Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  The old man indicated for Peter to remain still then walked to the door and flung it open, attracting the attention of the intruders. Peter wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The man shut the door, leaving Peter in darkness.

  ‘What you lot coming round here for?’ the old voice said.

  ‘What is it? You find him?’

  ‘No, it’s only ol’ Addy.’

  ‘What’re you doing here, Addy?’

  ‘My tŷ. My house,’ the old man said. ‘I’ve a right to be here more than any of you.’

  ‘Phew! Take a whiff of him. Been drinking again, Addy?’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone. He ain’t doing any harm.’

  Peter recognised the last voice. He’d spent hours down the pub with it, drinking and chatting. A voice that once carried friendship, now only fear.

  ‘Say, Addy, is it?’ Stephen continued. ‘You seen any strange blokes about?’

  ‘Besides you tair? Na, quiet as a mouse here. I keep mae tŷ nice and quiet. She likes it nice and quiet.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure she does,’ Stephen said. ‘So, no one’s been round? No one about my age? Ginger hair? Skinny lad?’

  ‘Could be you, but you’re not so lean, are you mae bachgen? Your mother feeding you up nice and proper, she is.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ the first voice said.

  ‘Yeah, come on. I’m bloody starving,’ said the second.

  ‘You’ll let us know if you see anyone, won’t you, Addy?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Course I will. Course I will. Report all visitors, I do. Always and forever.’ The old man kept rambling while the heavy footsteps descended the stairs. The front door banged heavily and the house grew quiet once more. Peter listened for the old man but heard nothing. Cautiously, he opened the door. The man stood there, staring at Peter.

  ‘You’ve caused them tair a spot of bother, you have.’ He looked Peter in the eye as if assessing his very soul. Finally he nodded and walked away. ‘They should be gone now. Come upstairs and join us for cinio. No meat on your bones, mae bachgen. No meat at all.’

  Peter followed the man to the top floor of the house. This place, too, was dusty and sparse, save one room at the back. Here a rudimentary living space was set up – a mattress on the floor with a few bare sheets, a gas-ring stove, bucket with water, clothes piled in the corner. A second bucket held human waste.

  ‘Come and sit. Come and sit.’ He pointed to a table with two chairs. When Peter made to sit, the man stopped him. ‘Na, na. Can’t sit there. Na, that chair’s not for you. Here, erm, here . . .’ He spun round, looking for a suitable alternative.

  ‘The floor will be alright,’ Peter said.

  ‘Na, na. Na way to treat a guest. We treat our guests well. Here. You have my chair. Yes, you sit there. Na, na. Don’t mind me. Don’t bother me at all. Guests come first. What we always say, isn’t it, m anwylyd?’

  Peter sat in the chair and waited in silence as the man lit the gas ring, scooped water from the bucket using a saucepan, and set it to boil.

  ‘That was very kind of you,’ Peter said. ‘For not telling them.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. Don’t listen to them. Never listen to them. Bastards,’ he spat, his expression turning dark.

  ‘My name is Peter. Peter Lamb.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. How foolish of me.’ They shook hands. ‘Addison Marsh. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you enjoy your stay here. Not as grand a guest house as we used to be, but we do our best for our visitors, don’t we, m anwylyd? Afraid you caught us at short notice, though. Not much food in. Have some noodles. They brought us noodles, so that’s what we have. Funny little word, isn’t it? Noodles.’

  ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’

  There was no heat source in the room, nothing but the few candles and the stove. Peter felt his teeth chattering. His clothes were still damp and the wetness seeped through his skin. The anger that warmed him earlier had yet to be reignited.

  ‘You’ve brought us news, I suppose,’ Addison said, his voice suddenly solemn.

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘News about our Molly. That’s why you’re here. Hush, m anwylyd.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. But I don’t know any Molly.’

  ‘Are you sure? Lovely girl, lovely. Loveliest girl you’ll ever meet. Couldn’t forget her if you met her so I suppose you haven’t. Quiet, woman! He said he doesn’t know her.’

  ‘Is Molly your daughter?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Our only one. Only child, our Molly. Ein merch. Ein cariad.’

