The silence ended and the elderly woman spoke again. ‘Tonight,’ she said, in the delighted tones of an indulgent granny imparting news of a special treat, ‘we are privileged to have with us a very exceptional lady.’ She stole a glance over her shoulder and the shadowy figure nodded graciously. ‘Miss Agnes Hepple has been called the new Doris Stokes,’ she went on, with due reverence to the great name. ‘Well, maybe we shouldn’t make comparisons, but whichever way you look at it, she’s a very great lady, and she’s battled with the elements so as not to disappoint us this evening.’
Didn’t she know the weather was going to be bad? Geri thought, irritated with the woman before she’d even opened her mouth. Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she gasped; she hadn’t seen anyone in the area behind her, and she certainly hadn’t heard them approach. She turned to face a woman with a frizzy perm and badly fitting dentures.
‘It’s ticket only,’ the woman hissed.
Geri reached for her purse. ‘How much?’ she whispered.
‘Five pounds.’ She must have read the surprise on Geri’s face, because she added, ‘She’s very famous.’
‘She’s also very expensive,’ Geri muttered, handing over the money.
The woman gave her a ticket and told her to hang on to it: it gave her a chance in the raffle at the end of the evening.
She settled back just as the woman seated in the shadows stood up and walked to the lectern. She was about forty, medium height and build, with brown hair.
‘I blushed a little at your introduction,’ Agnes Hepple began, smiling at the silver-haired woman. ‘The privilege is mine entirely.’ There were one or two murmurs of approval and people turned to each other and smiled, then they started to applaud — raggedly at first, but then with real warmth.
Agnes tilted her head in a shy gesture and waited for silence. ‘You’re here to make contact,’ she said at last. Her voice was sweet and rather girlish, despite her age, her accent northern, but not strongly so, and she had a halting, rather nervy delivery that reminded Geri of the actress Harriet Walter. She knew how to work her audience: a pause for dramatic effect here, a touch of humour there, and constantly moving on, never delving too deep, never allowing her audience to become restless or bored.
She stood at the lectern for most of the session, but from time to time she would stride out to the front of the stage and stare fiercely out at the rows of people.
‘I have a Doreen,’ she would say — or a Martha, or a Jack — and half a dozen hands would go up.
‘I’ll take that!’ was an expression all the regulars used.
Miss Hepple would elaborate: ‘He’s come to me in uniform. It’s . . .’ For a moment her gaze would become unfocused, distant. ‘It’s blue . . . air-force blue.’
A woman in the third row was nodding enthusiastically. Geri wondered how much her act relied on non-verbal signals. ‘He’s asking me do you remember the dance? Does that make sense to you?’ She smiled beatifically, and the woman gave a joyful sob.
They were mostly in that vein. ‘You did look lovely in that frock . . . He says to say hello to the children.’ Each encounter would end with a message. ‘Can you understand that?’ And if they couldn’t, if it made no sense to them that the visitor was pointing to a house, or an ornate bureau, or thorny roses, then it was a symbol, a warning or advice for the future.
Geri watched the grateful acknowledgements and listened to the sighs, the broken laughter, and became increasingly uneasy. Her anxiety turned to bafflement, and finally frustration.
Miss Hepple’s voice broke into her thoughts: ‘I’m going to come to the lady on the second row.’ There was a rustle of interest. So far, Miss Hepple hadn’t singled out any individual, preferring to cast her net wide and wait to see what it trawled in. ‘The lady with the dark hair and the brown coat.’
Geri paid attention. She had settled on Mrs Connelly. ‘I’m getting a lot of pain,’ she said, tucking her hair behind her ears in a quick nervous movement. ‘It’s a recent loss.’
Mrs Connelly nodded, and Miss Hepple pressed her hand between her breasts as if to ease some hurt. She swayed for a moment, then seemed to come to. ‘He’s telling me something.’ She leaned back, listening. ‘I can’t quite . . . His voice is hoarse.’
Mrs Connelly put her hand to her mouth and gave a choked cry.
‘He’s telling me you’ve no need to feel ashamed.’
‘I’m not!’ Mrs Connelly jumped to her feet. ‘I’m not, Ryan! I love you, son!’
