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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A twisty, chilling psychological thriller cum gothic ghost story set in a Victorian psychiatric home with a disturbing history, and someone set on revenge… LONGLISTED for the Guardian's Not the Booker Prize Number One Bestseller in Ebook 'Cements Holliday's position as one of the most gifted and entertaining psychological thriller writers in the business' Steve Cavanagh 'Saunters from creepy to genuinely terrifying … I was completely unable to put it down' Elizabeth Haynes 'In the new wave of gothic novels, The Lingering is a stand-out triumph' Eva Dolan 'An atmospheric chiller of a book … reminiscent of early James Herbert' Fiona Cummins Married couple Jack and Ali Gardiner move to a self-sufficient commune in the English Fens, desperate for fresh start. The local village is known for the witches who once resided there and Rosalind House, where the commune has been established, is a former psychiatric home, with a disturbing history. When Jack and Ali arrive, a chain of unexpected and unexplained events is set off, and it becomes clear that they are not all that they seem. As the residents become twitchy, and the villagers suspicious, events from the past come back to haunt them, and someone is seeking retribution… At once an unnerving mystery, a chilling thriller and a dark and superbly wrought ghost story, The Lingering is an exceptionally plotted, terrifying and tantalisingly twisted novel by one of the most exciting authors in the genre. 'Utterly beguiling and darkly sinister, this superb Gothic ghost tale is a brilliantly crafted rug puller' Lisa Howells, Heat Magazine 'A wonderful cross-over novel that ranges from taut psychological chiller to supernatural suspense … Nail-biting stuff, superbly executed' Sunday Times 'Readers will find this contemporary gothic tale hard to put down' Publishers Weekly 'A thrilling, chilling, shocking tale, perfect if you take delight in an icy shiver scuttling down your spine' LoveReading 'Brilliantly chilling and perfectly paced' Anna Mazzola 'One of the most original ghost stories I have ever read' Cass Green 'Like Stephen King meets Thomas Harris' Derek Farrell 'A serious spine-chiller from an exceptional talent' Chris Whitaker 'Tense and chilling, with a creeping sense of unease' Neil Broadfoot 'Perfectly paced and guaranteed to cause you sleepless nights for all the right reasons. Fans of Susan Hill and Andrew Taylor, take note' David Mark 'Creepy, unsettling and all-consuming' Jenny Blackhurst 'Spooky, compelling and chilling' Jane Isaac 'Eerie and unsettling, with a bittersweet beauty' Fergus McNeill 'Unnerved me right from the start' June Taylor 'A perfect winter read' Lisa Gray 'An unsettling tale of haunting … that lingers in the mind' Mason Cross 'A relentlessly unnerving mystery – like shuffling footsteps from a long-locked attic' Matt Wesolowski 'Gets under your skin and stays there' Quentin Bates 'The story is at the same time a locked room mystery, a chilling thriller and a dark and complex ghost story which has been described as both creepy and chilling' Mystery People
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Seitenzahl: 417
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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THE LINGERING
S.J.I. HOLLIDAY
‘Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted … Within these ivied walls, behind these old green shutters, some further business smoulders, waiting for its hour’
—Robert Louis Stephenson
To Sue and Doc Holliday … parents-in-law and fenland sweethearts, who are very much missed.
Contents
Prologue
Angela
There’s an unfamiliar smell in the air today. Something like wet pine cones and mulched earth. A hint of old sweat, something sweet, like a lily, and the sticky ripeness that comes with unwashed bodies. The Family like to tease me for my overactive imagination and my exaggerated sense of smell. I like to believe that I have a mild and unusual form of synaesthesia – certain smells triggering sounds and feeding my mind with wild possibilities. As for the imagination, it might be overactive or it might just be that I’ve attuned my senses to pick up things that others choose to ignore. I can hear Cyril tapping his walking stick on a fence post from the other end of the flower garden, but perhaps it’s the still air that’s letting the sound travel. Usually I can hear the birds nesting in the trees down by the entrance to the long driveway. Blackbirds or Chiffchaffs with their distinctive melodic tweets; and sometimes squirrels as they patter through the undergrowth, in the hedgerows that border the vegetable patches. But today there is silence, apart from Cyril’s stick. And the air is filled with smells, not noise. I breathe it in, waiting, realising that I am the only one out here in the grounds, awaiting their arrival. Wondering who they are and why it is that they have managed to secure a place here without any of us meeting them before, without them learning about any of our rules and ways.
I hold my breath, close my eyes, focusing everything on my ears. Waiting. Waiting. Until I hear the distant sounds of a car engine, and my eyes fly open as I gasp in a breath and understand what it is I can smell in the air. Something dark. Something old.
Something bad is coming.
And there’s no way to stop it.
Part 1
THE LIGHT
‘A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man woke in the night.’
— J.M. Barrie
Extract from The Book of Light
The Essence of Us
The Rosalind House Community Project was formed by Smeaton Dunsmore in 1995. Smeaton comes from a strong community family, having been born and raised in the world-famous Sweethope Commune in the north of Scotland, and continuing his learning and experiences of life at the Makaranda Love Ranch in Southern California and in several smaller collectives in Southeast Asia. Smeaton always hoped to carry on the teachings of the Sweethope founders, his mother and father, and saw Rosalind House as the perfect location for his new family home. With community members of all ages and from all walks of life, Our Family wishes to welcome you to our happy home, and hopes that it will soon feel like your happy home too.
