HALLOWEEN - PART TWO
"You cannot be serious!" Aaron exclaimed, looking at Jackson across the bedroom. "You've been back to Broughton Manor at every open day they've had during the year and nothing!"
Jackson looked at him with that unique mixture of stubbornness and pleading in his chocolate brown eyes that he knew Aaron couldn't resist. "But its Halloween," he said, "a whole year..."
"I know it's Halloween!" exclaimed Aaron, interrupting him. "Why d'you think I don't want to go traipsing round that spooky old house! And I can't believe you've asked camp, creepy Clive to come organise it!"
"Well I couldn't just phone up Lord Broughton and say 'hi, remember me? I'm the great grandson of your grandfather's lover, his gay male lover; can I come over to play with your ghosts on Halloween?'"
Aaron just glared at him; it was on the tip of his tongue to say 'why not' but he bit back the sarcastic words and sighed. He shouldn't have been surprised; he wasn't really surprised, but it was kinda freaky. A year ago a ghost had mistaken Jackson for his long dead boyfriend and now here was Jackson wanting to go back again and play ghost hunter. Aaron pulled off his hoodie and tee shirt then dropped his trackkies to the floor. "You are mad you know, don't you? Officially mad." He climbed into the double bed, pulling the covers up over his chest and continued scowling at Jackson.
Jackson grinned back at him. "But at least we know who were dealing with this time and we won't be all over the old part of the house; just in the library where I saw Lord Broughton."
"Don't call him Lord Broughton," grumbled Aaron, "he was a ghost, just a ghost. Lord B is alive and kicking,"
"You're just jealous," huffed Jackson teasingly, climbing into the other side of the bed, "because it was me he wanted"
"Mad," repeated Aaron, casting one last fond glare at Jackson before reaching out to switch off the light. In the darkness, even before his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he rolled over, sliding first one leg, then his body, smoothly over Jackson until he straddled him.
"Least it was only a kiss you got from your damned ghost," he muttered, catching Jackson's hands above his head
"I don't think a ghost could do what you've got in mind," smirked Jackson, wriggling a little beneath Aaron's weight.
"Just you remember that," teased Aaron bending to kiss him. Hard.
...
Aaron sipped his pint grumpily. A planning meeting! He couldn't believe camp Clive had insisted on a planning meeting. At least he had agreed to hold it in Bar West. At least Jackson was so excited that he was happy to drive. The whole thing was growing arms and legs - half of Bar West seemed to want to come with them now, Jason and Ollie, Chloe and Kim, even Gary from behind the bar who'd organised last year's expedition seemed to think it was a given that he was going too. Aaron took another hearty sip of his pint and zoned back in on the conversation, doing his best to appear interested.
"And we are going to set up all our equipment in the old library... " Clive was saying as Aaron tuned into the people around him, "where Jackson saw the ghost."
"What equipment?" asked Aaron.
"Digital camcorders; plain and with night vision, thermal imaging cameras, voice recorders, EMF meters, motion sensors... " reeled off Clive enthusiastically. "Mostly the same equipment that we had last year. And we'll have the Ouija set up again in case Lord Broughton - the late Lord Broughton - wants to communicate again."
"Seems to me he found a better way to communicate than the Ouija board," muttered Aaron.
"And we've got Jackson to act as a trigger," continued Clive, glaring at Aaron.
"That does sound kinda dangerous," said Jackson hesitantly.
"Nonsense," beamed Clive, "you were a trigger last year only we didn't know it. This year we do know and can keep all our equipment focused on you. You'll be perfectly safe."
"Safe!" exclaimed Kim, sounding decidedly girly despite the razor-short hair and androgynous, unisex clothes she favoured.
"Of course he'll be safe," scoffed Clive, glaring at Kim. "Stories of possession are mostly just that, stories, more Hollywood than Hotton."
"Possessed by a hot ghost that probably wants to do more than just kiss him," snickered Aaron, "you'll be well fucked, Jackson!"
Beside him, Ollie and Jason laughed at the images Aaron's words conjured before struggling to stifle their giggles as Clive turned baleful eyes on them both.
"This is very serious," he bristled. "This is a serious scientific experiment and if you can't take it seriously, perhaps you shouldn't come with us next week."
Chastised, Ollie and Jason tried to school their faces into a serious expression, tried not to catch Aaron's smirk across the table.
