DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  She remembered the contemptuous look on Joe’s face as he’d said I’m on to you. There had been rumours in school that Barry’s circle of friends smoked a bit of weed, maybe dropped a few tabs of E, but if the statistics were to be believed, so did over half of all teenagers in Britain at some time. Was Barry supplying the stuff? Is that what Joe had meant?

  Mr Ratchford had done a few random checks, but Barry had never been caught with anything even remotely incriminating on him. If he was selling drugs, however, it would explain the reaction of the children in the youth club. They seemed afraid of him. Joe was there every night; he was in a position to see things other people didn’t. The children were more wary, more closed in front of their teachers, but Joe was accepted as one of the lads — they would be more open with him, talk to him without the worry of others accusing them of telling tales, confident that whatever they told Joe would go no further.

  The internal reports had been reviewed by senior staff and pastoral tutors since they had been completed the previous Wednesday. Each form tutor was expected to go through the effort and achievement grades individually with the members of their form and discuss targets for the next four weeks. There were two interruptions — one to let children know that there was a choir practice after school on Thursday, and from Geri herself to call drama club pupils for a line-rehearsal that lunch time.

  By the end of registration, she had got through only ten of her form. The rest would have to be fitted in on Wednesday. She dismissed her form and after cleaning the board, Geri began tidying her desk, ready for the start of the lesson. A movement at the back of the room caught her eye and she gasped, startled.

  ‘Dean!’

  He withdrew his gaze from the window with seeming reluctance. His eyes were deeply shadowed, and he looked gaunt.

  * * *

  ‘Dean!’ The voice came from far off and it took a while for him to get her in focus. Miss Simpson.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Miss Simpson asked.

  His tongue went to the hole in his lower molar. The pain shot through him like a knife when he sipped hot tea.

  ‘We were going to go up on Rivvy again,’ he said. ‘Me and Ryan.’ He closed his eyes. Sunlight glinted on water. They’d cycled up on their push-bikes, him and Ryan together. Rivington Pike for a spot of fishing. ‘He said we’d take a boat out.’

  Suddenly he was crying. He felt shocked — he hadn’t cried, not once since that first day. He’d been strong for his mum and dad. And here he was, crying, screaming his grief, unable to stop. Miss Simpson put her arm around him. He felt a confused mixture of emotions: comforted by her touch but rejecting comfort: he had no right to it. He made a heroic effort to compose himself and then eased his shoulders out of her encircling arm.

  He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. ‘I’m okay.’

  Miss Simpson handed him a tissue. ‘It’s all right to cry,’ she said. ‘It’s normal to be upset.’

  ‘Aye.’ He blew his nose, stuffed the tissue in his pocket and took another from Geri. ‘Only you’ll not tell the others . . .’

  ‘Of course not. Do you want to go down to Mrs Jackson’s office? She’ll make you a hot drink.’

  He shrugged, his brow furrowing as he fought with a fresh wave of grief. ‘I want our Ryan back.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, and he heard tears in her voice. ‘We all do.’

  * * *

  Huddled at one end of the cab seat, Theresa Connelly wondered whether she could go through with it. She had spent the morning in church, praying for guidance, kneeling in the little chapel of the Virgin. She asked for Mary’s intercession: she as a mother must understand. ‘All I want is to know he’s safe.’

  Father O’Connor had heard her confession. She had poured out all her anger and bitterness, confessed every wicked thought, every murderous feeling in her heart. If she only knew who Ryan had been with that night . . . But she could not bring herself to tell the priest where she was going that morning. It was not shame, she told herself, but fear that her confessor would try to dissuade her from the only course of action she felt could give her some respite from the terrible emptiness she felt.

  The taxi drew to a halt at the kerb and the engine turned over unevenly. Could this really be it? She checked the address on the embossed card: number seventy-seven. It had to be.

  She paid the fare and stepped into the street. A gust of wind buffeted her, and she shivered. Her hand went automatically to her hair, reaching to tuck the wayward strands behind her ears, then, discovering how much the wind had tousled it, pulling out her hair tie altogether and fastening the ponytail again.

