Jack had no intention of disputing the point.
“You mean the old railway, don’t you.” Another statement.
“Yes, yes I do. Despite the weather, I feel that it would be...ah...appropriate. Let’s find my daughter and get this over with.”
Telling Morgan to meet him in reception, Jack made his way to Janice’s room. Glad of an excuse to speak to her again, he was disappointed when there was no answer to his knocking. Jack knew that she had been heading for the restaurant an hour before; he also knew that the surroundings in there were not conducive to lingering over breakfast. Not alone, anyway. Suppressing the slight but irrational frustration generated by her absence, Jack tried ringing her mobile number. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Er...hi...er...Janice, it’s...er...Jack,” he had always felt stupid talking to machines, and this occasion was no exception. “Can you...er...give me a call when you get this. Love you.” Jack had thumbed the red button on his handset before realising what he had just said. Ah, well, he thought, it’s said now. Two minutes later, when he rejoined Morgan, he was still smiling.
Cedric, however, was not amused. “I specifically wanted to talk to you both together,” he snapped, angrily. “I know about you and her, Rimmer, don’t deny it. She’ll need somebody, and she could do worse than you.”
“Thanks,” muttered Jack, not knowing whether he was being flattered or insulted. Was it that obvious? Morgan was right, though, despite his advanced years, the news of his medical condition would still be a shock to his daughter.
“Well, let’s get on with it. I’ll just have to talk to her later,” continued Morgan, ignoring Jack’s reply. “Will you take me there or not?”
“As it happens, I was going that way. I’d like you to meet some people that I was going to talk to this morning. At least their flat will be more comfortable than my car. Wait here, I’ll bring the car round.”
Ten minutes after departing the hotel car park, with the Micra’s wipers at full speed barely clearing the windscreen and the little car being buffeted by the gusts, Jack’s mobile rang. Pulling over into the forecourt of a second-hand car dealership, Jack pulled the handset from his coat pocket and pressed the green button.
“Jack Rimmer,” he said.
“I love you too” came the reply.
“Janice! Where are you?” Jack’s heart had soared at her words, while her father sat and scowled next to him.
“I needed to do some shopping, so I headed into town. I got lost a couple of times, which is why it took so long for me to call you back. So, apart from declarations of love, was there another reason for your call?”
Jack was speechless for a moment. Gathering his wits, he remembered the real reason why he had called in the first place and explained quickly.
“I’d say that he’ll have to wait. You two get on with your man talk, and I’ll see you both later.” She paused for a second. “I meant it, Jack. I really do love you.”
Before he could answer, she had hung up. They resumed the journey, Jack struggling to concentrate in the foul conditions. It took them a full ten minutes to cover the last two miles, but eventually Jack was able to park the car in the lee of the stone abutment opposite the Mellings’ flat.
***
There was a knock at the door, causing Steve and Katie to look at each other quizzically.
“Are we expecting anybody?” asked Steve.
Katie shrugged. “Not as far as I know.”
Steve made his way to the door and looked through the peep hole. The elderly man at the door was a stranger to him. Opening the door, Steve peered around it. Spotting Jack Rimmer standing behind the windswept and decidedly soggy stranger, he pulled the door fully open.
“Morning, Jack. For some reason, I’m not surprised to see you this morning. Who’s your friend?”
“Hello, Steve. This is the gentleman that I told you about; the one that wrote the report. His name is Cedric Morgan, and he has come to tell us exactly what happened.”
Steve stepped to one side, waving the men inside. “You’d better come in, then. Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Thank you, yes,” replied Jack. “Cedric, this is Steve Melling. He and his wife Katie would like to hear what you have to say.”
Jack had had some difficulty in persuading Morgan to speak in front of the Mellings, but the din generated by the rain hammering on the roof of Jack’s car, even in the relative shelter of the former bridge abutment, had made conversation virtually impossible. The two men had dashed, as much as Morgan could dash anywhere, from the car into the entrance lobby of the flats as another resident had left to battle the elements. Jack had helped the elder man up the two flights of stairs, and both had paused for breath before knocking at the Mellings’ door.
Steve took their dripping coats, taking them into the bathroom and draping them over the rail that supported the shower curtain. Jack smiled at Joshua, who waved back, stared blankly at Morgan and returned to the serious business of attacking a colouring book with a crayon.
Katie beckoned the two men to sit. “So, Mr Morgan, can you explain the presence of ghosts in my flat?”
Morgan was shocked by her question. “Ghosts? What nonsense is this?” he snapped.
“It’s not nonsense, Cedric,” said Jack. “I met this young couple by accident last week. I didn’t believe them at first, but they have been able to tell me things that they could not possibly have known without some sort of inside knowledge. So, either this is an elaborate hoax, or they are telling the truth.”
“What truth? What are you talking about?” Morgan’s voice had an hysterical edge to it. “You never said anything about ghosts.”
