In a Dark, Dark Wood(46)

‘No!’ Clare said loudly. We all turned, shocked by the vehemence of her response. ‘No – look, I’m just … I don’t want to start dragging James into this, OK? It feels wrong. This is a bit of fun, but I don’t want some pen telling me I’ll be divorced before the age of thirty.’

‘All right,’ Tom said mildly, but I felt his surprise. ‘How about me then. What wedding anniversary will Bruce and I celebrate?’

We all rested our fingertips on the board, and, very slowly, I felt it begin to move.

This time it was quite different to before. Not the stuttering push and tug, but a long, languid flowing script that looped in spirals around the page.

‘P … a … p … a …’ Flo spelled out. ‘Papa? What does that mean? That’s not a wedding anniversary.’

‘Paper, maybe?’ Tom was frowning at the sheet. ‘That makes no sense though. Paper’s like … year two or something. We celebrated that last year. Maybe it means opal. That first P could be an O.’

‘Maybe it’s telling us its name,’ Flo said breathlessly. Her rage of a moment before was gone, and she looked excited – almost hyper with it. She refilled and then drained her glass with three reckless gulps and then set it unsteadily back on the floor. I saw that her silvery-grey top, the twin of one Clare was wearing, had a red-wine stain down one sleeve. ‘They don’t always perform to order you know. Let’s ask it. What is your name, spirit?’

The pen started again, looping swiftly over the page in large, quickly formed letters that ate up the space, scribbling over the other writing from before.

Pa … I saw and then … by further across the page. Then it slowed to a halt and Flo craned her head to read out the text.

‘Papa Begby. Wow. Who on earth is that?’

She looked around the circle of shrugging shoulders and shaking heads.

‘Nora?’ Flo said suddenly. ‘Do you know who that is?’

‘Christ, no!’ I said, reflexively. To tell the truth, I was more than a little creeped out. The other stuff had been fairly obvious joking around. This felt distinctly odd. The others looked as unnerved as I felt. Clare was chewing the end of a piece of hair. Nina was looking elaborately unconcerned but I could see her fingers playing with her lighter in her pocket, nervously twisting it around beneath the cloth. Tom looked frankly shocked, his face pale even in the dim light. Only Flo looked genuinely thrilled.

‘Wow,’ she breathed. ‘A real spirit. Papa Begby. Maybe he’s the guy who owned this croft? Papa Begby,’ she spoke respectfully into the space above our heads. ‘Papa Begby, do you have a message for us here tonight?’

The pen started moving again, more jerkily this time.

M … I read. For a moment my heart sank. Not more jokes about coffee.

M … m … m …

The script went faster and faster and then there was a sudden crunch and the planchette grated to a juddering halt. Clare lifted it up and put her hand to her mouth.

‘Oh Flops, I’m so sorry.’

I looked down at the table. The biro had gone clean through the page, and into the polished wood beneath.

‘Your aunt—’

‘Oh never mind,’ Flo said impatiently. She pushed the planchette away and lifted up the sheet. ‘What does it say?’

We all looked, reading over her shoulder as she turned the page slowly this way and that, reading the curving spiral of writing.

M m mmmmuurderrrrrrrrrrrrrer

‘Oh my God.’ Tom put his hand to his mouth.

‘That’s not funny,’ Nina said. Her face was pale and she took a step back from the group, scanning our faces. ‘Who wrote that?’

‘Look,’ Tom said, ‘hands up, I did the coffee one. But I didn’t say that – I wouldn’t!’

We all looked at each other, searching for guilt in each other’s eyes.

‘Maybe you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Flo said. Her flush was back, but this time I thought it had an edge of triumph rather than anger. ‘Maybe it was a real message. After all, I know some things about you, about you all.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tom said. His voice was wary. ‘Clare, what’s she on about?’

Clare said nothing, just shook her head. Her face was quite white, her lips bloodless beneath the gloss. I found I was breathing hard and fast, almost hyperventilating.

‘Hey,’ Nina said suddenly. Her voice had an odd, far-away quality. ‘Hey, Nora, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, or tried to say. I wasn’t sure if the words came out. The room seemed to be closing in even as the great glass window opened out, like a mouthful of pointed piney teeth, waiting to swallow us all. I felt hands grabbing at my arms, pushing me down on the sofa, my head between my knees.

‘You’re all right,’ I heard Nina’s firm voice, and suddenly it was easy to remember that she was a doctor, a professional medic and not just a friend that I went drinking with every few months. ‘You’re all right. Someone get a bag, a paper bag.’

‘Drama queen,’ I heard Flo say in an angry hiss, and she stomped out of the room.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. I tried to sit up, pushing away Nina’s hands. ‘I don’t need a paper bag. I’m OK.’