Hands of the Ripper Page 6

  They passed the stairs and John glanced up quickly, on the off chance of seeing something. There was the slight creak of a floorboard and he realised that someone was standing directly above him. He caught sight of a young boy’s face before Alasdair took his arm and led him – somewhat forcefully – into a large dining room.

  The Edwardian theme continued – a perfect theatrical set for mediumship, John thought, so much easier to believe in spirits when they hover over dark walnut and antimacassars rather than Formica and glass. In the corner a massive pot plant stroked at the black and white faux velvet wallpaper. The central table was so dark as to almost be black. The brilliant white of the doily in the centre was the only thing that stopped a wrought-iron trivet from vanishing against its background. The trivet was weighed down with teapot, cups, milk jug and a large fruitcake, gutted already by a large bread-knife, the fruity gore of sultanas and raisins sticking glutinously to its blade. The walls were again covered with prints and a large mirror on the wall facing the door allowed John to see what a poor sight he was, thanks to his walk in the rain.

  ‘Good evening, John!’ said Aida Golding, getting up from the table and coming over to shake his hand. ‘So glad the wet didn’t keep you away.’

  ‘We’d never do anything at the moment if we let the weather stop us.’

  ‘Too true, let me introduce you to the others.’

  ‘I’m distinctly uncomfortable with this,’ announced a man at the table. He was rubbing at his face and it took John a few moments to recognise him. It was a face he was used to seeing in newspapers and during hastily snatched television interviews outside Parliament.

  ‘Don’t mind Lord Probert,’ said Golding, ‘he gets twitchy in company. Don’t you, dear?’

  ‘I’m not accustomed to having my private matters discussed in public,’ he muttered. ‘I thought this was to be a private reading, I’m paying enough.’

  ‘I don’t do one-to-one readings, dear,’ she replied, glossing over the subject of payment John noticed, ‘I need the energy of a group to achieve the best results. I can assure you everyone here is quite discreet.’

  ‘They all say that,’ the nervous peer replied, ‘then before you know it you’re all over the bloody tabloids.’

  ‘I can assure you I wouldn’t discuss anything that goes on here,’ said an elderly man sat opposite Probert. ‘As far as I’m concerned these matters have all the sanctity of the confessional and I would certainly treat them as such.’

  ‘Our envoy from God,’ said Golding to John. ‘Father Goss has the best interests of our souls in mind this evening.’

  ‘A relief I’m sure,’ scoffed Probert, ‘and who’s he?’ He pointed at John.

  ‘I’m a step down the social ladder,’ John replied with a smile, ‘John Pritchard, teacher.’

  ‘Of psychology, no less!’ laughed Golding, ‘so our brains are to be well-looked after too!’

  ‘A psychologist?’ said Father Goss, ‘I don’t know about that …’

  ‘A teacher,’ John repeated, ‘and as we’re all here in a personal capacity rather than a professional one, does it really matter?’

  ‘The man has a point,’ said Probert. ‘Sit down, will you? The sooner you get your feet under the table the sooner we can get on with this.’

  ‘We still have a couple more guests to arrive, Lord Probert,’ said Golding. ‘Have some more tea, why don’t you? It’ll help you relax.’

  ‘Tea?’ the lord scoffed. ‘It takes more than that to help me wind down.’

  ‘We don’t have any alcohol in the house, I’m afraid. I don’t approve.’

  ‘Only one kind of spirit in this place!’ joked Father Goss. Nobody laughed.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘There we are,’ said Golding as Alasdair sidled away to let in the newcomer. ‘We’ll be started in a minute.’

  They sat in silence around the table as Alasdair’s footsteps passed down the hall to the front door. There was the sound of the door being opened and then the familiar voice of Henry’s widow rolled in from the wet outdoors.

  ‘I shouldn’t be out and about in this,’ she said, ‘if Henry were alive he would never have allowed it. Catch my death in this I will.’

  At least then she’d find marital conversation a little easier, thought John.

