The author has worked in the Charity sector for 20

years and lives in South London.

Mike has two children. He enjoys reading history, and
debating all things supernatural, or having a religious
theme. The author is also a student of Criminal
Psychology.

To my Son George

Mike Nelson

THE MEMORY
CARRIERS

Copyright Mike Nelson

The right of Mike Nelson to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 84963 883 8

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Contents

Rebecca Robinsons Matriarchal Ancestry

Prologue The Old Mill

Nightmares

19

The Nervous Psychologist

37

Rebeccas Family

58

Quest For Peace

70

The Memory Carriers

80

The Haunted House

95

The Rebel

111

The Iron Lady

130

Alice and the Chair

147

Oyster Knives

162

Tangled Lives

179

Blood on Their Hands

204

Passion Killers

220

Race Against Time

238

Victims Galore

256

Brain Damage

277

Bedlam

298

Rebeccas Regression

317

Policemans Brawl

325

Epilogue

336

An Idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little

before it will explain itself.
Charles Dickens

Rebecca Robinsons Matriarchal

Ancestry
Rosalind Mary Dwyer
18361855
[Memory carrier Novice]
Sister to Emily Louisa
Hamilton; 1834 unknown
also known as Bloody Red
Louisa.

The former died in Southwark

Workhouse The latter murdered
in Bedlam Asylum.

Enid Margaret Connelly

1855 1885
[Unknown spiritual location]

Died in childbirth; Southwark

Workhouse.

Lillian Rosemary Rothman

1885 1969 [Memory carrier]

Died in Trinity Hospice

Clapham Common North Side
London.

Alice Bethany Lane;

aka, Travelling Alice;
[Memory carrier Status under
threat].
1908 1993

Died in Creature Comforts

Rest Home, Worthing,
West Sussex.

The lawn is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return

Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,
The sad intangible who grieve and yearn
T.S. Eliot Playwright & Literary Critic.

Prologue The Old Mill

He was a young man on a mission and as he glanced down

through the curled handlebars of his Raleigh racing bike he
saw only freedom on the paths below him. The day was so hot
that the black tarmac had started to melt, bubbling up from inbetween the grey surface of the roads. Sweat poured down his
face into his eyes, causing them to sting.
Sean Robinson had ridden this same route dozens of times
and yet he still felt a sense of what was a mixture of
excitement and anticipation, as he neared the narrow alleyway
leading to the long, winding lane. Thoughts of the lane always
made his adrenalin flow and up until today he had no idea
why. There was no rational explanation as to why a simple
stretch of rural pathway should intrigue him so much. Maybe it
was the loneliness of the place, maybe the stories were true?
The Old Mill Lane was the only connection between the
residential area of the district where Sean lived with his
mother, father and baby sister and the fields he so loved to
escape too at every opportunity. The entrance to the lane was
insignificant enough, being identified by the last row of newer
houses in the area, before announcing the arrival of the
countryside. The new builds representing an ever expanding
city, being added to with each year that passed. Even at this
relatively carefree time of life, Seans sensitivities caused him
to fear the disappearance of trees, fields and all the wildness of
nature he loved to be surrounded by.
As the eleven-year-old cycled on, he soon reached the
brook that wound through almost the entire length of the lane.
Lately, Sean had noticed that it wasnt unusual to find prams
and shopping trollies, from one of the many supermarkets in
the area or just plain old garbage to have been hurled into
the once unspoiled stream. He despised the habits of the
residents who encroached upon his paradise from the nearby

council estate. He wondered why everyone couldnt appreciate

the beauty of the simple, pretty brook that supported his
favourite stickleback fish and black velvet tadpoles.
After Sean had continued on for no more than a few
hundred yards along the narrow path, that ran adjacent to the
brook, the road widened leading to what he regarded as the
lane proper. Half way down the dusty road in his estimation
about a mile long and the exit into another world of rural
escape, stood the big lonely mill house.
On both sides of him were hedgerows of hawthorn, privet
and blackthorn. The hedge walls around him seemed
incredibly high and Sean was mesmerised by the way in which
holly trees had managed to weave their way among the foliage.
It was as if the prickly intruders were trying to hide within the
shrubbery and yet had a subversive character of their own,
planning to covertly overtake the whole lane and dominate the
entire stretch along the lonely path.
There was another feature of this place and of the intrigue
that had so captivated Sean. No matter how often or at what
time of the day or year he travelled along the lane, he couldnt
ever remember encountering another single soul! Despite the
fact that the lane was a perfect pathway between two distinctly
different worlds, so conveniently connecting the overcrowded
urban community, to the stunningly peaceful rural realm; it
was and had always felt like the most abandoned place on
earth.
Sean had passed the house hundreds of times, but had
always avoided staring straight at it, just in case all of the
stories that surrounded it were true. Urban myths and
ridiculously exaggerated tales of grizzly goings on had been
doing the rounds at all the local schools. Spectres seen at the
broken windows, or the more elaborate story, that had grown
to be so popular with his own classmates.
How ridicules, he thought! The idea of a runaway
convicts ghost, holed up in the house for two hundred years.
The story was, that old grey beard as he was often referred as
could sometimes be seen inside, lighting a fire and dancing
wildly with a family who had moved into the house, so that