Dead Bad Things (40 page)

  School Cottage was located a mile outside of town, and could only be accessed by use of a meandering unmade road that snaked through the edges of a pretty, bluebell-spattered woodland. Trees bent their heads to brush against the roof of my car and animals capered out of sight, rustling loudly through the damp colourless undergrowth. The Volvo's chunky tyres settled into deep runnels worn by the to-ing and fro-ing of other vehicles, and my progress was slow but steady. I would get there in the end; I always did.

  Soon the cottage came into view, and I saw the lone figure of a woman standing behind the low front garden gate. As I drew closer, details became clearer, but upon initial inspection she looked as grey as the sky above her; tired, washed out. Like a ghost.

  "Mr Usher!" called the woman, waving and limping as she opened the gate and came to meet me as I climbed out of the car. "Hello."

  Up close, I could see that she was very old, but her eyes shone with an incongruous youth and vitality. Something here at School Cottage agreed with her, and I feared that if whatever it was ever left she might decline in its absence.

  "Ah, Mrs Croft. So pleased to meet you."

  She led me inside, and as I followed her, I noticed the heavy bandage on her left leg. She'd told me of her fall when I'd spoken to her on the phone earlier that week; that during one of the manifestations she'd been knocked off her feet and had bruised a bone.

  Once inside the neat little house, over hot tea and buttered crumpets at the comfortable kitchen table, Mrs Croft began to tell me her tale.

  "It began in earnest just over a month ago, but I've been aware of their presence ever since moving in here thirty-odd years ago – a breeze that shouldn't be there, the sound of distant childish laughter, a sense of being watched whenever I hang out the washing or prune the roses."

  "But nothing more… substantial?"

  "No, Mr Usher. There's always been a feeling of welcome, even playfulness, here at the cottage. It's only recently that I've started to worry."

  I sipped my tea and glanced out of the window above the old porcelain kitchen sink. Opposite was the site of the old school building, long demolished by a stray bomb during the air raids of World War Two, but its essence still rooted firmly in the strong, nurturing earth.

  "Lately, there's been a different kind of energy about the place – not exactly bad, just different. Excitable. Uncontrollable. It unnerves me, Mr Usher. I'm eighty-six, and I like a peaceful atmosphere. Anything other than that tends to upset me."

  I smiled. Took a bite of warm crumpet, the melted butter rolling over my lower lip and onto my chin. "So you've become afraid – is that what you're saying, Mrs Croft?"

  She moved to the window, a stray shaft of weak sunlight catching in her hair and highlighting the grey beneath the subtle blue rinse. "No. Not afraid exactly. Simply concerned."

  "Please, tell me more. I need to know everything if I'm to help."

  "And how exactly can you help, Mr Usher? I've heard that you can commune with the dead. Is that true?"

  Commune with the dead. A nice way of putting it. A coy euphemism for what amounts to some very strange business indeed.

  "You could say that." I took another mouthful of my by-now tepid tea. "Several years ago I was involved in a serious road accident, and since that day I've had a certain affinity with the spirit world. I don't know why I was chosen; but I do what I can with the glimpses I'm afforded. I try to help."

  Mrs Croft seemed content with that, and she smiled in such a way that seemed to signal the emergence of a tacit trust between us.

  "It happens every weekday, at twilight. I hear a faint rushing sound, like the approach of many running feet, and then comes the laughter of children. It's concentrated out there, where the old playground used to be, but sometimes the activity spreads." She turned to the window, and pointed outside. The rear garden led on to a flat concrete platform that rested at ground level, a chipped, pockmarked surface that must have been the school playground, where countless young bodies had run and played, hopping and skipping and jumping, beating on the lid of the day.

  "Is that where you were when you fell?"

  "Yes, I was hanging out some sheets, and behind one of them, outlined against the dying light, I saw a small figure – a child. And then I felt fingers plucking at me, tiny hands trying to get my attention. I fell, but they – or possibly others – raised me up and set me down again on the doorstep. This is the first time I've been touched, physically molested, I suppose you might say… It was thrilling, but also terrifying. I didn't know what to do… so after the local doctor left, I rang you."

  "And how did you come by my number?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "A friend of a friend," she said, and poured me another cup of sweet tea. It's always the way. I do not advertise my services, but rarely am I idle.

