Brigitte, poking her finger into the empty packet, walked across the square of black and white tiled floor to the door. She sucked her fingertip and swore.
All gone.
She crumpled the packet in her hand and stared out of the thick,
old glass at the village green.
I feel like banging my head against the wall or having a good scream. There's got to be more to life than this. She turned the plastic sign over to read closed.
Time to go home. Another day like today and that sign won't be saying open ever again.
The tinny ring of the bell clattered as she closed and locked the door. Standing outside on the pavement, with a shrug, she shouldered the strap of her handbag and turned her coat collar up against the chill. The clock on the abbey tower chimed once.
It's only five-thirty and there's nobody about.
She crossed the village green heading for the cemetery and the short-cut home. A narrow, tree-lined pathway which cut between the moss-covered headstones of the old graveyard. The crunch of the gravel beneath her feet startled a roosting blackbird from its perch and it swooped down low over her head. She side-stepped just in time as a white liquid missile splatted on the yellow stones. “Too slow, you missed me!” She shouted out loud and laughed.
Maybe it's my lucky day. Though it doesn't feel like it.
Further along the path, she had to bend her head to pass beneath the sweeping branches of a towering Yew. Its berry-laden fronds brushed against her hair. The strangest sensation of calmness and belonging overwhelmed her.
I must be losing the plot. I quite like it in here.
It was tempting to sit for a while on the bench under the shadow of the tree, but after only the biscuits for breakfast and lunch, her stomach was rumbling and she kept walking. Passing through the rusting gate, to leave the old tombs behind, she stood and listened while it creak closed.
Bloody hell, that was spooky.
She stifled a giggle, opened the gate and let it swing closed again - just for the fun of it.
There wasn't much need to press the button on the pedestrian crossing either, traffic on the main road splicing the village in two was almost non-existent. Since the by-pass had been built, Thorney had become a ghost town. But she did it anyway and the piercing beep wailed out.
“Afternoon, Brigitte.”
Oops. Caught in the act.
“Hello, Madge. Taking Sam for a walk?”
Brigitte bent to pat the head of the black Labrador. It growled and curled its flabby lip to show her a row of yellowing teeth.
“That's enough, Sam.” With the reddened, work-gnarled hand of an ex-land worker, the elderly lady pulled hard on the animal's lead to check it. The dog sat down on its haunches, but its hackles stayed half raised. The short hairs bristling as if it'd just had an electric shock.
“I don't think Sam's over keen on my perfume. Looks like he's got expensive taste.”
“What's got into him? He wouldn't hurt a fly.” Madge was holding on to him tight. Sam looked ready to spring for Brigitte's throat. It seemed a good idea to take a step back. She did and quick.
“He usually licks me to death. Maybe he's feeling off-colour.”
“No, he can't be. He had his six-monthly check-up at the vet's yesterday. Dr Jones said he was in excellent health for a ten year old.”
The old lady rummaged in the pocket of her shooting jacket, pulled out a crumpled cigarette and lit it. It dangled from the corner of her mouth. Brigitte couldn't take her eyes off it.
“Is he as old as that? I hadn't realized.”
“He's not getting any younger, you know.” The cigarette-end bobbled as Madge spoke. Brigitte wanted one.
So much for hypnosis.
Brigitte didn't want to look at the dog so she looked at Mrs. Baines instead, who was squinting through a cloud of smoke. Her cap of white hair was tinged nicotine-yellow at the front. Brigitte changed her mind about asking Madge if she had a spare fag. It'd put her right off. There was a rumble of thunder in the close proximity which had nothing to do with the overcast weather. It emanated from deep within the broad chest of the animal that was staring at her, unblinking.
“It could be his rheumatism.” The old woman whittled on. “Mine plays up when there's a storm coming.”
“Do you think it's going to rain?” What did I ask that for? Now I'll never get away.
Old Mrs. Baines turned and looked toward the trees in the Abbey
graveyard. “Could be. The birds nested low this year. Sign of a poor summer that.”
