Читать книгу Hiding From the Light - Barbara Erskine - Страница 19

Sunday morning

Mike had walked over to the church early. After the early fog it was a glorious day and he could smell new-mown grass from the churchyard where Bill Standing, in his job as groundsman, had been trimming round some of the old graves. A retired professional gardener, Bill liked nothing more than to mow the grass and trim the hedges, training the cascades of rambling roses which grew over the lych gate and across the wall into a glorious patchwork of pink and red. He denied, however, having had anything to do with the mowing in the rectory garden, and had, to Mike’s certain knowledge, never set foot inside the church itself. To Mike, this last information had been an amazing piece of news. He didn’t understand it at all, especially as the old man seemed so fond of the place. Mike stopped at the gate and raised his hand in greeting. One day he would love to talk at length to the old boy, who, he suspected, was a fount of local knowledge and wisdom, and ask him why he wouldn’t go into the church, but so far his attempts to engage Bill in conversation had met with little success.

Bill had been staring down towards the estuary, a worried frown on his face. Mike followed his gaze. There was nothing to see but the bright strip of water and a few wheeling gulls. As Mike watched he shook his head thoughtfully and turned away. The expression on his face was grim. Mike paused and called his name. Bill glanced up, nodded, and turning the mower trundled it off in the opposite direction. Mike shrugged and paused to glance round the churchyard instead. The weathered headstones were mostly illegible now. The salt-laden east winds off the estuary had long ago beaten the inscriptions into indecipherable lichen-crusted anonymity, but there was a quiet warmth in the shelter of an August morning which made it seem a good place to lie in peace.

He opened the gate and walked up the path. The church was already unlocked, one of the churchwardens there before him, making ready for the service. Donald James, who had retired three years before from his position as manager of one of the oldest banks in Colchester, was carrying prayer books through from the vestry and laying them out on the shelf by the door. ‘Morning, Rector.’ Donald smiled at him. ‘Shall we leave the door open and let the sunshine in?’

Mike obligingly pushed the door back as far as it would go. The limed oak with its medieval ironwork groaned slightly as the sunlight hit the grey stone floor.

‘That’ll be enough books, Donald. I doubt if we’ll get very many.’ Mike shrugged. ‘Pity. But it is the holidays. Several of our regulars are away.’ He walked on up the aisle towards the vestry. The small room smelled of books and the old musty hassocks someone had stacked in a corner, rather than throw them away. Mike hesitated in the doorway, then he turned back and walked on towards the chancel. Kneeling on the top step before the altar he gazed up at the cross, composing himself, drawing his thoughts together and, finally, beginning to pray.

Behind him Donald moved quietly between the pews to pick up some fallen rose petals from the carpet beneath the pulpit. He glanced round as a shadow darkened the doorway for a moment and recognising the figure raised a hand in greeting. Judith Sadler was Mike’s lay reader. A tall, dark-haired woman in her early forties, she was wearing a severely cut navy trouser suit and a pale-blue shirt with what looked suspiciously like a dog collar. Donald frowned as she headed up the aisle. It would probably not occur to her to leave the rector alone until he had finished praying. Sure enough, she was already speaking when she was several yards from him.

‘Good morning, Mike. What a glorious day!’ Her voice cut Mike’s prayers off in mid-flow. He opened his eyes and sent up a quick last petition. For patience. His predecessor seemed to have thought a great deal of Judith and had recommended her as lay reader very highly. He had not disclosed until later that he had not endorsed Judith’s powerful ambition to become a priest herself and that his lack of recommendation had contributed to the Director of Ordinands turning her down for selection, something which Judith was not going to forget or forgive.

Mike rose to his feet and turned with a smile. ‘Good morning, Judith.’ Ushering her ahead of him towards the vestry so that they could robe in good time he saw out of the corner of his eye that a stranger had entered the church. That was a good sign. He was closely followed by two or three other figures momentarily silhouetted against the bright sunlight. Perhaps he had underestimated the size of the congregation after all.

Several times during the service Mike found himself looking at the unknown man who had seated himself three-quarters of the way down the aisle on the left. He was alone. A youngish man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, he had short cropped hair and a long, lugubrious face. Although he listened intently to Mike’s sermon and stood or sat in the right places Mike noticed he took no active part in the service. He did not pray out loud, he did not appear to be singing the hymns and he did not come up to take communion.

