by Cavendish
* * *
Rain pattered onto her living room window. Hannah reached up to draw the curtains and glanced down at the glistening street below. In the evening darkness, the puddles of water shimmered in the silvery glow of the streetlights. The normally bustling street was deserted. It looked cold, unwelcoming on a typical Scottish October evening. Anyone without a roof over their head would suffer tonight.
Mairead. Where was she? Hannah paused, her hands on the curtains.
A sudden movement below her window grabbed her attention. Hannah stared. A female, dressed in a long dark coat and old-fashioned hat, stared back up at her through her wire-rimmed glasses. Hannah’s mouth ran dry. Her lips pulled taut over her teeth. A pulse in her temple throbbed.
“It can’t be you,” she said. “You can’t be here. Not now.”
Almost imperceptibly, the woman inclined her head in a nod, turned and vanished into the shadows.
Chapter Six
George sipped his pint of Guinness thoughtfully as he and Hannah sat facing each other across a small table in the Greyfriars Bobby pub. In the week since Mairead’s departure, Hannah had welcomed the company of this slightly balding, ginger-haired man of similar age to herself. His down-to-earth common sense was what she needed with all the craziness going on around her. Nothing seemed to faze George. He took everything in his stride and almost convinced her that nothing was amiss and that Mairead was off somewhere enjoying herself. The laughter lines around his blue eyes creased as he stood and indicated her almost empty cider glass.
“My shout,” he said.
“Thanks. Just a half please.”
Minutes later he was back, brimming glasses in hand.
“I had a cousin who disappeared,” he said, before taking a massive swig of Guinness. The foam gave him a creamy mustache that he proceeded to lick off.
“Did he ever turn up? Or she, that is?”
“No, definitely he. Yes, six months later, he sent a postcard from Canberra. He’d been a busy lad. Fallen in love with an Aussie barmaid at his local. Decided to leave everything and fly back with her. They were getting married and she was three months pregnant.”
“Wow! Is he still out there?”
“Och, no. He was back in Dunfermline a few months later. Left her behind. Everything had been going fine until her boyfriend was released from prison.”
“Huh?”
George laughed. “Massive chap. Did a lot of boxing. Turns out the girl had been living with him until he got nicked for armed robbery. He did his time and expected to pick up where he left off. My cousin decided discretion was the better part of valor and scarpered. That was five years ago. When the divorce came through, he married a nice, quiet, mousy girl from Inverness and they run a sweet shop together. Two wee bairns, a spaniel called Benny and a Siamese cat with three paws, called Cleopatra.”
Hannah laughed. She could never quite be sure whether George’s stories were fact or fiction.
He winked at her. “I know you’re worried. But there’ll be a simple explanation and probably a misunderstanding. Someone has got their wires crossed and my money is on that nosy neighbor. Some of these wifeys love nothing more than a good gossip – never let the truth get in the way though.”
“But it’s not just Mairead’s disappearance, is it? It’s all the other stuff that’s been going on. The printer’s shop.…”
“Kids.”
“But how could they have got in? They’re not allowed on the tours.”
“Builders probably left a door open somewhere, or, if they were over fourteen, they could have hung back. Got back in or something. Happened at my last place. Put the wind up one of the older tour guides. Like you, she became convinced ghosts were at it. Until they caught the little buggers.”
“OK, well what about the other stuff I told you? Both Mairead and I have seen the same woman. A woman who couldn’t be there. Then I have that experience of going back in time. And the voices.…”
“You told me you haven’t been sleeping. It’s a very atmospheric place and we all get a little carried away sometimes. Even me. I think I see things out of the corner of my eye on occasions.” He stopped and shook his head. “Henderson Close has that effect on you, and on some of our more susceptible guests. Like your Rachel the other day.”
He could be right. It certainly made more sense than what Hannah feared. So why couldn’t she make herself believe it?
* * *
At home later, Hannah switched off the television and sipped a mug of strong tea, lost in her thoughts. Inevitably her mind drifted back over the past weeks and months.
Leaving Salisbury had been a momentous decision for her, made easier by her increasingly erratic ex-mother-in-law, who had taken to calling her up at all hours merely to bombard her with insults.
She’s lonely. No matter how many times she reminded herself that, it made precious little difference. Yes, the woman was lonely. Hell, so was Hannah on occasions, but the difference between the two of them was that Hannah had determined to do something about it. The redundancy provided the spark she needed to ignite her decision.
Two choices presented themselves. Either stay in Salisbury and try and get another job there, or, move away, start afresh. Free, single. Definitely single. After Roger, she had no desire whatsoever to start another relationship, however many times well-meaning friends had tried to hook her up with allegedly eligible candidates. No, for the foreseeable future at least, that ship had well and truly left port.
As the days progressed, and Violet’s phone calls made her seriously consider taking out an injunction against her for harassment, the thought of a complete break with her past grew more and more attractive. So, what would she do? Carry on teaching? Or something quite, quite different.
