CHAPTER NINE

I didn’t know where the time had gone. It felt like we’d only been here five minutes but already the day was disappearing. Night was coming out, spreading its wings.

As I approached the church, silhouetted against the thunderous sky, a solitary bat flew erratically out of the bell tower and headed off against the wind into the trees beyond the churchyard.

Bats in the belfry, I thought and wondered if that was the first time I had ever seen a bat in such an edifice. Or rather, pop out of it. I’d always thought that was a metaphor for something, but couldn’t remember what.

It took me till I reached the church gate to pluck out the notion that it meant mad or odd or chaotic, which was apt considering the day we’d had, Sam’s schizophrenic mood swings and the whole marching knights malarkey. Dead ones. No, not dead ones: stone knights. And one wooden one.

The graveyard was full of movement as I struggled to find Samuel Stone’s headstone in the swirl. Rain was coming down thicker now, which meant I had to put my handbag on my head to protect my hair. Still there was no one about so I didn’t mind looking like I had multiple bats in my own personal belfry.

I tried to retrace my steps – I had been halfway across the graveyard when I realised Sam had disappeared. I reached the point and, turning round, thought I saw the whip of a shadow a few yards behind me, but it must have been a trick of the fading light and the scudding storm clouds as, of course, there was no one there.

A couple of graves over I saw the headstone with its half-scraped lichen, leaning into the air as if it were going to topple over at any moment.

Though I wasn’t happy about it, I got down on my knees, removed my bag from my head and began scrabbling amongst the overgrown weeds and stones. It did cross my mind that I might look rather strange, clawing at a grave with my bare hands. But a girl has to do what a girl has to do when her phone is at stake, and I was sure it had to be here somewhere.

I had just bent my nail on the grave marker and was cursing my head off loudly when something changed in the light around me and I became aware of a darkening close by. I put it down to the clouds drawing together and continued rummaging until a little rectangular light came on about head height.

When I looked up at it I saw my phone momentarily suspended in mid-air. The sight made me blink and then suddenly I was visited by a series of unconnected images – whistling wind, fluttering feathers, shadow.

It took a moment more for me to realise there was a shape behind the mobile. And it was saying something.

‘I said, is this yours?’

My eyes lifted to take in the figure who was holding it and who, weirdly, seemed like they’d appeared out of nowhere. Or possibly from the ground.

Working my way up I clocked black boots, like cowboy boots, but the type that only came up to the ankle; black jeans; a black silky shirt that was open, despite the elements, and revealing a cluster of dark hairs; a long slate greatcoat, unbuttoned, which looked ex-military, but not our military, more soviet in style; raven hair, white face, cleanshaven, black eyes. Good eyebrows. Well defined.

A goth.

Of course.

We were in a cemetery after all.

I tried to look gainly, as opposed to un-so and nodded, feeling a stream of water run down the side of my face and off my chin. The gale and rain were blasting bits of leaf into my eyes so I had to squint as I got to my knees and then stood up.

‘Yes,’ I shouted at the guy, unsure if the words had been caught up and tossed away by the streaming air.

There were raindrops all over the dark man’s coat, glistening like little crystals, but his hair, which was loose and shoulder-length, seemed not wet, but only to shine as if there was some internal luminescence in it.

‘Thanks,’ I yelled.

He had unfolded himself into an upright position too. Taller than me by quite some, he smiled and held out my phone.

‘It was over there,’ he said, pointing beyond the gravestone. His voice was steady and made it through the elements clearly though he did not raise it.

‘Thanks,’ I said again and reached for it.

A bird swooped over our heads and made an angry chirping noise.

As he handed the mobile over, our fingers touched. His were cool.

Something buzzed in the exchange, maybe my phone, and again I was visited by a strange sensation which evoked images, like a filmic montage, and which played across my internal mind-screen: a starting pistol, a brigade of pounding muddy feet, a wolf shaking raindrops from its mane, the crack of a whip on stone, a caw of crows alighting on an elm, one single drop of water falling in a cavern, old wine that tasted thick and rich and heady, oily perfume, frankincense.

My fingertips prickled with an intense jab of electricity and I dropped the phone again.

‘Let me,’ he said and, quick as lightning, scooped it up. In one sweeping, looping motion he appeared right by my side.

My face must have betrayed my inner confusion at the physical sensation and weird data stream I’d just experienced, because he said, ‘What? Did you feel it?’

But before I could explain, a strong gust picked up again and started lashing my hair against my cheeks, so hard it was quite painful. I was happy to thank him properly but there was no way I was going to stand out here and do it.

