Their teacher introduced him and looked horrified as Arthur began by telling them a completely inappropriate account of Jack the Ripper’s grisly murders.
“Fascinating,”interrupted the teacher in a high-pitched voice,“but, tell me, are there any other famous historical characters associated with these streets?”
Arthur thought for a moment, then smiled broadly:“Dick Turpin.” From Arthur’s sudden enthusiasm it was clear this was his favourite tale. “Turpin was a rogue and a thief, but he was a gentleman: a knight of the road.” Arthur’s face was always animated as he spoke, but now his eyes lit up, and he beamed with a smile that seemed to contain far too many yellowing teeth.
“He stole from the rich–like a Robin Hood of the road.”
“The poor would cheer as he rode by on his faithful steed, Black Bess.”
Arthur alternated looks of misty-eyed sentimentality with passionate pronouncements as he spoke about the highwayman.
The school children were open-mouthed and staring; hanging on his every word.
Arthur continued his story:“Early one morning, in 1737, on this very street, the dashing Dick robbed a sailor who’d been passing through this great city, bound for home. Our handsome young hero realised too late that the sailor had important friends and relations, so the Law were bound to investigate his complaint.”
“Dick decided he needed an alibi,”said Arthur nodding in agreement with himself,“but being the flamboyant, devil-may-care character that he was, he decided that his alibi would be that he was one hundred-and-ninety miles away in York. Now these days if you wanted to travel from London to York, how would you go about it?” Arthur looked round the children for an answer. (Iona wondered why everyone was giving her such funny looks.)
“My dad’s car,”came the eventual reply from a red-faced boy.
“Exactly, young man, but in those days how would you have had to do it?”
“By pterodactyl!”Shouted one over-excited child.
“Nooo-”said Arthur patiently. It took a moment, but finally a small boy with snot in his nose suggested a horse and Arthur was able to continue.
(At last Iona realised that she had been attracting funny looks because she had been raising her hand enthusiastically to all Arthur’s questions along with the little children. She hurriedly put down her arm and tried very hard to look cool as she listened to Arthur continue.)
“He rode the whole distance in less than fifteen hours. He arrived in York at eight o’clock and played a game of bowls on the green with the mayor and other local worthies. All of them would vouch for his presence there, and none would have thought it was possible to get from London to York in just one day.”
* * *
Continuing the tour, they walked down Hanbury Street. “The site of Jack the Ripper’s third victim: poor little Anne Chapman!” Some of the children were obviously terrified. The teacher was moving from child to child, trying to offer reassurance. Arthur motioned with his head and eyes that Iona should do something to help calm the sobbing; but when she tried to stop them whinging they found her pale face and dark eyes equally scary. Just as she was backing away from some children who were staring at her with wide-eyed panic, she heard something unexpected.
“He’s a liar!”
It was a barely perceptible whisper. Or could it have been the coughing of the teacher trying to get Arthur off the subject of Jack the Ripper?
“He’s a liar! Don’t trust him!”
Iona put a little finger in her ear and wiggled it furiously.
For a moment she thought Arthur had heard the voice too, as he looked round with narrow eyes, as if searching for the source of the sound.
Their eyes met for an instant. Iona still had a finger in her ear and a puzzled expression on her face. Arthur looked cross and guilty, as if he’d been caught stealing a lollipop from one of the children.
The moment passed and Arthur was persuaded to tell another story of the heroism of Dick Turpin.
When they turned into a busier and noisier street Iona thought she heard the voice a third time:
“Don’t trust him!”
Chapter Seven
The Mourning After
At first Morag did not know what to do. Without Harold she was lost and alone, yet her anger did not allow her to give in to despair. The Police were very sympathetic about the attack but they had clearly thought she was crazy when she told them about Harold’s ghost. She reckoned that they would soon send social workers and head doctors to take her away from her home. What could she, a frail old lady of eighty-nine years, do to those wicked men who had burst into her house?
She had lost Harold once before, when he had died. The new Harold, the ghost Harold, had been a different and better husband; and she had fallen in love with him all over again. She was too old and tired to heal the wound of his loss. This second mourning would last her to the end.
She did not know what she could do, but she knew that staying would be utterly pointless. She wanted revenge. She thought she heard the figures in black say that they were heading towards London. She could not be certain if she had heard them correctly, and she didn’t know what she could achieve, but she had to try.
She had never been to London. She had only been to Edinburgh once before, on her honeymoon. Now she was going to Edinburgh to catch the London train. She took her walking-stick and a small bag (the largest she could carry).
She was terrified and hopeless, but it was better than sitting at home staring at the dying embers of the fire.
She set out with a grim determination, believing that she had nothing more to lose.
She was wrong.
Chapter Eight
The Terror
of the Grey Monk
In the ornamental garden of a stately home in Norfolk the Grey Monk rubbed his (newly elongated) ethereal chin thoughtfully. People were so difficult to scare these days. He remembered the times when he could clank his chains once a year and people for miles around would live in fear.
Today the only thing that scared the Turtlington children was their friends turning up at a party in trainers that were more fashionable than their own.
