Denied to all but Ghosts (26 page)

Beltane was not prepared to let these two sad
and lonely people go their own way, certainly not this weekend. For
little by little, Beckett’s reserve eroded as he started to relax.
Even Emily somehow absently disregarded the true purpose of the
evening. She found herself entirely invigorated in the company of
Tom Beckett, he was not of her world, he lacked the deceptive
subtlety of academia, and try as she might, she could not detect an
ulterior motive in his actions or conversations. Admittedly, he
flirted, albeit in an amusingly diffident way. Moreover, would she
not have been insulted had he not done so? And there she was again,
increasingly thinking of him as a date not a victim.

“Are you married, Tom, do you have a family?”
she asked.

“Yep and yes,” replied Beckett, “I take it
you’re not?”

“No, I’m not the marrying type.”

“I don’t blame you for that,” said Beckett
sadly.

“Aren’t you happy?”

Beckett considered trying to give a smart
answer but none came, “no, not particularly.”

“But you seem content, you don’t have an edge
about you, not like your friend,” she said referring to
Cavendish.

“Marsh? I don’t think he’s unhappy, he’s just
focused. He has a purpose in life,” replied Beckett as he studied
his wine glass whilst rotating it by the stem with his fingers.

“And you don’t?” asked Emily earnestly.
Beckett put his glass down on the table, looked her straight in the
eye, and answered without resentment, “no.”

“But you have a wife and family, don’t they
give you a purpose?” asked Emily with an inquisitive tenderness
that did not go unnoticed by Beckett.

“Sue was sixteen and I was twenty when we got
married. My parents said we were too young, but hey, what do
parents know,” he smiled ruefully and Emily responded likewise. “I
was a big disappointment to Sue, I talked the talk but didn’t, oh
you know the rest. The kids gel you together and you learn to live
your lives together but apart, if you get my drift. We have our
moments, but they are few and far between. And that in a nutshell,
is my life, dear Doctor.”

Beckett knew he had divulged something
intimate to Emily and was perturbed by the insight; the only other
person he spoke frankly with was Cavendish. How ironic that the
only two people he felt any connection with were on opposite sides
of the fence. Maybe Emily’s interest was disingenuous; in truth he
did not care. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman who made for a
compelling date, who genially laughed at his jokes and even offered
a few of her own.

With only main courses ordered, the meal was
over in less than an hour. The red haired waitress returned to
clear away; she smiled sweetly at Beckett whilst blanking
Emily.

“Are you going to watch the fireworks, then?”
asked Michelle, “they really are worth seeing; we’re being allowed
out to see them!” Beckett looked encouragingly towards Emily, who
vaguely shrugged her shoulders, she suddenly felt utterly
bewildered and irresolute.

“Fancy it?” Beckett asked.

“I’m not sure, Tom...” Emily spoke
hesitantly, unsure now where the evening was taking her.

“Oh, come on,” he said brightly as he winked
teasingly at the dallying Michelle, who giggled girlishly in
response. Beckett’s flirting with the young waitress shocked Emily,
inducing a stab of jealousy. So alien an emotion was it for the
normally judicious academic that his playful interaction with the
young waitress made her mind up for her. “Why the hell not!” she
laughed impulsively.

Michelle scowled with disappointment at
Emily’s impromptu decision and left hastily with their plates.
Beckett leant close to Emily, catching the intoxicating fragrance
of her expensive perfume, unaware that it had lost its capacity to
intimidate.

“I don’t think she likes you very much,”
whispered Beckett conspiratorially. She laughed carelessly back and
gazed into his contented blue eyes. Above them rotated the
mysterious green floral decoration, wafting in the undulating
currents of the charged atmosphere within the restaurant. At that
precise moment, Emily Spelman hated herself and understood with an
ephemeral ambiguous lucidity that there was not a chance in hell
that she was going to carry out Slingsby’s despicable plan. If he
was accordingly upset, well that was tough, as far as she was
concerned, Paul Slingsby was now mercifully history and so too was
stealing the sword. Night had fallen by the time they left the
hotel restaurant. The light persistent rain remained, giving the
cobbles of the square a shimmering quality beneath the electric
stall lights and the flaming torches that projected dungeon-like
from the sides of selected buildings. A discordant crowd headed
towards the main square and Emily took Beckett's arm as the clamour
of people became denser as they neared their goal.

