Poor Jacky, page 14
“What the fuck?” Wayne came in, casting a wide shadow. Rick had never been happier to see the fat fucker. He got to his feet and hurried around to his housemate’s side.
“Oh, Jesus, thank you,” Rick panted, grabbing Wayne’s forearm. Wayne shook him off. He surveyed the disarray.
“Jesus, when you knock one out, you really knock one out.”
“I wasn’t - I - there was...”
“Jesus.” Wayne reached for the light switch. Rick scrunched his eyes shut against the onslaught. “Landlord’s going to be pissed off with you, man.”
“What?”
Rick opened one eye and then the other so he could see what Wayne was talking about.
The underside of the bed was made from a kind of plastic sacking material, stapled tightly across the frame. Clawed into this fabric in savage strokes was a message.
PUT IT BACK.
Wayne gave Rick an appraising look.
“Weirdo,” he concluded. He shuffled off to his own room.
Rick couldn’t stay where he was. He grabbed a blanket and went down to the sofa. Dawn was still two hours away, but he would rather be in the dark of the lounge than spend another moment in his own room.
***
When morning came, Rick left the house without returning to his room. He was still in the clothes from the night before but what of that? It was almost mandatory for student types, wasn’t it?
He headed for the library, with Miss Beamish’s notebook swinging in a carrier bag he’d retrieved from the kitchen bin. He was still a little spooked, he was willing to admit. Beds don’t just tip themselves over and messages don’t just appear. Not in his reality at any rate.
It was something to do with the notebook, he was sure. Bringing it home had brought the - the - whatever it was with it. But surely in a public place, he would be safe. The - the - whatever it was wouldn’t, um, manifold - ah, manifest itself with other people around. Would it?
He thought it was his safest bet.
Settling into a chair at the large reading table on the first floor of Dedley’s central library, he uncapped the biro and opened the notepad he had bought from the newsagent’s around the corner. He brushed the cover of Miss Beamish’s notebook. The sweat of last night’s takeaway had transferred itself from the inside of the bag. The ghost of sweet and sour sauce wafted up to his nostrils.
He opened the book and began to read, giving his pen a thoughtful suck every now and then.
***
AN ACCOUNT OF OCCURRENCES AT DEDLEY HALL from 1850...
1850. Having stood idle since the passing of Edmond, Earl of Dedley, the house and grounds are acquired by the corporation and let out to tenants.
December 1850. First tenants move in.
January 1851. First tenants move out. It is an unexpected departure by moonlight. They abandon all of their belongings and tranklements.
March 1851. New family moves in with household of four-and-twenty staff. Matriarch (widow) and her son Horace (bachelor).
April 1851. Family is completed by arrival of second son Basil and his bride Elizabeth, from their honeymoon in Ceylon. Elizabeth’s diary was discovered some years later. Fragments of it survive.
“It is such a grand house and the contrast between it and the simple, poverty-stricken lifestyle of the Ceylonese in their paradise could not be greater. Basil is keen to announce our happy news to his family - my family too, I suppose - but I counsel holding fire for now. There is something about this place that makes me uneasy. Oh, it may well be nothing more than the queasy jitters of a newly-pregnant woman, but I do not think we should be spilling the beans for another month at least.
“Basil’s mother is a keen-eyed old bird and she will no doubt be able to count backwards. She is of the type to accuse a girl of trapping her son into wedlock but nothing could be further from the truth. If that was the manner in which I conducted my affairs, surely I would have set my sights on older brother Horace, the heir to the fortune?
“I would rather the news stay between us for as long as possible. It is our news, something that pertains to us alone. Here in this rambling house where we are forced to dine in company and may not even take out a carriage without prior notice, we have very little that is just ours. As soon as the news is out, our child becomes part of the public sphere, a matter on which everyone will have an opinion. Our friends - such as they are - will share our happiness and I look forward to their joyful exclamations, I truly do; but for now, the child is no one’s business but Basil’s and mine.
