ACRES Creative Writing
The Adult College for Rural East Sussex offers a Creative Writing Improvers/Advanced class at Hailsham East
Community Centre on Friday mornings from 10.00 am-12.30 pm. We are a mixed ability group although all of
our members have some experience of writing, with the newest group member in her second year and our most
long-standing member having been part of the group for fifteen years. This year, for the first ten weeks, we
concentrated on exploring the Gothic genre and used our skills to write a collection of short stories. We hope
that you enjoy them.
Contents
Dancing Fate, Pages 2-4, Bena Armitage
Daddy’s Girl, Pages 5-10, Sue Dixon
The Old House, Pages 11-14, Patricia Flood
Hambra Park, Pages 15-19, Helene G Ford
Mysterious Faith, Pages 20-25, by Peter Girle
Our Natural Leaders, Pages 26-34, by Ray Salisbury
Thicker Than Water, Pages 35-38, by Susan Stedman
Shadow’s Keep, Pages 39-43, by Helen Stockton
Barmy Park Pages 44-49 by Pam Turner
1
Dancing Fate, by Bena Armitage
On the night of the August bank holiday the clock struck mid-night, and his birthday party was drawing to an
end. Just as the last few guests were leaving and saying their goodbyes, several police cars with flashing lights
and loud sirens pulled up outside his house. Gary felt unease as he realised why they may have come so late in
the dark. The calmness he had during the party suddenly started to fade away and panic began to overpower
him. The cold sweat started to run down his neck and onto his back. His heart started to pound faster and his
stomach felt knotted.
At first he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault, he was merely asking for directions. He thought the
police would surely have some sympathy for him if they just gave him an opportunity to explain. However, he
was terrified at taking such chances and where he could end up if the police were to suspect him in any way.
Gary felt overwhelmed by the whole situation but knew he had to take control of his intense feeling of fear and
apprehension before anyone in the room doubted him of being in the wrong. After all, the last thing he wanted
to do was to give people reasons to believe that he could be the perpetrator. With these thoughts racing through
his mind, Gary skilfully and swiftly managed to disappear upstairs into his bedroom without drawing anyone’s
attention. The thoughts of impending doom forced Gary to quickly get changed from his party clothes into
something more casual. He posed several questions to himself as he frantically took off his new pair of black
shoes, blue stripped shirt and plain navy blue trousers that he had specially purchased for the party. Why did it
all have to happen to me? Why did I get myself into this mess? What was I thinking of at the time? I am a
happily married man with three gorgeous children, a loving wife and a bright future to look forward to. I have to
find a way out of this at all costs, even if it means abandoning my family for a while in order to protect them
from this self-inflicted danger that I have created and forced upon them.
The door bell rang downstairs just as he was about to open the sash window in his bedroom to escape. He
couldn’t afford to waste another second but knew he had to throw something down first. So he hurried across
the room, forced the wardrobe door open and grabbed the thickest blanket he could find. He then rolled it up
and threw it out of the window onto the flat roof.
*
*
*
From a very young age Jenny’s deep passion, love and ambition to be a dancer was so strong that she now felt
ready to face any challenges that came her way, especially the ones from her parents. Jenny knew she had a long
drawn battle on her hand when she decided she wanted to join Mrs Kapoor’s evening dance class. Being a
young 13 year old teenage girl, walking home alone in the dark was not safe, was just one of the excuses
Jenny’s parents gave her time and time again. She soon realised they used this ploy to forbid her from joining
the classes as well as going out with her friends at night. Dancing was not something Jenny’s parents had ever
approved of. Having a good education with outstanding academic results is what they strongly believed in and
this was made quite clear to Jenny from a very young age. They expected Jenny to achieve the highest grades at
school in order for her to be successful in life. This meant denying Jenny all after school activities, or anything
else that they thought would distract Jenny from her school work. They thought dancing and performing on
stage was for young girls with no dignity, aspirations or any vision, other than to mask their faces with thick
make-up and exhibit their half-dressed bodies in public. After several long months of arguments,
disagreements, tears, debates and sound reasoning, Jenny finally managed to persuade her parents to agree on
her joining Mrs Kapoor’s dance class, which was twenty minutes walk from Jenny’s home. However, this
agreement came with two strict conditions: the first one being that Jenny would not fall behind with her
homework and secondly under no circumstances she would ever return home later than 9pm. She would be
forced to abandon her dance activities immediately if any one of these conditions were to be broken. Jenny’s
life-long ambition to dance was so great that she was ready to agree to practically any restrictions imposed on
her. The only thing Jenny really wanted from her parents was their permission for her to join Mrs Kapoor’s
class on Monday nights, and this she got!
Jenny felt ecstatic at the thought of being allowed to dance. She regarded Monday nights as her special nights
because of the joy, delight and feeling of happiness it brought to her new life. As Jenny thoroughly started to
enjoy and embrace every single second of her class, it became increasingly evident to her that she was born to
be a dancer and perhaps she’s on her way to fulfil her secret ambition. Her friends recognised the blissful and
contented feelings Jenny portrayed at school since joining the dance group. They thought this sudden change in
her behaviour was seen nothing less than like a bird of prey soaring through the sky with a definite purpose,
journey and destination.
2
Mrs Kapoor was a good teacher who demanded precision, willingness to work hard and absolute commitment
from her pupils. She would make sure the classes ended by 8.30pm at the latest, particularly during the late
autumn and winter months as most girls had to walk home. However, there was one particular dance move that
Mrs Kapoor was very eager for the group to master. On this occasion she didn’t finish the class until 9.25pm.
Jenny suddenly realised how late it was and remembered the promise she had made to her parents. She quickly
grabbed her coat in a panic and hurried outside without saying her usual goodbyes. The thought of being forced
by her parents to end her dance activity distressed her immensely and brought tears down her cheeks as she ran
home.
Jenny felt the whole night was against her, due to the intense feeling of fright it brought into her. The dense fog
hung low in the streets like smoke from an autumn bonfire. It’s murky and dreary presence blocked Jenny’s
visibility from all angles and brought darkness and spine-chilling fear into her. It turned the ground moist and
slippery to walk on and prevented the street lamps from lighting the path. Jenny stumbled onto her hands and
knees several times. Its frightful existence made her journey home longer and agonisingly painful. Her heart
pounded faster as she thought of the questions her parents would ask, their reactions to her answers and whether
she would ever be allowed out again at night. She began to tire and felt exhausted but knew she had to carry on
running no matter what.
A few yards away, Jenny heard a car engine slowly crawling up behind her, with the driver lightly pushing his
hand on the steering wheel to hoot. Jenny continued running. After a while, she decided to slow down and lift
her head to check if there was anyone else in the vicinity or walking behind her. The thick fog made it tough for
Jenny’s eyes to focus on anything but she could sense the street being quiet and empty. After a while, the driver
stopped hooting but flashed his headlights several times instead, to attract Jenny’s attention. She tried to ignore
the lights and block things out of her mind, but the car kept up with her pace and persevered on following Jenny.
Her heart raced even faster than when she left Mrs Kapoor’s class. Her cold body felt numb as the driver
continued to intimidate her. However, the flashing beams at regular intervals made it easier for Jenny to see the
path more clearly so she decided to speed up her footsteps every now and again, attempting to escape. This was
no use, the faster she ran the quicker the car drove behind her, until finally it caught up with her.
The driver stopped the car and wound down the glass window to speak.
‘’ Excuse me young lady, I just want to know whether I am on Brigstock Road or Landsdowne Road,’’ asked
the driver. ‘It’s rather difficult for me to drive and navigate myself at the same time at night, especially in these
weather conditions’’. Jenny paused for a while and turned to look at the driver. The misty atmosphere made it
hard for Jenny to get a glimpse of his face but she thought maybe her fears and unsettling feelings about him
would disappear if she stopped for a few seconds to help the man.
‘’By the way, my name is Gary, what’s yours?’’ the man continued questioning.
‘’Jenny’’ she mumbled in a soft broken voice as she reluctantly bent down to look at the map. He gently slid the
A-Z on his lap towards her and lifted his arm as if to turn the interior lights on, but then changed his mind.
‘’I can give you a lift home if you like, I’m going in your direction’’.
‘’How do you know where I am going?’’ Jenny interrogated him.
‘’Surely you can’t be going too far from this area or else you wouldn’t be walking home, would you?’’ Jenny
contemplated whether to accept his generous offer. If she did, Jenny thought, it would certainly get her home
much quicker and also mean fewer questions from her parents. On the one hand, Jenny thought of the risk
involved in accepting a lift from a stranger, and on the other hand of being forced to give up her dance classes.
She mulled over the repercussions but the urge of getting home as fast as she could overtook her. She
reluctantly placed her right hand on the roof of the car and hesitantly used her left hand to open the front
passenger door to get in. Before she could catch her breath back to speak, she turned her eyes to have a glimpse
at the figure sitting next to her. A long sigh of relief escaped from between her lips. She wasn’t sure if this was
because she felt safe with him or merely glad to have some rest in his car. Gary put his foot down on the pedal,
turned the steering wheel fiercely and drove hastily towards Jenny’s house. Jenny was surprised at Gary’s
abrupt and nervous way of driving the car. Every now and then his foot on the accelerator made the vehicle
jerk. She wasn’t sure whether this was due to Gary being a new driver on a dense foggy night or merely feeling
uneasy sitting next to her. After a while he calmed down and slid his hand across the gear stick, little closer to
Jenny’s. She took a sharp intake of breath to release her fears but this didn’t help. Gary’s hand was so close
that it was almost touching hers. She turned on the interior lights to study his face and noticed a gold ring on his
3
left hand. It was rested on his knuckle, as though surprised to find itself there. Jenny’s pulse sped up. She knew
what she was about to face, but didn’t want to accept it. Every muscle and every vein in her body suddenly
started to tighten up and her heart began to race again. She thought if she could explain to him of her situation
at home perhaps he would understand. She opened her mouth to converse but decided not to distract him. The
foggy conditions seem to get worse and the cold rain began to spatter the windscreen. Gary turned on the
windscreen wipers but this made no difference to his visibility. Jenny thought to herself, only a few more
minutes in the car and they would be onto her road. The dark black night was against them. Gary saw a car
approaching towards him at a speed. He suddenly slammed his foot on the brake pedal, wrenched his steering
wheel and tried to pull the handbrake. The wheels of his sports Capri locked and the car skidded against a brick
wall of a grocery shop front. Jenny screamed at the top of her voice and her piercing shriek got louder as the car
collided into the wall. Gary threw his hands up and then onto his face. He shouted at Jenny to be quiet but it
was no use.
At first they struggled from their seats but Gary finally managed to force open his damaged door. His arms and
legs were shaking and Jenny felt petrified of the consequences.
‘Just open the door and let me out,’ she shouted hysterically as she struggled to make sense of how it all
happened so quickly.
‘I am so sorry Jenny, please forgive me,’ begged Gary as he tried to open his door. He struggled at first, but
then used his shoulders to push it open. He then ran out to force open Jenny’s door. Just as he pulled the handle
to let her out, she pushed herself out of the car and ran to escape from Gary. She ran without glancing behind
her shoulder to check if Gary was following her. For a few seconds she felt a stab of guilt but knew she had to
keep running before the police arrived. Thankfully she couldn’t see anything stirring, except the enduring
silence of the dense fog. She arranged her version of the incident in her mind before finally arriving at her front
door. If questioned, she knew she had to conceal the truth in order to protect herself in the likely event of her
parents finding out why she accepted a lift from a stranger. Jenny carefully placed her key in the key hole and
quietly tip-toed upstairs into her bedroom. Without getting changed she slipped straight into her bed.
The next morning, before Jenny’s parents were awake; she ran down to the police station to give them her
arranged version of the event that took place the night before.
4
Daddy’s Girl, by Sue Dixon
It was a warm bright day when Kate made up her mind to end her life. Inside her head the sun hadn’t shone for
months. There had been many clouds weighing her down, feeling heavy and dark and she simply lost the desire
to face any more. So she found herself sitting on an old wooden bench facing out to sea, contemplating the
wide, vast emptiness in front of her.
‘I hope it won’t be a child who finds me,’ Kate mused in her mind, thoughtful even in her desolation, ‘that would
be dreadful. Hopefully my body will just float out into the sea and never be seen again,’ she thought, ‘that saves
any nasty shocks for beachcombers. Nobody’s going to be looking for me.’
In a perfectly clear sky a small black cloud passed in front of the sun causing Kate to shiver involuntarily. It
turned cold as a breeze chilled her and at that moment a man appeared on the bench beside her.
‘I hear this is a good place to jump’, Dennis said, making her start and pulling her from her despair. ‘You look
as if you know what I mean,’ he added.
‘I’ve heard that too,’ Kate muttered, not wanting to get into conversation with this man who seemed to be staring
intently at her.
‘I don’t want to intrude, but is that what you are thinking of doing Kate,’ Dennis asked gently.
Kate stared at the man who had disturbed her.
‘How d’you know who I am?’ Kate looked at the man beside her and was somehow carried back to a place and
time that made her shiver again. ‘Should I know you?’
‘We have met before, but it was a long time ago and I wouldn’t expect you to remember,’ said Dennis, ‘that’s
how I know your name and, um, I know your mum,’ he added.
‘Well, that’s rubbish,’ Kate looked up at him, ‘my mum’s dead.’
‘I know, that’s why I’m here, because of your mum, she’s worried about you.’
‘Oh, now that’s just stupid,’ Kate cried, ‘I don’t know you, and if I’d ever met you I think I’d have remembered.’
Kate was aghast at this man’s statement. She thought he might be a bit mad, although she felt that she shouldn’t
really have been surprised. Here she was, planning to kill herself, and then this mad man turns up and starts
talking to her and saying stuff that was freaking her out a bit. This summed up her life really. People trying to
mess with her head and hurt her with their meanness.
‘My mum left me, it’s no good her worrying about me now, she should’ve thought about that when I was being
bullied at school or when the guy who was supposed to take care of me beat me for knocking over a glass of
milk. I was 6 years old, for God’s sake. Where was she then, or has she only just realised how miserable my life
is?’
‘You weren’t as desperate then as you are now, though, were you?’ Dennis asked Kate, ‘She has asked me to
come and get you.’
Kate was getting angry now. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Planning to end her life had been a
preoccupation for a while and she wanted it to be peaceful as she jumped, to remember the better and happier
times in her short life. She wanted to have happy thoughts when she died not people reminding her how her
mum, and dad, for that matter, had left her on her own.
‘Come and get me where, exactly? What are you going on about, you crazy man?’
‘Your mum wants to help you and she can’t do that while you are here and she’s not, so I need to, well, show
you the way.’
‘Why you?’
5
‘I owe it to her,’ Dennis murmured.
***
‘Kate poppet, have four more spoonfuls of breakfast. Do it for your dad, please,’ Cliff pleaded with his four year
old daughter while he spread butter on a slice of toast.
Kate sat at the table trailing her spoon through the porridge that daddy wanted her to eat. It smelled nice, sort of
sweet and she was a bit hungry, but it wasn’t what she liked for breakfast. Daddy knew that she hated porridge.
‘I don’t like it. Why can’t I have Sugar Stars, daddy?” she asked.
‘Oh, Kate, for heaven’s sake, sometimes we all have to have things we don’t like,’ her dad shouted, ‘it’s good for
you, just eat it!’
Immediately he said it, Cliff regretted snapping at his daughter. His beautiful, trusting little girl who he was
about to let down so badly. He recalled the conversation he had had with his mother-in-law just two weeks ago.
He had been feeling so low, still grieving the loss of his wife and struggling to answer Kate’s questions about the
whereabouts of her mum without breaking down. Sheila had called at the wrong time, or in his troubled mind, it
was the right time.
‘I don’t think I can do this, Sheila,’ he had said, ‘I miss Emily so much and Kate just doesn’t understand.’
‘Well, we all miss her,’ Sheila had replied, capable and efficient as usual, ‘I miss my daughter every day, but we
just have to cope as best we can, don’t we?’
‘That’s just it, Sheila, I’m not coping. Work is suffering and Kate’s crying all the time. She won’t eat properly,
she is lashing out at Playgroup, kicking and pinching the other kids, she won’t sleep in her own bed any more
and I feel as if I am failing her.’
That’s when the two of them first talked about adoption for Kate. Sheila put the wheels in motion with indecent
haste, in Cliff’s opinion. It was almost as if she wanted to get Kate out of her life so that she could move on. He
couldn’t believe that the time was upon him and that he would never see his daughter’s angel face again. Still,
he had to be strong; it was for Kate’s future, after all.
‘Ok Kate, if you’re not going to finish your breakfast let’s get your coat on. Granny will be here soon,’ said
Cliff, brushing toast crumbs from his suit jacket, ‘and daddy has to go to work quickly this morning.’
‘Alright, daddy, I’ll hurry,’ Kate rushed to the coat rack and jumped up to reach her coat.
‘Will you be good for a mo’ while I pop up to the letter box, Kate, I’ll only be a minute. Don’t open the door to
anyone or answer the ‘phone,’ Cliff said, ‘just stay there like a good girl, and remember, I love you very much.’
‘I love you too daddy.’
***
Kate didn’t see daddy after that. When Granny Sheila came into the house and daddy wasn’t there she smiled at
Kate and gave her a bag of jelly babies while she drove in her car to her own house. Kate kept asking Granny
Sheila when she could go back home and where daddy was, but she just told Kate to try and forget about him
and that she would soon have a new mummy and daddy to love her. That was the last time she saw Granny
Sheila too. She was taken away to a big house which was not at all like her other house, but where there were
lots of other children, and that’s where the nightmare of her life began.
***
‘Look, I know how this must sound to you, but if you are happy to listen to me for a short while before you
jump, I’ll try to explain,’ said Dennis, ‘but you may need to have a fairly open mind about what I am going to
tell you, deal?’ he finished.
Kate thought about this. It wasn’t as if she had a deadline to meet and it wasn’t like this guy was going to be
able to stop her from jumping, she’d already made up her mind on that, so she nodded her head.
6
‘Right, where shall I start, well, the accident, I think. I don’t suppose you can remember much about that can
you?’ Dennis settled himself on the bench as if he was planning to be there for a while.
‘They don’t make these benches very comfortable, do they? My body isn’t used to sitting on hard wooden slats.’
Kate looked at him thoughtfully and said to herself how very smooth his skin looked. She felt that he should be
older than he looked, the way he was talking, and if he knew mum then he must have been very young when he
met her. She had been dead for 15 years and Dennis didn’t look older than 30 or 32. All this was very strange,
and what was the accident he was talking about? It couldn’t be the one that killed mum, could it?
