Authors: Sam Hayes
I press stop and toss the Dictaphone back on to the bed. When I turn, Adam is standing in the doorway.
‘Oh! I came to see if you’d like to have a coffee with me in the girls’ lounge?’ My heart flips into my mouth and my cheeks burn like embers. Adam doesn’t say a word.
He sits cross-legged on the floor of the boarders’ living room. His shoulders slump forward as if he’s totally relaxed about this. He spots a stuffed rabbit under an armchair and pulls it out. ‘Yours?’ he asks.
‘Hardly,’ I reply. ‘It belongs to one of the girls. They sit in that chair and pour out all their problems.’ Most of the pupils bring a cuddly toy to school with them, even the sixth-formers. ‘It’s quite sweet that they need something to love.’ For some reason my eyes prickle with tears.
Adam hears my sniff, sees my lower lids brimming. He passes me a tissue from the box. ‘Do you want to sit in the chair and talk?’
I laugh, shaking my head, wishing I had the courage to say yes.
‘Are you having second thoughts about the job?’
‘Not at all,’ I reply, lying. ‘First thoughts are hard enough.’
‘Cryptic,’ he says, passing my coffee from the tray. He believed me when I told him I wasn’t prying in his room, that I’d just come to see if he fancied some company. I half wonder if he wanted me to hear that recording.
‘So,’ I say, trying to sound bright. ‘Tell me about the chapel. Why does it intrigue you so much?’
Adam sighs and draws a long sip of coffee. He stares at me over the rim. This game we are playing – you say first – hangs silently between us. We both sense that the other has an interest in the place, and, for different reasons, an interest in the other.
‘The chapel’s a very important part of the story I’m researching.’ He hesitates for some reason. ‘It’s where the murders took place. One in particular.’ Hearing him say it makes it sound like folklore, as if none of it happened. ‘But it’s real people I need to speak to now. I want to find locals who remember what happened.’
My head whips up. Has he found anyone with a story to tell? Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with curiosity.
‘Today, I wanted to get a sense of place,’ he continues. ‘To . . .’ He pauses, clears his throat. ‘To really feel where it all happened. It was awful, Frankie. I could virtually smell the fear in there.’ Adam bows his head.
‘Her fear
,’ he whispers.
‘You could?’ It’s not surprising the villagers called for it to be boarded up and never used again.
‘It was what made me spin round and knock over that huge candlestick.’ Adam’s face betrays more than merely an interest in writing a local history book. Anguish overlaid with sorrow.
‘Why Roecliffe?’ I ask, trying to figure him out. I have to be careful.
He thinks for a moment, draws a deep breath. ‘Have you ever felt that a place has such a pull on you, that there’s something so huge you need to discover, you’d travel from one end of the earth to the other to find out?’
My heart kicks up a gear; my lips part, but I can’t find the right answer.
‘Roecliffe Hall has dragged me kicking and screaming all the way from Australia, Frankie. What began as a quest on the internet, a desire for knowledge, an unravelling of my past, has ended up as an obsessive mission to dig down to the tiniest detail. There are things I need to find out, for my own peace of mind.’
I stare at him, imploring him with my eyes to continue.
‘I’m looking for my sister,’ he confesses, once again unemotional, as if he’s lost a book or a tie. Adam reins himself back, whereas I can’t even let go. ‘She lived here a long time ago, when it was a children’s home.’ He drains his coffee, as if the answer might be found at the bottom of the mug.
I finally manage to speak. My voice is thin and vapid. I don’t feel real. ‘Your sister?’ I say, standing up, shaking,
making my way to the door by holding on to the wall. I have to get out. ‘I doubt you’ll find her here.’
The last Sunday of half-term and school explodes with noise, chatter, clutter, weeping mothers and excited girls. The first-years are thankfully happy to be back, used to school life, refreshed from their break. The older girls get on with settling back into the school routine, sharing stories, waving a casual goodbye to their parents.
Lexi’s father doesn’t come inside with his daughter. He doesn’t even wait to watch as she drags her bag up the steps of the front entrance. ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Did you have a good time?’ She was finally picked up the day after her fright. Since then, there haven’t been any more strange faces appearing at windows.
‘It was OK, I suppose,’ she says. I help her heave her bag over the threshold. ‘I was on my own for most of it.’ I escort her to her dorm and help her unpack the things she’s brought back to school. At the top of the pile is a gift box of expensive-looking shampoo and conditioner. ‘For you,’ she says, handing me the silver box. ‘The stuff you gave me was horrid.’ She grins. ‘I did what you said and put it in my dad’s girlfriend’s shampoo bottle.’