Guidelines for a Light & Bright Existence
‘Embrace the light’
We all have one thing in common: the desire to live in peace, harmony and freedom – away from wrongdoers and those who take pleasure in the discomfort of others. We have one key aim: for only goodness to exist. By embracing goodness, we help it to grow. Help it to grow here amongst us. All you need to do is embrace it.
‘Join hands, join minds, live as one’
The joining of hands has long been a method of ensuring community engagement, without making anyone feel that any boundaries have been crossed. We make a simple vow to engage with one another in this way before and after completing any group tasks. Although we remain individuals and of free minds and spirits, Our Family shares their love through this simple ritual of platonic touch: the blessing of light.
‘Do good and live within the light’
There is only one thing that can be controlled here, and that is our own impulses. This is our only rule – do good, be good – always be light, continue the fight against the dark.
‘Do not fear change, for the change is within you’
Change is inevitable. None of us can live as we once did, as an individual in a too-wide world. To join Our Family you must accept and embrace the changes that are inevitable. Never fear. Never stop. Become who you are.
‘Respect this house, and live in peace’
This is an old property and it has its own ways of existence. Do not question these, but accept them with grace. Help us to keep this house happy. Work together to improve what we have. Avoid petty squabbles and you will exist in harmony. Always offer to help.
‘Bring in the dark, and live with the consequences’
Always be kind. Always be truthful. This is a happy house, and all residents have been absolved of their past wrongdoings. We must keep it this way, in order to remain in a synergistic, loving environment. When someone does wrong, they are not the only one affected. Protect this house and the wider environs by BEING GOOD, always.
Our Group Activities
6.30 a.m. daily: Morning Singing. Join us in the round room for thirty minutes of uplifting Taizé singing – wake yourself up with a smile!
7.30 p.m. Mondays: Guided Meditation. Join us in the living room for a peaceful break from your activities – take an Angel card and work towards dealing with your core issues in a quiet, contemplative setting. 6.30 p.m. Fridays (bi-monthly): Formal dinner and party. Let your hair down, enjoy some of our chef’s special herbal concoctions and free your body and your spirit through dance.
Advisory Notes
The following are things that we advise you let go, in order to claim the peaceful existence that you have come here to find. As always, these are not rules, but they are things that we have come to believe you will benefit from removing from your lives. The following things are not advised:
Mobile phonesInternet useRegular contact with friends / family on the outsideVisiting the villagePurchasing unnecessary material itemsIllegal drugsOver-consumption of alcoholTelevision and radioDrivingSwearingOur Family
Smeaton Dunsmore
Ford Swanson
Richard Latham
Julie Latham
Fergus Jones
Rose Curtis
Cyril Mead
Lucy Worthington
Angela Fairley
Annie Palmerston
Lawrence Palmerston
Ali Gardiner
Jack Gardiner
1
Ali
As the road dips into the flat, bleak fenland, a burning ball of sunlight drops down in front of them and they both raise a hand to shield their eyes. Jack swerves to the left, almost ending up in the drainage channel that runs along the length of the field.
‘Jesus,’ Ali mutters from the passenger seat. She flips the sun visor down in front of her. ‘Pretty spectacular. Can we stop for a minute? I just want to snap a pic on my phone.’ Jack slows, turns to look at her. His look says the same thing that’s just slid into her own head. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she says. ‘What’s the point of taking a photograph now? It’s not like I can send it to anyone.’
Jack adjusts his own visor and speeds up again. ‘Well you could … but it’s not advised.’
Ali sighs. ‘Do we have to go through all this again? It really will be easier if you embrace it with an open mind. You might even enjoy it.’
‘I doubt that,’ he mutters.
She wants to carry on. Pick a fight for no real reason. But she stops herself. That’s what the old Ali would do. With the old Jack. Despite everything, she does still love him and she wants this to work. She glances around at the back seat of the car, jammed with what remains of their worldly possessions.
They’ve sold the rest. They don’t need much where they’re going. Not much of the stuff they used to need anyway. Technology. Gadgets. Fancy gold satin pumps and a Chanel clutch bag in the same shade, both far more expensive than her salary allowed. The girl who bought them looked like she’d won the lottery when Ali sold them at the car boot sale for a tenth of the price. She knows they could’ve made more money if she’d sold things on specialist websites, maybe even got a company to come round and do a valuation. But what was the point? They had their savings, and that was enough to secure their place. What would they do with more money? Would they be persuaded to give that away too?
Practically nothing from their old life is required anymore.
She feels liberated and petrified in equal measure.
Jack leans over and flips open the glove box. Ali swivels back around and bats his hand away. ‘Keep your eyes on the road. What do you want? I’ll get it.’
‘I think there’s a map in there. Can you check? I thought I’d memorised the route but I’m starting to think that we’re going in circles. All these roads look the same. I’m sure we’ve passed that house three times.’ He slows down.
