Out of the Depths (11 page)

‘Nothing like that, Dad. I'm just not happy there,' I said.

‘Give it time, please.' He tried to keep the smile on his
face, but it was a strain. ‘You don't want to get a reputation for jumping from one school to another, eh?'

And I knew then I would never speak of it again. I nodded and left him to his racing, and went and sat in the kitchen.

He was right, of course. I had made friends there. And maybe it would make no difference if I left St Anthony's. Ben Kincaid would never let me go. He'd follow me home, he'd haunt my dreams, sleeping and awake, I'd never get away from him. He could reach me anywhere, travel through time and space and solid walls, and there was nowhere I could hide from him.

I dreaded going into the school on Monday, because I knew it wasn't over. I had come to the conclusion … the realisation … the acceptance, that I couldn't stop what was happening to me, and Jazz and Aisha were only still my friends because that's what friends did, stick by you through good times and bad.

They were waiting for me at the entrance door when I got to school, and they had a plan.

‘We are not going to leave your side,' Aisha said. ‘Jazz told me what happened.'

‘If you even have to go to the girls' toilets, one of us
goes with you. No matter where you go in this school, one of us goes with you. Then nothing can happen to you … if we're there.'

‘And if it does,' Aisha assured me, ‘then we'll be your witnesses.'

I was touched by their concern. And I was glad. Because I never wanted to be alone here anyway.

For a day or two things settled down. I became used to the boy at the back of the class. Gerry Mulgrew. He did seem to fancy me. He was always grinning at me and winking.

And to cheeky little Sam Petrie with his mop of dark hair. He didn't look a bit like Ben Kincaid. Not now that I saw him every day. His face was not so pale, his eyes not so striking. He'd stopped sleeping on the desk, and now he was always smiling.

And true to their word. Jazz and Aisha never left my side.

And when they were with me, statues never moved. There was no sign of Father Michael or Ben Kincaid. I was safe – and after those first days I began to relax. I even began to believe maybe it
was
all over. That I had been wrong. Maybe in some unknown way I had already helped Ben Kincaid … he had already passed to the other side.

And then Jazz suggested we go back to the chapel.

I thought Jazz was mad for suggesting it, but she had a reason.

‘You say you were lured there, by that chanting. Well, maybe Ben Kincaid lured you there for a reason. He was murdered there, Tyler. Maybe that's where he's trapped. We'll be there with you. We won't leave you. I mean, I'm scared even thinking about it, but I think we should go.'

Aisha agreed. ‘You'll see it's just an ordinary place. Just a drab old room. It doesn't even feel holy any more.'

I was puzzled. ‘You've been in there? But it's locked. Mr Hyslop says it's always locked.'

Jazz grinned. ‘You remember talking to Mrs Sorenson? She let us go in there once.'

The cleaner who worked on that floor. Yes, I remembered Mrs Sorenson.

‘She just happens to be a real good friend of my mum,
and she's got a key to the chapel. She's the one who goes in and cleans it up now and again.'

‘And she'll give you the key?'

‘Let's just say she'll lend it to me … but she won't know she has.'

Aisha rolled her eyes. ‘You mean you're going to pinch it.'

‘Borrow it, Aisha,' Jazz said. ‘There's a difference.'

We went during lunchbreak the next day. It took us ages to walk there. Jazz was right, I couldn't have made it there and back in just a few minutes. We seemed to turn corner after corner, past statues in alcoves, statues set against walls. Aisha noticed me watching them as we walked. ‘Do they give you the creeps?'

She wasn't Catholic; maybe she would understand. ‘A bit,' I said.

Aisha smiled. ‘I like them. They're nothing to be scared of, Tyler. They're only plaster and paint.'

‘I know,' I said, as if I believed her.

At last we reached the chapel. I felt my mouth dry up.

I stared at the carved oak door. ‘I don't think I want to go in there.'

‘You don't think Father Michael will be there, do you?' Aisha asked.

‘Or a choir of monks, still chanting?' Jazz nudged me and winked. She put the key into the lock and turned it.

