What’s Behind You
Paul Finch

Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

First published in paperback in The Ninth Black Book of Horror by Mortbury Press, 2009

Copyright © Paul Finch 2016

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016

Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008173746

Version: 2015-12-18

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

What’s Behind You

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

“I’ve never really experienced anything genuinely spooky or supernatural,” Pendleton said. “With one exception.”

The rest of us were all ears.

Pendleton was a dominant figure at the far end of the dining table. He was a tall, lean man with longish white hair, bright eyes, a sharp patrician nose and a square jaw. His blue velvet smoking jacket, frilled shirt and ruffled neck-cloth, far from making him look a dandy or eccentric, gave him an almost regal bearing. His clipped, resonant voice – despite his North Country background, he spoke perfect ‘BBC English’ – was entirely in keeping with his current role as Slade Professor of Fine Art at University College.

The wives in our small social group were particularly fascinated by him. He was the only one of us who was single, though he’d been married at least twice in the past. He drove a classic Daimler and lived in a large detached villa on the outskirts of Gerrards Cross, furnished with the utmost taste and style.

“Do tell us, Roy,” Kirsty insisted, batting her spider-leg lashes at him. It was Halloween, and, with the exception of Pendleton, who always attended every function just as he was now, we’d dressed for dinner in accordance with the season. Kirsty was in ‘Goth’ persona: a high Pompadour wig dyed black, black eyeliner, black lipstick and a wraparound black silk dress. Her husband, Kevin, was more grotesquely clad in the bloodstained scrubs of a demented surgeon (somewhat disturbing, given that he was a surgeon by trade). I had come as Dracula in a black evening suit, a red-lined cape and white face make-up that was drying and cracking as the evening wore on. My actress wife, Liz, was decked as a sexy witch (I still can’t work out when it was that Halloween witch-wear moved from stick-on warts and crooked carrot-noses to thigh-boots, fishnet stockings and exposed décolletage). It was a similar story for the other two couples present: thoughtful combinations of horror chic and middle-age sensuality. Of course, despite the time we’d taken attiring ourselves, as the evening had worn on much splendid food had gone down, good wine had flowed and we’d all become a little sated. Rounding things off by nibbling cheese, sipping cognac and airing a few ghost stories had seemed an excellent if somewhat traditional notion, though up until now Pendleton hadn’t participated.

“Please do, Roy,” Kirsty beseeched him, placing a hand complete with long, black-lacquered fingernails on his arm. She wasn’t flirting as such. Kirsty was a famous party-giver in our Buckinghamshire village, and treated all her guests with great attentiveness. “If this is something that’s really happened, I’m sure we’d all be interested to hear it.”

“Well …” Pendleton shifted position in his chair. “I need you all to understand that I can’t explain this event. It’s just something that happened. It may have a rational explanation, but if so, I never discovered one. It concerns Sir James Ravenstock.”

“The famous Welsh painter?” I said.

“The very same,” Pendleton replied. He didn’t seem surprised that I knew of the man, but then I was a lecturer in social and economic history. Deciding that his audience was sufficiently rapt, Pendleton leaned forward, hands on the table, his long, slender fingers laced together. “Sir James was a close acquaintance of mine for several years, and is integral to this tale. Allow me to elaborate …”

*

It was back in 1960. I was just seventeen years old, and on the Fine Arts course at the Wigan Art School, in Lancashire. It was a very well thought-of establishment even in that rather depressed and industrialised part of England. Over the years we’d had some fairly illustrious names on the teaching staff – Lowry, Isherwood, Major. But the one in charge when I was a student there was Sir James Ravenstock.

It amazes me now, but at the time so many people took his presence on the faculty for granted, and yet he was a hugely successful artist, who had already produced an extensive and exquisite body of work. To this day, fifteen of his paintings are in the permanent collection at the Tate. He’d only come north because he found the industrial landscapes an inspiration, much as he had done during his youth in his native South Wales. He was an excellent tutor, not just a good communicator but very thoughtful of his students. He was also a little set in his ways. He lived in a rural bungalow at the end of a rutted farm track, which you’d have been lucky to get a car along. This didn’t trouble him as he didn’t drive. He preferred to cycle everywhere, though this was less to do with physical fitness and more to do with his being a technophobe. He had no television or radio, though back in 1960 that wouldn’t have been quite as startling as it would now.