  ‘Has she . . . has she gone missing?’

  Addison dumped some noodles into the saucepan and watched the water boil over.

  ‘She’s not missing,’ he said. ‘Not to us. No. We know exactly where she is. Exactly where.’ From beside the stove, Addison pulled out a bottle and took a swig. He knew. This old man knew. Peter inched forward on his chair.

  ‘And where is that, sir?’

  Addison slammed the bottle onto the stove, dangerously close to the flame.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peter apologised.

  ‘What have you lost?’ Addison whispered, his eyes on the ring of flame. ‘Wouldn’t be here ’less you lost something. What have you lost?’

  ‘Her name is Eliza.’

  Addison lowered his head. Then he turned down the flame, slowing the boil. He joined Peter at the table.

  ‘They take them,’ he said. ‘They sniff you out, like ruddy dogs, sniff out those with nothing to give and something they need. You say na. At first. Say na, na, nac oes. But these are hard times. Hard times. My drink. Fetch my drink.’

  Peter grabbed the bottle from the stove and handed it over.

  ‘Iechyd da.’ Addison raised the glass then took a long sip before continuing. ‘Did you say na?’

  ‘It wasn’t my choice to make.’

  Addison nodded. ‘You would’ve said na. Then you would’ve said yes. We say yes, always. It’s only work, that’s what we tell ourselves. She’s a big girl now. She could do with a proper job, that’s what you say. And the money, the money is a little bonus. Something for our trouble. No trouble. And then . . . and then . . .’ He took another drink. ‘And then you never hear from Molly again. Hush, dear, don’t cry. Don’t cry.’

  ‘Where did Molly go, Mr Marsh?’

  ‘You can’t get her back. Not once she’s gone. Once she’s gone, she’s gone. She’s gone.’

  ‘Is it nearby? Is it somewhere in Swansea?’

  ‘They don’t tell you where. I thought they might. If I let them use the house, if I said they could use it, use it to lure others, they promised to tell me. I know they lie, woman! Stop saying it!’

  ‘Do you know anything, Mr Marsh? Please. I have to find her.’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d do anything.’

  ‘Yes. Anything.’

  ‘Anything just to see her again. Hold her. Keep her close. Love her.’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  Addison pushed the bottle across the table. ‘Then you might as well start on that, because you won’t ever see her again, mae bachgen. Except in your dreams.’

  *

  Peter spent a restless night in Tŷ Marwolaeth. Addison allowed Peter use of the mattress but then spent the whole night pacing the house and speaking to himself. Peter had only brief recollections of his dreams, all of which involved Eliza. He took a few sips of Addison’s whisky and found that it helped.

  He was only half awake when someone banged on the front door. Peter glanced at his watch – half past seven in the morning. He listened carefully but, being on the top floor, could only hear garbled voices. He was certain, though, that neither was Stephen’s. He crept out of the room and into the hall.

  ‘. . . said no one’s been here but us. Why don’t you believe us?’ said Addison.

  ‘Who else was asking?’

  ‘Your compatriots. Came here last evening, l
ooking for dwili. Nonsense. Trouble. All you lot ever cause.’

  Peter snuck to the railing where he could peer down onto the ground floor. Addison cowered in front of a taller man whose face was hidden by a cap. But Peter needn’t see his face. The man had only one arm. This was the man Mosley told him about – the one who took Eliza away.

  Apparently satisfied with Addison’s answers, the one-armed man left. As soon as the front door was shut, Peter ran down the stairs. He grabbed Addison by the shoulders.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Why, him? Calls himself Drewry. Pay him no mind. Same as the others. Take, take, take.’

  Peter opened the door and spotted Drewry at the end of the street, turning left. Addison grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  ‘Don’t. You won’t see her again. We never do, do we, m anwylyd?’

  Peter pulled his arm free and ran after Drewry. He thought Addison might yell after him, but he heard nothing. He glanced behind. The old man was gone.

  He was afraid he’d already lost Drewry when he spotted him at the next corner. Last night’s heavy rains created deep puddles in old bomb impact sites. If Peter stepped in one, the splash would be enough to draw the one-armed man’s attention. Drewry rounded another corner then entered a pub.

