The Lingering Read online

  THE LINGERING

  S.J.I. HOLLIDAY

  ‘Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted … Within these ivied walls, behind these old green shutters, some further business smoulders, waiting for its hour’

  —Robert Louis Stephenson

  To Sue and Doc Holliday … parents-in-law and

  fenland sweethearts, who are very much missed.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Prologue Angela

  Part 1 The Light

  Extract from The Book of Light

  1 Ali

  2 Ali

  3 Angela

  4 Ali

  5 Angela

  6 Ali

  7 Angela

  8 Ali

  9 Angela

  10 Ali

  11 Angela

  12 Ali

  13 Angela

  14 Ali

  15 Angela

  16 Ali

  17 Angela

  18 Ali

  19 Ali

  20 Angela

  21 Ali

  22 Angela

  23 Ali

  24 Angela

  Part 2 The Dark

  25 Smeaton

  26 Ali

  27 Ali

  28 Angela

  29 Ali

  30 Smeaton

  31 Ali

  32 Smeaton

  33 Angela

  34 Ali

  35 Angela

  36 Smeaton

  37 Ali

  38 Angela

  39 Ali

  40 Angela

  41 Ali

  42 Smeaton

  43 Ali

  44 Smeaton

  45 Angela

  46 Smeaton

  47 Ali

  48 Angela

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Angela

  There’s an unfamiliar smell in the air today. Something like wet pine cones and mulched earth. A hint of old sweat, something sweet, like a lily, and the sticky ripeness that comes with unwashed bodies. The Family like to tease me for my overactive imagination and my exaggerated sense of smell. I like to believe that I have a mild and unusual form of synaesthesia – certain smells triggering sounds and feeding my mind with wild possibilities. As for the imagination, it might be overactive or it might just be that I’ve attuned my senses to pick up things that others choose to ignore. I can hear Cyril tapping his walking stick on a fence post from the other end of the flower garden, but perhaps it’s the still air that’s letting the sound travel. Usually I can hear the birds nesting in the trees down by the entrance to the long driveway. Blackbirds or Chiffchaffs with their distinctive melodic tweets; and sometimes squirrels as they patter through the undergrowth, in the hedgerows that border the vegetable patches. But today there is silence, apart from Cyril’s stick. And the air is filled with smells, not noise. I breathe it in, waiting, realising that I am the only one out here in the grounds, awaiting their arrival. Wondering who they are and why it is that they have managed to secure a place here without any of us meeting them before, without them learning about any of our rules and ways.

  I hold my breath, close my eyes, focusing everything on my ears. Waiting. Waiting. Until I hear the distant sounds of a car engine, and my eyes fly open as I gasp in a breath and understand what it is I can smell in the air. Something dark. Something old.

  Something bad is coming.

  And there’s no way to stop it.

  Part 1

  THE LIGHT

  ‘A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man woke in the night.’

  — J.M. Barrie

  Extract from The Book of Light

  The Essence of Us

  The Rosalind House Community Project was formed by Smeaton Dunsmore in 1995. Smeaton comes from a strong community family, having been born and raised in the world-famous Sweethope Commune in the north of Scotland, and continuing his learning and experiences of life at the Makaranda Love Ranch in Southern California and in several smaller collectives in Southeast Asia. Smeaton always hoped to carry on the teachings of the Sweethope founders, his mother and father, and saw Rosalind House as the perfect location for his new family home. With community members of all ages and from all walks of life, Our Family wishes to welcome you to our happy home, and hopes that it will soon feel like your happy home too.

  Guidelines for a Light & Bright Existence

  ‘Embrace the light’

  We all have one thing in common: the desire to live in peace, harmony and freedom – away from wrongdoers and those who take pleasure in the discomfort of others. We have one key aim: for only goodness to exist. By embracing goodness, we help it to grow. Help it to grow here amongst us. All you need to do is embrace it.

  ‘Join hands, join minds, live as one’

  The joining of hands has long been a method of ensuring community engagement, without making anyone feel that any boundaries have been crossed. We make a simple vow to engage with one another in this way before and after completing any group tasks. Although we remain individuals and of free minds and spirits, Our Family shares their love through this simple ritual of platonic touch: the blessing of light.

  ‘Do good and live within the light’

  There is only one thing that can be controlled here, and that is our own impulses. This is our only rule – do good, be good – always be light, continue the fight against the dark.

  ‘Do not fear change, for the change is within you’

  Change is inevitable. None of us can live as we once did, as an individual in a too-wide world. To join Our Family you must accept and embrace the changes that are inevitable. Never fear. Never stop. Become who you are.

  ‘Respect this house, and live in peace’

  This is an old property and it has its own ways of existence. Do not question these, but accept them with grace. Help us to keep this house happy. Work together to improve what we have. Avoid petty squabbles and you will exist in harmony. Always offer to help.

