Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5) by David Gatward (best love novels of all time .txt) 📕

‘You know why that’s there, don’t you?’ Jen asked, the traffic finally clear, accelerating them out onto the road. ‘Why it was knocked down?’

‘So, it used to be one big house, then?’ Liz asked.

‘I’m not sure when it happened, like,’ Jen explained. ‘And for all I know it’s not even true, but remember when I said about my boyfriend in Appersett? It was him that told me.’

‘Told you what?’ Liz asked, remembering what Anthony had said.

At this, Jen became quiet, then took a long, deep breath.

‘Come on, then,’ Liz said. ‘Tell me! What did this boyfriend tell you? Did something happen at the house? What?’

Jen changed gear then slowly turned her head to stare at Liz.

‘It’s haunted,’ she said. ‘And the ghost is why the rooms in the middle were demolished.’

Chapter Sixteen

When the funeral came around, just over a week after the accident, darkness, James realised, was the only word which could even come close to describing how he’d felt since his beautiful Helen had been taken so suddenly, and so terribly, from him. And it was how he felt right now, as he leaned on his stick, his leg still aching from the accident, and watched her coffin be lowered into the ground. Grammatically, such a description wasn’t entirely correct, he knew that, and he smiled to himself, thinking of how it would have annoyed his wife for him to describe his feelings in such a way.

‘You can’t say you feel like darkness!’ she would have said, her voice a sweet mix of affection and irritation. ‘It just doesn’t make sense! Darkness isn’t a feeling, is it?’

Well, it was, James thought, very much so, in fact. And it was all around him now, a blanket of darkness so thick, so suffocating, that it was all he could do to not fall into the ground with her and on into oblivion. It mattered not that the cemetery sat at the Bainbridge end of Hawes, was easily one of the most picturesque in the world, the deep green hulk of Wether Fell laying far up and beyond them in quiet slumber, tucked up tightly under its own blanket of meadow, moorland, and field. The beauty of the place, James knew, would now be forever marred by his loss, as bright and clear as a splash of blood on freshly washed linen hung on a line to dry in the sun.

‘James?’

James heard the voice but didn’t respond. His eyes were lost to the grave.

‘Mr Fletcher?’

James took his eyes away from the casket containing the remains of his heart and soul and turned to the owner of the voice, aware now that he was still wearing the smile from the memory of Helen’s voice, an unwelcome visitor on his face. He would give anything to hear it again. Absolutely anything. God, how he wished he could.

Mr Michael Rawlings, the Methodist Minister, was staring at James with concerned eyes, his rarely worn dog collar a band of white noosed around his throat. He was a man James didn’t really know that well, having only been in touch with him since Helen’s death. But he had visited him and said all the right things, and not in a churchy way either, James remembered, and he’d appreciated that. He had thought about telling him about the visit from the medium, what she’d said, and that she was coming back to the house, but had decided against it in the end.

‘You said you wanted to say something, James. We talked about it last week when I came over?’

‘What?’

‘Some words, remember?’ Mr Rawlings said. ‘About Helen? But don’t feel like you have to. That’s absolutely fine as well. And I mean that. Everyone would understand. And we can come back another day if you want, just you and I, have another little private ceremony together.’

For a moment, James’ mind was blank, and he just stared back at the minister. Then a cold wind snapped its way through those gathered with him around the grave, a whipcrack of ice against skin, and he remembered.

‘Good God, yes, sorry,’ he said, fumbling in his pockets. ‘Yes, it’s here. I wrote something down, I’m sure I did . . .’

His jacket pockets were empty. His trouser pockets, too.

‘I’m sorry,’ James apologised once again. ‘It’s here, I know it is . . .’

He searched again, willing the notes he had written down to be there. Because that’s where they were, they had to be, it was where he had put them, and he wasn’t one for misplacing things, not ever.

‘Shitting hell!’ James hissed, his searching growing more frantic. ‘Where the hell are they? Where, damn it?’

A hand rested on his arm.

‘James, it’s fine, honestly,’ the minister said. ‘I’m sure Helen—’

‘It bloody well isn’t fine at all!’ James snapped back, working hard to control his emotions, but failing terribly. ‘I put it here! In my pocket! I swear that I did! Right bloody here! Words about Helen, yes, I remember. Could probably say it off by heart, you know? But I don’t want to, I don’t want to make a mistake, that wouldn’t be right . . .’

James was very aware now of the eyes on him from the small gathering of family and friends. Not that he cared right then. And he pulled his pocket inside out.

‘I put it here! Right here, didn’t I? I did! So, where in damnation is it?’

‘Dad?’

James stopped searching.

‘Dad!’

James looked up to see Ruth, his youngest daughter, staring up at him. Dear God, she looked like her mum, he thought. It was almost uncanny. Helen had always been a bright thing, hadn’t she, and here she was, shining out through the face of her beautiful daughter, a shimmering thing of gossamer caught in a sunbeam. No, a bee’s wing, that was it, like in the song, James thought. But in the end, it wasn’t wind that had taken her away, was it? And Ruth’s face, usually so warm, so vibrant, well now