A Cry From Beyond (12 page)

“What’s
that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever
you want it to, I guess.”

I could
have kicked him out right there and then, I suppose, but he was
Press, and it wasn’t a good idea to get on the wrong side of
paparazzi regardless of their stature within the industry, or their
attitude. I sat down opposite him and waited.

“How’s
the writing going?” he asked, flicking ash into an
ashtray.

“It would
go better without the interruptions Mr Norris.”

He drew
on the cigarette, exhaled smoke, milking the situation for all it
was worth.

Finally:
“What’s the story with the disappearances?”

“There
isn’t one.”

“Two
people vanish from here in as many days. That’s a story in
itself.”

“Nobody
knows what happened,” I said. “Not yet anyway.”

He drew
slowly on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of
smoke.

“This
area is a strange one,” he said gazing out of the window. “It’s got
a rather unpleasant history. Were you aware of that?”

“I’m
learning,” I said.

“I take
it you know about the suicide that took place in this
cottage?”

I nodded
my head.

“And the
three girls that disappeared shortly before, do you know about
them?”

Again I
nodded, whilst wondering where this was leading.

“And then
there was the suicide victim’s wife and daughter, who allegedly ran
away, never to return, but they may as well have disappeared like
the rest of them, don’t you think? And then there was the one that
vanished on her way home from a friends place a few years later.
Did you know about that one?”

I
didn’t.

He
clocked the fact, and gave a self satisfied smile.

“What’s
your point, Mr Norris?”

“It’s
like history is repeating itself. You turn up here and suddenly,
wham, people start vanishing again.”

“What
exactly are you implying?”

“I’m not
implying anything Mr O’Shea. But it’s a strange coincidence, don’t
you think? Tell me, have you ever been here before?”

I stared
incredulously. “I’m twenty nine years old for God’s sake. I was no
more than a kid when the stuff you’re talking about
happened.”

“Yeah, I
know,” he agreed. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I
haven’t been here before.”

“
Forget about the disappearances for the moment,” he said,
changing tack, “how about giving me an exclusive on your proposed
comeback?”

“
I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to my agent,” I said meaning
it.

“Don’t be
so predictable. Ever heard the phrase “beggars can’t be
choosers”?”

He was
trying to provoke me. I was determined not to rise to the bait, but
it was difficult.

“Why
don’t you come straight to the point, Mr Norris, while you’ve still
got the chance?”

He
stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on his
knees.

“You’re
not exactly in the driver’s seat anymore, Mr O’Shea. The public
have

short
memories when it comes to pop singers.”

“I’m more
than a singer,” I argued, riled by his impertinence. “I write my
own material. I’ve written songs that artists will always want to
record. I own publishing rights. So long as my songs exist, I will
get recognition and revenue.” The revenue part wasn’t exactly true.
Copyright to most of my songs was now owned by third parties. I’d
needed cash that badly.

Ignorant
of the fact, Norris was nevertheless unimpressed. “Yeah, right,” he
said, “but what happens in a few years time when you’re forgotten
as an artist, and your songs sound dated and become unfashionable,
and through complacency you’ve lost touch with the guys that
matter?” He raised his eyebrows knowingly, and flashed that
irritating little grin at me again. “Suddenly not many artists will
be singing O’Shea stuff anymore. Your place will have been taken by
younger fresher, more productive writers, eager for success. And
then there are the artists who write for themselves. You’ll find
yourself forgotten and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wish you’d spoken
to the little people like me. So, how about it? From little acorns
etc, etc...”

I’d had
enough.

“
I think you should leave, Mr Norris, before I do something
we’ll both regret.” I stood and motioned for him to do the
same.

He did
so, grudgingly. “Have it your way Mr O’Shea, but a word of advice:
it might pay you to be nice to the people on the way up the ladder
in case you meet them again on the way down; know what I mean?” He
pulled a crumpled business card from his back pocket, and dumped it
on the coffee table. “When you finally come to your senses, give me
a call.”

He headed
out of the room, crossed the hall and reached the front door. As a
parting shot, he said, “I would heavily advise you to buy a copy of
the Chronicle next week. It’ll carry a little story about the
recluse staying at High Bank Cottage who keeps mislaying his
guests. Careless, don’t you think?” He grinned, apparently pleased
with himself.

“Get
out,” I said and pulled open the front door.

“My
pleasure Mr O’Shea...I’ll be seeing you.”

He walked
out onto the drive leaving me free to slam the door shut behind
him.

CHAPTER NINE

It’s like
this: you’re a red blooded young male who has a burning desire to
become a star, because everyone knows that being a star gives you
access to fame and fortune, and an endless supply of nubile young
women. Only not many of these red blooded young males are fortunate
enough to see their dream fulfilled.

Well, I
was one of the lucky ones. I had it all by age twenty five. Two hit
records, a hit album that went platinum, money coming out of my
ears, and a truckload of gorgeous nymphs prepared to pander to my
slightest whim. It’s a tough life, is it not? By the time I reached
the grand old age of twenty seven, I was a burnt out shell of my
former self, drugged up to the eyeballs, barely capable of
stringing two words together without the help of a fix of either
coke—and I’m talking here about the powdered variety—or whisky. And
if neither of those two commodities were available, I would gladly
have settled for lighter fuel, or meths, well, not quite, but it
got pretty bad.

In those
dim and distant days my world was constantly filled with weird and
wonderful imagery that the logical, sane part of my brain knew
could not possibly be real, yet was forced to accept as such, due
to the powerful effect of the hallucinatory substances I insisted
pumping into my beleaguered body.

