Ghosts Know (3 page)

“She didn’t leave one.”

“That’s what Josie’s telling us. There’s no need for anyone to be concerned about it. You should all share whatever she’s left for you.”

“There’s only me and my sister.”

“She seems to think there’s a partner as well.”

“My sister’s married. I’m not.”

“That’s what Josie’s saying. She won’t mind if they share with your sister.”

“Are you sure? Josie didn’t get on with him at all.”

“That’s why she’s saying this now. She’s at peace with it and she wants you all to be. Wait, there’s something else she wants you to know. What was it that was very valuable to her? Don’t tell me, she’s trying to show me. Something bright. Are we talking about jewelry?”

The elderly woman nods once more. “It was a brooch her mother gave her for her twenty-first.”

“That’s it, her birthday brooch. And then was it lost? Josie thought it had been stolen, didn’t she? She accused someone of stealing it. She said you had.”

The elderly woman dabs at her eyes. “She accused all of us.”

“That’s right, her very words. Well, now she knows you didn’t take it, and she wants whoever finds it to have it. You haven’t yet, have you?”

“To tell you the truth, we’ve been too upset to look.”

“Believe me, Josie doesn’t want you to be. She’s promising to do her best to help you find it. She’ll always be with you. She’s at your shoulder
now.

“Well,” the woman says and for a moment seems unable to continue. “Thank you, Mr Jasper.”

“Call me Frank. That’s what I am.”

If it weren’t for the contents of my pocket I don’t know whether I’d be able to keep my anger to myself. Jasper has begun to range along the edge of the stage, so slowly that I’ve time to wonder what he’s looking for. “We’re still down here at the front,” he says, and I glance about for clues he might plan to build on. He’s only holding out one hand now, which could mean he isn’t so sure of himself, but more likely he’s devising his next trick. His face lights up as he steps closer to the pit and extends his other hand. “I’m getting an uncommon name.”

The more specific he is, the more it will betray he’s obtained the name beforehand. “Is it Delbert?” he says and frowns at someone, presumably himself. “Or Hubert? No, wait, I’m getting it now. Is there a Herbert here?”

I wouldn’t be surprised. Surely others in the audience have noticed that the names are growing less unusual. When nobody reacts he tries another ploy. “It’s his grandfather who wants to get in touch with him, an old man with a stick.”

Does he really expect anyone to think this is out of the ordinary? Too many of his fans will believe what they’ve paid to believe, but the price of the tickets is simply inflaming my rage. “He wants you to remember he was on your side,” Jasper says as if this isn’t true of any number of grandparents and their grandchildren. “Was it when you were in some kind of trouble as a child? He’s telling me it involved the police.”

I’d like to glance around and see how many people are finding this applies to them, but I don’t want to draw his attention. “Was it your father who called them?” he’s saying “He accused you of something and your grandfather put them right. Didn’t your father say you’d attacked him?”

It’s becoming uncomfortably personal. I can’t imagine that most of his listeners would want to claim it for their own, at least until Jasper says “You were only standing up for your mother.” I expect some of the audience would be happy to have that said about them, but Jasper carries on. “Your grandfather was always defending you both, wasn’t he? Otherwise you’d have been treated worse.”

I grip the edge of the seat with both hands to ensure I don’t inadvertently shift and catch his eye. “You were still treated bad, weren’t you?” he says as if it’s practically unknown for anyone to think that of their childhood. “Didn’t your father lock you and your mother in the flat when he went out for a drink?”

I’m unaware of shaking my head until Christine turns to look at me. As I shake it more tersely and fiercely to warn her against singling us out, Jasper says “He didn’t like your grandfather visiting, did he? Wasn’t there something he used as an excuse to tell him not to? Wait, he’s showing me. He used to smoke a pipe and your father said it made him sick. Didn’t you think it looked like a pipe in an old magazine?”

He’s good at his act, I’ll give him that. Until you analyse them some of these details seem uncannily precise. “Hey, you thought it made him look like Sherlock Holmes,” he says. “That’s why you figured he’d sort things out for you and your mother.”

