Past Praying For Read online

  Minnie’s eyes, dull and opaque now, surveyed her malevolently. ‘Me? How would I know? Nobody ever tells me anything.’

  With which pointed remark she switched on the Hoover and fell to pushing it to and fro across the carpet tiles with a fine show of industry, ignoring the whistle indicating that the bag was already full.

  ***

  Elizabeth McEvoy had no wish to go to the Golf Club Christmas Dance. It seemed so tasteless, somehow, but that consideration wouldn’t deter Piers. Nor could she tell him bluntly that the thought of dancing with him, held close with his hands moving insolently over her body, made her feel sick. He would mock as over-reaction her reluctance to go out, though in her fragile emotional state, she felt tears come to her eyes at the thought of abandoning her children. He certainly wouldn’t agonize over precious, delicate, vulnerable flesh. But wood burned too, and porcelain would crack and glass would shatter; he might fear for his own treasures, if she could hint at the threat from a faceless terror with a compulsion to incinerate, destroy...

  ‘Do you think it’s wise to go out?’ she said. ‘It might be our turn next, and it would be awful if anything happened to the house.’

  Piers’s eyes did flicker with brief concern round the room with its exquisite furniture – the Louis Quinze commode, the William Kent mirror – and its lovingly-amassed paintings and porcelain. Then he snorted.

  ‘We’ve got a baby-sitter, haven’t we? And there’s a smoke-detector in the hall, after all. She’s no mental giant but even she would surely notice if flames began licking round the legs of her chair. In any case, the village must be stiff with flat-feet; who’s going to try anything now?’

  ‘They don’t think it’s murder. Patrick said they were all gone by five o’clock,’ she argued, but not hopefully.

  Patrick had phoned to say that they were calling off tonight. Suzanne was still upset, they were all suffering from lack of sleep and all that anyone wanted was an early night.

  They had not spoken since their meeting in the supermarket. With some constraint, Elizabeth said, ‘Poor Suzanne. It must have been awful, for all of you.’

  Patrick sighed. ‘Yes, poor Suzanne. She’s not like her usual self at all. Perhaps it’s an improvement.’

  He laughed. Elizabeth didn’t.

  ‘Joke,’ he said. ‘It was a joke. I think.’

  Then his voice softened. ‘And you, Lizzie? How are you? Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, just fine,’ she tried to say brightly, but the genuine concern in his voice was her undoing, and her voice wobbled.

  ‘Oh, Lizzie – ’ He broke off, and she could hear the harsh edge of frustration. ‘I can’t bear it that you’re upset, and not to be able to do anything, to have no right – ’

  She cut him short. ‘Patrick, there’s nothing you or anyone else can do. I’m just so worried by all this.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ he said grimly. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure how I would cope with another night like last night, and Suzanne would simply fall apart.’

  ‘But surely you’ve had your turn?’

  ‘Who knows? The police certainly don’t.’

  She asked briefly about the progress of the enquiry, then rang off. She had problems enough at the moment without adding guilt about possible disloyalty.

  But even hearing that the Boltons had scratched did not discourage Piers, and Elizabeth went off reluctantly to give the children their supper and change.

  When she appeared, dutifully strapless in black chiffon, he had a large whisky at his elbow. It seemed unlikely it was his first; he downed it in two gulps then rose, his colour high and his eyes glittering.

  ‘Come on, Lizzie, let’s party! Boogie the night away – or at least until the band packs it in at one o’clock. Oh, and do you think you could possibly, just for me, rearrange those martyred features into some semblance of a smile? It won’t bother me if your face curdles the cream on the trifle, but other people may find it hard to get into the party mood with you playing the part of chief mute at a Victorian funeral.’

  ***

  Hayley Cutler studied herself in the mirror in her bedroom with her eyes half-closed in rigorous self-appraisal.

  She had chosen to wear poison-green satin, cut low to expose her magnificent cleavage, and her hair was piled in a topknot from which wispy tendrils fell. She had taken a lot of trouble with her make-up; concealer to banish the smudges round her eyes, blusher on the cheekbones to draw attention away from the lines of strain about her mouth.

