Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (22 page)

Twenty-one

‘What is your substance, whereof are you made, that
millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one
shade, and you, but one, can every shadow lend.’

– William Shakespeare,
Sonnet
53

Stacey returned the next
day for work. Evans decided the best thing was to walk around the entire house
with her straight off, showing every room was free of ghosts and goblins. She
even got her into the shop – after a few unsuccessful attempts – to show her
afresh the faces carved on the ceiling, demonstrating how the darkness had carried
them all away.

Everything returned to normal, except that Stacey
soon dropped me for lunch on Saturdays, ever since Darren changed jobs and
could meet her at the Cray each week. Thom had been right concerning my
friendship with her. We continued to grow apart despite working under the same
roof, which as it turned out gave a more rapid and consequential effect. I saw
now that our shared job venture had introduced a ‘make or break’ situation. It
had re-introduced that truth that our differences outweighed our commonalities,
which were born in a time of finding ourselves. There was no coldness between
us, just a shortage of interest on both sides. When I did see her, which was
only at work, we chatted generally, as either of us would do with any other
co-worker. Even after months, Stacey still occasionally referenced Thom as a
ghost or fiend of some kind. This no longer annoyed me as it once did; it hurt
to hear him spoken of like that. She grew ever fonder of Evans, more so than
anybody else there, which I could not fathom.

Since the blackout nobody had reported hearing the
strange noises. I heard nothing myself, but seemed to be the only one surprised
by the fact they’d stopped. Everybody else at the Cray bought into Thom’s
fabrication of events, which the newspaper article conveniently backed up. I knew
the escaped mental patient hadn’t gotten into the Cray at all. However, I did
see a figure dash behind Geoffrey in the shop, which was too small to be Thom
or the stranger.

In spite of the secrets Thom and Halton Cray
shared, my attachment to them both increased. Every other day that I wasn’t at
the Cray was stagnant. It felt something akin to sitting in a waiting room,
impatient to hear my name called. My working days at the Cray were all I looked
forward to, most especially since Thom had begun giving me lessons in pen spinning.
This was chiefly during my breaks, or any time I could sneak away to see him. I
probably began it, somewhat subconsciously, as a way to strengthen our bond so
that he wouldn’t leave, or at least he wouldn’t hurry to. But every day I saw
no evidence of him going. I saw and heard nothing more of Carla-Louise either. I
began to think that Thom never intended to leave at all, but that he told me in
order to keep me, shall we say, passive. For instance, if I wanted him to stay then
I was hardly going to keep pestering him about the blackout incident. I was
hardly likely to keep asking about the disappearance of the stranger. In short,
I was more likely to let him get away with murder – figuratively speaking. If
there were other reasons for him leading me to believe he would soon go, which
were whispered about in the back of my mind, I never alluded to them. It
certainly worked if this was his aim. I no longer bothered him with too many
questions. I spent more time happily with him, as if we didn’t have long
together.

Occasionally Thom would find me to begin a lesson
in pen spinning, magic, or something else of interest he wanted to share.
Compared with Thom’s skill at juggling the pen or ball, even those proficient
at it seemed wholly amateur. I watched tutorial videos on the Internet too, in
order to surprise him with my progress – and much to his dissatisfaction I
found, since he enjoyed teaching me, or rather correcting me.

‘So easily frustrated!’ he would rib, before
grasping my hand eagerly to show me again. His face lit up whenever I made a
mistake. I couldn’t tell if this was because he enjoyed being more skilled than
me, or that it gave him an opportunity to dominate me.

It was during one of these lessons that he mentioned
the mud-eyed stranger. That pregnant-bellied oddity I thought he’d never speak
of again. It surprised me to hear him bring it up of his own accord. How I
longed to hear more of the history he’d once promised me.

‘It seems to have a will of its own and defy
gravity.’ I was commenting on how the pen ringed his hand. He laughed at me.
I’d grown fond of it.

‘What if I said it did defy gravity? What would
you say to that, Alex?’