***
Kate wasn’t a religious person, if anything she felt let down by it, but on the day that her head was full of
wretchedness and self hate she suddenly felt compelled to go inside the church that she passed every day. It was
a foreboding church; not a welcoming place. The building was brick with high windows which couldn’t let
much light in and she could not understand what good it would do her to go in, but she went in anyway. The
interior of the building was no more attractive than the outside. The pews were dark and closely spaced. There
was an imposing pulpit, draped with heavy, fading tapestries.
As she entered the church the gloom overtook her, closing in around her. She sat down heavily on a pew at the
back and as she contemplated her life a man approached her. He sat in the pews in front of her and spoke. There
was no-one else in the church so Kate had to respond to his question.
‘What do you think of our new crèche area?’ the chaplain asked quietly.
Kate looked at him, a bit taken aback by the question.
‘I don’t know, this is the first time I’ve been in here,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is there a special reason that you came in today?’
‘I don’t know why I’m here. It’s not like I’m into all this religious stuff. I suppose I’m looking for something,
but I don’t know what, so don’t go thinking that I can be saved or anything.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, but I’ll be around, if you think of anything I can do to help you, so just enjoy the peace
for a while,’ the chaplain said.
Kate looked at him. He was about 40 or so and he had dark hair and eyes. His face was an honest one, a bit
tired and he seemed a bit sad. She suddenly trusted him enough to blurt out,
‘I wish I was dead,’
Father Heath spun around and looked at Kate. He saw the misery in her face and connected with the
unhappiness she was feeling.
‘What makes you so unhappy that you would want to do something so drastic,’ he gently asked.
Over the next hour Kate poured out her life story to the chaplain, how she remembered being taken away from
home when she was four and not being allowed to talk about her dad; the wretched life she had spent at the
orphanages; the isolation and misery that she felt every day. The bullies who had made her feel so unhappy and
remembering reaching out for love anywhere, but being abused and ridiculed in return. Then today, the ultimate
betrayal, from someone who Kate had thought was a friend.
She had known Todd since primary school. She had always thought that they had been good buddies and she
had bonded with him, but then today, in front of all his rugby mates, he had laughed with them when they
catcalled her. The names wouldn’t hurt her, she knew what they said about her, but for him to side with them
was so hurtful, so unforgiving of him. She felt as if this was how her life would always be. ‘So, what’s the point
of it,’ she thought.
Father Heath listened incredulously to Kate’s woeful story. He desperately wanted to help her, but there was a
more pressing need: to investigate where she came from and who she was. He didn’t want to think it; was it
possible?
7
***
‘We didn’t know that anyone else was in the car,’ Dennis said. ‘It wasn’t until the paramedics heard you crying
that anyone realised that you were there. Your mum had already been certified dead. I’m sorry, I hope you’re
ok with hearing this,’ he added.
‘Yes, it’s ok,’ said Kate, ‘it’s a long time ago. Were you a witness?’
‘No, Kate, I was driving the van that hit you both,’ Dennis whispered.
‘No, that’s wrong,’ said Kate, ‘the driver died as well.’
‘Well, that is what I am trying to tell you, Kate, I only met your mum after we died.’
A flock of gulls screamed overhead, their scavenging beaks hungry for any rotting debris from abandoned
picnics.
‘What are you saying, that you’re a ghost?’ Kate laughed nervously.
‘Well, yes, that is what I’m saying,’ said Dennis, ‘I did tell you to be open-minded.’
‘So what prompts you to appear before me now,’ Kate demanded. ‘Are you out to get the whole family reunited
up there,’ she raised her hands upward towards the sky. ‘Is dad there too, wanting to help me?’
‘There’s no need to shout. I’m not used to loud voices where I’m from,’ Dennis said, ‘you’re hurting my ears.’
‘Oh, you can’t be serious. I don’t need to be freaked out like this any more, just go away,’ Kate started to walk
towards the grass verge on the edge of the cliff.
‘Kate, why do you think that I know your dad,’ Dennis asked quietly.
Kate spun round and glared at the man before her. ‘Well he’s dead as well isn’t he? He must be with your lot.”
‘Well, now who’s wrong?’ said Dennis. ‘Your dad’s not dead.’
Kate staggered backwards and nearly lost her footing. Chips of chalk fell over the edge of the cliff. She
steadied herself, reeling from the news.
‘Where is he then?’ Kate asked. ‘I was taken away and they said he was gone. I thought he’d been run over.’
‘I know he’s not dead, but I don’t know where he is. He might be on the other side of the world,’ said Dennis.
‘How can you be so sure, there must be a lot of spirits or whatever you call yourselves, where you’re from.’
‘We are always re-united with the people we leave behind,’ Dennis told her, ‘I thought everyone knew that.’
‘Well, if you’re telling me that dad isn’t dead,’ said Kate, ‘maybe I could find him. He could be the reason to
stay alive.’
‘There’s a chance of that, but your mum may not be in this world. I could show the way to her and she is
waiting for you.’
***
Father Heath was in quandary. He couldn’t break his Hippocratic Oath, but he was sure that he knew something
about someone which would change their life forever. He couldn’t be certain, but the age and colouring of the
girl was so similar. Even the facial features seemed so close. He had a phone call to make.
***
8
‘If I could find my dad, it would change my life, I would have someone who was mine,’ said Kate.
Yes, but suppose he didn’t want you? Wouldn’t that be far worse?’ Dennis asked.
‘Why on earth wouldn’t he want me? Why would you say that?’ Kate said.
‘Well, think about it. He must have given you away in the first place.’
‘Oh, I’ll take that chance,’ Kate was firm in her reply.
‘Does that mean that you aren’t going to jump,’ said Dennis.
‘No, I’m not going to. I’ve got someone to live for now.’
Kate heard the voice, but she couldn’t see Dennis as he said,
‘Well, that means I can go now, but I’ll be keeping an eye out for you,’ he added as he faded away.
***
Father Heath was a bit disconcerted. He had spoken to the bishop for an hour and still felt in a quandary.
‘It’s not a decision that I can make for you,’ Bishop John had counselled his protégée, ‘only you can say whether
or not you feel that this young girl is strong enough to hear what you have to tell her. In this case you have to
protect yourself too. Do you feel that you can open up your personal history without causing any trauma to
yourself?’
Father Heath had needed a lot of support over his internship and John had been trying to encourage him to
become less dependent and more autonomous. John had listened to Heath for many hours, counselling and
trying to give him guidance about his personal life before being ordained into the Church. It was now time to
encourage some self-sufficiency in Heath, but this issue with the girl might push him back. John held his head in
his hands.
While John was thinking about Father Heath and the girl, Heath was considering his next step. If he disclosed
what he knew to Kate it would change her life, maybe for the better, but it would impact on his own emotions
too. Having found out his family history and knowing how he had felt afterwards, he owed it to this young lady,
if he could find her again.
***
‘If we could just sit for a while, there’s something I need to tell you,’ the chaplain explained to Kate. Heath had
been overwhelmed when Kate had returned to his church. He had become sure that she had done something
drastic and that he would never see her again. But, here she was and this had to be a sign from somewhere that
he must tell her the truth about her father. Kate said, ‘I came back to tell you something too, my dad’s out there
somewhere, and I’m gonna find him.’
‘That’s what we need to talk about. Where can I start?
The story that Kate heard over the next hour was incredible to her.
I always thought I was an only child, my parents never told me much of anything and I didn’t like to ask them
when I was young. It was only after their deaths that I began to question who I was and whether I had any living
relatives. I hadn’t got aunts or grandparents to ask, and that seemed strange to me. So, I looked into finding out
my family history. I was amazed to find out that I was one half of a pair of twins that I knew nothing about.
Suddenly I had a sibling! My delight at finding a whole new history for myself! How could my mum and dad
have hidden something so big, and why? I couldn’t understand, but I was determined to find out, and I tracked
down the adoption agency who took my brother or sister away. They had records from my parent’s dealings
with them. It seemed that my parents hadn’t known that they were expecting twins and were unable to afford
two children. They gave away my brother and kept me.’
Heath paused for a minute, seemingly unable to comprehend the enormity of the actions of his parent’s from
forty years ago. Instinctively, Kate reached out and touched Heath’s shoulder. Encouraged, he continued,
9
‘I was able to get hold of the records for my brother’s adoption and through the legal channels tracked him
down. My brother had always known about his history and, although he knew he had a brother, he had no desire
to find me. That hurt me for a long time and we were estranged before we even got to know each other. I found
solace in the Church and, in time, healed myself. I am now strong enough to see how helpful this could be to
you, and so I can tell you that I know the whereabouts of your father and can also tell you that you also have an
uncle.’
A hush fell over an already silent church so heavily that it felt as if a boulder had been dropped from Heaven
itself. Kate’s face took on a pallor and her mouth fell open.
‘You’re telling me that of all the places I could’ve found my dad, it was in a church,’ she laughed hollowly.
‘It all seems a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it,’ said Heath, ‘I had to pinch myself.’
‘What’s his name, my dad? Does he know about me?’
‘He does, and you have a ready made family waiting for you, twin sisters, as it happens.’
‘Where are they? Do they live far? Can you give me an address?’ Kate was recovering fast from the shock that
Heath had delivered and excitedly fired questions at him.
‘I should think that we could arrange a visit in a day or so,’ he said, ‘if that’s what you would like.’
***
The sun was low in the sky on the day Father Heath and Kate arranged the visit. Kate was excited but nervous.
She wasn’t sure how she would be when she met her dad. ‘What will I say when we get there,’ she thought, ‘do
I say “hello dad, it’s me, Kathryn” as if we have only been on holiday, or is that a bit presumptuous, and what
will his other children think of me.’ She had toned down her appearance a bit in preparation for the meeting,
but her tattoos and ear piercings were still a bit obvious. At least she wasn’t wearing the ‘de rigour’ black. She
had splashed out on a demure teal coloured dress from Next. Her odd fashion sense could be explored at a later
date. ‘What if he doesn’t want to see me again when he meets me,’ she fretted.
***
Kate’s attention was drawn away from the road and Heath was not looking as the deer ran across. The petrol
tanker driver did see it, but was too slow hitting his brakes.
The fire crew later told reporters that no-one could have survived the ensuing furnace. The flames reached 20
feet high and could be seen three miles away at the local school.
The tarmac on the road was scarred and impassable until repairs could be undertaken three weeks after the
accident.
***
Dennis watched from a distance. He looked at Emily and asked disdainfully, ‘Are you happy now?’
She turned to him and made a small smile of anticipation.
10
The Old House, by Patricia Flood
1940
As the bus came into the little Irish village, the driver called out,
“Everybody gets off here; we don’t go any further than this tonight.” Ben and Ada, with their two young
boys, John and James, thought they were the only passengers on the bus, till they saw shadows, dark faceless
shadows, moving about, some getting off the bus, others sitting there. Must be a trick of the light, thought Ben.
As they got off the bus, Ben asked the driver,
“Will there be a bus that can take us a little out of town?”
“No lad,” came the reply, “there won’t be a bus tonight. Next one be six in the morning.” The doors closed,
and the bus screeched away from the kerb, sped off along the deserted road, then disappeared into the darkness.
Ben picked James up and swung him up onto his shoulders. John grabbed hold of his mother’s hand. As
they nervously looked around, they noticed that the village was deserted. It had an eerie quietness about it.
They started the long walk out of town.
Almost an hour had passed when they turned into the lane. Darkness was upon them, a full menacing moon,
ducking and diving, in and out of the dark thunderous clouds. There was an enormous crack and the sky,
illuminated with electric, giving a full view of the lane with its twist and turns. The wind was howling through
the trees. They could just make out the old house at the end of the lane.
A week ago they had been living in England. It was a Saturday and they had planned to visit Ada’s mother
and father. Unfortunately, John and James had come down with chicken pox. As a result, they all had to stay at
home, confined to the house. Ada was about to lay the table for tea when the siren went off. They grabbed the
boys and made a dash to the air raid shelter at the end of their garden. Huddled together, they listened in fear as
the bombs fell around them. Finally the sound of the all clear came. Ben stepped out of the shelter and Ada
followed with the two boys. Every house in the street had been hit, flattened to the ground. Their own house
had taken a direct hit. They were devastated and in shock, staring in bewilderment at what remained of their
home.
The fire services, ambulance services, and the home guard, were all working flat out, pulling men women
and children from the rubble, some dead, some injured, others walking around in a daze not believing what
their eyes were seeing, confused, frantically searching for their loved ones. Ben and Ada, worked tirelessly
through the night, helping the services with their endless task, finding and rescuing the trapped and many dead.
It had been this which made Ben decide: to keep his family safe, he would take them to his home in Ireland.
1975
Rebecca had been researching her family history, when she discovered that her father had a brother. His
name was Ben. He never mentioned having a brother, and neither did any of the rest of the family.
Unfortunately her father had passed away a few years ago and now there wasn’t any one left to ask.
Rebecca remembered one time when she wanted him to tell her about his childhood, in Ireland. She
remembered what he had said,
“Now why would you want to know about my childhood, when you have your own to be getting on with?
You don’t need to bother your head about anything. Now run along, I have things to do.” It was never
mentioned again.
The years slipped by, and Rebecca hadn’t given it much thought until now. She was between jobs and had a
bit of time to spare. She cast her mind back to that conversation she had with her father. Her curiosity aroused,
she had to find out more about Ben.
After exhausting most of the historical records, drawing a blank every time, Rebecca booked a flight to
Dublin. She would visit the village; find the old house with its secrets, and some answers to the mystery of Ben.
The weather was overcast when Rebecca arrived in Dublin. The rain holding off, she boarded the bus which
would take her to the little village of Virginia. Two and half hours later, Rebecca found herself sitting in a café
in Virginia, drinking tea and eating a sandwich, served by a nice young man with lovely blue twinkling eyes.
The café wasn’t very busy, in fact, Rebecca was the only customer. The young man came and sat with her and it
wasn’t long before Rebecca found herself telling him everything.
It was strange how she felt drawn to this young man who she had never met before. There was something
about his eyes; he’s getting into her mind. It’s weird, but ridiculous. Why should she think such a thing? He
was offering to help her. He said that he knew where the old house could be and she found herself making
arrangements to meet him in the evening, after he had finished work. He said that he’d take her to the old house.
When Rebecca left the café, she felt over whelming excitement at the thought of finding the old house so
11
soon. She noticed a taxi on the other side of the street. She hurried over to it, asked the driver if he knew the
house, and would he take her there. He said he would take her, but only to the top of the hill where she could
look down on the house. No way would he let her go nearer. It was agreed. She got into the cab and they were
on their way.
“It is said that the house is haunted,” said the driver. “It is said, that whoever goes into the house never comes
out.” He looked at her in his mirror. She was listening intently to his every word, “Strange things go on at
night, noises, piercing blood chilling screams. The banshee, makes your blood chill it does, then there’s the
shadows, creeping about at night, lost souls wandering aimlessly, looking for an unsuspecting body that they
could inhabit. No, not the place to get mixed up in. Take my advice, keep away.” He stopped the car. They got
out and walked a little way, where they looked down onto the valley. At the end of the lane stood the house. It
didn’t look threatening, thought Rebecca, it’s just a ruin. There’s not much left: it’s gone to rubble, with the
exception of the south wall. It was the only wall left standing, with strangely enough, the front door, still intact.
Rebecca returned to the village and booked into a hotel for a few days. After having a shower and putting on
her robe, she lay on the bed, closed her eyes, her mind going over and over the advice the taxi driver had given.
It had unnerved her a bit, but it also excited her. She would meet the young man from the café, strange thing is,
how did he know her name? Rebecca couldn’t remember telling him her name, but she must have, otherwise
how would he know? She didn’t know his, he hadn’t said. With this thought she fell asleep.
An hour later, feeling rested from the travelling, she started to get herself ready. At the age of forty five, she
was looking good. Keeping an eye on her weight had paid off. She brushed her hair back to form a bun at the
back of her head, revealing the sharp features of her face. She looked in the mirror, applied a little make up,
then satisfied with how she looked, she left the room.
On her way out of the hotel, she stopped to talk to the receptionist, who sat behind the counter, reading a
book. The women, smartly dressed, could be in her sixties. When she saw Rebecca, she got up and came over
to her. Rebecca handed her the key saying that she would be back in a couple of hours. Having a second
thought she asked,
“Would you have any recollection of who owned the old house in the valley?”
“Just a minute, I’m thinking.” Rebecca took this opportunity to ask her about Ben. They might have known
each other, may have been at school together. “Ben, yes I remember Ben,” looking very thoughtful she went on.
“It must have been in 1935 or 36, before World War Two broke out, he went to England and got himself a wife,
and a couple of kids. The last I heard, the house they were living in took a direct hit. They were all killed
outright; didn’t stand a chance.” She added, almost to herself, “The bodies were never recovered.” She opened
her book and started to read. Rebecca thanked her. With this information buzzing about in her head, she made
her way to the café.
1940
Ben, Ada, and the boys, could just make out the old house at the end of the lane, then half running, half
walking, stopping a few yards from the house to take in the full view, as it stood in all its glory. It was just as
Ben remembered it. The light of the oil lamps flickered in the windows, making a welcoming sight. Holding
hands together they walked up to the half open door. There came a strong aroma of soda bread cooking in the
oven and a pot of coffee bubbling on the range. The cozy atmosphere and the warmth of the kitchen, embraced
them, giving a false sense of security. Feeling comfortable and relaxed, they slowly walked into the kitchen. No
sooner had they got over the threshold, when the rusty hinges on the door began to creak, then slammed shut
behind them. Frantically rushing towards the door, pulling, kicking and screaming, the light went out. A cold
wind whistled through the rubble. Terrified, they clung together. The house had caught its prey once again.
Spirits of the dead, started rising up, coming towards them, dressed in dark ragged robes, hoods pulled down
to cover their hollow skulls. The spirits walked on passed Ben, Ada and the boys. Their wretched moans, sighs,
and the sound of heavy chains being dragged along, sent chills down their spines, Then came the piercing,
stomach churning screams of the banshee. Three times she screamed, each scream more chilling than the one
before. Then silence.
Ben and his young family were alone, the silence unbearable, stumbling about in the rubble, confused and
frightened, looking for something but not knowing what.
An old woman came towards them. When she got close to Ben, Ben recognized his grandmother,
“Welcome home Ben,” she hugged him. “It’s a fine family ye have,” and she hugged Ada and the boys. “It
took a while for ye to get here. Well here ye are.” She smiled, and then she was gone.
Among the rubble they found four coffins. John and James climbed into the coffin which had their name on
the side and they closed their eyes. Then Ada got into her coffin and closed her eyes. Ben pulled the lids down
and secured them. He then laid down in the one remaining coffin, pulled the lid across and closed his eyes.
