Others

Others

EDITORIAL REVIEW:

Nicholas Dismas is a Private Investigator like no other. He carries a secret about himself to which not even he has the answer. He is hired to find a baby taken at birth and his investigation leads him to a mysterious place called "Perfect Rest." It is supposed to be a home for the elderly, but there is a lot more to this place than meets the eye. Here Dismas will discover the dark secret of the Others. And in an astonishing and spectacular finale he will resolve the enigma of his own existence. As chilling, as memorable and as timely as only James Herbert can be, *Others *will join the classics for which he is remembered with fear.

James Herbert

OTHERS

1

My redemption began in Hell.

It was a day like any other - except there are no days in that singular (in both senses of the words) place. No minutes, no hours, weeks, or years. No seconds either. There is no time in Hell, you see. There just
is.
That’s the hell of it.

There I ruminated under the faintest light from above, nameless, Godless, with no sense of humour at all - I existed as a wretched and self-sorry soul, all reflection and no ‘ projection - contemplating the base, wasted life I’d once lived. Regrets? Too many to mention, but occasion enough to remember them all. Credits? Not enough to dwell upon. No, the balance was tilted in the worst direction and at the most extreme angle. Legions in this (literally) God-forsaken place still couldn’t figure out what they’d done wrong - or, more accurately, why it was deemed so damned offensive -while others understood only too well. The former would come to know eventually, but in the meantime, theirs was a different kind of torment. As I pondered my own iniquities, a light suddenly brightened a corner of my dark ‘cell’.

Two of them appeared, tall and seraphic, their radiance pushing back the shadows around me, guarding themselves against contamination from this murky realm I inhabited (interesting how the ancient artists intuitively had got it right when they depicted bright auras enveloping the holy spirits on their sojourns into the infectious world of mankind) and I was blinded until they wished their dimmers to a more comfortable level. Both wore annoyingly benevolent smiles.

‘Good day to you,’ one of them said as though time had relevance.

I nodded back, wary and too surprised by their visit to appreciate the break in the routine.

‘We hope we didn’t disturb you,’ greeted the other one, neither sarcasm nor irony in his manner.

‘Glad of the company,’ I returned, all nervous humility and dread.

The first entity, essence -
angel
if you like - sensed my fear. ‘Don’t be alarmed. We’re here to comfort, not chastise.’

Chastise? Nobody had chastised me since I’d arrived. The torment was too subtle and yes, too
drastic,
for that.

‘Not more punishment, then?’ I asked half-pleadingly.

‘Oh, we wouldn’t say that,’ replied the second, and they both glanced at each other.

‘Something punishing perhaps, but not really punishment,’ said the first.

I groaned. ‘Something worse than this?’

‘Not worse. I told you we’re here to comfort you. No, this is something infinitely better.’

He smiled down at me and I took in a countenance so serene, so pure, that tears blurred my vision.

‘A chance,’ he announced before straightening again.

My thoughts, as well as my emotions, raced. A chance? A chance for what? To leave this place? To attain a new level? A chance to escape the perpetual misery of an existence without hope? What did he -
it -
mean?

He knew my thoughts. ‘All of those things,’ he said, beckoning me to rise so that I wouldn’t have to gaze up at him anymore. ‘But more importantly, an opportunity to make amends.’

Instead of rising I knelt before them both. ‘Anything,’ I said. ‘I’ll do anything.’

‘I wonder,’ was his response.

‘It would be a harsh test.’ The second one gently loosened my grip on his robe. ‘And it’s more probable that you’ll fail. If that is the outcome, then there really is no hope for you.’

‘I don’t understand.’ I looked from one to the other.

No 1 took me by the elbow and drew me up. We have a tradition on the, er, uppermost level.’

The Good Place?’

He gave a slight bow.

‘Heaven?’

His smile twitched. ‘If you like.’

‘Anything,’ I pleaded. ‘Just tell me what you want me to do.’ I admit, I was weeping floods by now. You had to know what Hell is like.

‘Calm yourself,’ he soothed. ‘Stay your tears and listen.’

Angel 2 started to explain. ‘Every half-millennium we are allowed to choose a few souls for…’

‘We call it the Five Hundred Year Plenary Indulgence…’ No 1 interrupted helpfully.

‘… whereby all grievous and venal sins of the chosen souls are forgiven, their spirits become untainted once more. As they were before Earthly birth. They are able…’

‘… eventually…’

‘… to enter the Kingdom and at last find their peace.’

It was too much for me. I sank to my knees again, disturbing the vapours that swirled low to the floor of my cubette. ‘You’ve chosen me…’ I burbled as my hands again caught the hems of their gowns.