“I've just come from the cemetery and didn't even notice.”
“Oh,that's it then.” Mrs Baines nodded.
“What's what then?”
“You've got company."
“No, I'm not expecting anybody.”
Mrs. Baines took a step closer and whispered. “You've got company.”
She's giving me the bloody willies.
“I haven't.”
The old biddy's been in the pub for a lunchtime session and is seeing double.
“You have.”
“Oh,” Brigitte gave up.
I'm not in the mood for arguing, especially when I don't know what I'm arguing about.
“Sam senses these things.”
“Really?” What?
“He's psychotic. We never go in there any more. It makes him play up.” Brigitte just nodded and mouthed an oh. Sam was still snarling. “I'll go and let him chase some sticks in the park. That'll take his mind off it. Otherwise he'll be dreaming all night and I won't get a wink of sleep. While I think on, does that dry food the vet recommends make your dog fart as well?”
“I haven't got a dog.”
“Whose dog was that I saw your daughter walking then? It worried me a bit seeing it trotting along behind her like that without a lead on. Was going to say something, but... well, my old legs would never have caught them up. The roads not busy, but accidents still happen you know. I nearly got knocked off my bike last week.”
“We haven't got a dog, well, not that I know of anyway.” Brigitte crossed her fingers and hoped she wasn't in for a surprise when she got home. It wouldn't be the first time.
“Maybe it was a stray. Shame, bigger than Sam it was. A bit like an Irish wolfhound.”
Oh no, I can cope with something the size of a Chihuahua. I've had practice, I had a rat in the shop last week. Get it together, Brig, your mind's wandering.
“I'd better be getting off, Madge or I'll be late getting dinner ready for the girls.”
“Aye, time soon goes, me duck.” Mrs Baines pulled at the dog, but it was glued to the spot. Its eyes hadn't left Brigitte for a minute.
“You get away. I'll get him moving once you've gone.”
Brigitte walked off and left them standing there.
Don't look round. The bloody things possessed. I'll bet its eyes are glowing red like the beast in the Hound of the Baskerville's.
Brigitte knocked on her front door, then stepped back and waited. No savage barking came from inside. Mrs Baines must have been daydreaming. Wielding the front door key like a magic wand, she cast an imaginary spell on the house. If I were a snail, I would cast this shell of a past life from my back and start again with something smaller. Abracadabra. I wonder if its cleaned itself?
Being dramatic helped take her mind off things. “You're cracking up girl.” she said out loud. Slipping the key in the lock, she opened the front door with caution, just in case, but nothing with four legs came rushing out to greet her.
“Hello, anyone home?” No answer.
After hanging her coat on an overcrowded hook in the hall, Brigitte went through to the kitchen. Oh... my... God. There's proof. I don't live on my own. Half a dozen bowls, covered in a congealed mess of brown sticky goo had been thrown in the sink. She wiped her finger around one and then sucked it. Lovely. Chocolate cake-mix.
A splash of colour under one of the decorative magnets on
the fridge door caught her eye. Miracles do happen, my culinary talented daughters have left me a note. She pulled it off and read it. Between hearts and stars drawn in rainbow ink was scribbled the message, Back at Eight O’clock. Luv U. She laughed. “That girls, is almost, but not quite, enough for me to forgive you for leaving such a bloody mess.” Still at least they've remembered to let me know when they'll be back. Telling me where they've gone is something I'll have to work on. Her foot crunched on something hard. Unbelievable. Egg shells. She swore under her breath, then picked them up and threw them in the bin. She wasn't in the mood for this. “I'll clean you lot later.” I wonder how many people talk to the dirty dishes. Maybe I need a drink.
A waft of cool air breezed across her face when she opened the fridge door. The chilled bottle of wine nestling between the pots of strawberry yoghurt on the top shelf looked very inviting, but a quick glance at the clock on the wall told her it was just a bit too early. She took out the milk and pretending the washing up didn't exist, made herself a coffee and carried it out into the small terrace garden to drink it. Sitting there, in the warm stillness of the late afternoon, eyes closed, she lost the time in thought.
