A Twist of the Knife

Ghost painting

This fictional account is based on the second of the two true stories that Francis Wells, the chief Minister of Deliverance of the Anglican Church, told me when I asked him if ever, during his experience of dealing with the paranormal, he had encountered anything for which he had no rational explanation, and which had convinced him of the survival of some element of the human spirit beyond death. As before, to protect their privacy, I have changed the names of the people involved and the precise location. This incident occurred shortly after he had taken up a post which gave him direct responsibility for Sussex.

The house had a sad look about it, Meg Ryerson thought, as she stood in the rear garden with her husband, Paul, and the estate agent. Then they walked around to the front again, along the narrow passageway down the side and through the gate, squeezing past the bins.

The interior needed modernizing and the garden, which was a good-sized plot, had been badly neglected. But Meg did not mind that; she had always wanted a garden. The street itself was bright and pleasant, lined with a mixture of bungalows, semi-detached houses and small, detached ones, like number 8. But strangely, on this sunny morning, the house looked like it was permanently in the shade. Meg was good with colours; it had been one of her strengths at art college a decade ago. Perhaps, she thought, standing on the pavement in front of the house now, it was the drab grey paint on the pebbledash rendering on the walls that was doing it.

Whatever.

The house just wasn’t ticking many of the boxes on their list. She’d set her heart on somewhere with character, and her dream was one of those elegant white villas in one of the Regency terraces in the Clifton area of Brighton, steeped in history, with canopied windows and views over the rooftops towards the sea. But in all the particulars they had seen — and they had seen a lot, from just about every estate agency in the city of Brighton and Hove over the past three months — those houses had always been out of their price range.

This small, detached Edwardian house, with four bedrooms — two of them tiny — was in a pleasant but uninspiring street that ran south of Brighton’s Dyke Road Avenue. It ticked just two of the boxes on their list. The first was that it had a really nice outbuilding at the end of the garden which could, with some TLC, become a studio for Meg to paint in. The other was that it was in their price range — just.

‘It does have character,’ the agent said. ‘And of course the location is very sought after. Just a short walk from the Hove recreation ground and Hove Park. You could make this into a very lovely home.’

‘Position,’ Paul said to Meg. ‘Don’t they say that the three most important things in a property are location, location and location?’ He looked at the estate agent, who nodded confirmation.

Meg gave a wan, dubious smile, wondering what it would feel like to live here.

‘At the price they are asking,’ the agent said, ‘it’s a bargain.’

Paul led Meg a short distance away, down the street, out of earshot of the estate agent. ‘The thing is, darling, you have terrific taste. We could buy this, transform it, and in a couple of years we could make a good profit on it, and then be able to afford something we love more, perhaps in the Clifton area.’

Megan stared up at the mock-Tudor gables, then the brick-tiled carport and the integral garage, feeling a conflict of emotions. Paul was right: it was a great buy. It had a nice garden at the back, with three beautiful, mature trees, and the wooden structure at the far end could make a pleasant studio. But...

But.

It really was so suburban.

Was it John Lennon who said, Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans? What would happen if they bought this place and then, for whatever reason, they couldn’t sell it in a couple of years? She knew from experience that life never did work out the way you planned it. What if they ended up stuck here for years? Spending the rest of their lives here? Could she be happy in this house forever?

And suddenly she realized she was being ungrateful. There were many people who would love to live in this area, and she was lucky to have a husband who worked damned hard, in a job he didn’t particularly enjoy as an accountant in a small Brighton practice, to support her ambition to become a portrait painter. OK, so it didn’t have the character she had dreamed of, but they were still young — she was thirty-one and Paul was thirty-three — and if the family they had been hoping to start did come along, this was actually a good and safe location to bring up young children.

‘Why are the owners selling?’ she asked the agent, a smartly dressed woman about her own age. ‘They’ve only been here just over a year, right?’

‘The husband’s an economist with an oil company. From what I understand, he got offered a five-year contract in Abu Dhabi, with the chance to make a lot of money, tax-free. They had to make a quick decision, and they took it. They’ve already gone, and I’m told they are throwing in all the carpets and curtains — and they’ll sell you any of the furniture you’d like at a good price.’

‘Carpets and curtains cost a fortune,’ Paul said, ever the accountant. ‘That could save us several grand easily.’

Megan nodded. None of the rooms was furnished to her taste, but they could change that, she supposed, in time. Not having to buy curtains and carpets was a big saving — but not enough to justify buying a house you did not love.

But, she had to admit, the agent was right on one thing. This house was a bargain — and would be snapped up quickly.

