Sam: A Novel Of Suspense Page 3

  Jessica laughed. “Oh, believe me, there’s been doctors in and out of this place for the last six months. Psychiatrists, Paediatricians, Oncologists, GPs; I’ve had enough to staff a small hospital through here lately. They’ve all had a good look at my poor Sammie, but none of them have been able to do anything to help – anything at all. He’s just been getting worse.”

  “What’s wrong with him exactly?”

  “If only I knew. Sammie was such a sweet, energetic little boy, but about nine months ago he awoke in the night screaming, yelling that something was inside of him. Of course, my husband and I put it down to a bad dream, but the following morning Sammie was sullen and pale, as if he had come down with some wretched flu. He’s been like that ever since, and now he barely eats or sleeps either.”

  Angela placed her whisky down on the glass table. “I still don’t see why that would make you seek me out.”

  “Because you were an exorcist for the Church of England. You performed more than one hundred exorcisms, yes?”

  Angela picked up her whisky again and took a large sip. She let out a sigh. “It was more like thirty in actual fact, but the church only conducts exorcisms to bring people peace-of-mind anyway. A bit of dodgy plumbing or noises in the night and people think demons are to blame. It’s usually nothing more than a mask for other underlying problems that people don’t wish to confront. But it’s a good way for the church to take advantage of people and gain their faith, so they perform their rituals and flick their holy water. I was a part of that charade, yes, and nine times out of ten, an exorcism is merely theatrics – like most things in the church to be honest. You’d be better off using all your money to find a medical specialist. Your son sounds very poorly.”

  Jessica smiled knowingly. “Nine times out of ten – so what about that one out of ten that is more than just theatrics?”

  “I don’t know,” Angela admitted. “Scam artists, schizophrenia, unknown phenomena? What are you getting at?”

  “I know about Jersey, Miss Murs, and I know that there is more to what went on there than what the papers reported. I know that you’ve dealt with evil before. You know that it exists.”

  Angela started to rise from her chair. “Look, I’m very sorry, but I think it was a mistake me coming here.”

  Jessica reached out and grabbed Angela’s wrist. There was pleading in her almond eyes. “Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

  Angela sighed. She never could resist a plea for help. She sat back down.

  Jessica smiled but seemed close to tears. “Thank you.”

  “Go on then,” said Angela. “Tell me what you have to.”

  “Okay. Well, Sammie has been sickly since the time he had that nightmare – about something being inside of him – but that’s not all that’s happened. Sometimes it’s like he’s somebody else, somebody older. He uses language that he’s never been taught and sometimes he…swears. Such filthy language that you wouldn’t believe it. Then there’re all the accidents.”

  “Accidents?”

  Jessica nodded. “There’s a reason for there being no staff around here anymore: they all left. The ones that were still in one piece, anyway. Our chef, Nicholas slipped while carrying a pan full of boiling pasta. One of the maids tumbled down the stairs and broke her neck like a twig. Our gardener lost two fingers to his own shears and managed to blind himself in one eye. And my husband…my husband hung himself, which is something he would never have done.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of suicides in my time,” said Angela. “Anyone is capable.”

  “With all due respect, Miss Murs, my late husband was Joseph Raymeady, son of Wesley Raymeady, one of the original founders of Black Remedy Corporation, the largest commercial entity in the world. My husband, like his father, was one of the wealthiest and most driven men in the history of our world. Suicide to him was the same as failure, and failure was never an option to my husband.”

  Angela’s eyes widened. “Your husband owned Black Remedy? Well then there are many reasons he may have felt guilty enough to take his own life. That company has been indicted for everything from child labour to illegal arms dealing. I’ve heard that the only reason they’re still even allowed to trade is because they buy-off governments like most companies buy stationary.”

  “My husband was trying to change all that. His father was in charge of the company until his death seven years ago. Since then, Joseph was trying to clean up the company’s ethics. Black Remedy donated more than six-hundred million pounds to charity in the last three years. That’s more than the entire fifty-odd years that preceded it combined. My husband was a good man, and he loved his family. He would not have hung himself. There’s just no way.”

