Forrester’s office. He was precariously balanced on a ladder, reaching for a book on the top shelf.

  ‘Let me do that,’ said Burrows, rushing forward, ever the decent one.

  Jessie held him back. ‘No, Burrows, let me. Perhaps you should offer Sister Beatrice your help in the kitchen.’

  ‘Niaz is –’

  ‘Please.’

  Jessie helped Father Forrester down the ladder. She took his hand and was surprised to find a feeling of calm sweep over her as she settled him into the chair.

  ‘I’d like to accept your offer of help, Father Forrester.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I gather Mary went to visit you.’

  ‘Actually, this isn’t about that. I was hoping you could talk to a colleague of mine. I believe you know him – DCI Jones. He isn’t handling retirement well. Says he’s haunted by the victims of the murders he investigated.’

  ‘Of course I can go and see him. He’s a fine man.’

  ‘Funny, he said the same about you.’

  ‘You didn’t have to come all this way to ask me to do that, Detective. Is there anything else on your mind?’

  So many things, she didn’t know where to begin. ‘Marshall Street Baths,’ she said finally. ‘Mary tells me you’ve been approached by prospective developers.’

  ‘A whole series of developers,’ said Father Forrester. ‘They’ve been experiencing troubles in that place for some time.’

  ‘What kind of troubles?’

  ‘Well, often it’s just a sense of foreboding, as we have discussed. In the case of Marshall Street Baths, one poor builder was chased down the corridor by an empty gas cylinder.’

  Jessie laughed nervously.

  ‘That’s just one of a number of unexplained phenomena to have occurred on that site. Unfortunately the developers keep changing. I hadn’t actually been in until the day I met you, and that wasn’t long enough.’

  ‘I spoke to the council, they were unable to recall enlisting your help.’

  ‘They wouldn’t, would they? Calling in a Christian Sensitive to perform a ritual that was nearly banned by Parliament until the Bishop of Canterbury stepped in is a political hot potato in this multi-ethnic society. Sometimes I am asked to go into a place without my dog collar and robes in order to draw less attention to what is taking place. I refuse point blank. Would you go into battle with your enemy unarmed? Of course not. Nor would I.’

  ‘What happens when you do go in?’

  ‘It is the atmosphere of a place that often defines the nature of the psychic entity; that would be the first thing to concentrate on.’ He rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘You could take me back there, see what we could discover …’

  ‘I don’t think so. I can’t do that.’

  ‘Well then, tell me what has happened to you while you’ve been there.’

  ‘What makes you think something has happened to me?’

  He gave her a penetrating look then his focus wandered to over her left shoulder.

  ‘Well, okay, like what?’ asked Jessie, unnerved.

  ‘Maybe there’s been a bad smell. Or a particular smell that doesn’t suit the surroundings.’

  ‘Yes, a bad smell,’ said Burrows, returning from the kitchen with Niaz.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the vicar.

  ‘The sewage backs up when it rains,’ said Jessie. ‘Of course it smells. And it’s cold too, just in case that’s another sign.’

  ‘Temperature rarely drops when a place is infested with an earthbound spirit. That is one of the most common mistakes made by those dreadful movie people. Occasionally you may feel as if you’re standing in cement and are rooted to the spot, but rarely would you get cold or shivery.’

  ‘Good to know,’ said Jessie.

  ‘The best way to gauge the presence of a psychic entity, however, is the effect on the mood of people within the place. Have there been any arguments, a combative mood while in the building?’

  ‘No more than usual,’ said Burrows, laughing.

  Jessie didn’t reply. Burrows hadn’t seen her hit Mark. No one had.

  ‘Detective Inspector?’

  It was hard to lie to a man of God, whatever her beliefs. Jessie tried to look thoughtful.

  ‘It can often leave a lasting impression, even though you’ve moved away from the source. I certainly got the impression that the caretaker was feeling oppressed.’

  ‘He’s mentally unstable,’ said Jessie, on safer ground. ‘He had a terrible breakdown and has been on medication for years.’

  ‘So the drugs aren’t working,’ said Father Forrester knowingly. ‘There is a strong parallel between psychic infestation and mental illness. A maligned spirit will usually contaminate a weak person. By weak, I mean already depressed, someone who is guilty of some misdemeanour, or simply a person who has fallen away from their faith.’

  ‘He hears voices,’ said Niaz.

  ‘Aren’t you two supposed to be helping Sister Beatrice?’

  Niaz grinned.

  ‘Don hears voices for a very good reason,’ said Jessie. ‘A boy drowned under his care.’

  ‘And you think that was what he meant when he said those strange words in the baths?’