Ali looks out at the small cottage on their right. It’s crooked, as if it is slowly sinking into the marshes beneath it.
‘That’s definitely not the same cottage as the last one. The last one had a blue gate, and there were other cottages further along the road. This one’s on its own, and the gate’s not even painted.’
‘I’m glad you’re keeping an eye out.’
She rummages in the glove box and finds a crumpled Ordnance Survey map. She straightens it out on her lap. A faded coffee ring obscures part of the image on the front – a cathedral. Ely, maybe?
‘The Cambridgeshire Fens, 1998. Wow. Was this the last time you used a map?’ She unfolds it and a musty scent fills the air in front of her face. ‘Shame we had to get rid of the sat nav.’
‘I suppose we didn’t need to do that, did we? It wouldn’t do any harm left in the car. Are we even going to need the car after this? I’m still not totally clear about what we can and can’t do in this place.’
‘Me neither, but we’ll find out soon enough. From what it said in the letter, I don’t think we’re actually banned from doing things or going anywhere, it’s—’
‘It’s just not advised,’ Jack cuts in. He has the hint of a smirk on his face.
Ali ignores it and runs her finger down the map. ‘Got it. We’re still on track. In fact, we’re nearly there.’
He mutters something that she can’t hear.
She stares at him now. Looks at the paleness of his skin, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks like he’s barely slept. He’s too thin, and a faint sheen of sweat sparkles on his brow. She lays a hand on his knee, fighting the urge to pull it sharply away again.
‘It’s going to be OK, Jack. I promise you.’
Jack doesn’t reply.
He doesn’t believe her. He’s made that crystal clear over the last few weeks, since she set the plan into action. She’s tried her best to reassure him, explaining in the best way that she can that there is no other choice. It’s this, or … she doesn’t even want to contemplate the alternatives.
‘Everything is going to be OK,’ she says once again, just as the copse of high trees comes into sight – the first of the landmarks for them to follow to reach their destination.
She wonders who she is trying to convince.
She stares out at the bleak but beautiful landscape. She’s read about this area of reclaimed land, where dead plants never decay and strange grasses sprout from the permanently saturated peat.
Ali takes the sheet of folded paper out of the bag in the footwell. ‘Nearly there,’ she says. ‘After the trees it’s only another mile, then we’ll see the entrance to the driveway.’
Jack sniffs. ‘I think I see it.’
The driveway is long and straight, the land on either side flat and scorched by the sun. The building grows in front of them, as Jack drives too fast over the potholes until, at last, they are there. He stops the car.
The main building is exactly as she has imagined it: an oversized front door with a stone archway, flanked by long narrow windows. She can make out some of the smaller buildings at either side. They are less impressive, and obviously built later, as the hospital expanded.
Hospital.
That’s what Rosalind House had once been. Built in 1845 on land that had lain barren since a grand family home burned to the ground in the seventeenth century, it was once the largest asylum in the county. Residents were sent here for all manner of medical conditions, many of which weren’t medical at all; such patients were mostly women, who were often sent away by men who wanted to silence them for having opinions of their own. The place had been self-sufficient back then, according to what she’d dug up during her research. The Victorian doctors had believed that activities such as tending to vegetable patches and churning their own butter would help soothe troubled minds. In the years that followed, though, the focus had changed, and in the 1940s it had become the local state psychiatric hospital, housing victims of wartime trauma as well as other members of society who had somehow lost their way.
It isn’t a hospital now … but Ali hopes that living a self-sufficient life of simple meals and soothing, repetitive manual activities will soon become as commonplace to them as ordering pizzas online at eleven p.m. and having non-stop movies on demand. It might even be enough to mend what has broken between them. She glances at Jack. He is staring at the building. His knuckles glow white from where he is gripping the steering wheel so tightly, as if he is holding on for dear life, hoping that someone will save him from falling off a cliff. She lays a hand on his knee and feels his leg relax. He sighs. His grip on the steering wheel loosens.
‘We’ll give this place a month, OK? That’s what you said, isn’t it? And if it doesn’t suit us, we move on again, right?’
Ali nods. ‘Yes. That’s what I said. Only…’ He turns to face her. Lifts her hand off his knee and squeezes it. ‘Only what?’ She squeezes back. ‘I’m just not really sure what we’re going to do if this doesn’t work.’
He drops her hand and restarts the ignition. ‘Let’s think about that later,’ he says. ‘If we have to think about it at all.’
A scowl is etched onto his face, his brows are knitted. She hovers a hand back towards his knee, but changes her mind and folds it into her lap. On her left, outside, she sees the arched canes of a kitchen garden. Beyond that, a wheelbarrow parked next to a pile of dark soil. She glances at the clock on the radio console: 10:30. There’s no one around. Tea break? She’d loved tea breaks in her old job. Taking time off the wards, putting her feet up. She’d enjoyed being a psychiatric nurse but it was tough and it was draining. She relished those breaks simply because they gave her the chance to talk to people whose problems weren’t pathological. She would miss her colleagues and their mundane little gripes about the world, but she wouldn’t miss the job. She knows that she got too close to it. Became far too involved. Besides, she has enough to concern herself with now.
