Hands of the Ripper Page 3

  ‘He was my brother.’

  ‘I know, Joanie, he’s just told me as much! Between the two of you gossips, eh? I’ve got my ears full.’

  There was a ripple of amusement at this as the tension was released.

  ‘As I was saying you can often sense the family link, you can sense the call of blood even across the veil. Shush Arthur, she knows!’ At that last she turned away from the audience as if hushing a man stood behind her.

  ‘What did he say?’ Joanie asked, desperate for her dead brother’s words.

  Aida Golding held up her hand for a moment, asking for silence so she could hear the poor, faint voice of the dead Arthur. She laughed. ‘He’s just telling me about when you were kids,’ she said finally, ‘he says he wasn’t always the best brother.’

  ‘He was a right bugger!’ confirmed Joanie to much laughter, though John wondered how many siblings would have needed such a generalised comment confirmed.

  Aida Golding nods as if this is all further proof. ‘Ask her,’ she said, ‘I will, Arthur, I will … Do you remember the matches?’

  ‘The matches?’

  ‘Yes, love, that’s what he’s saying: the matches, the matches … over and again.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘Of course she does, he says. She can’t have forgotten … the matches.’

  ‘Oh … I think he stole a box once, you know boys …’

  Yes, John thought, Aida Golding did know boys.

  ‘That’s right!’ the medium said. ‘He stole them, didn’t he? Lighting them up and nearly burning the whole place down!’

  ‘He was trouble that’s for sure.’

  ‘He says he’s sorry for that, he says he knows he was a handful.’

  ‘Oh … he doesn’t have to worry,’

  ‘He misses you though, Joanie, he says he should have made more of an effort.’

  ‘He was a busy man, I know that …’

  ‘Still, he says you realise what you missed when it’s gone and he just wants you to know that he loves you and he’s still with you.’ She held up her hand again, craning her head to grab a few last words from Arthur. ‘He says he’ll be a better brother for you now than he ever was.’

  There were tears at that, of course, Joanie could no longer hold them in. No doubt, thought John, she wasn’t alone.

  ‘Thank you, Arthur,’ said the medium, ‘until we talk again.’ And with those simple four words poor Joanie would be hooked, John thought, while Aida Golding moved on to pastures new.

  ‘Trevor?’ she asked, though whether this was the name of the recipient or the messenger nobody could know, ‘I’m hearing Trevor?’

  ‘My name’s Trevor,’ admitted a man near the back, somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘Go on,’ said a voice to his side and he was ushered upright by the woman sat next to him.

  ‘Let me hear your voice, Trevor,’ said Aida, ‘the connection is always weak to begin with. It takes effort on all sides until we get warmed up.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Trevor replied, clearly embarrassed to be talking out loud in front of everybody.

  ‘Weren’t expecting a message tonight, were you?’ the medium asked, her inflection neutral enough to let the meaning swing either way.

  ‘No,’ said Trevor, allowing her the point just as much as if he had said yes. ‘It’s been so long since—’

  ‘Please,’ said Aida Golding, having heard enough to be going on with. ‘I don’t wish to be influenced.’

  At this point she paused and John could imagine her weighing up her options. Sometimes, he thought, it’s a disadvantage to know too much about the business of charlatanism, it makes you see crookedness everywhere. In this case, however, he was fairly confident that his instincts were correct. As blind as her audience may be to the fact, Aida Golding was operating a classic fraudulent medium act. Not that she was afraid to take risks:

  ‘It’s a young voice,’ she said, and John had a moment to wonder how she would get out of this should it not hit its target. Would the spirit have regressed to an earlier existence? But there was no need, the bullet struck home.

  ‘He was thirteen when he died,’ confirmed Trevor, a look of absolute shock on his face.

  No doubt the shock was shared by Golding herself. ‘And he hasn’t aged a day, he’s still the same boy you remember.’

  John wasn’t altogether sure this pleased Trevor, the man was visibly shaking as he stared at the medium in the spotlight. John had the impression of an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Was the threat of communication with this boy so terrifying? Was it the apparent proof of life after death that disturbed him or the thought of talking to the boy himself?