‘I think I would believe you.’

‘I think you would, too. It’s just another thing
I’ – he smiled – ‘like so much about you.’

‘And what exactly is that?’

He spun the pen boastfully and talked
energetically. ‘How you don’t shy away from different; how you notice things,
and seem to be quite open to preternatural phenomena. It gives me hope.’

‘Hope of what?’

‘Of telling you those things you wish to know. Of
confessing, Alex.’

I was never surprised to hear him talk this way,
at least not in the last three months. I told him, ‘I’ve always considered
myself open-minded. Perhaps I need testing.’

‘Perhaps you do.’ He fell silent for some minutes.
‘Let’s say
arguendo
that the stranger, as you termed him – you remember
him of course! What if he was to
resurface
after all?’ He emphasized
this word as a dark joke. ‘And just show his face around here again? I’m
hypothesizing, of course. Now let’s also say, just as an illustration, he
begins doing something fantastical. Something that would seem to any regular
individual a little out of this world. You know what I’m talking about,
Cassandra. You thought he was a real oddball. But anyone else – Dan, for
example – would find it too difficult to believe that there was something of
the preternatural about him, even if his eyes were to dance about his head as
this pen does around my wrist. He would try to reason with himself. He’d simply
deny outright what he saw. But not you, I think. You’d dwell on it and only
wonder if you were dreaming.’

I stared at him. I was sure he just said that the
stranger’s eyes might dance about his head. That very scene I once saw in
Spring Meadow. But how could Thom know I’d seen that?

‘Humour me, Cassandra! I’m merely prodding for
your thoughts.’

‘Why is it I don’t believe you when you say you’re
hypothesizing? Am I about to see him reappear or what?’

‘You might.’

‘Well, yes, I’d wonder if I was dreaming. I imagine
that people go a bit mad if they keep seeing things out of the ordinary and
can’t explain them.’

‘I’ve never thought of you as a sceptic, Alex, but
now how can I be sure, when you’ve barely seen anything to really test you?’ he
said seriously. ‘Or have you?’

‘I’ve seen strange things – but I know I’m not
mad.’

‘Things concerning the stranger?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did it put into your mind? What did you
think when you saw those things?’

‘I was torn between a few thoughts, which actually
have a bit of linkage, considering they’re worlds apart.’

‘And what were those thoughts?’

‘My first was that I was dreaming, but I found I
wasn’t. My next was that the stranger was’ – I held my breath a moment – ‘possessed
by something supernatural. My last thought was of that modern and very real
Prometheus, Dr Oliver Sacks.’ 

‘What, the famous neurologist?’ He frowned.

‘Yes, well, he once likened a neurological
disorder to being possessed – in a study on Tourettes Syndrome, I think it was.
I suppose my last thought was trying to cling to science in order to explain
something so surreal. But I don’t know of any medical disorder that can make a
man do what I saw him do.’

‘Alex, do
you
believe in demonic possession?
Or would you rather cling to science?’

‘What difference will my answer make until
you
properly test me?’

‘You are agnostic after all! It could be real, but
I’ll be damned before I believe it without seeing evidence!’

‘Well, some things are just harder to believe
without solid evidence to back them up. I’ve never believed in Santa.’

‘Impossible! You can’t tell me you don’t believe
in overweight, unsociable alcoholics who–’

‘–But,’ I continued, without rising to his
sarcasm. ‘Since you asked about demons; I knew someone who thought he was
possessed.’

‘For real?’ His eyes narrowed on me. ‘What
happened?’

‘He said that most nights when he went to sleep,
just as he was beginning to drift off, the bed would start shaking. He said it
felt like it moved under him. Stuff like that. He said he felt freezing cold
and heard things in his head. Engines roaring. Voices. All angry at once,
telling him awful things.’

‘Like what?’

‘They’d repeat his name, shouting it at him.
They’d laugh saying “they had him” – things like that.’

‘It certainly sounds demonic.’