Jack pulls into a parking space near the entrance and Ali opens her door. There’s a slight breeze, and she’s sure she can hear the sounds of music drifting out of one of the side buildings. Something choral, uplifting. She steps out of the car and crunches across the loose stones and broken concrete. The music is coming from a small round building on the edge of the car park. It takes her longer than it should to realise that it’s not a recording; it’s live. It’s people singing. Something in Latin, or maybe Spanish. The four voices of the group make a soothing harmony, from the low bass drawl to the tinkling melody of the sopranos, the tenors and altos keeping the steady rhythm in between:
De noche iremo, de noche que para encontrar la fuente,
solo la sed nos alumbra, solo la sed nos alumbra
They stand for a moment, listening as the same words are repeated over and over, as a chant. She has a sudden urge to jump back into the car, to tell Jack to drive away from this place, back to where they came from, or to somewhere else. Anywhere else. She turns around at the sound of the car door slamming shut. Jack is leaning against the bonnet, waiting. He almost looks as if he is smiling. She takes a breath. She can do this. They can do this. It’s just music. It’s singing. It’s happy.
They can be happy. Here. In this place. This place is the answer to all of their problems.
She’ll make sure of it.
2
Ali
‘Ah, you’ve been listening to our attempts at something musical…’ A man strides towards them, a wide smile on his face creating an array of crinkles at the sides of his eyes. He pushes a long flop of greying hair away from his face with one hand, and extends the other towards them. Ali and Jack step forwards at the same time, crashing against each other. Ali pulls back, lets Jack shake the man’s hand.
‘Smeaton Dunsmore,’ he says. He looks confused for a second, glancing around. ‘Was no one here to greet you? I thought…’ he shakes his head. Smiles again. ‘Never mind.’ His accent is neutral – cultured but impossible to place. From the information he’s sent her, and what she could dig up online, Ali knows he was born in Scotland, but there’s barely a trace of it in his voice. Or his looks, for that matter. He is tall and slim, with a face that is all sharp angles. His eyes are the same shade of grey as his hair, and there’s something vulpine about him that Ali is drawn to immediately.
‘Jack Gardiner,’ her husband says in reply. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Dunsmore holds Jack’s hand for just a moment too long. Ali watches him as he locks eyes with Jack, trying to read him. Good luck with that, she thinks. Jack is a master at keeping his thoughts and emotions locked up tightly.
‘I’m Ali,’ she says, stepping forwards. She stretches out her hand, but Dunsmore steps in and holds her in an embrace. He smells of wood smoke and sweat. It’s not unpleasant and she lets herself be held until he pulls away.
He lays his hands on her shoulders and smiles down at her. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you, Ali. I almost said “at last” but it really has been such a short time. It’s very unusual for us to have anyone move in so soon after the first contact, but when you explained your circumstances to me and I discussed it with the others, how were we to refuse? An ex-policeman and an experienced nurse? We couldn’t hope for more worthy additions to our little family.’
Sure, Ali thinks. The money we offered to bypass all the usual evaluations might’ve helped a bit too, right?
He winks at her, as if reading her mind.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Let’s go inside. We need cups of tea, lots of cake, and a good chat before we move on to all the logistical bits. Am I right?’ He nods at Jack. ‘Perhaps you can park your car over there beside the low block? We like to keep the front of the building as free a space as we can manage.’
‘Sure.’
Jack walks back to the car. Ali feels cold, suddenly, and hugs herself. Dunsmore disappears inside, just as a trickle of bodies starts to wind its way across from the circular building to the main entrance. There is a chorus of hellos and hi’s and welcomes, but no one stops. They vanish into the building, and Ali feels herself shrinking inside. She’s confident enough when she knows people, but she struggles with pushing herself into new groups. Jack appears by her side and squeezes her hand. She wonders if he realises just how much of a battle this is going to be for her, never mind him. The idea of living in a community where everything is shared and her life is no longer just for her fills her with absolute terror. But the thought of losing Jack is that terror magnified by one thousand. She squeezes her hands into fists then stretches them out and shakes her arms. ‘OK’, she says. ‘Let’s do this.’
Ali and Jack walk together through the imposing main entrance, then through a small foyer, with built-in seats on either side and an open frame with a cricket bat mounted inside it and bearing a small brass plaque saying ‘Osborne James: 1947’ – an ex-patient, maybe? Or a benefactor? They follow the stragglers of the group at a safe enough distance to see where they are going but not so close as to crowd them. Ali’s slightly surprised at the muttered greetings; she was expecting a bit more fanfare at their arrival. But maybe they aren’t quite as important as she thought they might be. Maybe newcomers aren’t that rare. Or maybe this myth of a friendly community is just that: a myth. Or, more likely, she’s tired from the three-hour drive from London and already regretting the decision to come here.
She stops and holds out a hand so that Jack stops too, whirling round to face her.
‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t do this. We can’t stay here—’
‘Ali…’ Jack gives a tiny shake of his head. He looks at something somewhere over her shoulder, and Ali understands. She feels the heat of Dunsmore standing next to her.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘It’s natural to have doubts. Unless you’ve been brought up in this kind of environment, it’s bound to feel strange to you. Weird, even. I’ve heard most of the adjectives that people have come up with to describe us. We used to do open days, when we first started. We had a couple of barbecues, that sort of thing. Thought if the locals knew what we were doing and that we weren’t a bunch of crazy Manson-esque whack-jobs – their words, not mine – that it would make things easier for us. We want to be fully self-sufficient here. That’s the goal. Selling things would’ve helped with that. But you know what people are like. Besides, it’s not only us the locals seem to be wary of, but the place itself. This house and the land it sits on has a very … chequered past. You know what I mean?’
She senses he’s not expecting her to respond to his final question, so she doesn’t. Although she doesn’t really understand what he’s getting at. What chequered past? It was an asylum, and before that just the site of an old family home. She knows a bit about this landscape: often it’s not possible to use it for much. There are expanses of empty fields, seemingly without purpose, and yet there is something different in the air here. Perhaps it’s just the change from being in the city. She takes a breath and lets herself be guided into the room the others have entered. There are various sofas and armchairs, the décor clean but faded. On a chipped wooden sideboard there is an enormous, ornate brass gong, complete with a fluffy-headed mallet, hanging by a string.
‘Javanese,’ Smeaton murmurs. ‘Got it on my travels. Beautiful, isn’t it? We use it for guided meditations, and very occasionally if I need to summon everyone here fast. The sound reverberates quite remarkably, especially if you take the soft part off the mallet.’
Ali smiles, unsure of how to respond. It’s a beautiful instrument. The singing she’d heard when they arrived was soothing and peaceful. Smeaton is nothing but friendly, so she has no idea why she feels so nervous. It was her idea, after all – as Jack reminded her in the car, several times. Yes, it was her idea. And it’s a good one. At least it will be, once she comes to terms with it.
Jack seems miraculously unfazed by it all, despite being the one who protested ever since she’d set the plans in motion. She watches as he strolls confidently across the small sitting room to the sideboard on the other side, which contains an urn, cups and saucers and a plate piled high with chocolate-chip cookies. She watches as a young woman hands him a cup, and he smiles as she drops a teabag inside.
She has to ball her hands into fists to hold back her sudden pique of rage. How dare he be so calm about all this? After everything he’s put them through? How fucking dare he? She’s always been there for him, the dutiful wife, looking after him, doing everything for him, keeping him calm and happy, until … She pushes the thought away. Refuses to think it.
Ali watches as the young woman moves away from him, takes a seat on one of the worn, overstuffed sofas. Jack doesn’t follow. After pouring milk into his cup, he steps back to the far side of the room, blowing gently on the tea. His eyes flicker as he scans the space, the inhabitants, taking it all in.
She’s about to get her own drink when Dunsmore appears at her side again. He has the uncanny knack of disappearing and reappearing without making a sound. He’s one of those soft-footed, whispering types, who seem to almost float from place to place without anyone noticing where they have been or where they are going. He hands her a cup: something pale yellow with a hint of woodland dirt. Her nose wrinkles.
‘Chamomile,’ he says. ‘Good for the nerves, I find. But if you’d prefer coffee?’
She takes a sip. ‘This is fine. Thank you.’
They stand in silence for a moment, her sipping at her tea, him radiating heat beside her. Around the room, people are chattering, drinking and munching on cookies. At the back of the room, Jack is still watching the gathered crowd, and Ali is watching him – on whom his eyes fall, the cast of his face. If he has sensed her gaze on him, he doesn’t show it.
Dunsmore claps his hands. He’s standing next to the sofas now. Ali has barely registered that he has moved. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I think our new guests are suitably traumatised by our incredibly bizarre singing and tea drinking habits…’ He pauses, allowing a tinkle of laughter to spread around the room. ‘So to make things a bit easier on them, how about we all say a little bit about ourselves: where we’ve come from, what we’re doing here…’ He pauses again, glancing around the room. ‘I know we’re not all here, but I think this is a decent enough welcoming committee, no? Don’t want to scare them off.’ Another ripple of laughter. Dunsmore beams at Ali, then turns to face Jack. He lifts his hands out, palms upward. ‘Come then, Ali and Jack, sit; make yourselves comfortable. Enjoy the show.’
The girl who handed Jack his cup stands up. ‘I’m Fairy Angela,’ she says.
Ali sucks in a breath and blinks slowly. When her eyes open, the young woman is grinning at her.
‘You’re shocked, and I’m not even wearing my wings.’
Everyone smiles.
Ali wants to run out of the room and jump into the car. Get away from this place and its cheerful hippy inhabitants. She looks across at Jack, but he doesn’t look back at her. He’s looking at Angela. Gazing at her. Ali’s irritation dissipates into a flickering anxiety, as if someone is pricking her repeatedly with a pin.
‘Sorry,’ Ali says. ‘I just wasn’t expecting you to say that.’
Angela smiles wider. ‘No, I’m sorry. I did it to provoke a reaction. It’s not often I get a new audience. My name’s Angela Fairley. My nickname started at school – you know, when they say your surname first … anyway, it kind of stuck, and to be honest, I quite like it—’
‘And she does have wings, actually,’ says a voice from the corner of the room. A middle-aged man who looks like her old maths teacher: brown trousers, diamond-patterned jumper; wild hair like he’s been standing in a force-ten gale.
