Hands of the Ripper (8 page)

The door opened and Sandy walked in. She was the very image of functionalism, her wet hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a baggy, black jumper, the sleeves of which she tugged long so that only her fingers poked out of the end.

‘Hello,’ she said, and sat down in one of the empty chairs.

‘Good evening, my dear,’ said Father Goss. ‘Are you a regular at these events? We were just talking about who had had messages before and who hadn’t.’

‘Oh, she’s always talking to her little kiddie, aren’t you, dear?’ said Davinia, offering the young woman a distinctly false smile.

‘Not as much as if he were still alive,’ Sandy snapped back.

‘Well, quite,’ said Father Goss, attempting to be the peacekeeper around the table.

‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to cause offence,’ said Davinia.

‘Of course not,’ agreed Father Goss before gamely trying to change the subject. ‘We’re having more tea in a minute.’

‘Wonderful,’ Probert sighed sarcastically.

The door opened and Aida Golding walked in, the refreshed pot in her hand. ‘All here!’ she announced with enthusiasm. ‘How exciting. Help yourself to milk and sugar. We’ll tuck into the cake afterwards.’ She began pouring out a cup of tea for each of them, though Probert predictably refused his.

John stirred his cup and waited patiently for things to begin.

Golding lit a pair of large candles and placed them in the centre of the table. Then she sat down and, on her cue, the lights went out. John realised Alasdair must be in the doorway behind him, performing his duties as always. He wondered what else the young man might get up to in the dark.

‘Now,’ said Golding, ‘I don’t want any of you to be
scared
. What we do tonight is not something that should be feared. It is a wonderful, natural, thing. It is the connection of love with love. We hold our hands out in the dark and wait for them to be taken by those whom we miss, those cherished souls who are lost to us in this world but alive and happy in the next.’

‘I’m not sure I would class them as “alive” exactly,’ said Father Goss, ‘the term is philosophically complex.’

‘Never mind philosophy,’ snapped Probert, ‘this is a seance not a discussion group.’

‘I don’t approve of the term “seance”,’ said Golding with a smile, ‘it brings to mind images from horror films.’

Unlike Edwardian parlours and table rapping? John wondered with some amusement.

‘Perhaps we should all agree that the terminology doesn’t matter,’ he suggested. ‘The important thing is the attitude with which we approach things.’

‘Well said, dear,’ agreed Davinia. ‘It is what it is and none of us would be here if we weren’t comfortable with it.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Probert.

‘Very well,’ said Golding, ‘then let us link hands so as to better conduct the positive energy that flows between us.’

They all did so.

For a while they sat in silence, the occasional flicker of the candle’s flame the only sound in the expectant atmosphere.

‘This is different to when I work with a large crowd,’ explained Golding eventually. ‘The connection is more
pure
, the link stronger. Often we should all be able to hear the voices of those who have passed, rather than just me.’

This was certainly an impressive step, thought John.

‘For all that,’ Golding continued, ‘it can sometimes take a little longer to establish that link. It is vitally important to me that you keep your energy positive. Negativity can force the connection to wither and break. While this is a beautiful and positive gift, it’s not an easy one to use and I will need your help every step of the way.’

John felt Davinia tighten her grip on his right hand; she was certainly not willing to take any risks when it came to communing with her deceased husband. To his left, Father Goss shifted slightly in his seat and altered his grip on John’s hand. The priest’s hand was hot and becoming sweaty, so he self-consciously gripped John’s fingers so as to let their palms breathe. Not that John cold blame the man for being nervous. As much as he had been determined to maintain a cynical detachment to the night’s proceedings, it was difficult now the lights had gone out. The sound of the rain outside permeated the darkness as if the weather was slowly forcing its way into the room. It made John think of what he had glimpsed amongst the leaves of the ivy. It had seemed so pale and gelatinous that he could imagine it gaining entrance easily enough. Perhaps it would force itself through the letterbox, the little black brushes drying the rain from its dead, cold skin before it fell onto those black and white tiles with a slap. He pictured it as his wife’s shattered body, too long in the grave, a
weathered
bag of tumbling bones made soft once more in the rain.

