Sciron

by David Rashleigh

  “You make us one. I need to sit down.” Despite the continuing deluge, the atmosphere in the living room had lightened markedly. Katie sat, still troubled by her dream. A few minutes later, Steve sat next to her, handing over a steaming mug of tea.

  “I’m beginning to worry about you,” he said, frowning. “You still look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Just a dream, that’s all. I fell asleep before and dreamt that someone was whispering to me. It wasn’t the whispering, it was the voice. It was just so...sad. And it mentioned a baby. That’s when I woke up: at least, I think I woke up. It was all so real, I really can’t tell.”

  “Of course it was just a dream, love,” said Steve dismissively. “It’s just the baby talking.”

  “How would you know!” snapped Katie, a rising anger causing her voice to break. “I feel like somebody is watching me, Josh thinks he’s been talking to a man that’s been dead for years and all you can do is say that it was just a dream!” Tears were welling in her eyes as a plaintive cry from the little bedroom broke the tension between them.

  “I’ll see to him” said Steve, realising that a hasty retreat was his best course of action. He smiled sympathetically at Katie and went to attend to Joshua.

  ***

  The drive back to Ashford had been a six-hour nightmare. Despite frequent stops and the comfortable seats in his ageing Honda Accord, Jack Rimmer’s back was sheer agony and his legs were numb. Another band of heavy rain had caused two accidents on the M6, delaying Jack’s arrival on the London orbital motorway until the evening rush. Welcome to the M25, Jack had thought, grimly, the world’s biggest car park. His house felt cold, so Jack sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee while he worked his way through the pile of mail that had partially obstructed his front door. Dropping the junk mail straight into the recycling bin that he kept by the back door, he worked his way through his latest gas bill and a letter from his publisher before opening the buff envelope from the Family Records Centre.

  The red and cream certificate was in itself a mine of information: it informed Jack that his paternal grandfather, William Rimmer, had been a groundsman, and that his wife’s maiden name had been Geraldine Roberts. Jack racked his brain for memories of his grandparents; fleeting images of a kindly but sad old man were overwhelmed by intrusive recollections of his mother’s occasional bitterness at having to raise a child without a father. His father’s date of birth, on the fourth of January 1901, was another useful clue: he should appear on the census of that year that was freely available via the internet.

  The house having warmed a little, Jack moved into the former dining room that he used as a study, fired up his laptop and connected to his favourite genealogy site. A few moments searching was sufficient to find the entry he sought: William Rimmer, his wife Geraldine and their sons...sons? He had an uncle? According to the census page, there were two children in the Rimmer household. Jack, aged three months, and Albert, aged four years. Looking at the relative ages of the family, it was clear that William and Geraldine had become parents in their late teens, and that Albert would have been of military age during the First World War. A brief search of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website gave one A W Rimmer, a private with the King’s Liverpool Regiment, who had been killed during the Allied offensive at the Ypres Salient on the thirty-first of July 1917.

  Jack paused and sat back in his chair, his chin resting on his steepled fingers. Although he clearly had no proof yet that this was his uncle, he had mixed emotions about this discovery. Having researched war casualties before, he knew that behind each stark statistic was a grieving family, a father, son or brother that would never return to their loved ones. This one may be different, however. This time, his own father may have been the brother, aged just seventeen, trying to cope with his own grief while acutely aware that his parents’ life had just been rent asunder.

  With some difficulty, Jack put his thoughts aside and contemplated how he could discover what had happened to his father. His mother had been adamant; he had died before Jack was born. Yet there was no death certificate, and no grave that he knew of. His only clue was the time frame: the nine-month span of his own gestation! Jack quickly realised that he would have to make another trip to Preston, this time to search the back issues of the local newspaper, the Lancashire Evening Post. More in hope than expectation, he logged on to the Public Record Office website and put a few keywords into their search engine. To his surprise, the words “Rimmer, West Lancashire railway, 1941” resulted in a hit on the catalogue. His curiosity pricked, he clicked on the obscure file reference. He was amused to read the summary of its contents: a Security Service report into somebody, or something, called “Sciron”. Since his father had been a railway signalman, this obviously had nothing to do with his current research. The codename intrigued him: perhaps this would give him an idea for his next book. Indeed, the public records office at Kew was far closer to home, and this would give him an excuse not to head back to Lancashire for another day. Jack looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was past midnight. Suddenly tired, he pre-ordered the file to be readied for his visit, shut down his computer and turned in for the night.

  ***

  Mike was in a foul mood. Lack of sleep had meant that he had been upbraided by his manager at work yet again, but his sense of injustice had been magnified by his mother, who, emboldened by Mike’s behaviour the night before, had announced that henceforth his board and lodging would no longer be free of charge. This unwelcome fragment of reality, and the brief but heated and utterly indefensible argument that had followed, had distracted him sufficiently to have induced a particularly poor performance when he had finally adopted his now restored online persona. Shaking with rage, he had actually thrown the controller across his bedroom when he lost the eighth consecutive game.

