A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  Michelle decided to return to London the following morning. The parting was cordial, (to a point), though our differences remained unresolved. Despite this I felt relieved. I didn’t really want her staying at High Bank. Why I personally felt compelled to remain I couldn’t say, although the reason would grow much clearer as events unfolded.

  The following day Gentleshaw visited. He was able to confirm what I suspected; Melinda, the name I had spoken in my sleep, was also that of Kayla’s mother. It was a shock, an understatement, but one I was prepared for. He told me something else, he said that Melinda had been pregnant with her second child when she decided to leave Willis and run away with Kayla. He described Melinda as a willowy blonde beauty who had a penchant for denim. Kayla, he said, was a carbon copy of her mother. I suddenly felt completely bereft.

  “A family portrait used to hang in the farm house living room,” he said in passing, “don’t know whether it’s still there though.”

  That afternoon following lunch, I phoned Michelle hoping to make amends for the fiasco of the previous night. She again demanded to know who Melinda was.

  “A ghost, she’s a ruddy ghost!”

  I didn’t say that of course. Instead I hinted that she might be a fan intent on stalking me. Michelle didn’t buy it. Who could blame her? We ended up arguing again.

  “Don’t call me, I’ll call you!” she snapped. It was on that sour note that the conversation ended. I was gutted, but determined to persevere in the hope she would eventually come round. I’d been a bloody fool, I realised belatedly. Common sense had more often than not fallen prey to alcohol and drugs and my own huge ego. Michelle truly cared for me, that much was now obvious even to me, and she always had. We could still make each other happy, I was convinced of it. I just hoped that that particular statement hadn’t already lapsed into the past tense.

  The cops inevitably paid another visit to the cottage. This time it was to inform me that they intended making an in depth search of the property and the surrounding area. I refused them permission to enter the house, the reason being that Irish continued to supply and I continued to buy. I couldn’t afford to get busted. The cops went away, vowing to return with a search warrant. The delay at least gave me time to get the gear off the premises. I asked Irish to collect and then store it away until the pressure had lifted. He obliged readily enough and when the cops returned, having been granted permission to search by the local judge, they entered a drug free zone.

  Sniffer dogs were brought in on this occasion as additional support. The cellar proved to be of great interest to the canines, not that it was all that surprising. Lennon had long since staked a claim to that particular room. Then, a few days later I received an unexpected visit from Mrs Corbett. She informed me that the police had contacted her in her capacity as owner of the property, to say that a forensic team would be visiting the place.

  “They think something is wrong with the cellar,” I informed her. “Their sniffer dogs got quite excited down there. Don’t be surprised if they decide to do some excavating.”

  Visibly alarmed, she said, “Do you really think it’s a possibility. Mr O’Shea?”

  “Yes I do. Two people have gone AWOL whilst resident at High Bank. The cops are under pressure to discover their whereabouts. The sniffer dogs have presented them with a lead, if you’ll excuse the pun. When you take into account the fact that a number of women vanished under similar circumstances a few years ago, and the then occupant of this house was a suspect, it makes sense that it should come under scrutiny.”

  Mrs Corbett, looking completely out of her depth, conceded I had a valid point.

  My attention was suddenly drawn to a powder blue people carrier travelling along the un-adopted road leading up to the cottage. It eventually slowed before drawing to a stop at the end of the driveway.

  “Looks like you have visitors,” Mrs Corbett remarked.

  My heart sank to the point of drowning. The side of the vehicle displayed the painted logo, Westward Television. Number 1 for News!

  A bloody news crew! That’s all I needed.

  The driver’s door opened and a man jumped out. He was around my age with cropped hair and thick Noel Gallagher eyebrows. (Nothing wrong there, unless of course you need to see)! He was dressed in a yellow shirt and tie, and green corduroy trousers. He had the word “jerk” written all over him.

  “I think I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs Corbett announced and turned to go.

  “No, wait,” I said. “I may need your help.”

  She looked at me curiously, an endearing little frown crinkling her brow.

  “Moral support,” I explained. “I don’t want them here. I’m the tenant and I’m aware of my rights, but you’re the owner. It would be helpful if you were a witness to events.”

  Mrs Corbett nodded in understanding.

  The man with the cropped hair and thick eyebrows approached. He was smiling in a particularly cheesy fashion. He reminded me of an unscrupulous door to door salesman.

  “Mr O’Shea?” he asked brightly.

  “You’re on private property,” I told him bluntly. “Please leave or I will call the police.”

  The smile wavered. “Not exactly welcoming are you.”

  “You’re not getting it,” I said, quickly losing patience. “I didn’t request your company and I have a right to privacy. Now, please go.”

  “We were hoping you would make yourself available for an interview,” he said extending a hand for me to shake.

  “I’m not giving interviews. Now please leave before I lose my temper.”

  The hand was withdrawn and the smile faded. “You mean you don’t want to give your side of the story?”

  “There is no story.”

  “I beg to differ, Mr O’Shea.”