‘He thought so. He said he felt paralysed while
all this was happening. Nobody else experienced it in his room, so he thought he
was possessed. Anyway, he looked it up on the net and found a few forums with
people giving advice. He followed a lot of it. Tried different ways of
cleansing the room and himself. Nothing worked.’

‘Hang on. What things were people suggesting he
do?’

‘One was about washing his sheets in holy water, and
turning around three times before bed and spitting on the floor.’

‘Nice!’

‘I forget what else. But it was a–’

‘– load of crap?’

‘Exactly.’ I nodded. ‘He just grew more scared and
concerned because nothing was working. Eventually he got an exorcist to come
round–’

‘Intense!’

‘Yes, but that didn’t work either. Then by chance,
after all that time, he told his girlfriend’s mum about it because she was
interested in that sort of thing. He told her he was either possessed or
completely crazy.’

‘Crazy?’ Thom smirked profoundly. ‘This
friend
,
it’s you isn’t it?’

‘No–’

‘Now let’s not have any secrets, Alex!’ He laughed
darkly.

‘It’s not me! It’s a guy I used to know called Jimmy.’

He smiled. ‘Please continue.’

‘So, he told this woman everything and she said it
sounded like he was overdosing on caffeine.’ I laughed. ‘Imagine that! He was
drinking too much cola or coffee, or whatever it was, right before bed. Anyway,
he cut it right down and the caf-
fiend
went away. So my point is people
often jump to conclusions and just go with it. I guess out of ignorance or
inexperience.’

‘Just so. As your example demonstrates. If this
single experience of another person’s supposed demonic possession is all you’ve
ever come across in your life, then it makes sense that you would find logical
explanations for such things in the future.’

‘I’m not clinging to the science, Thom, it’s just an
example. What if I told you I have seen a ghost before?’

‘We all see ghosts. The question is do you believe
it was the spirit of a dead person?’

‘Yes.’ I chortled, jumping up from my lesson of
pen spinning, which on this occasion hadn’t improved my skill one bit. ‘I need
to get back to work. See you later!’

It was the last Saturday in
February. Despite the weather being mild over the past couple of weeks – warm
enough that early spring flowers were blossoming – the air turned chilly today.

I had the following week booked off work
completely. I’d promised to spend a few days in London with my mum, before honouring
the promise of a favour to Adrian. He was moving flats, but hadn’t taken any
time off work to pack. He asked to borrow me for a day, just to help box things
up before he and friends shifted it all. I could think of a good thousand
things I’d rather be doing on a Friday night than packing up my stepbrother’s
crockery. But as a way to saying thank you, he offered me two complimentary tickets
to a sold-out show at the Barbican theatre. I thought about asking Thom to go,
but I knew it was one Beth wanted to see, so naturally I asked her.

Evans was late back from her tea break, so gave me
mine at just gone five o’clock. Knowing I wouldn’t see Thom all next week made
me more eager to see him one last time today. I went to his office but hung
back when I saw him talking with a man in the gallery. They quickly finished
their conversation with a friendly handshake. I advanced only as the man left
the gallery and headed in my direction. He was of an average height with a
young face, dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes. He had this happiness about him
– on second thought, it wasn’t happiness; it was relief. It was evident in the
way he sauntered. His smile expressed that he’d been divested of some burden.
Traces of shock in his eyes conveyed disbelief that something was over with, as
if he’d woken from a terrible nightmare to find it was just so. Turning his
slim frame round he gave Thom a final wave goodbye. He looked at me for a
moment as he came close, and did it a second time with an air of painful
familiarity before passing by. He looked at me as if I was a ghost from his
past, as if I’d featured in his nightmare. There was no mistaking a touch of
horror in his face. His expression almost mirrored my own, because likewise I
recognised him. He turned the corner and was gone.

Thom watched from the gallery and gave me a soft
smile as I approached.

‘Was that a friend of yours, Thom?’

‘He is.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘What a strange question! I don’t know; do you
know him?’

‘He just looks so familiar.’ I instinctively
looked back down the corridor.