“Going somewhere nice?” She tried to smile and make out it wasn’t important.
“Just up north to visit some friends. With a bit of luck, if things go well, then I should be back again in a few days. We’ll get together before I go home and put Mrs Murphy out of her misery. What do you say?”
“Oh, whenever you can, Jack. You must be a very busy man.”
“Very, very, busy. I work all day.” He laughed. “All day, all day.” He looked at her and smiled. “T’would be the Irish in me, you know.”
She wasn’t quite sure how to answer him, so she said instead, ‘Who’s Mrs Murphy?” Then wished she hadn’t.
“Now wouldn’t that be telling?” Brigitte wanted to kick him.
“How quaint there’s a shoe-scraper on every front step.” Jack glanced back down the row of biscuit-coloured brick houses they’d just strolled past, before whipping his phone out and handing it over.
“Quick take my photo while there’s no-one about and if it’s good enough we’ll sell it to the News of the World and share the profits.” He posed, foot resting on one of the black-painted metal bars. The white net curtain behind the leaded window of the house moved a few millimetres. “I think somebody’s home. Should I knock and apologize. I know what theses rural villages can be like, we have them in Ireland as well.”
Brigitte laughed. “No! It’s old Mrs Baty’s. It’ll take her three hours to get to the door with her walking frame. Let’s just keep going.”
“Okay. Let’s go and show your friend what’s what shall we?”
Brigitte looked at him confused. Surely it couldn’t be Paul they were meeting. As they neared The Roses, she could see Stan on the far side of the car-park, standing by the door, looking as if he’d been expecting them. Amen, Paul’s car's no-where to be seen.
“Sorry I haven’t got time to buy you a drink,” Jack apologised. “But I’ll take you out when I get back from up North, will that be okay?”
Brigitte’s stomach fluttered. As she struggled to say, “I’ll hold you to that.” Jack’s phone, which she was still clutching in her hand, buzzed into life.
“Get that for me would you,’ he said, before he shouted, “Stan, hello!”
What did your last secretary die of? Jack had sped off in front and was shaking Stan by the hand. Brigitte struggled to keep up. At a complete loss what to do, she waved the phone at Jack and said, “It’s Al,”
“Ah, okay. I had a feeling it might have been Mrs Murphy, not to worry.” He pressed the Nokia to his ear. She tried not to eaves-drop, but he was too close and she couldn’t help but overhear the stilted replies, though they didn’t make a lot of sense. More Ley line activity and no, we’re nowhere near it. She gave up listening and followed a silent Stan into the pub’s dim interior.
“You get on with your business.” Stan puffed, out of breath from the short walk. “I’m going to the kitchen for me snap. The afternoons go quick and it’ll be opening time again before I know it. Give me a shout when you come down and I’ll lock up behind you.” He left them standing just inside the main door.
Brigitte looked at Jack and asked, “Come down from where?”
“We’re going upstairs to the bedrooms. Come on follow me.” He disappeared through a doorway marked private. She followed him up the carpeted staircase until they came to a small landing. Jack paused for a moment at the top. There were two numbered doorways and another narrow passage which led to more rooms. “No, not here.” Jack said. He seemed to be listening for something. “Let’s try further down.” He stopped in front of room three and his hand wavered over the brass doorknob. “We’ll try this one.” He swung the varnished door open and ushering her inside.
“I thought we were meeting someone?”
“We are.” Jack sat on the corner of the large double bed and patted the pink quilted eiderdown for her to sit next to him.
“I’ll stand for the moment.” On the bed's a bit too close for comfort. “I don’t understand Jack. We’re meeting somebody, but there’s nobody here. Couldn’t we have waited in the bar? It’s a bit dark in here, shall I open the curtains.” Brigitte was babbling.
“No, no, leave them like that. My friend doesn’t like the bar. He only comes through upstairs. Try not to be afraid. He’s quite harmless. I’m not going to tell you anything more or even when he’s here. I want you to tell me. So when you feel something speak out okay?”