"We'll be at Broughton Manor all afternoon, setting up our equipment," continued Clive, directing his words to Jackson and Gary, the only two at the table who weren't struggling to control their amusement. "Lord Broughton is expecting everyone else at eight - Gary you're organised with the minibus, aren't you?"
"Pick up 7.30 here," confirmed Gary, looking around at his companions as though he expected a round of applause.
"Be here at 6.30 to get a couple of pints in first - ouch!" muttered Aaron, exclaiming as Jackson kicked him under the table.
For a while longer, conversation, plans bounced between them. Clive issued instructions, looking affronted at the hastily stifled laughter that threatened to overwhelm some of those around the table for the remainder of the evening.
"You shouldn't have been winding him up so much," chuckled Jackson some time later as they left Bar West and walked down the street towards where they had left the van.
"Oh but he's just so over the top serious," said Jason. He and Ollie were walking just behind Aaron and Jackson, heading for the night bus to the other side of the town where they lived.
"I know but even so... " said Jackson, he paused, he didn't quite know what to say. It was him that had been kissed by the ghost of his great grandfather's lover; it kinda freaked him out when he thought about it, when he remembered the feel of those lips upon his own, lips that were as real as Aaron's. He couldn't expect the others to understand the strangeness of it, the weirdness... how right it had felt.
"Anyway, just don't tease him too much next week," continued Jackson. "He's harmless; let him have his moment of glory."
Aaron glanced over his shoulder at their friends following behind them; it was tempting to imagine setting up spooky noises or flashing lights or something. He was sure Ollie and Jason would be up for it, although suddenly he didn't think Jackson would see the funny side of it. Ah well, another year maybe, when Jackson had got all this Lord Broughton stuff out of his system.
...
The rain was bucketing down as they sat in Bar West, peering out of the window, watching the arrivals. Aaron hadn't been able to get Jackson there as early as he would have liked, but there was still time for a pint, at least. He lifted the glass to his lips and drank deeply.
"I wonder if you'll see him again tonight?" Chloe and Kim had been the first to arrive; Kim nursed a pint of her own while Chloe hugged her bottle of blue alcopop close to herself as she chattered nervously.
"I hope so," answered Jackson.
"It's very romantic," she continued.
"Umm," agreed Jackson non-committally. Now that the visit to Broughton Manor was almost upon them, now that it was dark, he wasn't sure that he actually wanted to go through with it. He was glad to see Ollie and Jason push their way through the door and into the bar, welcoming their cheerful, no nonsense good humour.
"Ready to bust some ghosts then," grinned Ollie, sliding into a seat opposite Jackson. "Have I got time for a pint?
"Always time for a pint," answered Jason. "Anyone else?"
"I don't know... " began Jackson hesitantly, "its nearly 7.30... "
"And Gary is still behind the bar," replied Jason cheerfully, looking across the room to where Gary was busy serving. "Besides, we can always take them with us on the minibus," he added.
If Gary had noticed Jason being served by one of the other bar staff, he would have vetoed the order. As it was, ten minutes later they were all carrying half finished drinks in their hands as Gary herded them out of Bar West to the small minibus waiting to take them to Broughton Manor.
They soon left the comforting warm orange streetlights of Hotton behind them and travelled down smaller roads where the only light came from the headlights of the minibus. For some reason the roads, the countryside, seemed darker to Jackson than those around Emmerdale. He squinted out of the window, peering up into the ink black sky. There was no moon, nor even any stars that he could see, to lighten the darkness a little.
The minibus made a sharp turn. "I think we've just turned into the drive," said Aaron. They had all been a little quiet on the journey, a feeling of apprehension swirling gently between them, rising now as they realised their journey was nearly over and soon they would be back in Brought Manor, back in the half ruined older part building, back in the library where Jackson met the ghost of his great grandfather's lover.
The minibus came to a halt; for a second, two seconds nobody moved, nobody said anything. The building was as dark as they remembered from last year.
Jackson felt his heart rate begin to quicken. Why had he ever thought this was a good idea? He had been to Broughton Manor several times in the past year, wandering with Aaron and a sea of other visitors through the older, historic building, through the ornamental gardens in their spring colours and later, in the lush, over-blown height of summer. But it had been day light then, warm and sunny and safe.
