The Ghosts of Sleath (28 page)

A
SH PAUSED BENEATH
the hanging sign of the Black Boar Inn. Although he had paid it little mind before, he now craned his neck to take in its faded detail. The black fur and yellowed tusks of the huge wildeyed beast depicted there seemed to quiver with rage. Although a crude work, its paint cracked and flaked away in places, the picture still conveyed the ferocious strength of its subject. Perhaps it was the madness in the boar’s reddened eyes that gave the painting its potency, or perhaps it was because of the animal’s stance, shoulders hunched, one hoof raised and pointed as if to paw the ground; or perhaps it was merely the contrast between the fearsome image and the tranquil setting it glowered over that startled the observer. But then, it seemed Sleath was a village of contrasts.

He dropped his gaze to look around him. The pond, with its overlay of rising mist, no longer appeared so placid to him: somehow it was too still, too deep. Further along the stocks and whipping post presented a stark and shameful reminder of Sleath’s more sinister past rather than the interesting relics he had thought them when he’d arrived. Even the windows of the old houses and the community hall opposite looked darkly brooding, and the few people he had passed on his short journey from St Giles’ seemed weighed down by their own cogitations - when one of them had raised his head to watch Ash drive by
and the investigator had acknowledged him with a brief nod the man had quickly and almost shiftily averted his eyes.

Ash turned towards the narrow, hump-backed bridge leading out of the village and was surprised to see a mist there also, its wispy tendrils reaching over the low stone walls from the river below. He realized a less perceptible haze was drifting along the High Street itself. It was too hot, too humid, and his head ached, his throat was dry. He badly needed a drink.

The inn door was stiff when he shoved against it, as if reluctant to allow him entry, but he gave it a firmer push and it swung wide. With some relief he stepped into the shadowy coolness of the saloon bar.

The place was empty of customers and, on first inspection, appeared to be devoid of staff also. However, he soon picked up the sound of voices coming from the open doorway behind the bar as he made his way across the worn carpet. Although it was long past lunchtime, he was mildly surprised at the lack of drinkers, particularly on such a sweltering day. Maybe those who were not working wanted to stay inside the coolness of their own homes. He decided not to drink at the bar himself - he was in no mood for small talk - and quietly strode towards the back stairs. There was vodka in his room and that was all he needed for now; food had no appeal whatsoever.

He made it to the stairs without alerting the voices in the back room and quickly went up. The stale odours of beer and cooking permeated the wood-panelled corridor as if the heat had drawn them from the walls and carpet; the musty aroma of time itself. It was almost cloying and he was relieved to reach his room where the window had been left open. The bed had been made, the room tidied; best of all a fresh jug of water had been left on the bedside cabinet.

He was unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it free of his trousers even as he closed the door with his shoulder. He flapped the sides to create his own draught as he headed for the flask on the dressing table near the window. He picked it up and settled on the edge of the bed with a weary sigh; he used a shirt-tail
to wipe sweat from his stomach and chest. Closing his eyes, he sat there for a few moments and tried to breathe in air from the open window; he soon opened his eyes when he realized precious little fresh air was entering the room - the curtains were perfectly still, not a single breeze wafting through to disturb them. Raising the flask to his lips, he took a quick nip of vodka, then poured water from the glass jug into the tumbler by its side. The water was tepid, but it tasted good as it soothed the alcohol’s burn and quenched his thirst at the same time. Thoughts crowded in as he stared sightlessly at the window and minutes passed before he reached for the jug to refill the tumbler. Vodka, then water. Again: vodka, then water. Ash began to feel a little better and his thoughts began to assemble into some order.

Seamus Phelan wasn’t the fool he appeared. Eccentric he might be, flamboyant too; but there was a sharp intelligence to the man that wasn’t evident on first appraisal. Whether or not he was psychic was another matter, although he was certainly perceptive: he had judged Sleath’s mood well enough. His knowledge of the dead language Latin was also impressive, as was his grasp of history - he was easily able to fill in historical background to the church records as they went through them. There was still much to learn from these old record books and documents, but after a couple of hours of piecing them together, finding some kind of order, and then painstakingly combing through every separate item of information that might be relevant to their searches, the two men had begun to feel fatigued.

