by WR Armstrong
Friends from yesteryear helped me drown my sorrows. Key members of my old band, they were rock and roll diehards who’d started playing during their teens, having seen music as a passport to untold fame and wealth. Somewhere along the way the dream faded and reality inevitably kicked in. Nowadays they relied on session work and gigging around to pay the bills.
Des Ryan was a drummer and a hell raiser, with a penchant for big-breasted blondes. Michelle hated him with a vengeance, claiming he was a bad influence on me, and she was probably right. Where he led I’d always tended to follow. Although those days were long gone, or so I tried to tell myself, he was nevertheless the first person I called when I knew I’d be in the capital to sort out my affairs. A case of old habits dying hard, I guess. Des also happened to be a big fan of the occult. When I told him about the craziness that had been happening up at High Bank, he was intrigued and keen to see the place for himself.
The other members of my old band, Steve Stevens, a bassist and Brent Fairbrother, a keyboard player of some note, proved rather less enthusiastic however.
“That kind of shit gives me the creeps,” Steve maintained as we sat around a table in an east end pub, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. “Personally I don’t know what the fascination is.”
“It’s all hokum if you ask me,” Brent commented. “There’s no such thing as the hereafter. It’s all bollocks.”
Des fervently disagreed, going so far as to suggest a séance might be in order. “If there is anything afoot, holding a séance will get to the bottom of things. If you make contact, you’ll make progress. Trust me.”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” I told him. “I’ve heard stories of people going nuts from dabbling in the occult. Wasn’t there a famous case of a group of occultists dying when they called on the dead?”
“You’re talking about Alistair Crowley,” he said knowledgeably.
“Who is Alistair Crowley?” Steve asked. He looked to me for guidance, but I could only shrug in ignorance.
Des came to the rescue, saying, “He was known as the Beast. He was purported to be the wickedest man in the world. He and his disciples tried to raise the god Pan, to their detriment. The venture ended in death and insanity.”
“Sounds like the music business,” Steve chipped in.
“What happened to Crowley?” Brent asked, raising his pint mug to his lips.
“He survived,” said Des, “but the story goes he was a broken man.”
“And you want to hold a séance knowing that kind of thing can happen?” I said incredulously.
Des merely shrugged. “It’s just a story, man. There’s nothing to say it was due to a supernatural event. They were probably crazy to start with.” He smiled and winked his eye at me. “Come on John, let’s give it a try, what do you say? If nothing else, it’ll be a good excuse for a party.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, irritated by his offhandedness. “Two people have gone missing from that cottage, with no explanation.”
“But you’ve survived and you’re still living there,” he shot back. “How do you explain that little conundrum?”
I glanced around the table and then sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“How come you haven’t left?” Steve asked. It was a good question and, truth be known, one I was unable to answer to my own satisfaction, let alone anyone else’s.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I answered lamely.
“What about Michelle,” Des asked.
“She’s disowned me. It would be difficult for me to leave regardless. The cops have more or less ordered me to stay put for the time being.”
“I’m curious as hell to see this cottage, John,” Des insisted. “Humour me, why don’t you. Let me spend a night at this latter day Borley Rectory and make me a happy man?”
I frowned in bemusement. “What the hell is Borely Rectory?”
“It’s supposed to be the most haunted house in England,” Des said. He smiled at me again. “So, can I stay the night or not?”
Against my better judgment I agreed.
He insisted on bringing along a couple of bimbo’s for the ride, so to speak. At first glance they could’ve passed for twins, but that was due mainly to the bleached hair and figure hugging outfits they wore. One claimed she’d starred in a couple of skin flicks. The other, whom Des referred to as Roxy, and who was the slightly taller of the two, claimed she was a glamour model—which probably amounted to the same thing—and part time waitress who was in “development” whatever the hell that meant. I had trouble remembering their names and came to think of them as Pixie and Dixie.
They had no trouble making themselves at home. Having changed out of their travelling gear into T shirts and track pants, they proceeded to laze around the place drinking wine and watching daytime television, with Des in close and intimate attendance at all times.
“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” I told him privately on one of the rare occasions he was out of their company. He stared at me as if I was insane and said, “Are you kidding? You’re a young single man holed up in a remote cottage with two beautiful females, who are intent on getting sloshed out of their tiny minds and you don’t think it’s such a good idea? What’s wrong with you John, have you turned?”
“Don’t be stupid,” I said, but could think of no rational argument to counter his comments without admitting I was pining for Michelle, and I didn’t want to do that for fear of ridicule.
I excused myself and retreated to the attic room where, I attempted to compose, but it was hopeless. My thoughts centred entirely on Michelle. She’d refused to take my calls or respond to my e-mails or texts. I was desperate to fix things between us, (a case of you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, as Mike had so rightly said), but I was being denied the opportunity.
And then, completely out of the blue, the phone rang and it was her.
“I was just thinking about you,” I said, almost tripping over my words in my eagerness to engage her in conversation.
