A Line to Kill

So at ten o’clock, I made my way down to the hotel’s screening room, which was certainly not the sort of place Noel Coward would have chosen to set a séance. It was relentlessly functional, windowless, of course, with chunky leather chairs on a modern black and white striped carpet and recessed lights. Presumably it had been put in for the hotel’s corporate guests. Certainly it was nothing like the antiquated cinema just up the road.

Sid had arranged for a table and four seats to be brought in. These had been placed on a raised platform in front of the screen. Elizabeth Lovell was already sitting down. Sid was fussing over her, pouring her coffee, making sure she was comfortable.

Hawthorne had arrived just ahead of me. To my surprise, he was holding a glass of red wine that he must have brought from the bar. It made no sense. That very same evening he’d told me that he never drank alcohol. Maybe it was for me. He sat down at the table and placed the glass beside him, on the floor. I took the last place, next to him. If anyone had come in, they might have thought that we were about to play bridge, but, foolishly, had forgotten to bring the cards.

Sid was the first to speak. He was so short, he had slipped down behind the table and, like a child, peered across the top. ‘They’re both here,’ he told his wife unnecessarily, as she must have heard us. ‘Let me explain a few things,’ he continued. ‘This is very hard for Liz. It’s not usually what she does and she’s only doing it because she wants to help you.’ He grimaced. ‘Personally, I advised against it. When she deliberately makes the journey to the other side of the mirror, she has no idea who she may come up against. You were there when she gave her talk on Saturday. They’re not ghosts. They’re not spirits. They’re not always friends. What she’s doing tonight is the difference between wandering into someone’s private property by accident and deliberately trespassing. There can be repercussions. Whatever happens, do not get out of your seats. Do not touch her. Do not interrupt. Do you both understand? If she needs help, that’s what I’m here for. I know what to do. You just stay where you are.’

It was well rehearsed and smoothly delivered. But it was still mumbo-jumbo. It might have convinced the Jersey police when they were searching for a lost kid in a nature reserve, but I didn’t believe a word of it and nor – I was sure – did Hawthorne. He was sitting silently with his hands folded in front of him. I tried to catch his eye, but he avoided me.

‘Are you ready, love?’ Sid asked.

Elizabeth nodded.

‘I’m right next to you. I’m with you all the way.’

‘Thank you, Sid.’ She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, her hands resting on the arms of the chair. She didn’t go into a trance. There were no exhalations, no rolling of the eyes. If anything, she might simply have dozed off. I had thought Sid would lower the lights, but they were still on at full strength. Despite that, I was aware of the shadows in the corners of the room. The four of us were very still.

‘Is there anybody there?’ Elizabeth asked. I was surprised that she had started with such a cliché. Surely she could do better than that?

Nothing. Just the sound of her breathing.

‘Phyllis? Consuela? Alessandro?’

‘These are reflections who have appeared to her before,’ Sid explained, in a whisper. ‘With a bit of luck, one of them might come forward.’

Consuela was a Spanish name and Alessandro an Italian one. I wondered if Elizabeth would be able to speak to them in their own language. Or did everyone speak the same language when they died, trapped in some sort of eternal Google Translate?

Three or four minutes passed. Elizabeth seemed to be searching with her unseeing eyes while Sid waited nervously. Hawthorne was showing no emotion at all. The séance was about as action-packed as the empty screen behind us and I was beginning to think that the main feature might have been cancelled when Elizabeth suddenly tensed. Her head jerked, first one way, then the other.

‘There is someone …’ she announced.

‘Who?’ Sid whispered.

‘I can’t see. I can’t see. They’re getting closer. They’re coming towards me now.’ Her voice wavered, on the edge of fear. ‘I don’t want to hurt you! I just need your help!’ She was addressing whatever presence was gliding towards her and I was annoyed with myself: I was almost unnerved. ‘It’s Marlon!’ she exclaimed.

Sid visibly relaxed. ‘Marlon is a friend,’ he whispered. ‘He’s helped us before.’

‘Dear Marlon! Please forgive me for disturbing your rest, but I need help. Can you help me? Can you tell me anything about a man who has recently crossed to the other side? His name is Charles le Mesurier and he was taken before his time, violently. He must be in great pain and we only want to give him comfort.’