by Mark Tilbury
‘Have you seen them?’
‘The house on fire, yes.’
King’s interest was piqued. ‘What house?’
‘Theirs.’
‘Perhaps the mother drew it.’
‘No way. She’s terrified. And then there’s the picture of the execution.’
‘Have you heard yourself, Charles? You sound like Hecate.’
Honeywell didn’t seem put off by being compared to a witch in Macbeth. ‘Purple-five was good at art, wasn’t she?’
‘What of it?’
‘This child is gifted at art,’ Honeywell said, laying the statement on the table like a trump card.
‘That’s an illogical leap. Next, you’ll be talking of one-eyed hags and boiling cauldrons.’
‘We tried to execute Purple-five by guillotine.’
‘How could I ever forget? I’m still baffled as to why it didn’t take her head clean off.’
‘It’s a lot of coincidences.’
‘Life is littered with coincidences, Charles. People are always looking to join the dots, but from my experience, random events and unexplained happenings are always prey to supposition.’
‘I don’t like this at all.’
‘And I don’t like having a body to distribute around Oxford. I like it even less that we have to postpone the new game whilst we cover our tracks.’
‘It was you who took it upon yourself to kill the boy.’
King stood up. Took full advantage of his six-foot two-inch frame. He looked down at his lover turned nemesis. ‘Do you think throwing ill-founded accusations at me reinforces your argument about reincarnation?’
‘It’s nothing like—’
‘Do you stand before me, trying to render my intellect mute by nefarious means? Did you not take part in the mutilation of that boy?’
‘Yes.’
King felt Shakespeare’s blood flowing through his veins. ‘Then still your tongue, lest it talks itself into an early grave. Are we clear on that at least, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. And we’ll have no more talk of this reincarnation nonsense. It’s made up fodder to feed feeble minds.’
Honeywell stared into his coffee cup. King made a mental note to watch his lover carefully over the coming weeks. He was more than aware of the dangers inherent when love turned to liability.
19
The rest of Christmas Day and the whole of Boxing Day passed without incident. Chloe enjoyed playing with her presents, especially the ballerina princess Tony and Mel had bought her whilst they’d still been a proper couple getting ready to enjoy the festive break.
Mel’s friend, Susan, a teacher from Feelham Primary, had popped in earlier that day. Mel hadn’t told her about Tony. She’d fudged her way through three cups of coffee, explaining that Tony was at his mother’s looking after her. Yes, she’d had a wonderful Christmas, and yes, Chloe was loving it. Life was perfect. If it got any better, she’d burst into song and tap-dance into the future.
After Susan had left, and while Chloe was having an afternoon nap, Mel had sat at the kitchen table and cried for almost half an hour. She’d followed this emotional breakdown by going into the garden and smoking two cigarettes, freezing half to death in the icy wind blowing across St Kilda’s Close.
How could everything go so wrong in such a short space of time? Two weeks. A fortnight. Fourteen lousy days. Hadn’t she suffered enough with her mother? Losing Megan?
They say it comes in threes.
She sat at the kitchen table sipping a large brandy. How could Tony do this to her? Not only had he destroyed her trust in men, he’d left her to deal with Chloe on her own.
You’ve got to get a grip. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up losing Chloe. Failing her, just like your mother failed you.
She lit a cigarette, blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling and blamed it on the tears in her eyes. ‘I’m nothing like that bitch.’
That glass of brandy sitting on the table begs to differ.
Mel drained the drink, trying to block out the voice in her head. Her life was in free-fall. Her marriage was over and her daughter was possessed. And now she was turning into an alcoholic.
‘I haven’t got a clue what to do anymore,’ she whispered.
The doorbell rang. She ignored it. She couldn’t face anyone right now.
Maybe it’s Tony.
If it was, he could jump in the river. She never wanted to see him again.
The bell rang again.
She walked to the window and peered out. The Golf wasn’t parked outside. She was about to turn away when Charles Honeywell peered through the glass. He raised a hand to tap on the window, saw Mel, grinned, looked sheepish.
Mel cursed. What did she do now? She didn’t want to see him, but she could hardly ignore him now he’d seen her, could she? She opened the front door and noticed a large purple bruise around his right eye.
‘I thought I’d drop by and see how you were getting on.’
Mel invited him in. ‘What happened to your eye?’
‘I walked into a cupboard door at my sister’s. She left it open, and I didn’t look. I suppose you could flip a coin to apportion blame.’
‘It looks nasty.’
‘Injuries always look worse than they are.’
‘Have you put anything on it?’
Honeywell hung his coat on a peg and sat in the chair by the fire. ‘It’s fine. It’s superficial.’ He accepted Mel’s offer of a brandy. ‘Just a small one, mind, I’m driving.’
She poured his drink and handed it to him.
‘Thank you. Just what the doctor ordered. Did Chloe like my present?’
‘She loved it.’ She didn’t tell him Chloe hadn’t even touched the Winnie the Pooh jigsaw puzzle. Would you like me to put a steak on your eye?’
