Chapter 47
Fingers on the planchette. Matthew’s holding his breath.
The tension is palpable. He knows it’s a joke, that this is only a game played by impressionable teenagers, but he can feel his heart thumping.
Gill looks caught in some private world, her eyes focused down on the board as if there’s nothing else in the room.
The air’s colder, the darkness around the candle more intense.
There’s something throbbing there, something twitching under his fingertip, though he can’t describe it, couldn’t ever articulate how exactly it feels as if the cheap piece of varnished wood were alive.
‘Is there anyone there?’ Gill says, her voice solemn. No reply. Nothing, though the thrumming is growing in intensity, an awakening about to occur. ‘If there’s anyone there, please give us a sign.’
And what? Matthew feels panic rising in him too, now. They haven’t thought this through, haven’t discussed the questions that they should ask any potential spirit.
‘Is there anyone there?’ Gill says again, and this time the planchette twitches, sending a spark through Matthew’s finger like an electric shock.
He jumps, pulling his hand away from the planchette, the eczema suddenly itching beyond anything bearable, as if the skin is on fire.
He scratches and scratches at it to try and get it to stop, to make it go, but it builds and builds, running up his arm now and into his other hand.
‘Matthew, stop,’ Gill says. She’s moved over beside him and is trying to restrain his hands. ‘You’re making yourself bleed.’
‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘It’s too much. It’s far too much.’ He keeps scratching, Gill keeps pulling at his arms to make him stop, a roaring in his ears and a darkness building in front of his eyes.
Then it stops. All is quiet. So quiet the silence is heavy.
Weighing down on him. The itch has gone, the urge to scratch disappears.
Gill leans back, letting go of his arms. He looks over at the board and freezes.
The planchette is moving, silently, relentlessly, spinning endlessly in a figure of eight.
He opens his mouth to cry out but no sound emerges; he can’t formulate a word, even a scream.
‘What is it?’ she says, following his gaze over to the board. ‘What’s wrong? Why do you look so scared?’
‘The planchette . . . it’s moving. Look, can’t you see?’
Gill shakes her head. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘You’re lying,’ he says. ‘Look at it. It’s going mental.
Like a fly trapped in a glass.’ As he says the words he realises this is exactly what it’s like, the wooden plaque buzzing round and round in an ever-repeating pattern, the buzzing building up in his head so loud it’s like it’ll explode, and now the itch has moved there too, burning inside his brain, his eyes; however much he claws at them he can’t make it stop.
‘Stop!’ Gill screams, her voice so desperate that it cuts through the buzzing like a knife. The planchette flies off the board straight at her and Matthew launches himself at her in a rugby tackle before it can hit her in the head. Matthew lands on the floor, Gill underneath him.
The buzzing stops. The room is silent again.
Matthew clocks where he is, lying straight on top of Gill.
She isn’t moving and for one terrible moment he thinks that in trying to save her from the planchette missile, he’s knocked her out instead, bashing her head on something on the way down.
He pushes himself up and as he does so, she moves away from him, scooting into the wall with her arms wrapped round her knees.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she says. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘I thought . . .’
‘You thought what?’
‘I thought that the planchette was about to attack you. It looked as if it was firing straight at you.’
She straightens up a little, looks at the board. ‘The planchette is where we left it.’
Matthew stands up, walks the few steps over to it. She’s right. The planchette is exactly where they left it. He puts his finger to it, deeply cautious. But it’s dead now, all life gone from it. Just a flimsy piece of plywood. He puts it back in the box, folds the board in two and places it on top.
‘I’m going to go,’ Gill says. ‘I think you need some rest. Maybe you’ll be calmer tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean any . . .’
‘I know you didn’t mean any harm. But that hurt. You scared me.’
Worse than the itching, worse than the fear, Matthew is struck by a deep wave of shame. He’s fucked it up completely, every dealing he’s had with this woman.
Not that he should even be talking to her. Any relationship he might have with her is fruit from a poisoned tree. It’s a greater betrayal than any affair he’s ever had.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.
She touches him lightly on the hand, her touch searing into him. Then she leaves. Matthew sinks to the floor, the Ouija board game still in his hands. He stays there for a long time.
His legs are numb by the time that the sun rises the next day.
He’s stayed motionless in the same spot, clutching the box, watching the corner of the room where he caused Gill to fall.
Where he tackled her to the floor, if he’s going to be honest about what he did.
All right, he didn’t hit her, but he’s used force against her, even if it was for what he thought was her own good.
Was she limping as she left? It was hard to tell.
But it had taken her a couple of beats to get up, an indication that he’d knocked the wind out of her.
This case. This case is fucking with his head so much. The responsibility of it, the stories they’ve been told. He can’t handle it for much longer, he knows that much.
At least it won’t go on for much longer.
It can’t. They must be near the end of the prosecution case now.
He’s got the picture of what they say happened, the creepy occurrences, the way that Christian was hounded down.
Hard to believe it was anything other than a vindictive campaign.
If Isobel had any decency, she’d have admitted what she’d done months ago.
The futility of it all strikes him hard. How can they ever possibly know for sure what was happening before the girl died? Only Christian knows the truth of what happened, who said what to her when. And Christian is dead.