They moved in on a Friday in late May. Megan was feeling a lot more positive about the house, and already thinking ahead to Christmas that year. The dining room was big enough to seat ten people at a pinch, unlike the one in their flat in Kemp Town where six had been a squeeze. They could have Paul’s parents, her brother, her sister and brother-in-law and their four-year-old over. Magic!

By Saturday afternoon, they had got the old-fashioned kitchen, their bedroom and the lounge straight. The dining room, the two spare bedrooms and the garage were still filled with unopened tea chests, put there by the removals company. The summer house at the end of the garden — in reality little more than a glorified shed — was a long way from being habitable, so she had made the lounge into a temporary studio, setting up her easel at one end, and laying out her paints on an old trestle beside it.

At around tea time they had both come close to losing the will to live, and were looking forward to an evening out at the trendy fish restaurant at The Grand — GB1 — with their best friends, Tim and Sally Hopwood.

For the past week, Megan had done nothing but pack, pack and then unpack. She’d been covered in dust from head to toe, and had begun to despair of ever looking human again. But tonight, hey, she was damned well making an effort! They were in their new home, and today was the start of their new life. She felt happy about the house now, loved the view from their bedroom out across the long, narrow garden, with the summer house at the far end — beneath the three beautiful old trees — that would, one day, be her studio. She had started making big plans for the garden, sketching out a design which included a Zen pond, a brick-walled vegetable plot and groups of shrubs.

Paul was in the small third bedroom, upstairs, facing the street, which he had commandeered as his home office, working away on his computer. Megan stepped out of the shower and into her dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her head like a turban, and sat down at her Victorian dressing table. She stared into the mirror, and began to apply her make-up.

And froze. A shiver snaked through her.

In the reflection she could see a middle-aged woman standing right behind her, on one leg, supported by crutches. The woman was staring at her, as if curious to watch the way she was applying her make-up.

For an instant she did not dare move. It felt as if a bolus of ice had been injected into her veins. She spun around.

There was nothing there.

She felt an icy chill crawl up her spine. She broke out in a rash of goose pimples that were so sharp they hurt her. She could, literally, feel her hair rising from her scalp, as if pulled by a magnet.

For some moments she wanted to shout for Paul to come up. But if she told him what she had just seen it would sound stupid, she thought. And besides, she knew that he was well aware she did not love this house, but had agreed to buying it and moving here because it was a good investment opportunity. With his logical mind, he would give her an explanation that would make perfect, rational sense.

So she said nothing.

They went to dinner with their friends and had a great time. Later, in the taxi heading home, nicely fuzzed with several glasses of the delicious wine Paul had chosen, Meg dismissed what she had seen earlier. It had been her imagination working overtime, she decided. They went to bed, and all was fine. All was fine again, throughout Sunday. And Monday.

On Tuesday, one of Paul’s clients had invited them both to a dinner at the Hotel du Vin in Brighton. Paul warned her in advance that the client was big in international media, rich and flash, and to dress to kill.

After several hours of retail therapy on the Monday, Megan again sat in front of her dressing table mirror at 6.30 p.m. on the Tuesday night, putting the finishing touches to her make-up. Then she saw the one-legged woman again, standing behind her.

She spun around in her chair.

And again saw nothing.

But this time she was convinced it wasn’t her imagination.

In the back of the taxi on the way to dinner, she was about to tell Paul what she had seen when the cab driver, a strange little man, suddenly said, ‘Nice perfume, madam. Armani Code?’

‘Yes!’ she said, delighted. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I know these things, uh-huh.’

She grinned at Paul and squeezed his hand. Then she whispered to her husband, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Later.’

‘I’m all ears!’

Shortly before midnight as a taxi dropped them home, she waited until they had entered the house and closed the front door behind them. Then, emboldened by a little too much wine, she told Paul what she had seen on Saturday night, and again tonight.

Maybe it was because he had drunk too much also, but his reaction was less sceptical than she had been expecting. ‘If she’s appeared so vividly, why don’t you paint her portrait, darling?’

‘Maybe I will,’ she replied thoughtfully.

Despite a hangover the next morning, Meg set up a fresh canvas on her easel in the living room, then sketched in pencil, the way she always began any portrait, the woman’s head and shoulders. So clear was her memory of what she had seen that within half an hour she had begun painting. The face of a handsome woman in her early fifties, with elegant, brown wavy hair tinged grey in places, and wearing a soft green cardigan over a cream blouse, began to appear. As she stood back for a few moments, she noticed a sad expression in the woman’s face.