This isn’t going to reach me. I’m not paralysed, I’m just keeping still so as to stay unnoticed. “Now he’s showing me somewhere with a whole lot of tenements,” Jasper says, which could refer to quite a few districts of Manchester. “That’s where all this happened, isn’t it? Don’t tell me what it’s called,” he says as if I would, and I swallow a laugh at the idea that he’s addressing the voice in his head. “It’s Hulme.”

Christine peers at me, although surely I didn’t react. Is that what’s obvious—my determination not to? “He remembers the balcony outside your apartment,” Jasper says. “What happened there, that’s why he made things right with the police.”

I won’t look at Christine, and I wish I didn’t have to face him either just now. I do my utmost not to blink or to display any expression as he says “You were trying to protect your mother. Your father dragged you out and hung you off the balcony by your feet, and the neighbours had to make him stop.”

“No.”

If I say this aloud it’s surely under my breath, but Jasper gazes straight at me. “He knows you find it hard to believe,” he says, “but he wants you to know he’ll be by your side whenever you’re ready to acknowledge him.”

He steps back from the footlights and raises his eyes while Christine keeps hers on me. “Now there’s someone in the balcony,” he says. “Who’s the lady who recently went into hospital? I’m hearing about one of several children…” If he’s even slightly psychic he ought to be able to sense my glare on him. He’ll need a spirit guardian by the time I’ve finished with him. He won’t know what he’s dealing with until tomorrow.

As I unlock the hefty Victorian door of my apartment Christine says , “What’s actually wrong?”

“All right, that was me. It was all me.”

She waits outside Walter Belvedere’s agency until I turn the knob that brings up the light in my hall. “What was, Graham?”

“The boy with Sherlock for his grandfather and a staggering drunk for a dad.”

“I didn’t know,” Christine says and shuts the door as if she’s making sure we won’t be overheard. “Frank Jasper didn’t just say that, though. Didn’t he say Herbert? That isn’t your name.”

“It used to be.”

W. C. Fields is exchanging looks with Jackie Coogan across the hall. The eyes of all the vintage film posters are easier to ignore than Christine’s scrutiny, which follows me into the kitchen. “You never told me,” she says.

“It was my father’s. I don’t need to tell you why I dropped it”

She looks mostly reproachful. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Not a thing. We’re done with it That isn’t me any more.” Any guilt I feel is for not having visited my mother or even called her on the phone for weeks. I’ve turned the kitchen light up full, intensifying the blackness of much of the room—the cupboards, the furniture, the work surfaces, the tiles on the floor and walls. “Are we having coffee?” I propose rather than ask.

“If we want to stay awake.”

“I need to think before tomorrow.” Filling the percolator doesn’t seem to help, and as it starts to creak with heat I say “He had to know that name in advance. Someone must have tipped him off.”

“Who are we talking about, Graham?”

“I don’t mean you, not consciously anyway.” Nevertheless as I sit on a spindly chair I say “Are you absolutely sure you didn’t give them anything he could have used?”

“I don’t see how when I didn’t know your name,” Christine protests and sits opposite me at the round black wafer of a table. “I said the tickets were for Francis and you saw I paid cash at the Palace.”

“Maybe the name was a bit too clever. You rang up from Waves, didn’t you? That’s it, of course,” I say and almost take her hand. “That’s where you called from to arrange our interview as well. He’d have traced the number and put the two together, and he had hours to find out all about me.”

“That can’t be it, Graham.”

I’m disconcerted by how much I resent this. “Why not?”

‘Any calls we make from Waves, the number’s automatically withheld.”

“Then someone must have recognised me at the theatre. That’s why I wanted to get there as near to the start as we could, to give him less time to check up on me, him or whoever’s working for him. I wish I’d sent you to pick up the tickets. You could have given me mine and I’d have got there late.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit too suspicious?”

“No, I think I wasn’t nearly suspicious enough. It’s a good job I was careful with this.” I unbutton my collar and unclip the tiny microphone before lifting the recorder out of my pocket. “If he tries to deny anything he said,” I tell her, “here’s the proof.”

“I didn’t know you had that.”

“I didn’t want you to.” This time I do take her hand. “If you knew you might have given it away,” I murmur. “I know you wouldn’t have on purpose.”

