A Cry From Beyond (27 page)

“Why on
earth didn’t you tell me about High Bank?” I asked once the
niceties were out of the way.

At first
she was reluctant to explain. Eventually however, my insistence
paid off and she started to open up.

“I wished
only to protect you,” she said kindly.

“What the
hell from, mother. What the hell happened that was so
terrible?”

She
didn’t answer.

“Okay,
let me put an easier question to you. Why did we leave
Ashley?”

“Because
your father got another job,” she explained simply. “He was always
changing jobs. It was, I suppose, the nature of being a salesman at
that time. Besides, he never seemed able to settle down. A bad case
of itchy feet, I’m afraid.”

“What
made us decide to holiday at High Bank?”

“It was
your father’s idea. He liked the area, always had. In fact, when
the cottage came up for sale following the owner’s suicide, he
wanted to buy it but we failed to raise the money. He was bitterly
disappointed.”

“Why
don’t I remember the holiday?” I asked.

Mom
hesitated to speak.

“Christ
mom, it’s important. I need to know.”

“It
proved to be rather a traumatic experience for you,” she said
finally. “You see, while you were there, you created an imaginary
friend. On one occasion you claimed that she’d taken you to the old
chapel, where she’d shown you a secret entrance that led into an
underground tunnel.” Mom fell silent. I had to encourage her to
continue.

“This is
very difficult,” she said faltering.

“I don’t
care. It’s vital you tell me,” I urged.

“Your
father was furious when he found out you’d been playing in such a
place. He was naturally concerned you might have suffered an
accident. He forbade you from going there ever again,” She paused
at length before adding, “But you disobeyed him.”

“What
happened?”

“You went
missing, or rather you failed to return home one day. Your father
and I searched high and low before we eventually found you.” There
followed another lengthy pause. And then: “We discovered you
cowering inside the building’s main hall. Plainly, something had
terrified you. You had also sustained physical injuries. The
examining doctor seemed to think you’d been attacked by a wild
animal. We wondered if birds were the cause. You see, the chapel
was full of them at the time you were discovered. Whatever happened
in there traumatized you greatly. You had counselling in the form
of psychotherapy, but you had no memory of the incident, or indeed
your time at High Bank. Your father and I, under the guidance of
the psychotherapist who treated you, let it lie, making a decision
to tell you only if you should begin to remember. It seems the time
has finally come.”

“You mean
to say I never spoke of the incident?”

“No. When
we found you in the chapel that day you made one single remark. You
said Kayla wanted you to see something. Kayla was the name of your
invisible friend.”

At that
point I drew up a chair feeling the sudden need to sit
down.

“Are you
still there John?”

“Yes, I’m
still here.” I quickly gathered my thoughts. “You never told me why
dad left us?”

A long
awkward silence followed. “That’s because I really don’t know,” she
said finally. “He’d always had cause to stay away overnight due to
the nature of the work he did. I think you’re aware that at the
time of his disappearance he was really quite poorly. The doctors
held out little hope, but he refused to slow up. He was supposed to
be away on business until the Friday of that week. Friday came
round but he didn’t. He was reported missing of course. But as you
know he has never been traced.”

“Was
there ever any hint that he might make himself, well,
vanish?”

“None: as
far as I was aware our relationship was strong. Money was tight and
we struggled to make ends meet, but what young family doesn’t? What
do you think you will do John, now that you know?”

“I intend
to stay here at the cottage; see this thing through to the bitter
end,” I said without hesitation.

“Is that
wise? Bearing in mind what you went through before and what is
happening presently.”

“I have
little choice,” I said.

I ended
the conversation by saying I would be in touch to arrange a visit.
Then I thought things over, at the same time hoping a miracle might
occur allowing me to gain some insight, no matter how small, into
what it was that motivated the restless dead.

2.

That
evening I experienced a dire need to get out of the cottage.
Leaving Lennon locked safely in the kitchen with food and water and
the radio playing on low volume for company, I caught a taxi out to
Ashley with the intention of visiting The Ship.

The taxi
dropped me by the war memorial. It was bitterly cold. A thin layer
of fresh snow covered the ground. I stepped from the car and
shivered despite the thick overcoat I wore. I paid the driver and,
imagining the looks I’d undoubtedly receive from the pub clientele,
given the adverse publicity I was attracting to the area, I went in
search of moral support in the form of David and Jenny.

The
sodium lit streets were deserted. The cold air at least cleared my
head. Turning into a narrow side street lined with terraced houses,
carbon copies of the one David and Jenny resided in, I paused to
get my bearings. Their street, I realised, ran parallel to this
one.

I entered
a dark back alley, hoping it would provide a short cut and spotted
two lone figures approaching from the other end, faceless
silhouettes holding hands. The distance shortened between us until
I could make out their faces. It was David and Jenny.

“I was
just on my way round to your place,” I told them. David greeted me
with a broad smile while Jenny pecked me warmly on the cheek. I
relaxed a little, feeling I was amongst friends. We walked back the
way I’d come, emerging beneath a tall street lamp that cast an oily
shadow at its base. More snow threatened. A few solitary flakes
spilled from the heavens. One landed on Jenny’s nose. She brushed
it away with a gloved hand and sneezed.

“Fancy a
drink,” I asked hopefully.

They
looked at each other. David said he’d be delighted, but Jenny took
a rain check: jobs to do back at home.

“Homework,” she said, “the joys of being a school teacher.”
She wished me goodnight, kissed David and hurried down the street,
head down and arms folded against the chill air.

