Chapter Fifteen
Meg’s place is a new build at the side of the estate.
It’s a huge detached house and her bedroom is massive.
She has a double bed in the corner and along one wall are two floor-toceiling bookshelves.
Each shelf is full to bursting with books crammed in every direction.
On the other side is a desk at least three times the length of a school one.
A monitor competes for space with more books, several decks of tarot cards and overflowing plants.
The walls are covered in sketches, collages and richcoloured oil paintings of trees, flowers and wildlife.
A painted hare stares out from behind a thorny bush, while a giant bee hovers in the air, its legs caked in thick pockets of amber pollen.
In the centre is a crow standing on a rock, the purples and greens of its inky feathers sparkling.
‘Wow.’
Meg smiles proudly. ‘Yeah, love my room.’
In the corner is a large black bowl filled with shiny pebbles. Nestled on top is a bleached-white sheep skull.
Meg follows my gaze and shrugs. ‘Skulls are cool.’
‘I can’t believe you’re allowed to do all this up here.’
‘My mum’s pretty chill and Dad is barely here. As long as I vacuum, they don’t mind what I get up to.’ She grins. ‘Including turning it into a dark room.’
We set up a string to hang the prints to dry and place three trays on her desk, one for developing, one for stopping the developing and the final for fixing the image. While she sets out the ingredients under a desk lamp, I pull down the blinds and draw the heavy curtains across.
‘This is very witchy,’ I say.
She smirks. ‘I know, its class.’ She shakes some dried mint leaves into a steaming flask of water. ‘We need to let that brew for a bit.’
I mix vitamin-C tablets into a jug of water that bubbles up furiously as I add bicarbonate of soda.
We then mix the two solutions together and pour them into a tray, and the developer solution is ready.
She fills the second tray with water and squeezes in some lemon juice.
The acid will stop the photos over-developing.
For the final fixing tray we mix salt and water.
Meg produces a raven-shaped lamp holding a red bulb in its beak. ‘You ready?’
I hold the envelope of photos close to my chest.
I nod and she switches on the light. Her room is transformed into a glowing cave. The red bulb is like a campfire throwing shadows that turn her spider plant into a giant arachnoid on the wall, while a cactus creates a dark towering shadow over the painting of the hare. ‘Let’s do this.’
Making black-and-white photos like this is done in two stages: first we create a negative paper print, then repeat the process for getting the positive.
We take out the first sheet of paper and slide it into the developer solution, then both of us peer in.
I’m not going to lie, I was expecting some sort of fizzing, spooky bubbling, but the process of developing photos is fairly slow.
Gradually, though, shapes emerge within the blackness; a lattice of straight white lines.
‘Bricks,’ Meg whispers.
I feel myself grin as the outline of Nanny Bet’s house materialises before us in black and white.
The first photo I took. The vision in which nothing really happened.
I sigh and Meg shrugs. We watch the house appear in a weird reversed negative.
After two minutes she lifts it with tweezers and puts it in the stopper solution for about thirty seconds, then puts it in the fixing solution.
The final negative image is really confusing. Dark and light are switched around and I can’t make out much detail.
‘I thought it would be clearer,’ I say as Meg rinses the image and hangs it up on the line.
‘It’s just the negative, don’t worry.’
We repeat the process with the other pieces of paper. I make out what is probably the girl outside Uncle Tommy’s house and try not to look too closely at what I know will be the baby in the cemetery. The funeral image is a stark contrast, but I can see figures in the rain.
Once the negatives are dry, Meg puts each one against a fresh piece of photographic paper and places them under a piece of glass from a picture frame. ‘Now we expose them.’
She sets up an anglepoise lamp and turns it on above the paper for another thirty seconds.
Once that’s done, we develop the positive photos.
This time when it’s in the developer solution Nan’s house appears in black and white with the crow on the wall and the car (that should be green) parked nearby.
The photo is grainy, but not like the noise – the blurs – you get with images taken in low light.
This is like looking at something through a sandstorm.
Figures appear in the image.
Meg gasps. ‘It’s me.’
She’s looking straight at the camera, her pale skin shining brightly against the door behind her.
‘That’s pretty cool, actually. Is it ready?’
‘I think so. Stick it back in the stopper before it overexposes. You wanna do the honours?’
I carefully lift the photo by the edges of the paper, letting the solution drip back into the tray. I focus on the living-room window in the picture. It’s dark but something’s starting to emerge.
‘Go on,’ says Meg.
