Sciron

by David Rashleigh

  Over a cup of too-strong tea in the restaurant, Jack tried to make sense of what he had read. He scanned the document once again, still not daring to believe its contents. One thing he did believe, though, was the author of the report. The document was initialled CJM, which Jack recognised as Cedric Morgan, a former Security Service officer whom he had interviewed whilst researching an earlier commission. Prior to the war, Morgan had been a Classics scholar at Jesus College, Oxford, and was renowned for giving the subjects of his reports names from Greek mythology. Hence the name “Sciron”, which meant nothing to Jack but undoubtedly had significance for the author. Unfortunately, Morgan’s contact details were in Jack’s study, back in Ashford. Cursing silently, Jack drained his tea and set off for home once again.

  ***

  As Jack Rimmer was reversing out of the car park at Kew, Katie Melling was sat in her living room staring out of the window. Earlier that morning, having explained to her husband about the history of their home and its surroundings, she had persuaded him to go to work. He had reluctantly agreed, having extracted from his wife a promise that she would call in sick and ask her mother to look after Joshua. Her mother had been understandably concerned: Katie had convinced her that she was just tired after a sleepless night. Suitably mollified, she had taken her grandson to her house to allow her daughter to rest.

  Rest, however, was not forthcoming. Katie could not settle at all. She had cleaned the flat, prepared the dinner, but whenever she tried to rest the memories came back to haunt her. It occurred to her that she had sensed no malice from the apparition, just the feeling of dejection. When he had reached out to her, she remembered, the movement had not been in the slightest menacing. She recalled Joshua’s experience: if it was the same man, he was clearly no threat. Katie closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene from the early hours: the man, the blood...his clothes. He had been hatless, wearing a short jacket, waistcoat and dark trousers: in his other hand had been a torch.

  But who was Dot? Katie surmised that she must be his wife; after all, the man had to be well over forty and so was probably married. But why did he think that Katie was his wife? Surely Dot must have been close to the same age? A sudden realisation dawned on her: Dot must have been pregnant. A shudder went down Katie’s spine at the thought. Was that it? Did the apparition think that Katie was his wife? It would explain why he appeared to have latched on to Katie.

  “Who are you?” Katie realised that she had spoken out loud. “What do you want with me? I’m not Dot.”

  Where’s Dot?

  The sudden whisper made Katie jump. “I don’t know. I don’t know who Dot is.”

  My wife...she’s my wife. She’s pregnant...I’m going to be a father...who are you?

  “Katie. I may be pregnant, but I’m not your wife.” Katie realised that she was less afraid than before, despite the slight tremor in her voice. She paused for a moment. “Who are you?”

  I...I’m...Jack.

  “Jack who?”

  Jack...Rimmer. Where’s Dot? I’m lost...can’t find her, can’t get home.

  The intense sadness had returned. Unsure what to say next, Katie waited for a minute before risking a glance over her shoulder. Hesitantly, she turned her head but the terrifying spectre from the night before was nowhere to be seen. She breathed a sigh of relief; as she exhaled, she noticed a movement in the trees opposite. She glimpsed the outline of a tall man, his back to her and a torch in his hand, disappearing along the old embankment. As he vanished, so did the air of melancholy.

  As the atmosphere returned to normal, Katie recalled the elderly man that had been felled by Joshua. His name had been Jack Rimmer, too.

  Friday

  The following evening, George Williams sat in the working men’s club nursing a pint of bitter. Eighty-five years old, the drink that he sipped occasionally summed up his character perfectly. “Victor Meldrew without the laughs,” as one wag had all-too-accurately described him. He had spent his working life as a railwayman and a union activist; the latter activity carried out with more enthusiasm than the former and both with a distinct lack of diplomacy. Having been persuaded by a grateful management to take early retirement some twenty-five years earlier, he had launched himself into a short-lived political career by standing for election to Preston council. Standing as a Socialist Worker candidate during the Falklands War, he polled fewer than a dozen votes in a well-to-do area in the north of the borough. Having been a fervent socialist since leaving school, he took his rejection by the electorate as a personal humiliation. The years since had been spent leading the solitary life of a single pensioner, his wife having finally grown tired of his one-dimensional conversation and left him for, of all people, a Tory councillor that she had met while learning Spanish at evening classes.

  Now his days were filled by the Daily Mirror and the Labour club. It was here that he had built up a small following of what he liked to call “young firebrands” who, he thought, shared his view of the world and his dismay at the incumbent Labour government’s failure to implement full-blooded socialism. As George took another sip of his beer, one of his coterie entered the club.

