In her pocket the phone vibrated.
‘We’ve found Mr Romano,’ said the breathless voice of the young officer from Lisson Grove Estate.
‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘On the roof of his building. He’s threatening to jump.’
‘Is he serious?’
Forty-three 999 calls from an estate where the police were seen as the enemy said he was. She told Burrows to stay, and ran for the car.
With sirens blazing, Jessie weaved perilously in and out of traffic, her faith in the flashing blue lights absolute. She pulled up alongside a growing crowd of spectators. People had come to see the Italian fall. Jessie alerted the local officer to her presence. He looked terrified.
‘If he jumps, it’ll be all my fault –’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be talked down. The unit is trained for this.’
The young officer looked forlornly at Jessie.
‘What?’
‘The unit are four hours away.’
‘So who’s that guy?’ asked Jessie, nodding in the direction of the man entering the maintenance door to the building.
‘PC Jack Shayer, but he has a nickname …’
‘I’m afraid to ask.’
‘Jumping Jack. You want them down quick, call for Jumping Jack, he has them down in a –’
‘Flash.’
‘You get my drift.’
‘If that’s you being subtle, I’d hate to see you being indiscreet,’ said Jessie, starting to run.
The officer ran alongside her, flat-footed and panting. ‘Please, DI Driver, I don’t want Mr Romano’s death on my conscience. That sort of thing can ruin a person’s life.’
This was something Jessie knew. ‘Don’t worry. I can handle him.’
‘He’s been shouting and screaming at someone like he was down the allotment.’
Jessie reached the staircase. Father Forrester was waiting for her, Romano’s notebooks cradled in his arms.
‘Be careful up there. The man may not know his own strength.’
‘Have you read them?’ she shouted, taking two steps at a time.
‘All of them,’ the priest called back.
‘And you think Mr Romano is hearing voices?’
‘Yes. And right now, they’re telling him to jump.’
Jessie stopped for a second. She looked back at the beat officer. ‘Clear this area – just in case this doesn’t work.’
Jessie caught Jumping Jack Flash at the roof door. He would not hear of allowing her out there in his place, but told her that she could accompany him in his rescue mission. Jessie couldn’t fault his enthusiasm for his job. She followed him out on to the flat asphalt roof, and listened as he quietly called Romano’s name. Mr Romano didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn round when they approached him.
‘Mr Romano, whatever the problem is, jumping isn’t the solution,’ said Jumping Jack Flash, at which point Jessie decided she too might jump. So she took over.
‘Mr … Doyle,’ she said calmly. ‘We’ve been looking for you for some time.’
‘Who?’ exclaimed the officer.
Mr Romano slowly turned round. His naturally olive skin had paled to a ghoulish white. He obviously hadn’t eaten or slept for several days. His clothes hung loosely off him, dirty and crumpled; his dark wavy hair hung in greasy tendrils over his shirt collar; his face was gaunt and skeletal, his eyes dusted with a dark shadow that traced the edge of his eye sockets. He looked as though he was already dead. Jumping Jack stepped back. Mr Romano seemed a man possessed. Such was the transformation that for a second Jessie forgot that Doyle had never existed, as she looked into the eyes of the man that the children had described. The bogey man. Boo Radley. The evil drug dealer who had killed their golden boy.
‘I’m a very bad man,’ said Mr Romano.
‘Why have you come back, Mr Doyle?’
‘I never went away. You just couldn’t see me. Poor Romano, in front of his very eyes and he never knew. They’re so stupid, the Italians. All that macho crap.’
It was only the mention of his nationality that made Jessie realise even Mr Romano’s accent had gone. ‘He said he saw you.’
The man who looked like Ian Doyle’s Identikit smiled ghoulishly and tapped his head. ‘But he could never stop me.’
‘Mrs Romano – did she try to stop you?’
Mr Romano trembled at the sound of his wife’s name.
‘She knew.’
‘What did she know?’
‘Fuck off, bitch!’
‘Mr Romano –’ warned the gallant officer before Jessie had a chance to shut him up.
