Hands of the Ripper (14 page)

‘No,’ said John, ‘it’s not like that. I just couldn’t not help.’

‘Of course you couldn’t,’ agreed Laura.

‘Seems a bit weird to me,’ said Michael. ‘Are you sure she’s not after the family silver?’

‘Yes. Because we haven’t got any. Besides, there’s a bit more to it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Last night, at a small group session at Golding’s house, one of the clients killed himself.’ He waved at them to keep the noise down. ‘We were both there and it really shook Anna up.’

‘I’m not bloody surprised,’ said Michael. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Oh I’m fine. The point is, that was what drove Anna away so suddenly, she just couldn’t stand it any more.’

‘Of course she couldn’t,’ said Laura. ‘You can tell she’s a good person. None of it sat well with her.’

‘So she says,’ Michael said.

‘Trust me,’ insisted Laura. ‘Blind people are excellent judges of character. I pick up stuff in her voice that you wouldn’t. She’s sincere, take my word for it.’

There was the sound of the toilet flushing and they all leaned back in their chairs, desperate to convey the fact that they hadn’t been talking about Anna when she came in.

‘She doesn’t want to talk about it,’ said John in a quick whisper, ‘so don’t mention it, all right?’

Anna came down the stairs and back into the kitchen.

‘I hope you’ve all been talking about me?’ she said with a smile.

‘Of course,’ laughed Laura, ‘we never stopped, but we’ve finished now and famished for dessert.’

‘They’re lovely,’ said Anna after Michael and Laura had gone. ‘You must be proud.’

‘I am,’ John admitted returning to his half glass of wine, relieved that the evening had gone better than he might have hoped.

‘And I think they’ll move in,’ she continued, ‘you can tell Michael feels embarrassed by it, like it’s a step backward for him, but Laura loves the idea and that’s what will matter. They’re very lucky.’

‘To have each other?’

‘No, to have you. A father that actually looks out for his child.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Rubbish, it’s everything. Laura’s right, you’re a nice man.’

John felt a bit embarrassed at that so he just shrugged and filled the sink to do the washing up.

‘She seems really nice,’ said Laura as she and Michael made their way towards the tube.

‘I suppose so,’ Michael agreed.

‘“Suppose”?’

‘No, she does. It’s just weird, having seen her play her part at that thing. Watching her cry. Now I know it’s not true … well, she’s a hell of an actor.’

‘So are you, remember?’

‘True! You know what I mean, though. I just hope she is genuine. I’d hate to think of her taking dad for a ride.’

‘I don’t think you need worry about that,’ the rain got heavier, beating against the umbrella so hard Laura had to raise her voice to be heard. ‘She wouldn’t hurt your dad, she’s got too much of a crush on him.’

‘No!’

‘Of course she has, don’t tell me you didn’t notice?’

‘I think you’re reading too much into her voice.’

‘And you’re not reading enough. Right now he’s her absolute hero, and something tells me she hasn’t had many of them in her life.’

Nine

One Knock for Yes

‘IS THERE EVEN
anyone here?’ Golding asked as Alasdair pulled the car into a parking space behind the small hall.

Peering through the wet windows he had to admit it didn’t look like it. With a sigh he turned up the collar on his coat and got out of the car. ‘I’ll take a look,’ he said, dashing over to the cover of the doorway.

‘The Barret-Holden Memorial Hall’ announced a sign on the door ‘was opened in 1984 by the Rt. Hon. Ashley Furcott.’

‘Well, I wish the fucker was here now,’ muttered Alasdair, rattling the handle fruitlessly before giving the wood an angry kick.

‘No need for that is there?’ said an elderly voice behind him. He turned to see a small, round man shuffling towards him beneath the cover of an umbrella. ‘It’ll stay closed as hard as you kick it, though I won’t thank you for messing up the paintwork.’ The man rattled a set of keys and came under the covered porch with Alasdair. ‘Little thugs that live round here would break in here before you could so much as say “borstal”.
We
have to keep it secure or it’ll be a mess of needles and whatnot.’ He looked at Alasdair with a distinctly unfriendly glare. ‘And our regulars are respectable, they wouldn’t like that sort of thing.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Alasdair agreed, surprised that one angry kick had marked him down as a common lout in this miserable bastard’s eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘Never mind,’ the old man opened the door.

