The Ghost of Helen Addison

by Charles E. McGarry

  He awoke briefly in the late evening during a torrential rain shower, hunger pangs urging him to order some supper. He swung his legs to the floor and clicked on the bedside lamp.

  Helen Addison was sitting on the end of his bed. ‘Hey, stranger.’

  ‘Helen!’ He was delighted to see her.

  ‘You’ve been sleeping all day. No wonder, after your ordeal. I was nearby, this morning at Innisdubh. I could scarcely bear to watch. I’ve never felt so helpless.’

  ‘The battle against evil has rather enervated me,’ Leo declared dramatically, before yawning and stretching. ‘Nonetheless, good has prevailed and my powers will return, ready to vanquish Satan’s cohort again. Strong and cunning as the devil is, he cannot undo the miracles of God. Not for ever, anyway.’

  ‘Earlier, when he . . . George . . . was conducting that horrible Black Mass thing, there were . . . others present. I could see them.’

  ‘How do you mean, “others”?’

  ‘I mean . . . entities.’ Leo visibly shivered. ‘Although there was another visitor,’ Helen continued. ‘A spirit of light.’

  ‘My guardian angel, I expect.’

  Helen looked away. ‘Leo, I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have taken things out on you.’

  ‘You were so upset . . . I was worried I had done something wrong.’

  ‘You’re a decent man, Leo. Do not underestimate what that means.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what it means to be a decent man any more,’ he said disconsolately as he stared at the carpet. ‘The definition seems to change with the breeze, ever since Monsieur Derrida wrote his little treatises and made everything a shade of grey. And where does this so-called decency get you, anyway?’

  ‘Perhaps it will get you to heaven one day. Perhaps being a decent man is just about trying your best, searching for the truth in your own way. I kind of get the feeling that most of the time you do that.’

  Leo cleared his throat of emotion. ‘You never mentioned bringing your rag doll out with you on the night of your murder.’

  ‘Oh, of course, little Emily. Yes, I remember now, I was holding her when I was watching George row the boat towards me.’

  ‘I take it that he was this Tark fellow you wrote about in your diary?’

  ‘Yes. It was a childish anagram. Total Arse Reeks of Koffee. He had coffee breath, you see. And I used to think coffee was spelled with a “k”, when I was a kid.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him?’

  Helen began to fade into the ether.

  ‘Helen, Helen, don’t go – not yet! He did something to you, didn’t he?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When you were young?’

  She nodded again. Leo reflected inwardly that the worship of Satan is invariably connected in some way with sexual attacks upon children.

  ‘And you’ve kept it locked away ever since. I’ll wager you never even told Craig?’

  She made a clicking sound in her throat that he took to be a yes. She composed herself, and her spectral form fully solidified again.

  ‘He spied on us a few months ago . . . Craig and I, when we were in the woods . . . together. He waited for me and told me that he had been watching. I could sense his anger, his envy. He said he wanted us to be together, that it was fated. Obviously, I said no. But I didn’t know it was him who had killed me. I don’t mean just because he was wearing a hood; I just didn’t think he was capable. I thought he was kind of pitiful, really. I certainly didn’t realise he was into worshipping the devil! He really got inside my head as a kid, made me think that what we were doing together was normal. More than that, that it was actually, like, special. I never totally shook the idea off, and that made me feel all the more ashamed. Also, he somehow fooled me into thinking that he was still actually a nice man, although it was weird . . . some of the time I hated his guts. Sounds silly and pathetic, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, nothing of the kind. It sounds exactly like the type of psychological trick that abusers play. And the victim is never to be blamed for falling for it, because they are a child, for goodness’ sake.’

  She nodded, her brow furrowed with thought. ‘I think I believe that . . . now. Oh, some good news – the girls the thirteenth baron killed: they tell me they expect to pass over soon. That they will be at peace at last.’

  ‘I am immeasurably gladdened to hear it. And what about you, Helen? Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes, Leo. Please tell my parents that. And Craig.’