‘I’M NOT MR ROMANO!’ he shouted, lunging at the officer and sending him crashing to the floor. ‘Mr Romano wouldn’t do that! He wouldn’t do that! He loved his son.’
Jessie grabbed the Italian by the arm as he pulled it back to launch another blow at the snivelling policeman. She forced him into a half-nelson, but he was stronger than he looked and threw her off. Only a low wall now separated her from the bone-shattering concrete eighty feet below. As the suicide specialist got up on all fours and shouted for help, Mr Romano turned and kicked him hard in the belly.
‘Squealing pig!’
As he lined up a second kick at the man’s kidneys, Jessie propelled herself off the ground and began to run in his direction. Mr Romano glanced at the moving object and tried to redirect the force of his kick, but he was caught off-balance. Jessie threw herself at him with all her weight, landing on top of him with such force that his head seemed to bounce off the asphalt. The fire-exit door opened and Father Forrester and Sister Beatrice emerged, each holding a cross. Jessie was so startled that she took her eyes off Romano. He didn’t need a second chance. He grabbed her round the neck and forced her back. Hard. As he pushed her down, he got to his knees, then stood up. He now had both hands around Jessie’s neck. She could feel the cartilage in her oesophagus cracking.
‘Our Father, who art in Heaven … give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation …’
Jessie was beginning to choke and black shadows were appearing on her peripheral vision.
Another voice joined in, mingling with the others. Her head was swimming. ‘O God, forasmuch as without thee we are not able to please thee, mercifully grant that thy Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts; through Jesus Christ our Lord … Amen.’
She thought she felt something wet and warm fall on her head. Stop fucking praying and do something, she cried out silently as she pulled in vain at Mr Romano’s strong fingers. She was weakening fast.
Jessie hit the ground before she realised the hands she’d been struggling against had released her. When she looked up, all she saw was Mr Romano running for the edge of the roof. He leapt high over the small wall and vanished into thin air. Father Forrester and Sister Beatrice ran to the edge and looked down.
It took Jessie’s lungs a few moments to realise that they had air in them again. She drew in painful, heaving gasps as her system fought to absorb the oxygen, then staggered to her feet and stumbled forward. Father Forrester held his arm out for her. Leaning heavily on him, she peered over the wall. Beneath her a ring of firemen stood on the tarmac playing area. Faded green, white and red lines crisscrossed one another, forming geometric shapes beneath their feet. Like kindergarten children preparing themselves for a game of ring-a-ring-of-roses, their arms were stretched out to one another. They were holding a thick, dark grey blanket, in the middle of which lay Mr Romano, curled up like a baby.
They sat in a nearby cafe and ordered tea. Jessie sipped the hot drink and felt her bruised throat struggle with each swallow. It felt like the first symptoms of flu. She touched her neck gingerly with her fingertips. She now had plasters dotted all over her forearms, a face that looked like she’d stepped too close to a seventies sun-lamp, and now the mark of Mr Romano’s fingers embedded in her neck. And she’d still n
ot had time to get a proper haircut.
‘I suspected he was hearing voices, but it didn’t occur to me it was Doyle’s voice he heard. That was brilliant deduction on your part. How did you work it out?’ asked Father Forrester.
‘Inspiration. Notebooks,’ said Jessie with difficultly. ‘Writing was,’ she swallowed, ‘different.’
‘Inspiration or divine intervention?’ said the ever-smiling Sister Beatrice.
Jessie shook her head.
‘It would have taken a cataclysmic event to split his personality like that,’ said Father Forrester.
He was right. Killing his son had not caused Mr Romano’s personality to split, it was killing his wife that brought about the seismic shift. Doyle had taken the blame for the first crime, so Doyle could take the blame for the second. Once again Mr Romano’s guilt got buried and Doyle became the guilty one. And as the blunt object came down on Mrs Romano’s head, Mr Romano became Ian Doyle.
The nun continued: ‘His actions have made him especially susceptible to demonic attacks.’