‘Well, yes,’ Angela says. ‘I do have wings … but I only wear them on special occasions.’
Ali senses a swirl of energy from this odd young woman and she can’t help but smile. Her earlier negative thoughts slide away as she realises that she likes the look of Angela. She can imagine what it might have been like for Angela at school. How she might have been treated. A girl like her often struggles. Pretty, but fragile. Naïve; too trusting. Too nice. All this from a few words? Ali thinks to herself. Well, yes. That’s what it’s all about – reading people, analysing people. Trying to work out the best way to deal with others while making sure to protect herself. It’s what she’s been doing since she was a child. It’s what she’s best at.
‘I worked in a shop before I came here,’ Angela continues. ‘But I used to fantasise about being a pole dancer in one of those dark, smoky bars…’ She smiles shyly and lets her sentence trail off. ‘Here, I like to grow herbs and look after Alice and Agnes.’ She pauses then releases a small girlish giggle, then her expression changes slightly. ‘They’re the eldest of our chickens. And, of course, I…’ Her words drift off again. She looks down at the floor, and when she lifts her head again it’s as if a cloud has drifted across her, distorting her features. She’s travelled from flippant to fear in one glance. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. Ali opens her mouth to speak, but Angela dismisses her with a small wave. ‘I was supposed to be outside to meet you, but something came up.’ She glances at Smeaton and he gives her a tiny shake of his head.
Ali feels a prickling under her skin.
Angela sits down and drops her hands into her lap.
Ali turns to Jack. His gaze is fixed on Angela.
Ali swallows down a lump in her throat. She doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her. Doesn’t like it one little bit.
3
Angela
I fold my legs beneath me, and shuffle back into the depths of the sofa. I remove a cushion from behind my back and bring it around to hug against my chest. It smells mildly unfresh and I make a mental note to remove the cover and add it to the wash basket later. I look down at the floor, glad that my few moments in the spotlight are over. For now.
I can feel his gaze on me. I wonder what he makes of me. I should be unnerved by his stare, but I don’t find it threatening. Curious, maybe, that’s all. I lift my head just enough to see that the woman is staring at her husband with an expression that could be … fear? No, not fear. Perhaps wariness. They have no need to be wary of me.
It’s the house they need to worry about. What it was built on. The memories that lie here, hidden deep in the foundations…
I smile to myself and close my eyes. What has he done? I wonder. Why are they here? It’s been a while since anyone new has moved to Rosalind House, and although I know the process, understand why Smeaton does it this way, it doesn’t dispel my curiosity. Patience, Angela, I whisper to myself. All will be revealed soon enough.
Someone claps their hands and I am back in the room.
I recognise the sound. I can tell everyone in the room’s individual claps, coughs and mutterings even with my eyes closed. We spend a lot of time with our eyes closed when we get together as a group. It’s the best way to hone the other senses, Smeaton says. Sight is not the only way to learn what you need to about something. Not only can I recognise people by the sounds they make, I can identify them by their scents, too. Smeaton is wood smoke and something earthy, deep below. The new woman is sharp sweat and faded rose. Her husband … I take a breath, sucking warm air from the room. Her husband is something hot, metallic: burnished copper and smouldering ashes.
Something flutters deep in my chest. I smile, but keep my eyes closed.
Smeaton claps once more. ‘Thank you, Angela,’ he says. ‘Now. Who’s next?’
Someone clears their throat, a gentle gurgling sound accompanied by a waft of menthol in the air.
‘My name is Richard Latham. I’ve been living here for seven years. I came here with my wife, Julie, after we lost our home in a flood. Everything we owned was ruined by the mud that filled the rooms of our riverside bungalow. We thought we’d lost it all, and our insurance was invalidated because we’d missed a couple of payments.’ He pauses and I open my eyes. I glance across at Richard, who is squeezing Julie’s hand. I catch a hint of rosemary and sage on the air, and then it disappears.
‘It was clear that our families didn’t want to put us up. Not for any length of time. Our children…’ He pauses again and swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs above his open-necked plaid shirt. ‘Our children are more interested in material things … We didn’t want to burden them, so we came here. With nothing but our love for each other and our openness to experience this new way of life. We are very grateful to Smeaton for letting us stay. We look after the vegetable patches – managing ours and helping others to make their own patches thrive. Julie…’ He pauses again, and Julie squeezes his hands and beams at him. ‘Julie has become very attuned to the lives of the plants. She has a magic inside that she never knew she possessed, until this place opened our eyes and our minds.’
Julie dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her cotton dress. ‘We’re grateful to be here,’ she says. ‘Here in the light.’
A series of murmurs spreads across the room.
‘Embrace the light,’ I say. Almost a whisper. I hold my hands up, steepling my fingers and pressing the tips together, and then let them spring apart, as if releasing an invisible balloon into the air. I look upwards. Blink. Everyone does the same, except for Ali and Jack, of course, who are standing side-by-side now, looking mildly alarmed.
Smeaton claps once more, then he laughs.