‘Over there,’ I barked and pointed to the timber porch which was the only sheltered spot I could see and we both ran over to it.

Once inside, we stood leaning against opposite walls. Although I was panting, he didn’t seem to be at all out of breath.

‘Dorcus,’ he announced.

This bewildered me for a moment so that I wondered if, what with the coat and all, he was foreign. There was certainly something exotic in the shape of his eyes, an almond sweep bordered by dark dewy lashes, that was not unattractive.

He laughed. ‘Dorcus Beval. It’s my name.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I thought—’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

The air around us calmed and became very still.

‘What’s that then?’ I said between breaths, so as to make conversation, though it came out a bit pouty. ‘Welsh?’

His next laugh sounded like an exploding canon. So strong and hearty. As he threw his head back to give it utterance, exposing his white flawless neck, something animal stirred within me. A sudden unbidden image of sitting astride him, naked, staring down at his wide chest, flashed across my brain.

Sex. Blimey, I hadn’t had any for ages. I felt my blood pressure rise.

‘Welsh?’ he said to himself, as if trying it out on his person. His eyes were glinting now, with a stomach-curdling energy – amusement and interest perhaps. ‘Something like that,’ he said, and pushed his hair back so I could see his face properly.

Was it just me or had he been inching closer?

He was, I noticed, broad-shouldered although that could have been the coat. Certainly, he wasn’t a thin man. Well-built and lithe. Pale though. His cheeks had no colour at all, like all the blood had been leached from them. It didn’t detract from his overall appeal, which I was beginning to succumb to despite myself. I didn’t usually get turned on by graveyards and churches but there was a first time for everything.

‘Here,’ he said and offered the phone to me, holding it by its end so I might be able to avoid physical contact. Which was sweet considering he didn’t know what had just happened.

I took it and put it in my jeans pocket. ‘Thanks.’ Then I realised that he must have seen me on my knees, scraping at the grave. That was most definitely not a good look. And even though I hadn’t had my handbag on my head, heat started to circulate in my cheek area. ‘I was looking for it. Er, down there.’

‘I figured,’ he said with a grin, that creased his face and made his eyebrows rise.

Wow. Great cheekbones, I thought, and the smile lingered.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, thanks very much.’

‘You’re lucky it didn’t get wet,’ he said and looked out the doorway into the writhing cemetery. The smile had grown smaller but his eyes remained crinkled at the sides. Those crows feet, I reckoned, put him a few years older than me. But not many. He could have been thirty-six, maybe thirty-eight.

‘Well, thanks,’ I said again, suddenly reluctant to get back to the pub.

He pushed off the wall and took a step towards me. I felt the power of his frame approach and swallowed. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

The wind was getting in through the cracks in the roof and starting to scream.

‘Rosie,’ I told him. ‘Rosie Strange.’

A dozen leaves blew in onto the flagstones between us.

‘Are you local, Rosie?’ he asked stepping on a cluster of them, the colour of dried blood.

I looked up into the dark pupils of his eyes and saw that they were twinkling with little pools of light, like moonbeams or reflections of disco lights. I had no idea where that was coming from, as although it was dry in here, it was also still dark.

‘Oh no. I’m in Adder’s Fork. Just visiting Damebury for a bit,’ I told him. ‘Are you? I mean, are you local?’

‘Same as you,’ he said. ‘Visiting. Popped back to collect some things I left here a while ago.’

‘Oh right,’ I said at a loss to continue the conversation.

And then he stared at me, and smiled again, though there was curiosity arching his eyebrows as if he wanted me to say something else. But I was suddenly self-conscious and couldn’t think of anything witty to say, so shrugged and went, ‘Right, well. Hope to see you soon.’ Which sounded stupid.

I thought about putting my bag back on my head, but was conscious of his gaze, and anyway there was no point now – I was pretty soaked through. Just hoped my mascara had held.

As I ran into the storm I heard him whisper into the wind, ‘Me too, Strange one, me too.’

Back in The Griffin, I decided not to share my peculiar encounter with the attractive stranger with Sam. Although his mood had lifted and he looked pleased when I returned to my seat and made concerning noises about my soggy state, I could tell he wasn’t back to normal.

‘Come on,’ I said, when I’d gulped down a large measure of diet coke, wishing I’d gone for something a bit stronger. ‘What’s up? This isn’t like you.’

He cupped the glass in the crook of his hand and shuddered. ‘Someone walked over my grave.’