Jessie shook her head again, remembering the prayers and the sprinkled water. ‘You thought … exorcism would … cure him?’ she croaked.
Sister Beatrice chuckled. ‘Good heavens, no. Your Mr Romano is as mad as a fish. We didn’t think a person of restricted growth and an arthritically riddled old man made up much of an opponent. He certainly had you in a good grip, though. So we decided we’d put on a little performance. The “Holy water” you might have felt was Father Forrester’s tea. It did the trick – he let go.’
‘So convincing, he …’ Jessie made a diving motion.
‘Now, perhaps that was divine intervention,’ said the nun.
Jessie frowned. ‘That he …?’ She repeated the diving motion.
‘No, that there were eight well-built firemen ready to catch him.’
Jessie’s phone rang. It was the hospital doctor attending the unconscious Mr Romano. He’d come round with no apparent memory of his leap of death, his assault on a police officer, or that he’d answered to the name of Ian Doyle. Mr Romano had returned, the injured man searching for justice for his dead son. It was Doyle’s turn to sleep, until a doctor with the right qualifications could entreat him to reappear.
Jessie’s phone rang again. She clutched her throat, shook her head and passed it to Father Forrester. She couldn’t talk any more. It was Burrows. Nancy was asking for a priest. A priest answered the call.
Nancy died a few moments before sunrise on what would turn out to be a glorious day. Charlotte was with her, Father Forrester blessed her and Dr Turnball was summoned to ensure that she did not suffer. Peace had come to her at last. Jessie walked Charlotte back to the car.
‘It was beautiful really,’ said Charlotte. ‘Thank you for finding her.’
Jessie nodded, accepting the thanks.
‘She was lucid, almost up to the end,’ said Charlotte. ‘I can’t believe I thought she was a poltergeist.’ She looked seriously at Jessie. ‘She’ll cross over now, won’t she? Father Forrester granted her absolution …’
Jessie squeezed her arm. She still couldn’t answer questions like that.
‘She was talking to Malcolm at the end, as if he was right there. She said she’d always forgiven him, that she wanted him to come with her. She even thanked him for protecting her, for keeping her secret – I don’t know where she would have got an idea like that.’
Jessie said nothing. People were getting used to her silence.
‘Like I said, she was confused by then. Still, she asked Father Forrester to forgive him too.’ She stopped walking. ‘Do you think that’s the key to all relationships – forgiveness?’
Jessie looked back at Charlotte, her throat tightening. She nodded.
‘Do you think I can forgive my mother for leaving me?’
Jessie blinked once.
Epilogue
When Jessie could speak again, she went to visit Don in hospital. He was tucking into breakfast and talking animatedly to a man in a dressing gown when Jessie walked into the busy ward. Don had colour in his cheeks, he’d put on weight and he was smiling. He waved at Jessie and introduced her to his new friend. She stayed long enough to assure herself that in his heart Don was strong and in his mind, he was well. On leaving, she pulled the nurse to one side and asked him what Don’s new medication was.
‘Medication?’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘He isn’t on any. He’s been right as rain for a few days now and we’ve seen no reason to put him back on. The symptoms of stress and exhaustion often mimic mental illness. He probably just needed a good rest, some regular feeding, and a change of scene.’
‘Probably,’ repeated Jessie, looking back at Don. A free man.
He smiled at her.
She smiled back.
In the mortuary Jessie was handed the results of the routine autopsy. She glanced down at the death certificate. At 05.58 Dr Turnball had pronounced Ann Eugenie Valeria Rose Scott-Somers dead, of natural causes. She read the name again.
‘There’s been a mistake,’ she said to the man at the desk. ‘She wasn’t called Ann. Her name was Nancy.’
‘Checked it off the birth certificate myself,’ said the clerk. ‘She might have been called Nancy, but she was christened Ann, so she dies Ann. They’ll probably put Nancy on the gravestone in inverted commas – that’s what they do with nicknames or abbreviations. I assure you, there has been no mistake.’