She reminded her of someone, and then she realized who. She looked a little like a younger, less beautiful and less vivacious sister of the actress Joan Collins.

She was so absorbed in her work that two hours passed without her being aware. Then the ringing of the doorbell cut through her concentration.

She was irritated by the interruption, and for a moment was tempted to ignore it and carry on. But there was a ton of stuff she had ordered online for the house, so she put down her brush and walked through to the front door, not wanting to risk missing a delivery.

To her surprise, a pleasant-looking silver-haired woman of about sixty stood there. She was dressed in a baggy tracksuit top, shapeless brown slacks and trainers. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Jenny Marples. My husband and I live right opposite you, at number 17. I’m also the local Neighbourhood Watch co-ordinator. Just thought I’d pop over and say hello to our new neighbours!’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Meg said, and she meant it. So far she’d not seen a soul in the street, and had been planning to pop round to all their immediate neighbours to introduce herself. She invited Jenny Marples in for a cup of tea, which the woman enthusiastically accepted.

They went first into the kitchen, which Meg was a little embarrassed about as it was so drab and still very untidy, part of the work surface and the table still piled with crockery and kitchen utensils she had not yet found a permanent home for. While the kettle was coming to the boil, Jenny Marples said, ‘We barely met the previous owners, you see, they were here for such a short time. They moved in, and then, almost before we’d even got to know their names, they’d gone! Overseas, I’m told.’

‘Abu Dhabi. Do you take milk? Sugar?’

She set their cups and saucers on a tray, shook out some chocolate digestives onto a plate, then led the way through into the living room.

‘You’re an artist?’ Jenny exclaimed.

‘A struggling one! I’m hoping to get some commissions.’

‘You’re good!’ her neighbour said. ‘That is really—’

Then she stopped in her tracks and peered more closely at the portrait on the easel. She turned, with a frown. ‘Is that yours, or did you find that here?’

‘It’s mine,’ Meg said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. ‘Sort of a work in progress.’ Then she caught the strange look on Jenny Marples’ face. ‘Found it here? What do you mean, exactly?’

‘Well... that’s extraordinary! You see...’ her neighbour’s voice trailed off. She stared back at Meg. ‘Is it someone you know?’

Meg felt her face redden. ‘Well, not exactly, no. I—’ She watched the woman’s face closely, feeling a deepening sense of unease as she peered even more intently at the portrait.

‘That’s Alwyn!’ she declared. ‘Alwyn Hughes! You painted this? You really painted this?’

‘I did.’

‘The likeness is incredible. I mean it, incredible. It’s her!’

‘Alwyn Hughes?’

‘You must have copied this from something? A photograph perhaps?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’

‘She used to live here!’

Meg felt the goosebumps rising up her back. ‘When... when was that?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t. Please tell me.’

The two women sat down opposite each other on the sofas. Jenny looked at her strangely, then back at the portrait again. ‘You didn’t hear the story? The estate agent didn’t tell you?’

‘The estate agent told us the previous owners had only been here a short while. Shortly after they moved in, the husband was offered a very lucrative contract for a five-year posting in Abu Dhabi. My husband, Paul, who’s an accountant, explained to me that if you want to go into tax exile, you cannot own a home in the UK — so I understand that is the reason why they had to sell the house.’

Jenny Marples nodded. ‘That would make sense. They were such a nice couple; they fitted so nicely into the neighbourhood. We were all sorry when they left so suddenly.’ She sipped her tea, then glanced at her watch.

‘What didn’t the agent tell us?’ Meg asked.

‘It was really so sad, so sad. Alwyn and her husband moved here around the same time that my husband, Clive, and I did. She loved this house so much — well, you know,’ she said, tapping her nose in a conspiratorial way, ‘this is rather an exclusive area. A lot of people dream of living in Hove 4. It was a bit of a financial stretch for them, but her husband had a job with good prospects, she told me, and although they had mortgaged up to the hilt, their children had grown up and were off their hands, so she hoped that within a few years their financial situation would improve considerably. But they had the most terrible luck.’

She sipped more tea, and fell silent for some moments.

‘What was that?’ Meg prompted, shooting a glance at the portrait.

‘Well, she told me they’d been up to Yorkshire to spend Easter weekend with her husband’s parents, in Harrogate. On their way back down the M1 they’d been involved in one of those horrific multiple-vehicle motorway pile-ups. They were rear-ended by a lorry and shunted into a car in front. Her husband was killed instantly, and she was trapped in the car by her legs. They had to amputate one of them, her right leg, to free her.’