I heard a throat clearing, a sound of disapproval, and immediately let go, afraid of irritating these wise and wonderful creatures. I remained doubled over though, my nose disappearing into the mists.

‘You and one or two others,’ Angel 2 corrected.

Thank you, oh thank -‘

No 1 cut me short. ‘In your lifetime you were thoroughly wicked and your punishment here is richly deserved.’

‘I know, I kn-‘ It was my own sobs, like sharp hiccups, that interrupted the self-mortification.

No 1 had paused. Yes, yes, it’s never too late for tears, but please save them for after we’ve gone,’ he admonished, a little impatiently I thought, given the stress I was under.

Well, wailing, gnashing of teeth and the beating of breasts was the norm in this place, but I guess it could be upsetting - or just plain tedious - for visitors. I snuffled into my hand and choked back further lamentation. If they didn’t want woe, then woe there wouldn’t be. A few snivelling whimpers maybe, just to show I was truly contrite, but nothing distracting. Besides, I was desperate to hear what was on offer.

‘You were blessed with so many gifts for your test-time on Earth, yet you squandered them all, used them for your own self-gratification.’

‘Yes, I know, I know,’ I agreed with a barely-repressed sniffle.

‘You were guilty of hedonism…’

Yes.’

‘… sensualism…’

‘Yes.’

… eudaemonism…’

‘Er…’

‘… and you used your charm, your wit and your exceptional presence to cheat and humble those around you. Duplicity and betrayal was your canon, to lie and abuse was your doctrine. You debased the worthy and downtrod the already downtrodden.’

Well, I…’

Angel 2 added his own condemnation. ‘A libertine and a roue.’

‘Both a philanderer and a gigolo.’

‘Indeed, a rake of the lowest order.’ No 2 didn’t want to be outdone.

‘You were a great star in a celluloid firmament. A moving star…’

‘Uh, movie star, actually,’ I corrected.

‘… in the place they call Holy Wood.’

I felt it unwise to correct him again; no point in ruffling his feathers (just an expression - they don’t really have wings. They don’t really have bodies or voices either, but let’s not get pedantic).

Women adored you, men admired you.’

‘Until they got to know you,’ No 2 added darkly. The people worshipped your debonair image; to them you were a devil-may-care sophisticate, whose bluff exterior secreted a caring and sensitive core. Or so they thought. The public only knew you for the black and white image you portrayed.’

And they
hadn’t
come to chastise me?

‘But most wickedly of all, you caused premature death and suicide. You caused despair and yes, even insanity to the ones who loved you most and who forgave your amorality and hardness of heart.’

I offered no excuses. I had once before, at my Judgement, and they’d got me nowhere. This time I kept my mouth shut.

From their thunderous countenances I thought they’d changed their minds about giving me a second chance, but it was Angel 2 who threw some light into the shade: ‘However, you did have some -
not many mind
- redeeming qualities.’

I kept my lips clamped tight, even though a small, tingling excitement was beginning to lift my spirit once more.

‘And it was those few - very few - redeeming qualities,’ he went on, ‘ that gave us cause to review your case. It seems you were not altogether a
bad
person, although there are those among us who disagree about that In fact it was the Final Arbiter - you know
Who
I mean by that - who made the decision to allow you another chance. You might just save your own soul if…’ and he made it sound like a big
IF ‘…
you are willing to take up the challenge.’ His raised hand halted further gibberings from me. True repentance is not so easy, you know. Hell isn’t necessarily just here, it can be found in other places, and if you go back…’

‘Go back?’ My body snapped up so suddenly that you might have heard my spine crack -
if I’d
had a spine and
if
I’d had a body. You mean…’

They nodded as one and there was an odd sadness to their demeanour. ‘It’s a most serious thing,’ No 1 said mournfully and No 2 repeated just as mournfully, ‘A most serious thing.’

‘For if you fail, you will be lost to us forever, you will never be allowed another opportunity to save your soul. Your damnation will truly be eternal…’

‘And even worse than this,’ his partner added.

I gulped. Worse?’

‘Oh, much worse. Infinitely worse. Perdurably worse.’ Angel 2 was shaking his head in pity. ‘So think carefully before you agree to a new life and the harsh reveille it will bring.’

‘I… I won’t go back as myself?’

There has only been one Resurrection - two if you count Lazarus, and eventually he had to give up his body again. Besides, you left your Earthly vessel almost fifty - in humankind terms - years ago. You’d create quite a stir if you turned up in it once more.’

Fifty years? It could have been fifty thousand for all I knew.