Jessie set off in the direction of the station. It was another blissful day, crisp blue sky and bright sunshine that dazzled her eyes every time she stepped out of the shadow of a building. She wasn’t sure what to think any more. Was there a benevolent old man sitting on a throne somewhere above us? She didn’t think so. Was there something in the energy of the individual, some force-field that a sensitive person is able to read and feel? Possibly. Could that forcefield remain after our death? Perhaps.
Her walk took her to the end of Dufour’s Place. She looked left and saw the cul-de-sac that led to the entrance of the grand old building. The developers were circling, planning consent was imminent, soon it would make way for modern housing, cafés and offices, holding within them a secret. A huge swimming pool consisting of 286 hand-laid Italian marble tiles that hadn’t leaked a drop of water since the day it was built. Jessie walked the length of the truncated street. Parked at the end of the road was a car displaying a disabled sticker; on the back seat was a well-worn brown trilby. Jessie glanced sideways; the door to the baths was open.
The miniature nun leant on the back of Mary’s chair. They both waved at Jessie as she entered the foyer. Sunshine was streaming through the high windows. The Art Deco tiles gleamed.
‘Looks better now that it’s been cleansed, doesn’t it?’ said Mary.
Jessie chose to deliberately misunderstand her. ‘The windows certainly look better.’
‘My Lord, you’re a stubborn one,’ said Mary.
‘We’re on a PR exercise,’ said Sister Beatrice. ‘The developers don’t want future investors thinking this place is haunted. They’ve got Father Forrester down there in full regalia. Still, the place probably needed a blessing – right, Mary? Turns out it was built on the site of a workhouse, so perhaps it wasn’t your Malcolm Hoare causing all the trouble, after all.’
‘I couldn’t say,’ said Jessie.
‘Rather like the Bermuda Triangle, though on a far smaller scale.’
Jessie wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘Bermuda Triangle?’
‘I don’t think the detective is ready for that story, Beatrice.’
‘Right now I’m about ready for anything.’
Sister Beatrice took a deep breath. ‘That area of the ocean covers the old slave trade route between West Africa and America. At first only the weak ones were thrown overboard, but when the market became saturated entire shiploads of Africans were dumped into the sea. Chained up. Alive.’
Jessie recoiled in horror. The nun continued.
‘The ship
owners could claim more in insurance per head than live slaves would fetch on the open market. They died violently in their multitudes, after great suffering.’
Mary joined the discussion: ‘Most churches are built on places of human sacrifice to counterbalance the negative energy created by the displaced souls.’
‘But you can’t build a church on water,’ offered Jessie.
‘Exactly. All that negativity had nowhere to go.’
’And you think that’s why all those planes and boats disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle?’
Mary and Beatice nodded ‘Until it was exorcised, yes.’
‘By Father Forrester?’
‘A man very like him, but more psychic.’
‘Father Forrester isn’t psychic?’
‘He’s pretty sensitive, actually,’ said Mary. ‘But not an actual psychic.’
‘He’s always looking over my left shoulder,’ said Jessie, ‘as if he can see someone.’
Mary and Beatrice laughed. ‘That’s just a sleepy eye. Very off-putting, I know.’
Jessie pretended to laugh with them. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt a tinge of disappointment inside. Mary reached up for Jessie’s hand. ‘I understand your resistance to all of this. But, you know, there are many people who appreciate what you do for them. This is your calling, you do it well.’
Jessie met Mary’s eyes. ‘Her name was Ann,’ she blurted out unexpectedly.
They stood in silence for a long moment. Then Mary nodded, let go of Jessie’s hand and turned the chair to the door. ‘We ought to be going.’ The heat on Jessie’s palm slowly dissipated.
‘Tell me,’ Jessie called after her.
The wheelchair stopped. ‘Tell you what?’
‘Whatever’s on your mind.’
Slowly the chair rotated. ‘Jessie, the messages sent from the other side aren’t always the ones we want to hear. Because of that they claim not to have been heard. This causes distress on either side.’
‘Please.’
Mary studied Jessie. Jessie held her breath. ‘Send the letter.’
‘What?’
The Unquiet Dead Page 31