Hands of the Ripper (3 page)

‘Husband,’ she replied with some force perhaps to rebuke the suggestion that their relationship might have been lacking in any Christian formality. ‘Passed these four years now. Not that I have had a chance to miss
him
. I speak to him more now than I did when he was alive. You needed a loudhailer and a sharp stick to get him to the dinner table before the cancer had him; I barely get a moment’s peace these days. Rattling the door handles, setting the light fittings swinging … then there’s Islington, of course, Henry does love the hall at Islington.’

John risked a glance towards his son but Michael was either ignoring the conversation or distracted by his own thoughts, staring at the stage and tapping at his lower lip with his forefinger.

‘There’s another one,’ said Henry’s widow, regaining John’s attention.

‘Another one?’

She nodded towards a young woman sitting down two rows in front of them. ‘Always turns up,’ she explained, ‘cot death.’

John couldn’t think what he would want to say to that, but the elderly woman was happy to fill the silence. ‘Always gets a message too,’ she continued, puffing up her cheeks as if holding in her words, but there was no such luck. ‘I’m at a loss as to how. I mean, it was only a baby. She should get on with her life. Girls today are far too sensitive. Mind you, this lot laps it up.’

The fact that she considered herself somehow apart from the rest of the audience hardly surprised John, her kind never felt any other way.

‘I’m sure she appreciates the comfort,’ he said, watching as the young girl tugged at her cheap skirt and tried to get comfortable on the flat plastic seat. He realised he was staring when his elderly companion
spoke
again. ‘I suppose the men like her too,’ she said, giving him a look of disapproval, ‘she’s that type.’

John couldn’t help but wonder what type that was supposed to be. Attractive? She was certainly that but his attention had been drawn by something else. She reminded him of his wife. It wasn’t anything so simple as looks. True, they were both blond but otherwise there could be little to compare them. Jane had been tall, perpetually thin – though never so horrifyingly skin and bone as she appeared to him now, whenever he imagined catching sight of her, as if the tumour had continued to do its worst even into the afterlife. This girl was of an average height and slightly chubby. He couldn’t call her fat – even had he been insensitive enough to do so – but she had the sort of overall thickness that some people are born with, as if their whole body is wrapped in an extra layer. The similarities were in her mannerisms more than her appearance, he decided, the way she shifted in her seat, constantly looking around. A slightly childish impatience. Jane had never been able to bear waiting for things, to the point where she had always been late for appointments rather than endure it. That quirk had driven him up the wall when she had been alive but seemed charming now she was gone. We forgive the dead everything. There was something else too, he decided, something so elusive as to be beyond him. Like a face in a crowd that triggers recognition. Something about this girl was all too familiar.

The lights were turned off to a gentle discomfited
murmur
from the audience. John supposed this was intended to replicate the dimming of theatre lights. As it was, from the snatches of conversation around him, most people seemed convinced the rain had blown the fuse. A single spotlight proved them wrong, pointing at the centre of the small stage where the young man who had been selling tickets could just be seen escaping after having placed a chair there.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the young man announced into a radio mic, ‘please welcome the incomparable abilities of Mrs Aida Golding.’

There was warm applause and out of the corner of his eye John saw Michael shake his head.

‘Like bad theatre,’ the young man mumbled and John found he couldn’t disagree. Events like this would always fall victim to their practitioners’ innate inability to play things ‘straight’. Any hint of the theatrical and the verisimilitude took a pounding. At least the medium herself was a step in the right direction. She was the very epitome of the homely grandmother, wrapped up in an old-fashioned combination of tweed skirt and woollen pullover that made her look about ten years older than she probably was.

‘Good evening, my loves,’ she said, her voice as twee as her costume, ‘thank you for coming out on this inhospitable night. Over the next hour or so let’s see if we can’t banish the weather with the warmth of our hearts.’

John didn’t have to check whether his son squirmed at that sentiment, he knew him well enough.

‘We don’t need to worry what the skies throw at us,’
she
continued, ‘we’re strong enough to face the worst of it, aren’t we?’

There was a general murmur of assent, nothing as solid or confident as words. John had the absurd sensation of being adrift in a crowd of animals. No doubt this was a variation on her usual spiel, a little team-building to get her audience onside before she proceeded to ‘part the veil’.