Perhaps he was a tourist, curious about the church? He did not have the appearance of an unhappy or troubled soul, but one couldn’t always tell. It was not entirely surprising when at the end of the service he saw the man hanging back, obviously hoping for a private word. After Mike had shaken hands with his last parishioners and seen them stroll out into the sunlight, he turned towards the man and they walked slowly together along the side aisle, out of earshot of Donald and Judith.

‘Mark Edmunds.’ The stranger held out his hand. ‘I’ve been staying up here for a few days. You may have noticed us. We’ve been filming in one of the shops at the end of the road here.’

Mike shrugged. ‘Sorry, I must have missed you. What are you filming?’

‘A documentary. About ghosts.’

‘Ah.’ Mike scanned the other man’s face. ‘And you want a quote from the church?’

‘I wouldn’t turn one down if it was offered.’ Mark gave a fleeting smile. ‘But that’s not actually why I’m here.’ They had drifted to a standstill beside a memorial to men of the parish who had died in the First World War. ‘Presumably you believe in ghosts? That is part of your job, isn’t it?’ Mark slid his hands into his pockets.

Mike nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. ‘I do believe in them. But I have to admit I have never seen one. And I have never been consulted professionally about one. Do you have a problem?’

Mark shrugged. ‘It’s daft. We’re making a film, as I said, about the old Barker shop. I think the old boy who is trying to sell it is massaging the truth quite a bit, to be honest. But there are masses of stories about things that have happened there. We’ve filmed some interviews, misty evening scenes, shadows, atmosphere, several hours last night, you know the sort of thing.’ He paused, staring up at the neatly cut lettering on the wall plaque, name after name of young men slaughtered for their country.

‘And?’ Mike put in quietly. ‘Something has happened you didn’t foresee?’

Mark gave a wry grin. ‘Exactly.’

He had left the others in the pub shortly after nine, the night before, pleading a headache, and walked slowly back up the hill towards the bed and breakfast, relieved to be away from the noise and smoke of the public bar where they had found a small round table on which to balance their plates of steak and chips. The two late afternoon interviews had gone well. One had been with a woman who had been employed as a cleaner in the shop some twenty years ago. Her story had been recalled in a voice of calm certainty which had reassured and convinced them all. And her facts had more or less backed up Stan’s more lurid tale. She had heard the footsteps on several occasions. She had thought she had seen a figure lurking on the staircase and she had felt uncomfortable going into the shop early in the mornings, especially in the winter when she had had to unlock the door and turn on all the lights, conscious that she was the only person there. The flat had not been used, it appeared, since the flight of the cake-making lady in the fifties. In the end the cleaning lady had given in her notice and had not been back since. They had interviewed her against the backdrop of the river. The second interviewee had not minded doing his bit in the shop itself, but like Stan he declined to go upstairs. He had gone in as an electrician about five years before and had been forced to work most of the day in the upper room, putting in some new wiring. At one point he had turned round and found himself face to face with the man with the goatee beard. The apparition had only lasted seconds but it had been enough. Another electrician had had to be found to complete the job. The language with which he had described his feelings had been fruity to say the least. It had reduced Alice to helpless delighted giggles and made Joe wince. They would have to bleep much of the interview. And now they had left two cameras rolling on long play in the upstairs room.

Mark had strolled on up the hill, feeling better in the fresh air; appreciating the cool soft breeze scented with salt and tar and mud which was blowing up off the river. He let himself into the house, a huge rambling Edwardian pile with masses of rooms for guests and, as they had discovered, the most wonderful full English breakfasts, and climbed the stairs to his room. A shower, an early night and hopefully tomorrow they would find something interesting on the silently rolling film.

He fell asleep almost at once, one arm crooked under the pillow, the other across his face and within minutes he was dreaming. He was running along a narrow road in the dark, the mud squelching under his feet, and he could hear the sound of a horse galloping behind him. He ran faster, gasping for breath, sweat pouring off him. The hedges on either side of the lane were high and he couldn’t see where he was going. He blundered into a puddle and then another, desperately trying to keep his feet, aware that the horse was gaining on him fast. Dear God, it was going to catch him. He was searching frantically for a break in the hedge where he could get off the road and hide but the hedges were thorn – the branches were reaching towards him, tearing his clothes, interlaced into an impenetrable wall. He heard a shout behind him. Then another. The crowd were following the horse. He could hear them whistling, baying for his blood, his and that of the woman he was trying to save. He tried to force himself to run faster, but his strength was failing fast. Somehow he had to hide her. Somewhere. There must be somewhere. He could see her beside him now. She was running with him, her hair slipping out of her hood, her long skirts tangling between her legs. She had lost a shoe and she was crying. Then he heard her scream. And it was the same scream he had heard in the shop. In his nightmare suddenly he was there, standing in the middle of the upstairs room, and he was listening to a woman’s terrified, agonised scream …

Mark had awoken drenched in sweat and panting, and switching on the lamp reached for the wristwatch he had left on the bedside table. It was still barely ten o’clock.

