Hiding From the Light (10 page)

The others were already there when Mark made his way into the shop. He looked round. ‘No sign of the new tenant yet?’

‘Not a peep.’ Colin was eating a toasted teacake, his fingers shiny with butter. ‘So there’s no one to ask. If we’re quick we can get the extra shots we need upstairs and be out of here before they come! All set?’ He stopped chewing and stared up at the ceiling with a frown. ‘You did check, Joe? It sounds as though there is someone walking about up there.’

They all stared upwards. Alice had gone very pale. Clearly audible, they could hear someone walking slowly across the boards above their heads, the footsteps dragging slightly, one then another board squeaking in sequence as they moved.

Joe gave a soundless whistle. He stubbed out his cigarette in the lid he was using as an ashtray on the counter. ‘I just stuck my head in the room. Maybe there was someone up in the attic. Or in the cloakroom. Shall I have another look?’ He did not seem too keen.

Mark glanced at the stairs. He recognised an extreme reluctance of his own to climb them. Last night, again, he had had the experience of waking suddenly, his heart thudding, the echo of a woman’s scream ringing in his ears. It had for a moment paralysed him with terror as he lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to steady his breathing, aware that he was bathed in sweat and aware too that this time he was too afraid to move, even to reach for the switch on the bedside light.

And now this. He saw Colin watching him, waiting for a decision. ‘Are we going up?’ Mark shrugged. ‘I seem to have a touch of the heebie-jeebies this morning. OK. This is silly. Let’s go. We need to see if we can capture a bit of this atmosphere on film.’ He took a deep breath.

Colin nodded. ‘Want me to go first?’ The Welshman raised an eyebrow, baiting him. The footsteps had stopped. They were all aware of the sound of traffic outside again, almost as though, before, it had not been there.

Mark nodded. He gave a wry grin. ‘If you like.’

‘OK.’ Colin hefted the heavy camera up onto his shoulder.

‘I’m not going up.’ Alice’s voice was shrill. ‘I don’t think any of us should.’

‘Alice.’ Joe’s tone was half reproach, half mocking. ‘Come on. You’re not scared, surely? Great big girl like you!’

Alice blushed scarlet. ‘No! No, of course not. I think this job sucks.’ Tossing the clipboard down onto the counter, she turned towards the door. ‘You don’t need me, anyway. I’m going for a walk.’

‘Alice!’ Joe shouted.

‘Leave her,’ Mark said quietly. ‘It’s getting to her like it’s getting to me. Come on. Let’s go up.’

Colin was already halfway up the stairs when the shop door opened. They turned to see a young woman standing in the doorway. With short dark hair and intensely bright blue eyes she reminded Mark of nothing so much as a woodland elf as she hovered on the threshold, gazing at them.

‘Can we help you?’ Mark turned away from the stairs with something like relief. If the new tenants were arriving they would have to hurry and the sheer number of people on the premises would perhaps do something to help dispel the atmosphere.

Her eyes were enormous. He found himself unable to look away as she took a cautious step inside, leaving the door open behind her. ‘What are you doing?’

Behind him Colin retraced his steps and put the heavy camera down on the counter. Mark smiled and stepped forward, holding out his hand. ‘Mark Edmunds. We have Mr Barker’s permission to be here. I’m sorry. We meant to be finished before you arrived.’

She looked anxious suddenly. ‘You were expecting me?’

‘Well, we were expecting someone.’ Mark dropped his hand as she had ignored it. ‘I gather you want to start stocking the shop as soon as possible? If we could have perhaps just an hour more, we could then get out of your hair.’ He gave her his most charming smile. It was not returned.

‘I am not here to stock the shop.’ There was a slight frown between her eyes. ‘I came because you are here to make trouble for us. For all of us who live here.’

Mark glanced at Colin, who raised an eyebrow and gave a mock scowl. ‘I can assure you, Miss …?’ He paused for her to fill in the name. She ignored the invitation and stood silently, her eyes fixed on his face, obviously waiting for him to continue. He went on, slightly flustered. ‘We have no intention of causing anyone any trouble. And we are here, as I said, with the full permission of Stan Barker.’

‘Stan told me you are here to film the ghosts.’ For the first time her eyes left his face and she glanced past him at the stairs. Mark resisted the urge to turn and follow her gaze.

‘We are making a documentary. One of a series about haunted houses,’ he said guardedly.

‘You have to stop it.’ Her voice was stronger suddenly. She rammed her hands down into the pockets of her trousers – tight-fitting jeans, cut off raggedly below the knee which emphasised the slimness of her figure. ‘You have to!’

‘May I ask why?’ he asked gently. ‘You said we were here to make trouble. I assure you that is not the case. Programmes like this are usually immensely popular –’

‘And stir things up.’