  It was hours before opening time. The shutters were closed and Peter couldn’t see in, but, in the quiet morning street, he heard voices down a nearby alleyway. Peter followed them and ended up round the back of the pub, where he saw Drewry shoving Stephen up against the wall. Two other men stood idly by.

  ‘My business is with him,’ Stephen said.

  ‘You’re to stay in London,’ Drewry replied. ‘He comes out here, they’ll handle him. He comes to Thornecroft, I’ll handle him.’

  ‘This is personal.’

  Drewry punched Stephen in the gut.

  ‘I don’t care if he shat in your mam’s bed. You do as you’re told according to the agreement, else our business is done. There’re plenty of other toerags in that cesspool who’d be happy to have our business. You think I came out here for my health? They sent me to tell you they don’t like the trouble you’re causing. That means you’re in their eye, and that’s a more dangerous place than you’ve ever been. Put yourself on the first train back to London or I’ll put you in hospital.’ Drewry spat at Stephen’s feet then went inside the pub. The other two bruisers followed.

  Peter hurried out of the alleyway and watched Drewry head towards Castle Street. After waiting to see if Stephen and the others would follow, he went after him, tailing him all the way to the train station. Peter hid in the crowds there, keeping close to Drewry until he saw him board the train at platform three. Peter bought his ticket with minutes to spare.

  Addison Marsh was wrong. He’d be seeing Eliza again very soon.

  31

  Heavy rainfall on the carriage house roof woke Eliza. Though she was dry, the temperature dropped, and she shivered in the thin shirt. She wrapped a horse blanket from the mare’s stall around her shoulders and went to the carriage doors. The top of the manor towered over her.

  Inside, Mrs Pollard would be preparing breakfast, plotting with Ruth to bring the next girl to Thornecroft. Did Ruth help capture all the girls or was Eliza a special case? Perhaps Eliza was wrong about the curse. If the real Mr Brownawell was gone, who was Victoria trying to punish? Maybe she fed off the souls of the young in order to remain on Earth. Or maybe they were only taken once they learnt the truth about Reg Kyffin. But how could Rebecca have known? What had she done all day while Eliza completed chores?

  The garden door was left open and, through the rain, Eliza glimpsed the overgrown shrubberies. The world looked different in the rain, like a series of photographs moving quickly before her eyes, each slightly different from the last.

  The singing was clear – a child’s voice coming from the garden. Eliza dropped the blanket. Climbing through the tangles of weeds and bushes, she ignored the fresh scratches on her skin as she ran to the latticework doors. They were already open.

  A flash of white. Victoria’s dress? Eliza looked, but the figure was gone.

  Rebecca’s voice rang through the hall.

  ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run . . .’

  Eliza placed one foot inside.

  ‘Rebecca?’

  The moment her name was spoken, the singing ceased. Eliza took another step. All she could hear was her own breathing, the rain dripping from her clothes, the wind outside.

  A woman screamed.

  Eliza ran back through the garden, wiping the rain from her eyes as she rounded the garden wall. The shimmering white figure came towards her. Victoria stumbled and fell, red blossoming on her dress as a wig fell from her head.

  Eliza saw her ghost’s face.

  ‘Help me, please,’ Ruth gasped, clutching her side.

  It was another trick, a way to trap her.

  ‘Eliza, please. Please, she’s coming for me.’

  ‘You’re Victoria.’

  ‘I’ll explain. Please! Help me.’

  A dark figure walked briskly towards them, shaking Eliza from her inertia, and she hoisted Ruth to her feet. The blood was sticky against her rain-soaked hands. It was real.

  ‘The carriage house,’ Ruth panted. Eliza obeyed. She supported Ruth and together they hobbled across the east lawn. Eliza resisted the urge to look behind her.

  ‘The key,’ Ruth said, pulling at her dress collar. Eliza removed it from Ruth’s neck, quickly opening the door then locking them inside.

  ‘But she’ll still get in,’ Eliza said.

  ‘No. Ben changed the locks. Her key won’t work. Upstairs. There are bandages. Ah!’ Ruth cried out and fell to her knees. Eliza helped her up to the loft and sat her on the bed.