Brigitte, all of a sudden, realized just what he was talking about. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of astonishment. “You can’t be serious, Jack”
“Of course. I’m always perfectly serious as you may well have noticed. Now sush and concentrate a little and we’ll see what happens.”
He was a bit bossy on the quiet. They’d been in the room ten minutes when the hairs on Brigitte's arms rose with static electricity. “It’s a bit chilly in here. Bet Stan’s got the heating switched off, penny-pincher that he is.”
Jack glanced at the combined EMF and temperature monitor in his hand. The thermometer read-out dropped steadily, degree by degree. “Do you think so? I’m sure he hasn’t. Touch the radiator and see.”
Brigitte walked across the polished floor boards, almost tripping over the thick rose-coloured rug in the middle of the room, and placed her hand on the metal radiator beneath the window. It was burning hot. “Oh, it’s on.” Even to herself she sounded surprised. Jack smiled. Brigitte was irked by his smugness.
“Feel anything else?” he asked.
She was going to so no out of spite, when the sensation of someone standing behind her became very strong and her head began to ache. “Oh my God,” She stood as still as a statue not daring to move. “Is there’s someone behind me.”
“You tell me.”
“There’s someone behind me.”
“Well done. They usually do appear behind you. That’s where you sense them first. It’s as if they’re peering over your shoulder, right?”
“Something is tickling the top of my head. My hairs moving! Oh, tell it to stop I don’t like it.” Brigitte started to panic.
“You have to learn to do it yourself, Brigitte. I’m not always going to be there to help you. See if he’s got anything to say. Close your eyes and see if you can hear him.”
“Until now I’ve always used my ears for listening.” At least her wit was still working.
“If you don’t concentrate you won’t be able to do anything.” Jack was quite short with her. “Now will you listen?”
She did as he said and closed her eyes. It was as though a musical chant echoed through the room, but it was in a language she couldn’t even begin to understand. “It sounds like an Enya recording,” she said, grasping at straws trying to describe to Jack what she was hearing. “It sounds as though it’s coming from a long way away and is in a huge empty place. Quite melodic and very musical, but I don’t know what it is.” She opened her eyes to find Jack smiling as if he was proud of her.
“That’s impressive for a novice. He was chanting in Latin. So, no, you wouldn’t understand it. You see, I know what I’m talking about or would you like another example? Let’s pop down to the cemetery now and see what reception we get.” Brigitte stared at him horrified.
“You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Of course. It’s pretty unusual, strange as it may seem, to find a ghost in a graveyard. But I do need to have a quick peek over there and check something out. Have I managed to convince you your friend doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”
“Yes, you win. I’ll ignore Paul’s comments from now on and just get on with it.”
“You will find that sort of attitude a lot, Brigitte. There are sceptics in all walks of life so we have to learn to live with them. If you believe, then it has to be enough no matter what anyone else says. Can you understand that?”
“I will eventually, no doubt, given a bit of time and patience.” She paused for a moment and then said, “It’s easy to doubt ones sanity when there?
??s no one to talk to.”
“That I can understand.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to take me sight-seeing in the cemetery.” He bounced up and down on the soft mattress. “Nice bed,” he commented as if to himself before giving her a saucy wink that turned her pink from roots to chin.
“We’d best be going then,” she said and headed for the door. Jack sprang up and got there first. “Allow me.” He opened the door for her and gave her a cheeky little tap on the behind as she passed him. Brigitte stumbled on the carpet, then bolted down the stairs as if the phantom monk was after her.
“Thanks Stan,” Jack called out as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “We’re away now. See you next time I’m back.” There was no reply as the pub door swung shut behind them. They stepped out into the brightness of the afternoon. “Which way now?”
“Straight over, you can’t get lost here... then again you probably could.”
“Well would you look at that!” Jack had given a cursory glance to his right before crossing. Whatever he’d spotted had him transfixed. He stood stock still in the middle of the road, looking up.
