3 – PRYING EYES

'I'm not making it up!' I say furiously. I slam my fist down on the kitchen table, making my buttered toast jump.

Dad thumps the milk carton down on the worktop and it sloshes out of the top.

'Is that what you expect me to tell the Winslows?' he says, placing his arms wide on the table and leaning forward so he's almost at eye level with me in my seat. '"Sorry, Mr and Mrs Winslow, Holly's dead, but the only proof I can offer you is that my teenage daughter bumped into her ghost the other night."'

We glare at each other for a minute and all our simmering tensions bubble to the surface.

'Don't you believe me?' I ask.

'Of course I believe you . But…' He turns away with a frustrated huff, but not before I catch his expression. I know what he's thinking. Dad used to call it Mum's 'Peruvian voodoo'. He will never understand, no matter how hard he tries. No one can understand it, not until they experience it.

'But you don't want to tell anyone in case they think I'm wacko?' I say.

Dad pours his coffee, doesn't look up. 'I'm sorry, Noa. I know you're only trying to help, but I can't give it to the Winslows.' He looks around at me, his eyes pleading with me. 'How would it look if that was all the intelligence I could provide? What would that do for my reputation?'

I bite my lip to stop myself from speaking. Dad doesn't need my help to make a mockery of his reputation. 'So, you're just going to ignore it then? That Holly Winslow's dead in a ditch somewhere and you're just going to move on?'

Dad shakes his head and takes a seat at the kitchen table. 'Are you absolutely sure it was her?'

He slides a picture of Holly across the table so it's right next to my plate. I glance at it and open my mouth to say of course I'm sure, but I hesitate. I frown at the picture. 'Is this a recent photo?'

Dad nods. 'Taken a couple of months ago.'

I pick the photo up to study it closer. It's her, I'm sure of it, yet something seems different. Does death change us physically? Does murder change us? I suppose so, although it wasn't like she was dripping with blood or had an axe hanging out of her head last night.

'Well?'

I give Dad my most insolent look and toss the photo back on the table. 'It's her.'

'Did she tell you where she was? Any clue whatsoever? What did she say exactly? And I mean exactly.'

I shrug and take a bite from my toast. Nothing Holly said will help Dad with the investigation. 'Just that she was lost, and that she wanted help. She kept saying "Help me, help me. I don't know where I am." She wanted me to find her.'

'That's not much to go on, is it?'

'She might come back.' Although I say it, there's little conviction in my voice.

'Have they ever come back?' Dad asks. And he's right, of course.

I shake my head. 'Not apart from Max.'

Dad ever so slightly tenses at the mention of Max's name, like he's some threat to his precious daughter's innocence. Ha! I made the mistake of one time saying that Max sometimes visits me at night when I'm in bed and he's somehow twisted that in his head to mean something else. But it's not, it's just the only time Max and I can have a private conversation without people either butting in or looking at me like I'm mad because they can't see or hear him.

'And what does Max have to say about all this?'

I wish he wouldn't use that sarcastic tone when talking about him. He doesn't even know Max. 'I haven't seen him since yesterday.'

Dad shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. 'Then there's not much I can do, not unless she visits you again. Besides, I've got a new case to concentrate on.'

I crunch through my toast. Spock whines from by my feet and scrapes his claws against my jeans. Out of habit I break off a piece and feed it to him.

'What's this one about?' I ask Dad.

'Oh, nothing so interesting,' he says with a vague wave of his hand. 'Just a dodgy insurance claim. A dairy farmer is claiming on one of his barns being burnt down. The insurance company think it was him to who set fire to it.'

He's right, it doesn't sound particularly interesting. I sigh, reliving last night's events. If not her words, what else could give us a clue as to Holly's whereabouts? Her clothes hadn't been torn or dirty, her face and hands weren't noticeably injured. But her eyes…

'She was scared, you know,' I say. 'Lost, alone, and scared. Yet everybody seems a helluva keen on just giving up looking for her.'

'I'm not giving up –'

I scrape my chair back. I don't want to hear any more pathetic grown up reasons explaining away their failures. I toss the remainder of my toast to Spock who catches it and wolfs it down in one fluid movement, and walk out of the kitchen.