Inevitably, my climb to superstardom stalled, and I fell back
to earth with an almighty bump. Having reached rock bottom, I
finally came to my senses, and with a little help from my friends,
managed to clean up my act, which allowed me to begin the onerous
task of getting my career back on track. I was too late to save
myself financially, however, hence the reason for the forced sale
of the docklands apartment. Just prior to my arrival at High Bank I
had, much to my dismay, been slowly but irrevocably slipping back
into my bad old ways. Once that happened, as every druggie knows,
the progression or should that be, regression, can be alarmingly
quick. I was lucky to have people like my mother, Mike and Michelle
to support me, but family and friends can only do so much: the rest
is up to the individual with the problem.

I
might’ve been okay, I mean really okay, as opposed to “forever
emotionally scarred” okay, was it not for my experiences at High
Bank. Of course, the problems really began long before my arrival
at the cottage, only I didn’t know it then, and I mistakenly
believed it all started with the spectral incident involving the
child, and the tipper truck, and the disappearances of Mary and
Terry. But hell, what do I know? Not a lot as it turns out. And
even less with the passing of time, and the discovery that my new
found friend, Irish, had dubious contacts, who could keep me
supplied with enough Charlie to sink a battleship.

The ugly
little beetles were yet another problem that was escalating for no
apparent reason. It got so bad I was eventually forced to contact
the letting agent, who employed the services of a pest control firm
called in the previous summer to eliminate a wasp problem in the
roof. They came and sprayed their chemicals around the place, and
for a while the beetles disappeared off the scene.

PC Morgan
made another much anticipated visit, this time accompanied by a
senior colleague, a uniformed sergeant by the name of Williams, who
was short and plump, listened intently, and said very little. They
wanted more details regarding the two disappearances. I was unable
to elaborate on what I’d already said. They asked if they might
take a look around the cottage.

“Be my
guest,” I said hoping my stash of dope, which had grown
considerably since Morgan’s last visit, would be
overlooked.

“Have you
spoken to the others who were present when Mary Louise and Terry
disappeared?” I asked, trying to distract them from their
task.

They
ignored the question, and wandered upstairs, leaving me to sweat it
out in the lounge with Lennon. Twenty minutes later, and having
found nothing incriminating, they thanked me for my cooperation,
and then left. I got straight on the blower to David to inform him
of their visit.

“They
grilled me earlier,” he said. “Rick and H have been interviewed
too. Rick sent me a text to say as much. Do you think they suspect
foul play John?”

“It’s
possible I guess. A local reporter’s been sniffing around too,
trying to make connections where there aren’t any.”

“T’riffic. Mind you, it does seem suspicious, two people
disappearing like they have. Jenny thinks High Bank has got bad
vibes. She reckons it’s got a threatening atmosphere. She’s a bit
sensitive to that kind of thing. She’s doesn’t claim to be a
clairvoyant or anything, but she does believe in the existence of a
spiritual world. Remember the fair that’s in the area
presently?”

“I
remember.”

“Well, we
usually pay the clairvoyant a visit. Like I said before, Jenny
rates her. We get her to read our palms. I’m not really into it
myself but it keeps Jenny happy, and if she’s happy I lead a
peaceful life.”

“Madam
Lee,” I repeated, an image of her name on the fairground fly poster
springing to mind.

“Jenny
thinks she might be able to shed some light on the disappearances,”
David ventured. “Why not pop along with us?”

“So now
she’s Sherlock Holmes,” I said failing to contain my
scepticism.

David
brushed the objection aside. “Let me tell you a story John. When
Jenny was little more than a kid, she went along to the fair with
her parents. They paid Madam Lee a visit, and Madam Lee did a
reading on the three of them. With Jenny and her mother, it was the
usual thing you’d expect to hear. When it came to Jenny’s father’s
turn, however, Madam Lee warned him to avoid taking any train
journeys over the coming days. What she didn’t know, and couldn’t
have known, was that he was supposed to attend a business
conference in London next day, and had a return ticket booked on
the morning train. It spooked Jenny to the point that she begged
him not to go but he said he had to, that it was important. A
compromise was reached, and he drove instead. Lucky for him he did.
Due to signal failure the train he was supposed to travel on was
involved in a head on collision with another train. Three people
died as a result, and a lot more were badly injured.” David paused
as if to let the ramifications sink in. “Personally I think it was
probably nothing more than a big coincidence,” he concluded, “but
Jenny’s adamant Madam Lee foretold the accident.”

I was
unconvinced, but kept my opinions to myself.

“What
about it then? Are you game?” David asked, brightening. “We can
make an evening of it if you want. Visit the fair followed by
dinner at our place. What do you say?”

Dinner
sounded good, so I agreed. We made arrangements for the coming
weekend, which arrived soon enough. I was to be at David and
Jenny’s gaff for five, which would enable us to use one car for the
short journey to the fair. Leaving Lennon at the cottage, I caught
a taxi over. The house in which David and Jenny lived, along with
Jenny’s huge Persian cat, Lucky, was a cute turn of the century
Victorian terrace within walking distance of the village square. I
recalled it only vaguely from my initial surprise visit. On this
occasion sobriety allowed clear sited observation and
subjectivity.

The house
was a reasonably sized three bedroom affair, with a traditional
galley kitchen, leading off from which was a functional ground
floor bathroom. It retained traditional features in the form of
decorative coving, cast iron fireplaces to both levels, exposed
wooden floorboards and refurbished sash windows. It was tastefully
decorated and immaculately presented, and unbeknown to any of us at
the time, it would come up for sale within weeks of what was to be
my second and final visit.