It was the screen lighting up on his mobile phone that caught his eye. Turning the CD player off, he picked up the handset and answered the call. The caller was his girlfriend, ringing to continue an unfinished argument from the night before. Unwilling to concede any sort of moral victory to the woman, the driver engaged her in the quarrel, having to shout to make himself heard over the din generated by the rain striking the van. He was in mid-rant when he realised that the turn onto the M55 was only a hundred yards away, and he was on the wrong side of the motorway. Without so much as a glance in his nearside mirror, the driver attempted to cut across two lanes. As the van swung left, it leaned to the right. At that moment, a freak gust struck the left hand side of the van, causing it to over-balance. Unable to do anything to prevent a crash, the driver swore and held on to the steering wheel as the van skidded along the tarmac until its energy was expended. The grey underside of the van was virtually invisible to oncoming drivers: the next car had no chance of stopping before colliding with the rear axle. There was sufficient residual energy from that collision to send the van spinning across lane two, where it was struck by another two cars. The innocent victims of the initial crashes were quickly joined by others as cars and lorries, blinded by the spray, piled into the back of each other.
In the van, the cleaning materials had spilled and were now combining to release noxious gases into the interior, removing any chance of survival for the now unconscious driver. By the time vehicles approaching the scene were able to stop, no fewer than forty-six had suffered collisions of varying severity. Those who were uninjured used their mobile phones to summon the emergency services; within six minutes there was a fleet of fire engines and ambulances heading for the carnage.
Thursday 1130
Despite the disappearance of Jack Rimmer, the living room in the Mellings’ flat felt crowded. As Jack left the building, the miserable atmosphere heralding the approach of his father’s ghost became tangible, intensifying at a faster rate than Katie had felt before. Standing with his back to the window, it was Steve that saw him first; he had been gazing intently at the doorway but occasionally glancing at his wife, who was sitting on the settee. One moment the doorway was empty, the next time that Steve looked up the tall, gaunt figure had appeared. The grey face held an expression of sad determination, the black eyes fixed on Cedric Morgan. Joshua looked up, saw that this visit was different, and went back to his colouring.
You came.
Morgan, who had been holding his head in his hands, sat bolt upright. His head slowly turned towards the voice, a gasp of horror emanating from his lips as he laid eyes on the spectral remains of a man that he had last seen one night more than six decades previously.
“Dear God,” was all he could say, his voice barely managing a whisper. It was Katie who spoke next.
“Are the others coming, Jack?” she asked, her fear apparent. The ghost’s gaze didn’t leave Morgan’s face.
They are waiting for you.
“Wh...who is waiting for me? What do you mean?” The old man was plainly terrified now, his eyes bulging as he stared at the visage whose mouth didn’t move as the words came out.
The others are waiting. The men that drowned because of you. You must go to them.
“And if I don’t go, what then?” Despite his terror, some boldness was asserting itself.
Then they will come for you here.
“No!” screamed Katie. “Don’t bring them back here!” Steve moved to her side and placed an arm around her shoulders, staring at Morgan with something approximating hate in his eyes. Joshua began to cry, shocked by his mother’s outburst.
Morgan’s defiance deflated as abruptly as it had arisen. “Yes, of course,” he said, weary resignation in his voice. “Where are they?”
Jack Rimmer’s ghost raised his right arm, one bony finger outstretched, pointing across the road to the stone abutment opposite the flat. All eyes followed the direction that was indicated.
“That’s George Williams!” said Steve, seeing the old man slumped against a tree. “Who’s that with him?”
They could all see the young man standing next to George, staring at them from atop the embankment. As they looked, his arm raised in a beckoning motion. The movement was repeated, just once, then the young man turned and walked back into the trees, quickly disappearing from sight.
“I can’t leave old George out there,” said Steve. “I’d better go and get him.”
No.
“But he’s an old man! He’ll catch his death out there in this weather!” pleaded Steve.
He must answer for his actions too.
“But he was fooled into it by him!” the last word was spat out by Steve as he pointed at Morgan. The spectre didn’t answer, so Steve moved past him into the hall way and grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of the front door. He was about to open the door when he heard Katie scream once more.
“Steve!” His name was followed by a cry of pain. Steve dropped his coat and went back into the living room. Katie was perched on the edge of the settee, her back arched and her legs apart. A small puddle of fluid was gathering at her feet.
“Oh, Steve! It’s the baby! My waters have broken!
***
Jack Rimmer had reached the hotel before Janice and was pacing the length of the reception area, rehearsing what he would say to her. The receptionist was watching him, bemused by his silent mouthing of words, usually followed by a frustrated shake of the head. Then the process would begin again. Whatever Jack thought of sounded wrong; either too sharp, too long winded, too trite or just plain silly. He realised that he was going to have to come clean about the supernatural happenings, but that Janice would have to be taken to the Mellings’ flat if Jack was not to sound as though he had taken leave of his senses.