‘And?’ I take the cap off and inhale. It reminds me of the beauty products I used to buy. I give her a grateful hug.
‘My dad told her that her hair smelled gorgeous and they disappeared for hours. I just can’t win. He wishes I didn’t exist.’
‘Nonsense,’ I tell her, wondering exactly when it is that
someone becomes invisible, even if they haven’t actually gone anywhere at all.
It’s the blue hairband and braces that remind me, and the long blond hair – a mental note to ask questions when I next saw them. It’s been a while since I noticed the girls in the IT room – when Lexi was sick – but the image from their monitor is still emblazoned on my mind. I even tried to get on to the website myself from the computer in the girls’ lounge, but the site was denied access. Some over-zealous IT technician, I supposed, or fate telling me to leave well alone.
‘Will you tell Mr McBain?’ The girls’ eyes widen and droop apologetically, simultaneously – a teen device that won’t wash with me. I know how most of them work.
‘That depends,’ I say. I don’t like doing this but I have a burning need, a desire so deep that it may, just may, help me fill in a tiny portion of the desperate hole that has become my everyday life.
‘On what?’ the second girl asks. They both stand in front of me, hands clasped at their waists.
‘On me having a go,’ I say as if it’s quite normal for a woman of my age to be asking such things. They look at each other and I catch the first quiver of smiles on their faces. Relief.
‘You’re not serious?’ the taller one asks.
‘Why not?’ I try to sound indignant. ‘You don’t want Mr McBain to know that you were messing about in his class, do you?’ It’s a horrible thing to do, but I can’t help myself.
‘Of course not, but if you tell him we were on that site, we’ll just deny it.’
‘And you think he’ll believe you over me, do you?’
‘Yes, because technically, you can’t get on it through the school firewall. All sites like that are banned.’ The girls pull faces, half from the thought of inappropriate websites and half because of nervousness. They don’t like being blackmailed any more than I like doing it.
‘Then how come I saw it on your computer?’
‘Because we’re experts.’
‘Geeks,’ the blonder one says. ‘Nerds, you know, tech-heads. That’s what we do.’
‘So you have a way to log on even though it’s not allowed in school?’ I’m incredulous and, unlike these two, not very technically-minded. I always thought if something was blocked it was blocked.
‘Sure. We’ve set up our own proxy server. As long as the IT admin doesn’t find out the address, we’re safe. The only reason we got sprung was because Lexi got sick and you saw our screens. Mr McBain always stays at the front of the class.’ The girl leans against the wall. ‘So are you going to rat on us?’
‘Rat?’ I ask.
‘You know, tell tales. Dob us in.’
‘Tell tales,’ I repeat slowly. ‘No, girls, I won’t do that.’
I weigh them up. They are pretty enough, pleasant enough, dressed smartly enough despite the usual customisation that goes with school uniform – shortened tie, turned-up collar, pushed-up sleeves. Like every single
teenage girl in this school, they make my heart bleed. I sigh. ‘Your secret’s safe with me. But I do want to go on that website and I need your help.’
They look at each other and nod. ‘Deal,’ the taller one says. ‘I’m Fliss and this is Jenny. Welcome to Afterlife.’ Fliss holds out her hand and I tentatively shake it. It won’t be long now, I tell myself.
Nina dropped a plate. It fell from the top of the stack that she was holding and tumbled in slow motion on to the floor tiles. Shards of china exploded across the kitchen. She saw every piece skid and slide and disappear under the table, the sideboard, the fridge.
‘I’ll get that,’ Mick said, seemingly appearing from nowhere again. ‘How do you think it’s going?’ He pulled Nina against his chest and squeezed her tightly as if he wouldn’t see her again for weeks. He kissed her mouth. She didn’t respond. ‘Are you OK?’ He removed a single shard of china from her fingers.
‘I’m fine.’ Nina reanimated and bent to collect the rest of the broken plate. She cut her finger and blood seeped immediately, thick and dark, dripping on to the tiles. She sucked the wound.
‘Here,’ Mick said, producing a sticking plaster from the cupboard. ‘You’re exhausted, honey. I’ll bring coffee through in a few minutes. Josie’s already said good night.’ Mick seemed in need of a break too.