Her divorce settlement and redundancy would keep her from destitution. She didn’t have to earn the sort of salary she had been used to, so.…
With a pen and paper, to list possibilities, she booted up her laptop and started a search for different jobs using her preferred job criteria. The results were interesting, if mostly predictable. Aside from teaching and allied professions came acting. Oh yes, very practical.… But then something struck a chord.
In London she had visited the Dungeon and thought how great it would be to have a character guide’s job. To play the part of a person from a different era, steering groups of excited visitors around a haunted attraction, telling them ghostly, macabre tales.
Her excitement mounting, Hannah began her search for themed venues and any associated job opportunities. It turned out there was an increasing number to be found. Evidently, in this crazy world, people loved nothing more than a good, old-fashioned scare. Like the ghost trains of previous generations.
City after city. Manchester, York, Chester, Liverpool, Birmingham …and then she found it.
Edinburgh.
“Can you bring history to life?”
Yes.
Her application was off the same day. A week later, her interview was confirmed, and two days after that, she set off for a week in Edinburgh.
And the moment she stepped over the threshold of the tourist attraction that was Henderson Close, she felt a strange sense of belonging. Though for the life of her, she hadn’t a clue why.
* * *
Mairead’s disappearance continued to concern Hannah but, apart from that, a few mercifully uneventful days followed in Henderson Close, but it was an uneasy lull. Hannah had a hunch the calm would not last.
One morning, she opened the entrance door and her group filtered through. A gasp came from one of the women. “I can’t go any further. I can’t go down there.”
The woman’s voice trembled. Panic etched into every syllable. Hannah stood with ten of the group at the bottom of the stairs. The others started muttering among themselves. Someone giggled nervously.
“Are you all right, madam?” Hannah asked, careful to stay in character.
“She’ll be all right in a moment.” A man of similar age to the woman took hold of her arm and tried to drag her down the stairs. Meanwhile, the rest of the group had descended, and all eyes were on the terrified woman.
“Come on, Beth, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“Sir, I’m sure if your wife doesn’t want to come down here, she doesn’t have to. She can always wait for you upstairs.”
“No,” he retorted, “I paid good money for these tickets.”
“Don’t worry about that, sir. I can make sure the lady’s ticket is refunded.”
He relaxed his hold on the woman, who was now shaking.
“Is it claustrophobia?” Hannah asked, more in hope than expectation. She guessed what was coming.
The woman shook her head. “Can’t you feel it? Can’t you see it?” She wrinkled her nose. “Smell it?”
Hannah sniffed, as did other members of the group. All looked as baffled as she felt.
“I’m sorry, madam, I don’t quite follow—”
The woman held on to the handrail and began to back away up the steps. Her husband stood halfway down, casting quick, uncomprehending glances at Hannah.
The woman’s voice was a hiss. “There’s evil down there. It’s growing. I’ve…I’ve got to get out of here.”
She turned and stumbled up the rest of the stairs and out through the door. It banged shut behind her.
The group was hushed. Shocked into silence. Hannah cleared her throat.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, Henderson Close has a profound effect on some people but I can assure you, we haven’t lost a visitor yet.” As for the staff, that’s a different matter. “Shall we proceed? I have some interesting stories to tell and time’s a-pressing.”
As always these days, Hannah’s heart beat a little faster as she came upon Maclean’s shop. A wave of relief washed over her when she saw it, neat, tidy. Everything in its proper place.
The group had settled. Even the man whose wife had been so agitated. They laughed at her jokes, said “Ooooh” and “Ahhhh” when the lights went out and the ‘rats’ dashed across the wall. They were suitably impressed with the plague doctor and his crow-like mask, and intrigued by the legend of Miss Carmichael’s murder.
They had just rounded the last corner when a sudden, stiff breeze hit them.
Hannah thought quickly. “Some work is being carried out on Farquhars Close, which runs across the bottom of the street. I expect it’s coming from there,” she said.
A woman who had made it her business to stick like glue to Hannah throughout the tour suddenly spoke. “What a great idea to have the workmen dressed in Victorian workmen’s clothes.”
Hannah looked at her. “No, madam, there are no builders here today. They work in the evening and through the night.”
The woman’s look of surprise made Hannah wonder if she was right after all.
“But…but I just saw…a man in corduroy trousers, a cloth cap, old-fashioned clay pipe, bandanna round his neck. He had a hod of bricks over his shoulder.”
Hannah’s heart started to pound again. “Where did you see him, madam?”
The woman pointed a shaking finger off to the right. “Oh God, I’ve just realized,” she said. “He went straight through that wall.”
The group erupted in excited chatter and a few shocked gasps.
Hannah fought to come up with a plausible explanation but couldn’t think of one. There was nothing else for it. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems you have had an added bonus on your trip today. The ghosts of Henderson Close have decided to pay you a visit. Well, a couple of you anyway.”
Polite, slightly edgy, laughter.
“Right, if you will all follow me, we’ll return to the twenty-first century. I trust you have had an enjoyable tour today.”
Murmured thanks, nods and an excited American woman of indeterminate age and the fixed expression of a Botox-devotee pressed Hannah’s hand. “That was the best ghost tour ever. You guys do a wonderful job here. Thank you.”
