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‘Right,’ I said and took my notepad out of my bag. ‘So that’s John who?’
David leant forwards as he spoke. ‘John Adamms. Two “m”s.’ He watched me write them down.
‘And how does John fit into this?’
‘He’s Polly’s dad,’ Beryl called out as she opened the fridge and took out the milk.
‘I see. And Polly is the little girl that died?’
‘That’s right,’ said David. ‘We were all very moved. That’s why we decided to raise some money.’
Beryl brought the tray over to the table and lifted the cups, milk jug and teapot onto the lace doily in the centre. ‘Tragedy. Life is full of it. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk please. And so how do you know the Adamms?’
Beryl heaved herself into a chair. Her thin, wrinkled hands passed me a cup of tea then nudged David’s towards him. ‘They’ve been part of our group for a while now.’
‘And what group is that?’
‘The Hebbledon Spiritualists.’
‘Oh,’ I said and looked up. No one had mentioned anything about nut bags. I’d assumed it would be your usual sponsored walks and coffee mornings. No wonder the staff writers had farmed it out.
Beryl noticed my reaction and grinned. ‘We’re not screwballs, you know. Quite your everyday sort of people. We have accountants in our group, PAs, bus drivers. Bob’s a fireman.’
‘And we have a Postman Pat.’ David grinned.
Beryl smiled at him with the sad acceptance of parental disappointment.
I made a note about the Spiritualist group. ‘So how did you raise the money? It was a fair bit wasn’t it – a thousand pounds?’
David replaced his teacup into the saucer and leant towards me. ‘£1050,’ he said and watched me write it down again. ‘It was £1031.75. I made it up with my own money. People like nice round figures.’ He looked at my notepad. I didn’t write it down.
‘Wow,’ I said to Beryl. ‘Not bad.’
Mrs Bennett tested her tea with her tongue. ‘We’re getting more of the general public coming along to meetings now than ever before. But believe it or not, there are still a fair few people out there who have some odd notions about Spiritualism.’
No kidding, I thought. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘In this day and age …’
‘Yes, I know.’ Beryl made a tutting noise with her tongue and rolled her eyes. ‘So, we thought, well, why don’t we do some open evenings? Get local people in so they could see we were just ordinary people – doing our stuff to help others out. And of course we wanted to raise money for Polly’s charity.’
‘Mum’s a medium,’ David said. ‘Very talented too.’
‘I do my best,’ said Beryl, a proud little grin appearing on her lips.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Is that what you did then? Er, medium nights? What do you call them?’
Beryl opened her hands and spread them across the table. ‘Evenings of clairvoyance,’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘Yes, we put on quite a few and also ran a series of taster afternoons.’
I wrote that down in my notepad. ‘Which were what?’
‘I call them old skool,’ said David and laughed.
‘He means they’re old-fashioned,’ Beryl said gently. ‘There’s a few of us that have practical skills – reading the tea leaves; auras; dream interpretation, that sort of thing. A young lady, Tanith, from the neighbouring village is one of them Witchens.’
David leant in to correct his mother. ‘She’s a Wiccan.’
‘She does a lovely tarot, don’t she, David?’
Bennett Junior nodded. ‘Very accurate.’
‘So we got together and ran about ten of those. One a month. With volunteers selling tea and cake. And we hosted evenings. All the funds came through suggested donations.’
‘And you raised that much?’ I asked, doing a rough calculation in my head.
‘Some of the recently bereaved can be very grateful when they make contact with loved ones on the other side. It helps, you know.’
I wrote that down in my notepad and then flipped it shut so I could take a gulp of tea. ‘So, do you have practical skills, David?’ I turned slightly to him. He was on my left side facing the door.
‘Numerology,’ he said brightly. ‘Numbers. And astrology.’
‘Right,’ I said, searching for the right word to express limp engagement. ‘Interesting.’ It sounded so disingenuous I asked Beryl quickly, ‘And what about you, Mum? Do you have more skills? Other than clairvoyance of course?’
Beryl nestled into her chair and beamed. ‘Palms. Chiromancy, I like to call it. Always been able to do it. Even before I had the calling to clairvoyance. It’s just something I’ve grown up with.’ She chuckled. ‘I can see in your face that you’d like to have a go.’
‘Oh.’ She wasn’t that great a clairvoyant – I hadn’t thought about it. But the idea had a certain appeal. ‘What, now?’
‘Won’t take a moment, love.’ She patted the chair to her side. ‘Come and take a seat.’
I placed my teacup next to my notebook and swapped chairs. Beryl put her cup down and rubbed her hands. ‘They’re a bit cold, so ’scuse me.’ Then she picked up my right hand. ‘David, love, could you fetch my specs. They’re beside the cooker.’ David scurried over and came back with a small brown case. Beryl popped the glasses over her nose. She examined the skin of my palm and stroked a couple of fingers, then peered down at the left side of my hand.
After a minute she cleared her throat. The smile that hung upon her chocolate lips faded. ‘Were you very ill when you were young, dear?’
She looked over the tops of her glasses at my expression.
‘No,’ I said, blankly. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Beryl touched her throat then reached out and picked up the cup of tea. She swallowed hard and returned to my hand.
David was also scrutinising it, drawn in by the attention his mum was giving.
She pummelled the flesh beneath my little finger and grimaced.
‘What is it?’ I asked, trying to grin.
‘Mmm,’ she said slowly and pushed the glasses back up her nose. ‘Sorry to ask this, but you’re not adopted are you?’
