Mr. Flood's Last Resort(17)

“They had a skip, Renata.”

Renata finishes her chips and starts to scrutinize her saveloy. “You don’t see?” she asks finally.

“See what?”

“Flood has been sizing you up. He suspects you are psychic and that his murdered wife may well try to communicate with you.”

“Get a grip.”

“Why else did he tell you about his sister’s second sight?”

“Honestly? I’ve no idea. He was making polite conversation?”

Renata stabs at her saveloy with a fork. “A man like Cathal Flood doesn’t make polite conversation—”

“You don’t even know Cathal Flood.”

“Darling, you must watch your back in case the old man is considering finishing you off too. He won’t want to run the risk of you gathering supernatural evidence against him.”

I nearly choke. “You’re as mad as a spoon.”

“Haven’t I always said that you are gifted? It’s obvious from your aura.”

“What’s wrong with my aura?” I ask.

“Things happen to you, Maud. Messages in milk bottles.”

“Mr. Flood probably set the whole thing up.”

Renata thinks for a while. Then: “This has nothing to do with Mr. Flood. This is the work of Mrs. Flood. These are clues from the afterlife.”

I laugh, but not comfortably.

“Mary Flood wants us to solve her murder.” Renata’s face is grave. “She is a woman silenced, a woman faceless. To say nothing of this little girl; who is she even?”

St. Rita adjusts her veil. My eyes are drawn to the movement. She drops her hands before her and suddenly they are very clear to me, her hands, very sharply in focus. Gentle, capable hands with strong fingers and neat, square nails—hands so real I could reach out and touch them.

I look up at her in surprise and she looks back at me, her prominent hazel eyes bright with a suffering kind of luster. She smiles sadly and is gone.

“You’re cracked,” I murmur.

Renata bites her lip. “We are dealing with a poltergeist of course.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course.”

“Have you been bitten, Maud?”

“By fleas I have.”

“Poltergeists are attention seekers; this type of spirit is accompanied by moving or levitating objects.” She muses. “You have difficulty finding things in the house, when you put them down?”

“There’s a lot of shit in there.”

Renata nods sagely. “A tip-top poltergeist can turn a room upside down in minutes. Are there cold corners?”

“Yes.”

“Inexplicable noises?”

“Sometimes.”

Renata narrows her eyes. “Strange behavior from the animals in the house, barking or hissing?”

“Hissing, definitely.”

“A brooding malignity?”

I glance at her, wondering where she gets these words. “Only when Mr. Flood is about.”

“What you have to realize is that a poltergeist has almost always had a traumatic end. Being pushed down a flight of stairs would do it.” Renata lowers her voice, undoubtedly for dramatic effect, and puts her hand on my arm. “Don’t be frightened. Poor Mrs. Flood is only making herself known, avenging her death and all that.”

“Let’s not have any more avenging spirits tonight, Renata,” I suggest.

I am mindful that one type of spirit might lead to another and I may not survive another evening of Józef’s home brew. But Renata pays no mind. She carefully takes the photographs out of their plastic bags and lays them on the table. Then she squints at them: first one, then the other. Then she gets up and wanders into the sitting room and returns holding the magnifying glass she keeps in the magazine rack for spot the differences.

After a while she says, “Look here, there’s a child in the doorway.”

I take the magnifying glass from her.

She’s right. Just inside the caravan, behind the multicolored fly-strips, stands a child in a blue dress. Her face is obscured by a pinned-back swag of plastic ribbons. She holds her fist outstretched as if to catch the loose strips that blow in the wind.

Renata looks triumphant. “You said the Floods only have the one son?”

“That I know of: Gabriel.”

Renata taps the photographs. “So these little girls—”

“It’s the same girl,” I say, inexplicably sure. Then I think of St. Dymphna’s comment. “They look like siblings, the two children.”

“The color of their hair?”

I nod. “Just like Mary’s.”

Renata sighs. “None of this is normal. Who finds photographs in milk bottles and stuck to windows? And why are these faces burnt away?” She purses her lips. “And what kind of person stays in a caravan?”

I laugh. “I don’t think you can consider caravanning pathological behavior.”

“No?” Her face wears an expression of profound disgust. “A wealthy family who live in a great big mansion, going to—where is this place even?”

“Dorset, it’s in Dorset. I looked it up in your road map of Great Britain.”

She grunts. “A caravan, Maud, is that a holiday? If you loved your family would you make them stay in a caravan?”