  ‘What does he want?’ Trevor asked, a funny question that would later return to John’s thoughts. Certainly it wouldn’t have been his first thought had the unbelievable occurred and Jane had made contact.

  ‘He wants what all spirits want,’ Aida Golding replied. ‘He wants you to know that he’s still there, that he’s still watching over you, that he’s still a part of your life.’

  Evidently, this wasn’t as reassuring to Trevor as the medium had hoped, in fact the thought seemed to terrify him further.

  ‘What does he say?’ he shouted. ‘What does he say?’

  John felt his son shift uncomfortably in the seat next to him.

  ‘You always get the nutters,’ muttered Henry’s widow to her right. ‘There’s no stopping them at the door, some of them even look normal.’

  John noticed the young man who had been selling tickets moving towards Trevor.

  ‘I asked you a question!’ the man continued to shout. ‘What does he say?’

  There was a weighty pause as Aida Golding twitched nervously in the spotlight, the murmurs of a concerned audience combining with the steady drip of the leaking roof water. Perhaps it was this constant sound that had frayed Trevor’s nerves as he made a break for the door before the young man reached him.

  ‘I don’t have to stay,’ he shouted, ‘I don’t want to hear any more, you can’t make me. I just want to get on.’

  He ran up the central aisle, and John saw the accident coming a moment before it occurred.

  ‘Careful!’ he shouted, just as the man’s feet pushed one of the waterlogged cardboard squares in a skid across the tiled floor. Trevor fell to the ground with a cry, close to tears as his feet kicked one of the makeshift water buckets and sent a flood of its contents beneath the audience seats.

  There was an eruption of panic as people jumped up, grabbing their handbags and trying to avoid a soaking.

  ‘I just want to get on!’ Trevor repeated, as the young man took his arm. ‘Let go of me!’

  He got to his feet and ran from the hall, mercifully staying upright this time. The large fire doors that the young man had closed in a vain attempt to keep the weather out, crashed open and John caught a glimpse of the torrents of rain outside. Then they swung back on their hinges and, like the closing of theatre curtains, the piece of drama was finished.

  The young man closed the doors firmly and turned on the lights.

  ‘Is everyone all right?’ he asked, his tone making it quite clear that he wasn’t all that interested in a negative answer, he’d had quite enough irritation for one evening.

  ‘He was so scared,’ announced the woman who had encouraged Trevor to stand up in the first place. ‘Said he’d never been to a demonstration before.’

  ‘Hope he never comes again,’ commented a wit in the audience. There was a mumble of amusement at that.

  ‘Such negative energy,’ said Aida Golding, ‘do please forgive me, he quite …oh dear …’ she pulled a chair into the spotlight and sat down. ‘I just need a moment my dears, don’t worry, I’m sure I will be able to re-establish contact just as soon as I get my breath back. My gift leaves me very exposed.’

  John could certainly agree to that.

  ‘Such a focused wave of negativity,’ she continued, ‘such fear … wel
l, it’s almost physical in its effect. Like being stood on the promenade during a storm and being hit by a wave. Oh dear …’ she exhaled and lowered her microphone. ‘Horrible,’ she added, ‘just horrible. I hope you will be kind enough to give me all the positivity and love you can muster, my darlings, that’s what I need to get back on my feet.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ offered a decidedly enthusiastic woman on the front row, looking over her shoulder to rally support. ‘It’s the least we can do, considering the comfort and love you’ve given us.’

  Aida Golding smiled. ‘You’re so kind,’ she said. ‘Dim the lights Alasdair, let’s get on.’

  The young man flipped the switch and returned to his seat by the stage, watching as the medium took several slow, measured breaths. ‘That’s it,’ she said, ‘oh yes … that’s what I need. I can feel them now, offering their love and support just as you do. I’m so blessed to have your support.’