  Behind him another man, tall with ginger hair, appeared from the rear of the vehicle holding a large flashy looking camcorder with a mini boom that could be shoulder mounted. At the same time the passenger door opened and a woman climbed out. She was in her thirties with a classy demeanour. She wore a smartly tailored beige trouser suit, complimented by a cream blouse. Her auburn coloured hair was pulled back in a rather severe bun. She wore tinted specs, (sexy specs I thought in typical male fashion). She reminded me of Palin. I only hoped she wasn’t as tenacious. Like her male colleague, she was smiling as she made her way over to me.

  “Marcia Climes,” she said, introducing herself. “And you must be the famous Johnny O’Shea?”

  “Like I said to your Mr Smooth, I’m not giving interviews.”

  The guy with the camera had joined us and was happily filming the scene as it unfolded. I waved a warning hand in his direction. “You can stop that right now mister or pay the consequences!”

  Beside me Mrs Corbett visibly blanched, sensing trouble was on the horizon.

  “What are your thoughts on recent events?” Marcia Climes asked, having somehow managed to produce a digital audio recorder out of thin air.

  “I don’t have any thoughts: I’m a dumb ass musician,” I said tensely. “Now for the last time, will you please go away; you’re trespassing.” I glanced at Mrs Corbett, hoping she would speak up in my defence, but she appeared to have developed an acute case of stage fright, staring into camera like a startled rabbit.

  “Do you think the disappearances are connected with those of yesteryear?” the Palin clone asked, holding the recorder up to my mouth so close I could’ve kissed it. At that point I made the mistake of pushing her hand away a little bit more roughly than I intended.

  Mr Smooth stepped forward, frowning deeply and with his chest puffed up, her knight in shining armour. “No need for that attitude Mr O’Shea. We’re only doing our job.”

  “Go do your job elsewhere,” I stormed. “I don’t want to talk to you. Now, do I make myself clear?”

  The cameraman stepped closer, a ginger blur behind the lens, in a courageous attempt to capture a close up.

  “How many times do I have to tel
l you,” I said rapidly running out of patience. “Turn that bloody thing off!”

  I half turned with the intention of retreating to the apparent safety of the cottage, when all of a sudden Mr Smooth said, “A question Mr O’Shea: have you finally managed to kick the drug habit?”

  That did it for me. I turned, grabbed his tie and pulled him so close our noses almost touched.

  “Apologise!” I screamed into his face.

  He stared at me in muted, wide eyed horror.

  “Mr O’Shea! Please!” the Palin clone intervened. “Control yourself; your behaviour is doing you no favours whatsoever.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the cameraman inch ever closer, while behind him I caught sight of a police patrol car pulling up in the driveway, presumably there to mount another search. They had arrived just in time to witness what they no doubt would describe as a violent incident.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” I groaned, releasing Mr Smooth and pushing him away. “Not now. Please God, not now.”

  Mrs Corbett gently tugged at my sleeve and suggested I go inside the cottage, while she talked to the reporters on my behalf.

  “I’m okay,” I told her stubbornly, “I can handle it.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Really, I’m okay.”

  As I was saying that, Mr Smooth decided to return to the people carrier in which he’d arrived, at which point he was approached by two uniformed police officers. Meanwhile, the Palin lookalike continued assaulting my ears with her insistent requests for an interview.

  “For the last time,” I said, feeling totally exasperated, “Leave me alone before I do something we’ll both regret!”

  It was then that the uniformed officers ended their conversation with Mr Smooth and made a beeline for me. I immediately felt my heart sink, already imagining accusations of assault being levelled at me.

  And that was precisely what happened.

  Down at the cop shop, which was fast starting to feel like my second home, I was cautioned and forced to make a statement, before being released back into a world I now viewed with deep mistrust and fear.

  “They arrested you!” Mike was disbelieving when I called him with the news. “How the hell did you manage to get yourself arrested?”

  “I just told you. I was provoked and I lost it. I’m human Mike, in case you hadn’t noticed. I have feelings and emotions, and I have buttons that can be pressed and that’s what happened today.”

  “Jesus H Christ!”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s the pits.”

  “You do realise this is going to make the headlines big time, don’t you?”

  “Can’t wait,” I said.

  “Tell me something: when you were a kid, did your mother never tell you that it’s sometimes a good idea to keep your head down?”

  “Don’t sermonise Mike. I’m not in the mood. I came to this damn cottage with the intention of doing exactly that, but like Lennon said, I refer of course to the late musician, not my dog, life happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

  “Quite the little philosopher, aren’t you,” Mike said.

  “Love you too, big fella.”

  “Michelle asked after you by the way, but made me promise not to tell you, so I haven’t.”

  “Haven’t what?”

  “Told you; you dummy.”

  “I messed up big time there, didn’t I Mike.”

  “Well, you know what they say, where there’s life, there’s hope.”

  “A case of watch this space,” I said keeping with the clichés.

  “Any further developments at High Bank: other than your arrest?”

  “Not at the moment. It’s all been a little normal and boring of late. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Let’s hope you haven’t tempted fate with that last statement,” Mike said. I got the impression he wasn’t joking.

