Somewhere: Chapter 2 (Pt 1)

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

As the Minster bells struck eleven, Ciaran’s bottle-green Mini was neatly lodged in a traffic jam in Gillygate.

“Welcome to York,” he muttered. “Medievally beautiful and not remotely built for traffic. Stick a roadwork anywhere between here and Harrogate and the entire city’s gridlocked.”

Jack looked out of the passenger window. Syrupy sunshine squeezed between the dark brick shopfronts that loomed over the street. He scrutinised the street sign. “Jilly as in Jill or Gilly as in…Gilbert?”

“Jilly. There was a church of St Giles along here a few hundred years ago.” Ciaran looked upwards through the windscreen, as though seeking divine intervention with the traffic. “There used to be a church in pretty much every street in York. One every few feet in some cases. Legend has it there was a monastery for every day of the week and church for every week of the year.”

“I heard there was a pub for every day of the year,” said Jack.

“Not these days. Coffee shops maybe.” Ciaran attempted to peer round the white van in front of them and muttered an ungodly imprecation.

“I guess you need a lot of history stuff for the job.” Jack didn’t sound enthusiastic.

“It can be useful,” said Ciaran, “but Chris is a walking York encyclopaedia, if you’ve got any queries.” He attempted another peer, gave up and asked, “How are you settling in? Elsie said you’d found somewhere to live, so congratulations on that. Not always easy round here.”

“I’ve got a friend up here,” said Jack.

“Great. That’s good. So where’s home for you?”

“I grew up in Croydon.”

Ciaran noted that this was not actually the answer to his question but at that moment he couldn’t summon up the energy to pursue it. “Don’t know that part of the world.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.” There was an edge to Jack’s voice that Ciaran again noted but also couldn’t be bothered to pursue. “Where are you from?” Jack asked.

“Henley,” said Ciaran. “On Thames.”

“Posh,” said Jack.

Irritation prickled at Ciaran. Chris often teased him about the class divide.  North versus South. It had long ceased to be even vaguely amusing. He didn’t intend taking that kind of nonsense from a newbie who should be listening rather than challenging, grateful for any wisdom Ciaran could impart.

A few minutes later they reached the junction with Lord Mayor’s Walk and some of the traffic filtered off, leaving them with a clearer run down Wigginton Road.

“Hospital on your left,” Ciaran said, emphasising his greater knowledge. “Should you ever have the need. Up ahead to your right you’ll see the old Nestlé factory, Rowntree’s as was. Flats now. Back in the day pretty much everyone in York either worked at Rowntree’s or had a relative who did. So Chris says.”

“Where do people work now?” Jack asked as they came level with the solid rectangular building, its rows of windows staring blankly at the road.

“The hospital, the Council, the universities. The railway still employs quite a few. The call centre on Poppleton Road. Tourism, shops, eateries. York’s big on the service sector.”

Jack said darkly, “Being in service twenty-first century style.”

Oh shit, Ciaran thought. Class Warrior of the Month. At least Chris does it to be funny.  “Anyway,” he said smoothly, “Turnlove Lane.”

“Sounds rural,” said Jack.

“At some point, but it’s been a council estate since the 1930s. It’s still mostly council, because people who can afford to buy a house don’t usually buy one in Turnlove Lane.”

“Bit rough?” Jack asked.

“On and off. It’s good at the moment. Kids can use the play area at the top end without falling over piles of needles, and there’s an excellent chance I can park and still find the wheels on the car when I come back.” He was quoting Chris again. In the two years Ciaran himself had been in York, Turnlove Lane had never been anything other than the slightly shabby but perfectly peaceful area it was now, but Ciaran respected the knowledge and wisdom of his elders and betters. He hoped the newbie would do the same.

He was about to explain that the adjacent railway line had been put in specifically to service the chocolate factory when Jack interrupted him. “What did you make of that thing this morning? Even Elsie and Chris didn’t seem sure about it.”

Reluctant to admit he had no idea, or to commit himself to something that might turn out to be bollocks, Ciaran said, “New things are always coming up. There’s so much we don’t know about the Echoes and the Curtain. The scientists aren’t even really sure what the Curtain’s made of.”

Jack frowned. “I thought it was a kind of dark energy?”

“Well, that covers a multitude of something,” said Ciaran. “And we know that the resonances from the Echoes shift and distort with age, so perhaps that thing was just a very, very old Echo.”

“But,” Jack persisted, “I thought the whole thing about Echoes is that they’re just…Echoes. They can’t hurt anyone, just cause property damage if the…” he frowned, trying to recollect the exact phrase, “…if the resonance is strong,” he recited, “or unnerve people if it’s strong enough to manifest as an image. That’s what Elsie told me.” His voice had sharpened. “That thing didn’t look as if it was just hanging around.”

Ciaran stopped at the junction with Morrell Road and carefully looked right, left and right again, deciding to wait for an unhurried white Skoda to pass. He bargained on Jack not being familiar enough with his driving habits to wonder at this unusual display of caution. He had expected a question about the video, but Jack’s almost accusatory tone took him by surprise. The newbie was definitely not as shy and retiring as they’d all thought.

The Skoda toddled past and Ciaran eased the Mini over the junction. “It can be easy, with Echoes, to see intent where there isn’t any.” He wondered briefly if that sounded a bit too patronising, then decided it would do Jack good to be reminded he knew sod all about sod all yet. “All those tales about malicious ghosts over the years, for instance, but no-one’s ever come up with one hard piece of evidence showing grievous bodily harm by a phantom.” He slowed to make a right turn. “Just because we can’t immediately explain something doesn’t mean it’s a monster on the loose.” Elsie would be proud of me, he thought.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t,” said Jack.

“Well, you’re in charge of the monster fighting division, Jack, when they set it up.”

