Night After Night

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Rhys, if I could just point out—’

  ‘No, let me finish. Ozzy’s an instinctive entertainer. He can’t help himself. He doesn’t believe any of it, but there’s some part of him that’s always committed to giving an audience its money’s worth.’

  ‘You think he’s fooling himself? That what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’ve known him a long time. If he thinks he isn’t being funny, he panics. He instinctively creates opportunities. If the real world isn’t funny enough he’ll construct a fantasy world in which he totally believes. Ashley Palk can probably explain this better than me. Personally, I just don’t want to have to see him snap… on television. I’m sure you do, but I don’t.’

  She remembers him that day on the phone, when he laid into her for making inquiries about his past. So you want to be sure I’m not psychiatrically challenged. Well, let me ask you… would it – should it – matter if I am? Is yours the kind of programme that still considers mental health something that should be hidden away?

  She’s thinking of a way to remind him about this, without reference to a private phone call, when his voice is overlaid in her cans by Jo telling her not to argue, to break this thread, switch to more personal stuff.

  ‘Rhys,’ she says, ‘why does all this make you so angry? I don’t mean just the idea of Ozzy having a psychic experience. Why does the whole idea of any kind of supernatural presence here make you so aggressive?’

  He smiles crookedly.

  ‘You took a long time to get around to that. All right. If you want to bring God into this, fair to say Rhys Sebold does not do God. Or angels. Or ghosts. There is no Big Other on any level.’

  ‘And no life after death?’

  ‘Of course not. Listen, I’ve had Professor Richard Dawkins on my show. I’ve talked to Professor Brian Cox. These are men with planet-sized brains and immense erudition, and if they were desperate enough to appear on this show, it wouldn’t last two nights before this place was seen as just a… a not very pleasant house.’

  Grayle figures they might disagree about what kind of brain qualifies as planet-sized, but she lets it go. Never argue.

  ‘Your anger… there’s also a personal side to that?’

  ‘Of course there is. And I have to say I blame myself totally for what happened to Chloe, my partner. I will never forgive myself. I make no excuses.’

  She’s sure he said those very words during that edgy phone conversation. No need to get him to go into it all again; the story’s well known and, just like with Eloise and Alison Cross’s cottage, they’ve shown a collage of news clips explaining his arrest for possession of a class A drug the night of Chloe’s death.

  ‘And I should emphasize I don’t use drugs any more. Nor will I ever again.’

  ‘And are you speaking now to Chloe’s sister, Rhiannon, who encouraged you to—’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘—to go with her to a spiritualist medium in the hope of achieving some kind of closure?’

  ‘That made me very, very angry. The way these appalling people exploit grief. All so-called mediums are either self-deluded or fraudulent. It sickens me that what began as a fad, in the aftermath of the First World War, is still active in our so-called enlightened society. The last thing I’d ever do is besmirch Chloe’s memory by listening to some trickster pretending to channel messages from her. She’s dead.’

  ‘Better wind up here, Grayle,’ Jo says.

  Grayle goes down to the fast food part of the restaurant, orders up a toasted cheese sandwich and takes it to a corner table. Thinking she might call Marcus. But then Defford comes in, evidently looking for her. Brings a coffee to her table.

  ‘Grayle, we have to make a decision about Ahmed.’

  ‘You just watched Sebold?’

  ‘Interesting, but…’

  She looks at him, curious. Isn’t this what he wanted?

  ‘I got Max in immediately. He says that unless Ahmed seems likely to harm himself or anyone else, we should simply stay out of it. Don’t force him to do anything, don’t pressure him to come into the chapel. Max says it’s actually probably best that you don’t get to ask him difficult questions. Let all that come, if it comes at all, from the other residents. Let things work themselves out.’

  ‘That seems sensible. For now.’

  ‘However, in the light of what Sebold says, I want you to find out if Ahmed’s ever been in an abusive relationship.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s volatile, he’s single-minded, he uses people.’

  ‘You’re thinking this woman he keeps seeing, the bruises…?’

