“How do you know about that?”
“I know a lot of things. Anyway, it’s irrelevant. He served his purpose. Though I would have preferred not to have been publicly accused of kidnapping you...”
“You did kidnap me.”
“Only a little bit...”
“What if I say it’s true and you held me against my will.”
He looked at her, eyebrow raised and smiled. “You won’t though will you.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.” She hated him for being right.
“We made the front page.”
“I could have lived without that. What are the girls going to say?”
“They’ll probably love having an infamous mother. You know, you’re not very nice when you’re angry. How am I going to explain this black eye?” A grubby vision of innocence, Brigitte smiled.
“Serves you right!” She left him standing there, eyebrow raised and went to find soap and water.
Half an hour later, clean and fresh, she stepped from the camper wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. While she’d been showering she’d tried to get everything into perspective and failed miserably. She didn’t understand any of it.
“Why, Jack?” He stopped setting up the small folding table he was fiddling with and stared at her long and hard before he answered her.
“I’ve never met a saint... and I want to, face to face.” She just wasn’t wearing it.
“You made me live through all that again just so you could meet Patrick?”
“Thought bringing you here might draw him out.” He nodded toward some trees about twenty metres from where they sat. “See that over there?” She followed his gaze. Under the sweep of branches was what looked like the ruins of a small church. She nodded. “That’s the church Patrick built.”
“Jack,” something cold ran down her spine. He’d handed her a blanket to wrap around her shoulders and she sat on the folded down step of the camper blowing on a mug of cocoa. “What was all that shit about me digging my own grave?” He was sitting by the step next to her on a stool.
“Thought that would scare you, good wasn’t it? It’s actually from an ancient text called the Ancrene Riwle which is part of the rules for Anchorites.I sort of adapted it to my needs.”
“What's an Anchorite when it’s at home?”
“A lady who lived a solitary life. Though, of course, throughout religious history the enclosures have always been recorded as being voluntary confinements. Just like Brigid's. When the bishop of the day bricked the woman away in a cell attached to the church, she was given a copy to read. Riveting stuff.” His face was serious. “We can’t change history, Brigitte, but we can learn from it. By the way...” He winked at her. “Is the offer still open? I’m sure we’ve got time before we need to head back.”
It suddenly dawned on her he’d been Jack all the time. He didn’t see her hand coming until it connected with his cheek.
Chapter 30
Jack stood in his study looking down at the array of newspaper clippings on his desk, a wry smirk on his face. He rummaged through them until he found the one he wanted. The headline, printed in big bold capital letters, read - JACK JAMIESON, TV MEDIUM, ACCUSED OF KIDNAP. It'd been snipped, with a pair of pinking shears, from The News of the World. After sitting down and making himself comfortable, Jack slid open the drawer in the desk where he kept his memorabilia.. It was crammed full. Pulling out a thick scrap-book, he flicked to an empty page and with glue stick in hand, read through the article before pasting it.
“Brigitte Anders, the woman reportedly kidnapped by Mr Jamieson, has refused to comment on her recent, alleged incarceration on the island of Inchagoill.
Mr Jamieson, who climbed to fame for his supposed psychic powers is accused of sequestering Mrs Anders and enclosing her for three days, without due regard to her comfort and safety, by a long-term friend of the Anders family. Paul Freeman, a qualified hypnotheripist who has been treating Mrs Anders, stated when interviewed:-
“Brigitte just disappeared off the map. She's a responsible mother and business woman. Vanishing for three days without trace is completely out of character for her. We've been worried sick. We thought something awful had happened to her. I felt it was my duty to call the police and report her missing.”
Mr Freeman is, at present, being questioned by the detective in charge for wasting police time. Mrs Anders, so far has been unavailable for comment and Jack Jamieson's only public statement on the matter was, “Time will tell.”
The glue had made damp spots in the text. Jack whistled while he waited for it to dry. The black and white image of Brigitte in the clipping, stepping out of a boat with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, was blurred and indistinct. She'd have been glad about that. Her hair had been a mess. Jack ran his finger over the cutting and pressed down a curled up edge before closing the scrap-book and putting it back in the drawer.
In need of a drink, Jack left the study, went through the cold hallway of the old, stone cottage and into the lounge. He strode across the beige carpet, heading straight for the drinks cabinet on the far side of the room. The door on the antique tallboy opened with a well-oiled precision exposing a varied array of bottles. He fingered the long, green neck of one, picked it up, unscrewed the metal cap and poured a stiff shot into a heavy, Waterford crystal tumbler. Quality glass, he always said, made the Jamieson’s taste better. It was a fitting glass for a fitting drink. With it cradled in the palm of his hand he went over to the fireplace.
From habit Jack stood with his back to the mantelpiece. With it being summer there was no fire lit, but his housekeeper, Mrs Murphy, had left a well-organized display of golden-headed chrysanthemums in the grate. They made a glaring contrast against the soot-black of the hearth. A duplicated display in miniature cluttered the view from the bay window. He stared past them to the wide stretch of water in the distance.