‘You’ll find that your old world has changed considerably since you left it, and part of your atonement will be the loss of the privileges and gifts you once had, so we urge you again to think carefully before you decide.’

It took me all of two timeless seconds to make up my mind. But I chose my words with more care than I’d made the decision. ‘Let me make amends,’ I begged. ‘Please give me the chance of a new Judgement’

The Angels continued to regard me pityingly. There will be conditions,’ No 1 said.

‘Just tell me what I have to do.’

‘One of those conditions is that you won’t know.’

‘But how can I -‘

‘You will choose what is right. Or perhaps you will choose what is wrong. It will be entirely up to you.’

And so saying they left me. Just wafted away so that I stared into darkness and shadows once more. Then I lowered my head and wailed.

All this, of course, metaphorically speaking.

2

She began hesitantly, her gaze never leaving mine, even as she drew a long dark cigarette from a pearl and silver case. She tapped the filtered end unnecessarily against the metal, an old-fashioned gesture that made me smile - inwardly. Shelly - she had already impressed on me there was no ‘e’ before the ‘y’ - Ripstone looked anywhere between thirty-five and forty, one of those not pretty but handsome women who had time and money to keep their figures trim and their skin soft. Only a faint regiment of fine lines marching across her upper lip and spreading from the outer corners of sad, mascaraed eyes spoilt the illusion, but that was only on close inspection - and I’d been inspecting her closely from the moment she’d walked into my office to sit in the chair facing my desk. Bottle-blonde hair - ash-blonde, I suppose you’d call it - the tips, curling beneath her chin, struggling to meet below the jawline as if to hide those other wrinkles, those mean, tell-tale give-the-game-away neck furrows that were the bane of maturing women. Her neat grey suit was Escada, or a fair copy of, and her high-heels Italian (I was good at that kind of thing), but her voice, whose vowels became more flattened and her mid-word
ts
more absent as our meeting progressed, was ill-disguised estuary (I figured southside Thames, maybe Gravesend or Dartford, no further east than that - accents were another thing I was good at). Shelly Ripstone exuded new money, both in apparel and voice - even her scent was Poison - and I had no hang-up with that. In fact, I kind of liked it: it made her more human, more vulnerable, someone with whom I could empathize. Let’s face it, we all try to be more than we are and there’s no harm in that.

She took a thin Dunhill lighter from her purse and lit the cigarette. ‘D’you mind?’ she said as an afterthought.

I shook my head. ‘Go ahead.’

Would you…?’ She lifted the pearl and silver case from the purse again and offered it towards me, another hint at her origins (the wealthy middle classes rarely shared their straights with strangers).

I shook my head again and she seemed fascinated by the awkwardness of the movement. Mint-flavoured smoke drifted across the desk at me.

‘Can I ask who recommended my agency?’ I enquired to interrupt the apparent attraction.

She was suddenly aware she shouldn’t be staring like that. ‘Oh. Etta Kaesbach. She said you were the best.’

I uttered a short ‘ah’ of understanding. Good old Etta. Etta Kaesbach was a first-rate solicitor who’d passed a lot of work my way over the years. In fact, she was the one who’d helped me most when I first set up business as an enquiry agent. She had great heart and a contrary streak that dared anyone to challenge her recommendation. It was embarrassing for me sometimes, embarrassing for the undecided prospective client too, but usually their surprise worked in my favour - nobody liked to appear discriminatory in these PC days - and once they’d realized how pro I was, there was no problem.

‘Is Ms -‘ I hated the
Ms,
but it was expected’ - Kaesbach your lawyer?’ I asked.

‘No. But her senior partner was once my late husband’s.’ She blew a stream of blue smoke which dispersed half-way across my desktop. ‘Gerald died five months ago. Heart attack. His heart had never been strong. It was over very quickly.’ She offered the last bit of information as if it were a blessing, and perhaps it was. Still the memory was fresh enough to upset her: her eyes lost focus for a moment, moisture softening their hue. And for some reason her face reddened, as if embarrassment played a part too.

Would you like some coffee, Mrs Ripstone?’ I wanted to give her time to regain her composure. Tea?’

‘No. No, thank you. I’m fine.’

‘Okay…’ That was fine by me also. It would have been nice to impress clients by using the intercom on my desk and asking my secretary to bring us refreshments, only I didn’t have an intercom and I didn’t have a secretary. Sometimes Henry would shift himself to bring me a hot drink or a fruitjuice, depending on whether it was one of his health-drive weeks, or, when young Philo was around, I could yell through the open doorway for him to get busy with a brew, but neither option was very ritzy, and to do it myself was even less so. I opened a notepad on my desk and reached for a felt-tip.

