The Haunting of Emily Stone Page 10

  “Well, here I am!”

  Six hours later, as the sun came up and the party finally started to fade, they were still at the kitchen table, still talking about the work Robert was undertaking, and already making plans to meet again so that Jenna could get involved. Finally, they headed off to find breakfast somewhere, still locked in conversation.

  ***

  Today

  “I just wanted to catch you in your non-hungover, non-drunk state,” Jenna explained with a faint, sad smile as they made their way along the path that led to the faculty building. “Which is basically between two and five each afternoon.”

  “Come on,” Robert replied, “I'm not that bad.”

  “Oh, you are,” she continued. “Seriously, Rob, you're that bad, everyone -” She caught herself just in time.

  “Everyone's saying it?” he asked.

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Great, so I'm the campus drunk now. Don't people have anything else to talk about? I mean, sure, I like a drink now and then, but so what?”

  “To drown out the sense of a fading, unfulfilled career?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Working on any new papers? Any projects? Dare I ask, even a book?”

  “I'm mulling over a few ideas.”

  “I thought so. Bugger all. What about your private life? Any women on the go?”

  “I keep busy,” he told her, bristling slightly at the suggestion. “We can't all be shooting academic papers out of our -” Hearing howls of laughter nearby, he turned and saw a group of female students running out of one of the nearby buildings. “Do they have to be so loud?”

  “I know!” Jenna replied sarcastically. “You should totally tell those goddamn kids to get off your lawn!”

  “So now you think I'm a grumpy old man?”

  “You love that persona. You embrace it with gusto.”

  “I am fifty-four.”

  “I'm fifty-two,” she replied. “Hell, Tom's fifty-five, and he's taking me skiing next month in Switzerland. I'm not telling you that to brag, Rob, I just thought I should remind you that there are other options. You don't have to sink into an irascible decline just yet.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Jane bloody Fonda,” he muttered. Spotting a police car up ahead, parked by the faculty building's main entrance, he frowned. “What do you think they want?”

  “Could be anything,” she replied. “Maybe someone in your department has been naughty? You don't have a secret weed factory hidden somewhere, do you?”

  “Don't be ridiculous.”

  “Pity,” she added with a faint sigh. “It might do you some good.”

  ***

  “She gave you my name?”

  “She said you might be able to shed some light on what's been happening,” Detective Carver replied, with a tone of voice that made plain his extreme doubts. An unshaven man in a crumpled suit, he had the doughy complexion of an alcoholic. Taking a book from the shelf, he took a look at the title before setting it back down as if he had no idea what to do with it. “She said you're the only person who might understand. She kept saying your name over and over, so I figured it was worth a shot. Bloody hell, you've got a lot of books in this office. How many are there? A thousand?”

  “At least. But hang on, has Emily Stone actually been arrested?”

  “She was picked up at approximately six o'clock this morning,” Carver continued, “on suspicion of causing serious bodily harm to a child.” He looked up at the top of one of the bookcases for a moment, before turning to him. “I know, right? Sick.”

  “What happened?”

  “A receptionist at a motel in Coltreath called us with her concerns. She noticed that Ms. Stone's daughter had significant bruising on her face when the pair of them were leaving the building. The receptionist stated to us that the child had no signs of bruising when they'd checked in a few hours earlier. When uniform arrived, they found Ms. Stone and her daughter in a nearby alley, eating sandwiches purchased from a shop around the corner. Seems like Emily didn't want people seeing her daughter's face for some reason. The report stated that Emily seemed to be in a distressed state, and that her daughter was crying.”

  “So you think Emily beat her daughter?”

  “We're keeping an open mind, but for now Elizabeth Stone has been taken into protective care and Emily Stone is being held at the local station. Given the circumstances, as well as Emily's refusal to explain the bruises, plus previous reports that have been made by teachers at Elizabeth's school, we have no option but to act. When a child is in danger, that child's welfare has to be our primary consideration.” He sighed. “There are forms about this kind of thing. Lots and lots of forms.”

  “So she hasn't admitted it?”

  “She's barely said anything at all. Not even to the duty lawyer we got for her.”

  “She just told you to come and speak to me?”

  Carver nodded.

  “Do you...” Robert paused for a moment. “Do you know about Emily's past?”

  “Course. Who doesn't? It was all that ghost bollocks, wasn't it?” He sniffed derisively. “And you're the guy she and her mother were trying to con, yeah? No offense, but everyone in town kind of knows Emily's story, she's like the local celeb. Apparently they tried to get her on Big Brother a few years ago, but she turned them down. Dunno why, would've been fun.”

  “Listen,” Robert replied, trying not to seem too dismissive, “I haven't had anything to do with Emily Stone for more than twenty-four years. She emailed me yesterday, but that was nothing, just part of whatever mania she's going through.”

  “You heard from her, Sir?”

  “Just a quick message.”

  “And what did she want?”

  “She said something about it all starting up again, but I'm not interested. It's just bullshit.”

