by Peter James
Jason drank some, too. ‘What would your initial logical explanation be for our apparent situation. A ghost that both my wife and I see – and one only I have seen?’
Absently fiddling with his ring, Parnassus said, ‘Well, where I always prefer to start is not by looking at the site where the haunting has occurred, but looking inside the minds of those who have seen it.’
‘Is that because Emily and I have both seen ghosts, so we must be crazy?’
Parnassus smiled. ‘Not at all, but we always need to remember the complexities of the human mind. Right back in the sixteenth century the Catholic Church was aware of this. The Vatican issued an edict that no exorcism was to be carried out on someone within two years of a bereavement.’
‘Really?’
‘It was because they felt that the balance of a bereaved person’s mind, in the immediate aftermath of their loss, could be disturbed,’ the Bishop said. ‘Now, please don’t take what I’m going to say to you the wrong way. In all of my experience, the overwhelming majority of seemingly paranormal occurrences can be explained by abnormal brain activity in people following a recent trauma in their lives. This is most common from a bereavement, but it can also be from moving house, which as you yourself recognize is far more traumatic than most people realize. Both of these situations can play havoc with mental states. May I ask if you or your wife, Emily, have suffered any such recent bereavement – the loss of a loved one?’
Jason shook his head. ‘Touch wood, no.’
‘Do either of you dabble in the occult at all – play the Ouija board, for instance?’
‘Never,’ he replied, emphatically. ‘Neither of us have ever been into anything like that. Although Emily’s business partner, Louise Porter, is a medium – or claims to be.’
The Bishop’s face clouded. ‘She is?’
‘I don’t know if you approve of mediums, or not.’
‘Well, there’s quite a number of negative passages in the Bible about them, but I don’t condemn them out of hand. In the right circumstances some do have a useful role.’
‘OK, well, she came to the house on Monday and went into a trance to try to see what might be happening. That was when the Reverend Fortinbrass appeared.’
Parnassus looked at him strangely. ‘And only you saw him?’
‘Correct.’
‘What did your wife’s business partner have to say about this lady you both saw – who you think might be Caroline Harcourt?’
‘She said something along the lines that she was getting a message for me from a woman. The woman said she was sorry that she damaged my painting, but she was angry that I put her portrait facing the wall.’
He expected a cynical response, but instead the Bishop gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘You saw the Reverend Fortinbrass and had a conversation with him, which your wife and this medium, Louise Porter, claim not to remember?’
‘Yes, correct.’
‘Caroline Harcourt you and your wife have both seen, and the medium has only received messages from?’
‘That’s right.’
Parnassus sat in silence for a while, seemingly immersed in his thoughts. ‘Jason, these things that you are telling me are usually, in my experience, triggered by stress, crises, relationship problems. Often it is this stress that seems to produce strange phenomena that brings echoes from the past. I’ve known couples move into their dream home, only to split up months later. Could any of this have a bearing on what you and your wife are experiencing?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jason replied. ‘I’m open to any explanation.’
The Bishop frowned. ‘This is not good timing, as we are coming into Christmas week; it’s one of the busiest times of my year. Apart from another half hour this morning, I barely have a free moment until after Boxing Day. But there’s a priest with considerable pastoral experience who works with me. May I suggest I ask him to come and see you and your wife – perhaps sometime this afternoon?’
‘I’d be enormously grateful. Any idea what time?’
‘I’ll see what commitments he has. Shall we say four o’clock, unless I let you know otherwise?’
Jason glanced at his watch. It was just coming up to 11.30 a.m. ‘Perfect.’
‘His name is Jim Skeet, he’s a good chap. Can you let me have your address?’
Jason gave it to him and he wrote it down. When he finished, he said, ‘Shall we pray together?’
The request startled Jason. He could not remember the last time he had prayed. Way back in his childhood. Blushing with embarrassment he mumbled assent, closing his eyes as Bishop Parnassus recited the Lord’s Prayer, and finished with a loud, clear, ‘Amen.’