‘No. It’s fine. Really.’
‘I’ve got some in the freezer.’
‘Doesn’t it have to be defrosted?’
‘I can thaw it out in the microwave.’
‘Please don’t fuss. I’m fine. Honestly.’
Mel sat down on the sofa. ‘So, apart from walking into the cupboard door, did you have a nice time at your sister’s?’
‘Yes, thank you. A most pleasant day.’
‘Does your sister have children?’
‘Two.’
‘How old are they?’
He looked away. ‘Six and eleven.’
‘Boys or girls?’
‘Boys.’
‘Bet they were excited.’
Honeywell fiddled with his glasses and changed the subject. ‘How’s Chloe bearing up?’
‘She’s been all right for the last couple of days.’
‘I sense a but.’
‘It’s just…’
Honeywell leaned forward. ‘What is it?’
‘Something else happened on Christmas Day.’
‘What?’
‘She was watching a Disney film in here. Me and Tony were in the kitchen prepping the dinner. Then she let out this awful blood-curdling scream. We rushed into the front room and she was kneeling on the floor with her arms held out in front of her. Then, it was as if something hit her in the face. It was like…’
After a short pause, Honeywell prompted, ‘Like what, Mel?’
‘Something was attacking her. She had a huge bruise on her face. Then her head snapped back and fell forwards. Her eyes were all wrong. One was staring at me, the other was looking at the TV. Then she spat in my face and said, “Fuck you. Fuck you all.” Or words to that effect. It was as if she was reliving something… something from a past life. Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?’
‘Not at all.’
Mel took a cigarette out of the packet. ‘I don’t know what to do, Charles.’
‘For what it’s worth, cigarettes won’t help. A friend’s mother was a smoker. Brought about an early demise through lung cancer. A lesson for us all, perhaps?’
‘That’s easy for you to say. My life’
s falling apart at the seams. On top of everything else, me and Tony have split up.’
‘Because of this?’
Mel lit up. ‘Partly.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Off the edge of a cliff for all I care.’
‘You’re still angry. It will pass.’
‘It won’t.’
‘I’m here for you if you ever want to talk about it, okay?’
Mel nodded.
‘Nothing’s ever as bad as we imagine.’
It fucking well is. ‘I’m just lost at the moment. Confused. My head’s in a spin.’
‘You need to focus on your daughter for now. She’s the most important thing.’
‘I know.’
‘What about taking Chloe to the doctor’s?’
‘That’s what Tony suggested. But they don’t have pills to cure reincarnation, do they?’
‘He might be able to prescribe her a mild sedative.’
‘I’m not having my daughter drugged up to the eyeballs.’
Honeywell opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by Chloe walking down the stairs, eyes wide as if in a trance.
Mel rushed to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Chloe?’
She stopped halfway down and held her hands out in front of her, palms up. ‘I don’t want to be a bloody pharmacist.’
Mel walked towards her. ‘Wake up, sweetheart. It’s Mummy.’
Chloe looked at her hands. ‘Why won’t anybody listen to me? I want to be an artist.’
Honeywell walked to the foot of the stairs, head cocked to one side.
‘Look at Mummy, Chloe.’
‘My name’s not Chloe. It’s Amy. Amy May Constable.’
‘It’s not,’ Mel corrected. ‘It’s Chloe. Chloe Marie Hollis.’
Honeywell gripped the bannister as if drawing strength from it. ‘Ask her how old she is.’
Tears filled Chloe’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. ‘Here comes a chopper to chop off your head… here comes a chopper to chop off your head… here comes a chopper to chop off your head… here comes a chopper to chop off your head… here—’
Mel grabbed Chloe, pulled her close, held her tight.
Honeywell’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his face as white as the frost-covered ground outside. ‘I’ll get going. Leave you two to…’
Mel didn’t hear him.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Chloe protested, her voice muffled by Mel’s chest.
Mel walked down the stairs. Not as much as you’re hurting me, Pumpkin, she thought. Not half as much as you’re hurting me.
20
‘For the headmaster of a school, your gift for babbling whilst under pressure intrigues me,’ King said. ‘What if there was a fire at the school?’
‘That’s irrelevant. You’re not listening. The kid said her name was Amy May Constable.’
King fell silent as his brain processed this new information.
‘Purple-five,’ Honeywell added.
‘Do you consider me of sound mind?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then don’t bring my memory into question. I’m well aware of who Purple-five is – was.’
‘And?’
‘She’s dead, Charles. Deceased. Kaput. No more.’
‘So, how do you explain the child’s assertion that she’s Amy May?’
‘She could be talking about anyone. There’s more than one Amy May Constable in the world.’
‘Here comes a chopper to chop off your head? How do you explain that?’
‘It’s one of those silly nursery rhymes. “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s”. Ring any bells?’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence. Plus what happened on Christmas Day with Chloe kneeling in the front room. It brings to mind the stocks.’