It was a long time before he fell asleep again. This morning when he woke he had found that his first thought had been to find the local clergyman.

Mark took a deep breath and turned back to Mike.

‘You know practically every old house round here claims to be haunted either by a witch or by the Witchfinder General?’

Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘A slight exaggeration. But I know there are a few such claims. A piece of history like that leaves its mark on a community.’

‘And it’s good for the tourist trade.’

‘Indeed.’ Mike glanced at him sideways. ‘May I ask what it is that has happened to make you seek me out?’

‘Nightmares.’ Mark shrugged.

‘And you think this would be the domain of the church rather than the doctor?’

Mark ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’m not neurotic. I normally sleep like the dead.’ He paused and exhaled sharply, eyes closed. ‘Not a happy choice of phrase, perhaps. I sleep well. I’m in good health. The only dead which normally give me nightmares are deadlines.’ He gave a humourless chuckle. ‘It has only happened since we came here. Last night –’ he shook his head – ‘and the night before, I was running, hiding, trying to hide someone, then, in the dream,’ he paused, finding it hard to speak, ‘I was upstairs. In the shop. And I heard a scream. I can’t get the sound of those screams out of my head.’

Mike felt a small cold shiver tiptoe down his spine. ‘Does this fit in with the history of the shop?’ he asked gently.

‘Maybe. We’ve been told Hopkins walked some of the witches there.’

‘Walked them?’

‘Up and down, all night. He practised sleep deprivation. A very effective form of torture. Proper torture was illegal in England, you understand, except where treason was suspected. This was his speciality. No mess. No equipment needed.’ He shivered. ‘But they wouldn’t have screamed. Would they? Not just for walking?’

Mike did not reply immediately. Staring at the ground he absorbed unseeing the gentle colours of the small, stained-glass window thrown onto the grey stone at their feet. ‘Would you like to come back to the rectory to discuss this? It’s a serious matter and I would really like to take some time to think. And to pray.’ He looked up and grinned almost apologetically.

Mark shook his head. ‘I can’t now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re filming an interview at one o’clock. I’d better get on. Perhaps some other time?’

Mike nodded. ‘Whenever you like. You know where to find me.’ He paused. ‘Mr Edmunds, before you go, you said you filmed through the night. Was there anything on the film?’

Mark smiled wryly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a thing!’

Mike watched as he made his way to the door and disappeared out into the sunshine.

‘So, what was that about?’ He hadn’t noticed Judith approach. Still wearing her blue scarf and surplice, she was standing only a few feet away, half hidden by one of the pillars.

Mike frowned, suppressing a sudden flash of irritation at the interruption, yet again, of his thoughts. ‘Just a short chat. Nothing to worry about.’

He glanced down the church towards the door. ‘Donald gone?’

Judith nodded. ‘He had to get back. Family duties. Mike, if you’re not doing anything would you like to come back to lunch with me? Just pot luck. Salad. Glass of something?’ She smiled uncertainly, obviously expecting him to decline, and he felt a sudden wave of pity. He knew Judith was lonely. ‘That would be nice. Thanks. I’d love to.’

She lived in a three-bedroomed bungalow in a road of identical houses set in small rectangular plots on the top of the hill behind the town. As Mike climbed out of her car, he looked round at her garden. He had been here many times and knew her life-story intimately. She had lived in this house all her life. Her mother had died when she was at teacher training college and Judith had stayed on to look after her father. His joy had been his garden. From what Mike had heard from others who had known the old man when he was still strong enough to go out and garden, it had been a riot of colour and exuberance in sharp contrast to the grim fifties decor which still adorned the bungalow on the inside. There was little sign of that garden now. Mike could never quite decide whether after the old man’s death in 1996 Judith had deliberately rooted out every sign of beauty and grace, or whether it was merely that she was uninterested in gardening and had not noticed the dying roses and the blighted leaves. As each plant died it was cut down and burned and the gap in the soil was rapidly covered by a thatch of chickweed and goose grass.