God, no! Geri thought. Don’t do this to yourself. She got up and made her way down the centre aisle.
‘Tell him,’ Mrs Connelly said through tears. ‘Tell Ryan I love him.’
‘He knows.’ Miss Hepple replied, gently, pityingly. ‘He can hear every word.’
Mrs Connelly collapsed back into her seat, and the medium went on, ‘He says to tell you he’s happy where he is.’ She gave a sudden, girlish laugh. This was cruel — what could possibly be funny?
‘All right,’ Miss Hepple said, ‘I’ll tell her.’ As Geri reached Mrs Connelly the medium said, ‘He says they’ve got footie teams here — d’you understand that? Does it mean something?’
‘Oh, it does — thank you! Thank you!’
Geri put her arm around Mrs Connelly, and she turned and buried her face in her shoulder. She helped her to her feet, and they edged along the front of the hall, past the organist then to the back of the hall and into the corridor. As they walked, Mrs Connelly grew calmer, and by the time they had emerged into the icy cold night, she was able to say, ‘Did you hear? She knew . . . He said I’m not to be ashamed. I’ve no cause to be ashamed.’
Geri wondered if the Evening News had carried the story of Ryan’s death. ‘I heard,’ she soothed.
‘You don’t believe her.’ Mrs Connelly pushed away from Geri, slithering on the ice that had reformed on the gritted path at the side of the building. ‘You think she’s heard it in the news — read about him in the paper. Well, I heard him. She couldn’t fake that.’
‘Heard him?’ Geri echoed faintly.
‘Guess what, Mum,’ he said. ‘They’ve got footie teams here.’
‘No . . .’ Geri said.
‘Trust our Ryan, eh? Him and his football.’ She laughed a little wildly and began searching in her handbag for tissues.
‘Mrs Connelly — Theresa — that wasn’t Ryan. Miss Hepple does a good turn, but that’s all it was—’
Mrs Connelly seized Geri by the shoulders, her fingers biting into the flesh, despite the thick overcoat she wore. ‘It was Ryan,’ she said fiercely. ‘My Ryan.’
* * *
Miss Hepple was still talking. Theresa Connelly found her way to an empty seat near the back. She wanted to get closer, but she didn’t like to distract her from her work.
The woman had a glow about her. Perhaps that’s what they meant by an aura. Mrs Connelly had always thought all that about lights and colours was rubbish, but it was like a light came off her, a healing, golden light, like the halos on the plaster saints in church.
Mrs Connelly waited, singing along with the songs that weren’t quite hymns, feeling uneasy that what she was doing was blasphemous; she was here against her husband’s wishes, and in the face of her sister’s disapproval. If Father O’Connor knew where she was— But how could it be blasphemy to sing the praises of God’s children?
It comforted her to think of Ryan as God’s little child — as chosen.
The organist packed up and tea was served. Biscuits were offered round and still Mrs Connelly waited. Listening to the childlike voice of Agnes Hepple, a strange calm had drifted over her, as soft and light as a communion veil. She kept watch, in case the medium should suddenly decide to leave, but she felt shy of intruding on her conversations with others.
She waited until it was almost too late. Most of the congregation had sipped their tea and left via the side door; the main doors remained locked and bolted. Miss Hepple touched the elderly woman wh
o had led the service lightly on the arm and said something before turning to leave.
‘Miss Hepple,’ Mrs Connelly called. ‘Miss Hepple!’
Miss Hepple looked round and Mrs Connelly hurried forward. ‘You were right,’ she said.
The clairvoyant seemed puzzled.
‘About my Ryan. He’s a football fiend.’
Miss Hepple crinkled around the eyes, but she did not speak, and Mrs Connelly was grateful for the clairvoyant’s patience in waiting for her to decide what she wanted to say, and giving her the time to summon the courage to say it.
‘Nobody believes me,’ Mrs Connelly said in a low voice. ‘My Ryan wouldn’t do . . . what they said.’ She looked over her shoulder, afraid that someone would overhear.
Miss Hepple fixed her with her intensely blue eyes and said slowly and clearly, as if to emphasise the importance of her words, ‘It doesn’t matter what anyone else believes.’