I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not and thought about saying something like – yeah it was me – but guessed that given his melancholy air and potential freaked-out concussion that probably wasn’t the best course of action. So instead I settled for, ‘Ha ha ha’. And left it up to him to steer the conversation.

He stared at his glass, as if the answer to some unspoken question was in there waiting to be found.

It was odd. Another oddness, upon all the other oddities that were accumulating today.

‘That tombstone,’ I ventured after the lapse of more than a minute, which is a long time if there’s just two of you. ‘If this is what it’s all about, you’ve got to realise it’s just a coincidence. You’d be telling me the same thing, were I to suddenly develop an attack of the heebie-jeebies.’

More silence.

‘Is there any such thing as coincidence?’ he said eventually.

I was going to answer that when I met him he had told me that often you might assume things were connected when all you’d done is concentrate on a certain matter. And because your attention was on that, you ended up attaching meaning to anything that happened which might have any relevance, real or not, to that particular sphere or subject.

But he looked up with purpose and fixed his eyes on me. They were turning from amber to pine-cone brown, and rather disloyally I found myself thinking of Dorcus’s deep black eyes and how they had slanted upwards and gleamed. That would not do, I told myself and redirected my gaze to his.

With the short back and floppy fringe, the cut of his hair, and the plaster on his head, he suddenly put me in mind of a wounded soldier from the First World War. Then I thought of the inscription on the gravestone and shook the notion out of my head. Silly.

‘I’ve had a few moments lately,’ Sam said with an uncharacteristic indolence.

Now this was interesting. I’d had a few too, though I wasn’t sure if they were the same kind. Mine ranged from spasms of lust to feelings of utter dejection. Always the extremes with me.

But this wasn’t about me, was it. ‘Go on,’ I said.

‘I’ve been …’ he stopped and took a slug of his drink, ‘… I’ve been feeling out of sorts.’ I thought about feeling things. Body parts mostly. Then mentally slapped myself and refocused. Gawd, what was I like? One man shows me a bit of attention in a wet and windy graveyard and I can’t stop thinking about him. Ridiculous. Especially as I was sitting with another man who really did dominate my every waking hour. And my sleeping ones too.

Get a grip on yourself, Rosie Strange, I thought. Because no one’s going to do it for you. More’s the pity.

So, I coughed and shook out my shoulders, put my hands together on the table and gave Sam my full attention. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Fire away.’

‘I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell you. It’s been playing on my mind for a bit.’

Oh god, I thought. What now? I really couldn’t handle any more major revelations. I was still getting over the seismic rumblings of summer.

He threw the rest of the brandy down his neck. ‘I got the tape from the Seven Stars stake-out.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said. Phew. This was better. Something that didn’t really relate to family or relationships or any touchyfeely sexy stuff.

Mmm – sexy stuff.

‘Do you remember what was on there?’ he asked.

‘What?’ I said.

His voice changed. The rhythm accelerated. ‘Are you with me, Rosie?’

‘Yes, yes. Sorry. The tape.’

‘Do you remember?’ he asked again.

I refocused my attention more firmly. Oh yeah, I could bring to mind that stake-out pretty easily. It was when lots of crazy stuff had been going down in Adder’s Fork. The peasants were revolting and someone had to step in to sort things – cue yours truly.

We had set up cameras by the road outside the local pub to see if any paranormal phenomena might occur. Now, usually I wasn’t what you’d call a believer in such things, but, after a while spent with Sam, you changed. Anyway, we liked to claim our motto was ‘open mind and healthy scepticism’.

At some point, that night, when I’d crossed the road from Sam’s camp to my friend Cerise, I had been trailed by what looked to be a sentient dust cloud.

I know.

When I had glanced at it, that’s just what I’d seen – a dust cloud that appeared to be taking shape, holding itself together. Sam and my friend Cerise, however, were convinced they’d seen someone.

The film footage hadn’t been conclusive. As in most of our night-time stake-outs, the focus of the camera often shifted. This was mainly because of flickering lights and such. On this particular occasion, the street lights had gone out and the quality of the footage had been affected by clouds crossing the moon. It had distorted the image. But what I thought we had got was the footage of a weird dust cloud.

I summed all of this up, by saying, ‘Yes I remember.’

‘You know I sent it off to be cleaned up by the lab?’ This was a specialist agency that Monty had access to. They worked on film and managed to extract workable images.

‘Er, you probably told me …’

‘Well, I’ve had it back.’

I was starting to feel uncomfortable myself. ‘Uh huh, uh huh,’ I said. ‘And?’

He took a long ominous breath in then looked at me and said, ‘I think there’s a ghost on it.’