A Cry From Beyond (11 page)

“Where’d
she go, Lennon?”

The
retriever barked once, and circled the chapel’s perimeter, while I
gazed in through one of its narrow slit windows. The derelict
interior was steeped in thick shadow. At that point I experienced
another episode of déjà vu. I was having a lot of those since
arriving at High Bank. As for the blonde, I made a further search
but came up empty handed. So, had I imagined the incident? Hell no;
she’d been standing there as large as life, and looking twice as
good. So where in damnation had she disappeared to?

“Is
anybody in there?!” I called through the window, my voice echoing
within the building’s gloomy confines. All that could be heard was
the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

I stepped
back, looking skywards. Daylight was fading, throwing long shadows
hereabouts. I called out one last time. Yet again I failed to get a
response. I headed back to the cottage feeling confused and
frustrated.

“Where’d
you think she went?” I asked Lennon as we arrived at the back door.
The retriever gazed up at me panting excitedly and barked once,
loudly, in reply. In the kitchen I prepared meat and biscuits for
him, and a light meal of crackers, goat’s cheese and pitted olives,
complimented by a glass of chardonnay for myself. The chardonnay
tasted good, too damn good. By the time the meal was over the
bottle was empty, and I was feeling incredibly mellow. Dusk
arrived, and with it the birds grew riotous. One came to roost at
the window, tapping the glass with its sharp pointed beak, forcing
me to draw the curtains to keep its intrusive presence at
bay.

I slumped
into an armchair where I fell asleep and dreamt. Noises woke me—in
the dream, that is—they were faint and indistinct. They sounded
ghostly, I thought. I left my seat and padded over to the window,
and looked out to be confronted by broad daylight. From where I
stood, beyond High Bank’s back yard the farmhouse grounds could be
glimpsed. Unless I was very much mistaken people occupied the area.
I left the house in order to find out what was going on. Lennon, as
always, ran on ahead of me. I commanded him to wait. He disobeyed,
which was unusual. Then again, it was a dream and things can be
different in dreams. I quickened my pace, trying to catch up, and
entered the farmhouse grounds...where I stopped dead in my
tracks.

For the
farmhouse was no longer a dilapidated shell, having been magically
restored retrospectively to its former glory. It seemed the dream
had transported me back in time, to an era when the place was a
prosperous business. The yard was a hive of activity. A red tractor
trundled by with a skinny youth at the helm. Walking behind was a
man carrying a bucket and a shovel. He disappeared, whistling, into
a barn across the way. Over in the corner a child tried to master
the art of spinning a top.

Down by
the outhouses a worker emerged from the cattle shed with a
pitchfork, while a woman in a shawl hung out washing near the
house. She paused and turned; eyes narrowed against the weak spill
of sunshine that had broken through the clouds. She appeared to
look in my direction, but was in fact focusing on a man standing
just behind me, who was busy rigging up a fence that would stand
for years to come. When she called to him suggesting he take a
break, he promised he would, soon.

“I’ll
just do a bit more,” he shouted in a gruff uncultured voice as he
continued hammering stakes into the ground. From the stables to my
right a horse whinnied. Hens ran loose like wind- up toys. Grunting
pigs were penned up in a sty to the side of the house. Ghosts, all
of them I surmised dreamily, spiritual manifestations from
yesteryear. A teenager in a black cap sauntered past. I reached
out, and to my utter surprise my hand passed straight through his
arm, as if he was formed of mist. Oblivious to the exchange, he
walked away leaving my fingers tingling coldly. I looked across the
yard.

The
farmhouse beckoned.

I pushed
open the front gate.

A
sheepdog lay contentedly near the porch, snoozing. Lennon’s
reaction was to growl. The sheepdog failed to stir. We skirted the
animal, and came to a rectangular window. Beyond was darkness,
within which shadows shifted as, incredibly, the past sought a way
through to the present, this time within the house.

The dream
was growing much too vivid to be anything less than reality, yet
the idea that it was anything other than a dream was unthinkable.
Around the side of the building was a solid wooden door, its handle
gleaming polished brass. When I turned it, the door swung open
without resistance.

Revealed
was a long expansive hallway furnished with an oak dresser, elegant
glass topped table, and two Elizabethan style chairs. By strange
contrast, the decoration was neglected with peeling wallpaper
resembling diseased skin, a flaky ceiling that threatened to
collapse, and a threadbare carpet. Here the past struggled to come
through completely, prevented from doing so, I surmised, by the
limitations of my own imagination.

To the
left was a rather impressive and extremely wide stairway, with a
decorative carved banister. Straight ahead was a door, a faint
crack of light showing at the bottom. Raised voices came from
within the room beyond. I moved closer, compelled to do so by a
need to know. Behind the wood a heated exchange took place between
a father, and his daughter.

“You’ll
be safe here,” the father was heard to say, but the daughter would
have none of it.

“I’m safe
where I am! Please daddy, don’t interfere. He won’t hurt me. He
loves me!”

“He’s got
a strange way of showing it, is all I can say. At least let me talk
to him.”

“No!”

“But I’m
your father! I’m concerned!”

“I said
no! Now for God’s sake let the subject drop!”

Without
warning the door flew open. I stepped back in surprise, just as the
young mother I had first encountered at the party, and then at the
chapel, emerged tearfully from the room. She bore a dark bruise
beneath one eye, and her lower lip was cut. In her haste to leave
the house she walked straight into me, yet no physical impact took
place. Her body passed through mine like a chill breeze. Moments
later, her father wandered out into the hall, clearly a broken man,
to slowly climb the stairs. As he did so, his physical form lost
solidity and definition, to fade back into the past to rejoin the
sleeping dead.