  “Evenin’, Grandad.” The man, Kevin Anderson, was in his early thirties, thick-set, tattooed and shaven-headed. “Grandad” was an honorary title: George had never had children. Anderson was, simply put, a thug. Of slightly below average intelligence and, like so many of his generation, poorly educated, his favoured method of dispute resolution comprised a combination of anatomically impossible suggestions and his fists. This tendency meant that Anderson had never held down a full time job for more than a few months, his latest career usually ending with the broken nose of a fellow employee following some affront, real or imagined. He had a soft spot for the old man, though. He came over to join George, a pint of Stella Artois in one hand and a replacement pint for George in the other.

  By ten that evening their regular group, five in all, were gathered around the same table putting the world to rights. The remaining three were a mixed bunch: a taxi driver, a lecturer at one of the local further education colleges and Steve Melling.

  ***

  Two sleepless nights on Tuesday and Wednesday had meant that nothing could have prevented Mike Simpson from falling into a deep slumber as soon as he laid on his bed on his return from work on Thursday evening. He had, in fact, slept solidly for fourteen hours, still dressed in his work clothes. His mother, fussing as always, had thrown a blanket over him and left him to sleep. Consequently, on Friday evening, as the “comrades” were gathering in the Labour club, Mike still felt fresh. Out of habit, he switched on his game console and loaded the game. As the system connected to the internet, Mike paused. He realised that his head was full of anticipation of another visitation, and found himself occasionally sniffing the air to pick up the first hint of the olfactory revelation that would herald the return of...what? His new-found determination that had accompanied the dawn chorus of the morning before was suddenly less resolute, but even so he switched off the Xbox and sat, cross-legged, on his bed. His mother was in her bedroom, carefully applying makeup for her regular Friday night out: quite what she got up to Mike had no idea. He didn’t always hear her come in...Mike shook his head and tried to dismiss the thought: the prospect of his mother actually having sex was simply too awful to contemplate. After all, she was, at forty-five, past all that...wasn’t she? At that moment, as if sensing what he was thinking, she chose to magnify his discomfort by coming into his room. Wearing a black knee-length sleeveless dress with a plunging neckline and three-inch stilettos, Mike thought she looked ridiculous.

  “I’m off now. Don’t wait up” she said, winking suggestively.

  “Oh, go on” replied Mike, really embarrassed now. “Behave yourself...please?”

  Without replying, she smiled, then turned and disappeared down the stairs, leaving a trail of perfume lingering in her wake.

  Mike waited for the front door to close, then went downstairs to raid the kit
chen. Standing in front of the tall upright fridge, he held the door open as he scanned the contents. Eventually selecting a wedge of Wensleydale cheese, he returned to his room and began to nibble at it. Half an hour later, he was sitting in his chair, stereo blasting out Kashmir, when once again the sense of hatred enveloped him and the stench of the beach at low tide assaulted his nostrils.

  Switching off the music, Mike steeled himself and turned towards the door. Framed in the doorway was the figure of a man, his short hair matted flat and rivulets of water running down his distorted face and on to what seemed to be overalls. Mike froze, unable to speak. The sheer menace that exuded from the apparition was overpowering, exacerbated by the spectre lifting one bony hand and pointing at him.

  You must help us.

  Mike’s mouth just gaped.

  The time is coming. You must bring him to us.

  “Wh...who? Bring who?” Mike was shaking uncontrollably now.

  The man who killed us. The man who killed the signalman and condemned us to drown.

  “I...I don’t understand! Who is he? Why do you want me to bring him?”

  You are the last in the line. You must bring him to us so we can be avenged. We cannot rest until justice is done. Bring him to the Penwortham Triangle.

  ***

  It was past ten thirty, and Katie Melling was curled up on the sofa in her living room. Jack would be back from the club in the next half hour, and she had not yet had an opportunity to tell him of that afternoon’s experience. Next to her on the small table was a half empty mug of tea that had gone cold un-noticed. In her hand was Jack Rimmer’s business card. Her mother had returned Joshua earlier in the evening; the little boy had had a bath and gone to bed three hours earlier. Katie had spent the intervening time wrestling with the decision whether to contact the elderly historian. If there was no link between him and the apparition, she would look foolish; on the other hand, the events of the past few days were preying on her mind. She was desperate for an answer, an explanation for what was happening to her and her family. Twice she had dialled the number and immediately hung up: twice she had admonished herself for her weakness.

  Just before eleven, Katie began to sense the enveloping sadness that had previously heralded the appearance of the spectre. This time, however, the feeling disappeared as quickly as it began and, moments later, her Steve came through the door. Friday night at the club was his single vice, but even so he stuck to a strict budget and always returned home when it was spent. Katie looked up and him and smiled as he entered the living room; in return, he bent down and kissed her tenderly on the lips. Not so long previously, that would have been a prelude to sex, but, at more than seven months pregnant, Katie's bump was large enough to interfere with the act of making love and Steve realised that his wife felt awkward and uncomfortable with the idea at this stage in her pregnancy. Nobody would have described Steve as a “new man”, but he loved his wife enough to suppress his own urges in order to spare Katie's discomfort. For her part, Katie was not only grateful for his loving concern but equally aware that she would enjoy making it up to him as soon as she was able. Instead, they held hands as they looked in on their slumbering son then headed off to bed. Katie decided that she would just enjoy having Steve beside her and save her story for the morning.

