by Peter James
One struck his right cheek and he slapped it hard. Another flew into his left eye.
‘Get the fuck off!’
He grabbed her hand and physically pulled her across the floor, crunching on dozens of the vile creatures. He opened the door and pushed her through, followed and slammed the door behind them. Even so, several of them had entered the house, some scuttling along the floor, others flying clumsily around.
Emily was sobbing.
‘Em, what the hell’s happened?’
There was one crawling through her hair. He flicked it away with his fingers.
‘Oh God,’ she said, shaking, close to collapse. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’
‘Where did they come from?’ he asked, gently.
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ she said again.
‘Em,’ he raised his voice. ‘WHERE DID THEY COME FROM?’
Her reply came out in a high-pitched squeak. ‘The bloody freezer. The bargain prawns, I told you, Louise found this incredible deal.’
A cockroach landed on his chest. He brushed it off.
‘This can’t be happening,’ she said. ‘Tell me it’s not happening.’
‘Where did she get this incredible deal from? We’ll get rid of them.’
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’
‘Calm down, calm down, Em, we’ll get rid of them.’
‘I’ve got to make eighty prawn cocktails and a main course and deliver it all by six o’clock tomorrow. Don’t tell me to calm down!’
‘Being hysterical won’t help. We’ll deal with it, we’ll sort it out.’
‘Louise is in bed with flu and I’ve got a kitchen full of roaches. This is my worst nightmare.’
‘We’re going to deal with it. Where did these come from? Just what scumbag fraudster sold you seven hundred cockroaches?’
‘It was Louise; I told you she had an incredible bargain on them from the wholesaler.’
‘Your normal wholesaler?’
‘No, a different one.’
‘Now you know why they were so cheap; you’ve been conned.’
‘You think we bought cockroaches?’
‘Obviously you did.’
‘No way. They were prawns,’ she said adamantly. ‘Do you think I can’t tell the difference between a prawn and a cockroach? It was prawns that went into the freezer, frozen prawns.’
‘And someone performed a conjuring trick and turned them into roaches? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Do you have a better explanation, Jason?’
‘Yes – frozen in bags packed in ice, couldn’t they look similar? How carefully did you check?’
‘I’m a chef,’ she said. ‘I know the difference, OK? It was prawns that went into those fridges to defrost, not cockroaches.’
‘I read somewhere that cockroaches have the same protein as prawns.’
‘Oh, great, we’re going to serve up eighty cockroach cocktails? That will do very nicely for my reputation.’
‘Stick a bit of cocktail sauce on and no one will know the difference,’ Jason said breezily, trying to lighten her up.
‘You’re right, they won’t. Until the hostess sues me for fraud, and seventy-nine other separate people sue me for food poisoning. This is not a time to make jokes, Jason.’
A cockroach scurried along the floor right beside her. She crushed it with her plimsoll. ‘Yech.’
‘Another interesting fact about cockroaches,’ Jason said. ‘They stopped evolving several thousand years ago. They’re one of the few creatures that would survive a nuclear attack.’
She looked at him. ‘Do I really need to know this, right at this minute?’
‘Just saying.’
‘And here’s what I’m just saying.’ She fell silent.
‘What?’ he probed.
‘I need seven hundred prawns, now.’ She fell into his arms, sobbing. ‘You’ve got blank paintings; I’ve got roaches not prawns. What have we done, moving here? This house hates us.’
‘Babes, don’t be ridiculous, of course it doesn’t.’
‘No? Well, it sure has a strange way of showing us its love.’
‘You think our ghost turned the prawns into cockroaches?’ he asked, incredulously.
Before she could reply, his phone rang. The display showed Paul Jordan. He answered.
‘Mr Danes, I have to apologize, I believe you rang last night when I was a bit – how should I put it – out of it?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Was it something urgent?’
‘Well, it was. But –’ he batted another roach away and looked at Emily – ‘look, that emergency has passed. I have another, different one. I need two things, right away, immediately. You have a lot of contacts – I don’t know if you can help us?’
‘What do you need?’
‘We’ve an infestation of cockroaches, and my wife is trying to prepare for a big dinner tomorrow – like for eighty people. We need an exterminator here, urgently, to get rid of the roaches, and a cleaner. And we need to find seven hundred large prawns, today – this morning. Do you by chance have any contacts for seafood suppliers?’
‘Cockroaches and prawns? Better make sure you don’t get those mixed up, ha ha!’
‘I’m serious, we need help. Dealing with the roaches and sourcing the prawns.’
‘Seven hundred large prawns?’ he whistled. ‘Well, actually, it so happens I can help you on both counts. Springs in Edburton is the biggest wholesaler of frozen fish and seafood in the county, and they are very near you. I know the owner and can give him a call. I know another place down by Shoreham Harbour if Springs can’t help. And I know the chap from a company called Go Pest. I can give him a call, too.’
‘We’d be immensely grateful.’
‘Leave it with me.’
They went back into the garage, opened the door and, armed with broomsticks, began attacking the creatures. Ten minutes later, Jordan rang back.