“He is out all day, being of the opinion that he is just the fellow to restore the grounds to their former glory. He has recruited a band of local workmen to do all the heavy work - my Basil is suffering in this dreary climate. Oh, to have set up permanent residence in Ceylon! How we yearn to go back there! Or I do, at any rate. I yearn. Basil, as this restoration project increases its hold on his imagination, seems more willing to plant his roots here. Mama is well on in years, he points out, and Horace is a no-hoper. In a decade or so, this place could be ours. Our savings are growing - we can make the Trust an offer.
“I try to share his enthusiasm; I really do. But I find myself increasingly housebound. The grand staircase is becoming a bit of a worry. The maids tell me I should use their staircase where the closeness of the walls lends support. I tried it and I was more confident but Mama - I must call her that, she insists - upbraided me and the maids alike for suggesting such a preposterous idea. I am to use the grand staircase as befits my station and hold my head high. Pregnancy is no excuse for poor posture, according to Mama.
“I suggested to Basil, one night when he had exhausted his account of his day’s toil - rather his day of supervising the toil of others - that it might be an idea to set me up in an apartment on the ground floor, and thus avoiding the question of staircases altogether. He deemed this a capital notion and would put it to Mama at once. Of course, the stubborn old biddy would hear none of it. She did not want a woman in extremis putting off her guests with her cries and constant use of the chamber pots. I insisted that Basil stand up to his mother. A wife should come first, I reminded him, and it wasn’t even her house. Did we not all chip in with the rent?
“Whether he spoke to her or not, I cannot say. Basil said he did and therefore I believe him, but the outcome was that I became confined to my room on the first floor. My days became lonelier by the hour and soon, my nights did too. Basil excused himself from our bed because, in his words, it was like sleeping next to a furnace, both in terms of heat generated and overall bulk. I married a charmer, as you can see. He took to sleeping on a chaise but then he complained that my snoring disturbed his rest and so he removed himself from my company altogether. I assumed he had moved to the adjacent room, but he could have gone back to Ceylon for all I saw of him.
“I was always an active girl. Horse-riding, long walks, and lawn tennis. I was a dynamo. Being confined to a single, rather dreary room was anathema to me. If anyone ever expresses the opinion that those in prison have the easy life, bash them on the nose and put them straight. The removal of liberty is the harshest punishment and I had done nothing wrong - of course, I appreciate that the gaols are brimming with people who would make the same declaration but in my case it is true. Perhaps my crime was to marry the old biddy’s favourite and thereby dilute his attachment to her.
“I was restless. I felt alienated from myself and everyone. I read everything the maids could be persuaded to bring me, although the supply of books soon ran dry when the old biddy proclaimed she did not like the library disturbed; nothing was to leave that room although all were free to consult its contents within the confines of its walls. I am sure this was a deliberate attack on my sanity. I began to fear I was losing my marbles and it could not possibly be long before I would be transferred to the attic and locked in there for good.
“I tried to pace the floorboards to keep my circulation going. Keeping still couldn’t be good for me or the baby. I would pace to and fro but more often than not I would be distracted and lose count. I would fall to lingering at the window gazing out across the grounds, in the hope of catching a glimpse of that man I married - what was his name again?
“The doctor came to see me. He reported that he had been told of my pacing and put me under strict instruction not to repeat the activity. I was to stay in the bed and should I require anything, a hand bell beside the bed would summon Hetty, the least unreliable of the maids, and my every wish would be tended to. Within reason and the laws of physics, of course.
“Who had told him? Why, the old biddy, of course. Concerned about the wear and tear on the floorboards, I suspect.