The adults of the family were so terrified that their stocks and shares could lose value that they had no fear left for the family ghost.
On many occasions the Grey Monk had sat in the family living-room, invisible and undetectable except for a slight chill in the air. He was amazed and horrified at the computer games the children played, and the videos they watched:‘Scary Movie 4’had given him nightmares!
The Grey Monk reflected that it was a sorry state of affairs when a ghost was being frightened by the people he was supposed to be haunting!
The monk resolved to change with the times. Firstly he swapped his grey habit for a ripped and blood-stained grey boiler-suit (he toyed with a new colour, but settled for some semblance of tradition). Then he found a rusty chain-saw that he could start up and wave about threateningly.
As a ghost he could change his appearance at will, so he opted to forsake the chubby bald face that had been the shape of his living features, and took on a white elongated face with bolts in the neck, fangs, horns, pins sticking out of the forehead and feline green eyes.
He looked in the mirror and frightened himself. In fact he scared himself so much that he dropped his chain-saw and made such a noise (and such a hole in the family’s Persian rug) that he fled out into the grounds.
He spent the next three hours pacing around the old wine-cellar of the ruined Abbey (it had been a place of refuge when he was alive).
Eventually he resolved to try again. He had the image, he had the chain-saw; all that he needed were some people to terrify. No sooner had he made up his mind to go out haunting again, than he saw a small group of strangers approaching.
“Oh goodie!”he chuckled to himself.
Then he realised that his usual jovial speech jarred with his new image, so he adopted a voice more appropriate to his new
appearance and rasped / yelled / croaked / shrieked,“Oh goodie, goodie, goodness me!”
* * *
Four black figures strode through the grounds of Turtlington Manor towards the ruined abbey. One of the assistant clergy rubbed his coarse fingers over the plaster-cast on his broken arm. He gave a full-bodied sniff and spat.
“How many more before we leave for Rome?”
Their leader glanced round at him, but did not slow his brisk pace,“Three more cases. Today is the Grey Monk. Next week it’s the Egyptians and finally the highwayman.”
Another of the priests, Father Thomas, still had his face bandaged from the incident with the Higginswaite ghost. He fiddled with the dressing as he spoke. “But Father Pious, this country’s swarming with ghosts, how come we’ve only got three more?”
Father Pious tutted. “I’ve told you before, it doesn’t matter how many ghosts there are, it’s the ones who have been calling attention to themselves that we’ve got to finish. The Church teaches that you die, you are judged, you go to heaven, or you serve your time in purgatory. There’s no room for ghosts in our scheme.”
“But the ghosts arereal?”asked Father Thomas.
Father Pious replied with a slow patronising,“Yes.”
“And the Church doesn’t believe in them?”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
“But the Church sends us to get rid of ghosts?” Father Thomas scratched his head through the bandages, “Isn’t that odd?”
“Listen,”Father Pious began in an irritated voice,“perhaps‘ghosts’are devils taking the form of people who have died to lure other people into sin. If they are devils we should destroy them. Or perhaps they truly are the souls of the dead, unable to progress to the next life because of a sin they committed when they were alive. In which case they also deserve to be destroyed,”he paused,“or helped on their way.”
“But…”began Father Thomas.
“Ours is not to reason why, young Father,” Father Pious cut in. The leader’s tone clearly said that the subject was closed.
Suddenly all four men swung round at the sound of a revving chain-saw, as a grotesque grey figure stepped out of the darkness.
The two assistant clergy took one look at the stretched, horned, pierced, fanged monstrosity and doubled up laughing.
“It’s the Texas Chainsaw Tellytubby!”said the man with the plaster-cast, between sobs of laughter.
Father Pious remained still and stony-faced. He drew a shotgun from under his cloak, aimed and fired.
“Aw! That was a good one Father!”
“There’s none of them good.” Father Pious muttered more to himself than to his companions.
As their laughter subsided, one of the black figures gave an unpleasant sniff. “A vampire-muppet-Frankenstein’s-monster-ghost! What will they think of next?”
* * *
The Grey Monk’s shredded ghost dispersed into the night air. A small fragment of him clung defiantly onto its existence. Slowly he reformed, into a much fainter shadow of his former self. Each gust of wind threatened to dissolve him completely.
He was weak. He had not been this weak since shortly after his death.
He resolved to go to London. He could find somewhere to rest: accommodation in return for some light haunting duties. He had friends there who would help him back to deathly health.
Chapter Nine
Caught Out
Iona accompanied Arthur on at least two ghost walks every day for the rest of the week. She soon knew many of his stories off by heart. She looked forward to recounting the grisly tale of Sweeney Todd to her school friends (she would save it until she found one of them eating a pork pie or Cornish pasty).
She knew inside-out the haunting habits of Lord Nelson, Judge Henry Hawkins and several of the monarch’s mistresses who haunted the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.
Before each of her walks she sent her mother a text-message to say she was doing some improving reading in the British Library, or looking at early Portuguese ceramics in the British Museum.
