A Cry From Beyond (2 page)

I turned
my attention to Lennon, as if seeking reassurance. He showed not
the slightest interest in me; he was too busy gazing through the
back window, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, ears cocked
forward attentively.

I watched
him closely, increasingly intrigued by his odd behaviour. It was, I
thought, and couldn’t believe I was considering such a possibility,
as if he was witnessing the aftermath of an accident I’d seen only
in part. Had we both somehow glimpsed the past I wondered despite
myself, and was it possible that Lennon continued to observe that
spectral scene, as I observed him? Was he presently witnessing a
fire crew dowsing flames, rescuers attempting to free the driver’s
body from the wreckage, while the distraught parents of the dead
child were being comforted by individuals whose lives have since
moved on, for whom the incident was now merely a terrible
memory?

I sat in
the car shaking from head to foot, unable to explain what I’d seen.
Had I imagined it all? I must have. And yet, it had all seemed so
terribly real: the tipper truck and its driver, the kid, the tree,
the smell of burning rubber as the truck skidded, the blinding
flash as the truck hit the tree and exploded into flame. So where
was the evidence to say it had happened?

The sound
of a car stopping jolted me back to the present. I turned to see a
police patrol vehicle parked up behind me. I’m by no means a bad
person, but I do admit to having had my moments with the boys in
blue, and was once busted for possession of the class “A” variety,
a demeanour for which I was duly prosecuted and fined. That little
baby got me a criminal record. So the last thing I needed was
further brushes with the law.

At least
the car was legal and above board, being a brand new top of the
range blood red BMW. Unfortunately, like my beautiful Docklands
apartment, it was in imminent danger of being repossessed. A copper
emerged from the Panda car, pausing long enough to straighten his
tunic and don his flat cap. He looked very stern and businesslike.
He also looked about fifteen, which meant he’d be relatively new to
the job, and probably out to make a name for himself.

I glanced
nervously at my watch, worried I was going to be late to meet my
new landlord. Just my luck to get a young Gung-ho cop, I thought as
I observed him approach through the rear view mirror. He arrived at
the driver’s side of the car, prompting me to lower the
window.

“Afternoon,” he said, quickly scanning the vehicle’s
interior. Lennon, sitting just behind me, growled in his
direction.

“Nice
dog,” he remarked unperturbed.

“Take
him, he’s yours,” I said, trying to break the ice. It didn’t work.
He stared impassively.

“Is there
a particular reason you’re parked illegally on a bend
sir?”

“I felt
faint,” I lied, “and decided the safest thing was to pull
over.”

He
instructed me to move a little further up the road to a safer spot.
That done, he carried out a quick inspection of the car’s exterior,
making an obvious point of checking the tyres and the tax disc,
before recording down the registration number. Next he asked to see
my driver’s licence, and got on the radio to verify the details
were correct, and that I was indeed the owner of the vehicle I
drove. Seemed he was intent on making life difficult for me. Why
did I have to get the over-zealous type I wondered, and with horror
remembered the small cache of dope I’d concealed in the car’s glove
box. Just act natural I told myself, pretend it’s not there. I
pulled out a cigarette and lit it. When the officer returned to the
driver’s door, his expression was less severe. I tried to draw some
comfort from the fact.

And then,
studying my face closely, he said, “I know you, you’re that singer.
Am I right?”

O’Shea is
the name, and fame is the game, I thought whimsically. I smiled,
flattered he remembered me. I hadn’t had a hit record for quite a
while. In the music business it doesn’t take long to become a
has-been. He took a closer look in the back of the car, gazing past
Lennon at the pile of musical equipment stored amongst my luggage.
He spotted a guitar poking out from the chaos, a jumbo
Gruhn-designed Guild twelve-string; the model favoured by Clapton
no less.

“
You gigging round here?” he asked with sudden
interest.

“
Living around here,” I corrected, “or am about to.”

He asked
where. I told him.