  ‘Bring in the dark, and live with the consequences’

  Always be kind. Always be truthful. This is a happy house, and all residents have been absolved of their past wrongdoings. We must keep it this way, in order to remain in a synergistic, loving environment. When someone does wrong, they are not the only one affected. Protect this house and the wider environs by BEING GOOD, always.

  Our Group Activities

  6.30 a.m. daily: Morning Singing. Join us in the round room for thirty minutes of uplifting Taizé singing – wake yourself up with a smile!

  7.30 p.m. Mondays: Guided Meditation. Join us in the living room for a peaceful break from your activities – take an Angel card and work towards dealing with your core issues in a quiet, contemplative setting. 6.30 p.m. Fridays (bi-monthly): Formal dinner and party. Let your hair down, enjoy some of our chef’s special herbal concoctions and free your body and your spirit through dance.

  Advisory Notes

  The following are things that we advise you let go, in order to claim the peaceful existence that you have come here to find. As always, these are not rules, but they are things that we have come to believe you will benefit from removing from your lives. The following things are not advised:

  Mobile phones

  Internet use

  Regular contact with friends / family on the outside

  Visiting the village

  Purchasing unnecessary material items

  Illegal drugs

  Over-consumption
of alcohol

  Television and radio

  Driving

  Swearing

  Our Family

  Smeaton Dunsmore

  Ford Swanson

  Richard Latham

  Julie Latham

  Fergus Jones

  Rose Curtis

  Cyril Mead

  Lucy Worthington

  Angela Fairley

  Annie Palmerston

  Lawrence Palmerston

  Ali Gardiner

  Jack Gardiner

  1

  Ali

  As the road dips into the flat, bleak fenland, a burning ball of sunlight drops down in front of them and they both raise a hand to shield their eyes. Jack swerves to the left, almost ending up in the drainage channel that runs along the length of the field.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ali mutters from the passenger seat. She flips the sun visor down in front of her. ‘Pretty spectacular. Can we stop for a minute? I just want to snap a pic on my phone.’ Jack slows, turns to look at her. His look says the same thing that’s just slid into her own head. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she says. ‘What’s the point of taking a photograph now? It’s not like I can send it to anyone.’

  Jack adjusts his own visor and speeds up again. ‘Well you could … but it’s not advised.’

  Ali sighs. ‘Do we have to go through all this again? It really will be easier if you embrace it with an open mind. You might even enjoy it.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ he mutters.

  She wants to carry on. Pick a fight for no real reason. But she stops herself. That’s what the old Ali would do. With the old Jack. Despite everything, she does still love him and she wants this to work. She glances around at the back seat of the car, jammed with what remains of their worldly possessions.

  They’ve sold the rest. They don’t need much where they’re going. Not much of the stuff they used to need anyway. Technology. Gadgets. Fancy gold satin pumps and a Chanel clutch bag in the same shade, both far more expensive than her salary allowed. The girl who bought them looked like she’d won the lottery when Ali sold them at the car boot sale for a tenth of the price. She knows they could’ve made more money if she’d sold things on specialist websites, maybe even got a company to come round and do a valuation. But what was the point? They had their savings, and that was enough to secure their place. What would they do with more money? Would they be persuaded to give that away too?

  Practically nothing from their old life is required anymore.

  She feels liberated and petrified in equal measure.

  Jack leans over and flips open the glove box. Ali swivels back around and bats his hand away. ‘Keep your eyes on the road. What do you want? I’ll get it.’

  ‘I think there’s a map in there. Can you check? I thought I’d memorised the route but I’m starting to think that we’re going in circles. All these roads look the same. I’m sure we’ve passed that house three times.’ He slows down.

  Ali looks out at the small cottage on their right. It’s crooked, as if it is slowly sinking into the marshes beneath it.

  ‘That’s definitely not the same cottage as the last one. The last one had a blue gate, and there were other cottages further along the road. This one’s on its own, and the gate’s not even painted.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re keeping an eye out.’

  She rummages in the glove box and finds a crumpled Ordnance Survey map. She straightens it out on her lap. A faded coffee ring obscures part of the image on the front – a cathedral. Ely, maybe?

  ‘The Cambridgeshire Fens, 1998. Wow. Was this the last time you used a map?’ She unfolds it and a musty scent fills the air in front of her face. ‘Shame we had to get rid of the sat nav.’

  ‘I suppose we didn’t need to do that, did we? It wouldn’t do any harm left in the car. Are we even going to need the car after this? I’m still not totally clear about what we can and can’t do in this place.’

  ‘Me neither, but we’ll find out soon enough. From what it said in the letter, I don’t think we’re actually banned from doing things or going anywhere, it’s—’

  ‘It’s just not advised,’ Jack cuts in. He has the hint of a smirk on his face.