The buttering-up continued. ‘There’s a wonderful energy tonight,’ she said, ‘you bless me with your thoughts.’

‘And your twenty quid,’ Michael whispered.

John could have mentioned that the money had been his to spend but he chose to listen to Aida Golding.

‘I can sense many familiar souls with us this evening, both in this world and the next. There are also some new faces, for which I say: welcome, it is wonderful to be able to spread the word. Tonight you will learn the most important lesson of your lives: death is not the end. All of those we have ever known, all we have loved, are still here. They watch over us. They stand alongside us. Life goes on.’

To some that may actually have felt like a comfort but in that moment John couldn’t think of anything worse. He found himself imagining that the heavy breathing of the widow in the seat next to him was that of Jane. The fact that this was a familiar terror made it no less powerful. He realised that he wasn’t attending in the hope of having Aida Golding’s promise proven correct: he was only too convinced his wife was still with him, he wanted someone to prove otherwise.

‘The dead do not leave us,’ Aida Golding continued, ‘they just move on to another level of existence.’

Much consolation that was. John had a sudden urge to get up and leave, his curiosity (and, yes, desperation) had brought him to an experience he was no longer sure he could endure. He was half-risen, enough for Michael to glance over, when Aida Golding cut off all possibility of a sheepish retreat.

‘They are here!’ she shouted, the sudden increase in volume making many of the audience jump and John drop back in his seat.

‘Should have gone before you came,’ said his son. John glanced over at him and just made out the ghost of a smile in the darkness.

‘Too late,’ he said, ‘she shouldn’t have made me jump.’

This momentary childishness was enough to lessen the panic that had been building up in his chest. He wasn’t comfortable but he could, at least, endure.

‘They all want to speak,’ said Aida Golding, ‘they all want you to know they’re here.’ She took a sudden breath, and clicked her fingers repeatedly. ‘Is there a Jonah here, or Jonas …?’

John would take far more convincing before he would get involved, but a namesake on the front row was not so reluctant.

‘Jonathan?’ said the man, half getting to his feet. ‘Could it be Jonathan?’

‘Or Joanie?’ asked a voice from further back, ‘our Arthur always called me Joanie.’

‘It is Joanie,’ confirmed the medium, ‘the voice is
becoming
clearer. Sometimes it’s very hard to hear and you must bear with me, my loves, try and remember I’m not holding a conversation with someone who is right here, rather we are talking across the gap between realities.’

John had to admit this was something of a departure from her earlier assertion but wasn’t inclined to dwell on the fact.

‘Joanie?’

‘Yes.’

‘I need your voice, Joanie. Can you stand up for me, my darling? When I ask you a question always reply for me, loud and clear. You can do that, can’t you, Joanie?’

‘Yes, of course …’

Aida Golding broke out of her ‘trance’ for a few moments, to address the audience directly. ‘As those who have joined me before will know I’m a clairaudient and it’s very important for me to form a strong link between the spirit and the person they want to speak to. Imagine it’s like a telephone line, but there’s a lot of interference and the signal is weak. Your answers, Joanie – and this goes for everyone here tonight, of course – are what keep that link strong. If you’re quiet or slow to respond, the link gets weak and may break entirely. So don’t be shy, shout out! Be strong and positive! Don’t block this natural gift with silence and negativity, let your loved ones be heard!’

Again, there was much in this that John recognised as standard fare. Putting the onus on the audience, making them responsible for the success or failure of the night’s events, instilling in them a suggestion to always reply in
the
affirmative. The more he heard the less he felt involved. Perhaps tonight would be exactly the cold dose of reality he had hoped for?

‘It’s a man’s voice, Joanie. He says … his name, is it Arthur?’

‘Yes! That’s him!’

John couldn’t fail to notice how much this impressed the gathered audience as several people drew in breath. He couldn’t claim to be as impressed as he remembered Joanie mentioning the name herself.

‘Is this your husband, Joanie?’ the medium asked.

There was a slight pause at that and even in the darkness the silhouette of her body language showed discomfort. John wasn’t the only one to notice.

