For my lovely friends—Anna, who first introduced me to Mike, and Henny, who earns her living getting people to listen to him.
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
Floyd bounced the ball on the ground three times, held it to his racket for a moment, and then threw it into the air in a move he had practiced at least a hundred times a day for the last eight years. His body lifted onto his toes, he swung the racket back up and slammed the ball toward the far side of the court.
As he did so, a movement to his right caught his eye. It was only a momentary distraction, but it meant the ball was a half inch lower in the air when the racket struck and, instead of skimming over the top of the net, it grazed the canvas webbing and deflected fractionally upward before landing back in the court.
“Net!” called the umpire. “First service.”
Floyd took a second ball from the clip around his waist and glanced up at the spectators. What he saw didn’t entirely surprise him.
It was Mike. Of course.
He was walking along the top row of the tiered seating, his ankle-length black coat billowing behind him in the breeze, and then he turned and began moving down the steps.
Spectators are not supposed to walk around in the stands while a game is in progress. Once a match has started, they stay in their seats and don’t move because moving will distract the players. Bouncing the ball a few times, Floyd decided to wait. Presumably, Mike wanted to sit in one of the rows lower down, where he would be closer to the action, and there was no point trying to continue the game until he had settled.
Mike walked all the way down the steps but, to Floyd’s surprise, instead of finding himself a seat, he opened the gate in the barrier that surrounded the court and walked over to the umpire’s chair.
“When you’re ready, Mr. Beresford!” called the umpire.
Clearly, he hadn’t noticed Mike, who was now standing a little behind and beneath him.
Floyd pointed with his racket. “You’ve got a visitor,” he said.
The umpire frowned. “Is something wrong, Mr. Beresford?”
“Yes,” said Floyd, still pointing at Mike. “Him.”
The umpire’s frown deepened and he glanced down at Mike before looking back at Floyd. “I … I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, I can’t play while he’s on the court, can I?” Floyd wondered why the umpire was being so slow. “Could you ask him to leave, please?”
There was a restive murmuring among the spectators, but the umpire made no move to get Mike to leave. His fingers hovered uncertainly over his scoring pad as he looked around.
Floyd’s father came onto the court, a look of concern on his face as he walked over to his son. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” said Floyd, “except that I can’t play with him there, can I?”
“Who?”
“Him!” Floyd pointed at Mike. “Why does everyone seem to think that someone walking onto the court in the middle of a match doesn’t matter?”
Over by the umpire, Mike carefully studied the sky before turning to face Floyd. “Why don’t we go for a walk?” he said. “By the sea.”
“I am not going for a walk!” Floyd told him firmly. “I am playing tennis. Now, would you please just … go away!”
“I didn’t say anything about going for a walk,” said his father. “And I’ll be happy to go away as soon as you tell me what’s wrong.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Floyd. A part of his mind was trying to work out why everyone was behaving so strangely. “I was talking to Mike.”
“Mike? You mean he’s here?” Floyd’s father looked sharply around the court. “Where?”
“There!” Floyd pointed. “He’s standing right over there!”
His father looked at the umpire’s chair and then all around the court. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, “but I can’t see anyone.”
“But … but …” Floyd blinked. How could his father not see Mike? He was standing only a few yards away, wasn’t he? What did he mean, he couldn’t see him? A small tremor of alarm ran through his body as he stared at the figure that, apparently, no one else could see.
“It’s all right!” Mike smiled as he raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Nothing to worry about. I’m a friend.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Beresford had followed her husband onto the court. “What’s happening?”
“He says he can see Mike,” said Mr. Beresford in a low voice as he pointed to the umpire’s chair. “Over there.”
Mrs. Beresford looked in the direction her husband was pointing and frowned. “But there’s nobody there!”
“Yes, there is!” Floyd protested. “There’s Mike.”
“All right, old fellow.” Mr. Beresford put an arm around his son’s shoulder. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?”
“No!” said Floyd. “I don’t want to call it a day. I’m playing tennis.”
“No, you’re not. Not this afternoon. Come along.” Mr. Beresford took his son by the arm. “We’re going home …” And he led his son gently from the court.
It wasn’t quite the ending to the tournament that any of them had planned.
Floyd’s parents took him to Altringham House, a private hospital on the outskirts of Sheffield that specialized in sports injuries. Floyd had been there before on several occasions, with problems ranging from a torn neck muscle to a chipped ankle bone, and Dr. Willis, who ran the facility, greeted them like old friends. Although it was seven o’clock on a Sunday evening when they arrived, he was waiting for them in reception, and ushered them straight through to his office.
One end of the office was furnished with two enormous leather sofas facing each other on either side of the fireplace, and he motioned Mr. and Mrs. Beresford to one of the sofas, while sitting himself next to Floyd on the other.