‘All sorted! Go Pest is on his way to you, and Springs have over eight hundred large prawns in their freezers. They are closed for the Christmas break, but the owner’s said he can meet you there in an hour.’
‘You’re a bloody star!’ Jason said.
‘We’re a full-service agency at Richwards!’ he said. ‘Anything else I can help you with today?’
Jason hesitated. ‘Well, yes, there is something. At the risk of sounding a bit odd, have any of the other residents of Cold Hill Park mentioned any strange – like uncanny – occurrences? By that I mean, something out of the ordinary?’
‘Such as?’ Jordan asked.
‘Ghosts?’
Jordan was silent for just a moment too long. His voice, when he finally answered, was just an octave or two higher. ‘Ghosts? No, absolutely nothing of that kind, I can assure you, Mr Danes. These are all beautiful new homes – I think ghosts prefer creaky old houses, ha ha!’
‘There used to be a creaky old house on this site.’
‘Well, yes, indeed. But if you’re asking me, I can tell you that if I was a ghost, I wouldn’t want to hang around a noisy construction site for very long.’
‘So,’ Jason asked. ‘If you were a ghost in an old house that was being knocked down, what would you do?’
There was another short silence. ‘Well, I don’t think I’d go and haunt a new-build, that’s for sure!’
There was something strained and unnatural about the estate agent’s voice. But at this moment, Jason did not rise to it. He thanked him, took down the name and address of where to collect the prawns and ended the call.
A short while later the Go Pest man arrived, in full protective clothing, to fumigate the garage and clear the roaches from there, and any that had entered the house.
Jason helped Emily move all the glass bowls into the kitchen in the house, then shut the garage door and left the exterminator to it.
‘What a nightmare,’ she said, gloomily.
‘I’ll come with you to get the prawns,’ he said.
‘No, it
’s OK, you need to get on with your work,’ she said.
‘I’m coming with you. Just give me five minutes to seal up all the paints I’ve left open, OK?’
‘OK.’
He hurried back up to his studio. But as he entered the room, he felt hazy, distracted, his mind all over the place. His eyes were blurry. Everything was in soft focus. His head felt hot, as if it was burning. Instead of sealing his paints, he looked around again for the card from PC Neil Lang.
Down below he heard the sound of an engine starting. He peered out of the window and to his surprise saw Emily reversing her van out of the driveway.
‘Em!’ he banged on the window, shouting. ‘Wait! Wait!’
She drove off, far faster than normal. Recklessly fast. She was, ordinarily, a steady, cautious driver. Why hadn’t she waited?
He stood watching until she was out of sight, then turned back to his easel. But all he could think of was PC Lang. Who did not exist, according to the Sussex Police operator. Feeling very confused, and a little giddy, he sat at his desk and looked around, instead, for the business card from the Reverend Orlebar. He was certain he’d left it in a prominent place.
He riffled through a stack of cards and still could not find it. Where was it? Turning to his computer, he googled the Bishop of Lewes, found the phone number and dialled it.
It was answered by the briskly efficient woman’s voice he remembered from last week.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘It’s Jason Danes.’
He expected recognition, but instead was greeted impersonally.
‘I’m sorry, did you say Jason Names?’
‘Jason Danes.’
‘May I help you, Mr Danes?’
‘Yes – I came to see the Bishop last Wednesday.’
‘Last Wednesday?’ Her voice sounded dubious.
‘Yes. December the – er – the nineteenth.’
‘You came to see him on December nineteenth? Here in Lewes?’
‘Yes – I’m the painter.’
‘I don’t believe we had any painting done last week.’
‘No,’ he said, clumsily. ‘I mean I’m the artist – Jason Danes.’
‘And you say you came to see the Bishop?’
‘Robert Parnassus, yes.’
‘Last Wednesday? Here at his house?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I think you must be mistaken.’
‘No, I’m not, I met him around mid-morning on Wednesday.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Danes, but that’s simply not possible.’
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ he said. ‘I came to see him.’
‘No, I think it’s you who must be mistaken, Mr Danes. The Bishop wasn’t in the country last Wednesday.’
72
Thursday 27 December
Jason opened the calendar on his laptop to double check; 19 December was the date, definitely, that he had gone to see the Bishop.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘We are both talking about the same person, the Very Reverend Robert Parnassus, Bishop of Lewes?’
‘We are.’ The Bishop’s private secretary was sounding frostier by the second.
There was a brief silence while Jason checked the calendar yet again. ‘Well, I came to his house last Wednesday morning and I had a conversation with him. I was delighted to see he had two of my paintings in his office.’
‘Two of your paintings in his office?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Bishop has no paintings in his office. None at all. He has a few personal photographs of his family, but I can categorically assure you he has no paintings or art of any kind in his office. I don’t wish to be impolite, but I think you must be confusing the Bishop with someone else.’
Jason was now seriously wondering if she was right. ‘I just don’t understand, I really did meet with him.’
‘I would know,’ she said. ‘I have nothing in my diary.’
‘Ah,’ he said, his hopes rising. ‘You see, I didn’t have an appointment. Are you not the lady I saw? Does he have another assistant?’
‘No, he does not,’ she said, very firmly. ‘What exactly was the nature of the conversation you claim to have had, Mr Danes?’