“Would you have believed me? Of course not. But this family have been experiencing visits by a particular ghost. My father, Cedric.”
Morgan paled. His eyes darted around the room, as if searching for the spectre for himself.
When he spoke again, there was steel in Jack Rimmer’s voice. “Would you like to tell us the full story now, Cedric?”
The older man seemed to deflate in front of Jack’s eyes. His head was bowed and his mouth was moving soundlessly, as if he was rehearsing his next words. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m truly sorry, Rimmer. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what?” It was Katie who spoke.
Cedric Morgan lifted his head, pushed his shoulders back and looked Jack in the eye.
“It was me, Rimmer. I killed him.”
Thursday 1100
“Man coming.”
It was Joshua who broke the silence following Morgan’s admission. Katie Melling could feel it too; once again the atmosphere in the flat was changing as a sense of despondency permeated the people crowded into the small living room. Katie looked at her son, watching for the signs of fear that he had exhibited last time they were visited by the ghost of Jack Rimmer Senior along with “the others”. Whoever they were. This time, to her palpable relief, the little boy’s concentration never wavered from his artistic endeavours.
“What? Are you expecting somebody else?” Cedric Morgan’s eyes flicked from Katie to Jack Rimmer, searching for an explanation.
“He’s coming back, isn’t he,” said Steve, standing in the doorway, the tea forgotten.
“Who? Who is coming back? What are you talking about?” Morgan’s voice had a pleading, hysterical edge to it now.
“Jack’s father. Or, rather, his ghost,” said Katie. “He’s been a regular visitor for the past week or so.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. Morgan could do nothing but stare at her, confusion and disbelief etched on his face. Jack Rimmer, too, was speechless: the prospect of actually meeting his dead father forcing him to run a gamut of conflicting emotions.
“The past couple of days, there have been others, too,” continued Katie. We haven’t really seen them, but they are after somebody. Are you that somebody, Mr Morgan?”
&
nbsp; “Did you cause the sinking of the ship, too, Mr Morgan?” added Steve.
Cedric Morgan seemed to have physically shrunk as they spoke. “Yes, I am responsible for that, too,” he murmured. “I incited a group of local men, Communist party members, to prevent a munitions train from reaching the docks. They demolished a railway tunnel close to the docks themselves, but there was another way around for the train.
“I followed one of the men to see what they would do next. They met down by the river, then came to this railway to stop the train coming this way. One of them climbed up the telegraph pole next to the track and cut some wires to slow the train down enough that they could unbolt a couple of rails. They had a long spanner for that purpose. When Rimmer appeared, I panicked. I picked up the spanner and swung it at him. I told myself afterwards that I only meant to knock him out, but to be honest I was so determined to discredit the Communists that I really don’t know what I was thinking at that moment.
“Anyway, we buried the body in the remains of an old signal box that must have been quite close to here. The train was delayed, but not for too long, and I returned to London thinking that the operation hadn’t been a total disaster. A few days later I learned that the ship had missed its convoy but had continued anyway. A U-boat caught up with it, and it was sunk with all hands.
“I wrote up the report to cover my involvement, blaming everything on a fictional spy that I called Sciron. Except that Sciron wasn’t fictitious, he was real.
“I was Sciron.”
***
George Williams had never felt such a dreadful combination of being cold, wet and terrified. The youth had dragged him wordlessly up the embankment, hauling on George’s coat with every frequent slip. Having reached the top of the bank, there was no pause for breath or respite for George’s aching legs. On top of everything else, he was suffering from particularly bad indigestion.
He was led along the line of the former railway alignment, from, as he remembered despite his fear, the old Ribble Junction towards Middleforth Junction. George hadn’t walked up here for decades, but in his mind he could see the steam locomotives pulling their loads past his signal box. Tourists heading for Southport, perhaps, or freight bound for the docks at Preston. With his recall of the trains came the memory of Jack Rimmer, triggering a wave of guilt to add to the mixture of feelings.
Suddenly, the youth stopped, and George saw that they had reached the edge of the abutment on Stricklands Lane. Looking ahead, he could see the new estate, not realising that he could look into the living room of his drinking partner Steve Melling.
“What’s going on?” asked George, finally gathering enough breath to speak. The youth looked at him, but did not reply. George moved into the partial shelter of a large tree while the youth’s blank stare followed his every move. He pulled the collar of his coat up, trying in vain to stem the flow of rainwater down his neck. Having stopped moving, George began to shiver, whether through cold or fear he couldn’t tell. He tried repeating the question, but to no avail.
There was a momentary lull in the wind, and the youth stepped away from George. With the howling of the gale through the trees much reduced, George realised that he could hear voices.
“Help! Help me! I’m being mugged!” shouted George as loud as he could, hoping that the voice’s owner was in a position to rescue him.
