The village of Raynham was small with a high street of timber-framed buildings at its centre, a varied pallet of muted plaster façades. Traditional Suffolk pink with blackened beams nestled easily next to Victorian red brick. My feet paused mid-stride as my eyes caught the rooflines, a jumble of heights and materials, thatch set against pantiles. History lived here; century layered upon century.
I had prompted Fisk to head straight to his office. A blasted migraine was already bashing at my skull, threatening to break in. Prolonging it would only have aggravated my blood pressure. We stopped outside a building, which wasn’t much more than an arm wide and a deep shade of custard yellow. It was a contrast with its black timbers, solid wooden door and small window. It sat back a touch under the jettying of the upper floor as the beamed framework frowned down over the pavement.
‘Here we are.’ Fisk took my elbow. I flinched, wondering at the gesture. ‘Over here.’
I stood in the middle of the narrow road, a scattering of shops either side huddled between painted houses. A green car faced me. The square bonnet and headlights hitched themselves to an old memory. The driver—a young woman—eyed me as her fingers tapped the steering wheel. There was more there, but I couldn’t place the thought. It was whisked away as she beeped her horn. I mouthed an apology and paced backwards out of the road. The woman gave a quick nod with a curt smile. She waited a moment, then revved the car back to life and drove off. I studied the car as it faded into the distance, the sun glinting on the chrome bumper. It stopped hard, its brake lights glaring red, and two young hands waved from the back window.
‘Oliver? Are you quite well?’
Sweat beaded on my forehead. It seemed unnecessary to answer, his voice some vague disruption to the moment. When the car vanished around the sweeping corner by the pub, I finally followed Fisk into the reception area of the solicitor’s office. My hand rested on the wood, mottled with centuries of patina. The black hinges creaked as the heavy door closed and blocked most of the sunlight.
‘Through here,’ Fisk said. ‘Let’s go into my office. I will get some coffee arranged…’ He stood lost in thought a moment, his eyes wandering the plaster beamed walls. ‘Ah, Mikey, there you are. Some coffee, please?’
A patch of black hair appeared around a doorframe, followed by a young face. ‘On it!’ The reply was a little more relaxed and informal than I expected. Fisk responded with a quick nod and slight laugh and turned back to me.
The door handle hovered in Fisk’s hand. ‘Shall we?’
The office sat at the back of the building in a modern extension… or as modern as the late 19th century was. The ceiling was higher in here. The large window allowed light to filter across the oak desk.
Refreshments arrived on a silver tray: two large china mugs along with all the usual paraphernalia. I eyed the plate of biscuits. Could I resist a digestive for the sake of politeness? The growl in my stomach got the better of me, and I threw all niceties to the wind.
‘Oh, go ahead, please,’ Mr Fisk said. ‘You must be ravenous. I could get Mikey to pop out, get us some lunch from the bakery over the road—nothing extravagant but wholesome and homemade. That’s what counts, after all.’
‘Please, there’s no need,’ I insisted. ‘I can wait until later.’ In truth, I was now too nervous to eat.
Fisk hovered by a large cupboard that stretched the whole wall. ‘Now…’ He turned away and vanished behind a door, then reappeared with a cloth bag. ‘As I said on the phone, we have something that belongs to you.’
He placed the bag on the polished desk and sat opposite me. The sunlight cast a halo about his head. I squinted and moved my chair to one side a fraction to adjust. Our eyes fell onto the bag again. It was coarse linen, probably black at one time but now grey, flecked with age spots, and a musty smell akin to incense. Its tang clung to the back of my throat.
‘As a matter of interest, I have a spare set of keys to Hardacre,’ Mr Fisk said.
I held up my hand and closed my eyes a second. ‘I have no intention of going to the Priory.’
‘But your letter… and since you’re here, surely…?’
‘Under no circumstances,’ I added and sat back in my chair, my arms crossed.
Curiosity. I’d seen that look many times, but not in recent years. Something about the strength of it sent an uneasy bolt my way. Perhaps it had been easier to dismiss it all when I was a child, easier not to answer the adults. My behaviour was excused as trauma. Seeing the look that always followed my determination not to speak of the Happening only made me uneasy. Guilty.
