Watching the Dead Page 7

  Abbey thought of Edith and her promise to be with her at the birth if that’s what Abbey wanted. Abbey hadn’t been sure at the time, but as reality hit, of course Abbey wanted Edith with her. She was the only person Abbey knew that she could really call a friend. And, if she was honest, Abbey was frightened. Alright, bloody terrified, she admitted to her bedroom, but no one could know that. Picking up her mobile she called Edith, who seemed particularly awake. Abbey had expected to wake her up, but Edith sounded as though she wasn’t anywhere near tired and promised to be round in a jiffy in the car.

  ‘The car?’ Abbey asked stupidly. ‘I didn’t know you had a car.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Certainly not people like Abbey at any rate. Still, thank goodness for Edith. ‘What would I do without you?’ Abbey said, feeling herself getting emotional. She was definitely unbalanced, had lost her equilibrium. She was in unknown territory, that was all it was, at least she hoped so. She sniffed back tears.

  ‘Let’s not worry about that, eh? The thing is, I am here for you and we’re in this together. I’ll be round in five minutes.’

  Abbey tried to thank Edith, but something got in the way. A tightening in her stomach. A band that was made of pain, pushing away all other thoughts and feelings and threatening to overwhelm her, like waves constantly crashing over her head. She struggled to breathe. Her legs trembled. She stumbled her way back to the bed and sat with a thump. She managed to ride the wave of pain that roared over her, leaving her gasping for breath and struggling to stay upright. She hoped Edith would be there soon, as she passed out on the bed.

  The next thing Abbey remembered was a nurse saying, ‘Come on, Abbey, deep breaths, in with the gas and air.’ Abbey sucked at it greedily as the pain hit, although it was more in hope than actuality. It was like smoking a cigarette that didn’t have any nicotine in it no matter how hard you dragged on it. Abbey realised she was in the Maternity Unit at Chichester Hospital, but she’d no real recollection of getting there. She supposed it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that her baby was being born.

  ‘How far along did you say you were?’ the midwife asked Abbey.

  ‘Thirty-two weeks.’

  ‘Really? Looks more like full term to me. Boy or girl?’

  ‘Boy.’

  ‘Well, he’s a big one, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘Yes, and, oh my goodness the head’s crowning now. Abbey, the baby’s coming, but he’s big. We’re going to have to cut you. Okay?’

  Abbey couldn’t remember what that meant, but she was happy to agree to anything if it got rid of this agonising pain. She couldn’t get away from it. It was the most horrendous thing she’d ever felt. She thought she was going to die. She grabbed Edith’s hand and squeezed with all her might as she was told to push. Abbey screamed out her anguish. Screamed the baby out of her body. Everything was happening at once and much faster than she’d expected it too. She thought it was supposed to take hours and hours for your first child to be born. She’d heard of stories of your first labour possibly lasting 24 hours. It looked like Abbey would be lucky to last one hour.

  Everyone was bustling around the room and she could feel the tension in the air, it was as though there was something wrong.

  ‘Sorry,’ Abbey panted when she was on the other side of the latest wave. ‘I hope I’m not hurting you.’

  ‘I’m stronger than I look, dear,’ said Edith. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’

  But Abbey was in the throes of yet another contraction and being urged to push by the midwife. One final strain, a blood curdling scream and more pain than Abbey thought it was possible to survive… and the baby was born.

  Two floors below, Jo and Byrd were just waiting for the doctor who had examined Storm. At the precise moment Abbey was having her child, Jo felt it. She didn’t know what it was. What had caused it. Just that there was a disturbance in the air. The lights flickered. Something made Jo rock back on her heels. Was the floor moving or was she moving? She felt disoriented. Something had disturbed the fabric of the world. The thin veil between this world and the next had a tear in it. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Something momentous had just happened.

  She had this feeling of being watched. But there was nothing, there was no one there, at least not that she could see. But she could feel something, someone.