“This is a business call,” she said sounding disappointingly detached. “Mike insisted I call you to discuss dates for a possible national tour next year. I’ll be honest John, I didn’t want to, but Mike more or less ordered me: said it was my job and I was being unprofessional in refusing. So, I am being professional.” She proceeded to talk me through proposed dates and venues for a late autumn tour, which she said all hung on whether or not I came up with new material of a standard acceptable to the record company.
“How is the writing going anyway,” she asked presently.
I saw the question as a chance to turn the conversation around to us and said, “I’d make better progress if we were an item Michelle. Can’t we at least talk?”
“Let’s keep this on a business footing,” she said bluntly. I played ball and told her about the songs I’d recently come up with, of which there were just two. It’d been difficult with all the distractions.
“Apply yourself; John,” she advised when I finished making excuses for the lack of progress. “You’re one of the most talented musicians in the business. If only you didn’t let yourself down, you could be up there with the best of them.”
I sensed she was softening. “Thanks Michelle,” I said, “You saying that means a lot.”
Just then Des entered the room, unannounced.
“You staying up here all night big boy?” he asked loudly. Behind him on the landing Pixie and Dixie giggled like excitable school girls. Clamping a hand firmly over the phone’s mouth piece I shooed him away, whilst hoping Michelle hadn’t heard the two bimbos.
“Who have you got with you?” she asked suspiciously.
“Des,” I said, (and a couple of hookers, I could have easily added).
“What’s he doing there?” She sounded contemptuous.
“I bumped into him when I was in London for the sale of my flat.”
“You don’t just bump into people like Des,” she s
aid. “You have first to lift the stone.”
“We met up for a drink if you must know.”
“And now he’s staying with you?”
“Just for the weekend,” I said: “Why the keen interest?”
“It’s purely professional,” she insisted. “People like Des take advantage of people like you. This agency has a vested interest in you John. If you mess up we stand to lose a lot of money and that is avoidable, so long as you resist people like Des. Get it?”
“I understand,” I said feeling like Michelle’s subordinate. I had never appreciated how assertive and focused she could be; traits I found extremely attractive. Had I really been so out of it for so long?
“Gotta go,” she said.”Look after yourself John. Oh, I nearly forgot; a reporter called Norris has been plaguing us with calls and e-mails. He’s after an exclusive, says you’ve agreed in principle, but that you told him to clear it with us.”
“That’s a lie,” I said. “He broke and entered and then harassed me for an interview. When I kicked him out, he wrote that nasty little piece in the local rag.”
“You may want to talk to him regardless,” Michelle said surprising me.
“He’s been digging around and told me to tell you he’s learned a couple of things that may interest you.”
“I somehow doubt it,” I said stubbornly.
“He sounds like a sly little so and so,” Michelle said confidentially.
“Stones don’t just hide wayward musicians,” I said trying to connect.
“Just make sure you don’t end up there with them,” she countered.
“Sounds like you care.”
“I care about my job, John. Oh, and by the way…”
“Yes Michelle?”
“Make sure you don’t end up paying for the groupies Des brought along with him.”
“There are no groupies,” I said, calling her bluff.
“I dare say I’ll be speaking to you again John; Mike won’t allow me not to.”
The line went dead. I put the phone down feeling elated that we had spoken, yet bitterly disappointed by the outcome of the conversation. Thoughts of Michelle, who was presently out of my reach, were replaced by those of Pixie and Dixie, who were fully available. They were both very attractive, were aware of their sexuality, and as Des so rightly said, were ready and willing, and they were in my house! I was sorely tempted. Then I thought about Michelle again. I’d been a fool and was in danger of paying the price, but as the saying goes, all was not lost.
Hope springs eternal I thought. I’d misbehaved in the past and Michelle had forgiven me, so why not again, especially when there was nothing for her to forgive regarding the woman, Melinda, as nothing had happened. Nor could it have, for I was of the firm opinion that she was as incorporeal as fresh air. I was of the growing belief that she haunted High Bank and that I was inexplicably linked to both her and to her young daughter. The cottage and I had something in common it seemed.
We were both haunted.
There was a light rap at the door. I turned to see Pixie...or was it Dixie... standing there. “Can I come in, hon,” she asked, smiling sweetly. “Only Des is busy with Roxy and I’m lonely. How about we have a little drink together?”
I made my excuses: editing work to do. She looked hurt, but that didn’t stop her sauntering over and perching herself on the arm of the chair I occupied. As she did so the long silken gown she now wore parted, revealing a smooth shapely thigh. She made no attempt to cover her modesty, preferring instead to run her fingertips along the nape of my neck.
“Why did Des call you “big boy”,” she asked, leaning in.
“I have no idea,” I said, clearing my throat.
The fingers moved from my neck, across to my shoulder and then down my arm.
“You know what they say about all work and no play,” she whispered into my ear. I could smell wine and peppermint on her breath; a combination I found strangely alluring.
“Well,” she said when I failed to answer. The fingers returned to my neck and lightly massaged.
“Is that nice?”