“Your father gave me the broad picture on the phone,” he said as a nurse brought in a tray of coffee and sandwiches and placed them on the table in front of him, “but you’d better fill me in on the details. What happened exactly?”
Floyd explained how he had been playing in the last match of a three-day Under-18s tournament at Scarborough when Mike had appeared.
“He was winning the thing hands down,” put in Mr. Beresford. “He’d won the first set six–two, and he was up five–one in the second and serving for the match.”
“So …” Dr. Willis turned back to Floyd. “You were all set to chalk up another Beresford victory when … the invisible man appeared.”
“He wasn’t invisible to me,” said Floyd.
“No.” Dr. Willis hel
ped himself to a sandwich. “How did he do it? Appear, I mean.”
“He was just … there,” said Floyd. “I saw him walking along the top of the stand. Then he came down the steps. I waited, because I thought he was just looking for somewhere to sit down, but he came out onto the court and stood there by the umpire. I couldn’t understand why someone didn’t tell him to leave. It wasn’t till Dad came over that I realized that …”
“That no one else could see him.” Dr. Willis nodded sympathetically as he finished the sentence. “That must have been quite alarming for you.”
“Yes,” said Floyd. “It was a bit.”
“I take it, from the fact that you knew his name, that you had seen this ‘Mike’ person before?”
“Yes. Several times.” Floyd found himself sweating slightly. Dr. Willis’s questions were gently put but made him realize how strange all this must seem to anyone else—indeed, how very strange it all was.
“And when you saw him before … what sort of things would he be doing?”
“He’d be watching, mostly. You know. I’d see him standing in the crowd while I was playing, and he’d be … watching.”
“Had he ever spoken to you before?”
“A couple of times,” said Floyd. “But that was when I was practicing on my own.”
“And he seemed quite normal?”
“Yes! I never understood why he was there, but … he always looked perfectly real.”
“Hmmm …” Dr. Willis sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. “Interesting.”
“What do you think it is?” asked Mrs. Beresford nervously.
“Well, that’s what we have to find out, isn’t it?” Dr. Willis put down his cup. “I think it would be best if Floyd stayed here tonight and we’ll run some tests on him tomorrow, but I’ll give him a quick check-over now, if that’s all right. Make sure there’s nothing urgent to attend to.” He stood up. “We won’t be more than a few minutes.”
Dr. Willis took Floyd through a door at the far end of his office that led into a consulting room, where a nurse with a clipboard was already waiting. He gestured to Floyd to take a seat on the examination couch and stood in front of him.
“Just a few questions to start with,” he said. “Any headaches recently?”
“No,” said Floyd.
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Aches and pains in the muscles?” The doctor probed with his fingers at the glands under Floyd’s jaw.
“No.”
“Any trouble sleeping at night?”
“No.”
“Are you taking drugs?”
The question took Floyd rather by surprise. “No,” he said. “Never.”
“I don’t just mean recreational drugs.” Dr. Willis looked carefully at Floyd as he spoke. “A lot of athletes know that taking certain chemicals will enhance their performance in some way. Have you been … experimenting with anything like that?”
“No,” said Floyd. “Absolutely not.”
“Sensible fellow!” Dr. Willis smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, in that case, I suggest we go back and finish those sandwiches, while Janice here sorts out a bed for you.”
“Thank you,” said Floyd. “Can I ask … I mean … Is it serious?”
Dr. Willis put an arm on his patient’s shoulder as he steered him toward the door. “I think anything that puts you off your tennis is extremely serious, but I don’t think you need to worry too much. Whatever the trouble is, we’re here to sort it out and we’re rather good at that sort of thing! All you have to do is make sure you get a decent night’s sleep!”
Dr. Willis had the knack of making people believe what he said—it was one of the reasons the Altringham clinic was such a success—and Floyd left the consulting room reassured that, whatever the problem was, Dr. Willis would find the solution and that then … everything would be all right.
Floyd’s room at the hospital was very comfortable. He had his own television and bathroom, a telephone line to the kitchens in case he wanted anything to eat or drink, and his mother was in a similar room just next door. Mr. Beresford went home—someone had to be there to look after the business on Monday morning—but Mrs. Beresford had promised she would call him as soon as there was any news.
In the morning, a nurse took Floyd and his mother to a different part of the hospital for the first of what turned out to be a long series of tests, scans, X-rays, and exercises on a wide variety of machines. After lunch, he and his mother went for a walk on the grounds, and at two o’clock they went back to Dr. Willis’s office, where the doctor sat at his desk and announced that the news was good.
“Physically, you’re one of the healthiest individuals I’ve ever come across,” he said, looking at the top page of the open file on his desk. “If I had your fitness recovery times, I’d be a very happy man, I can tell you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me?” said Floyd.
“Nothing at all!” said Dr. Willis firmly. “No brain tumors, no trace of drug abuse.” He tapped the file with his finger. “Clean as a whistle!”
