The Resurrectionists

by Kim Wilkins

  A motor stopped nearby: Constable Blake’s patrol car. She paused to watch as he got out and climbed over the cemetery wall, strode towards her. Her heart sped up a few beats. What did he want?

  “What’s the matter?” she called.

  He didn’t answer until he was with her. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “The cemetery. It’s private property.”

  Maisie nearly laughed, but he looked totally serious. “Private property? But I’m just looking for my grandmother’s grave. To pay my respects.”

  “It’s this way.” He began to move off towards the west wall, and she had no choice but to follow him.

  “Here,” he said, coming to a halt.

  Maisie stopped next to him and looked down. A simple plaque set into a flat stone said: Sybill Gloria Hartley. At peace. She gazed at it, aware that the police officer hadn’t left her side. Growing irritated, she turned to him and said, “Is there any chance of being alone with my thoughts?”

  He nodded. “You have to have church permission to come into the cemetery, and Reverend Fowler will accompany you. I’ll just be over there.” He indicated the wall nearest where his car was parked. He strode off, and Maisie watched him go. This was too bizarre.

  “Hi, grandma,” she said softly. “Sorry, I can’t chat, but there’s a hairy policeman watching me. You lived here for a long time, so you’ll probably understand.” She wished she had brought some flowers.

  Constable Blake was watching her like a hawk from his car. She gave him a quick wave and left her grandmother’s grave, headed out of the cemetery, over the wall and back up the main road home. She heard his car start and a moment later he drove past her. How embarrassing to be moved along like that as though she were a teenager. What was so wrong with visiting the cemetery? It wasn’t like it was midnight and she planned a Satanic rite. This village was full of crazy people.

  Crazy enough to do what they did that night. Around ten-thirty, when she was getting ready for bed, Maisie was shocked to hear a loud thump on her roof.

  “What the hell…?” She dropped her toothbrush and went into the hallway. The noise again: a loud thump and a clatter. Tabby started and ran towards the back door. Please, not the hooded shape in the garden again – she couldn’t handle another bout with that.

  Then the sound of smashing glass from the front of the house. Maisie raced up the hallway and into the lounge room. Someone had thrown a rock at the window. Glass lay in shards all over the floor. She immediately reached for the phone, but then remembered Constable Blake’s warning: he went off duty at ten p.m.

  Instead she crept across the hallway to her bedroom, and peered out the window cautiously. If she saw that hooded figure again, she was going to pack up and move tomorrow. But the hooded figure wasn’t there – just a perfectly ordinary male of the species throwing another rock at her roof. This one clattered into the eaves and fell to ground. She fumbled with the latch and hoisted the window open.

  “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The man, whose face was obscured by shadows, immediately backed away and began to run down the street. Maisie raced to the door and threw it open, but thought better of chasing him. In the distance she could hear a car start, and knew she would never catch him. The bastard had probably timed the attack so that she couldn’t call the police. She closed the door and walked carefully into the lounge room. She began to collect some of the glass. How was she going to patch up the hole in her window until she could get someone out here to fix it?

  The sound of an engine outside brought her to the window again, but she wasn’t in time to see the car or its licence plate. Only in time to hear the man bellow one bewildering word from his car window.

  “Witch!”

  Reverend Fowler placed his elbows carefully on his scarred desk and tried to look stern, but the five people facing him displayed no signs of discomfort. They were Tony Blake, who had called this meeting; Douglas and Elsa Smith, local busybodies by most standards, but invaluable members of the community in Solgreve; and their neighbours and close friends Walter and Margaret King. Last night, Walter King, encouraged by his wife and neighbours, had taken it into his own hands to try to run the girl out of town. Perhaps it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but by mid-morning it had turned out badly. She had called Tony up to the house to inspect the damage for an insurance company, her solicitor had arrived huffing and puffing and getting quotes from glaziers, and now, at three p.m., there was a truck parked out the front of the cottage and two workmen taking their time fixing the window. All it had caused was trouble.