Mike followed her inside, resigning himself to the statutory small glass of sweet sherry which, he suspected, she bought just for him. She did not drink herself, but would sit and watch him sip from the thimble-shaped glass with an intensity which always made him very uncomfortable.

The table was laid for two. He found himself picturing her returning to the empty house, had he turned down her invitation, and sadly removing one place setting, and he knew that was why he had said yes, as he had said yes every month or so since he had arrived in the parish.

‘Judith, you’ve lived in this place all your life.’ He followed her through to the kitchen, a habit which irritated her intensely. She would have preferred him to stay neatly in the lounge until she had the meal on the table in the small dining room. ‘Have you come across much interest in the history of the witchfinder?’ He leaned on the counter. A couple of bottles of pills stood there, side by side, and he frowned. He hoped she wasn’t ill. Tactfully he transferred his gaze to the window and stared out at the back lawn. There were no flowerbeds at all now between the grass and the wooden panel fence. The only remotely decorative item left was a single white plastic-covered washing line.

Judith had turned on the electric element under the pan of potatoes which had been waiting ready-peeled on the stove. ‘Matthew Hopkins?’ She opened the fridge and brought out some packets of cold meat. ‘I think most people know who he was.’ Reaching into the drawer for a pair of scissors she sliced the top off each packet in turn and arranged the slices of ham, salami and chicken on a serving dish. ‘Why?’ She glanced at him sharply.

‘I heard he is reputed to haunt various places in the town.’

‘Pubs.’ She turned back to the fridge for tomatoes and a lettuce in a polythene bag. ‘He haunts the pubs.’

Mike grinned. ‘That seems strange, given that he was a puritan.’

‘Quite.’ She threw the lettuce into a bowl in the sink and ran cold water onto it.

‘Do you ever teach about him in school?’ He took another sip from his sherry and tried to stop himself from wincing as the sticky sweetness hit his tongue.

‘I do, actually. I organise a project with Year Fives. I send them off round the place with paper and a pencil and get them to look for a few clues. Then I give them a lesson in more detail. Tell them about the evils of witchcraft. You know the sort of thing. Were you thinking of covering it when you come up to the school?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Mike shook his head. ‘No, to tell you the truth I was a bit disturbed by something I heard today.’

‘That man who spoke to you in church?’ Judith turned off the tap and stared at him. ‘I knew it. I could see you were worried. He didn’t look like the usual type who gets into that sort of thing, not New Agey or grungey particularly.’

Mike frowned. ‘No, indeed.’

‘What did he say?’

‘You know I can’t tell you that, Judith.’ He smiled to soften the words. ‘But it made me think. Wonder. If there are any genuine –’ he hesitated, trying to think of a word to describe what he had been told – ‘residues of the past.’

‘Ghosts?’ Judith looked astonished. ‘You don’t believe in ghosts?’

He frowned. ‘Of course I do, Judith.’ He paused. ‘And so, as a member of the church, should you. You may not be trained to deal with such matters, but you cannot deny their existence.’

He saw a quick flare of colour in her cheeks and bit his lip. He had not meant his words to sound so like a rebuke. ‘I agree many so-called ghosts are imagination or whatever, but we cannot deny that such unhappy beings exist.’ He put down his glass. ‘Would you like me to take this through?’ Reaching for the plate of meat he gave her a moment to compose herself.

‘I do believe in it,’ she said softly. ‘And in witchcraft. I just didn’t know if you did.’

He swung round. ‘I couldn’t be a priest of the church unless I believed in such things, Judith.’

‘Right.’ She tore the lettuce in half. ‘Well, that’s why I teach them about the Witchfinder General. His methods might have been cruel, but the women he persecuted deserved it. They were evil. I teach all about it to deter the little thugs who are toying with the idea of becoming witches today.’

Mike was standing by the door, plate in hand. He studied her face thoughtfully, trying to hide the shock he had felt at her words. ‘Are you saying that there are still witches round here?’

She nodded. ‘You’d be surprised how many people there are round here who actually claim to be the descendants of witches. They are proud of it! Oh yes, Mike. There are witches. And ghosts. And ghosts of witches.’ She threw the wilting leaves into a wire basket and shook it violently, spattering water around the room. ‘I am only amazed it’s taken this long for them to start crawling out of the slime and heading your way.’