  Alasdair showed her in and Golding introduced her as Mrs. Davinia Harris. John realised it was the first time he’d been offered her name; she was a woman who defined herself by her relationship to the dead before anything else.

  ‘This is lovely,’ she said, taking a seat, ‘very nice. I’m sure Henry will be only too happy to join us here.’

  ‘I’m sure he will too,’ John announced, his voice sounding more sincere than what he felt.

  ‘Is that everyone?’ asked Probert.

  ‘Just one more,’ said Golding. ‘Our group wouldn’t be complete without Sandy.’

  John noticed Davinia Harris’s eyes roll. ‘Sandy’s coming is she? Well there’s a surprise …’

  ‘Sandy’s energy is very much in tune with my own,’ said Golding. ‘I find her presence extremely energising.’

  And informative, no doubt, thought John.

  ‘It’s good to see you here at least,’ Davinia said to John. ‘Finally got a message, didn’t you?’

  John wasn’t going to argue that, in the present company at least. ‘I did.’

  ‘I was so pleased, I told Aida as much didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, dear, you did.’

  ‘I’d told her all about you and wouldn’t it be a shame if you weren’t to get a message?’

  Well, that solved that mystery, John thought. With Davinia Harris around, everybody knew your business.

  ‘I am heartened to hear that you’re already a successful recipient of our host’s skills,’ said Father Goss leaning towards John with a diluted smile. ‘I have yet to experience the fruits of her efforts first hand.’

  ‘I didn’t think we’d met before,’ said Davinia, ‘and I attend most of Aida’s demonstrations.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not completely new to all this,’ the cleric admitted, ‘in fact it’s something of a specialist subject, though no doubt my parishioners would be alarmed at the thought! But then what is the job of a priest if it’s not to pierce the veil between life and death?’

  What indeed? John thought, not the most religious of men.

  ‘So refreshing to find an open-minded vicar,’ said Davinia.

  ‘Well, we papal-minded ecclesiastics tend to be more open to the wider possibilities of the universe,’ Father Goss said, ‘I’m of the old church, the original you might say!’

  Davinia was clearly confused by this. ‘Oh … what church is that then?’

  ‘He’s saying he’s Catholic,’ Probert explained, evidently becoming more impatient by the moment.

  ‘Oh,’ Davinia replied as if someone had just said something unmentionable. ‘Them.’

  The doorbell rang one last time and Aida Golding was clearly glad of the distraction. ‘And that makes a full complement,’ she said. ‘We can shortly begin. Let me just refresh the pot.’

  She reached for the teapot but Probert grasped her hand. ‘To hell with tea, can we not just get on with this!’

  The look she gave the peer then was John’s first glimpse of the real Aida Golding beneath the cosy knitted surface. ‘You forget yourself,’ she said. ‘You are a guest in my home, not I in yours.’

  Probert matched her look for a long moment. Clearly, he was not a man used to backing down, but eventually he released her hand and smiled. ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive me my enthusiasm.’

  ‘Of course, dear.’

  Aida walked out of the room and Probert settled back into his seat. John noticed how viciously his manicured nails dug into the wood of the chair’s arm. A dangerous man, he decided. Like all people who are accustomed to getting whatever they want from life he didn’t take the word ‘no’ well. He tried to remember what
he knew of the man, recalling heated tabloid headlines and building a picture of the man’s public persona. There had been affairs, he remembered, but worse than that … a scandal he couldn’t put his finger on. He could picture the man’s snarling face, elbowing a photographer aside. Crowds on courtroom steps, placards thrust skywards as protesters roared their disapproval. All the window-dressing but none of the details.

  The door opened and Sandy walked in. She was the very image of functionalism, her wet hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a baggy, black jumper, the sleeves of which she tugged long so that only her fingers poked out of the end.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, and sat down in one of the empty chairs.

  ‘Good evening, my dear,’ said Father Goss. ‘Are you a regular at these events? We were just talking about who had had messages before and who hadn’t.’

