The Stonypool Curse E-Book

Andrew Braeman

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 312

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

It's the end of the summer season in a small seaside town. Just as its residents are looking forward to a slower pace, their lives are disturbed by a catalogue of strange appearances and disquieting events. Craig Norton, publisher's assistant with an interest in the paranormal, arrives to visit his aunt. He's on a quest to end a fifty-year-old curse issued by a servant of the Brethren of the Visiting Spirits. He enlists the help of Tara, the beautiful and voluptuous manager of the Beach View Hotel. But what is the significance of her role? A couple fall in love against a background of missing and reappearing people, death, destruction, and the haunting chimes of an ice cream van. What happened in the old Empire Ballroom all those years ago? And can a reoccurrence be prevented?

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2024 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99146-921-6

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99146-922-3

Editor:Gillian Fisher

Cover photo: Zoom-zoom | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

The Stonypool Curse

A small English seaside town,

late October, 1970

Chapter 1

Day One

I’m sure that for many of us, a typical English seaside town is somewhere we love to be, with its slightly dated facades, everything needed for a day on the beach there for the purchasing, from buckets and spades to newspapers and ice creams. A certain magic exists. But come autumn, when traders have shut up shop and holidaymakers are a distant memory, a strange melancholy descends. Stonypool is just such a town. Only in that late autumn, it wasn’t only melancholy that descended; it was accompanied by evil.

The season was well and truly over in Stonypool. Even Moira Taggart, who ran the tiny museum that nestled between a chip shop and an amusement arcade, had pulled down the shutters. That place was her life and Moira Taggart was a museum piece herself now. Approaching ninety, and thirty years a widow, she took up a stick from behind the counter, turned off the lights, unhooked her coat from the coat rack and slipping it on went out into the now dark autumn afternoon. ‘She’ll not be here next year’ was heard among Stonypool traders every year. But back she came, a little more stooped, a little more deaf. That had been her twenty-fifth season.

What is to be found in Mrs Taggart ‘s museum? A reasonable question. Artefacts from the town’s past, old photographs – many of significant local events – artefacts from local shipwrecks, personal effects of long-dead mariners, and a rather out-of-place collection of witch bottles and other items intended to ward off evil that had been recovered from the many fishermen’s cottages when they were demolished to make way for the grand Victorian villas and hotels that were to follow.

Moira locked the door, trying the handle three times to ensure it was indeed locked: a twenty-five-year-old habit. She turned to face the sea, but with failing hearing, she didn’t hear the crash from inside the museum. Neither did she see the peculiar purple glow that permeated from within. Tonight, those artefacts intended for the warding off of evil would have their work cut out for them.

Almost directly opposite, the bald and rotund pier manager, Dennis Rawlson, stood by the pay kiosk, inhaling heavily on a cigar. It had been a good summer and he was more than ready for a break. The pier had been in safe hands since he had taken over. A well-liked individual, Dennis held a place on the local council and gave generously to local charities. There was but one flaw in his otherwise settled life: his somewhat turbulent marriage of thirty years to his wife, Rita. Locking the turnstile behind him, he made his way along the now darkened pier, checking doors, and making sure that the piles of deckchairs were firmly strapped down. The only guests now were the seagulls and it seemed to Dennis that even they were fewer this year. He wandered into the central amusement arcade, the machines now lifeless. Three widely spaced ceiling-hung light bulbs provided the only illumination. It failed to attract his attention how they swung on this day when there was no wind and the sea was flat calm.

Exiting at the other end of the arcade, he progressed a few yards to the entrance of the End of the Pier Theatre. It was his pride and joy. He had kept it faithful to its Victorian origins. On many afternoons in the summer its two hundred seats were filled. He relit his cigar, opened the doors and proceeded, with the assistance of the emergency lighting, through the foyer to the entrance to the auditorium where on the left there was a small cupboard that contained switches for the house lighting. A second later the auditorium was flooded with light. For a few moments Dennis looked on with pride before turning back to the switch panel. Had he looked up, he would have seen what resembled the limp body of a young man hanging from the gallery above, swinging like those light bulbs in the arcade, which seconds later had faded away. Was it the thought of going home to his wife that was making him feel strangely angry, or was it something he had no control over?