  Tears began to stream uncontrollably down Leo’s face. ‘Well, make sure you put in a good word for me,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Thank you, Leo. Thank you, my friend.’

  And then Leo caught a glimpse in the dressing-table mirror of himself sitting beside no one at all, and for a moment he wondered if the ghost of Helen Addison had ever actually visited him. He wondered if all along he had just been experiencing some new, waking form of his second sight, a sort of conscious dream in which he tuned in with an imagined version of the girl or indeed some metaphysical imprint of her actual essence refracted towards his mind by whichever unknowable seraph governed such things. Not Helen in persona, but neither not Helen at all.

  48

  THE next morning Leo awoke with the first early spring sunshine pouring gorgeously through his bedroom window. He opened the curtains to reveal Loch Dhonn in all its magnificence, its surface glittering, beneath a cold, burnished azure sky. An exultant songbird hailed the glory of the morning and Ben Corrach gazed beneficently down the loch. Leo hoped that the new season would purge him of the foul humours of winter and perhaps even restore a little portion of innocence to these once cloistered glens.

  It was singularly odd: for a man of sensitivity, Leo was strangely unaffected by his killing of Rattray. Not that he approved of executions or vigilante-style justice; it was simply that the circumstances had ultimately proven clear-cut: a time to kill. Certainly, he was left shaken and exhausted in the aftermath, but it was apparently nothing a balloon of brandy and a comfortable bed couldn’t soothe. Leo had been forced to act in self-defence, plain and simple. There was no alternative but to dispatch Rattray. Moreover, there was something fitting, poetically just and perhaps even fated about the precise nature of the man’s demise. He who had viciously stabbed poor Helen nearly two dozen times was himself fatally pierced by a cold blade upon a bleak, cold night at Loch Dhonn.

  Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would come to realise that some territory within the kernel of himself had shifted forever.

  Leo showered, feeling like a new man as the rushing water revived his body and mind. He thanked God for His protection, and for answering his entreaties that justice be served. He took care over his toilet, wishing to look his best for his victory parade. He slipped his little chess computer into his overcoat pocket, in case the fanfare didn’t materialise and he was forced to appear nonchalant.

  As though the morning couldn’t get any better, his friend was waiting for him at breakfast.

  ‘Fordyce!’

  ‘Ahoy there, old stick! I’ve saved us the best table.’

  They shook hands warmly, then Leo embraced his friend, such was his joy at their reunion.

  Fordyce, who had arrived from Edinburgh the previous night having heard about Leo’s duel with Rattray, had of course reserved the best table, set within the dining room’s bay window, with a fine view over the lawns, the rhododendron walks and then the loch itself.

  Ania and Paul were serving, and they both came over to congratulate Leo for his result, and to thank him for his persistence and courage. Ania even pecked Leo upon the cheek, much to his delight.

  Leo’s meal was prodigiously hearty. He ordered kippers, followed by a full Scottish breakfast, with double egg, double haggis, double fruit pudding, a tattie scone, a full rack of toast and a large pot of coffee. For the purposes of invigoration he allowed himself two fingers of The Glenlivet and was informed that it arrived with the co
mpliments of the house.

  ‘So, who’d have thought it: old George, a ruddy Satanist,’ observed Fordyce, with the understatement typical of his social class.

  ‘The devil takes many forms,’ replied Leo through a mouthful of toast and Dundee marmalade.

  Leo’s mobile phone sounded with Ludwig’s iconic four-note motif: Stephanie.

  ‘Well done u!!!’

  ‘Thanks,’ he responded.

  He paused for a moment. Then tapped at the buttons again and sent an additional message.

  ‘For everything.’

  49

  AFTER breakfast Leo made his way to the front doors and was dumbfounded by the sight outside. A scrum of media people had descended upon Loch Dhonn, even more than before, such was the high drama of the latest developments.

  Leo whistled softly. ‘This has gone international, my friend,’ he said to himself.

  Constable Shorty had been posted on the door; the Mintos had decided to keep the hotel press-free this time. Leo disappeared back inside before any of the pack noticed him.

