A Cry From Beyond (4 page)

I saw him
to his car.

“Look
after yourself, Mike,” I said as he climbed inside.

He gave
me a faint smile, “You too. And remember, keep to the straight and
narrow, and you won’t go far wrong.”

“You have
my word on it.”

I watched
him drive off, saddened to see him go.

In the
back garden, Gentleshaw was cutting back deadwood as part of a
general tidy up. I lent him a hand.

“You’ll
like it here,” he said as we heaped dead foliage into a pile and
raked up leaves. “Ashley is a pleasant enough place with a good set
of people. There are pubs and walks, and local landmarks to visit.
The Ship Inn is popular if you fancy a drink. If you like walking,
you could always visit the lake or take a hike out to the chapel,
or if you feel really adventurous, there’s the folly.” Turning his
attention towards the sky, which had suddenly grown overcast, he
said, “Looks like snow to me. They warned us we were in for some
sooner or later.”

I looked
up. “Should I be concerned?”

He
glanced at me, and shrugged. “Maybe; maybe not… Best stock up with
provisions all the same. Keep a check on the log shed too. You
might want to get yourself snow chains if you don’t already have
‘em.”

“It gets
that bad?”

“It can
do. This road has been known to become impassable. If the
long-range weather forecast is correct, you might wake one morning
to find yourself snowbound. See the hills up there?” He pointed a
gnarled finger at a range of prominent hills beyond the cottage.
“Presently, they look pretty as a picture, but look’s can be
deceptive. In bad weather they can turn treacherous as hell. I’ve
lived here an awfully long time Mr O’Shea. It’s a beautiful part of
the country, but a sudden change in the weather can make it
dangerous. Been caught out myself more than once and had to call in
help. Even when you know the lay of the land you can still be
caught off guard.” He grinned sardonically. “Never underestimate
Mother Nature.”

I took
him seriously enough to drive into the village to buy extra
provisions, though I decided against purchasing snow chains, at
least for the time being. My needs took me to a General store with
the words THOMAS DAVIS & SON, (groceries and hardware
provisions) painted in bold black lettering above its entrance. The
shop was small, cramped and smelled faintly of mothballs and
varnish. Approaching the counter with my purchases, I noticed a fly
poster on the wall that read, BILLY MARTIN’S FANTASTIC FAIRGROUND
EXTRAVAGANZA: FUN FOR ALL THE FAMILY. Listed below were the various
rides and stalls available, and beneath that, Price Reductions for
Children and OAP’s. The fair promised to be in the area from
tomorrow, Sunday, for fourteen days.

“Highlight of the year,” the shopkeeper said tongue in cheek.
He was around my age, with long black hair pulled into a
fashionable ponytail and wire-rimmed specs, the old National Health
variety, not so fashionable. Embroidered on the breast pocket of
his brown work coat was the word, “Genius”. Below that was his
name, David, printed on a grubby looking name badge.

“It’s
held on the common, ‘bout fifteen minutes walk from here,” he said
placing my purchases in a bag, and sliding it across the counter.
“Think you’ll be going?” He suddenly narrowed his eyes. “You
wouldn’t be the geezer who’s staying at High Bank by any
chance?”

“News
travels fast,” I said, disappointed my anonymity was
blown.

“It’s a
small place. People talk. PC Morgan mentioned we had a celebrity
moving in, said you’re a singer songwriter. Never ‘eard of you
myself, but Morgan rates you; reckons you used to be able to rock
with the best of them.”

Use of
the past tense had me frowning.

“What
happened?” David asked, unintentionally twisting the knife. He
raised a hand. “Sorry mate, none of my business. If ever you’re at
a loose end, I drink at The Ship, here in the village.”

“I’ll
bear it in mind,” I said.

He
referred back to the forthcoming fair. “You really should treat
yourself.”

I
re-appraised the poster. Amongst other things the show promised a
strongman, clowns, a high wire and trampoline act, and a
clairvoyant by the name of Madam Lee.

I
suddenly found myself wondering if the clairvoyant might be able to
explain the unnerving tipper truck episode. Unlike the premonition
in which I’d foreseen the arrival of the brochure and my recent
feelings of déjà vu, all of which I’d pretty much forgotten about,
the thing with the tipper truck continued to play on my
mind.

“Is Madam
Lee any good?” I asked with forced casualness.

Dave
nodded his head emphatically. “My better half reckons she’s the
best in the business.”

“What do
you think?”

He
hesitated. “I prefer to reserve judgement.”

“You’re a
sceptic in other words.”

Resting
an elbow on the counter he said: “Let’s put it this way, if fortune
telling really is possible, then Madam Lee is probably the real
deal.”

“Then I
might just pay her a visit,” I said with a grin.

“You do
that, Mr O’Shea.”

“Call me
John.”

I grabbed
my groceries, and left.

CHAPTER THREE

Gentleshaw was perched halfway up a ladder fixing a down pipe
when I returned from the village. He looked frozen. I offered to
make him a hot drink. He declined, saying he wanted to finish the
task before the light faded.

“Procrastination is the thief of time,” he said quoting
Browning.

“Let me
know if you change your mind about the drink,” I said, trying not
to shiver.

He nodded
and continued working.

I hurried
into the kitchen with Lennon shadowing me, switched on the kettle
and started unpacking the groceries. As I was doing so, I happened
to glance through the window and did a double take.

A child
was out there, sitting in the gazebo at the bottom of the garden: a
little girl; no more than five or six, with angelic features and
pretty blonde hair. Dressed in a tailored brown coat, pale blue
skirt and matching bowed shoes, she cradled a thick grey blanket in
her young arms.