I reached out my hand. The brass handle was cold to the touch, ice cold. The door was heavy, it took all three of us to push it open … yet it had slipped open easily for me.

What would I find in here? My heart was hammering in my chest and I was biting my lip, almost too afraid to look.

And there was nothing.

No atmosphere, no feeling of menace, the rows of the choir were empty. The pews bare. The statue of St Anthony still silently dominated the chapel. I looked at the altar where I could have sworn I had seen Father Michael kneeling in prayer.

Jazz squeezed my shoulder. ‘Well?'

I didn't answer for a moment. I
had
been here before, I wanted to tell them, but I decided against it.

I shook my head. ‘There's nothing. It's just an old chapel.'

Saying that made me feel better. It
was
just an old chapel. So why had I been drawn here? Because Ben Kincaid had died here … ? Because he needed my help?

‘I've been thinking,' Jazz said. ‘Maybe Ben Kincaid
needs you to pray for him here. This is where he died. Maybe that's why you saw Father Michael here too. He can't move on either, because of the terrible thing he did.'

Jazz, it seemed, had it all worked out.

‘St Anthony's the patron saint of lost things, did you know that?' Jazz asked.

I didn't know that. She went on. ‘Ben Kincaid's lost, lost between this life and the next. Maybe that's why you were brought here. To the statue of St Anthony. So he can find Ben and help him move on.'

Maybe that was true, I thought, there had to be a reason why I'd been brought here. ‘I'd like to light a candle.' I seemed to be whispering it to myself.

Jazz smiled. Pulled a candle from her pocket. ‘See, I already thought of that.'

The only candlestand was at the foot of the statue of St Anthony. I dared a look at the kindly plaster face. He was watching me. Had he always been watching over me, I wondered.

‘How are we going to light it?' Aisha asked.

‘I brought a box of matches.' Jazz produced it from her pocket.

She pushed the box at me.

My hand was shaking as I lit the candle, and Jazz and
Aisha stepped back as if this was my moment, only mine. ‘What do I say?' I asked Jazz.

She shrugged her shoulders, ‘Say a prayer for Ben Kincaid. Maybe that's all he needs.'

I held the candle in both hands, and looked up again at the face of St Anthony. The flickering light seemed to make his eyes come alive, gave his face the warmth of life.
Please give Ben Kincaid peace
, I said silently.
If he's trapped here, help him move on
. I didn't add, at least not consciously, that I wanted nothing more to do with it. I too wanted peace.

I felt better as we pulled the door of the chapel closed and Jazz locked it again. I had left it in St Anthony's hands. Maybe now Ben Kincaid would have someone more powerful than me to help him.

But Mac was doing his best still to annoy me. I hoped Aisha wasn't stuck on him. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve anybody.

We were in the school cafe at lunchtime, and Jazz had told the boys that she and Aisha had been with me for two days and nothing had happened.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully and stared at me. ‘Funny that, eh? Nothing happens except when you're
on your own. Isn't that strange?'

I'd had enough of Mac. I leapt at him. ‘Why is it so hard for you to believe me? What have I ever done to you!'

It was Callum who stuck up for me. ‘Leave her be, Mac.'

Mac stepped away from the table. His eyes didn't leave me. ‘You know what I think? You all pussyfoot around her – you, Aisha, ‘cause you're too nice to offend her, and you, Jazz, because you love ghost stories. What you should be doing is telling her she's talking rubbish. Talk some sense into her. She's making a fool of you both.'

Did he always mean to hurt me so much? And why did I let him?

But I wouldn't let Mac spoil my mood. I had Jazz and Aisha, and I didn't need his approval.

Even when Jazz came in the next day with her granny's prayer book and told me she'd found out what the chanting I had heard meant, it didn't bother me. It was as if that had happened to someone else.

She flicked through the well-worn pages of the old missal until she found the page she wanted.

‘
De profundis
… that's what you heard.'

I shrugged. ‘If you say so.'

‘Look there.' She pointed triumphantly.

De Profundis

The Prayer for the Dead

De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine

Domine, exaudi vocem meam.

And on the opposite page the translation.

