After a few minutes of her gurning like this, Bob leant over and switched the record player off, careful to obey his own rules and keep one of his hands on the table. The little red power light faded and Prokofiev’s strings dived into a sudden tonal downturn. The music melted in the air and so, perhaps, did sanity.
Bob had a pile of A4 papers and a tub of perfectly sharpened yellow pencils next to him. He gently pushed one of the sheets under Joyce’s hand and slid a pencil between her fingers. He squeezed her forearm too, a signal to start or simple affection. Maybe it was both. Almost instantly she gripped the pencil and started to move her hand, her bony wrist slowly sliding from right to left, right to left.
Automatic writing, as it was called. Scrapes and scribbles of a woman in a trance, inviting some other force to guide the pencil into discernible words. So far it just looked like a bunch of soft, slow lines on the paper.
‘Rachel,’ Bob whispered.
The mention of her name startled her.
‘You’re sitting closest to Joyce, so you need to read out any words that appear on the sheet, okay?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘Bob, I can read it from here,’ Matt whispered. ‘How about I—’
‘No, no, no.’ He shook his head, hairy cheeks wobbling. ‘That’d be inappropriate. It needs to be Holly’s true connection.’
Rachel frowned, then eventually she nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘Nice and clear for the recorder. Whatever words come up, you just read them out.’
‘Erm … right.’
‘Good … so let’s just wait.’
All eyes turned to Joyce, and the paper under her fist.
At first the lead of the pencil glided across the white, making barely any marks at all, just the swish of her arm back and forth. The sound was incredibly similar to the gentle Suffolk coast he heard every day growing up, making him think of his dead mum again, shimmering in the alleys of his brain. Then Joyce’s pencil suddenly made stronger contact with the paper, leaving thicker long lines across the sheet. She was like those machines in hospitals that measure brainwaves.
Side to side, side to side, side to side. So many lines appeared under her hand.
This chaotic line drawing went on for a few minutes, and as each paper got filled with random scrapes, Bob pulled it away to slip a clean sheet underneath.
‘Holly?’ Bob said, projecting and actor-like – a supernatural telephone voice. ‘This is Bob and Joyce Hodges. Can you remember us?’
The sound of scratching pencil changed into something less fluid and wide. Now it was short scrapes.
She was writing something down.
Rachel froze when she saw four discernible words there. The fact that it looked so clearly like a child’s writing didn’t help at all.
‘Read it,’ Bob said, quite firmly.
Rachel stared at the paper.
‘Read it,’ Bob said again.
Rachel prised her lips apart. ‘My house,’ she read. ‘My room.’
Mary Wasson let out a shuddering, almost orgasmic moan.
‘You can see your room, Holly?’ Bob said.
The pencil scratching turned to wide scribbles and scrapes again.
‘Holly?’ Bob said. ‘Others are here with us, they’re good people. Would you like me to tell you who they are?’
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Rachel read out a single word. ‘Tell.’
‘Excellent. Holly, your mummy’s here,’ Bob said. ‘How about that? She’s right here and wants you to know how much she loves you.’
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Words.
Rachel read, ‘Poor … Mummy.’
Mary splayed a palm across her chest. ‘Oh, I miss you, my baby. I love you. I love you.’
‘And Holly?’ Bob went on. ‘You asked for your sister. Do you still want to see your sister?’
Scratch, scratch, scratch. All capitals.
‘YES.’
‘That’s wonderful. She’s right here with us. Would you like to say hello?’
Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
‘Holly? Would you like to say hello to your sister?’
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
‘Can you hear me Holly?’
Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, word.
‘TURN.’ Rachel looked up from the paper, confused. ‘Turn?’
‘We don’t understand, Holly,’ Bob said.
Scribble, scratch, scratch, scratch, then sudden, sharp, angry-looking letters.
‘Turn. Out.’ Rachel looked at Bob, a flash of dread in her eyes. ‘Light.’
‘Okay. We can do that.’ Bob looked towards the lamp. ‘I’ll switch—’
Darkness and shadows exploded into every corner of the room as the light vanished. Yet everybody’s hands were still on the table. Including Bob’s.
Blown fuse. Or the lamp must have a floor switch, Matt thought. Must have.
The light was now too dim for him or Bob to make the words out. But Rachel was nearer, and there was still just enough glow from the dancing candle to pick out the writing on the paper.
‘Did you do that, Holly?’ Bob said. ‘Did you turn out the light just now?’
Scratch, scrape, scrape.
Rachel leant over and read it out. ‘I. Did. That.’
‘Well, well done you!’ Bob said. ‘So would you like to say hello to Rachel now? She’s missed you a great deal.’
Joyce must have been pressing too hard, because in response to that question the end of the pencil immediately snapped off. She opened her trembling hand and the pencil fell away. It rolled across the tabletop in a curve, dropping off the edge out of sight. Bob slipped a fresh pencil between her fingers and the violent scraping went on.
Rachel’s breath was growing shallow and fretful, so Matt leant towards her. ‘Rachel … are you oka—’
She hissed at him. ‘Shhhhh!’
‘Holly?’ Bob said. ‘Why aren’t you saying hello to your sister?’
Scratch, scratch, scratch, word.
‘Holly, is something wrong?’
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Lines in the dark.
This went on for another minute, and Bob didn’t ask anything the entire time. He just frowned at Joyce whose face was twitching. ‘Holly,’ he said. ‘We have another person here. He’s called Matthew. He’s a friend.’
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Word.
‘Teacher.’
‘That’s right! He’s a teacher!’ Bob beamed at Matt and whispered across the table. ‘See? Now how could that little girl have known your occupation?’
‘Because Joyce knows that already … and she’s the one holding the pencil.’
Bob rolled his eyes and looked away. ‘Sorry,
