Read Online Bereft by Chris Womersley - Free Book Online Page A

before sliding the glistening holder between her lips. Her hair was like so much wire arranged atop her head. Quinn cast about for Fletcher, but he was still engaged in conversation. Mrs. Cranshaw gripped his arm. There were flecks of spittle on the corners of her mouth. “Don’t worry, boy. I won’t eat you,” she said, although she nibbled on her cigarette holder, which he now saw was made of jade, as if preparing to do just that.
    He longed to withdraw his arm but felt it would be rude to do so. She terrified him, a fact of which she was undoubtedly aware and in which she probably delighted.
    â€œNobody ma’am,” he said at last, and indicated Fletcher. “I’m here with my friend. He wishes to, er, speak with his late fiancée.”
    Mrs. Cranshaw frowned. “Oh, but I am sure there is someone. We have all lost someone close in these dark times. A friend? A brother who might have crossed over? Someone in the war?”
    Quinn glanced again at Fletcher.
    â€œAre you afraid of death?” Mrs. Cranshaw asked with a hint of mockery.
    Quinn thought about this. “No.”
    â€œYou don’t believe what we do here though, do you?”
    â€œThat’s not for me to say.”
    â€œVery diplomatic, but you can tell me. I don’t mind. You don’t believe in the spirit world?”
    â€œI don’t think so, ma’am.”
    â€œBut you look afraid. Are you afraid, boy?”
    â€œI have no wish to hear what the dead might have to say. Besides, why would they come back here?”
    Mrs. Cranshaw sighed. “The spirits are sometimes—how to put this?—unquiet. Restless. Death is not always the end of things for everyone. There is often unfinished business, especially for those killed suddenly and violently—like in war. Sometimes the dead are trapped in an awful halfway world until they can say something to those left behind. Indeed, the living are sometimes themselves trapped, until they hear what the dead might have to tell them. There are some things that cannot be left unsaid. But if you don’t believe in it all, then there is no need to be afraid, is there?”
    Quinn realised he despised this woman and, worse, suspected she was a charlatan preying on vulnerable families. It was rumoured she kept the girls—who were probably not her daughters at all—against their will. Everyone knew the Bible prohibited talking with the dead. He attempted to withdraw his arm, a movement that only prompted the woman to clench him tighter.
    â€œYou know who was here a few weeks ago? Doyle, that’s who. Sir Arthur. Ask the maid if you wish. Or Mrs. Beecroft wearing the white scarf. She was here. Seeking word from his son or wife, he was. My girl Lizzie was able to help him out. Ever so grateful, he was. I’m surprised he isn’t here this afternoon, but I suppose he’s busy. He’s a doctor, after all. A man of science, you know.”
    When Quinn offered no response, Mrs. Cranshaw lowered her voice. “You may think what you wish,” she rasped, now staring at him squarely in the eye. “But these good people are all quite bereaved. They need to hear from their dead. Their brothers and husbands. Their sisters. There’s millions of them, you know. Millions . It softens their grief. Besides, this is part of the war effort; we need to remember their killers so they might be brought to account. If we forget those beastly Huns our boys will have died in vain, don’t you know. See that lady there with the pale shawl over her widow’s weeds? See her? Mrs. Henry Dance. Three out of four sons gone.” She held up three knobbly fingers. “Three out of four. Do you see the way she watches you and your grinning friend?”
    Quinn shook his head. Indeed, he had not noticed the woman until that moment.
    Mrs. Cranshaw was strangely triumphant. “Well, she hates you because you are alive while her sons are in