Guilt Trip (15 page)

Luke’s
foot immediately moved from the gap, so I was able to slam the door shut.

And then
I heard him, as charming as ever, apologising and inventing excuses. Something
about me having nightmares. And then doors started closing again and Luke had
no choice but to leave.

I leaned
back against the door, sliding down until I was sitting on the carpet, head in
hands, my whole body trembling. This man was capable of real violence.

My mind replayed
the bathroom scene: the younger Luke smashing my head against the mirror, his
body jamming me up against the sink, and then slapping my face with full force,
knocking me to the floor. And his words: ‘Will you never learn?’ I shuddered as
I thought of him winding the belt round his hand. Preparing to punish me. Punish
her. Poor Billie.

In a way,
I’d been lucky.
My
Luke had never
actually hurt me physically. But then I’d only known him for a few days. Not
enough time for the violence to evolve, I guessed.

But there
had already been talk of punishment. On the way to the Cauldron, he’d described
my hangover as ‘a lesson’ for drinking all that wine; and then, when I hadn’t
been repentant enough he’d lectured me and told me I needed someone to ‘teach’
me some manners.

But
luckily, my punishment that day had only been his displeasure and silence - his
moodiness - though at the time that had been bad enough. I remembered how
agonised I had felt at his absence. Deserted. Rejected. Emotionally devastated.
And how I had wept as I climbed the Devil’s Lair. So I guess that had been
enough; and Luke had been satisfied that I had learned my lesson.

In fact,
it was only a few hours later that he’d saved my life.

Yes - I’d
been much luckier than Billie…

I closed
my eyes, remembering all that water crashing down on me. The caged seat dancing
around under the force of it. The water filling my mouth and nose. The terror
of it

How lucky
I’d been. Lucky that Luke had been up at the dam when it broke. At exactly that
moment. And lucky that he knew exactly how to fix it.

So unbelievably
lucky…

My mind
snapped to Luke telling me I needed someone to teach me some manners. And then
it snapped back to the accident.

And a
horrifying thought screamed out at me.

I
had
been punished. Taught a lesson.

Because Luke
had deliberately broken the dam…

But no -
he couldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t.

And yet
it all seemed to fit. Luke wanting to teach me some manners; and then Luke at
the dam at the precise moment it broke.

And when
the ordeal was over, I’d been so grateful to him. I’d called him my ‘knight in
shining armour’. And - I shook my head at the memory - I’d apologised sincerely
for drinking and for my behaviour in making him angry.

What a
fool I’d been. I’d played right into his hands.

And so, Luke’s
own brand of justice was complete: Melissa had been chastised.

And then
I thought about him at my hospital bedside, grasping my hand, thanking God that
I was still alive. The hypocrite. When it was all his fault. I mean, he had
been so reckless. Put me in such danger. I was lucky to have survived it. I
could have
died
.

Like
Billie…

And so it
struck me full and hard: he had done the same to her, hadn’t he.

She’d gone
to him and told him about the bear, hadn’t she. And he’d punished her, there,
in the Hall of Teeth. Maybe he’d tried to scare her, holding her over the railings
threatening to drop her, just like he had allowed me to dangle, terrified, in the
Cauldron.

But it
had gone too far, and she had slipped from his hand.

It was
his fault that Billie was dead.

As soon
as the world outside my window stirred, signalling morning, I packed the diary
into my rucksack. Then, not bothering to brush either my hair or my teeth, I headed
for the door. Downstairs, no one was about yet, so I tiptoed unseen across the
reception area and out of the front door.

Outside,
the market was being set up, but the burger van was open, so I bought a cup of
tea and a bacon roll which I ate in the bus shelter, hood up, huddled against
the cold, damp morning.

I’d spent
most of the night trying to contact Billie, sitting in front of the mirror,
staring at myself, willing her to come to me. But she had remained absent. And
so I still didn’t know what I was meant to do, even after reading her story.

Did she
want me to go to the police? Show them the diary? Show how violent Luke had
been?

But so
much of it was crossed out, obliterated. And anyway, it didn’t really prove
anything on its own; not without the memories or visions I’d experienced in the
bathroom and at the well. And who was going to believe
those
?

And it
certainly didn’t prove that Luke had been even partly responsible for her
accident.

No - I
didn’t think that the police would be interested.

Breakfast
over, I checked the time. Still a bit early, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I
was cold and desperately tired, and in need of someone to talk to. The one
person who might actually believe me. Who might even be able to help me.

The
Spiritualist.

I walked
down the main street trying to remember which door she’d come out of that windy
morning when she’d followed me into the post-office. Ah, there it was. Wasn’t
it? I’m not quite sure what I was expecting - something wildly exotic and
bohemian probably - but this definitely wasn’t it. It was very neat. Very
clean. And very orderly. Spotless, white paintwork and window boxes with
flowers in neatly-regimented rows. The picture of respectability and normality.