The pub
was crowded and although I received the odd unwelcome stare, it
didn’t really bother me to the extent I thought it would. As a
performer, I guess I’m used to unwelcome attention. While David was
at the bar getting served, I managed to secure a corner table.
Sitting down I suddenly found myself contemplating the idea of
gaining entry to Manor Farm to see if the photograph Gentleshaw had
mentioned, containing the images of Melinda, Kayla and Martin
Willis, still occupied a place on the living room wall. Did I
really want to see that photograph? Damn right I did. A little
Dutch courage was called for first however.

The fire
blazed fiercely in the grate, making the room uncomfortably warm.
David returned with the drinks, two pints of locally brewed bitter,
and sat down. As we drank, we discussed the disappearances, going
over old ground, trying to come up with an explanation for what had
happened, but it was useless. The conversation dwindled. I glanced
around the bar. A game of darts was in progress. The old Doors
classic, “Come on Baby Light my Fire”, blared out from high level
speakers. I considered telling David about the conversation I’d had
with my mother, but for some reason decided against it. I guess I
still hadn’t come to terms with the revelation myself.

I spotted
the ex pugilist, Bill Willis, enter the pub. He took up his
customary position at the bar and ordered a drink. He glanced over
in my direction, but showed no sign of recognition. Just as well, I
thought and tried my best to ignore him.

David and
I chatted over drinks for another hour before finally he announced
he must return home. Following his departure, I indulged in one
last beer before venturing out into the cold night air myself,
where I waited for my pre-booked taxi. When it failed to arrive I
decided to walk. The evening was crisp and clear. I calculated High
Bank was slightly less than a mile from Ashley. Walking on such a
crisp clear night would, I thought, make for a pleasant experience.
It would also give me a chance to think things through
coherently.

The road
leading from Ashley to High Bank was a straight level one. For some
reason it occurred to me that Ashley church, which fronted the
road, was perfectly aligned to High Bank. I recalled Jenny
describing how the area of Ashley was built along ley lines and
started to see things from a slightly different perspective. I
tried to picture the geographical position of Manor Farm, the
chapel, the folly and the crofter’s cottage in relation to High
Bank, and realized that High Bank was central to all of these
buildings, which was curious, given the buildings were designed and
built by one man. Recalling Ebenezer Grimshaw’s interest in
astrology and the occult, I seriously wondered if there was more to
it than pure coincidence.

Stuffing
my hands into the pockets of my coat, I started walking. As I drew
level with Ashley church I paused and gazed across the road at the
dark bleak looking graveyard, recalling Gentleshaw’s comment that
the late Martin Willis was interred there. Suddenly curious to see
the grave of the prime suspect in the case of the original “missing
three”, I altered course and headed over.

The
street lamp nearest the church gate was vandalized, so I allowed
myself to be guided by moonlight. The graveyard was small and well
ordered. I began my search in methodical fashion starting from the
front row of headstones, before gradually working my way towards
the back wall. I reached the midway point and paused
momentarily.

It was
then that I was attacked: grabbed forcibly by the hair, and punched
repeatedly in the face. I fell back cracking my head against what I
suspect was a gravestone and experienced blinding pain.

I
remember staring up at the sky, bleary eyed, on the verge of losing
consciousness and seeing a figure bear down on me. And then a
voice, sharp and accusatory cut through the night air.

“It was
all forgotten until you arrived,” it sneered. “You were warned, but
you didn’t listen, so now you’ll learn the hard way. For the last
time, leave the past where it belongs, in the past!”

Just when
I thought the worst was over, the figure crouched over me and let
fly with another punch to the face. That was the last thing I
remember before coming round to find myself lying spread eagled on
top of an old grave. I gazed skywards until my head cleared
sufficiently for me to regain my feet. Tentatively, I pressed
fingertips against my face, which felt as if it’d been stamped on.
The back of my skull was sore and tender from the fall I’d taken. I
could taste blood. My lips and nose were sore and felt swollen. My
assailant had done a pretty good job on me.

As full
awareness finally returned, I made my way slowly over to a
graveyard bench, where I sat and rested until I was reasonably
confident I could make it home on foot without blacking out.
Minutes later, I rose achingly to my feet and began
walking.

Before
returning to the cottage I kept the promise I made to myself and
gained entry to Manor Farm. It wasn’t difficult. One of the low
level rear windows was no longer boarded. It was just a matter of
climbing through, whilst avoiding the jagged pieces of glass
jutting from the window frame. The living room where Gentleshaw
said the portrait of Melinda and her family used to hang was
directly off the main hall. It was the room in which Melinda had
argued with her father in my dream, (dream or spectral vision, I
now wondered).

I entered
that dark forgotten room full of trepidation. With no torch at
hand, I was forced to call upon my cigarette lighter to provide the
necessary light to see by. Roughly a dozen pictures of varying
sizes adorned the walls. I carefully removed them to the back of
the house and settled down by the window through which I’d entered.
Here the lighter’s flame was aided by a faint spill of moonlight,
allowing me to examine them for their content in some detail. After
five disappointments, (one of which happened to be an engraved
image of the infamous Lord Ebenezer Grimshaw, an ugly squat man
with dark close set eyes), the sixth picture revealed the
jackpot.

I
scrutinised it for a long time, barely able to believe my own eyes.
It was sepia, in poor condition and, according to the inscription
on the accompanying plaque, showed the village high street as it
was in the late seventies: the focal point being the green and the
war memorial. A Ford Cortina was parked outside the butchers.
Incredibly, David’s hardware store was in frame, in the right hand
corner. The name above the door was just legible, reading simply,
Frank Thomas. David was yet to add the Son, to the business name. A
few local residents milled about and a black dog sat outside a
shop. Across from the dog an elderly woman walked with the aid of a
cane, while in the background two men stood on a corner, like
mannequins, chatting.