Meanwhile, outside the pier entrance, Madame Volatska, real name Mary Sharp, the fortune-teller, had returned to her tiny kiosk to collect things that needed to be taken home and kept dry for the winter. As she locked the door for the last time that year, she looked across the promenade and noticed the glow emanating from Moira Taggart’s museum. However, she thought little of it, assuming that Moira was still in residence. Mary was never surprised at the things Moira got up to in that place after closing. But, had she looked back before leaving, she would have seen a girl, no more than eleven or twelve years old, dressed in a white summer dress and completely drenched, her long dark hair hanging lank around a paper-white face, who soon faded away.

Two hundred yards to the west of the pier, the landlord of the Ship and Anchor public house was bottling up in the bar, although he was not expecting a busy evening. Only locals this time of year. Ken Lomes was a generally happy and contented but sometimes ill tempered man, although his permanent hang-dog expression and deep-set eyes made him look anything but. He was sure his best friend, Dennis Rawlson, would be in that night for his two pints of Dutch courage before going home to his wife. Ken had heard everything there was to hear about Dennis’ disastrous marriage over the years, although he didn’t believe it could be as bad as Dennis made out. After all, he had met Rita Rawlson many times and always found her an attractive but somewhat coarse woman who could quickly irritate him. And she had a propensity to appear in public somewhat overly made-up. As Ken served the first customers of the evening, he failed to hear the sound of a glass smashing behind the counter of the empty saloon bar.

A short distance to the east of the pier stands the Beach View Hotel, and behind the counter stood Tara Jones. In her late twenties, she looked a little older – in fact very much the seaside landlady. It was the start of Tara’s first winter season since taking over Beach View Hotel. It had been a busy summer and she was grateful for the quieter days of autumn. There were only three guests in residence: a young couple from London, who were there for a family wedding, and a young female sales representative in town on business.

Soon, however, the guest count would be reduced by one as the lone female arrived at the reception desk, complaining of disturbing occurrences in her room earlier, and that morning she had reported knocking coming from the floors and walls, objects moving, and the ceiling light seemingly having a mind of its own. If she had looked back as she fled the room forever, she would have seen the lifeless body of a woman lying upon the bed, a trickle of blood at her right wrist, eyes wide open, fixed in a startled stare, who seconds later faded away.

A young couple were walking arm in arm along the promenade. They were clearly very much in love. And as is often said, love is blind, and in this case it was true. They failed to notice the young man staggering in a ginnel between two shops, a knife sticking out from his back, who, a moment later, faded away.

What everyone also seemingly failed to notice was the peculiar purple hue of the sky above the long disused Empire Ballroom. The Empire Ballroom had opened in the late 1800s as the Victoria Dance Hall. For over 80 years, it had welcomed the young and old of Stonypool for nights of dancing and entertainment – before Bingo became the trend – followed by closure when the leaseholders, facing financial difficulty, could no longer honour the terms of the full maintenance lease. Since then, decay and vandalism had taken its toll. It had a reputation among the local population for being haunted, as so often old and disused buildings do. What they didn’t know was the secret the Empire Ballroom had kept so well concealed for so long.

Was that the reason why vagrant Frank Chapley, who usually slept inside, behind the unlocked and open back doors at the rear of the ballroom, now chose to sleep outside and face the ravages of the autumnal weather? Later that night, Frank could be seen running, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the old ballroom. And if he had turned to look back, he would maybe have been the first to notice that peculiar light in the sky above the building. That evening was just the start of so much strangeness.

Chapter 2

Day Two

Dennis Rawlson awoke, as was his habit, at seven o’clock. He showered, took his dressing gown from the chair by the bed, and slipping it on went to the window and opened the curtains to be greeted by a dull and damp morning. He turned away in disgust at the sight of a dead seagull on his balcony, its head torn from its shoulders.

