Harvest

by Steve Merrifield

  Rachel appeared caught and avoided his stare, glancing to the floor of the lift, busying herself by unnecessarily adjusting the strap of her handbag on her shoulder before looking ahead to the door. Kelly spoke a silent thank you to Craig in her head.

  “The Chambers have had some activity in their flat…” Rachel gave in and faced them both. “I’m pretty sure I am talking to sceptics, so I won’t bore us all by wasting explanations that you won’t accept…” There was a twinkle in her eye that softened her snipe.

  “Hey, I’m the believer, she’s the sceptic…” he defended light-heartedly.

  Kelly cocked her head to one side, shrugged and flashed a smile in acceptance of her title. “Comes with the job.”

  “They have had some strange events centred on Amy. It can happen in times of stress, especially with children. That’s why they asked me to come and offer them some insight.”

  “So back there you suggested a priest for purposes other than spiritual comfort,” Kelly concluded, now feeling even more uncomfortable with Rachel and the priest’s involvement.

  “Yes, quite. Probably not in the manner that you imagine though. A blessing of the property can help sometimes, but in my opinion it is not through the power of the priest or his religion, but the psychological effect it can have through the beliefs of the spirits or those experiencing phenomenon. The Chambers have agreed to let us hold a bit of a stakeout with some equipment, to try and prove they aren’t going mad.”

  “Don’t you think it’s’ poor timing…” Kelly had intended a breezy challenge but her abruptness betrayed her distaste.

  “Yes, I did explain to them that it does mean taking over the flat, which I don’t think is fair on the little girl. My technical boy can sort something out so the only imposition will be the presence of the cameras, and we can record and watch the footage from a distance, but I am not sure of the range.”

  “You mean transmitting the image remotely?” Craig jumped in, to which Rachel nodded. “I did a lot of work with different cameras when I was at university, nothing too high-tech, but I know my way around.”

  Kelly spotted that Craig had suddenly become fidgety; preparing himself another angle for involvement?

  “So there you go; that’s my explanation.” Rachel smiled at them both in turn before returning her gaze to the doors.

  Kelly found some amusement in Rachel not taking Craig’s bait and the briefest expression of disappointment on his young face.

  He wasn’t deterred; “I wouldn’t mind helping. I am only two floors up from Claire so you wouldn’t have to worry too much about boosting the frequencies. You could do your little stakeout in my flat. Make up for me thinking you might be a crank and dragging the law down on you.”

  “Don’t make me out to be your ogre!” Kelly laughed, but her face was burning.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to be any inconvenience to you.” Rachel waved his offer away.

  “Seriously, it’s no worry,” Craig said dismissively with an open-handed gesture. “Could be fun.”

  Rachel rooted around in her voluminous bag. “That’s very nice of you.” She broke her concentration and paused briefly in her search. “It’s also nice to know you don’t think I am mad…” Her arm rooted through her hoarded belongings. “We should exchange phone numbers.” She pulled out her purse and a chunky mobile phone and after some fumbling and balancing of the items she carried she produced a scrap of paper from her purse. “I have a pen here somewhere…”

  “Why don’t you put me on your mobile?” Craig suggested after some time passed in Rachel’s search.

  “If I knew how to switch the blasted thing on, that would be a very good idea.” She produced a pen and beamed triumphantly. “Aha!”

  The lift came to a halt and Rachel stepped out onto the ground floor, folded the piece of paper with Craig’s phone number scrawled on it, and stuffed it into her purse. “Well, thank you both for showing me down, and thank you again for the offer of your flat. I will call you tonight.”

  Rachel made her goodbyes and Craig activated the buzzer that released the door, which now worked. He held the door open for Kelly, but she held back and when Rachel was out of earshot she spoke. “You’re buying into what Rachel said?” she asked him incredulously.

  Craig shrugged innocently. “I have an open mind.”

  His motive was obvious. “You’re a crafty basta–” She abruptly stopped her playful abuse; the familiarity was alien and uncomfortable. She hadn’t been as relaxed with a man since Ian. She was shocked that after all this time of being self-restrained she had slipped past her own defences; it felt dangerous but frighteningly seductive.