‘Amen,’ Jason echoed.
Parnassus smiled beatifically at him, and for the first time, Jason saw more clergyman than laid-back biker in the bishop. ‘If you need me again, Jason, I am always here, or around. Everything will be fine, don’t worry. I’ll be here to make sure you and your wife have spiritual protection. And you look a pretty healthy chap to me – I think you’re going to live a few years beyond forty, whatever that old farmer who doesn’t like newbies in his village might tell you!’
Jason thanked him and left. As he headed home, he replayed the strange meeting in his mind. Did Parnassus really believe what he had told him, or was he just humouring him? Either way, the Bishop was sending a clergyman to their house. Jim Skeet. Maybe they could convince him.
Turning into the entrance of Cold Hill Park, he threaded his way along Lakeview Drive. Emily’s van wasn’t there. He’d give her a call in a minute, to make sure she was back well before Skeet was due to arrive. There was more activity at the Penze-Weedells’ house. An electrician’s van was parked outside, and there was a man in a parka and jeans halfway up a ladder propped against the wall, with both Mr and Mrs Penze-Weedell standing below, looking up anxiously. None of the lights were on and half of them seemed to have come away from the wall again and were strewn over the front lawn and plants. Jason couldn’t help smirking.
As he climbed out of his car, rays of sunshine broke from behind a cloud, and he felt filled with a sudden burst of optimism. Help was coming this afternoon. He liked the aura of calm around the Bishop. Perhaps the visit this afternoon would bring this same calm to the house. Everything was going to be fine, really it would be.
58
Wednesday 19 December
Jason let himself into the house, and smiled as he saw the large note Emily had left on the hall table.
Gone to pay Santa a visit to see what he might have brought for my gorgeous husband! XX
He made himself a large coffee then hurried up to his studio and sat at his desk, then he sent a text to Emily.
Babes, please be back by 4. The Bishop sending his top Ghostbuster over. Love you. XX
He took a sip of his coffee – and recoiled in surprise.
It was stone cold.
How? He’d made it less than five minutes ago, a double from the Nespresso machine, with the frothy hot Barista-style oat milk that Emily was sure was healthier than cows’ milk.
How could it be completely cold? Was there a problem with the machine, along with everything else? But he’d sipped it on the way up the stairs, and it was so hot then it almost furred the tip of his tongue.
Disturbed, he looked all around. The room felt fine, warm. He heard a grinding roar outside and peered out of the window. The construction site was back in full action, the police now departed.
He opened the contacts on his phone and looked up the estate agent. Then he dialled the direct line number.
Paul Jordan answered instantly and breezily.
‘Mr Danes, how good to hear from you, hope you and your lovely wife are enjoying your beautiful home! To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Well, we still have a few issues, as I mentioned last time we spoke, but yes, we are loving it. I just wondered – I saw a family moving in to the estate yesterday. If you could give me their names, I thought I might pop round
and welcome them.’
‘Yesterday?’ Jordan sounded puzzled. ‘I don’t think so. No one moved in yesterday – not that I know of – and as we’re the sole agents, I would know!’
‘They arrived in a great big classic Cadillac convertible, with a removals lorry just behind them.’
‘I think you must be mistaken, Mr Danes. I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell with me. I don’t have anyone due to be moving in this week. There’s a number of completions scheduled for January, and several viewings booked, but I don’t have anyone else moving in before Christmas.’
‘I saw them arriving,’ Jason said.
‘Do you know which house?’
‘I don’t, no.’
Had he imagined them, Jason wondered, suddenly? The Cadillac and the removals lorry?
Impossible. They had looked too real. Why was the estate agent denying it?
He’d seen the driver with a big cigar in his mouth. A flashy-looking man. A pretty lady seated beside him. Two kids jumping up and down in the rear.
No way had he imagined it.
Had he?