‘If you could just outline what this is about and I can ask questions as we go,’ I said, Pentel poised.

She straightened her shoulders, which by now had become hunched. Well, I told you my husband, Gerald Ripstone, died five months ago,’ she began, and I jotted down the name and the month he’d passed away.

‘You’d been married how long…?’

‘Oh, sixteen years, I think. Yes, it would’ve been sixteen years this August.’ She exhaled more smoke and watched the cloud for a few seconds. ‘He was a good man, my Gerald. He could be pretty ruthless in business - he exported refrigeration units, you know, cold storage containers - but generally he was good to me. I was his secretary before we were married.’

Were either of you married before?’ The question was just out of curiosity, not relevant to anything as far as I knew at this stage; I like to get a full picture, that’s all.

She eyed me sharply. ‘I wasn’t. But yes, Gerald was, and yes, he did leave his first wife for me.’ She dared a judgement, but I had no problem with it. Why should I? ‘He was a good man, Mr Dismas, a little -‘ little was the kind of word where her
ts
went AWOL ‘- bit hard on me sometimes, but only when I’d done or said something stupid, especially when we were in company. Gerald never liked to feel foolish or embarrassed, especially if I was the one showing him up. He was a very proud man. A very… a very rigid man and, I suppose, old-fashioned in some ways.’

‘Children? D’you have any?’ Again I asked for no particular reason, just a way of getting her to open up, but the question stopped her dead. She glanced away and it was a relief to escape her carelessly veiled gaze at last.

‘No,’ she replied after a pause. ‘No kids. Gerald always thought it was me; y’know, that I was to blame. But it wasn’t me. I was sure of that, although I never let him know.’

‘You had tests?’

‘Didn’t need to,’

I sensed we were finally getting to the point of her visit. (Yep, I’m good at that kind of thing too.)

‘It’s the reason I’m here, Mr Dismas,’ she confirmed.

Ah, I thought. ‘I see,’ I said.

Now she looked directly into my one good eye. Oddly she didn’t proceed; she had to be prompted yet again.

‘You do have a child, then,’ I ventured.

She looked at the tip of her cigarette held in her lap and I pushed the ashtray across the desk towards her. She tapped ash into it, a hurried, jerky gesture.

‘I think so,’ she said quietly.

She thought so… ‘I don’t understand, Mrs Ripstone.’

‘Could we… could we have the office door closed?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ I lumbered round the desk, my limp not too bad at that time of day; it’d grow worse as the day wore on, depending on how tired I got. As I was closing the door Henry looked up from his desk and raised his eyebrows; I gave a small shrug. Clients were entitled to all the confidentiality they demanded, and then some; that was the first rule in the private investigation business. Henry’s balding head was already bowed over his accounts again before the door clicked shut.

‘Okay, Mrs Ripstone, we can’t be overheard,’ I assured her as I returned to my seat. This is strictly between you and me, although other members of my team will have to be brought in if I decide to take your case and if the subsequent investigation requires extra hands. Even then, any personal information will always be kept in a locked briefcase carried only by myself, or it will never leave the precincts of these offices.’ I indicated a row of four grey filing cabinets to my left. While on the premises, your file will be kept under lock and key as a matter of routine. If particularly sensitive, that file can be locked away in our multi-cylinder, combination-lock Stratford Clarendon safe which, incidentally, is bolted to the floor.’ I pointed to the big metal box against the wall behind her. ‘And only myself and my first assistant know the combination.’

If she was impressed, she didn’t show it; I think her thoughts were too inward to pay attention to my blatherings. She needed another deep drag on the cigarette before she could proceed. A blue haze was beginning to fill the room, but that was okay - I enjoyed smoky atmospheres.

‘I had a baby two years before I met Gerald and I was single. A son. My name was Teasdale then. Shelly Teasdale.’ She blurted it out, as if it had to be said in a rush because she still felt some guilt, some shame even. ‘He never knew… I never told Gerald about the birth,’ she added. ‘I didn’t think it was necessary.’

I nodded sagely; it seemed the right thing for me to do.

‘But now I want to find my baby,’ she said, leaning forward on the desk.

‘Well, hardly a baby any more. You said eighteen years ago…?’

‘He’s a young man now, I know that. But I only knew him as a baby.’

‘And you’ve had no contact with him since? Look, I have to be frank with you here. The only people who can help you find your son are the authorities who arranged the adoption or for the boy to be taken into care, whichever the case. Barnardo’s would be your best bet, although there are special agencies that deal with this sort of thing. Even then, it would be up to the boy if he wanted to see you. Eighteen years is a long time to be disowned by your own…’ I didn’t have the heart to finish; the poor woman was distressed enough.