  “Okay,” Angela said. “While I admit that the amount of accidents that you’ve had recently is unfortunate, I don’t see what makes you believe you need an exorcism performed?”

  “This does.” Jessica reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a dog-eared notebook. It was small, about the size of an address book. She slid it across the table to Angela. “Open it.”

  Angela did as she was asked and was immediately shocked by the very first page she turned to. It was covered in the erratic scrawls of a child: crayoned pictures and pencilled words co-mingling in a tapestry of graffiti. The images featured symbols she didn’t recognise and several depictions of winged beasts. Most disturbing, though, was what the words said. Several short sentences mentioned such disturbing things as: TAINtedsoUL, No eScape, He iSABYSS, SEekSAlvation. HeLp ME. Eventually Angela’s eyes fell across something in the lower corner of the page that chilled her bones to the marrow. Written in neat, full capitals, so that it stood out more than any other words, was the plea: BRING THE PRIEST. BRING ANGELA MURS.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After one more glass of sixteen-year old whisky to calm her nerves, Angela had agreed to stay at the house, at least until morning. The notebook with her name written in it could have been a fake designed to keep her there, but Angela couldn’t know for sure. Real or not, it had left Angela concerned.

  As soon as she’d set eyes on the childish scrawls, an ominous wave of dread rattled her bones. She knew deep down in her marrow that something strange was going on, and for some reason it involved her. Whether or not it was due to natural or unnatural means was yet to be determined. She needed to know more.

  Frank had come into the lounge at Jessica’s request and taken Angela up to the second floor, where she’d been presented with a suite the size of a modest flat. Then he had left her alone to survey her new surroundings. An ancient four-poster bed occupied the centre of the room, its mahogany corner struts climbing from floor to ceiling. Opposite the foot of the bed was a large bay window looking out into the velvet darkness of the night. Angela imagined that outside there would majestic, landscaped gardens matching the grandness of the house, but right now they were invisible, cloaked in shadow.

  Above the bed was a magnificent oil pattern that could literally have taken years to complete. It picture a heavenly battle, perhaps Lucifer’s war against God. In the foreground were two cherubim with gossamer wings outspread. They wielded spears, brother against brother.

  It was clear that Jessica’s late husband had been one rich son-of-a-bitch, and it was a surreal feeling to be sat in his family’s home. Angela wondered how anyone so blessed could be so selfish to take their own lives.

  Obviously being filthy-rich isn’t as great as it sounds.

  Angela headed over to the en suite at the far side of the room. There was an antique, freestanding bath inside, made of steel and perhaps two feet longer than most typical baths. It looked like heaven. There was also a separate shower cubicle.

  A nice hot bath or shower was a tempting proposition, but Angela settled for the faucet right now. The stainless-steel hot tap turned smoothly, and Angela stared into the wall mirror as she splashed the steaming water onto her face. Her eyes were red and sunken; they were the eyes of someone a decade older.
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  How did I end up this way? My life used to make sense, but now, here I am, standing in a gazillion-pound mansion because the lady of the house wants me to exorcise her ten-year old son, who is probably just reacting badly to the death of his father. I’m wasting my time here, but let’s be honest: what else have I got to do? Besides I need the money. Booze doesn’t buy itself.

  There was a knock at the door. Angela left the en suite and crossed the bedroom. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Frank.”

  Angela opened the door to find Jessica’s Chief of House standing with a tray full of sandwiches. She could tell by his grim expressions that room service was not one of his usual duties.

  “Ms Raymeady thought you might be hungry.”

  Angela took the tray from the man and thanked him. Angela wasn’t much of an eater but she had to admit the sandwiches looked good. Without further word, Frank went to walk away. She stopped him. “Can you come in for five minutes, please, Frank?”

  Frank seemed confused. His silver sideburns wrinkled. “I…yes, I suppose so.”

