By the radiator, he saw a scatter of framed photographs which hung from the wall. Most were those photo shoots everyone seems to have. Glammed-up family members sitting in pure-white vacuums, heads tilted and beaming, looking like the cover of a magazine that had a generous policy on teeth quality. On one of them, Jo was on her front with her chin resting on her fist. No bones about it, she had a genuinely lovely smile. The type that made you smile back, even though it was just a picture.
He jumped when the phone finally clicked in answer.
‘Hello … this is Bob and Joyce Hodges.’
‘Bob,’ he said. ‘It’s me, Matt Hunter.’
‘Oooo, Matthew. Good to hear your voice.’
‘And yours, too. Listen, I got your number from the pack you gave me.’
‘Great. You read it through?’
‘I did.’
‘And the video? Were you able to play it? I’d put it on DVD if I had the first clue about—’
‘I played it fine, and Bob … I found it really quite fascinating. Which is why I’m calling.’ Matt turned to the bay window and watched the rain trickling down the pane. ‘I’d like to attend the seance after all if the offer’s still—’
‘Aha! I knew it!’
‘Knew what?’
‘Joyce only said this morning that you’d call. She had a dream you’d be with us tonight. She said to expect your call.’
‘Well … she was right on the money. So the offer’s still there?’
‘Absolutely, we’d love to have you.’ He coughed a little awkwardly. ‘And what I said about you maybe interviewing Joyce and me, about our work?’
‘Yes, I’d be interested in that too. But how about we plug on with the seance first?’
‘Of course,’ Bob said. ‘We’ll see you at Barley Street at seven for set-up. Aiming for an 8 p.m. start. Can you get over to Menham for then?’
I’m in Menham now, he thought, with swan’s blood peppering my nostrils. ‘Seven sounds fine, Bob. And thanks for this.’
‘Pleasure.’
He clicked the phone off and went to turn but he paused at the mantelpiece. A small photo sat on it, in a silver, swirling frame. A bunch of teenage girls were crammed into a photo booth. Jo Finch, Kassy West, Steph Ellis and Rachel Wasson. They stared out like young people do, with every inch of their faces. Rachel looked strikingly similar, spookily similar some would say, to how Holly looked in the video. Rachel didn’t have the short black hair she had now. Back then it was quite long and blonde. He stared at the picture for a long moment as they all stared back at him, brimming with the brightness of hopeful dreams, of summers that lasted for ever.
He glanced back at Jo’s smiling picture, but didn’t smile back. Where was she? But then he quickly answered himself … Larry was sorting that. Meanwhile, he was on ghost duty.
He checked his watch … 5 p.m.
Two hours to kill in Menham. Which obviously meant only one thing.
Burger time.
Matt stepped back out into the street. The rain had romped through wild adolescence and matured. From full pelt to a thin, ordered shower. The clouds were cracking overhead, letting the sun loose in Menham. But the air was very cold, and wet things were falling. The locals still hovered too, over the road, but there were fewer of them now. Some had taken his advice and gone home because Jeremy Kyle had far more immediate and tangible tragedy they could feed on.
What surprised him, though, was the other group. Three men standing on the damp pavement, with three separate umbrellas, each of different colours. Black, red and white. Matt squinted and realised their eyes were closed. Then when a wet, pink palm slowly raised itself, from the tall bald guy with the red umbrella, Matt knew exactly who they were.
The church prayer group who were hanging outside the school yesterday.
Interesting.
He pulled up his collar to keep the drips away and hurried across the road, shoes slapping tiny explosions in the puddles as he went.
Matt stepped up to them on the kerb, smiling. ‘I reckon Solomon missed a proverb.’
They opened their eyes.
Matt smiled. ‘The wise man brings his umbrella with him while the fool leaves it in the hallway at home.’
The tall man laughed. ‘Here. You can come under this one.’ He leant it forward.
‘Better still,’ Matt said. ‘How about I buy you three a coffee? Get some warmth in us.’
They all frowned at the same time. ‘Er … but we don’t know who you are.’
‘I’m Matthew. And I’m interested in prayer.’
The blonde man with glasses and a goatee smiled. He put his hand out and locked Matt’s fingers in a take-no-prisoners grip. They shook. ‘And I’m Pastor Todd Holloway,’ he said, with his American accent. ‘And Matthew? Coffee sounds perfect.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rachel left the engine running. She liked the sound it made. That low rumble that said, as soon as you want to leave you can. You can just push your foot down on this magical spring-loaded lever whenever you want, and you’ll space-warp this metal box away from all stress, with you inside it. And guess what? If you want to, you can leave that foot pressed down and never take it off until you see the signs for Manchester. How about that?
Those familiar, default thoughts of escape solidified in her head, but the simultaneous wave of shame came too. She shook her head, looked up at the rear-view mirror and swept her fringe back. ‘No more,’ she said. She killed the engine.
The door clicked very loudly as she stepped out into the street.
The rain had eased off now but the pavement was still