He realised with a jolt that the emotion which was fuelling the brightness of her eyes was anger. ‘It will make no difference to you. You and your friends –’ she glanced witheringly at Joe and Colin – ‘will finish your filming and disappear back to London and never come back here again, and leave us to deal with what you have left behind.’

‘I am sorry you should feel like that.’ Mark kept his voice even. ‘But as I said, the worst you will probably find will happen is an influx of sightseers. I find the locals usually like that. It’s good for the economy.’

‘I’m not talking about sightseers!’ She licked her lips nervously, an infinitesimal darting movement which reminded him of a small reptile. Her tone was dismissive.

‘Then what?’

She held his gaze for a moment, then for the first time she seemed to hesitate. ‘You are stirring things up,’ she repeated.

‘What things?’ Colin put in.

‘The energies …’ She bit her lip. ‘Your interest, the filming, talking about him. It is feeding the energies. I can feel it. The whole town is changing. The atmosphere. The feel of the place. It’s centred here. In this shop.’

‘Why?’ Joe had surreptitiously switched on his mike. The tape was turning.

‘This shop – the site – it has always been a centre. So much happened here.’

‘
What
happened here?’ Joe asked.

‘He brought the women here. Some of them. It was the house where Mary Phillips lived.’

‘One of the witchfinder’s accomplices?’ Mark nodded.

The three men glanced up towards the ceiling.

She did not appear to notice. ‘Their fear and anger and confusion permeates the walls of this place!’ she cried passionately. ‘Can’t you feel it? No one stays here. No one can bear it. Those women were dragged from their homes, accused, tortured, terrified and killed on the say-so of one man.’

‘That surely is what makes the story of the witchfinder so fascinating,’ Mark put in slowly. ‘The villain is the man who ostensibly was on the side of the right, and the victims are the women who might have possibly been real witches worshipping the Devil, causing all kinds of mischief.’

‘They weren’t!’ She turned on him, her face suddenly hard. ‘They were at worst silly old ladies, not knowing what was happening to them. And the ones who did know were guilty of no more than using herbal medicine and the harmless spells that were part of the recipes in those days.’

Mark nodded. ‘You would make an excellent contributor to our programme. Why don’t you let us film you so that you can put your point of view …’

‘No!’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Have you understood nothing I’ve said? You have to stop the programme. You have to go away and forget all about it.’

‘You still haven’t told me why.’ Mark found the memory of the scream coming back suddenly as he leaned against the counter, watching her. ‘If the old ladies were innocent, why should telling their story stir up trouble? Surely they would welcome vindication? And Hopkins himself was a sadistic and violent man by our standards but from what I have read he was sincere in what he believed.’

‘He was paid by the head, Mark,’ Colin put in softly. ‘However sincere, the chap had a good incentive to root out anyone even remotely qualifying for his detection methods.’

‘He was not interested in mercy or justice,’ the young woman put in. ‘And he does not sleep soundly. Neither do his victims. Please, please go away.’

‘We are going.’ Joe gave her a reassuring smile and folded his arms. ‘Today. Don’t you worry, love. We’ll be out of your hair by teatime and away, and all your energies can calm down again.’

‘And you will destroy your film?’ She narrowed her eyes.

‘We’ll think about everything you’ve said, very carefully,’ Mark put in reassuringly. ‘I promise.’

She stood for a moment looking at each man in turn, then she turned and ducked out of the doorway. As she hurried away from the shop they heard someone in the street greet her gaily, ‘Hi, Lyndsey!’ and saw her raise her hand in return.

‘Lyndsey,’ Mark repeated. ‘Remember that. Wow! I wish we’d got that little spiel on tape.’

Joe grinned. ‘We did. But whether you can use it is another matter.’

‘Good man.’ Mark stared thoughtfully after their visitor, then he wandered across and pushed the door shut behind her. ‘You know, I’m inclined to agree with her.’

‘You mean we should stop?’ Colin and Joe stared at him.

Mark shrugged. ‘No, not stop. But I think we are stirring things up. I’m even having nightmares about it. Let’s get that shot upstairs and then we can pack up. Presumably once we’ve gone the atmosphere she was talking about – the vibes – will all calm down again!’

‘No!’ Piers was white with anger. ‘I will not see it. I will not talk about it. And I will not – ever – go there. If you go ahead with this, as far as I’m concerned we’re finished. For good!’

Emma was leaning on the rail, staring down across the rooftops towards the distant trees of the garden square. A misty pearlescent light was deepening into darkness around them. She said nothing.

‘Emma?’ Piers’s voice softened. ‘Please, darling. Think. I love you. I don’t want to –
I can’t
– live without you.’