  “I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  Frank marched past Angela and entered the bedroom. For a moment it looked like he was about to take a seat on the bed, but he chose to remain standing in his usual stiff manner. “Questions about what?”

  Angela closed the bedroom door and faced him. “I suppose the first thing I’d like to know is what you think of all this? What’s been happening in this house?”

  Frank sighed and shook his head. “I wish I knew. Things have been…tense. The accidents seemed a little too many to be mere coincidences, but I’m sure that’s all they are. Mindless superstition got the better of everybody anyway and the staff all resigned.”

  “Except you?”

  “I have a duty to Ms Raymeady. Her late husband hired me almost ten years ago to look after his family. He was a good man and I intend to fulfil that role even in his death. Besides, I don’t believe in…well, any of what is being claimed. Mike and Graham don’t either.”

  “You don’t believe in Evil?”

  Frank laughed and rubbed at the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. “Before I took this job, Miss Murs, I spent twelve years in the Army. I absolutely believe in Evil, but what I do not believe is that demons and monsters are responsible. The very notion of an exorcism is laughable to me.”

  “So you’re an atheist, I take it?”

  “I believe in flesh and bone and what I can see in front of me. But what I do or do not believe is of no consequence. Ms Raymeady is concerned about her son – and I agree that there is sufficient need to be – so if you being here will make her feel at ease then I welcome you and will do my best to make you feel comfortable here at the house.”

  Angela smiled at the man and decided that was as welcome as he was ever going to allow her to feel. It was good enough, she supposed. “So what do you make of Jessica’s son, Sammie is it?”

  Frank shrugged. “He’s a good kid. A little strange at times but I’m sure that has more to do with his upbringing than anything else. A child isn’t supposed to grow up in a place like this: surrounded by servants, home schooled, a father who was away more often than he was home. I can’t even remember the last time Sammie got to play with another child. Don’t get me wrong, Jessica loves her boy dearly, but sometimes this place is a little detached from the world. I don’t think Sammie has any idea what real life is like. With his father dying, I’m not surprised he’s been acting out.”

  “Acting out?”

  Frank shrugged again and seemed a little uncomfortable, as if speaking so freely was a betrayal of his employer. “He’s been swearing a lot, which is totally out of character, and he’s suddenly gotten much smarter. I mean much much smarter – like he’s been reading a set of encyclopaedias. It’s…peculiar. Plus, he seems to know all about current events, from politics to pop music, but all I ever see the kid watch is South Park. Personally, I think the child needs therapy rather than anything else.”

  “I thought a psychiatrist had already seen the boy,” Angela said.

  Frank nodded. “A couple have. They didn’t provide much help, but such things take time. If Ms Raymeady had been a little more patient then perhaps we might have seen a change.”

  Angela thought things through. In her experience, claims of demonic possession or evil presences often resulted in a verdict of mental illness. A psychiatrist was almost always more use than a priest was.

  But not always.

  Angela had witnessed one event in her life when all the psychiatrists in the world would not have helped. But that was something she put out of her mind. It would only cloud her judgement.

  “Look,” said Frank. “I have other duties to attend to, so if you don’t mind? If you need anything, just dial 904 on the handset beside your bed. Otherwise I will see you bright and early tomorrow. Ms Raymeady will want you to meet with Sammie as soon as possible. If you then decide to stay, Michael will drive over to your home to gather your things for you. Try to get some sleep, and don’t worry if you hear anything in the night. Young Samuel has taken to causing commotion during the late hours. It is nothing to worry about.”

  Angela shot the man a questioning look. “Commotion?”

  “Yes,” said Frank. “He likes to quote the Bible, despite never having read it to my knowledge. He can get quite…animated.”

  “Okay,” said Angela. “Could you do me a favour?”

  “Of course.”

  “Write down the passages he mentions. It would be interesting to see which parts of the Bible he’s focused on.”