A shaft of light penetrated the darkness; a silhouette outlined.
"I'd forgotten about Shaw," whispered Chloe. "He totally gives me the willies."
Jason sniggered, breaking the tension. "Come on then, let's go ghost busting!" He stood up, humming the familiar tune as he swung himself easily between the seats and opened the sliding door before jumping lightly down.
Seeing him move, Garry scrambled from the driver's seat and moved towards the arc of light.
"Mr Shaw, good to see you again," he looked up at the much taller man, into the face as cadaverous and unsmiling as he remembered.
"It's still just Shaw, sir," murmured the butler, "as I mentioned last year."
"Of course, of course," said Gary, flustered and fussing, encouraging everyone from the minibus. "Follow Shaw please everyone,"
Shaw turned into the house, expecting them all to follow him. They did, not speaking, all of them suddenly aware of the atmosphere in the house, the cold that seemed to fill the very fibre of the building, to seep into their bones; cold fingers of apprehension licking at their souls.
Shaw led them down the corridor they all remembered from the previous year, past the portraits on the wall, past the eyes that followed the rapid passing. The feeling of being watched followed them; those eyes boring into their backs, resenting their intrusion.
Aaron could swear the temperature dropped as Shaw lead them deeper into the house, away from the more modern wing towards the older, more ruinous part of the house. But this time they didn't go into the very derelict part of the house, instead Shaw led them to the old library, a room still intact although empty of books, there was still furniture in the room.
Jackson felt a chill finger of apprehension snake down his spine. He followed the others into the room but his feet slowed, his eyes, wide open, flashed from side to side, searching for any movement, any sign that the soldier had returned. The hair on the back of his neck tingled, rose as he shuddered, unable to help himself. Yet despite the familiarity of the room Shaw led them too, it was different from the last time he had been there. Not brightly lit, even so there was more light than there had been and people - from the doorway he could see camp Clive and a number of other people he knew were in the Hotton Society for Psychical Research. On the far side of the room he could even see the Ouija board, set up and waiting and the woman they knew only as Spirit-flower absent-mindedly twirling the planchette slowly in her fingers.
This was wrong; suddenly Jackson knew it more surely than he had ever known anything in his life. The thought sprang into his mind, already a certainty; the soldier wouldn't come to him here.
"Welcome, welcome!" exclaimed camp Clive enthusiastically. "We're all set up here; Jackson, we're going to start with the Ouija - Spirit-flower is going to ask the late Lord Broughton to come back again - which reminds me, the present Lord Broughton has kindly invited us all for a late supper after midnight."
"Supper?" echoed Chloe. "With Lord Broughton? I've never met a lord before."
"Well you will later, dear," bustled Clive, putting his hands to her shoulders and propelling her towards the table where Spirit-flower was sitting. "For now, I want you to sit here quietly and do what Spirit-flower tells you. Jackson, you sit here... " for a few minutes he fussed, filling the chairs around the table.
"Right! I'll just set the recording equipment going then we'll leave you," he said once he was satisfied. Minutes later he ushered those not seated at the table from the room.
Aaron, Jason and Kim followed Clive into the corridor; it was colder than ever, darker too with a damp mustiness to the air. Air that Aaron imagined drifted from the derelict part of the house, air long unbreathed by any living person, air breathed only by ghosts.
He shook himself - he was being silly now, letting the cold, dark building get to him. And ghosts didn't breath did they! That reassurance sent an immediate shiver up his spine. He glanced round, making sure he could still see Jason and Kim. He could; they were standing next to Clive gazing at a computer screen. He moved closer, now he could see the screen was split, showing two grainy images, one looked down directly onto the Ouija board, the second showed an arc, the whole area of the room where the table was set up. Clive was staring intently, muttering to himself as Jason and Kim peered over his shoulders. Watching a moment, Aaron had the distinct impression that Kim was trying not to laugh although he couldn't hear what Clive was saying; he assumed she must be finding it funny. He glanced down the corridor, away from the circle of dim light spilling from the door of the old library, away from the shaded lamp on the desk next to the laptop, it was dark. He shivered again.
Jackson placed his hands on the table. This wasn't going to work; the soldier wasn't here. He listened as Spirit-flower intoned the words of protection and greeting around them. Beside him, he could feel Chloe's fingers twitching and tensing against his own; she was probably shaking in her boots, he thought. He moved his hand, resting one finger lightly on the planchette as Spirit-flower instructed; her quiet voice droned on, his thoughts wandered... there would be nothing this year.