  ‘I don’t really like the idea of it being an echo from his past – some old girlfriend, maybe even his wife, who he got a bit rough with. And while it could still be great television…’

  ‘Too complicated.’

  ‘Yes. So we need to know. Was there a period in his life, before he was famous, that – perhaps because of drink or drugs – he’s wiped from his memory? Has he ever hurt a woman?’

  Grayle cuts a slice of her sandwich.

  ‘You ask Max about this?’

  ‘Max thinks it could simply be a woman he hurt emotionally and he’s projecting that as physical – bruises and blood.’

  ‘But if we find there is something?’

  ‘Then we wind down the Ozzy story. Let it either come out in its own way or die a natural death. I don’t want us relying too much on Ahmed for metaphysical interest, and then that side collapses.’

  ‘You think maybe Sebold knows and that’s why he’s trying to kill the story? Not everything about Sebold has to be self-centred.’

  ‘See what you can uncover. Should take us onto the next stage, anyway. As long as he doesn’t get evicted tomorrow.’

  She’d forgotten about that. Viewers can vote on the phone or online, where they can briefly explain their reasons. Max will do a reaction analysis at the end of tomorrow’s programme. Then the evictee walks straight into the chapel to vent into the camera, before spending the rest of the week being cosseted in a pop-up suite until the great reunion at the weekend.

  ‘Leo…’ She pushes her plate away. The programme’s started on a roll, he doesn’t seem too unhappy. She may never get a better chance to approach this with him. ‘On the issue of complications…’

  ‘You’re not going to spoil my night, are you, Grayle?’

  ‘How’s Ozzy been today? I didn’t get a chance to see much of the rushes.’

  ‘Quiet. People being very careful around him. Nothing dramatic. What’s your problem?’

  Without mentioning Cindy, she tells him about Poppy Stringer and the diary.

  Watching the excitement building in Defford’s eyes as she talks. Can almost hear the rattle of the Big Other rollercoaster, as he finishes his coffee, leans back in his cane chair, signals to the waitress for some more.

  ‘This woman thinks Ansell’s suicide was not entirely about facing financial ruin?’

  ‘Possibly not even at all.’

  To cover for Cindy, she’s told Defford she left her cellphone number with Poppy in case the housekeeper ever changed her mind about talking to the programme. She hadn’t expected this. Which is true.

  ‘She thinks Harry Ansell abused his wife?’

  ‘Trinity suggests that.’

  ‘Why’s Mrs Stringer come forward now?’

  ‘Kept quiet out of loyalty to Ansell, but now Ansell’s dead. Also, she’s figured out what we’re doing here. Thought it was just gonna be a documentary about Trinity Ansell, now she’s put two and two together. Realized this has to be the Big Other everyone’s talking about.’

  Defford’s excitement is fading to wariness.

  ‘Is this about money? Any suggestion that if we don’t grease her palm she might share her knowledge elsewhere?’

  ‘Not that kind of woman, Leo. Never came close to mentioning money. She just… wants to do what’s best. I guess.’

  ‘For whom? Both Ansells are dead
. And if the diary’s destroyed, we’re talking about Ansell’s alleged abuse of his wife. Could all be imaginary.’

  ‘Leo, I’m just passing it on.’

  ‘Will she record an interview for us?’

  ‘Didn’t even think it was worth asking. If you want me to, I will, but—’

  ‘Leave it for the moment. I just… I don’t like coincidence. Abuse, domestic violence, Ahmed’s bruised woman. Too much in one day.’

  ‘Yeah, I see that.’

  ‘And yet, if we ignore it… Thank you—’

  He stops talking while the waitress puts down coffee. The waitress is Lisa Muir. She doesn’t look at Grayle.

  ‘Ahmed,’ Defford says when Lisa’s gone. ‘He’s never described the woman he thinks he’s seeing.’

  ‘No. Um… Leo… can we consider this in relation to something never explained to my satisfaction? Which is why Ansell offered you his house for Big Other.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘We need to do that.’