  Yes, she looked good. And there was no doubt about it, anger did give an added sparkle to your eyes. She had always had a temper; she knew it to be a good servant and a bad master, but sometimes the demarcation lines weren’t too clear.

  She just had to change her plan of campaign, that was all. ‘When the horse is dead, you get off and walk,’ as the Chinese proverb had it, and Hayley had never wasted energy in those circumstances by applying the whip. She had had enough of feeling persecuted and scared; now, with other things on her mind, she was coming out fighting.

  When she arrived at the Golf Club, the McEvoys, the Joneses and the Ferrars were already there – Laura looking dreadful – and Hayley made her way across the crowded room towards them. Was she alone in feeling bitterly amused by the hypocrisy as they exchanged social kisses all round?

  On every side, Stretton Noble’s home-grown sensation was the topic of conversation. The police had started house-to-house enquiries, and in the nearest group a matron, her horsy face pink with indignation, was proclaiming, ‘So I just said to him, “Officer, if you devoted your energies to combing the council estate at Newtown instead of interrogating People Like Us, your endeavours might be crowned with success and we could all sleep safely in our beds.” ’

  So it was easy enough for Hayley to introduce her topic of choice.

  ‘The police came to check me out today, can you believe that? And I’d a couple of things I wanted to discuss, but forget it! All they would talk about was some evidence that someone climbed my back fence on to the path. Well, I told them it wasn’t me, but they just looked at me with fish eyes and wrote it all down. Then they sent round the inspector – the graduate from the pit-bull charm school, summa cum laude – to see what he could screw out of me, you should pardon the expression. And do you know – call me hypersensitive – I kind of got the impression it was us girls they were homing in on! Isn’t that something? It was lucky I could tell him I had an alibi, wasn’t it?’

  She ran her neat little pointed tongue round her lacquered lips and smiled directly at Piers, who had half-turned and was now standing very still, his prominent eyes fixed on her.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t had to disclose it yet, but it’s my little insurance policy. Just in case.’

  The frisson within the group had been almost visible. Laura seemed paler than ever; others stared into their drinks and shifted their feet awkwardly.

  It was Anthea Jones who broke the silence with desperate vivacity.

  ‘Oh gosh, I hope they don’t ask Richard to alibi me. He’s always so exhausted he crashes out – unless he’s on call, of course...’

  Piers turned his back and began to order another round of drinks.

  Satisfied with the effect she had produced, Hayley reached for a peanut from a dish on the bar. With a jolt, she realized that Elizabeth was staring at her.

  Sweet, simple St Lizzie, she had always styled her acidly. But now she found herself dropping her eyes and turning hastily away, as if that searing gaze might brand the red ‘A’ for adulteress on to her forehead.

  ***

  Margaret Moon was deeply asleep when the relentless double ring of the telephone summoned her, dragging her up through layers of sleep that seemed dense as water, and bringing her gasping awake. She hated night phone-calls; they left her heart racing and her hands shaking so that she could hardly pick up the instrument. All too often they heralded disaster or sudden death.

  The room was dark, apart
from the disembodied luminous figures of the clock which showed 2.14.

  The person at the other end of the line was crying. The voice was female, but so distorted as to be unrecognizable.

  ‘I have – I have to talk,’ it said. ‘I have to talk to someone. During the daytime, it’s not so bad; I can pretend it’s all a bad dream, none of it’s true. But I know she’s done it, I know she has, it’s terrible. And she’s so strong at night, I can’t stop her. I can’t fight much longer. You have to help me...’

  Sleep fled. Margaret said carefully, ‘Of course I will. What do you want me to do? Try to stop crying, and tell me what the matter is.’

  There were more sobs, and a silence. Then the hoarse voice said chillingly, ‘Can you – can you do – exorcism?’

  ‘Exorcism?’ In the darkness, Margaret felt the hairs on her neck stand up, and groped for the switch on her bedside lamp, even though the darkness it could dispel was only physical.

  ‘I can’t think of anything else to do. It’s my last hope.’