  “The ghost stuff?” Carver asked, with a barely-concealed smile.

  “The ghost stuff.”

  “Which she and her mother admitted, twenty-four years ago, was all a hoax?”

  He nodded.

  “And now,” Carver continued, “she's, what, changed her mind and decided to pretend it was real again?”

  “She seems to be claiming that part of it was real all along,” he replied. “I guess she's going through some significant mental gymnastics to avoid facing the truth.”

  “What was your impression of her state of mind when you read the email?”

  “I'll get a copy for you,” Robert replied. “She seemed fairly rational. She wasn't a gibbering lunatic or anything like that, but it was hard to really get much of an impression. Obviously, the fact she was getting in touch with me showed that something isn't right in her head.”

  “But the things she said in the email...”

  “I wasn't interested in getting involved in a long discussion,” he replied, opening his laptop and bringing up the email. “I've moved on from that sort of thing, I don't have anything to do with paranormal investigations these days, and even if I did... I mean, there's just no way I could take her seriously, so I politely but firmly turned her away. She certainly didn't say anything that made me think she could be a danger to others, or I would've done something about it.”

  “I've got to be honest with you, Sir, we're considering sectioning her under the Mental Health Act. If we do that, and assuming she doesn't submit to the process voluntarily, it might be useful to have your testimony on her state of mind.”

  He clicked to print the message. “I couldn't really say anything useful.”

  “But from your perspective, she seemed to have suddenly come out of the woodwork, as it were, and started talking about things that go bump in the night? After twenty-four years, that seems somewhat significant.”

  “Yes, but -” Heading over to the printer, he waited as the message came out, and then he took it over to Carver. “The girl, Emily's daughter... What exactly is the nature of her injuries?”

  “Bruises on the face, mainly.” He
took a look at the printout.

  “Consistent with having been beaten?”

  “We're not sure yet. She won't say anything, but someone's gonna examine her later today and then we should have a much better idea of what happened. As you can imagine, it's a bit of a delicate situation, what with her being just a kid. Can't just have anyone going in and prodding her, can we?”

  “But you're certain her mother is responsible?”

  “We're struggling right now to see how there could be anyone else involved. Those bruises had to come from somewhere, and they're all over her face. It's impossible to believe it could have been an accident.” He sniffed again, as he folded the printout and slipped it into his pocket. “In my experience, these things always turn out to be exactly what they look like. The simplest explanation usually fits.”

  “So if...” He paused again, imagining Emily sitting in a police cell.

  “I really don't mean to detain you for too long,” Carver said finally, sounding a little bored. “If I could just take a brief statement regarding your thoughts on Ms. Stone's state of mind, I can be on my way and hopefully this can all get wrapped up pretty quickly. Unless you want to agree to her request, that is.”

  “Request? No, I'm not going to see Emily Stone. Are you crazy? I'm not interested in that at all.”

  “That's not actually what she wants,” Carver replied. “She asked us to speak to you about her daughter Elizabeth. That's who she wants you to see.”

  ***

  “You're considering it?”

  “God, no,” he muttered, as he continued to roll a fresh cigarette. They were sitting on a bench outside the university's cafeteria, with students hurrying past in every direction, and it was time for his post-lunch smoke, which he took daily with almost religious zeal at precisely 1pm. Sometimes, he was able to persuade Jenna to join him, even though he knew she hated the smell of cigarettes. “Do you think I'm insane?”

  “Blatantly, but that's beside the point.”

  He smiled.

  “I think you're curious,” she continued, watching him with a hint of concern. “I can already tell you're thinking about the whole thing, I can see a spark of actual passion in your eyes, Rob, and it's been a long time since I could say that. Plus, if there's a child involved, don't you think you have an obligation to help?”

  “That's just the point, I can't help. I'd just be helping to perpetuate this bullshit. It needs to end.”

  “Sounds easy.”

  “Yep.”

  “And very convenient for you.”

  “That too.”

  “And there's not a part of you that finds this interesting?” She waited for a reply. “That part of you can't have died completely, Rob. I know it's scrunched up in your soul somewhere.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “It can't have died,” she continued. “I know you got burned twenty-four years ago, and I know you made a conscious effort to change course, but you're still the same man you were back then. Older, crustier, with a little more of a gut, but you haven't changed that much, I know it. At least, that's the hope I've been clinging onto all these years.” She paused again, hoping that he'd start to come around to her way of seeing things. “Don't you remember what it was like to be young and curious? To think that there might be things out there that we don't understand? To want to help people?”

  “And then to get shat upon by liars and hoaxers?”

  “You used to believe in possibilities. I miss that version of you.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her not to be so sentimental, but after a moment he saw that there was a hint of pain in her eyes. It was almost as if she longer for the days when, in their twenties, they used to sit around talking about the possibility of ghosts being real.

  “Why would you say something like that?” he asked, forcing a smile, hoping to make a joke of it all. “I wouldn't have told you about the email and the detective's visit if I thought you were going to make it into a thing.” As he finished rolling the cigarette, he realized she was simply staring at him, as if something was on her mind. “What?” he asked. “You're creeping me out.”