  Reliving his encounter with Harry Ansell on a terrace above the lights of Stroud makes Defford look youthful and once again blown away with the dark potential of all this. Remembering Ansell’s response to him saying, about Trinity, Hell of a loss. A light gone out.

  And then Ansell’s reply: What if it hasn’t gone out?’

  ‘Went through me like a knife, those words.’

  All too resonant. Grayle sips coffee, unsure where to take this.

  ‘I’m still on the fence about Trinity, how much to believe. But I do believe what Poppy Stringer told me. I think Ansell came to hate this house, with a passion.’

  Defford’s nodding slowly.

  ‘There was no way that he wanted to keep Knap Hall as a memorial to Trinity. It was only ever important to him because it was important to her. He’d stripped the place within weeks, taken away nearly all the furniture, sold it or given it away to charities. He wanted to get rid.’

  ‘Only nobody wanted to buy. People came to take a look and I’d imagine what they saw didn’t help. Someone let the old darkness back in. What did he actually say?’

  ‘He asked me how long I’d need the house for. I told him six, seven months. He threw a figure at me, and it wasn’t giveaway. I said I’d have to talk to the network. Trying to buy some time, because this was a very unexpected development, you know? But he wasn’t going away. He asked me precisely what I wanted it for, and I… look, I’m not really a businessman, I’m an ideas man. I took a chance and told him what I had in mind. When he started to smile, I thought, well, that’s it, fucked. Worth a try.’

  ‘So he knew what Big Other was gonna be.’

  ‘Of course he did. He just nodded.’

  ‘You saw him as a friend?’

  ‘Grayle, I don’t think he had friends.’

  What should she say to him now? You think he wanted the house to do its worst? Wanted bad things to happen to you and your programme? While he watched?

  ‘You worry too much, Grayle,’ Defford says.

  53

  No wall

  MONDAY MORNING, Helen Parrish is big news.

  All the papers have her story – Grayle pleased to see the Mail blurbing it on the front, like she’d predicted, and a full-page piece inside. The Guardian have a quote from the BBC who maintain this is the first time they’ve heard the Diana story in full and would not wish to comment on its credibility as Helen Parrish no longer works for them.

  Helen knows nothing about this. No papers are allowed into the house. It’s strange when you hear everyone talking about it outside and on the radio and breakfast TV, but in the house it’s been overtaken, is already history. The house and the outside world are in different time zones.

  Defford is said to be well pleased. By tonight Big Other will be the TV programme to watch. By tomorrow night, after Ozzy, it will be the programme which must, on no account, be missed. He’s kept out of Grayle’s way. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about the Ansells’ marriage.

  So Grayle concentrates on Ozzy Ahmed, calling up his former mother-in-law, the witch. Answering service. Again. Rang several times last night with the same result. She’s away? On holiday? At the end of October? Who goes on holiday at the end of October? Only…

  Only a goddamn witch. End of this week it’s Hallowe’en. Samhain. The Celtic feast of the dead. Ozzy’s mother-in-law’s probably on her way to some mass pagan gathering at an obscure stone circle in the middle of Wales or someplace.

  Mid-morning, Grayle gives up. Maybe Sebold knows something but if he didn’t mention it yesterday he’s hardly likely to talk about it today. No obvious gossip on the Internet, either, even though she’s put some pointed and probably libellous suggestions into Google.

  Ozzy’s spent most of the morning reading in his room, a book he’s borrowed from the small library in the chamber: The Scole Experiment: Scientific Evidence for Life After Death. He makes tea in his room, misses breakfast but comes down for lunch. He’s a little quieter than usual; when people involve him in conversation he responds but doesn’t seem to be engaged.

  Later that morning Eloise goes to the darkest corner of the room and sits on the floor, eyes closed. She’s wearing a black velvet dress, and her fingernails are also painted black. You can almost hear the intake of Sebold’s breath as she shifts her position on the rug to something approaching lotus. Later she asks Cindy if he, like her, is aware of a brooding presence, something waiting.

  Grayle doesn’t hang around for Cindy’s answer. He’ll be evasive. She puts on her coat and carries her phone through a slow, cold drizzle, to the ash tree, planning to call Marcus. Too tired to ring him last night, after Defford.