“There’s not much traffic, Jack, but that’s really not a good place to stop.” Brigitte kept walking and only turned round again when she reached the other side. He was still standing in the road. “Jack! There’s a car coming.”
With a quick, long-legged loping skip, he was next to her on the pavement. “This is getting more interesting by the minute. Look up there.” He took her by the shoulders and pirouetted her around until she faced in the opposite direction. “Can you see that?”
“I can see a lot of things...”
“Up there.” His warm breath blew soft against her earlobe as he leaned closer, his chest touching her back, and pointed. In the naked branches of what looked like a dead tree hung several large ball-like clusters of tangled vines.
“What’s so mind-boggling about birds’ nests?”
“They’re not birds nest. It’s mistletoe, the sacred plant of the pagan tribes. I haven’t seen any in years, well, not in its natural state anyway.”
“What, not even at Christmas?”
“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
They walked past the red-painted door of the local Post Office just as it was closing. Brigitte raised her hand to the silhouette of the woman behind the poster-adorned window. “That’s done it. We’ll be the talk of the village now she’s seen us.”
“Really?” Jack linked his arm with hers. “Let’s give her something to talk about then.” He’d given her a peck on the cheek before she even knew what had happened.
Maybe the mistletoe's having a delayed effect. Brigitte was a bit dizzy and couldn’t think of anything a reply so all she said was, “We’re here.” They stood by the wall of what had once been part of the old Benedictine monastery grounds while Jack cast a quick, dis-interested eye over the Abbey’s twin turreted structure.
“Wait here for a minute.” He didn’t give her time to answer before he was gone, through the gate and along the gravel path which wound through the gravestones. He reappeared ten minutes later back at her side. He was making her dizzy. To get back so fast he must have used the side exit and walked back round. Now, he wasn’t taking any notice of her, but looking over at the buildings on other side of the road and waffling on to himself. “Amazing! Absolutely amazing.” He’d turned to look back at the cemetery. “The Yews form a circle... never thought to find anything like that here. Brigitte, where were you sitting when I phoned?” She went through the open gate and pointed to a bench in the far corner.
“Right just there.”
“Now I understand.
Glad you do, because I’ve lost the plot.
“There’s a lot of Yews here. It’d been a warm day if I remember right. It was, wasn’t it?” She nodded, though if the truth were known, she really couldn’t remember. “It’s an unusual occurrence now, because it’s very rare to find sufficient trees close enough together to get the right effect.”
“You’ve lost me, Jack.”
“Sorry. I forget I have a tendency to talk to myself when things start falling in to place. It helps to say it out loud. Maybe it’s just a bad habit from chatting with Bob, but it helps me to get things, well... in perspective.”
“That’s fine. But I still haven’t got a clue what you’re on about.”
“Of course not, I keep forgetting you’re new to all this. I’m getting so used to having you around, I’d forgotten you weren’t there before, if you know what I mean.” Brigitte didn’t, but she quite liked the sound of it nonetheless. “Yew trees were important to the Celtic druids. They were a symbol of eternal life. One of the strangest things is, during warm weather they can give off toxins which induce a trance-like state. So much for your day-dreaming.’
“I was off my box? And I always wondered why I liked sitting in here so much... now I know.”
“By the way what were you thinking about?” Brigitte reached up and caught Jack by the nape of the neck, pulled his head down to hers and kissed him full on the lips.
“That’s what I was thinking about.”
“Oh, I see. You’ll have Al on the phone in a minute calling to tell me his monitors have gone ballistic again.”
Oh my God, now what have I gone and done.
Jack, to give him his due, didn’t seem unduly phased.
“Blame it on the Yew trees.” It was time for a quick change of subject. “You should come down in early spring. End of February, beginning of March time. The whole cemetery’s full of snowdrops. It’s an amazing sight. They grow all over the place. Are they connected to Druids as well?”