The night is quiet. I don't know how long I fell asleep for but it must be late. The house creaks and sighs like an old ship as me and Spock tip toe out of my bedroom. The light in the lounge is still on and I peer left around the archway to see Dad asleep on his recliner, snoring, his glasses askew, a book fallen from his dangling hand.

Before I can stop him, Spock trots over, his claws clicking on the floorboards, up to Dad and licks his fingers. I cringe and whip back out of sight.

Dad's snoring continues unabated, and I hazard another look. 'Spock!' I hiss. 'Come here!'

Spock rolls his boiled egg eyes in my direction and for once, comes to heel. My admonishment will have to wait for the moment. Dad shifts in his sleep, muttering, 'Don't, Isabel. Don't be so selfish…' His head rolls to the other side and he resumes his snoring.

I freeze, wondering what my mother is saying or doing in his dream. What memories I have of my mother are fond ones – I was eight when she died, so everything I recall about her is seen through the naïve and trusting eyes of a child. But on the rare occasions when she enters my dreams we are often arguing. I wonder if it's the same for Dad.

Spock whines, refocussing my attention. I should get on with my mission before he gets us caught. I creep past the lounge archway to a doorway on the right – Dad's study. A floorboard creaks beneath the pressure of my foot and I wince. I look over my shoulder. I can just see the tight black curls of the top of Dad's head where he lies, undisturbed.

I slip into the study with Spock at my heels and I ease the door closed. It clicks shut and I am once again in darkness. I creep across the room, feeling for couches and desks and chairs. My big toe finds the couch first and I hiss through my teeth as pain erupts up my foot. From the couch it's easy enough to limp over to the desk where I know the lamp will be.

Once the dim light is on and I can see properly I turn on Spock. 'What do you think you were doing? Next time you can just stay behind.'

Spock licks his chops and sits down, tail wagging, ever the obedient pooch. Yeah, right.

I take stock of Dad's messy desk and corkboard wall. Pictures of Holly Winslow have been replaced with pictures of the smouldering remains of a barn. Where is that box Dad was stashing all of Holly's stuff? I hope he hasn't shredded it all. I try the filing cabinet beside the desk. The top drawer is locked but the bottom one slides open with an unoiled squeak. Instead of the Holly Winslow case though, I find an old tattered pashmina of faded peacock colours. It's Mum's. I can't recall her ever wearing it, but it can only be hers. I pick it up and bury my nose in its soft cashmere folds. I close my eyes and breathe her in but instead all I can smell is gin.

'Goodness, you are an odd girl. What are you doing now?'

Max's voice makes me leap back in fright into Dad's chair. The chair rolls back and collides with the wall.

'Max!' I hiss. 'What the hell? Do you have to sneak up on me like that?'

Unperturbed, Max walks over to the couch and stretches out, boots and all. 'What are you doing snooping around your father's office?'

I stuff Mum's shawl back into the cabinet drawer and head over to the door to listen for Dad. All is quiet on the western front.

'Not that it's any of your business, but I'm trying to help someone.'

'In here?'

'Dad's missing person's case,' I say, continuing my search for Holly's box. 'That Holly Winslow? I was visited by her spirit yesterday after we went to see Genie Ackroyd.'

Max sits up like toast popping out of a toaster. 'You've another message to deliver?'

'A different type of message, but yes. She's lost, and she's obviously dead. I think she wants me to find her. Aha!'

I find the box wedged beneath the desk and drag it out and heave it onto the desk. A gin bottle on its side rolls towards the edge. I grab it before it falls and set it upright.

Max wanders over to peer into the box. 'How come I didn't know about this message?'

'You tell me, Sherlock.'

I pull out a wad of paperwork and flick through some photographs. Holly has more freckles than I remember from last night. Perhaps being a ghost dilutes those kinds of things.

'She didn't give me much to go on,' I say. 'If you can track her down in the spirit world, you'd be doing me a favour.'

Max looks sceptical. 'Sounds to me like she's in Limbus if she said she was lost. I can't access the Limbus Dimension.'

I pause over my search. 'Limbus?' This is the first time I've come across that word.

'It's a dimension in between worlds,' Max explains walking around the desk and examining the new photos on the corkboard with his hands linked behind his back. 'Like being in limbo. Spirits with unfinished business or who have to undergo trials end up there until they're ready to move on.'

