Free Haunted by James Herbert

things.’
    ‘We could collect them from your place on the way.’
    He wondered why he was searching for other reasons not to stay. What the hell was wrong with him?
    ‘Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,’ Kate said.
    ‘I’d really love to stay tonight. This is me begging.’
    Too late, of course, but her hand tightened over his.
    ‘Perhaps we can talk later,’ she said.
    She meant when they were naked together, bodies touching, darkness isolating them from all else but each other. A time of vulnerability and responsiveness.
    ‘Do we need to?’ he asked, the weight of his question obvious to her.
    She closed her eyes briefly. ‘You know we do.’
    They had needed to, but they didn’t talk later that night. Kate made the attempt, but even she was exhausted by their lovemaking. David might be moody, might be annoyingly introverted at times but, she mused, he never lacked passion. And thank heaven for that.
    Kate steered the Saab off the roundabout, heading for Winchester. There should be a sign for Wrexton soon. She took a look at Ash and saw that he had dozed off, his head sagging forward, chin almost touching his chest. Thanks a bunch, she thought. Always nice to have good company on a long drive. At least he’d offered to use his own car, but one, she didn’t like its condition, and two, she didn’t like the condition in which he sometimes drove. He wasn’t totally irresponsible, but one day they’d get him when he was just over the limit. Might be a good thing if they did.
    David, wake up, she said silently, wake up to yourself. For both of us, before it’s too late.
    ‘Wake up, David,’ she said aloud. ‘We’ll soon be there.’
    He did.
    But, she thought, not to himself. Not yet.
    The church door was half-open. Ash stepped through and received no comfort: if anything, it was cooler inside the building than out. Were churches always this cold? Spiritual warmth was one thing, but attendances might be up if these places of worship also provided physical warmth. He went to the centre aisle, the echoes of his footsteps sharp and loud. He amused himself with the notion of ghostly pacing, a step behind his own.
    Ash paused, looking down the wide aisle towards the nave and altar. Nothing sinister here, he told himself. Just miserable gloom. For Ash, there was nothing uplifting about the high altar with its cross and candlesticks, its linen cloth drably grey in the dismal light from the stained-glass windows. He was about to turn away when he noticed someone kneeling at the communion rail.
    He heard voices behind him, one of them belonging to Kate, and he glanced over his shoulder to see her and, he assumed, the Rev Michael Clemens entering by the door that he, himself, had used moments before. Rev Clemens was in his early- or mid-forties and was thin of face and frame, perhaps his strongest feature the glasses he wore, hornrimmed, the lenses thick around their edges. When Kate introduced the two men to each other, the vicar’s handshake was a single jerked gesture; he offered no smile, only anxiety.
    ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will be able to convince my bishop that St Mark’s is no longer the place for Christians.’
    ‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea,’ Ash replied. ‘My intention is to prove that there isn’t anything unholy going on here. At least, not in the sense of a genuine haunting.’
    The cleric looked at Kate. ‘But I thought—’
    ‘In most cases of so-called paranormal or supernatural activity investigated by the Psychical Research Institute the cause is usually found to be perfectly natural, although the circumstances may be mysterious,’ she told him. ‘David has a certain expertise in unravelling those mysteries.’
    ‘I see.’ Rev Clemens seemed disappointed. ‘I think you might not be so successful on this occasion.’
    Ash was moderate in his reply. ‘I should tell you that this kind of thing is nearly always the work of vandals or the