  She had never heard such desolation, such inconsolable despair. Margaret could feel herself being drawn into the icy hell of terror and hopelessness. Her fingers went instinctively to the little silver cross she always wore about her neck, and clung to it. She managed to say, as if calmly,’We can talk about it. Tell me who you are. Do I know you?’

  ‘Yes, but – ’ It had dwindled to a whisper now.’I can’t – I’m trying, but I can’t any more...’

  Into the unnerving silence that followed, Margaret called urgently, ‘Are you still there? Can you hear me? Hello? Hello?’

  ‘Oh, butt out, you silly old bag!’

  It was a high-pitched voice, like a child’s, but hard and bright, and it trailed off into a foolish, artificial giggle. The contrast was so bizarre that Margaret wondered if she could be still asleep and dreaming. But the second voice was going on.

  ‘Call yourself a priest? Well, that’s a joke! Everyone thinks you’re a joke, a joke, a joke. But don’t try any of your magic on me, you old witch, or I’ll fix you all. Dumbo too. I’d wipe her out tomorrow, stupid cow, only – ’

  ‘Only what?’ Even in her confusion, Margaret recognized where she had encountered those sentiments before, and strained to identify the speaker. But there was no clue in that strange falsetto.

  ‘Only nothing, nothing, nothing. Just wait and you’ll see. I’ve lots more nasty surprises. I’m clever, you see, clever, clever.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, very clever.’ She made her voice soothing, as if she were speaking to a child. ‘But could I speak to your friend again? She sounded unhappy.’

  For some reason this was amusing. The strange laughter continued for some time, then stopped abruptly.

  ‘No. Dumbo’s gone.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  There was a long, long pause. Then the voice said, ‘I’m Missy. That’s who I am.’

  ‘And have you done something, Missy? Something – bad?’

  There was a gasp that was almost a cry, then the receiver was banged violently down.

  Margaret set down her own receiver. She was shivering with – what? She hardly knew how to define it. Shock, fear?

  The omnipotence of a loving God was the bedrock of Margaret’s belief, allowing her to be robustly sceptical of exorcism and all its spiritual implications. But this – this soul-terror of someone believing herself to be in the grip of the Powers of Darkness! It was like a chill finger of frost reaching out to blight the sunny garden of her faith.

  It took a minute for her common sense to reassert itself. She was shivering because she was cold, she told herself, and what she needed was a fresh hottie and a hot drink. Wearily she dragged herself downstairs to the kitchen, where she switched on the electric heater and warmed her hands.

  She had tried to be quiet so as not to wake her brother, but she could not disguise her relief when a few minutes later the door opened and Robert appeared looking offensively alert and fresh in a smart grey-silk dressing gown.

  ‘The phone woke me. Not more trouble, I hope?’

  ‘The next time I’m rude to you,’ Margaret said, trying to make light of her unease, ‘remind me how pleased I was to see you at this moment.’

  ‘Don’t think I won’t.’ He eyed her shrewdly. ‘Sit down before you fall down and tell me about it while I make tea or something. Or Horlicks? Do you still take six spoonfuls?’

  She had barely begun her story when he stopped her.

  ‘What about the last recorded number service?’

  She shook her head. ‘We don’t have it here yet. Nothing’s ever that simple.’

  ‘Oh well, it would have felt a bit like cheating,’ Robert said philosophically, setting the mugs down and joining her at the table. ‘Now, start again.’

  She found it hard to stay cool and objective, and it was a very imperfect account. However, under his skilful questioning more detail emerged; he persuaded her to define the accent, the vocabulary and the nuances of expression while these were still fresh in her mind.

  ‘Female, middle-class and educated,’ he said, making little effort not to sound smug.

  She was still too distressed to be irritated. ‘Yes. And the same phrases as in the letter. She didn’t mention burning at the stake this time, but – ’

  She broke off. She still felt cold, and wrapped her hands round the mug as she went on. ‘But Robert, the first woman – Dumbo – who talked about exorcism. I know it sounds melodramatic, but I believed her. She sounded – possessed.’

  Robert had fetched a packet of digestive biscuits. He chose one and munched it with maddening deliberation.