12
1975
Rebecca, on her way to the café, thought that she saw the taxi driver on the other side of the road, but when
he turned round she was surprised to find that it wasn’t him. She reached the café. It was all locked up with no
sign of the young man. She waited for a while, decided that he wasn’t going to show up, then turning to go, she
found him standing right behind her, giving her quite a scare.
He apologized for keeping her waiting and she couldn’t help herself from gazing into his amazing blue eyes.
He was getting into her mind. She looked away, trying to keep focused. After all, she wanted to get a closer look
at the house, and he was going to take her there.
They walked for what seemed like forever. Finally, they were at the top of the hill, the same place where she
had stood earlier with the taxi driver.
A bright, full moon lit up the countryside, revealing the old house at the end of the lane. The trees, in the
nearby orchard, made strange and mysterious shapes as they swayed about, and the sound of water trickling
along the river could be heard somewhere in the distance. Peaceful and idyllic the house made a welcoming
sight, with its warm glow, drawing its visitors in, like a moth to a light bulb.
Rebecca, turning to talk to her companion, found herself caught in his gaze. Her head began to spin and her
legs felt weak. What was happening? Was she going to faint? She couldn’t think. Somewhere a dog barked.
He broke his gaze, took her by the hand and they started to walk down the lane towards the house. Feeling
confused, she walked on, trying to shake off the fuzziness and clear her mind. As they approached the house,
Rebecca looking up, thought she saw the faces of two young boys looking out of an upstairs window. She took
a second look but they were gone.
“We will go in. They are waiting for us,” said the young man, as though in a trance. Rebecca followed him.
She was about to step onto the porch, “ Rebecca, Rebecca,” at first she couldn’t make out where it came from.
“Come, Rebecca, we must go in.” He was getting impatient. Rebecca stepped back, looking all around, trying
to see who was there. “You will come now, Rebecca,” the young man shouted at her. She turned to follow him
into the house. Suddenly she felt somebody by; as they did they grabbed her by the hand and pulled her away
from the young man, telling her to run.
Rebecca ran aimlessly, not knowing why or where she was running to, or who the person was that was
running with her. Finally they stopped, collapsing onto the ground, gasping for breath. Rebecca looked up and
saw the taxi driver collapsed on the ground beside her.
“What are you doing, frightening me like that? What’s the matter with you? She was angry. “I wanted to go
inside. I wanted to find some info about Ben.” She was struggling to get her breath.
“You don’t understand.”
“Too right I don’t understand, so you had better start explaining.”
“Well,” he paused for breath, “first, I’m Tom, and we must get away from here. I’ll explain later, right now
we have to go.” He pulled her up, keeping in the shadow as much as possible. They made their way up the hill,
stopping every now and then, making sure nobody was following. At the top was Tom’s taxi, much to the relief
of Rebecca. Getting into the car, they sped off to town and the safety of the hotel room.
They sat in silence for some time. Rebecca looked over at Tom. She thought him attractive in a rugged sort
of way. In his late forties she guessed, the lines on his face told a story of a hard life.
“This had better be good,” she said, “tell me what’s all this about?” Tom didn’t say anything at first, trying to
get his thoughts straight, not sure where to start, while Rebecca, anxious for an explanation, was getting
impatient. “O come on, say something!”
“Ok, here goes, you might not like what I’m going to tell you, I warn you now,”
“Get on with it.” She went and sat next to him, and said, “Come on, I need to know.” Tom took a deep
breath,
“Here goes. First the young man who befriended you in the café, he is Ben, the uncle you are looking for.”
By the look on Rebecca’s face he knew what she was about to say.
“That’s not possible. My uncle would be at least in his late sixties.” Tom agreed with her.
“In normal terms he would be,” he went on. “Ben is a vampire.” He watched her reaction with interest;
surprised, disbelief, she even laughed.
“Vampires, they don’t exist, they are fiction, an old wives tale someone made up in medieval times.” A note
of sarcasm and disbelief were conveyed in her voice. Tom wondered if he should continue, and after some
thought added,
“Do you want me to go on because I can go, and leave you to your own destiny, if that’s the way you want
it?” He was feeling a little hurt by her remarks.
“I’m sorry Tom, please go on.” Although she was skeptical, Rebecca knew that to understand everything
that had happened since she arrived in the village, she had to hear what Tom had to say.
“I first met Ben in England. My father worked on the same building site and they became good friends. I
was only a youngster, but I remember him coming to our house. I overheard dad telling mum that Ben had taken
13
up with some cult or other. He was well into it; bats and vampires, reading everything he could get his hands
on. He used to tease me, tell me one bite from a vampire and I would become a slave of the vampire.
Frightened the life out of me, I had nightmares for weeks after.”
Ben believed that the vampire would put his victim in a trance by hypnotizing them, and then he would bite
into the jugular vein, then drink the blood, till they were drained dry, disregarding the remains. It has been
known that in some circumstances the victim will become a vampire. This happens mainly to men, and women
become the slave of the vampire.
The night of the air raid, Ben and his wife took the two boys into the shelter. When war first broke out, Ben
had made an agreement with his wife that if their lives were threatened, they would cover themselves and the
boys with bats’ blood. Ben was convinced that this would keep the vampires away, according to a book he had
read.
“The house took a direct hit that night; one of Hitler’s bombs flattened it to the ground. It took the rescue
party days to get through to the shelter, in the hope of finding them alive, but, when they finally got into the
shelter it was empty. The strangest thing, there was fresh droplets of blood on the bedding. It’s been a mystery
ever since.”
Rebecca and Tom sat in silence for a while, both deep in thought. Tom was about to say something, but
when he looked over at Rebecca he realized, she had fallen asleep. He got up from the armchair, and walked
over to the window and opened the curtains, just enough to let the brightness of the full moon shine into the
room. He looked up and saw that the window was open at the top, about five inches. Something flew in through
the window, taking Tom by surprise and causing him to lose his balance and fall over the coffee table that was
nearby. Confused, he picked himself up. Then, he saw it. It was a bat that had flown in through the window….
14
Hambra Park, by Helene G Ford
To explore the unknown is a complex matter. It is a subject that has fascinated countless generations. Some
events are easily explained and have a perfectly logical answer. Others are not so tangible and remain a
tantalizing subject for theoretical debate and analysis.
The Morrison’s were a perfectly normal family, that through endeavour and entrepreneurism had become
extraordinary. They had made a fortune through the dot.com. revolution, and while others struggled during the
recession, their business had flourished, growing year on year, so now they could enjoy a wealthy lifestyle.
James and Kate lived in a red brick Victorian Villa in Hampstead with their three children Henry, Lucy, Jack
and Sykie the black Labradoodle. Kate was certain she had arrived on that iconic status driven plateau of the
upper middle classes. The skies were the limit regarding her children. After all, if England’s next but one future
Queen, came from a middle class family, there were no holds barred regarding the higher echelons of British
Society. She therefore concluded, one needed a place in the country even if it wasn’t an inherited pile with
peeling paint and a leaky roof. A spacious bolt hole where they could relax at weekends, and entertain the
Country Set, as one does in the country. Rather like the pop stars of the sixties, who migrated to the discarded
mansions of the impoverished gentry, it was now the turn of the twenty first century movers and shakers to
enjoy the fruits of their success.
The Morrison’s were acutely aware that they did not fit in with the entrenched neighbours in their leafy
Hampstead Grove with its plethora of blue plaque houses, even if they walked Sykie everyday on the heath. On
one side lived a university professor of international renown and his author wife and on the other, a left wing
MP from a decidedly upper middle class intellectual family. The move to the country was therefore a matter of
somewhat urgent consideration.
.
The latest edition of Country Life lay on the coffee table along with an orderly run of glossies. Kate
desultorily plucked the pages as she sat in the conservatory. The warmth of the spring sunshine was magnified
through the glass panes and Sykie snoozed outstretched on the granite tiles. As she turned one of the pages the
picture seemed to dance before her eyes. Kate rubbed at them to clear her vision, but then she felt a burning
sensation in her fingers as if her skin was being branded. Sykie pricked up his ears, lifted his head and his
hackles began to rise. The picture was of a sandstone Georgian house with a central portico standing before a
sweeping gravel drive. With rising excitement Kate went into the sitting room to the lap top on the desk to find
the website.
A small country estate facing the upper reaches of the Thames and close to the Chiltern Hills. A Grade II
listed Georgian house that has been completely renovated to very high specifications, including an indoor heated
swimming pool; a walled kitchen garden; parkland designed in part by Humphry Repton with a serpentine lake
and useful outbuildings and garaging for several cars. There were two staff or guest cottages and 200 acres of
land with a landing strip suitable for light aircraft.
Kate was behaving in a most out of character fashion, thought James, when she phoned him at his office. She
was prowling round the room like a cat on heat, phone clamped to her ear and shouting feverishly.
“Calm down, calm down,” James sighed. “Phone the agent by all means. But I’m not getting dragged into
something I don’t think is right for us. Find out how long it’s been on the market and whether they have had
any offers. I’m certainly not going to pay that sort of money. That’s for the Russian Oligogs.”
“It will be perfect James, I know it. The children will love it. All that land. They can have horses, oh I can’t
wait to see it.”
Kate wasted no time and phoned the Agents. They could view it tomorrow, the woman in their office said. It
was empty, there were no offers and it had been on the market since September.
15
Kate, James and a senior member from the Estate Agents London office drove down the next day. It’s had a
whole winter to stand empty, thought James as they drove through the electronically operated gates and up the
long gravel drive. That should throw up any flaws. I expect they’ve had the bloody sense to keep the heating on.
Sheep grazed each side of the drive between the trees, which were beginning to burst into leaf. They turned a
bend and the house came into view and both James and Kate were blown away. The honey coloured sandstone
glowed in the golden spring sunshine as they swept round the drive and up to the porticoed entrance.
Everything was perfection personified, from the heated pool in the orangery to the little pink plaster walled
summerhouse with its ogee arched windows, beside the lake.
The house had been built for the Hastings family whose most famous member was Warren, the first
Governor General of India. Hastings had amassed a fortune, but he was accused of fraud and was left practically
a pauper, fighting to defend his case through the courts of law. Having, after many years cleared his name, he
finally died at Daylesford, a Country House in Gloucestershire, which wasn’t all that far from Hambra. Whether
part of Hasting’s fortune was used to purchase the estate remained a mystery, but there were grandiose elements
within the house, reminiscent of the Mogul Emperors, and no expense was spared in the landscaping of the
parkland.
Back in London, James and Kate deliberated over Hambra. While Kat ooh’d and aah’d over kitchens,
decorations and soft furnishings, James was finding ways and means to make the estate pay for its keep. Finally
they agreed to put in a sensible offer with a strictly defined limit. James had no intention of keeping the house
and estate exclusively for their use. The cottages would be let as holiday homes and the outbuildings converted
for more letting accommodation. They could possibly run a shoot providing top grade country house weekends
and with a landing strip already in situ the skies were the limit. Oh, James had plans for Hambra.
Their offer for Hambra was accepted. Unlike Kate and James, the vendor’s business had suffered badly
during the recession, and they were on the verge of bankruptcy. The Morrison’s aimed to be at Hambra for
Christmas. Their house in Hampstead would be sold and they intended to buy a flat or smaller house closer to
central London.
It was the beginning of June and although Hambra was still not officially theirs, the Agents had agreed to a
site visit with local planning officers and the builders to decide what could and couldn’t be done because of the
building’s listing. Kate wanted a brand new all singing all dancing kitchen swimming in stainless steel and
granite, revamped bathrooms and some new en suites, although the existing ones were already state of the art.
Walls needed to be removed to enlarge spaces and work had to be done to convert the outbuildings into the
holiday lets
Kate arrived early forgetting that the gates would be locked, so found herself killing time. She decided to
drive into the village to have a look round. Passing the church she thought she would pop in and see if there
were any historical monuments connected with Hambra. The church was locked so she took a turn around the
churchyard. Like all affluent country areas the churchyard was immaculately kept with neatly trimmed hedges
and grass, bounded on all sides by a red brick wall. There were several table top tombs and bordering on one
side was the cemetery for recent burials, behind a copper beech hedge. Just as Kate was walking back along the
gravel path she spotted an old tomb in a dark dank corner on the edge of the cemetery almost outside of the
burial ground. Curiosity drove her to the grave which appeared to be sinking into the bramble infested ground.
The top was crusted with rusty red and lichens and ivy had ground its tendrils into the stone. Kate pulled back
some of the ivy to read the inscription but it was almost impossible because most of it had crumbled away. She
could just decipher the name Katherine and the year 1860 in Roman numerals. Kate ran her fingers over the cold
rough stone, tracing the indentations of the mason’s chisel. So engrossed was she, she did not notice that she
was not alone. Eyes were following her and watching her every move. She felt a shiver run down her spine and
looking up saw a shadowy figure standing sideways beside a neatly clipped holly bush. The silhouette was
clearly visible, small in stature and wearing a hat or bonnet pulled forward above a snub nose. The figure stood
silent and motionless its arms folded beneath a dark cloak. In terror Kate fled along the gravel path. Just as she
reached the lych-gate, the sun pierced through the clouds bathing the churchyard in shafts of golden light.
Turning she looked back towards the East Window to find the apparition gone. It had melted away and become
16
a tree branch which was clearly visible against the lightened sky. Kate laughed out loud in relief at her stupidity;
never-the-less she shut the gate with a decisive click on her apparently foolish nightmare.
When she reached the gates they were open so she drove up to the house, thankful to see the Builder, Agent
and Council Officers waiting for her. She kept her experience in the churchyard to herself and was very glad to
enter the comfort and normality that Hambra had to offer that morning.
.
.
Work was finished on the House when Kate drove down alone one autumn morning. The first chill of winter
was setting in and James, busy with business meetings, trusted her to cast an eye over the completed alterations
and see the builders hopefully for the last time.
When she arrived they had already left so, for the very first time, she was alone at Hambra. Kate stood in her
beautiful warm new kitchen savouring the scene and breathing in the scent of fresh paint, putty and newly oiled
wood. She wrapped her arms around her body in a self congratulatory hug. All this was theirs, from the attic
rooms with their modern decor, to the new gym in the basement.
Then out of the silence came a noise, a dragging sound from a room above. Kate dismissed it thinking it was
a pipe retracting in the heating system. But then it came again followed by a dull thud. One of the builders must
have left some tools behind, thought Kate as she went to the foot of the staircase in the hall. “Is that you Steve?”
She called up the stairs but she was greeted only with silence. Then the sound came again only louder. Clinging
to the mahogany stair rail, Kate’s knees began to crumble and she felt as if she was treading sand as she pulled
herself up the richly carpeted treads. Her heart in her mouth she turned the heavy brass knob and opened the
door of the central room above. It was the room they had chosen for themselves, with French doors which led
out onto a small balcony above the terrace and a wonderful view of the parkland. She was greeted by a strange
yet familiar scent. It was sickly and cloying and it swirled around the room playing tantalizingly with her senses.
A funereal perfume of Parma Violets. Her head began to swim and the room started to sway. Great swathes of
lavender and magenta filled the room and Kate could see a face appearing in the gilded pier glass that hung
above the fireplace. The woman’s face was pale with bunches of brown hair looped around her cheeks and she
stared with tormented eyes out of the frame. Kate put up her hands to her own face, then realised that it was her
lilac top that was reflected in the glass. Then there was a gush of wind and the French doors flew open. She felt
herself being propelled across the room. In desperation she clung to the stone parapet to stop herself being
pushed over the edge, then the evil presence subsided and Kate collapsed in a heap on the floor.
In terror Kate fled from the house to the safety of her car. Her heart was pounding and her fingers were
shaking as she fumbled for the ignition key. The gates stood open as she reached the road although Kate was
almost certain that she had locked them when she had arrived. It wasn’t until she reached Hampstead that she
began to calm down. Never had she been so thankful to see the familiar hilly High Street with its rows of
Victorian fronted shops, the line of Georgian houses by the church and the red brick villas so beloved by John
Betjeman.
Parking her car, Kate walked on the Heath. She had to think. For some reason the presence In Hambra seemed
targeted specifically at her. No one else had mentioned anything untoward about the house, or if they had they
were keeping it firmly to themselves. She knew she could not share her terrifying experiences with those she
loved. How could she tell James that she no longer wanted to live at Hambra. It was their forever house, their
dream home to live in for the rest of their lives. After some time Kate reached a decision. She would find the
courage to live in the house on condition that the room was locked and never used. It was only that room that
was so frightening. The rest of the house was lovely, warm comforting and all that she could ever wish for. It
would be fine as long as she never had to set foot in that room again. James found it perplexing to say the least
when Kate told him she wanted their room to be in one of the guest suites at the front of the house overlooking
the driveway.
“How can you not want to wake up to that wonderful view, I just don’t understand.” He said in
bewilderment. It was a wonderful view. The window framed by the lovely trees planted by Repton in the early
17
nineteenth century. But it was shut up and never used, the heavy silk curtains closed, the room emptied with the
exception of the glass mirror, and the space left to return to dusty neglect.
The first Christmas at Hambra was magical for the Morrison’s. The more so because they knew it would be
the only one that they would spend in the house alone with just their own family and friends. The house glowed
and was full of warmth and love. The only one that was not settled was Sykie. From the moment he entered the
house he was full of unease. The Labrador part of his ancestry which made him normally calm unfazed and
steady was completely buried. He would not go upstairs, but would sit with his ears pricked and hackles raised,
at the bottom tread, if he was dragged there by one of the family. There were parts of the garden where he
refused to walk and he would spend his days if allowed, in the kitchen beside the Aga.
It snowed that first Christmas and the lake froze. The wild geese and ducks chattered and flapped and
skidded on the ice and the pointed roof of the little summerhouse was covered in snow like a pretty party cake.
They went to church on Christmas Eve, although Kate was feeling uneasy. The ancient building was full and
there was much singing and laughter which helped alleviate Kate’s fears.
They sat beside the drawing room fire and made plans for the New Year. James was intent on expanding the
profitability of the estate and Kate dreamed of reinstating the old kitchen garden and Edwardian Glass Houses.
She wanted fan trained fruit trees planted against the high buttressed walls, apricots, plums and pears. Peaches
and grapes in the glass houses and rows of vegetables and cutting flowers for the house.
For this reason they employed a full time Wisley trained gardener and three part timers. Kate’s favourite spot
in the garden was the summerhouse. They commissioned some painted furniture in homage to Queen
Charlotte’s Cottage at Kew and Kate spent many happy hours sitting there and planning her garden of Utopia.
The days turned to early summer and everything was perfect. The room at the top of the stairs remained
firmly locked and was all but forgotten.