I rang
the doorbell, hoping that this
was
the right place, and, if so, that she was an early riser. After a little while
I heard a shuffling in the hall and then I had the sensation of eyes upon me. The
curtains hanging in the large bay window at the front of the house twitched. And
a few seconds later the door was opened wide. And there she stood, wearing a
long, quilted, flowery dressing gown buttoned to the throat. The last person
you would expect to be communing with the dead.

“Oh, my dear.”
The same note of concern was in her voice, as she ushered me inside,
introducing herself as Mrs Cosgrove.

She
fussed about, taking my jacket, sitting me at the small, white kitchen table,
preparing a pot of tea, warming the china pot, setting a small timer to let the
leaves draw properly.

Eventually,
handing me a cup of Lady Grey, she joined me at the table. “Now,” she said,
peering at me carefully, “how can I help you?”

I
hesitated, wondering where to start. How much to tell her…

“Think of
me as a priest, or a doctor,” she said on seeing me falter. “Whatever you tell
me, stays with me. Strictly confidential. You have my word.”

Still, I
hesitated. This was the first time I’d told anyone.

 
But when I finally found the courage, the
words blurted out of me in a clumsy confession: “I’m being haunted,” I cried,
too fast, too loud.

I looked
at her anxiously. Would she laugh at me? Would she think I was lying? Insane?

But she
simply nodded encouragingly, waiting for more details.

Tears of
relief stung my eyes. It was okay: she didn’t think I was mad. In fact, she was
acting as if I were perfectly normal. As if she came across such things every
day of the week. And I supposed, in her line of work, she might.

“It’s the
spirit you spoke to at the meeting,” I said more confidently now. “The girl. I
need you to contact her. Find out what she wants.”

“Oh my
dear.” Her face fell. “I’m not sure…”

“Here’s
my ring,” I said quickly, handing it across the table. “The one you used last
time. To channel the energy.”

“But -”

“Please. You
have to help me.”

Nodding
reluctantly, she held out her hand and I placed the ring on her palm. She
folded her fingers round it and closed her eyes.

She sat
quietly, clearly concentrating hard, breathing deeply in and out until she
almost seemed to enter a trance-like state. Finally, she clasped the ring to
her chest. “Come through
me
,” she
said in a slow, low voice. “Let me carry your message to the living.”

The
seconds ticked their way through the silence, from a small, slender grandfather
clock in the hall.

“Come to
me,” she repeated in an urgent whisper.

Silence
stretched on and on in her small kitchen. Outside, a bird chirruped its
territorial rights to its rivals.

Suddenly
her eyes opened. And she shrugged apologetically.

“Is that
it?” I asked, shocked. “Is that all you’re going to do?”

“If the
spirit is absent, my dear, then there is nothing else
to
do.”

“But I
thought that was your job. To summon spirits.”

 
“I’m terribly sorry, but…” She bit her
lip nervously. “It’s just that… Well… To be perfectly frank, that’s not an area
I’ve ever felt comfortable with.”

 
“Excuse me?” What was she talking about? She
must do it all the time. I’d seen her with my own eyes.”

“You see,
spirits
do
come to me, certainly. It’s
happened all my life. But it tends to be whenever and wherever
they
wish. It’s always
their
decision. It’s not because I
summon them. That doesn’t seem to be part of my ‘gift’. Believe me, I’ve
studied the art in depth and I’ve practised to near-exhaustion using every
method ever tried. But to no avail. It’s completely out of my hands, I’m
afraid.”

“But your
meetings,” I cried, incredulously. “Surely you channel the energy, help the
spirits to come to you?”

She
grimaced, shamefaced. “Well…not really. That is, not often. Of course sometimes
the right spirit happens along at just the right time. Now that
is
a wonderful moment. But mostly … not.”

I thought
back to how I’d been sceptical of her powers when she was bringing very vague,
general messages from ‘John/Josh’ to his grieving widow, the caterer. “So it’s
all just acting?” I asked.

“Yes,
much of it is, I’m afraid,” she admitted sorrowfully. “But you see, the public
expects so much. Spirits on demand. While-you-wait, as it were. But it simply
doesn’t work like that. So, often I find that I simply have to…” she looked at
me, embarrassed, “… invent them.”

“But you
gave
me
a message,” I said.

 
“Like I say, sometimes a spirit just
happens along,” she said. “And that particular spirit had been bothering me for
days.”

“But you
can’t reach her now?”

“I’m
afraid not.” She handed the ring back to me. “She’s not here: I’m feeling no
vibrations from your ring at all.”

 
So that was it. The ring. Why hadn’t I
realised? The ring had nothing to do with Billie. And it had had nothing to do
with bringing her to the Spiritualist meeting at all. Why would it? She’d
simply turned up because she wanted my help. But now I needed
her
help. I needed her to come to me, to
tell me what she wanted me to do. And so I needed something to draw her here. “Hang
on,” I cried, digging around in my rucksack and then pulling out the diary. “Maybe,
just maybe,
this
might help.”