  Looking around her, no one else appeared to have noticed anything. The staff were going about their business with precise movements. If anyone felt anything, they were refusing to acknowledge it, to be rushed, or to be panicked. Byrd seemed oblivious. He was doing something with his phone, head bent over the screen. Jo recognised this as one of his newly acquired avoidance tactics, so he wouldn’t have to interact with her, or look into her eyes. She’d have to ask Judith when she next saw her, if she knew anything about it. It struck her as an absurd thought, on the face of it. That Jo would ask her friend when she next saw her. Her dead friend. A couple of months ago Jo would have dismissed such thoughts as madness. But now… now not so much.

  ‘Well done, Abbey,’ someone called from the general direction of her legs. ‘It’s a beautiful baby boy, 10 lbs at only 32 weeks, eh?’

  ‘Is that normal?’ Abbey began to wonder. No one had given her the baby yet. Where was he? What where all these people hiding?

  ‘Of course it is, dear,’ said Edith. ‘Babies don’t conform. They are what they are, and they are who they are. Look, here he is. He’s absolutely beautiful. He’s got 10 fingers and 10 toes and lots of lovely dark hair.’

  At last someone put the baby into Abbey’s waiting arms. He was wrapped in a blanket and someone had sponged his face clean. Abbey gazed at her son with adoring eyes. Edith was right, he was absolutely beautiful.

  But it seemed the midwife was determined to have the last word. ‘Date of birth, 31st October. Time of birth 11.55 pm. Fancy having your baby on Halloween, Abbey. Have you a name yet?’

  ‘Damien,’ said Abbey.

  ‘Oh,’ gasped Edith. ‘How lovely. Thank you, Abbey.’

  ‘It was Edith’s father’s name.’

  ‘Cool,’ said the young midwife. ‘Although with that combination, I hope it’s not a bad omen.’

  ‘What?’ Abbey said. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t you take any notice,’ said Edith interrupting and patting Abbey’s arm. ‘I think it’s a wonderful name, striking and different. Just like you, his mother, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, Edith, thank you. I’m so lucky to have you in my life. And just as soon as I get this little one into a routine, we’ll sort out where we’re going with the business.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll keep an eye on the business, you just concentrate on this little one here.’

  ‘This big one, you mean,’ laughed Abbey, not realising how prophetic her words would turn out to be.

  Chapter 25

  John Holt hurried home. He was dishevelled, felt dirty and more importantly was afraid. He couldn’t believe what had happened that night. He’d innocently thought that three girls in one night and carved pumpkins were all just a Halloween prank, but it seemed the prank had been played on him. He pulled his keys out of his pocket at his front door and fumbling for the right one, dropped them. Oh crap. He bent down and picked them up. Taking a hurried look over his shoulder he then rammed the key home. As he turned it and the door moved under his hand, he was so very grateful. For there was something unbelievably bad in Chichester that night and John had the feeling that whatever it was, it would be coming for him next.

  Hurrying through the flat, he took off his coat, dropped it on the floor and grabbed a bottle of whisky. Not stopping to find a glass, he drank straight from the bottle. He spluttered as the fiery liquid burned his throat but persisted and swallowed. Then took another gulp. His nerves were shattered. What the hell had just happened? One minute he’d been giving Suki one and the next? He wasn’t sure what the next was. Somet
hing fell from the ceiling. Something covering him, taking him over, making him someone he wasn’t. His body had been used, as insane as that sounded. Not once, but three times! Holy crap.

  The police would be coming for him. He was known in Chichester after all. Had a bit of a sheet from his younger days. But the girls all knew him. Gave him freebies every now and again when he had no money and a need in him for some company. They were good girls really. And this is how he repaid them? He took another gulp of whisky.

  He stilled at a sound. A footstep above him? Then another. Was it outside, or inside? Was it neighbours, or something more malevolent? Was it upstairs or downstairs? His imagination was running riot. He saw pumpkins at every turn, ghostly figures outside the windows, chains clanking, wind whistling.