The problem was that he wasn’t sure that he believed it himself. It was quite a leap of faith to suppress logic and accepted knowledge on the say so of a woman in her twenties. Part of his belief in Katie Melling, and her husband, stemmed from the fact that he wanted to believe them, yet his satisfaction at solving the mystery of what happened to his father was tainted by the revelation that his father’s murderer was a man who had been something of a hero to Jack. Cedric Morgan had been part of, indeed had created, history. His exploits with MI5 were legendary in certain circles, but all that he had achieved in the service of his country now had to be reassessed in light of his admission. Jack wondered for a moment whether he could write a biography of Morgan, something that the old man had always resisted. Jack had put that down to old school modesty: now he knew the truth. But would Janice let him?
It was as that question framed itself in his mind that Janice walked into the hotel, her carefully arranged hair now plastered to her scalp by the deluge and her coat dripping. Her eyes met his, fixing him with a stare that had reduced the most recalcitrant student to instant submission.
“So, Jack, what’s the story?”
“Please, Janice, sit down,” said Jack, gesturing towards the low chairs. “Do you want a coffee or something?”
“No, thank you, Jack,” she replied. “I’ve had time to think in the car, and I’m worried about my father. Where is he, by the way?”
“I took him to visit some people that have been, ah, helping me. They are part of the story, and I’ll take you to them shortly.”
Janice appeared to be satisfied with his answer but her gaze never wavered. Taking a deep breath, Jack continued.
“I’ve spent the past few minutes trying to come up with a way of telling you this, but I’m going to have to just tell you. Before I do, I want you to know that this changes nothing between us, at least as far as I am concerned.”
This seemed to have an unnerving effect on Janice, and she broke off eye contact. Looking away, out of the window to her left, she asked him to tell her.
“I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you, Janice, and I know that your father had intended to tell us together. The thing is,” he
paused for a moment, still searching for some way to ease the blow. “The thing is, Cedric killed my father, and was responsible for the sinking of a British merchant ship with all hands.”
***
As Steve Melling rushed to his wife’s side, Cedric Morgan looked again at the ghost of the man that he had killed so many years previously. The spectre held his gaze, but there appeared to be no malice in the dark eyes. Instead, the face conveyed a sense of relief, as though his troubles were finally about to end. The figure turned and walked out of the door, quickly disappearing from sight. Seeing that the Mellings were, not surprisingly, paying him no heed, Morgan pulled himself up out of the chair and moved towards the door.
He knew that his time on Earth was up: perhaps whatever awaited him outside would be preferable to spending the next few weeks being eaten away by the spreading cancer, living his last days in a morphine-induced haze suffering the indignity of being unable to manage the most basic bodily functions for himself. No, he was already resigned to death and it would be better to end it here, now. His only real regret was that his daughter would not be with him, but at least she would be spared the mental anguish of seeing him reduced to a state of utter helplessness.
Letting himself out of the flat, Morgan made his way slowly down the stairs. On reaching the front door, he paused for a moment, straightening his back, pulling back his shoulders, determined to meet his fate with dignity. Pulling the door open, the rain burst through the gap, instantly soaking Morgan’s face and hair: he had left his cap in the flat. Walking outside, he carefully closed the door behind him and crossed the road to the former abutment opposite. The end of the stonework nearest him was too high: there was no means of gaining access to the embankment. Moving to the other end, Morgan saw that, just around the corner formed by a lane that paralleled that side of the former railway, there was an easier slope, protected by a wire fence. As he turned the corner, he failed to notice a Nissan Micra turn into Stricklands Lane.
Morgan slipped one leg through the fence, between the top and second strands of wire, then ducked down and squeezed himself through. Attempting to pull the other leg towards himself, he overbalanced and fell on to the grass. Picking himself up, he began to walk up the slope, occasionally being forced to lean so far forward that he fell on to his hands. Persevering, he finally reached the top. The exertion was making him puff hard now; leaning against a tree to regain his breath he was startled by the sight of the youth that had been looking at him through the flat window. Standing just a few feet in front of him, the youth stared at Morgan, giving him the opportunity to study the face in front of him. This one was different: he looked, well, normal. Just that unnerving stare and the lack of verbal communication, not that he could be heard above the howling of the wind; apart from that he looked like any other young man.
