by Mark White
‘Because you can see dead people.’
Gracie laughed and playfully squeezed his hands. ‘You’re very direct, aren’t you? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Anyway,’ she said, her eyes narrowing. ‘I think it’s about time I came to the point, don’t you?’
Max nodded.
‘It all started with my father,’ she said. ‘Around six weeks after Mr Cransworth told me about his death, something strange happened. It was a cold, dark evening on the farm, and the entire family was gathered in the front room. You might find this difficult to believe, but back in those days not every house had central heating or even electricity, so to keep warm in the colder months you needed to huddle round the nearest fire. The first thing you would do in the morning was light a stove, and usually somebody would keep it going right throughout the day until it was time to go to bed. So we were all in the front room, reading or sewing or drawing, the only sounds coming from the crackling logs and Mr Cransworth snoring in his old armchair. And that’s when I saw him; as clearly as I see you sitting there in front of me now.’
‘Your father?’
‘Yes. I remember that I was reading a book on fairies that one of Mr Cransworth’s daughters had kindly lent me to try and cheer me up, when suddenly a little voice inside my head told me to look up, so I did, only to find my father standing in full military uniform next to the fire. He was looking directly at me, smiling. He was so dashing. So handsome.’
‘Weren’t you scared?’
‘No, I wasn’t. That sounds strange, doesn’t it? I wasn’t at all scared, quite the opposite. Seeing my father standing there felt so natural, so real, but although I was only eight, I knew that this wasn’t actually him. I knew I couldn’t touch him or run over and try to cuddle him. That’s the peculiar thing about spirits: people like me - people who have the rare ability to see them - can somehow instinctively tell that they’re not real, even though they might appear to be. Nor do we tend to be frightened by them, which I believe is one of the reasons they choose to reveal themselves to us. I’ve come to the conclusion that people don’t see ghosts unless they’re ready to see them.’
‘Did your father say anything to you?’
‘He didn’t need to. His eyes told me everything I needed to know: that I wasn’t to worry, that he was in a better place and that one day I would be with him again, and that he loved mummy and I very much. That’s why he came to me; because he knew how upset and alone I was feeling. He wanted to tell me that everything was going to work out fine. And you know what? He was right. I’ll never forget that moment for as long as I live. It was beautiful.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘No, that was the first and last time, but once was enough. I soon started seeing other spirits, though. Lots of them. Despite what I said earlier about not being frightened, there were one or two to begin with who did scare me. Fortunately that didn’t last very long. I soon realised that they only revealed themselves to me because they wanted me to pass on a message to someone they knew. As with my father, a lot of the time they wanted a family member to know that everything was going to be alright and that there was no need to worry, but sometimes the message could be more specific, such as where the spare house key was kept or which so-called friend they shouldn’t trust. One thing is certain, however: they always want me to pass on a message to someone. Always. Apart from one.’
‘Who?’
Gracie smiled, deciding it was time to end the conversation. Max was only twelve; he didn’t need to know any more.
Since seeing him for the first time a few days ago, the figure in the shabby grey suit and brown fedora had become a frequent visitor to Gracie’s house. Every time he came, the mist that surrounded his face grew gradually thinner. She remained unable to make out any identifiable features, but she knew it wouldn’t be long until he revealed himself. He refused to state his reason for being there, no matter how often she asked him, and this frightened her. It frightened her because they always had a message. All he kept saying was: You’ll see. He was hiding something from her, playing with her, biding his time. She only hoped her hunch that he had something to do with Max or Sam was wide of the mark. She prayed that he wasn’t there for them.
Because if he was, she had a feeling that they could be in serious danger.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Are you sure you’re well enough to do this? Doctor Graham has strongly advised against it. He reckons you need at least another day in here.’
‘I’m fine, Sarah, honestly. Sergeant Calloway told me that he couldn’t detain the kid forever. If I don’t go down there now and identify him, it’ll increase his chances of getting away with it.’
‘What about the video evidence from the bridge? Surely that will be enough to prosecute him.’
‘Maybe, but it’ll help the prosecution if I can verify that this is the same kid who was bad-mouthing me on the train. Besides, I want the little shit to see what he’s done to me.’
‘I don’t think he cares. He doesn’t sound like the remorseful type.’
‘Maybe not. Anyway, I’m hoping that getting out of this place will clear my head a little.’
‘Is it still hurting.’
‘That’s putting it mildly. The pain…honest-to-God, Sarah, I swear it’s getting worse.’
‘That’s why you’re better off here where they can keep an eye on you. What if it’s something serious?’
‘It’s not. Doctor Graham told me. They’ve run a whole series of scans, including an MRI, and they can’t find anything wrong with me apart from superficial bruising and inflammation. They can’t do anything for my headache that I can’t do myself. Pills and time, that’s what they said.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am. I want to get this over with, and after that I want us to take the first available train back home. I want my house, my bed, and most of all I want to see our son.’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. Come on…let’s go.’