  The house gleamed in the bright sunshine; the wood shingles cladding the brickwork of the upper floor looked newly varnished, and the lawn twinkled with the remnants of snow melt. She had expected something else — if not gloomier, then more atmospheric — more dramatic, perhaps. She tried not to feel disappointed.

  A few cars stood at the kerbside, but the road was otherwise deserted. This was the commuter belt; the only people at home at midday would be the retired and mothers with babies. Stay or go? She couldn’t make up her mind. It had taken all her energy just to get into a taxi and direct him here. She felt tears well up, and with it, a growing sense of alarm. What was she doing here? If John knew she was seeing a clairvoyant, he’d be furious. Vultures, he called them. Bloodsuckers who fed on other people’s misery.

  ‘God forgive me,’ she murmured.

  The pristine white front door blurred wetly and splintered into two and then four, and as she looked the door opened.

  ‘Mrs Connelly?’

  Theresa Connelly took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Hepple,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I can . . .’ She swayed slightly, feeling dizzy and sick.

  Agnes Hepple hurried down the path and put an arm around her. She had restyled her hair for the occasion. Modelled on Patricia Routledge: well groomed but comfortingly middle-aged. She wore a flowered frock with an elasticated waistband and a tie belt, and she had carefully removed her false nails. She intended no deceit in this, but she knew that people responded to a motherly quality in these situations. All she was doing was helping them to feel more relaxed and confident in her abilities.

  Theresa Connelly followed her through to a large sitting room at the back of the house.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, dear,’ Miss Hepple said. ‘I’ll make us a nice pot of tea.’

  The room overlooked a lawn and wide borders, which retained odd patches of snow. Snowdrops pushed through the bare soil in places, their tiny flowers trembling in the breeze. Mrs Connelly calmed herself by looking at them for a few minutes, struck by their resilience despite their apparent frailty, then she sat on one of two brick-red sofas, set at right angles to each other. A long coffee table in pale ash held three jagged lumps of crystal: a pale pink, one she recognized as amethyst and another that was colourless, but which cast rainbow patterns in fleeting bursts as the sun came and went.

  She heard a faint musical tinkling and looked towards the source of the noise. Miss Hepple had returned and was watching her. Above her head, wind chimes stirred slightly.

  ‘You expected something . . . else, did you, love?’

  Something else . . . Theresa Connelly realized she was staring. That was her very thought when she had first seen the house. ‘No,’ she said, giving herself a shake. ‘It’s very . . . nice.’

  Miss Hepple smiled. ‘I think so.’ She put the tray down and set about pouring tea. ‘I’ve never been one for all that hocus-pocus,’ she said, handing a cup to her guest. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ She sat on the adjacent sofa.

  As she added milk to her cup, Theresa found the courage to say, ‘The thing is, you see, I’m a Catholic, and—’

  ‘And your religion doesn’t hold with . . .’ Miss Hepple stopped and swept her arm to encompass the furniture, the glowing crystals, the watercolours on the walls. ‘Doesn’t hold with what, exactly? With
talking to a friend who can give you news of a loved one?’ She shook her head. ‘You know why I don’t go for darkened rooms and mystical symbolism?’ She didn’t wait for a reply but went on: ‘I’ll tell you. It’s because that’s what magicians use, to hide the truth.’ She stirred her tea thoughtfully. ‘I don’t do magic, Theresa — it is Theresa, isn’t it?’ Mrs Connelly nodded. ‘What I do is the most natural thing in the world.’

  Theresa nodded, wondering why the church made out that it was so sinful.

  ‘We all have it in us,’ Miss Hepple went on, ‘but not everyone has the gift to bring it out.’

  Mrs Connelly stared intently at the psychic, thinking that her ‘gift’ must be the most wonderful thing anyone could possess.

  ‘And if you’ve a talent, you’ve a responsibility to make good use of it,’ Miss Hepple said, with a modest dip of her head. ‘That’s what I think, anyway.’

  ‘Aye,’ Mrs Connelly said. ‘Like in the parable.’

  Miss Hepple held her gaze. ‘Like your Ryan.’