‘I didn’t think anybody was here.’

‘Clearly, dare say you wouldn’t act like that to an audience.’

‘I meant to open up. I thought we were stuck outside.’

‘Saw you pull in, didn’t I?’ The old man shuffled in and begin flicking on the lights, row by row of old fluorescents illuminating the cream tiles and magnolia paintwork of the hall. ‘Not waiting outside on a night like this. Put myself in bed for sure. My chest’s not what it once was.’

As if to prove this he tested it out with a short coughing fit. A productive one, judging by the speed with which he produced a handkerchief from the pocket of his woollen trousers. Alasdair had no wish to monitor the man’s expectorant so set to work unstacking a row of chairs from piles racked against the far wall.

‘I’d help you do that,’ said the old man, once he had pocketed the cotton-wrapped contents of his throat, ‘but you only paid for the basic package and that doesn’t include staff.’

‘He can manage,’ said Golding entering from the rain, ‘he’s a strong young man.’

‘Weren’t we all once,’ was the somewhat inaccurate reply. ‘You’ll be the woman then?’

‘Certainly that,’ she laughed, ‘Mrs Aida Golding, lovely of you to have us.’

‘Oh, we’ll take anybody. Even the druggies.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Support group they call it, Narcotics Anonymous. You’ve never seen the like.’

‘I’m sure they do good work.’

‘More than I am. I wouldn’t have them near the place if it were down to me. Still, their money’s as good as anyone’s I suppose. Talking of which …’

‘I’ll pay the balance in cash, if I may?’ She held up a small cash tin.

The old man sucked in breath and rubbed at his face. ‘I suppose so, don’t really like having that much cash around. The people that live round here … I’m not getting stabbed in my bed over a bit of caretaking.’

She counted out the money and he folded it into his trouser pocket. ‘Suppose you’ll want a receipt?’

‘Yes please.’

He nodded and shuffled over to a stack of tables in the corner, took out a battered receipt book and begin to slowly scribble in it with a stubby pen. He held the nibbled end up for her to look at. ‘Free from Argos, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Perfect size.’

‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to take them,’ Golding replied before immediately regretting it. She couldn’t care less where he nicked his pens from.

Alasdair gave her an exasperated look as he continued to set out the chairs. ‘We haven’t got long.’

She managed to resist suggesting he’d better get on with it then. Taking the receipt from the old man she
slipped
it under the coin tray of her cash tin and went to check on the sound system. It stood to one side of a rudimentary stage, a selection of wooden blocks surrounded by black drapes.

‘Such luxury.’

She disliked performing in new venues, having to get used to a whole new set of uncertainties. The facilities in these places were never reliable, cables short circuited, PA systems cut in and out, sometimes even the lights didn’t bloody work. Still, they were her bread and butter and they paid her well. Most mediums looked to breaking out in the media, shows on cable, big theatres. She’d never been convinced. Very few could last the distance, the bigger you got the more someone set out to knock you down. Better to stay small, keep it regular and intimate and you had a career for life. Even if that meant putting up with the disadvantages of public halls.

‘How many chairs do you think?’ shouted Alasdair.

As many as you can bloody fit, obviously, she thought. ‘What’s the pre-sale?’

‘Ninety-four.’

‘Then allow for another forty or so walk-up, new venues always bank in on the door.’

He gave a quiet sigh and dragged over another stack of chairs.

People began appearing by ten to seven, a full forty minutes before the evening was advertised to begin. In Golding’s experience this was often the case. People were eager – desperate, in fact – to get in and sit down,
maybe
even make contact with her, hopeful that this would encourage later success. Not that she let herself be available. If anyone asked she was meditating, preparing herself spiritually for the evening ahead. In reality this meant a crafty fag out the back or, if she was feeling more virtuous, putting her feet up and reading a newspaper or magazine until it was time to begin.

Tonight she felt sinful. She stashed a pack of twenty Benson & Hedges and some breath mints in her cardigan pocket and hid just outside the rear fire exit.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said Alasdair as he watched her smoke.

‘Worried for my health? I’ll be talking to the dead soon enough.’