Rita Rawlson awoke. It was clear her mood was less than good.

‘Dennis, you woke me. You said last night that you would lie in as the season’s over. I won’t get back to sleep now. And what are you looking at on the balcony?

Dennis smiled. ‘Death, my dear. Death!’

‘You speak in riddles, Dennis. Go and make me a cup of tea. And I don’t want you under my feet all day. Go and find something to do. Constructive, mind, not the Ship and Anchor.

Dennis’ smile grew broader, but Rita could not see. ‘Yes, dear. Absolutely.’ But he was thinking,of course I’ll go to the Ship and Anchor.

By eight o’clock, Dennis had left a dishevelled and nagging Rita sitting at the kitchen table as he made his way out onto the street. Outside, a light drizzle was falling. There was something wrong, Dennis could sense it. The clouds, flat, grey, obscuring the sky, had a strange purple-orange hue. The air seemed thick, heavy. It wasn’t particularly cold. There was a peculiar smell carried on the slight breeze.

He stepped on something soft that crunched under his weight. He looked down and gagged. Another headless seagull. He raised his head. Before him, along the High Street, were thirty, forty, maybe fifty dead – and so far as he could tell – headless seagulls, which, as he made his way towards the seafront, is what he realised they were. Recovering from the initial shock, a thought came into his mind that this was going to be a somewhat difficult clean-up operation for the town council, and that questions would be asked by the committee as to how it had happened.

At the end of the High Street, near the seafront, Dennis turned left, and seconds later he stood rooted to the spot outside the Empire Ballroom. Was it his imagination or was that a scream he had heard from within the once grand venue? He stood, his senses sharp. Another scream, the sound of which he could only reconcile as women crying. Then came a series of loud bangs. Then silence.

At the Ship and Anchor, Ken Lomes was standing behind the bar, tidying. He wasn’t expecting much custom that day, but he liked everything to be in order. Having restocked the shelves in the public bar, he walked through to the saloon bar, pausing at the sight that greeted him. Behind the bar was a sea of broken glass. He looked at the shelf above the bar. Not a glass to be seen. The sturdy shelf was intact, not leaning at some precarious angle. For a while he just stood and stared, not knowing quite the best way to deal with what he had encountered. And as he stood and contemplated, there was a furious knocking upon the front door.

Ken called out, ‘We’re closed!’

In reply came a muffled voice he recognised. ‘Ken, it’s Dennis. Let me in quick!’

Ken ran to the door, turned keys in locks, and opened it. A clearly distressed Dennis Rawlson burst in.

‘Ken, fetch me a brandy. Fast!’

Madame Volatska, aka Mary Sharp, fortune-teller, awoke later than was usual for her. She had not set her alarm clock. After all, there was nowhere she needed to be. Prising herself from her bed, she slipped on her dressing gown and made her way to the kitchen. Crossing the threshold, she put a foot on the tiled floor, and stepped into a freezing cold pool of water. Her immediate reaction was to look up at the ceiling, expecting to see damage from a burst pipe. Nothing. Stepping over the puddle, she filled the kettle and switched it on to boil. Then she took a tea towel to place over the puddle, and on hands and knees she began to mop it up, unaware that behind her stood the drowned girl who had appeared at the pier the night before.

The telephone rang.

At the Ship and Anchor, Dennis Rawlson had begun to feel more himself after two large brandies, and was trying to reconcile the events of the morning in his mind by explaining them to the ever-understanding landlord.

‘So, Ken, what do you think? Strange, eh?’

‘I think you’d better come and have a look at this, Dennis.’ Ken led the way to the saloon bar, lifted the latch and beckoned for Dennis to go behind the bar with him.

‘Blimey, Ken! What happened? Angry customer?’ Dennis chuckled.