  Theresa flushed at the mention of his name.

  ‘With his football,’ Miss Hepple explained. ‘He went out and did his best. But more than that, he shared his talent with others — am I right?’

  Theresa set down her cup, spilling tea into the saucer. ‘He was team coach for the local youth club,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t in the papers.’

  Miss Hepple took a sip of tea before placing her cup on the coffee table and relaxing back on the sofa. ‘Are you coming in, love?’ she asked.

  Theresa glanced nervously at the door.

  Miss Hepple folded her hands in her lap. ‘Come on, love,’ she encouraged. ‘Come and work with me.’ She waited a moment, then nodded appreciatively. ‘He’s got lovely brown hair,’ she remarked. ‘A real looker, your Ryan. And freckles . . .’

  Theresa frowned.

  ‘No,’ Miss Hepple said, ‘not freckles . . . He’s a bit faint, yet. But something . . . a dimple?’

  Theresa felt a thrill run through her.

  ‘He’s a bit conscious of that dimple,’ Miss Hepple added.

  Theresa’s hands went to her mouth. ‘We’d make him laugh, just to see his cheeks dimple. He’d go mad, put out with us, but laughing at the same time.’

  Miss Hepple leaned over, and without breaking her dialogue, passed her client a box of tissues from the shelf under the coffee table. ‘He says you’re not to worry. He’s happy where he is.’

  Theresa spoke, her breath hitching, her voice thick with emotion, ‘How can he be, locked up in that awful place? In the cold, the dark.’

  For a moment Miss Hepple’s face was troubled. ‘I thought you’d . . .’ She tailed off, and then began again in a more confident voice, ‘I’m getting a church, flowers . . . Big, white flowers . . .’ She stared guilelessly into Theresa’s eyes. ‘Does that mean anything? D’you understand?’

  ‘Memorial service, last night.’

  Miss Hepple’s face cleared, and she said, ‘The dark, the cold — you mean the mortuary.’

  ‘They won’t let me bury him,’ Theresa sobbed.

  Miss Hepple placed a hand on hers. ‘That’s only his earthly form. Your Ryan has no use for that anymore. He’s on a much higher spiritual plane. And Theresa . . .’

  She waited and Theresa composed herself.

  ‘He is not in the dark,’ Miss Hepple said, emphasising every word. ‘Ryan is in a place of light and warmth and colour.’

  The band of tension around Theresa’s chest eased a little.

  ‘Can you ask him—’ She broke off, unsure if she wanted to go any further. There were some things it was best not to know. But she had come all this way, and there were things that — no matter how terrible — a mother simply had to find out. ‘I want to know how it happened,’ she said at last.

  Miss Hepple seemed to withdraw into herself. Her eyes became clouded, her face troubled. ‘He won’t talk to me, love . . . It’s confused.’ She flinched. ‘But I’m getting flames. Heat—’

  Theresa’s heart contracted painfully. ‘Ryan,’ she said, then again, softly, ‘Ryan . . .’

  Miss Hepple gasped and seemed to come back to herself. Her upper lip was beaded with sweat. ‘Best not go into that,’ she whispered, slightly breathless.

  ‘I’ve got to,’ Theresa insisted. ‘I must know!’

  Miss Hepple shook her head. She looked pale, exhausted. ‘It’s too soon. The memory, it’s too . . .’ she struggled for the right word. ‘Too raw.’

  When Theresa’s taxi arrived, Miss Hepple showed her to the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ Theresa said.

  ‘I do what I can,’ Miss Hepple replied. ‘We don’t always get the answers we want, or we’re expecting, but it’s wise to listen, all the same.’

  Theresa stepped into the street. ‘I feel so much better,’ she said.

  ‘You look it,’ Miss Hepple said. ‘I don’t often see auras, but when I do . . . Yours was in a terrible turmoil when you first came — purples and reds and yellows all swirled up into a storm . . . and the grey, of course — that’s the depression.’

  ‘What’s it like now?’ Mrs Connelly asked, glancing up nervously.

