He’d seen the man’s grave; he’d read his obituary only a few hours ago; he had met the man who had been in the accident where Fortinbrass had died. He could hardly have more proof that Fortinbrass was dead.
But the vicar had come to their house yesterday. He’d talked to him. They all had, but now neither Emily nor Louise could accept it. Why were they denying it? He knew the human brain could do strange things, sometimes to protect people from shock or horror. He’d also read about a study of a remote South American tribe, who lived in a rainforest and had never been exposed to the outside world. One experiment that had been done was to fly a helicopter over their village, and then ask members of the tribe to describe what they had just seen. Almost all of them denied they had seen anything. It turned out it wasn’t because they were being difficult, or because they were stupid, it was that the helicopter was so far beyond anything they’d ever seen or experienced, they did not know how to process it.
Was this what had happened with Emily and Louise?
‘Jace?’ Emily’s voice was calm but sharp.
He stared at her, his head starting to feel hot again. Swimming.
‘Jace, darling, are you ill? Do you need to go to bed? I think you might be suffering from exhaustion – or stress – or maybe a bit of both. You’ve been working flat out and through the night.’
‘I’m OK,’ he said, not feeling at all OK. ‘Look, there’s something . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘Something what?’
There had to be a rational explanation, he thought. Had to be. Might Louise, in her trance state, have hypnotized them both? Could that be it? Had she put them into a trance without their realizing and somehow conjured up the spirit of the dead vicar?
He clung to that thought.
Could that be it?
‘Something what?’ Emily asked again.
‘It’s fine, nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yep. I’m going to go up and get on. And I’ve still got stuff to unpack. You?’
She gestured with her arms. ‘About two hundred boxes to sort through.’
‘Want a hand?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s more important you get some rest, and that you knuckle down to your work. It’s not that long to your show. How many paintings do you have completed?’
‘Not many that I’m happy with. But I’m inspired here, brimming with ideas – I just want to get on.’ He pulled out his phone and showed her the picture he’d taken earlier of the miserable looking couple in their bright cagoules. ‘I’ve got the title for it! Romantic Dinner à Deux.’
She peered at it. ‘Oh my God!’ She turned to him. ‘Promise me – just promise me, solemnly – that we will never get like that!’
‘I promise. Orange never was your colour, anyway.’
She punched him playfully.
‘Do you like the title?’
‘I love it. Go! Go paint it!’
He walked to the door and made his way upstairs to his studio. As he entered, his phone pinged with a text.
A row of letters followed by a number appeared on the screen.
Simultaneously, he saw the same on his computer monitor.
J D E A D 0 9
He took a fast screenshot. An instant later they vanished.