Ride Upon Midnight: Chapter 3
The Moving Place
I’ll post Chapter 4 in a couple of days and then leave it for a while, so I don’t spam your inbox. Apologies!
Ride Upon Midnight is an occult mystery of murder, music, and ghosts.
Missed out on the first two chapters? Read them here:
3 THE MOVING PLACE
It rained all the way home and I was soaking when I unlocked the front door.
I pulled off my jacket and threw my guitar case at the wall, cracking the plaster. Ingrid ran off crying into the bedroom and slammed the door. I was so angry I grabbed the table and tipped it over, scattering plates and sheets of paper and the house keys across the floor. I was angry at myself and at my music, angry at Ivan Spencer, angry at the crack in my wall. I wanted more than anything to live up to what I was told I could be. I was supposed to be more than some cook at a bogus Italian restaurant. I was supposed to be like my father and more. He was in the USA right now, on the road doing what he loved. Every night crowds cheered and sang along to the lyrics he had written like a votive offering from his soul to the world. That’s what I should have been doing. I had notebooks of lyrics that I kept hidden away, out of fear that they would bring to life images and beings over which I had no control. This was not me.
I gently knocked on the bedroom door. When I didn’t hear a reply I opened it.
‘You in here?’ I asked.
Ingrid was sitting on the floor beside the nightstand. She had covered herself in my blanket. I knelt next to her and lifted the blanket.
‘I’m not angry with you, kiddo.’
‘No?’
‘Of course not. I’m angry with myself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t do what I’m supposed to do.’
‘My throat hurts.’
‘You want some water?’
‘I want Coco Pops.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
We ate the Cocoa Rice Puffs in the kitchen. It was late and I was tired. So too was Ingrid. Her eyes were red and she kept yawning between spoonfuls.
‘Where’s your mum and dad?’ I said.
‘Gone.’
‘Where’s gone?’
‘I don’t know. They went away and never came back.’
‘You got a name?’
‘Ingrid.’
‘No, that’s the name I gave you. What’s your real name?’
‘Real name?’
‘The one your parents gave you.’
She swallowed and pushed her bowl away. I didn’t press the issue. I hoped that if or when she was ready she would come to me. I put her to bed on the sofa and tucked her in and went to my room. I was staring at the ceiling when I saw, under the crack of the door the living room light click on. A shadow eclipsed the light, then the door gently opened.
‘Nils,’ she said.
‘What’s up?’
‘I don’t want to sleep alone.’
I grabbed an extra blanket from the cupboard and slept on the floor so she could have my bed.
I was startled awake to screaming. I turned on the light and Ingrid was sitting up in bed with her eyes open. I tried to wake her but she was unresponsive. I didn’t know what to do then she started yelling at something only she could see. I caught a few sentences. They went something like this: I don’t want to go back to that moving place. I want to stay here, where people are alive. You can’t make me go back.
I shook her awake and she immediately stopped yelling, her face smooth and emotionless as plastic. When her eyes focused she began to weep.
‘What moving place, Ingrid?’
‘I was stuck there for so long.’
‘Where is it?’
‘It’s everywhere.’
‘How is it everywhere?’
‘It’s like this place but it’s different. It’s all different. The people there are angry all the time and the children are angry and they cry a lot.’
‘It’s just a nightmare,’ I said, but the words felt weak when I said them.
‘Please don’t make me go back there.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Promise me I won’t go back there.’
‘I promise.’
I struggled to get back to sleep. What sort of things did a child have to see to be like Ingrid. I couldn’t figure out if it was some sort of abuse or if she had experienced a traumatic event or something even more sinister. She had all the qualities of a child and yet she radiated a lifetime of hidden wisdom that I couldn’t understand. I think I slept only an hour or two and I woke again just before sunrise, and then an epiphany appeared alongside the sun: I had played music for Ingrid, and I had not seen the visions.
There were no more Cocoa Puffs, so I put on a coat and went to the corner store. I put bread, milk, and a box of generic Cocoa Puffs into a basket, and then I took from the shelf a magazine with cartoons on it. When the proprietor told me the price I got out my wallet and opened it.
‘Sorry, just the milk and the cereal,’ I said.
I put down the last ten pound note I had and then raked the change into my pocket. House key in my hand, I was walking down the hallway to my flat when Jenny’s door opened. She stuck her head out.
‘Can we talk?’ she said.
‘Kinda busy right now, Jen.’
‘She’s a good kid.’
‘Yeah, she really is.’
‘You two don’t look alike.’
‘My brother-in-law is a real ugly guy.’
‘I don’t mind looking after her, Nils, but don’t treat me like an idiot. She’s not your niece. You don’t have any siblings.’
I’d forgotten I told her that.
‘Okay, sure, you’re right. I’m sorry.’
‘Who is she?’
‘I found her at the bus stop a couple weeks ago. Before you ask, I didn’t kidnap her. There was no one else around. I checked the webpage and no one’s reported her missing. I think her parents are dead.’
‘Jesus Christ, do you know how bad that sounds?’
‘I don’t care. She’s been through so much and I just want to put a bit of faith in the world back into her.’
‘That’s not your job. You have to call child services. You can get into a lot of trouble.’
‘You think I haven’t thought about that? I think about it every minute of the day, but then I think about her going into some foster house, as if that’s going to help her.’
‘That’s not your decision.’
‘You’re totally right. Look, I’ll sort it out.’
She let out her breath and looked into my eyes. ‘I don’t think you’re a bad dude. Please don’t prove me wrong.’
‘I won’t. I’m one of the good ones, Jen.’