  ‘You got that right,’ muttered Michael but John wasn’t to be distracted. He was, despite his justifiable cynicism, in awe of the way Aida Golding held the room in her hands. There was no denying the genuine energy in the atmosphere; there was nothing her audience wanted more than to see things returned to normal. They wanted their medium back.

  ‘Ah …’ Aida Golding sighed, tipping her head back and gazing up at the unreliable roof. ‘Oh, who’s this? I know you …’

  Her voice had taken on a dreamy tone and she gazed into the thin strand of rainwater that shimmered in the inherited light of the spot lamp. It was a perfect presentation, a tableau of a woman beset by angels.

  ‘My darling girl,’ she continued, ‘of course your mother’s here.’

  There was a rustle of anticipation that made John’s stomach groan. Could it be that there were so many bereft mothers here?

  ‘It’s little Emily,’ said Aida Golding, ‘little Emily Thompson.’

  There was a gasp of breath from the young woman that had drawn John’s attention earlier, though it wasn’t quite enough to drown out the impatient tutting of the widow beside him.

  ‘She always gets her bloody message,’ the old woman complained, ‘not fair on the rest of us.’

  John was relieved to note that not everyone was so callous, the young woman certainly wasn’t the only one giving Aida Golding her complete attention.

  ‘She remembers the warmth of her sky-blue pyjamas, Sandy my love,’ the medium continued and at this the young woman burst into tears. ‘She’s holding out her tiny hand, reaching up for the mobile that hangs above her cot … she likes the elephant best, doesn’t she, my love?’

  Sandy Thompson could barely squeeze out her affirmative answer, so choked was she with tears.

  ‘It’s little trunk is curled up, isn’t it? Like the cartoons you see of elephants shooting water into the air. We could do with her here tonight, couldn’t we, my loves? She’d suck up some of the excess!’

  There was laughter at that but it was gentle and tainted with sentiment. John caught the same look on a number of different faces, a sort of rapt adoration, the face of a disciple. It was as if nothing had ever interrupted the show, and the audience remained transfixed even once they went beyond the infantile memories of Sandy Thompson’s lost daughter to other loved ones, taking in the remorse of a jilted lover, the regrets of separated siblings and the endless love of marriages brought to a close by death.

  When the demonstration came to a close, an hour or so after it had begun, the hall lights came on to illuminate faces that were unswerving in their belief and admiration for Aida Golding. Even the truculent widow to John’s right had a half smile on her face as she got up to leave. ‘I knew Henry wouldn’t come through tonight,’ she told him, ‘not here, not in a place like this.’

  His attention was once more drawn to Sandy Thompson as she gathered her coat and handbag. Her eyes were puffy from tears and she glanced around as if uncomfortable to find herself somewhere so public. As she pulled on her coat she briefly exposed her right forearm and what John noticed there would change both of their lives thereafter.

  ‘Can we please get out of here?’ asked Michael, interrupting his father’s thoughts. ‘I want to be home and in the dry.’

  John wasn’t quite ready to leave, watching Sandy Thompson tug her coat back into place and make her self-conscious way between the rows of seats.

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Shall I call a cab?’

  ‘Erm … maybe,’ said John, trying not to make his interest in Sandy too obvious while also following her towards the exit.

  The young woman glanced over her shoulder towards Aida Golding and the look on her face fascinated him. It wasn’t the adoration he’d seen on other faces, a look he could have thoroughly understood had it been there. It was the face of a woman who both hates and fears what she’s seeing, it was a resentful, bitter expression. And in a moment it was gone, replaced by dull tiredness.

  ‘Maybe?’ Michael had his phone in his hand. ‘What else do you want to do? I promised Laura that I wouldn’t be too late.’

  ‘Then you shan’t be.’ John squeezed his son’s arm. ‘Call a cab, it can drop me off on the way.’

  He noticed Sandy seemed also to be waiting for someone as she walked a little way down the street and huddled beneath her umbrella. A husband, perhaps, who didn’t share her belief in the skills of Aida Golding?