  ***

  Tina Simpson made her way unsteadily up the path to her front door, regretting the mix of vodka and high heels. She had spent the evening in the Puss in Boots with Karen, with whom she had gone to school and who had been bridesmaid at her wedding. Karen, also divorced, had left the pub with one of the younger men that had been gratifyingly attentive all evening. Tina had considered spending the night with the other man, but had decided that the embarrassment of waking up with somebody barely older than her son vastly outweighed the ephemeral physical pleasure that would doubtless have awaited her in the boy’s bed. Karen had no such scruples; indeed, Tina had had a year or so of sexual profligacy following her fortieth birthday which had been ended by her contracting a sexually transmitted infection. The shame of being treated for gonorrhoea at the local hospital made her feel, despite the professional assurances and non-judgemental kindness of the staff, cheap and contaminated.

  Pausing at the front door to remove her shoes, she plucked the key from her handbag and quietly let herself into the house. Closing the door silently behind her, she tip-toed up the stairs, hoping to sneak past Michael’s bedroom door.

  “Mum, I need to talk to you”. His voice made her jump.

  “Can’t it wait? I’m tired” said his mother.

  “No. I need to speak to you now.” There was a determination in his voice that Tina hadn’t heard before and that slightly worried her.

  “Okay. At least let me get changed first.” Tina knew that she had to transform herself from ‘Mrs Robinson’ back in to plain ‘Mum’ before having a conversation with her son.

  “Yeah, all right. I’ll be in my room” he replied, still sounding somewhat different. Tina wondered whether he was going to complain about her nights out, but decided to let him speak first rather than pre-empt what might turn out to be something entirely different.

  Tina couldn’t help thinking that she might have been better off surrendering to the temptation of a lithe young body rather than the prospect of her son’s angst. The thought was reinforced as she slipped off her dress, catching sight of herself in the mirror. I’m not bad for my age, she thought, wondering why she had bothered with a push-up bra and seamed stockings if she had no intention of using her feminine wiles for transient gratification. Dismissing the thought, she changed in to her least sexy pyjamas, removed her makeup and steeled herself for what Michael had to say.

  “Mum, has anybody in our family ever been murdered?” His words left her speechless. Whatever she may have expected from him, this enquiry was straight from left field.

  “Er...not that I can think of, love. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s...difficult to explain.” Mike had no idea how to broach the subject of ghosts with his mother, although now that she looked like Mum rather than some desperate old tart he found speaking to her much easier. “I just had...a nightmare. I dreamt that somebody in our family had been killed in the past. It seemed so real, I thought that, well, maybe it may have been true.”

  Tina pondered for a moment. “The only person that I can think of would be my Grandad, but he wasn’t murdered as such.”

  “What do you mean, ‘as such’?” queried Mike, fixing his mother with an earnest look that un-nerved her all the more.

  “Well, he was killed in the war. He was...” Mike interrupted her.

  “A sailor?”

  “Yes...in the merchant navy. His ship was torpedoed and there were no survivors. What made you say that?”

  Mike smiled at her, the look in his eyes diminishing. “It was all in the dream, that’s all. Thanks.”

  Saturday

  George Williams’ Saturday morning consisted of his weekly visit to Morrison’s supermarket on Preston Docks. Just another anonymous pensioner among the throng, he stocked up on economy foods despite his railway pension giving him a reasonable income. Paying in cash as always, he loaded his shopping into a wheeled basket and headed for the bus stop. Outside, a cold breeze made him button his old woollen coat despite the spring sunshine. He resented what had become of the docks, once a thriving port reduced to an algae-ridden soup disturbed only by the ubiquitous gulls and the occasional yacht from the marina that had replaced the ocean-going cargo ships. On his side of the dock basin were “retail outlets”, the chain stores offering consumer durables on cheap credit. Opposite were overpriced flats and houses, too expensive for the working class men that had toiled here for generations.

  As he climbed onto the bus, the whistle of a steam train pierced the traffic noise. On the other side of the dock, the local heritage railway were running their former shunting engine along the line that passed alongside the dock, then crossed the dock entrance on a swing bri
dge leading to the museum building erected only a year or two previously. The shriek of the engine’s whistle brought back quite different memories; of excitement, of fear, of shame. He had lived with his secret for so many years now, yet it still took him unawares whenever it surfaced. A few years previously, an article in the local newspaper had convinced him that his skeleton in the cupboard would be discovered and that he was to be exposed to ridicule and humiliation. After a nervous few days, he had realised that his guilt would remain undisturbed. He was the only one left now, the others were gone, one the victim of a Nazi shell in the Bocage and the other consumed by cancer ten years previously.