“Nice
place,” he said, friendlier now with the knowledge he was in the
presence of a minor celebrity. “Bit out of the way, but nice all
the same if you’re into that sort of thing. My name’s Morgan: PC
Derek Morgan.” He went on to tell me that he played keyboards, and
used to gig regularly with his own band. I tried to look suitably
impressed. “Just as a hobby you understand. Mainly R&B,” he
added a little self-consciously.

“What
other music is there?” I said, playing up to him.

“You
wrote some decent stuff in your day,” he said, underlining the
concern I had that I was already yesterday’s man. ““You Made My
Day” was a classic. Are you thinking of making a
comeback?”

“Where
there’s a will,” I said forcing a smile. “Was there ever an oak
tree back there?” I asked changing the subject, gesturing to where
I’d seen the truck crash, prior to it vanishing into the
ether.

To my
surprise, he nodded his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Mind
telling me what happened to it?”

“Truck
hit it a few years back. The impact made it unsafe; it had to be
taken down. I understand a little boy who lived in the cottage
neighbouring High Bank was killed in the accident.”

I looked
at him in stunned disbelief.

He
frowned at me curiously, like a school kid might when studying an
insect, and asked me if I was all right?

I quickly
gathered my thoughts. “As I said, I felt a bit faint, but I’ll be
fine.”

He
regarded me for a moment, perhaps judging whether to believe me or
not, then said, “I drink at The Bell, over in Lakemoor, it’s a
stone’s throw from Ashley. Pop in one night. I’ll buy you a pint.
Introduce you to the crowd. They’re not a bad lot.”

“I might
just do that,” I replied, although the idea of sharing drinks with
the fuzz left me cold.

At last
PC Derek Morgan announced I was free to go. He wandered back to his
car, got in and drove off, offering a friendly wave as he went. I
returned the gesture, grudgingly. As I said, I don’t go a bundle on
cops at the best of times. I like ‘em even less when they turn out
to be hypocrites. The excitement over, I made a right turn off the
main road, which took me up a narrow leafy track bordered either
side by trees and bushes, to the right of which was a clearing. I
brought the car to a sudden stop, High Bank momentarily
forgotten.

The
clearing led into a huge sloping yard, at the end of which stood
the derelict shell of a big grey stone farmhouse. The agent hadn’t
mentioned this place. If ever there was a candidate for a haunted
house, this was it, for it was shrouded in a fine veil of mist that
made it look depressingly bleak and forgotten.

Four
towering chimneys rose from a mildewed roof. Virtually every window
was boarded. The creepiest thing about the place was the large
number of birds in evidence; huge birds with large beaks and shiny
black plumage. I studied the place for any signs of life behind a
window that wasn’t boarded, but saw nothing. Following a moments
deliberation I slipped the car into drive, and carried on down the
deserted track.

A minute
or so later I was gazing at High Bank Cottage, a simple white brick
structure with a clay-tiled roof and leaded windows. It was about
as private as you could get, and looked incredibly inviting. It
also looked incredibly familiar. Well, it would do, I told myself,
I’d already seen its photograph in the agent’s brochure, but that
wasn’t quite it, because the farm house along the way had had a
similar effect on me. Now why, I wondered, would that be? I glanced
back at Lennon, as if seeking an answer. The mutt stared at me in
dumb canine silence, momentarily reminding me of a large golden
teddy bear I’d once seen on a kid’s TV programme.

Two cars
were parked outside the property; a silver Range Rover that’d seen
better days and a dark blue Ford Focus. The former was owned by my
new landlord, a dear old lady called Mrs. Corbett, while the latter
belonged to the letting agent, a Mr. Young from Sharman, Turner and
Young, Estate Agents, a dour beady, eyed little man who cast
repeated nervous glances at his watch. We finalised the deal inside
the cottage, my new home, which entailed payment of the bond in the
form of cash, and the signing of the actual lease. Then, and only
then, was I handed the keys to the property. With the formalities
over Mr. Young beat a hasty retreat, a pressing engagement back at
the office, while Mrs. Corbett, who was a blue rinsed little
darling with a no nonsense manner, hung around to show me over the
place and point out things she felt I should know. As she was doing
this she mentioned in passing that she’d lived in the area most of
her life, and renovated High Bank with her husband some years
ago.