Kate was picking peas for supper in the kitchen garden one afternoon when she suddenly heard a child’s
laughter. It was coming from the corner by the Peach House. I expect one of the gardeners has brought his little
girl thought Kate, and went on picking. Then she heard the sound again, followed by running footsteps. The
light tread of a child playing hide and seek. The Peach House was round with an ornate roof and the child was
running round the structure’s tessellated path.
“Have you brought your little girl Martin?” Kate enquired of one of the gardeners who was thinning out
lettuces.
“No,” he replied, “She’s gone out with her Nan and Grandad for the day.”
“Oh, I thought I heard a child. Much too young for Lucy. Oh well, I must be hearing things.” and Kate went
on picking, keen to show an air of normality. Then something or someone brushed past her almost knocking the
pods from her hands, and the laughter came again, teasing and playful. Kate felt no fear, just an over whelming
longing to see the child. She put out her hands as if to catch the little girl, but she was gone, the laughter fading
away into the brick wall beyond the glass houses.
It wasn’t long before Kate’s out of this world desires were realised. The holiday lets were all up and running
and one morning, while Kate was coming back from helping prepare one of the cottages for a changeover, she
looked across towards the summerhouse and she was there, standing by the door. A little girl of about nine years
old, with a mass of chestnut curls, wearing a blue silk dress and lace edged pantaloons. She held out her plump
arms towards Kate and Kate ran towards the child to take her in her arms. But just as she reached her, Kate
stumbled and fell and the child melted away, leaving only the fading sound of her laughter
18
Kate felt very unsettled by this brief encounter. She sensed that the atmosphere was changing. Sykie’s
behaviour was becoming even stranger. He was refusing to come inside the house at all, preferring to spend his
days outside and his nights in one of the unconverted outbuildings, appearing only to be fed in the yard near to
the kitchen.
James was very busy in London, staying in their new flat for several nights without getting home. The
children were occupied with their growing social life and Kate was beginning to feel like an unpaid taxi driver.
At a loose end one afternoon she thumbed through the NGS Yellow Garden Book and found a garden and house
open in the next village. Kate arrived at the house soon after it opened. After making a leisurely tour of the
garden she made for the house. It was a Tudor House full of oak panelling and deep leaded mullion windows.
There was a dimly lit long gallery full of old portraits and landscapes. Suddenly Kate felt faint. Her hands began
to shake and her knees buckle. She was there on the wall: the woman in the room at Hambra. The portrait was of
a young woman in a white dress, her brown hair swept up into a bun, a single pink rose clasped in her pointed
pale fingers
“Who who is she.” Kate managed to enquire of the sitter who was standing by one of the shaded windows.
Taking a torch, the woman held it up to the painting.
“She is Lady Kitty Sorrel. She was an heiress who married one of the Hastings of Hambra Park. She had a
tragically short life. Her only child Leonora who she adored, died of diphtheria when she was ten. It turned her
brain and rather than have her committed to a lunatic asylum, she was kept at Hambra Park in a locked room.
She managed to escape one day and threw herself from the balcony of the room onto the terrace below. She was
killed instantly. A bit like Mrs Rochester in Jane Eyre I suppose.”
Kate left the house in a daze. She felt the eyes of Kitty Sorrel following her, those sad brown eyes, clouded
by insanity. Kate’s suspicion was confirmed. It was Kitty in that dank dark tomb. She was buried outside of the
old churchyard because she was a suicide, and suicides were never buried in consecrated ground.
That night Sykie did not turn up for his supper. They searched for him but he had gone, disappeared into the
gathering dusk and they never saw him again. The loss of Sykie filled the Morrison’s with sadness. He hadn’t
asked to live at Hambra, a house he had hated. It would have been kinder if they had found a new home for him
where he could have led a happy life again.
“I suspect he’s been dog-napped. We will probably get a ransom note for his safe return,” said James. They
advertised in the local papers offering a substantial reward, but there were no positive results, only cranks and
crooks out for a quick buck.
Life at Hambra was not the same. Kate did not see or feel the child in the garden again. The warmth had
gone, replaced by a cold unease. She had lost her love of the garden and she was filled with a sense of
foreboding. One day, when they were in the process of preparing rooms for a house party of paid guests, a
newly employed member of staff, managed to get the key to the locked room. Kate came in from picking roses,
to find the room at the top of the stairs unlocked, the heavy mahogany door wide open and the evil presence
pouring down the wide staircase towards her.
She dropped the roses and fled, driving away from the house towards London. Nothing or no one would
persuade her to ever return to Hambra Park. The family were in turmoil. James could not afford to give up the
estate just as it was beginning to pay its keep, but Kate was adamant, she would not live there ever again.
James decided to take the family on holiday to the South of France. They enjoyed a wonderful two weeks,
staying at a friend’s villa, and hiring a private plane to fly there. Kate at last felt healed and at peace. It was a
bright day with clear skies when they returned. James needed to visit Hambra on the way back, much to Kate’s
consternation. As the plane came in to land it clipped some trees, flew into the hillside behind the house and
burst into flames. There were no survivors. Hell-Hambra Park had claimed its latest victims.
19
Mysterious Faith, A dark, gothic story of shock and horror, by Peter Girle
It had been a dark and stormy night, though this morning nature allowed the cloud cover to part and sun to shine
through, but it wasn’t to last. The afternoon veiled the sun, again, the sky darkened, and a fine drizzle began.
Along the high street, the number of shoppers faded away, daylight faded even further, as another wave of
autumnal, elemental temper increased its fury, and rain fell vertically from the heavens. Yet, one determined
pedestrian appeared from the car park, suitably macked and hooded against the weather’s inclemency. She
stepped out past the banks surrounding the market square, the war memorial with its long list of heroes, the
shops that supply a miscellany of goods from jewellery to mobile phones, and a tearoom, much valued by
residents and visitors alike.
Approaching her destination, an exclusive ladies hairdresser, housed in a large, 17 th century cottage, with the
legend “First and Last” over the door, she stopped and stared, fascinated, at the building next to it. This massive,
brooding, flint and sandstone edifice dwarfed everything, except the parish church of St Peter’s, which was of
the same earlier age and construction, but with an elaborate rose window set high in the end elevation, facing the
high street, and six lancet windows set equally as high along both sides.
The curious thing was, there were no doors, certainly none that could seen, which lent St Damien’s, as it was
referred to locally, a sinister reputation. This was of no concern to the lady as she smiled grimly, turned on her
heel, and headed for the bright light behind the door of the salon.
She stepped over the threshold, dripping water, pulled back the hood, revealing loose, auburn waves, down to
her shoulders, and a bright, youthful countenance with a beaming smile.
“Please forgive me for bringing the weather in with me,” she said, addressing a woman standing by the
reception desk. “My name is Nicky Diablo. I have an appointment with Ramona for a wet cut and blow dry.”
“Yes, of course,” said the woman, whose brunette, page boy style, fringed a Latin complexion with dark eyes, a
Roman nose, and thin lips which smiled at Nicky with professional insincerity. “Please come this way, Ms
Diablo. I am Ramona Murkle. May I take your coat?”
Settled comfortably facing a sink and mirror, Nicky was covered from neck to knees, with a protective wrap;
then, after professionally examining her hair, Ramona asked about her requirements.
“I think I’d like it raised a little off my shoulders, please,” she replied, cheerily.
With much practiced skill, Ramona began and snipped at the soft, silky locks with a pair of deadly, pointed
scissors, while Nicky watched her intently, in the mirror.
After a couple of minutes of concentrated effort, Ramona said, “I noticed you looking at St Damien’s, before
you came in.”
“Yes, a fascinating building, with not a door in sight, anywhere. For an investigative journalist, such a thing is
challenging.”
“Are you investigating it?” Ramona asked, and the snipping stopped, with the scissor’s lethal tip pointing
carelessly at Nicky’s throat.
“No. I haven’t got time,” she replied, casually. “I’m up to my neck in a fraud case, at the moment. It’s an
interesting mystery, though.”
“It is indeed,” Ramona agreed and the snipping continued. “Do you live locally?”
“Yes, since a month ago. I work for a London daily, and lived there for five years, but I’m a country girl, and I
can’t bear the thought of commuting, so now I work, mostly, from home.”
The only other customer, in the establishment, having paid her bill, pulled on her coat and crammed a hat over
her newly set hair. Holding her umbrella, closed, which would have been of little use against the downpour
outside, she departed with a very audible groan.
20
“I don’t think there’ll be anyone else in today,” Ramona said, as she worked. “However, I may be able to satisfy
your curiosity about St Damien’s.”
“Really?” said Nicky, and noticed a subtle exchange of glances between the other two ladies of the salon.
“Many people round here seem to think it’s haunted.”
“I know, and it brings in lots of customers. Five hundred years ago it was the chapter house of a wealthy
monastery, until Henry the Eighth grabbed the lot. St Peter’s was its church. In fact, the company that owns this
place also owns St Damien’s; they use it for private functions, several times a year. I could show you inside, if
you want.”
“If it’s no trouble, that would be great.”
“No trouble at all.”
Ramona finished her task, held a mirror behind Nicky who, after a moment, nodded her approval. She then paid,
pulled on her coat, and was led to a shelved storeroom.
Pulling a hidden lever opened a trapdoor and, flicking a switch, showed a flight of steps leading downwards.
The two women descended into a well lit cellar, paved with stone slabs and, in front of them stood a medieval
archway with a heavy wooden door.
“This was ground level, five hundred years ago,” Ramona said, informatively.
Through the door, they entered an entrance hall with a flight of stairs before them, and a door to the left, which
she opened and gestured for Nicky to enter. On doing so, she saw a room about ten feet square and completely
bare, illuminated by a single light on the wall opposite. Then she was pushed, lurched forward, the door was
slammed behind her, and a bolt slid shut.
Gathering her wits she called out, “Kidnapping is against the law.”
“The law?” was Ramona’s mocking response, followed by a harsh laugh.
Silence descended and, taking stock, Nicky’s first problem was the chill. She buttoned her coat, pulled the hood
up, put her gloves on, and slowly paced up and down to think. Intrepid, investigative journalists faced such
situations all the time; well, perhaps not all the time. One thing was certain, though, she wouldn’t be kept
waiting for long.
Twenty minutes later, the bolt was slid, the door opened, and Ramona entered:
“You spoke about the law. Well, I’ve brought the law with me.” A man and woman entered the room behind
her. “This is Chief Constable Norman Willard and Detective Inspector Dana Tanner.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Nicky,” said Norman.
“That’s alright, Norman. Hello Dana.”
“Hello Nicky.”
Ramona’s eyes shifted uneasily, then Norman roughly shoved her forward and Nicky joined her police rescuers.
Turning to face her erstwhile jailer, she said, “I forgot to thank you for the excellent trim you gave me, Ramona.
Bye for now.”
Again, the door was slammed and bolted, but now it was Ramona’s turn to consider her position. All she knew
was that, three days before, she received a phone call from Dana Tanner to say how she had heard about a
journalist named Nicky Diablo nosing around asking awkward questions about St Damien’s. Moreover, she
could expect a visit from this newshound soon and, the following day, the lady in question called for an
appointment. She immediately contacted Dana, and the strategy for today was worked out.
“It has to be that cow, Dana,” she raged, venting her fury at the walls. “She’s jealous of my position in the
temple.”
21
Anger kept her warm, for a while, but having to wait nearly an hour, she was quite chilled by the time she heard
the bolt again. The door opened, and three figures stood, staring at her, all of them clad in the elegant, black,
uniform gowns of temple members, with hoods raised and faces painted. Two of them had female, red features,
the other’s was blue; and as this anonymous trio stepped forward, Ramona, instinctively, stepped back.
“Bring her,” said the male, in Norman’s resonant baritone.
The two females advanced, took hold of her, tied her wrists then, in shock and humiliation, with Norman in the
lead, she was forcefully marched up the stairway, across the landing, and through a round arch into the meeting
hall. Here she was greeted by a host of red and blue painted faces that howled at her, from the tiered benches
opposite, as soon as she appeared. The temple’s whole congregation had been assembled, and that could not
have been achieved at short notice, which could only mean one thing: she had been set up.
Dana Tanner wasn’t worried about a nosy journalist, but somehow she arranged this assembly behind her back,
probably, with the connivance of Norman Willard. He may be the chief constable of the county, however, being
male meant he could never be more than a common congregant, in the temple. Nevertheless, everyone liked and
trusted him: he was honest, an indispensable mediator and manager; and he could not be ignored, however much
she would have liked to. Still, what was his game, and where did Nicky Diablo fit into this conundrum?
These thoughts revolved around her brain, as she was led up the centre of the hall, in a tight lipped fury, towards
the high alter, set on a stone dais with the stained glass, eye design, in the rose window, staring down at them. A
figure, clad and cowled in the red of a high priestess, stood on the dais, beside the altar, facing away from the
hall, gazing up at the window with arms raised in supplication. Two blue dressed figures, wearing the black
painted faces of priestesses stood respectfully on either side. So she was right: Dana Tanner had usurped her
position as high priestess, and had raised someone from the congregation, to the status of priestess, to replace
her.
The high priestess finished her devotions, turned, and, in his role as steward to the congregation, Norman called,
“Hail the Earth Mother.”
Everyone in the hall stood, faced the altar, and bowed, except for Ramona, who defied the efforts of her escort
to force her.
“So you got what you wanted, then, Dana,” she cried out bitterly.
Norman spun round, advanced towards her in a fury, gripped her jaw, painfully, and bellowed, “Do as you’re
told and show some respect, for once in your life.”
Now Ramona was scared, and obeyed without further dispute.
Norman returned to his position and bowed. “I humbly beg your pardon, reverend mother,” he said, his voice
still shaking from the intensity of his anger.
In the silence, the sound of footsteps, descending from the dais and advancing towards him, echoed round the
hall. “There is no need for you to beg my pardon, Brother Norman,” he was told in a soft, affectionate tone, then
in a forceful voice, “Rise. Everybody rise.”
Ramona couldn’t recognise the voice, but raising her head she found herself looking into the startling, icy blue
gaze of Nicky Diablo; it was the first thing she had noticed about the woman, when she entered the salon. Of
course, it had to be. The thick, black face paint was like a mask, still, there was no mistake. Yet how could it be?
In her frustration, she wanted to scream, but that might be painful.
Nicky regarded her with sardonic amusement. “As for Dana, she is my right hand,” she said, indicating the
priestess to her right, “and you’ve been found out, Ramona. The congregation know all about your crimes
against them, the temple, and the True Faith.”
There was a rumble of anger from the tiered benches.
“It’s all lies,” Ramona shouted, unable to restrain herself, and Norman would have hit her, except for Nicky’s
restraining hand.
22
“Please be quiet, you stupid woman,” she said. “You will have your turn.”
Six weeks earlier, shortly before she moved to the town, while visiting her newspaper’s offices in London,
Nicky was told about a man, who was there, with a wild story about a blood cult, and was asked to try and make
sense of it.
Simon Carpenter, a man of about forty, was restlessly pacing the interview room, when she entered. However,
controlling himself, he told a fantastic, though lucid, story about belonging to a religious sect that believes it can
trace its history back over four thousand years.
“We built Stonehenge, consecrated, and dedicated it to the Earth Mother and our ancestors,” he said with
passion. “There are temples, to the faith, all over the country, but contact between them is difficult. We are
pagan, but also practice blood sacrifice though, nowadays, usually, chickens are used.” He laughed at the irony.
“Still, to survive we have to appear to conform to the virtue of the time, and secrecy is the name of the game, or
we’d be destroyed.”
He told how each temple had to use its resources, to make money for its members, and the faith. As an
accountant, he was the perfect treasurer for the assets and business portfolio of his, and she was overjoyed to
learn that it was in her new home town to be. A mere fifty miles away, as opposed to two hundred and fifty, and
her birth temple, where her mother was the high priestess.
Then he said, “But I criminally betrayed the faith by moving temple moneys negligently; then gutlessly failed to
stand up to an associate, as I should have – but I made notes.”
He produced a notebook which she studied and, horrified, realised: “You stole over six hundred thousand
pounds.”
“Yes! – I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, or even why I came here. I’m sorry, I’ve been wasting your
time.”
“You haven’t. I think your friend hung you out to dry, but I can help, and all I need is the name of someone you
trust in your temple.” She had to have that name.
He told her of Norman Willard: “But you’re not of the faith, so he won’t listen to you.”
She laughed, and said, “I can assure you, he’ll listen to me. Give me your mobile number. I’ll call you later.”
The afternoon saw Nicky arrive at Norman Willard’s office, in the county police’s headquarters building, for a
prearranged interview concerning a fraud investigation. She was met by Mr Willard and the officer in the case,
Dana Tanner.
After the initial pleasantries, Nicky said, “Before we start, sir, I have to ask if this item of mine, has any
meaning for you. If not, it doesn’t matter.”
She was holding a circlet of silver, decorated with esoteric symbols, personally inscribed, and Mr Willard was
affected, but guarded.
Dana Tanner also responded, exclaiming, “Earth Mother!” This was a surprise to Nicky.
As he was examining it, Norman said, “This is your personal, temple armlet, so we are all of the faith, but why
are you identifying yourself to us?”
“I had to,” she said, produced the notebook, and told them of her interview with Simon.
“I see. After he went missing, we discovered money was gone, and Simon had to be the culprit; but it seems
things are not quite as they appeared and we still have work to do.”
After tersely giving the accused the gist of what Simon confessed at her office, and of her later meeting, Nicky
said, “Your corrupt reign is finished Ramona; so what have you got to say for yourself?”
23
“Simon Carpenter was a gullible fool,” she declared, contemptuously, and laughed.
“Is that all you have to say? Yes, he was a fool to trust in you, though he had integrity, but you think you’re
safe, don’t you?”
“You can’t do anything to me,” Ramona sneered.
“Really? One thing is already done. With Simon’s notes and some police IT expertise, we found the money you
stole; and, as of this morning, it’s back where it belongs, with interest.”
Now, Nicky related what happened, later that evening, six weeks before.
They all knew what had to done, and Nicky phoned Simon to arrange for her to meet him, discreetly, in a small,
remote building site. When he arrived, at this dark, empty place, he wasn’t surprised to see all three of them; he
had guessed Nicky was of the faith.
“Why, Simon?” Norman demanded. “You’re not a thief.”
“It was for love,” said Dana. “You were besotted with Ramona Murkle.”
This he admitted, and told how Ramona took advantage of her position, and of this lonely man’s infatuation, to
dupe him into authorising the moving of monies for the temple’s financial advantage, but the advantage was all
hers. He begged her to return the money, she threatened to denounce him, but knowing the consequences, and
racked with guilt, he ran; so, now, Ramona could denounce him without risking awkward questions.