'Undergo trials? What, like court cases?'

Max waves me away. 'It's complicated. I've never heard of Limbus spirits being able to access other dimensions though.'

'What, are they put in some sort of solitary confinement?'

Max vehemently shakes his head and makes his way back, the burnt barn pictures apparently not doing much to hold his interest. 'No, nothing so severe. More like not having access to that internet thing you have or a telephone. It's meant to be a trial, you're not supposed to get help from other dimensions.'

I think about that for a moment. It doesn't sound so unfamiliar really. 'Kind of like our mortal world then?'

Max gives me a heavy-lidded look. 'Honestly, you have no idea how much intervention other dimensions have with the mortal world. You, of all people, should know that.'

'Yeah, yeah.'

I come across a different picture of Jonathan Kilpin about to enter a place called Crazy 8s Snooker Hall. In the first photo I thought his eyes were kind, but here, with the photo taken of him unawares, he looks shifty. Dad had obviously tailed him.

I toss it aside in favour of a folder labelled 'Sharp Shooters Portfolio'. Inside are dozens of photographs, not casual snaps or discreet surveillance, but artistic images. There is one of a bunch of cattle drinking at one of the Fens' many canals. Surrounding them is flat marshland, everything is organic except for a grotesque rusting water tower rising up above the horizon. It would be easy to dispose of a body in the Fens. Miles upon miles of impenetrable bog.

Another shows a group shot of about a dozen people, all different ages and gender. A banner in the background reads 'SHARP SHOOTERS CLUB'. I move the photo under the desk lamp for a better look. Holly is in the second row.

'Hello,' I murmur.

'Found something?' asks Max. He comes over to take a look.

'I don't know. It might be nothing.' I show him the picture and point at the boy next to Holly with his arm discreetly tucked around her waist. He is stocky in build with heavy shoulders and a thick neck, from which the tentacles of a tattoo reach up out of the collar of his t-shirt. The gesture looks innocent enough, but there is a certain affection in the way she leans into him, the way his fingers curve around her waist. 'But that definitely isn't Jonathan Kilpin.'

Max is about to respond when out of the corner of my eye I see the pile of casework sliding off balance. Too late, it knocks over the empty gin bottle. It hits the floor with a crash and breaks into a thousand pieces.

I cringe for a split second then dart a look at the door. I scoop the paper spillage back into the box and shove it back under the desk. I snap off the desk lamp and dive for cover behind the couch with the portfolio tucked under my arm just as Dad opens the door.

Heart beating in my throat, I look across at Max squashed beside me. What the hell is he hiding for? He's making me cold sitting so close. Then I notice Spock is still out in the open. I gesture furiously to him, but he ignores me.

Dad switches on the main light and stumbles into the room and stands over the broken gin bottle. 'What the hell?'

Spock walks out from behind the arm of the couch and wags his tail like a total kiss-ass. I cringe, waiting for Dad's to demand that I come out from my hiding place.

'What are you doing here, Spock?' Dad mumbles. 'Was this you? Why aren't you asleep with Noa?'

Spock whuffs, tail going like a windscreen wiper.

'No games, Spock. Not now.'

Spock looks over at the couch, one ear cocked, and, claws clicking, trots back in our direction. This is it. There'll be hell to pay. Spock is not having any treats for at least a month.

The next moment Max leaps up and charges Spock. Spock lets out an almighty squeal of fear. Tail whipping between his legs, he retreats behind Dad. I give Max a furious look but he just shrugs and settles back down beside me.

'He was going to give us away.'

I jerk my finger to my lips and Max gives me one of his heavy-lidded looks.

'Noa, darling, you must know by now that you are the only mortal who can hear me.'

I hold my breath as Dad looks around suspiciously.

'Are we alone, Spock?' he says.

Max looks uncertain for a moment. Dad pauses then gives a mirthless snort.

'Load of nonsense.'

He goes over to his desk and sits in his chair. I have to shift further along the back of the couch so he can't see me. I hear him sigh heavily. I hazard a peep around the corner of the couch. Dad is looking through the papers already scattered on his desk. I pull a face and resign myself to the fact I might be staying here a while.

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016