Aaron leaned back against the wall; he was bored, he wondered why Clive hadn't given them torches and bits and pieces of equipment and let them wander off with then as they had done last year. He turned and took a step further away from the soft light at the door into the inky darkness. He screwed his eyes shut, holding them closed for a moment, hoping when he opened them again to be able to see a little better in the gloom.
"You came back."
Aaron jumped, he turned.
"I haven't been... " he had expected to see Kim or Jason behind him, or more likely one of the HSPR guys who had been creeping about the place.
There was no one behind him; no one closer than Jason and Kim, still crowding round the computer, ignoring him. An icy chill swept over him, setting every nerve tingling. It wasn't fear, not exactly; he took a step closer to the others, towards the comforting glow of the laptop. He tried to pay attention to the images on the screen in front of him, to listen to the whispered comments Clive made. Perhaps if something had been happening it would have been easier to concentrate. To stop his ears straining as he tried to hear that voice again... He had heard a voice, hadn't he? He leant over Jason's back, resting his arms across his shoulders, steadying himself.
"William..."
Aaron jumped! The voice was at his ear.
"Shit Aaron! Careful!" exclaimed Jason.
"Did you hear it?" Aaron asked urgently. Straightening up, he turned, looked behind him, looked to where he knew the corridor ran away into the distance. There was nothing to see, only the inky darkness stretching away from them.
"Heard what?" questioned Jason.
"There was some behind me, someone speaking;" Aaron struggled to keep the quivering from his voice. "I heard it earlier too. It's someone playing a joke - it must be!"
"It's a ghost!" Kim breathed, her voice a mixture of excitement and terror as she looked quickly from side to side, trying to make out a supernatural being in the darkness.
"It'll be one of the HSPR lot you heard," said Jason confidently, his words spoken at the same time as Kim's, clashing against them. "They'll be messing about with some equipment somewhere; their voices will be carrying down the corridor somehow."
"What did they say?" asked Clive, turning round in his seat, looking intently at him.
"The first time it was... was 'you came back'" stuttered Aaron, his teeth beginning to chatter. "The second time it was just a name... 'William'."
"I knew you would come back for me..."
"There!" yelped Aaron. "You must've heard that!"
Nobody answered him, nobody spoke; Kim shook her head, her normally confident demeanour wilting.
Again a cold chill skimmed the length of Aaron's spine. The words had been so clear, so close to him.
Clive picked up the walkie-talkie from the table in front of him. He pressed a button, spoke quietly into it for a moment, listened to the crackling, almost inaudible reply before disconnecting then repeating the process once, twice more.
"Everyone's where they should be," he said quietly. "There is no one in this part of the house except ourselves and the others next door and we've been watching them on the laptop."
The chill along Aaron's spine turned to ice; involuntarily, he took a step back from the table, from Clive, from Jason and Kim. How could they not have heard it?
"William, I missed you so much..."
"Stop it!" cried Aaron, taking a step or two further into the darkness.
"William, I missed you..."
Aaron looked wildly around; the voice seemed to be everywhere, behind him, in front of him. He took another step forward.
...
Spirit-flower looked at the planchette, obstinately still and unmoving. She had called and exhorted the spirits, been commanding and persuasive but nothing worked; the planchette refused to move. Reluctantly she began the words of closure, ending the session.
Jackson kept his finger on the planchette even as his eyes flicked around the room. Peering into the shadows, searching for any movement, anything that might indicate the return of the soldier he couldn't help the feeling of disappointment that was beginning to settle like a cloud, lightly for the moment, around his shoulders. He had felt so sure there would be something... that he would see him again.
The sudden noise in the corridor just a little distant made everyone at the table jump.
...
Aaron could see a light now, hazy and indistinct, but a light. It must be shining around a bend in the corridor, he thought. He took another step.
"William..."
He felt cold, lightheaded; the light seemed to be coming closer, he tried to turn, tried to speak to Jason and Kim, even Clive, but it was hard, too hard. He couldn't move, couldn't turn...
"William, William..."
The light was everywhere now, surrounding him, seeming to fill him, envelop him, but he wasn't fearful any more, or cold; he felt warm, hugged safe and at peace.