  He whirled around. He could feel something. Some being, some entity, some… then the lights went out. John screamed at the suddenness of it. He was blind. Couldn’t see a thing. But he could hear. Oh yes, he could hear. Scraping. Rustling. Dragging. And feel. Felt hands clutching at him. Pulling him this way and that. Roaming all over him. In his terror he thought he was going to have a heart attack. There were pains in his chest, down his arm, shortness of breath. He was going to die; he was sure of it. His eyes bulged, trying to see into the darkness. To see what was in the room with him.

  Slowly his eyesight sharpened, getting used to the blackness. Nothing was ever completely dark in town, there were streetlights, car lights, the moon, any number of things. He could see shadows outside the window. He pawed the table and found his bottle of whisky. He looked around, but there was no one there. It was as if the feeling of someone pawing at him had been a figment of his imagination. But deep down he knew it wasn’t. Unscrewing the cap he took a quick hit, then kept hold of the bottle. He figured that if he was attacked, he could always use it as a weapon.

  John wasn’t a brave man. He was pretty nondescript really. A sad bastard in a uniform that meant nothing. He was certain that he was about to die. He wondered if anyone would miss him. Be upset that he was gone. But he couldn’t really think of anyone.

  He felt behind him, found his chair and sat on it, as the darkness settled over him like a blanket. But there was nothing warm and comforting about it. He struggled to breathe. He was gasping for air. There was something over his face, over his body, squeezing the air out of his lungs and not letting anymore in. He tried and tried to find oxygen, but there was none to be had. He found he couldn’t move his arms or his legs, he was pinned down by someone or something unknown.

  Unable to breathe, unable to scream, John Holt, sad bastard, died as his heart gave out.

  Chapter 26

  Despite the lateness of the hour, Byrd and Jo hurried to John Holt’s house. Byrd had got the house number from control, who confirmed the man had a criminal record, but it was mostly for petty thefts when he was much younger, nothing major, nothing to bring him to the attention of Jo and Byrd. Until now.

  At Jo’s request Byrd had also arranged for some uniformed police to attend, in case there was a scene to be secured. Jo seemed to think there would be. She said she had the feeling that John Holt would be dead.

  There being no answer to their knock and as the door opened at Byrd’s touch, they went in. Stood in the hall they could hear voices. Then music. It was the television, not people, so they followed the noise to the living room. Holt was sprawled in a chair in front of the television. Byrd quickly checked for a pulse but shook his head at Jo. There was nothing. The man was dead. Holt looked peaceful, as though he had just fallen asleep in front of the TV as many people did night after night. But this was one sleep he would not awaken from.

  His hair was dishevelled, his skin pale. He was dressed in a cheap polo shirt that had at one time been white and was now a mucky grey. Trainers that had seen better days were on his feet, the white leather cracked and scuffed. Dark trousers were hitched up to reveal his ankles and legs. He looked in a sorry state. Jo put him in his 50’s, his white and grey stubble peppering his face, which was pock marked from teenage acne. On the table was a pile of money peeking out of a brown envelope.

  She called Jeremy Grogan. ‘Sorry J, I need you again.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jo, what are you doing tonight? Is this some sort of Halloween special, or maybe a let’s get Jeremy night?’

  Jo had to smile. ‘No practical jokes, not tonight, mate, we really do have a body.’

  ‘What state is he in?’

  Jo could hear Jeremy collecting keys, shrugging into a coat and clipping closed his case. ‘Well, that’s the thing. There’s no obvious sign as to how he died. He’s just sat in his chair as though he were watching television. At least, it was on when we entered the room. We haven’t moved him, obviously we’ll wait for you. But there’s no bullet wound, knife wound, no spilt blood, he’s just dead. It’s like he just fell asleep.’

  ‘And didn’t wake up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the case? Why are you interested in him anyway?’

  ‘He’s our suspect in a triple rape!’

  ‘What? All at once?’

  ‘No, one at a time, you fool, three different women.’

