Paranormal Investigations: No Situation Too Strange (19 page)

She sniffed and said, "Ridiculous, your father has been dead twenty-two years," as if she didn't have a problem with any of the other details.  Her eyes went back to the paperwork on her desk and she began to shuffle them and make notes in margins.  As I got up, she tried to peer at me without my seeing, her eyes fell on my ring finger which made me automatically cover it with my right hand.  I really was going to have to get a chain and put it somewhere where people couldn't see it.  Especially as this ring was still a sought after stolen artefact from the British Museum and a photo of it was bound to be on every police database in the country and possibly further afield.

I went to my office and sat down.  There was a stack of papers, messages and expenses to be signed off.  I got up and went to the window where I laid my hands on the windowsill and looked out over the Hertfordshire countryside.  This side of the office looked over green fields, the other side looked over the bustle of central London ten miles to the south.  It was a place of contrasts. 

I looked at my phone.  It hadn't rung for two days - no messages and no missed calls.  No one wanted to speak to me.  No one.

I looked around the office, it all seemed so pointless.  It was no use, I was going to have to go out, get a change of scene.

I darted out of the office before Rose could chastise me, she shouted after me:

"Call Mildred!  She's left dozens of messages!"

I bet she had.  Still, if she couldn't find the time to talk to me about my so called destiny as a Seer then I couldn't find time to talk to her either.

I walked to the bus stop and went up to High Barnet.  In times of trouble I defaulted to Starbucks and at least if I kept myself in public places I would find it easier to fight the tears. 

Starbucks was busy and I had to fight my way through a coven of giggling teachers to get to the counter.  I joined the queue and, high on the Princess Park Manor money, decided to splash out on a large cup of chai tea latte
and
a cinnamon swirl - an unheard of extravagance in my meagre life.  Having made my choice I just wanted to pay and be done with it but the people in the queue in front of me seemed to be on go-slow.  There was a woman who kept asking "Venti?  What exactly does that mean?" and a man after her who was staring at the menu as if it was the biggest decision he had ever had to make in his life.  He was wrapped up for weather much colder than it was, a thick jumper in an Argyle print, thick knit scarf and gloves.  Eventually it was his turn and he ordered a double chocolate mocha, but was struggling getting the coins out to pay for it as he wouldn't take his gloves off. 

I sighed and then made myself breathe deeply.  It wasn't like I was really in a hurry, I had nowhere to go and no one to see.  Even Bob was making plans to leave and Trevor had gone back to his bridge as soon as the McDonald's breakfast was digested.  I bit my lip.  I would not cry, even if it was pitiful that the two most important people, creatures, whatever - in my life were a goat and a troll.  I hadn't even known such creatures existed two weeks ago. 

Beardy eventually moved off down the end to wait for his drink and I got to place my order.

The red cups were out in force and Christmas music was piping through the speakers all across Starbucks.  I know most people get really excited about the festive period, but for me it's just another day.  It's not like I had any family to spend it with, was it?  I suppose at least this year would have the benefit of being the first Christmas I wouldn't be angry at my father for not being there.  Now I could let all that anger go, he had always done the best for me that he could. 

Now I really was all alone.  I had isolated all my friends when Jez left and I had practically pushed him away, my family were all gone apart from Great Aunt Mildred and she wasn't exactly the sanest bunny in the warren.  Really, my life was the product of my own actions and I had no one else to blame for my lonesome misery. 

"Chai tea latte," a moody Welsh barista said, as she thumped on the counter the largest mug I had ever seen. 

I decided to break with tradition and went upstairs where it was always a bit quieter.  It was also a workout getting up all those stairs and burnt off some of the cinnamon swirl.  Double win.

I was in the comfy chairs in the corner and halfway through my tea when I noticed a man standing at the top of the stairs.  I probably noticed him because he was still wearing his motorbike helmet and had a courier bag over his shoulder.  He looked around the room and then his eyes settled on me.  I tried not to look alarmed as he approached me and thrust a package into my face.

"Sign please," he said, his voice muffled by the helmet.

I took the piece of paper and crappy biro he offered and added a squiggle to the piece of paper.

"Not signing for a bomb or anything am I?" I joked.  My humour was lost on the courier and he merely ripped off the top copy of the delivery receipt and handed it to me along with a small jiffy bag.

As I took it, he turned around and left.  The address on the top of the package had been typed and read '
young woman, upstairs in Starbucks, 11.30am 2
nd
November
'.  Interesting.  I looked around me.  Beardy was upstairs, as was a group of teenagers and a couple - I was the only woman on her own.

Cautiously, I began to open the small package, ripping the fold off the jiffy bag.  I didn't put my hand inside, instead shook out the contents which landed on the table with a slither.  A piece of white A4 paper had been folded into quarters and underneath was a gold chain.  I opened the A4 paper.  I had rarely seen my father's handwriting, but I knew it was his all the same.

I made one more stop,
it read,
before the end.  This was your mother's, I thought it might be useful.

I picked up the chain and let it run through my fingers.  I looked back at the note.  I had been written in a hurry and the only other lines were post scripts added at the bottom.

PS Have you ever thought about retracing your footsteps?

I scratched my head.  Retracing my footsteps?  What did that mean?  Great dad, thanks.  That's a lot of help.

Slowly I eased the ring off my finger and making sure it didn't lose contact with my skin I put it on the chain.  The chain I fastened around my neck and tucked under my shirt out of sight.  I looked at my finger, the imprint of the ring was still pressed on my flesh, but it would ease in time.