“And so, as I entered my fifth month, I began my confinement. My boredom worsened and my temper and patience deteriorated with alacrity. Poor Hetty got the brunt of my ire. I rang for her every five minutes asking her to bring me things, to report on the weather, to ask after my husband - had there been a sighting? - and I’m certain I ran the girl ragged within the first day. And then I rang my little bell and Hetty did not come. I waited patiently for a good five minutes before I rang again. And then the door opened and in stepped, not Hetty with her usual red-faced apologies, but the lady of the house herself, the old biddy, her face like thunder. She said nothing but she marched up to the bed and held out her hand. It took me a while to realise what she was requesting. I handed her the bell, a pretty china thing; I thought perhaps she might have come to admire it. She upended it, reached inside and yanked out the clapper. Then she dropped the bell on my coverlet, turned on her heels and stormed out and nary a word spoken.
“Charming as ever, you see. So, without my bell, I was utterly disconnected. Hetty, God love her, came to check on me every few hours, but she grew adept at evading my attempts to engage her in conversation. And so, in effect, I was utterly, totally and thoroughly alone. I began to resent the bulge that was weighing me down. Irrational to blame a child as yet unborn - irrational to blame a child at all, come to think of it.
“I would lie on my back, one hand on the bulge and my eyes on the ceiling, trying to imagine what my child would be like. I would drift into reverie. I would take the child for walks around the grounds, in a perambulator, or when it was older, I would hold its tiny hand. We would go and see the Great Work that Papa had done. We would feed ducks. We would see the goat.
“Is there a goat? I would have to ask Hetty when she brought supper, or lunch, or breakfast, or whatever meal I was due next.
“It became impossible to tell whether I was awake or asleep at times. I could picture the child so clearly. A pale, little thing, with long hair like white silk. And large eyes, large sad eyes. And I would pat my bulge and say, Don’t be sad, little one. But the image of the child never altered. I would imagine him standing at the foot of my bed, looking at me with those sad eyes. I would extend my hand and bid him approach. He never would. He would just disappear, like a soap bubble bursting in the air.
“I made it my solemn vow that my child, when he or she deigned to put in an appearance in this world, would never have cause to look at me with such sorrow. Its entertainment and wellbeing would be my raisons d’être.
“My child would have a happy life for at least as long as I had anything to do with it.
But oh, the world has a way of turning in spite of our good wishes. Events come to pass that are nothing like what we would wish them to be.
“I was daydreaming in my bed (where else?) and Hetty was not in evidence. Not even the image of the sad-eyed child would attend me that day, and I was trying vainly to fill the empty hours with sleep when I became aware of commotion downstairs. The longer it continued the more anxious I became to discover what it was about. I was enormous by that point and could barely move without assistance. I looked across at the bell pull dangling out of my reach - The cruelty, unconscious or deliberate - of situating the bed away from the means to summon help!
“The noise from downstairs was louder. Voices shouting, barking orders. The old biddy squawking in dismay. I heard her say, ‘Carry him through there’ and a door slam. The voices died away as the group -of workmen, I imagine - dispersed.
“The only thing that would give rise to such concern within my mother-in-law would be some ill befalling her precious Basil. My husband! Some accident!
“I made a more concerted effort to reach for the rope, rocking my upper body from side to side in order to gain some momentum. I extended my arm as far as I could. My muscles tautened, my arm quivered with the effort. Before I could even think to stop myself, I spilled from the bed, landing face down on the rug. I was not injured - apart from my sense of pride. How foolish I felt! To think that I could defy the law of gravity!
“It became clear that I would not be able to push myself back onto the bed. My arms were not up to the task so instead I eased myself out by inching forwards on my forearms, so that my distended belly and my legs would follow, as night must follow day. After a few careful minutes, I was free of the bed. But I was still unable to reach the pull. I was now faced with the problem of being confined to the floor.
“Another opportunity to feel foolish! How long might I be down there before someone came? I supposed I was about to find out. Surely, if something had happened to my husband, someone, even a dimwit like Hetty, would see fit to inform me of his condition?
