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What’s Behind You
Paul Finch
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
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
“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