  ‘By the basin. There . . . there should be . . .’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  Eliza found a roll of bandages and some clean rags. When she returned to the bed, Ruth was lying down, eyes closed.

  ‘Ruth. Ruth, you must stay awake.’

  Ruth opened her eyes. Eliza could see now how glazed they were. Blood had seeped through most of the dress. The wig was lost somewhere outside. Eliza ripped apart the fabric where the knife had torn it. She couldn’t see the wound for all the blood. It was a darker colour now, more black than red. Eliza placed a wad of cloth against the worst part of the bleeding.

  ‘We should have told you. More pressure.’ Ruth’s breathing was laboured, her skin whiter than the dress.

  ‘You’ve been Victoria this whole time.’

  Ruth nodded, but the motion made her paler still.

  ‘When Pip was murdered, I . . . I knew it was Mrs Pollard.’ She struggled to take a deep breath. ‘Thought I could . . . use the stories . . . make her feel . . . haunted. Punished.’

  The blood poured over Eliza’s hands. She grabbed another cloth and pressed it against Ruth’s side. It made no difference.

  ‘Guilt can’t harm those who feel nothing . . . Victoria was never for . . . you. I tried to tell you . . . there was no ghost. But I . . . thought it safer if you . . . you didn’t know the whole truth. Wanted you to stay away . . . cause . . . dangerous. She’s dangerous.’

  ‘You must rest now, Ruth. Don’t try to speak.’

  ‘Ben. Trust him. He’s . . . a good man. He’ll . . . he’ll . . .’

  ‘Hush now.’ Tears, not rain, now dampened Eliza’s face.

  Ruth’s eyes snapped open. ‘Rebecca. She was there. There with . . . You were right . . . We had no . . . idea how . . . how . . .’ Ruth released a shuttered breath. She never took another.

  ‘Ruth?’ Eliza shook her by the shoulder. ‘Ruth, what about Rebecca? Ruth? Please, don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  It was no use. Though her eyes were open, Ruth would never wake again. Eliza retreated from the lifeless body, saw her hands, her Claddagh ring, her clothes – Ruth’s clothes – covered in blood. Some water was left in the basin. Eliza plunged in her hands and the
water turned red. The ring fell from her finger. She left it at the bottom of the basin. Outside, the rain continued to fall. It was the only sound in the loft until she heard the barking below.

  She moved cautiously to the window. Kasey growled at a figure about a foot away. Mrs Pollard stood stock still in the rain wearing a cloak and hat, staring at the dog. Kasey refused to let her near. The housekeeper’s head tilted upwards. She smiled at Eliza then turned on her heel and returned to the manor.

  Mrs Pollard wouldn’t need to get into the carriage house to destroy her. She could burn the place down, threaten to kill Rebecca. Anything to coax Eliza out.

  Kasey sat sentry at the door, awaiting his master. Eliza could wait no longer.

  32

  The train was nearly deserted. Interspersed amongst its empty compartments were an elderly couple, a soldier and a young mother with two children silent from hunger. Peter glanced at them through the windows as he passed, every sombre face a reflection of the tired landscape outside. Wherever they were headed, it was not a place many wanted to go.

  Drewry sat alone in the front compartment of the forward coach, where the engine was the loudest. Peter stayed back when he spotted him. The compartment behind was empty. He could ride there for the remainder of the journey, but he stood in the corridor, watching this man whose cap was pulled over his eyes, his arm draped across his lap. When had that calloused hand last touched his Eliza? When had those eyes last looked upon her face?

  She was getting closer. Peter could nearly smell her familiar scent. Roses and old books. That’s what she always smelled of to Peter, even when a night at work made her sweat through her uniform or she’d been cooking with lard and Oxo all morning. Roses and old books. That was Eliza.

  Drewry rolled his shoulders and rested his head against the compartment wall. Peter wondered how much of an interrogation it would take to get the truth. The man had more muscle than Peter, but he was damaged. How much fight could a man with only one arm have? Peter was young, fit. His leg hadn’t bothered him for days. He could take this man. He’d been able to take Mosley.