  When she reaches the ash tree, she sees Jordan Aspenwall walking alone towards his knot garden. She follows him.

  ‘Jordan, I swear to God…’

  He says nothing. The rain hisses on the barn roof.

  ‘I did not dream this,’ Grayle says.

  She burrows in the straw, encountering only more straw. She feels ridiculous. Jordan watches her, impassive.

  ‘How many people do you have working here, Miss Underhill?’

  ‘Dunno. A hundred?’

  ‘I suppose some of them are bound to be devout.’

  ‘What, like they’re holding little religious services in the barn to protect their souls against what’s happening in the house?’

  He says nothing. Stupid of her not to take a few flash pictures of the makeshift altar.

  ‘There was also a picture. An old photograph, framed. Of a woman. Which I accidently broke. Heard it fall.’

  By the light of Jordan’s flashlight, she looks for broken glass on the barn floor. A floor which, the other night, was swept clean and is now padded with straw.

  Nothing.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ Grayle says.

  Too disheartened now even to ask him about the elder wood.

  Late afternoon, Roger Herridge is called into the chapel. No reason, it’s just his turn, and the director following his progress in the house says he could use some more about Roger’s mindset.

  ‘I’m a churchgoer, yes,’ Herridge says.

  Grayle doesn’t know why she asked this as a preliminary. Maybe the vanishing altar put it into her head.

  ‘Roger, how does faith in God equate with a belief in ghosts?’

  ‘Hmm. Not easily, as it happens. Not many ghost stories in the Bible. But, flimsy and transient as they are, ghosts do appear to be evidence of some form of afterlife. Perhaps the best we’re going to get during this one.’

  ‘But you’ve never experienced an apparition.’

  ‘No. As I’ve explained, it’s why I’m here.’

  ‘And why you exchanged rooms with Ashley Palk?’

  He looks resigned.

  ‘Yes, we did that. I offered to swap with Ozzy Ahmed, but he refused. Quite angrily. Ashley was more accommodating as long as there was fresh bedding.’

  ‘Ashley doesn’t believe that t
he soiled imprint on her pillow was any more than—’

  ‘Dirty laundry? I disagree.’

  ‘What do you think it was?’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think she probably wasn’t alone in the bed. Didn’t say that to her, of course. But time and place can overlap. Particularly in a room where something significant took place – or takes place. Continually.’

  ‘You’ve been in the room for two nights now. Has anything… occurred in that time?’

  Looking forlorn, Roger shakes his head.

  ‘Sound like an idiot, don’t I?’

  ‘You don’t sound too much like a politician,’ Grayle says before she can stop herself.

  Roger recoils.

  ‘All right, let me deal with that. I was a Lib-Dem MP. Always understood liberalism as a matter of providing enough money, through increased taxation if necessary, to give people the freedom to be what they want to be. Even if what they want to be doesn’t conform to what the majority of Liberals consider politically or morally acceptable. My fascination with ghosts has never endeared me to some of my colleagues who respect your right to a belief system but despise you for having one.’ Roger trembles slightly. ‘Don’t get me started. I think that, far from being nonsense, ghosts connect us with our past.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If we only experience history through old buildings, antique furniture, old books, we’re missing the reality of it. Emotions live on. Tragedy doesn’t go away. Nor does evil. Sometimes we’re side by side with our ancestors and our moods are affected by what they did. Think about it.’

  ‘Thank you, Roger.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Stepping down from the reality truck into a dimming afternoon she’s met in the mud by an apprehensive-looking Jo Shepherd.

  ‘Come with me, Grayle.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You need to see this. Although you didn’t see it, OK? I’m not supposed to share it. I’m not even supposed to have copied it.’

  They’ve given Jo a small cabin. One desk, one chair, one laptop, switched on. When they’re inside, Jo slams the door, locks it, waving Grayle to the chair as she fingers up a document. Steps back quickly as a solemn-faced dark-skinned woman appears on the screen.