  ‘Oh, she’s always talking to her little kiddie, aren’t you, dear?’ said Davinia, offering the young woman a distinctly false smile.

  ‘Not as much as if he were still alive,’ Sandy snapped back.

  ‘Well, quite,’ said Father Goss, attempting to be the peacekeeper around the table.

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to cause offence,’ said Davinia.

  ‘Of course not,’ agreed Father Goss before gamely trying to change the subject. ‘We’re having more tea in a minute.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Probert sighed sarcastically.

  The door opened and Aida Golding walked in, the refreshed pot in her hand. ‘All here!’ she announced with enthusiasm. ‘How exciting. Help yourself to milk and sugar. We’ll tuck into the cake afterwards.’ She began pouring out a cup of tea for each of them, though Probert predictably refused his.

  John stirred his cup and waited patiently for things to begin.

  Golding lit a pair of large candles and placed them in the centre of the table. Then she sat down and, on her cue, the lights went out. John realised Alasdair must be in the doorway behind him, performing his duties as always. He wondered what else the young man might get up to in the dark.

  ‘Now,’ said Golding, ‘I don’t want any of you to be scared. What we do tonight is not something that should be feared. It is a wonderful, natural, thing. It is the connection of love with love. We hold our hands out in the dark and wait for them to be taken by those whom we miss, those cherished souls who are lost to us in this world but alive and happy in the next.’

  ‘I’m not sure I would class them as “alive” exactly,’ said Father Goss, ‘the term is philosophically complex.’

  ‘Never mind philosophy,’ snapped Probert, ‘this is a seance not a discussion group.’

  ‘I don’t approve of the term “seance”,’ said Golding with a smile, ‘it brings to mind images from horror films.’

  Unlike Edwardian parlours and table rapping? John wondered with some amusement.

  ‘Perhaps we should all agree that the terminology doesn’t matter,’ he suggested. ‘The important thing is the attitude with which we approach things.’

  ‘Well said, dear,’ agreed Davinia. ‘It is what it is and none of us would be here if we weren’t comfortable with it.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Probert.

  ‘Very well,’ said Golding, ‘then let us link hands so as to better conduct the positive energy that flows between us.’

  They all did so.

  For a while they sat in silence, the occasional flicker of the candle’s flame the only sound in the expectant atmosphere.

  ‘This is different to when I work with a large crowd,’ explained Golding eventually. ‘The connection is more pure, the link stronger. Often we should all be able to hear the voices of those who have passed, rather than just me.’

  This was certainly an impressive step, thought John.

  ‘For all that,’ Golding continued, ‘it can sometimes take a little longer to establish that link. It is vitally important to me that you keep your energy positive. Negativity can force the connection to wither and break. While this is a beautiful and positive gift, it’s not an easy one to use and I will need your help every step of the way.’

  John felt Davinia tighten her grip on his right hand; she was certainly not willing to take any risks when it came to communing with her deceased husband. To his left, Father Goss shifted slightly in his seat and altered his grip on John’s hand. The priest’s hand was hot and becoming sweaty, so he self-consciously gripped John’s fingers so as to let their palms breathe. Not that John cold blame the man for being nervous. As much as he had been determined to maintain a cynical detachment to the night’s proceedings, it was difficult now the lights had gone out. The sound of the rain outside permeated the darkness as if the weather was slowly forcing its way into the room. It made John think of what he had glimpsed amongst the leaves of the ivy. It had seemed so pale and gelatinous that he could imagine it gaining entrance easily enough. Perhaps it would force itself through the letterbox, the little black brushes drying the rain from its dead, cold skin before it fell onto those black and white tiles with a slap. He pictured it as his wife’s shattered body, too long in the grave, a weathered bag of tumbling bones made soft once more in the rain.

  ‘Steady love,’ said Davinia and he realised he had been squeezing her hand even harder than she his.

  ‘Sorry.’ He loosened his grip and gave her a smile.