‘Let us return to the matter at hand then,’ Mr Fisk said. ‘There’s no hurry, after all. For the moment, I need you to have this.’
The cloth bag jiggled on the desk as Fisk rose to retrieve a custard cream. He dunked it in his tea and placed his other hand over the bag as if to spur it into life.
What the hell was in there?
‘Before we get to that’—I nodded at the dusty object staring at me— ‘you mentioned a letter, and more importantly, the matter of my brother.’
There, I’d said it. His image had been circling in my head since the train journey.
‘Maybe we should go over your letter first. Yes,’ Mr Fisk spoke more to himself than to me. ‘I know. You are right, we should,’ he mumbled over his shoulder.
Drops of coffee sprinkled over the polished surface as Fisk shut the desk drawer. I pulled a tissue from my pocket to mop up the mess. When I looked up, he held a crisp white envelope with a decorative stamp of a large Leonardo da Vinci sketch, like the commemorative ones I had bought last February.
I took the article, it dangled from my fingers a second, I brought it close. I recognised the envelope— watermarked with the local Whitby printer’s logo, identical to the stationery I’d used for decades. The handwriting was mine.
‘I don’t understand.’
Fisk looked confused. ‘What?’
‘I didn’t send you this. I hadn’t even heard of you or your solicitors until you called me. So, how is it…?’ I knew I had to open it to see what was inside, but I couldn’t. ‘What the…’
‘It arrived in the post last week—on Monday, I think it was. Nothing unusual, I can assure you. It was funny though—my colleague mentioned your book the day before. He just finished it, you see. Behind the—’
‘—Ancient Doors of Suffolk.’
‘Yes. Well then, the rest, as they say, is history, if you excuse the pun.’ Fisk chuckled.
I could look at this envelope all afternoon or I could just read the bloody thing. The paper was thick and crisp. It was my stationery, my personalised header printed at the top of the page, and my writing.
‘How...?’
Word, phrases, they are my tools; but this… this was alien to me. It was undoubtedly written in my hand, though there was no recall ever seeing it before.
My eyes flew over the first two paragraphs. They were quite ordinary besides their content:
I would like to arrange a visit to Hardacre Priory. I understand that you are the acting solicitors for my ancestral home and have been for many years.
It went on to mention the new book and finished with:
I would be grateful if you would contact me at the above at your earliest convenience.
It all sounded like me, but… I glanced at the envelope’s postmark. Whitby; dated last week.
‘I have no idea how you got this,’ I began, wanting to add more but words were lost to me.
Then, Fisk lightly touched the paper over my arm. ‘When I spoke to you, I referred to the last few lines. There…’
I sat forward slightly and brought the letter closer. Scribbled in biro like an afterthought, it read:
Please sir, I must know about my brother. No one will tell me and I’m so afraid. Please could you explain what happened? I think you are the only one left who can help. I must know before it is too late, but please, it must be our secret, or I shall be in such trouble. We all will.
The paper fell in my lap as I slumped back in the chair. The soft-padded leather was a welcome comfort as my migraine finally broke and split my brain in two. I pressed my fingers to the pressure point at the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to ease it, but I’d left it too long. The throbbing had taken root.
‘I’m not entirely sure that I can help you with your brother, but I can help with the other matters.’
‘I said no.’
‘I see.’ Fisk sipped his tea and took another cream-filled biscuit from the plate. ‘I could take you to Hardacre Priory. We could go this afternoon… No. I think, by the look of you, the best thing would be a hearty meal and some sleep.’
‘Some paracetamol too,’ I mumbled.
‘Right. That’s that sorted; the rest can wait. We need to get you to the Great Oak to be fed and watered.’ Another chuckle. ‘Ah.’ He opened a drawer, rummaged around in it, muttering to himself before presenting me with a packet of painkillers. ‘Here, these will help.’