  “Will do,” said Frank. Then he left. Angela got ready for bed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Angela was woken at 7AM according to her cheap CASIO watch. Once again, Frank had been at her door, this time with a tray of toast and orange juice, and once again he’d worn the same begrudging expression on his face. The poor guy really was having to pick up the slack for all the people who had left.

  “Hey, Frank. Did you get any sleep yourself last night?”

  “I got ten minutes here and there. Don’t worry about me, though. Did you sleep well?”

  “I sure did.” In fact Angela had slept like a log. The bed was so comfy that she hated having to leave it to face the day. She’d been mindful of listening out for Sammie’s religious tirades during the night, but once she’d slid between the sheets she had pretty much slept right through (fully clothed as well, for lack of having any night clothes).

  “Ms Raymeady will meet you in the lounge where you shared a drink last night,” said Frank. “Along with a colleague you’ll be working with.”

  “A colleague?”

  Frank nodded and seemed to be trying to keep back a grin. “Yes, a young man named Tim Golding. I’ll leave you to find out about him directly. He’s…enthusiastic, I suppose.” Frank turned and walked back down the hallway. If Angela wasn’t mistaken she was sure she could hear the man laughing.

  Obviously I’m not in on the joke.

  She spent the next five minutes freshening up in the en suite’s sink, before polishing off the toast and juice and preparing to leave. Once ready, she exited the room and stepped out into the hallway. She then realised she was lost. The burgundy carpet stretched on in both directions, turning a corner at each end. Angela couldn’t remember which direction she’d come from the previous evening, so had to randomly choose to go left. As it turned out, the corridor wrapped around and led to the main balcony and staircase from both sides. If she had gone right she would have ended up in the same place, just coming from the other direction.

  Angela headed downwards, continuing past the first floor and arriving on the well-lit ground floor. Her footsteps echoed as they fell upon the marble tiles of the vast foyer. It was like being an ant inside a vast catacomb, doors and hallways leading off in a hundred directions. Angela remembered that the piano lounge was located at the rear of the staircase and made her way over there. Through the d
oor’s glass panes she could see Jessica and Frank sitting at a table together, along with a scruffy-haired ginger-nut in his early twenties.

  Angela pushed open the door and immediately all eyes were on her. Jessica was smiling, but the weariness in her eyes made the expression unconvincing.

  “Can I get you anything to drink, Miss Murs?” Frank asked.

  Angela waved a hand and said, “I’m fine, thanks. I’m ready to get started.”

  Jessica gestured to the scruffy-haired man at her side. “Have you met Tim yet?”

  Angela shook Tim’s hand and sat down. “Not yet. I’m Angela. Pleased to meet you, Tim”

  “Pleased to meet you too, Angela. Looking forward to working together.”

  “And how exactly will we be working together?”

  “Tim here is a debunker,” Frank explained. “He will be using scientific methods to monitor Sammie’s condition, while you use more…”

  “Spiritual methods,” Jessica finished.

  “So you’re here to regulate my religious mumbo jumbo, Tim. Is that it?”

  The scruffy man held his hands up in defence. He was wearing a green t-shirt with a large picture of the Incredible Hulk on it. “Hey, I’m just here for a paycheque. I’ll just be doing my thing while you do yours.”

  Angela wasn’t convinced. “And what is your thing?”

  Tim shot her a goofy, lopsided grin and said, “Science, baby! I’ve found that you can disprove ninety-nine per cent of paranormal “phenomena” just by using everyday scientific procedures. People get freaked out over the slightest thing, and then they stop looking for the simple answers in front of them and allow their imaginations to get the better of them. But there’s always a reasonable explanation. My job is to find it.”

  “Well, at least we’re in agreement there,” said Angela. “I’m not here to provide any kind of catharsis or religious endorsement. I intend to be brutally honest about what I find.”

  Jessica nodded and took a sip from a glass of what looked like vodka. Angela realised then that the woman was slightly tipsy. Her skittish pupils were a dead giveaway. “That’s all I ask of you, Angela. I just want to know what’s wrong with my boy.”