by WR Armstrong
“You’re wrong,” I snapped, “I would’ve been five or six years old. I would remember.”
Russ took another photograph.
“Stop it,” I told him, “once more and you leave.”
He reluctantly lowered the camera.
Norris said, “You and your family stayed three weeks in this cottage.”
“How do you know? How do you know any of this?”
“Electoral records show you were resident here in Ashley at the turn of the decade and the owner of the cottage has reservation records going back to when she first rented the property out as a holiday home. Your family name is recorded in it at the relevant time.”
“I still don’t see why you’re trying to make a connection between my family and the disappearances, then or now,” I said.
Norris was matter of fact in his response. “You arrive here and people disappear... As a consequence I begin to wonder if there is a connection between those disappearances, any connection at all, and with the ones in the eighties. Strangely enough there is one and it is you. You, Mr. O’Shea are the common denominator in all of this.”
I stared incredulously. “Are you trying to say that I’m responsible in some way for all the disappearances that occurred here in the eighties?!”
Norris chuckled to himself. “Of course not: that would be ridiculous. But you have to admit it’s a helluva coincidence.” The reporter settled back in his seat, contemplative. And then: “Do you see much of your father nowadays, Mr O’Shea?”
“He’s dead,” I said automatically. “What the hell are you suggesting now? That he’s responsible for all the disappearances, past and present?” If you are, you must be crazier than you look! My father disappeared over twenty years ago: he was terminally ill at the time.”
Norris was impassive. “Where’s the actual proof you father is dead, Mr O’Shea?”
I frowned, hard. It was a searching question. Truth was; I didn’t have any. I simply took my mother’s word for it that he’d been terminally ill, and came to the conclusion that he must have died soon afterwards. But why on earth would my mother lie about him being terminally ill? Was it really possible that my father was a killer; my mother his willing accomplice? I found the idea ludicrous. Even if he was still alive and responsible for the past disappearances, how could he be responsible for the present ones, which, when it came right down to it, defied all things natural?
Norris straightened up, glanced at his photographer and then stood to go.
“Is that it?” I asked feeling cheated. Sure, Norris had kept his promise and given me information about my past that was lost to me, but I had expected closure. Instead, the information was frustratingly inconclusive and raised questions that may prove impossible to answer.
2.
Norris wasted no time in going to print with his exclusive on me. David phoned with the unwelcome news the following week.
“Have you seen the local paper John?”
When I told him I hadn’t, he said, “Then I think perhaps you should. There’s a feature in there about you.”
“What does it say?”
“Maybe you should read it yourself.”
“Give me the gist.”
“Very well: the title reads, “Pop Star with a Dark Secret.” Underneath is a photo of you standing outside High Bank looking as miserable as sin; like you may indeed harbour a dark secret.”
I inwardly groaned, already sensing Norris had done a number on me.
“They told me to look mean and moody,” I said referring to my dour photographic pose. “Tell me Dave, what exactly does the article say?”
He read it out to me. Norris had incorporated the exclusive interview I’d given him into a sensationalized story about the recent disappearances. He’d cleverly tied my past associations with High Bank in with my present visit, intimating that a member of my family may have involvement in the previous disappearances and that I had returned to continue the tradition. It wasn’t quite libel, but it was close.
Of course, I viewed the article as pure fantasy and only hoped the newspaper’s readership would too, However, I’m a realist and accept people tend to believe what they want to believe. Norris had written a very entertaining story based on that old journalistic principle of not letting the true facts stand in the way of a good story, a story which concluded by once again suggesting that a member of my family may have been responsible for the original disappearances. My mother, the axe murderer! I almost laughed at the notion and told myself to get serious. But the dream I’d had about the axe and the association I made between it and my mother bothered me greatly.
As soon as the conversation with David ended, I got on the phone to my beloved mother, determined to confront her with the information Norris had made available to me.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me about High Bank?” I asked once the niceties were out of the way.
At first she was reluctant to explain. Eventually however, my insistence paid off and she started to open up.
“I wished only to protect you,” she said kindly.
“What the hell from, mother. What the hell happened that was so terrible?”
She didn’t answer.
“Okay, let me put an easier question to you. Why did we leave Ashley?”
“Because your father got another job,” she explained simply. “He was always changing jobs. It was, I suppose, the nature of being a salesman at that time. Besides, he never seemed able to settle down. A bad case of itchy feet, I’m afraid.”
“What made us decide to holiday at High Bank?”
“It was your father’s idea. He liked the area, always had. In fact, when the cottage came up for sale following the owner’s suicide, he wanted to buy it but we failed to raise the money. He was bitterly disappointed.”
“Why don’t I remember the holiday?” I asked.
Mom hesitated to speak.
“Christ mom, it’s important. I need to know.”
“It proved to be rather a traumatic experience for you,” she said finally. “You see, while you were there, you created an imaginary friend. On one occasion you claimed that she’d taken you to the old chapel, where she’d shown you a secret entrance that led into an underground tunnel.” Mom fell silent. I had to encourage her to continue.