I laughed. ‘Definitely not.’
David stood up and gazed over his mother’s shoulder at my palm.
‘I don’t think it’s coming through well today, love.’ Beryl’s voice had risen.
‘Blimey,’ said David. ‘That’s a short one.’
‘What is?’ I asked too quickly.
Beryl sent him a warning look but he didn’t catch it.
He leant forwards and swayed on the balls of his feet. ‘By my reckoning …’ he started to say.
‘David!’ Beryl nudged him sharply in the ribs.
David’s brain didn’t connect with his mouth in time. ‘By my reckoning,’ he said in mock horror, ‘you’re already dead!’
He laughed heartily.
I didn’t.
I had become very cold.
Beryl sucked her teeth in annoyance. ‘David, sit down. Now don’t you go scaring people like that. Honestly,’ she said wearily. The bags under her eyes had darkened into swollen crescents of lilac. At that moment she did look very old indeed. ‘Typical man. No tact. Just like his dad.’ She sighed and pushed my hand away. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said, sitting back into her chair. ‘Can’t do any more. I’m not feeling too good.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, returning to my previous seat. ‘Sorry. I hope it wasn’t anything that I …’
She didn’t reply to me. Instead she addressed the next instruction to her son. ‘Go fetch my pills please, love. They’re on the bedside table nearest the door.’
David got to his feet immediately and dashed out the kitchen.
Beryl was now the colour of ashes. Her make-up seemed only to be resting on top of her skin; beneath the foundation little muscles were flicking and flexing, as if an electric current was running through them.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ I asked gently.
She rasped a reply I couldn’t understand. Then her eyes fixed on me. All the rigidity and animation seemed to leave her body at the same moment and she slumped back in the chair. For a second her neck went slack and rolled backwards.
I stood up, worried yet completely unsure of what to do. Something was happening to the poor woman but I couldn’t tell what. I simply stood there and watched with growing alarm as Beryl’s neck moved upwards and forwards, pulled by an invisible thread. Her head slowly followed. And what a strange sight that was – the luscious brown hair, obviously a wig, slipped off, revealing a thinning layer of feathery white tufts. When I saw her eyes I very nearly screamed. They had rolled round so that all that poked through the hooded lids were the bloodshot whites. And then the shaking started. Not a sideways motion but a juddering up and down, quick sharp micro-moves.
A horrible creak was coming from inside her mouth. Her jaw slackened and then fell open, making a grating noise, then slowly it appeared to unhinge and drop lower than I ever thought possible without splintering bone.
Despite Beryl’s agonised movements I could do nothing but stare. A terrible paralysis had crept over me. I watched her kindly face disappear into a barely recognisable combination of features in seizure.
Her hands began to scratch at the table and the whites of her eyes fixed on my face, as if something beyond them perceived me.
Beryl’s frame jerked backwards, the upper half of her body shaking uncontrollably.
A gurgling came up from her throat. I could see she was struggling to breathe.
‘Oh God,’ I said, coming to my senses at last, and rushed round to Beryl’s side. ‘What can I do? Beryl? Mrs Bennett, are you okay?’
And then I heard it, coming up through her windpipe: a kind of wheeze; a low-pitched primal scream. Something like, ‘Ashhhh bitten.’ I couldn’t be sure: the word was wrenched out of her, fuzzy with sibilance and choked with phlegm.
Beryl convulsed. Her hand flew to her neck. The body heaved. She coughed once, twice, then gagged. As her face surged forwards to the table, her lips opened wider yet.
I gasped with shock and repulsion as I observed a black moth fly out of her mouth.
‘Shit.’ I was jittering now, backing away from her.
The kitchen door was flung open just as Beryl’s body lolled forwards and she collapsed onto the table.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I said to her son, pointing to his mother’s prone form. ‘I think she’s having a fit.’
David rushed over and lifted his mother’s sagging shoulders back onto the seat.
‘Get some water,’ he barked.
I tore over to the tap and brought back a beaker.
Beryl was coming round.
Her irises had returned to her eyes but there was a dizzy circling going on in them.
David took the water and held it to his mother’s lips. ‘Come on, Mum. Take them down.’ With his fingers he popped a little yellow pill on her tongue.
‘What happened?’ I asked him, looking on anxiously at his mum. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘She’ll be fine in a bit,’ he said. ‘Look, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get her onto the sofa for a rest.’
‘Yes of course,’ I said and gestured to Beryl’s arms. ‘Shall I take this side?’
‘No,’ he snapped, knocking my hand away from his mother. ‘Don’t touch her. I’ve got everything under control.’
‘Right,’ I stammered, feeling disproportionately guilty.
‘Please leave, Ms Asquith. You can see yourself out I presume?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said and gathered up my things super quick. ‘I’ve got everything that I need to put the article to bed. Thank you for your time.’ David Bennett had already picked his mother up and carried her from the room.
I was opening the front door when I heard Beryl call out weakly. ‘Take care, Ms Asquith. Be sure to.’
I murmured that I would and shut the door; though privately I reflected of the two of us it was probably she who should be more solicitous.
Chapter Ten
The tide was out. Mud filled up most of the view from my window. It had a dark sullen pallor to it, the colour of an angry toad. You could see a paler line of grey further out: the water slithering to Chalkwell. A light fuzz above it suggested it was bringing in a mist.
And there was something else out there in the air that occupied the space between me and the creeping sea. Something I couldn’t yet make out but could feel – like a million unseen eyes watching me. Or perhaps they were just early stars?
It would be a cold night tonight.