The square was already thronging with
spectators. A folk band, playing infectiously lively music,
entertained the raucous gathering. Dads hefted their youngsters
onto their shoulders to enhance their view of the firework demon,
and a few older girls decided that they too should similarly sit
astride their boyfriends’ shoulders. Beckett had often witnessed
such spectacles at the Glastonbury Festival and drew Emily’s
attention as he pointed at one such girl. He visually weighed the
girl and cynically calculated how long her boyfriend could support
her before his shoulders collapsed under the unreasonable weight.
Emily interpreted his conclusion and giggled as he mimed the
boyfriend’s sad demise.

Emily snuggled closer as more people
continued to press from behind. He looked down and scrutinized her
alluring face as she appraised her surroundings and became aware
that he had wrapped his arm around her slender shoulders,
encouraging her to draw ever more tightly into his body. Her warmth
seeped agreeably through him and he told himself that the
contentment evoked was simply comforting on this dank evening and
nothing more.

The music stopped and a man, who Beckett
guessed to be a Morris dancer, leapt dramatically onto the stage
and grabbed the microphone.

“Hello Spireites!” bellowed the man, using
the nickname of the local inhabitants. A lacklustre reply issued
from the crowd. Morris the dancer cupped a hand to his ear and
repeated, “Hello, Spireites!” This time the crowd got its act
together and shouted back more or less in unison.

“Are you having a good time?” he hollered.
Most of the crowd replied in the affirmative, a few contrary,
drunken folk decided to disagree.

“Well, we’ve come to the highlight of the
weekend’s festival, and you all know what that means!” A cheer
resonated around the confined space of the square. “Just a
reminder, that the Beltane Bar and Barbecue Bonfire Ball is down in
Queens Park later for anyone who doesn’t have to get up in the
morning! Okay, let’s get the climax of the show under way!”

A cheer went up from the crowd, followed by a
settled murmuring and a gentle babble of anticipation. “Light the
beacons!” ordered Morris. A group of men emerged from the crowd and
entered the cordoned off area carrying flaming torches where they
commenced to light the braziers that surrounded the central
effigy.

The wood in each brazier, clearly impregnated
with a flammable substance, sprang into instant dazzling life,
despite the constant drizzle. A buzz of approval emanated from the
crowd. The entire square became flooded in yellow and orange light,
giving the impression that the surrounding buildings had become
engulfed in flames.

The effigy of Satan erupted in a lurid glare
of red light created by the attached fireworks. From the top of the
effigy, mortars shot exploding shells high into the sky, creating a
lurid pallet of colours beneath the cloudy sky. The low cloud
reflected back the light so that they too seemed to be alive with
flame and hue. Emily held on tightly to Beckett as each mortar
projectile concluded its upward rush in a shattering explosion,
which bounced and surged around the adjacent buildings in a
perpetual echo.

Each subsequent eruption was greeted by a
howl of approval from the multitude. Fountains of sparks fell from
the effigy and spinning Catherine Wheels dazzled the audience.
Rockets blasted high into the endless gloom above their heads,
whilst laser lights punched their way into the sky and searchlights
danced and bounced off the low clouds.

Beckett had to concede that he had never seen
anything quite like it. The display finally ended with a terrifying
mortar discharge, the resultant detonation exorcising the last of
the remaining pigeons roosting on nearby buildings.

The crowd gave one last ecstatic cheer and
spontaneously applauded. Even Beckett, who hated clapping at
Christmas pantomimes, joined in the round of applause.

“Tom, that was amazing!” shouted Emily above
the din of the crowd. Beckett simply grinned and shook his head in
disbelief. Folk immediately began to disperse from the square.
Looking at his watch, Beckett noted it was gone nine thirty.

Emily asked, “you fancy going to the Beltane
Bar and Barbecue Bonfire Ball?” Beckett smiled his affirmation; he
was enjoying the evening and did not want it to end.