  Craig shrugged. “Well – as odd as the whole situation is, it’s about as close to the story as I’m likely to get.”

  Despite her own reservations that screamed against being involved, Kelly experienced a sudden flush of disappointment, feeling left out. “So, do I get mixed up in your obvious ploy to be at the heart of the action?”

  “Ask me nicely and you can come too.” Craig winked, obviously happy to have turned the tables and have her fishing for involvement. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your police professionalism…”

  Kelly bit her tongue. He had a cheeky streak. “All right then. Thank you. But if you end up printing anything I wasn’t even there, okay?”

  “Hey, you still haven’t actually asked me if you can come to my place yet.”

  There was flirtation in his tone. Kelly observed Craig warily. His smiling bravado, the coy swagger of his head as he spoke, the shameless twinkle in his blue eyes and his flirtatious tone complimented by his lilting west-country accent stirred a warmth deep within her that frightened her. A fluttering heat she hadn’t allowed herself. She was swimming out of her depth and in panic she lashed out to recover a stroke towards a more manageable depth. “Look, I’m not going to beg you, Craig. If you don’t want to do this partner –” the word “partner” stung her like an angry wasp and caused her to fluster, “partner-thing then just say.”

  Craig apologised and stepped back defensively, obviously thrown by her sudden frustration. “Okay! Okay. Come along. And if I get anything out of this I won’t mention you.”

  The panic was evident on Craig’s face as he tried to fathom where he had gone wrong. It wasn’t his wrong at all. She shamefully realised her outburst had probably sabotaged yet another possible friend, and she experienced a bruising anguish for actually caring. Could men and women just be friends anyway? However, the status quo had been restored and the anxiety caused by her familiarity had subsided.

  “How about we go for a coffee after you finish your shift, get to know each other so we don’t rub each other the wrong way? My treat. How does that sound? The Ice Wharf is nice. Do you know it?”

  She knew it. It was a large glass fronted bar in the centre of Camden beside the canal, between the green iron Chalk Farm bridge loaded with tourists and the hump-backed coble bridge that reached into Camden’s famous bustling market. The pubs terrace looked out over the locks, you could sit and watch the narrow boats come and go, or watch the crowds passing by. A good venue for a date.

  Kelly stared impassively through him, as if her eyes were on glass, then she looked away. She couldn’t. “Sorry, I have plans tonight,” she lied apologetically. Her feet flinched, caught between two opposing urges; to go and escape, or to stay in this moment and see where it led. To tempt him and herself. “I’d better go. I have work and I’m already late.” She walked away, apologising blandly over her shoulder.

  Chapter Eight

  Craig approached the door of his flat mulling over the new things the day had brought him. He felt some satisfaction with getting a little closer to a story, yet what the story was he couldn’t be sure. He prayed it wasn’t a story suited to the National Enquirer or Daily Sport.

  The mystery of Kelly’s abrupt hostility still troubled him. He had replayed the scene over and over again in his head. He had been himself,
maybe familiar and playful, but as far as he could see he hadn’t said anything she could take objection to. He mourned the lost opportunity of being with someone. He had always thought the Ice Wharf would make a great spot for a date. Camden had some great bars and restaurants for a date, and he had always wanted to go to the Round House and see a gig, or catch a comedy show.

  The last time he had sat down for a drink with a girl was with Vicki at the Devonshire Arms. The Dev was a goth/alternative pub, full of waiflike moonfaced people with thick black eye makeup, faces glinting with piercings and clothes ranging from Victoriana to Matrix punk, the thrashing music louder than the rainbow range of hair colours of the punters. It had been an excuse for Vicki to check out the drug scene for a potential story. A story that didn’t even make it onto her PC as the drug scene was hardly news in Camden, and ended up with Vicki drinking him under the table after seven pints of Snakebite. Not the experience he had hoped for with Vicki.