“This is very difficult,” she said faltering.
“I don’t care. It’s vital you tell me,” I urged.
“Your father was furious when he found out you’d been playing in such a place. He was naturally concerned you might have suffered an accident. He forbade you from going there ever again,” She paused at length before adding, “But you disobeyed him.”
“What happened?”
“You went missing, or rather you failed to return home one day. Your father and I searched high and low before we eventually found you.” There followed another lengthy pause. And then: “We discovered you cowering inside the building’s main hall. Plainly, something had terrified you. You had also sustained physical injuries. The examining doctor seemed to think you’d been attacked by a wild animal. We wondered if birds were the cause. You see, the chapel was full of them at the time you were discovered. Whatever happened in there traumatized you greatly. You had counselling in the form of psychotherapy, but you had no memory of the incident, or indeed your time at High Bank. Your father and I, under the guidance of the psychotherapist who treated you, let it lie, making a decision to tell you only if you should begin to remember. It seems the time has finally come.”
“You mean to say I never spoke of the incident?”
“No. When we found you in the chapel that day you made one single remark. You said Kayla wanted you to see something. Kayla was the name of your invisible friend.”
At that point I drew up a chair feeling the sudden need to sit down.
“Are you still there John?”
“Yes, I’m still here.” I quickly gathered my thoughts. “You never told me why dad left us?”
&
nbsp; A long awkward silence followed. “That’s because I really don’t know,” she said finally. “He’d always had cause to stay away overnight due to the nature of the work he did. I think you’re aware that at the time of his disappearance he was really quite poorly. The doctors held out little hope, but he refused to slow up. He was supposed to be away on business until the Friday of that week. Friday came round but he didn’t. He was reported missing of course. But as you know he has never been traced.”
“Was there ever any hint that he might make himself, well, vanish?”
“None: as far as I was aware our relationship was strong. Money was tight and we struggled to make ends meet, but what young family doesn’t? What do you think you will do John, now that you know?”
“I intend to stay here at the cottage; see this thing through to the bitter end,” I said without hesitation.
“Is that wise? Bearing in mind what you went through before and what is happening presently.”
“I have little choice,” I said.
I ended the conversation by saying I would be in touch to arrange a visit. Then I thought things over, at the same time hoping a miracle might occur allowing me to gain some insight, no matter how small, into what it was that motivated the restless dead.
2.
That evening I experienced a dire need to get out of the cottage. Leaving Lennon locked safely in the kitchen with food and water and the radio playing on low volume for company, I caught a taxi out to Ashley with the intention of visiting The Ship.
The taxi dropped me by the war memorial. It was bitterly cold. A thin layer of fresh snow covered the ground. I stepped from the car and shivered despite the thick overcoat I wore. I paid the driver and, imagining the looks I’d undoubtedly receive from the pub clientele, given the adverse publicity I was attracting to the area, I went in search of moral support in the form of David and Jenny.
The sodium lit streets were deserted. The cold air at least cleared my head. Turning into a narrow side street lined with terraced houses, carbon copies of the one David and Jenny resided in, I paused to get my bearings. Their street, I realised, ran parallel to this one.
I entered a dark back alley, hoping it would provide a short cut and spotted two lone figures approaching from the other end, faceless silhouettes holding hands. The distance shortened between us until I could make out their faces. It was David and Jenny.
“I was just on my way round to your place,” I told them. David greeted me with a broad smile while Jenny pecked me warmly on the cheek. I relaxed a little, feeling I was amongst friends. We walked back the way I’d come, emerging beneath a tall street lamp that cast an oily shadow at its base. More snow threatened. A few solitary flakes spilled from the heavens. One landed on Jenny’s nose. She brushed it away with a gloved hand and sneezed.
“Fancy a drink,” I asked hopefully.
They looked at each other. David said he’d be delighted, but Jenny took a rain check: jobs to do back at home.
“Homework,” she said, “the joys of being a school teacher.” She wished me goodnight, kissed David and hurried down the street, head down and arms folded against the chill air.
The pub was crowded and although I received the odd unwelcome stare, it didn’t really bother me to the extent I thought it would. As a performer, I guess I’m used to unwelcome attention. While David was at the bar getting served, I managed to secure a corner table. Sitting down I suddenly found myself contemplating the idea of gaining entry to Manor Farm to see if the photograph Gentleshaw had mentioned, containing the images of Melinda, Kayla and Martin Willis, still occupied a place on the living room wall. Did I really want to see that photograph? Damn right I did. A little Dutch courage was called for first however.
The fire blazed fiercely in the grate, making the room uncomfortably warm. David returned with the drinks, two pints of locally brewed bitter, and sat down. As we drank, we discussed the disappearances, going over old ground, trying to come up with an explanation for what had happened, but it was useless. The conversation dwindled. I glanced around the bar. A game of darts was in progress. The old Doors classic, “Come on Baby Light my Fire”, blared out from high level speakers. I considered telling David about the conversation I’d had with my mother, but for some reason decided against it. I guess I still hadn’t come to terms with the revelation myself.