‘Steady love,’ said Davinia and he realised he had been squeezing her hand even harder than she his.

‘Sorry.’ He loosened his grip and gave her a smile.

Aida Golding had closed her eyes and her head lolled back until it vanished into the darkness. The shadows crept down to just above her mouth which moved as she muttered to herself – at least John assumed it was to herself, he didn’t like to imagine who else she could be communicating with. She gave a long sigh, the air hissing from between her lips like a last breath. Tipping her head forward once more, the breath still coming, the candles flickered and went out. Davinia gave a small yelp of concern and her hand tugged at John’s.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Golding, ‘there is nothing in the dark that can harm us. We are like them, the departed, floating in the afterlife beyond the reach of senses.’

How can they hear us then? John might have asked, but there was no time as at the moment that the medium stopped talking another voice spoke up.

‘Hello, dear,’ it said, ‘how lovely of you to come.’

The voice was barely audible as if speaking through a mound of cushions. Despite that it was recognised soon enough.

‘Is that you Henry?’ asked Davinia. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you speak up?’ She tutted and rolled her eyes at John. ‘Typical Henry, he always was such a mumbler.’

‘Sorry,’ came the voice, ‘I’m trying as hard as I can.’

‘Well, give it a bit more,’ said his wife, ‘you’re in high company and I expect you to be on your very best behaviour.’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Well, I must say it’s been a while since you deigned to visit, hasn’t it? I mean … I could have upped sticks and popped my clogs myself for all the interest you’ve been taking in me, couldn’t I?’

‘I’m sure Henry would have been aware had you joined him in the afterlife,’ insisted Golding. ‘After all, you would have been reunited.’

‘And there would be a pretty way to spend eternity!’ Davinia scoffed. ‘Unless that useless lump has taken himself in hand after abandoning me I’d only end up looking after him like I always did. Yes … that would be the thing, he’s probably hanging on in there hoping for just that. You got yourself in a mess up there, Henry? You in a fix?’

‘I think you’re being too literal, Davinia my dear,’ said Golding. ‘The afterlife is not really a place where you can get yourself “in a fix”.’

‘If anyone can, Henry can. Did I ever tell you about the time we were questioned by security in Waitrose because he’d been seen opening a Black Forest Gateau in the freezer?’

‘Davinia,’ said the barely audible voice, ‘I don’t think …’

‘Said he wanted to check they weren’t stingy with the cherries. In Waitrose, I ask you. Never have I been so embarrassed. Now he has me traipsing all over the place just to hear a few kind words. Not much to ask is it? A
lady
of my age? Nobody thinks of me do they? I’m all alone …’

‘I love you, Davinia,’ said the voice, ‘but I have to go now …’

‘That’s typical,’ said the widow. John was pretty sure he caught the glint of tears reflecting the candlelight. ‘Always dashing off.’

‘He’s gone,’ confirmed Golding.

‘Bye, love,’ murmured Davinia and John gave her hand a gentle squeeze. For all her ridiculous hostility it was clear she missed Henry very much.

‘How romantic,’ whispered Probert but Davinia chose to ignore him.

‘The voices are getting more insistent,’ announced Golding. ‘It’s becoming hard to distinguish one from the other.’

‘Well, try harder!’ said Probert.

‘The spirits are not at your beck and call, Lord Probert,’ said Golding. ‘They will either have a message for you or they will not.’

He had no reply to that, simply sighed in the darkness and the table returned to silence once more.

But not for long …

‘John? Are you there, John?’

He had imagined his response to this inevitable moment. He had decided he would make his disdain clear, he would stand up and reveal the trickery for what it was. But now, with the indistinct voice calling to him, he found he could do no such thing. It wasn’t that he believed the voice to be Jane’s – even muffled it carried none of the qualities he remembered – but the
idea
of decrying it as a sham, surrounded by those who believed in it utterly, seemed in terribly poor taste. He simply could not stamp on the feelings of the ridiculous, irritating, fragile widow whose hand he was holding.

‘I’m here,’ he said, and gave a polite smile at the squeeze Davinia Harris gave his hand. He was hit by a sudden wave of guilt, reminded of those last days when he had lied to Jane in order to protect her sensibilities. He felt like he was cheating her memory by playing along. Though now, once started, he found it even harder to imagine the alternative.