His wife was significantly younger than he was, fair-haired and very pretty. Her name was Prunella. I understood that he’d first met her when she was modelling for him. We often used to nudge each other and express hope that she might someday come in and pose for us, but no such luck I’m afraid. Anyway, it was the end of the summer term that year, and at his own expense, Sir James had arranged for our class – seven of us in total – to travel down to the Gower Peninsula in South Wales, room in a comfortable boarding house at Rhossili Bay and take advantage of the wonderful summer light they get in that part of the world. Cornwall is very popular with painters because it boasts this incredible natural light, not to mention its epic seascapes and stunning coastal scenery. But the Gower boasts similar if not better, and is far less expensive.

Of course, back in those days South Wales was a long way from Lancashire. To get there we had to catch a train to Manchester, change at Cardiff, change to a bus at Swansea, by which time an entire day would have passed, and even then it was another hour’s journey to Rhossili. As I recall, on the morning in question we were all required to meet at Wigan Wallgate Station at some ungodly hour like six o’clock. Sir James had the furthest to travel to reach the railway station – he lived far out of town, and wasn’t even close to a bus route. So I volunteered to assist. I was still living with my parents, and my father was a colliery deputy. He used to work what we in the north called ‘the back-shift’, which meant that he finished around five o’clock in the morning. As such, it wasn’t too inconvenient for him to give me a lift to the station at that early hour, and he agreed that en route we would divert out of town and collect Sir James from his house.

It was a glorious July morning, the sun already high and the birds twittering. But it was quite a surprise when we arrived at Sir James’s bungalow, and found the front door closed and no sign of activity. I’d never been there before, and if I’m honest, the whole place was a little bit rundown. Sir James was not a bohemian type; he was quite dapper in public, so I was taken aback to see an untidy and overgrown front garden, with elms and sycamores clumped tightly around the house, their branches literally lying across its roof. My father was more concerned about the state of his undercarriage after negotiating the tricky country lane; he now wondered gruffly why “the old dear” wasn’t ready and waiting. He had no natural liking for the educational course I was pursuing, though thank God he never objected sufficiently to stop it. We waited, the Morris Minor chugging away, and still there was no sign of Sir James. It was very perplexing. My packed rucksack was stowed in the boot, along with my easel, my canvases, my brushes and boxes of paints. At the very least, I’d been expecting Sir James to be waiting at the front of his house with similar accoutrements. At length, my father advised that I’d better go and “wake him up”.

I climbed out, wandered up the path and knocked on the front door. There was no response; not even a sound from within. I walked around to the rear, which was also badly kept. The lawn had not been mown in some considerable time. There was such heavy underbrush down either side of it that it was difficult to see where the flowerbeds ended and the encroaching hedgerows began. The garden’s far end was a mass of rank, interwoven weeds, which must have come to chest height, and this was where I finally spotted Sir James; he was emerging from these with hoe in hand – as if he’d been doing a spot of early-morning gardening. On seeing me, he approached along the lawn with a puzzled frown on his red, sweaty face. He was fully dressed, but his shirt and trousers were stained with leaf matter. His hair, normally neatly combed, hung in a mop of limp strands.

“My goodness, is it today?” he said, when I reminded him of our impending departure. “My goodness! I suppose I’d better get a move on.”

“Is everything alright, Sir James?” I asked.

He nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, absolutely. Do forgive me, erm … Mr Pendleton. I knew we were going to Wales this week, but I must have lost track of the time.”

It was a little bit worrying, I suppose – that a man should lose track of time to such an extent. But I was young. It never occurred to me that he might have some kind of problem. I doubt I’d even heard of words like ‘dementia’ or ‘senility’, and even if I had, I was so excited about going on holiday somewhere other than Blackpool that I gave it no real thought. Anyway, everything was soon resolved. Not five minutes later, Sir James appeared at the front of the house, valise and silver-headed cane in hand, wearing a shoulder-caped greatcoat and hat (he always wore this rather flamboyant fedora, which, he being such a short man, looked ridiculous on him, though we never dared to say anything). He thanked us profusely as I opened the rear passenger door for him. My father nodded and smiled tolerantly. Just before I climbed in, I glanced up and saw Sir James’s wife watching us from an upper window. She was half-concealed by the curtain, which was a good thing as she only appeared to be wearing a wrap of some sort, but she cut a lonely, rather forlorn figure. It struck me, and not for the first time, that marriage to someone significantly older than oneself was always likely to be fraught with problems.

Not that this lingered in my mind for very long. After all, we were now embarked on our much anticipated holiday, though of course we still had a monumentally long and boring train journey ahead of us. The early stages of this were enlivened by one of the other chaps, by the name of Gibbon, who’d picked up a paperback from a newspaper stand on the station platform. It was the now-famous Pan Book of Horror Stories

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