  We waited until twilight, passing the hours with a game of chess. Despite her age, Mrs Croft was a worthy opponent; she'd played to a high standard in her youth. She told me of her husband's exploits during the Great War, of his sad demise from what is now termed post-traumatic stress disorder (back then, it was still called shellshock) upon his return from France. She mourned him still, all these many years later.

  She told me that she had kept all of her husband's things, and that her bedroom was like a shrine. She smiled coyly as she said this, and I appreciated that she had been alone in every sense of the word since his death.

  We played more chess, and when Mrs Croft beat me a third time, we called it a day. The sky outside began to darken, but when Mrs Croft got up to turn on the lights I asked her to wait. I had my reasons for preferring the gloom, and she was happy to grant my slightly unconventional request.

  Soon we heard it: light, carefree laughter, riding the wind like wild birds. It was a good sound, a happy sound, and we both smiled.

  I moved slowly to the kitchen window, leaving the lights off and being careful not to draw attention to my presence; I'd learned early that it was always best to remain in the background, to watch from the shadows. Dust swirled at ankle level on the uneven concrete platform, leaves and twigs scattering and the air itself corkscrewing like a series of mini tornadoes. They were coming out to play.

  As Mrs Croft stood silently by my side – holding her breath in tense expectancy – I watched the vague, finely sketched figures of children appear in the playground; behind them, the silvered outline of a building shimmered into existence – the old school hall.

  Most of the children were dressed in quaint Victorian era clothing, others in nothing but rags. These were children of different eras, from different times, but they played well together, as all good children do.

  Girls skipped and hop-scotched, threw tennis balls against an invisible wall; boys play-fought, wrestled, and kicked leather footballs between goalposts formed by the piling up of coats and sweaters. The air was filled with layers of sound; screams and laughter, and singsong childhood chants.

  A group of children broke off from the rest, and began to run around Mrs Croft's garden. One of them – a small boy obviously chosen to be "it" – chased the others, laughing and shouting as he tried to tag them one by one.

  "They're playing catch," I said.

  "What?" Mrs Croft was spellbound, even though she was unable to see what I could; she was still able to sense the fun and games beyond the window.

  "A game: Catch. It. Tiggy. Tag. One child chasing the runners; he has to catch them all before he is officially 'off', and then another takes his place."

  Tears shone in her eyes, and only then did I realise the full extent of what was happening.

  The back door suddenly rattled in its frame as something outside clattered against the sturdy timber. I heard the scratching of fingernails on wood, the short sharp sound of a foot kicking the bottom of the door. Mrs Croft tensed against me, her body unconsciously shifting so that mine was in front, protecting her.

  "This is what happened last time," said Mrs Croft, panic giving a shrill edge to her voice. "They're trying to get inside."

  "No," I said, taking her old, creased hand in mine. "You've misunderstood. They're inviting you outside to play."

  She looked at me then, staring right into my eyes, and beyond, deep inside, to the place where all our childhoods collide. And she was a girl again, ten years old and eager to run. Keen to play.

  I unbolted the door and stepped aside, allowing her to pass through; she smiled as she sidled past, and once again I felt her hand in mine – this time it was tiny, smooth and unlined.

  I watched them play until well after dusk, when the moon and the stars lit their way. Not long after they began to fade, shrinking in on themselves like dying flowers as night fell and the time to play was done. I scanned the edges of the spectral playground, checking the boundary for telltale signs: mobile shadows, coiled, bulky shapes that seemed more solid than the rest of the dark. I saw nothing. This time the darkness was natural.

  Mrs Croft was sitting once more at the kitchen table when I finally turned away from the window, her eyes closed and a smile on her slack face. Her wrinkled hands rested on the tabletop, palms flat, fingers splayed. The children had come to claim her, to lead her into the final playtime, and she had responded only with my help. It's what I try to do: I lend a hand; I aid in the crossing from one state to another, pointing out which road must be taken. There are, of course, other necessary aspects to what I do, but this is my primary task, my
modus operandi.

  I am a simple guide, and nothing more.

  When I left School Cottage that night it was with a light heart. My work was done and another good soul had been sent on its way, along the correct route and at the allotted time. Sometimes it isn't so easy. But this time Mrs Croft chased happily after the runners; and when she finally catches them she will be home. I can only hope that she doesn't pause in the chase, or run in the wrong direction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Pilgrim's progress

 

An Angry Robot paperback original 2011

1

 

Copyright © Gary McMahon 2011

 

Gary McMahon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

 

ISBN: 978-0-87566-126-5 

EBook ISBN: 978-0-87566-128-9

 

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.