  ‘Well, it’s not surprising she was convincing. It’s probably what she believes. The suggestion of exorcism is not without precedent.’

  She stared at him as he flicked a crumb from the collar of his dressing gown.

  ‘Do you mean – ’ she began, then said crossly, ‘Oh really, it’s too much. This is where I’m expected to say, “Wonderful, Holmes!” and look astonished and impressed. Shall I just send them round with the handcuffs?’

  ‘Oh, good gracious no, much as it would gratify me to astonish you. I haven’t the slightest idea who she is, but I think I can tell you what’s wrong with her. Everything you’ve told me points to the operation of dual personality.

  ‘Your first speaker – Dumbo – is probably the personality everyone sees. She’s likely to be in ignorance of Missy’s actions, except when these leave physical traces. But she clearly suspects something now, and fights to keep the “demon” at bay. Hence the belief that she’s possessed, which actually is quite a useful way of describing the situation.

  ‘Missy, however, may well be able to see what Dumbo does, characteristically with considerable impatience. She’ll struggle for control, and to mould Dumbo’s life to her requirements, which probably represent the uninhibited side of an inhibited nature. She’ll be aggressive, even crude.’

  Forgetting her distress in fascination, Margaret said, ‘I’ve heard of multiple personalities, of course. But what starts it?’

  Robert shrugged. ‘Did I somehow forget to mention to you that psychology is not an exact science? Received wisdom is that it’s a hysterical dissociation with its roots in trauma, frequently some childhood trauma so great the child can’t bear it, and as it were “creates” a less sensitive alter ego to bear it instead. It might be sexual abuse, or unresolved bereavement, or any one of a dozen other causes. If the situation stabilizes, the second personality may lie dormant for years – even forever – but under stress the psyche may fragment again, seeking the same resolution to its problem.

  ‘The danger here is that the alter ego has no moral development. It’s like a wilful child interested only in its own gratification.’

  ‘Someone who might set a garage on fire with a car inside, if it suited them?’

  ‘With a person inside, if it suited them.’

  The kitchen was hot now, too hot, and the rational, scienti
fic explanation seemed little less horrifying than the supernatural one. The blackness outside the windows seemed to mock the brave, silly illusion of security created by electric light and bright colours.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ Margaret said abruptly, and Robert rose too.

  ‘Get some sleep and don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Vezey may be uncouth, but he’s a first-class policeman. I’ll process this for him, and he’ll get it wrapped up quicker than you can say bell, book and candle.’

  She managed a smile. ‘Always the little ray of sunshine,’ she said, and went to bed.

  ***

  Having set down the receiver with a smash, Missy backed away from the telephone as if it were alive and deadly.

  That was dangerous, dangerous. Just like before, stupid bloody Dumbo had dropped them in it. That woman somehow knew too much, and she had said...had said...

  Her throat was constricting in a funny way, but she couldn’t cry. Missy had no tears. Missy had used them all up long ago.

  But she was afraid. She, Missy, clever Missy, had been lured into saying too much. It would be disastrous if they were discovered now, and there was no saying what Dumbo might do, once she got Missy back in her cage again. She hadn’t got the sense God gave little green apples.

  No, it was all up to Missy. She must do what was best for both of them, since for some stupid reason she couldn’t get rid of Dumbo. They were joined as horribly as Siamese twins, sharing all the vital organs, and if anything happened to Dumbo...

  But Missy never thought about these things. Missy did things, instead, and now she knew just what she had to do.

  Not that it was easy. She had to make do with what she could find, because Dumbo wouldn’t buy any of the things Missy really wanted: lovely, smelly paraffin; thick gloopy petrol in a can...And Dumbo was strong during the day, very strong.

  Sighing, she tiptoed through the quiet house to the coal-cellar. There wasn’t any more barbecue gel; firelighters would have to do.

  In the flimsy modern box that was the Vicarage there was no light, no sound.

  In the guest room at the back of the house, above the kitchen, Robert slumbered with his accustomed tranquillity, his sheet neatly turned down and his pillow unrumpled. Margaret, in her bedroom at the front, had collapsed into a stupor of physical and emotional exhaustion.