“I have grievously sinned by my stupidity,” he said. “For me, there’s no going back, and I’ve nowhere to go. I
cannot be allowed to walk away, a cast out, and put the faith at risk; so I must die, and you know it. Help me to
die. Please!”
Norman and Dana were police officers, but this was temple business, though there were still tears in their eyes,
as they held his arms.
Nicky said, “The Earth Mother will be merciful.”
“Thank you. It was she who sent me to you.”
Nicky held his head and, from under her coat, the razor sharp sacrificial knife her mother had given her, flashed
across his throat, his legs gave way, and they lowered him into the trench they had prepared in the construction’s
foundation hardcore. Then, before covering him, they noted how his eyes were closed and he looked so serene.
“The Earth Mother has been merciful,” Nicky said.
Next morning, the three of them watched, from a distance, as concrete was poured over Simon’s simple grave.
Tears flooded down Nicky’s cheeks, she sobbed her heart out on Norman’s shoulder, and a terrible resolve filled
their hearts.
“He must be avenged,” she cried out between sobs.
“Yes,” Dana replied, “and we need you to lead us to do it. What you did had to be done, but I couldn’t have
done it. You must be our new high priestess.”
“And you will be,” Norman said resolutely, with his arms around Nicky’s shaking body.
The following weeks were a testing time, though with the assistance of Dana’s partner, and fellow priestess,
they covertly informed the congregation of the facts; and introducing Nicky proved much easier than they
expected, because Ramona was so detested. The effect was Nicky and Norman grew closer. He was a few year
older, a widower, with an eighteen year old son, but this didn’t matter, and she soon adored this uncomplicated,
gentle man.
24
Raising her arms, Nicky turned to the congregation: “So, what else are we going to do?”
From the benches a frightening, repeating mantra began, “Hum-hum-hum …”
“You can’t denounce a high priestess,” Ramona bawled.
“Can’t?” Nicky snapped back. “We can’t send you to prison.” Then, she howled, “I was the instrument of
Simon’s death, but you murdered him by your greed. Now your time has come; and no one will miss you.
Prepare her.”
Her escorts were waiting for this, and gleefully laughed as they ripped and cut Ramona’s clothes off her and,
now, she recognised them as her salon assistants, who she had bullied.
“You can’t do this,” she shrieked as she was dragged to the alter, and strapped down to the cold stone. Outside,
flashes of lightning and thunder seemed to be drawing closer.
The congregation crowded nearer, while continuing their chant of death, and Nicky stood beside the altar,
holding her knife, with its wicked, curved blade, raised and ready.
The storm was approaching fast, as the condemned gazed pleadingly up at her executioner, though there would
be no mercy; her scream of terror was cut short, she gurgled, painfully, and oxygenated blood fountained for the
ceiling.
An incandescent flash of lightning, silhouetted the rose window, bathing this lurid scene with multicoloured
light from the stained glass eye, and was immediately followed by a booming crash of thunder. Nicky trembled
from head to toe. The Earth Mother was with them.
She finished dramatically to great acclaim; and, now, Ramona would serve the community, in other, distinctive
ways.
Norman, ever the good policeman, standing to one side to monitor proceedings, smiled with quiet satisfaction,
and pride.
Then with everything and everyone cleaned up and tidy, Nicky, Dana, and Norman watched as a buffet supper
was laid out on trestle tables.
“That was a fantastic service,” Dana opined, “and people are asking what we’ll be doing for the next one.”
“Indeed,” Norman confirmed, “and you were fantastic, my dear, reverend mother.”
Nicky clasped his hand and rested her head on his shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it without your strength, and
the support of you both,” she said, then grasped Dana’s hand. “But let’s join the party, my dear friends, and
we’ll think about next time after church and Sunday lunch.”
The storm had passed by the time the revels ended, and everyone left, watchfully, through the various access
points, back to the car park, and home. Among them, there was a doctor, a nurse, the vicar of St Peter’s, a
supermarket checkout lady, and a butcher who will cheerfully serve you with meat, for your Sunday lunch. All
of them, your friends, your neighbours, but you are not of their exclusive, mystery faith.
25
Our Natural Leaders, by Ray Salisbury
We’d been invited for nine-thirty coffee with the Director, but there was something unsettling about the place.
“You need to compliment them about the Borough,” he said. “Members like to hear that.”
“They’ll smelt a rat if we all do it,” I thought.
“Course, I won’t be on the panel.” He was rotund and red, with sloppy jowls and greedy eyes and had the air
of one being discarded. “Members make the decisions.”
A mini-bus tour of the Borough preceded lunch at the Squash Club, with the Leader, followed by further
visits and a “Welcome” by the Head of Manpower over tea at the McMillan theatre. The formal interviews
started at seven-thirty.
There were nine of us, crammed into an annex to one of the Committee rooms, and two existing employees
shortlisted grumbled about the hopelessness of their cause and focused on being amiable, as if anticipating that
any one of us might be their next overlord. We were summoned individually by a pot-bellied Boris in a
charcoal-gray suit and black bow tie. . . but none returned. We sat, steeped in silence, until Boris appeared and,
staring into an endless space, called for “Simon Wilson, please”.
The room was vast, high-ceilinged with heavy gold carvings. The Panel was ranged in a Zulu buffalo-horn
battle formation with the light behind them. I was ushered to an armless chair which placed the Members, to my
right and left, outside my line of vision. This I found disconcerting as the Chair, a bulbous florid-faced man,
flanked by a packet of Panama and a whisky and water, clearly expected me to look at him.
“Why’d you want this job?” enquired Councillor Cutler, a heavily-set middle-aged man with greasy gray hair
and red-tributaried cheeks who, finding nothing to disagree with in my answer dismissed it with a grunt.
“What do you think you can bring to the. . . this, ah, yes! This. . . position, Mr Wist. . . Wilson? Councillor
Cobden was having difficulty reading the question but I flattered him with a catalogue of my talents until his
eyes glazed over and he started to wilt.
Suburban elite, every one of them; sleek, self-satisfied and lapping up subservience. And I had to ingratiate
myself with them. Waves of bored disdain wafted over me: one sensually caressing a silver cigarette-lighter;
another toying with the “Times” crossword; a stifled yawn, followed by an undertone and suppressed snigger
and then a baleful, united silence that caught me out hesitating over an answer and returned me to the reptilian
stare of the Chair. I picked up at the point I thought I’d reached and trailed off as I sensed him looking at his
watch without breaking eye contact. The crossword devotee endorsed this by folding his newspaper, and I was
released.
I followed Boris back to the post-interviewees room inwardly quaking at the barren alternatives of being
offered the job and being rejected. We sat there, like beached carp, until the last candidate had passed through
the net and spent an hour of collective misery until the door handle turned and Boris passed sentence on us all
with, “Mr. Wilson, please.”
The Chair leant back, speculatively, as if he was selecting a herring from a slab and intoned, “We’ve decided
to offer you the post. I assume you’ll be happy to accept it.”
Half an hour later I emerged, stranded on the pavement outside the Town Hall and unclear where to get a
taxi. I’d missed the last train home and was several thousand pounds a year worse off, when the cost of travel
was taken into account, but at least still clear of the ranks of the unemployed: and then it started to rain.
26
I was on a month’s notice from my old job during which I was picked clean of all my responsibilities by my
colleagues of the last thirteen years desperate to justify their existence. I consoled myself by acquiring an old
Audi for my daily trip to the London Borough of Bramley and felt a sense of liberation on my first day there,
although our tower-block offices were a far cry from the Town Hall.
“I’ll introduce you to some of the main men,” the Director, Joe Braithwaite said. “There’s one or two you’ll
need to watch out for,” and we crossed a cinder car-park to a refurbished college encircled by horse-chestnut
trees.
“Watch out for conkers,” he said, amiably. “Although if one’a them on the ‘ead’s the worst you get ‘ere
you’ll be doin’ all right.”
Our first stop was with the Head of Manpower, Ray Daley. He motioned us to the deeply-upholstered
armchairs in the reception area of his office and ordered coffee for three on the internal line.
“The Chairman of the Finance Committee has a cricket team he’s rather proud of,” he said. “And he’s heard
you’re a bit useful.”
“Well. . . I. . . “
“And he’d like to see you in action. . . Sunday.”
“Well. . . I. . . “
“Good,” he said. “It’s the old Hospital pitch at Ellam. But be at the “Three Bills in Tun” in Misslehurst at
12.00 for a 2.30 start.”
“But-“
“Ah. Come in, Tom,” he said and Boris entered bearing a tray of heavy silver coffee pot and associates and
we spent the next half an hour lamenting the extravagances of the Greater London Council as if we were
entertaining a listening centre.
“What’m I gonna do with my four nippers if I’m up ‘ere on Sunday playin’ cricket,” I said as we left.
“Bring’em,” Joe Braithwaite replied. “Only keep’em out of sight. And now you’d better concentrate. We’re
gonna see the Borough Treasurer, Norm Burton. An’ ‘e’s a right arsole!”
Norman Burton was deceptively old for his age: short and squat with hooded shoulders, hooked nose and
pallid complexion. He looked like a consumer of carrion. He ignored my attempted handshake and dismissed
Joe’s introduction of me with, “We don’t have much truck with Social Services here,” and he said very little else
until we left and he closed the door behind us.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said as we descended a flight of stairs. “ ’e ‘ates all the spendin’ Departments. That’s
why the Leader appointed ‘im.”
Amenities Officer, Rupert Thripp, was out when we arrived at his office but the Director of Housing, Stanley
Underwood, was in, sitting at his desk in chilly isolation.
“It’s rumoured,” he said, “that my Department’s for the chop.”
“Surely not,” Joe said.
“M’m,” endorsed the unhappy Underwood. “They’re goin’ ‘ell-for-leather with this ‘Right-to-Buy’ lark.”
“Ah!” said Joe.
27
“Mergin’ what’s left with your lot.”
“Really!” said Joe, visibly lightening.
“We’ll both be for it if they do.”
“Wha-“
“Redundant, see. Get some bright spark in to slash the budget. Two-fa-one, ya see,” and there they sat, like
petrified bookends, until we made our way back to our tower block where I was reintroduced to my two
subordinate section-heads.
They were both called David. One played rugby and managed the Residential and Day Care establishments
and the other looked after the Finance and Personnel Sections and played cricket.
“But not for your lot,” he said with a grin that seemed to mean something to both of them.
Eighteen months passed without any very major incident: the Social Services Committee met six-weekly and
I struggled for excuses for not spending long nights and lots of money in the Members’ Bar and I managed to
upset Norm Burton by describing his Computer Services Manager as a donkey because our Research Section
had time to make tea each morning while their mainframe terminal warmed up, and I got a mild reprimand from
the Director for appearing “dour” to Members when one lesser-Conservative Councillor informed the
Committee that his GP had instructed him to carry on smoking 60-a-day because, if he stopped, it’d probably
kill him. But then things started to fall apart.
A number of us had attended a Public Relations training-day in City Hall and I’d been identified as the
initiator of an overnight stay in an hotel when all trains were cancelled following a heavy fall of snow and Norm
Burton spat blood when he got the bill. And then I dropped a catch off the Chairman’s son in an In-door League
top-of-the-table dual when he was on a hat-trick. But the real disaster lay hidden away in a Housing Committee
Report to the Finance Sub-Committee that I found myself browsing through one sultry summer afternoon that
threatened thunder.
It might have been confirmation of the rumoured amalgamation of Social Services and Housing that I’d been
asked to scrutinize Housing Committee agenda and standby to attend their meetings. It could, also, have been
an attempt to persuade me to move into the Borough. Either way, it was a nuisance and I saw red when I noted
they were recommending the Finance Sub-Committee to evict a single mother of three children from their
Council house for rate arrears.
“They bloody won’t,” I said, and I made a note of the meeting date in my diary.
The lady in question had been deserted by her husband leaving her with a stack of debts. They had exercised
the ‘Right-to-Buy’ over two years ago and she had focused on meeting her mortgage payments to the Borough
to safeguard the family home. She’d even taken in a lodger.
“But don’t tell the Committee that,” Eddy Finch, the family social worker, said. “She’s in Councillor Crass’s
ward an’ ‘e’s an evil sod.”
I was well armed with case details for the Sub-Committee but I was ill-prepared for Councillor Crass’s style
of chairmanship. “We’re all agreed then?” he summed up after a brief introduction by the Borough Treasurer.
“Eviction and court order for arrears!”
“Excuse me, Chairman,” I said, “There’s no money to clear arrears and-.”
28
“Sell the furniture,” Councillor Crass interrupted. “Television, children’s toys.” The veins stood out across
his face. “Rip the doors and windows out if necessary.”
“But I’ve discussed it with the Social Worker-.”
“You’ve what!”
The Borough Treasurer grinned and his Audit Assistant stared at the ceiling.
“The Social Worker assures me...” Councillor Crass’s face threatened epilepsy, “. . . that the kids’ll have to
come into care if we evict and that’ll cost the Borough. . .”
I sat, aghast, as the Members changed their minds and left Councillor Crass in a puce-rage minority of one
and he was escorted from the room and taken home. Mrs X was to apply to the court for an Administration
Order to pay off her debts in a manageable timescale and her case was to be reviewed three-monthly. This she
did and Councillor Crass resigned his Chairmanship and I thought the whole episode was over until the Chief
Executive asked the Director if he could circulate my report on the matter to all Members.
“Shows the need for better co-ordination between Committees,” he said.
Joe agreed, on my behalf, but I was alarmed to hear of bitter exchanges between the Chief Executive and the
Borough Treasurer at a closed “strategy” meeting of the majority Party, some weeks later. Councillor Crass,
apparently, had built himself up into an “incandescent rage” and demanded my dismissal and the resignation of
the Chief Executive and was only placated by an offer to approach Management Consultants to carry out a
structural review of the Council’s Welfare provision.
But not all was doom and gloom. I heard that the Member’s Bar was closed to me, that my attendance at
Committee meetings was no longer required and that the Chairman of the Finance Committee’s cricket team had
acquired “a more reliable” opening bowler who lived locally. Colleagues passed me by with secretive nods of
acknowledgment, although group conversations in the Staff Restaurant stilled as I approached and restarted
when I’d passed by. And then “Tokatol” caught fire.
“Tokatol” was an aging care home for the elderly survivors of the World War II Polish Air Force, many of
whom smoked in bed.
“You’d better get up to Liden Close, sharpish,” a voice suggested on my internal phone. “‘Tokatol’s’ goin’
up an’ they need somewhere to put the residents. Chief Exec’s on leave an’ Norm Burton reckons it’s a chance
to see if Social Services’er any use for anything an’ you’re the most senior Social Services bod I can find.”
“ ‘ho’er you?” I said, but he’d gone.
That afternoon remains cleaved to my memory like a fossil print on a flint. As the waves of flame enveloped
the oak-beamed edifice so the Bramley Voluntary Services swept in with their mini-buses and tea-urns and
tweed-skirted sympathy and so frustrated the Firemen that they were told to “clear off outta the way an’ let the
dog see the rabbit”. I was blamed for this outrage and compounded the sin by having the smoke-damaged
heroes transported to an empty Children’s Home without first settling financial terms for the occupation.
“It really won’t do, Simon,” Ray Daley said when I answered the summons to the palace of Manpower for a
dressing-down. “I haven’t seen Members so upset since a Liberal got in in 1969. And,” he added, menacingly,
“they’ve extended the scope of the Slice-Slaughterhouse review and heads ’ll have to roll to pay for it.”
I was then escorted off the premises and deposited into the festive melee of Christmas shoppers in Bramley
High Street, where I fell in with Neilson whom I’d met at a Christian Businessman’s Lunch in the back room of
a Schools Outfitters a few weeks previously.
“Hello, Neilson,” I said.
29
“Hello, Simon.” He said. “You must be rejoicing.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “How’s that?”
His reply took from Acott’s multi-store to the Staff Bar in the Town Hall basement and through the next hour
while I helped him adorn it for the traditional last-day-of-work Carol Service, and featured the three-year
exploits of Jesus making the case for the poor and destitute to the various authorities of the time and how lucky I
was to be doing the same sort of thing.
“I know what you’re sayin’, Neilson,” I said. “But Jesus got crucified an’ it’s got it’s drawbacks.”
“Seriously, Simon. You don’t need to worry.”
“Seriously, Neilson. I do. I’m bloody terrified.”
Neilson was a strange chap. He’d been threatened with redundancy from the O and M Unit for refusing to
organize a special Christmas party, until the Bishop of Windsor intervened and he’d been given a desk in the
loft space of the Town Hall with the title of “Education Research Officer”. He drip-fed me hope and I took it in
and, gradually, like acquiring an acquired taste, it worked on me. I found myself humming as I walked down
the corridor to meetings; smiling carelessly to people who shunned me and I sympathized with Councillor
Cobden when he suggested to the Consultants that I didn’t know what day it was on account of a last year’s
calendar on my office wall.
“You see, Sir,” I said. “It’s got some lovely comments on it from my son, Ben. He’s only seven and he got
ever so upset about the riots at the Liverpool\Barcelona match last year. But I can see it’d be easy to
misconstrue,” and I took it down and put it in my brief-case.
The Consultants had started their review and they were all over us like a rash. It seemed I was pivotal to
their investigations and one of Ray Daley’s most ferocious lieutenants, an ex-trade union shop steward called
Mike Leeks, was seconded to them to monitor my every movement and to report to them daily.
“Who’s doin’ your work while you’re watchin’ me do mine then, Mike?”
“Dinna wurry abou’ thart,” he said. “Yu’ve enough’ ta wurry on on ya’ ain account. An’ they’re waitin’ on
ya in Two.”
“Oh, when?
“Now.”
I was preceded by two of the Consultants staff who’d overtaken me in the corridor.
“Somebody’s in for it,” one said. “They’ve called in Benny Vaughan for this one.”
“Oh no,” said the other. “Poor devil.”
They let the door of Committee Room Two close on me but it was caught by Mike Leeks who walked past
me and whispered something into Ray Daley’s ear. I hesitated, facing a tall, slim man in a gray suit and blue
striped shirt with a white collar who was leafing through a manila file.
“Seems comprehensive enough,” he said to a fawning Ray Daley. “When can we expect...,” Ray nodded in
my direction, “. . . so you’re Wilson!”
“I am,” I said.
30
“Really! Well, Wilson, do sit dow-. Oh, for goodness sake, somebody! Get him a chair.”
A group hesitation reverberated around the room and, reluctantly, Mike Leeks picked up a metal chair and
placed it a yard or so behind me.
“Well, sit down, for heaven’s sake,” Vaughan said. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No. I don’t.”