‘Only it doesn’t feel like it,’ the medium continued, withdrawing another gasp from her willing crowd, ‘it feels more like …’

‘He was my brother.’

‘I know, Joanie, he’s just told me as much! Between the two of you gossips, eh? I’ve got my ears full.’

There was a ripple of amusement at this as the tension was released.

‘As I was saying you can often sense the family link, you can sense the call of blood even across the veil. Shush Arthur, she knows!’ At that last she turned away from the audience as if hushing a man stood behind her.

‘What did he say?’ Joanie asked, desperate for her dead brother’s words.

Aida Golding held up her hand for a moment, asking for silence so she could hear the poor, faint voice of the dead Arthur. She laughed. ‘He’s just telling me about
when
you were kids,’ she said finally, ‘he says he wasn’t always the best brother.’

‘He was a right bugger!’ confirmed Joanie to much laughter, though John wondered how many siblings would have needed such a generalised comment confirmed.

Aida Golding nods as if this is all further proof. ‘Ask her,’ she said, ‘I will, Arthur, I will … Do you remember the matches?’

‘The matches?’

‘Yes, love, that’s what he’s saying: the matches, the matches … over and again.’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘Of course she does, he says. She can’t have forgotten …
the matches
.’

‘Oh … I think he stole a box once, you know boys …’

Yes, John thought, Aida Golding did know boys.

‘That’s right!’ the medium said. ‘He stole them, didn’t he? Lighting them up and nearly burning the whole place down!’

‘He was trouble that’s for sure.’

‘He says he’s sorry for that, he says he knows he was a handful.’

‘Oh … he doesn’t have to worry,’

‘He misses you though, Joanie, he says he should have made more of an effort.’

‘He was a busy man, I know that …’

‘Still, he says you realise what you missed when it’s gone and he just wants you to know that he loves you and he’s still with you.’ She held up her hand again, craning her head to grab a few last words from Arthur.
‘He
says he’ll be a better brother for you now than he ever was.’

There were tears at that, of course, Joanie could no longer hold them in. No doubt, thought John, she wasn’t alone.

‘Thank you, Arthur,’ said the medium, ‘until we talk again.’ And with those simple four words poor Joanie would be hooked, John thought, while Aida Golding moved on to pastures new.

‘Trevor?’ she asked, though whether this was the name of the recipient or the messenger nobody could know, ‘I’m hearing Trevor?’

‘My name’s Trevor,’ admitted a man near the back, somewhat reluctantly.

‘Go on,’ said a voice to his side and he was ushered upright by the woman sat next to him.

‘Let me hear your voice, Trevor,’ said Aida, ‘the connection is always weak to begin with. It takes effort on all sides until we get warmed up.’

‘I’m here,’ Trevor replied, clearly embarrassed to be talking out loud in front of everybody.

‘Weren’t expecting a message tonight, were you?’ the medium asked, her inflection neutral enough to let the meaning swing either way.

‘No,’ said Trevor, allowing her the point just as much as if he had said yes. ‘It’s been so long since—’

‘Please,’ said Aida Golding, having heard enough to be going on with. ‘I don’t wish to be influenced.’

At this point she paused and John could imagine her weighing up her options. Sometimes, he thought, it’s a disadvantage to know too much about the business of
charlatanism
, it makes you see crookedness everywhere. In this case, however, he was fairly confident that his instincts were correct. As blind as her audience may be to the fact, Aida Golding was operating a classic fraudulent medium act. Not that she was afraid to take risks:

‘It’s a young voice,’ she said, and John had a moment to wonder how she would get out of this should it not hit its target. Would the spirit have regressed to an earlier existence? But there was no need, the bullet struck home.

‘He was thirteen when he died,’ confirmed Trevor, a look of absolute shock on his face.

No doubt the shock was shared by Golding herself. ‘And he hasn’t aged a day, he’s still the same boy you remember.’

John wasn’t altogether sure this pleased Trevor, the man was visibly shaking as he stared at the medium in the spotlight. John had the impression of an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Was the threat of communication with this boy so terrifying? Was it the apparent proof of life after death that disturbed him or the thought of talking to the boy himself?