Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5) by David Gatward (english reading book TXT) 📗

you did, Ruthy,’ James said, looking over to his daughter.

Ruth saw the beckoning smile, the weariness in his eyes. ‘Okay, Dad,’ she said, ‘but are you sure about this? I mean, why are you doing it?’

Ruth saw thoughts come together behind her father’s eyes as he worked out how to answer her.

‘It’s a lot of things really,’ James said. ‘I miss her, we all do, but it’s more than that.’

‘You mean what happened, when you think you saw her, Mum I mean, don’t you?’ Ruth said.

‘I do, yes,’ James said. ‘And there’s something about this house, too,’ he continued. ‘Like she’s still here.’

‘They’re memories, Dad,’ Ruth said. ‘And that’s okay. You don’t need this. Remember what that police officer said? There’s loads of support out there. Professional.’

James reached out and gently held Ruth’s hand. ‘I do, Ruthy. I really do. But this? I need it, too. Please . . .’

Ruth, despite her own misgivings, gave a nod, and with that settled, Beverly asked James if there was anywhere in particular in the house, the garden, where Helen would have often been found.

‘You mean a favourite place of hers?’ James asked. ‘Well, there’s the tree out back. The old oak. She loved that.’

‘And in the house?’

James pointed across the room to a chair beneath one of the bay windows. ‘There,’ he said. ‘She’d curl up and read and I’d have to come and wake her. I swear she was part cat!’

Beverly walked over to the chair. It was nothing special about it, Ruth thought, just an armchair worn by years of use, the original tartan fabric faded and patchy.

‘Do you mind if I sit in it?’ Beverly asked.

‘Of course, go ahead,’ James said.

‘I ask, because this is a special place,’ Beverly said. ‘And I don’t want to do anything to get in the way of your memories. So please, do tell me if there’s something I’m doing that doesn’t feel right.’

Beverly sat down and Ruth watched the woman as she leant into the chair, closing her eyes. And there she stayed for a few moments, still and quiet, her breath slow and steady. When she sat forwards, it was quicker than Ruth had expected and she jumped back.

‘Can you give me a moment, please?’ she said. ‘Alone?’

‘Oh, right, yes, of course,’ Ruth said.

Dan didn’t move. ‘Are you sure, Ruth? We don’t know her at all.’

‘You can search me afterwards if you don’t trust me,’ Beverly said.

‘Come on, out,’ James said, proceeding to shoo his daughter and son-in-law out of the room like small children. ‘How long do you need?’

‘Five minutes, if that,’ Beverly said. ‘I’ll come out when I’m done.’

Out in the hall, Ruth stood somewhat awkwardly between Dan and her father. She had nothing to say and yet also so much, but she couldn’t find the words, her voice held fast in her throat as though caught like fishing hooks in a tree.

The lounge door opened and Beverly walked out. ‘You mentioned a tree?’

‘Yes, it’s out the back,’ James said. ‘Do you want to see that as well?’

‘Show me,’ Beverly said.

‘If you don’t need me . . .’ Dan said, excusing himself.

Outside, Ruth followed her father and the medium he had invited into their house, across the back garden, and on towards a huge oak tree. The day was a bright one, though cold, and Ruth half wondered if it was the threat of snow she could sense just at the edges of the wind.

‘It’s a beautiful tree,’ Beverly said, staring up into the branches, where darkness hung from them like ribbons, as though ripped away from a night retreating over the horizon.

‘She’d sit over there,’ James said, pointing at the bottom of the thick trunk.

‘Reading again?’ Beverly asked.

James nodded.

‘Did she have a favourite book or author perhaps?’

‘Actually, she did,’ James said. ‘She loved Alan Garner. Kid’s books, I know, but there you go. She was a big kid herself, really. She loved this place because she thought it was sort of magical, at least that’s what she said. And the stories about it, you know? She loved those, too.’

Ruth, keen to hurry things on, particularly with her dad rambling a little, said, ‘Is any of this relevant? I’m sure my dad’s tired, so . . .’

‘Weirdstone of Brisingamen, Elidor,’ Beverly said, as though reading titles from a library. ‘She had good taste, then. He’s a superb writer.’

‘You know him?’ Ruth asked.

‘Everyone should know him,’ Beverly said. ‘Would it be possible to maybe take one of her books?’

At this, Ruth looked to her father. She couldn’t think of a reason as to why Beverly would want to take anything from them at all, other than money, she thought. And how much was this going to cost anyway? Not that money was a problem, but still, she would like to know.

‘Do you mean home?’ James asked.

‘Yes,’ Beverly said. ‘You see, this first bit, well, it’s a bit like a consultation I suppose. You get to meet me and I, you, we have a chat, I see what the situation is, get a feel for what’s happened or is happening. Then, if I can, I take away what I’ve learned and felt and experienced, along with something that belongs to, or was used by, or was important to the person you want to contact. Then, I come back at a mutually agreed time, and we can see if we can make contact.’

‘Oh, right,’ James said. ‘So, this isn’t it, then?’

‘No,’ Beverly said, shaking her head. ‘Not all of it, anyway. I always do two visits, more if required.’

‘And there’s a cost, I assume?’ Ruth said, preparing herself for the charlatan to reveal her true colours at last.

‘Cost? Of course, there isn’t,’ Beverly said, and Ruth heard just the faintest note of both irritation and hurt in the woman’s voice, as though to suggest such a thing was to deeply wound her. ‘Like I explained earlier, I don’t do this because I want to. And I certainly don’t do it to make money!