‘But you have to call them. Or I will.’
‘I’ll do it.’
I put the cereal box on the kitchen counter and took up my guitar and tuned it by ear. When Ingrid woke I poured her a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and stirred it until the milk was chocolatey. I watched her eat.
‘I got a question for you,’ I said. ‘When I play the guitar, what do you see?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re not going to get in trouble. Do you see things?’
‘Sometimes. Not always.’
I picked up the guitar and played a simple chord progression. I complicated it a bit, playing for about five minutes, then I did the same song I played at the record studio, Like a Stone. I played it all the way through. When I stopped I looked around the room. It was all as it had been. I looked at Ingrid and she looked at me.
I told her to get dressed. I put on some old clothes that were in the wash basket.
It had rained all over Gloucestershire and the streets of Wightford were blanketed in a fog that reminded me of something out of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. My guitar case on my back, I took Ingrid with me to Machine Gun Records. When I asked to speak with Ivan Spencer the receptionist told me there were no meetings that day.
‘He told me to come back today,’ I said.
‘Sorry, there’s nothing here saying that.’
‘Will you just call him and tell him Nils Andersen is here?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
‘I took two buses to get here. I’ve taken my niece out of school to be with me. The least you can do is call him.’
‘If you want to meet with Ivan Spencer you’ll have to make an appointment.’
‘Forget it,’ I said, and I took Ingrid by the hand and started toward the exit, then I switched directions and walked quickly to the hallway door, slamming it shut behind me. I followed the hall, remembering where Ivan’s office was. We were walking over to it when I heard the receptionist yelling at me.
‘You can’t be in here, sir,’ she screeched. ‘I’ve called security. They’re on their way.’
‘All right,’ I said. I opened Ivan’s door. He looked up at me, fear coming over his face like a latex mask. Smoke curled from a cigarette butt in the ashtray on the desk.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘I’m Nils Andersen,’ I replied, pulling off my guitar and dropping the case on the floor. ‘Son of Aksel. I’m here to become a star.’
‘This isn’t the fucking star factory. Who let you in here?’
‘I tried to stop him,’ said the receptionist, her voice panicked. I kicked the door shut in her face.
‘Yesterday wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘I’m going to play the song right this time.’
‘I remember you. No, you can’t play.’
‘I’m not asking, sir.’
‘I’m calling security.’
‘I believe it’s already been called.’
I then started playing House of the Rising Sun, the same song Ivan told me he didn’t want to hear, but I knew I could do it better than anyone else had ever done it. I played it chord for chord and note for note. Ivan stood up and pointed at me, ‘I want you out of this building right this minute.’
I heard the door rattle behind me and I leaned against it. Ingrid was scared too and she was looking at me and at the door and at Ivan.
‘I can do more, listen,’ I said, and played Like a Stone. I then switched midway into a medley consisting of Ozzy Osbourne’s Hellraiser and Shot in the Dark, billowing from a place deep in my belly. I saw curiosity somewhere within the fear on Ivan’s face. I continued, all the while the door was being kicked in on the other side by whom I presumed to be security guards. I was playing Iron Maiden, and then I was just playing whatever came to me. Through the window I could see trees bending in the wind, rain peppering the ground. Lightning leaped through the clouds, chased by distant thunder.
The door caved in and I fell forward, holding tightly to the guitar. I never stopped playing, even when two guards entered. One drew the baton from the loop in his belt and raised it. The guards ripped the guitar from my hands. I wriggled and writhed, swinging my elbows about. Ivan walked out of the room. I was dragged through the corridor, my bottom lip dripping blood dots on the floor, Ingrid trailing behind us in the procession, her little legs trying to keep up. The front door was opened and I was pushed out into the street. I was told that if I ever returned they would call the police.
I sat on the curb in the rain. Ingrid stood under an alcove. Rain gushing out of the gutters. I touched my lip and looked at my fingers. Blood washing away in the rain.
‘Sorry for what you saw in there,’ I said. It hurt when I spoke. Felt like a marble in my mouth. ‘I just wanted to fix what I did. Wanted him to see that I can play.’
A little while later I saw a security guard walking down the street with a newspaper over his head. I stood up.
‘I’m going,’ I said.
‘Ivan wants to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no idea.’
I stood in Ivan’s office, my clothes dripping. Ingrid was sat on the armchair, dangling her feet. He looked me up and down as though I were an exhibit at a freak show, his hands knitted on the desk.
‘You come into my office and behave like a goddamn savage,’ he said.
I tried to speak but he barked at me and he cut me off.
‘I’m not finished. You damaged my door. You have a passion I haven’t seen in a very long time. Luckily for you you’ve got talent. I’ll listen to what you have to say.’
‘I just want a shot.’
‘How?’
‘Sign me up.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why?’
‘We already chose someone.’
‘Then I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere.’
When I turned to leave, he held up his hand.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You’re certainly one of the most versatile artists I’ve ever encountered. Completely mental, too. Where the hell did you learn to play like that? Don’t answer. You play anything else apart from rock?’
‘I can play anything.’
‘I believe you.’
He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Get rid of Billy Spokes. We’ve got a new guy. I’ll fax you his details.’
‘What are you saying?’
He rested the telephone receiver on his shoulder. ‘I’m saying I want you to work for Machine Gun Records. I also want you to pay for my new door. Hey, and if you ever pull a stunt like that again I’ll sue you.’
I signed the contract the next morning. Despite my belief that all my problems were behind me, Janet McFadden’s killer was still out there, our fates woven by the same thread.