  “I don’t understand what the problem is,” Walter King was saying, his hairy eyebrows shooting up in consternation. “Nobody’s told her I did it, Tony’s not going to fine me over it, so why bother with this meeting?”

  “Because you have to stay out of it. You have to let me take care of it,” the Reverend said, trying to sound reasonable but firm.

  “You take care of it?” This was Elsa Smith, a sharp-eyed octogenarian with a shock of white hair. “What have you done? Sat here and waited and hoped – that’s all. Walter was just trying to scare her. We all want her out of here.”

  “But his action brought more people to town, focused more attention on us. That solicitor could mention it to people he knows in York. We don’t want to arouse that kind of suspicion.”

  “She was in the cemetery!” Elsa almost shouted these words.

  “We needn’t worry,” Tony replied. “She might not know anything.”

  “She’s Sybill’s granddaughter. These things are passed between generations,” Margaret King said.

  The Reverend had to stop himself from physically recoiling. It was his greatest fear that Maisie would prove to be just as powerful and formidable as Sybill.

  “What are you going to do to protect this town if you won’t let us protect it?” Douglas Smith demanded.

  The Reverend put up his frail white hands. “Stop…please…” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the outraged questions. “Please…be quiet.”

  Finally they ran out of steam. Tony gave the Reverend an encouraging smile.

  “I hear your complaints,” the Reverend said at last. “I understand your concerns because they are also my concerns. The girl has told me herself she won’t be here much past Christmas. Why don’t we wait until then? If she still hasn’t gone, then I will do something about it.”

  “What will you do?” Elsa asked sharply.

  “Try to understand this: when people are confronted by rock-throwing locals, they will always – always – report that to the authorities. It’s a crime, and they know it’s a crime. But when people are confronted by other frightening things, things they can’t explain or even believe, they are very reluctant to come forward.” The Reverend laid his hands on his desk, reached for a pen to idle with. “I can call on…well, you know.”

  They were all nodding slowly now.

  “I think she’s already had a visit from one of them,” Tony said. “I suspect that’s what was in her back garden when she called on Wednesday night.”

  “Her presence may have aroused their interest,” the Reverend said. “But they can do more than stand in the back garden and look mysterious. We all know that.” He paused. “Sybill Hartley found that out.”

  They all nodded, sagely, smugly.

  “So if she’s not gone after Christmas –” the Reverend began.

  “No. Now. Scare her now,” Elsa said. “Make sure she goes.”

  “But if there’s no need –”

  “Just once.” This was Tony interjecting. “What do you say, Reverend?”

  He sighed, clasped his thin hands together. “All right. Just once before Christmas.”

  “We’re agreed then,” said Walter King. “Just a little something to scare her now and we’ll leave her alone. And if she doesn’t go after Christmas, you’ll take care of it.”

  �
��Yes, I shall,” the Reverend replied. Though he was hoping fervently that the girl would leave of her own accord as she had said she would. He would much prefer to avoid resorting to those tactics again.

  “Hi, Maisie, it’s Cathy.”

  “Cathy! How nice to hear from you.” Maisie sat heavily in her armchair. “I just made a cup of tea. Your timing’s perfect.”

  “Well I’m standing in the freezing hallway in the boarding house. So enjoy your cosiness, won’t you.”

  “I will. I’ve had a bugger of a day.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Last night some dickhead put a rock through my front window, so today I’ve been sorting it out. I suppose I shouldn’t complain as it’s given me something to do. To top it off, though, now I think I’m coming down with a cold.” And nobody to make her hot lemon drinks. Colds were miserable at the best of times.

  “Who threw a rock at your window?”

  “One of the locals. I don’t think he meant to break it. It was a good shot to get it through the bars. This whole place is crazy. I got evicted from the cemetery yesterday while I was paying my grandmother my last respects.”