The youth turned and walked away, taking the left fork along the old railway alignment. There was nothing familiar about the scene: last time Morgan had been here it had been dark and nature had not reclaimed the land. As they walked, Morgan a few feet behind the young man, he began to sense that they were not alone. A sense of hatred now filled the air, and a hubbub of indistinct voices was accompanied by a strong smell of salt water. As the feeling grew stronger and the voices louder, the youth stopped and turned to face him. Now a fire seemed to blaze in the young man’s eyes: suddenly Morgan was surrounded by ghostly figures, all pointing towards him and shouting incoherently. One voice seemed to rise above all the others, although Morgan was unable to determine which figure it came from. Turning from side to side, fear and panic now rising within him, Morgan’s eyes finally fell once more on the youth that had led him to this spot. As they did so, that voice spoke again, blotting out not only the cacophony of loathing, but managing to silence the storm itself.
Now you will pay for your crime!
***
Kevin Anderson had returned to his mother’s car, angry and confused by what he had witnessed. Noble actions were not a usual part of his personality but, he reasoned, since he was soaking wet anyway, he may as well have another look for George. Returning to the path where they had vanished, Kevin followed it for a short distance. On his left, there was a break in the fence with clear footprints in the mud. On an impulse, he scrambled up the bank, slipping twice and caking his tracksuit bottoms in mud before reaching the top. The footprints had disappeared, and the embankment offered three possible directions. One, he quickly discovered, led back to Leyland Road close to where he had abandoned the car. Of the other two, there was no indication as to where they led or which one George may have taken.
After a moment’s indecision, Kevin chose the left-hand path. Pushing his way through the trees, oblivious to the rain that gathered on the leaves to form larger drops that beat down upon his shaven head, he began to wonder where this path was leading him. Onwards he marched, now and again calling George’s name despite his shouts being drowned by the wind whistling through the canopy. After approximately three hundred yards, he was met with a sheer drop ahead of him, opposite which was the small collection of houses and flats called The Junction. Kevin had his bearings once again: one of his short-lived jobs had been as a labourer during the construction of the estate. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice.
“Get away from me! Leave me alone!”
On Kevin’s left, sat propped against a tree, was his friend George Williams. He was, like Kevin, soaked to the skin, but, more worryingly, his face was actually grey and he was clutching his chest with one hand whilst the other appeared to be fending off an unseen assailant. Kevin ran the few yards to George, looking for the cause of the old man’s distress. Seeing nobody, Kevin grabbed Georges free hand.
“George, it’s me, Kev. What’s up mate? You look like crap.”
“Kevin? Is it really you?” George’s voice was hoarse and he was clearly struggling for breath. “Get them away from me Kevin!”
“Get who away, mate? There’s nobody here.”
George’s head moved left and right, his eyes wide, searching for the source of the voices that had terrified him.
“Kevin, I need help,” he said. “A doctor, or ambulance. My chest feels like...it’s agony.”
Kevin didn’t hesitate. Not having a mobile phone, he looked for the easiest way down the slope, then gently scooped George up in his beefy arms and carried him, baby like, back to the car. Placing him on the rear seat, lying down, he got back behind the wheel.
As he set off towards the hospital, Kevin asked who the youth was, and who had frightened George.
“I have no idea who the boy was. I’ve never seen him before.” George paused. “As for the others, they were old friends.
“Dead friends.”
Thursday 1145
“Emergency. Which service do you require?”
“Ambulance,” said Steve, his eyes fixed on the form of his wife whose face was contorting with the pain of another contraction.
“Ambulance control room. Can I have your address please?”
Steve told the operator.
“What is the nature of the emergency?” continued the woman, exuding a professional calm that Steve considered somewhat incongruous.
“It’s my wife. She’s gone into labour. She’s not due for a few weeks yet,” replied Steve, successfully masking the concern in his voice, as much to reassure Katie as anything. There was a pause at the other end of the line.
“How many weeks early is she?”
“About three or four.”
“Is it her first child?”
“No, it’s our second. Why all the questions?”
Another pause. “Listen”, said the woman, “we’ll get somebody to you as soon as we can, but there’s been a major pile-up on the motorway and we are having to prioritise any calls. It may be some time before we can get to you.”
“What?” Steve’s anxiety began to break through. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Your best bet is to phone your midwife. If she’s not
available...listen. Women have been having babies for thousands of years without needing hospitals. Your wife has done this once, so she knows what to do. Were you there? Remember, if the head comes first, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. If you have any problems, ring us back and we’ll bump you up the list. Best of luck.” She failed to mention the high infant mortality rate that ensued from more primitive birth conditions, but considered that a morale boost was the best that she could do in the circumstances.
Steve just stared at the phone for a moment after the operator ended the call.
“Well?” asked Katie. “How long will they be?”
Her husband turned and looked at her. “They aren’t coming. At least, not yet.” He paused for a second. “Have you got the midwife’s number?”
Katie's face blanched. “On the pad...her name’s Julie. Can you see it?” A hint of panic crept into her voice.
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