King shook his head. ‘I disagree. You’re taking all these random things and assembling them as paranoia sees fit. It’s the way those fake astrologers work; throw out a load of old guff and let the masses make the facts fit the fiction. Or the fiction fit the facts, if you prefer.’
‘I think the child has lived before as Purple-five. And she’s been sent back to punish us.’
King laughed and fiddled with a new red cravat given to him by his lover in more rational times. ‘At what point did Gypsy Rose Lee possess you, Charles?’
‘She was a dancer and a stripper, not a fortune teller.’
‘Don’t split hairs. You come back from that woman’s house laying claim to wild supposition, and you expect me to fall into line and accept that some teacher at your school has given birth to the reincarnation of Purple-five?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you aware of how fanciful that sounds?’
‘I believe it’s true.’
‘And I believe one day Jammie Dodgers will inherit the earth, but belief and reality are distant cousins. Just stop and consider what you’re saying for one moment.’
‘I’ve done nothing but,’ Honeywell protested.
‘It’s outrageous.’
‘And she speaks of a tall man. You’re over six feet.’
King changed course, lest they hit an iceberg and the conversation went the way of the Titanic. ‘We need a holiday.’
Honeywell removed his glasses and rubbed his injured eye. ‘I thought you wanted to start another game tomorrow?’
‘It can wait.’
‘I don’t want a holiday. I want to sort this mess out.’
‘Would you like a thump in the other eye?’
Honeywell hastily returned his glasses to their rightful place. ‘No.’
‘Then stop being so objectionable.’
‘I’m not. I’m scared.’
‘“Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.” Julius Caesar.’
‘I’m aware who said it.’
‘Then take note of it.’
‘I’m at my wit’s end, Peter. You didn’t see the girl.’
‘Then perhaps I should.’
Honeywell looked doubtful. ‘I can’t just turn up on Mel’s doorstep with you in tow.’
‘Do I look as if I’ve taken leave of my senses?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then stop alluding to it. I know someone who might be able help with this matter. Put it to bed once and for all.’
‘Who?’
‘Gavin Westwood.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘An acquaintance. He’s a trained hypnotist. He could regress the girl.’
If Honeywell had been a chicken, he might very well have leapt onto the table and started scratching and pecking. ‘But… but… but… what if he finds out?’
‘If, by some miracle, your fears about the girl are justified, rest assured Gavin won’t say a word.’
‘I’ve not heard you speak of him before.’
‘That’s because I don’t gossip.’
‘We can’t just hypnotise her. Mel might not want that.’
‘It’s not about what she wants. It’s about what we want.’
‘But—’
‘It’s your job to persuade her, Charles.’
‘How?’
‘For God’s sake, man, use your imagination. Tell her that Gavin is a reputable hypnotherapist, and promise her that no harm will come to the child.’
‘And if Chloe really was Purple-five?’
‘Then we’ll have little option but to kill her.’
‘We’re not killing a child.’
King smiled. It didn’t touch his eyes. ‘We will do what is necessary. Death shall lie “on her like an untimely frost”.’
‘It’s all very well quoting Romeo and Juliet, but we’re talking about a four-year-old child, Peter. Not a fancy line from a fancy—’
‘Be careful of words, Charles; they may form themselves into a sentence of death.’
Honeywell snapped his mouth shut.
‘No one is indispensable.’
‘But—’
‘What doesn’t kill you will make you wish it had.’
‘I don’t like this. What if Westwood turns out to be untrustworthy?’
‘He won’t.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I know things about him.’
‘Such as?’
‘What he likes to do with patients under his care.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you need everything spelling out? He commits acts of gross indecency whilst they are under his spell. He also films these rather distasteful episodes for his own perverted gratification and shares them with other like-minded souls on the Dark Web. Satisfied?’
Honeywell didn’t look it. His bruised eye stood out on his ashen face like a plum in the snow. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Because he told me.’
‘Why?’
‘He trusts me.’
‘Is he aware of what we do?’
‘No.’
‘Why would he confide in you?’
‘His tongue tends to loosen when he’s had too much wine.’
‘Why have you never spoken of him before?’
‘Is that a tinge of green I see in those blue eyes?’
‘I’m not jealous; I’m curious.’
‘And we all know what that did to the cat.’
‘I don’t like this.’
‘You’re beginning to irritate, Charles. Perhaps you ought to go for a nap. See if you can’t wake up in a more genial mood. I’d hate to see this petty disagreement escalate into something regrettable.’
‘I’m just worried.’
‘And jealous.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Your eyes tell a different story.’
‘Perhaps they’d look otherwise if you hadn’t walloped me.’
‘They’ll look even worse with pennies on the lids.’
‘I still don’t understand how I’m supposed to persuade Mel Hollis to bring her child to a complete stranger and allow her to be hypnotised.’
‘By convincing her that Gavin Westwood is a trusted family friend. That he is a reputable hypnotherapist, and she is at liberty to stop the regression any time she wishes.’
‘And if she does stop the regression?’
‘She won’t. I’ll get Gavin to put her under before we start.’
‘You’re going to be there?’