As I finished my tea I thought about what his post script could mean.  Which footsteps should I retrace?  The cemetery?  Surely not medieval Spain?  Then I realised there was only one thing he could mean, one things that was of use - the time I had followed that figure from the British Museum.  Would I be able to find that house on the square again?  There was only one way to find out.

I headed for the tube.

*

It was peculiar standing where I had been with my father so recently, or so long ago depending on how you looked at it.  I decided I had to find the exact spot I started from to give myself the best chances of finding the house again.  The tourists looked at me a bit strangely as I stepped from side to side, trying to be exact, but that was the least of my problems. 

I closed my eyes to better remember, and then set off on my recreation of the journey.  It was easy alongside the British Museum as there were not many turnings off, but it became harder to remember which way the shadowy figure had gone once we were past all the tourists.  I made a wrong turn at one point and had to go back on myself and pick up the correct trail.  I found a square that I thought might be the one, only to realise it didn't have any blue plaques on the houses so I went back again.  In a second square I looked about keenly, there was the strangely shaped tree in the gardens and glancing at the blue plaques I knew I was in the right place.  I looked at the basement window, I could smash it and squeeze through but it would be noisy.  I had a feeling there was no one in, but it would be wise to check first by knocking at the front door.

I walked up the steps to the front door.  It was one of those huge, imposing doors that were designed to state the wealth and position of the owners.  It had a brass lion head as a knocker and I thumped it down twice.  I was not quite sure what to say if someone did come to the door, but knew a claim to be from the Jehovah Witnesses with a copy of the Watchtower would almost certainly guarantee the door being slammed in my face instantly.  Unless the person answering the door recognised me from Highgate Cemetery... then I would have to go to plan B.  If I could think of a plan B.

I angled my body to better run down the steps should I need to, but no one came.  I gave one more knock.  Nothing.  I was about to go down to the basement window when I thought - why not?  I put my hand tentatively on the door handle and pushed.  It opened.

"Hello," I called, "evil, ghoulish, demon things?  Anyone in?"

It appeared not.

The entrance hall was wide and grand.  It didn't take too much imagination to picture the hall in its heyday - an obsessive Upstairs Downstairs and Downton Abbey habit didn't hurt too much either.  Now it was grey, dark and covered with dust.  I looked for footprints but there was too much thick dust to be able to discern anything.  I knew my best bet was to find the door to the basement so I could figure out the rest of the geography from that. 

I wandered the ground floor of the ghostly house until I found a door which seemed to be right.  I tried the handle, but the door was locked.  Just as well I didn't try coming in through the basement window then.  I tried looking through the keyhole but I couldn't see a thing through the gloom.  With my back to the door I tried to picture the direction the voices had come from.  It seemed to me as if they had come from the left and then had walked to my right, from which they had gone out of hearing distance.  If I went left I came upon the entrance hall where I came in, so it made more sense to go right.  I followed a dim passage that had once been hung with pictures, the rectangular marks of preservation were still clear upon the wall paper.  I looked in several doors as I passed them, but the insides were just as empty and dusty as the rest of the house.  At the end of the passage was one last door.  This had to yield some clue.

I opened the door.  Inside was what must have been a gentleman's parlour or study.  It was too small to be a library, but books in expensive leather with gilt lettering lined the back wall.  There was not a speck of dust which meant someone was either living here, or they had a Brownie as obsessively tidy as my own.  There was a fireplace in which a fire was still burning.  I looked cautiously about the room, but I was the only one here. 

In the centre of the room was a large desk, made of an auburn coloured wood, upon which sat old fashioned books and ledgers.  I sat in the wooden and red leather chair at the desk and began to flick through the ledgers.  Some of them were handwritten in languages I did not know, deeply etched in darkest black ink.  Some of them had words I recognised, 'Vitam Mordem' being one of them.  I felt a throb from the ring about my neck.  A sheaf of loose papers had been added to the top of one pile, I reached for them but because they were not neatly stacked they slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor.  I crouched to pick them up and that was when I heard voices and then footsteps.  I grabbed the papers and slid under the desk.  Thankfully it was one of those ostentatious Victorian affairs and had an enormous cavity underneath as well as a solid back.

There was enough light from the fire to be able to make out the papers and I realised I was looking at a photograph of myself, except it wasn't exactly me.  I had different hair and just looked... different.  Then I heard the door handle turn.  I clutched the papers in my hand and tried to make myself into a tiny ball under the desk.  My breathing was rapid and so loud I was sure it must be echoing around the room.

"It was good of you to come," said a first voice.  It could have been the hooded man's voice, but it was difficult to tell.

"It serves my own interests," said a second voice and he too could have been the hooded man.

A chair creaked on the other side of the room, one of them had sat down.

"It is curious," the first said, "but you knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?"

There was a silence that could have been the nod or shake of a head.

"Can you tell me anymore?"

The second spoke: "Alas, if I told you any more than was told to me... well, let's just say it wouldn't go well for me."

"Why did you come?"

"Let's just say it was curiosity.  I know so much more now about... your wife than I did then."

The first growled.  "Don't."

The second laughed.  "Well, if you knew her now as well as you will, you too would find it rather humorous.  She has an endearing habit of... stuffing things up."

"Then tell me how I can be rid of her."

"Tsk, tsk, my young friend.  I am rather fond of her, as you shall be.  She will have her uses.  In fact, she is going to prove invaluable to us."

"Well if you are not going to help me, why did you come?"

"To tell you not to give up, it is not the end - there is hope."

"How?"

A chill filled me.

"Through her.  She will provide the solution herself to this miserable race of humans.  The world will be on its knees, in time."