Out of the depths I have cried to Thee,
O Lord,

Lord, hear my voice.

Out of the depths …

Once again I could hear words chant in my head. So clear now.
De profundis clamavi ad te …

But I shook the memory away. ‘Doesn't matter what it means, Jazz,' I said, remembering I had passed the responsibility on to someone else. ‘Because it's over. Nothing is ever going to happen again. It's over.'

But something did happen.

It was halfway through the afternoon. The bell had rung and we were hurrying from one class to another, the three of us, laughing. The corridor was buzzing with people, classes on the move, pupils bustling against each other.

I stepped ahead of Jazz and Aisha to avoid a crush. ‘Come on, you two!' I turned back and called to hurry them on. And when I swung round again, there he was. Standing right in front of me.

Ben Kincaid.

Couldn't miss the dark hair, the deep-set eyes. So close I could have kissed him. His face, his form as solid as my own.

Things like this were only supposed to happen when you're alone. In the dark. With shadows all around you. Not on a bright day, in a noisy corridor surrounded by other people.

For a second I couldn't breathe. As if I'd forgotten how. I stared at him, and then turned back towards Jazz and Aisha again, for they must be able to see him too. But though I could still see them, it was as if they were lost in some kind of dream world. The buzz in the corridor was muted. My friends were moving towards me as if they were in slow motion, yet never getting any closer. I could hear their voices, drawn out as if the sound too were in slow motion. As if time itself was being slowed down.

I turned to look ahead down the corridor and he was still there, so close. And behind him, the statue of St Teresa. Her hands seemed to be reaching down to him; the flowers clutched in her fingers were almost touching his black hair.

‘What do you want?' I yelled at him, expecting Jazz or Aisha to hear me, for everyone to hear me, but no one did. ‘Leave me alone!' My voice was a scream.

His face moved closer. ‘Help me, Tyler.' It was all he ever said, and his voice seemed to come from down a dark tunnel, from the other side of death, an echo of a voice, and his breath was as cold as the grave. ‘Help me.'

He began to reach out to me, ghostly hands, yet they appeared as real as my own. I was terrified. Terrified that
if he touched me, if I, for one moment, felt the cold touch of those icy fingers I'd be dragged further into this nightmare. Dragged perhaps into his time. His past. ‘Help me, Tyler,' he said again.

I stumbled back, away from those fingers, from those hands. I lost my footing and fell back hard on to the floor.

And suddenly everything began to speed up again. Jazz was running to help me, really running, out of the dream, rushing towards me.

‘Are you OK?' She bent down to me, concern all over her face.

My shaking hands pointed to the dark recess of the corridor. ‘He was there.' My voice was shaking. ‘You must have seen him.'

But Ben Kincaid wasn't standing in the shadows now. ‘He was there, I swear. He said … “Help me, Tyler.”' I looked at both of them. ‘I shouted back at him. I screamed at him. You must have heard me shouting.'

And I knew from their faces that they hadn't. Aisha said, ‘Tyler, we were right behind you, you were just running so fast, and you turned round and … you just fell.' She looked at Jazz and raised her eyebrow.

‘He was there!' I screamed again now. I glanced again
to where Ben Kincaid had been standing, and there was my proof. The statue of St Teresa, gazing down at me. Her eyes open, watching me. Her hands still outstretched. ‘Look, the statue's moved. Her eyes are always closed. Her hands are always locked together, you know that. Now look at her! Her eyes are open. She's not praying. The statues move. The statues always move!' I grabbed at Jazz's jacket, stared deep into her eyes. She had to see, believe me.

Jazz turned and looked up. A crowd had gathered and they all looked too.

‘That's the way she always looks, Tyler,' Aisha said. Her voice was stiff with resentment, as if I was making a fool of her. ‘They're only made of plaster. That means they can't move.'

And when I looked back too, she was right. St Teresa was standing as she had always stood, hands clasped, eyes closed in prayer.

I scrambled to my feet, threw off their hands trying to help me. ‘No, she moved. I see them move all the time. The statues move.'

‘This is a new one,' Aisha muttered. And I knew then, by mentioning the statues, that I had lost her too.