  Ali ignores it and runs her finger down the map. ‘Got it. We’re still on track. In fact, we’re nearly there.’

  He mutters something that she can’t hear.

  She stares at him now. Looks at the paleness of his skin, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks like he’s barely slept. He’s too thin, and a faint sheen of sweat sparkles on his brow. She lays a hand on his knee, fighting the urge to pull it sharply away again.

  ‘It’s going to be OK, Jack. I promise you.’

  Jack doesn’t reply.

  He doesn’t believe her. He’s made that crystal clear over the last few weeks, since she set the plan into action. She’s tried her best to reassure him, explaining in the best way that she can that there is no other choice. It’s this, or … she doesn’t even want to contemplate the alternatives.

  ‘Everything is going to be OK,’ she says once again, just as the copse of high trees comes into sight – the first of the landmarks for them to follow to reach their destination.

  She wonders who she is trying to convince.

  She stares out at the bleak but beautiful landscape. She’s read about this area of reclaimed land, where dead plants never decay and strange grasses sprout from the permanently saturated peat.

  Ali takes the sheet of folded paper out of the bag in the footwell. ‘Nearly there,’ she says. ‘After the trees it’s only another mile, then we’ll see the entrance to the driveway.’

  Jack sniffs. ‘I think I see it.’

  The driveway is long and straight, the land on either side flat and scorched by the sun. The building grows in front of them, as Jack drives too fast over the potholes until, at last, they are there. He stops the car.

  The main building is exactly as she has imagined it: an oversized front door with a stone archway, flanked by long narrow windows. She can make out some of the smaller buildings at either side. They are less impressive, and obviously built later, as the hospital expanded.

  Hospital.

  That’s what Rosalind House had once been. Built in 1845 on land that had lain barren since a grand family home burned to the ground in the seventeenth century, it was once the largest asylum in the county. Residents were sent here for all manner of medical conditions, many of which weren’t medical at all; such patients were mostly women, who were often sent away by men who wanted to silence them for having opinions of their own. The place had been self-sufficient back then, according to what she’d dug up during her research. The Victorian doctors had believed that activities such as tending to vegetable patches and churning their own butter would help soothe troubled minds. In the years that followed, though, the focus had changed, and in the 1940s it had become the local state psychiatric hospital, housing victims of wartime trauma as well as other members of society who had somehow lost their way.

  It isn’t a hospital now … but Ali hopes that living a self-sufficient life of simple meals and soothing, repetitive manual activities will soon become as commonplace to them as ordering pizzas online at eleven p.m. and having non-stop movies on demand. It might even be enough to mend what has broken between them. She glances at Jack. He is staring at the building. His knuckles glow white from where he is gripping the steering wheel so tightly, as if he is holding on for dear life, hoping that someone will save him from falling off a cliff. She lays a hand on his knee and feels his leg relax. He sighs. His grip on the steering wheel loosens.

  ‘We’ll give this place a month, OK? That’s what you said, isn’t it? And if it doesn’t suit us, we move on again, right?’

  Ali nods. ‘Yes. That’s what I said. Only…’ He turns to face her. Lifts her hand off his knee and squeezes it. ‘Only what?’ She squeezes back. ‘I’m just not really sure what we’re going to do if this doesn’t work.’

  He drops her hand and r
estarts the ignition. ‘Let’s think about that later,’ he says. ‘If we have to think about it at all.’

  A scowl is etched onto his face, his brows are knitted. She hovers a hand back towards his knee, but changes her mind and folds it into her lap. On her left, outside, she sees the arched canes of a kitchen garden. Beyond that, a wheelbarrow parked next to a pile of dark soil. She glances at the clock on the radio console: 10:30. There’s no one around. Tea break? She’d loved tea breaks in her old job. Taking time off the wards, putting her feet up. She’d enjoyed being a psychiatric nurse but it was tough and it was draining. She relished those breaks simply because they gave her the chance to talk to people whose problems weren’t pathological. She would miss her colleagues and their mundane little gripes about the world, but she wouldn’t miss the job. She knows that she got too close to it. Became far too involved. Besides, she has enough to concern herself with now.

  Jack pulls into a parking space near the entrance and Ali opens her door. There’s a slight breeze, and she’s sure she can hear the sounds of music drifting out of one of the side buildings. Something choral, uplifting. She steps out of the car and crunches across the loose stones and broken concrete. The music is coming from a small round building on the edge of the car park. It takes her longer than it should to realise that it’s not a recording; it’s live. It’s people singing. Something in Latin, or maybe Spanish. The four voices of the group make a soothing harmony, from the low bass drawl to the tinkling melody of the sopranos, the tenors and altos keeping the steady rhythm in between:

  De noche iremo, de noche que para encontrar la fuente,

  solo la sed nos alumbra, solo la sed nos alumbra