‘Ah – OK – I must have been mistaken, they were probably heading somewhere else.’
‘Must have been! If we don’t speak before, I hope you and Mrs Danes have a very happy Christmas.’
‘And you, too.’
Ending the call, he stood up and paced around the room. Am I going mad?
New house?
Is my equilibrium disturbed?
He donned his apron and gloves, picked up a pencil and walked over to his empty easel. He began to sketch the next work for his exhibition. The Skiver.
For the next hour he was lost in his world of creativity that he loved so much. Working from the photographs on his camera, he had the – now deceased – man exactly. Looking shifty, skulking behind a pyramid of rubble, fingers gripping the roll-up, about to light it.
He hesitated. Should he really be painting a man who was now dead?
But the painting had started before that, when it wasn’t a tragic situation. And this wasn’t a portrait of the man, it was a distant snapshot of a moment in time. That thought assuaging his guilt, he went over to his work table and began to assemble his paints and brushes.
As he did so a cheeky voice behind him said, ‘I thought this whole room would be filled with Christmas prezzies for me!’
He turned to Emily. ‘Small is beautiful,’ he replied. ‘A bag of uncut diamonds really doesn’t take up much space.’
She smiled and kissed him. ‘So, we have a Ghostbuster? Tell me?’
He told her about his visit to the Bishop of Lewes, and all Parnassus had said.
‘Jim Skeet?’ she said, when he had finished.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’m curious. Wonder what a Ghostbuster looks like!’
‘A tubby, bearded guy, with a sack full of gadgets.’
‘In a red suit, with reindeer parked outside?’ she questioned.
59
Wednesday 19 December
The answer was small, thin, wearing a fawn trenchcoat, beneath which was a clerical shirt and collar and grey trousers, and carrying a large, battered attaché case. He looked about twelve, but must have been north of forty. With the darting eyes of a wary gerbil, and limp, ginger hair brushed forward like a monk’s tonsure. The Reverend Jim Skeet was accompanied by a far more confident-looking man, around a decade older and seven stone heavier, with jet-black hair that looked freshly dyed, and a triple chin. He was also wearing a clerical shirt and collar, and jeans, beneath a parka.
‘My colleague,’ Jim Skeet said, by way of introduction. ‘Reverend Gordon Orlebar.’
Jason and Emily led the strange duo through to the kitchen, sat them at the table and produced tea and digestive biscuits. When they were all settled, Skeet, who had a curiously high-pitched voice, said, ‘Exactly where did the manifestation – or rather, manifestations – happen, Mr and Mrs Danes?’
‘Right here in this room,’ Emily replied.
‘And up in my studio,’ Jason added.
‘And in our bathroom,’ said Emily.
Gordon Orlebar spoke with a far more mature and assured voice. ‘We’ve done our research as best we can, given the short time. Quite interesting really.’ Then he fell silent.
They waited patiently for him to continue, but he picked up a digestive and peered intently at it, with a slight frown, as if he had discovered a foreign body present. ‘Hmm’, he said. ‘Digestives. Can’t really beat them, can you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Emily said, puzzled by his sudden switch of focus.
‘Sort of the comfort food of biscuits, I always think.’
‘So, what did you find that was interesting?’ Jason asked, growing impatient.
Orlebar continued studying the biscuit as he spoke. Meanwhile Skeet was rummaging, preoccupied, in his bag.
‘Quite a bit of historical activity,’ Reverend Orlebar said, calmly, with a relaxed smile, and placed his biscuit on his saucer. ‘This whole area, the land on which your house has been built, has something of a history of disturbances.’
‘We are aware of some of it,’ Jason replied. ‘And certainly, if you meet the locals, they are over-eager to talk about it. I think they’re resentful of this estate being built. Like they want to scare us off.’
‘Locals in the country tend not to like change of any kind,’ Skeet said.
‘Tell me about it,’ Jason said.