With his
departure the farmhouse grew unpleasantly dark, as the past
withdrew to its rightful place, and made way for the cold black
night of the present to reassert itself. Gradually, the interior of
the house returned to its former decayed and forgotten state, to
become a place where no one ventures for fear of disturbing a past
better left alone.

The room
in which the argument took place was empty, the bare wooden floor
littered with debris, the once impressive high granite fireplace
vandalised, the broken windows boarded like bandaged eyes. The many
paintings and photographs adorning the walls were suddenly caked
with dust. The creeping darkness deepened still further, until it
was virtually impossible to see, prompting me to leave.

As I
passed through the hallway, furnishings degenerated in appearance.
Curtains grew tattered, and moth eaten. Cracks and scratches
appeared on the wooden furniture. Surfaces became faded and marked
from years of wear and tear. Dust and cobwebs formed like a
delicate cloak.

Night met
our departure from the big old house. The yard beyond was empty,
the barns and outhouses a victim of vandalism, and the passage of
time. The clothesline, which had earlier supported freshly
laundered clothes, was now broken, and trailed uselessly along the
cold muddy ground.

I woke
with a start to discover I hadn’t moved a muscle since falling
asleep.

Only that
wasn’t quite true, I quickly realised, for I was in a different
chair.

And I had
on my walking boots.

And they
were caked in fresh mud.

As were
Lennon’s paws.

The dog
and I exchanged a look.

Did he
know something I didn’t?

Was he
thinking the same thing?

I took
time to consider what might have happened.

I must
have sleep walked. Yeah, that was it. I’d suffered a somnambulistic
episode: nothing to get too concerned about.

There
were no ghosts.

I wasn’t
psychic; hell no, it was simply a case of my imagination working
over time.

Yeah,
that had to be it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The
morning was cold and wet, prompting me to cut short Lennon’s daily
walk. Returning to the cottage I found the back door ajar. Although
I didn’t recall locking it, I distinctly remembered shutting it,
because occasionally it had to be pulled forcibly, and today was
one of those days. I walked Lennon into the kitchen and came to a
sudden halt, as the sound of music reached my ears. Music I’d
composed since arriving at the cottage. It was coming from
upstairs. In my absence someone had calmly entered the place,
wandered up into the attic room, and decided to have some fun and
games at my expense.

I made my
way quietly into the front room that overlooked the driveway, and
through the window spied a car, a black Vauxhall. It was not a car
I recognized. One thing was for sure; my intruder wasn’t exactly
the shy retiring type. Keeping Lennon on the leash, I ventured to
the foot of the stairs where I paused, debating whether to call out
from a safe distance in order to discover who was there, or to
brave the situation, and physically confront them. In the end,
confident Lennon would come to my rescue should the need arise, I
decided on the latter course of action. With my heart beat
quickening, I mounted the stairs and started climbing. The music
continued in the form of a song I’d recently penned called “The
Blood of a Rose”, an up tempo pop number.

Arriving
on the landing I again paused, this time to take stock of the open
attic room door at the top of the second flight of stairs. By now
my heart was racing like crazy. Beside me Lennon growled and then
he barked, unintentionally announcing our presence. I decided there
was nothing else for it, but to call out and see what kind of
response I got.

Nothing
happened for a couple of seconds. Then quite suddenly a figure
appeared in the attic room doorway. It was a man. In one hand he
held a half smoked cigarette. In the other what looked like a
notebook. He was middle aged and balding, but otherwise
nondescript. He wore a grubby ill fitting anorak, the kind that can
be purchased from a discount store. He had a smug little grin on
his face, suggesting he thought he had the upper hand. I disliked
him immediately.

“Who are
you, what are you doing in here?” I demanded to know. Lennon
snarled and strained against the leash.

“Norris,
in answer to your first question,” said the stranger, “To talk to
you in answer to your second.” The smug little grin widened
imperceptibly.

“You’re
trespassing,” I reminded him.

“Door was
open,” he responded, as if that made it all right.

“It was
shut,” I argued. “I remember closing it.”

“Wind
must have blown it open.”

“And did
the wind turn on the CD player?”

“Thought
I would amuse myself while I waited for you,” he said, shrugging.
“Nice catchy stuff by the way. Is it new material?”

When I
failed to answer he said, “Shall we talk up here?” and jerked his
head, indicating the attic room. “Or will it be downstairs? It’s
your call.”

“What
makes you think I want to talk to you?” I asked. “What makes you
think I won’t simply call the police, or set my dog on you? You
still haven’t told me your business here?”

He slowly
descended the stairs. Lennon’s tensed and gave a throaty growl. I
yanked the leash, instructing the retriever to be quiet. Norris
arrived on the cramped landing, at which point he flipped the
cigarette into his mouth, and with his hand freed produced a dog
eared Press Card from the inside pocket of his anorak. Lennon
barked ferociously. Norris stared dispassionately, and said
nothing.

“Well, Mr
Norris,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even, “I’m
waiting.”

“Ashley
Chronicle,” he announced, flashing the card, “Thought I’d give you
the chance to put your side of the story.” He nodded towards
Lennon. “By the way, if your pooch takes a chunk out of me, I’ll
sue.”

He
brushed past and descended the stairs to ground level, leaving me
staring into space, contemplating the implication of what he’d just
said.

By the
time I entered the lounge, having locked Lennon in the kitchen,
he’d made himself comfortable in an armchair by the window, and was
puffing on the now lighted cigarette. A trail of grey blue smoke
rose lazily into the air.

“Make
yourself at home why don’t you,” I said, irritated by his cocksure
manner.

“Why
don’t you relax Mr O’Shea,” he parried. “What’s the big deal? I
need to talk to you about an important matter. So I come here, find
the place unlocked and let myself in. I haven’t exactly committed
murder. Now, you on the other hand...” He purposely left the
sentence unfinished.