This neighbourhood is too quiet. Somewhere there's a dog barking. The sound of it is echoing down the empty street. Roses? I can smell roses. Oh no, not again. Something is touching my shoulders. The gentle pressure of someone's hands? I'm not going to open my eyes because I know there's nothing, no-one, there.
A caress, as soft and fleeting as the velvet touch of a butterfly's wing, brushed against her cheek.
“Brigid,”
She shot out of the chair, her eyes searching around the terrace. There's nobody here, but I'm sure I just heard someone whisper my name. I should be afraid, but I'm not, I'm... Brigitte didn't know what she was other than confused. Her coffee, untouched on the table, had cooled and formed a skin on the top. Humming a silly tune, she picked it up and went back to the kitchen to clean up the disaster before starting to make the dinner.
Maybe I should tell Paul everything.
She'd told him about the dreams, but not about what she called the “visits”. His analytical mind didn't go any further than filling in his weekly football coupon. He'd laugh and tell her not to be ridiculous. There was a logical explanation for everything and that, according to the gospel of the saintly Paul, was past life regression.
Dinner's nearly ready and the kitchen's back to normal, time for a shower.
Brigitte wandered back down the hall to get her bedroom, looking for her bathrobe.
Oh my.... that's impossible. I'm seeing things.
Scattered all over the dark blue bed covers were hundreds of white rose petals. The room was full of their heady, summer perfume. She sat down on the side of the bed and trailed her fingers through them.
I think I'm going to be sick. Where on earth have they come from?
A stab of panic surged.
What if someone's been in the house? A stalker? Have I got a stalker?
She tried really hard, but it was almost impossible to ignore the deep, heavily accented voice repeating where are you, where are you, over and over again in her head.
“Mum?”
A loud shout and the thump of the front door banging closed were followed by the pounding of feet on the stairs. Thank God for that, the girls are home.
“Where are you?”
Don't you two start.
Before she could shout out, they’d bounded into the bedroom.
“Wow! Who did that?”
“You can wipe the smirks off your faces, because I don't know."
“Yeah right, pull the other one.” It sounded strange hearing Skip, her youngest, repeating what she said to them when she thought they were telling her stories.
“You said you haven’t got a boyfriend at the moment, so just in the mood for ripping roses to shreds were you?” Shelley stared down at Brigitte. Her eldest daughter stood there, hands on hips and a scrutinizing expression on her face which would have been more apt on the face of a twenty year old, rather than one of fourteen. Cheeky,little monkey. For no explicable reason, Brigitte blushed under her questioning gaze.
“Never mind the twenty questions. You two are late for dinner. Go and set the table while I pick these up. I’ll be down in a minute or two.” They groaned in unison. “Do you want to talk about the mess you left in the kitchen?”
They disappeared through the door pretty quick, leaving Brigitte alone to start gathering up the petals. Unable to even contemplate throwing them away she looked for something to keep them in. Fishing around in the bottom of the wardrobe she found an empty shoe box, closed the petals inside and then pushed it, out of sight, under the bed.
Dinner turned into a riot of giggles as the girls recounted their antics of the day. Their constant chatter of boyfriends, make-up and the latest music never failed to amuse her.
“So Mum,” Shelley asked, still curious. “Where did the roses come from?”
“ I'll bet they were from a secret admirer that you don’t fancy, weren’t they?” Skip chipped in. “And you ripped them to shreds.”
“Brainless. If they were from a secret admirer she wouldn’t know if she fancied him or not.”
“Maybe you were playing he loves me, he loves me not.” The candid innocence on Skip's face made Brigitte laugh out loud.
“I know, I know. They were from Paul, weren't they?”
“Very funny. No they weren't. Now change the subject.”
Brigitte picked up the dirty plates from the table and went to the sink.
“Come and help me with the washing up.”