  He drowned. It was an accident. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have seen cases of schizophrenia where psychiatric assistance has offered no reprieve. Spiritual guidance, however, has borne some relief. These are the few cases where the tormented man or woman is suffering from genuine psychic attacks.’

  ‘He’s mentally ill,’ said Jessie. ‘Brought on by stress – which, as I’m sure you’re aware, is as responsible for mental breakdowns as biochemical disturbances of the brain.’

  Father Forrester leant back in his chair. ‘So you hav
en’t felt it then, this feeling of oppression?’

  She blamed it on the increasing pressure between her and Mark. She blamed it on the insult. She blamed it on the proverbial last straw. She blamed it on P.J. She blamed it on herself. She would not blame it on an angry ghost. She shook her head.

  ‘Very well, what about problems with the water supply, or the electrics?’ asked Father Forrester.

  ‘Yes on both counts –’ said Burrows.

  ‘No,’ said Jessie, cutting him off. ‘We’ve had a problem with water in the electrics when it rains, but the whole building leaks, so it really isn’t surprising.’

  ‘But the engineers –’

  ‘Thank you, Niaz. I checked with the engineers, and there isn’t a problem with the electrics until it rains. What they haven’t yet discovered is why, but they’re still working on it.’

  ‘Perhaps it was raining when the man was murdered,’ said the vicar. ‘Perhaps rain is the trigger.’

  Jessie knew for a fact it had rained because the Met Office had confirmed that the rain started at 14.32 on the afternoon of February 23rd and had barely let up for three days. But that was hardly surprising. ‘It was February, in England – of course it was raining. Father Forrester, you’ve not yet convinced me that dark forces are at work here.’

  ‘Who said anything about dark forces? These earthbound spirits are not necessarily evil; most of them are just misplaced. As for convincing you, I don’t have to. Marshall Street Baths will do that all by itself.’ Again his eyes shifted a fraction, over her left shoulder. ‘That is, if it hasn’t already done so.’

  Jessie left Burrows and Niaz at the station and walked the short distance to the baths. After what Father Forrester had said, maybe it was worth checking up on Don again. Maybe he knew more than he realised. Not because there were spirits whispering in his ears, but because he’d spent his life watching what went on at Marshall Street Baths. He’d had a bird’s-eye view.

  Jessie hammered on the door for five minutes before Don heard her. Standing in the old foyer she felt again the sheer weight of human traffic that had passed through the doors during the building’s lifetime. Staring at the sad, empty pool, she felt sorry for the place. Of course it made her feel miserable, it was a miserable place. A broken promise in brick.

  ‘I’m here all the time now,’ said the caretaker. ‘It’s my fault those druggies came back, I mustn’t let it happen again.’

  ‘Don, do you mind if I ask you some more questions?’

  ‘More questions,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Not about Jonny,’ said Jessie quickly. ‘About the building, about the other people who used the baths.’

  His face lit up.

  ‘I like talking about the building. It was built in the twenties. God, we Brits were a bunch of wimps, not fit for the front line. They needed to beef us up, so they started building pools and everyone was encouraged to swim. Fat lot of good it did them, they got slaughtered second time round just the same. Still, we benefited, I suppose. As for me, I always wanted to be a lifeguard.’

  ‘The man we found in the boiler room, he must have used the pools.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you remember a man with a limp? It would have been very pronounced.’

  He scratched his head.

  ‘Easy to notice,’ she said, simplifying things for him.

  ‘It’s a long time ago now,’ he said, still looking perplexed.

  ‘I know. Take your time.’

  ‘’Course there were special lessons for the handicapped and such. They weren’t allowed in my pool. They had to go to the baby pool.’

  ‘Who looked after them?’

  ‘The council. People who had no arms and legs came sometimes. That was weird, seeing them trying to swim. We did sponsored swims for people like that. Some of the regulars became friends.’

  ‘Anyone with a limp?’

  ‘Not the … you know, them. Their helpers, though, they were always nice. Bloody saints, if you ask me. They were always making funny noises. There’ve been so many people, so many faces, so much noise. It could drive a man crazy.’

  ‘That’s okay, Don. What about the boiler room? Did anyone go down there other than you?’

  The elderly man suddenly reached out for Jessie’s arm. ‘Will they be opening up the other pits down there?’

  ‘They looked in all the pits, Don. You know that.’

  ‘And the coal stores?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I thought it would all stop when they took him away, but it hasn’t.’

  ‘What would stop, Don?’

  He looked at her for a second with such frightened eyes that Jessie took a step back. He put a hand to his head. ‘Questions, questions, questions. No more questions.’

  Jessie took his arm gently. ‘I’m sorry. How about you show me your scrapbook? You could tell me who your friends were.’