‘In some way, Dennis, I wish it was. At least then there would be an explanation.’

‘Fetch a dustpan and brush, Ken. I’ll give you a hand to clean it up. So, you really have no idea how this happened?’

The telephone rang in the hallway of the living accommodation and the answering machine, Ken’s new pride and joy, cut in:

‘Hello. This is Ken Lomes, landlord of the Ship and Anchor. I can’t get to the phone right now, so please leave your message after the tone.’

‘It’s Rita. Rita Rawlson. If my useless husband is there – and I’m sure he is – tell him he’s in big trouble!’

At the back of the Empire Ballroom, two young boys stood at the open doors, daring each other to go inside. Tim Marks and David Rudd, typical boys, and always pushing boundaries.

‘Go inside, Tim,’ quipped David.

‘No. You go inside, David. I’ll give you half of my week’s pocket money if you do.’

Of course, he had no intention of doing that, but the somewhat gullible David agreed. Pushing the doors further open, David stared into the darkness then took a few steps inside, rubble and broken glass crunching under foot. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he took a few more steps, then tripped over something on the floor. He fell, landing on something soft. Reaching down he felt what he thought was a bundle of rags, but as he searched, his right hand encountered what could only be a bearded face. He jumped up in horror and screamed, alerting Tim to his distress.

‘David! Are you okay?’

‘No! There’s a dead man in here!’

Madame Volatska lifted the receiver of her telephone. ‘Hello.’

‘Is that Mary, Mary Sharp?

‘It is. Who’s calling?’

‘It’s your nephew, Craig. Craig Norton.’

‘Craig? It must be ten years since I last spoke to you!’

‘At least that, Mary. Listen, I’m coming down your way. I was wondering if I could stay with you. Just for a few days?’

‘Of course you can, Craig. I’d enjoy the company to be honest. When are you planning to come?’

‘This afternoon if that’s okay? I’m planning to catch the twelve o’clock train, so I should be there by two thirty.’

‘That soon! Fine with me. Can I ask what you’re coming down for?’

‘Something tells me I’m going to be needed, Mary. I assume you’re still living at the same place?’

‘Yes, I am. Needed for what?’

‘I’ll explain when I see you. Is everything alright there? Nothing unusual happened?’

‘Well, only what I thought was a leak in the kitchen, big pool of water, you know. But it turns out it isn’t.’

‘I definitely need to get to you. Bye. And thanks, Mary. See you later.’

At the Beach View Hotel, the young couple, the only remaining guests, were at the reception desk to check out.

‘We’ve had a lovely stay, Miss Jones, but I think you might have vermin in the wall cavities. Terrible scratching all night. Oh, and I do apologise, but we found one of the bedside lamps on the floor this morning. The shade is damaged. I’m sure it wasn’t us, but of course I’m very happy to pay for the damage.’

Tara Jones smiled. ‘No, I’ve been meaning to replace them anyway. I do apologise if you had a disturbed night. I’m pleased you enjoyed your stay.’

There was a crash from upstairs. The three turned their heads at the same instant towards the staircase.

Two distressed boys, Tim Marks and David Rudd, stood at the counter of the front office of Stonypool Police Station, explaining their grisly find to PC Steve Bardon, the local beat constable.

‘A body you say? In the old Empire Ballroom?’

‘Well, that’s what David said it was. I only looked from a distance,’ remarked Tim.

PC Bardon took his jacket from the stand behind the desk.

‘Well, we’d better go and take a look. I think I’ll take the Panda car though.

Despite the shock of that morning, the thought of a ride in a police car brought a smile to the boys’ faces.

At the Ship and Anchor, Dennis and Ken had cleared the last of the glass from behind the saloon bar.

‘Listen, Ken, I’m not going home. Rita is clearly in a foul mood.’

‘I gathered that, Dennis. You can stay here if you like.’

‘I could, or we could go over to the pier and have a few rounds of cards in the theatre?’