‘Ali. Jack. I’m so sorry. This must all seem very strange to you. Our little rituals. I’m afraid that sometimes they just happen spontaneously, when people want to give thanks: to embrace their lives here and what we have achieved. Of course we’ll run through all this later on. For now, the objective is for everyone to tell you a little about themselves.’ He glances around the room. ‘Thank you, Richard and Julie. Now … perhaps, for the others, we could keep this a bit shorter. Just the basics. I’m sure our new guests are desperate to see their new home, have some quiet time to reflect before our welcoming ceremony later on…’
I look straight at Ali and see the terror flashing in her eyes. I smile, holding Ali’s gaze until, eventually, she smiles back. I wonder if I might be able to confide in her, soon. About what I do here. About the cameras and the EMF meters. About all the tests I have to conduct on a regular basis, to make sure that we are all safe.
But more than that, I wonder if she might confide in me.
Dr Henry Baldock’s Journal – 2nd March 1955
While initially pleased about the way the hospital has been run prior to me taking up my engagement here, it has becoming increasingly apparent that there are a few nagging concerns that cannot be dispelled. Although this is not an official document, and certainly not something that will be filed with my patient notes and findings, I feel compelled to record these concerns in some way, even if their only purpose is to convince myself that the issues are entirely in my own head. I am fully aware of the irony of this statement, as a psychiatrist within a mental hospital, but I am a strong believer in the power writing diaries and journals – they gather one’s thoughts into some semblance of sense.
Many of the staff here have worked at the hospital for a number of years. Some were brought up in the grounds, the children of staff themselves – not just medical staff, but groundsmen and cooks and all matter of other things. Some of these fellows will have seen things move on a lot, and some might be resistant to so many changes– the advances in medicines, of course, but also the abandonment of certain practices that were used in the past but that no longer have a place here.
Mistrust among the staff of new medicines doesn’t concern me. Persisting with the other treatments does, though. Seclusion and restraint are commonplace, here, but it’s not even those that disturb me. It’s the other interventions of which I’ve been made aware. Things that happen a lot more often than they should. Things that shouldn’t happen at all. Things that aren’t documented.
It is these things that trouble me most.
4
Ali
‘You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, aren’t you?’
Angela’s voice is light, uplifting. She is obviously desperate for someone to talk to. But Ali can’t muster the enthusiasm, not right now. She is walking alongside Angela, down a long dingy corridor. The lights flicker occasionally. The walls look like they were painted in the 1950s, with a shiny yellow paint, and not redecorated since. There is a slight smell of mould. But Ali is less concerned about the girl, than she is about herself, right now. What exactly are she and Jack doing here? Is it really going to help? She can hear Jack’s footsteps close behind them, shuffling slightly. Reluctant. She knows he is tired and hopes she can convince Angela to leave them alone for a while. Of course she wants the whole tour at some point. There is much to be explored in the old hospital. She has to remind herself sometimes that this is why they are here, after all – to be part of this community. To be involved. She forces a smile into her voice.
‘I’m more interested in you saying you wanted to be a stripper…’
Angela laughs, high-pitched and girlish. ‘I wanted to be a glamour model, first—’
‘What, like Jordan? Or those ones in the lads’ mags?’
‘Page three, actually. I first saw one of those photos when I went to the garage with my mum, to collect her car. The mechanic was reading it when we arrived. Left it lying on the table, wide open. Put his mug down on it and I could see that it was going to leave a brown ring across the girl’s body, and I didn’t want that so I lifted the mug off. Had a good look at the photo while the mechanic was talking to my mum, something about brake fluid and washers. I was fascinated by her smooth, pale skin. The perfect mounds of her breasts. She looked so … serene, I thought—’
Ali snorts. ‘You couldn’t see the backdrop of exploitation behind her then, eh?’
Angela shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure I agree with you, actually. If you’ve got a beautiful face and a beautiful body, why shouldn’t you show it off?’
Ali feels a tightness in her chest, her vison distorts and she stops walking. An image swims in front of her: blurred edges; a heart-shaped face, baby-doll eyes; hair swirling around. Skin too pale, not smooth though. Although it would’ve been once. The mouth is like a raised scar. Ali blinks, and the image disappears. She clenches her fists, forcing it back into her subconscious.
Not. Real.
She sucks in a breath and carries on walking. ‘I’m sorry,’ Ali says, hoping that her voice sounds normal. ‘I’m tired, so I’m a bit grouchy. Maybe we can have a bit of a lie-down before the welcoming party later. Do you think that would be OK?’ She can still hear Jack behind them, although he hasn’t said a word. His breathing is heavy. He’s exhausted, too. Tiredness, that’s all it is, plus a bit of dehydration. Those things can make your subconscious work overtime. She just needs to get a grip, have a rest. She probably imagined Jack staring at Angela earlier on, too. Surely he wouldn’t be so blatant. Not so soon after they arrived?
Angela opens the door with a heavy brass key. It swings open. ‘I’ve tried to make it nice for you,’ she says. ‘I’ll come back and get you later, OK?’