  Miss Hepple took her hand. ‘Green and blue. A little yellow, for courage.’ She smiled. ‘You’ll do just fine,’ she said. ‘He is worried about the others, though,’ the psychic added.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Miss Hepple looked astonished. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Stepping into the cab, Theresa thought that she did know, and looking back at Miss Hepple, hugging herself against the cold in her doorstep, the idea filled her with cold dread: others were in danger.

  17

  Geri glanced at her watch. Jay was already ten minutes late. What had got into the boy? She had caught him trying to steal Carl’s fountain pen. He even had the nerve to try to brazen it out. She finished checking through a stack of Year Eight classwork and went out into the corridor. Two Sixth-Form prefects were passing, doing a sweep of the school, rounding up anyone who had sneaked past the security system to get out of the cold.

  She sent them to find Jay and went back to work on some A-level preparation. They arrived about ten minutes later with Jay in tow. Geri thanked them and they carried on with their rounds.

  ‘Where were you?’ Geri asked.

  ‘Playground.’

  ‘You should have been here twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Forgot.’ He looked down at the floor.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Your work’s on the front desk.’

  She had provided him with a pencil to avoid any reference to the pen she had returned to Carl; he picked it up and began chewing on it as he read the exercise she had set him.

  Geri went back to her work. After five minutes she was disturbed by a constant tap-tap-tap and looked up to find Jay staring at his pencil point while tapping on the paper with it.

  ‘Get on with your work, please, Jay.’ If he heard her, he gave no sign, but the pencil tapping got faster and harder and he stared intently at the point.

  ‘Jay!’

  He stopped, looking slightly dazed, but his hand trembled as if itching to begin again. He made eye contact for the first time, and Geri saw that his eyes were darting erratically from left to right in tiny, jerky, nystagmic movements. What the hell is he on? Geri got up from her desk.

  ‘’Kay,’ he muttered. ‘I’m doing it.’ He looked at the paper but seemed to have trouble focusing.

  Geri stood in front of him. ‘Jay, look at me,’ she said.

  He got as far as her second shirt button, then his head dropped forward. With a rising sense of alarm, she bent down and looked into his face. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his skin and his pupils were dilated.

  ‘What have you taken, Jay?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothin’. Just hungry, aren’t I? Haven’t had me dinner.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  She saw panic in his face. ‘What? I hav
en’t took nothin’, I’m just—’

  ‘I know,’ Geri reassured him, suppressing her own agitation, anxious that he might try to run off. ‘You’re hungry. Come on — you can get some lunch.’

  He stood, shooting the table forward and sending his chair crashing into the second row. He had trouble negotiating the straight line to the door, slewing into the tables on the front row, overcompensating and careering off into the wall.

  Geri caught him by the collar of his jacket, just saving him from going headfirst through the glass of the classroom door. She guided him down the corridor, talking lightly: half-term coming up; the prospect of more snow; the full rehearsals for the Easter play beginning after half-term, praying that she would see someone before he collapsed. There was no sign of the sixth-formers, and she grew increasingly desperate as his replies became more garbled.

  She steered him ahead of her into the school office, where a Year Seven pupil was having her tears dried and a plaster put on her knee. The secretary, a trained first aider, saw the problem immediately and showed Geri through to the sick room.

  ‘Shall I get him to lie down?’ Geri asked.

  ‘No. Talk to him. I’ll bleep Mrs Golding and phone for an ambulance.’

  * * *

  The Sixth Form was housed in a separate block at the end of the school drive. Geri crossed the playground, hugging herself against the wind, and the furious shaking that had taken hold of her since the ambulance had come for Jay.

  The common-room lights on the second floor were switched on against the grey oppressiveness of the day, and three figures were framed in the window, one of them lounging against the windowsill. Suddenly he pushed away, standing up straight, and spread his arms wide in a theatrical gesture. Baz.

  She straight-armed the foyer door, startling two lovers engaged in extra-curricular activities, and ran up the stairs. The insistent thump of a techno-beat pulsed from behind the common-room door. Geri slammed it open and fifty heads turned.

  Baz glanced at her, then coolly returned to his conversation. His two friends were less complacent and eyed her apprehensively as she approached.