There’s a pull at my chest.
‘Wait a minute.’ The chemical reaction is still working. The image is getting lighter and lighter. I stare at the window, at the flash of white. White hair…
‘Oh, it’s just my nan.’
I slide the photo into the stopper solution, the image freezing in time, followed by the fixer solution. Meg takes it out and hangs it on the line with some clothes pegs.
‘Right, let’s get the next one going.’
We repeat the process. I have no idea which photo it’s going to be until I see the light hair.
‘It’s the little girl outside Cormac’s house.’
Her dungarees emerge from the darkness. Hands balled into fists, staring at the house next door being raided. Her eyes are narrowed, her teeth bared.
‘She’s seriously pissed,’ says Meg.
As I stare at the child there’s a tingle beneath my eyes and a weight in my chest. A deep sadness fills me and I close my eyes. My ears fill with a pulsing beat and muffled shouting. The soldiers. The people in the house…
‘Michael!’ Meg’s voice is small. ‘What is this?’
I open my eyes and flex my hands. ‘Sorry, I started to remember the vision.’ There are crescent-shaped indents in my palms where I dug in my nails.
‘What’s she doing there?’ says Meg.
‘The girl? I told you. She was watching the raid.’
Silence.
‘Meg?’
Even in the red glow of the lamp, I can see that her skin has paled.
‘No, I mean her.’ She points a finger at the photo, and as I follow it my body is flooded with ice.
Behind the girl, staring directly at the camera, is the woman in black.
It’s like I’m trapped under the water with her again. My limbs are heavy and I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Meg calls out my name.
She holds my wrists and squeezes them. She then looks me in the eye and starts taking deep exaggerated breaths. She wants me to follow her. She’s rubbing my hands.
I still can’t catch my breath.
She drops my hands and holds my face. Rests her forehead against mine.
‘Breathe.’
I gasp for air like I’ve broken the surface of the sea.
‘What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!’
She holds my hands again. ‘Breathe, Michael.’
‘What’s going on?’
Her lips tremble. ‘I don’t know. Are you breathing?’
I nod.
‘OK, I’m going to stop the developing, all right?’
I flinch. ‘I don’t want to see that again.’
She rubs my hands. ‘You’ll want to later. Trust me.’ She lets go and I hug them close. I’m cold. I want to throw open the curtains and let the light back in.
I close my eyes and listen to the dripping of the photographic paper as she takes it from the tray, then the soft lapping as it goes into the other solutions. I try to think of anything other than that woman’s face staring out from the photo.
‘Drink this.’ I open my eyes. Meg is holding out a plastic thermos mug of mint tea. Behind her the photo is drying on the line. The image is turned away but I can still feel the woman’s eyes on me. I take a sip of the tea and let the tingling heat flow into my shivering chest.
‘Thanks. Sorry, I…’
Meg raises a hand. ‘That was an entirely normal reaction to whatever the fuck is going on.’
‘Which is…?’
‘I’ve no idea. Was she…?’
‘She wasn’t there. When I took the photo, she wasn’t there. I would’ve remembered.’
A small laugh. ‘Yeah, to be fair, you’d not forget.’
I stare at the raven lamp. ‘I think we need to work out who she is.’
Meg blinks. ‘The banshee woman?’
I shudder. ‘We don’t know if she’s a banshee.’
‘But—’
‘Fine, we can call her the banshee woman, as a working title. No, I meant the girl.’ Meg cocks her head.
‘OK, so let’s assume the –’ I swallow – ‘the banshee woman is trying to communicate with me through these visions, right?’ Meg nods.
‘Well, she obviously wants me to know something. Like, there has to be a point to them. What if we need to work out who this girl is?’
Meg looks up at the picture. ‘Why?’
‘To find my dad. I still think this is all linked to him. Maybe if we work out who this girl is and why the banshee woman is showing me these visions, it’ll lead to Dad.’ Meg’s mouth drops open and my face burns. ‘I know, it’s stupid.’
‘No, no. I think you’re right.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah! So, what have you seen so far?’ She pulls open a drawer in her desk and takes out a sketchpad and a pen. We lean into the red light as she starts making notes.
‘Right, first was the Europa Hotel being bombed,’ says Meg.
‘No, first are the ones I can’t remember fully. When I saw the Titanic and then potentially one at my nan’s.’
She writes them down. ‘What was next?’