"William!"
It was as though arms held him, cradled him closely, supported him with such intensity that nothing else mattered but the feeling of relief and love, the feeling of coming home in those arms. He was consumed by the light, by the voice, so warm, so loving, saying his name.
"William, I love you..."
"Aaron... My name's Aaron," he whispered as the light left him, as the cold, the darkness returned and he knew nothing more.
...
Kim squealed with fright as he fell to the floor. He had been only a few steps away from them but the gloom of the retreating corridor had already swallowed him. His few words, echoing around them had made them jump in the quiet; the strangeness of his affirmation had hardly registered before he dropped unconscious to the floor.
Kim squealed, a wordless expression of shock, surprise.
"Aaron!" exclaimed Jason, leaping towards him, his body hard to see in the darkness. "For goodness sake, Clive, get some light here, something's wrong with Aaron."
Even before Clive fumbled to find the light, Jackson had burst from the old library, calling Aaron, struggling to find him in the darkness. Suddenly everyone was talking, yelling instructions.
"Lights for fuck sake!"
"What happened?"
"Is he hurt?"
"He's here, Jackson!" called Jason, finding the inert body and kneeling at his side. "He's breathing - shit! I can't see anything in this light! Clive!"
Suddenly light filled the corridor, still dim but bright after the darkness they had been in. At the far end of the corridor stood Shaw, watching them, it was minutes, seconds, only a moment in time before he began to move towards them, his movement fluid, ethereal.
"I believe the young man has only fainted," he said as he approached the group gathered round Aaron's still body.
"What do you know?" snapped Ollie. "He could be seriously ill or something. We need an ambulance." He glared up at Shaw's impassive face.
Aaron groaned, moving a little; awkwardly stretching round onto his back.
"What's that all over his clothes," whispered Chloe, her voice full of dread.
Jackson reached his hand towards Aaron; something dark, clagging, was covering his jacket. Reluctantly he ran his fingers over the ruined fabric.
The pungent smell of earth filled the air.
"Mud," whispered Jackson, "he's covered in mud!"
No one spoke; shock... memories silenced them all. It had been bad enough, strange enough, last Halloween when Jackson had been covered in the blood of a soldier dead almost a hundred years. Now this. How could mud... was it really mud... suddenly be smeared all over his clothes?
On the floor, Aaron groaned, moved again and tried to sit up, breaking the spell of disbelief that had descended over his friends.
"Aaron," gasped Jackson, slipping his arm around him, trying to support him as he struggled to sit, "what happened? Are you okay?"
"God, my head hurts," Aaron rolled until he was sitting, his hands pressed to his forehead, his elbows supported on bent knees. "He called me William; he thought I was William."
"Who did?" asked Jackson urgently.
"Perhaps we should help the young gentleman to the drawing room; a reviving brandy... or tea. And Lord Broughton." Shaw intoned calmly.
"Who called you William?" repeated Jackson, ignoring Shaw he knelt beside Aaron, watching the confusion, the disorientation, flit across his face.
"Charlie did," breathed Aaron. "Charlie Rhodes."
...
The drawing room was warm; a cheerful fire blazed bright in the grate, its hot, dancing flames full of comfort.
Despite the heat, Aaron was shaking although the confusion of thoughts and images that swam through his mind as he returned to consciousness, as he had been helped from the cold, half dark corridor to the warmth and safety of the drawing room, was receding.
After whispering the name, "Charlie Rhodes" he had said nothing as Jackson and Ollie had between them half dragged, half lifted him to the safety of the drawing room. Under Shaw's direction they lead him to a seat near the fire as, by some miraculous sleight of hand, the tall, cadaverous butler produced a round, balloon-glass of brandy.
Aaron cradled the drink in his hands, sipping it gratefully and glad of the heat from the fire. His clothes felt damp, clinging uncomfortably to his body where the strange mud coated them.
He gazed into the flames, for a moment, back there in the gloomy corridor, it had all seemed so real; the man calling his name, crying out for him. He had been William - he was William - he had felt Charlie come towards him, meet him, their bodies melting together, fusing, becoming one in the light that surrounded them.