  “Forget it,” she said finally, getting to her feet and hauling her backpack onto her shoulder. “Do what you think is right.”

  “Do what's right? I'll tell you what's right. Abandoning all that stupid research all those years ago, after it became clear that the field was dominated by hoaxers, that was right. Accepting that I was on the wrong path, that was right.”

  “And you never replaced that work with anything else,” she pointed out. “Your curiosity, your passion... You let those things wither and die.”

  “Thanks for the lecture.”

  “You never got upgraded to an office with windows.”

  “Windows wouldn't suit my personality.”

  “Ouch.”

  He laughed. “What?”

  “Nothing, just... If you'd asked me all that time ago how I thought you'd end up, I would never have guessed it'd be like this.”

  “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  A sad smile crossed her face.

  “It's none of my business,” he added. “Emily Stone is in the past. I don't believe in any of that crap, not anymore.”

  “Let's assume you're right,” she continued. “Let's assume there's no such thing as ghosts, never has been, never will be. Let's assume the whole idea is just a figment of humanity's collective imagination, something we use to scare ourselves. If that's true, then what's really going on here?”

  “With Emily and her daughter?” He paused. “Emily is obviously mentally unbalanced, probably as a result of the lies her mother made her tell when she was a child. Now that she's an adult herself, she's perpetuating those lies and trying to use her own daughter to have another shot at the whole thing, most likely because that's how she was brought up, because it's how she was taught to see the world. It's possible she's doing it cynically, because she thinks she can make money, but this time I think the more likely explanation is that she really believes it's true. It's very sad, really. Nothing to do with me, I hasten to add, but sad all the same.”

  “So you think she gave the bruises to her daughter?”

  “Maybe she doesn't even remember doing it, but... Yes, that's the most rational explanation.”

  “They were on the girl's face, right?”

  He nodded.

  “So you're saying that she beat her daughter's face? She sat there and pummeled her own daughter's face, and now she's forgotten doing it? Instead, she thinks a ghost did it all?”

  Lighting the cigarette, he took a drag and then blew smoke out. “I'm saying that.”

  “Kind of extreme, don't you think?” she asked.

  “People are extreme sometimes.”

  “And that doesn't interest you?”

  “Of course, but -”

  “Remember the book you were going to write when you thought Joyce and Emily were telling the truth all those years ago?”

  He smiled. Twenty-four years ago, the idea had been so fresh and vibrant; now it just seemed like the kind of youthful over-exuberance that older men were glad to have slipped.

  “I'm serious,” she continued, nudging his arm. “You had notes for it, remember? You'd even started to write parts of the damn thing.”

  “That was when I thought Emily and her mother weren't full of shit.”

  “I used to sit on the bed in your flat,” she added, “wearing one of your old shirts, proof-reading the early chapters.”

  “You always took that stuff too seriously.”

  “That was good work, Rob,” she continued, with just a hint of frustration in her voice. “I used to wake up in the middle of the night and find that you'd got up to go through and start scribbling some more.”

  “I didn't want to wake you.”

  “You had passion back then. You were driven.”

  “Passion's overrated. It's juvenile.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “
Passions blinds us.”

  She stared at him with a hint of sadness in her eyes, before looking away, as if she didn't like what she was seeing.

  “Let's not talk about it anymore,” he said after a moment.

  She forced a smile, before hearing a beeping sound in her pocket. Taking out her phone, she saw she had a missed call.

  “It's Tom,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You're right, this is dumb. I should go and -”

  “It was going to be a bestseller,” he said suddenly, hoping to keep her from walking away. “I was really full of myself back then, I thought I'd discovered the mother-lode. I had all these ambitions. A book tour, lectures... Do you remember how we once planned to combine the whole thing with our honeymoon and -” He paused, suddenly realizing that this was the first time in many, many years that he'd mentioned their broken engagement. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Youthful over-exuberance?” she asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “I do remember,” she told him, “and a lot has changed, but you can still write that book. If it's not about ghosts, then it can be about a woman who grew up and was unable to throw off the shackles of her childhood, and about how her mother screwed with her mind. And it can be about a man who believed her and had his faith broken. Whatever you choose to focus on, there's still a book to be written about Emily Stone's story. And yours.” She paused for a moment. “Besides, the Robert Slocombe I know, the Robert Slocombe I spent a lot of time with back in the day, would never just leave a little girl to suffer if he thought he could help.”

  “I can't help. Plus, Emily's not a little girl anymore. I can't go back and -”

  “I don't mean Emily. I mean her daughter. You could at least drive up there and meet the girl, hear what she has to say, find out what's really happening. Maybe you couldn't do anything for her, but maybe, just maybe, you could. Either way, you've got a unique insight into the situation. It'd be a shame if you didn't do anything with that insight, but... Just make your own decision. Do what you think is right.”