‘Sounds good to me, Dennis. My new barmaid, Julie, will be here soon and it’s not going to be a busy day anyway. It’ll be good to see how she copes on her own.’

‘Perfect! Grab a bottle of whisky and bring your cash. You’re going to need it!’

Ten minutes later, they were outside, watching with interest as a Panda car driven by PC Bardon, with two young boys in the back, sped past.

‘There goes trouble, Ken. I bet those boys know something about the seagulls.’

Madame Volatska sat at her kitchen table with a freshly prepared coffee. She felt cold, despite the heating running flat out. Pulling her bathrobe tightly around herself, she heard the dripping of water behind her. She turned, screamed, and ran to the back door, away from the drenched girl who held out her hands.

Tara Jones made her way upstairs at the Beach View Hotel to prepare the recently vacated room for the next guests. She took the broken lamp and placed it on the trolley and smiled. That smile soon melted away.

When she turned towards the bed to remove the sheets, there lay a young woman, her dark hair about her on the pillow, framing a face so very white, eyes wide open, a trickle of blood upon her right wrist. Tara sank into the chair that stood by the door. She put her hands to her eyes. When she took them away and looked again at the bed, the woman was gone. Tara sat staring, and a terrible feeling of sadness overwhelmed her. She stood up to look out of the window. PC Bardon’s Panda car passed along the promenade. It was going to be a busy day for her.

Chapter 3

Dennis Rawlson had called a colleague at the council and an operation was already in place to clear away the dead seagulls. Townsfolk were now occupying the High Street and watched with equal amounts of interest and disgust as the dead seagulls were loaded into bulging black sacks.

Young mother Debbie Barry pushed the pram containing her precious baby son past a group of council workmen. She paused, intrigued by what had happened. She asked the workman nearest to her what he thought had gone on.

‘We have absolutely no idea, love. Horrible, isn’t it? Bet it has something to do with local youths.’

Debbie turned and screamed. Her son was out of the pram and lying on the ground surrounded by headless seagulls.

PC Bardon, torch in hand, stood at the rear doors of the Empire Ballroom with Tim Marks and David Rudd. ‘Lead the way lads.’ He shone his torch through the doorway, confident he would find something that a young boy could mistake for a body but which definitely was not a body.

The boys, David in front, slowed as they approached the bundle he had tripped over just an hour before. He pointed, and PC Bardon swung the beam of his torch downward, illuminating a bearded face, eyes staring upwards.

‘Come away, lads. I’m going to need to call this one in on the radio.’ He knew whose lifeless body this was. He had in the past had many dealings with this man. It was local vagrant and rough sleeper Frank Chapley. Bardon led the way back with the boys following close behind.

As they reached the door, a man’s laughter and then a woman’s cry rang out from somewhere within the depths of the ballroom. ‘Make your way home, lads. I’m going to have to stay here until reinforcements arrive. Oh, and thanks, but I suggest you stay away from this place in future.’

When the boys arrived home, news of their gruesome find had somehow leaked out and had spread fast as anxious townsfolk passed the word to friends and neighbours.

Dennis Rawlson and Ken Lomes stared at the entrance to the pier. Dennis unlocked the gates and the turnstile. ‘Here, Dennis, I’ve never noticed that before. Bit too late to be introducing a new attraction, isn’t it?’

Dennis followed Ken’s gaze. ‘What on earth!’

There, just beyond the gate, was a red and white striped kiosk with a painted sign: ‘Punch and Judy’.

‘I assure you I know nothing about that, Ken, but I’m sure I soon will. Come on.’

‘I haven’t seen a Punch and Judy show on the pier for over forty years, Dennis. It was in that exact place every year when I was a lad.’

As they approached, they stopped. The kiosk, so real seconds before, had gone. All that remained was Mr Punch’s maniacal laughter.

‘Ken, bring that whisky. I think we’re going to need it.’

