Hiding From the Light (15 page)

She had been there again that morning, the stranger whose face Mike had been unable to get out of his head. She was standing at the water’s edge, staring out across the river, her shoulder-length dark hair blowing across her cheeks, her expression contemplative; sad. Once again he had watched her surreptitiously as he took his customary walk along the Walls, glancing back as he stopped to survey the view. After a while she had turned and begun walking slowly towards Mistley, her hands in the pockets of her jacket, her shoulders hunched. He reached the place where, usually, he stopped and he began to retrace his steps, aware that this would bring him face to face with her. He studied her discreetly as they approached one another. She was still lost in thought, sometimes staring down at the pavement at her feet, sometimes looking out across the water. As they drew close together he felt his heart beat a little faster. Ridiculous. Just because she was beautiful. And enigmatic.

As they drew level he nodded to her. ‘Good morning,’ he said. He smiled.

He thought he saw, just for a second, startled recognition in her eyes and maybe the hint of a smile, then it was gone and he saw her frown.

‘Good morning.’ Her tone was low and mellow. Already she had passed him. She was walking on. He sighed. Not one of his congregation. Nor ever likely to be, knowing his luck.

The phone call from Mark Edmunds chased all thoughts of her out of his head. Putting down the receiver, he walked across to the window. The leaves on the chestnut by the gate were turning gold now, crisped at the edges, and the conker cases, spiked and fresh green, were beginning to split, showing hints of their rich shiny contents.

He hadn’t committed himself to anything beyond meeting Mark when he came up again, which, to Mark’s intense frustration, would probably not be for a couple of weeks or so as he had so many commitments in London. If there was to be an interview he told Mark he would need permission from the bishop. He wasn’t entirely sure if that were true, but as sure as eggs were eggs if he said anything controversial the bishop would hear about it. He might even see the programme himself and then there would be trouble. Nothing, well almost nothing, he conceded to himself wryly, was as controversial as meddling with the occult and all this talk of witches and ghosts was most definitely doing that. Well, now he had given himself time to think about Mark’s request and, before he settled down to do that, the first thing he needed to do was to overcome his very real reluctance to go and see this so-called haunted shop. And – he glanced at his watch – there was no time like the present.

The woman behind the counter was large, florid and did not appear to be particularly benign. She was perched on a high stool and did not look up when he opened the door and walked in. She was engaged in the double delights of eating a large, multi-layered sandwich of which some of the contents were alarmingly brightly coloured and flicking through a back copy of
Hello!
magazine.

Mike studied her dubiously and decided she would probably not be fooled by pretence.

‘Good afternoon.’ He was wearing his dog collar, which in theory should give him access more or less anywhere. Of course it sometimes had the opposite effect. She looked up and gave him the benefit of a long stare from a pair of startlingly beautiful green eyes.

‘Yes?’ She spoke with her mouth full in a tone heavy with boredom.

Mike hastily revised what he was going to say in the light of his quick estimation of her IQ. Probably about twenty-five. That would teach him to let himself be influenced by a pair of gorgeous eyes.

‘The owner of the shop …’ May the Lord forgive him a small white lie – after all, permission had been given to Mark, and Mark had asked his opinion … ‘Has given me permission to have a look upstairs. Would that be OK?’

She shrugged, obviously relieved she wouldn’t have to do anything as onerous as take his money. ‘Sure.’

He nodded gravely, and turned with some trepidation towards the stairs, leaving her staring after him, the bright eyes suddenly focused, revealing far more intelligence than the quotient which he had originally allotted her.

Placing a foot on the bottom step, he paused and looked up, his hand firmly on the worn banister rail. It was cold upstairs. Even from here on the ground floor where it was pleasantly warm he could feel the light touch of a draught on his face. He was aware suddenly of the woman’s eyes on him; her gaze felt hostile and more intense than was comfortable. It seemed suddenly imperative that he step back, take his hand from the rail, turn to face her. Leave. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he began to climb he realised that he was praying.

There were fourteen polished oak steps in all, shallow risers, smoothly worn at the centre from four hundred years of climbing and descending feet and it was, he realised – echoing without knowing it the very words Will Fortingale had used in the so-far unsuccessful sale details – a staircase of quality. Not the kind of stair one would expect to find in a down-at-heel shop. The substantial house of which this property had once been a part had been built by a wealthy tradesman of some kind who had not stinted on materials or finish.