Arm in arm, they made their way gingerly across the ward to the corridor, Sam’s head pounding in harmony with every footstep. They eventually arrived at a bank of lifts that would take them to the ground floor, and before long they were walking out into a fresh, December breeze and heading towards the taxi rank. Sam breathed in the cool, refreshing air, hoping it would prove the perfect antidote to his pain, but sadly it was not to be. The doctors and nurses were right: pills and time; he just had to be patient. Easier said than done, he thought, wincing in agony for the hundredth time that day.
Thankfully, it was only a short distance from the hospital to the police station, although this didn’t deter Sam from accusing the driver of intentionally driving his taxi over every pothole and bump on the way. Sarah apologised on behalf of her husband, explaining that he was just being grumpy because he had a headache. The taxi driver ignored them and drove on. He was used to far worse levels of abuse in his line of work.
As they climbed the four concrete steps to the station, Sarah stopped and turned to face Sam. ‘Are you sure - I mean absolutely sure - that you want to go through with this? You don’t have to go in there. Maybe we should just go home and leave this boy’s fate in the hands of the authorities.’
‘And what if they decide to let him go?’
‘They won’t.’
‘But what if they do?’ Sam insisted, raising his hand to his forehead as yet another excruciating tremor passed through him. ‘Look,’ he said, trying hard to suppress his growing irritability. ‘If I don’t stand up for myself now, who knows what might happen. You’re right, they probably do already have enough evidence to prosecute him, but what if he gets off because I was too chicken to confront him? I can’t do that, Sarah. I owe it to all the other victims of assault out there, especially the ones whose assailants were never caught and punished. Now enough of this,’ he said, opening the door for her. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’
Sarah nodded and entered. She didn
’t like to admit it, but she knew he was right. Besides, she couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for her husband’s condition: if it wasn’t for her infidelity, he wouldn’t have left London in the first place. And if he hadn’t left London, he wouldn’t be walking into a police station covered in cuts and bruises, summoning up the courage to confront his attacker. With every passing hour, it was becoming increasingly clear to her just how stupid she was to have gotten involved in a relationship with Tom Jackson. She realised now that she had never loved him at all. Tom was a man whose character was steeped in pride, vanity and greed; values which on the surface could appear so enticing and devilishly attractive, but which underneath amounted to nothing more than superficial and meaningless bullshit. So what if Sam could sometimes be pedantic and frustratingly level-headed in his approach to life? At least he had morals, at least he had integrity and decency and a depth to him that made him a far more loyal and caring husband than Tom could ever be. She only had to look at how he treated his poor wife, Jane. Imagine how terrible it must be to be married to a man whose primary aim in life is to slot himself into as many different women as possible. And to think that she was dumb and gullible enough to have been one of those women. Not only that, but she had been one of those women for four fucking years! How blind must she have been? It wasn’t as if her sex life with Sam had been particularly dull or unadventurous. Granted, it was fair to say that Tom probably held the ace card in the bedroom department, but surely there was more to life than a guaranteed orgasm…wasn’t there?
She smiled at Sam and took his hand. What was it that someone once said, something about always hurting the one you love. Well, she’d hurt Sam more than she’d ever know, and it was entirely her fault why he was here. And if he had the balls to go ahead with this, then who was she to stand in his way?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The station’s entrance area was unmanned; a plastic doorbell glued to a Perspex screen preferable to the cost of paying a real-life receptionist. A laminated sign next to the bell read: Press and take a seat. A member of staff will shortly be on hand to assist you. Sam read the message, his mind automatically reconfiguring the words to a more customer-friendly format. He’d barely given work a thought since finding out about the affair. He knew he couldn’t remain unemployed forever, but right now, finding another job was low on his list of priorities.
Surprisingly, it was Sergeant Calloway himself who came to the desk. He was holding a cup of coffee, and despite his headache, Sam had to laugh when he saw the slogan on the cup: crime pays…until we catch you!
Calloway grinned at Sam’s reaction. ‘Never a truer word spoken,’ he said, setting the cup down on the table. ‘Grab that door handle, will you? I’ll buzz you in.’
Two minutes later they were sat around a rectangular, Formica table in Interview Room 3. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything more salubrious,’ Calloway said, directing his apology at Sarah. ‘I’m afraid this is the only available room. December’s always a busy month for the burglars, what with all those gift-wrapped goodies tucked away in people’s garages awaiting Christmas. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Brandy? I’m joking about the brandy…sadly those days are long gone.’
‘We’re fine,’ Sam said, shielding his eyes from the glaring light-bulb above them. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over and done with as soon as possible.’
‘Of course. How are you feeling? You look slightly chirpier than yesterday.’
‘I’m getting there,’ Sam said. ‘Slowly.’ He didn’t mention the headaches.
‘Good…good.’ Smalltalk over. ‘Well,’ he said, opening a file and placing it on the table, ‘I’m pleased to say that our suspect confessed an hour ago to assaulting you. Not that he had much of a defence after I showed him the CCTV footage.’