Madame Volatska, still in just a dressing gown, sat in front of the fire in the back room of the Ship and Anchor while a concerned Julie brought her coffee. ‘I’m telling you, Julie, she was definitely there, as real as you are to me now. And she dripped water on my floor. I don’t know what to think, but it scared the shit out of me and I’m not someone who scares easily you know, what with my dabbling in the world of spirits. Thank goodness my nephew is coming to stay. I’m not going back there on my own. I’ll meet him outside and he can go in first.’

In the High Street, Debbie Barry held her baby son close to her chest as a council worker led her to a bench. The child seemed not the slightest disturbed or injured by whatever had happened, and whatever it was remained a mystery.

By half past eleven, crime scene investigators had completed their work, the body of Frank Chapley was on its way to the mortuary, and PC Bardon had arrived back at the police station to be greeted by a crowd of some twenty people. Among them were three journalists hungry for information about the death and other events in the town that they had become aware of. The rest were members of the public who once inside made reports of the most strange and mysterious nature. By far the most bizarre, reported by two people, was the sighting of an out-of-control car on the seafront that was apparently driverless.

Statements completed, worried residents and business owners placated, PC Bardon locked the door of the police station, ignoring the telephone that had been ringing almost continually since he had arrived earlier. This time he left the Panda car behind and proceeded on foot, his mind in turmoil. By the time he reached the seafront, usually a ten-minute walk, he had been accosted seven, eight, maybe nine times, by concerned townsfolk reporting yet further unusual occurrences and asking questions about the finding of Frank Chapley’s body. ‘Was violence involved?’

After forty-five minutes, he finally arrived at the commemorative clock tower on the seafront, the affixed plaque there to remind passers-by of a visit to the town by Queen Victoria. Bardon looked down at his wrist-watch then up at one of the faces of the clock, a clock he remembered being told, which had not stopped for over thirty years, to check his own timepiece. The clock had seemingly stopped, its hands frozen at half past one.

Crossing the road, his attention was drawn to the window of the museum. What appeared to be blood had run down the inside surface of the glass. He drew his face close to the pane of glass in the front door, his hands clasped to his cheeks to improve his view. On the white-tiled floor was a symbol: a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle, with a reversed ‘Z’ at its centre, drawn in what again appeared to be blood, albeit crudely as if scribed by a human finger. Immediate concern for Moira Taggart consumed his thoughts. He had to get to her bungalow now, but that was at least a twenty-minute walk.

He turned, his intention to return to the police station to collect the Panda car. As he did, a small Fiat car hooted and stopped. The driver’s window lowered. Behind it was the face of concerned hotel proprietor, Tara Jones.

‘PC Bardon. Thank goodness! I was hoping I would see you. I need to tell you something. You’ll think I’m losing my mind though!’

The young policeman smiled.

‘After some of the things I’ve heard and seen today, nothing would surprise me, Tara. Anyway, I need to ask you a favour. I left the Panda car back at the police station. Is it possible you could give me a lift to Moira Taggart’s place? Something’s happened at the museum.’

Tara turned and nodded in the direction of the passenger door of the Fiat. ‘Get in, officer!’ On the short journey, Tara explained her earlier experience.

The young policeman listened intently, not really knowing how he should reply, but settling for, ‘Well, there’s a lot of strange things that happened last night. I don’t suppose for a minute I’ve heard the last of them yet.’

Drawing up outside Moira Taggart’s bungalow, PC Bardon turned to face Tara. ‘Thank you so much, Tara. I owe you.’

The attractive, curvaceous young lady smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, that’s alright. How could I refuse a handsome man like you. A kiss on the cheek would be payment enough.’

The young policeman blushed, looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and, leaning towards his target, delivered a brief but heartfelt kiss. It was as he drew away that his attention was drawn to the earring that adorned Tara’s left lobe. An inverted five-pointed star surrounded by a circle, with a reversed ‘Z’ at its centre.

Chapter 4

Inside the Pier Theatre, Dennis and Ken had been playing cards for nearly an hour. In front of Ken was a substantial quantity of money. In front of Dennis, two £1 notes and a two-thirds-empty whisky bottle. Ken picked up the notes in front of him and began sorting them into an orderly pile.