  ‘Why don’t we head back to the cafe and wait there?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Just have it come right here,’ said his father, determined to hang around as long as he could. He wanted to see what happened to Sandy, he wanted to know more about her. If there was a way he could express that to his son without causing even greater despair then he couldn’t think of it. He led them across the road to the shelter of a bus stop. They could keep dry and John was also in a suitably discreet position to spy on the young woman. His son soon made it clear that he wasn’t to be so easily fooled.

  ‘That’s the girl,’ he said, ‘the one with the dead baby.’

  ‘Yes,’ his father agreed, and hoped not to have to elaborate.

  ‘Sad,’ Michael continued, ‘but why are you so interested?’

  John sighed, it was a mistake to try and hide your feelings from family, they knew you too well. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted honestly, ‘there’s just something about her that won’t let go. Something that doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I really don’t know, the way she acted, the way she looked at Aida Golding.’ He stretched his legs, as if he could erase his mental discomfort physically. ‘And her arms were very badly scarred, she self-mutilates.’

  ‘Are you surprised? With what happened to her?’

  ‘Maybe. But that’s just it. I’m not sure I believe it did happen to her.’

  ‘You think she’d make something like that up?’

  ‘Not her necessarily … here we go.’

  The rest of Aida Golding’s audience had departed, washed away along the streets and pathways by the rain. John and Michael watched as the medium and her young helper came dashing out of the door of the leisure centre and over to their car, an expensive-looking saloon.

  ‘There’s money in the spirit world,’ said Michael, ‘that’s for sure.’

  ‘Never doubt it,’ his father agreed.

  The car pulled out of the small car park onto the road. It drove up to Sandy Thompson, stopped briefly so that she could climb in and then pulled away.

  ‘Well there’s a thing,’ said Michael, ‘she was a plant.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ his father agreed. ‘As a regular it was possible that Aida Golding had picked up the elaborate detail from previous visits but that didn’t explain the look Sandy gave her, the clear resentment she feels towards the woman.’

  ‘Resentment? I can’t imagine she spins her story for free.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said John. ‘I don’t suppose we shall ever know.’

  But as their taxi pulled up he had already decided he would do every
thing he could to find out.

  Two

  ‘Why Are You Doing This?’

  JOHN WATCHED RAY wend his unhurried way across the campus courtyard. The rain was still with them and the irrepressibly cheerful young woman on BBC Breakfast saw little chance of that changing soon. The news seemed to please her, but then John doubted anything could have impinged on that plastic smile, she was a woman of infinite emotional fakery.

  The IT technician had confiscated a transparent poncho from Lost Property and stood, shapeless and pale, smoking a cigarette a couple of feet from John’s half-open window. He looked like a guttering candle, a thin trail of smoke struggling skywards from the conical tip of his hood, only to be smashed apart by the droplets of rain.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ John asked, tilting the window so he could hang out of it and yet stay sheltered.

  ‘Some little Hitler complained about the fags again,’ the technician replied, ‘so I have decided to make a point standing out here to exercise my civil liberties.’ Ray was always being told off for smoking within the building. ‘I half hope to catch something weather-related, just to rub it in even more.’

  ‘Like what?’ John asked. ‘Rising damp of the lungs?’

  ‘You mock, old man, but I need to smoke, it keeps my sense of smell in check. You think a man could work as closely with students as I do without numbing the senses?’ He took a deep drag. ‘It’s a health precaution and the buggers on the admin staff penalise me for it. My death will nibble at their consciences.’

  ‘You think they have any?’

  ‘I plan on haunting them anyway, not for me the passive route, I will make life hell for them when I’ve gone. A never-ending assault of loud noises and sexual advances. I will be like that ghost in The Entity, sexual appetite uncurbed by death, desperate to throw an ethereal fuck-all up a Barbara Hershey.’

  ‘She on the admin staff now?’

  ‘Sadly not, which I admit will likely dilute my appetites. Even the dead can close their eyes and imagine, though.’

  ‘A reassuring thought.’

  ‘On the subject of the dead, how did your conversation with them go?’