Jack was silent.

After a few minutes Ciaran said, “And here we are.”

“Not what I’d call a lane,” said Jack.

Turnlove Lane was a long boulevard with a broad stripe of grass running between two carriageways. A low, black-painted fence divided the pavement from the grass. A further oblong of fencing enclosed a small play area housing a slide, a row of four swings and a couple of springy riders, one in the shape of a horse, the other a cockerel. All stood still and silent.

Solid redbrick houses, in blocks of four, lined both carriageways. Each house was fronted by a small square of garden, most well-tended, one or two overgrown, a few whose privet hedges had been replaced by walls and gates that were too big for the houses behind them. Privacy as a statement of ownership.

“The left side was the original lane,” said Ciaran, pulling into the kerb, “the rest was the proverbial green fields. Even Chris isn’t sure of the exact origin of the name. Some say it’s a place where the ladies of the night plied their trade a couple of centuries ago, but I’ve always thought it was a bit too far out of town for that. Unless the farmers round here were particularly horny.”

They got out of the car. A single-decker bus trundled along the other carriageway. Otherwise, Turnlove Lane was deserted.

Jack asked, “Is it always this quiet?”

Ciaran looked around. “I haven’t been up this way for a bit, but I’d expect at least a few kids around, given it’s summer holidays. People queuing for the bus. Some signs of life.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s the annual Turnlove Lane Coach Trip to Filey.”

“They do that?” asked Jack

“Not usually,” said Ciaran.

Jack raised his head, scenting the air. “What’s that smell?”

Ciaran sniffed. “A bit sewagey. Drains, I expect.” He opened the boot and took out a black backpack. “I assume you haven’t got your receiver yet?”

Jack shook his head.

“Thought not.” Ciaran slung the backpack over his shoulder. “They’re always a couple of weeks late coming through. God knows why. Annis orders them in perfectly good time — of course she does. But that’s Central Office for you. When’s your tech training set for?”

“It was supposed to be this week, but they’ve put it back until week after next. Elsie said was best to wait until the gear came through.”

Ciaran nodded. “It’s a pain if you have to train on the spare. It works perfectly well, but they all have their quirks and it just means you have to get used to another one when yours arrives.”

Jack said, “Why don’t they just give me the spare and use the new one for spare?”

“Because there always has to be a spare in the office. Officially in case of malfunctions, but actually because Chris always forgets to charge his.”

Number 43’s front garden had been paved over, with no wall or hedge to divide it from the pavement. Two hanging baskets dangled either side of the door, while a black Honda saloon nestled its nose against the front windowsill.

“Obviously,” said Ciaran, as he pressed the bell, “your first few visits are for observation only. I’ll do the talking.”

Jack stared fixedly at the door’s panel of frosted glass. Ciaran experienced a smug warmth that he felt he should be ashamed of, but wasn’t.

The door opened almost immediately. A plump, curly haired, middle-aged woman in slacks and a long-sleeved flowery top smiled at them uncertainly.

Ciaran smiled back. “Mrs Muir?” As the woman nodded he held up his ID badge on its lanyard. “Ciaran Ellis from Special Environmental Services, and this is my colleague Jack Hanson. I spoke to your husband earlier.”

She stood aside to let them in. “Just go through. The lounge is on the left. My husband’s in there.”

The house smelt of air freshener and polish, and the neat through-lounge was immaculate. Not even the most diligent finger would find a trace of dust on either the low mantelpiece above the gas fire or the collection of family photographs carefully arranged along it. Ciaran wondered if the Muirs were the kind of people who cleaned up specially if anyone official was coming, but then decided they hadn’t had time since he’d arranged the appointment. Such meticulousness made him feel awkward. His family home had always been cleaned by somebody employed for the purpose, but nevertheless it possessed a careless untidiness that it never occurred to him, his sister or his parents to remedy, even when visitors came. His mother always said an over-tidy house was evidence of people afraid to show their true selves to others.

A tall, straight-backed man, probably a few years older than the woman, stood in the middle of the room. He smiled and held out his hand. “Phil Muir. Thank you for coming.”

Ciaran did the introductions again, after which Mrs Muir offered tea or coffee. Ciaran gave Jack an encouraging look. Rule No.1: pay attention to your surroundings. If the lounge is filthy and the place smells, chances are the kitchen will be the same and a polite refusal of refreshments is wise. This time he said without hesitation, “A coffee would be lovely. Thank you so much.”

“Um, yes, please,” said Jack. “Um, coffee, yeah…thanks.”

Mr Muir indicated the grey velveteen sofa. “Sit yourselves down.”

They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and traffic problems. Ciaran looked at the mantelpiece and smiled at school photos of two young boys. Mr Muir saw the look and the smile, as Ciaran had intended, and said proudly, “Our grandsons, Harry and Oscar. Little scamps.”

Eventually Mrs Muir wheeled in a trolley with a cafetiere of coffee, one plate of mixed biscuits and one of sliced sponge cake. This was turning into a better visit than Ciaran had anticipated. Mrs Muir gripped the cafetiere with care, concentrating hard as she poured. “Pass the side-plates round, Phil. Milk?”

Once the coffee, plates, cake and biscuits had been allocated, Ciaran asked the Muirs if they were happy for him to record their conversation, so there could be no misunderstanding about anything said. Both the Muirs nodded and signed the forms given to them. Ciaran switched on his work phone’s recording app and ran through the preliminaries — the place, date and time of the interview, the names of those present, what he would do on this first visit, what he would not do, what Mr and Mrs Muir should not do. He asked them to confirm that they had understood and were happy to proceed. Then he said, “If we could start with you, Mr Muir? Could you tell me why you made the referral to SES?”

 

Pt 2 is here: Somewhere: Chapter 2 (Pt 2) | ABCtales

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