  He slipped out by a side door and took a daunder up by the Addison place. The air was sharp, and fragrant with the beginning of nature’s renewal. The media had been told by Lang in no uncertain terms to stay away from the family, and apparently they – unlike Leo – had respected his wishes. Leo hesitated at the gate, meandering in a circle for a minute before resolving to stride up the path and knock on the door.

  He needn’t have worried. Leo had already attained the status of a folk hero in this house, and he was made more than welcome. Mr and Mrs Addison were now Stuart and Lorna. It was encouraging to see the latter dressed and downstairs, looking a good deal more together than previously.

  The aunts – Grace from before and Joanne, a plump, quiet little woman with a gentle demeanour – prepared morning coffee while Leo ribbed young Callum about his preference for Hibernian FC and tried in vain to convert him to the Celtic cause, much to Stuart’s amusement. Leo, ever the old-fashioned gentleman, rose from his chair when the aunts came in. They then left the guest alone with Helen’s brother and parents.

  ‘To think I had that animal as a babysitter!’ fulminated Stuart, forgetting Callum’s presence for a moment. ‘Can you imagine? God knows what he did to her!’

  ‘Mr Addison, Stuart, my instincts tell me that no abuse took place back then,’ Leo lied, keen to mollify the poor man’s anxiety.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ sighed Lorna.

  ‘Nonetheless, I should have been there to protect her . . . that night,’ fretted Stuart. ‘Or at least have realised afterwards that he was the killer.’

  ‘Stuart, people like George Rattray, who now inhabits that realm where the worm never dies, succeed precisely because they are effective at aping decency, and at manipulating the decency and trust of other folk for their own nefarious ends. We cannot allow them to make us question our own sincerity and good faith.’

  For a moment all that could be heard was the sound of teaspoons stirring coffee.

  ‘Leo, you are obviously an insightful man, what with your special gift and all,’ started Lorna. ‘What I mean to say is . . . do you think we will ever see her again?’

  Leo glanced at all three expectant faces. He cleared his throat and stood up. This would be his last address to the family.

  ‘Lorna, Stuart, Callum. What I believe is very simple, and I tell you it with all humility. And I swear upon all that is sacred that what I tell you is the truth, and not something fabricated to give you succour. What I believe is that Helen is at peace now. And all of you will be reunited with her one day.’

  Leo shook Stuart and Callum’s hands, and Lorna insisted upon escorting him to the front gate. A blackbird greeted the new season with a song of profound and heartfelt joy.

  ‘Gosh. This is the first time I’ve stepped outside since it happened,’ said Lorna, drinking in the air and gazing up at the clear blue sky with almost childlike wonder. Her eyes glittered with tears, then she blinked them away.

  Leo was silent, refraining from the temptation to utter some trite cliché.

  ‘Leo, there’s one other thing . . . You’ll be aware that the police have released Helen’s body?’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘Well, the minister has been by, and we’re ready to make arrangements. The point is, we’d really like it if you came to the funeral. Of course, we understand that it’s a lot of trouble for you to come back here, but –’

  ‘Lorna,’ Leo interrupted, ‘it would be a singular honour.’

  He stepped forward and kissed Lorna Addison on the cheek, then turned and walked off.

  Craig Hutton was easy to find. He was fishing at the same little broken-down pier where Leo had happened upon him a fortnight before.

  ‘I’m sorry I got you arrested,’ he said.

  ‘Ach, don’t be daft. I was an eejit. You saved me from myself.’

  ‘I take it the charges have been dropped?’

  ‘Aye.’ Hutton expertly cast his line into the water, then steadily reeled in the spinner. ‘She’s at peace now, isn’t she?’ he asked. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so. And I believe she loves you, Craig. So be worthy of her. And strive to be happy.’

  50

  LEO headed back up to the road, cutting back down to the lochside by the rhododendron walks, enjoying the novel warmth from the sun which bated the underlying freshness of the air. What a country, he mused. Rain and misery one day, heavenly sunshine the next!