‘I think we should call it a day as far as cards are concerned, Dennis.’ He took his wallet from his jacket pocket and crammed the notes inside, then struggled to close the now bulging accessory.

Dennis looked up and down and raised his eyebrows. ‘One more hand, Ken. At least give me a chance to win some of my money back.’

Ken smiled. ‘Maybe a bit later. I need a break.’

Dennis pushed his remaining two £1 notes into his top pocket and proceeded to stack the playing cards in a neat deck. ‘Come on then, Ken. Let’s go and sit in a couple of the auditorium seats while we finish off what’s left of this bottle.

The pair, by then awash with whisky, made their stumbling way to the back row of seats in the theatre auditorium.

Young mother Debbie Barry was back at home still shaken by the events of earlier that day. Undressing her precious son for his bath, she inspected him closely, still not convinced that he had been left unmarked from his apparent fall. Rolling him onto his back, she noticed a small circular red patch on his left shoulder. She looked closer, her brow furrowed, and she screamed. The patch was a symbol: an inverted five-pointed star surrounded by a circle, at its centre a reversed ‘Z’.

‘PC Bardon, what can I do for you?’ Moira Taggart had answered a knock at her front door.

‘Moira, apologies for disturbing you. I need to speak to you about the museum. There appears to be some, how shall I put it, damage.’

‘Come in, PC Bardon. Let’s go through to the front room. I can’t take bad news standing up.’

Within a few minutes the young policeman had explained what he saw through the front door window at the museum to Moira, who, in her deep Scottish brogue had some information for him also.

‘Last night, two wee lads and their father came to my front door. The lads had been worried because they had seen some flashing lights through the museum window. They were worried it might have been a fire, so they got their father to look. He convinced them it wasn’t a fire, but he was concerned. He got my home address from the card in the museum window. They came over and took me down there. I looked around and all seemed in order, or so I told them, as I didn’t want to upset the little ones. But something was definitely not alright with one of the displays.

‘They’ve come back for their stuff to protect themselves, you see, and from what you’ve told me, they’ll be needing it.’

PC Bardon’s brow furrowed.

Dennis and Ken were still seated in the rear seats at the Pier Theatre. The whisky bottle was empty, and without the distraction of the card game they had begun to discuss and try to rationalise the strange but definite appearance of the Punch and Judy kiosk earlier.

‘We both saw it, Dennis, and we were certainly not that worse for wear with drink then. I’ve heard it’s possible for the mind to conjure up images of things we remember.’

Dennis drained the last remaining drops of whisky from his glass. ‘That’s fine, Ken, but webothsaw it. I wouldn’t remember it anyway. I’d never been here when that was on the pier.’

‘Well, that’s a spanner in the works of that theory. I reckon we could think clearer if we had another drink. You must still have some stuff behind the theatre bar.’

‘I have, Ken, but if I go home pissed at this time of day, Rita will kill me.’

Ken laughed, but his laughter was soon replaced by a gasp and a look of horror. ‘Dennis. Look!’

Both men watched transfixed as the stage curtains opened to reveal what appeared to be a body lying prone upon the boards. It took only moments for the two drunken men to stumble their way out of the theatre, although what they encountered outside proved to be an even greater shock.

PC Bardon had walked with Moira Taggart the twenty minutes from her bungalow to the museum. Moira took a sharp intake of breath when she saw the state of the windows. ‘I think you’d better open up and take a look. There’s something I want you to see.’

Unlocking the door and stepping inside, Moira’s attention was immediately drawn to the strange symbol on the floor. She sighed.

‘Moira, does this symbol mean anything to you?’

For a moment, Moira stood in thought. ‘It might, PC Bardon. It might.’

