Shadows of the Lost Child (extract)

Chapter Five

Now – Aleph

Marianne Parks’ words shocked me. I’ve never believed in ghosts, I thought, so why start now? Or at least, not the ones that weren’t in my head. I cycled home in the fading light, forgetting my plan to go to the library, hardly aware of the world around me. Something had shifted inside my head. Starting again was proving to be what I’d thought all along, another illusion. You’re never allowed to forget, I thought.

I’d wanted to ask Ms Parks some more but she didn’t seem eager to talk fully. The door had opened and someone walked in, another gullible tenant, probably, eager to part with some hard-earned cash. I left them alone.

I cycled away, vaguely troubled, and now with even more questions than answers. I rode with care down Narrowboat Lane, ducking my head when I came to the arch. I was almost home when a woman stepped out in front of the bike. I braked, sharply. The woman shrieked and her shopping and handbag fell to the ground.

Old School Lane was a quiet street, pedestrianised, which was just as well in the present circumstances. I dropped my bike and hurried towards her. The woman was struggling to pick up her parcels, margarine, bread and a bag of potatoes, all in one hand. Her other hand was glued to her ankle. At least she’s alive, I thought, detached. My mind froze over.

‘Are you alright?’ I heard myself say.

‘I think I’ve sprained my ankle,’ she said.

When she finally removed her fingers, it was true the ankle seemed slightly puffy, a reddish colour, rather than pale. I picked up her handbag and gathered her food. ‘My house is just here,’ I told the stranger. ‘Please come inside, I’ll bandage that up.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ the woman replied, but her voice was faint and the no meant yes. I helped her make her way up the steps. Once inside, I steered her gently into the kitchen, and into a chair, putting the shopping by her side.

‘How about tea, or maybe some whisky?’ I paused, waiting.

‘Whisky, please,’ she said smiling, her eyes darting all over the place. ‘This is quite some kitchen, much bigger than mine. You’ve got so much space.’

‘It’s certainly different,’ I said, dryly, passing her a mug with the whisky in it. ‘I’ve just moved in so there aren’t any glasses.’ I sat down opposite the stranger and smiled.

‘Aleph Jones? That’s your name?’ The woman was reading the estate agent’s brochure; I’d put it there beside my tea.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know it’s unusual, everybody says so.’

‘A name to go with the house, I’d say. Quite unique.’ She took a deep breath and turned around to look at the hall. ‘I’d love to have a look at the place; does that sound rude?’

A little bit forward, perhaps, I thought, but I didn’t mind, not in the least. Then she blushed.

‘Not right now, of course, with this ankle. Climbing the stairs might be a challenge.’

‘I’d offer to run you home,’ I said. ‘But I don’t have a car.’ I stopped abruptly. The woman smiled.

‘I don’t suppose you need one here, in the centre of town? Isn’t this road pedestrianised?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But not round the corner in Scriveners Road. Would you like me to call you a taxi?’

‘When you’re ready,’ she said, lightly, and I realised then how lovely she was. Her hair was short and slightly spiky, her dark eyes chocolate. Casually dressed, but quite impressive. I stood up abruptly.

‘I’ll do it now,’ I said and vanished, and before very long the taxi was booked.

The rest of the time together passed quickly. She said she’d come into town to shop, I told her I’d meant to go to the library. I didn’t say why.

The taxi turned up before I was ready and I noticed her looking around at the hall. I was suddenly seized by a crazy moment, the sort that defines one’s life forever, and I asked this woman, who I’d only just met, to come back again and eat with me. ‘Tomorrow?’ I said.

‘I can’t tomorrow,’ she said, softly. ‘I’m going away for a few days’ break. With Alice, my daughter.’

She watched my face as she said the word daughter, and it felt to me like some sort of test.

‘Well, how about a week tomorrow?’

We agreed on that and parted happily, she managed the steps to the street quite well. When I’d finally closed the door on my guest, my mind began to drift in reverse, recalling my chat with Marianne Parks.

‘You asked if the children were laughing or crying, the School Lane ghosts. Why did you ask that?’

‘It’s just a rumour, Mr Jones.’

‘Yes, Ms Parks, but what rumour?’

‘They say it depends on who you are. The good hear laughter, the bad, crying, or even screaming. It’s all rubbish, Mr Jones.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘My mother lived there most of her life, after she married, and she never heard the ghosts, not once.’

But wasn’t your mother deaf? I thought.

Those were the thoughts that engaged my mind as I cycled back to the Old Schoolhouse, and caused me to fail to see Cressida Sewell. As time went on I recalled those words again and again, with good reason. I often heard the children at night, just around midnight and sometimes later.  But from that day on, they were always sad.

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Shadows of the Lost Child will be available in full soon. You can follow me on Twitter or like my Facebook page. For more information, please see http://elliestevenson.wordpress.com Your support is appreciated. Thanks for reading!