At the top Mike stopped. The room was empty save for a heap of half-opened cardboard boxes. Inside them he could see supplies of various kinds of stock for the shop below: end-of-line goods, cheap cooking utensils, children’s toys, dusters, coat hangers, cleaning stuff. As he surveyed the room he suddenly realised that his hand was still firmly clasping the newel post at the top of the stairs.

The room was cold, but otherwise unremarkable. He stared round in relief. Relinquishing his hold on the post he stepped onto the floor and moved towards the window, skirting the boxes and avoiding a cascade of shampoo sachets which had fallen from their wrappings.

He shivered. He was right. It was very cold up here. Strangely cold. And the room, at first glance so innocuous, had an odd atmosphere. He paused in his tracks, trying to resist the urge to turn round and look over his shoulder. He was imagining it, of course, as anyone would who had been told a room was haunted.

Taking a deep breath, he walked forward to the window and looked down into the street. He couldn’t see much. The road was too narrow and the window-frame too low. It had beautifully carved oak mullions and a broad sill, much stained and scarred, but nevertheless attractive. It was just wide enough and low enough to perch on and he lowered his tall frame into a sitting position. He looked around thoughtfully. His initial unease was abating. The room was just that, a room, old, dusty, untidy, scattered with boxes. He could feel no ghostly presence here. He listened carefully. There were no sounds from downstairs, where the bored shop assistant licked her fingers to help turn the page of her magazine, glanced up once, frowning, to listen for the vicar’s footsteps, heard none and promptly forgot him.

Mike sighed. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen. A sound? A feeling? An apparition perhaps? Mark Edmunds had obviously seen something which had frightened him, but what? Was it one of the witches? Was it Hopkins himself? Or was it someone else altogether – a previous occupant of the house? Some restless spirit disturbed by the attentions of the television cameras. Or had it merely been their imagination in overdrive?

‘I think it’s you, Mr Hopkins.’ Mike surprised himself by speaking out loud. ‘So, where are you?’

He waited, half expecting an answer from the shadows. None came. ‘Can you hear me?’ He spoke softly, not wanting to draw attention to himself downstairs. ‘If you can hear me, why don’t you make yourself known?’

Nothing.

‘I am a minister of the church. If there is unhappiness here, maybe I can help. I can pray with you.’ He scanned the room carefully. Was it slightly colder than before? ‘I am here to help bring you peace of mind, so that you can rest.’

He shivered suddenly. There was no doubt about it. The temperature in the room had plummeted and it seemed darker than it had only moments before. He glanced out of the window. The street outside was grey. Wind-tossed leaves cartwheeled down the pavement and he saw a young man, hunched against the cold, pull up his collar as he turned the corner out of sight.

The sound of footsteps beside him was loud, striding across the floor towards him authoritatively, and he spun back to face the room. There was no one to be seen.

‘Who’s there?’ His voice sounded flat and strange in the room, deadened by the cold. He was beginning to feel very frightened.

Silence. But it was not an easy silence. He sensed someone listening; it was almost as though they were standing close beside him.

‘Mr Hopkins?’ Mike took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerve. ‘Is that you?’

Nothing.

‘Why don’t you show yourself, so we can talk?’

What was that noise? It sounded like a faint laugh. He felt the sweat break out between his shoulder blades. ‘Mr Hopkins?’

Whatever – whoever – it was, it was very close. He could almost feel the warm breath on his cheek. His skin crawled. He wanted to move away, but he was trapped there by the window unable to shift either to left or right, whilst in front of him something or someone seemed to be so close he could touch them. Without being able to stop himself he raised his hand and reached out, his fingers clawed.

There was nothing there.

‘Mr Hopkins?’

Suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

He found himself gasping, struggling for air, and then he was choking frantically, clutching at his chest. For a moment he thought he was going to die.

Then it was over.

He couldn’t move. Still shaking, he tried to compose himself, his eyes closed as the temperature in the room returned to normal. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’ His voice came out as a croak.

Somehow he struggled to his feet. He was about to move towards the centre of the room when he caught sight of something moving in the shadows at the top of the staircase, and he was confronted by a pair of vivid green eyes. ‘You all right?’ The shop assistant was standing watching him. ‘I heard you talking.’

Mike nodded, aware that he must be looking as terrible as he felt. He smiled shakily, embarrassed. ‘I’m OK. Thank you.’