“This
belonged to the spirit?” Mrs Cosgrove asked.

I nodded.

“Then let
us at least try it,” she said with renewed energy.

I passed
the book over to her. As she took it, the newspaper cutting fell from between
the pages and fluttered onto the table. I picked it up.

And so
she began again, placing her hands on the diary, closing her eyes,
concentrating.

I tried
to focus too, staring at the cutting, at Billie’s photo, willing her to appear.
I stared and stared, concentrating hard, until the picture blurred and the
letters of the print swam before me. And then, suddenly, I opened my eyes wide.
I’d seen something. Something I hadn’t paid any attention to before. The date at
the top of the cutting. April 23rd. So, the ‘yesterday’ referred to in the report
- the day of the accident - must have been April 22
^nd
?

But now
Mrs Cosgrove was shaking her head, pushing the diary back to me, apologising
for being unable to contact the spirit. I grabbed the book and began flicking
through the pages madly. All diaries have dates - for every entry - but I
simply hadn’t bothered to look at them properly. Not since the first page.

And
finally I reached the last one. Billie, determined to tell Luke about the bear.
And she must have done it the very same day, because there it was: April 22
^nd
.
Seventeen years ago.

I thought
of the black-and-white photo in its frame, always standing by Dad’s bed. My
young mother smiling blissfully outside the hospital. The day the doctor
created me in a petri dish. April 22
^nd
, seventeen years before.

So Billie
had died on the very same day that I had been given life.

I thought
about Paula saying that I resembled Billie. Something about the expression in
my eyes. And then I pictured Luke’s shock that first time he’d looked at me
properly. Into my eyes. That spark of recognition. As if he knew me.

They call
the eyes ‘the windows of the soul’ don’t they.

So is
that what they were looking at? My soul. My inner being. My spirit. Billie.

Is that
why Billie had chosen to contact
me
?

I turned
to Mrs Cosgrove, my voice high with adrenalin. “Do you believe in
reincarnation?”

<><><>

Mrs
Cosgrove led me down the hall to the next room: a pretty, pink and white study
with French windows looking out onto a very well maintained, if rain-soaked, back
garden. By the window stood a small, neat, mahogany desk on which was an
ornamental, silver inkwell which was being used as a vase for a tiny posy of
pink flowers. A pale, chintz sofa rested before the fire, its cushions plumped
up and arranged in a neat row. And the walls were lined with elegant, white
bookshelves.

I let my
eye roam over the many titles, expecting to find stories of romance or perhaps
love poetry, or even the tales of Beatrix Potter. But actually, all the books
in this pretty study dealt with darker subjects: ancient religious cults,
paranormal activities and the rites of death.

“Reincarnation,”
she said. “A fascinating topic. And a surprisingly popular concept. Buddhists,
Taoists, Hindus, Jainists, Neo-Pagans, New-Age followers... They all believe in
it to some extent.”

She
selected a book from a shelf and found the page she was looking for. “According
to the ancient Chinese philosopher, Chuang Tzu,” she read, “birth is not a
beginning; death is not an end. There is existence without limitation.

“And
apparently Pythagoras claimed he could remember his past lives.”

She
scanned her library shelves, obviously on a roll. “Even Socrates may have believed,”
she said, taking out another book and running her finger down the index. “Ah,
here we are.” She turned to a specific page. “Plato writes that before
Socrates’ death, he said he was ‘confident that there truly is such a thing as
living again, and that the living spring from the dead’."

Smiling,
she opened yet another book: “And so man is bound up with the laws of nature. As
the seasons roll round from spring to summer to autumn to winter, so man moves
from birth to childhood to adulthood to death. But after winter, comes spring
again and the cycle continues. So too, for man, after death comes rebirth.”

She shut
the book and peered at me. “Does that help at all?”

To be
honest, I wasn’t sure that it did. Not really. I mean, it was nice that she was
trying to reassure me that lots of intelligent scholars and thinkers had
believed in the idea; but where did that really get me? I still didn’t
understand how it worked.

I mean, was
a life force or inner spirit or energy - call it what you will - was it like a
hotel room, or a hire car, or like the Earth itself - there to be used by
different people at different times? And was I therefore the next in line after
Billie? So that once she died, the life force within her entered me, and after
me it would go to someone else? Like God taking a battery out of an old toy,
and transferring it to a new one?

Mrs
Cosgrove tried to enlighten me, reading out various passages in which intellectuals
expressed their opinions on how it might work, but they were so full of long
words and references to other studies that I just ended up even more confused. As
she herself was eventually forced to admit, death was a complex subject, which
had attracted a bewildering number of complicated theories, but which was
totally lacking in any kind of hard evidence or known truths.