Mrs Connelly sighed with gratitude and had to fight back tears. Miss Hepple seemed untroubled by her emotional state but continued to hold her with her steady gaze.
‘Would you like to talk to him again?’ she asked.
Mrs Connelly’s eyes flew wide open and she stared imploringly at the clairvoyant. ‘Can you? I mean, is it possible?’
Miss Hepple smiled. ‘In the spirit world, anything is possible.’ She offered her hand and Mrs Connelly felt she would like to kiss it. As they shook hands, Mrs Connelly felt a small but definite shock; a tingling sensation in her hand which became a shimmering tremor of warmth that ran through her entire body. She looked upwards, thinking that someone must have turned on the overhead lights, for it seemed suddenly brighter in the hall. She squeezed Miss Hepple’s hand and the clairvoyant, in return, placed her free hand over both of theirs and once more gave her that warm, reassuring smile.
* * *
Thursday was Geri’s night at the youth club, and Joe would be expecting her. She knew Joe would most likely be running it single-handed if she didn’t turn up. Coral would often show her face after her pastoral meeting, but it depended how long the meeting went on. Occasionally other teachers would put in an appearance, but in weather like this, people preferred to be at home in front of the telly, or working up an alcoholic glow in the pub.
She paced up and down outside the spiritualist church, unsure if she should simply leave or if she should wait for Mrs Connelly. It wouldn’t be right to leave her alone, after seeing her so upset. She decided to go in and wait; at least she wouldn’t freeze to death.
With all the congregation gone, the heating system was finally having an effect: the hall felt muggy and smelled of hot dust, soggy biscuits and the faintly doggy smell of damp wool. Mrs Connelly was talking to Agnes Hepple. She still looked distressed, but there was also a glimmer of hope as she spoke to the medium.
Miss Hepple seemed absorbed in her communication with Mrs Connelly. Communication, Geri reflected was the best word to describe it: it could hardly be called a conversation, since Miss Hepple barely spoke, but she was communicating with that penetrating look. Then she took Mrs Connelly’s hand and Geri saw a shudder, barely perceptible, but unmistakable, shake Mrs Connelly’s tired frame.
Then Miss Hepple handed Mrs Connelly a small card. Mrs Connelly turned and hurried down the aisle, her eyes fixed on the card as if it carried a living image of her beloved son. She almost bumped into Geri, and as she hastily slipped the card into her coat pocket, Geri caught a glimpse of a crescent moon and stars etched in silver.
‘I will take that offer of a lift home, if it’s still on,’ Mrs Connelly said a little stiffly.
‘Of course!’ Geri took her arm and drew it through hers; Mrs Connelly looked suddenly exhausted to the point of collapse.
They drove back in silence. Mrs Connelly turned to Geri as she pulled up opposite the house. ‘I’d ask you in, only . . .’
Geri gave her a rueful glance. ‘I don’t think I’d be very welcome,’ she said.
‘Oh, no, love!’ Mrs Connelly exclaimed, distressed that any guest in her house should feel unwelcome. ‘Normally, like . . .’
Geri smiled. ‘I know.’ These weren’t normal circumstances, and it was hard to imagine how life for the Connellys could ever be normal again.
By the time Geri arrived at the youth club, Joe had already started clearing up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I got sidetracked. Did nobody else turn up?’
Joe threw her a withering look and said, ‘That streak of piss showed up for a bit.’
He meant Frank. ‘You’re not being very fair to him, Joe.’
Joe grunted. ‘He’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot.’
‘He’s a good lad.’
‘He’s flamin’ wet!’
‘He’s quiet, and he may not be too bright, but he does his best. And he is reliable.’
‘If you say so.’ Joe handed her a tea towel and she began drying glasses.
‘Anyway, I’m sorry you had to deal with it alone.’
‘Gives them an outlet. If it hadn’t been for the youth club when I was a kid, I’d’ve got into all kinds of trouble.’
‘Still, it must be exhausting, doing this, three times a week and then going on to your job.’
Joe shrugged. ‘It’s only a couple of hours. Anyway, it isn’t exactly demanding, what I do.’ Joe’s regular shift ran from ten p.m. until six a.m.