  Aida Golding had closed her eyes and her head lolled back until it vanished into the darkness. The shadows crept down to just above her mouth which moved as she muttered to herself – at least John assumed it was to herself, he didn’t like to imagine who else she could be communicating with. She gave a long sigh, the air hissing from between her lips like a last breath. Tipping her head forward once more, the breath still coming, the candles flickered and went out. Davinia gave a small yelp of concern and her hand tugged at John’s.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Golding, ‘there is nothing in the dark that can harm us. We are like them, the departed, floating in the afterlife beyond the reach of senses.’

  How can they hear us then? John might have asked, but there was no time as at the moment that the medium stopped talking another voice spoke up.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ it said, ‘how lovely of you to come.’

  The voice was barely audible as if speaking through a mound of cushions. Despite that it was recognised soon enough.

  ‘Is that you Henry?’ asked Davinia. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you speak up?’ She tutted and rolled her eyes at John. ‘Typical Henry, he always was such a mumbler.’

  ‘Sorry,’ came the voice, ‘I’m trying as hard as I can.’

  ‘Well, give it a bit more,’ said his wife, ‘you’re in high company and I expect you to be on your very best behaviour.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Well, I must say it’s been a while since you deigned to visit, hasn’t it? I mean … I could have upped sticks and popped my clogs myself for all the interest you’ve been taking in me, couldn’t I?’

  ‘I’m sure Henry would have been aware had you joined him in the afterlife,’ insisted Golding. ‘After all, you would have been reunited.’

  ‘And there would be a pretty way to spend eternity!’ Davinia scoffed. ‘Unless that useless lump has taken himself in hand after abandoning me I’d only end up looking after him like I always did. Yes … that would be the thing, he’s probably hanging on in there hoping for just that. You got yourself in a mess up there, Henry? You in a fix?’

  ‘I think you’re being too literal, Davinia my dear,’ said Golding. ‘The afterlife is not really a place where you can get yourself “in a fix”.’

  ‘If anyone can, Henry can. Did I ever tell you about the time we were questioned by security in Waitrose because he’d been seen opening a Black Forest Gateau in the freezer?’

  ‘Davinia,’ said the barely audible voice, ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘Said he wanted to check they weren’t stingy with the cherries. In Waitrose, I ask you. Never have I been so embarra
ssed. Now he has me traipsing all over the place just to hear a few kind words. Not much to ask is it? A lady of my age? Nobody thinks of me do they? I’m all alone …’

  ‘I love you, Davinia,’ said the voice, ‘but I have to go now …’

  ‘That’s typical,’ said the widow. John was pretty sure he caught the glint of tears reflecting the candlelight. ‘Always dashing off.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ confirmed Golding.

  ‘Bye, love,’ murmured Davinia and John gave her hand a gentle squeeze. For all her ridiculous hostility it was clear she missed Henry very much.

  ‘How romantic,’ whispered Probert but Davinia chose to ignore him.

  ‘The voices are getting more insistent,’ announced Golding. ‘It’s becoming hard to distinguish one from the other.’

  ‘Well, try harder!’ said Probert.

  ‘The spirits are not at your beck and call, Lord Probert,’ said Golding. ‘They will either have a message for you or they will not.’

  He had no reply to that, simply sighed in the darkness and the table returned to silence once more.

  But not for long …

  ‘John? Are you there, John?’

  He had imagined his response to this inevitable moment. He had decided he would make his disdain clear, he would stand up and reveal the trickery for what it was. But now, with the indistinct voice calling to him, he found he could do no such thing. It wasn’t that he believed the voice to be Jane’s – even muffled it carried none of the qualities he remembered – but the idea of decrying it as a sham, surrounded by those who believed in it utterly, seemed in terribly poor taste. He simply could not stamp on the feelings of the ridiculous, irritating, fragile widow whose hand he was holding.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said, and gave a polite smile at the squeeze Davinia Harris gave his hand. He was hit by a sudden wave of guilt, reminded of those last days when he had lied to Jane in order to protect her sensibilities. He felt like he was cheating her memory by playing along. Though now, once started, he found it even harder to imagine the alternative.