Chapter Nine

      Impossible pain racked my abdomen. Coming and going in waves. Blackness all around me. Wind howling. Wet mud. It was coming again. The pain burnt through me like a flame forcing a scream from my lips: ‘No!’

      I couldn’t stand it. The spasms were beyond anything I had known before, racking me, taking me, unloosing a howl that came from the depths of my soul.

      ‘Oh God. Mother. No.’

      I woke myself up screaming it.

      Another nightmare I couldn’t remember, only the lingering sting of agony.

      My hair was plastered against my forehead, nightdress twisted up around me. I pulled it down and saw my hand left a red trail.

      Lifting the duvet gingerly I found myself drenched in blood. What? I wasn’t due on for another two weeks. Though I suppose everything had gone a bit haywire after Mum. I hadn’t been eating and I hadn’t been sleeping so well.

      It was earlier than I normally got up which was lucky as I had time to bundle my sheets into the washing machine and jump into the shower. Though I couldn’t dawdle: my interview was in North Essex.

      I popped a couple of ibuprofen and downed a bitter coffee then dragged my sorry arse out of the flat and into the car, submerging my nightmare in music.

      Beryl Bennett was one of those women whose age is hard to determine. She had the manner and wrinkles of a septuagenarian but the sleek brown hair of someone much younger. Her make-up, too, was quite contemporary – subtle beige eyes and a hint of bronzer under the cheekbones. Essex women always take care of themselves. Still, readers liked to know how old people were so I’d have to ask. That’d be tough on her, I thought as she put the kettle on. Though what with one thing and another, I never did find that out.

      I knew this wasn’t going to need a lot of effort – it was just a puff piece for the Essex Advertiser on Beryl’s and her son, David’s, fundraising efforts for a children’s leukaemia charity.

      I liked these little jobs. Back when I was doing news, up in the Smoke, it was so much harder; the questions more intrusive, the scenes more distressing. Down here in the suburbs and countryside, I found it quite refreshing that they filled up pages with news and events that, however mundane they might appear, actually testified to human compassion and community spirit.

      David Bennett sat opposite me at the kitchen table. He was in his late forties. A thickset man with thinning grey hair and a brown jersey pulled over the beginnings of a good beer belly. There was something in the way he moved about the semi-detached house and interacted with his mother that made me feel sure he’d never left home. When I pulled the wooden chair back to take a seat it made a squeaky noise. David made a naff joke about farting and cracked up. He had the kind of unashamed chortle that sounded well practised in the art of laughing alone. Beryl appeared to have given up being embarrassed years ago. Much as she obviously loved her son, she made no attempt to hide an outstanding ability to filter out his crap gags and howlers. Selective deafness, I think they call it.

      ‘Be a dear,’ she called to David. ‘Fetch out the biscuits.’ He instantly obeyed Mrs Bennett and went to one of the units in the corner, producing a lurid floral biscuit tin, the like of which I hadn’t seen since the seventies.

      The kitchen was decorated similarly; a pretty room, with poppy-patterned curtains that hugged a large window to some cutesy rear garden, complete with plastic flamingos. David plonked the tin on the table. ‘Garibaldi, Miss Asquith? Or perhaps a baldy Gari?’ He laughed alone.

      I smiled politely. ‘Lovely, thanks,’ and took a biscuit. ‘Please call me Sadie.’

      ‘Lady Sadie?’ he asked.

      ‘Just Sadie,’ I told him.

      ‘Maybe Sadie.’

      I said nothing.

      The corners of his mouth drooped when he saw I wasn’t picking up the ball with this one. ‘So,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got the big cheque any more. Is that okay? Your photographer came on Monday and took some photos of us holding it.’

      I shook my head. ‘No, that’s fine. We don’t need it. This is just for me to ask a few questions for the piece. Make sure I’ve got all the facts right.’

      ‘Well, we appreciate you coming down, dear,’ said Beryl, setting out a tin tray with cups and saucers. ‘I know John is grateful.’

      ‘Right,’ I said and took my notepad out of my bag. ‘So that’s John who?’

      David leant forwards as he spoke. ‘John Adamms. Two “m”s.’ He watched me write them down.

      ‘And how does John fit into this?’

      ‘He’s Polly’s dad,’ Beryl called out as she opened the fridge and took out the milk.

      ‘I see. And Polly is the little girl that died?’

      ‘That’s right,’ said David. ‘We were all very moved. That’s why we decided to raise some money.’

      Beryl brought the tray over to the table and lifted the cups, milk jug and teapot onto the lace doily in the centre. ‘Tragedy. Life is full of it. Milk and sugar?’

      ‘Just milk please. And so how do you know the Adamms?’

      Beryl heaved herself into a chair. Her thin, wrinkled hands passed me a cup of tea then nudged David’s towards him. ‘They’ve been part of our group for a while now.’

      ‘And what group is that?’

      ‘The Hebbledon Spiritualists.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said and looked up. No one had mentioned anything about nut bags. I’d assumed it would be your usual sponsored walks and coffee mornings. No wonder the staff writers had farmed it out.

      Beryl noticed my reaction and grinned. ‘We’re not screwballs, you know. Quite your everyday sort of people. We have accountants in our group, PAs, bus drivers. Bob’s a fireman.’

      ‘And we have a Postman Pat.’ David grinned.

      Beryl smiled at him with the sad acceptance of parental disappointment.

      I made a note about the Spiritualist group. ‘So how did you raise the money? It was a fair bit wasn’t it – a thousand pounds?’

      David replaced his teacup into the saucer and leant towards me. ‘£1050,’ he said and watched me write it down again. ‘It was £1031.75. I made it up with my own money. People like nice round figures.’ He looked at my notepad. I didn’t write it down.

      ‘Wow,’ I said to Beryl. ‘Not bad.’

      Mrs Bennett tested her tea with her tongue. ‘We’re getting more of the general public coming along to meetings now than ever before. But believe it or not, there are still a fair few people out there who have some odd notions about Spiritualism.’

      No kidding, I thought. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘In this day and age …’

      ‘Yes, I know.’ Beryl made a