behind him he jogged up to the front door. Beneath the porch he took a moment to rub the rain from his face and smooth back his hair, squeezing the water into rivers that ran down his neck.
He felt perversely comfortable at what he might find beyond that door. While he could no longer guarantee the safety of his own home, or even the streets he walked , there was one place he was fairly sure ghosts did not walk and that was alongside Aida Golding. Whatever the evening might promise, whatever cons or unpleasantness she held in store, he was sure that it would all be theatre. A dark reflection waddled towards him through the smoked glass window in the door and he found himself remembering the apparition he had seen through the door of the shower. The memory robbed him of his confidence. The lock was drawn. A security chain was rattled loose. To his left, amongst the shining-wet creepers of the ivy, he became aware of pale flesh, sliding and squirming against the leaves. Was that a pair of eyes watching him, as fat and glistening as fruit?
‘Mr Pritchard, welcome.’ It was Alasdair who opened the door, stepping to one side to allow John in from the rain. ‘If you could leave your coat there.’ The young man gestured vaguely at a hatstand and stood to one side while John shucked his wet waterproofs and hung them up.
John scrubbed his shoes on the coconut-hair doormat and then followed Alasdair deeper into the house.
He paid as close attention as time allowed, walking through the entrance hall. He wanted to take this opportunity to glean as much information about Golding as he could. The place was decorated in DIY store Edwardian, wipeable, dark green wallpaper and polystyrene cornicing. The black and white floor tiles looked original enough, he decided, though the slender rug that lay down the middle of them was catalogue at best. He looked at the pictures on the wall. They were all prints , no photos, nothing personal. A watercolour of angels in flight, a fantastical meadow of the sort that unicorns have been known to trot through, a stylised rainbow’s arc surrounded by stars. It was all washed-out New Age, with not a single hint of soulfulness. The images could have been printed on cheap greeting cards or a mail-order series of decorative plates. John had no doubt they were as much window dressing as everything else.
They passed the stairs and John glanced up quickly, on the off chance of seeing something. There was the slight creak of a floorboard and he realised that someone was standing directly above him. He caught sight of a young boy’s face before Alasdair took his arm and led him – somewhat forcefully – into a large dining room.
The Edwardian theme continued – a perfect theatrical set for mediumship, John thought, so much easier to believe in spirits when they hover over dark walnut and antimacassars rather than Formica and glass. In the corner a massive pot plant stroked at the black and white faux velvet wallpaper. The central table was so dark as to almost be black. The brilliant white of the doily in the centre was the only thing that stopped a wrought-iron trivet from vanishing against its background. The trivet was weighed down with teapot, cups, milk jug and a large fruitcake, gutted already by a large bread-knife, the fruity gore of sultanas and raisins sticking glutinously to its blade. The walls were again covered with prints and a large mirror on the wall facing the door allowed John to see what a poor sight he was, thanks to his walk in the rain.
‘Good evening, John!’ said Aida Golding, getting up from the table and coming over to shake his hand. ‘So glad the wet didn’t keep you away.’
‘We’d never do anything at the moment if we let the weather stop us.’
‘Too true, let me introduce you to the others.’
‘I’m distinctly uncomfortable with this,’ announced a man at the table. He was rubbing at his face and it took John a few moments to recognise him. It was a face
He felt perversely comfortable at what he might find beyond that door. While he could no longer guarantee the safety of his own home, or even the streets he walked , there was one place he was fairly sure ghosts did not walk and that was alongside Aida Golding. Whatever the evening might promise, whatever cons or unpleasantness she held in store, he was sure that it would all be theatre. A dark reflection waddled towards him through the smoked glass window in the door and he found himself remembering the apparition he had seen through the door of the shower. The memory robbed him of his confidence. The lock was drawn. A security chain was rattled loose. To his left, amongst the shining-wet creepers of the ivy, he became aware of pale flesh, sliding and squirming against the leaves. Was that a pair of eyes watching him, as fat and glistening as fruit?
‘Mr Pritchard, welcome.’ It was Alasdair who opened the door, stepping to one side to allow John in from the rain. ‘If you could leave your coat there.’ The young man gestured vaguely at a hatstand and stood to one side while John shucked his wet waterproofs and hung them up.
John scrubbed his shoes on the coconut-hair doormat and then followed Alasdair deeper into the house.
He paid as close attention as time allowed, walking through the entrance hall. He wanted to take this opportunity to glean as much information about Golding as he could. The place was decorated in DIY store Edwardian, wipeable, dark green wallpaper and polystyrene cornicing. The black and white floor tiles looked original enough, he decided, though the slender rug that lay down the middle of them was catalogue at best. He looked at the pictures on the wall. They were all prints , no photos, nothing personal. A watercolour of angels in flight, a fantastical meadow of the sort that unicorns have been known to trot through, a stylised rainbow’s arc surrounded by stars. It was all washed-out New Age, with not a single hint of soulfulness. The images could have been printed on cheap greeting cards or a mail-order series of decorative plates. John had no doubt they were as much window dressing as everything else.
They passed the stairs and John glanced up quickly, on the off chance of seeing something. There was the slight creak of a floorboard and he realised that someone was standing directly above him. He caught sight of a young boy’s face before Alasdair took his arm and led him – somewhat forcefully – into a large dining room.
The Edwardian theme continued – a perfect theatrical set for mediumship, John thought, so much easier to believe in spirits when they hover over dark walnut and antimacassars rather than Formica and glass. In the corner a massive pot plant stroked at the black and white faux velvet wallpaper. The central table was so dark as to almost be black. The brilliant white of the doily in the centre was the only thing that stopped a wrought-iron trivet from vanishing against its background. The trivet was weighed down with teapot, cups, milk jug and a large fruitcake, gutted already by a large bread-knife, the fruity gore of sultanas and raisins sticking glutinously to its blade. The walls were again covered with prints and a large mirror on the wall facing the door allowed John to see what a poor sight he was, thanks to his walk in the rain.
‘Good evening, John!’ said Aida Golding, getting up from the table and coming over to shake his hand. ‘So glad the wet didn’t keep you away.’
‘We’d never do anything at the moment if we let the weather stop us.’
‘Too true, let me introduce you to the others.’
‘I’m distinctly uncomfortable with this,’ announced a man at the table. He was rubbing at his face and it took John a few moments to recognise him. It was a face
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