“And you didn’t bother to find out?”
“Well, I’-.”
“Mike?”
Mike Leek shook his head.
“But I-.”
“It’s because. . . “, he said over me. “. . . No . . .Let’s put it this way.” He sat back into his padded executive
chair and bent his head forward. “How would you define ‘financial probity’?”
“Lookin’ after the budget.”
“Hardly an accountant’s definition!” he glanced over at Norm Burton who’d wandered in. “But no matter. . .
And do you take that seriously?”
“Of course. And our budget’s not overspent.”
“No. It’s not,” he said. “And why’s that?”
“Because,” I said. “We’ve spent less than we’ve got.”
“Is that all?”
“What?”
“Income!” He slung himself forward so fast that I nearly fell out of my chair. “Income. You fool. You
were 18% above estimate last year.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t revise it up for this year!”
“No, but-.”
“And you didn’t revise expenditure down?”
“Well, no. But-.”
“And you cheerfully let the Borough claim more central Government grant than was necessary? Despite the
Borough Treasurer’s warning?”
I could see Norm Burton smirking and I knew I’d been trapped but I couldn’t see how. I remembered that
memo. It was a two line affair and puzzled me as he’d always insisted overseeing ‘income’ was his perogative.
Vaughan was still firing questions at me but I was gone. A heavy, gentle presence descended on me and I was
in my back garden with my boys or playing with them on the beach or idling through the woods with my feet
31
sinking into the deep, dry leaves and a peacefulness engulfed me until the cold air in my face told me I was
outside.
They said I wasn’t well and sent me home early: and then they telephoned and told me to take the week off
and I spent my time staring at the hair-line cracks in the ceilings whilst the daylight faded away each day to
dusk. A concentrated sense of claustrophobia caused my skin to itch and I scratched and clawed at it and then
scraped at it with a knife until the blood ran. I got some relief by soaking in a cold bath and then, before the
relief wore off, I slumped onto the bed and slid away into darkness.
Ripples of time and space disturbed the surface of my sleep and I saw a ‘For Sale’ board outside our house
and we were queuing at the Benefits Office and scanning the local free papers for rented accommodation.
Gradually the ripples synchronized into undulations and I ebbed and flowed with them and a chorus arose, from
my subconscious, that we sang at Neilson’s church: “My God reigns. My God reigns” and the words “Just
Believe” were imprinted on my mind. And when I awoke everything was different.
All my responsibilities were taken away. I was subpoenaed, at short notice, to meetings with the
Consultants, counselled on coping with redundancy, allocated a typist to prepare job applications and designated
the job of setting up a vetting system for the newly-privatised provision of residential care for elderly people.
“An’ dinna ferget,” Mike Leeks said. “The Council’s policy is ta support the private sector so don’ try ta be
too tough on ‘em,” and the cynicism of this became evident when I saw some of the rats’ nests I was expected to
endorse as adequate for the Borough’s elderly poor.
My first report was my last and I left the Borough with a small redundancy payment and the offer of a job, of
sorts, with a neighbouring Borough.
The sour taste of Bramley had subsided somewhat when, a few months later, I got a telephone call.
“Some of us thought it’d be nice to give you a bit of a ‘send-off’, Simon.”
“That’s nice of you, Ray. But-.’
“Nonsense, old chap. We’d like to. . . R’heally.’
And so I duly presented myself at the Bramley Squash Club for drinks and lunch with Ray Daley and a rather
subdued coterie of ex-colleagues.
“Course, I expect you heard about poor old Mike Leeks?”
“No,” I said.
“He died. Tragic.”
“Crumbs. That was sudden,” I said.
“M’m. We’d noticed he was looking a bit peaky. And he’d given up smoking. But we’d no idea. . . “
We stared reverently into our pints and then Roger Davidson, from Audit, took up the theme. “And Norm
Burton.”
“What about ‘im,” I said.
“Same thing. Only testicular.”
“Not-?”
32
“No,” Roger confirmed. “They reckon it’s treatable. But it’s rotten luck. ‘e loved a bit-on-the-side.” Heads
nodded in mournful agreement. “Same again, lads?” And he excused himself to the bar.
The toilets were off to the right and I took the opportunity to absorb this sad news but I was conscious of a
presence as I faced up to the urinal.
“Simon?”
“Yes, Ray.”
“Why’d you think this all happened to you?”
“I’ve no idea,” I lied.
“M’m, strange,” he lied. “That budget business. D’ya think?”
“That’s what they said,” I said.
“M’m. . . Yes. . . I s’pose.”
“Course. It was a Management Review, wasn’t it?” I said. “Done on efficiency grounds. Looking for
savings.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Absolutely.”
“The Borough wouldn’t lash out £60,000 to pursue some vindictive, personal vendetta, would they, Ray?”
“No. No. Course not, Simon. Course they wouldn’t,” and Ray zipped himself up and left without washing
his hands.
I’d always known why I’d been crucified. But there was something, in the background, that was hidden and I’d
put the whole affair behind me until, one day, I got a telephone call from Neilson.
“Neilson!” I said. “Still surviving amongst the savages?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “Just.”
“Good to hear from you.”
“Simon?” he said. “D’you remember that lady from Beaconford?”
“Course I do,” I said.
“I thought you’d like to know. She cleared all her debts and sold that Council house, and she got married,
too.”
“Good for her,” I said.
“And they’ve moved. Her and her three kids and new husband, and their baby.”
“Strewth!” I said. “That was quick. Where’ve they gone to?”
“Nigeria. Where he came from. She married her student lodger.”
“Oh,” I said. “I see.”
“M’m,” he said. “And I expect you heard about Councillor Crass?”
33
“No,” I said.
“He died. Heart attack.”
“Oh,” I said. “Wonder what brought that on.”
“Well,” Neilson said. “He was always a man of extreme opinions,” and then, “You all right?”
“Neilson,” I said. “All in all I count myself very lucky.”
34
Behind Closed Doors, by Susan Stedman
“They’ve accepted your offer,” the estate agent had told me breathlessly over the phone. No wonder she
sounded relieved, it had been on the market for over a year and if Robert and I hadn’t decided to downsize and
got a good buyer ourselves, I don’t suppose we’d have given it a second glance.
For a start it was semi-detached, and whilst we didn’t mind that, Robert was worried we’d take a while
getting used to neighbours again. But it had a good south facing garden, a detached garage and was large
enough for the two children to visit and we’d work out something when grandchildren came along. My only
reservation was the dining room. I was sure our furniture wouldn’t fit and even though we’d decided to start
again and modernise, my hesitation about the room remained. But on the day we moved in we just piled
everything in there, and as we slowly renovated the rest of the house, my worries eased.
“We’re ready now. Let’s go looking for new Dining Room pieces” announced Robert in late spring.
“There’re loads of Sales on and we always said we’d treat ourselves. Grab your coat. We’re off!”
Choosing was easy compared to the work we discovered we had to do. Our new dining suite, glass
table and oak chairs, with Swedish style dresser needed a modern setting so we decided to remove all the
wallpaper; do away with the carpet and strip the floor back to the original boards. The fireplace, complete with
marble mantelpiece, blended well with the new decorations.
“Doesn’t matter how much I steam and strip the paper on this wall I just can’t get rid of this strange
mark. What do you think it is?” Robert asked me in exasperation.
“I’ve noticed that before. You can’t always see it. Looks like a stick or something” I said examining
the mark closely. ” Look there. It curves. Looks like a handle. It reminds me of Charlie Chaplin, you know, his
cane.”
“You’re right. It’s a cane. The mark of it has seared into the wall. We’ll just have to paint over it.”
We chose a deep tomato red that changed hue depending on the light. White- washed pine blinds at the window
completed the look. To increase the feeling of size we hung gilded mirrors around the room with a delicately
carved oval Rococo mirror covering the mark we couldn’t completely eliminate. “Quite on trend,” I thought to
myself. “Not bad for a semi in Tunbridge Wells.”
As the winter nights drew in we decided to throw a house warming party. We’d sent invitations to
some of the neighbours who we knew by sight and dropped cards into those we hadn’t quite met, including Mrs
Taggart who lived opposite at number 22. She was the longest standing resident, having moved in shortly after
her husband of just eighteen months had been killed in Korea. The shock of the news had apparently caused her
to miscarry their only child and I’d heard she’d been the surrogate mother to all the other children growing up in
The Crescent during the fifties and sixties. Some had kept in touch and I was curious to find out what she knew
of the family who’d lived here before us. As it happened Mrs Taggart couldn’t make the party but, the ice
broken, she promised to pop in for Sunday lunch the following day.
The house was deceptively spacious and there were four bedrooms upstairs, although it had been a tight
fit to squeeze in a small double bed and Lenni’s treasured dressing table into the fourth that was above the
downstairs Study. Stephen, our son, and his partner, were due to arrive before midnight, whilst Leonora, or
Lenni as she preferred to be called, was staying the night with her new boyfriend, David.
“Oh Mum it’s lovely,” she cried as I showed her the finished room for the first time. “Look there’s my
picture from school and my old eiderdown. That fireplace is to die for, and look at the view; you’d never
believe you were in the heart of a town”. Pleased Lenni appreciated my efforts at making her feel she was still
part of our new home, we went downstairs and carved out a pumpkin for the table decoration. Our new Dining
Room looked amazing. Four large candles stood proudly on the mantelpiece whilst shadows from the, now
illuminated, pumpkin danced across the walls and mirrors. The whole effect was both warming and sultry.
“You’ve done wonders with the house,” exclaimed Liz, my oldest friend.
“No wonder we haven’t seen much of Robert this summer,” said his golfing partner. “But he’s done a
marvellous job. Marvellous.” Robert glowed in the admiration of his DIY, and our guests relaxed as we partied
on the food Lenni and I had set out, and a Winter Cup that Robert concocted from a recipe he found on the
internet. Around Midnight we went through to the garden and lit a bonfire before setting off some fireworks.
The party was beginning to wind down and a few guests had already left when a loud crashing sound came from
the Dining Room. We ran through but at first couldn’t work out what had happened. Suddenly Liz cried,
“The mirror!”
Although the ornate frame still hung on the wall the mirror itself had slid out and smashed onto the
floor spreading shards across the room, some even flying across the table still covered with the debris of supper.
“How weird is that!” exclaimed Lenni. “That mark on the wall is reflected back in every mirror, time and time
again.”
“Bad things have happened in this room.” We turned to see David behind us. “Come away. Shut the
door and leave it till the morning. We must let the room rest.” He stated authoritatively. Still in shock we
35
automatically did as we were told, leaving him to blow out the candles and watching as he closed the door
tightly behind him. When the remaining guests had gone and Lenni and I were tidying up the kitchen, she
started talking about David.
“He’s a sort of Mystic you know,” she said shyly, knowing my opinion of her past boyfriends. “He’ll
get to the bottom of this.”
“Probably just a bad fitting.” I said putting on a brave face, but glad for once of her unusual choice.
Nobody slept well that night. Robert and I were still shocked at the destruction. Stephen and his
partner, Orla, said they’d heard rustling in the walls all night and David and Lenni had been cold.
“The Dining Room and the room we slept in are connected in some way.” David announced as we
breakfasted in the kitchen the next morning.
“They’re in the same house”, muttered Stephen somewhat derogatively. Ignoring the attempt at
sarcasm David continued “Whatever happened in the Dining Room happened to the person who slept in that
bedroom.”
David entered the dining room first and opened the blinds. The harsh winter light made everything
look worse as we stepped over shards of mirror that shone back at us like glistening ice. “What’s that?” said
Lenni in horror. “Blood?” We turned to the empty Rococo frame, still hanging on the wall. The cane mark was
clearly visible and now seemed to be seeping.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Robert. “It’s paint. Red paint.”
David ran his finger lightly over the moist trickle oozing down the wall. “I’m not so sure.” He stated.
No one said any more as we quickly cleared away the broken glass and clutter from the previous night. Within
thirty minutes we had the room cleared. “Oh Robert, whatever shall we do? Our lovely room, I don’t think I
can bear to go into it again.”
“It will be all right, Kay,” said David calmly. “This has been a very unhappy room, but it’s got the
makings, thanks to you, to get over it. Do you know anything about the people who lived here before?”
“We bought it from the executors of an elderly couple. They’d lived here since the early 50’s” said
Robert.
“Mrs Taggart would know. She’s been here forever. She knew everyone. Goodness, I’d forgotten.
She’s coming to lunch today. We’d better get a move on. I don’t want to eat in here. We’ll have to do
something in the kitchen.
On the dot of twelve thirty Mrs Taggart arrived.
“I’m astonished with the changes you’ve made,” she remarked as we settled comfortably round the
kitchen table. “What have you done? Knocked through walls? Such light. So homely. Poor Edith worked so
hard in here and it was always rather cold. Mr Dyer didn’t see the need for heating in a kitchen. Such an old
fashioned idea.”
“What do you know of the family Mrs Taggart?” I asked gently.
“Only we had a rather strange experience last night,” continued David, “and I’m convinced it’s
connected to the last family living here. Were they happy?”
Mrs Taggart took her time to answer. “I wouldn’t say they were unhappy, but they were troubled and
Mr Dyer,” she shuddered. “Church. Twice on Sunday. Very strict and very angry if things weren’t done exactly
his way. He and Edith were all right with Mary, but they couldn’t cope with James and Ruth. It was the 60’s
and everything was so different.” She sighed. “He was a disciplinarian. Kept a stick on the wall in the dining
room and, more’s the pity, used it frequently, especially on James.”
We stared at her in astonishment,
“What happened to the stick?”
We took Mrs Taggart through to the Dining Room and showed her the mark on the wall.
“Oh God forgive him!” she whispered as she saw the damp mark slowly working its way down the
wall.
“What happened here?” cajoled David gently.
“I can’t say. I mustn’t.”
“Mrs Taggart you must. For Kay and Robert’s sake. Whatever’s here from the past has to be put to
rest. ”
“There was one terrible event. It broke the family. James must have been fourteen and Ruth almost
sixteen. Mr Dyer had tried to light a fire in his study, but it wouldn’t draw and filled the room and the one
above with smoke. When he investigated he found James had hidden some,” she blushed slightly, “some
magazines. American ones, with girls dressed, if they had any clothes at all, like rabbits. I could hear the
commotion from across the road. I’d heard raised voices before, but this seemed worse than ever. Those poor
bairns I thought to myself. What’s he doing now. I’d nursed their bruises over the years and, although we never
mentioned it, Edith understood I knew what went on in her house.
******
36
“Mrs Taggart, Mrs Taggart! Mary knocked frantically on the door. “Let me in. I can’t stay there
anymore. He’s gone mad; Mother’s upstairs in her bedroom and won’t come out and I’m scared.” Leaving
Mary, Mrs Taggart ran into the house opposite.
“Filth! Filth.” Mr Dyer brought the cane across James’ behind with another vicious swing. The bare
flesh broke and blood rose to the scarred surface. “No son of mine brings Filth into my house.” Another lash
caught James on the thigh and he screamed in anger and pain. Before Mrs Taggart could speak Ruth pushed her
way into the dining room and she watched helplessly as Ruth threw herself at Mr Dyer, wrestling him for the
cane.
“You bloody bastard.” She screamed. “You bloody bloody bastard.” With that he rounded on her and
the cane caught her across her cheek. Droplets of blood sprayed the wall where the cane usually hung.
“Keep out of it you hussy”, he growled. “You bought those magazines, that Filth, for him. He
wouldn’t think of something so disgusting if it wasn’t for you!” and with that accusation he again wildly swung
the cane in her direction. Missing, he took out his fury on James who was sprawled, half undressed across the
end of the dining table, causing him to collapse to the floor.
“You’ve killed him,” screamed Ruth, “you ‘ve killed him!” She lunged, grabbing the stick. Mr Dyer
reached for it and they struggled together before he slipped and fell to his knees at her feet. She held the cane
above her triumphantly before bringing it down upon him. He grabbed her legs and pulled her towards him, his
head resting on her pubic bone and his hands caught up in her mini skirt which now rode above her hips. She
twisted, snapped the cane in two and threw it into the clean fireplace.
There was a moments silence before the cane crackled and flared up in the grate casting an eerie white
light, silhouetting Ruth and Mr Dyer against the blood spotted wall. As the flame died he gave out a long moan
and shuddered, crumpling to the floor. Ruth stepped out of his embrace and turned to see Edith standing,
speechless, in the doorway.
* * ** * *
I opened the door to a glamorously smart woman of indeterminate age.
“Mrs Taggart told me you’d been asking after us. She said it would be all right to drop by.”
“Ruth? Of course! Come in. It’s lovely to meet you.” We’d asked Mrs Taggart what had happened to
the family when she’d recited the terrible story and hoped she might be in contact with some of them over
Christmas. The vendors’ solicitors had been cagey about the owners so we had no information at all.
Ruth shivered as she walked through the door. “I haven’t been back here for, well, years. You’ve
certainly done lots to the place. Proper central heating for a start!” she exclaimed as I took her designer label
coat. She peered into the cupboard under the stairs as I carefully hung it up.
“Can I get you a drink? Coffee, tea, or perhaps something stronger?”
“Coffee, black with one sugar will be fine,” she graciously replied as we wandered through to the
kitchen. The bright January light shone low through the windows and I could just make out a faint scar across
her face.
“I’ve always wondered . . .”
“I’m so glad Mrs Taggart told you. . .” Laughing, we broke that moments’ awkward silence between
strangers, and Ruth continued.
“I’ve always wondered what happened to the house after I’d gone,” she said wistfully. “Mrs Taggart,
said she’d told you what happened. If it hadn’t been for her I don’t know what would have become of James
and me. She was a second mother to us. After Mary went to university that Autumn, James and I more or less
moved in with her.
“It all sounded rather,” I hesitated, “frightening.”
“Oh we got used to it in a way. It was all we knew. But it stays with you, that brutal dominance.”
“And your brother and sister? They’re well?”
“Mary married a Civil Servant and they live in Guildford.” She said with some derision. “She sent me
a Christmas card with a picture taken at Buckingham Palace shortly after he received his MBE. James is the
opposite and living in a hostel for the homeless in Brighton. He ended up there but has pulled himself together
and now works for the charity running it,” she exclaimed with pride.
“And you? You’re all right? Although I don’t know you, I’ve been worried.”
“Oh you shouldn’t have . . .”
“It’s just that” I hesitated, not wanting to sound ridiculous. “Something happened the night before we
talked to Mrs Taggart and my daughter’s boyfriend thinks it might be linked to that, event.” I told her about our
housewarming party, the shattered mirror and the mark on the wall.