“Sure thing,” he replied, “I guess it’s a
case of follow my leader. We’ll either end up at the bonfire or in
some car park. Madame, let me escort you to the BBBBB. Did I say
‘b’ enough times, Doctor? I’d hate to show myself up in front of an
educated lady.” Emily punched his arm playfully before re-taking it
as they followed the largest stream of adults walking in a general
direction back towards the Holmcourt Hotel.

Mingling with the flowing exodus, they
proceeded through a forum created by an office complex and over a
worn concrete footbridge that led down into Queens Park. The
congress meandered left past the boating lake, where the ducks
protested vociferously at having their evening disrupted, and
headed towards a Victorian bandstand.

They could hardly miss the bonfire, already
well alight, as it launched glowing embers cavorting into the
darkness. A collection of canvass marquees stood on the grass at a
circumspect distance from the flames and a funfair at the edge of
the park with the habitual crowd pleasers drew in the teenagers,
lured like moths by the harsh neon lights and seductive music.

An assortment of food stalls stood dotted
around the park offering succour to the night goers, burgers,
hotdogs, hog roast, jacket potatoes to name but a few. Chesterfield
certainly knew how to snack on a grand scale.

Beckett and Emily contentedly strolled
through the nocturnal park, the damp air alive with stimuli for all
the senses. It was alive with the miasma of take-away fancies.
Alive with the sound of riotous folk music as couples danced in the
music marquee. Alive with the radiance of the bonfire as it cast
unnatural shadows against the canvas backdrops. Alive with the
moisture of the soft rain that furnished the night air with a
visceral piquancy. Beckett felt very much alive. The festival cast
a spell, and if this was enchantment, then he was bewitched.

Without conscious forethought, Emily and
Beckett found themselves in the garish wonderland of the funfair
where Emily insisted that he threw at the coconut shy. He tied to
protest but she was insistent.

“I can’t throw, Em, believe me it will be
embarrassing, for me and for you.”

“Don’t put yourself down; you’re not with
Cavendish now,” she shouted against the noise of the invasive
background music. He was reminded how much less intense the world
seemed to be when Cavendish was absent.

Beckett paid the money and took the three
proffered balls. His first throw went high above the middle
coconut. He groaned aloud with embarrassment.

“Come on, Tom, you can do better than that.
Two more to go!” cried Emily passionately. His second ball landed
on the ground well short of any coconut.

“Come, on Tom, you can do it!” she
encouraged. He looked back at her and drank in the picture of
Emily. Why was he acting so out of character? He recognised the
unique emotional delight but quashed his admission of the fatal
incurable longing, as if conscious effort alone was enough to quell
the subconscious allure.

Beckett simply slung the last ball
dismissively. It struck the coconut furthest to the right and
knocked it clean to the ground. He watched with fascination as the
coconut rolled along the floor, his mouth agape with astonishment
and turned to see a delighted Emily leaping on the spot, her arms
raised in victory.

“Well, done, me duck,” said the woman who ran
the stall, “what would you like for your lady?” Before Beckett
could answer, Emily rushed to his side and pointed at the row of
Teddy Bears. “The big one, me duck?” asked the stallholder, already
heading for the over-sized stuffed toy.

“No, that cute small one on the end,” Emily
insisted animatedly. The woman took the bear from the shelf and
passed it over to an appreciative Emily. She clutched the five-inch
bear with both hands, held it to her face, and waved one of its
paws at Beckett.

“Thank you, Uncle Thomas!” she said in her
best small bear voice. Thomas Beckett would never forget that image
of Emily Spelman, her long dark hair wet and lank in the April
rain, clutching a toy bear, looking radiant and incredibly
beautiful.

“Fancy a drink, Tom?” Emily asked.

“No, I don’t think I do at the moment” he
replied pensively. “Do you know what I want to do? I want to
dance!” she stated insistently.

“I don’t dance,” replied Beckett sharply.

“Of course you do, everyone dances!”

“Not me, twenty four left feet.”

“Well, you’re taking me dancing, you’d better
put Holmcourt in your pocket; he’ll fall out of mine.”

“Holmcourt?” he asked quizzically, screwing
up his face.