I cleared my throat again. “If I’m to be honest, I find it a little bit distracting,” I said, pretending to tune a guitar. My experienced fingers suddenly fumbled for the right strings, causing them to twang tunelessly against the fret board. I swore under my breath.
She gave a little giggle. The expert fingers kept working my neck, gently pulling and pushing. The feeling was pleasant, more than that, it was exciting. I felt my resolve begin to weaken.
Get a grip, I told myself. For God’s sake get a grip! I simply could not afford to give into temptation. To do so would ultimately ruin any chance I might have of reconciliation with Michelle, who would discover my indiscretion because that’s how things worked. I concentrated on the guitar and just about managed to control my emotions.
“Des reckons we’re going to hold a séance later on,” she said softly. “Are you going to join in?”
“Maybe,” I replied, although the idea was growing less appealing by the minute.
“Can’t wait,” she said excitedly. And then: “What exactly is a séance?”
I glanced at her in mild amazement.
“It’s when the living attempt to contact the departed,” I said wondering if I was the butt of a joke.
“Scary,” she responded with a sexy little shudder. “Will you protect me if things get out of hand John?”
“Of course,” I said with an air of nonchalance I didn’t feel. I put down the guitar. Concentration was impossible. My determination to remain celibate over the weekend was now faltering to the point where Pixie, (I’d decided Roxy was Dixie), would almost certainly be victorious.
Her fingers left the nape of my neck and found the curve of my jaw. I felt the weight of her breast against my shoulder. Her lips found the top of my head.
And then...
My mobile phone rang out, mercifully breaking the spell.
It was Michelle again.
“One moment,” I uttered into the phone’s mouthpiece and scurried from the room before Pixie had chance to spoil things. I bounded down the stairs and left the house, ending up in the driveway, shivering from the bitter cold.
Having apologized for disturbing me again Michelle said, “That reporter I mentioned earlier. He’s driving us crazy. He says to tell you that he doesn’t know why you denied visiting High Bank in the past and couldn’t help wondering if it’s because you have something to hide. What does he mean John?”
I turned my back against the icy breeze, whilst trying to fathom what the hell Norris thought he could gain from his wild accusations. Was he simply trying to provoke me or was there more to it than that? Had he really uncovered evidence that I’d visited High Bank before and if it were true, why in God’s name was I unable to remember?
“Did he say anything else?” I asked.
“He keeps demanding an exclusive,” Michelle said. “What do you want me to say?”
“Leave him to me,” I said, remembering I still had his card. I ended the call and happened to glance up at the attic room window. Pixie stood behind the glass observing me. At least I thought it was Pixie. But it couldn’t have been Pixie, because only moments later I found her sitting in the lounge quietly reading.
I did a double take, (a kind of “how the hell did you get down here so fast” double take). It must have been Dixie I’d seen. I raced back upstairs into the attic room to find it deserted.
Only that wasn’t true, I soon realised.
Something was moving, crawling around beneath the synthesiser. At first I thought it must be some kind of animal, but its movement was all wrong. I looked more closely and was suddenly hit by the horrifying realisation that it was the strange doll like creature belonging to Kayla. Not a doll, I reminded myself. Something dead and rotten, a cadaver no less: human remains as I thought of it on the night of the Halloween party.
I watched incredulously as it slipped away behind a r
emoval box, leaving a thin trail of what looked alarmingly like blood in its wake. When it failed to reappear after a second or so I kicked the box away, prepared to destroy it, but it was gone. It had simply ceased to exist.
For what seemed like a long time, I was unable to move. It was the shock I guess. The spell was finally broken by the sound of birds cawing furiously. I gazed through the window just in time to observe a lone figure hurrying off in the direction of Manor Farm, pursued by those riotous birds.
It was Melinda out there, I was sure; mother to Kayla and to that which I’d witnessed crawling around blindly and without purpose, moments before. I slammed a frustrated fist against the windowsill. Clues, I was being given clues, but was too damn stupid to interpret them.
I somehow dragged myself back to the present and my thoughts returned to my other problem, namely the reporter, Norris. What the hell was he up to, hounding me as if I were a common criminal? I had to get to the bottom of it, find out what his game was. I started rifling through the desk drawers for his business card, eventually finding it tucked away beneath a pile of sheet music. I got his mobile phone number and dialled. He answered on the third ring.
“I thought that would get your interest,” he said when I confronted him on the subject of whether or not I’d lied about visiting High Bank previously.
“When can we talk?” he asked coming straight to the point.
“How about right now, on the phone,” I said.
He gave a disappointed sigh and said, “I admire your style Mr O’Shea. I do all the donkey work and you reap the benefit. It doesn’t quite work that way, I’m afraid.” He fell silent.
“Then tell me how it does work?” I said, irritated by his supercilious manner.
“Invite me over,” he said. “We can talk like civilised human beings. You give me the exclusive I’ve asked for on your comeback and I’ll respond in kind, by enlightening you on your forgotten past.” He paused briefly, before adding, “That is of course if you’re telling the truth about suffering amnesia with regard to your association with Ashley and more importantly, High Bank Cottage.”