  ‘Danny was my friend, and Rose, then there was Tim and …’ He went on listing names as Jessie led the way out of the empty pool-room and descended to the lower level. She switched on the light and waited for all the bulbs to glow before walking down the corridor that led to the modern boiler room. ‘… it’s been a long time since I’ve had friends like those.’

  ‘Don, the voices that you hear – the medication does help, doesn’t it?’

  He looked around shiftily. ‘If I tell you, you won’t tell the doctors, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I pretend he goes away, but he never does.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jonny Romano.’

  ‘You didn’t kill Jonny Romano. He took drugs, he had a seizure, he drowned.’

  ‘I could have saved him. I know that, you know that, and he knows that. He won’t let me forget. We’re both trapped here.’

  ‘It was an accident. You said so yourself.’

  ‘Is was NOT an accident. Do you think I’m stupid?’

  Don’s confusion was genuine.

  Jessie thought about what Father Forrester had said, that a bad place could seep into a person’s mind and contaminate their spirit. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be here all the time. It isn’t your sole responsibility to keep the drug addicts out. Your only responsibility here is to check the boiler room. You don’t have to be here all the time.’

  ‘Boiler room,’ he said.

  ‘It’s just an empty building,’ said Jessie.

  ‘He’s waiting for me,’ said Don. ‘He’s very close now.’

  Finally all the lights came on and they proceeded to the entrance of the boiler room. ‘See – there’s nothing to be frightened of in here –’

  It came from nowhere. Just as Don peered into the room a blue ball of flame ignited in front of them. They were sent tumbling backwards. Jessie put her hands to her cheek and felt where the flame had licked her face. Her skin felt hot and crinkly, but she couldn’t feel any pain. The explosion burnt itself out as quickly as it had ignited. She rolled over and pushed herself up off the floor. ‘Don, are you all right?’

  He lay beside her, curled up in a ball. He wasn’t moving.

  ‘Don,’ she said again softly. Cautiously, she turned him over. She knew at once that he was dead.

  ‘You bastard!’ she cried out, her voice echoing through the empty corridor. She didn’t know who she was shouting at or why she was shouting or whether she expected an answer. She looked down at Don.

  This was not happening. He couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t his time. Jessie rolled him flat on to his back and without further thought performed emergency CPR. She pressed the pads of her palms into his chest, five jerks, followed by a long slow breath. Five jerks. One slow breath. Five jerks. One slow breath. ‘Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die,’ she repeated quietly. Five jerks. One long breath. Something moved. His eyelid fluttered. She pressed her ear to his chest and listened. It was faint, but it was there: a very weak heartbeat.

  Niaz, Burrows and Jessie s
at round a small table in the hospital cafeteria. An announcement blared out over the Tannoy system:

  ‘…Will Mr Malcolm Edwards please report to neonatal immediately …’

  News of the explosion had quickly reached CID and Burrows and Niaz had rushed over to make sure Jessie was okay. She was. The burns on her face were superficial. Don had borne the brunt of the blaze.

  ‘What did the gas company say?’ asked Jessie.

  ‘That there hasn’t been any gas piped into the building for years.’

  ‘What do the boilers run off, then?’

  ‘Oil,’ replied Burrows.

  ‘It was in the air, it had to be gas.’

  ‘There hasn’t been any –’

  ‘Then it must have been trapped. We’ve been traipsing all over the place, someone could have knocked a pipe and released it somehow.’

  ‘I asked them. They said that was highly unlikely.’

  ‘Highly unlikely means it’s possible, right?’

  Burrows and Niaz exchanged looks. ‘Father Forrester did say –’ ventured Burrows.

  ‘Don’t,’ warned Jessie. ‘A man nearly died. Please do him the respect of sticking to fact.’

  ‘The fact is, ma’am,’ said Niaz, ‘we may never be able to explain it.’

  ‘Don’t you start, Niaz.’

  ‘He said “unexplained phenomenon”,’ continued Burrows.

  ‘Unlikely isn’t unexplained. I was there: the flames were blue. Blue means gas. However unlikely that may sound, it was gas.’

  ‘But it isn’t the first time something strange has happened there,’ said Burrows.

  Jessie was furious with both of them for leaping on the spiritualist bandwagon and leaving her and common sense behind.

  ‘I can understand why people want to believe in exorcists. If the result is a clearing of the air, then all the better. It’s the placebo effect. It happens time and time again in clinical trials. Fifty per cent of the time the sugar pill works, so why not in the case of the supernatural? A robed man turns up with the Bible, Holy water and a bit of incense, says a few prayers and, Hey presto, the spirits have moved on.’

  ‘What about the gas cylinder?’

  ‘It’s cylindrical; cylindrical things roll, and from watching the flood water it’s clear the ground isn’t level. Next.’