I think back over the last few days and a familiar heaviness settles in my chest. ‘Next was my dad in his bedroom, hiding the notebook. The one outside Nan’s house, then Granda Frank’s funeral. And after that was…’
‘The baby,’ she says. I give her a moment and she takes it.
‘OK, so that happened.’ She adds it to the list. ‘Then you saw the girl watching the raid. That’s it?’
I shrug. ‘Well, then I remembered the vision of the Titanic. Plus, I saw…the banshee-type woman.’
‘Yes, and there was that whole psychic-connection-withme thing.’
‘This is so fucking weird.’
She nods in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Yes, but it’s also cool.’ She scribbles the last bits down and we stare at the words.
Titanic
Nan’s house
Europa
Teen Dad
Outside Nan’s
Granda’s funeral
Baby
Blonde girl at raid
Titanic 2 – link with Meg
Vision of banshee woman
Meg exhales. ‘Well, I mean that’s super clear.’
I snort. ‘Oh yeah. Mystery solved.’ I take a moment to read over the words. ‘Seriously though, you said we need to work out who was doing this. Well, I think we know.’ I gesture at the photos drying on the line. ‘Why, though? And why me? Why Dad? It has to lead to him.’
Meg lets that hang in the air for a moment. ‘I hope you’re right. Well, you know what we need to do next?’ She taps the developing tray.
The graveyard pictures.
I’m relieved to see that it’s the funeral that appears first. The photo is terrible as I was moving when I took it.
The figures stretch out like shadows on a beach, but I can still make out Dad beside Nanny Bet and the figures of the men around her, the coffin with the tricolour, the yellow flowers on the next grave along.
Last to appear is the banshee woman. She’s more of an outline here, more like a ghost photoshopped on top. She stands behind Nanny Bet and Dad, one hand reaching out towards them. I shiver.
‘She looks like she’s attacking them,’ I say as I lift the photo paper out and slide it into the stop solution.
‘I don’t know,’ says Meg. ‘It’s more like she’s trying to get their attention.’ She looks at me. ‘Just like she’s trying to get yours now.’
I let out a deep breath and put the photo in the fixer. ‘So the visions are linked to my family?’
‘Seems like it,’ says Meg. ‘What’s that writing on the other gravestone?’
I lean in. It’s too blurry. ‘Starts with a B, I think. Right?’
Meg lifts the photo back out and brings it under the red light. ‘Yeah, did you see who was buried beside him when you were there? Any B’s in the family?’
I scratch my head. Were there? ‘I don’t know. I sort of remember a Bernie being talked about.’
‘Don’t you have a family tree?’ says Meg.
‘What? No, do you?’
‘Yeah! You should make one. It would really help your magical lineage make sense.’
‘Sure. I’ll get right on that once we work out what the banshee wants.’
‘I’m serious,’ she says. ‘There might be a link.’
‘I know, I know. In the meantime, we could always just go back and check out the grave beside Granda Frank’s?’
She nods. ‘True, and speaking of the graveyard…’ She picks up the last envelope. ‘We need to get this over with.’
The photo of the baby.
Without speaking, I slide it into the solution. I really don’t want to see this, but it doesn’t feel right to let Meg do it alone. The image is dark, much darker than it was on the day. Slowly the bundle begins to appear, and then that tiny perfect white hand reaching out. ‘She was all alone.’
Meg grips my hand. ‘No, she wasn’t. Look.’
A white face is taking shape against the graveyard wall.
It’s her, the woman. Her face is in profile and looking towards the ground, at the baby.
As the image lightens I see a softness in her eyes.
Her mouth is gently closed, the corners ever so slightly turned down as she gazes at the child.
One porcelainwhite hand is resting gently on the bundle.
As the photo lightens, a sparkle draws me back to her face.
‘She’s crying,’ whispers Meg.
I take the paper from the tray and hold it to let the drips run off. I study the picture as I slide it into the stopper tray. The same terrifying woman whose screams have plagued my dreams is crying over an abandoned child. She was with her when she…
The realisation drops as I slide it into the fixer.
‘Death.’
Meg sniffs. ‘I’m sorry?’
I point at the woman’s image as it fixes, brought into reality. ‘She’s the Grim Reaper. Like the actual Grim Reaper. Angel of Death.’
‘Oh shit.’ Meg’s eyes widen. ‘No, it’s not the Angel of Death.’ She looks down at the photo of the woman, gazing lovingly at a dying baby. ‘Michael, you have a photo of the Morrigan.’
‘The who?’
‘The mother-fucking goddess of death!’