”Unfortunately Bernard’s no longer with us,” she informed me.
“He passed away quite recently, around the time our last tenants
vacated the cottage. I’ve dithered ever since about whether or not
to sell, or re-let the place.”

“What
made you finally decide to re-let?”

“A
dream,” she said, surprising me, “in which Bernard insisted I do
just that. So I did. I put it back on the market, and you got in
touch the very same day.” She smiled sweetly. “Our good fortune
seems to be down to my dear late husband. Wouldn’t you
agree?”

I
returned her smile, but said nothing, because I didn’t think it was
quite the case. There was my own dream to consider, which was also
responsible, at least in part, for bringing us together.

Mrs
Corbett went on to say that High Bank was at least three hundred
years old, which explained the low ceilings and doorways, and the
small compact rooms.

“Bernard
and I added the laundry and upstairs en-suite,” she
concluded.

First
impressions suggested it was a homely little place, although Lennon
seemed less than sure, having to be coaxed inside where he wandered
around restlessly, refusing to settle. I put it down to him being
in new surroundings.

Mrs.
Corbett pressed on with the guided tour. Having showed me where the
logs were stored, she warned me not to leave rubbish exposed, as it
attracted vermin. Inspecting the place to make sure it was clean
and tidy, she added that the original cottage was once a pastoral
home used by Ashley Church. When the nearby farm house was built,
it was sold to the new land owner, and became home to those
employed by him who paid a peppercorn rent for the privilege.
Sometime later the same man built the chapel, which he gifted to
the local community.

“Sadly
the chapel has long been out of service,” she went on. “Lack of
business you might say. Ashley Church is the only place of worship
roundabout now. Are you a religious man Mr. O’Shea?”

I
answered with a simple “no” whilst hoping offence wouldn’t be
taken.

“That
makes two of us,” Mrs Corbett replied, allaying my
fears.

“Are
there any plans for the disused farm house?” I asked; concerned
redevelopment might be in the pipeline.

“The
property has been vacant for a very long time,” she explained.
“Following the sudden death of its owner, it’s been the subject of
a protracted probate. The owner’s daughter would’ve inherited the
estate. But she upped sticks and left without so much as a bye or
leave, and hasn’t been seen since. That was over twenty years ago
now. I’m afraid ownership has never been resolved. It’s the old
story of a feuding family cutting off their noses to spite their
faces. I understand some members want to sell, while others want
the property to remain in the family.”

“And you
say the daughter hasn’t been in touch since?”

“No. It
would’ve saved certain people an awful lot of time and trouble if
she had. I don’t suppose the lawyers are complaining
though.”

Mrs
Corbett wished me luck, and then left. At that point I noticed
Lennon was missing.

I found
him sniffing around in the cellar, which was small and stank to
high heaven. I quickly coaxed him away, and together we returned
upstairs to the main section of the house.

In light
of what happened, I should’ve kept on going and put as much
distance between myself and High Bank as humanly possible. By doing
so at that point in the proceedings I may’ve escaped unscarred. I
dare say a good few others would’ve too.

But like
a fool I stayed.

CHAPTER TWO

My mother
phoned to see how I was settling in. It was a call I’d been
expecting. She was worried about me living out in the sticks on my
own, especially in light of my accidental overdose, a situation
made worse by the fact that she was the one to find me. She’d
dropped by on her way into the city to meet friends, something she
did quite often. When I failed to answer the door she’d used her
key to gain access. And thank God she did. Now she was forever
paranoid about my wellbeing. But that was okay. She was my mother,
so it was allowed.