“Not that I know of, but I’ll bet they’re very pretty.” Jack was occupied pointing his grey-cased gadget at the wooden bench. With a pencil, he noted down several readings in a small notebook before pulling a compass from his jacket pocket. “Where’s your house from here?” She pointed in the general direction. He pulled a compass from his trouser pocket and did whatever men do with compasses. He was thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Interesting.”
“You’re quite the boy-scout on the quiet, aren’t you?”
“You’d be amazed what I’ve got hidden in here.” Jack smiled at her and patted his trousers.
I’ll bet. “What exactly are you doing, Jack?” She wasn’t too bothered, but wanted to keep the conversation going.
“If I’m not mistaken part of a Ley line runs through here. There’s a slight fluctuation registering which could turn out to be significant.” He licked the end of the pencil and grimaced. “They don’t make them like they used to. They tasted better when I was a kid. Basically, I’m just noting down the geographical lay of more or less where I think it is.”
“How do you know?”
“Apart from the EMF meter, I get a feeling, an instinct. It’s a bit like a needle pricking the skin or an itch you can’t scratch. I could kick myself for not bringing my divining rods. Don’t quite know what we’ve dropped onto. No doubt time will tell. Well, can’t do much more today so I guess it’s time I made a move.” She followed him from the cemetery and they headed back to where he’d left the car parked.
“Would you like to come round for a cup of tea?” Brigitte shocked herself with the invitation.
“No, not this time.” He opened the driver’s door and put one leg in the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”
A breeze, in a gentle twisting whirlwind, blew around them. It lifted the folds of Brigitte’s skirt and flapped at the long folds of Jack’s black, ankle-length jacket. The silky purr of the engine springing to life was followed by a soft thud as the door closed. He slipped the car into gear, lifted his arm in a brief wave and drove away from the kerb. Two seconds later, the car rounded a corner and was out of sight. He was gone.
“Don’t get lost on the way.” She’d wanted to say.
“As if I would.” Was his reply.
Brigitte stood glued to the spot. She
couldn’t remember seeing Jack put a coat on. She knew, without a doubt, he hadn’t been wearing one when they’d left the shop and gone to the pub. Confused, she walked the short distance home wondering if any of it had really happened at all.
Chapter 16
On Friday morning the M11 was as busy and stressful as Brigitte expected. She stuck to the slow lane. Articulated lorries, in a hurry to finish deliveries before the weekend, thundered past pulling her car towards them in the wake of air they created. The recent run of disturbed nights had left her tired and the monotony of driving along the straight road soon started to make her drowsy. She held tight to the steering wheel with her left hand while with the right she wound the window down a crack to let in some fresh air. It wasn’t the traffic, but the sight of the bare-chested man mounted on a black horse riding along beside her which almost gave her a heart attack.
The beast’s hooves pounded in a silent rhythm on the grass verge as it kept pace with the car. Easing her foot off the accelerator, Brigitte slowed and risked a quick glance at the speedometer. Impossible, it read ninety kilometres an hour. The muscles of the horse’s flank contracted beneath its lustrous coat as it galloped, proud head held high. Riding bareback, the man clung tight with his knees, hands entwined in the stallion’s flowing mane. His powerful chest gleamed ivory white. Her subconscious registered the rider’s uncanny resemblance to Jack. It might have been an illusion, but she could have sworn he smiled at her before he veered away and disappeared. She was so distracted she almost missed the turn-off for Cambridge, but she saw the sign for the intersection and signalled just in time.
The address Jack had written on a slip of paper was taped to the dashboard of the car. After double checking she was in the right place, with a sigh of relief, she pulled into the car park. He must have been watching for her arrival, because before she’d pulled the hand brake on and killed the engine, Jack was beside the car and opening the door. She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but as she half turned in the seat ready to slide from the car, her skirt rode up her legs and exposed a tantalising stretch of nylon-clad thigh. Jack gave a discreet cough and looked away.