‘Well, we’ve just moved into a new house, and we’ve been having some very strange things happening – some odd phenomena – which have been deeply disturbing to my wife and myself. I asked the Bishop if he could help us in any way.’
‘Mr Danes, that’s really not possible,’ she replied, her politeness starting to fray around the edges. ‘I have his diary in front of me. Last Wednesday, December nineteenth, the Bishop was away on a retreat in the township of Soweto, in South Africa. He only returned to England on December twenty-second, to be here in time to carry out his Christmas duties.’
Jason heard this, feeling deeply puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, you must think me mad, but I definitely met with him on December nineteenth. He arranged for the Reverend Gordon Orlebar and the Reverend Jim Skeet to come to my house – and they did come, that afternoon.’
‘Can you repeat those names?’ she asked, distinctly testily now.
‘The Reverend Orlebar and the Reverend Skeet.’
‘You are saying they came to your house? On Wednesday December nineteenth?’
‘Yes. They carried out a communion service, to help a spirit pass over to the other side, if I’m understanding correctly.’
‘Mr Danes, I’m finding what you are telling me very difficult to comprehend. Please don’t think I’m being unhelpful, but what you are saying is simply not possible.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well – both Gordon Orlebar and Jim Skeet did work for the Church in exactly the capacity you mention. Very tragically they drowned in a boating accident off the coast of Senegal, while on a break during a mission for the Bishop’s charity there, five years ago – in fact, almost exactly five years ago this week.’
73
Thursday 27 December
Jason ended the call in total shock.
He sat at his desk, staring into space.
How much, since they had moved here, was real?
Maybe Emily was right, and he should go to see Dr Dixon again.
Caroline Patricia Harcourt. The woman he had sketched. Had he sketched a ghost?
Reverend Fortinbrass?
Orlebar and Skeet, who had come to their house just over a week ago – but who had been dead for five years?
I am very definitely insane.
I am very definitely not insane.
He returned to a new blank gesso board, and studied the photographs of the now-dead construction worker, The Skiver, on the easel at the base of the board, trying to focus, to return to some semblance of normality. Often, he could think most clearly when he was immersed in a piece of work.
He started to work on the sketch of the man leaning against a pile of rubble, who had been nonchalantly rolling a cigarette.
All the time his thoughts kept returning to his bizarre conversation with the Bishop’s secretary. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
And yet.
And yet.
After an hour he took a break, went downstairs and made himself a mug of coffee. Not having any appetite, he grabbed an energy bar for his lunch and carried both back up to his studio. He sat, briefly, at his desk, eating the bar and sipping the froth from his coffee. Through the window he saw the Penze-Weedells’ purple car returning from whatever expedition they had been on, pull up outside their front door.
The ridiculous couple began unloading package after package from the rear of the car. Sale bargains, no doubt. They were both looking mightily pleased with themselves. Maurice unlocked the front door and lugged some packages in, while his wife unloaded even more – impossibly more – boxes and carrier bags from the little car which seemed, at this moment, to have a Tardis-like capacity.
Claudette ducked back in and pulled out another two large boxes.
How much more,
Jason wondered?
The answer was a lot more. Heavy-looking boxes, these. Bargain prosecco? he wondered, mischievously.
Finally, she had finished. Several towers of boxes were lined up, with Maurice trotting in and out, carrying them in. Claudette stood imperiously outside the front door, holding up what looked like the key fob. The up-and-over garage door began to rise. Moments later the purple car, driverless, started moving in an arc towards the garage.
Maurice picked up another box and staggered back inside.
His wife turned and appeared to bark some instruction to him. With her peaked cap and padded clothes, she looked, to Jason, like a pantomime penguin. He grinned at the mental image of her in a zoo.
Then froze.
The car suddenly stopped, in mid arc, and began reversing, gathering speed alarmingly.
Oblivious to it, Claudette was gesticulating to her husband, who was somewhere inside the house.
The car was heading straight back towards her.
Jason tried to shout a warning through his triple-glazed window.
The car was closing on her.
Frantically he hammered on the glass, tugging at the window lock.
Then, utterly helpless, he watched the car strike her in the midriff, slamming her into the wall beside the front porch and pinning her against it. Her cap flew off. Bright-red blood spattered the brickwork either side of her.
Somehow, miraculously, she was still alive, her head turning from side to side, her mouth opening and shutting. Maurice came running out of the house, looking utterly panic-stricken as he saw his wife. He ran to the car then jumped into the driver’s seat to release her.
Jason finally got the window open, in time to hear Claudette’s screams of agony.
But instead of the car moving just a couple of feet, it raced forward, into the road, out of control, with Maurice in shock behind the wheel, looking more a passenger than driver, his open door swinging backwards and forwards. The car accelerated fast, zig-zagging across the road.
At that exact moment, Jason saw to his utter horror Emily’s pink van coming along Lakeview Drive in the opposite direction.
‘No!’ he screamed.
Impotently.
He saw there were two people in Emily’s van. He stared, frozen in horror and disbelief, as the Penze-Weedells’ car headed straight for the van at high speed.