She excused the lie to herself by reasoning that what she was doing was educational. She was only doctoring the truth because her mother had a narrower view of education.
Things came to a head when Iona sent the text“AM AT BRIT MSEUM. NEOLYTH POTT : ) : ) ; )”
Tiggy Ward read the message and glanced out of her taxi window to see her daughter. She was standing with a group of tourists next to a sign saying“London Sightseeing Ghost Walk departs from here.”
Iona saw her climb from her cab and ran off down the Strand. She had not been trying to escape her mother; knowing that was impossible, she just wanted the inevitable mum-explosion to happen out of Arthur’s sight.
When Tiggy finally caught up with her it was every bit as terrible as Iona had imagined.
“Where do you think you are going, Iona Ann Ward? You lied to me… I bought you that mobile phone only so that you could let me know where you were… You’re suspended from school, you need to be keeping up with your studies not looking for ghosts…”
Her tirade lasted all the way home, all the way through dinner, and only after the plates had been cleared away did Tiggy calm down. “So, Iona, tell me, what is it with this obsession with ghosts and vampires?”
“I dunno,”Iona shrugged,“I just want to hear some news from the other side.”
“News?”her mother’s brow furrowed.
“Of dad.”Iona’s own expression was pained, and she spoke in a whisper, pleading silently for her mother to understand.
Tiggy’s defences started to rise visibly; she sat a little straighter as she asked sharply,“What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s stupid anyway.”
“Tell me,”sensing her daughter withdrawing again Tiggy’s voice softened as she spoke. “I’m sure it’s not stupid.”
“It’s dad. It’s six years since he died. We never talk about him.” She looked down to her boots. “You never talk about him.” She sniffed. “I dream about him.”
Tears started to well up in her mother’s eyes.
Iona felt her own eyes begin to sting, but she did not allow herself to cry. “I sometimes dream that dad is a spirit, guiding and helping me. He appears, pale and mysterious, smiling to see me so grown up.”
Iona could not read the expression on her mother’s face, but she continued,“I’d imagine him telling me that he was watching over me, and that he loved us.”
Suddenly Iona felt very foolish; she had said too much. Her embarrassment gave way to anger as her mother sat in silence.
“Well?”Iona asked, traces of irritation sounding in her voice.
Her mother remained silent, dropping her head into her hands.
Iona could stand it no longer. “You’ve forgotten him!”she shouted, jumping to her feet,“and you want me to forget him too!”
Tiggy stood up too, her face reddening. “How dare you!” She looked just over Iona’s shoulder as she shouted angrily,“How dare you tell me what I remember. Every night; every single night I remember him, and every morning, and every time I look at you.”
Iona was not used to her mother talking about her father. She stared open-mouthed at the outburst. She was terrified and strangely exhilarated, but she could think of where to take the conversation from here, so she decided to make an exit.
“Well if the sight of me is so painful, I’m out of here!”
Iona stormed out of the room, and out of the house, slamming the front door with all her might.
Chapter Ten
Arthur’s Visitor
Arthur smiled to himself as he left the band of happy tourists to mill around in the dying light of the late evening sun. They had stopped outside the Cheshire Cheese pub. He loved running these ghost tours; it made him feel so alive. The look on the faces of a crowd hanging on his every word was intoxicating.
As the crowd drifted apart he found his mind drifting back to the girl who had been accompanying him on
several of his recent walks.
“Iona Ward,”he whispered to himself.
After the last tourist had wandered off he looked left and right along the street and stroked his lightly stubbled chin. He walked up to the door of the pub, looked up and down the street once more, and entered.
Inside, the bar was dimly lit, and crowded with an assortment of shoppers and office workers relaxing after their busy days. A small group of students were talking animatedly to the barman.
Arthur stared past them, looking longingly at the pints of beer and glasses of whiskey. It had been a long time since he had been able to drink.
Arthur frowned and licked his lips as he pushed his way along the whole length of the bar, gazing at the variety of drinks for sale. He made his way to a table in the corner, still covered in empty glasses from the party who had just left it. One pint glass still contained over a centimetre of stout; Arthur leaned over it and sniffed. He looked painfully disappointed as he slumped back into his chair.
The students at the bar were trying loudly to coerce the barman into switching on the karaoke machine. The barman was refusing, telling them it was too early. He added,“If my customers hear that moron murdering any more Robbie Williams songs they might just lose the will to live.”
Arthur was joined at his table by a man who looked around a similar age. The stranger had very short grey hair and a bushy grey moustache. His narrow eyes fixed on the student party. He spoke to Arthur as he made himself comfortable on the chair next to him:“Ah dear me, what a terrible racket these young ones make.”
“Indeed,”agreed Arthur, looking enviously at the stranger’s pint.
“Aye, youth is wasted on the young,”the man continued, sipping his drink.
“I was the same myself,”Arthur muttered mournfully,“I wasted my youth, and the rest of my life, come to that.”
The stranger wanted to complain about young people, however the conversation had become too gloomy even for his dour taste:“Ah dear me, but I’m sure there’s still life in the old dog yet.”
The Parliament of the Dead Page 3