  “Really? I wonder if it has anything to do with the archaeologists who keep asking to dig it up,” Cathy said.

  Maisie sighed. “No, I just think everyone here is loco.” Though Cathy’s explanation did make sense. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear about that. You know, I found an old diary stashed under the floorboards.”

  “A diary?” Cathy exclaimed. “Whose diary?”

  Maisie summarised the story for Cathy, who found it all thrilling. “Hey, maybe you can help with something,” Maisie said. “Do you have access to historical records down there?”

  “All kinds of historical records. What do you want to know?”

  “I’m trying to find out some information about the local Reverend. Specifically, what year he was born.”

  “I can look for you. Is this Reverend Fowler you were telling me about?”

  “Yeah. The Reverend in the diary had the same name.”

  “Maisie,” Cathy said with a suspicious tone, “what are you thinking?”

  “Nothing too stupid. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m glad. I thought for a minute the insanity in Solgreve might be contagious.”

  “Would unhinged religious freaks scare you off coming up for Christmas?”

  “Christmas? Oh, Maisie, I’m sorry. I’ve already organised Christmas.”

  “Oh.”

  “My aunt’s ex-husband’s family live in Edinburgh. I’m going to stay with them. I organised it weeks ago, I was so afraid of being alone at Christmas.”

  “That’s great. I’m glad you’ve got friends to stay with.” An admirable effort at keeping her voice even there, not pitching into desperation. Christmas alone. It was unthinkable.

  “I could ask if you could come too,” Cathy suggested.

  “No, that would be too uncomfortable. It sounds like you barely know them yourself.”

  “I can ask.”

  “No. Don’t ask. I’ll be fine. I might even see Sacha.”

  “Sacha?”

  “The gypsy gardener.”

  “You know,” Cathy said slowly, as though she were planning in her head. “I won’t be going up until Christmas Eve. I can catch the late train and we can go to the Christmas Eve service here at the Minster together. What do you think? You could come up on Thursday and stay the night, then catch the late bus home. Or book into a B&B.”

  Maisie suspected Cathy might be putting herself out, but simply couldn’t refuse. “Okay. Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll come out on Thursday, same bus as last time. Will you meet me?”

  “Of course. That’ll be fun.”

  “So, how are all the assignments going?”

  “I’m finishing my last one off at the moment. It’s already three days late. Hang on.” There was a clunk on the line and muffled voices as Cathy talked to somebody in the hallway. “Maisie? I’m going to have to go, there’s a girl waiting to use the phone.”

  “Okay. You won’t forget to look the Reverend up for me?”

  “No problem.”

  “It’s Reverend Linden Fowler.”

  “Got it. I’ll see you Thursday.”

  “Sure. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  Adrian looked up. He was sitting in the Green Room backstage at The Duchess Theatre, waiting to go on. The woman standing at the doorway, looking at him with an amused smirk on her face, was Penny Dayly, the soprano with whom he sang the duet of O Soave Fanciulla. He suspected that she enjoyed the duet too much. She always held his hands too fervently, kept too appreciative an eye on him. That kind of female attention always annoyed him. Everyone knew he was with Maisie.

  “Sorry?”

  “Here I am – a penny for your thoughts. What’s on your mind? You look worried.”

  Adrian shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  She smiled and approached him, sat down next to him. Too close. “Come on, you’re all pensive.”

  “I’m a little worried about Maisie, that’s all.” When in doubt about unwanted sexual attention, invoke the name of your girlfriend. That always worked.

  “Maisie? Isn’t she in England?”

  “Yes, I spoke to her before I came here tonight. Some vandals broke her front window with a rock, and I really just want her to come home.” There, it felt better to say it out loud.

  “But you aren’t at home.”

  “I know. Which is why she won’t come.”

  “After Christmas maybe?”

  “I’ll be in Auckland.”

  “It’s going to be hard spending Christmas without her.”