Nina let out a jagged sigh of relief that at least their daughter was out of the way. But she wished Mick wasn’t
implying she go back and talk to Burnett. He was right, though. She was so tired she could fall asleep standing up, but that didn’t mean she would trade the kitchen for sitting down in the same room as that man. She made a feeble protest that really, she would rather make the coffee.
‘I won’t be long,’ Mick said. Nina knew there was no point protesting. She had to help Mick out here. He didn’t know it, but they were both in danger. Reluctantly, Nina went back into the living room. Burnett had left the table and was staring at a group of Mick’s earlier works hanging over the fireplace.
‘They’re very different to what I would have expected,’ he commented, glancing at Nina as she hovered nervously near the door. ‘Not as . . . sensual as some of your husband’s works have been, I believe.’
Nina shrugged. ‘He has many others.’
It was a poor defence, Nina thought, but she didn’t care what Burnett thought of Mick’s art. She just wanted him to go.
‘Then I insist on seeing them.’ Burnett approached her. ‘I already told your husband that I want you to show me his paintings alone. Artists are so hopeless at promoting themselves.’ Karl turned and scanned the artwork above the fireplace again. ‘He agreed completely.’
‘Just take him to the studio,’ Mick suddenly whispered from behind. He must have heard. ‘Once he’s seen them, he’ll probably just go.’
Nina shook from the inside out.
No, please,
she begged silently.
Don’t make me.
She was grateful, at least, that Mick
seemed to have also taken a dislike to him. Her feet dug into the carpet as Mick pushed gently in the small of her back, urging her towards Burnett. The other man’s arm extended and folded easily around Nina’s shoulders. Her skin crawled.
‘Lead on,’ Burnett said. His pale hair fell over one eye, obscuring half of his delighted expression. He grinned, pushing back the wayward hair. ‘Tonight is turning into a real treat indeed.’
Mick opened the French doors that led on to the decked area outside. Warm estuary smells washed inside as Nina and Karl stepped out into the humid evening. The sun had already dropped behind the spinney of trees beyond their garden, so Mick flicked on the outside lights to illuminate the path to his studio. As soon as they came on, they went out again.
Mick groaned. ‘A fuse has blown. Or could be a faulty bulb,’ he said, turning to go to the under-stairs cupboard to check. But he stopped, reaching into his pocket. ‘You’ll need this,’ he said to Nina, holding out his studio key. A three-way glance shot between them as Karl led Nina out into the darkness.
Nina swallowed and watched as her shaking hand reached for the key. It didn’t seem like her hand. How she longed to make a grab for her husband’s fingers. Didn’t he know what he was doing by sending her out into the night with this man?
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly and, for a brief moment, she thought she saw Mick hesitate; thought she saw doubt
in his eyes as he glanced at Burnett and then back to her. But no, Mick just walked off to the fuse box in the hall.
The grass brushed a cool fringe around Nina’s ankles. Silently, she led the way to the studio, knowing exactly where all the rocks were that marked the edge of the flower borders. She and Mick had set every one of them last summer.
I could make a grab for one, she thought, and smash it on his head. It would all be over before it began. Mick would understand. I’d tell him everything. We could all go away—
‘You have a very pleasant garden,’ Burnett commented beside her. Nina didn’t know how he knew – it was quite dark with the lights off. ‘In fact, I’d go so far as to say your whole life is very pleasant.’ His voice was deeper now, thicker, and weighted with something sinister. She didn’t reply.
They reached the wooden studio and Nina felt for the padlock. She fumbled and twisted it round, but she couldn’t get the key into the lock.
‘Allow me.’ Now Burnett was talking as if he were her gentle lover, offering to unfasten a stubborn zip or tight buckle. His nimble hands were suddenly wrapped over hers, skilfully removing the key from her fingers and inserting it into the padlock. ‘There,’ he said into her ear. ‘Easy.’
When they were inside the studio, Nina felt for the light switch. She frantically flicked it on and off but nothing happened. ‘It must be on the same circuit as the garden
lights. We may as well go back up because you won’t see the paintings.’ Nina made for the door.
‘I can see everything I need to,’ Burnett replied. His voice had hardened again.
Nina stopped and faced him. The light from the kitchen window drizzled a pale streak across Burnett’s face, highlighting his sharp nose and angular jaw. She saw his pupils flick over her, no doubt seeing the same eerie outline on her as she could see on him.