I spotted the ex pugilist, Bill Willis, enter the pub. He took up his customary position at the bar and ordered a drink. He glanced over in my direction, but showed no sign of recognition. Just as well, I thought and tried my best to ignore him.
David and I chatted over drinks for another hour before finally he announced he must return home. Following his departure, I indulged in one last beer before venturing out into the cold night air myself, where I waited for my pre-booked taxi. When it failed to arrive I decided to walk. The evening was crisp and clear. I calculated High Bank was slightly less than a mile from Ashley. Walking on such a crisp clear night would, I thought, make for a pleasant experience. It would also give me a chance to think things through coherently.
The road leading from Ashley to High Bank was a straight level one. For some reason it occurred to me that Ashley church, which fronted the road, was perfectly aligned to High Bank. I recalled Jenny describing how the area of Ashley was built along ley lines and started to see things from a slightly different perspective. I tried to picture the geographical position of Manor Farm, the chapel, the folly and the crofter’s cottage in relation to High Bank, and realized that High Bank was central to all of these buildings, which was curious, given the buildings were designed and built by one man. Recalling Ebenezer Grimshaw’s interest in astrology and the occult, I seriously wondered if there was more to it than pure coincidence.
Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my coat, I started walking. As I drew level with Ashley church I paused and gazed across the road at the dark bleak looking graveyard, recalling Gentleshaw’s comment that the late Martin Willis was interred there. Suddenly curious to see the grave of the prime suspect in the case of the original “missing three”, I altered course and headed over.
The street lamp nearest the church gate was vandalized, so I allowed myself to be guided by moonlight. The graveyard was small and well ordered. I began my search in methodical fashion starting from the front row of headstones, before gradually working my way towards the back wall. I reached the midway point and paused momentarily.
It was then that I was attacked: grabbed forcibly by the hair, and punched repeatedly in the face. I fell back cracking my head against what I suspect was a gravestone and experienced blinding pain.
I remember staring up at the sky, bleary eyed, on the verge of losing consciousness and seeing a figure bear down on me. And then a voice, sharp and accusatory cut through the night air.
“It was all forgotten until you arrived,” it sneered. “You were warned, but you didn’t listen, so now you’ll learn the hard way. For the last time, leave the past where it belongs, in the past!”
Just when I thought the worst was over, the figure crouched over me and let fly with another punch to the face. That was the last thing I remember before coming round to find myself lying spread eagled on top of an old grave. I gazed skywards until my head cleared sufficiently for me to regain my feet. Tentatively, I pressed fingertips against my face, which felt as if it’d been stamped on. The back of my skull was sore and tender from the fall I’d taken. I could taste blood. My lips and nose were sore and felt swollen. My assailant had done a pretty good job on me.
As full awareness finally returned, I made my way slowly over to a graveyard bench, where I sat and rested until I was reasonably confident I could make it home on foot without blacking out. Minutes later, I rose achingly to my feet and began walking.
Before returning to the cottage I kept the promise I made to myself and gained entry to Manor Farm. It wasn’t difficult. One of the low level rear windows was no longer boarded. It was just a matter of climbing through,
whilst avoiding the jagged pieces of glass jutting from the window frame. The living room where Gentleshaw said the portrait of Melinda and her family used to hang was directly off the main hall. It was the room in which Melinda had argued with her father in my dream, (dream or spectral vision, I now wondered).
I entered that dark forgotten room full of trepidation. With no torch at hand, I was forced to call upon my cigarette lighter to provide the necessary light to see by. Roughly a dozen pictures of varying sizes adorned the walls. I carefully removed them to the back of the house and settled down by the window through which I’d entered. Here the lighter’s flame was aided by a faint spill of moonlight, allowing me to examine them for their content in some detail. After five disappointments, (one of which happened to be an engraved image of the infamous Lord Ebenezer Grimshaw, an ugly squat man with dark close set eyes), the sixth picture revealed the jackpot.
I scrutinised it for a long time, barely able to believe my own eyes. It was sepia, in poor condition and, according to the inscription on the accompanying plaque, showed the village high street as it was in the late seventies: the focal point being the green and the war memorial. A Ford Cortina was parked outside the butchers. Incredibly, David’s hardware store was in frame, in the right hand corner. The name above the door was just legible, reading simply, Frank Thomas. David was yet to add the Son, to the business name. A few local residents milled about and a black dog sat outside a shop. Across from the dog an elderly woman walked with the aid of a cane, while in the background two men stood on a corner, like mannequins, chatting.
But it was the young couple in the foreground, walking along the high street with the little girl between them that captured my attention and my imagination: Melinda and Kayla. The man accompanying them, I assumed, must be the ill fated Martin Willis. Here was evidence enough that all I’d experienced at High Bank was real, albeit in an unreal sense, in that the Melinda who existed in the present was in every physical sense the exact same Melinda who’d lived in the area a quarter of a century before, which of course was wholly impossible. The same went for Kayla, who, given the time lapse, should be of middle age by now.