  Keying the door open, he pushed his way into his flat, but before he could make it inside he was distracted by the sound of steps closing in on him in the corridor. A man, giant in all directions, dressed in brown cord trousers and a tweed jacket came to a pause near his door. The man, who appeared to be in his late thirties, caught Craig’s eye with a nod. “Sorry,” he said, then rested his second chin heavily on his open collar and nudged his black-rimmed glasses back into place on his podgy ursine face and checked through a fat diary brimming with a clutter of notes. He closed it and held it close to his extended belly. “Do you live here? Do you know your neighbour Harry Crabb?”

  Craig paused, half-in his flat, thinking it was obvious that Craig lived there as the man had just seen him use his key. “Er – Yeah.”

  “Oh, good,” he breathed heavily, swiping beads of sweat from his brow. “I was meant to meet him. I was buzzing him from outside but he doesn’t seem to be in. Have you seen him today?”

  Craig carefully looked over the man whose very clothes exuded the same dampness that gave his skin its clammy unhealthy appearance. “Yeah, he was in the lobby earlier. Why?”

  “Oh, I’m Scott Bray, his social worker. I don’t suppose you know how he is getting on?”

  Craig shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t really see him about very much, but he was being a bit weird today.” Craig related Rachel’s trouble with Harry. “Is he care in the community?”

  “No, no. I’m just checking that he is looking after himself and his flat that’s all. I will have to catch him another time then. Listen, Mr Crabb tends to avoid me, so if you ever have reason for concern or complaint for Mr Crabb I would appreciate it if you would give me a call.” He pulled a card out of his pocket, his large hand turning his pocket inside out in the process, scattering cotton lint and sweet wrappers.

  Craig nodded his goodbye and closed the door on him, trying to shake the sticky calling card from his fingers.

  He might not have managed to get Kelly to go for a drink with him, but at least she would be coming round later for the stakeout, and he might get to know her better. Suddenly, Benchman his headmaster at secondary school came into his mind at the thought of the stakeout, and his mood plummeted. Why was he playing around with a stakeout for ghosts? He needed serious work. He made himself a mug of tea and sat down at his kitchen table. He did some mental maths, working out the incoming cash he would be getting against his outgoings. It was okay, it would be tight but he could get through for the next couple of months. His calculations didn’t cheer him and in the quiet of his flat he felt the need for company to comfort him, unsure of what to do with himself. He thought of Vicki, but remembered she would be working. His brother Darren would be working, but he didn’t really want to speak to him anyway, he would only echo their parent’s advice for him to give up on his London life and go home. He considered checking MSN, but he wanted to physically be with someone. His neighbour Virtue might be home with her little boy, she had said to call in anytime, but he didn’t fancy it. And the list of people came to an abrupt end. More fed up, he decided to trawl through the Internet for some free porn.

  Deborah Symmonds was stretched out on the bed, propped upright by the adjustable bed facing the ultrasound equipment. Waiting. She held on to her husband’s hand in the subdued quiet of the room at the Royal Free hospital. The noise of the corridor outside the private room was muted in her distraction.

  “Ouch – Honey! I think you’re breaking my hand…” Gary smiled in sympathy of her anxiety.

  “Sorry, babe…” Deborah released her grip and shifted her weight on the firm mattress, the disposable paper sheet beneath her crackled noisily. The memory of her nightmare was vivid in her mind. Waking in her dream she had been unable to move, a weight had been pressing down on her chest, something invisible pressing her down. A green light played across the ceiling, something was in the glow, something solid and moving. Only able to move her eyes she hadn’t been able to see whatever it was, although she knew if she had she might have lost her mind. It had been a nightmare, but all day the memory of the thing that had visited her, just out of sight around her bump, had haunted her. “I’m just nervous.” She rubbed her free hand over the naked bump of her abdomen. The skin was tight and distended. “I’ve been five months and it has felt right up until now – but now there’s something wrong…” She frowned at the frustration of not being able to explain the feeling she had inside of her since she had awoken that morning.