Then slowly, so slowly, he became aware of the noise; explosions, rumbling in the distance like the low rumble of thunder caught amongst far away hills. Closer, the vivid vicious crashes that splintered into a thousand shards of noise and set a man's teeth on edge. Slowly he had become aware of the smell; the metallic tang of blood that got into his nose and mouth, the rich earth, polluted by that blood and the excrement of the dead and dying. He had been aware of Charlie, first begging him not to go; then blackness, beyond blackness into the light, into Charlie's waiting arms. He jumped! The fire returned into focus in front of him.
"Now young man, you've got a bit of colour back in your cheeks. How are you feeling?"
The gruff but kindly tone dragged him out of the morass of his mind.
"Are you able to tell us now... about William? About what happened..." continued Lord Broughton
"The light... it changed, it was dark," said Aaron slowly, "so dark then light... then Charlie was there and suddenly it was alright. Is William... who's William?"
Lord Broughton moved several agitated paces backwards and forwards across the room, stopping to pull aside the heavy curtain covering one of the windows; he peered out into the inky darkness. He knew this place like the back of his hand, knew the noises and creaks as the old building sighed and settled at the end of each day. But still there was a strangeness that could surprise him, startle him, even light a spark of fear in him. He bit his lip, gathering his thoughts, considering his words. He turned back to face the people in the room.
"Was your William a soldier? Could he have been?" he asked
Jackson jerked, his attention brought back into the room again; he had been crouching by Aaron's chair, resting his arm across his legs, his fingers tracing small, comforting circles where they touched his leg.
"A soldier?" Memories from a year ago sprang into Jackson's mind. Of course he had recognised the name that Aaron spoke, 'Charlie Rhodes', his great grandfather, but he hadn't considered the possibility that the soldier might appear to Aaron as well.
"Maybe... I don't know," said Aaron slowly, considering. The noises, the smells, the taste that filled his mouth, yes, it could have been the sound of battle. "Yes... maybe," he agreed.
Lord Broughton nodded, his eyes flicking between Aaron and Jackson, wondering at the strange twist of fate that brought them to Broughton Manor last year, the connection between Jackson and his family, his ancestor.
"My name is William; my father's name was William, as was my grandfather and great-grandfather and all the Lord Broughton's for several hundred years." He paused, letting his words sink in. "It seems you've met my great-grandfather too, Jackson's soldier from last year, last Halloween." His voice was quiet but held the attention of everyone in the room.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Aaron shook his head.
"No," he breathed. "You don't understand. I didn't meet the soldier... William." He paused, everyone's attention was on him, the silence in the room was absolute. "I didn't meet William," he continued, "I was William."
Around the room, the collective intake of breath at his announcement could be heard rippling between them all; surprise, shock, disbelief too perhaps.
"Don't be silly," said Chloe, her voice thready and uncertain. "How could you become someone else - someone who's been dead for almost a hundred years?"
Aaron shook his head, offering no answer.
"It certainly does sound remarkable," mused Lord Broughton, his tone just falling short of disbelief.
"That's daft!" exclaimed Jackson. "How can you become Lord Broughton's grandfather? That's impossible!"
"I don't know," snapped Aaron, "but you asked what it was like and I'm telling you!" He paused, taking a deep breath to stave off the nausea that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. "I'm not saying I understand it or that it makes any sense - I'm just telling you what it was like," he continued.
He couldn't help how crazy it sounded; he wasn't even sure if he was explaining very clearly how it felt. He dropped his head to his hands, pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes, trying to stem the swimming tide of nausea and confusion that still set upon him in waves. Around him a low mutter of short, whispered conversations began as his friends exchanged worried, curious or just plain incredulous words. He took no notice of them; he couldn't change what he felt, what he experienced, just because they couldn't understand, wouldn't believe. He didn't notice Shaw quietly watching him, his gaze speculative.
For a while, he just sat quietly, prepared to ignore the hesitant conversations taking place around the room. Jackson had moved from the floor to the arm of the chair, his body pressed against him as his arm draped comfortingly around his shoulder: Aaron leant hard against him, exhaustion now beginning to seep through his body, sapping his remaining strength.
Clive had disappeared from the room soon after Aaron's revelation. Chattering quickly into his walkie-talkie, he had left the warmth of the drawing room, the eyes of many of those left behind, following him, only Aaron, Jackson and Lord Broughton seemingly unaware of his departure.