I waved
to get her attention. She appeared not to see me. I started for the
back door with the intention of going outside to find out who she
was, but was distracted by the sound of the house phone ringing out
in the hall. It was Michelle calling.

“Well if
it isn’t the great adventurer himself,” she said, sarcastically.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

“There
wasn’t time,” I replied guilty.

“To such
an extent you couldn’t even make a phone call?”

“What are
you, Michelle, my mother?”

Sounding
hurt, “I thought I was your friend, more than a friend in
fact.”

She was
right. We’d been seeing each other on and off for the past couple
of years. While Mike had proved to be my saviour by making me see
sense before I finally self-destructed, Michelle was equally
supportive, sticking around even though I repeatedly let her
down.

She
changed the subject. “How’s Lennon?”

“How do
you want him to be?”

“I’m
trying to be friendly, John.”

“He’s
fine. Lennon’s fine. Mike said you wanted to discuss dates and
venues?”

“I do,
but I also want to discuss us.”

“Didn’t
anyone tell you it’s dangerous to mix business with
pleasure?”

“If
you’re not interested, just say, we’ll keep it strictly business.
Otherwise stop toying with my emotions.”

“Okay,
point taken. So when can you come over?”

“Hey; not
so fast. Let me think about it.”

“What is
there to think about, Michelle? I’m inviting you over for the
weekend not asking you to commit blue murder! We can pick up where
we left off.”

There was
a pause, and then: “Okay John, I accept your kind invitation. I
really don’t suppose it can do any harm. How does next weekend
suit?”

“Great.
Can’t wait... But a word to the wise, bring warm clothing. The wind
bites like a bitch up in this neck of the woods.”

We
talked, me doing most of it, explaining and apologising as if my
life depended on it, until finally, Michelle ceased hostilities,
more or less, and got down to the other reason for her call, which
was business. She proceeded to give me the lowdown on the
scheduling for my new single: a little number entitled, “For Love
nor Money”. To my mind it was the best thing I’d written in years,
a gutsy rock ballad with a catchy riff and a set of good honest
lyrics, telling the story of a single-minded man who refused to be
bought for—yes, you got it—Love nor Money. He was a maverick, which
incidentally, was how I saw myself, and still do, who went his own
way, whose conscience was untroubled, and who was answerable to no
one.

Michelle
was still talking when I suddenly remembered the child, and
returned to the kitchen to look out of the window. During my short
absence she had left the gazebo, and was walking across the lawn
towards the cottage, still cradling the blanket. Birds circled
above, cawing noisily. She ignored them and continued approaching.
The birds soared skyward and then, without warning they swooped,
and to my utter amazement, they began attacking the child who fell
screaming, dropping the blanket, the contents of which tumbled out
onto the grass. Revealed was some kind of doll. But it was unlike
any doll I’d ever seen, being devoid of all but the most basic
human characteristics.

I
hurriedly ended the call with Michelle and dashed outside onto the
patio, expecting to witness mayhem. Instead there was nothing. Both
the child and the birds were gone.

The
following day the little girl would be there again. A case of same
time, same channel; sitting demurely in the gazebo cradling the
strange looking doll wrapped in the blanket. And just like before
she would rise to her feet and start walking towards the cottage,
while above her the birds circled majestically, before launching a
violent attack. This time however, she would manage to ward them
off long enough to make it to the patio area, before being
overpowered and forced to flee with her treasured doll. And once
again I would rush outside to find both she and the birds
gone.

Next time
I saw Gentleshaw I mentioned the child to him, hoping he might know
who she was and clear up the mystery, but he too was at a
loss.

“I
thought she might be a relative of yours,” I said, still digging
for an answer to the mystery.

“Then I’m
afraid you thought wrong,” he replied forthrightly.

I tried
another approach. “Where is the nearest neighbouring
house?”

He
pointed in an easterly direction. “Roughly a mile away, just beyond
Mill House Lake.”

“Is it
possible she lives there?”

“The
house is owned by the Hamilton’s: an elderly couple:
childless.”

“You’re
sure about that?”

“They’re
blood relatives, Mr O’Shea. I’d be the first to know if they shared
the company of children.”

Inside
the cottage I tried to re-establish contact with Michelle but she
was unavailable; in a meeting with a client. I pictured her in my
mind’s eye, visualising her face, her smile, her naked body, and I
suddenly wanted to be with her more than ever. It had been a while.
It was no secret we were more than a little fond of one another.
Sadly we hadn’t been able to get it together: my fault, not hers.
Oftentimes I preferred to share my bed with an ounce of coke and a
bottle of whisky. Those days were supposedly gone on the advice of
the doctor, who’d offered me a pretty bleak prognosis regarding
life expectancy should I fail to mend my wicked ways. I’d taken his
advice seriously, genuinely trying to cut out the bad habits, but
it was hard and I’d been unable to resist temptation completely. It
was going to take time, and an awful lot of willpower to get back
on the straight and narrow, and stay there.

In
retrospect I guess I saw High Bank as a pleasant form of solitary
confinement. Less than two weeks into the sentence however, this
prisoner was already looking for an excuse to escape. For starters,
the idea of visiting the local watering hole, The Ship Inn, was an
increasingly appealing one, as was the thought of breaking into the
little package in the car’s glove compartment that, luckily for me,
had escaped PC Morgan’s attention that day on the
roadside.

In the
end I decided to stick to more sober pursuits, such as visiting the
Folly Gentleshaw had mentioned, which was marked on the ordnance
survey map lying on the coffee table in the front room.

2.

It was
cold and bleak when I set off. The threat of fog and deteriorating
weather was very real, but I wasn’t going to let that deter me. I
was here to live a clean, healthy life, after all. So I got rugged
up, and off I set with Lennon padding along happily at my
side.