  That evening I dared to watch the regional news on the antiquated television set that came with the cottage. The story of my arrest was quite low down on the agenda but it was there, and it was damning.

  “Ex pop star”, was how the newscaster referred to me. Ex! for chrissakes! The ruddy nerve!

  Film footage of the incident was shown, including the part where I half throttled Mr Smooth. The Palin twin gave her account of what happened with the objectivity of a tin pot dictator passing sentence on a defeated rebel, using words like “violent”, “attacked”, “launched”, and worst of all from my perspective, “psychotic”. The expose was a brilliant case study of character assassination, I thought hopelessly.

  My mother called the following day.

  “You heard then,” I said.

  “I think the whole world has, son.”

  “Sorry to bring shame on the family name yet again mom.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic.”

  “I was being sincere.”

  “You should leave that blessed cottage John. Leave as soon as you are able. It’s brought you nothing but trouble.”

  “Its home,” I said stubbornly.

  “Your home is here, if you want it to be.”

  “Thanks mom, that’s nice to know.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Other than regress me to age five so I can start my life again, no, unfortunately there isn’t.”

  “Well, take care, John. I’m always thinking of you, you know. Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a question.”

  “I’m fine mom. I’ll speak to you again soon.”

  I ended the call and headed directly into the kitchen, where I pulled a chilled bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, intending to drink the entire contents. It had been quite a day.

  Out walking Lennon the following morning, I got the uneasy feeling I was being spied upon. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way. It had been the case since Norris had published his piece about me in the local rag. At first I thought it was the birds. They seemed to be everywhere. Then I got to thinking it might be Norris himself keeping me under surveillance, or that maybe it was another journalist from some other newspaper. Or maybe it was a simple case of paranoia? I couldn’t really decide. But then, on the morning of which I speak, I saw a man loitering near the cottage, (not Norris, I realised, wrong build). When this man, whoever he was, sensed his cover was blown, he scarpered into the woods that led to the outskirts of Ashley, leaving me feeling confused and just a little unnerved, at the same time hoping he wasn’t some nutcase with a Chapman complex.

  “You’ll protect me won’t you Lennon,” I said to the retriever, and inwardly cringed at the terrible irony of those words.

  2.

  The time finally arrived when I was forced to contact the estate agent about the forthcoming auction of my apartment. The bank had foreclosed on me and it was now simply a matter of time before I knew my fate financially. Luckily I’d had the foresight to secure High Bank on a one year fixed lease, and in the process had managed to negotiate a discount from Mrs Corbett for paying up front. I’d been warned that the forced sale of the apartment would leave me stony broke, perhaps bankrupt me. The lease being fully paid up on the cottage at least meant I would retain a roof over my head, even if the roof in question was beginning to feel like it belonged to a prison. The agent gave me the auction date and I recorded it in my diary, intending to be present when the hammer fell.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was drizzling when I hit the outer London suburbs. Before I checked in at the apartment, which technically speaking remained mine until the end of the week, I paid a brief visit to Mike’s Regent Street office, hoping to see Michelle, only to be told that she was tied up in meetings all day.

  Mike was free however, and more than willing to see me. I took the opportunity to update him on events at High Bank following his last visit, including my rather off beat theory about Melinda and Kayla being spirits of the dear departed. He l
istened politely to what I had to say, (rather like a psychiatrist might listen to a patient, I couldn’t help thinking), but was reluctant to discuss the subject further. I suspect he was afraid to, given his own traumatic experience at the cottage. Or perhaps he’d decided in his own mind, either it hadn’t happened, or that my sanity had finally fallen fowl of reality. I guess with Mike, we were talking self preservation here.

  “Do you need any help getting your stuff moved into storage,” he asked, quickly moving the conversation on.

  “Can you spare some time right now?”

  “You ask a lot,” he said, already rising to his feet.

  And so, with thoughts of High Bank put to one side, at least for the time being, we jumped into my car and travelled over to the apartment to begin the onerous task of packing up the remainder of my personal effects. Time was of the essence. I was expected to vacate the apartment by Friday, removing myself, my furniture and personal effects by midday. The removal van was booked first thing in the morning. Temporary storage had been arranged in advance. The mortgagee wanted the place empty for the auction, which was arranged for Saturday afternoon, on site. Packing up was emotionally and physically tough. Mike sacrificed the whole day, staying until the job was done. The following morning, as arranged, my worldly goods were transported away and placed in storage.

  The day after saw the apartment go under the hammer. In the end I got cold feet and stayed away from the auction. Witnessing the process would have achieved nothing. To lose your home is upsetting enough, without the added drama of witnessing it take place first hand.

  Late that afternoon I was contacted by the acting estate agent, who informed me that the place went for the bank’s reserve price, a forced sale figure in other words, which meant I would have to make up the shortfall between the sale price and my debt to the bank, even though the bank was insured against such a loss. Sometimes life really sucks. I was going to be out of the property market for quite some time it seemed, unless I got lucky with my music again, and managed either to clear my outstanding debt or buy a place for cash.