The lake was calm. Just an occasional gust of light breeze rippled the surface. Jack took a long sip of his drink. A rueful smirk played around his thin lips. Laughing out loud, he raised the glass high in a silent toast to his public image and the stage name stolen from his favourite whiskey. Being Jack Jamieson, medium extraordinaire, was, on occasion, a risky business.
A shadow passed by the open door. Mrs Murphy, he thought, on another one of her cleaning missions. He ignored her and wondered if that would be the end of the press interest. The end of the story. Somehow he didn't think so.
Chapter 31
Now all the fuss had died down, Brigitte was bored. Another Saturday afternoon in the house with nothing better to do than catching up on the housework just wasn't her idea of fun. She wasn't in the mood for cooking, cleaning and ironing. She needed to get out. The house, as big as it was, gave her claustrophobia. She took her jacket from the hook in the hall, slipped it on and pulled a woollen hat from the pocket. It'd squash her blonde hair to her head, but it was cold out and the knitted hat would keep her ears warm. She gave her image the once over in the hall mirror. It let her know how flattering it wasn't. She ran her finger over the dark circles etched under her blue eyes. They worried her more than her lack of fashionable attire. Maybe they were permanent. She still looked tired and had done since she'd come back from Ireland. Jack and his mindless obsession with Patrick, had really taken it out of her.
In the lounge, the girls were engrossed in a film on the tele. They wouldn't even notice she'd gone.
“I'm just popping to the shops.” She called out and opened the front door. No answer. With the car keys in hand, she left the house. The engine was cold, but the car started first time and she slipped it into reverse and backed out of the drive. Why she took the route she did was something she would never be able to put an answer to. Her intention had been to drive into Peterborough and do the big stores. A few last minute things for Christmas. She took the back way and enjoyed a slow drive along the country lanes. All around the fields were turned to fallow. The dark, fro
sted soil reminded Brigitte of chocolate cake white icing.
Black ice. Her heart thumped in panic. The back end of the car did a little skid when she took the turn at the Dog in Doublet pub. It took a concentrated effort not to slam the brakes on. She had a brief image of ending up in the river, but the car gripped the tarmac and righted itself. It wasn't quite the time of the year for a swim. Cheeks pink, she turned the heater off and opened the window.
A slow and nerve racking five minutes later she pulled up at the spot where she'd stopped with Jack. The small pull-in seemed to have shrunk and she grimaced as the side of the car brushed hard against the high grass verge. There was no one about, even the barge, still moored at the same place, was deserted of life. Just a wisp of smoke curled from the chimney on it's flat roof. The river was devoid of life. The water flowing so slow, it appeared to be unmoving. Brigitte wondered if it was going to be one of those years when they opened the floodgates and the surrounding areas would freeze over. She hoped so, she'd take the girls skating, that'd be a laugh.
Remembering the first time they'd visited the Fenland Ley line, she opened the glove compartment and with a slight reluctance, left her phone inside. Getting out of the car, she went to the boot and fished out her wellies, sat on the open back to change her shoes, then buttoned her jacket against the cold and set off. It wasn't as easy to climb the bank as she'd expected. The ground was hard and the clumps of grass slippery with a coating of ice. She slipped backwards a couple of times and was glad there was no one around to watch her inelegant rise to the summit. You'd never make it up Mount Everest, girl.
The slope was less than two metres high, but it seemed like twice the height. The grass cut into the palms of her hands and she wished she'd had the sense to put her gloves on before starting. No, they were stuffed into her pockets and there was no way she could let go now or she'd end up back at the bottom.
It was the only thing she could think of to do. Go back to the beginning. Jack had done it so why couldn't she? She'd give it a go. It'd only take ten minutes and she'd be back at the river bank where Jack had shown her how he walked the ley. Now she'd done it a couple of times accidentally, she couldn't imagine it's be difficult to find the line he'd used.
Brigitte had worked herself into a state of panic thinking about it. She knew she shouldn't, but she was going to do it anyway. To hell with it. Which is probably where I'll end up if I'm not careful. Jack would have a fit if he knew what she was about to do. Good.
She trudged along the top of the bank feeling like a field worker. She hated Wellington boots. They made her feel like a clod hopper and heavy footed. Still it wasn't a fashion parade and she had no idea what she'd find on the other side, if she got there. It was a lonely and blustery walk. She didn't really have a clue either where she was going. The five bar gate was still there. She put her hand on the top slat and felt the green gunge grind into her palm. Trying not to cringe and hoping her foot didn't slip she mounted the gate and swung her leg over. It wobbled and she gripped the bars with her knees and wished Jack was there to hold it steady. She closed her eyes and did a sort of backward dismount. Her foot squidged as she hit the ground. She refused to look down, knowing for a fact it was a pile of horse dung she'd landed in. The wet grass would wipe it of as she walked along
It was nothing like Jack had described. She stood before the elegant lines of a Roman villa. A cockerel was scratching in the earth of the yard and as if sensing her presence fluffed its wings in defence. A thin scraggy dog was maunging under a tree. It raised its head, looked in her direction before then dropped its jaws onto its front paws and went back to sleep. It was strangely creepy knowing she couldn't been seen. She wondered what year it was and who lived in the rooms of the house in front of her. She edged her way around the side of the house, then froze to the spot, afraid to move. A young man was chopping branches with the swift downward strokes of an axe. She held her breath. His thatch of blonde hair was sweat-soaked, he looked angry, the grimace on his face looked as though he wished he were chopping someone's head off. A damp stain spread between the shoulders of his shirt and it stuck to his bony back. He stopped chopping. Brigitte's heart stopped beating or at least it felt like it. It was if he could sense her presence. He dropped the axe to his side and looked about him. Then sniffed at the air. Oh my god, my perfume. She hadn't thought of that. It wasn't that strong, but a trace of it might carry on the slight breeze.