“If there’s nothing wrong with me,” said Floyd, “how come I’m seeing someone who isn’t there?”
“Yes …” Dr. Willis smiled. “Well, now that we’ve ruled out any physical problem, I think the most likely answer is that we’re dealing with a simple mental disturbance, probably brought on by the stresses and strains of your sports career.”
“A mental disturbance?” Mrs. Beresford looked at him anxiously.
“No need to be alarmed!” Dr. Willis’s smile was as reassuring as always. “You have to remember that our Floyd here is no ordinary racehorse! He’s a thoroughbred—a highly exceptional animal—and, as such, exceptional things are bound to happen to him.”
“Are they?” asked Mrs. Beresford.
“Your son has been pushing himself to the limit—that’s why he’s so successful—but that sort of success tends to come at a price.” Dr. Willis gestured to the file on his desk. “In physical terms, that price has been the sort of injuries and muscle strains that you won’t see on most fifteen-year-olds, and I’m afraid we have to expect the same sort of wear and tear on the mental level, as well.”
“Oh … ,” said Mrs. Beresford.
Dr. Willis leaned forward in his chair. “It’s what happens to a lot of top athletes. The mental muscles can get pulled and strained in exactly the same way as the physical ones. But fortunately, when this happens, we have people who know how to treat the damage—in the same way that we have people who know how to treat, say, a sprained ankle.”
Mrs. Beresford still looked worried. “You say this happens to a lot of athletes?”
“At some time or another, almost all of the really good ones,” Dr. Willis assured her. “Why, only last week I had one of our top marathon runners sitting in that very chair telling me that she couldn’t race anymore because her feet had turned to stone. Literally.” He gave a chuckle. “But we sorted her out! She’ll be running in Vancouver on Sunday.” He turned to Floyd. “I’m arranging for you to have a session with our resident psychologist, Dr. Pinner. He’s a good man. You’ll like him.”
“How long will it take?” asked Floyd. “To sort it all out?”
“Well, you can’t hurry these things,” said Dr. Willis, “any more than you can hurry a torn muscle. You just have to give it the time it needs.” He paused. “You’re thinking of Roehampton, are you?”
Floyd nodded. The U.K. Under-18s National Tennis Championship took place in Roehampton every June, and this was the year that Floyd was hoping to win the title. He would still only be fifteen, and no one had ever won the national championship at fifteen before, but Floyd’s father was convinced that he could do it.
“Roehampton …” Dr. Willis consulted the calendar on his desk. “Well, that gives us six weeks, doesn’t it? And Dr. Pinner’s very good. One of the best. I’m sure he’ll have you sorted out by then.”
And, because he was Dr
. Willis, both Floyd and his mother believed him.
Dr. Pinner was a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and the sort of muscles that more usually go with being a rugby player or a nightclub bouncer. But his smile was friendly enough as he welcomed Floyd into his office, and there was a kindliness in his eyes as he cleared a pile of magazines from an armchair and invited Floyd to sit down.
“So,” he said, gently removing a cat from his own chair before sitting at his desk and looking across at Floyd, “you’re a tennis player.”
Floyd nodded.
“And a remarkably good one, by all accounts.” Dr. Pinner glanced down at the file in front of him. “Possibly even good enough to win the national championship—if we can just sort out this business of invisible people wandering onto the court while you’re trying to play!” He closed the file and leaned back in his chair. “So … any idea who he is, this ‘Mike’ character?”
“No,” said Floyd.
“No ideas at all?”
Floyd gave a little shrug. “Well, I did wonder if perhaps he was a ghost.”
“A ghost?” Dr. Pinner looked surprised. “Really?”
“No,” said Floyd. “Not really. But I don’t see what else he can be.”
“Hmm …” Dr. Pinner tapped his pen on the desk for a few seconds. “Can you describe him for me?”
“He’s tall … And he’s got this dark, curly hair. And he wears this long black coat over a T-shirt and jeans.”
“And how old is he?”
“I’m not sure. A bit older than me, I think.”
“And when you look at him, does he remind you of anybody? Anyone you know?”
“No. Well …” Floyd hesitated. “The first time I saw him, he did seem sort of familiar. Like I’d seen him somewhere before. Except I hadn’t.”
Dr. Pinner scribbled something in a notebook. “And when was the first time? Could you tell me about that?”
The first time Floyd had seen Mike was two weeks after Christmas, in the school gym that Floyd used for his early-morning practice sessions in the winter. Normally, his father would have been with him, but on that particular Wednesday Floyd’s mother was in the hospital having a kidney stone removed and Mr. Beresford was doing his best to try to juggle hospital visits, housework, and his business—as well as Floyd’s coaching sessions. It meant that, for a week or so, Floyd had to manage the morning practice on his own.
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