They didn't notice Shaw leaving either, moving quietly from the room in the opposite direction from the psychic investigator; unable, unwilling perhaps, to catch Lord Broughton's eye, he slipped through a door almost hidden in the panelling at the farthest end from the fireplace, closing it silently behind him.
For a while, they were all lost in their own thoughts; Kim and Chloe trying to hide their dismay at the events of the evening, trying to pretend the feeling chilling their blood was not fear. Jason and Ollie had lapsed into silence after offering muttered, awkward words of support.
"Perhaps we should all have something to eat... or another drink even," muttered Lord Broughton before the silence stretched into discomfort, unsure the correct social protocol for entertaining someone who just claimed to have become his grandfather. "Shaw, perhaps you would..." he paused, glaring around the room as he noticed Shaw's absence at last. He huffed grumpily to himself and moved a bell-pull close to the fire place, tugging it roughly.
The awkward silence continued; Aaron closed his eyes and leant his body hard against Jackson's, glad to feel his strength beside him.
The sound of the door opening made them all jump.
"Shaw!" exclaimed Lord Broughton, "where did you slope off to? I have just had to ring the bell for Mrs Mendicote." He glared crossly at the inscrutable butler.
"The Muniment Room, sir," Shaw answered, his voice emotionless.
"The Muniment Room," echoed Lord Broughton, spluttering in surprise. "What on earth did you go off up to that dusty attic for... at this time of night too?"
"Perhaps if you would care to accompany me, Lord Broughton, I could explain. And the young gentlemen too..." His eyes slid towards Aaron and Jackson, including them in his invitation.
"What?" blustered Lord Broughton, looking abruptly between Shaw and Aaron and Jackson."
If Shaw had been less lugubrious, his features might have expressed exasperation. "We know there is a connection between Mr Walsh and your grandfather," he began, patiently explaining. "There is also appears to be one between your grandfather and Mr Livesy; the answer is in the documents in the Muniment Room."
"Those old documents! You're making no sense, Shaw," exclaimed Lord Broughton. "How can there be anything in the estate documents?" He stared in confusion at his butler.
"If you could indulge me for a moment, my Lord..." Shaw continued quietly.
"Yes... well... I suppose we must," conceded Lord Broughton. "We'd better go to the Muniment Room then." He looked at Shaw for a moment, holding his unreadable expression, then, muttering gruffly, he nodded to Aaron and Jackson to follow.
Saying nothing more, Shaw turned and led them from the room, traversing corridors they had not passed down before and climbing stairs, two wide ornate staircases first, then suddenly opening a small, half-hidden door leading to a much smaller stairway, narrow, poorly lit and smelling... smelling of something old and musty, something Aaron didn't want to think of too deeply.
He followed Shaw and Lord Broughton into a room lit only by a single unshaded pendant light, Shelves lined all the walls, shelves filled with untidy sheaves of papers, with numerous bound volumes, with of boxes of varying sizes and more familiar, although already old-looking and dust covered, box files. There was a table in the centre of the room; a box file spilt its contents across the surface and a large book lay open, its pages covered with columns of tiny writing. Shaw moved to the table and rested his hand on the scattered papers, his fingers moving them slightly, the sound of them rustling against each other the only noise as the other men filed into the room.
"Explain yourself then, Shaw," said Lord Broughton gruffly. "What are all these papers?"
"My Lord," murmured Shaw, "this is a copy of the baptismal register for Broughton Church," he pushed the large book an inch or so towards Lord Broughton, "and these are the estate copies of documents relating to the disposition of estate properties."
"So what are you showing us?" questioned Lord Broughton, still not following Shaw's logic.
The single light flickered, threatening to plunge them into darkness.
Aaron felt another wave of nausea clench his stomach, light-headedness again threatened to overwhelm him; he moved to a seat pulled out from the table and sank into it.
"If you would look here, my Lord," Shaw pushed the baptismal register towards Lord Broughton. "This entry in September 1905," he continued.
Everyone craned forward to see the entry he was indicating.
"On the 30th September 1905, baptised by the Reverend Jenkins, Jonah... Jonah? What sort of a name is Jonah," muttered Lord Broughton, interrupting himself as he read the entry.
A prickle of apprehension snaked upwards the length of Aaron's spine, pushing the nausea momentarily from his mind.
"Jonah, son of William James Broughton and T. D., late of Broughton Manor."
Silence filled the small room.