I popped two out of the blister pack and downed them with the last of my coffee, then rested my head against the leather chair and closed my eyes. Just for a minute or two, enough to let the pills settle.
I was at home, the sea visible from my bedroom window. I pressed my nose to the glass and stared out at the blue. Condensation bloomed with every breath and gathered at the tip of my nose. That sensation on the back of my neck had been more relentless of late. It lingered there longer today and raised every hair.
In the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow. I spun around as the round oak mirror on the opposite wall juddered.
‘Go away!’
I slapped my hand to the back of my head and smoothed my palm over my shirt collar. I still wore my school uniform even though I’d been home for at least an hour. I hadn’t spoken to Vera when I stormed through the front door, simply shrugged in answer to her usual, ‘how was your day, love?’ I’d taken the stairs two at a time and flung my school satchel onto my bed. My shoes had landed somewhere on the other side of the room.
If I could just look at the sea, I could forget the day I had. The torment and constant name-calling didn’t always bother me this much. There were times when I could push the voices out, give them a look of if you do not leave me alone, I shall— What would I do to them? Nothing, probably. But they didn’t know that. The stories about me were enough to make them wary, but was I capable of such awful things? Could I kill?
Even now, after an hour of trying to calm my breathing, my heart was racing. Whatever was standing behind me, I wished it would just leave me alone.
When I came to, a soft grey blanket lay folded over my knees. I couldn’t have been out for long—my coffee was still tepid.
Fisk stood in the doorway. ‘Ah, you’re back with us. I have spoken to the landlady over at the Oak. Your room is ready, and there’s still time to get some lunch. Homemade cottage pie is always a good choice.’
My voice seemed to have vacated, leaving me with the energy to merely nod.
‘That’s okay,’ Fisk said. ‘There is no rush. I told them we’d be over at some point this afternoon.’
My eyes scanned my fingers for the letter. It was back in its envelope with the address forward, resting against the dusty cloth bag. I’d forgotten about that thing.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘In the bag. What is it?’
The curiosity had caught me in its net and was pulling me in. I drained the last drop of coffee and needed more.
Mikey slid into the room past Mr Fisk and placed a large mug in front of me. ‘Thought you could do with another.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Appreciated.’
He left, humming to himself.
As I put the mug to my lips, Fisk opened the cloth bag. Dust particles followed by the musty smell of age rose between us. I covered my coffee with my hand.
‘Oops, sorry,’ Fisk said. ‘It’s been a while since this has seen the light of day, as you can see.’
‘What is it? Why do you have it?’ I asked.
‘Well, as to what, I’m not entirely sure, but it’s been with us for longer than anyone knows. The oddest thing is that there’s no documentation for it. Everything, as you can imagine, has some kind of document or other to identify the item and nature of its occupation here in our safekeeping, so to speak.’
None of that information made any sense or any difference to me in the slightest. I was still none the wiser.
‘I think you should do the honours. It’s yours, after all.’ Fisk pulled away the old cloth and reached in to retrieve a peculiar leather object. He placed it on the desk in front of me. ‘There. It wasn’t until the book that we thought to look at it again, and then the letter…’
‘The book.’ I sat forward, realising I had shrunk so far back in my chair that I was virtually one with the leather.
‘I read it—well, we all did. I didn’t see the connection until now. So, I have to ask: why Hardacre?’
Fisk sat down hard. The gesture had a determination I hadn’t seen in him before. He steepled his fingers, tapped his hands on his chin. I knew what was coming next.
‘Before you say it, could I please reiterate my intentions to you? I have no desire to visit the place.’ I sat back in my chair and mirrored his gesture with a deep sigh. ‘I’ve spent a long time—a very long time—trying to put the past behind me. But unfortunately, history has a way of peering around the corners when we least expect it. I’ve steered clear of the place for decades. Until now.’
‘So, why now?’ Fisk asked. ‘Why use the name now?’
If I had the answer, it might have saved a lot of recent anxiety. The brunt of it was suffocating, brewing to the point we were now facing.