Hannah smiled. “Glad you enjoyed it, madam. Please tell your friends.”
“I sure will.”
As she was the last to leave, Hannah followed her up the stairs. At the top, the woman paused and turned back to her. “That waxwork man in the shop. You know, the printer? He’s so lifelike. I swear I saw him move. I don’t know how you did that. Awesome.”
Hannah forced a smile on her face and said nothing.
There was no waxwork man in the print shop.
Chapter Seven
George, dressed as his character, Sir William Henderson, eased himself into a comfortable armchair opposite Hannah in the staff room.
“Ailsa’s in a foul mood,” he said, raising his coffee mug to his lips.
Hannah nodded. “One minute she’s angry, the next she seems in a world of her own. I think she’s really worried about Mairead. It’s been ten days now and the police have found no trace of her.”
“What about the voicemail?”
“Inconclusive apparently. Their money is on it being Mairead herself. They say it sounds as if she had put a scarf or something over the mouthpiece and faked an accent.”
“So they’re sure it’s a woman’s voice?”
“Not entirely. Their attitude now seems to be that if she wanted to disappear, that’s her prerogative. She’s an adult. No known history of mental illness. As to where she’s been living this past two years…the only address anyone, including her bank, has for her is the one Ailsa visited a few days ago.”
“I suppose in this day and age when everyone does everything online, an out of date street address is no biggy.”
“I suppose.…” Hannah sighed. “It’s so peculiar. I know we had a brief falling-out when I let Ailsa know we’d experienced something weird in the Close, but I’m sure we cleared that up.”
“You had a weird experience?”
She hadn’t meant to mention that to anyone. Her promise to Ailsa....
“Oh, it was nothing really. One of the visitors played a trick on us. Had me going for a minute, that’s all.”
Hannah hoped her casual tone would throw George off the scent. He frowned, seemed about to say something, then thought again and moved on.
“I hope we hear something soon,” he said. “About Mairead. If Ailsa bawls me out once more, I swear I’m jacking it in here.”
“Hang on in there, George. Sooner or later, Mairead will have to draw some money out of her account and then they’ll be able to trace her. Goodness alone knows what she’s been living on this past week or so anyway.”
“Maybe she has a savings account no one knows about?”
“Or maybe—” Hannah stopped short of voicing her ultimate fear. That if, and when, Mairead turned up, she wouldn’t be alive and kicking.
George glanced at his watch and stood. “Better get going before Ailsa gets on the warpath again. You coming?”
Hannah smoothed her dress down. “Let battle commence,” she said, smiling.
The afternoon’s tours went smoothly. One woman swore she could smell garlic around Miss Carmichael’s corner.
“She wasn’t a vampire, was she?”
Hannah restrained herself. “Not that we are aware of, madam.”
Others in her group tittered and giggled. The woman blushed and hung back when Hannah ushered the group on to the next point of interest.
At the end of that tour – the last of the day – Hannah said her goodbyes and accepted the thanks from another set of satisfied customers. The woman who had asked about the smell of garlic was the last. Her awkward expression reflected the embarrassment she must be feeling.
“I’m sorry to be such an idiot,” she said.
“That’s no problem at all. People have all sorts of strange experiences down there.”
“The thing is, I really did smell garlic. I didn’t mention the other smells. Like our herb garden…and the nasty stink of manure as well. The different smells kept wafting over me, but I could see I was the only one, so I shut up. The rest of the group already thought I was a nutter.”
“It’s a very atmospheric place.”
“No, it’s more than that…I felt something down there. Something so dark and rotten…as if someone had opened an old coffin. It smelled of…death.”
Hannah stared.
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I must go. I’m not making any sense. Thank you. Please be careful.”
She had gone before Hannah could respond.
“Lock up for me, Hannah. Hannah.”
Hannah had been completely unaware of Ailsa approaching her. “Sorry?”
“I said, lock up for me, would you? I’ve got a stinking migraine and I need to get home while I can still see properly to drive.”
“Yes. Of course. No problem. Hope you feel better very soon.”
“I just need my bed.”
Hannah locked the shop door behind her boss and drew an unsteady breath. The last tour had finished early and the builders hadn’t yet arrived, so she was on her own. She opened the door to the Close and started her descent.
The lights were still on. Hannah reached the stony street and began her check of the doors and accessible buildings. Above her, the occasional car horn, the rumble of a particularly large vehicle, a distant police siren, fading as she moved further underground and away from the road above.
As always these days, she approached Murdoch Maclean’s shop with trepidation, then exhaled in relief as she saw everything in order and not a figure in sight. She was moving off when something caught her eye.
She stepped over the threshold and smelled the familiar odor of printing ink and musty paper. But something didn’t feel right. The pile of newspapers against the wall. They looked different somehow. Reordered. She went up to them and picked up the one on the top. The paper was fragile, brown with age. The front page was a mass of advertisements. Carefully, she turned the page. She gasped. A familiar face looked out at her from page two. Quickly, she read the caption underneath.