He refused to be drawn. Still sulking from last night, she decided. ‘I think we’ve had all we’re going to get,’ he said, ‘I’ll give it five more minutes then knock off the lights.’

She nodded. ‘Just get back by the doors, we don’t want someone sneaking in while you’re back here.’

He gritted his teeth and she felt a moment’s worry, one day she would push him too far. Then where would she be?

‘Sorry,’ she said quickly, holding out a hand and managed to dredge up a smile, ‘I’m just tired.’

‘You and me both,’ he replied but gave her hand a squeeze before heading back inside.

She finished her cigarette and loaded up on mints. Shoving the cigarettes in her handbag she took a spray bottle of lavender perfume and gave herself a good
dosing
. Peppermint and lavender: the scent of all good grandmothers.

She came back inside, closing the fire doors as quietly as she could and inching along behind the black drapes that afforded a narrow channel of backstage area. She was lucky to have this much privacy, some of their venues offered no stage space at all, just an empty concrete box that they had to dress to the best of their abilities. Not that it took much; she intentionally tried to keep everything to a minimum, a pretence of theatrical absence. Still she needed somewhere to avoid the attentions of the audience when she wasn’t onstage, and nothing drew the focus better than a swathe of black material and a single focused spotlight.

Alasdair turned down the lights and that spot rose into being, a celestial point of brightness into which Aida Golding would emerge, God’s earthly angel. The audience was still faintly lit, so that Golding could see them, her usual mixture of middle-aged and up. A couple of large groups of ladies, the ‘girls’, on their fun night out.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Alasdair into the microphone, ‘please welcome the incomparable abilities of Mrs Aida Golding.’

She walked out into the hall, her best, gentlest smile in place. She kept her hands clasped in front of her, nodding and making considerable business about how shy the applause was making her feel. She held out her hands for them to be quiet.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said, giving another, intentionally humble bow of her head. ‘It is always so
lovely
to visit somewhere new. My main aim in life is to spread this one simple message: there is no death, we all live on and I can prove it to you.’

There was the predictable murmur of pleasure at that and so she continued.

‘There is nothing to be afraid of tonight. What I do is a beautiful, natural gift. It is given to me my God and I use it in the manner I believe he would wish.’ To pay off the mortgage and spend three months a year on holiday, she thought with some amusement. She closed her eyes and sighed, thinking of an already booked fortnight in Cancún. A dreamy pleasure spread across her face.

‘There’s a wonderful energy here tonight,’ she said, as always, ‘you bless me with the warmth of your hearts.’ She smiled and nodded as if someone had just said something amusing to her. Pretending you were one half of a conversation nobody else could hear went a long way, she had discovered, Perhaps it was because, subconsciously, nobody could conceive of anybody happily claiming to hear voices unless it were true. Perhaps it was simply that everyone wanted to believe and all you had to do was give them an excuse to do so.

‘I can tell tonight is going to be a good night,’ she said, ‘we’ll banish this horrible weather with the sunshine of our love.’

Wasn’t that an old song? She thought. She really ought to concentrate, she must be on autopilot if she was falling back on song lyrics in her patter. What next? ‘Walking on Sunshine’? ‘I Will Always Love You’? ‘Since You’ve Been Gone’? She smiled at the thought,
not
caring to hide the reaction, just another witty piece of wisdom from my spirit guide.

‘I should explain that I am clairaudient: I hear the spirits, not see them. Often the sound is very faint, very muffled – not surprising, given how far they’ve come!’

A polite ripple of laughter.

‘But in order to establish the connection and keep it strong I need your voices, all right? I need to hear your positive energies. If you understand the message I’m passing on I need to hear you say “yes”. Otherwise I’ll lose the connection and will have to move on. I’d hate to not be able to connect you with your loved ones just because you missed it, or misunderstood.’

That was the audience pre-conditioned then. She took a slow breath as if encouraging a trance state, in reality she was just deciding what name to go for first. Let’s keep it simple, she decided, with no Anna to help bolster the responses she was going to have to play this safe until she had them in the palm of her hand.

‘I hear “John” or “Joan” … so hard to be clear, speak up love. “John” or “Joan” …’