  There was a precise purpose to this part of his journey. He stopped at the mouth of the burn where he had first encountered George Rattray more than two weeks ago, removed his overcoat and jacket, rolled up his sleeves, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, knelt down and leaned over the water’s edge. After much strenuous reaching and rummaging he hauled out a bundle, bound tightly in thick green oilskin. He set it upon the turf, opened it gingerly with some tools he had withdrawn from his detective’s kit, and gazed inside with the aid of his little pencil torch, before carefully sealing the watertight wrapper once again. He nodded with solemn satisfaction.

  He tidied himself up, pulled his outdoor garments back on, hauled the dripping parcel over his shoulder and plodded back up to the hotel, the stonework of which looked lovely in the sunshine. In the car park he paused to admire the towering Wellingtonia. It looked majestic in the golden light against the verdant backcloth of the wooded hill, a gallery of lime-lucent grottos. His attention was arrested by the sight of a handcuffed Lex Dreghorn, who pretended not to have seen Leo as he was frogmarched towards a squad car by two burly policemen. Leo resisted the petty temptation to call out to him.

  Lang appeared alongside him, brandishing a sealed plastic envelope, inside of which was Leo’s Golden Treasury.

  ‘I got some of the boys from the lab to clean it up for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Leo, eagerly taking the package and regarding the book with a sentimental smile. ‘It belonged to my beloved father, now in Paradise.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lang. ‘We saw the inscription.’

  Over Lang’s shoulder Leo noticed a priest wearing a clerical collar standing nearby, chatting with a WPC.

  ‘What have you got there?’ enquired Lang, gesturing towards the bundle.

  ‘All in good time, Detective Inspector, all in good time.’ He nodded towards the police car, which was crunching slowly over the gravel towards the road. ‘What’s that all about?’

  ‘Our Lex has been a naughty laddie. He was dealing drugs. It’s not just an urban crime, you know.’

  ‘Ah, the last piece in the jigsaw.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’ll wager it was Lex from whom George bought the ketamine.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  As Leo watched that vain, self-serving man being transported away, his face set grimly ahead lest he make eye contact with his adversary, a tragic little miracle occurred. The sunlight that funnelled through the bare branches of a r
ow of elms which sat upon the ridge above the road glanced upon Dreghorn’s face, and in doing so bladed his features, which despite the healthy outdoors complexion were revealed as thin and old and tired. This was a man who had successfully shut out the world with his pride, yet in doing so had lost his place in it. And then Leo detected something else: almost imperceptibly, Dreghorn’s tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, and a glint of something like fear flashed in his eyes. For a moment he was not old at all, as a trace of some long-hidden youthful vulnerability inhabited his countenance. Leo Moran had witnessed Lex Dreghorn’s humanity, and his feeling of self-satisfaction instantly receded, leaving only a remote sensation of sadness. He looked at the rear profile of Dreghorn’s head, somehow rendered pathetic and childlike, as the car reached the main gate, indicated, then joined the road and disappeared out of sight. Dreghorn had constructed a persona for himself many years ago and cemented innumerable thin layers to it over those years, and one day soon he would waken in a Barlinnie cell and realise in a panic that he had forgotten what his real soul actually looked like. Leo didn’t envy the man his forthcoming epiphany.

  His attention was arrested by Dreghorn’s Border Collie, which had appeared beside him and was whining sorrowfully. Leo crouched down and attempted to make friends with it, but the animal ran off and disappeared into the rhododendrons.

  Lang took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled. ‘So, Leo. I’ll see you at the inquiry.’

  ‘Of course,’ Leo gasped, ‘I’ll be called to an inquiry. Damn and blast, twice and thrice.’

  ‘Well, you did kill a man.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose there is that.’

  ‘Will you mention your . . . visions and everything?’

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ Leo said, fixing Lang in the eye, ‘I’ll be giving testimony under oath. And when I raise my hand to the Almighty I’ll be swearing to tell the whole truth, every last bit of it. There is no force in this universe that could compel me to do otherwise.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Lang rather grimly. ‘Anyway, Leo, you did well.’