‘Thank you,’ Ali says, genuinely grateful. She drops her bag on the floor and surveys the room. There’s a large ironwork bed with layers of blankets; long sash windows with curtains made from what looks like stitched-together hessian sacks. There is a low bookcase, a dressing table with an old mirror and a battered-looking wicker chair. An old wooden wardrobe, and a hanging rail beside it. A door that leads off to what she hopes is a bathroom.
Jack follows her inside, pulls the door shut behind him. ‘I’m just going to lie down for a minute,’ he says, flopping onto the bed and kicking his shoes off. ‘Then I’ll unpack.’
She walks into the bathroom, taking in the beauty of the old claw-foot tub in the middle of the room. Perfect. Maybe it won’t be so bad here after all, she thinks. As long as the water is hot. Ali turns on the taps and after a moment, water starts to creak and gurgle and judder through the pipes. She sits on the edge of the bath, watching it spurt out of the taps, foamy and brown. After a while, it settles and starts to flow, clear and hot now, steam billowing. She leans into the bath and drops the heavy metal plug in quickly, trying to avoid burning her hand. Smeaton wasn’t lying then, about the water being hot and in plentiful supply. The bath, too, looks perfect. Wide and deep and just right for a good long soak. She stands and stretches, feeling her muscles popping in protest. How long has she been so tense, so coiled? This place will be good for them. She knows it. They just need a bit of time to adjust.
‘Any idea where the toiletries are?’ she calls out. ‘I’ve got that jar of lavender bath salts that Mrs Edmonds from next door gave me. I’m sure she bought it in a charity shop. I thought it might be just the thing for here…’ She leaves the bath running and closes the door to keep the warmth of the steam in the room. Jack is lying flat out on the bed, half of the blanket under him, the other half over the top, so he’s folded in like a sandwich filling. She smiles to herself, gazing at the peaceful expression on his face, and marvels at the innocence of sleep. Do you dream about it, she wonders. Do you dream about them? Are your unconscious thoughts as dark as your heart? Her expression hardens. Forget it, Ali. She tries to tell herself. They can move on from this. If they allow themselves.
She picks up the leather hold-all that lies at the foot of the bed, and the contents half spill on the floor: shampoo, soap, flannels. Razors. She rummages quietly, glancing up as Jack snorts and rolls over in his sleep. She finds the jar of purple crystals and goes back into the bathroom.
The bath is half filled now. She dips a hand in and checks the temperature. Then turns off the cold tap, leaving the hot running as she unscrews the lid of the jar and tosses in a handful of the scented salts.
Lavender steam fills the air, and she breathes it in deeply as she takes off her clothes.
She turns off the hot tap and gently climbs into the bath. She leans back, letting herself sink down into the soothing depths. The room is filled with steam. No ventilation, no fan. But she likes it. Feels safe, cocooned in the warmth.
She sinks further, her hair swirling around her. Then further still, submerging her face under the water. Bubbles escape from her nose, and she opens her eyes, watching them disappear on the surface.
Peace. This is peace. She closes her eyes.
The cold hits her first. And then the hands. Strong hands, pressing down on her body. The ice-cold water is in her shocked mouth. No, she tries to scream. She thrashes, struggles, arms and legs flying. The cold. It’s so cold. She can’t catch her breath. Terror grips her, like rough hands on her soft skin. Pinning her down. Gripping her. Drowning her. Her eyes fly open.
And then it stops.
There is no one there.
She sits bolt upright, hands gripping the sides of the bath. Her heart hammers. Her lungs burn. She coughs, tasting the lavender in her chest.
‘Jack,’ she tries. But her voice is a croak. ‘Jack…’
With shaking hands, she pulls herself up and manages to climb out of the bath, grabbing a towel from the rail nearby. She is shivering. She wraps the towel around herself but she can’t warm up. The water … She dips a finger into the bath, and finds the water is still hot. Confused, she opens the bathroom door, and sees that Jack is still lying on the bed. Still sleeping. Oblivious.
It wasn’t real.
She climbs onto the bed beside him, pulling the cover off him and over herself. She doesn’t want to touch him; she’s not ready for that yet. But has no choice. She can’t stop shivering, and she needs his body heat.
With a grunt, he shuffles himself under the covers, turns over and hugs her close. She lies there on her back, staring up at the ceiling, not hugging him back. Not daring to move. Trying to breathe in and out – long slow breaths. After a few moments, she turns towards the bathroom door. In her haste to leave, she’d left it open just a crack, and she imagines she can see something moving in the room beyond.
Shadows, Ali. Just shadows.
‘Jack … are you asleep?’ She knows he is, but she yearns to hear his voice. She needs to know that everything is going to be OK. ‘Jack?’ she says again, turning her head back to face him. ‘Something happened in the…’
Her words catch in her throat. Jack’s eyes are wide open, staring straight ahead – straight to the bathroom door.
‘Jack … Oh my God. What is it?’
She turns over again, pulling herself away from him. But there is nothing there. No one is in the bathroom. She imagined it. Didn’t she?
She turns back. ‘Jack?’ she tries once more.
His eyes are closed again now, his chest rising and falling. He is in a deep sleep. His eyes can’t have been open at all. Just something else that she’s imagined.
She slides closer to him, and his arm flops over her like a dead weight. She’s warm now, but there’s no chance of sleep.
She stares up at the ceiling.