Chapter 5

Madame Volatska, dressed in little more than a borrowed gentleman’s overcoat, had made her way back to her flat, although she was still unwilling to go inside. She lit a cigarette and drew the coat close around her, hoping her nephew would not be much longer. Was it the cold, or was it something else that was making her shiver wildly? Her nephew was only minutes away, fortunately. She placed open palms against her cheeks and pressed her face against the glass of the back door of her flat. On the other side of the glass the white face of a girl with soaking wet hair looked back at her. For a few moments their eyes locked, then the glass misted over, and the silent Madame Volatska, her legs now no firmer than jelly, sank slowly to the floor, which is where her nephew, thirty-year-old publisher’s assistant Craig Norton, found her.

Dennis Rawlson and Ken Lomes burst out of the doors of the Pier Theatre, their intention to reach the gates of the pier as quickly as possible. That was before a loud rumbling and splashing sound, followed by a shuddering of the pier structure, made them stop. Their heads turning simultaneously to be met by the sight of a paddle steamer mooring at the pier head.

‘Dennis, I don’t believe it. It’s theIsland Queen!’

Dennis looked puzzled. ‘You recognise her, Ken?’

Ken lowered himself slowly onto one of the nearby benches. ‘Recognise her? I saw her two days ago. She’s moored in a tributary seven miles away, decaying. She’s been there for twenty years that I know of.’

Dennis sank down onto the bench beside Ken. What happened next made them want to get up and continue running.

Madame Volatska’s nephew found his aunt lying on the flagstones outside the back door of her flat, dressed in little more than a man’s overcoat. Placing his right arm behind her neck, he slowly raised her head. As he did so, his aunt’s eyelids fluttered. She was back in the world of the conscious. It would be a few moments more until her eyes focused upon the good-looking young man who stood over her.

‘Craig?’

‘Mary?’

The exchange of smiles answered that question without the need for words. Craig Norton helped his aunt to her feet.

‘It’s so good to see you, Craig. Still as handsome as ever!’

She explained all that had happened at her flat during the previous hours, adding, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to arrive before I even think about going in. If I see that girl once more, I swear it will be the end of me.’

Mary handed the keys to her flat to her nephew and took a few steps back as he turned the key in the lock and slowly swung the door open.

‘Seems like I’ve arrived just in time, Mary.’

On the pier Dennis Rawlson and Ken Lomes stood open-mouthed as the long decommissioned paddle steamerIsland Queendischarged her compliment of strange passengers onto the landing stage. As the last one departed, the years of decay and neglect that theIsland Queenhad suffered reappeared in the space of a minute: paint peeling, windows breaking, superstructure collapsing. Then she was gone, simply fading away. However, the strange passengers remained and were now starting to climb the few steps from the landing stage onto the pier itself.

Dennis and Ken stood as if rooted to the spot as the first of the passengers approached, a man dressed in the style of fifty years before.

He was waving in his hand a small piece of paper in the direction of Dennis Rawlson, while calling out in a raised voice, ‘Sir, can you direct us to the Empire Ballroom. There’s a gathering there soon, a sort of séance. They’re promising some amazing things will happen.’ He showed Dennis the paper he held. It was a ticket issued by the Empire Ballroom fifty years previously. On it was a symbol: an inverted five-pointed star surrounded by a circle, with a reversed ‘Z’ at its centre.

The light of day was beginning to fade, the wind had gathered in strength and a heavy bank of cloud was gathering to the west. Above the Empire Ballroom, a strange blue almost purple glow had begun to form. Outside its doors, a crowd was gathering. Not a crowd of the living, but a crowd of the dead, although to the casual onlooker there would appear to be no difference. But if there was a difference to be observed, it was only in the style of their clothing and the strange distortion of their faces. On the walls on either side of the wide ballroom doors were posters advertising a séance by the Brethren of the Visiting Spirits, and in the centre of the poster, a symbol: an inverted five-pointed star surrounded by a circle, with a reversed ‘Z’ at its centre. The peculiar, deceased folk of the crowd read and pointed.

Chapter 6