"You're suggesting my grandfather had an illegitimate son," said Lord Broughton gruffly, his gazed fixed on Shaw. "But 1905... he could only have been a boy himself?"
"This entry in the baptismal register is telling us that, my lord. His lordship would have been 15 in 1905," replied Shaw, "quite old enough..."
"Yes, well, we follow that much, Shaw, snapped Lord Broughton. "What about these other papers?"
"Rent rolls, tide and tithe agreements, sale of estate properties or land and occasionally... very occasionally, properties bestowed." He looked round at the faces gathered round him, following his words but as yet having no idea where he was leading them; where the documents were leading them all. What the spirits confirmed, if only they had the understanding to see.
Carefully Shaw pushed a single sheet of paper towards Lord Broughton.
"What's this?" questioned his lordship sharply.
"It seems to be a deed gifting a cottage and land..."
His blood froze like ice in his veins; Aaron didn't know what he was expecting, couldn't see how this had any relevance to himself yet the sense of apprehension was unmistakable.
"That's ridiculous!" spluttered Lord Broughton, "who to? Why? Read it Shaw!"
Shaw coughed, clearing his throat. "In essence, my lord, it gives a cottage, named as Wishing Well Cottage and a small parcel of land – little more than a large garden really," he added, interrupting himself, "to Mistress T. D., again described as late of Broughton Manor."
"T. D," questioned Lord Broughton, "T. D.? Do we know who this Mistress T. D. is?"
"Not for certain, my lord," answered Shaw calmly. "However..." he pushed a final piece of paper towards Lord Broughton. "This is a handwritten copy of the census return from 1901 - somebody must have copied it before the enumerator collected the form; if you look towards the end, sir... 'Tabitha Dingle, dairy maid, aged 21.'"
"Dingle!" yelped Jackson, unable to help the shocked expression slipping from his lips.
"Shit!" breathed Ollie.
Aaron said nothing.
Shaw looked at him, not speaking for a moment, only an eyebrow raised the merest fraction. "I believe you may be related to the Dingle family, sir," he said quietly at last, breaking the spell of shocked silence that had captured them all.
Aaron nodded; the ice that had coursed down his veins now turned to red hot fire. "My mother," he whispered, "she's a Dingle. My Uncle Zac lives at Wishing Well Cottage in Emmerdale."
A trace of smug satisfaction flicked briefly across Shaw's face, it didn't linger, but it had been enough, he had known.
"So you are saying that young Aaron and I are related," asked Lord Broughton, needing to get the facts straight in his mind.
"My lord," Shaw paused, choosing his words. "You and the young gentleman are both descendants of William James Broughton, your grandfather; although I should hazard that the young gentleman is at least one, maybe even two generations further removed."
"Aaron!" whispered Jackson urgently, dragging his attention back from where ever it had wandered.
"I'm sorry," muttered Aaron awkwardly. "I don't know... I don't understand..."
"Can't say that I do either," interrupted Lord Broughton brusquely.
"The mud..." Aaron rubbed his fingers across the now drying clay-like earth that still clung to his trousers. "...how I feel...the cold, the nausea...the voice, calling me. What does it mean?"
"Shaw!" barked Lord Broughton, "you seem to know so much about it."
"They found each other," whispered Jackson, "Charlie and William – I mean Lord Broughton...the then Lord Broughton," he looked at Shaw's inscrutable face, then to Aaron and the present Lord. "Death didn't separate them."
...
A few months later. France.
"It's beautiful," breathed Aaron, "so peaceful."
"But so sad," added Jackson quietly. "They were all so young..." his words trailed away as his eyes shifted from the small white stone in front of him to row upon row of identical stones amid the carefully tended cemetery gardens as they stretched into the distance.
Hesitantly Aaron stretched his hand out letting his fingers rest on the top of the gravestone for a moment. His other hand held a single flower, a rose; he crouched and placed it carefully in front of the stone then traced the letters of the name with his fingers. William James Broughton.
"They weren't even buried close to each other," said Aaron quietly, remembering the journey they had made from their other graveside visit the day before.
"But they are together," said Jackson, emphatically, "we know they are. And we are together too." He smiled gently, his fingers catching Aaron's, entwining.
Behind them, two lone red poppy petals, hopelessly out of season, bowled across the path, caught in a sudden breeze.