Wordlessly she turned towards him and he saw that she was crying. He put his arms around her and gently kissed her on the top of her head. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’ Her face was buried in his shirt-front, but he felt her nod and he tightened his arms. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t we arrange a holiday in the autumn? Go somewhere really exciting. Your choice.’

Still silent, she released herself from his grasp. She bent to pick up a cat. ‘Have you fed them?’ She sniffed into the dark, silky fur.

‘Of course I have. Did Peggy not want to come in?’

‘No. She was tired. It was a long drive.’ Kissing Max’s ear, she set him down on the ground again. ‘I think I’ll have a bath.’

‘OK. Why don’t I bring you a hot drink in bed later?’

She gave him a faint smile. ‘That would be nice. Thanks.’

It was dark when he went inside and closed the French doors behind him. He wandered into the kitchen, wondering what would cheer her up. Tea. Cocoa. Soup. A stiff whisky. ‘Em?’ he called. The sound of bath water running away had finished ages before. ‘Em? What would you like to drink?’

The bedroom was in darkness. ‘Emma? Are you awake?’ He turned on the lamp in the corner. Emma was lying across the bed, her face buried in the pillow. She was wearing grey silk pyjamas. ‘Em?’ he whispered. He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you asleep?’

There was no answer.

‘Would you like me to bring you something?’ He waited for several seconds, then with a sigh he turned off the light and crept out of the room.

On the bed Emma stirred. Hugging the pillow she turned over, her dark hair fanned out across the sheets and, in her sleep, she began once more to cry.

She was late into the office and within seconds of sitting down at her desk, she stood up again. Her hands were shaking and she had the worst headache she could remember.

Emma!

The voice was in her head again.

Emma! Buy it! You’ve got to, Emma. You have to come back, Emma!

She had awoken late, drenched in perspiration, her bedclothes tied in knots, but her dreams, if she had had any, were gone beyond recall. Piers had already left, after presumably sleeping on the sofa.

‘You OK, Emma?’ A colleague passing her desk stopped, concerned. ‘You look as though you tied one on last night with a vengeance!’ He laughed.

She glared at him and turned back to her desk, rifling through a drawer for some paracetamol. Then she picked up the phone. ‘Mr Fortingale? It’s Emma Dickson. Are you better?’ She only remembered just in time to ask. ‘I wondered if you had heard back from the Simpsons yet about my offer?’ Grasping the receiver with both hands, she stared unseeing at the computer monitor on her desk as she listened to the muffled voice the other end. She nodded slowly. ‘Good. Thank you. No, I told you, I don’t need a survey. I am instructing my solicitors this morning and as I said, I have nothing to sell. It’s a cash transaction and as the house is empty, hopefully it can all go through very fast indeed.’ She stood for a long time, listening to the whine on the phone after he had hung up, then gently she tipped the receiver back onto its base.

David Spencer looked up from the report he was studying as Emma appeared in the doorway of his office. She had tapped on the open door then hovered, staring in without seeming to see him.

‘Emma?’ He rose to his feet. ‘Is there a problem?’

She frowned, visibly trying to pull herself together and came in, closing the door behind her. ‘I’m giving in my notice, David.’ She stood in front of his desk, not meeting his eye. ‘I’m leaving London.’

‘You are joking!’ David ran his hand through thin, greying hair so that the carefully arranged strands rose in disarray around his head. ‘You can’t – what’s happened? For God’s sake, sit down. You don’t mean it.’

She obeyed him, pulling up a chair, and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, her head in her hands. ‘I do mean it, David. I’m sorry. I’ll work out my notice, of course.’

‘But why?’ He resumed his own seat opposite her. His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Mad, perhaps.’ She gave a small, helpless laugh. ‘I’m buying a house in the country and I’m going to work there. I need a break from the City.’

You have to come back, Emma!

The words echoed in her mind for a moment. What was she saying? What was she doing? She was throwing away her career, her relationship, her home, her life. She looked up at David and he noted her pale face and red-rimmed eyes.

‘Is this something to do with Piers? Have you two split up?’

‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, yes, I suppose we have. We will. He thinks I’m mad.’

‘You are. Look,’ he stood up again, ‘don’t say any more, Emma. Go home. You don’t look at all well, if I may say so. Think about this. Take a few days off. Don’t do anything you might regret. Please.’ He leaned forward across the desk and put his hands over hers. ‘You’re good at your job, Emma. Don’t throw it away.’

He watched her go back to her desk through the glass wall of his office. She picked up her bag and her briefcase, stood for a moment staring down at her desk, then left without a word to either of her colleagues, both of whom looked up and spoke to her as she passed. He frowned. There was something very wrong. He stood for several seconds staring down at his phone, then he picked up the receiver and dialled Piers’s direct line.