My attempt at gentleness isn’t helped by the need to raise my voice in competition with the robust burbling of the percolator. Christine pats my hand before opening the cupboard above the glass hob to take out a brace of mugs. She gives me Not Drowning, my suggestion for a Waves slogan Paula didn’t like and I suspect didn’t understand, and then resumes her seat with On Your Wavelength, her slogan Paula chose. She sips her coffee until I have to say “Is it my turn to ask if something’s wrong?”

“Are there any more secrets you’ve been saving up for me?”

“Those weren’t secrets, they were just things that aren’t worth knowing. We all have a few of those.”

“I didn’t think we had any. You know everything about me.’”

“I know you’re my cute producer and a psychologist as well.”

“I’ve got a few letters after my name, that’s all. Good at writing essays but who knows if I’d have been much use at the job.”

“You’re good with all kinds of people, Chris. There are too many graduates to go round, that’s the trouble. You said you saw someone from your graduation year working in a supermarket.”

“We’ll all be working for Frugo soon.”

I need to get back in touch with Hannah Leatherhead. I haven’t mentioned her to Christine yet, but I will once I’ve learned if there’s a definite offer. Instead I say “I do think with all your knowledge—”

“I ought to be making more use of it and not hiding away from the public.”

“I was only going to say I’m surprised you can’t see through the likes of Frank Jasper.”

“Maybe there’s more to see than you want to think, Graham.”

“It sounds as if you’d like there to be. That’s not like you,” I say but have to add “Is it?”

“I don’t believe psychology can explain everything. There has to be more to all of us than that.” With a hint of reproach Christine says “He found out more about you than I had.”

“I told you how.” Having left her unconvinced brings me close to rage, certainly only with him and his tricks. “Tomorrow I’ll prove it,” I assure her. “And honestly, now you know everything you’d want to know.”

“Well, here’s something you didn’t know about me.” Christine takes rather more than a sip of her coffee as a prelude to saying “I told you Oliver started knocking me about and that’s why I left him. He’d lash out if he couldn’t win an argument, and I’d got tired of letting him win.” Another swallow of coffee lets her say “He kept telling me he’d had an abusive childhood as if that was an excuse. He even tried to make me feel it was up to me to understand him.”

“You know I’d never do that. I hope you know.” When Christine only gazes at me, at least without disagreeing, I add “And see, you had a secret after all.”

“It isn’t the same, Graham. It wasn’t about me.”

I know better than to argue under all the circumstances. She finishes her coffee and glances at the recorder lying dormant on the table. “If you’re going to be busy with that,” she says, “I’m off to bed.”

I don’t need to be psychic or even a psychologist to read her mind. “It can wait till the morning,” I say, and soon we’re on top of the quilt in the bedroom. The subdued light is all I need in the way of mystery. Her firm cool fingers on my back and her legs around my waist feel like forgiveness as well as the delicious messages they’re sending to my nerves. We don’t need words when we’re so close. I’m deeper inside her than any question could take me, and surely she feels united with me. We can forget about false spirits, as if there’s any other kind, and even about investigating them while I have Christine in the flesh. At last we gasp, sharing our breaths, and as we grow peaceful in each other’s arms I remember wondering as a boy why people called it the little death. This kind of dying I can live with, and before long we come back to life.

“Police are appealing for anyone who’s seen Kylie Goodchild since the twelfth of May to contact them. Remember that was Diversity Dividend Day…”

The twelve o’clock news is cranking up my irritation while I wait for Frank Jasper—not the content of the newscast or even Sammy Baxter’s chummy tone, but the way she links each item with the next. “Meanwhile in Baghdad a car bomb has killed at least twenty people…” What does she mean by meanwhile? It reminds me of captions in old cinema serials and makes me feel as if she’s trying to bundle the randomness of the world into a narrative that will lend it sense. One of the injured came from somewhere not too far from Manchester, which apparently renders the carnage more significant, though not for long in terms of airtime. “And now in sport there’s rumours of new blood at Manchester United…” I might be tempted to broadcast some wry comment once the news ends with the weather, but my jingle intervenes, and the Wilde Card slogan reminds me why I’m here. “Wilde is right,” I say. “Graham Wilde here, the Wilde man of Waves. Today I’ve got a special show for you. Clairvoyant Frank Jasper has agreed to leave the stage and take questions. Can he predict what’s coming? I’m hearing a voice in my head that tells me he’s here even though I can’t see him.”