Meg felt as if she had been dunked in an ice bath. She recalled, so vividly, the woman she had seen in the mirror, standing behind her on one leg. Her left. Goosebumps crawled over every inch of her skin. ‘Poor woman,’ she said. ‘Poor, poor woman.’

‘Terrible.’

Jenny drained her tea. Meg offered her another cup, but the woman looked at her watch anxiously. ‘I have to be going,’ she said. ‘I have a charity fundraising committee meeting.’

‘What else can you tell me about Alwyn Hughes?’

She saw Jenny glance at the portrait, as if it was making her increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Well, the thing is — the thing that is so sad — is that she loved this house so much. But she had no sympathy from the mortgage company, nor their bank. Her husband hadn’t got any life insurance — well, he had, but he’d stopped payments apparently some months before because things weren’t going too well at work for him. She did her best to try to get a job, to earn enough to keep up with the mortgage payments, but who wants a middle-aged woman with one leg? The building society were in the process of foreclosing. She should have let them — they had some equity in the house, and she could have bought a little flat with it — but, poor thing, she couldn’t see through that. So she hung herself in their bedroom.’

The story is best told from Francis Wells’ perspective from now on.

I was approached by the Reverend Michael Carsey, a vicar of the Church of the Good Shepherd, and parish priest for the area of Hove 4 in the city of Brighton and Hove. He had been contacted by two of his parishioners, Paul and Meg Ryerson, with a story that he found convincing, but was uncertain how to deal with the situation. He suggested I should talk to them myself.

I visited their very pleasant house, and found them to be very down-to-earth people, both from Anglican backgrounds, but lapsed. The wife, Meg, was more of a believer than her husband, Paul — but that’s not to say he was a sceptic; in my view he was more of an agnostic.

I listened to their story, about the apparition of the one-legged woman, and the subsequent verification of her identity from a neighbour. I studied the portrait myself and compared it to photographs I was subsequently able to obtain of the deceased, Alwyn Hughes, and there was little doubt, in my own mind, that the two were the same person.

I decided that, perhaps owing to the manner of her death — suicide — the spirit of Alwyn Hughes was earthbound, which in layman’s terms means that the spirit was unaware the body was gone and was manifesting in familiar territory in an attempt to find it.

Whilst nothing of a specifically malevolent nature was occurring, the sightings of Alwyn Hughes were clearly deeply distressing to both Paul and Meg Ryerson, and affecting their quality of life. After interviewing them in depth I became further convinced that they genuinely believed what they had seen.

Neither of them had suffered any bereavement of a family member or friend within the past two years, and they were both, in my opinion, of sound mind, intelligent and rational people.

The tragic story they told me of the past occupants of their property checked out, with the death of Mrs Alwyn Hughes registered, following the inquest and the Coroner’s verdict, as suicide whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed.

I decided that the appropriate, if exceptional, action to be taken in the first instance should be a requiem mass, held in the room in the home where the sightings of the apparition had taken place.

On 3 June, I attended the Ryersons’ home, accompanied by a young curate, an extremely rational young man who had begun his career as an engineer and who, I knew from many conversations with him, had a problem, as I did myself at that time, with the conventional image of the Biblical God. So, if you like, we were two sceptics turning up to help two equally sceptical, but very scared and confused people. However, I had decided on a highly conventional approach. We were to hold a full requiem mass, essentially a full, high-Anglican funeral service, in an attempt to lay the unrested spirit to rest.

We set out on a table all the requisites for a full communion, and began the service, with Paul and Meg Ryerson standing in front of us. Part of the way through, as I had broken the bread and given them both the host and was about to offer the communion wine, suddenly each of them went sheet white and I saw them staring past me at something.

I turned around, and to my utter astonishment I saw a woman standing on one leg, on crutches, right behind me. She gave me a quizzical smile, as if uncertain what to do.

Totally spontaneously, I said to her, ‘You can go now.’

She smiled at me. Then, as if in a movie, she slowly dissolved, until she had vanished completely. I turned back around to face the Ryersons.

‘Incredible!’ Meg said.

‘That is unbelievable!’ her husband said.

‘What did you both see?’ I asked them.

Each of them, fighting to get it out first, described exactly what I had seen.

I was invited to their home, for a very boozy dinner, a year later. It looked, and felt, like a totally different house. It wasn’t just the complete décor makeover it had had. It was imbued with a positive energy that had been totally lacking, or suppressed, previously.

I often think back to that night I saw the one-legged lady, Alwyn Hughes. Had she been a product of my imagination? I think not. But if not, then what, in this rational world of ours, had I seen? A ghost?

Yes, I truly think so.