‘Did you want something?’ She pronounced it sun-fink.

‘No, thank you. I choked on some dust.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You ghost hunting, like them TV fellas?’

He shrugged. ‘Something like that, yes.’ He paused. ‘Have you seen the ghost?’

She laughed. ‘Not likely. I’m out of here before it gets dark.’ And turning, she left him to it, clattering downstairs in her high-heeled sandals.

Mike remained where he was for a second. So, she assumed ghosts only came out at night. How wrong she was! With a sigh he followed her down. Whatever there had been up here in the deserted room, it had gone.

She was already back behind her counter as he walked across the shop floor. Halfway across, he stopped suddenly. From upstairs he heard the sound of footsteps echoing clearly on the ceiling above their heads. He glanced at the assistant and saw that the sandwich had been replaced by a KitKat, which she was unwrapping as she watched him. She appeared to have heard nothing. Somehow he managed to move on, to wish her a polite good afternoon, and to head for the door. Closing it behind him with some relief, he stepped out into the street. He did not look back and so did not notice her standing in the doorway, watching him, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on his retreating back. The torn red wrapper of the chocolate bar was still in her hand.

At the corner of South Street he stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of dizziness and nausea. He was shaking violently, his face burning and he could feel the sweat running down between his shoulder blades as though he had a high temperature, and yet two minutes before he had felt cold. He breathed steadily through his nose, trying to calm the thump of his heart under his ribs. A car stopped next to him to allow a van to drive towards it down the narrow street; the van drew level with him and passed and the car pulled away. He put out his hand to steady himself against the window of the shop on the corner. He was feeling desperately ill. Again he could hardly breathe.

Raising his head almost blindly, he saw two girls walk past, giggling. They were dressed in tiny short skirts that revealed impossibly long legs, lengthened by the thick clumpy soles of their shoes and short-cropped tops, leaving strips of bare skin and tummy buttons exposed although it was cold and windy out here in the street. He saw them glance at him as he propped himself up against the wall of the shop and whisper to each other, then they hurried on, giggling louder than before.

Wantons! Whores!

The words popped into his head from nowhere.

He was appalled. Where had the words come from? He was a tolerant man. He prided himself on his kindness. Still leaning against the wall, he turned to watch the girls as they hurried down the street away from him, dodging the other pedestrians, parting to allow a frail, elderly man to walk between them, regrouping again after he had passed. Normally he would not have given them a second glance. They were not whores. They were schoolgirls!

He closed his eyes for a moment. His momentary fever had passed as quickly as it had come. He straightened up, trying to gather his wits. What on earth was happening to him?

Walking slowly on, he was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. The illness had not been his and neither had the voice inside his head.

Both had belonged to someone else.

Every dip and fold in the fields was white with mist; lapping round the trees, curling softly into the ditches, it brought with it a cold silence which was heavy with menace.

Glancing across the road as he drove towards the coast the driver saw the white pall lying across the newly turned stubble and stared. For a moment it looked as though the sea itself had breached the coastline and poured in across the land. In his shock he kept his eyes off the road a moment too long. The blaring hooter of the oncoming delivery van screamed into his consciousness and he tore at the wheel, trying to regain the road. His tyres squealed and ripped up the bank as the vehicle went into a spin. It lost its grip on the tarmac, ploughed through the hedge and into the field, where it finally came to a halt against the lone stag-headed oak which stood on the edge of the mist, the white moisture condensing on the crushed, steaming bonnet and running down the broken windscreen.

There was no sign of the car from the road. The Ford van which had hooted had sped on out of sight towards its destination on the Lawford industrial estate, the driver not even glancing back.

In the field the man sat without moving, his eyes open, staring out of the windscreen at the tree trunk three feet from his face. Wraiths of mist threaded the tree’s branches and circled ever thicker around the car. In the silence, what was left of the engine ticked once or twice as it cooled. Behind him a bag of shopping had fallen onto the floor, tossing a box of eggs onto the carpet. A film of egg-white spread slowly in a thin glutinous circle under the seat and began to soak in.

As the man’s body slowly cooled, the sky darkened and the fog began to turn black.

At home in his cottage, Bill Standing had watched the mist drift in off the sea and he had felt its menace. It would be content with no less than a man’s life today, and nothing and no one was going to be able to appease it until it had fed off a human soul.