There is nobody to help you.
George looked at the youth again, but his expression hadn’t changed. The same blank stare, conveying nothing. Had he spoken? As he searched the boy’s face for any signs of emotion, he heard the voice again.
We have come for you, and the other one.
All at once, George was surrounded by figures, moaning, shouting incomprehensibly, but above all looking at him. Some were pointing at him, and they all seemed to crowd closer and closer, blocking his view of the flats and finally shutting out the surrounding trees.
“What do you want with me!” screamed George, utterly terrified.
You killed us. You condemned us to walk the earth.
“I never killed anyone! It wasn’t me! Please, leave me be.” George was sobbing now, his fear exacerbated by the embarrassment that he had wet himself. His indigestion was getting worse, and he felt as though somebody had placed a belt around his chest and was slowly tightening it.
George, listen to me. We did it; we caused these people to die.
“Who...Who’s that!” The pain in his chest was getting worse, but there was something familiar about the voice.
George, it’s Bill. Young George Peters is here too. It’s time for you to join us.
***
“That’s odd, he’s normally put in an appearance by now.” Katie could still feel the intense sadness that heralded the approach of their spectral visitor. Standing with er back to the window, she looked around the room, her eyes taking in the rather pathetic figure of Cedric Morgan sat in the chair and, behind him, Jack Rimmer.
“Perhaps it’s you, Jack,” she continued. “Maybe he doesn’t want to show himself while you’re here.”
Jack, who could sense the changed atmosphere and was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, decided that he would test Katie's theory. Muttering a promise to return, he left the flat, made his way down the stairs and made a dash for the car. Sitting in the Micra, the rain drumming on the roof was drowning out the howling of the wind but neither was registering with Jack. His mind was filled with conflicting images of Janice and her father. Jack had looked up to Morgan, respected him and the part that he had played in keeping Britain’s enemies at bay. Now, all he could feel was, what? One moment he was merely saddened and disappointed; the next he was positively disgusted. That man killed my father; that one thought going around and around in his mind. So that was his news. That was why he had made his daughter drive all that way, just to ease his guilty conscience. A snort of derision passed Jack’s lips; then his emotions swung again. How would he tell Janice? How would she react? Jack was sure of his feelings: the growing malice that he bore Morgan changed nothing about the man’s daughter. But would the converse be true? There was only one way to find out. She had to know the truth, and she had to hear it from Jack, face to face. He picked up his mobile phone.
At that moment, Janice was standing in the Ann Summers store that she had spotted as she came out of the front door of Marks and Spencer’s. The shop wasn’t en route to the car park, but she couldn’t resist a peek inside. Once through the door, she felt mildly embarrassed to be in there, wondering what the staff must be thinking about a woman of her age in such a place. Of course, they had seen it all before, men and women of all ages frequented the establishment and one more woman in her sixties was nothing unusual. Janice was wondering if she could get into one particularly revealing garment when her phone rang. Looking at the caller’s name on the screen, she put on her sultry voice.
“Jack, do you know where I am right now?”
“What...er...sorry, Janice. I’m afraid we need to meet up. Your father has made a rather...well...an admission. Can we meet back at the hotel? It’s important.”
The tone in Jack’s voice dispelled the disappointment that she felt: whilst her search for a nightdress had been successful, she hadn’t yet been able to find alternative accommodation.
“I’ll be there, Jack,” she said, her voice back to normal. “About twenty minutes?”
Jack agreed, and with that she pulled her coat around herself and stepped once more into the storm.
***
As the M6 bypasses Preston, there are four lanes of traffic in each direction. As the motorway reaches the northern extremity of the city, the north-bound side splits, with lanes one and two curving away to the west to form the M55 to Blackpool, whilst lanes three and four continue northwards towards Lancaster and Carlisle. In the atrocious weather, most drivers had moderated their speed to take into account the visibility that had been vastly reduced by the driving rain and the resultant spray from the tyres of the preceding vehicles. Most
, but not all. It was, inevitably, the driver of a high-sided white van who, considering himself God’s gift to the internal combustion engine, was paying no heed to the conditions. The climb out of the Ribble valley had slowed him slightly, but as he passed the exit-only junction 31a his speed was back up to eighty-five. Sat in lane four, the driver cursed anybody who dared to obstruct his progress, angrily flashing his headlights from a distance of no more than twenty feet from the rear of the vehicle in front.
The rear of the van was half filled with cleaning supplies; bulky, but not particularly heavy. The driver’s next delivery was to a biscuit factory in Blackpool, followed by a suite of offices in Fleetwood. He was late, but that was the fault of the weather, and the “Sunday drivers” that continued to impede his advance. To drown out the noise of the weather, the driver had the CD player turned up as loud as it would go, and, chewing gum, his jaw moved in time to the bass that made the windows rattle.
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