“Show me,” she said with interest. “My father was always peculiar about celebrations. He wasn’t
even keen about Christmas and we were never allowed parties.”
I took her into the Dining Room. The shattered mirror had been replaced and it was hard to remember
the destruction that had greeted us that night only a few months before. “It’s really different. I can scarcely
37
believe it’s the same room,” Ruth said smiling. “And you’ve kept the fireplace.” She approached slowly, as if
scared by it. “I wonder,” she muttered almost to herself as she bent down and opened the draught baffle. Soot
fell onto the grate but she rolled back her sleeve and eased her hand deep into the cavity. “Astonishing!” She
said as she pulled out a black tin covered in granules of dark ash. We walked back to the kitchen and wiped it
clean with a damp cloth.
“What is it?” I exclaimed, my curiosity getting the better of me, as I watched Ruth gaze down on what
I could now see was an old Navy Cut cigarette tin. Almost black with traces of gold edging, it had the Player’s
logo, red and white life jacket around a sailors’ portrait, on the top left hand corner. “What’s it doing in my
chimney?”
Ruth looked up at me, the flash of an old defiance appearing in her eyes. “I put it there, later that night.
I crept down and gathered the ashes of the cane. My father smoked Players so I took this, placed the ashes
inside, then hid it in the chimney. I hoped he’d get smoked out again, but it would appear the grate hasn’t been
used since!”
Her eyes brimmed with tears but she managed to control herself. “I’ll take that something stronger you
offered earlier, it that’s OK. This is all a bit much” she finished softly.
“I think I’ll join you,” I agreed, as we each took a glass of whisky back to the sitting room where we
chatted like old friends until she insisted it was time to leave. “Looking forward to seeing you again soon, and
you know you’re always welcome here.”
“Perhaps for the first time!” She grimaced. “It’s been very cathartic. I’m so glad I came and thank you
for your welcome.” I felt the house sigh as, packing the tin into her leather handbag, she waved goodbye.
I couldn’t wait to tell Robert and Lenni about my visitor. They were pleased to hear Mary had married
well and relieved to learn that James was settled in Brighton.
“But what about Ruth?” they had both asked me. “What about her?”
I laughed. “Do you know, we never got round to that. We talked and talked, but she never quite said
anything about herself. But she’s invited me to London next week, so perhaps I’ll find out.”
* * * * * *
The rickety lift climbed slowly to Ruth’s flat on the third floor of an apartment block just off Bayswater Road.
She must have heard it because she was at the door as soon as it stopped.
“Come in, come in!” she greeted me as I stepped out of the lift. She’d arranged lunch that we ate in her
sumptuously bright living room overlooking Hyde Park, and we picked up our conversation where we’d left it
the previous week.
“I wondered what you did with those ashes,” I asked, trying not to appear too inquisitive.
“They’re in The Chamber. Through here,” she said, leading me into another large room. This one was
painted deep purple, and with blinds cutting out the light, it looked almost black. In the centre of the room was
a chair that resembled something from a torture chamber, whilst along the wall was a contraption with ropes and
manacles and an array of canes and whips.
“There.” she said, ignoring my astonishment and pointing to a marble fireplace with an alabaster urn at
either end. “I’ve reunited Mother and Father with their beloved cane”
I gasped. “What is this . . . Are you a . . .“
“No. Not a prostitute! No-one, ever, touches me!” she interrupted. “ I’m a Dominatrix, specialising in
correction. After all,” she smiled as she glanced back at the urns, “I learnt my trade at the hands of a Master.”
38
Shadow’s Keep, by Helen Stockton
She didn’t like the house. She had passed it regularly on her daily walk since she’d been off work and she still
couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. It was large, set well back but still on the ridge, with expansive views across a
contrived rural wilderness. There was an extension to one side, probably a kitchen Amber concluded, with
large glass panels in the roof, diffusing direct light in the manner recommended by the glossy interior magazines
that littered waiting rooms and clinic receptions.
Yet the frontage faced north. The red brick paving had been pressure-cleaned the previous spring, but the moss
had insidiously crept back and the carefully selected shade loving plants struggled under the sterile shadow of
two large conifers. Even the Hypericum, usually robust to the point of invasiveness, looked leggy Amber noted.
The black, wooden beams of the building had faded to a weathered grey, the tall chimneys pointed at the sky
like accusing fingers, and the roofing oppressed the aged dormer windows that sat in their rimless sockets
gazing out at a shadowed world through leaded frames.
Amber started. A cat, with that unnerving feline capacity for appearing out of nowhere, was rubbing itself
sinuously against her legs. As Amber bent down to stroke him he purred generously. He was wearing a tartan
collar with a metal name plate, but as Amber tried to read it, he twisted his head away. He was unremittingly
black and his eyes glowed greenly, an unworldly luminescence. Having received the expected homage, the cat
melted through the gateless entrance to the house and jumped effortlessly onto a curved wall that formed a small
circle to the right of the front path. Amber had noticed this before. It looked like a well; real rather than
ornamental, with tired bricks, crumbling mortar and ivy fingering its way through, advancing its decline. The
wooden cover, like an ancient recumbent cart-wheel, sat heavily over its opening.
But something was amiss. The well-cover had been moved to one side exposing about a third of the opening in
a crescent of darkness. Amber felt a sudden surge of concern which she consciously attached to the well-being
of the cat. Amber followed him into the front garden. Maybe she could push the cover back into place. She
reached the well but was seized with a sudden curiosity. Was she right? Was it real and if so how deep was it?
The cover was as heavy as it looked but Amber managed to push it back a little further. The smell of cold,
ancient moistness emanated from the blackness. The water, though tangible, was invisible. She picked up a
stone and dropped it, straining her ears for the splash. It must only have been a couple of seconds but it seemed
an interminable wait. Amber could imagine the stone falling and falling, feel the penetrating damp and
darkness, and, with a growing awareness of the depth of the fall she could feel her panic rising. The sound of
the stone hitting the water was distant, small and echoey, but offered no relief. As she felt her breath rasping
and her chest constricting, she heard a second sound that emerged out of the first, a thin reedy wail, like a sickly
baby crying.
Amber jumped back, grabbing at the cover in order to steady herself and sending it sliding to the ground. She
hadn’t realised how far she had been leaning over the low wall into the well, straining her senses. She looked
around her wildly. The cat was staring back from several meters away, but it wasn’t the cat of earlier. His back
was arched, his glossy fur electrified, and the pupils of his iridescent eyes were narrowed to dark ellipses.
“’Ere, what you doin?” Amber turned sharply in the direction of the voice.
“Are you alright? You shouldn’t ‘ave shifted that cover – it’s ‘eavy.”
The initial suspicion on the weathered face faded rapidly to a cautious concern as his eyes unflinchingly
appraised her with a crow-like curiosity. The man’s hair was sparse, still mainly dark but with grey patches
fading into silveriness, his features were pinched and his teeth slightly crooked. He was wearing old clothes; a
handyman or gardener. Amber must have seen him around before as he looked vaguely familiar.
“I’m sorry, there was a cat and the cover had been moved. I thought he might fall in. I heard something. It
sounded like a baby crying.”
“No babies ‘ere lady. You wanta be careful. It’s very deep. Fallin’ down there wouldn’t be very clever.”
“Whose is the cat then? He looked very at home.”
The man fixed her with a measured look.
“Don’t know ‘bout that. There ‘asn’t been a cat at this place for years. They don’t last ‘cause of the road. Must
‘ve been a mouser from the farm.”
39
Amber turned away feeling suddenly tearful. It didn’t take much to upset her these days. She didn’t recognise
herself anymore. She felt as if she was peeling and flaking, revealing a different, vulnerable self hidden beneath
a formerly sound exterior facade. She felt empty, as if she had lost part of herself. She needed to go home.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
She wasn’t having a good day. She could see the cloudless blue sky strafed by uncompromising rays of summer
sun, but it wasn’t shining on her. She was not part of that picture; she inhabited a different dimension, isolated,
lonely, fearful. She had to get out.
Amber found herself walking along the lane. The house loomed on her right and she steeled herself to walk
past. She told herself she wouldn’t look, but her eyes were drawn unwillingly to its frontage. The bright
sunshine only served to highlight the depth of the shade and, as Amber’s eyes adjusted, she noticed the cat she
had seen previously, edging his way carefully around the well, stalking three young Magpies sitting on the
paving, squabbling raucously over something they had found on the ground. The cat was intent. Its body was
taut and its eyes had a fierce singularity of focus. It paused, gathering itself, but a strident alarm call, rattled
from the Pine tops, alerted the Magpies. The young birds flapped clumsily into the air and the cat was left
gazing at a void, swishing its tail with annoyance.
Amber felt a tinge of relief and her eyes followed the fledglings as they flew heavily, across the front of the
house, up past its dormer windows, toward the trees. There was someone in an upstairs room. A young woman
with long dark hair was cradling a small baby wrapped in a white blanket. She held the baby almost vertically
against her, with her hand supporting the back of its head, swaying her body gently from side to side, trying to
comfort the crying infant. The baby was emitting a thin wailing, and Amber realised, with a small shiver of
recognition, that this was the same unhealthy crying that she had heard previously, when she had thrown the
stone into the well. Amber felt dizzy and sick. She closed her eyes to steady herself.
“Are you alright dear?” Amber opened her eyes and looked into a pair of concerned grey ones.
“Yes.. yes, I think so. Just a bit giddy, that’s all.”
“You look like you could do with a cup of tea. I could do with one too as it happens. I was only going to do an
hour or so but I got a bit carried away. Why don’t you come into the kitchen and have a quick sit down while I
put the kettle on. You’d be doing me a favour – making me stop.”
Amber looked at the women. She was retirement age, with short grey hair and a sensible, brisk demeanour. She
was wearing worn cotton trousers, a short sleeved blouse and gardening gloves. She was clutching a trowel and
she smiled encouragingly at Amber.
“I’m Jean Chester. I’m not sure we’ve met properly. You’re Amber aren’t you, from Holly Cottage?”
Amber nodded shyly, surprised that the woman should know her name and where she was from. She had lived
here a couple of years but had worked full time in the City and had never spent much time around the village,
until recently. She didn’t really know anyone locally.
She followed Jean cautiously into the kitchen which, rather satisfyingly, was in the extension and did have lots
of light from the glass panels in the roof. Jean unceremoniously dumped her trowel and gloves on the kitchen
table and washed her hands vigorously before switching on the kettle and retrieving a round, cream, spotted tin
from one of the cupboards.
“I’ve made some cake. You look like you could do with fattening up. Can I tempt you to a piece?”
Amber hesitated. It was true, she had lost a lot of weight recently from her already slender frame, and she
looked unhealthily thin. Her cheek bones jutted through her pale skin which only served to accentuate her dark
shadowed eyes. She pushed her hair back from across her face and tucked it behind one ear. She didn’t want to
upset Jean, but she found that food tasted strange of late, bitter and alien.
“Thank you, I’ll have a small piece.”
Jean smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, as she cut a generous slice matched by an equally generous mug
of tea. It was strong, builders’ tea, and Amber sipped at it cautiously. Jean chatted away blithely, relieving
40
Amber of the necessity of any reply other than the occasional nod or brief comment, which was a relief.
Although Jean’s talk was superficial, Amber felt that she was being shrewdly observed.
“Oh damn, who’s that now?” The ‘phone was ringing and Jean conducted a brief search, muttering under her
breath, before locating the handset under a pair of oven gloves close to the Aga. Amber tried to appear as if she
wasn’t listening, but it was impossible not to. It was someone Jean clearly knew well and there was some kind
of problem.
“It’s Mum,” Jean clarified once she came off the ‘phone. “She lives in Morefield and she’s locked herself out
again, poor dear. Her neighbour’s got a spare key but she’s out too. I’m going to have to go and rescue her.”
Amber stood up. “Oh no, please don’t go, finish your tea and you’ve hardly touched your cake. Actually, you
could do me a favour if you don’t mind. I’ve got the Ocado man coming between eleven and twelve; you
couldn’t just man the fort until I get back? I’ll only be half an hour max.”
“What about the women upstairs, the one with the baby?”
Jean looked at her with a measured concern, “What woman love, there’s no-one here but me, rattling around in
this old place. And there’s Tom, I gather you’ve already met him, but it’s not one of his days. You’d be hard
pushed to mistake him for a woman anyway and he certainly wouldn’t be upstairs!” Jean laughed, but Amber
felt foolish. Had Tom told her about the well? Maybe they all thought she was a bit strange. Amber didn’t say
any more about the woman and Jean didn’t pursue it, but Amber felt disquieted.
After Jean had gone, Amber tipped her cake in the bin, hiding it tactfully under a layer of rubbish so that Jean
wouldn’t notice, and finished her tea. She flicked idly through a magazine on the kitchen work top but couldn’t
really concentrate. Her mind kept drifting back to the figure in the window. The notion of taking a look
upstairs shocked her with its audacity. She dithered for quite a few minutes, biting her lip, before opening the
door from the kitchen and peering out cautiously into the hall.
It was a house of two halves; the front rooms dark, the rear rooms flooded with a light that seeped out, under the
solid doors into the hall way. The staircase was oak, with carved, intricate balusters capturing in the dead, dark
wood the living forms of flowers and plants. It was impressive but at the same time strangely uninviting.
Amber moved cautiously, fear restraining against a curious urging. She climbed the stairs slowly to the first
floor. The stair case diminished as it led to the second, becoming plainly utilitarian and meaner. Amber held
onto the banister rail tightly. She was not fit and the effort, combined with her nervousness, made her breathe
heavily. In spite of the exercise, she felt cold. She calculated, from the landing, which was the room she’d seen
from the outside, and she placed her hand on the door handle and pushed gently.
The room was remarkable only for its ordinariness and Amber let out her breath shakily, suddenly feeling both
foolish and a bit guilty. Jean had invited her in for tea and here she was snooping round her home. The room
was simply furnished with a single bed, a small wardrobe, dressing table and a chair. There was a plain mirror
on the wall opposite the window, reflecting the light back, which together with the pale decor and bedding,
helped to counteract the intrinsic darkness of the room. Amber crossed to the window, catching a brief glimpse
of herself in the mirror. Her dark hair accentuated her pallor and she looked drawn and tired. She turned her
back on her image and looked out of the window. The cat was by the well. For an animal that didn’t live here,
he clearly spent quite a bit of time in the garden. As she watched, he turned round and looked up at the window,
as if aware of Amber’s presence.
She drew back, discovered. Turning to walk out of the room, her gaze glimpsed the mirror. Stark shock caused
her to refocus on the reflected image. The woman with the baby was standing by the window where Amber had
been seconds previously, looking back, straight at her. Her pose was the same as before. She was still holding
the baby and rocking it, but from this range Amber could see her face and her expression was desolate. The
rocking had a slightly jerky motion, a barely controlled desperation, and, as Amber lurched towards the door,
she noticed that there was no reflection of herself. It was as if she didn’t exist, her presence in the room totally
unacknowledged.
As she pulled frantically at the door handle, she heard the baby cry, its thin sickly wailing, which pursued her as
she bolted back across the landing, grabbing desperately at the banister, as if it alone stood between her and an
alternative, vapid reality that seemed to be claiming her as its sole witness. The crying seemed to rise in pitch
the further she fled, transmogrifying into a harsh jangling that came from in front as well as behind. It took a
41
few moments, as Amber flew headlong down the stairs, for her to realise that the jangling was, in fact, the
doorbell. It was the Ocado man with Jean’s groceries.
When Jean returned from her rescue mission, she was concerned by Amber’s pale agitation, and gave her a lift
home. Amber thanked her weakly but didn’t explain. How could she when she didn’t understand it herself, and
what possible justification could she give for wandering around Jean’s house? Jean might already think she was
a little strange, but Amber didn’t want her to think she was completely mad. She headed straight for the
bathroom when she got home. Avoiding the mirror she filled a beaker with water and took a few slow slips,
trying to calm herself. The foil insert, from the packet in the cabinet, trembled against the palm of her hand.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Amber avoided the house for weeks. There were plenty of other lanes to walk down and she chose them in
preference. Today however, she hadn’t ventured out due to the heavy rain, and by the time it began to clear, it
was rather late in the day. Keeper’s Lane, running right past her cottage, was the only real choice. Donning her
waterproof coat and deliberately cheery wellingtons, she set off at a measured pace. The dark clouds that had
oppressed all day were beginning to break, and the odd ray of sun light ventured a tentative finger that stirred
the puddled ground and elicited a plumy, woody evocation from the damp earth. As she reached ‘The Keep’,
she tried not to look at the old house, walking purposefully with her clenched hands stuffed in her coat pockets.
Tom was working in the borders at the front and he saluted her gruffly with his fork.
“Alright then? Aven’t seen you ‘round for a bit.” Amber changed the subject.
“Doing a bit of weeding?”
“Yep, this St John’s Wort gets everywhere, bloomin’ stuff. It never got planted, seeded itself from somewhere.
S’posed t’ be a white colour scheme at the front so it’s gotta go.” Amber’s eyes flickered over the front of the
house and up to the dormer windows. As she looked back at Tom he was staring at her, noting the direction of
her gaze. “Strange ol’ place. Suffers a bit o’ history if you ask me.” It was said calmly enough but his dark
eyes were watching her face, as if testing her reaction.
“Got to get on, it’s getting a bit late.” Amber walked down the lane, relieved to be passed, although she knew
she would have to return along the same route. It was too late in the day to do the complete three mile circuit
so she walked to the end field with the rather incongruous Alpacas, and then turned back with the curious eyes
and radar ears straining on elongated necks, following her interestedly as she walked.
Just as she started to climb back up the hill towards the old house, the cat appeared. It didn’t approach her this
time, it just walked about ten metres ahead, occasionally stopping, turning, and fixing her with its inscrutable
gaze. Amber felt un-nerved. Where did the animal come from? As she approached the house the cat went
through the front garden disappearing from view as he headed in the direction of the old well.
And then Amber saw her. It was the woman from the attic room. She was stumbling away from the well and
she was alone. Her long dark hair was damp and dishevelled, her skin pale as if hidden from sunlight for an age.
Her shoulders were heaving with suppressed sobs, and she was stooping slightly as if walking into a strong head
wind. As she moved falteringly away from the well, Amber saw that the cover had been completely removed
and was lying on the floor.
Torn between equal and opposing desires to follow the woman or run into the front garden, she was drawn by an
irrepressible urge in the direction of the well. Grabbing at the wall with both hands Amber leant forward, into
its dark maw. As she did so, a brief shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds and found its way through the needle
canopy into the front garden. Amber could see something glinting on the inner wall. She couldn’t see what it
was so she fumbled in her pocket for the little LED light attached to her house key ring. The trembling beam
illuminated the cat’s tartan collar. It was caught on a rusty old nail sticking out from the wall. Amber reached
out, leaning further forward, and as she grabbed the collar with one hand the torch light veered off, illuminating
the central part of the well’s void.