‘Thank you for coming, John,’ said the voice, ‘I know it’s hard for you …’ and she was certainly right there, ‘I know this isn’t something that comes easily to you, I know it’s something you find hard to believe.’

Despite his determination to remain logical he found himself imagining his dead wife behind him in the darkness. Not speaking to him, no, he still didn’t believe this was her voice, but listening to the sham, watching him play his part. What would she think of it all? Would she be relieved to find him suddenly open to such experiences? Or would she be disappointed at how easily he was being fooled?

‘But you believe now,’ continued the voice, ‘don’t you, John?’

What to say? He could actually feel the chill of cold air on his neck. Like the breath of someone stood right behind him. Not that Jane had any breath left in her, of course. His shoulders tensed, waiting for what seemed like the inevitable: the grip of her weak hand as it took hold of his shoulder.

‘Yes,’ he said finally, barely more than breathing the answer, ‘I believe now.’

Davinia squeezed his hand again.

Now he had said something he found the words came easier. Perhaps they had always been there, waiting for him to have the courage to utter them. In that moment, almost sure he could sense her behind him, he spoke to her as he never had before.

‘I believe, Jane,’ he repeated, ‘and I miss you. I’ve missed you for years. Missed you even when you were still with me because the woman you became wasn’t the woman I had fallen in love with. She was everything about you that was bad. She was every resentment, every bitterness, every little bit of hatred and anger.’ And sometimes, he thought but didn’t say, I think you left her behind. ‘And that’s OK, because we all have those things inside us. But when you became ill it was all the disease left of you. I hope you’re better now. I hope everything that was good about you is back. I wish I could have you with me again.’

‘I am with you, John,’ said the voice and he found himself crying, because that momentary belief had passed leaving him to wish it were true. ‘I’ll always be with you. And now there’s no pain, no anger. I’m happy, John, I’m free …’

‘I wish I were,’ he replied and then immediately regretted it, it was not a thought he had intended to voice.

‘Soon, my love, soon you will be just like me.’

And with that John’s session was done. There was
silence
until Aida Golding snatched a deep breath as if something had yanked at her hair.

‘She has gone,’ she announced.

John had never been convinced of that fact ever since Jane had died. Try as he might he still wasn’t.

‘You all right, dear?’ asked Davinia.

He nodded. ‘Fine.’

Golding writhed a little in her seat as if her muscles were cramping. John looked at her and found a sudden realisation. He had never hated a person more than he did her. To create such emotions in people, to drag them through this for money. She must be sociopathic, he decided, to care so little for others.

‘Ah!’ she exhaled, and slumped forward in her chair. After a few moments she lifted her head. ‘I need a short break,’ she said, ‘the energies are particularly draining tonight.’

‘More tea then, is it?’ asked Probert sarcastically.

‘If you wish to make it,’ Golding replied, ‘the kitchen’s just through there.’

With that she walked out leaving Probert to stare after her in shock.

‘I simply can’t believe the cheek of the woman,’ he said once she’d gone. ‘Anyone would think she was doing us a favour rather than being paid for her time.’

‘I certainly haven’t paid,’ John admitted, only too happy to cause awkwardness for Golding. ‘Have you?’ he asked Father Goss.

‘No,’ the priest admitted, ‘though I would usually make some small donation, a few pounds towards the cause as it were.’

‘Me too,’ announced Davinia. ‘After all, it’s only fair, isn’t it? She gave up her job in order to be free to spread the message far and wide. The least we can do is ensure she has enough money to get by.’

Get by? John couldn’t believe Davinia Harris of all people was capable of such naivety.

‘I’m sure she doesn’t struggle,’ he said.

‘Quite right, my dear,’ Davinia replied, wholly missing his point, ‘good for her.’

John wasn’t concerned by Davinia’s blindness as to Aida Golding’s business practice, he did watch Sandy’s face with interest though. In his current state of mind he had no issue with making the girl uncomfortable – why should the punters be the only ones to suffer?

‘Have you paid?’ he asked her.

She shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t ask.’