  He now lay on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling and rehearsing in his mind the crushing put-downs that he would deliver to his persecutors in the morning. Of course, he would never actually have the courage to go through with it: he would meekly apologise to his mother over breakfast and turn up at work, on time and without a word. This knowledge served only to intensify his anger and frustration, which consumed his attention so completely that he didn’t notice that there was, once again, a growing odour of the seaside. When the realisation finally dawned on him, Mike was also aware that his own emotions had been overwhelmed by the sense of hatred that he had felt the previous two nights. Sitting up, his peripheral vision caught the outline of a man bathed in the glow from the television. Snapping his head to the right, he caught only a fleeting glimpse of the shadowy figure as it vanished through his bedroom door, the other assaults on his senses and emotions fading as quickly as they had arisen.

  Jumping to his feet, Mike pulled open the door and looked out on to the landing. To his right, the bathroom door was ajar as usual; to his left, his mother’s bedroom emanated the sound of gentle snoring. Moving to the top of the stairs, he looked over the banister into the darkness below, but there was no sign of his intruder. Now shaken by his experience, his hands were trembling uncontrollably. His first thought was to go to his mother, although whether it was for her protection or his own comfort he really couldn’t be sure. After a moment’s indecision, his fear had subsided sufficiently for him to gather his wits and return to his own room, where he lay, sleepless and fidgeting, until the first glimmerings of dawn filtered into his room.

  The tired meanderings of his mind dragged up a memory from his childhood. His mother, tears streaming down her face, pleading with his father not to walk out on them, accusing him of giving up the moment that life got difficult. He had no way of knowing that the difficulty in question had been the buxom barmaid from the pub that had been his father’s second home, but he remembered his mother’s words clearly.

  “You always do this! You just give up! Call yourself a man? A real man would face his problems, not run away!”

 
Mike decided, at that point, that he would face up to whatever it was that had started to, well, haunt him. With that realisation, a shiver ran down his spine, and he wondered how long this new-found resolve would last. He would find out, soon enough.

  Thursday

  Katie looked at the bedside clock. It was ten past three in the morning, and she was being kept awake by the snoring of her husband and the unrelenting wriggling of her unborn baby. Try as she might, she could not get comfortable: if she lay on her side, the baby kicked all the more; lying on her back felt as unnatural to her as it always had. Giving Steve one more unsuccessful nudge, she gave up the unequal struggle and went to get a drink. Passing by Joshua’s bedroom, she listened at the door. Reassured by the sound of his breathing, she continued into the kitchen. Filling the kettle, she was once again aware of a despondent atmosphere surrounding her, filling the kitchen. As the kettle began its gentle hiss, Katie’s mind was assailed by a sensation of sheer misery; as if a terrible event had occurred that was locked in the deepest recesses of her memory. Yet she had experienced no such trauma throughout her uneventful life. As the sound from the kettle grew louder, the memory of the previous afternoon reasserted itself and the same unhappy whispering projected itself onto her consciousness.

  Dorothy...is that you? He hit me, Dot...why did he hit me?

  The kettle reached a crescendo, but still the voice penetrated the roar of boiling water.

  Dorothy, turn around, love. I’m hurt. Help me...please.

  Katie froze. She sensed a presence behind her, and her fear made her blood run cold. As if sensing danger, the baby was still. Her legs were like jelly, and her hands trembled as she steadied herself against the worktop. There was a loud click, and the sound from the kettle rapidly diminished. The whispering had stopped, but the mood remained. Katie steadied herself, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard. Silence reigned. Regaining some of her composure, she reached up and took a mug from the cupboard above the kettle. Tea bags were in the caddy next to her, and she poured the steaming water over the pyramid-shaped bag. Moving to her left, she bent to open the fridge for the milk. Having grasped the bottle, a sudden cramp in her back made her straighten up rapidly, leaving her facing the uncurtained kitchen window. Reflected in the glass was the outline of a man, stood behind her.

  “Steve,” she said, turning. “What are you....”

  It was not her husband. The man before her was taller, but more slightly built. His face was gaunt and grey; his black eyes looked out from under heavy, drooping eyelids. His mouth was turned downward and his expression one of utter wretchedness. Looking quizzically at Katie, the man lifted his right hand, reaching out for her. The hand was a different colour to the face, and, despite her terror, Katie realised that the hand was covered with blood. Katie looked again at the man’s face, and saw that the side of his head and his hair was also bloodstained. She felt her legs buckle beneath her, and the last thing that she heard was that same whisper.

  Hello, Dot...I’ve found you at last.

  Steve Melling was awakened by the sound of breaking glass. Not sure whether he had dreamed it, he turned to his wife only to find a cold space where she should have been. Suddenly concerned, he swung his legs out of the bed and pulled on his dressing gown. Leaving the bedroom, he stubbed his toe on the doorframe and swore out loud. Knowing that such language within earshot of their son would earn him a rebuke from his wife, the silence that greeted his outburst served to make him anxious about Katie.

  Spotting that the kitchen light was on, Steve made his way across the small hallway that connected the five rooms of their flat. Entering the kitchen, he was shocked to find Katie sprawled across the floor, surrounded by broken glass and a pool of milk stained with blood from a gash on her leg. Carefully sweeping away the shards of glass, Jack lifted his wife’s head and cradled it on his knees.