‘What does it involve?’ she asked, curious.
‘Rattling padlocks and shining my torch into dark alleyways, mostly. I’m what you might call a visible deterrent. Catching the buggers at it isn’t so easy, ’specially when you’ve got twenty-odd sites to cover.’
‘I thought you were based in one place?’
‘What made you think that? I do the railway station occasionally, but that kind of job can drive you quietly bonkers. Anyway, I like being mobile — you can feel trapped working the same site all night.’
Nick had felt the same way when he did a stint as a security guard. Once he had told her he liked working nights, roaming the city in the dark and the silence, while others slept.
‘So,’ Joe asked. ‘Where were you in my hour of need?’
Geri sighed. ‘The Connellys’.’
There was an awkward pause. Finally, he asked, ‘Are they . . . okay, like?’
‘As okay as you can be in these circumstances.’ She paused. ‘Mrs Connelly doesn’t think it was an accident.’
‘What else could it be?’
‘She thinks the solvents were forced on him.’
In the silence that followed, Geri got a sense of Joe wondering whether he should ask the next question. ‘What makes her say that?’ he asked, at last.
‘You knew Ryan, Joe. He wasn’t the type. It just wasn’t like him.’
Joe took his hands out of the soapy water and flicked the suds off them. ‘There is no type, Geri. You should know that.’
‘Not Ryan,’ she said. ‘You heard him talk about drugs, Joe.’
‘I seem to remember River Phoenix was dead set against them an’ all, but when he collapsed and died, there was enough shit in his bloodstream to keep half of Hollywood high for a month.’
Geri felt a hot surge of anger. Ryan always stood up for people, getting them out of holes they had dug for themselves. It didn’t seem fair to make assumptions about what had happened to him when there was no one to fight his corner.
‘If he did try it just the once — and I’m not saying her did — where were his friends?’ she demanded. ‘He wouldn’t just go off and do it alone.’
‘Looks like he did though.’ Joe wiped down the bar. ‘Unless his “friends” are lying.’
10
Adèle was dreading sleeping in the warehouse again. It was even colder tonight, the sort of cold that hot coffee and digestive biscuits couldn’t keep at bay. She had put off going back, had gone into the city centre and wandered the shops, taking advantage of Thursday late night opening. She was so depressed that she swiped a box of
chocs from Birtle’s. First time in ages. Seeing all that stuff, people spending thirty and forty quid on perfume and make-up, when she had earned the grand total of £6.50 all day, got her down.
Lifting the chocolates made her feel like she’d got her own back. Only the feeling didn’t last long. She started worrying about how she might have got caught — it wasn’t like she was invisible in her green weatherproof. After all her hard work, she could end up with a fine that would take every penny she’d saved.
She was so disgusted with herself that she almost chucked the chocolates in the next bin. Almost: it was daft to take the risk and not get the benefits. As she walked out of the city centre, into the slowly crumbling remnant of tenements and warehouses, she began fantasising about pinching a drop of something to go with the chocs. But the offies usually kept the spirits behind the counter, and chocolates and wine didn’t really go together. She put it out of her mind: it was too easy to slip back into thieving, too temptingly easy.
She climbed the stairs, dumped her stuff inside her tent of plastic and corrugated card and crawled through the opening. It was freezing. The moisture in the blankets and her sleeping bag had frozen and they were stiff and uninviting.
‘Shit!’ Adèle felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. When would this fucking cold go away?
She reached inside one of her carrier bags and fumbled with the matches, trying to get them to light. After the fourth try, one caught, and she held it to her primus stove and turned the knob to release the gas.
An explosive puff, and then the flame lit and settled to a purr. She warmed her hands for a minute or two, hypnotised by the blue light and the low buzz of the flame, enjoying the feel of its warmth on her face. Then she put a billy can on the ring and added some mineral water.
Abruptly, the purr became a low growl, the stove popped and coughed, and the flame went out.
‘Oh, Jeez, oh, fuck, oh, please, no! Not now!’ She hadn’t realized just how much she had used the stove over the last few days, and she had been so glad when daylight had come and she could be up and out again, able to find somewhere warm to sit, that she had forgotten to check the level of the gas in the canister.
DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 10