‘Is there anything you can tell me about him?’ Sam asked.
‘His name is Stephen Gilchrist, he’s fifteen years old, lives with his parents in a village just outside Darlington. You may be surprised to hear that this is his first offence.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Uh-huh. His record is…was…spotless. Even I was quite surprised when I found out, given the way he laid into you.’
‘Did he say why he did it?’ asked Sarah.
‘He claims there was somebody on the bridge who told him to do it.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, but it turns out that before Mr Gilchrist boarded the train he’d consumed three capsules of something called Stir Crazy.’
‘Drugs?’ Sam asked.
‘It’s one of those trendy new legal highs being sold over the internet. They’re everywhere nowadays, and new versions are popping up all the time. Totally unregulated and untested. Stir Crazy is marketed as some kind of stimulant; apparently it’s popular with college kids pulling all-nighters to complete their homework assignments. In my day it was Coca-Cola and jelly beans. I guess times have changed.’
‘Do you think there’s any way this Stir Crazy could have led to this?’
‘It’s possible, but I doubt it. Stir Crazy is fairly common. It’s a stimulant, not a hallucinogenic, which discredits his claim that somebody on the bridge told him to attack you. Besides, there was nobody else in the footage. We did find a couple of extra pills in Mr. Gilchrist’s possession. We’ve sent them away for testing.’
‘So why do you think he did it?’ asked Sarah.
‘It’s quite simple. I reckon that you embarrassed Mr Gilchrist on the train in front of all his friends, and this was made worse when the guard dragged him away kicking and screaming. I think that when the guard threw Mr Gilchrist off at York, he hid behind a bin or a pillar and waited for you to come off the train. When you did, he followed you up onto that bridge and jumped you from behind.’
‘So you don’t believe he saw anyone else? You don’t believe that somebody told him to do it?’
‘No, I don’t. Mind you, I don’t think he intended to put you in hospital either. According to him, his plan was to lay a few quick punches and scarper, but when you fill a fifteen year old kid with alcohol and drugs…well…in my experience anything can happen. You know, in some ways you’re lucky to be alive.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m not joking. I’ve known people who’ve been killed for an awful lot less than embarrassing a drunken teenager in front of his friends. It’s a good job he wasn’t carrying a knife.’
‘Do you still need Sam to identify him, then?’ Sarah asked. ‘I mean, if he’s already confessed and you have the video evidence…surely that’s enough?’
‘You’re right,’ Calloway replied, turning his attention to Sam. ‘It’s entirely up to you, but we have enough evidence to press charges. If y-’
‘I want to see him,’ Sam said.
‘Very well. I’ll take you to him. He’s in a juvenile cell at the end of the corridor. His lawyer is with him.’
The three of them stood up to leave, but Sam placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder to stop her. ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘I want you to stay here. I’d rather do this on my own.’
‘But-’
‘Please, Sarah. Stay here.’
She shook her head in disappointment but didn’t protest. ‘Fine. You go ahead, but please be careful. I don’t want anything else happening to you.’
‘Thanks,’ Sam said, giving her a reassuring smile. He turned to Sergeant Calloway. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Let’s see him.’
The two men made their way side-by-side along the corridor towards the cells, too wrapped up in their own thoughts to make conversation. Sam was imagining how terrified Stephen Gilchrist must have felt as he was being marched along here only a couple of days earlier. Fifteen years old and with a clean record; he must have been scared stiff. Images of overcrowded prison cells – the kind depicted in all those American crime shows from the seventies – sped through Sam’s mind, and despite what had happened, he couldn’t help but feel a modicum of pity
for the kid.
As if Sergeant Calloway could read Sam’s mind, when they reached the end of the corridor he turned to him and said: ‘The cells are behind this door. For first time visitors, the experience can sometimes be upsetting. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe, but I need to warn you, okay? People detained against their will can become excitable, if you know what I mean.’
‘How can you be so sure I’ve never been behind bars myself?’ Sam joked, trying to calm his nerves.
If Calloway found the joke amusing, he didn’t let on. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Mr Railton, but you don’t strike me as the sort of man who’d stray very far from the straight and narrow.’
‘Am I that predictable?’
‘Afraid so. Now…are you ready?’
‘I think so.’
Calloway nodded and punched a code into a keypad on the wall beside the door. A buzzing sound coincided with the lock clunking open and the door opened towards them. Sam drew a deep breath and followed the sergeant inside.
Fortunately for Sam, any clichéd images he had of gangs of caged, angry-looking men hurling abuse and threats of sexual violence were quickly dispersed. Overall, this corridor didn’t seem particularly different to the one they’d just left; with one exception. The doors. Whereas the doors to the rooms in the first corridor had handles and nameplates and looked as if they were constructed from flimsy, painted chipboard, the doors in this corridor were made of steel and had been designed with security in mind. There were no handles or nameplates here; the only way of identifying the cells was via a stencilled number above a keypad to the right of each door. Each door had a hatch: a small, square, sliding hatch that could only be opened from the outside.