  “Katie, wake up! What happened, love?”

  At the sound of his voice Katie stirred. Her eyelids flickered, and she looked up at Steve’s face. Upon recognising him, she clung tightly to his arm and burst into tears. Steve had seen his wife crying before, but never like this. Sobs racked her body and it seemed that she was struggling for breath. Realising that the loss of half a pint of milk could not be the cause of such anguish, Steve looked around the compact kitchen for another reason. Everything was as it should be, including the steaming mug next to the kettle.

  “Come on, sweetheart, let’s sort you out.” Steve helped Katie to her feet and led her into the living room. Sitting her down on the sofa, he returned to the kitchen for their small first aid kit. Having bandaged Katie’s leg, he found her a clean nightie and helped her to change. Seeing that she was still too traumatised to speak, Steve went back into the kitchen and began to clear the mess on the floor.

  He had cleaned up the broken glass and was mopping the floor tiles when he realised that Katie was standing in the doorway.

  “How are you feeling?” Steve enquired.

  Katie’s voice was hollow. “There was a man here,” she said, her head resting on the door frame. “His hand and the side of his head were covered in blood. He called me Dot, and said that he had found me.”

  “But that’s not possible!” spluttered Steve. He gently pushed past his wife and checked that the door, the only way in or out of their home, was not only locked but securely bolted from the inside. A swift examination of the rest of the flat confirmed that all the windows were shut, too.

  “He was here, Steve.” Katie had not moved, and spoke over her shoulder. ”He spoke to me. I didn’t imagine it. It was real.”

  Steve came up behind her and put his arms around her middle, holding her close. Logic told him that it couldn’t possibly be true, yet something in Katie’s voice made him believe it.

  “He called me Dot. He thinks that I’m somebody else.”

  A shiver ran down Steve’s spine. The visions, the voices, either all were true or his wife was suffering some sort of breakdown. He found that he wanted to believe that their flat was haunted, since the alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

  “It’s all true, Steve. All of it.” said Katie, as if she had read her husband’s mind. “Joshua has seen him too, and spoken to him.”

  “But who is he? A ghost? How do you get a ghost in a brand new flat?” Steve was struggling with the concept, his mind blinkered by the traditional notion that ghosts only haunted old buildings.

  Katie made the connection for him. “He isn’t haunting this flat. He’s haunting the old railway line.”

  ***

  Walking along the wide flagged pathway between the shallow ponds, Jack Rimmer was, as always, nonplussed by the Public Records Office building in front of him. A modern yet tasteful (Jack was no fan of the modern architect) glass-fronted entrance hall directly ahead of him was overshadowed by a grotesque concrete edifice to the left. Rows of narrow windows gave the structure the look of a giant layer cake. It was this part of the building; however, that Jack knew contained some of the most important historical documents in the world. The Domesday Book and Magna Carta were probably the most famous residents, two among millions of fascinating insights into the past.

  Passing through the entrance, Jack signed in using his reader’s ticket and proceeded left, between the gift shop and the restaurant, toward the security gate. Just before the gate, he turned right into the locker room. Here, he collected a clear plastic bag and placed his notebook and a couple of pencils in it. Returning to then security gate, he showed the bag to the guard who gave it a cursory examination before permitting Jack to scan his ticket and pass through the turnstile. Going up one flight of stairs, Jack turned left and, passing through another glass door into the reading room, turned left again and went to collect his pre-ordered file.

  Having received the buff-coloured folder, he made for one of the tables in the reading room. Nods of recognition were passed between Jack and a number of regulars, many retired men and women who spent their time as amateur histo
rians and who Jack knew from his past visits. Sitting down, he took his notebook from the bag and opened it to a clean page. Placing the folder in front of him, Jack looked at the cover. He was intrigued to see “Most Secret” stamped on the cover: this was an interesting document indeed. As he began to read the contents, it quickly became evident that “Sciron” was the codename of an agent operating in Britain during the Second World War and being hunted by MI5, whose file this had been until released under the thirty year rule. From the early part of the document, it wasn’t clear who the agent worked for: he was believed to have been a Polish Jew and therefore working for the Soviet security service, the OGPU. He had been observed attending Trades Union meetings and consorting with known members of the Communist Party, thus reinforcing the conviction of his case officer that Sciron was a Soviet spy.

  Jack perused the date-ordered pages, scanning through them until he reached the early part of 1941. Then he began to study them in more detail, wondering where the reference that had caused the hit from the search engine would fit in. Eventually, he came across a three-page typed report form a field operative dated May 1941. On reading it, Jack’s jaw dropped. He tried to read it again, but, to his surprise, a feeling of loss permeated his mind and disrupted his concentration. Realising that he had not written a word in his notebook, and slightly ashamed that what he had read could affect him so deeply, he closed the folder and took a moment to regain his composure. Finally, still blinking back tears, he moved to the photocopying room at the far end of the reading area and copied the report. He then returned the file and made his way back down the stairs, his distracted state causing him to bump into more than one other researcher.