“Patricius,”
The call from inside the house distracted him. Brigitte didn't dare move. Jack had said they couldn't see him when he went over to the other side, but she felt completely exposed standing there. She inched closer to a broad trunk for safety and peeped around it. The young man was snarling. He threw the heavy headed axe to the ground and it thudded in the soft mud. He took one last look around the clearing, searching the trees for something. For her? Before, shoulders slumped he paced over to the steps of the house, mounted them and went inside. The argument was muffled by the distance. Some of the words carried to her ears. It didn't make any difference. It was a language she didn't understand.
Brigitte wanted to go and had a serious moment of panic wondering if the line would still be open. She turned and snuck back through the bushes, careful not to tread on any loose twigs. She kept walking until the trodden down turf of the path turned to frozen ruts. When she saw the two horses grazing on the frozen grass, she breathed a sigh of relief and took a carrot from her pocket. She was in desperate need of some company. They walked alongside her, nuzzling at her jacket looking for more titbits. She'd brought only two and they'd eaten them already. Next time she'd bring more. Their winter coats were long and tatty, hooves coated with mud, but they seemed happy enough.
It was a relief to see the roof of the car in the distance. The walking was hard going and the boots had rubbed a blister on her heel. Next time she'd throw in a pair of thick socks. Tights just didn't do the job.
Chapter 32
Brigitte hung the sale signs in the window of the boutique. She'd marked everything down by fifty percent. It all had to go. After turning the sign on the door to open, she went and sat behind the counter, ready for the rush. It's a bit slow starting. My hair will have turned white by the time a queue's formed at the door. The last thing I need right now is time on my hands to sit and brood. She walked back over to the shop door and stared out. Nothing ever changes. Same old village green, same old abbey, same old everything. This morning it was glossed over with a light frost which made it look even more like a quaint scene from the front of a greetings card. Boring.
Christmas was just around the corner, but she didn't even want to think about it.
Brigitte, are you listening?
And now Jack was going to start again. That was all she needed.
No, Jack. I most definitely am not. His sigh was like the wailing of a winter wind through the bare branches of a tree. She ignored him. “Do something,” she told herself, “That way it'll be easier to ignore him.” Going through to the storeroom, she grabbed a load of boxes and took them back into the shop. Opening the first, she took a shirt out and shook it, slipped a coat hanger into the shoulders, then hung it on the rail by the window. It took all of three minutes and she was back to square one. Too much time on her hands.
Brig...
“God, you're persistent. You can carry on as long as you like, but I'm not listening.” Her voice rattled around the empty shop. Good job she didn't have any customers, they'd think she'd cracked up and started talking to herself. Well talk to herself she might, but she wasn't talking to him.
I can hear you prattling on you know.
“I don't care. I'm prattling on to myself and not to you.” It was pure stubbornness, but it served him right. No way was she going to forgive him for shutting her in that cow shed, well, at least not that quick. As light as a feather, a single rose petal floated down in front of her and landed on the glass of the shop counter. Brigitte picked it up and put it in the bin.
She was having none of it. She wasn't in the mood for Mr. Jamieson or his magic tricks. She was too busy and she had a headache again. He could go and stew.
In front of the counter, on the square of shop floor, half a dozen cardboard boxes were stacked one on top of the other. In them was the rest of the stock. That morning she'd cleaned out the window display. It was bare now, apart from the small tree she'd decorated and stuck in one corner. It was a bit of a pathetic effort with six balls and a few flashing lights. She just wasn't in the Christmas spirit this year, though buying a bottle of brandy seemed like a decent idea. Jack started singing.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
“Been on the whiskey?”
Just like the ones I used to know.
She wished he'd shut up crooning. She wasn't going to give in and communicate with him. “Use the phone like anybody else.” She wondered if shouting sounded the same telepathically.
Where the tree tops glisten...
Enough was enough and in retaliation, she started to sing. “We're all going on a Summer Holiday,” That'd make him forget the words. Jack laughed.
Her phone started to ring. She didn't even need to look at the screen to know who it was. She let it ring. He was just as stubborn as she was and didn't hang up. Exasperated she gave in and answered it. “I don't want to talk to you.” S
“That's quite the impression I got, but as you are, shall we make the most of it?” Brigitte hung up. A few minutes later the mobile buzzed with an incoming message. She decided to read it, but had no intention of answering it. His text made her cheeks flame red with anger.
How dare he call her childish after what he'd done. If he thought she'd speak to him after he'd shut her away in that stone shed for three days, he had another thing coming. Calling her childish was going too far.