The baby was in the shaft. Amber’s shocked gasp echoed strangely off the damp walls, magnified but also
oddly muffled. The image of the infant was held, projected into the darkness just beyond her reach. It was very
small, with fine dark hair and very pale skin, wrapped in a white blanket. One of its tiny hands was clutching at
the frayed edge, its minute nails tinged blue and its dark eyes open but unseeing.
42
Amber felt a searing pain that constricted her, forcing out her breath in rasps. She was obliterated by an
overwhelming loss for the small being that would never be held, the daughter who would never be, the life that
would never emerge into the light and warmth of love, boundless and fierce, with nowhere left to go. She cried
out, and her lament distorted, echoed and rebounded back at herself. Blackness engulfed her from the edges,
narrowing down her vision. She was falling.
“Mrs Chester!” Tom shouted towards the house and then turning back to Amber, “It’s alright now, it’s alright.”
She was lying on the ground next to the well. The constricting pain was gone but her head hurt and her eyes
were streaming with unbidden tears. She cried uncontrollably, great wreaking sobs that shook her entire body.
As she looked down at her hands, she saw that she was holding the cat’s collar, but it was old, the leather was
decayed so much that the tartan pattern was almost lost and the metal name plate was rusted over, consigning
the cat’s identity to the long-forgotten past.
She was clutching the collar so tightly that her nails had dug into her palms leaving red crescents on her pale
skin. Her knuckles were white and prominent through her thin flesh. Tom took hold of her shoulders, the rough
skin of his hands catching against the fabric of her coat, pulling her into a more upright position. He moved his
worn face until his dark eyes were on a level with hers. They flickered, engaging, holding her gaze with a
serious intensity.
“You’ve got t’ let go o’ it now, you can’t ‘old it any longer, you’ve got t’ leave it be.”
Amber released her grip on the collar. The sunlight that had been battling intermittently with the clouds all
afternoon suddenly triumphed, and a beam of light transgressed the darkness, falling uncompromisingly on
Amber’s pale skin. She let out a tremulous exhale.
43
Barmy Park, by Pam Turner
As soon as I learnt to read my nose was always in a book. My friends and I would spend hours in our local
library based in a park called Bethnal Green Gardens, but to all the locals it was known as Barmy Park.
From 1722 to 1922 the library had been a Lunatic Asylum. Many of the windows still had the iron bars yet it
looked like a grand Manor House of red brick and beautiful large windows. Some at the back were stained glass
but could only be seen properly from inside.
As children, we only saw the downstairs. It was awesome. The ceilings were very high and the walls were
panelled. It always smelt of polish. The hall floor was black and white stone tiles and I always wanted to play
hopscotch. The actual library rooms had polished wooden floors and the bookcases seemed gigantic to us kids.
One day my two friends and I were sitting on a bench in the rose garden when an old lady came and sat next to
us. At first we ignored her, then she poked me saying,
“You see the ghosts don't you?”
“I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean,” I hastily replied, yet she had me wondering as I hated walking past
the station entrance; I could hear screaming. I knew a lot of people had died one night during the war.
The old lady poked me again.
“Have you ever been upstairs in the library? You should. They will talk to you. They will tell you all their
secrets I know but I mustn't tell.” With that she got up and walked away.
We sat giggling, then my friend Iris said,
“Next time we go in the library, shall we creep upstairs? Who knows, we may even see a ghost, or you will.”
When I got home, I told my mum and she laughed.
“That's mad Ada. Don't worry, she's harmless. Word has it she used to be a patient in the loony bin. She's
alleged to have told of the Bethnal Green Underground Disaster. Shame no-one listened. I lost my cousin in
that. If she thinks you have a gift she could be right, but for God’s sake don't say anything to your dad.”
Time passed. I had forgotten about Ada until the Librarian told us as we were now twelve we could use the
adult library. It was a very large room and the ceiling was even higher and more ornate than the hallway. All
along the back the ceiling was coloured glass. I always felt uncomfortable in there. The dark panelled walls
and the massive bookshelves made it feel very oppressive plus the huge wooden desk at the entrance, which
must have been about four foot high; I had to stand on tip toe.
During the six weeks school holidays, we were told that there were activities for older children upstairs. The
stairs were cream marble with a black stripe down each side. Six people could walk up together, side by side.
There were 24 steps to the first landing then another 24 to the top landing. We were led into a fair sized room
which had large oak tables which easily sat 16 of us at each. We had a whale of a time drawing, colouring,
pasting bits, mainly on ourselves, and the time just disappeared.
Being the good little girl I was, I offered to help clear up. Iris and I started collecting all the bits and pieces.
The teacher went out and left us to it. I crawled under the table to retrieve some pencils, and, backing out, I
managed to bang my head on the table, knocking myself out.
As I slowly started to come round, the room seemed strange and the smell was indescribable. I started retching.
My head was spinning and the noise was like bedlam. I couldn't focus properly when suddenly I was pulled up
on my feet.
“How many times have you been told not to turn your back on an inmate?” I did not recognise the women who
had spoken, but she was about 40/45 with grey hair pulled tightly back into a bun. She wore a white hat that
looked like a duck’s arse made out of stiff card. Her long black dress was covered by an immaculate white
apron and around her waist she wore a cord on which hung several large keys.
”Come on, come on, it’s time to feed these imbeciles.” I looked around. It was still the same room yet different.
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The room was practically bare apart from a couple of chairs which were secured to the wall and she led me to
one and sat me down. I felt much better sitting. Apprehensively I looked round the room. There were about
twenty, well what, I wasn't sure. Most were dressed in long white nightdresses; some were torn others were
soiled. Some were just standing staring into space. A couple were walking round and round the room
mumbling, whilst one woman stood in the corner facing the wall, screaming. There was a knock at the door and
the same woman who had picked me up, unlocked and opened the large door. In came an iron trolley with an
urn, bowls and large chunks of bread, pushed by an extremely old and withered looking woman. She began
making the inmates sit on the floor, and then she filled the bowls one by one with some obnoxious looking soup,
which smelt even worse than it looked. A bowl and chunk of bread was given to each inmate and they ate it like
animals. Those not quick enough had theirs taken.
I was scared. What was this place and why was I here? Looking down, I realised my dress was long and black,
covered with a white pristine cotton apron. Lifting my long dress a little, I saw on my feet there were black
leather boots. Feeling my head I was wearing a cotton hat.
“Come now Miss Harris, pull yourself together girl. Let’s get them bathed and ready for bed.” Following her,
and trying to usher them out the door and along the corridor through another door into a long room which held
about 12 white enamel baths, two helpers were filling each one with a little water. We then stripped each inmate
and put them into the bath. I was shocked. The water was lukewarm. The attendants picked up one patient at a
time, dumped them into the water, carbolic on a cloth, a quick wash all over, dragged out, wrapped in a hard
towel, then left to me to dry and dress them.
Do I talk to them. One young girl gave me a shy smile.
“Do you like it here? I don't. Can you go home at night? We can't. I'm here because I had a baby. Do you
think that I'm mad because I had a baby?”
I shook my head. It did seem very strange to me.
Myself and Sister Monica led them into their dormitory and saw them settled down for the night. On our way
out, she locked the door. I questioned her about the safety of locked doors then I realised I sounded just like my
mum.
All the sisters were off to the chapel for Mass. I went downstairs to the little library to read but I only managed
to read a few pages before I fell asleep, curled up in a big armchair.
I awoke to someone shaking me, asking if I was alright. Opening my eyes I could see the room was back to
normal. Iris was asking me how I felt but my head was throbbing, and as I stood up, I felt dizzy. Grabbing onto
Iris, I managed to walk out the room.
As we walked slowly home, I asked her how long I had been unconscious. When she told me five minutes, I
couldn't believe it. How could so much have happened in such a short time? When I told her about my
experience she was flabbergasted, and like me, could not understand it.
The next morning, when I knocked for Iris, she called me in as her mum was at work. We sat on her bed talking
about what had happened the day before. Neither of us could understand, especially the time difference. She
suggested we visit her Nan as she had worked at the Lunatic Asylum when she was a young girl.
We walked along Old Bethnal Green Road to her Nan's. It was a big house with the street door right on the
corner of Old Bethnal Green Road and Teesdale Street. As was normal in east London, the door was open and
we climbed the three flights of stairs to the kitchen, which was large and bright. Nan was sitting at the table,
with the big brown teapot, bottle of milk and bowl of sugar on a wooden tray.
“Hello kids. To what do I owe this pleasure? Want some toast and tea!”
“Thanks Nan, that would be lovely, then can we ask you some questions?”
“Well, I must say that sounds very intriguing. Pam, do you want dripping on your toast? I know Iris doesn't like
it. How’s your mum and dad keeping; well I hope?”
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“Yes Nan, I would love dripping, and mum & dad are fine.”
As all my grandparents were dead, Iris's Nan sorted of adopted me. The toast was lovely; doorsteps with lots of
meaty dripping. Iris, being a bit of a woos, had honey. When we had finished eating we told her the story,
finishing each other’s sentences, talking over each other, but she got the gist of what we were saying. When we
finally finished telling the story, she sat quietly for a while, then she put on her serious face.
“I worked at the asylum for some time. There were lots of rumours about what went on, but no-one knew for
sure.”
“What rumours?” we asked together.
“Well, there were stories that inmates disappeared, never to be seen again. Unmarried girls, who got themselves
pregnant, were hidden away in asylums by their wealthy parents, so no-one knew. It was kept a family secret.”
“Did they ever find them?” I asked.
“No. Never. Well girls, I think it’s time you went home.”
As we walked back down the road we discussed what Nan had said. If they disappeared, where had they gone,
and why had no-one seemed bothered.
The next day, we went back to the library. By this time, I had convinced myself that it had all been a dream and
I had made it more than it was, that is until I walked into the room upstairs. I felt really weird, having to sit
down quickly, grabbing some paper and pencils, I started to draw, then the smell entered my nostrils. It was just
like last time. Slowly looking round, the room had changed again. What on earth was happening to me?
The same nun and people were there, still walking round the room aimlessly. I went up to Sister Monica to ask
her if it would not make more sense if the inmates had something to do to occupy their time. Her reply shocked
me,
“They are imbeciles. What can they do?”
“Why can’t they draw, paint, sew; something rather than just wander aimlessly round and round.”After much
laughing she looked at me.
“You mean well, but you have a lot to learn.”
I felt so sorry for them. The time must drag dreadfully. Suddenly, an alarm bell started ringing. Sister Monica
rushed out the door. I followed, although I didn't know why. We ran along the passage to a large oak door at the
end. Loud screams and shouting were coming from inside. As Sister opened the door, the sight that met my
eyes was unbelievable. There was a large, half naked man, on top of another man, biting chunks out of him.
There was blood everywhere. Sister Monica was incredible. She pulled him off, as if she had the strength of six
men, then three attendants came in, put him in a straight jacket, and dragged him off. She then calmly pulled up
the other man and gently covered his wounds with her apron as she led him out of the room.
“I'm taking him to the infirmary. Get back to the others and be careful. Now you know why you must never
turn your back on them.”
Walking back I was shaking. Entering the room, nothing had changed. They were still walking slowly round
and round. Catching my eye, the young girl who had spoken to me the day before slowly walked up to me.
“Do you know where my baby is? Mum and dad won’t let me keep it. I'm not mad. All I did was have a baby.
I tried to tell them that Uncle Bartholomew said it would be alright. I hated it when he did those things to me. It
hurt and he was cruel, but no-one believed me, they just took my baby and sent me here. Can you help me?
“How can I help you?”
“Go to my parents and tell them the truth. They might believe you.”
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“I don't know, they probably won't believe me. Who are they? I don't even know your name.”
“I'm Isabella Fitzsimmons. My parents are Lord and Lady Fitzsimmons. They have a house in Victoria Park
Square and a country house in Bournemouth. I think they are in the country at the moment, which I suppose is
rather a long way for you to go. Perhaps they will still come and take me home.” With that she went back into
her own little world leaving me dumbstruck.
I thought about what she had said. I knew it was bad to have a baby without a husband, but why would they
take her baby away, and I wasn't sure where her Uncle fitted in. When Sister Monica eventually returned I told
her what Isabella had told me and asked her if it was true. Her reply was that she had indeed had a baby and, as
she wasn't married, it was a sin against God and her parents had her institutionalised.
I was shocked that parents could do such a thing. Surely when you are in trouble, your parents should be there
to support you.
Sister Monica called me over interrupting my thoughts.
“I need you to take Isabella to the Royal London Hospital for a check up. They may keep her in and if they do
come straight back.”
I felt really grown up, being given this duty, and I swore to myself nothing would go wrong. Sister Monica took
me to a large cupboard, sorted out some outdoor clothes, and she then helped me get Isabella dressed.
We left the Asylum and started walking along Cambridge Heath Road, holding hands. As we turned into
Whitechapel Road, the market was out and there were lots of people. Isabella and I looked at the stalls as we
walked by. The seafood stall smelt lovely. I had some pennies in my pocket so I treated us to some cockles.
The stall holder was shouting out his wares,
“Southend cockles, winkles, jellied eels all fresh.” Isabella said she had never tasted anything so good,
“but then anything was better than the slop we normally eat.” We stopped to look at the puppies and kittens and
we stroked them, tickling their bellies. It was fun and Isabella laughed. She had the sweetest giggle and her
face lit up, her eyes were bright and shiny.
We crossed the main road and entered the portico of the hospital. It was very impressive. The pillars were like
I'd seen in books about Greece and Rome. We entered the large cavernous hallway and Isabella held my hand
so tight it started to go numb.
“I'm so scared. Please let’s run away. I don't want to go any further.”
I led her gently to the desk.
“We have an appointment with Dr. Erskine,” I said in my put on posh voice. We were directed down a long
corridor and I must admit it was very daunting. The ceilings were so high and the walls were painted a sickly
green with the bottom half slightly darker than the top half. The floor was green and white stone tiles.
Taking her hand I led her through the big wooden door with Mr. Erskine's name on it. When we entered, he was
sitting behind a large desk. I wanted to giggle as he looked rather silly. He was such a tiny man.
“Sit down” he barked. His voice was very deep considering his size. He walked round the desk lifted Isabella's
chin with two fingers and looked into her eyes. “Do you suffer with headaches? Do you see things others
don't? Do you hear voices?” Isabella opened her mouth to answer,
“Come come, answer my questions!”
“Give me a chance. The answers are yes, no and no.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm positive.”
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He looked at me.
“Is she telling the truth?”
I was dumbstruck for a moment then I felt very angry. I knew there was nothing wrong with her. Why couldn't
he, after all, he was the doctor.
“As she has answered your questions, one can only assume she is telling the truth.” I felt quite proud of myself.
He was now tapping her head, getting her to turn from side to side, then nodding her head. Every so often he
would say,
“Ah, mm, yes, aha,” in a very knowing way. He returned to his desk and sat writing notes. Looking at me he
said,
“Bring her back next week. We need to have a closer look at her brain.” We left the hospital, relieved it was all
over, well until next week.
Arriving back at the Asylum, I settled Isabella back in the room, then went downstairs to have something to eat.
Sitting at the table, suddenly I could smell bread pudding, my favourite. I felt a bit weird and suddenly I was
back at the table, drawing. The teacher was unwrapping a large piece of bread pudding which she proceeded to
share between us.
The following week passed uneventfully, until the morning Isabella was due back at the hospital. The smell
invaded my nostrils and I was back in the asylum. Isabella was ready and waiting for me to take her back to the
hospital.
We had a quick play with the animals then made our way to the hospital. Mr Erskine was talking to two other
doctors as we walked in.
“Ah you’re here. Would you bring Isabella. We need to use a different room as it has more apparatus.”
Isabella and I entered the room he indicated. It was very bright and the whole room was white. There was a
table in the middle of the room with a large light over it. Next to it was a chrome table with lots of silver
implements. He led Isabella to a chair then told me to wait outside.
I felt very uncomfortable as I sensed something was wrong. I kept fidgeting and something told me I should go
in and save her, but from what? They were trying to help her, but the more I thought the more agitated I got.
Why was she here? As far as I knew, there was nothing wrong with her other than having a baby. If it had
happened in the east end, she probably would have got a belting but her family and friends would have stood by
her and helped her.
My uneasy feeling was getting worse. My stomach was in knots and I could hear strange noises coming from
the room. Jumping up, I threw the door back. The sight that met my eyes was unbelievable. I blinked several
times and I could feel bile rising in my throat causing me to choke. The three men and the nurse turned to look
at me.
“Get her out, now.” One of the doctors took my arm dragging me outside, pushing me down hard, onto the
chair.
“Don't you dare move. Dr Erskine will be out in a minute.”
My mind was going sixteen to the dozen. Was it real what I had seen? My hands were shaking and suddenly I
felt really scared. Would they do the same to me? Dr Erskine interrupted my thoughts. He must have crept out
as I hadn't heard the door open.
“Well young lady, we have a bit of a conundrum don't we?” I shook my head partly because I didn't know what
a conundrum was.
“Come now, tell me what you think you saw, it’s very important.”
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My mind worked quickly as I realised it would be best to play dumb.
“Just you, and the others, and a lot of blood. Is Isabella OK? Where is she?”
“Unfortunately Isabella is dead. We were trying to make her better but she was too far gone. Go home and I
will write to the head of the home to explain what happened.” With that he walked off. I stayed sitting on the
chair trying to put together what was going on. The door opened and the other two doctors came out carrying
two big jars. I shut my eyes so I couldn't see what was in them.
When they had gone, I crept into the room, slowly walking up to the bed. With shaking hands I lifted the sheet
that covered the body. I jumped back. What had they done to Isabella? The top of her head had completely
gone. Making myself walk nearer I looked closer. Oh my God, her head was empty, they had taken her brain
out. With a sob, I kissed her on the cheek, then ran from the room all the way back.
As soon as I saw Sister Monica, I told her in a jumble of words, what I had seen. Her reply shocked me
“Child, come, come, calm down, you must realise that at least Isabella is at peace and perhaps her sacrifice will
help someone else.”
I could hear someone screaming, then realised it was me. Someone was shaking me, calling my name. I
realised it was Iris and we were sitting in the gardens.
“What on earth's wrong? What happened?” Having relayed the story, she sat with her mouth open.
“What was he holding in his hands? What was in the jars?”
“I'm not sure but I think it was her brain in one of the jars. The other held her eyes and they looked at me
begging for help, but I was too late, we were never ever going back to the library again.
.
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