  ‘Crickey, he sounds like a right Don Juan.’

  ‘No, afraid not, just someone with money,’ and her gaze once more fell on the envelope full of bank notes. Was that John’s pay-off? Was that why he’d done it? Put those three girls through such an awful ordeal? She shook her head and turned away.

  ‘Let’s wait for Jeremy outside,’ she said to Byrd and went to get some fresh air and to get away from the cloying atmosphere of the house. She could smell undertones of rot and decomposition in the closed room, as though John Holt had already begun to decay.

  Chapter 27

  Jo yawned her way into work later that morning at 9am. Byrd had gone to the post-mortems of first their dead girl, Tess, and then John Holt.

  Sasha had made enquiries of the cathedral staff to see if anyone could help them with the cryptic references that had been pinned to the pumpkins and a young curate, Osian Price, was coming in later that morning to talk to them about The Book of Enoch. Apparently, he had made a study of it for his theology degree so the Bishop thought he would be the most suitable member of the clergy available to help.

  Jo, not knowing what to expect, not having been in the Cathedral very much herself, even though she particularly enjoyed sitting in the gardens, was rather taken aback by the normalcy of the cleric. She had been envisaging someone like Father Brown, the eponymous crime-solving Roman Catholic priest in the BBC TV period drama. That black-garbed priest was in his 50’s, sported round wired glasses, wore a black hat and carried the ubiquitous black umbrella, which he used to get himself out of scrapes. Osian was quite a different fish altogether. Younger, fresh faced, with black curly hair, eager and full of energy, he burst into the office, introduced himself to everyone, shaking their hands in turn, even Sasha’s.

  ‘So, how can I help?’ he asked them.

  ‘Could you tell us about the Book of Enoch?’

  ‘Certainly, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jo, ‘we don’t want an essay, or a theological discussion. We want clear information, a synopsis I suppose.’

  Osian nodded. ‘Sure, I’ll try my best, if it gets too confusing just shout. OK? Can I ask why you want to know about the Book of Enoch?’

  ‘Tell us about it first. We’ll get to that later.’

  ‘So,’ Osian began, ‘when the Book of Enoch was found in the Dead Sea Scrolls, it became clear that it was a piece of literature that had influenced biblical writers of the time, including those who wrote the New Testament.’

  ‘Dead Sea Scrolls?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Manuscripts dating from the last three centuries BC and the first century AD. They were found in caves near the Dead Sea by archaeologists in the 1940’s and 50’s.’

  ‘So the Book of Enoch was important?’ asked Jo. Like the others she’d heard of The Dead Sea
Scrolls but had no idea what they were.

  ‘Yes, at least it was thought so at the time.’

  ‘So why isn’t that particular book in the modern bible?’

  Jo thought Sasha must really want to know, to actually instigate a conversation. Was it possible that working for them, and being accepted for who she was without any pressure, Sasha could feel confident enough to come out of the protective shell she had wrapped herself in for fear of being ridiculed?

  ‘Good question,’ said Osian. ‘Today it is only included in the main canons of Ethiopian Orthodox sects but it was popular for hundreds of years in ancient Jewish perspectives. In fact, some people have pointed out that it was likely the inspiration for the Book of Genesis, due to a number of similarities between the two.

  ‘So, in the book, we find the story of Enoch. Now, he was the father of Methuselah and grandfather of Noah. I guess you’ve all heard of him! Enoch lived for 365 years up until the great flood that wiped out much of the population. Enoch was taken away in a fiery chariot before the great floods by the Archangel Michael, who some have interpreted as being extra-terrestrial. Could that fiery chariot actually have been a spacecraft powered by jet-engine?’

  ‘Okay, you were doing really well there, Osian. Then you lost me with talk of extra-terrestrials and spaceships. Are we really supposed to take that seriously?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Well, I guess that’s up to you. But historical writings strongly suggest that was what was believed at the time.’

  Jo blew out a breath. ‘Alright, well carry on, please.’