They cleaned and put away the dinner things together in a mock fight of soap suds and water that threatened to leave the kitchen in a worse state than when they'd started. “Enough you two,” More foam flew through the air and clung in Brigitte's hair. “Go and do your homework, or watch the television or something, or anything. I'll get this done faster on my own.”Isn't it amazing how quick kids can disappear? It took her twenty minutes to get the kitchen clean and ordered.
Time for a glass of wine. Maybe I should ring Paul in the morning. Things are getting a bit out of hand. Though I can't imagine he'll be able to give me an explanation for the roses.
She grabbed a bloc of notepaper from the top of the fridge, scribbled a quick note to herself and stuck it on the fridge door where she couldn't miss seeing it. Call Paul. PLR?
Chapter 2
Ireland, 2010.
In his isolated cottage, on the shores of Western Ireland's Lough Corrib, Jack Jamieson sat in his study researching pagan burial sites on the internet. The distant, musical chime of a bell broke his concentration. It wasn’t the first time he’d sensed it. He closed his eyes and waited. It came again, but this time with a strong surge of suppressed frustration which twisted at his insides. Blurry and like looking through a pane of thick, old glass, the image of a stretch of green grass flickered through his mind. A glint of something white followed the momentary vision and then it was gone. A female voice rattled through his subconscious.
There's got to be more to life than this.
He laughed out loud.
Whoever she is, she's got a fiery temperament.Where are you?
He voiced the question in his mind. His lips only framed the words.
Where are you?
He repeated it a couple of times. Nothing.
An answer at this stage of the game would have been just a bit too much to hope for.
His mobile started to buzz and the moment was gone. Damn it. No number displayed on the screen. It could only be one person.“Hey, Al, how’s it hanging? Isn’t that what you Americans say?”
“Sure is, Jack, but without the Irish accent.”
“I take it you’re calling for a reason?”
“Sure am. We’ve registered another tremor running along the ley line in East Anglia. How are you fixed for coming down and checking it out?”
“The last time you asked me that, I came hurtling up the M11 from London like a maniac and it was a false alarm. I’m in Galway at the moment so there’s no way I can get there quick.”
“Hell, Jack, I was hoping we might be able to swing a positive result this time. It’s not strong. We’ve had better and more constant activity around Avebury and Stonehenge. Okay, it could fade to nothing before you can get anything out of it, but I think it’s worth you having a look at.” Jack stifled a yawn. He just wasn't in the mood for this conversation.“There is definitely something going on. You know, this has been one of the test lines for the last two years and it’s been a complete dodo up to now, zero. Now, twice in the last month something's triggered the sensors.”
Jack wondered if Al realised he wasn't really listening. “Yeah okay, albeit minor, but it’s activity nonetheless. Why don’t you come down and kick around for a few days?”
“Because I’d be wasting my time. It'll be a fluctuation in the natural surface magnetism”
“What do you take me for? I’ve ruled that out. I’m one hundred percent sure it’s ectoplasm movement.” Al had one more stab at trying to convince him. “What do you say if we stick in a visit to that old English pub we went to last time you were here and I buy you a few pints of that disgusting Irish beer you’re so fond of?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Guinness.”
“Yeah right, as long as someone else is drinking it.”
“Americans, you wouldn’t know a pint of good beer if you fell in it.’”
“Two pints and a whiskey chaser?”
“Keep talking, you’ve almost persuaded me. The truth is... Let me check my agenda.” Jack put the phone down on his desk and leafed through his diary. Ten sheets were blank. Mid-July had notes scrawled over the lined pages. He pressed a button on the mobile and put the call on speaker. “Al, apart from a holiday, I’ve nothing much on until the week after next...”
“What no ghost-busting shows or haunted houses to visit?”
“Everybody’s got to earn a living. Talking of which, did you get the grant renewal?”
“Hell no, we bummed out big time, but the good news is we’ve managed to get a private investment which should cover costs for the next five years.” Jack whistled down the line.