‘The book wasn’t my idea. You’re probably aware that I’ve stayed away from Suffolk in my career, for good reason.’ I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. ‘Given the nature of my subject matter, the notoriety that Hardacre Priory holds within the paranormal field, I have distanced myself from that place using my pen name. Having my connection to the Priory in print would have dragged me to Suffolk a long time ago, as it has now.’
Why had I used Hardacre and not my pseudonym for this book? The truth was that I hadn’t. It had been proofed; I’d checked it myself. So, why hadn’t it been noticed when the print run was delivered, the bookshop stock distributed? It had stared in bold, red letters when I opened the box to sign the limited numbers: Oliver Hardacre.
‘It wasn’t my choice.’ I left the matter there and looked at the leather item.
‘Of course.’ Fisk’s eye twitched with a slight frown, but he shook whatever thought it was away. ‘We were surprised to find the section of the Priory quite short compared to other places in the county.’
‘We?’ I quizzed with a raised brow and tentatively pressed the hot mug to my lips.
‘Raynham is a small village,’ he countered with a flourish of his hands.
‘If I’d had my way, Mr Fisk, it wouldn’t have been included in the first place, despite its picture on the bloody cover.’
‘Please, would you call me Nick? I feel we’ve come a long way since the telephone conversation. You have come a long way.’ He smiled, easing the commitment behind his resolve a tad, but not entirely. The smile soon fell, and a steelier expression replaced it. ‘Before you go any further, may I say something?’
I nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
‘You have been on an extraordinary journey. I don’t mean returning to Suffolk; I’m referring to life.’ Leaning forwards, elbows resting on the desk, he placed his hands either side of the leather object and pressed his palms onto the desk’s surface. ‘Not everyone is given a gift or curse of a family legacy such as Hardacre Priory. And, of course, you see it as a curse, don’t you?’
I nodded again. The urge to add some sarcasm was too divine on my tongue, so I bit the impulse back. Fisk eyed the object, and a frown formed on his otherwise relatively smooth forehead. He was a conundrum, a young man with the intellect and personality of someone at least twice his age. I lost myself for a moment, watching him until he picked up the object and turned it over in his hands. Shafts of afternoon sun danced over the surface.
‘There!’ I leapt towards Fisk. My hand touched his as the object fell to the desk. ‘Look! What’s that?’
‘Ah, well, what do you know?’
I picked it up, inspecting a small wax seal a little closer. Warmth from the sun softened the leather in my hand.
‘How old do you think it is?’ I asked.
It wasn’t much longer than a handspan and no thicker than a few inches; whatever was inside had been tightly wrapped in leather, bound with a thin length of leather cord, and sealed with a wax stamp. The seal was worn, a little smooth and cracked, but intact.
‘What am I to do with it?’
‘That, I don’t know.’
I placed it back on the desk and pushed it slightly away from me. I glanced at the letter. ‘And what am I to make of that?’
‘I don’t have the answers you need,’ Fisk said. ‘I do have a solution that may help you find the answers yourself.’
‘Look, I understand you’re only doing your job, but I’m eager to get back home as soon as I can. That book has cast a shadow over my life, and with this and that letter… I need to get back home. Nothing good can come of any of this, that I do know.’
‘Cast a shadow? Surely it opened a window.’
Something in those words scared me. I needed to get through the day and on the train home, then I could forget the whole thing. The book was out now. All the pomp was over, and I’d come out of it relatively unscathed. Fans and readers had taken the name change well after several articles and online interviews. I hadn’t expected anything to bring me back to Suffolk.
Perhaps I’d underestimated Nick Fisk. All I could do was follow that queasy sensation in my gut. How much did he know? No more than what was in the book. No more than anyone else. I’d given nothing of my life away, hadn’t included the detail of my living at the Priory. People had made a connection, but I stayed well clear of my relationship to that damned place.
However, this was Raynham, and Fisk was a local with a clear interest in the Priory. So, what were the stories of Hardacre Priory that truly flowed through generations? It was one thing documenting the history and transgressions of my ancestors, but gossip was another thing.
And unfortunately, gossip was more effective at concreting perceptions than fact.