  Adrian nodded. “But I’ll be with my family. I won’t be lonely. I’m worried that she will be.”

  Penny was clearly doing her best to sympathise with his girlfriend. “It would be awful to spend Christmas alone. But it was her choice to go.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Feel better for talking about it?”

  Adrian looked across at her. Her thigh was pressed too close to his thigh. He stood. “I’d better warm up.” It was a lie. He’d warmed up ten minutes ago.

  “Want some help?”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  Penny shrugged and got up to leave. He watched her go then sat down again and thought about Maisie.

  It wasn’t just the locals throwing rocks on her roof; it wasn’t just the head cold that made her sound vulnerable and in need of care (so awful to be sick when you’re alone). It was her reaction to the story Roland had told him about her grandmother, to the possibility that she, too, may have the Gift.

  Excited. She’d been excited. Not dismissive. Not mildly interested and sceptical. Not disturbed. Really, really excited.

  “It makes sense, Adrian,” she had said. “I used to have these dreams when I was little, but they always made me sick. After a while I got so sick that the dreams wouldn’t come any more, like my body was protecting itself.”

  “Dreams? Dreams about what?”

  “About things that would happen. Just silly, trivial things, like what colour shirt somebody would wear the next day, or what the neighbours would name their dog.”

  “Why don’t you come home?” he had suggested. “I don’t want you to be in any danger.”

  “No way. Not now. I want to find out more about my grandmother.”

  “She wasn’t a great person according to your father.”

  “That’s all in the past.”

  “She desecrated graves.”

  “Which is clearly why I was evicted from the cemetery the other day. Probably why I got a rock through my window. What was she doing? I’ve got to keep looking through all her papers and things.”

  Adrian leaned his head back on the sofa and looked at the ceiling. All that talk of psychic powers unnerved him. Not because he was afraid, but because it sounded like crazy t
alk. He didn’t like it when his girlfriend talked crazy. Maybe Janet had been right to be worried about Maisie going to the cottage. Maybe the danger wasn’t physical, but emotional. Or spiritual.

  He glanced at the clock. The concert started in ten minutes. Pushing all other thoughts out of his mind, he headed for the wings.

  Frozen pinpoints of light far above her, the endlessly moving sea far below, Maisie paused on the cliff’s edge, trying to ignore the wind needling through her scarf and overcoat. She looked up at the stars feeling…what was she feeling? Was this happiness? It was too painful, hammering too hard under her ribs to be happiness. Excitement then? Perhaps.

  She was different. She was special.

  It had been ten hours since the phone call from Adrian, since she found out that she had met Sybill, and that Sybill had seen in her something that nobody else had ever seen. The Gift. She had the Gift. The regret about not inheriting her parents’ musical talent paled into insignificance when she considered this much greater inheritance. Some kind of psychic ability lurked within her, long dormant. All she had to do now was to find it, lure it out of hiding. How she was to do that, she didn’t yet know.

  Perhaps the ache under her ribs was fear. How could she have not known that this power was inside her? And what could it do to her if she exercised it? If only she had some kind of guidance. I wish I’d known you, Sybill. Her life could have been so different.

  The wind dropped suddenly and the sky was very still. She took deep breaths of the cold, cold air. It was demented to be out here on the cliff-top after dark, but she felt a little mad. A little delirious.

  Different. Special.

  A new determination filled her. There were still stacks of boxes, mounds of papers tucked in corners of the cottage. She would go through all of them, come to know her grandmother and find out what her Gift might mean. It was time for some earnest excavation.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Damp hair trailing about her face, Maisie inspected herself in the bathroom mirror. A cold was not only miserable, it was bad for the complexion. Her eyes were watery and her nose was red. She spotted a blackhead just below her lip and gave it an enthusiastic squeezing. Strange, she’d have thought that being psychic might mean she was more than mortal. This morning she looked profoundly ordinary.