There was more to do, but eventually Phelan had urged Ash to return to the inn and rest while he, himself, continued the work and Ash, still wearied by lack of sleep, reluctantly agreed. Besides, he wanted to check on Ellen Preddle, to see how she was after last night’s ‘disturbance’, as well as collect film from the cameras he had set up inside her cottage. He also needed time to take stock of what he and Phelan had learned so far for, unless parts of those church records had been transcribed
by madmen, Sleath had a secret history that was as horrific as it was repellent. With some misgivings, Ash had left the Irishman to continue alone.

Ellen Preddle had either not been at home - unlikely, he thought - or was refusing to answer the door - much more likely - when he called. He’d knocked on the door for several minutes, then tapped on the window, peering in and calling out her name. There had been no sound from inside and no movement that he could see. He decided he’d return later with Grace, who might be able to persuade the widow to let them in again. His uneasiness increased, he had driven slowly back to the inn.

Ash jiggled the flask against his ear to estimate how much vodka was left. It was almost empty. He took a last swig, then reached for the cigarette pack he’d tossed onto the bed. There was a gentle knock on the door as he lit one.

‘David?’

It was Grace’s voice.

Ash was up and moving round the bed as the second knock came and he had the door open even before she could lower her hand. Although the light was poor outside in the dark-panelled corridor, he could see the agitation in her pale eyes.

‘Grace? Your father …?’

‘Dr Stapley is with him.’ She looked beyond him into the room and Ash stepped aside so that she could enter. ‘I came straight up,’ she said as she walked past him. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone about downstairs.’

She stopped by the bed and faced him, her hair loose around her face. A light sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead. ‘I had to see you, David. We had no chance to talk earlier.’

He remembered their kiss, the overwhelming freedom it had unleashed in them both, the exploration of each other’s mind. Those images, those sensations, were still with him, but now there were more urgent matters to deal with.

‘I have to tell you about Sleath, Grace,’ he said to her. ‘Your father -’

‘He’s all right, Dr Stapley is taking care of him. We need to talk about you first, David, don’t you see?’

‘Christ, I’m the least of all this …’

‘Don’t you understand? I know about you, I know about your guilt. But you’re not responsible, don’t you see? Your sister’s death wasn’t your fault.’

He was stunned. What the hell was she saying?

‘I entered your mind, David. I knew your thoughts, I experienced your memories. I was with you when Juliet died.’

He turned his back on her, closing the door as an excuse. He needed to think. ‘You couldn’t know about her …’

‘But I do. We became part of each other for a few minutes, perhaps just seconds, and our thoughts merged. We do have that link, that psychic link. We both felt it on the day we met.’

She took a step towards him, but he lifted the cigarette to his lips as if to ward her off.

‘Why are you afraid?’ There was pleading in her voice. ‘I know your sister’s death wasn’t your fault even though you blame yourself. Hasn’t that been your problem all these years, that you feel responsible for Juliet’s drowning? And in your mind Juliet has haunted you ever since. That’s why you worked so hard to disprove the existence of ghosts. If there were no such things, no spirits wandering this world after death, then Juliet could never be there, she could never truly haunt you, or seek revenge, she would just be in your own imagination. Isn’t that how you thought of it?’

He found he could not reply, but Grace had continued anyway.

‘Then something happened at that place called Edbrook, that was where finally you were forced to accept the existence of ghosts. The two brothers and their younger sister, Christina - they revealed the irrevocable truth to you. As they were meant to, because they and Juliet belonged together. They were evil, David, evil spirits who conspired with your dead
sister to make you suffer not just for Juliet’s death, but for your rejection of the supernatural itself, for your work, your book, your efforts to dissuade others from believing in the spiritual world. And dear God, you were so vulnerable.’

His emotions were in turmoil, but he kept his voice level. ‘You realize how ridiculous this all sounds?’

She came back instantly. ‘Then deny it, tell me it isn’t so. You can’t hide from me, David, I know you too well now.’