“I adjusted my position to make myself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. The rug was thin but the hard wood of the floorboards was something of a relief to my limbs after so long on that flat, feather mattress. I rolled over -
“- a pair of child’s shoes was in front of me and in them, a pair of child’s feet. I lifted my head to look up the legs and their somewhat outmoded velvet breeches. The child’s suit was pretty, decorated with lace. His hair was long and the palest blond I have ever seen. The eyes were large and full of sorrow - I had seen this boy before but previously I had taken him for a phantasm of my imagination.
“He tipped his head to one side, regarding me with a quizzical expression. I said hullo. He did not reply. I asked if he could fetch help. Again he made no response. I wondered if he might be deaf. I asked if he could tell me what was going on downstairs. He dipped his head and took a tentative step towards me. I encouraged him to come closer and held out my hand to his.
“He lifted his head and I saw his eyes close up. I tried to stifle the cry that burst from me by thrusting my knuckles into my mouth. His eyes! I tried to back away but he continued to step towards me, slowly, deliberately - he knew I could not get away.
“His eyes were yellow and the black pupils were rectangular, like words stricken from a text.
“They were the eyes of a goat.”
***
Rick turned the page. The woman - Elizabeth - had written no more; or at least no further pages had survived. He assumed she had written what he had read while she was recovering - from what exactly?
The next entry in the notebook was a parish notice for a dual funeral. Father and unborn child.
Rick tried to fill in the gaps. Basil. Elizabeth’s baby...
What had happened?
He turned the next page and came across a clipping from a newspaper.
TRAGEDY STRIKES TWICE AT DEDLEY HALL.
He skim-read it. It was confirmed: Elizabeth was reported to have miscarried after falling from her bed. Her husband had been subject to an attack in the farmyard. It was conjectured he had fallen and a goat had stove in his skull with its hooves in a frenzied assault, quite out of keeping with the animal’s otherwise unblemished good character.
Rick was dissatisfied. This was not the way Elizabeth told it. And there was no mention of the child with the eyes.
He turned the page. Written across the top, in Miss Beamish’s careful hand was the date 1873.
So much for Elizabeth, then.
Rick glanced around the library. He had been there for hours and his stomach was making noises about being fed.
Just a few more pages...
***
Paul stared at his phone in frustration. Why wouldn’t Rick answer his calls? Paul growled. He tapped his feet on the floor of the carriage. He was a mass of pent-up energy. His fellow passengers snuck disapproving glances in his direction. He could not sit still. He tried Rick’s number again. It rang and rang and as on every other occasion, redirected him to voicemail.
Paul gave a bitter snort. He had been given an insight into how Judy must feel when he gave her the same treatment.
His phone startled him as it lit up, shook, and blared out an electronic fanfare.
Judy!
Paul fumbled to decline the call. He dropped his phone to the floor and, swearing, had to duck under the table to retrieve it. He didn’t need to look at the other passengers to imagine their scandalised faces. This was supposed to be a ‘quiet carriage’ after all.
He hooked a forearm onto the table and levered himself back onto his seat. The phone had been silenced. He slid it into his jacket. He could look his fellow travellers in the eye.
He found he was looking across the table at the blank stare of a blue-faced Pong.
Beside Pong, Darren was gazing absently through the window; his acne scars were encrusted with dried material Paul didn’t like to think about and alive with white worms.
Paul became aware his mouth was open. He closed it. He blinked. That did nothing to dispel the apparitions.
“Don’t tell me,” he began, “Put it back.”
The ghosts continued to stare impassively. Darren turned his head to face Paul. His eyes seemed reluctant to leave the window but eventually they caught up.
“I - I don’t know what you want from me!” Paul stammered. His eyes darted to the door - perhaps he could make a dash to the next carriage and the next and the next...
Pong’s eyes, like coddled eggs, told him this would be futile.
Darren placed a hand on the table. A whiff of wet earth hit Paul’s nose. Clay and compost.
“What do you want?” Paul shouted. People nearby clicked their tongues in disgust at the man alone at his table making a nuisance of himself. “I don’t understand what you want from me!”