She was clutching the cigarette in both hands and shaking her head, slowly, deliberately, as if she didn’t want to hear. Her eyes were liquid as she said: You don’t understand. They told me he was dead. There was something wrong with the baby at birth. He didn’t survive.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right - I don’t understand. If the baby died, why would you -?’

‘Because they lied. My baby didn’t die. They said he was born with too many abnormalities to live long. They told me he was dead within minutes of the birth.’

You must have seen it… him… for yourself.’

‘No. It was a difficult birth, I’d been in labour for more than twenty-four hours. I was exhausted, only half-conscious when he finally arrived. They took him from me immediately, but I heard him, I heard his cries. They were… different, somehow, but I definitely heard them. They were very strong.’

I tried to be gentle. That may be so,’ I said softly, ‘but that doesn’t mean the child didn’t die soon afterwards. Did you see him again?’

‘I told you, I didn’t see him at all.’ The tears were beginning to spill over and ruin her mascara line.

I hoped she took my small groan for a sigh as I sat back in my chair - not a very comfortable position for me, incidentally. ‘I’m sorry, I still don’t get it. Why would they tell you the baby was dead if that wasn’t so? It doesn’t make sense. What kind of hospital was it anyway?’

‘An ordinary National Health hospital in Dartford. The Dartford General.’

Well, there you are, there wouldn’t be anything sinister going on in an NHS place, nor any other type of hospital for that matter. I wonder… uh, there’s no easy way of saying this. I wonder if the death of your husband hasn’t left you overwrought? You’ve lost a loved one unexpectedly and tragically and I assume you’re alone, so maybe now you’re reaching for another possibility, one that tells you that the son you had all those years ago and thought was dead might still be alive. You’re full of grief, remorse, and dare I say, guilt? Guilt that you never told Mr Ripstone, you kept it a secret for eighteen years, and guilt that you might have abandoned your only child.’

She stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray, her fingers trembling. ‘I’m not a neurotic widow, Mr Dismas, despite what you might think. You don’t know the full story yet.’

She took a small handkerchief with lace edges from her purse and dabbed at her eyes, now smudging the running mascara. The tears ceased though, and her voice became steady again as she looked me directly in the eye (I think she was getting used to me now that the initial shock had passed). ‘Do you believe in clairvoyancy, Mr Dismas?’ she said.

I groaned again, inwardly this time, already guessing where this was headed. I had enough problems dealing with reality without bringing hokum into my life. I didn’t want to upset her any more, though, so I replied: ‘I’ve heard a few interesting stories about such things over the years. Let’s face it, Brighton has more than its fair share of fortune tellers and psychics, not to mention New Age and alternative medicine practitioners.’ (And not to mention private enquiry agencies, which was why I wasn’t keen to lose a prospective client, no matter how off-the-wall they might be; competition was too fierce for that.)

Then you do believe certain people have psychic powers?’ she pressed on.

Telepathy, a sixth sense, that kind of thing?’ I shrugged noncommittally. ‘It’s a possibility, but I wouldn’t know for sure.’

‘But if I told you that when Gerald died I consulted a clairvoyant, you wouldn’t laugh at me and think me stupid.’

‘Of course not. Nothing unusual about that kind of thing these days. In fact, I’ve heard some of these people -clairvoyants, mediums, psychics, whatever you’d care to call them - can bring a lot of comfort to the bereaved. The one or two I know around town seem harmless enough.’

They can do more than just comfort. Some of them can heal the sick just by thought or touch.’

She was a believer all right.

‘You mean faith-healing? Well, I’m not too sure about -‘

‘Don’t dismiss it so easily.’

Tetchy about it too. ‘Many of them can look into a person’s future as well as their past. Some can know your thoughts just by looking at you and without your saying a word.’

Yeah, and some can con you into parting with cash by providing all manner of useless information. ‘Can I take it, then, that you’ve consulted such a person, Mrs Ripstone?’

‘Gerald’s death left me in a bad way,’ she replied by way of answer or an excuse, I wasn’t sure which. ‘I missed him so much and his death came so quickly and so horribly. He was an awkward man sometimes and he had his black moods. But he cared for me. I
know
he really cared for me, despite some of the things he said, the things he did…’ Her tiny handkerchief had become a scrunched-up ball in her fist. A large, diamond-cluster ring on one of her fingers caught the light from the window behind me. ‘I’m still not over it, Mr Dismas. His death, I mean.’