Her smile was not mocking … not like Christina’s had been … not like Juliet’s … On Grace’s lips it was meant to tell him it was all right, she was telling him his own secrets because she cared, she cared for him … Her eyes softened and again she tried to reach out for him.

He held her hand before it touched him. ‘Grace …’

‘Don’t you understand how I feel about you, David?’

He was lost to her. Everything he had wanted to tell her, all the bad things about Sleath and the Lockwood family were gone, swept away for the moment because she had revealed a truth to him that his own beleaguered conscience had always denied. Through their psychic joining, Grace had entered his subconscious where there could be no lies, no untruths, only incorruptible testimony to reality, the place where even Juliet’s malign spirit could not intrude, and there she had been eyewitness to the memory of that day so long ago on the river-bank, where his sister had perished and he had rendered himself culpable.

He drew Grace to him, and she came into his arms willingly.

‘I need you,’ she said in a low voice and all other thoughts were driven from his mind, for it had been a long time since such words had been spoken to him. He held her close and suddenly her face was tilting, her lips seeking his. They kissed and a lightness pushed through him, a euphoric charge that banished all weariness and concerns. At that moment, he knew only her.

She pulled away slightly, ending the kiss, but the elation remained within him.

‘The cigarette …’ she said.

He was confused for a second, then realized the cigarette was still burning between his fingers. Quickly he crushed it in the ashtray and turned back to her. She had moved closer to the bed.

‘Please …’ she said quietly.

Ash went to her and they both sank down onto the sheets, Grace lying back so that he was over her, his lips only inches away from hers.

He tried to speak, but her fingertips touched his mouth. There’s no need, her eyes told him.

Her hand moved to his cheek and he pressed his lips to hers once more, relishing the soft, warm moistness he found there. He felt her hand slip behind his neck, pulling him down so that their kiss became hard, a swift passion rising from their closeness. Her lips parted when their embrace tightened, and their bodies grew rigid, the pressure almost desperate. The tips of their tongues touched and Ash felt his muscles quiver as if with mild shock. He heard her faint moan and became lost in her, bearing down even harder so that her head was pressed into the mattress beneath them. Her legs parted and he slid his leg between her thighs; her hips rose to meet his hardness.

For the briefest of moments, an inner voice warned him that this was foolish, that the time was wrong, there were things to tell her; but already it was too late, for they both shared the same hunger, their passion was equal, and even if he chose to stop, then her need alone would easily overwhelm him. He gave himself up to her, casting aside any other thoughts, lost to a desire that was now beyond control. Their kiss became less fierce and instead, more exquisite; they were sinking into each other, their physical bodies no barrier to each other’s consciousness.

Her hands roved down his back and under his open shirt, her fingers curling into his flesh, and he murmured with the pleasure of it. He lifted his upper body from her so that he
could run his fingers along the line of her soft, graceful neck, slipping the tips beneath the collar of her chambray shirt to touch the hot skin beneath. The feel of this concealed flesh, his first tentative exploration of her body, was more sensual than he thought possible; it was the initial moment of mutual discovery, that sublime point when two people understand they are to become lovers. His hand, trembling slightly, moved down, following the line of her shirt, fingertips hidden beneath its cloth. The first three buttons were undone and he traced the nascent rise of her breast; the fourth button undid easily, as did the fifth.

She was naked beneath and his hand closed over the small point of hardness at the centre of her swelling. He felt a tiny shiver run through her. She spoke his name in a low, breathless sigh as his fingers stroked the nipple, causing it to become even more erect from the softness around it. Grace’s hands became still as she savoured his caress, her breathing shallow, her body tight with desire.

She held her breath as his hand pushed away the covering material and his lips brushed against the smoothness of her breasts, his tongue moistening the nipple that had become so firm yet so wonderfully sensitive. She shuddered as he drew it into his mouth and smothered its very tip with his own juices. She gasped as his tongue pressed into her, then coaxed the nipple forward again with soft, wet strokes. Her hands could no longer remain still and she clenched them into the flesh of his back, kneading his skin, reaching for his spine and following its rigid line into the waistband of his trousers.