‘Unrested souls bring negative energy,’ Orlebar continued. ‘It all needs putting to bed, then hopefully everything will be fine and you will both be able to enjoy your new home.’
‘And how do you do that?’ Jason asked.
‘What the Reverend Skeet and I will do, if you are both agreeable, is hold a service.’ He looked at each of them in turn.
‘What does that entail?’ Jason asked.
‘A communion service, in which we will formally lay any restless spirit in this house to rest. First, I’d like you both to tell us anything you can think of, out of the ordinary, that has happened since you moved in – which was very recently, I understand.’
Jason glanced at Emily. ‘Gosh, where do we begin?’
‘Tell us everything, Mr and Mrs Danes, whatever has been disturbing for you,’ Orlebar suggested.
‘Well,’ Jason said and nodded at the unplugged command box. ‘It started with some strange occurrences around that. But it could just have been teething issues.’
‘Then footsteps,’ Emily said, and pointed up at the ceiling.
They told the two clergymen about the disturbed night, and calling the police. The appearances of the woman, identified as Caroline Harcourt, they had both experienced. And the deceased vicar, Roland Fortinbrass, whom only Jason had seen.
The clergymen listened intently, asking questions as they went along. When Jason and Emily had finished, Orlebar explained the procedures they would carry out, then asked, ‘Would you both be happy for us to proceed? Of course, if you would prefer not, then we can just chat. But I understand from your visit to the Bishop this morning, Mr Danes, that you are both very concerned and somewhat distressed by occurrences here?’
‘On both counts,’ Emily said.
‘What would be involved – is there a fee?’ Jason asked.
‘There is absolutely no charge for our services, we are just here, representing the Church, to help you.’
Jason and Emily looked at each other, then nodded.
‘This may sound a bit silly,’ Jason said. ‘Is there any chance this service, whatever you do, could make things worse here?’
‘No,’ Orlebar said emphatically, glancing at his colleague.
Skeet nodded equally emphatically. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘What if our ghost – ghosts – are non-believers?’ Emily asked.
If their situation wasn’t so serious Jason might have laughed. And he loved his wife for asking the question.
Orlebar was unfazed. ‘Ghosts are neither believers n
or unbelievers, Mrs Danes. Most Christians would believe that the time to choose whether to be a Christ follower – a believer – or not is while someone is alive on earth. After that we are all in God’s hands. He is the one who sorts out the sheep from goats, wheat from tares, and makes the final decisions.’
Skeet chipped in squeakily. ‘Also, clergymen like us believe that God has total control over the living and the dead – so it would make no difference if the deceased who are now ghosts had once been believers or not.’
‘Exactly,’ Orlebar confirmed. ‘Prayer is more powerful than any ghost. The Holy Spirit is more powerful than any human spirit. We Christians believe Jesus conquered death and Hell through his death on the cross and resurrection from the dead. He is all-powerful over all principalities and dominions. If you recall the Creed, He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead.’ He smiled at them, comfortingly. ‘Whether ghosts are believers or not is irrelevant. God has authority over them.’
‘Fine,’ Emily said. ‘Thank you.’
‘What if it’s a different faith from Christianity?’ Jason asked.
Orlebar replied, ‘We believe it is the same God for all faiths.’
‘Glad we got that one sorted,’ Jason said, jokily. Then he fell silent as above them they heard footsteps, clearly and loudly.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Skeet looked up, warily, at the ceiling.
‘Someone’s not happy,’ Orlebar said. He gave a benign smile. ‘Hey, as your locals told you, no one likes change!’
60
Wednesday 19 December
Over the next ten minutes the two clergymen laid a white linen altar cloth across the kitchen table, on top of which they laid the corporal. Then they donned white albs. From his bag, Orlebar produced a silver chalice, placing it on the corporal, into which he poured red wine while incanting a prayer. Beside the chalice, Skeet solemnly placed a silver paten on the corporal, into which he laid four round white wafers.