  “You haven’t miscarried this time.” Gary’s hand joined hers affectionately over her stomach.

  Deborah sighed with hurt. “What do you mean, ‘this time’?” She snatched her hands free of his in protest.

  “Darlin’!” he placated as he retook her hand in a tight reassuring grip. Before he could explain himself the door to the cluttered white room sprung open.

  The young oriental nurse returned, stretching latex gloves onto her hands and pinching bangs of black hair behind her ears. “I got the gel…” She waved a hefty tube before them and rolled her eyes. “Wish people would replace this stuff when they use it.” The nurse came close and squeezed the tube hard. “This’ll be cold; but I’m sure you know that by now.” The clear gel oozed onto her stomach in a glistening lump.

  Pulling the screen around to face her, the nurse pulled the scanner probe from the trolley and trailed the thick coiled wire over her shoulder to avoid dragging it across her patient. She pushed the bulbous lens of the probe into the gel and spread it out firmly in a circling motion. “You might feel a little discomfort. It won’t hurt the baby though.”

  The nurse looked to her monitor and frowned as she worked. She pushed the probe harder, more determinedly. “Okay…” she announced, distracted, her dark narrow eyes transfixed on the screen. “I’m just going to get someone to come and take a look…”

  “What’s wrong?” Deborah shifted on the bed. Raising herself forward over her bump as far as she could. “Is the baby okay?” she yelped.

  The nurse looked awkwardly from Deborah to the monitor, unsure what to say but trying to look reassuring despite her ochre skin going blotchy pink on her cheeks. “Probably just a problem with the machine…” the nurse explained as she backed out of the room.

  “What do you think it is? I knew there was something wrong. It just feels wrong… All wrong,” Deborah’s speech raced, tears forming in her eyes while her voice struggled for clarity. “I’m so sorry, Gary.”

  Gary put his arm round her and pulled her head to his. “Babe, don’t worry, it’s never been your fault. Come on, don’t cry – things will be okay, it might be the machine.”

  Deborah stared at the back of the monitor, the screen ominously hidden from them. The fear climbed up inside her chest in crushing handholds. Half of her resolve wanted to turn the screen round, while the other half restrained her anxious curiosity, fearful of what she might see.

  The nurse came in with a male Asian doctor, who seemed anxious to deal with the problem and be gone, only giving Deborah a cursory acknowledgem
ent. The nurse picked up the probe and repeated the procedure to demonstrate for the doctor.

  The doctor groaned impatiently, obviously wanting to return to whatever he had been dragged from, and snatched the probe from her. He ran it roughly over Deborah, seemingly with a mentality of if it is not working then be forceful with it until it does.

  Puzzled, he sighed and flicked a few switches on the monitor and re-applied the probe more diligently, with even less respect for comfort. His face wrinkled then smoothed out into blankness. He looked Deborah in the face warily and applied his stethoscope to her stomach and then re-applied it, and then again. The doctor looked from the probe to the screen that held the grainy black and white view of her pulsing insides and the dark cavernous space where the baby boy should have been.

  Rachel hesitated on the path to the Heights main entrance as David stopped. He put the two large cases of technical equipment on the ground and lit up another roll-up. He had had six cigarettes on their way to the tower. He had the ability to roll one one-handed whilst driving that caused Rachel to sink her fingernails into the upholstery, terrified.

  She watched him brush his wild mop of dark hair from his eyes as he scanned the drab body of the towering flats. He turned to her and shoved his thick bifocals back onto the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure this isn’t some elaborate scheme for them to get satellite TV installed? There are a distinct lack of satellite dishes here,” he wondered dryly, rubbing the thick stubble of his neck.

  “Is that snobbery I hear?” Rachel raised a warning eyebrow at him and grinned. David shrugged his body in a half-laugh before dragging from his painfully thin roll-up cigarette pinched between his nicotine stained finger and thumb. He smoked them down to a stub that he had to hold with precision.

  “Actually, this building is being considered for preservation by the National Heritage.”

  “Prince Charles is at it again.”